Warnings:NagixOmi, KasexKen, Mentions of torture, Suicide (not a main character)

The death of Jon Ashwood was, surprisingly, not a big shock to the student body of Smaragd Wald Academy. Everyone who knew the kid was very familiar with his constant angst and depressed attitude. Apparently, the blond boy, also a pothead, had talked of suicide a lot over the past year. Strangely, though, the word never got to his mother about it.

Ms. Ashwood, the head counsellor in the guidence office, had gone into hysterics, leaving the principle no choice but to permit her a leave of absence. The woman was obviously very disturbed by this. Though, no one could say this about any of the students. The levels of attention about Jon's death ranged the small distance from amusement to pity, but no one went as far as to actually shed tears over it-- not even Ms. Ashwood. She simply locked herself in her office, screaming.

Ken took this all in through simple observation. He, himself, had been surprised at first, opening the door to see the body of his roommate sprawled forward across the floor. He was in a semi-kneeling position, a pool of blood surrounding his body and seeping up into the bedsheets and into the carpet, leaking out from a large gash in his stomach.

The Japanese boy was familiar with the style of death, he had been around many suicides in his life-- this one just happened to be extremely familiar with him, for it was an ancient Japanese style of suicide-- Hara Kiri. They had studied it in school.

The ancient samurai had used it many times; for it had once been believed that the soul of a man lived within his stomach. A warrior would take a knife and cut a large gash through their stomach, and their soul would leave the body for some sort of 'after-life', while the mortality of the human died on earth, bowing to the leaving spirit.

Though, to Ken, death was not something he had expected to find as common around here, as it had been at home. He was almost morbidly amused by his roommate's actions, but nothing more. Though, the scent was not something he could stand-- too many memories.

He had been delighted to be moved into another dorm room later that night, after the incident-- the stench of blood had always made him sick, and now it was the cause of memories. Memories of his own brushes with death, memories of the deaths he caused, memories of his own attempts at death, the scars that now crossed his wrists; even those memories of a certain man he had once thought he had known. Too many memories to sleep with, and therefor, Hidaka Ken was on a very short fuse today.

Conversation had been minimal at the breakfast table that morning. Schuldig had decided to breakfast at another table since he and Youji had called it off, and Youji had decided to simply skip breakfast. This left Omi, who was again accompanied by Nagi, whom were having a conversation over blue-berry muffins and milk. Every once in a while they would try to communicate with the older brunett, but Ken didn't seem to even want to understand anything. They assumed it was the trauma of finding his roommate dead the evening before. They assumed the Japanese boy had probably never been exposed to real death-- Foreigners are so weird.

The Japanese boy wasn't eating this morning, either. His uniform was wrinkled and twisted, almost as if he had slept in it, and his eyes were tired. It was more than obvious that he hadn't slept at all that night.

"Ken? Are you okay?" Omi offered, after seeing the brunett remain silent for the whole of breakfast.

"Fine." Ken answered quietly.

Omi sighed, "I know seeing your roommate's death must have been pretty tough..."

The brunett yawned loudly and scratched a spot on the elbow of his arm; having just a bit of difficulty getting the roughness to settle the itch on his skin, beneath the thick fabric of his jacket.

Nagi blinked and droned, in a sarcastic voice, "Yea, he sounds really traumatised to me."

The blond boy glared at his boyfriend, "Maybe he's going through denial."

"Maybe he really doesn't care." The younger brunett offered anyway.

"Then explain to me why he looks like shit, Nagi!" The blond now pounded his fist on the table glaring, at the smaller brunett.

It was Ken's turn to blink. He knew they were talking about him; but what they were saying was beyond his comprehension. His curiosity was piqued, though, it sounded like they were arguing about him-- from the way they kept looking at him. Then the thought occured to him, they were probably sharing some kind of sympathy for what had happened to his roommate.

He sighed and shook his head. He did not favour sympathy.

Omi's attention was back on Ken again, "We're really sorry, Ken. It's really tough that you should have to see something like that."

Ken frowned deeply, a light glint in his brown eyes, Omi was definately giving him sympathy, he had heard the tone directed at others before, but never at himself. He didn't like it, "No." He simply stated. What else could he say?

"He doesn't understand what your saying." Nagi butted in.

"I guess not, but still..." The blond reached forward and laid a hand on Ken's arm, "Ken--"

The blond was surprised that the Japanese boy knocked his hand away and emitted a low growl from his throat. It was another unknown fact to the the smaller blond that Ken didn't like to be touched. He didn't like others to touch him in any way, nor did he like to touch them.

The blond look startled and was about to say something else, when he was interrupted by the bell. The Japanese boy was quick to stand, and walk towards his classes.

"Damn. Who pissed in his cheerios?" Nagi blinked.

"Shut up, you sound like my brother." Omi rolled his eyes and dragged the smaller brunett off to class with him.

First period had done nothing good for Ken's attitude that day. He was tired from lack of sleep, and torn with anger from all of the memories he had endured the night before. All the thoughts of 'him' that had been forced through his mind. Not to mention he was angry with the school. He was angry with Jon for killing himself and reminding him of everything. He was angry with Mr. S Takatori for being Japanese and not speaking the language--and giving him detention. He was angry at Manx for not teaching a proper German class. He was angry at Omi for his useless sympathy. He was angry at Aya for being so... whatever she was. He was angry at whatever god there was for putting him on this planet. He was angry at himself that he had never succeeded in getting out of this world every time he had tried.

His scarred wrists came into vision now and again when he would reach for his pencil, burning the narrow reminder that he was a failure into his mind. He hated it all.

Though, then again, anyone who knew Hidaka Ken knew about his bad days, and how his fury would always turn into bitter depression, once he found a release. He had, in the past, gotten into many fights as the effect of his anger. Anyone who knew Ken already knew this.

Though, on the other hand, nobody at Smaragd Wald Academy knew Hidaka Ken.

The girls in the back of the classroom had done no worse at annoying him as they had the day before, though this time despite his anger, he kept his head, and ignored them. That didn't stop them, though. They would continuously tap on his shoulders, even once or twice he would feel them throw pencils or pens at his back. By the time the period was over, he was ready to kill.

Looking down at his sheet, he found that his next class was Art with Mr. Jei Farfarello in room # 666. He blinked at the room number. That number had a bad meaning in Christian theology; something about the 'antichrist'. Maybe this class would be interesting. What the hell is 'Art'?

The outside of the door to room # 666 was painted black, small red stars could be seen spaced out widely across the door. The stars were no larger than the tip of a ball-point pen, though, and there were few of the delicate shapes, and far between those that were. Ken found himself staring at it for a moment in interest, before actually opening the door into the classroom.

The room was large with walls covered by all sorts of strange and exotic artwork-- most of it dark with crimson and black--, and the grey-tiled floor was covered in dried splotches of paint. Students were dropping their bags carelessly beside their easels and going to pick up their materials.

„Bijutsu...?" [trans: "Art...?"] He muttered quietly.

Ken's inner monologue was interrupted as a man came to stand beside him. Ken blinked. What the hell is this guy?

The man bowed, in the Japanese custom, and spoke plainly, with a small mischevious smirk riding his thin lips, "I am Farfarello. I'll be your art teacher."

The man was very thin, and tall. His skin had a very pale, clear, complection, though, across it there must have been hundreds of scars. He had flaming red hair, almost like Schuldigs, but without the orange tint. 1 Over one eye he wore a black patch, his other eye was tainted oddly with a pale amber iris and pupils that were slitted narrowly like that of a cat. He wore a white jacket with sleeves cut off and long white bandages around his arms, almost blending with the skin. Scars covered his face and arms, even one or two on his neck, and there was sure to be more in places Ken did not wish to see.

The brunett struggled to find his voice, "Ano... I am Hidaka Ken."

"I know." Farfarello stated plainly. "You are from Japan and you don't speak English." It was easily to tell this man was from somewhere in Ireland by his heavy accent.

"...Yes." Ken nodded. This guy was really weird.

"You will not need English in this class." An amber eye glinted as the man smirked, "We do not speak any language in Art."

The Japanese boy found that it was easier to understand what Farfarello was saying, as he looked around the room. No one was talking, only sitting and waiting for the day's assignment.

Then how do they know what to do? Ken wanted to ask the question, but he didn't have the proper words to do so. He simply nodded at Farfarello again, "What I do?"

Farfarello motioned for Ken to follow him to an easel in a far corner of the room, taking Ken's bag and dropping it on the floor beside the stand. He motioned for Ken to follow him again, and he pointed to a stack of clean canvas, where Ken was to pick one up and place it on the stand. It was easily done, and all without words, as he was guided to the paints and Farfarello held up three fingers and pointed at the different colours of paint available to take.

The redheaded man stopped Ken by hitting the box of paints, as the Japanese boy reached for a green tube. He glanced questioningly at Farfarello. He knew he had to pick out three different coloured paints, but what had to be so specific about them?

Suddenly Farfarello smiled, the smile quickly turned into a sort of mischevious smirk, then to a frown, and finally and angry scowl. When it was done, his expression became blank once more, and he gestured to the paints. Somehow, as vague as the instructions seemed, Ken understood. He was to pick out three colours associated with his mood. It was fairly obvious green wasn't the right colour for him.

He looked back into the box, and picked up a tube of crimson, glancing back for confirmation from the Irishman. The redhead only nodded. He quickly selected a black and lighter shade of red.

The class was patiently waiting in their workspaces as Ken and Farfarello returned. Everyone was silent for instruction, and they watched as the Irishman prepared his paints on a tray, and wet his brushes. He gestured for them to watch. He dipped his brush into a blot of black and paused for a moment, his expression downcast. He took the brush across the canvas in a lingering stroke, curving and smoothly coasting down the canvas and off of the edge.

He dipped the brush again, almost lazily streaking the white material until it was covered with streaks and twines. He then added a deep blue, repeating his minstrations across the canvas, and you could tell the expression he painted was greif. He stopped abruptly, and motioned to the class, and everyone instantly went to work.

Ken simply sat on his stool watching Farfarello at the head of the room, streaking deep blues across the vanilla-coloured material for a moment, and then turned to watch the girl nearest him. The girl was making springs with a brush tipped in orange. She was blending them with a bright green and a moderate blue, like metal springs under the rainbow affect of a prism. It looked simple enough, watching her.

But he wasn't an artist. He didn't even know where to begin.

He turned his attention to the canvas before him and frowned. This was definately not his day. What was this supposed to be teaching him anyway? He could be sleeping right now and probably get more out of it than this. He resisted the urge to growl and narrowed his eyes at his canvas.

Sure, this was all very interesting, but his head was hurting, and he was tired. I'm not an artist goddamnit! He sent a glare over his shoulder at Farfarello and picked up the paint tubes, pouring out blobs of the thick colourful liquid on his tray. Lazily he picked up his brush and wet it, sinking it into the pool of light red. He took a quick swipe and let it cross the canvas, effortlessly, leaving a bland red line to mar the creamy vanilla-coloured material.

Feeling something watching him, we turned his head quickly, glaring at the girl who was just painting the springs. She shook her head in mock arrogance, looking at him and the red stripe, "Really creative." Her voice laden in sarcasm.

He narrowed his eyes to mere slits at her teasing tone. Fuck this!! Fuck understanding whatever the hell these English people are saying!! I don't care anymore!! Fuck it!!

The Japanese boy turned back to his canvas, seething, this was not where he wanted to be, and this was not what he wanted to do. He wanted to go find that redheaded girl with the bubble gum, from his first period class, and beat her black and blue. Ken had no quarrels against hitting girls; he had done it before. He pictured himself sending his fist into her perfectly made up face. Tears running down her cheeks, ruining her eyeliner.

He dipped the brush into the lighter of his red paints and took another swipe at the board. He would easily kick her in the stomach, possibly knock the breath out of her, and he would see her cough up blood. He took another stroke quickly, paying no real attention. He would do this with his soccer cleets; he would run at her head and impact it with a kick, caving in the side of her skull and breaking her neck. He took stroke after stroke, no longer paying attention to whatever it was he was doing.

Of course he wouldn't really kill her, not without logical reasoning, anyway.

His head throbbed suddenly, worse than the dull pain he had become accustomed to throughout the day. A memory. He didn't even realize he was still painting.

"Are you coming?" His voice was silky, as he traced a finger tip down his companion's side.

"Coming? Coming where?" Brown eyes looked up from the television. It was a taped soccer match from a few years before. Ken had been watching for any moves he could use at the game on Saturday.

"With me." The man purred, leaning closer.

"Where with you?" Ken asked softly, his skin tingling beneath the other's fingertips.

"Would you go anywhere with me, Ken?" The man leaned forward, his lips claiming those of the brunett in a crushing kiss.

The younger man pulled back less than a centimetre from the lips of his lover, "I would go to hell with you, Kase." He spoke in a joking tone.

"And we'll go there one day." The man, Kase pressed their lips together again. This time moving to climb atop the brunett.

"Whatever." Ken whispered.

His fury was blind, now. He had given away his soul. What was he now, without a soul? Without the only thing that had ever been his to give? What was he now without all that that man had taken away? Nothing more than a shallow pit of anger.

Through all of this his brush strokes covered the canvas, almost violent in their intensity. Reds upon reds, upon blacks, upon more reds. He continued, lost in his thoughts. What good was it to remember? What did it do for him, but hurt him? Why couldn't he just stop? His thoughts were interrupted, though, by the bell.

Ken paused, as if waking up from a nap, and turned around. Every face in the room was watching him. All eyes were glued to himself and his canvas. His red streak. He turned back to his canvas suddenly, only to see that it was no longer just a red streak. There was no white left upon the canvas's once clean textured surface, instead it was covered with sharp lines of red, almost like shards of glass, and blood, scattered upon a floor.

The Japanese boy took a deep breath and tried to calm himself, glaring slightly at his painting. If the canvas had been a living thing, it would have been dead now. He swallowed, and listened as the other students murmered to themselves, putting away materials and leaving.

He simply sat, looking at his "art", when he realized the teacher was standing almost directly beside him. He glanced over at Farfarello, to see a mischevious smirk upon the Irishman's face. The man nodded, reaching out a hand to the painting, and resting it in the air just above the surface.

He spoke suddenly, glancing at Ken's right hand, "You're bleeding."

Looking down, following the older man's gaze, the Japanese boy saw the red liquid dropping slowly out of a fingertip from where he had cut it on the edge of the easel. He quickly opened his mouth to take a deep breath; he refused to smell the blood.

Glancing back at Farfarello, he saw the teacher make a gesture as if touching the canvas with his finger. Thinking quickly, Ken reached out running his bloody fingertip across the painting, leaving a light streak of blood on it's surface.

Farfarello nodded, his amber eye gleaming, "Blood work." He turned, walking back over to the far counter, chuckling, and began carefully placing random objects into a blender.

Ken blinked at this, and simply went on to put away his supplies and leave the painting. He didn't need Art, and he sure as hell didn't want it. He would be happy to never see that painting again. Though, as he thought about it, he wondered if Farfarello hadn't somehow known what he was thinking of when he painted that piece. If he had, it could mean trouble.

Blink.

Feeling surprisingly, a lot calmer, he left the room, exiting the building, onto the large spacious lawn out front. He looked down at his hands, red and black paint practically covered his hands, and his fingertip was still dripping with wet blood. 'wonder where they keep the bandages--

He was interrupted suddenly, as he came into impact with something--no--someone else. He jumped, looking down at the figure he had run into, for the girl had fallen down. As he looked down at her he realised it was the brunett girl who had been painting the springs beside him in art class. He frowned.

She let out a low groan and looked up at him, "Oh! I'm sorry, I should have been watching where I was going." She frowned, pulling herself up and gathering her bag, before walking away, "Oh yea! Nice painting, by the way." She winked, and continued walking.

Ken shrugged, and continued walking as well.

The rest of the day went by easily, for instance: his English tutoring was nothing but a jumble of arguments and teasing between Crawford and Schuldig ("You always wear that same suit, Brad. You should take it off sometime."), and so on. He had gone back to his new dorm room after school and begun his homework immediately. He hadn't gone to see Omi, worrying the kid probably wouldn't want to speak to him, after his behaviour that morning. It turned dark more quickly than it ever had when he was at home, he noticed.

It was a tid bit past 2100 when he finally decided to go for a walk. It was the one thing he hated most about this school; he had been denied a physical education class. He knew the school had a soccer team, and he also knew that it sucked, but he couldn't help wishing that they would allow him to play. Maybe he would able to attend spring try outs. Tch! If I'm even here that long.

Ken headed out onto the cracked cement pathway that lead from his dormatory and out through the lawns, towards various other buildings across the campus. The size of the school was huge, almost like a college, and only held five different class levels. As he looked about he saw only a few students out, most of them in senior robes. They were the ones that walked about the campus at this time of night, when lowerclassmen like himself, were in their dorms doing homework (not that the seniors didn't have homework-- they just didn't do it). He sighed softly. He had two years of sanctuary here. But where will I go when it's over?

As he walked along the path, fairly covered by trees, on out into the more wooded areas of the lawn, he heard a sound, and paused. It was a rustling sound, like tree leaves, but it was very soft. He probably wouldn't have even noticed, had he not been trained to. He paused midstep, turning his head and glancing about. Then he heard something else.

Light breathing, something he definately couldn't have heard without really focusing. He followed the sound with his ears, averting his eyes towards the direction the breathing was coming from. There mere halts in midbreath, almost as if whoever was breathing, was nervous. Ken held his own breath, scanning the tree tops, now for whatever it was that was causing the sounds.

He didn't feel frightened, but he did put on his guard rather quickly, "Who are you?"

The tree rustled suddenly, a flurry of leaves and branches as the figure tried to hide itself better.

"I can see you." Ken stated flatly, even though he couldn't really. Could someone have--!?

There was a sigh, as the figure dropped down out of the tree, crouching slightly upon his landing, and taking nothing less than a moment to straighten himself. He quickly turned his pale face towards Ken, piercing the boy with narrow glare, before running out across the lawn towards the dormatories in a streak of speed.

Ken stood for a moment, staring at the place the stranger had just stood. He could almost still see the guy standing there, with his red hair brushing against his pale face, all clad in black like a theif. The Japanese boy shook his head, he shouldn't be concerned. He looked back across the lawn, where the stranger had run.

He had never seen anyone with violet eyes before.

To Be Continued...

Notes

1 Yes, this is manga-Farf in part. I gave him red hair but compromised by giving him a gold eye, I believe his manga eye-colour is actually red. However, white-haired anime-Farf makes a small appearance in Act IV Scene I.