I Understand...

Author's notes: This was my first fanfic of any variety. Please chock any blatant blunders and OOC-ness up to inexperience--and please, please comment!

*thoughts*

Have you ever been hunted by a dream? A nightmare that swallows you whole and won't let go? A dream so horrifyingly real that you can't escape from your own fear? A dream about rough hands, loud voices, pain...

***

Omi lay awake staring at the cracks in the white ceiling, tracing the irregular lines with his eyes and trying desperately to shut out the images, the sounds.

This was the fourth night this week that he had been caught by his nightmare. It had been months since the memories of his kidnapping had begun to surface, since he had faced the harsh truth about his family and reluctantly accepted the necessity of leaving the past behind. For the most part, it had worked.

Omi cursed softly to himself as he sat up and gazed out the window at the moon. It made him feel sick to be so paralysed by something against which he could not fight; to be hunted by an invisible enemy inside his own mind. To be helpless, weak. He hated feeling weak.

Flopping back down on the sweat-soaked mattress, he squeezed his eyes tight and curled up into the fetal position, hoping for some reprieve from the nightly onslaught.

None came.

***

*I'm all alone, it's dark*

Pain exploding on the side of his face as the hard boot makes contact with soft skin. A strange voice. "You're Dad said he won't pay..."

*Lair!*

A second strange voice, with a harder edge than the first. "I think we ought to get _something_ for our hard work..." Laughter. Hot, smelly breath in his ear, a heavy body holding his from behind; a second pair of hands ripping at his clothing. "Stupid kid..."

*Help, Papa...save me! Hurry!*

Desperate kicking.

"You might as well not fight."

*not fight?*

"Whore..." Crushing pain. Hot tears.

*don't fight*

*never forgive.*

***

"Ohayo!" Omi bounced into the lounge, wearing his usual shorts and t-shirt, hair bushy and smile stretching across his face. He flopped down onto the sofa across from one of his fellow Weiss members, noting with shock that the body draped in the chair was neither Ken nor Aya, but Yohji, who wasn't usually seen before late afternoon --especially on a Sunday.

"How are you this morning, Yohji-kun? What are you doing up? Sleep well?"

"Hn." Came the tired reply from behind a pair of sunglasses. "It's too early to be so cheerful, Omi. I'm just..." A large yawn interrupted the blonde's reply. "I'm just waiting for Michiru to get out of the shower so I can drive her home." Yohji grinned mischievously at his younger teammate and took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling in spurts sending up rings of smoke. "So I guess you could say that I didn't get much sleeping done last night!" He laughed at Omi's innocent blush and timid grin. Whatever Omi was, thought Yohji, he wasn't experienced.

"That's, uh, good, Yohji-kun. Umm... tell her I said, uh,hi."

At Yohji's laughter, Omi quickly got up and moved into the kitchen to make himself a large cup of coffee. Normally he despised adding stimulants of any kind to his body, but he was so drawn out from lack of rest that he needed something to help him keep up the perky-kid routine with his teammates. As he was buttering some toast and well into his third glass of heavily sugared Columbian, Omi heard the high-pitched giggles of Yohji's latest conquest which were quickly silenced by the lips of the older assassin. Scowling, Omi picked up a stray manga from the counter top and tried to concentrate on something other than the fact that the object of his affection was pawing at an attractive female on the other side of a thin wall.

Omi's breath caught in his throat when Yohji suddenly stuck his head in the kitchen."Omi-kun, I'm off. Aya and Ken should be back soon with stuff for the mission. Do the dishes, hmm? Please? You're so good at it--last time that klutz Ken broke my cereal bowl!" Yohji playfully feigned despair. "I'll do them tomorrow,really..."

"No problem, Yohji-kun. Take your girlfriend home" Omi replied, forcing out a grin.

"Oh, she's not my girlfriend!" Yohji winked conspiratorially, blond hair flowing loose and falling against silky cheeks. "Later!" The door closed and Omi could dimly hear Yohji's laughter mingling with the higher voice of the dark-haired girl.

Alone, Omi placed his head in his hands and exhaled sharply. He did not need this now. Not now, when he was already feeling drained emotionally and physically by his nightmares. The _last_ thing he needed was to swept up in a confused and intense attraction to someone who would _never_ feel the same.

Omi knew it was stupid. He told himself a million times a day that no logical person would give their heart to one who was destined to refuse it. It's just that his feelings about Yohji had nothing todo with logic. Every time he saw him his throat felt tighter andhis knees weakened. His stomach felt on the verge of sickness at the very thought of that golden hair, those piercing green eyes. The curve of his cheeks, the shape of his nose, the sound of his laugh all made Omi's heart race.

Of course, it wasn't just the fact that Yohji was the epitome of all that is beauty that drew Omi to his older teammate. Their was something deeper that touched Omi when he contemplated his friend. The way Yohji talked to Omi, as if he were an equal and not a child. They way he cared when Omi was hurt; the way he teased him for his shyness; how no matter how many times Yohji insisted he was both bored and irritated by Omi's geekier hobbies, he always listened, exhibiting a patience normally lacking in his loud character. How Yohji seemed to somehow understand that behind the mask of youthful innocence was a darkness in Omi that didn't frighten Yohji away. While Omi otherwise lived in a depressed fog caught between one nightmare and the next, Yohji represented a sense of sharpness, a clarity which made talking and laughing come naturally as if they weren't an effort or an act.

With Yohji, the smiles became genuine; the masks could come off. Omi desperately wanted Yohji to feel the same sense of calm and comfort with him. Although Yohji did his best to hide his suffering behind wit and charm, Omi knew that Yohji, too, wore many masks. Omi wanted to peel those masks off and hold the real Yohji close, pain-blistered and broken. He wanted, with Yohji, to find a home for boththeir pain and their happiness, healing the past by being together. In short, everything he had ever looked for in another soul was embodied in the tall, smoking, wisecracking, woman-chaser. The only problem was the certainty that to Yohji, Omi was a young, slightly awkward, gangly boy - good for friendship and a few laughs; a fellow assassin, a roommate, perhaps a friend - but certainly not a candidate for Yohji's heart.

Omi swallowed hard and gulped down the last of the coffee, reminding himself that to many people, bodies _mattered_. Even _if_ Yohji and he connected on certain levels - which in itself might be a one-way street- there was _no way_ that Yohji would alter his preference for slender dark-haired women to look upon Omi with lust.

*Lust*, he reminded himself sharply, *is an essential ingredient of love-isn't it?*

*Of course it is.*

Cursing himself softly, Omi glanced around at the messy kitchen and began to clean up.

***

Exhausted after another mission, Omi collapsed onto his bed fully clothed, his shoulder aching and head pounding. He could hear the pattern of Aya's footsteps walking down the hall to the bathroom, Ken dropping things in the kitchen. Yohji's voice as he left the apartment, complaining that no one would come clubbing with him.

Breathing heavily, Omi wondered: did any of them realize how tired he was? Did they have any idea how much energy it took to smile, to laugh? To act as if everything was okay on the outside when he as screaming on the inside? And to make it look as if he weren't acting so none of them would guess? Omi sighed. He was whining, and he knew it.

*But this is the only way I can handle it. We all try to forget in different ways. Aya puts up fences. Ken devotes himself to others. Yohji throws himself to women and vice. Me? I grin like an idiot. I grin on the outside and whine on the inside. I'm pathetic. *

*Please let me sleep. Just one night of sleep. Let me forget for just one night...*

***

Darkness. Blinding pain.

*I didn't fight, why didn't I fight, I was weak ... I'll never forgive them, I'll never forgive myself, I'll never forgive...*

***

Omi choked back sobs as he lay back against the bathtub, curled on the floor. The bathroom was dark, save the streak of moonlight which lay on the patch of white tile floor. Images of his nightmare ran through his brain, flooding him with a constant feeling of helplessness, meshing with the pangs of loneliness he felt at knowing that Yohji was once again most likely enjoying the company of some woman. He couldn't decide which was worse: to be chased by ghosts of the past or to be constantly faced with unrequited raw emotion.

"Gods... I can't take this... I can't take this...Father...Yohji..."

Yohji.

The tears spilled over as he shook, searching for some release from the pain. Without really thinking, he slowly sat up, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and, sniffling, removed his jacket and withdrew a knife from the pocket.

*One perk to being an assassin*, thought Omi dryly. *There's always something sharp on hand.*

Opening the blade slowly, he felt a sense of calm overtaking his body and his mind began to clear. Lightly, not hard enough to break the skin, Omi ran the edge of the blade over his left wrist, tracing a pattern up the length of his thin arm. The smooth skin registered the sensation of the cool blade not with alarm, but with a strange sense of welcome. When he reached above the elbow, Omi slowly drew the blade across, hard enough to makereal the pain inside. A thin line of red ran across his forearm, then another, and another. And another. He exhaled quickly as he lowered his hand, letting the blade slip to the floor, watching the blood flow.

_He_ would be the one making the scars now. Not those perverts who fucked him when he was a kid, not his goddam father who didn'tcare. Not Yohji, who didn't notice the pain, the longing, the _need_behind Omi's seemingly cheerful eyes. Resting against the edge of the bathtub, he closed his eyes and fell asleep. The chase began again.

***

*I am so fucking tired...* Yohji thought to himself, padding across the lounge barefoot. Streaks of faint sunlight cut across the floor through the partially open blinds, creating a pattern on the carpet in the semi-dark room. How many times had he crept in at dawnafter a night of trying to escape? Trying to escape killing, loneliness, Asuka... Yohji sighed heavily, throwing his jacket on the sofa.

*Just a quick shower and then to bed.* He opened the bathroom door, flicked on the lights and blinked hard a couple of times before his brain registered what his eyes were seeing. Yohji swallowed hard.

Laying curled up on the floor was Omi, twitching and moaning softly, as if in pain. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes held shut tightly, his hand resting next to an open knife. Splotches of red marred the white tile floor.

"Omi! Omi-kun!" Yohji shouted, dropping to his knees beside the boy, shaking him to consciousness. He noted with relief that the blade had not been used on the boys' tiny wrists, but bit his lip as he saw the streaks of dried blood on Omi's upper arm.

"Goddamn it, Omi -- fuck!" Yohji's throat tightened as he slowed his shaking, cradling the boy in his arms. The gentle eyes fluttered open and for a moment Omi tensed at the realization that he was being held by unfamiliar hands, touched when he felt most vulnerable. Yohji felt the boy's fright and gently stroked his head while rockings lightly.

"Shhh...it's okay, Omi-kun. I'm here."

"Yohji." The boy murmured, closing his eyes and turning his face into the warm chest, breathing deeply of sweat and cologne and sweetness, relaxing into the strong arms which held him as if he were a fragile doll. Yohji heard the sound of a door opening, footsteps approaching the bathroom.

"Yohji? What's the matter?" asked Aya, in an sharp voice which halted suddenly at the sight of Yohji laying on the floor with the younger boy gathered in his arms, the blade lying on the floor.

"Nani?" came a sleepy-sounding voice from behind Aya.

"Aya, Ken, let me handle this..." Yohji replied in a shaky voice, awkwardly rising to carry Omi out of the bathroom. "Go back to sleep. I'll take care of him." Yohji carried the sleeping boy down the hall past a visibly angry Aya and a yawning Ken, taking care not to further disturb him. Yohji didn't stop to consider where he was taking Omi, only knowing that whatever the boy was going through, he couldn't be left alone.

Yohji entered his room and gently laid Omi down on the bed. He stood over Omi and watched as the younger boy relaxed into the soft blanket, and cast a downward glance at the blood-stained arm. Shaking his head, Yohji went back to the bathroom, where he picked up the knife and tossed it roughly into the trash bin. With some alcohol and gauze, Yohji returned to his room where he set about cleaning

Omi's cuts. In their line of work, patching up wounds was practically second nature. But this was - different. These wounds hadn't been given by an enemy which could be defeated, but by Omi's own hand. The only question was, why? *What is still torturing him that he can't share? *

"I'm one to talk" Yohji snorted. Images of Asuka flooded Yohji's mind as he looked on Omi's innocent face. Pangs of guilt tore through him as he remembered holding Asuka and pledging to always protect her, keep her safe. His ultimate failure was a stain which would forever be upon him, causing him pain from which he could only seek release by slowly destroying himself.

Yohji finished with Omi's arm and removed the boy's sneakersto make him more comfortable. Walking to the other side of the bed, Yohji eased down and lay next to the boy, hoping that he would be able to sense the presence of someone familiar. Hoping that in this small way, he could protect Omi.

***

*Where am I? In Yohji's bed?* Omi vaguely remembered feeling desperation, the bathroom, the knife, the gentle hands and a soft voice - *"I'll take care of him." Yohji.* Omi breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of Yohji which surrounded him in the blankets. Itwas sweet and spicy and warm and comfortable, like herbs and cinnamon and the faint smell of cigarettes. Sunshine leaked through the cracks in the blinds, dimly lighting the room.

Omi knew that it was past noon, that he should be in school, that the others would be working in the shop. He slowly shifted his weight and froze with surprise as he pressed up against the man who was still in bed with him, one slender arm protectively circled around Omi's head.

Relaxing, a smile formed on Omi's lips as he turned to face Yohji. Omi rested his head on Yohji's shoulder and placed a timid hand on his chest. Closing his eyes, Omi slept a dreamless sleep.