Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Angel in Flames ❯ ouch ( Chapter 3 )

Angel in Flames 3/?

By Nix Winter

Disclaimer: I don't own Youji or Omi, Weiss Kreuz. I do own the story. I do love feedback. Check out my original at onepinkrose.com

Angel in Flames

"So did you tell him?" Ken asked, a finger trailing around the rim of his bloody mary.

"No." Omi sat back down at the table he shared with Aya and Ken. The conversation with Youji had happened in the bathroom. "At least he's not a 'fucking queer'."

Aya turned his head sharply away, picked up his virgin rum and coke. It was the only movement that betrayed his concern, discomfort for his friends.

Ken rolled his eyes, took a drink that left tomato juice over his upper lip. "I'm telling you. Youji's not straight. I know," he stressed the last word as if it were a ball he wanted to put in a goal, "that he's got a thing for you. I know it."

"Well, don't you tell him. I couldn't stand it if he treated me differently, if he despised me for," Omi planted both elbows on the table, balanced his chin on his palms between, "for well, you know, liking him."

"Is he coming down or not?" Aya asked coldly.

"Not," Omi said, all the energy draining out of him. "I sent him to that club."

"That was a waste of resources," Aya criticized. "We have a job to do, an important one. This is not a good time for either of you to be controlled by hormones."

"I know," Omi said, laying his head down on the table. He took a deep breath, then sat back up. "You're right, Aya-kun. We need to focus on this mission. Maybe I am possessed by some ghost of a gay man who died gruesomely under Stalin?"

Now it was Aya's turn to roll his eyes. He leaned forward, holding his drink in one hand, as if it had the power to numb something. "If we don't find this terrorist group, and the world goes up like one big virus, I'll tell Youji, myself, that you want to get screwed. Hell, Omi, focus on this job, will you? We each have goals to accomplish and being out here in the land of the Czars and comrades is not paying well enough for me to want to stay too long. Let's just find this woman with the stolen data and get out of here."

Ken took another drink, then a slow breath, thinking that Russia was having an odd effect on Aya too. "It's just exotic here, Aya, you know? Makes things seem more romantic. This is really out of the scope of our missions, but we all accepted this one. Besides, we've actually seen her. It should make it easier, yeah? I wish we were back in Tokyo. I would be so much easier!"

"Well, we're not," Aya snapped. "We're lost in St. Petersburg where the gays whine because they can't have the straights. I'm going out to see what I can find out. You two try not to blow someone just because he's a tall blond, uh?"

Omi's mouth was open, eyes wide like big black eyed daisies. Ken reached over to pick up and sniff Aya's drink, to see if there really was something not virgin in there. He gave it a taste, as he watched their swordsman stalk off across the dance floor, eyes of both genders following him like little fish after the current. "Vodka and cherry coke. Drunk Aya, loose in St. Petersburg. Who cares about bio-terrorists?" Ken snickered, then finished off Aya's drink. "You should just go find that tall blond and blow him before Aya finds him and runs him through."

Omi closed his mouth, opened it again, blinked. "Aya wants to stab Youji? Why? Why is Aya angry at Youji?"

"Look, Omi," Ken said, licking Aya flavored vodka and coke from his lip, "We're out of our league, chasing these people. At home, we had a chance. I don't know what we're doing in Russia. This is a big dog game, not meant for little boys from Tokyo."

Omi frowned, eyes narrowed now, that look of determination on his face. "This problem started in Tokyo, and we're going to finish it. You go sober up. I'm going to find Youji and," he paused, relaxed a little, "And clear the air. Then we're all going to find our targets and deal with them like we do. We are Weiss, Tokyo or St. Petersburg, we are still Weiss."

"Oh Omi," Ken whispered, picking up his own drink. "You just tell me what to do, I'll do it, okay?"

"Go back to the room. Shower, get sober. I'll call you." Omi commanded. It was his vision, his faith in Weiss that had brought them to St. Petersburg, and he would see to it that they finished this mission, that he found his way to finish this personal mission of his. He was just standing up to walk away when his phone rang. "Tsukiyono," he snapped.

"Hey ya, Omi," Youji said in English, deep voice holding a bit of a smile, a bit of apologetic flirt.

"Kudou," Omi said, eyes still narrow as he made his way around the side of the dance floor, towards the elevator at the back of the door.

"Oh, Omi-kun," Youji teased, laying on a bit more flirt, a bit of baroque sweet in his voice. "Don't be angry at me. I don't have a problem with homosexuals. Are you angry at me?"

Omi closed his eyes, as the elevator door closed, knowing if he didn't respond, that Youji would keep talking. In his imagination, he let himself be a Russian Prince, Alexi maybe, and he could command the tall blond assassin come to him, to kneel before him.

"Look, Omi, really, I didn't mean to offend you. Do you have a friend that's queer or something?"

"Say my name again," Omi said, fingers blindly searching for the stop car button. "Just say my name."

"Tsukiyono Omi," Youji said, less sure of himself now, "Omi?"

"No, my birth name." The elevator car stopped, jerking a little bit.

"Takatori Mamaru?"

"Yeah. He's gay."

"Who is?" Youji said, confused, "Wait, I think I have an id on the woman. I'm taking a pic, receive it, okay?"

Omi opened his eyes and watched the photo write itself line by line on the screen of his phone. It was her. He started the car again. Dialed the second line out to Manx, for positive id. "That's her. Follow her."

"Hey, Omi, Mamaru," Youji paused, the tiny camera in his glasses tracking his line of sight as he followed the girl across the club he was at, "Your friend, this guy that's gay. You're close to him?"

The girl danced right up against this big Russian guy, spiky blond hair and muscular arms that might be able to pop a soccer ball like a nut in a vice between bicep and forearm. The girl nodded in Youji's direction. The guy looked right at him. Youji snapped another pic and transmitted the still to Omi. "Youji, get out of there."

"Ne, Omi. Track me." His last word turned into a snarl, and the camera in his glasses moved too fast to get a clear image. What formed next was Youji's white tee-shirt, skin tight, showing off his tight belly, and white cloth soaking up red, so red that Omi didn't recognize it as blood immediately. "Owww," filtered across their connection, Youji's voice, gravely with pain and anger. "Bombay, Balinese is a fag."

Youji coughed. Blood splattered over his arm, up onto his glasses.

"I'll find you!" Omi said, gripping the phone, the rail on the elevator tightly, hating that he'd ever admitted to himself he wanted Youji, loved Youji.

The movement of the camera went fast again. When it held still long enough to transmit again, he caught an image of Youji on the floor, a big combat boot on his face, blood all over his chest. A high heeled shoe stepped in front of the glasses Youji had been wearing, hiding his camera in. The other foot came down on them, cutting the connection.