A Nervous Gesture

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DISCLAIMER:
None of this belongs to me. Weiß is property of Koyasu-san and other important
people. The poem “The Sick Rose” belongs to William Blake. Thank you and don’t
sue me! I have no money anyways. *_*
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Part One

        Filth, cold and dark.
        Enveloped in red.
        Nothing was shining.
        Forever empty.
        Bleeding silence.
        Air so thick.
        Memories stolen.

        It wouldn’t fit. He tried again, pushing and twisting, harder this time.
And again, but it still didn’t work. Those limp limbs kept popping out of the
metal garbage can like the sudden shattering of a light bulb.  Almost as if they
had a mind of their own. But how could that be? There wasn’t any life left in
these bodies. He had made sure of that. So then, why weren’t they fitting?
        In the black shadows painted with the moon, he could see the slow trail of red
drip off one white arm, splashing onto the dirty asphalt. Those drops surrounded
a stay cigarette butt and flowed over an empty book of matches. Life was
spilling around him. It didn’t matter. It was already filthy. Why should he
care? But he did. Too much.
        Again he tried to force it all together into the can. To make it organized in
the midst of all the disorganization. To show that he did care. No one cared
that he cared because it didn’t work. Nothing helped. Nothing. Always nothing
for the one who took life. For the killer.
        Finally he was able to create the blaze and watched the flames dance, sucking
away the bodies, the empty shells. Slowly, everything began to melt. The
laughing fire, the awkward arms and legs, the stained clothing, the murky night.
Especially the murky night. It faded into one giant picture of blankness. All he
could see was that crimson liquid, softly dripping. Airily swirling into the
night, colder than the winds of chance. Nothing was left but this. This moment,
frozen forever on strands of red. Strands of the night. Faster and colder it
curled, fragments of torn memories and frail realities.

        Dripping endlessly, this icy liquid.
        A night that never dies.
        Nothing other than.
        But why?
        Silence.
        This was all.
        All and never.
        It closed on him, harder.
        Like a frosty claustrophobia.
        This red
        Not chosen.
        But still.

        The faint chirping of a sparrow woke Ken. Languidly, he blinked up at the
ceiling, listening to the sounds of the bird. It was shrill but not unpleasant.
It soothed him for some reason, though he didn’t need to be soothed. At least he
didn’t think he did. Or did he?
        He liked this little birdsong. He didn’t mind it. He didn’t mind birds, either.
He didn’t mind much of anything, actually. Anything was fine with him. He was
able to adjust. That was just the type of person he was.
        His bare feet sank onto the cold floor as he rose. The bird stopped its song.
That saddened him just a little. He rather liked it. He cast a glance out the
window, in the hopes of seeing the little bird as he reached for the towel that
was carelessly slung on the back of his chair from its last use. But he saw
nothing, only the grey sky that threatened rain. The bird was gone.
        Sighing, he headed for his bathroom but stopped when he noticed a burgundy
leather bound object lying on the floor near the corner of his desk
        “It must have fallen off,” he thought as he picked up the book and
carefully found the page he’d last been reading. As he slid the tattered paper
bookmark deep into the page, random phrases from the text jumped out at him.
        “The kind of night that flowed like a viscous shroud.
        Before my eyes, her silver life spilled out into the black.
        Memories ripped away ,leaving behind a broken soul.”
        He hastily shut the book and thrust it onto his desk, his fingers trembling.
The cover gleamed in the morning light, screaming at him. What was it? It was
only a stupid book of poetry. Nothing more. So why did those stupid sentences
shake him so much? Why did they make his breath quicken and his heart race? Why
did he feel all that old nervousness return?
        “Baka,” he muttered as he shakily hurried to the bathroom, his towel clutched
tightly in his wobbling hand.

                           ********

       “Of all the goddamn jobs in goddamn Tokyo, we had to pose as goddamn
botanists,” Yohji muttered darkly as he sucked on his bleeding index finger.
“Stupid flowers and stupid jerk who had to order 48 fucking roses. What the
hell’s wrong with givin’ the chick just one?”
        Omi looked over at him sympathetically, careful not to bring up the fact that
whenever *he* went on a date he always gave his date *at least* a dozen roses.
“You pricked your finger again, Yohji-kun?” he asked. “Why don’t you wear your
gloves?”
        Yohji frowned as he struggled to wrap the huge bouquet of roses. “I couldn’t
find them. They weren’t around when I got here this morning.”
        Ken listened idly to them as he watered the ferns. He had been the one who had
taken Yohji’s gloves. He had used them last night. They weren’t good anymore,
though. He had tried to clean the blood but it wouldn’t come away. Stained
forever. Never to be used again. Like burning bodies in a small garbage can. His
hands shook. They hadn’t stopped shaking since he had picked up Aya’s book of
poetry off the floor.
        “I’m gonna tell ya this, Omi,” Yohji began as he stuffed the roses into the
wrapping paper and carelessly started to tie the whole thing with yellow and
white ribbons. “Never give a chick a whole whack a’ roses. She’s bound to bloody
herself up for sure. Go for the single rose. Works a helluva lot better. And the
damn  florist doesn’t have to worry about bleeding to death.” He scowled at the
roses and cursed some more under his breath.
        Omi nodded as he pruned a bougainvillea, silent for a couple of minutes. He was
unable to resist. “Then why did you give that blond girl a whole bunch of roses
last week?” he blurted out.
        “It’s so obvious,” Yohji drawled out, looking down at Omi through his blue
tinted shades with a pitying expression on his face. “Those were carnations.”
        “No they weren’t.”
        “Yes they were.”
        “They most certainly were *not* Yohji-kun.”
        He frowned. “Learn to listen to your elders Omi.”
        “But they were roses,” he insisted. “’Cause right after you left, Ken-kun
recited a rose poem. The one by Blake.” He looked over at him with big eyes.
“Right Ken-kun?”
        “Right,” he replied, as he watched the water steep into the brown soil. The
fern was taking the water deep inside, into itself. So quick. All for the sake
of life. Life. Too precious.
        “Oh rose, thou art sick!” he recited quietly, watching the fern drink
the water.
        “The invisible worm
         That flies in the night,
         In the howling storm...” he trailed off, unable to remember the rest.
         “Wasn’t there another verse?” Omi asked as he tossed a pile of brown
leaves into the garbage can. The garbage can. His eyes were fixed on it. It
looked like the one from last night. A funny thing, these cans were. Used to
store waste. To keep what was not of value. To discard. There were dead leaves
in this one. There had been dead people in the other one. They weren’t of use
anymore. That’s how simple it was. Or how simple it should be. But it wasn’t...
        His head pounded sharply. One trembling hand pressed against his temple.
Keep from dissolving into nervousness. Keep from falling apart. Keep from
splitting open.
         “What about you Aya-kun?” Omi asked. “Do you remember the other verse?”
He smiled happily, his eyes bright and full of optimism. “This poem is one of my
favorites. It’s so cool!”
           Aya peeked out from behind a row of African violets that he’d been
attending to. His eyes seemed like violets themselves. The same shade of deep
purple, with matching intensity.
          “Oh rose, thou art sick!” he started quietly and somewhat sadly.
          “The invisible worm
           That flies in the night,
           In the howling storm,
           Has found out thy bed
           Of crimson joy,
           And his dark secret love
           Does thy life destroy.”
          “Sugoi Aya-kun!!!” Omi cried, clapping joyously, dead leaves raining
from his hands. “That was awesome!!!”
         Even Yohji was impressed. “Hey, this stuff is rich!” he exclaimed,
pushing up his shades. “I’ve *gotta* remember this stuff for my next date. What
was that bit about the rose again?”
         Ken moved away from the swallowing ferns and their happy chatter, to
the peonies in the corner. His mouth tasted stale. Minty stale. It was the
result of having brushed his teeth eight times. It was a silly habit of his,
brushing his teeth whenever he was nervous or stressed. Brushing them a lot. And
now his mouth tingled, almost ached with that musty freshness.
        He swallowed convulsively, trying desperately to get rid of that sour
aftertaste. He could see the foamy green paste clot in the sink, feel it drown
in his mouth, cutting off his air. Again and again as he sought to relieve his
anxiety. So silly. Like arms and legs that just won’t say put. Like blood that
weeps incessantly. Like a life that always dies. Suffocating toothpaste.
        Quickly his hands set down the water jug. They were shaking. Violently.
They wouldn’t stop. Frantically, he began to pull the sleeves of his dark blue
top over his hands. Something to stop the shaking. Anything to anchor down all
these fleeting emotions. His nervousness was returning.
        His body began to shiver as he pulled harder at his sleeves, stretching
at the material. His hands automatically twisted the sleeves, violently as his
breathing grew harsh. His hands still shook horribly as he gasped for air. His
head pounded. He needed to focus. Forget all the nonsense and pull at his
sleeves. Something was happening to him. He had to stop...breath.
          Those dark green eyes agitatedly sought for something to keep his gaze
on, for something to calm him. His gaze was snatched by a blood-red dahlia. That
red color. He knew it, remembered it. And he loathed it. Loathed himself. All
those people. Laid waste, among that red. What did they deserve? Why should he
dispel it? He was nothing. A nobody. Just a killer.
         The red flowers seemed to accuse him, knowing what he had done. They
knew what he had taken. Everything was oppressive. The wall were closing around
him. They wanted to crush him, he knew that. His claustrophobia was returning.
He had mastered his fear so long ago but now...it was like an elevator. So
small, so cramped. Everything was staring at him. He couldn’t bear it. His
sleeves would rip.
        He whirled around and promptly smashed into Aya. He wanted to apologize,
his mouth even opening. But that stale mint in his mouth...it hurt. His hands
were still as they pulled at his sleeves. Air was leaving him. The door. Only
over there. The walls chased him. He fled.
         “What the hell was *that* all about?” Yohji wondered, lighting a
cigarette. “I know this job’s shit and all and the good Lord knows how much I
wanna bust outta here but--”
        “Ken-kun did seem a little off today,” Omi remarked thoughtfully, looking at
Aya. “Last night did he...?“
        Aya nodded. “I’ll make sure that he’s alright.”
Aya left and Omi got back to work…until he noticed Yohji. “Um, Yohji-kun? I
don’t think that spider plant is going to fit in that pot. It’s too small and
the roots need—“
         “Don’t be stupid,” Yohji scoffed, showering dirt everywhere as he tried
to squeeze the plant into the little pot. “With a little bit of deft maneuvering
and some expert botanist Kudo Yohji creativity, this plant will be potted in no
time. Potted like a potted fern, I’d say. It’s like a woman, Omi. Bit of careful
cunning followed by my obvious charms and witty, urbane manner and the chicks
are hooked. Hook, line and sinker!!!”
        Omi watched him, silently scoffing. Hook, line, and sinker indeed. The
plant wasn’t gonna fit no matter how much “expert botanist Kudo Yohji deft
maneuvering” he employed. Women were one thing, but plants? Forget it. He just
didn’t have the knack.
         Ten minutes later.
        “Oh bugger...”
        Omi tried not to laugh.

                         ********

        Like a passing dream, the wind shrieked. There was ice in it and he didn’t have
a jacket. It was cold but that didn’t matter. He was free. Free from the
confined space and mocking plants. If only he could be free from the memories.
Of all he had lost. Of all he had taken.
        He yanked his sleeves over his frozen hands and rubbed at his face. Small
snowflakes were glimmering in the air, signaling the approach of winter. He felt
numb.
        His thoughts took him back to that bird who had so sweetly woken him up this
morning. He wondered if it was safe. Would it survive the freezing, cold winter?
Would he survive?
        “She used to tell me whenever it snowed that no two snowflakes were alike,” Aya
said quietly, walking beside him.
        He was surprised to see Aya next to him, talking. Aya rarely ever talked of his
beloved sister. Hell, he rarely ever talked even.
        Ken did nod though, watching the tiny snowflakes fall onto his sleeves and then
melt. “They die when they touch me, Aya. A thousand deaths in one second.” He
laughed, a hollow sound that concealed nothing. He couldn’t hide behind humor
and cheer. Not this time. “A thousand deaths from one person. Just one.” He
voice cracked and he could still taste Crest in his mouth.
        Aya looked over at him, his eyes hooded and his expression guarded. “This is
what we do. Our fate. It’s not our choice to accept it, to like it. We simply
must.”
        His eyes widened in disbelief as they stared at Aya. “How can you be so fucking
cold?” he asked slowly, his rage rising. “You know those people last night? They
had a daughter. She saw me, you know. Saw me and asked me to play with her.” He
laughed brokenly, dementedly. “She asked me to fucking play with her!!! And
you’re here talking about fate and all this bullshit. What about that girl? Do
you think she’s gonna understand that it’s our fate and we had to kill her
parents? How the fuck do we explain it to her?!”
        Aya looked away. “Don’t you think I know what it’s like to lose family?” he
whispered in a voice that seemed to hang on a spider’s web. Frail and suspended.
        Ken stopped, realizing what he had done. He hadn’t thought about what he was
saying and who he was saying it to. “Aya...”
        “We all do what we must. This is why we’ve been put here. To do this job. But…”
he trailed off, looking up at the sky, up at the raining snow. “Doing one’s duty
still doesn’t make the pain lessen. It’s always there, threatening to spill. I
know it. And I know how much it hurts.”
        He shivered, snow falling onto his face. “So much. I tried to forget but...”
        Aya watched him twist his sleeves. “I never knew you were a nervous person.”
        Those blue sleeves betrayed him. They were longer now. He’d stretched them too
much. “I got over it. I wanted to be strong. I thought it was gone. It’s not
though. It always comes back Aya. Always.” A shudder wracked his body as he
yanked at his sleeves with a mad frenzy. Anything to keep from being broken.
        Slowly, with movements like spun glass, he reached out and placed his hand over
Ken’s, stilling the jerky movements. Aya’s hands gripped at the bunched
material, clutching at his trembling hands. Those icy, violet eyes stared down
at him, freezing time. The world stopped.
        Then with his other hand, Aya gently brushed away his bangs from his
eyes, his fingers lingering down his cheek. His hands were surprisingly warm
against his chilled face. Everything vanished as his gaze was caught up by those
violet eyes. Eyes that seemed to peer into his soul.
        “I need to be alone,” he whispered hoarsely, pulling away from Aya’s
gentle touch. “I need to...” he gripped his hands together brutally, his nails
digging into his fingers.
        Aya nodded, his face expressionless and his voice nearly inaudible. “I
just wanted you to know that I understand.” And with that he turned and walked
away, disappearing into the whirls of snow.
          Ken reached up and touched the spot that he’d just touched. It was
still warm from his fingers. Funny how someone as cold as he was could have such
warm hands. But that small touch…it kept him warm in the snow.