Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ A Lesson in Fucked-Upedness ❯ A Lesson in Fucked-Upedness ( Chapter 1 )

Weiss Kreuz © Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiß

 

A Lesson In Fucked-upedness.

(Or: `How to rape a team-mate, get a non-blowjob, trip over you own feet, and hump a tree in 10 easy steps')

 

 

 

 

 

Omi hates me. I don't know what I've done. He won't speak to me, won't even look at me. His eyes drift over me with a cool detachment when it is necessary to see me at all; his voice, when he does say something, is terse and occasionally rude. I am at a loss. I go over my actions of the past week exhaustively, searching for the offence I have unwittingly committed. Perhaps I said something cruel to him at some vulnerable moment I didn't notice? Did I hurt him, do something stupid on a mission?

 

No. They are all used to my coldness. They wouldn't find it odd for me to say something unfeeling (and I don't remember having done so in a while). I haven't touched him in weeks. And when I screw up a mission, everyone knows it loud and clear, including me.

 

After four days of this stoniness, I am prepared to put it down to some fluke, some Omi-ism. But then I notice that it has transferred to the rest of the team, too. Ken is more snappish than usual. When he looks at me, his eyes burn with something I sinkingly identify as hatred. He mutters inaudible but irrefutably nasty things under his breath when I pass or when I speak. He shoves by me roughly in the hallways, refusing to meet my eyes.

 

Yohji is subtler about it. His barbs are smoother and more hidden. He ceases to touch me all together, and I realize with horror one day that that is possibly the thing I miss the most: his overt flirtatiousness, how every day he does or says something with lewd innuendo, the soft, barely-there brushes of his fingertips over my wrists and neck and arms (or whatever other bare skin is available) whenever he can manage it, the way he drapes himself all over me at every possible convenience, even though I have told him a thousand times not to.

 

Of course, none of this should matter to me. I tell myself that every time Ken snarls “Asshole” and it's really too softly said to allow for a confrontation about it. And I tell myself that every time Omi ignores me, and every time Yohji pointedly doesn't put his hands on me.

 

I say it over and over, the way I used to in the early days, after Aya-chan had fallen into the coma and our extended family turned us away at every opportunity, and, since I was eighteen, there was no Child Services to take care of us, and I found myself conscripted by a mysterious group with an offer for me to make a lot of money if only I'd put to use my strangely talented skill with a katana…

 

I sit on my bed in the mornings, half dreading the new day, half hoping this will be the one that is different from all the others, and I say it over and over in my head: /It doesn't matter, they are unimportant. They are a means to my mission and that is all that is necessary. It does not hurt, because it shouldn't./

 

I don't know if I believe that or not. All I do know is that I am horribly, terribly weak for feeling this way. If they can hurt me, I am dependent on them. One cannot be dependent on others. The only person who has the possibility of being solidly dependable is oneself. And even then… the body can fail, the mind wither, the will recede. The only difference is, if my body fails, I am dead and I needn't worry about it. If my mind goes (and some day I'm sure it will—I just want to hold back until Aya-chan is awake) I undoubtedly won't so much as know anything has changed. If I loose the gumption and force to go through with my revenge, then I will have probably lost interest in it and won't feel bad about its desertion. Either way, I am safe.

 

Not so when one relies on the feelings and good graces of others to give oneself actualization. I hate myself for feeling this way. I try as hard as I can to block it out. /I am a machine. Organic machine. I eat, I sleep, I breath, I kill. That is all. I have purpose and that is all that matters./

 

Some days (before it had anything to do with this silent recrimination from my team-mates), I couldn't stop myself from crying. I'd bite my tongue until it bled, do anything and everything to be sure I couldn't be heard, tighten my jaw and widen my eyes to dry up and choke off the sobs. When I read now of sadness or death or rejection or failure in a book, the underside of my jaw aches the way it does when I clench it to keep back the tears.

 

I would appreciate all this for its poetic gothicism if I was inclined that way. I think I once was, in the early days. I liked all the horror happening to me. Each time an aunt or an uncle closed the door in my face, each time Aya-chan refused to wake for my pleading, each time I killed, there was something in me that took the horror and the pain and revelled in it. It was morbid; sweet; unnatural. It made me viciously gleeful. I suppose that is how self-cutters feel. They don't want to finish the job; that's not the point. The point is agony, despair, hate, fear… and the sustentation of those emotions.

 

I don't feel that way anymore. Now I am dead. The part of me that liked it has had so much it drowned. When I kill a target, it is a brutal but boring action. Yes, he's dead, yes, I did it, yes, there is blood and gore on the floor and money in my bank account, and no, I don't care that it's dirty money. Aya-chan doesn't wake up, but she never has before, nothing is expected. No one cares if I live or die, except Kritiker, because it would be inconvenient for them if I was killed. It doesn't matter. I feel nothing.

 

I feel nothing.

 

I feel nothing.

 

I feel nothing.

 

~*~

 

I say it at dinner: “I'm leaving Weiss.”

 

There is silence from my team-mates. But then again, there has been all night, too. I'm not sure, at first, if they've even noticed I said anything. And then Omi lifts a brow at me. “Good,” he says, and goes back to his rice.

 

Ken growls, “About fucking time,” without glancing up from his chopstick action.

 

Yohji leans back in his chair, stretches, and laughs. “No, you're not,” he says.

 

“Yes, I am,” I say. But I'm suddenly uncertain.

 

“You won't, Aya,” he says smugly, “because you'll make it to the door and realize you can't live on your own. You're too hooked on us. You can't do a thing without us.” He leans forward, propping his chin in one hand, and his pretty mouth curves up maliciously. His eyes sparkle. “You'll get out there,” he says softly, almost a whisper, “and you'll fail. Because of us. Because we are the thing that keeps you going. And without us, you are useless and you will fade away to nothing, just able to watch yourself and know that you fucked up.”

 

I am frozen. I want so badly to fly across the table at him, take his throat in my hands and throttle him until he turns blue and chokes blood and dies. I want that. But I can't move. His mouth is forming the letters in slow motion. His voice is molasses, pouring over me, sickly sweet in tone and taste; poisonous in composition and meaning.

 

Omi looks up. His eyes are empty. Literally. Gaping, shadowed sockets. He smiles. He has no teeth. He says, “Yohji-kun's right, Aya-kun. Just stay. It will be easier for you.”

 

Ken says, the unexpectedly split and bleeding remnants of his torn-apart face moving discordantly, “I can't stand the sight of you, Aya, but the kid's right. You might as well just stay.”

 

I try to stand. Nothing happens.

 

Omi stands up, pulls his shirt over his head, unbuckles his pants, drops his underwear. He straddles my lap, rubbing his crotch against my hip tantalizingly. Kisses me, little mouth so hot it burns. His hands wind into my hair. He breathes against my lips, “Please, Aya, don't go. You need us. You do.”

 

My fingers, of their volition, reach for his opening. He is so wet inside. Loose, warm, slick. My cock, suddenly bare and hard, slides up into him. I can feel it drooling. God, it feels so good. His channel squeezes me. I am desperate for this not to be happening, but I'm unable to do anything except fuck him. Stand up and shove him down on the table and pound into him, Yohji and Ken watching. Ken, with an ironic smirk plastered across his ragged lips. Yohji, unscathed on the surface but rotting on the inside, grinning his face off. He says, “Well, Omittchi, guess you don't have to worry about the `fucking virginity' joke ever again.”

 

I'm going to throw up. Watching myself from above. This is not happening. Is it? Goddamnit…

 

Omi spasms around me, arching his skinny back, mouth open in a silent scream. He looks so beautiful, so awful. Like the lovely princess suddenly revealed as the evil sorceress. I want to kiss him, want to hit him.

 

And then I'm coming. Coming so hard I can't breathe, can only tense up and shove hard inside him, feeling the ripple of his tight moistness, the excruciatingly pleasurable surge as I release deep into him. I move in tiny circles, pressing the head of my cock into his wet walls, bucking and thrusting to get the last aftershocks. Warm in here. Dark and inviting. Perfect. Want to stay encased inside him forever. But I pull back.

 

Omi leans up on his forearms, grins at me, empty and skeletal. “You know, Aya,” he says, “your come is acid. It's eating me from the inside right now.”

 

Blood is dripping down the backs of his thighs. It quickens, gushes, until it's a river. His belly sinks, his back melts. He stares at me placidly, smiling, as his body dissolves before my eyes. I do throw up then, unable to move away from this spectacle, but it's no relief. It doesn't quench the absolutely disgusting squirming of my belly.

 

Yohji and Ken don't move. They stare at the suddenly lifeless body of their comrade. And then their accusing gazes turn to me. Yohji vaults over the table, wire stretched taut and ready for my neck between his slender fingers. Ken slams into me from the other side, bugnuks extended. Pain goes through me in a wave, but I can't scream. I have long since lost the ability to use my voice.

 

I am falling, waiting for the floor to come up, the wire to make my vision go red, the claws to sink into me. But the floor keeps getting farther and farther away. No matter how far I fall, no matter how close it gets, it's never quite there. I look over my shoulder.

 

I am alone.

 

~~

 

The sound of knocking wakes me up. Incessant, brain-rattling knocking. I open my eyes.

 

“Aya-kun? Aya-kun, are you awake?”

 

Omi. Omi is calling to me through the door. He's speaking to me? He's not dead? Wait… this is wrong. No, this is right.

 

I get out of bed and open the door, fix Omi with my best death glare, before which, by means of long association and maybe a natural immunity, he doesn't quail. “It's your shift in the shop, Aya-kun,” he chirps, and then grows abruptly concerned. “Are you all right? You look a little pale. And it's not normal for you to sleep in like this.”

 

I want to ask what time it is, but I can't speak. My mouth is too dry. If I tried, I think all that would come out is a haggard rasp. Instead, I just shake my head.

 

“Oh, well, all right,” he says. His huge eyes are totally guileless, big wet blue orbs that gaze up at me trustingly and happily. I want to grab his shoulders and shake him, say, Get away from me, you don't know what I am. “I'll see you downstairs, then,” he says, and spins off in a whirl of almost tangible cheer.

 

I go back into my room and shut the door in a daze, go through the mechanical motions of dressing and brushing and washing. /It was a dream, that's all, I tell myself repeatedly. Nothing to be worried about, a nightmare, you have them all the time, it makes absolutely no difference./

 

And I almost believe that, until I am leaving my room and, halfway down the stairs, I come to the startling conclusion that thinking about Omi's ass as he bounced off down the hallway has given me a hard on.

 

~~

 

Yohji is all over me. I can't bring myself to tell him off. When he touches me, I want to cling to him. When his hand trails down my side so lightly it could almost be ignored, or passed off as fancy, I want to arch like a cat. I want to fall into his arms and let him kiss me better. I want his warm skin against me, his mouth on me, his tongue anywhere it wants to be. I want him to whisper sweet nothings in my ears, touch me between my legs where this incredible ache has been throbbing so insistently all day. I want nothing but him.

 

Oh, and by the way, I'd also like to throw my sweet, innocent, naive, jailbait team-mate down on the floor and fuck him into next Tuesday.

 

Will there be fries with that?

 

~~

 

An apartment. The roof. It's snowing.

 

Ken is crouched next to me, bugnuks not quite extended. Just looking at the razor-sharp gleaming metal peeking from his glove makes me cringe. Omi says through the comm, “Target acquired. Third floor, near the second elevator. Heading west.”

 

And Yohji replies, “Copy, Bombay. Balinese on the way.”

 

“Siberian, Abyssinian, you copy?”

 

“Sure thing, Bombay,” Ken answers. “We're on our way.”

 

The target, when we get there, is a huge lion. Yohji is a lamb, and contentedly curled between its front paws. He looks up when Ken and I turn the corner, and bleats happily. “You made it,” he says.

 

Ken chuckles and drops down next to the two of them, cross-legged. “Of course we did,” he says. “Wouldn't want to miss the fun.”

 

Omi appears then, dour faced, wearing an evening gown of red silk, and grumbles, “Come on, you two, this is no time to play around. We have a luau to plan for.” He glances snidely at me. “And you,” he says, “are not invited.”

 

I gape at the three of them. The target's two bodyguards have transformed into a pair of gorillas. Roaring and pounding their chests, they step around the lion and rush toward me. I see the glint of their long, curved canines, the rage in their beady, piggish eyes. They hit me, crush me beneath their combined weight. I feel bones crunch, and then—

 

~~

 

“Hey, Aya, wake up.”

 

I jolt awake to see Ken waving a hand in front of my face. He frowns at me. “You just totally spaced out,” he says. “Are you okay? Did you get enough sleep last night?”

 

“As though it's any concern of yours,” I snap after a gut-wrenching moment of disorientation. I'm leaning on the counter in the Koneko. I straighten and spin on my heel, making a disguised bee-line for the back room.

 

“It becomes my concern if you can't even keep yourself awake in the middle of the day!” I hear him yell from behind me, but I ignore him. Even though I know he's right.

 

The back room, when I open the door, has become a field of red poppies. I stand there gaping for a long moment, and then, working on some instinctive fear and a hazy, half-formed knowledge in the back of my head, I spin around and slam the door shut before the poppies can put me to sleep.

 

~~

 

Dinner is the rowdy, jovial affair it usually is. I fold myself into as small a ball as possible in my chair and concentrate on shovelling down food as fast as I can without seeming to be in a rush. I can't stand to be here with them, hearing their jokes and good-hearted insults and seeing the respect and affection they have for each other. Because I am on the outside of that, and the worst part is that I did it to myself. That fact makes it even worse, somehow. I can't blame them for it. I can be angry and hurt with no one but myself.

 

“Aya,” Yohji suddenly says.

 

I'm so startled I almost don't answer, but then I cock an eyebrow in his direction. “What?”

 

“You know that chick who was in here yesterday?”

 

“Which one, Yohji?” I ask dryly. If he honestly expects me to remember one lithesome, perfumed, designer-clad, silicone-based creature among dozens, he has another thing coming.

 

“You know, the one with the dog.”

 

I lift my tea, take a sip. “We don't allow dogs in the store,” I remind him evenly.

 

“I know. That's my point. You freaked out at her and told her to keep the dog outside. Big bugger. Great Dane or something. And she told you off like nobody's business. On and on about animal cruelty and segregation of the sexes… And your face got so red. Man, I thought you were going to belt her one!”

 

Yohji's laughing at the memory, nearly doubled over with his face in his food. I'm staring at him. My chopsticks are halfway to my mouth. I put them down. “I don't remember that,” I say before I can stop myself.

 

Yohji, still giggling away, looks up at me. “Oh, come on, Aya, how could you forget? It was all we—well, I—talked about the rest of the day.”

 

I'm totally blank. Come to think of it, I can't remember a thing from yesterday. Or the day before. Or the week before. Maybe the whole fucking year before! What am I doing here? I know Yohji, I know Omi and Ken. That's all. The name `Kritiker' floats before my eyes in ghostly neon script. It doesn't ring a bell. Even though I know it should. I feel that I should be riding an elephant right now. I have a belly dancer's costume in the closet upstairs, I think…

 

Oh, my God.

 

~~

 

“Hey, Aya, wake up.”

 

Well, that sounds familiar. It's Ken again. Only, this time, I'm not in the shop. I'm lying down… on a bed. And I'm naked. Ken is hovering over me, heavy-lidded and indolent and smelling so good. What am I thinking?! He smells like after a mission. Like blood and sweat and gunpowder and the outdoors. Not a good smell.

 

I sit up, press my face into his neck, inhaling deeply. Ohhh, yes, that's a good smell. Before I know it, I'm thrusting, rubbing my cock against his naked thigh, moaning at the friction.

 

He puts his hands on my ass, eases me back onto the bed. “Aya,” he breathes into my ear, biting the lobe, blowing softly over where he licks it. “Gonna suck you, baby,” he says. That sounds rather nice… I bite my lip to keep from moaning again. His hands knead my ass cheeks. He spreads them, but there's nothing to enter me. He just holds them like that. I feel the coolness of the air rush over my hole, and then, slowly, I feel wetness. I'm lubing myself. Naturally. Oh, boy. I reach down to touch myself there, shocked. My fingers come away glistening with clear liquid. I can't help myself. I lick it. Ken groans, apparently at the sight. It tastes like… nothing. But the feel of it in my mouth, coating my tongue, sends me into a frenzy of lust. I press my hips into Ken's belly, rocking back and forth, chafing my cock on his smooth skin.

 

“Okay, baby, okay,” he gasps. He presses me flat, moves down my body. His breath rushes against my skin, sensitizing and making me quiver. I'm almost crying, I want his mouth on me so badly. As I watch, his lips open. He glances up at me, catches my gaze and holds it. Slowly he lowers his head. I can feel it, the warmth, the wetness of his tongue on me…

 

~~

 

NO!

 

Fuck!

 

What is this?!

 

I am standing in the middle of nowhere with my legs parted around the trunk of a tree. I'm rubbing up and down on it like a cat, my cock so hard it hurts. Apparently I am in a park. There are people around me, shocked mothers shielding their children's eyes, disgusted men making rude gestures, hooting teenagers.

 

I don't even bother to move away from the tree. My pre-come is all over the bark. It's slimy and cold, but feels good. Little gyrations of the hips keep me occupied long enough to think about the situation, since this is a lucid moment and I do need to think about it; who knows when the next opportunity will arise?

 

It seems to me that, at the beginning (or as near to the beginning as I can figure) of this nonsense, I was my normal self; unhappy, vengeful, rude, despairing, frightened, rejected by my team-mates and on the verge of suicide. And then things got weird. Fucking Omi, half in love with Yohji, seeing the lion, being attacked by the gorillas, the poppies, the story of the Great Dane, my supposed memory loss and evident regain (I know for a fact I have never—and will never—wear a belly-dancing outfit)… And then getting blown (almost blown, my throbbing cock reminds me) by Ken.

 

And now I feel nearly happy. Well, as happy as can be expected. I am euphoric, actually. If a bright pink unicorn came leaping from the clouds at this very instant and told me to kiss the nearest frog and it would turn into Darth Vader, I would probably obey, and the claim would probably be true.

 

Of course, on top of all this, I have never been so horny in my entire life. The Martha Stewart show could give me a nosebleed. But I put that fact aside, ignoring that I'm clutching at this stupid tree and moaning like it's the last person on earth and I am the incarnation of the conglomerate libidos of all males worldwide. If only Yohji could see me now…

 

Mmmm… Yohji…

 

Oh, I really have to get out of this mess.

 

~~

 

Yohji has his tongue in my navel. He's sucking and biting at the soft flesh around it. I'm sitting in a tire swing. My legs are dangling through the hole in the middle, the inside edge of the tire digging into my bare ass. As though that matters. Yohji has his tongue in my navel. I'm going to come. Please God, let me come. I'll never ask for another thing ever again.

I am deranged. That much is glaringly obvious by now.

 

Yohji, kneeling on the ground between my legs, slides his tongue in and out of me. A trickle of saliva runs down my belly into my pubic hair. His tongue follows it. I tense, but he returns to my navel. He looks so wanton, so licentious, doing this. Like it's the dirtiest, hottest thing in the world. And it feels sooo good. He looks up at me, winks, blonde hair all over his face. He sucks hard. I cry out, a pang of pleasure going straight to the tip of my cock.

 

“Quit,” I gasp out, “playing around!”

 

“If you insist,” he murmurs, and, with a last lick to my tortured belly-button, takes my cock in his mouth.

 

Holy fucking shit. That's all I can think for a moment. Then individual motions become apparent. He's sucking on the head like a lollipop, pushing on that dent on the underside that makes outer space seem like not such a sci-fi concept after all. He goes down on me all the way, swallowing to bypass his gag reflex. How nice that this insane little excuse for a world takes into account tiny things like the workings of a human body, while apparently the space-time continuum means absolutely nothing. Not that I'm complaining.

 

He draws back and runs his tongue along the slit. Oh God, this is what I've been waiting for. All this time, all this rampant physical need, is answered in that one little motion. He does it again, gathering up my oozing pre-come on his tongue.

 

“More,” I pant. “Do it again, please, more.”

 

What am I reduced to? Begging? Yohji?! This is really sick.

 

He complies. The tip of his tongue slides up and down the slit, pushing into the tiny hole in the middle. That almost hurts, almost tickles. I try to hold still, not to impede his work in any way. He licks all over the head, sucks on it again, rubs the flat of his tongue against the weeping cleft at the top. Finally, it's too much. I shove his head down, thrust my cock deep into that well of loveliness—

 

~~

 

I'm being fucked. I'm on my hands and knees, rocking back into the thrusts of the body behind me. I groan, feeling the cock inside me brush something that feels really good.

 

“Yeah, that's right, bitch, beg for it,” a voice says. It seems familiar, though I can't place it. It is deep, roughened with lust, but still somehow cold and demanding. It turns me on like anything. “You slut,” the man says, “look at you. Fucking yourself on me. I could just sit here and you'd do all the work, wouldn't you?” A hand slaps my ass. “Wouldn't you?!”

 

“Yes,” I squeak.

 

“Yes what?” he demands.

 

“Yes… Master,” I moan. Somewhere, in the far reaches of my consciousness, I'm mortified. Like it matters right now. “I would, I would fuck myself, Master.”

 

I want to turn around, to see who this person is, but, inexplicably, I can't move my head. I spread my thighs wider. I want him in deeper. I don't care who he is, he feels good. “Harder,” I whimper. I am a slut! And I never even knew it!

 

He complies. His movements are almost splitting me open, but in a good way. His cock is big, stretching me wide, giving incredible friction to my insides. I think I might actually come this time…

 

And then a nasal voice interrupts my ecstasy. “Why, hello, kitten,” it purrs.

 

Oh, no. Not even that bastard can ruin this moment. I am going to come. I don't care about anything else. The Fujimiya will demands it. “Go… away…” I snarl.

 

“Aw, is that any way to speak to me?”

 

A pair of legs appears in front of me, clad in trademark white slacks, which drop to pool around slender ankles and bare feet. Mastermind kneels in front of me, tilts my chin up, and whispers, “Remember, kitten, this is your mind.”

 

And then he rears up and shoves his cock into my mouth. It's really not as bad as I would have thought, and I'm not expected to do much, evidently. I just keep my mouth open as he fucks it. I let my tongue move against the underside of his cock. He has a birthmark, a little light-bulb shaped blot on the dip of his otherwise flawless hip. It's sexy. I want to lick it, want to lick his balls and his jutting hipbones and his stomach and his nipples and the backs of his knees…

I want to make him scream.

 

The man behind me, inside me, slaps my ass again, forcing my attention back to him with a growl. As though it had wavered for even a millisecond. I have the sudden irrational need to cower before him. I have never cowered for anyone. He scares me. He wants to be a god.

 

Schuldig moans and whispers, “Oh, kitten, you're so sweet,” and comes. All down my throat, choking and bitter. The rush, the way his fingers yank at my hair, and then how the man behind me comes, nails biting my hips, jerking inside me, shoving at my ass in tight circles, sends me over the edge.

 

I come in a gush of warmth, an anguish of bliss, crying out and going limp. Only Schuldig and my fucker keep me semi-upright. Schuldig leans down and kisses me as the mysterious man at my rear pulls his cock from my body. The telepath licks his own come from my mouth, going in deep to get the back of my teeth, and then draws away, hazy-eyed and sexy as hell.

 

“Thanks, kitten,” he whispers, straightening.

 

“Yes, thank you,” the man says. And suddenly I place his voice. My stomach hits my toes. Still lethargic from sex, my brain not working as well as it should be, I turn around in slow motion to see Brad Crawford smirking at me. My heart stops working.

 

Schuldig wraps himself around the Oracle, nuzzling affectionately at his neck. He winks at me. “Quite a lay, isn't he, kitten?”

 

Crawford chuckles. “Until next time, Weiss,” he says, straightening his tie. His glasses flash.

 

~~

 

I wake to Omi's concerned and embarrassed face peering into mine. He pulls away as my eyes open and yells, “Guys, guys, he's awake!”

 

I wince at the volume of his proclamation. He notices and says, “Sorry, Aya-kun,” just as Yohji and Ken come pelting into my bedroom, Yohji at a slightly more sedate pace than Ken.

 

The sight of them, especially together, brings a flood of memories back. I flush helplessly and groan. I try to sit up, but can hardly so much as support my own weight on my arms. However, the movement brings to my attention a large wet patch between my legs. I wince in disgust, thinking for an instant that I have pissed myself, and then I register Omi blushing tomato red and realize what it is.

 

Oh, gross. How humiliating. And yet I'm almost too exhausted to care. “What's going on?” I ask. It comes out as an undignified croak.

 

Omi's huge eyes widen even more. I can't help myself from seeing more than pure innocence in them. This is the kid who, real or not, initiated his own rape at my hands only a short while ago… Or maybe quite a while ago. It's all fuzzy. But this scene here feels different from the last few times. A little more depth, maybe.

 

“How much do you remember, Aya?” Ken asks.

 

I frown, shake my head. Immediately, pain goes wracking through my skull. I gasp and force myself not to clutch at my own temples. Omi hands me a pair of aspirin and a glass of water. Yohji comes across the room and sits down on the bed next to me. He reaches out and presses his hand to my forehead. I shy away from his touch, both on instinct and because it just makes the memories of the past few… whatevers… rush through my mind with intensely brutal force. He makes my mouth dry.

 

He smiles softly, but it's almost a smirk. I have the abrupt and terrible idea that he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

 

“I just woke up, too,” he says.

 

“Woke up from what?” I say, the water I take another drink of allowing me to finally manage a normal tone.

 

Omi leans forward, flourishing a skinny folder beneath my nose. I take it, try to read its contents, but the words and pictures swim before my eyes. I hand it back to him without a word. He says, “Do you remember our last mission, Aya-kun?”

 

I pause, trying to swim through the smog and mess of my own mind, and then shake my head.

 

“It was yesterday,” he says. “I can give you the outline, if you want.”

 

I frown. Of what use would an outline be?

 

In another disconcerting and, I'm sure, totally unfounded show of seeming mind-reading skills, Yohji says, “I read it when I woke up. Helped me realize that this world is the real one. After all that scene hopping and shit, something rational

was quite useful.”

 

He seems to be in total earnest, so I nod at Omi, who digs through the previously proffered folder and pulls out a few sheets of paper. He gives an obviously simplified synopsis. “Infiltrate and destroy the warehouse, address given above, under the ownership of Koroshiya Hikage. It is being illegally used as a drop-off point for drug-smuggling cartels from various countries and is currently in possession of the only know batch of a new, untested hallucinogenic and date-rape drug.”

 

I think that sounds vaguely familiar, but, then again, all of our missions seem to consist of blowing up either drug-smugglers and prostitution rings.

 

Omi puts down the folder and fixes me with an expectant gaze, to which I can only offer a shrug. He continues. “Apparently there was a tip-off. By the time we got there, the very last of the new drug was being taken away by van. The warehouse was deserted. So you and Yohji jumped in the Seven and went after that last shipment that was trying to get away. Ken and I stayed behind to do some data-gathering and recon. You two caught up with the van and ran it off the road. The driver tried to take off, and you, Aya, killed him. In the meantime, Yohji had gone into the van to investigate.”

 

Ah, now that is a bit more recognizable. I have a flash of Yohji saying through the headset, `I'm going to check out the vehicle', and myself replying, `Acknowledged, Balinese,' while pelting after a fleeing figure down a twilit back road.

 

Yohji's hand has long since left my forehead, but now it tucks itself into my own, fingers weaving with mine, down beside me where Ken and Omi can't see. I shoot him a quick glare, trying to decide whether to pull away or not, but he just returns my glower with an inscrutable stare of his own and I subside. It feels kind of nice, anyway. Tingly.

 

“The drug,” Omi continues, oblivious, “had spilled from its container in the back of the van. It was in liquid form, and Yohji was exposed to the vapours. I couldn't raise him on the comm, so I sent you back to find him. Of course, you inhaled the fumes too, and the both of you were down for the count. Ken and I rushed you to the nearest hospital, where they said there that you had slipped into comas.” A barely perceptible shudder goes through him. I well know the horror of hearing those words pronounced over someone you love, but I merely lift a brow, silently prodding him to continue. I've mortified myself quite enough recently, thank you, without having to compound it with awkward sentimentality.

 

Omi takes a deep breath. “Anyway, you were both stable enough for Manx to get you out of the hospital, and we brought you home. I did as much research as possible on the drug, and here's what I turned up.” He lifts another sheet from the stack on his lap. “It's extremely unstable, being practically still in the research stage. It hasn't—well, hadn't—been tested on anything living. It was on its way here for that purpose, actually. It is supposed to be a hallucinogenic, somewhat like LSD, and a, uh, sex-drive amplifier.” He blushes as he says those last words. God, if only this kid knew what had been going on in my brain a few minutes ago…

 

Yohji flashes me a nearly guilty look. I narrow my eyes suspiciously at him.

 

“It's not supposed to send its users into a coma,” Omi says, chuckling, “but, as I said, it's still untried. We didn't know what the outcome would be. We didn't know if you two would die, or end up brain-damaged, or what.” He swallows and glances over his shoulder at Ken, who nods and leans toward Omi almost imperceptibly in a subtle show of support. I can imagine what it must have been like for them. I force down that uncharacteristic surge of empathy in favour of again gesturing for Omi to go on. I use the hand not being currently clutched by Yohji. I flex my fingers in his grasp. He looks at me, eyes guarded but somehow vulnerable. My stomach flips.

 

Omi shrugs. “Well, that's basically it. Yohji woke up a few hours ago, groggy and rather rude, and we've been waiting for you to do the same. Hopefully minus the rude.” Genki smile directed at Yohji, who grins back. “Yohji checks out with a clean bill of health. We'll need to run some tests on you, too.”

 

I nod.

 

“But, first,” he says, blushing again, not quite meeting my eyes, “you'd probably like to have a shower. And something to eat.”

 

I very carefully don't grimace. “Yes, I would,” I say.

 

Omi gets up, fidgets for a moment, and then impulsively (or not) leans over to give me a hug. I freeze, then carefully return it. He pulls back quickly, smiling his chibi smile, and he and Ken make for the door. As Omi pulls it open, he looks back over his shoulder. “Yohji? You coming?”

 

Yohji waves an apathetic hand at him. “Sure, in a minute, Omittchi,” he says. Silence falls once the door closes. It stretches on for an uncomfortably long time before Yohji so much as looks at me. I lift a brow. I desperately want to get out of these sticky pants, but hell if I'm going to tell him that I need to wash up from a wet dream, however synthetically orchestrated, starring himself, Omi, Ken, Brad Crawford, and Schuldig. And a silver birch, come to think of it.

 

However, an entire minute later, I decide this is getting ludicrous. I pull my hand away from his and sit up straight. And almost keel over from the vertigo. Gasping against the blackness creeping around the edges of my vision, I squeeze my eyes shut and ball my hands into fists and wait for the feeling to pass. As it does, I register that Yohji has spoken.

 

“What?” I say.

 

He bites his lip. “I said, I dreamt about you.”

 

Oh. Well. That's… interesting…

 

I waver between telling him that I did the same, or giving him a condescending look and saying something to the effect of, “Wonderful, Kudoh, now I can never change in the same room as you again.” Of course, the first would require an exposing of some part of me I'm not sure I want exposed, and the second could be termed as humour, something I'm equally not sure I want out in the open. Instead, I settle for the always-ready answer to anything I find unpleasant or irritating or just plain not worthy of my attention: “Hn.”

 

He squirms.

 

I can't help but find this mildly amusing. After all, it's not every day that The Great Yohji Kudoh, self proclaimed sex god and womanizer extraordinaire, ends up at a loss for words and flustered over something so simple as a little erotic dream. Maybe more like a large erotic dream, if it was anything like my own, but still. “What do you want me to say to that?” I ask, relenting a little.

 

“Nothing,” he says. “But… it made me realize a few things.”

 

I lift my brow again, an expression which simply never gets old. Spock proved the fact. I pause in that train of thought, wondering if something really has been damaged in my head. But Yohji is talking again.

 

“Things like…” His vibrant green gaze flicks up to catch mine. He swallows. “Like that I think I might love you.”

 

My brain dies. I have an out of body experience. I can see myself sitting there, automaton-like, gaping at Yohji, and him staring back at me, chin high and haughty to cover the insecurity I can see plainly broadcasting from his eyes. And then I slam back into my body, take a very deep breath, and say, “Oh.”

 

Very smooth, Fujimiya. Well, to be fair, can I help it? No one's ever professed love to me before. It's not the sort of thing that happens every day.

 

“It's not a big thing,” Yohji mumbles. “I guess it is a pretty weird thing to say, though, right? And it's not like I just… got hard dreaming about you and decided I was head over heels. What I mean is that it was there all along and I never knew it, and it took all that being knocked out and thrown for a loop shit to make me see it, and yeah, I know, I'm not really the sort of guy you'd bring home to mother, but since you don't have a mother, I guess it doesn't matter. But—but, what I'm really trying hard to say here and… failing miserably, it seems… is that, if you want to, if you don't think it's gross or sick or perverted or anything, and if you sorta, kinda, maybe, might… like me… then you could give me a chance?”

 

He peeks up at me through impossibly long lashes.

 

I'm melting inside. My spleen has just turned to goo. (What is wrong with me that I am spouting junk like this, if only—thankfully—to myself?) I want to touch him. Anywhere. Or let him touch me. He is so beautiful, so sweet, sitting there biting his tongue and waiting for my answer as though his entire world depends on it.

 

I blink, swallow, blink again. “Uh,” I say. “I—I dreamed about you, too.”

 

His eyes widen. And with that verbal acknowledgment that he hasn't just given himself up for ritual decapitation at the behest of my katana, he recovers his wavering self-confidence. His grin is dazzling, sultry. His eyelids droop to half-mast in that infuriatingly sexy way. He leans toward me, voice low and warm and sending shivers up my rigid spine. “Were they good dreams?” he murmurs.

 

“Mostly,” I say, and allow myself a small, secretive smile.

 

His hands touch mine, slide up my arms, fingertips settling against my neck, stroking lightly. “Wanna tell me about them?” he purrs.

 

I shift away from him and he retreats a little, sensing my walls going back up. “Look, Kudoh,” I say, because I feel he should be going into this with his eyes wide open, “I don't know if I love you, though I have had some disconcerting visions to the contrary. I don't know if I can love anyone but Aya-chan. Don't expect everything to change just because I fuck you, okay?”

 

He looks affronted, and perhaps a little hurt, but the tone he uses on his next words are full of sass and sarcasm. “I'm not expecting flowers and hearts from you, Aya. I know you. You're you. You wouldn't be you if you weren't such a bitch.”

 

I shudder. Sudden flashback of Crawford's deep voice saying, “Yeah, that's right, bitch, beg for it.” It makes me achingly hard. Not a necessarily pleasant feeling while wearing gummy underwear. It only makes me want more than ever to get them off. Carefully I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Yohji hops up to help me, but I shove his hands away impatiently. “Fuck's sake, Kudoh, I can do it,” I snap, teetering. Again I pause, let the dizziness recede, and then head toward the bathroom.

 

Yohji trails after me, saying plaintively, “Weren't you going to tell me about those dreams of yours?”

 

I throw a smirk (my, my, today is simply full of personal journeys) over my shoulder. “In the shower,” I say. “And I want reciprocity in that regard.”

 

He bows gallantly, mouth quirked lasciviously and eyes sparkling when he straightens. “Your wish is my command, O Great One. But that thing you said a moment ago worries me… Something about you fucking me?”

 

I roll my eyes and enter the bathroom.

 

Epilogue

 

My body hums pleasantly as I fly along the deserted corridor. I've just spent the last two hours fucking Yohji silly (turns out he's an uke after all, despite protests otherwise), and I have recently discovered that nothing calms a person for a mission the way sex does.

 

Hopefully we can try this technique again some time. Some time when we don't have Omis and Kens banging the door down and yelling about deadlines. Over the past six weeks, I have also learned that there is a reason Yohji has such a sex god reputation. It is well deserved and probably well earned. Some of the things he suggests and is willing to do are things that have never even crossed my mind, much less made me take them seriously. The fine arts of rimming and felching, for instance. Disgusting to the ordinary observer, much in the way that some have expressed nausea at seeing vats of melted chocolate. Appearance is nothing.

 

I think, maybe, on top of it all, that my dream self is more intelligent than my waking self in regards to how I feel about Yohji. I've never been in love before, so I don't know, but this thing I do feel for him has all the right symptoms, according to secretive internet research on the matter. I don't think I'll tell him. He should either go on in blissful ignorance, or figure it out for himself. I'm not his mother.

 

I am brought abruptly out of my thoughts when I round an innocent looking corner and smack heavily into an unyielding body. I regain my footing and fall into defensive stance in time to see Berserker's insane grin and the flash of his knife flying toward me. I fling myself out of the way just in time and then leap at him. We go slamming into the nearest wall, scrabbling and snarling and each trying to rip the other into bloody shreds. He gets a hand under my chin and starts forcing up, just as I manage to position my thumb over his left eye. He breaks his choking hold to yank my wrist sideways, away from his face, and it is then that I hear a terribly familiar nasal voice.

 

“Now, now, Far,” Mastermind says, “don't hurt the kitty.”

 

I turn my head and see him sauntering down the hall toward us, hands deep in the pockets of those white slacks. Oh, sooo not a good time to get a flashback…

He smirks sloppily, the usual malice of the gesture not present, and flicks long, dismissive fingers in my direction. “Never mind the death and gore fest, dearie,” he says. “We're leaving. We got what we came for, no need to make a nuisance of yourselves any longer.”

 

I bare my teeth at him, trying with renewed vigour to break Farfarello's crushing hold on me. His arms are around my chest, squeezing hard enough to make breathing a difficult endeavour. And then I think, with something approaching panic, /Thank God I apparently have no repressed desires to fuck him!/

 

Schuldig barks out an incredulous laugh. “Nice idea,” he drawls. “But, considering the rest of what your fucked up little brain spewed forth under the extraneous circumstance of being stoned out of your tree, I think fucking Far is the absolute least of your worries.”

 

For some reason, all I get out of that sentence is a sense of shock that Mastermind knows words like `extraneous'.

 

With an impatient and dramatic huff, he steps past Farfarello and myself, flicking a wrist at his companion. “Come on, then, Far,” he says, “let's leave the katzchen to his eternal angst. I've got bigger fish to fry.”

 

~And that fish has Crawford's name on it,~ he hisses gleefully into my mind. ~At least you got that part of your little fantasy right.~

 

I hate the feeling of mind-talk with a passion. It's like spider feet on the brain.

 

Berserker drops me in a heap on the floor and steps easily over me, darting off down the hallway after Schuldig. I take a moment to catch my breath, stretch out my aching ribs, and then, just as I am getting to my feet, trying to decide between chasing after the Schwarz bastards or informing the rest of my team that the mission's been compromised, Schuldig's shocked mental voice demands, ~How the hell did you know I have a birthmark there?!~

 

My eyes widen. With a queasy feeling in my belly, I realize that I hope never to know the answer to that question.

 

~fin~