Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Better Days ❯ Motorcycles ( Chapter 5 )

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

I have preformed missions with less care and attention than I am dedicating to climbing upon the back of Ken's bike right now.

The less physical contact I can manage, the longer I'll hold out before slipping up and igniting some sort of social catastrophe.

The size of the bike is not in my favor.

Fortunately, I discover that there are some handles built in behind the seat, obviously designed for a passenger to hold on to. This fills me with an enormous sense of relief. I don't have to torture myself by clinging onto Ken. Talk about tempting fate.

Since the handles are slightly behind me, it is fairly awkward to hang on and keep my balance. I do not feel nearly as secure as I would with an anchor ahead of me, but I guess I'll have to tough it out. Ken and Omi ride these things everyday, just how bad can it be?

….

You know, I shouldn't have said that.

Asking 'how bad can it be?' is like a first class ticket to miseryville.

Oh wait. I'm already in miseryville.

I guess that means I'm now headed to like, miseryville's twisted suburbs of agony.

Yeah, something like that.

At first, it seemed ok. It made me a bit nervous to be going so fast with no barriers between my fragile skin and the jagged pavement, but hey, I'm a tough guy. I could handle it.

At least I thought I could handle it...until Ken stopped driving in a straight line.

Yes, the need to turn corners brought me to understand a whole new level of fear.

You see, turning corners on a motorcycle is not like turning corners on a bike. A bicycle is usually going nice and slow, and when you turn the corner you stay sanely perpendicular to the street. But a motorcycle...a motorcycle is going too fast to stay upright. In order to make a motorcycle turn, it is necessary to lean in the direction you want to go. The faster you're driving, the harder you have to lean. And Ken drives fucking fast!

When your face is only four inches from the street, your skin feels a hell of a lot more fragile, and the pavement a hell of a lot more jagged.

Ok, so maybe we weren't quite as close as four inches, but it sure felt like it.

You'd think that being an assassin would numb one to the concept of pain and blood. Not true at all; at least not for me. It just adds whole new levels of gory-ness to my nightmares.

I started thinking about just how vulnerable skin is. I mean, you can cut it with just a friggin' piece of paper! And that doesn't even require high speeds. And look at the pavement! It's all made up of rocks and glass and sand! With a million sharp and pointy dimensions! It would hurt just falling on it, let alone hitting it at sixty fucking kilometers per hour!

I can literally feel my skin being grated off and my bones crunching.... No wonder Ken always wears that stupid leather jacket!

So I'd thought I was just making up a lame excuse to get out of riding with Ken, but by George, I really am terrified of motorcycles.

Could this possibly suck any more?

The handles behind me are seriously not providing enough security for my overactive imagination. My hands are getting sweaty from gripping them so tight, which in turn is making the metal slippery....

We hit a particularly nasty turn, and I let out an involuntary yelp and grab hold of Ken as if my very life depended on it (which it does if you ask me.)

Once we straighten out again, my common sense wrestles control back from my survival instincts and I realize what an awkward position I have put myself in. I instantly release my death-grip on Ken. I'm not really willing to go back to the slippery handles though, so I try to reposition myself to have a less invasive hold on him.

First, I try hanging on to his vest instead of him, but I'm afraid that pulling on his clothes will unbalance him, and further endanger us.

So next I cautiously place one hand on either side of his ribs (seeming to be a nice safe spot; far enough from any zones that may be interpreted as suggestive,) careful to allow no more contact than is necessary to maintain a secure grip.

This is all well and good for about 7.3 minutes.

Then we hit another sharp turn, and I throw caution to hell.

I'll worry about my 'Ken problem' after I have ensured that I will actually live through the night. Right now my odds seem shaky at best.

Not only do I now have both arms completely encircling him in a resumed death grip, but I've buried my head against his back too. Hey, at this point it's all or nothing, right? I might as well indulge myself as long as I've already been forced to cross the line. Fear is a nice solid alibi, anyway.

"How are you doing back there?" Ken calls out over the noise of the wind and motor.

"Just...swell," I holler back.

Which has now ceased to be a lie. It's amazing the instant level of security I resumed the second I latched onto Ken. In fact, I felt so much better, that the knot of fear in my stomach quickly faded-only to be replaced by my earlier discomfort at my proximity to Ken.

Damnit, any other day Ken would be wearing a nice bulky leather jacket that would offer me some sort of protection from my disobedient libido. But noooo. Today he has to be wearing a flimsy vest with nothing underneath! A flimsy vest which keeps riding up, and leaving nothing to stop the contact between my arms and his bare stomach! And the worst thing is, despite how uneasy this is making me feel, I am seriously enjoying it.

My head is practically screaming at me how wrong it is. I am such a terrible friend. Ken would never want me hanging on to him like this if he knew how it was making me feel. But he hasn't a clue...I don't get why he hasn't a clue-I think I've been pathetically obvious in fact...but that's just Ken.

And here I am abusing his trusting nature. God, I suck.

I am completely lost in my observations of how nice Ken feels; how wrong it is that I think this; and the fact that Ken smells delightfully of 'Kao White' soap, when his bike slows to a halt. It takes a few moments for my crowded consciousness to register this fact, and my daze is broken by the sensation of Ken turning around and telling me that, "it's alright to let go now."

My arms release their grip and I spring back almost as if burned-embarrassed to still be clinging so tightly after the bike has stopped. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten where I was sitting, and the force of springing backwards causes me to fall right over the end of the bike-landing smack on that pavement that I was so un-fondly pondering earlier this evening.

Ken looks like he's trying to mask amusement with concern, as he stoops to help me up.

"I guess you weren't kidding when you said that you were scared of motorcycles," Ken chuckles.

"Would I lie to you?" I ask, without really thinking (of course.) Oh damn, that was HORRIBLE wording. I feel lower than pond scum right now. Argh! I have got to keep my mouth shut tonight!

The sound of another motor signals that Omi is pulling up right behind us now. I finally take a minute to look around and scope out our surroundings.

We are stopped in front of a low building with a sign spelling out (in massive bamboo letters,) "Bar Jam Jam."

Well...this place looks...interesting.