You can't fall if you don't let go.

Maybe that's why I held on so long.

But you can't go on forever with a smile, when your soul is dead to the world. I sold mine so long ago, I can't even remember what it was like to have one. Do I miss it? Maybe. I don't really stop to think about it much. You don't really think about things like that when you kill for a living.

If you do, it eats you inside out.

It got me inside. I learned to stop before it hit the outside. So I'm hollow. Shallow, like everyone probably thinks. I'd rather have them think that, than that I actually cared.

It's so much easier. That way, no one gets hurt.

Yeah, right.

I needed a change. He just happened to be there.

How could anyone miss him? Crimson hair. Violet eyes. Not every guy next door has that coloring, y'know. He sticks out like a sore thumb, for Christ's sake. No wonder the girls are always all over him. Not like he notices.

He doesn't notice me either.

But I notice him.

I've learned the hard way that subtlety isn't the best way to try to get a message across to him. The hammer approach is probably more effective. And the rocket launcher approach works best of all. The man's blind. He doesn't see things even after he's been shown, point blank.

You wonder how a man that oblivious could be such a perfect killer.

Hell, look at me. I'm lazy, I smoke, I drink, I sleep around. Not exactly what you'd think of as Mister Perfect Murder. Reality is a better cover for us than anything else we could probably make up.

That, and our flowershop jobs, of course.

Well, their flowershop jobs. Mine when I actually show up.

So I'm irresponsible, lazy, foolish, and weak. And a killer.

I would bet money that if you asked him, that's exactly what he'd say about me. Word for word. No fancy descriptions, no elaborate compliments. He'd just tell it like it is.

I've tried to get inside him. I can't. He's too good at his silence, too good at deferring anyone and everything that might express any interest in getting to know anything about him underneath his icy exterior.

I'm smoking a cigarette. The love of my life. Looking in through the flowershop window, from outside.
Always outside, looking in. Too far to touch. Too far to reach.

But close enough to want.

Love hurts.

That's why I don't go for all the being in love crap you hear and see and sigh at on television. It's not all roses. Rarely, in fact. But everyone falls for it nonetheless.

Love is for masochists.

You can't fall if you don't let go.

I'm not letting go.

I won't let him get to me.

Every time he looks at me, I can tell. I don't tell him I know. You think that's cold? Iya. It's how I survive. If no one can touch me, no one can bring me down.

If no one can touch me, no one can make me fall.

I give them ice.

They slip, they slide aside. They can't get through. I like it that way.

Fools, all of them.

What, does he hope that I'll fall into his arms and tell him I've always wanted him, too?

I'm not one of his girls. I'm not that weak.

I'm only thinking about how annoying he is. Always late, always flip, always careless. Drinking, smoking, women. Ask anyone, he's as straight as they come. So what's with the sideways glances, now?

He doesn't want me.

I'm a machine. Kill, sleep, work, and kill. Unlike his routine of Kill, sleep, smoke, and kill if he feels like it.

At least he's smoking outside this time.

I'm standing at the counter, fingers passing over the petals of a stray rose. Looking out of the flowershop window, from inside.

Always inside, looking out. Too far to touch. Too far to reach.

And too far away to hurt.

I've become one of them. A fool. But they'll never know that.

You can fall, no matter how tight you hold on.

I need a cigarette. A cigarette, and a good fuck. Not necessarily in that order.

I don't think Aya would be all too pleased though. In the middle of the flowershop is hardly appropriate for either.

Although I think he'd be more pissed at the cigarette.

So I light up.

Ohhhh, yes, I was right. He's mad. Glaring at me with those violet ice eyes.

"Put it out."

I just smile.

Yes, being an obnoxious prick can have its advantages sometimes. He's looking at me. Glaring, but Hell, I'll take what I can get. I do this every day, now. It's my routine. Do whatever I can to bug the hell out of him, enough to make him notice me. Yeah, I'm sick. I want his attention, even if it's the wrong kind. I want to piss him off, I want to see him lose his cool.

I haven't gotten that far yet.

"Oi, Yohji, put that out! You'll kill the flowers!" Ken's nagging me too, but it's not his attention I want.

I put it out.

I shoot Aya a glance, one that he'd have to be even more blind than he is to miss. Either he's THAT stupid, or THAT cold. He doesn't acknowledge me.

It's not enough anymore, that tiny bit of irritated attention every day. That one cold glance, one tight-lipped scowl. It isn't enough. I want more.

I need more.

Ken's gone into the back storeroom to take inventory. I'm watching Aya strip roses, slim white hands moving deftly, without stabbing himself on the thorns.

My hands would be a mess.

He scolds me without looking up. "Don't just stand there."

Alright, I won't.

Ken's still busy in the back. Thank God for small favors. I walk up to the counter and look at the roses, piled up neatly in two sets. Stripped, unstripped. He's so neat, so efficient. He thinks I can't be.

Well, we'll see.

I'm standing next to him, still watching his hands. He doesn't look up at me, only concentrates on his work. I'm usually good about reading people, but I'll be damned if I get anything but radiating cold from him. He's too good.

Well, I am the master of flirtation, aren't I? Time to put it to the test.

I'm still beside him, close enough to brush his shoulder, now. I've never been shy before, and this is no time to start, no matter how much I want him. Hell, you never get anything by sitting and waiting for it to fall into your lap. You have to go after what you want. I haven't been. I've been playing the waiting game.

It's time that changed.

Right now.

I slip my hand over his, atop the rose he's stripping.

"Aya."

I need my katana.

I need it now.

"Aya."

What the hell does he think he's doing? Who the hell does he think he IS?

No one touches me.

His hand is over mine. My fingers clench on instinct, around the stem of the rose I'd been working on. A thorn stabs my index finger as my hand closes tightly around the sharp point.

Damn it.

Damn HIM.

I won't look at him. I won't.

I will not give him what he wants. I'm not going to play his game. That's all he is, one big game. I'm not going to fall for it.
I'm not going to fall for him.

I'm trying to unclench my hand, but he's holding it down. Not tight, no... but I'll have to push him away to get free.

Fine. I will, then.

I push away from him and wrench my hand free. I hold up my hand and a droplet of blood slides down my fingertip and splashes on the floor at my feet.

He's staring at me.

He must be staring at the blood, he's never seen me cut myself on a rose before. I'm usually more careful. It's his fault I'm bleeding now. I can't let him touch me again. I won't.

I won't.

The blood is gone now, and he's still staring at me. Why?

"Aya." He says it again.

Does he have to say it like that? While he's looking at me like that?

No, I can be cold. I have to be. Who cares how he's looking at me. He looks at everyone. Besides, he goes for women.

Not me.

Not a man with a woman's name...

I'm looking back at him. How did that happen?

Alright, damn it, I was curious. But I won't fall for him.

He doesn't want me. It's a joke.

"Go away."

That's all I can choke out without breaking.

He touched me.

His face falls. So unlike me, he can't hide what he's feeling right now. I turn back to the roses. I don't look at him.

I can't. If I look...

It's too late.

I'm falling.

Alright, damn it, I'll admit it. I'm scared as hell.

The look on his face is what did it.

Emotions flashed on his face, in his eyes, so quickly that I couldn't even tell you for sure which ones they were. Fear? Shock? Disgust?

A mix of all three?

At least he's finally looking at me.

"Aya."

Say something... to me. For me.

He does. His lips part, and his eyes cool.

"Go away."

No.

I'm not going away. I'm not turning my back and acting like nothing ever happened. I'm not leaving just because you say so.

I should have said it out loud.

But I didn't want to choke.

Yeah, me, of all people. On the verge of choking. At a loss for words for once in my bigmouthed life. Everything's gotta happen at least once, I guess.

When you gonna learn?

Those words are burned into me in more than one way.

I won't learn.

I don't want to learn.

I want him.

We're dead to the world, both of us. Just like the rest of Weiß. Dead men may not tell tales, but they can sell flowers. What a damned concept.

I'm old and jaded already. I've lived. Seen and done far too much in my short existence on this earth. But him... He keeps his core. There's part of him that nothing can touch, that nothing can spoil. Not even who we are and what we do.

Just once, I want to touch him.

If only he would let me. That's probably part of why I want him. He's so... distant. I can charm the pants off anyone and their best friend with almost no effort, but I try my damnedest and he stays closed.

I want to know why. What makes him that way? I'm curious. Always have been. I guess it goes along with being a PI. I want to know why, about everything. About him.

Why he keeps everyone away from him, why he won't let anyone touch him. Why I'm so infatuated with him, like I've never been with anyone else. Well... maybe one other person, but it's all in the past. I've shed enough tears and blood over the past. I need a change.

I need Aya.

I need that ice. I need the fire that he has inside that no one else sees.

It's there, I know it is. He holds it in so tightly, suffocates it, but it's there. If you watch close enough, you can see it flare for a split second every so often.

Like the death of a star.

Flaring bright and hot for a second, and then dying into nothing but smoldering embers. And before you know it, the embers have died, along with the rest.

You think that's morbid? If you saw it in him... you'd think it was beautiful.

And he IS beautiful, staring at me with that... strange expression. The one that I can't make out.

His face... just... changes.

Like a mirror shattering, he breaks. It scares him, and he turns away, holding himself up on the counter, gluing his gaze on the two piles of roses there.

I'm standing behind him. When did my feet move?

He won't face me. My hand is on his shoulder, and he's flinching, as if in pain. I can almost FEEL him shrink away from me, close up inside himself. He's still gripping the side of the counter, as tightly as he can. His eyes are squeezed shut, face snapped taut.

Without pressing against him and making him close up even more, I reach under the counter and unclench his fingers, taking his hand and lying it palm up on the counter. He's cold, and I place my own hand over his, palm down.

He doesn't move at all. He's simply frozen in place, letting me do as I will, as limp as a doll. I have on hand on his shoulder, one on his hand, but I'm not touching him otherwise. And he still won't look at me.

I won't use him. He has to want this, too.

"Go away." It's only a hissed whisper between clenched teeth now.

I press in slightly closer, lean my chin on his shoulder, letting my hand slide down off of it.

"No."

"Go. Away."

His voice is as cold as I've ever heard it, and he's shaking. I release him, but I don't step back. He turns suddenly, abruptly, upsetting the neat piles of roses on the counter.

He's looking at me. His eyes are wide, cold.

He pushes me up against the wall, away from him, and walks out of the shop.

I look around at the empty shop. A single rose lies on the ground, removed from its pile in Aya's haste to get away from me. I pick it up.

It still has its thorns.

"Ken, Aya's not feeling well. I'm taking him upstairs. Watch the shop, will you?"

I don't wait for an answer.

Despite everything that's just happened, I hold that single rose in my hand, run my fingers across the crimson petals, and smile.

I could fall in love with him.

No... I could fall even more in love with him.

I'm calm.

I am.

My heart is pounding fast from exertion, that's all. Anger. It's pounding from anger.

Damn him, damn him, damn him!

Damn him to the deepest depths of hell and beyond.

I'm holding my hands out in front of me. They're shaking. Terribly.

It's all anger. That's all it is.

I lean against the cool wall in the hallway, try to press into the wall itself and disappear. It doesn't work.

Why can't the man take no for an answer? Can't he see that I'm not interested?

I'm not interested.

I'm shaking because I'm angry, not because I liked him... touching me.

My eyes are closed. Cool darkness. It's comforting.

I let myself sink into it. I can tune everything else out.

Until footsteps cut through it, and I open my eyes.

Yohji.

I close my eyes again and turn away. I'm ignoring him this time. If I don't react, he'll leave me alone.

He'll go away.

Soft footsteps padding on the worn carpet.

I'm not opening my eyes. Even when he's close. I can feel him. The rustle of air, of clothes. He's right in front of me. His breath on my face...

I grip the darnkess, I don't want to let go.

"Aya."

No, I won't let go. I won't open my eyes.

I'm falling.

He catches me.

Something soft brushes my face.

I open my eyes, and all I see is a rose. A crimson red rose.

And his eyes.

He's... serious?

Kamisama...

His breath is ruffling the rose petals.

Rose petals that are all that exist between his lips and mine.

I don't move. Don't breathe. Don't blink.

He pulls the rose aside, holding it in his hand, brushing my cheek with the same hand. The petals rustle against my face. I hardly notice. I'm trying to sink back into the wall, vanish without a trace, but it's not happening.

"Aya."

His voice... is soft. His eyes... are soft.

His touch...

Soft.

I'm so used to cold and hard. Not warm and soft.

He's looking at me, with those soft eyes. Warm green. Warm. They're searching mine. For what, I don't know.

He wants something. But what, I don't-

He's kissing me.

I can't press any tighter against the wall.

The rose falls from his hand, fluttering to the ground as he opens his hand to brush my face again. I shift my weight against the wall, he presses in closer.

I'm... getting dizzy.

Holding on to him for all I'm worth, letting go of the coldness, of the darnkess, of the morbid comfort I find there.
Finding instead, comfort in his warmth.

I'm letting go, falling through a haze of coldness, a haze of warmth.

Finding myself in his arms, crushed crimson rose petals littering the ground at our feet.

And I fall.

I've let go.

I've let go of everything.

Except him.

I'm clutching him like life itself.

He's let go, too.

He must have, or I'd never be allowed to touch him like this. To hold him like this. He won't look at me now, his eyes are clenched shut as I kiss him, but that's alright. I can wait. I've waited this long. I'm content to feel his arms hold me tight, his mouth gently press back against my own.

He's... trusting me.

I want to just crush the life out of him and tell him everything I've always wanted to say, but held in for so long. I can't. It would scare him. I'd lose this little bit of trust he's handed me.

I can't help but wonder what's going through his mind. He's just let go of himself, everything he's kept enclosed, all his grief and self-denial and self-hatred. He's nothing but his core, and a limp body trembling in my arms.

I wonder if...

If he's afraid I'll let him go.

He knows how I am, he's seen me work. He knows I'm not serious about my relationships, or rather, my flings. They couldn't really be called relationships. And still... he's trusting me.

He's just torn his heart from his chest and thrown it at my feet.

I could step on it. But I won't. Not his.

Never his.

We're so different. So alike.

Opposites attract? Maybe.

Life is pain. We both know it all too well. We'll never have a normal life.

But maybe, just maybe, we can have each other.

Neither of us has lived a happy life. Neither of us wants to cling to the pasts that haunt us, shadow everything we do and everything that we are.

Neither of us wants to live with this pain forever.

I won't hurt him.

From a broken heart, an endless trail of one night stands ends here.

I won't let go.

I break the kiss. Hold him. Touch his cheek. Tip his chin.

"I love you."

I'm letting go. I have to.

I can hold on to him.

I want to believe him. I want to believe what I see there in his eyes, what I feel in his kiss.

To believe he might feel something for me, that one person might be able to lift the darkness that I've been drowning in since I lost everything.

I didn't want to feel, anymore. If I don't feel, I can't hurt. I can't lose what I don't have.

But he won't go away.

My eyes have been closed, but I open them and look into his as we kiss.

As cold and rude as I've been to him, he's still looking at me like that...

He stops kissing me, holds me like no one has ever held me before. Like he cares. Like he'll protect me, protect the weak part of me that I've squelched inside for so long.

As long as I've spent letting my denial consume me. Showing the world my mask. Shoving everyone away.

The cold. The darkness. The silence.

I can't do it anymore.

I let my heart take control. I slip from the cold into his warmth, and press my cheek to his shoulder. He won't hurt me. I can... trust him.

From a broken heart, an endless trail of lonely nights ends here.

He won't let me go.

I sigh, almost smile, and close my eyes as he tips my chin.

"I love you."

I breathe softly against his chest, open my eyes again, and look up. I touch his face, gently, with hesitation. I'm not a toucher. I don't like the contact.

But he won't hurt me.

I brush his cheek. Brush his hair. Almost blush, and bury my face in his shoulder again.

"Baka, Yohji."

I flick the end of my cigarette onto the pavement, watch as it's crushed underneath some businessman's feet as he brushes by, too busy to notice.

The world brushes by, and time stops standing still.

It's only a dream.

Dreams don't come true. Whoever said they do was high on something. Dreams are for dreaming, not for living. Dreams are for wanting.

Blood. Rose. Kiss.

It isn't real.

I want it to be.

I want to be gentle with him, to kiss him softly and tell him I love him.

But it isn't my style.

And I'm still looking in through the flowershop window.

Watching Aya strip roses.

I could make it like my dream, I could go in and put my hand over his, watch him shrink back, and kiss him. I could.
I could also get a fist to my gut for violating his space, in public no less.

Would it be worth it?

I'm halfway to lighting up again when he glares at me through the window.

Yeah, it would.

I meet his gaze, and he turns away. Is that a blush I see?

Is he blushing at himself? Or at me?

It doesn't matter.

He's on the other side of the glass.

Even though I can't give you what you deserve...

Even though I can't tell you...

Even though all dreams have to end someday...

Aya, I still love you.

Ch'kso.

I'm bleeding.

Blood. Rose. Kiss.

I drop the rose I'd been working on, drop the thorn that pierced my finger. I'm holding my hands against the counter, to keep them from shaking. I shouldn't have been daydreaming. Especially not dreaming of him.

It's only a dream, though. It doesn't mean anything. People dream all the time.

I'm dreaming of him... because he's there.

Because he's standing outside the flowershop... gazing in the window.

I snap out of my reverie and look out the window, at him. The look in his eyes, through the glass...

I blush. And turn, hoping he doesn't notice.

Me, dreaming about Yohji. I'll never live it down.

Dreams are for fools.

Children and fools, and I am neither.

I hate this dream.

It teases with promises of tenderness... of gentleness I can't see him being capable of. Not with me, at least. Yohji isn't that soft. He isn't that... selfless.

Except for in my dream.

There... he is. He's everything I think he can't be, everything I need him to be.

And he's there, and he wants me.

That's why it's called a 'dream'.

It isn't real.

He's on the other side of the glass.

I straighten up and let go of the counter when he comes back inside, concentrating on the roses again.

I don't look at him.

I can deal with him when he's on the other side of the glass. Then, I can dream. I can wish. I can want. But when he's here...

Even though I can't look at you...

Even though I'm too much in denial to acknowledge it...

Even though I can't open myself up enough to tell you...

I know.

Baka, Yohji.

I look up.

He looks up.

For one timeless moment, nothing else matters.

We look at each other, and smile.