Fujimiya Ran walked through the trash-choked alleys of a grey city and thought about rotting.

Some men rotted from the core, consumed entirely by fear and hate and a terrible hunger. Like Taketori Reiji, gobbling up far more power than he could control; inside Ran something feral purred in red satisfaction at the memory of the man's death.

Some people let themselves erode. They compromised and shut their eyes and took the easy path until honor and soul were nibbled away, and nothing but a walking shell remained. Over the years he'd killed dozens of them. Most had a look of terrified surprise at the end; not me, they pleaded, I'm not evil, it was his fault her fault I had no choice.

He wasn't sure which type he loathed more.

And a very few were fool enough to embrace corruption with their eyes wide open. To damn themselves for the sake of someone else.

The bill was lying on his bed in the apartment.

Surely, he'd thought when Shion had called him out to that duel on the beach, surely this is the end of it. Death would have been welcome; he wanted to pay for his sins and stop committing them. Instead his idiotic teammates had butted in, nearly getting themselves killed instead. And now the three of them were somehow here and alive in Kyoto.

That he would have done the same did not make Ran any more inclined to forgive them.

The pulse of the music was audible nearly half a block away, leading him through the maze of alleyways like a mangled siren song. Against his will he was reminded of the American pop Ken used to play.

Give blood
But you may find that blood is not enough
Give blood
But there are some who'll say it's not enough
Give blood
But don't expect to ever see reward
Give blood
You can give it all and still be asked for more

But it wasn't, of course; the blurred rhythm resolved into some sort of trendy grunge as he neared the door. A bored young man lounged beside it, flicking the ash from his cigarette at the opposite wall. On catching sight of Ran he straightened and took a step in front of the door.

"Welcome, sir. Please allow me to check for weapons."

Ran glared at him, but submitted. The back door of this club was more or less an open secret. If you came to dance and drink, you went in at the front with the tourists; if you were here on business, this more discreet entrance was available. He let himself be patted down and unbuckled his long coat at a gesture.

As the black fabric fell open the guard's eyes widened, the wary respect in them vanishing. He looked Ran up and down in a manner that nearly got him gutted. Ran gritted his teeth and reminded himself this was only to be expected.

Finally some dim flare of survival instinct in the young punk's mind registered the Look being directed at him. He stepped back and opened the door, smirking. As Ran strode through he caught the tail end of a mutter. "...ing fags."

It really was a pity Kritiker no longer existed to dispense missions; he had no possible excuse to slaughter everyone in the club and leave the guard choking on his own blood. Still, he entertained the fantasy briefly as he pushed through the crowd to the bar. The end stool was empty and he dropped his coat on it, choosing to lean against the rail. When the bartender coughed behind him he ordered a glass of beer without looking back.

There was no point in adopting a pose, he'd decided. The hair and eyes that had always drawn unwelcome attention would do so this time as well. The idiot at the door obviously had no trouble classifying him and no one else would either. Ran surveyed the crowd, noting the sidelong glances and whispers from both women and men. Hopefully it wouldn't be long; the screeching thumps of the music were painfully loud.

And it wasn't. Not ten minutes had passed before someone was too-casually wandering up to his section of the bar. Middle-aged, a little tipsy, his suit expensive but rumpled, he looked like any faceless salaryman out on a Friday night. Harmless enough. But appearances meant nothing.

"I haven't seen you here before." The man's eyes betrayed his attempt at a friendly smile; openly lustful, they appraised his body and arrived at a value. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Ran gestured at the untouched glass behind him on the bar. "Not a drink," he answered flatly.

His tone didn't seem to deter the other in the slightest. Ran suppressed a shudder as a clumsy arm reached around his waist and a hand groped his ass. "How much?", the man whispered, breathing alcoholic fumes into his ear.

Ran closed his eyes. He deserved this, he told himself. "Seventy thousand."

It wasn't any different.

He'd sold himself every night, body and soul, to Kritiker. He'd murdered people for money. The blood of guilty and innocent alike stained his hands. All so his sister could have a chance of waking up someday.

What right did he have to say there were things he would not do?

"Steep, but you look worth it." A hand was on his hair and the salaryman was pulling him down for a kiss. He braced himself for the touch of clammy lips, refusing to think about how long it had been since he'd kissed someone. A girl in high school, her name long since forgotten. Now this was all-

Abruptly the body against his was yanked away. There was a cry of outrage and pain; Ran opened his eyes to see his prospective buyer being slammed against the bar, arm bent up behind him. "Don't you fucking _dare_ touch him again. Ever."

Oh, no.

Something painful twisted deep in his gut. Dully, he stood there and waited while the terrified man scrambled away, until Kudou Youji turned back to stare at him in astonishment and fury.

----

Fortunately it took Youji several moments to find his voice, badly needed time for Ran to recover his wits. By the time the playboy opened his mouth he was able to forestall him with a death glare.

"Shut. Up. Stop interfering in my business."

In other circumstances he would have enjoyed flummoxing "I'm-so-decadent" Kudou so completely. Youji sputtered. "Business, yeah, I noticed. Was that what I think it was? What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing, Aya?"

Leaving, now. Ran snatched up his trenchcoat and walked away, or tried to; Youji sidestepped quickly and pushed him back against the end of the bar, putting an arm on either side. "Answer me." He was drunk, Ran noted clinically, but not enough to slow reaction time. A physical fight between them would turn vicious very quickly and this was a public place. He gritted his teeth.

"Pursuing my own affairs on my own time. We don't work together any more, Kudou. Leave me alone."

"Let me get this straight," Youji continued as though he hadn't spoken. "That was you. And that was some, some disgusting little creep about to kiss you. And you were _not_ beating the shit out of him." He paused for thought, counting on his fingers like someone working through a logic problem. "So either you _liked_ it - you thought he was cute, Aya? That your type?"

Ran met those mocking green eyes squarely, almost but not quite managing to stifle his reflexive snort of disgust.

"Ha. Thought not." Youji waved a finger at him. "Which leaves the totally ridiculous idea that you were gonna -" Words failed him as he surveyed Ran's outfit. "- God, Aya. Tell me it's something else. Please. Some kind of mission?"

Several plausible lies melted to ashes on his tongue before they could be spoken. Ran looked at the floor. Stop calling me my sister, he wanted to say. I gave her name back when I woke up in the hospital; I don't deserve to carry it anymore. But then he'd never actually mentioned that to anyone, had he. What would be the point?

Contempt and abuse from strangers he was prepared for. Pain and humiliation were expected, almost welcomed in a twisted sort of way. But he'd never even thought about being seen by one of Weiss - by the only people with the right to expect better of him.

Without looking up, he shook his head, waited a beat, and lunged forward. Youji was off his guard and Ran had the advantage of strength; the prisoning arms fell away and he ran for the door.

The guard in the alley was still lounging against the wall. Ran decided it was worth the delay to break his nose; Youji would catch up with him sooner or later, after all, and at least there would have been one good thing about today. A smooth redirection of momentum, a sharp crack, and the punk was falling in the slow stop-motion instants of combat, a comical look of astonishment on his face. The sword is quick and merciful, Ran mused as he delivered another kick. He rarely had the time or inclination to deal out agonies the way Youji and Ken did. Now grief and rage were bubbling up inside him, rising in his throat, and the twitching figure at his feet was an irresistible target.

Suddenly a body cannoned into him, sending him stumbling backwards. Youji. He was saying something, gesturing to the door of the club and then to the man on the ground. Ran stared at him dumbly. How much time had passed just now? He had a vague sense that the sight of the guard should make him sick, but all he felt was tired.

"_out_ of here, you stupid - are you even hearing me? Aya!" At the last moment Ran saw the slap coming and dodged, snapping back to awareness. His arm was instantly pinioned, as though Youji had meant to do that all along, and then the older man was dragging him away. Ran didn't resist.

Oh. He'd forgotten that for ordinary people violence had consequences. That it was, in fact, considered wrong. No mop-up team would follow this time to dispose of the body and discreetly remove all evidence. Shaking off Youji's arm, he quickened his pace until the other man broke into a jog to keep up.

His - housemate, he supposed, now - led them by a circuituous route back to the more genteel districts of the city, and eventually to a small rusting shed. The old man perched on a stool just outside put down his book as they approached and began the slow and creaky process of getting to his feet. Youji made please-don't-bother gestures, and an exchange of polite inquiries on the weather, "grandfather's" back and Youji's romantic luck ensued; Ran tuned it out and hauled up the sliding door himself. It was heavier than he thought it would be, and he found himself leaning on the wall for a moment afterwards to recover. Inside the shed, unsurprisingly, sat Youji's adored roadster.

Shrugging on his trenchcoat, Ran considered the options. He could slip away now, while Youji was still paying the attendant, and try another club on his list. Where rumor would be spreading fast about a beating and two very distinctive-looking men. Or he could simply find a place to wait out the night and avoid the coming interrogation a while longer. Perhaps forever; cities were not kind to homeless people, but Ran had plenty of practice at surviving. Yes.

But he'd waited too long. "All right," came Youji's resigned voice from behind him, "take off those boots." Ran froze in place as Youji unlocked the trunk and began fishing around in it. Stupid, stupid, what had he been thinking? He must have tracked tiny bits of human skin and blood all the way here. He couldn't keep them - but he could hardly outrun "Balinese" barefoot. Maybe he was losing his mind. "No," he finally blurted, backing away toward the door. He'd drop the boots in the harbor later. Something.

"Where do you think you're going?" With two swift steps Youji had him by the shoulders. Enunciating carefully as though Ran were a small child, he repeated, "Take. Off. Those. Boots. I doubt anyone will press charges - well, at least not if the guy lives - but you're still not getting evidence all over my car or in the house."

"I'm not going back to the house." Ran tried to extricate himself without success. "Just leave me alone."

"Why the hell not?" Youji was nearly shouting with exasperation. "What is wrong with you?"

Something _was_ wrong, Ran was beginning to think. The chill gray determination that had driven him into the streets tonight was seeping away, leaving only confusion. Hunger sent a wave of sick dizziness rolling through his gut. He closed his eyes. "I need money," he mumbled finally, more to remind himself than to answer the question.

Youji mouthed the words in silent incredulity. His long fingers tightened on Ran's coat as though he wanted to shake him by the shoulders. "Aya, you _know_ -"

"If I wanted your pity, I'd have asked for it in the first place," Ran snapped. For a moment he thought the other man was going to punch him. But Youji just shook his head.

"You really think of it that way, don't you? You are one screwed-up stupid bastard, Fujimiya." He sighed and let his hands drop. "What does it take to get you to listen to me?"

"Nothing." Ran began backing away, warily. "Weiss is finished. Just forget about it." Was Youji really going to let him leave?

It seemed so. Those sharp eyes watched him all the way to the door, until Ran finally turned his back on them and stepped out into the night.

"How much?"

So Youji wasn't through annoying him after all. Annoyed, that's what he was. Certainly not relieved. Still, Ran found himself pausing. "What?"

"That creep. How much did you tell him to give you?"

He couldn't actually see a reason not to answer the question. "Seventy thousand. What does it matter?" If Youji stopped pestering him, he'd be alone with his thoughts again.

"So fine. I'll give you eighty."

Slowly Ran turned on his heel to stare back at the garage. Youji was leaning against his car, one arm stretched out along the top in a pose that looked artful but probably wasn't. Anyone not in Weiss would have read the smile on his face as amusement. "You need the money, right, Aya?"

What was the bastard playing at? He'd said flat out he wouldn't take charity. "There's nothing I can give you worth eighty thousand, Kudou." Why didn't anyone understand?

"Oh yes there is," Youji drawled, letting that dangerous smile widen. "You do exactly whatever the fuck I tell you to do for the rest of the night, and you answer _all_ my questions, and you stop being such a god damned prick for once and it'll be more than worth it." He paused. Smirked. "I take it back. There's not enough money on the stock exchange to make you stop being a prick."

Dark bile rose in Ran's throat. "Fuck you," he managed to choke out, swinging away again to face the cold night. Youji...he hadn't thought somehow that Youji would mock him. There was nothing in his stomach and so he fought the urge to vomit, setting his jaw and bracing his feet. He was damned if he'd let the man see him fall down.

And then warm arms were around him, holding him up and holding him prisoner at the same time. Instinctively Ran aimed a vicious kick back and down; they both staggered as Youji yanked his foot out of the way just in time, with a yelp. "Fuck, Aya, you're _sick_," Youji hissed, breath hot in his ear. A smooth cheek pressed against the back of his neck for a moment, startlingly cool in contrast. "You have a fever, I can feel it from here. Just - whatever it is, just come back with me and get warmed up. Okay? Sit down, eat some soup, take an aspirin. Can you handle that?"

It was the mention of food that undid him. Surely...surely he could take this small thing from a comrade in arms. Youji would harangue him while he ate until irritation overwhelmed guilt and pride, and he would feel a little better. Just like the old days. Besides, whispered a voice in the back of his mind, you can't afford to be this weak on a mission. Remember the mission?

Ran let himself slump just a little into the embrace, knowing it would be understood as surrender. Youji let his arms drop at once, but stayed put; it was a second or two before Ran found the energy to straighten, to move away from the undemanding support of another warm body. He was expecting another caustic observation on the way back to the car, but none came.

It felt as though capitulating had taken all the strength out of him; just buckling himself into the passenger seat was an effort. Silently he held out one leg, then the other, for Youji to wrap the boots in plastic and pull them off. He let his eyes slide shut with the slam of the door. Tired.

At least the next few hours lay clear before him and required no great effort on his part. Eat the food, endure Youji's fussing. He might finally be exhausted enough to sleep without dreams. Then before the others woke in the morning he'd gather his few possessions and go, before Youji's pity wore him down. Before he traded the last uncorrupted bit of his pride just to spare the body of a murderer. Just a shell, that deserved to suffer. A memory of the guard's choked screams swam hazily through his mind. Surely Fujimiya Ran was a dark beast himself now. Wasn't he?

And that was the last he remembered before someone was shaking his shoulder. "Aya, we're home."

***

On to part 2

Lyrics from:
"The Pass", Rush, from the album Presto.
"give blood", Pete Townshend, from the compilation Coolwalkingsmoothtalkingstraightsmokingfirestoking.

Buy. Listen. Adore.

Tell Marith how you liked it