Dyed Crimson
By the Weaver Atropos
Dyed Crimson, Crimson VII

"Have you ever tried anything other than strawberry?"

"I have, actually," Ken licked at his ice-cream in thought, "I had vanilla once, but it tasted too much like milk, which I don't like…and a friend made me try chocolate, but it was too sweet and bitter at the same time."

Aya raised a brow at that and sucked pleasantly on his three-scoop chocolate tower. "I like strawberry the best."

"It's red," Aya noted absently.

"Like your hair," Ken smiled a little and sighed, curling his tongue out a bit further and drawing in some more of the cream. "What about you? Ever tried anything other than chocolate?"

"I tried cherry. It was awful. Bitter and…syrupy. Reminded me of cough medicine. I decided never to try anything other than chocolate after that."

"So you've never tasted strawberry?"

Aya shrugged, "I figure since its pink, too, it'll taste the same."

"No. Cherry tastes awful. Strawberry's different. Sweeter. Here," the brunette inclined the cone towards him, "…try some."

The tall redhead, sitting as he was on the park bench, a span of less than a foot between them, regarded his companion—and the ice cream cone held within his outstretched hand—pensively. Then, closing his eyes without a second thought, he leaned over and pressed his lips to those of the young man. He could barely pick up on the taste of something that wasn't quite chocolate and wasn't quite vanilla either. He pressed closer, opening his mouth a little, and could hear the other suck in a soft breath at the peck. He pulled away then, smiling almost to himself and looked at his hands to find that a few droplets of strawberry cream had fallen from Ken's melting cone to his palm.

He brought his hand absently to his mouth, not quite thinking much, and darted out a soft, pink tongue to lick at the spots. Not thinking anything of it, he licked his lips with a sigh and nodded. "I like it."

He hadn't been looking directly at Ken, or he would have noticed the looked on his face.

The brunette licked at his own lips, the remnants of the sweet starting to dry stickily on his lips, and he took a bite from his cone before it ended up a melted mess. "I knew you would."

"We should get going, Omi and Youji should be back soon."

"Yeah."

By the time they were back at the Koneko, Youji and Omi had already finished setting the table and were spooning portions of lo mein on each of their plates. Youji waved at them in greeting when he noted their arrival.

"We were getting some ice cream," the brunette murmured by way of explanation.

"Oh? It's a good thing we didn't buy any then. Omi and I were thinking about getting some for later."

"Oh, yeah—" Omi looked up from his plate, frowning in thought, "Manx called earlier. She said she and Persia visited Yamoi's building with the police chief investigators this morning. It reminded me of the decoy mission by the cave. Somehow, I think…" he paused and turned blue eyes on Ken, "…I think what happened proved for the better."

"What?"

Aya turned quiet eyes toward the blonde, wondering too—like the vocal brunette—why the blonde had said what he had.

"Well," Omi didn't seem to want to go on, "we all forgot it in between what happened and now…but—the whole impersonation issue, the decoy mission, that whole thing. Nothing…nothing happened. There was no trap, was there? I was at the actual decoy mission, and nothing happened. Yesterday I couldn't hit Yamoi's with the rest of you—and granted, I wasn't in the building…but everything—everything seemed fine, didn't it? There didn't seem to have been a trap, right?"

Amethyst eyes narrowed, "No trap."

Youji swallowed noisily, "…I don't like it. There weren't even any real injuries."

Nevertheless, Omi persisted, "I don't understand. Why make a big deal out of this whole impersonation business, and not follow through? Ken wasn't kidnapped—Aya wasn't harmed on this last mission, and he was himself. It all seems incredibly…anticlimactic. As though we were expecting this—atrocity—to happen, and we're sitting here, just like before."

Aya turned cautious eyes in the brunette's direction. He had gone back to his food, chewing thoughtfully, red tresses curling around his ears and neck. "Everything's like it used to be, isn't it?"

His eyes narrowed further.

"You just need the right incentive. Anyone can go insane given the right trigger—the right motivation. Type ones are necessary to the team. They become the one incontrollable trump card that every assassin group needs. They're unstoppable—they have no conscious, no regrets. They go for the targets like they're told and enjoy it. They're the true white beast of the night."

Youji frowned, "It is true, though. The decoy mission was…the soldiers weren't even specifically targeting Ken—not that they would have had any success if they had, the way he was going—" he paused at Ken's glare, "…but—there was no indication of anything being particularly wrong. There were no bombs, no Schwartz, no Schrient. It's…odd."

"And today, Kritiker just tells us to back off."

Aya's head snapped up, "What was that?"

Omi nodded and took a drink of his pepsi, "When Manx called she said the impersonation was to stop immediately. She wanted Ken to dye his hair back, actually—didn't want anything that could be indicative of his participation."

The redhead looked backed toward Ken, who was spooning some noodles onto his fork. Omi bit his lip at Aya's expression, but continued, "She said no further attempts were to be made to draw the attackers that were interested in your capture. Meaning—no further efforts were to be made to draw their attention to Ken."

"You know something." It was Youji.

"Persia did it," he looked towards Omi as he said it, watching the boy's face fall inevitably, "He's the one behind it."

"What was he trying to prove?"

"His theory. We've all heard it before, haven't we? Type one or two?"

Youji nodded, "I don't understand."

"The right trigger sets off the Type one into an invaluable asset."

Amethyst locked on chocolate at the words. The brunette put down his fork and reached steadily for his drink. He let his eyes linger on Aya's as he drank.

"So? There aren't any type ones. Persia said every member of Kritiker was given a psychological profile upon entry. And if there are any, then they're few and far between."

But Aya wasn't listening anymore, he was looking at the brunette—at the faint smile he had on his pink lips.

"It doesn't make any sense."

"So that was his purpose?"

Ken heaved a sigh and swung his legs alternately from his perch on the edge of his bed. "Bright man."

Aya glared, "He's playing with our lives. I don't like it. Not at all."

"Does it matter?"

Ken looked at him, that same little smile he'd been sporting at dinner dancing on his lips, "It isn't as though you're involved in this."

"He put us all in danger."

"As far as he's concerned, he's saving a few lives by doing so. It's not that big a deal, Aya."

Aya stood gruffly, tousling his hair with his hand, and turned his back to the brunette. "Don't let it bother you."

Ken hopped off the bed and made toward the redhead, wary of approaching him from behind. He could see the tautness of Aya's jaw even from where he stood, and knew the redhead was less than pleased at his quick acquiescence of Persia's behavior. But what was there to do about it?

"Aya…don't—think about it too much."

The tall man spun around, pinning Ken with his glare. He didn't say much. He had never been one for words. Instead, he took hold of the brunette's wrists, clenching them within his own, and pushed the other backward with his body. He forced the younger man to take backward steps until the juncture at his knees met the bed and gave way, his body falling back, aided by gravity.

Ken watched him, his eyes decidedly expressionless, and reached a hand upwards to caress at his cheek. His eyes softened a fraction as his fingertips found the curve of the redhead's jaw and he sighed a little despite himself. "Don't think about it."

But those words only made him angrier—they made him hate Persia all the more.

And Ken could see it in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak—to tell him it didn't matter, but the redhead beat him to it all, and soon hot lips were at his mouth, angry, hurt, and demanding. They reproached his easy acceptance of what Persia had done to him and they commanded an answer.

It was different. He had thought about it before, admittedly, but he had never thought it could happen. And, even though it was exactly what he'd dreamed, it was so different. He could breathe in Aya's distinctive smell—that cologne combined with that manly odor that was unique to him and no one else—he could look into those amethyst eyes and see their need, their despair.

He could hear the redhead's heart beating maddeningly hard and fast at his chest.

And somehow, despite it all, he'd never really considered being at the receiving end of it all. In his mind it had always been Aya smooth, milky flesh that he'd been kissing and caressing. It had been Aya who had been shifting pleasurably beneath him. It had been his eyes that had been looking up at him.

Aya kissed a little around his jawline, dipping to the crook of his neck before pausing. He breathed in slowly and exhaled leisurely, puffs of cool air teasing the warm tingling skin of Ken's neck. Somehow, despite everything, he had enough outward consciousness to realize that Ken was letting him do as he like, staring at him with soft chocolate eyes that belied everything that had been going on so far.

It was he who found his lips when his mind began to succumb to logic; when his blood began to cool and he began to contemplate pulling away, it was Ken who wrapped his arms about his neck and crushed him forward. It was Ken who kissed him slowly and tenderly, and passionately, and almost desperately.

And he really couldn't remember much of anything except that moment; and with every moment that passed he forgot the moment that had been before it. Every step—every second, was a new memory that had to be erased to make room for the oncoming one. It was a sludge of sentiment, of touches, of shivers, and of pleasures.

And he kept forgetting every bit of it just as it happened.

They met at the roof the next afternoon, just as night was about to fall. Ken was wrapped in a bright white blanket that Aya had pulled out of some closet and was sitting up beside the redhead, his back only just resting on the man's chest.

"It's really beautiful."

Ken stared out at the burning sunset and smiled, "It's vibrant, loud, shocking and melancholic death."

"You like that about it."

"Yeah." A strange sort of smile graced his lips and he turned toward the redhead, examining his face interestedly, "I think that's what's beautiful about the sun. It dies…and is reborn the very next morning. I think…it exemplifies the overall power of death."

"You're being morbid."

"I'm being honest," he squinted and looked away.

"What's wrong?"

"The hue's bothering me a bit."

Aya turned towards the burning sunset and frowned.

"It's red," Ken turned towards Aya, that strange smile on his mouth again, "It reminds me of you. And of how I keep seeing you…that hair of yours—matted with a darker shade of blood…pooled at your feet, around your head, over your body."

Aya tore his gaze from the brunette and back to the sunset, "I inspire that much poetry?"

Ken chuckled despite himself, "It's enticing—how you're not scared of what I see."

"I don't see reason to be. I see the exact same thing when I look at you."

The brunette's brows knitted slightly. "We have the same hair, you know."

"Mine's dyed."

"So? How are you so sure that the face you keep seeing in your dreams isn't your own, done up with my hair and eyes?

Ken smiled a little again, "Might be. And it's crimson, not red. Crimson's darker."

He reached out deliberately, capturing a clump of Aya's hair in his palm, "Your hair's that color—crimson. The color of death."

"By that you mean blood."

The brunette shrugged and looked back toward the sunset, refusing to look away even if the colors tweaked at his nerves. Finally, he sighed and stood, making his way toward the railing and looking over the siding at the edge of the roof. "We're pretty high up."

"Relatively."

"But you're still not scared." Ken regarded him oddly, chocolate eyes focusing almost wholeheartedly on him, "Is there anything you are scared of?"

Aya nodded, looking him full in the face, "A lot of things. Your dream, for one."

"You're afraid of dying the way you do in my dream?"

"I'm afraid of you dying the way you die in your dream."

"You're bent on that, aren't you? You really think it's me?"

Aya nodded.

"I don't. Wanna know why? Because…whenever I see you in that red mess—I see someone else standing off to the side…and he has a katana in his hand, and his eyes are amethyst, and he has an earring dangling from his right ear…and his hair is dyed crimson and brown roots are showing all the way down to his forehead…but he's so entertained by the colors—by the pool of red at your feet and the red wisps of hair before his eyes, that he can't see anything but the red. And it drives him mad. Do you know who I see?"

The redhead studied Ken quietly, already knowing, but letting him continue, nevertheless. "I see me, standing over you…enthralled by it all."

Ken looked at him intently, his hands just barely curling around the fabric of his shirt. "…Still not scared?"

Aya remained as he was, drinking in the sight of the man in front of him before relaxing a little. "There's no use being scared over matters I can't control, is there?"

Ken was taken off guard by the comment. For a moment, his eyes lost that gleam that had come over them, and his brows tightened in the expression that he had long ago stopped using. That expression of confusion that the old Ken had always worn. The look that said so much about his simplicity, and loyalty, and affection.

Aya stared at this momentary flicker, wishing he could fix it in his mind, and moved forward, enveloping the smaller youth in a hug that was so desperate, that it left Ken near breathless. His eyes widened a fraction before he returned the hug, his eyes darkening a shade and gleaming with a pronounced loss of focus.

There's no use being scared over matters I can't control, is there?

Owari.

Anticlimactic, I give you that. Ended off on a more somber note than I intended. Original ending was changed a bit from what I planned, though…in a way, I guess you can say the story can be a bit of a bridge between Kapitel Ken and Gluhen Ken. So…thanks to all those who reviewed, and to Seph who I spent a long time discussing (a long time ago) the possibility of a fic where Ken goes insane…more or less. Thanks!