He knows he must be dreaming, because he can see himself. It's like he's watching a movie. He sees himself at a desk, in front of a computer. The desk, he notes, is made of mahogany, and the computer is a newer model than any he usually uses. He wonders where the desk came from. Such good wood like that, and none of the water rings that marked all the desks at home. Home?

Well, this is home, isn't it? It seems that way, almost, just barely familiar. The place is wide and rich, everything wearing price tags with many zeros. That couch is no doubt real leather, and who knows how old and valuable the rug he's standing on is. He wonders - did I wipe my feet? He begins to check to see if he has anything unfortunate stuck to his sneakers, but then remembers that he's not on the rug, he's over there, in that chair, in front of that speedy machine that he would just love to have.

He turns in the chair and looks himself in the eye. "What are you doing here?" he asks. "You're trespassing. I could have you arrested, you know."

He looks down to see what's on his shoes. Nothing on the soles, they're clean. He must have wiped his feet. When he looks back up, he sees a gun. The gun is attached to a hand, and the hand is attached to an arm, and the arm is attached to a body, and the body is attached to a face that looks just like his.

"Explain yourself."

He doesn't ask easy questions, does he? Does he know that they could be here all day if he answers that truthfully? And shouldn't he know the answers more than anyone, since he is just him with a gun and an expensive shirt, and even more expensive pants? "I'm Tsukiyono Omi," he says. It's a start. He takes a deep breath to tell the rest of the long, long story, but the other him narrows his eyes.

"I don't think you have any business here, Tsukiyono-san." The gun does not waver. He holds it left-handed. "Are you here for my father? One of my brothers?" The laugh doesn't sound like his own, it's more like a knife.

"I'm a florist," he says, continuing his explanation. He realizes that he should answer the questions he's asking, but the words do not come to his lips.

The gun drops, and the mirror-blue eyes stop squinting. "Did you come to make a delivery?" He smirks. He's never seen quite that expression on his own face before. "Did one of Masafume's ladies send him roses?" Quick laugh, sharp and shrill.

"I'm an assassin," he keeps explaining. The gun is up and pointed at his face, sharp eyes trained on his neck, arm steady.

"If you think my father will pay ransom for me, you're shitting yourself," he says, voice low and beginning to be threaded with panic. "We both know I'm the fake. We both know he'd love to get rid of me." The gun trembles, just faintly, and he lifts his other hand to steady his arm.

"Papa wouldn't pay the ransom." Perfect timing as he keeps explaining, really. The gun drops again, eyes narrow to slits.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" The gun hangs limply in his hand now. The wide eyes well with tears. "Who are you?"

"They came into the house at night when I was alone and took me." The words fall from his lips, numb things that scatter to stain the expensive rug. "I screamed but they stopped me. There were three."

The gun falls on mahogany with a loud sound, rich in his ears. Such fine wood. The leather chair squeaks as he gets up, stands, paces across to stand on the woven-interwoven fibers of the rug. His hand slaps over his mouth as tears leak from his eyes, stopping the explanation for now. "Shut up," he growls. He can somehow feel that the fingertips soft and hard on his cheek have the same minute pattern on their pads, only without the tiny scars across the third and fourth, marks from learning to throw, to kill. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, so just shut up."

He pushes him down. The rug softens the impact. "They gagged me because I screamed so much." He almost wants to close his eyes and not see it as he comes down on himself, pinning his own body to the ground. "It made me choke."

The tears that splash on his face are hot, and they slip down his cheeks almost as if he had shed them himself. But he did, didn't he? He pushes him on his stomach, face down against the rug. It smells like the bottoms of shoes. Did he wipe his feet? "Why won't you shut up?" His voice cracks, harsh and dying. "Who are you? Who the fuck do you think you are? Don't you know who I am?" By the last words, there are more tears, dripping to the back of his neck now.

"They held me down." His words are muffled, caught by the fibers beneath him. What he can see is red and gold. He hears a choked sob, and his hands are pinned up over his head. The leather of a belt - that must have cost a lot, it's so nice - wraps around his wrists, tight. "They tied me up so I wouldn't fight. The ropes left marks on my wrists. I almost bled."

"Do you think this is funny?" The sobs chill now, and his voice is a salted knife. "You can't get me. No one can get me. You don't know who I am." The fingerprints that are his brush at the base of his spine, then yank downward, tearing his pants, exposing him. The rug chafes his skin. Something so expensive should be a little softer, you'd think.

"There were three of them." His fingerprints spread open his legs, and he presses his weight on his thighs to hold him still, as though he were struggling. "I tried to fight them off, but they were all so heavy. The ground was cold when they held me down, and I couldn't fight."

"You don't come into my house and try to fuck with my head, you little shit." The words are forced through gritted teeth as cold hands spread him further. "You don't know who I am. You don't know who my father is, you fuck. I'll show you what happens when you try to play with Takatori."

He doesn't scream when he enters him, even though it tears, it burns, it nearly splits him in half. He spits out a few of the threads of the rug that have caught in his lips. "There were three of them. They took turns." Tears wet through his shirt as his legs start to go numb, and as the pain starts to burn even through his stomach. "I kept screaming until my voice gave out. It hurt so much." He turns his head to the side so he doesn't rub his nose raw on the rug. "It hurt."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You asked for an explanation."

He woke with the scream already choking him. Before the tears could start to pour forth, before the sobbing could overtake him, Aya was awake and wrapped around him, providing comfort even in the haze of half-sleep.

"What is it?" he whispered as Omi began to shake in his arms.

"I remember."

Author's Notes

Uh, this came out of nowhere. Actually, no, this came from a typo. I meant to say, 'Oh, sure, D, put up those Mamoru/Nagi scenes.' What came out was, 'Oh, sure, D, put up those Mamoru/Omi scenes.' And then a joke about that being a really weird wankfic, and then it exploded. And, as seems to be my habit, it

completed itself in my head while I was in the bathroom. Porcelain has a magic effect on me.