sakon76

More of the fic that broke

seshat's brain when I posted the first part.

It was the early marches of the night when Aya came to his room and slid the flat box out from beneath his bed. His hair still dripped from his shower. Though the red of the blood had been washed off his body, he could still smell its tang beneath the scent of his soap. It never completely washed away.

He didn't turn on the light. It was best to let his housemates think he was asleep. He didn't want them to know some things about himself. He also didn't need more light than what spilled through the window to navigate through the contents of the box. Blinded, he would have known the shape, feel, and purpose of each of the box's contents. He took off the lid and set it to one side, on his mattress.

The wand was on top. He'd always thought its design a little silly, a little cute. In the end, like all of them, he'd never left his home without it. The wand had become that much a part of him. Its red crystal gleamed at him even now, yellow-silvered by the light, the greens and creams that dominated the rest of the wand's design washed out. It was one of the first things he'd learned how to make, he and Takeo-kun together, cutting and sanding wood, shaping and painting until the wands matched the image in the grimoire. He caressed that smooth wood now, and set it reverently aside.

Beside the wand was a stack of cards. He knew the use of every one, the chanted syllables that would go with each, that still place of concentration inside that was the same place his studies as a swordsman had led him. That place from where all right thought and action sprung. He could still hear it, his voice raised, chanting with four others--

The stack of cards were set carefully beside the wand.

Opposite in the box from the cards was another stack, this one of photographs, well-thumbed and well-loved. Takeo-kun, watching proudly as their three kouhai flew their brooms delicately, confidently. Sawanoguchi-kun, flustered at having summoned a winged textbook into the club room. Aikawa-kun, as photogenic as always, modelling her club costume the first day she'd worn it. Nanaka, berating a downcast Sae for tripping over her own feet again. Aya thumbed through them and others, each precious memory bringing a smile to his face, one his teammates now would have found strange to see. Eventually, though, the photographs too had to be set aside.

At the bottom of the box lay folds of black and white silk and a pointed witch's hat bent flat. He took the hat out and shook it. It snapped promptly back into the correct shape. He ran a hand along its cool, smooth brim.

If only....

*~*

Aya remembered his purpose every time he looked in a mirror. The purple eyes that looked back at him were those of a stranger.

His parents had been divorced when he was a very small child. The courts had granted custody of him to his mother; his surname had been changed to her family name. For as far back as he could remember, he had been Aburatsubo Aya.

His father had remarried quickly. His new wife, who had been his secretary, bore him a daughter. For whatever reason, Aya's father had given his daughter the same name he had given his son. But Aya had only known about his half-sister vaugely, though family rumors, until he was eight. His father had come back into his life that summer, much to his mother's dismay. He'd ended up spending time at his father's home. His stepmother, to spare confusion between the siblings, had nicknamed him "Ran." He'd never used the name in his own life, only in theirs. He'd always known that it was all an attempt to woo him back to the Fujimiya family, to be the son and heir that his father's second wife hadn't been able to provide. Though he adored his sister, he'd firmly resisted his father's wish all the way through high school. If the man had wanted a son, Aya felt, he should not have thrown away in a divorce the one he'd already had.

The explosion and the car accident had changed everything.

His mother had been waiting inside the house to take him back home after he'd finished escorting his sister around the shrine festival. She'd been killed along with his father and stepmother. And Aya-chan....

At the hospital that night Aya had felt his heart shatter. He'd always pretended distance from his father and discomfort with his mother's clinging. In his heart of hearts, though, he had loved them to pieces. He'd just never been able to show it. They were dead, his gentle, laughing stepmother also, and his sister in a coma....

When he'd gone back to his house and looked at himself in a mirror, he'd known that he could never go back to school again. He had lied to himself and to the world and hadn't ever told his family that he cared.

He didn't deserve Nanaka or Takeo.

Scissors had made quick work of his hair, red silk falling into the wet sink. But it wasn't enough. Hair would grow back. He still looked like who he had been, a person who lied. He needed something distinctive, permanent. Something that would never let him forget.

He didn't remember the syllables he'd whispered. He hadn't had his wand at hand, but sometimes it was not necessary for magic. He'd seen Sawanoguchi-kun do wandless magic before, so it wasn't that far of a stretch to imagine that he might be able to as well.

From that moment on, his eyes had been the eyes of a stranger.

The bell over the door chimed and everyone looked up simultaneously. It had been a slow afternoon (the local schools had all taken field trips to temples, depriving the small flower shop of the crowds of girls who stood admiringly about but almost uniformly never bought any merchandise.)

"Welcome!" Omi said.

"Is this the 'Koneko' flower shop?" the young woman asked. She was beyond 'pretty' and well into the category of 'beautiful.' Silver hair spilled down her back like a waterfall to her knees, its color broken only by a streak of red in her bangs.

"It certainly is," Youji said, rising to his feet immediately. "How may we humble knights be of service, oh princess?"

"I need a gift for a friend," the young woman replied. "I was thinking maybe a plant? Nakatomi-sempai likes plants, I think...." her voice trailed off as though she was unsure.

"Let me show you our selection," Youji said, beginning to guide her around the shop, one hand on the small of her back. He smiled at her in full charmer mode. She smiled back.

A snapping sound drew Omi's attention. The pot in Aya's hands had shattered. "Aya-k--"

"I'll get the broom from the back," Aya said, turning quickly and disappearing through the door in the shop's inner wall.

The girl, Omi noticed, had turned her head in the direction of Aya's voice, but he'd vanished into the supply room before she could see him fully.

"I could swear I've seen you before--ah!" Youji snapped his fingers, drawing attention back to himself. "Of course, how could I forget? Miss Aikawa Akane, right? The fashion model."

"Oh," she said in a small voice, looking down. "You know me."

"Of course." Youji leaned in closer and stage-whispered "You're even prettier in person than in your pictures."

*~*

Aikawa-kun. Aikawa-kun. Aikawa-kun was here. In the Koneko. Must not panic. It was coincidence, that was all. She hadn't come looking for him, hadn't been sent. They couldn't know. No one knew.

Aya looked up into the mirror over the small sink. Violet eyes looked back. His face was hard, different. He was a man now, with the extra maturity that implied. He didn't look the same.

Aikawa-kun didn't either. She'd grown, not so much in height but in maturity, losing the girlish roundness her face had held in high school. He'd watched her change from afar, through the advertisements she appeared in, the few television specials, her first movie. Tabloid rumor had her dating this star or that, going through men like tissues. She'd had much the same habit in high school.

"Aya, you okay?" Ken asked, leaning in the doorway. He looked pointedly at the broom to Aya's left. "I'm not cleaning up that pot for you."

Aya gave Ken a look that conveyed his disgust and annoyance better than any inadequate words, and snatched up the broom.

*~*

Youji flirted with the pretty starlet; she was over eighteen and, the rumor mill had it, between leading men at the moment. Fair game, he thought, until Aya came out of the back room and glared at him. Not the ice prince's usual keep-away glare, the one that set milk curdling, paint peeling, and babies crying, but something darker and more violent. Slowly Youji's hands backed away from Aikawa, until Aya's almost imperceptible nod let him know he was off the hook. Then the redhead turned and began sweeping up the shards of pottery like nothing had ever happened.