Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Snippet #3: Mocambo ❯ One-Shot

Disclaimer: Not mine. Someone else's. Not trying to infringe on any damn copyrights. Trust me on this one.

Notes: Loosely inspired by Paolo Conte's "La Ricostruzione del Mocambo" and Brunetti's lovely cafe latte. Aya + Ken, shounen-ai.

Rating: G (Yeah, I know. I'm as surprised as you are.)

Dust motes turned into gold in the late spring sunlight, twirling in the stillness of the air. It should have been peaceful at least, if not quiet. The sounds of construction all but hammered the air into pieces, taking place opposite the cafe where they drank coffee and tried not to listen to the din, conversing in silence.

The cafe was like dozens of its kind, frequented mainly for its proximity to offices and a business college. It sold overly-sweet pastries and tolerable coffee in generic crockery, on metal tables covered with plastic doilies. Posters of J-pop singers adorned the walls, presided over by a shiny plastic clock -- a gift from Reader's Digest. Its one saving grace was an unexpectedly beautiful lilac shrub planted just outside the cafe. The purple flowers hung over one of the tables on the pavement, almost like delicate chandeliers, and that was where they chose to sit.

Dust rose, smelling of cement, almost shrouding the scent of flowers.

Ken toyed with his macaroon, a tiny round crunchy thing that came with his cafe latte. Someone had placed various flower arrangements on the tables outside, perhaps in attempt to add some cheer to the cafe. Theirs were two jonquils in a clear glass jar. Ken noted that he or she had forgotten to trim off the leaves before immersing the stalks in water -- they would rot and die soon. His fingers itched to intervene.

Sipping his espresso, Aya showed no sign of having noticed or guessed his companion's thoughts. His bangs fell into his eyes as he drank, shielding them, making him watch Ken through a curtain of crimson. The sunlight was beautiful on Ken, warming his tanned skin and glowing in the highlights of his dark hair. The younger man looked up, as if sensing Aya's scrutiny, and his eyes caught the sun, bittersweet chocolate melting in the heat.

The lilacs matched Aya's eyes, Ken thought, framing his bright red hair and pale skin as if in a painting. Portrait of a Beautiful Assassin, subtitled: "Beware of nature's warning signs." It reminded him of a painting he saw once and had never forgotten, of a woman floating -- drowning? -- in a river surrounded by flowers. He'd dismissed the painting as some weird gaijin thing then, and it wasn't until he was forced to work in a flowershop that he learned to appreciate the language the painter had been trying to speak.

One day, after all this was over, he would track down the painting and try to listen to the long-dead man.

Abruptly aware that he was staring a little too long at Aya, Ken dropped his eyes and took another gulp of his cooling coffee. A slight breeze tickled his nose with dust, almost making him sneeze, and stirred the petals of the jonquils. His fingers prickled. He sighed, plucking the flowers out of the jar and carefully removing water-logged leaves. The jonquils he returned to their home, the leaves he tossed under the lilac shrub.

Ken eyed the yellow flowers critically for a moment, before meeting Aya's violet gaze and smiling wryly. The respite they'd sought here turned into a busman's holiday, after all. Aya dabbed his mouth with a serviette, and Ken could have sworn he saw an answering twinkle in those usually cool eyes. Well, it was nice while it lasted. Ken raised his hand, intending to signal their waitress for the bill.

Long fingers stopped its ascent. Ken watched, wide-eyed, as the slender digits gently forced his palm open and stroked the calluses there. Aya's skin was cool against his, though it warmed up gradually as the redhead traced the shallow valley of his heart line. Surprise gradually softened into a smile on Ken's face, and he curled his fingers around Aya's, holding them.

Ken's hands told a history dissimilar to his own, Aya mused, lightly running a fingernail along the outer side of the other man's thumb. Their hands were about the same size, but Ken's fingers were blunter and slightly thicker. His calluses were different. Aya had rounded calluses at the base of his fingers, the most prominent being the ones where the last two fingers of his left hand met his palm -- legacies of a decade of kendo lessons. Tough skin covered almost the entirety of Ken's palm, taking over where soccer gloves failed to absorb the full impact of a kick. Scars nicked his fingers, visible only to a close scrutiny of those tiny, paler patches of skin.

Aya turned his palm over, placing his other hand on a more noticeable scar at the back of Ken's wrist: a burn scar. Ken's eyes tightened, chocolate dulling into old wood. He made as if to pull back, but Aya gripped his hand tighter, lavender eyes pinning him to immobility. Without averting his gaze, Aya reached over and took a red chrysanthemum from the table next to theirs. He swept the petals softly over the back of Ken's hand, over his scar and knuckles. He spread Ken's palm open again, watching Ken watching him as the flower exorcised sweat and shadows.

Ken trembled. Aya placed the chrysanthemum in Ken's hand and closed his fingers around the stalk. The tips of Aya's fingers touched Ken's lips, fleetingly, before he withdrew his touch. Time seemed to skip a beat, a moment frozen in the afternoon noise and sunlight. Dust settled on the lilac flowers, but their scent was sweeter than ever. This time it was Ken who reached out, entwining his fingers with Aya's, the warmth of his eyes louder than words.

Aya did not smile or laugh or kiss, but he held on.

-owari-

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The painting referred to here, BTW, is Sir John Everett Millais' Ophelia.