Author's Note: Payment fic. Owes a lot to Fight Fire With Fire.

Linger

The moon is late in rising tonight, a thin sickly-yellow crescent hovering near the horizon. Youji stares at it blankly, his cigarette burning down in his fingers. He doesn't know why he bothers smoking any more - to kill time, perhaps, because it doesn't seem to help with anything else. He supposes nothing will. Even the drugs had done little more than earn Aya's disgust - though everything seems to do that now, and Youji's not sure he remembers anything else anyway. He forgets everything except what he'd like to, he thinks. It doesn't matter, though. He'll make it. He knows it. This is his second chance.

Smoke curls in lazy twists towards the ceiling, finding nothing but the stale air of the room. The moon ceases to be enough of a distraction, so Youji lets his gaze wander across the lines of the furniture instead. The lampshade tints the light pale yellow - it's the wrong colour for night, he thinks idly, and finally lifts the cigarette to his lips. The feeling is familiar, and he holds the breath for a few seconds before blowing the smoke out and watching it coil in on itself, futile and aimless.

The back door doesn't creak as Aya pushes it open. Youji would have taken another long drag, half their lifetimes ago, deliberate and antagonistic. Tonight he just looks at Aya, who says, "Don't smoke in the shop," and heads for the stairs. The words are familiar in a way Youji doesn't bother acknowledging.

"Persia's going to be shipping us off to Europe tomorrow and this is the goodbye we get?" he asks the night, though the voice lacks a certain life that would have made the humour more convincing. The only response is the sound of unhurried footsteps crossing the floor. When Youji speaks, his voice falters more than he had expected.

"I never asked you - not that I could've, not that you'd have answered anyway - but I figured I should -- I mean -- "

Aya doesn't even pause. He's halfway up the steps when Youji finally asks, in a throwaway manner that belies the hours he's spent waiting, "So what do you have that keeps you here, huh? What's your miren?"

The lack of response is exactly what Youji had expected, which does not explain the disappointment that lingers like the taste of smoke in his throat.

***

The next morning dawns in light rain. Aya runs his fingers over rattan strips, before letting the weak sunlight stream in and be shattered by the blinds. The rattan's surface reminds him of tatami mats, and a tea-scented past. ( He knows this is also a lie, that there is nothing pure about those years. It changes little. )

Old wounds ache a little in the mornings. Aya ignores the ridges of scar tissue, pulls on his shirt and buttons it up slowly.

The new flowershop has a clinging, stifling scent. He will not bother watching Ken and Youji leave.