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A low, constant ticking, similar to that of a cricket’s hum filled the air. The clock broke ages ago, stuck at 7:03 exactly. Even so, the ticking continued; the hands desperate to move despite it all. A meaningless effort, as the clock would never tick the same way again. Still, Kira never bothered to take out the batteries, nor did he remove it from its place on the wall. The ticking kept him company in the solitude of his lab. Without it, Kira had very little to hold onto.
The organization Kira worked for had, at least, been gracious enough to grant him a lab, with an abundance of free time for someone in his position. It was an easy enough job: when the agents were injured, Kira would report, treat, and keep his mouth shut. Anything he saw in the lab stayed in the lab, simple enough. But on most days, where the assassins kept their blood in their body and Kira had no wounds to patch, there was very little for him to do.
Hence, he was granted hours upon hours of time for his personal research.
He should be grateful. He was told to be grateful about a thousand times from his superiors. Someone as debt ridden as him didn’t deserve such an easy job: the money, the resources, the time he was given. And Kira would agree, if it weren’t for the gun that laid heavily on his desk. Mocking him with each second that passed, for though he was a doctor, his hands still knew the weight of the trigger. Such good things did not come for free, and to Kira, the cost often meant the lives of others.
Rapid knocking interrupted his thoughts, drowning out the broken clock. Kira clucked his tongue in annoyance; he knew that sound from anywhere. Even so, he made no move to sit up from his desk, instead, he pulled out a folder from the bookshelf, flipping through the contents as the knocking got louder.
The door was unlocked. It always was. If the man wanted to get in, all he needed was to swing it open. He knew that — Kira knew he did — but the irritating knocking continued for another thirty seconds, before the door was finally swung open.
“Hey, Doctor!” An annoyingly loud voice called out. Kira leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Once the man’s yellow eyes met Kira’s, they curled upwards. “There you are.”
“Messa,” Kira replied drily. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Kira’s tone was enough alone to voice his opinion on Messa — if anything, he would prefer it if the man walked out of the room and never spoke to him again. But Messa’s smile stayed unwavering. After all, there was nothing he enjoyed more than irritating Kira.
“What’s with the silent treatment? If I didn’ know any better, I would have thought you finally kicked the bucket.” With that, a laugh echoed in the room, before adding a small: “Just kiddin’, of course.”
The tag was once something Kira would add to his own, a bit morbid, jokes. For whatever reason, Messa had picked up the habit to copy them. Perhaps, that was the very reason why Kira never bothered to make jokes anymore.
“You finished your mission earlier than expected,” Kira noted, turning back to his desk. He had little interest in keeping tabs on Messa’s behavior, but with the other man being insistent on annoying Kira in his every waking hour, it was horribly obvious when he was out on a mission. Those days were his favorite, the days where he was granted blissful silence to drown himself in his research. Or the days where he could eat the lunch his sister packed, without Messa sneaking in a bite or two.
Messa must have come straight back from wherever the hell he was, for traces of blood still stained his cheeks. It didn’t matter how many times Kira listed diseases that came from blood to skin contact; Messa wouldn’t wipe it away until it turned flaky and dry.
“How did it go?” Kira asked, though he really did not care to find out. Messa tended to like it when he feigned interest in his nonsense.
Though, that day, Messa merely hummed in response, slumping down on an empty office chair across the room. He spun in place, staring blankly at the ceiling as he did. Kira raised an eyebrow.
“Not going to brag about your success?”
“I don’ need to tell you anything, Doctor,” Messa said, his long legs kicking against the wall to push him forward. “After all, if I failed, you’d be visiting me in the morgue.” A smile crept onto his face. “I hope you’ll keep your promise when that day comes.”
Kira rolled his eyes. “I told you before, I have no interest in dissecting the dead.”
“Don’ lie to yourself, Doctor.”
“Who’s lying?” Kira tilted his head to the side. “Need I remind you, I’m an ordinary doctor. Unlike you, I have no interest in corpses. I prefer people when they’re alive, really.”
Messa scoffed. “Sure.”
And with that, he fell silent again, staring blankly at the ceiling once more. Odd; unusual in every way, and while Kira was not the sort of scientist Messa thought he was, there was one thing that was true: each and every movement that the other did was ingrained in Kira’s mind. Enough for him to know when Messa was putting a false front.
With a sigh, he pushed his feet against the ground, the wheels of his chair rolling over until he reached his destination: a humble, medical cot next to his desk.
Kira tapped on the clean sheets. “Lay down.”
Messa’s chair stopped spinning as he propped his feet against the wall. With no signs of moving, he raised an eyebrow at Kira. “No thanks.”
“I didn’t get my degree for nothing,” Kira said. “Or, really, anyone with half a brain could tell you’re injured.”
Messa grinned. “Don’t make accusations without examining me, Doctor.”
With each word he spoke, Kira felt a pounding headache stretch behind his eyes. The temptation to let Messa bleed out was strong — maybe then he’d get some peace and quiet. But his duty as a doctor remained, no matter who the patient was. He raised his finger.
“Left arm, left leg, and upper stomach,” he stated, pointing as he did. “Based on the way you were limping and the trail of blood you rudely left behind, I assume you’ve been stabbed. And, knowing how you are, I’m going to also assume you did little to patch the wound.”
Messa was risky like that, ever since the first day Kira met him. Which was the day he found the other man bleeding out in the bathroom, making no move to help himself. He claimed it was for an experiment.
A low whistle sounded out, completed with Messa’s slow, amused claps. “Amazin’, Doctor! Or should I call you Detective?”
“Get on the bed.”
“So demandin’.” Swinging his body up, Messa made his way to the bed. Each movement was filled with confidence and stride — a pathetic attempt to cover the slight limp that weighed him down.
Kira clucked his tongue; that was just how Messa was. Nothing more than an egotistic maniac, presenting himself as bigger than he would ever be.
Thankfully for Kira, Messa did as he asked, laying down on the bed. Layers of black and dark brown clothing covered every itch of his skin; any blood that spilled out of his wounds was hidden, for the most part.
Kira tapped on his shoulder. “Shirt off.”
Messa’s laugh echoed through the room as Kira pushed his chair away from the bed, reaching for the package of nitrile gloves on his desk. “Doctor, I know you never leave your laboratory, but most people take me out for a drink, first.”
“Can it,” Kira snapped, tugging on his gloves. “I’ve seen you naked before. There’s nothing interesting down there.”
Messa hummed, tilting his head to the side. “Jealous?”
“Take your shirt off.”
Messa whistled again, before slipping his jacket off. One by one the layers were removed, until there was nothing more than his bare skin; the wounds so clearly exposed to Kira. He frowned as he rolled back over to the bed.
“How long ago was this?” he asked, brushing his hand against the cut on his upper stomach. It wasn’t very deep, but clearly, Messa had neglected it for at least a few hours. He would be lucky if it wasn’t infected.
“This mornin’,” Messa answered, disinterested. “Hey, how long is this going to take?”
“Longer than it would have if you came to me right away,” replied Kira, his eye twitching. “Hold still.”
With careful hands, he cleaned the wound, occasionally pausing to check Messa’s face. No blush, no haze in his eyes; all good signs. But his movements were slower — and, as much as Kira hated to admit it, he was quieter than usual. Just to be sure, he brushed Messa’s bangs away, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead, and sliding down to his cheek.
“I don’ have a fever,” Messa scowled.
“Just checking.”
Messa didn’t have any arguments to that, falling silent again. As concerning as his behavior was, his stillness did make Kira’s job a lot easier. In the end, he was able to bandage the wound on Messa’s stomach much faster than any wound he treated for him before.
“See how much faster it goes when you—” Kira paused his remark, his eyes catching a flash of yellow. “What’s that?”
Laying on Messa’s bare chest was an unfamiliar necklace. Messa was, from the time Kira knew him, never really interested in jewelry. Not to mention, it wasn’t really his style — definitely a woman’s necklace.
There was something engraved in it, but before Kira could read it, Messa grabbed it. He yanked it off his neck with more force than necessary, breaking the chain in the process. “It’s nothin’. I forgot to throw it away.”
Kira paused, slowly putting down the bloodied rag in his hand. Though he spoke of it as nothing more than trash, Messa made no move to throw it away. His hand still held the necklace, holding it to the flickering fluorescent light. The yellow gem reflected light, shining down to Messa’s own yellow eyes, giving an unnatural gentle yet mournful glow to his face.
“Did the victim give it to you?” Kira asked, his voice softening without meaning to.
Messa didn’t like it when Kira called the people he was assigned to kill ‘victims’. He would scoff at Kira, and throw a prideful: “They’re targets, it’s different” before dropping the subject. Though, now, he didn’t say anything. No boasting, nor any criticism on how soft Kira was. He simply watched the necklace under the light, with a distant look in his eyes.
Kira knew very little about the life Messa lived. He didn’t even know the man’s real name, nothing more than a code name he threw at him upon their first meeting. At best, he knew Messa was an assassin, and would disappear for days — even weeks — without a word of warning. Then, he’d come back. Sometimes with an injury, sometimes not.
He didn’t need to know anymore than that. Even here, he was a doctor; his hands were made to heal.
“It’s stupid,” whispered Messa, his voice so quiet that Kira nearly missed it. Kira raised an eyebrow, but Messa paid no mind to him, twirling the gem in between his fingers. “‘You’re the only woman I ever trusted’,” he paused to scoff. “What an idiot. Unknowingly trustin’ the enemy — I wasn’t even a woman to begin with.”
As he spoke, he let the gem fall onto his palm, squeezing it with a force Kira had only seen when Messa nearly strangled a man to death. Even so, the gem wasn’t broken when he opened his hand again.
“It’s good quality,” Kira noticed, absentmindedly. “He must have loved you.”
Something grabbed his sleeve, pulling him forward. Shocked to be through off balance so suddenly, Kira squeezed his eyes shut. Two hands pinned his own down, and when Kira opened his eyes again, he saw their positions had reversed: Kira laying flat on his back against the bed, while Messa stood over him.
His usual smug expression was nowhere to be seen, replaced by cold, dead eyes. Kira held his breath — the face of a killer.
“Let me get something straight, Doctor,” Messa spoke slowly. There was a knife to his throat; Kira didn’t even notice it until he swallowed. “I’m not in this line of work for the sex or love.”
As he spoke, he trailed the knife down, until it caught on the first button of Kira’s shirt. A swift cut was all it needed to fall off, and Messa continued his path.
Kira clucked his tongue. “Hey, I like this shirt—“
“There was never any real love between us,” Messa continued, as though he never heard him. “You say he loved me, but all he ever loved was my body — of course, he realized just how misplaced that love was moments before his death.”
The knife pressed further against his chest, enough to draw blood, yet so tenderly that the feeling of pain never registered in Kira’s mind; only the distant feeling of warm liquid trickling down. His eyes never left Messa’s own.
“I told him yellow was my favorite color. It’s actually red.” A laugh rang through the room, ripping from Messa’s throat. “He should have given me a fake. From everything that happened those three days, the gem is the only thing that was real.”
“Interesting,” Kira heard himself speak before he registered the words leaving his mouth. “A trained assassin who mourns the dead. And here I thought you came with no emotions.”
“I’m human too, Doctor,” Messa tilted his head to the side, his bangs falling awkwardly against his face. Raising a hand up, Messa ran it across his chest, the same area he cut Kira. “Cut me open, and you’ll see I bleed the same as you. The same red, the same heart.”
Kira hummed, unimpressed. “If there’s anything the two of us know, it is that humans can be cruel.”
Messa’s lips twitched as he smiled. “Of course. The same humans you wish to protect.” With precise, careful movements, he dug the knife further in Kira’s chest. Though, he still couldn’t feel the sensation of pain. “Such a kind hearted, sweet doctor you are. If we had met under different circumstances, I might have even looked up to you as my senior.”
Kira raised an eyebrow. For someone who seemed so content with his job of killing others, Kira never would have expected Messa to say such a thing. Though his tone was mocking, there was something in his eyes that told Kira he was being truthful.
“Did you want to be a doctor once, too?”
The question sat heavily in the air. For a moment, neither of them moved. Messa never dug the knife any further, leaving it as nothing more than a scratch. Kira didn’t push him to the side or struggled, even as Messa pulled his hand away.
Nothing was pining him down anymore. He waited, watching Messa’s eyes.
“Don’t look at me with those sad eyes, my cute Doctor,” Messa breathed, dragging his knife down. “I could kill you right here if I wanted to. Carve your heart out; a little treat for me to dissect this afternoon. And you, the gentle one. You wouldn’ do anythin’ about that, would you?” He tilted his hand as he asked, cupping Kira's chin with his freehand. “Look at you. Waitin’ to be carved up.”
The statement shocked Kira out of his daze, stillness replaced with a wave of annoyance. His eye twitched. “Don’t misunderstand. Anyone would be still if an assassin held a knife to their chest. Unlike you, I want to live.”
Messa laughed again, a cruel, horrid sound. He pulled the knife back, pocketing it once more. “Of course, Doctor. I’m just messin’ with you.”
Kira hummed, unamused. He expected this behavior from Messa — the man was a murderer, after all — but his heart still pounded in his chest. He could only hope that Messa couldn’t hear it, leaning against his chest as he did.
“Game’s over, then,” Kira said, eyeing Messa as he sat up. “Get back on the bed. I still need to treat your arm and leg.” His shirt fell awkwardly as he shifted back to his chair, nearly half of its buttons missing. Kira grimaced. “And you’re buying me a new shirt.”
Messa shrugged as he laid back down, as though nothing had ever happened. In his line of work, Kira supposed this switch was natural to him.
“Fine. Oh, but does that mean I get to pick the shirt?” A sickeningly wide grin spread across his lips. “Perfect. This is going to be awesome. There’s this stupid dolphin shirt where—”
“On second thought, I’ll buy it myself.”
“Tch…” Messa clicked his tongue. “You’re no fun.”
Kira picked up the bloodied rag, washing it in the bin of water next to the bed. The necklace was left forgotten on the floor; Kira froze as the yellow caught his eye. He hesitated, before pointing to it.
“Should I throw this away?”
Messa sat with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed against the frame, as though he were resting in his own bedroom. His face returned to its usual smugness; Kira could not say if he missed it.
He paused in thought, before shaking his head. “Nah, keep it. The gem will probably sell for a pretty penny.”
Kira furrowed his brow. “Are you sure? You could sell it yourself.”
“Consider it as payment for the shirt,” Messa said. “I get paid plenty from this job alone.”
Kira pressed his lips together. Slowly, he picked it up by the gem, bringing it to the light once more. Messa was right: it was nothing more than a fake love. But the gem held the color of Messa’s eyes — it was clear what was in the man’s mind as he bought it.
“Okay,” Kira whispered, pocketing the necklace. “I’ll keep it.”
Messa smirked at him, and the scratch on his chest ached, as though it had only registered the injury. With his buttons cut out, he felt horribly exposed — the cut Messa carved out would be seen by everyone the moment he stepped out of the room. He huffed as he pulled the cloth together, though there was nothing to hold them there.
A scratch made by an irritated cat. A slip of the tongue that led to a warning; nothing more. Even so, Kira felt the need to hide it from the world. A small secret between him and Messa.
He clucked his tongue. What a ridiculous thought. Before he could think anymore, he picked up the wet rag once more.
“Give me your arm,” he said, making his way back to the bed. “Let’s get this over with.”