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09 March 2007 @ 12:13 am
Yet Another Classic Ken Hidaka Moment.  
Place: Youji Kudou's apartment, above the Koneko no Sumu Ie
Date: Friday August 18, 2006


He didn't hear the storm blow in.

Ken had known it was going to rain the minute he stepped from the car, gazing up at the sky, clogging up with dirty, heavy clouds, clouds like soiled soap suds. Blame the unnatural stillness, the cloying city heat, the strange, trapped quality to the air: the city seemed almost to hold its breath, expectant. Ken had sighed, and raked the hair from his eyes, and bent to shoulder Youji's unconscious weight. It wasn't even like this was anything new to him.

He was flushed and breathless by the time he dragged Youji into his room and manhandled him onto the bed. (Too many stairs, god damn it: why couldn't Kritiker have sprung for a building with an elevator? Still, it could have been worse. It could always have been worse.) His stained, blood-smeared tee-shirt clung, with disturbing intimacy, to the contours of his chest; hanks of dark, damp hair were plastered against his brow. Wanted to shower so badly he felt it like a craving, like an insatiable itch - a positive need to be clean.

(To be calm and civilized and normal. To be, not Siberian, wild-eyed and feral, blood smeared across his skin and staining his clothes, but just Ken.)

Wanted to shower; wanted to sleep. Wanted more than anything to just forget. It would be the easiest thing in the world, to just walk out and leave Youji to Omi. It wasn't like he could help, or indeed do anything more than get underfoot, but - it worried him to realize that he simply didn't want to leave. Couldn't.

Ken-kun, Omi had said after a few uncomfortable minutes, I think you need a wash.

The rain might have started while he stood under the shower, eyes closed and head tilted back, his mind a careful blank, or perhaps while he lay on his back on the bed, his fingers tucked behind his head and laced in his damp hair. The clothes he had changed into - a loose tee-shirt, a pair of worn jeans - weren't all that different from his mission clothes, but they weren't his mission clothes: the distinction, Ken felt, was an important one. It seemed strange to be lying here, exhausted yet wakeful and convinced he'd never manage to find rest again, so early in the day. Too early for this, and far too early to want to sleep.

(The usual post-mission blues.)

Funny how stupid such thoughts seemed, lying here with eyes open in the middle of the afternoon. Some thoughts (to Ken's mind, anyway) were night thoughts; they simply didn't make sense any time other than under cover of darkness. Nobody worried about the monsters under the bed in the middle of the day.

Ken fell asleep anyway, and faster than usual. He always did.

Woke abruptly, dragged from a deep, dreamless, exhausted sleep by the cold, and the sound of wind-blown rain pattering on his recklessly open windows, and night drawing in, and the uncomfortable awareness he'd slept for far longer than he had intended. Stood, stretched, slipped on his shoes and hurried down to Youji's apartment, pushing open the door just a fraction and slipping quietly inside. Omi raised his head as Ken pushed the door to behind him, giving him a small, apologetic smile. The click of the latch, the rattle of raindrops on glass were the only sounds.

Omi got to his feet, stretching slightly, working out a crick in his back. Drew back the chair. Returned Ken's smile. He still looked tired.

(Ken really hoped they weren't going to make a habit of taking missions in the middle of the day. Running unscheduled marathons through crowded city streets and hiding out in optometrists' basements were bad enough without, one quick change later, immediately running out again to get to a programming class the way Omi had done...)

"How's Youji?" He asked, and suspected he spoke only to fill the silence.
Omi stepped aside slightly, glancing briefly back down at the bed, as if inviting Ken to look for himself. ""He's doing fine," he said - his voice flat and calm and clinical as a nurse's. "His pulse is good, breathing is normal. He'll probably wake up soon."
"That's good." Ken felt himself relax, heard himself exhaling audibly and God almighty, he hadn't even realized he was tense until the moment that tension broke. "So, um..."
He turned, glancing back over his shoulder - Omi was already heading for the door. "I need to get the mission report written," he was saying. (Well, yes, if he wanted to get to bed much before one in the morning.) "Come and get me, if there's a problem."

And then he was out the door and gone.

Ken just stood for a moment, his dark eyes grave, watching the closed door before (what are you trying to postpone?) stepping over to the bedside and slumping ungracefully down into Youji's chair. The chair creaked slightly beneath him as he sat: desperately hoped he hadn't done anything to it. If he'd destroyed Youji's chair just by sitting on it, Youji would kill him. Smart assassins do not piss off other assassins, kind of thing. Didn't feel like he'd done anything too permanent, though. Resting his forearms on his thigh, he sat slightly forward and stared at--

Funny, how there didn't seem to be anything safe to stare at. The wall. The uninspiring view through Youji's narrow window, smeared and muddled by the rain-washed glass. Funny, how he was avoiding looking at Youji... and it was dark outside, dark and cold.

(And Youji, lying on his back, lips slightly parted and a hank of dark hair falling into his closed eyes - don't touch, Hidaka.)

Forcing himself to look away, Ken got to his feet, leaned over to draw the blinds.

Caught himself with one knee on Youji's bed, leaning precariously over his unconscious teammate, with one hand on the wall for balance and muttering something frustrated about fucking stupid Venetian louvres which wouldn't fucking come down properly and Mary Mother of God what the fuck was he doing, it wasn't like Youji cared if the blinds were drawn, it wasn't like he cares so what the fuck was he doing?! You fall now, Hidaka, and you are...

Youji - oh God, oh Christ Jesus you guys hate me don't you talk about perfect fucking timing - Youji was stirring. Shifting, just slightly, and murmuring something soft and plaintive (plaintive?): Ken didn't need to know a thing about medicine to know that this wasn't good. Not now. Even drugged up Youji could be - the guy was far too quick with the sly innuendoes as it was, the last thing Ken needed to do was add fuel to the fire. Just sit down and stare at the wall, Ken. The wall's safe.

Pushed back against the wall and moved--

Blame the position, blame the softness of the bed, the lack of decent traction: Ken was fast but somehow Youji was faster. Never mind the drugs, the disorientation, the time loss for all it was explicable. Ken tried to straighten, to push back off the wall and scramble off the bed and to hell with his dignity just as long as he got away - Youji was faster. He could move so fast sometimes.

Ken felt the movement more than he heard it, and heard it more than he could see. The sudden shifting of the mattress beneath him, a hiss of fabric on fabric, the creak of the bedposts. Startled, Ken raised his head.

And then Youji had his arms about his waist and was pulling and Ken heard himself crying out - whether it had been a curse or an exclamation or a half-stifled demand that Youji let go, dammit even he couldn't have said for sure. Might have been nothing at all. Ken felt his hand slip from where he had braced it against the wall, felt Youji's arms tighten sure as any snare. Felt himself falling.

Landed--

"Oh shit."

Well. This was a bit awkward.

--landed sprawled across Youji's chest, the man's arms still wrapped tautly about his waist and one of Youji's legs, bent slightly at the knee, pressing against his inner thigh. Great. Just fantastic. Mark this one down as yet another Classic Ken Hidaka Moment. He really did have a positive knack for getting himself in these sorts of situations, didn't he?

Trapped against his will in this fortuitous embrace, Ken shifted slightly, hoping it would communicate his need to get the Hell up and get the Hell out as soon as was humanly possible. Stopped abruptly when he realized where he was, what it must have looked like - what it must have felt like. Heat stole its way across Ken's cheeks and he blushed. Angry and embarrassed and resenting it, resenting Youji for putting him in, quite literally, this stupid position.

(It left him furious with Mad Doctor Eyeball - what the Hell had his name been? - all over again. Lucky for him he was dead, really, or Ken would have had to kill him. But he already did that and it hadn't helped a bit.)

"What the fuck do you think you're--"

Got that far and no further. Youji was smiling at him, artless and open as a child a third his own age. No calculation in his eyes, no sleepy self-assurance in the smile. He was just happy, entirely and uncomplicatedly: a stark, simple emotion painted in primary colors. Ken had never seen Youji smile like that and certainly not at him. He wasn't sure he liked it. He thought that maybe it frightened him. (If you weren't drugged, Kudou, I'd punch you...)

Then Youji kissed him.

"Shut up, Kenken," Youji said drowsily, "I'm trying to sleep."
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