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What Matters A 'Weiss Kreuz' vignette Sephy "Aya, why do you suppose we're here?" He glanced at the younger man, honey blond hair artfully disarrayed thanks to the blue cap mashed down on his head, his chin propped on one hand while the other hand crumbled potted soil between his fingers, a half-potted tulip trembling as it struggled to stay upright. Omi's expression was thoughtful, eyes unfocused as he chewed on his lower lip and Aya wanted to cringe, recognizing both the mood and what it meant. "Because it's our day to run the shop," he replied, plucking the forgotten plant from his partner, setting about the replanting with expedient efficiency, black soil dusty against his bare hands, prodding until the flower satisfactorily vertical and in no immediate danger of falling before he turned his attention back to the boy next to him. Omi clucked his tongue at him, telling Aya that he knew what he was trying to do and wasn't about to have any of it. Blue eyes were warm, too warm and almost�fond? as they traced over him, making him suddenly uncomfortable. True, he was used to adoring stares, the fan girl horde outside insured that they all were but there was something different about this, deeper and more possessive, a small thrill in his stomach making him look away. "I meant why are we here?" Omi tried again, "In this time, in this place. Why are we who we are and does that matter? Or is it all just random?" "Feeling philosophical today, are we?" his voice was sharp, almost reprimanding. "Humor me." "Don't I always?" Omi grinned, straightening up. "You really want me to answer that?" Aya thought about that, deciding against opening his mouth. His partner was in one of his moods, a mercurial shift that happened without warning, disturbing the normal outward placidity of Omi's routine. Usually it heralded some major crisis and perhaps he was more than a little warranted to watch the other out of the corner of his eye, wary and preparing himself for whatever personal bomb Omi might drop on him. "And now you're staring. That's always good," Omi observed. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You can tell me to shut up, you know?" "And when has that ever done any good?" He grunted and felt a prick of contrition when his partner's face fell. He picked up the tulip, skirting around the counter to put it on one of the shelves, wiping his hands against his apron. "So... Life, the universe, and everything?[1] What about it?" He didn't have to turn around to feel the other perk up. There was something about Omi's moods that seemed to pass through a room, filling it up until it was infectious. The only way out of it was to go with him and hope that nothing too disastrous or embarrassing happen in the interim. "Right. Well, I was on the computer earlier, sifting through some of our mission logs and it just occurred to me. I mean, anyone could do my job. Why me? Why am I the one doing it? Maybe someone else could do it better. Or worse. What conjunction of events or divine interference decided that this was the time and the place for me?" "Persia? Kritiker?" he shrugged. "They do have this process of forms and screening--" "Aya," Omi sounded reproving, slapping a hand against the formica counter top. "I'm serious." "So am I. All that paperwork is a bitch. Don't tell me you didn't have to go through it?" "You don't ever wonder why stuff happens? Why it happens to you in particular?" Omi sounded like he didn't believe him. Aya shrugged, bending over to slide the base of a sapling along, glaring at the streak of black trailing from the base. Someone had been over watering again. Goddamn Yohji and his flirting. "Maybe I just don't see the point. What is, is. There's no changing it." "You really believe that?" Aya wanted to groan at the intrigued note creeping in Bombay's voice. "That we're just pawns thrown about in some grand design. That we can't change anything?" "I didn't say that." "Then what are you saying?" He paused mid-lean, peering underneath his arm at the worried face staring back at him. "Look, Omi--" Aya made a frustrated note in back of his voice. "You're here. You and not some mythical you or somebody who could or could not take your place. What the hell kind of good is it going to do to twist yourself in knots about something so pointless?" "Because it's important. Because--" Omi trailed off, suddenly acutely embarrassed, his cheeks reddening. Aya quirked an eyebrow at him, "What?" Omi shook his head, tying off the fertilizer bag and grabbing a rag and the waste basket, swiping at the loose dirt. "Just forget it." "After all that, not on your life," Aya stood, tilting to one side to get the crick out of his back and wanting to grumble at the momentary inconvenience. "If I have to talk, then you do, too." "Because...well, because... If I or you, if we're interchangeable, if anyone could be here in our place then--then why do we matter?" he burst out. "Why does anything we do or say make any difference?" Aya didn't blink. "Because it's us." "Come again." He rolled his eyes. "We matter, Omi. What we do...well, that might not matter to anyone else in the long run but that doesn't mean we don't." "I don't understand." "Look," And he found himself inching closer to where the other stood, "You're alive. I'm alive. We were given that and yeah, it can be taken away but there will never be another Tsukiyono Omi or Fujimiya Aya. We're it. That makes us unique. Someone might could do your job, Omi but they can't be you. Not ever. No one is replaceable," he said and he thought of his sister, of his family, repeating. "No one." "But we kill people and if what you say is true then--" "I'm not saying that they're not important. Everyone is important to someone, somewhere but we do what we have to do. Because it's required of us, because it might save someone else's life down the line and because.. Because there is a point where a man ceases to be a man, Omi and is little more than a murderous animal." "But who are we to make that judgment? What gives you or I the right?" "Would you trust it in anyone else's hands?" Omi appeared taken aback, "Well, no. I guess not." "There's your answer then. You shoulder the burden not because you have to but because in some ways you want to. Because you can't leave it to chance that someone else will do what is right," Aya reached out and tugged at his hat awkwardly, feeling embarrassed as Omi's eyes followed him the entire time, longish hair brushing against his wrist. "And there's some comfort in that, I think." "But what if I fuck things up?" Aya shrugged. "If you can still worry about that, then I don't think you will. But we all fuck up. Not to sound trite but that's what humans do. "So why not," he continued, "stop worrying about the things you can't change and do something about the things you can." "I suppose," Omi agreed, and not for the first time, Aya wondered what went through the other's mind. It was no secret that Omi was wrestling with demons of his own, not the least of which was the very real specter of his family, the people who should have taken him to their breast and instead had tossed him aside as if he meant nothing at all. Maybe it wasn't so unusual that he would ask these things, that he would be struggling to find a place and meaning where so much of his life there had been none. "Do you understand?" Aya verbally poked him. "You. Are. Not. Replaceable." Omi nodded, eyes widening. Satisfied, Aya reached over to pick up another flower from the countertop when a fist grabbed him by the front of his sweater, jerking him downward to meet Omi's lips in a clumsy, hard kiss. The plant dropped, roll-sliding off the counter to crash against the floor but he paid no heed, too caught up in the sudden surprise, in the desperate way his teammate's mouth was moving against his, rousing a response, his hands moving not to push the other away but to rest on Omi's shoulders, gripping them with grimy fingers. That strange quiver from earlier returned, his body twanging as if invisible strings had been plucked and he couldn't think beyond this, beyond the moment. And then it was over, the hold on his shirt front released slowly, his head drifting back, eyes opening to bore into Omi's, taking note of the mysterious lift of swelling lips. Omi looked as if he had just been given something, some confirmation or gift and Aya didn't know what to make of that beyond the desire to kiss him again. "Aya," Omi breathed, "You matter, too." ***End [1.] Douglas Adams' reference. .::BACK TO ARCHIVE::. |