Ken heard rather than saw the lanky blonde duck under the banner across the flower shop doorway, the silver bells tinkling behind him as he entered. He smiled, not bothering to turn around from where he was sweeping some distance away. From behind him, a voice he was all to familiar with called out good-naturedly, "Hey Chibi!"

But when he looked up it was Omi's eye Yohji was catching, it was Omi who was blushing and protesting the endearing greeting as the older man chuckled. Ken gritted his teeth against a sudden onslaught of pain in his chest. He had to look away when Yohji reached out to ruffle Omi's hair. Jealousy rose like bile in the back of his throat, making it hard to swallow and nearly impossible to speak. He could only nod stiffly in acknowledgement when Yohji belatedly hailed him with his given name. He doggedly continued with the menial task at hand, trying to block out the lighthearted banter behind him. Yohji made some joke, causing Omi to erupt in a fit of giggles, in which a moment later the older man joined in on. The gentle pealing laughter from both of the men struck like barbs against Ken's heart. He clutched the broom handle in white knuckled fists, his body tensing.

The seeming perfection of the pair made his thoughts stray to his own unbecoming differences. For example, the many afternoons he came back home from practice, sweaty and grass-stained, and collapsed on the couch to watch anime. Omi was always clean and sweet-smelling; he never plopped ungracefully on the sofa or stumbled when he got up from the damp cushions. Omi was always cheerful: always able to pull Aya or Yohji out of their darkest moods; his laughter was infectious. Omi was chibi.

No, it wasn't him. He was Ken. Good old Ken the soccer player, the mediocre florist, the guy with common sense. Ken the guy who was so grounded people didn't even ask if he had feelings. No, that wasn't right, he chided himself. It was he who didn't share. He was too sensitive to the relationships he had in his team to jeopardize anything by opening his big mouth. He sighed. Sometimes he wished he didn't always have to think like a team member. Sometimes he wished he could say what he had on his mind, what was true in his heart. However, team-conscious Ken almost always came first.

When he felt that the bottled emotions were smothering him, he tried to run them out. Mile after mile he put on the racetrack, burying himself in physical activity where all he had to do was concentrate on making his body move. He ran himself sick once or twice, on occasions like today. Half of the time it worked: made him forget, made the pain dull. But half of the time he'd finish his workout only to realize that the troubled thoughts had clung to him like a burr, resurfacing as his overheated body cooled down and he had to return to reality. He liked to work out late at night so when he finally settled down enough to go to bed, he fell asleep instantly. The times he had not exhausted himself sufficiently before bed resulted in long restless hours of worry, the thoughts eating at him late into the night.

Such was tonight. After somehow getting through the rest of the day in the flower shop, then going out and exercising intensely, his thoughts still plagued him. In his own quiet quarters, Ken tossed and turned uneasily, ideas and images and emotions crossing his mind in quick successions. Finally sitting up in bed, he put his hands to his temples, and contemplated what to do. He needed a good rest to make up for the lack of sleep earlier this week, or it would catch up with him at the shop, or worse, on a mission. But it was no use to try to sleep now, his mind was just too overloaded.

Ken's eye landed on the small laptop sitting in the corner of his desk. Giving into impulse, he fired the thing up and waited impatiently as the screen lightened and the programs started. He swiped his forearm across the scattering of papers occupying the majority of his desk so he had room to pull out a keyboard. Presented with a blank document, his hands poised over the board as he stared at the clean sheet. A blank document, a private room, and himself.

Like a torrent of rain, his fingers descended and danced nimbly across the keyboard. He kept going despite misspelled words, despite punctuation, despite his own consciousness. The words, the ideas, the feelings just flowed out of him like a river onto the screen, line after line after line. For an indefinable amount of time he just related what he was, who he was, and how he felt. He wrote with a distinct style, part poetry and part prose, because it just felt right to do so. And when it was done, he knew it. Like some kind of epic piece, he knew it was done right, and powerful. A feeling of peace came over him at its completion. Satisfied and exhausted with his impromptu work, Ken saved it and shut down the computer. He slept easily that night.

~~~~```````~~~~``````~~~~

Three days later:

He couldn't believe his ears. Horrified, he turned to see Yohji regarding him with serious green eyes.

"What?" he asked, his voice sounding far away and unfamiliar. Yohji repeated the line verbatim, and added another. And another. Ken felt his heart beating faster. He was so lightheaded he thought he might faint. Soccer players don't faint. Grounded, common-sense Ken doesn't faint. . . .

"I read your writing Ken," Yohji explained gently, watching the younger man's reaction carefully. "I - I understood it. I didn't know you could write so well. I-I didn't know a lot of things."

"What?" Ken croaked, his mind not registering, his mouth feeling like someone else's. Time seemed to be going in slow motion, Yohji's words seemed to echo and at the same time feel as if they were being pulled through syrup. The sensation was extremely unsettling; coupled with Yohji's admission, it was nearly unbearable. He felt that as soon as the full impact of the blonde's meaning registered, it would be.

"Ken. Ken! Breathe! You're hyperventillating; calm down. Ken! D'you hear me? Relax!"

Yohji's concerned remarks filtered through Ken's turbulent thoughts. He didn't respond, knowing he was breathing jaggedly, but not able to stop. He felt sickeningly helpless.

Long limbs closed around him, embracing him, shielding him, holding him up. A tall warm form pulled him close, tight against a lean chest, large palms landing firmly on his back. Ken found his face buried against Yohji's body, tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and wet the cloth of Yohji's collar. Ken's body trembled at first, Yohji moving his hands in comforting circles on Ken's back. The shivering gave way to shaking, at which Ken could no longer keep silent as he cried, though he tried to muffle it against Yohji's shirt. Yohji held Ken tighter, his right hand going up to hold back of Ken's neck securely as the smaller man clung to him. Yohji bent and whispered comforting nothings in Ken's ear, soothing him gradually with his presence and his voice. Little by little Ken calmed down enough to lean weakly into the taller man's arms, exhausted from his emotional outrush. He let Yohji hold him: when he got his mind back in working condition, he could figure out the rest. For now he was content to be drained and painless.

Yohji felt the brunette's last defenses go down, and leaned close to speak with him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't know you felt so alone. You know I'm always here for you. You don't have to pretend that you're not hurting."

He meant it in the warmest, well-wishing way, but Ken felt the walls of his heart freeze at his words. Friend? But of course. And his sanctuary within Yohji's arms, even if for a moment of bliss, was now gone. He couldn't stay here a moment longer, not like this. Not as a friend.

Ken struggled to pull away. He was in agony. He had almost let himself believe someone had understood him. But really, that was too much to ask of anybody. Too much.

"Ken?"

Ken blinked and shook his head to clear it; he took a deep breath and met Yohji's concerned gaze.

"I-ah. . . ." he trailed off at first, then strengthened his voice and volume. "I'm fine now. Thanks for letting me know you understand." His tongue curled with the bitter lies. Seeing how Yohji still seemed anxious, Ken gave him a practiced smile and carefully put a lighter inflection in his tone. "Thanks, Yotan."

Yohji grinned in return, a show of white teeth that made Ken's heart pang. Quickly the tall assassin bent and gave Ken a quick, reassuring hug. "No problem, bishonen," he said. Ken clamped his mouth shut to stifle the pain at the nickname. Wasn't that what you wanted? his mind screamed. You wanted to be chibi, you wanted him to call you attractive.

But for some reason it wasn't the same. "Bishonen" wasn't his pet name; he didn't have a pet name. Yohji was just trying to be reassuring. It was Omi's place to be called Chibi . . . it was Omi that was chibi . . .

Yohji mistook Ken's waver as a sign of fatigue. He sat the reeling brunette down and patted his knee in motherly fashion. "Go to bed Ken," he said. "You look like you're about to pass out." He laughed and stood up, stretching his long limbs sinuously. "I'll see ya in the morning then," he drawled over his shoulder as he exited the room.

Ken watched him go. Some time later he summoned the energy to trudge up the stairs to the room. Hollow from the inside out, he dreamt of nothing.

This is pretty angsty to be leaving here. I have another idea that can be added on as an additional chapter to make this into a happier ending. Maybe it's okay to leave it angsty though. I dun know.

Any suggestions on how to make this a better fic are welcome, as are any questions concerning plot, etc. I don't think it came out as clear as I wanted, and though I want some of the aspects to be hidden or indirectly portrayed, I don't know if I accomplished that or just created a lot of confusion. Comments and criticism very much appreciated.

Thanks for reading!

Lady Kickass