Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Better Days ❯ Ginkgos ( Chapter 2 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

I don't go to clubs anymore.
I hate them.
It doesn't matter what type of club, they all remind me of Ken.
Bars aren't much better.

So I drink in my room.

The others don't know this of course. I still make a big show of going out for the night. I walk to the liquor store, stock up, and when the coast seems clear I sneak back in. Believe me, sneaking up a staircase with your arms full of bottles is quite difficult to pull off unnoticed. But being an assassin leaves you with some handy skills. Sometimes I climb in the window. Just to shake things up a bit.

I'm so pathetic.

I heard this song once, on the radio. I don't remember what it was about, most of the lyrics slipped out of my memory almost as soon as the song was over. But there was this one line that stuck. It haunts me.

Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios

That's what I am. A broken radio.

Every time I think I've found some grasp of happiness, it cuts out on me.

Broken radio.

Broken record.

Broken Yohji.

I'm so depressing when I'm drunk.

"Must think of something cheerful," I tell myself.

I haven't got anything particularly uplifting to focus on in my room, so I end up blankly gazing out the window. There is a tree so close to it, that if I opened my window, I could reach out and touch it. It's a ginkgo. There's a whole row of them planted along the sidewalk.

I always liked ginkgos.

They really stand out from the other trees. Their leaves are so distinct...and in the fall they become downright brilliant. Like solidified sunshine.

They're survivors too. One of the oldest species on earth; dinosaurs stood under ginkgo trees.

But look where their resilience got them.

What gets planted when a garden's being designed? Or a forest rehabilitated?

Not ginkgos, lord no.

They plant pretty trees. Sakuras, elms, and magnolias.

But certainly not ginkgos.

Ginkgos are practical trees.

Their place is in the city and along freeways. Places that are decidedly unpleasant for growing things. They can withstand the most vile and polluted environments. So that's just where they're kept; in the most vile, polluted environments. The places where other trees would choke and die.

The strongest survive, but what kind of existence are they rewarded with? Not a pretty one.

I need another drink.

The whiskey's run out already. Figures. Guess I'll move on to Kahlúa. Bit sweet for my taste, but effective.

So what was I thinking about again? Ah, cheerful things.

...Cheerful things....

Uh....cheerful....

...things....

Er, bunnies are cheerful.

Yeah, when I was a kid I really liked bunnies.

Well, until one bit me.

I got the last laugh though.

Afterwards I read up on rabbits. Found out that fifty percent of them don't even survive until their first autumn.

Take that, Mr. Bunbun.

God, I had a cynical childhood.

You know what? I really suck at cheering myself up.

I give up. I think I'll just drink myself ill instead.

Once you feel sick enough, you stop caring if you're depressed. You're too busy dwelling on the nausea to notice the pain in your head.

Not to mention the added bonus that the booze makes me sleepy.

Yeah, unconsciousness is bliss.

What? I coulda sworn the bottle had more kahlúa in it than that.
Oh well, I came prepared. So what am I in the mood for now? Something strong, like vodka? Or something sweet, that will get me sick faster?
Hey, not to mention I remember spotting a can of turpentine down in the shop....

Wait, what was that?

I think I hear something in the hallway.

Shit! It's Ken!

No, he's not talking or doing anything to give away that it's him.

I just know.

I'm so adjusted to this place that I can tell who's coming just by the noise the floorboards make as they walk on them. Ken's the easiest to tell, too. His steps are always the heaviest and most sporadic.

Maybe if I'm completely silent he'll walk right past.
No one knows I'm home, right? So he has no reason to take any special notice of my room.

But the footsteps stop right outside my door.
I hold my breath and silently pray he'll keep going.
He doesn't of course. I've already told you that my luck has permanently dissipated.

A light tap on the door.

"Yohji?" It's almost a whisper. A very uncertain one at that.

I'm not here! Nope, not at all.

"Yohji? Are you okay in there?"

I'm not answerrrinnng.

The doorknob's turning. Crap. I hadn't bothered to lock it since no one was supposed to know I'm here.

Ken hesitantly peers around the edge of the door.

When he sees me his eyes go wide and he abandons his cautiousness. In less then two seconds he's standing in front of me, and my friend the vodka has been wrenched out of my hand.

"Christ Yohji! Just how much did you drink?!"

I can see the mental tally marks appearing in his head as he surveys the empty bottles on my bed.

"Nod mujch."

I reach for an unopened bottle of brandy to replace my confiscated vodka. I don't even get all of my fingers on it before it too has been snatched by Ken.

"Like hell," Ken mutters, and opens the window to empty my bottles' precious contents onto the sidewalk.

"Hey! That ginkgo is oppressed enough, without you poisoning it with liquor!"

"Better the tree poisoned then you," Ken grumbles under his breath. Out loud he simply states, "you're drunk."

No kidding. "You're very perceptive."

He clears a space on the bed and sits down next to me.

"Why?"

"I like to drink."

"Nobody likes to drink this much."

"I do."

He's not buying it.

"Alone?"

I can feel his eyes boring into me. I hate eye contact. It makes it so difficult to lie.

"Why not?"

"Cause people only drink this much alone when something's bothering them," Ken points out.

"Nothing's bothering me," I stubbornly reply, "I'm A.O.K."

"Look Yohji. You're a lot of things, for sure, but one thing you're not right now is okay."

He puts an arm around my shoulders to try and make me feel better.

It does NOT work.

In fact, I think I feel a hundred times worse.

He looks surprised when I suddenly spring to my feet and start shoving him back into the hallway.

He doesn't fight back. He just stands by the door and looks sad.

"I'll, uh, be in my room. In case you change your mind…and want to talk…to someone."

"Goodnight Ken."

The door is shut. And locked.

I don't change my mind.


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Okay, standard disclaimer against potential stupidity: I do not endorse drinking turpentine. It's probably lethal. Yohji was just being dramatic there folks.

The lyric Yohji mentioned was from the song Sam Stone by John Prine.