Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ By the Book ❯ Maybe Ken would want one? ( Chapter 9 )

Author: this thorn

Disclaimers: Haven't done this in awhile. Lessee…I don't own anything. I do possess a few things, but when their owners find me, I'm sure I will no longer possess them. Thus, Weiß and Schwarz as you know them do not belong to me. And a character by any other name…still does not belong to me.

Warnings: No lemon. Tragic, I know. But this chapter is devoted to character and plot development. I'm told that's important.

A/N: I really didn't want to write about the Weiß guys anymore. I love them to death, and writing from Youji's point of view always makes me feel good, but it takes time away from Schuldig, who undoubtedly has a long way yet to go. So, many thanks to basketcases02 who reminded me I have unfinished business with Aya. That'll be taken care of now. Because it is probably already a bit late and out of place. And…I think it was that same person who rated me an 8/10 in grammar. If I have mistakes, would you be willing to help correct them? I have no beta-reader. Also, I want reviews. This is the first time I've ever written without a specific plan in mind. I need criticism, direction and other things that can aid the next chapter in appearing here sooner than later. I mean, hearing that everyone loves Farfarello just makes my day. As it is, I much appreciate the support and reviews I've gotten. It's so unnerving having people read as I write. The pressure! Thanks again.

More note: From a review or two, it seems Schuldig's reason for taking Ken in in the first place has been lost in the chaos. He wanted to doctor Ken up and try to convince him to stay with Schwarz. He's persuasive and charming; he could probably do it. Just to see what Weiß would do when they found out. And to have the chance to toy with Ken. He wasn't really expecting the whole amnesia thing, but he figured it would be an easy way to get laid. Like having a free prostitute always ready for him. Except Ken is taking the relationship seriously and trying to be a good boyfriend. And, honestly, it's hard to be cruel to someone like that - especially with his big beautiful eyes. For what it's worth, I've put a lot of psychological work into all these characters, Nagi, Schu and Ken in particular. You should be able to analyze them and draw your own conclusions. They are only human, after all. So, there, you're all caught up now. Read away.

Without missions the days seemed to blend together, hours flowing faster than Omi's tears or Youji's liquor. The faceless sea of youthful chatter outside the store came in counterpoint to the silence that pervaded every evening in the shadowed basement where they sat in wait.

Admittedly, things had gotten better - almost normal, even. At least, it seemed normal after the emptiness that followed Ken. Ken's death. Youji drank in instead of out and Omi cried soundlessly with the slightest provocation, but it was no longer the isolated morbidity of those first few days. And they always, always spent evenings home together in the basement. The reason might have been their need to hold on to something familiar, or just that nobody wanted to be first to break what had unwittingly become a tradition.

Aya rolled onto his side and pillowed his arm beneath his head. He couldn't see his clock, but he knew it was very late: he had become quite intimate with restless nights. The quicksand uncertainty of the darkness mirrored his own thoughts, like watching his mind projected on an invisible screen, reminding him nightly of the burden he secreted. Things had changed between himself and the remaining assassins. They had become more serious, without a doubt, but they had also grown closer. That closeness was the very thing that was beginning to worry Aya.

He wondered if they would be so accepting if they knew the whole truth.

It couldn't have been more his fault if he'd run Ken through with his own katana. Retrospect had the infuriating tendency to make memory clear and detached, showing events devoid of the passion that caused them, splaying motivation for brutal inspection. For once, he gave a mission a second thought. He'd charged blindly into what had undoubtedly been planned as a distraction or a trap. They knew he'd do it. And what choice did Ken have but to go in and cover for his mistake? The error was clear and the guilt was gnawing at him, keeping him awake, but he couldn't bring himself to tell the others. He'd already lost one family; he had no desire to lose another, especially so soon after first finding it.

He could kill Reiji Takatori to avenge his parents and sister, but how would he ever make things right for Ken? His mouth contorted into a pained frown and he buried his head beneath his pillow before his thoughts could get any further. Retrospect was close friends with desolation. He held the edges down tightly and prayed he would just pass out.

Alone at the desolate end of a lunch table, Nagi sat consulting a textbook to distract himself from the grating pain in his stomach. It had been bad enough to have to miss breakfast because of him, but being denied the opportunity to pack a lunch has him grinding his teeth as he stared at the lines of rambling text.

"Hey, Nagi!"

Against all logic, he'd hoped that if he didn't think `This can't possibly get any worse' it wouldn't. After all the movie clichés, it seemed a decent bet. Though, Nagi acknowledged, he'd never been lucky in life. He placed his index finger firmly on a line of text and began gliding at across the page, emphasizing his focus on the material to his latest tormenter.

"Nagi!"

A different voice. It seemed they wanted to gang up on him. He wasn't in the mood, nor had he any intention of responding to their gibes, and to show it, he turned away and began shoving his book into his rucksack. Unfortunately, the other students didn't seem willing to let their victim slip away so easily.

"Hey, Nagi! Wait up!"

"Yeah, what are you doing this weekend?"

"We're making a science video at my house and then going swimming. You wanna come?"

The voices screeched and overlapped, begging him to stay and amuse them. Nagi stood quietly and went for the exit. They want my help. They only want to use me, to use my `abilities.' He sneered toward the wall, but remained dignified until he was in the hall. Then he ran for his classroom without looking back.

Aya ran his slender fingers over the keys, for once not caring whether anybody made a purchase, or whether there were customers at all. Omi was out on a delivery, and Youji was entertaining a gaggle of chattering girls in the back of the shop. Despite the ambient noise, it was rather peaceful. They seemed to know better than to approach the redhead at the register.

He hadn't looked in the mirror since getting up, and vaguely wondered if his lack of sleep was evident in his appearance. Youji hadn't mentioned anything, at least. Either way, he was glad he had a day away from the inane babble and Omi's watery eyes - it was getting to him more than he was willing to let on.

"Excuse me, Aya?"

Aya started from his daze and tried to focus his eyes on the speaker. She was young and blonde, and seemed rather familiar, even though dozens of girls visited the shop every day. Suddenly the memory hit him and he cautiously met her steady gaze. Did she know?

Her words finally registered before the thought could proceed any further, and he realized she was waiting for his reply.

"Yes?" he said gruffly, his throat still thick from sleep.

The girl's face suddenly flamed red and she stared down at something she was holding below the counter. It seemed strange that he should be so alone with her. Nobody else had attempted to approach all day, and the more he thought about it, the more his mind swam with apprehension.

"I…" she stammered, worrying her lower lip, "I…yesterday…Omi said that Ken…well, it's almost his birthday." She looked up to Aya, probably seeking some form of confirmation. Aya merely nodded his head, and she continued. "I have a present for him, and I was wondering…well, could you send it to him? In America?"

Aya stared at the daintily wrapped package she thrust at him. Again she was waiting for an answer; again she was staring at him. He hurriedly snatched the box without thinking and mumbled agreement, unwilling to meet her gaze. He waited for the sound of her retreating footsteps, but it never came. She was still standing there, watching him, and Aya quickly snapped to attention, feeling like a fool for cowering before her, clutching the tiny package like a talisman.

She seemed embarrassed by Aya's discomfiture and began stammering again.

"I…I have th…these, too." She thrust a small envelope across the counter and drew her trembling hand back to clutch the other at her chest. "My…friend took them yesterday and…we have, like, a million copies." She offered a shy smile, but it vanished when she chanced a glance at Aya's face. "We just thought, you know, maybe Ken would want one?"

Aya said nothing, but stared at the envelope as though he could somehow divine its contents without opening it. She hadn't moved. She was probably waiting again.

"Thank you," Aya rumbled tonelessly.

"Oh, it…well, it's nothing!" Her face was once again flushed and she lowered her head shyly. "I have to go. Bye!"

She disappeared from the shop in an instant, snatched the arm of a girl waiting outside and scurried off down the street, heads tilted together conspiratorially.

Aya sighed and picked up the envelope, resting it on top of the package as he headed for the house. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Youji watching him, but he didn't want to explain any more than he wanted to open the young girl's gifts. He laid them on the kitchen counter and went back to work.

"You never told me what we're doing with the kitten."

Crawford knit his eyebrows in annoyance, but continued filing the papers at his desk. Forcing the precog to reveal his plans was bitter and Schuldig, for once, had no desire to play games. The American was having too much fun with him already.

"Brad," he said warningly.

Crawford slammed his pen firmly on the desk and began rubbing his temples, studiously broadcasting his desire to be left alone.

"He will stay here."

Normally Schuldig would be quite pleased to see Brad so discomfited by his hand, but the matter had been bothering him ever since he'd returned from shopping, and he didn't have much time before Matze finished putting away the groceries and came looking for him. He took a step into the room and carefully closed the door behind him, glaring at it as though he dared it to let a single word slip out.

"And how do we keep him from running away?"

Crawford permitted himself a small smirk.

"Farfarello will remain here. This assignment does not agree with him."

"I didn't think you wanted him dead already." He congratulated himself on sounding indifferent. Not for the first time, Schuldig was glad he was the only mind-reader in the house.

Crawford sighed heavily and Schuldig knew the American was begrudging him every word he spoke.

"He has stayed with him before. There will be no trouble." He spoke with an unmistakable finality that was as much a demand to be left in peace.

Schuldig slipped out the door, content in the answers he'd received, and also in the certainty that Brad believed he was still in complete control.

Aya rolled onto his side and pillowed his arm beneath his head.

Again.

He should have expected another long night. He had tried all afternoon to forget about the package and envelope sitting on the counter, but every time he passed by his eyes seemed drawn to them, compelled to seek out the source of his torment.

Omi and Youji must have noticed the strange trinkets, but neither had breathed a word about it.

The silent evening had been even more agonizing as they sat together, watching hour after hour of primetime television. Despite the physical closeness of his teammates, Aya had felt singled out, isolated with his secret.

For a horrifying instant he'd considered the possibility that the lack of missions was due to Ken's death. Were they investigating what really happened? Would they remove Aya from Weiß? - kill him?

He considered all the way he'd failed his sister and, for the first time, how he'd failed his team. For a brief instant, his quest for revenge struck him as foolhardy, and he felt a constricting ache take hold in his chest.

Without a word he had prematurely departed the basement and retreated to his room.

Aya made no move to check the clock. It was late, of that much he was certain. He'd heard Youji go to bed some time earlier, but it could have been minutes or hours since. Time seemed to pass so slowly to his fatigued perception.

His eyes burned with need for sleep, but his troubled mind would not obey. He tossed and turned several more times, seeking comfort to lull him into even a temporary slumber. Without realizing he'd made a decision, Aya rose and went downstairs, almost shocked to find himself standing before the package on the kitchen counter. Resignedly, he lifted himself onto a stool and began examining the wrapped box with his hands.

He turned it for several minutes, fingering the folds and tape delicately, before it truly sank in. Ken would never open it.

Without further deliberation, his nimble hands divested the box of its patterned paper and laid it open on the countertop. Inside he beheld a silver whistle, the metal reflecting the meager light in the kitchen as he pulled it from the box. It dangled and glinted in the moonglow as he held it by its cord.

The whistle was nothing special: solid in color, no definitive markings or symbols. He then inspected the cord in his hands, moving it about arbitrarily so the light caught it. Having no luck, he rose and shuffled to the window, holding the cloth close to the cold glass.

The band was wide, made of a pale, stiff fabric. But what caught his attention was the pattern: soccer balls.

Aya felt a pang of regret and the suddenly familiar tightening in his chest as he listlessly made his way back to the stool.

Ken had made it no secret that he wanted to return to soccer - try his hand at coaching kids - `when it was all over.'

Aya wondered how many times he'd heard the brunet mention it - how many times he'd scoffed and walked away. For the second time in one night he cursed himself for his blind fixation on killing one man. He knew his sister would be angry with him for treating a friend so poorly.

With a heavy heart, he buried his head in his folded arms, wondering how he'd let things go so horribly wrong.

The evening was quiet. Matze flipped through all the channels a second time, planning to stop when something caught his interest.

Nothing did.

Slightly dismayed, Matze cast around the living room for something - anything - to alleviate his boredom.

The others had left together an hour earlier for a business meeting, though Schuldig had avoided telling him what manner of business the gathering entailed. Apparently even Nagi was involved, although he was still a high school student.

According to Bradley, though, he hadn't been left home alone. `Your friend will remain here with you,' he'd said with a smirk, disappearing out the door before Matze could ask any more questions.

Matze assumed his `friend' was Gabriel, but he seen neither hide nor hair of the man since the others left. He'd taken lunch to the blonde's room a few hours before, retrieving a pair of paring knives from his bedstand in the process, but he'd been asleep and Matze had quietly returned to his chores.

After washing the dishes, he'd done laundry and tidied up the living room. He appreciated the work: it gave him a chance to feel useful and to get to know the personalities of his roommates better, sorting through their things at his leisure. And, really, it wasn't only to learn about them that he treated all their belongings with such reverence; he hoped almost hungrily to find something that would trigger another memory, much like the cereal in the store.

Unfortunately, he had no such luck in the cleaning, and had even less chance to talk to Schuldig about it. The redhead had disappeared while he was cleaning, and only turned up again to say he would be gone for the night to a business meeting.

It wasn't that Matze didn't trust the information Schuldig so happily gave him whenever he tried to fill the gaping maw of his memory, but that he was plagued by a nagging feeling of wrongness. He still felt like an outsider, trapped in the spacious apartment, a witness to the events but unable to truly participate. He couldn't find anything that spoke to him, made him comfortable in the starkly undecorated rooms.

And Matze was bored. Even though he had only hours earlier been elbow-deep in his roommates' undergarments, he could not bring himself to go rummaging through closets and cupboards to find something to amuse himself. After becoming tired of his battle with the television, he settled for exploring the world below with his eyes.

In winter the sun set early, pulling the chill and mystery of obscurity up behind it. Buildings stood stark and menacing, blacker than the starless sky, looming over the parody of life playing out several stories below. Headlights passed in and out of the human drama, strobing scenes of couples strolling arm in arm, a woman jogging with her dog, and the inevitable homeless cowering beneath storefronts, arms wrapped tightly about their rags. Really, from a removed perspective, it was no different than television. Staring out the window at the evocative shadows may have held him rapt for a time, but the creeping cold that attacked and numbed his pale hands reminded him all too quickly of the acute fatigue his healing body was subject to, and he heavily shuffled off to bed.

Outside his room, he stopped to glance at Gabriel's door, then did a double-take. The door was closed as it had been all day - Matze had never heard it open, but it must have. He gingerly ran his fingertips over the engraved surface, shocked that he hadn't heard it happen. Precisely carved into the thin dark wood was a passage:

`Then it shall be, because he hath sinned, and is Guilty, that he shall restore that which he took violently away, or the thing which he hath deceitfully gotten, or that which was delivered him to keep, or the lost thing which he found'

Matze reread it, absorbing the details with his fingers, his tired mind barely able to grasp the words, yet alone their meaning. It was as distant as the beggars in his reality movie. With a sigh, he turned into his own room.

For the first time he noticed the brittle ache of his skin beneath his clothes and chose to forgo changing, for fear of losing what little warmth he still retained. Not for the first time he wished he weren't alone: the soft sheets were cold even against his frozen fingers and the daunting expanse of the bed sent a shudder coursing through his body. With a small mewl of sadness, he tugged the blankets close to him and curled into himself, letting his own breath warm him as his mind grew black.

Youji sat up in bed, snatching his watch from the bedstand.

He never woke in the middle of the night unless something woke him. The house was nestled in a business district: as the various shops locked their doors the street emptied like a sinking ship and the only sound became the wind whistling down the corridor of buildings.

Even as a trained assassin, Youji sometimes found himself uneasy wandering the barren neighborhood after business hours. The police were, as a rule, occupied with monitoring the nightlife beneath the neon glow of a thousand bars and dance clubs, leaving the deserted districts as playgrounds for less upstanding nocturnal activities. Youji himself had on more than one occasion played the white knight to a screaming damsel behind a shop.

But after listening intently for several minutes with skin prickling and every sense fully alert, Youji felt content that no foolishly oblivious thief had penetrated his home. Still, he was nervous about his abrupt awakening, and padded to his wardrobe to retrieve a pair of slippers: protection against the chill flooring. He had asked more than once, and in varying degrees of earnestness, to have carpeting installed - at least in his room - so he might be willing to get out of bed in the morning. Predictably, no one had believed his late sleeping had anything to do with cold feet, and his flooring remained severe and unforgiving.

He shuddered as he grasped the cold door handle and thought better of himself, returning to the wardrobe for a t-shirt. The hallway was dark and Youji's vision was confused as he trailed his fingers lightly along the wall, descending the stairs by touch and memory. The clatter of his slippers on the wood seemed explosively loud, but there was no sound from the kitchen or living room to indicate anyone had heard him. With a sudden gasp, Youji released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and his chest pounded in reply.

He scrubbed his face and wondered at the reason for his untoward tension. Could it be Ken? The loss of their friend had certainly given the dangerous reality of their profession an undeniable clarity, so irrefutably real that even a casual smile and a pack of cigarettes couldn't make him unknow the truth. He glanced back up into the darkness where he knew the other bedroom doors were, and wondered if it was truly just a job.

As he rounded the corner into the kitchen his legs stopped, and he had to grab the wall to keep from falling over as the rest of his body continued to move forward. Although the sight must have registered on some level, Youji couldn't seem to consciously grasp the scene - or lack thereof - before him.

Aya sat at the kitchen counter, stiller than the darkness that seemed to shift around him, cloying and heavy, though, through some preference or perhaps reverence for the marble beauty on the stool, shying from his pale skin so only his face and hands were visible. Those hands were fisted one about the other, holding his head up at the mouth as his dark eyes bored into the gloom, though Youji knew they were staring inward.

It was a pensive posture, tired and restless, and though it looked to be Aya seated before him, Youji knew it could not be further from the truth. Even at a distance he fancied he could feel the weight of the redhead's thoughts; it was almost tangible, suffocating in the stagnant air like a murderous extension of the statuesque being sitting outside the world. It was all wrong. Aya did not silently fade into the shadows of obscurity, meekly letting grief wear away his strength. When Aya vanished it was an act of will, a skillful reminder of his mastery of himself and the uncertainty and pain that seeped into his footprints the moment he left them.

In the lifeless man before him was none of the confidence and presence that consistently radiated from their leader, shifting the very air around him, whether he was wielding a sword or preparing breakfast. Instead there showed only an immeasurable fatigue - both bodily and emotional - that Youji himself had felt on occasion after an especially trying mission, but which he had never expected to see in Aya.

He hesitated before approaching, his reason vanished into the thin light, fearing the vision before him would crack and crumble into so much dust should he try to profane it with words. He stole another moment from the timelessness to orient himself before entering the kitchen, eyes never leaving the seemingly oblivious man at the counter.

Youji placed himself in the path of those unfathomable eyes, yet the image did not change. He continued to stand and stare, but he went unacknowledged so adeptly that, had Aya not blinked every few moments, Youji would have been fretfully reaching across the counter to check for a pulse. In doubt of ever receiving a response should he amass the nerve to pose a question, Youji began scanning about for a codex to his friend's mysterious behavior. He didn't have to look far.

In front of Aya's elbows on the countertop rested a box containing a metal whistle and a pair of photographs lying atop an envelope. Youji tentatively reached for the photos, sliding them across the counter with one finger, but always keeping his eyes on the redhead as though worried he might attack anyone who stole his treasure. As he lifted the laminated paper to his face a droplet of water rolled off the edge, and Youji winced as it hit the bare top of his foot, but said nothing of it. There was nothing to say.

It was impossible to make out the details in the dark, but Youji knew the scene in the picture as though he were still there - it had been only two mornings ago. He, Aya and Omi were standing together at the front of the flower shop, bleak smiles plastered on their faces, acting out the play they had so reluctantly rehearsed for a crowd of sentimental young girls. It was, as photographs went, a nice piece: close up, clear, colorful. Only one thing was missing, and as the thought struck Youji, he looked from the photo to see Aya's searing eyes searching his, cheeks flushed darkly.

Sliding the pictures to the side Youji leaned onto his forearms, meeting Aya's troubled gaze evenly. They were so close; it would only take a few words to bridge the gap that was looming so hungrily between them.

"Aya, it wasn't..:"

"Takatori."

The hoarsely croaked word hit Youji full in the face and his eyes widened in understanding even as he was lithely climbing over the counter and wrapping his arms around his shivering friend. No more words were necessary; they didn't need to talk it out. They were the same, after all, dark beings navigating the shadows in the name of light, living with the desperation of men without futures.

Youji stood there, feeling the clawing hands clutching at his sleeve, an unnamable pain welling up inside his chest as his vision darkened, and he was 10 years old again, lost and looking for answers in a world that didn't care what became of him as he wandered ever onward, telling himself with the innocent conviction of a child that he would be found one day.

With a jolt he opened his eyes to the red head beneath him as he suddenly realized the truth of war. Taking a deep breath he overcame the constriction in his throat and spoke into the soft dark hair.

"We do what we have to, Aya, and sometimes…sometimes we have to lose."

He scrabbled desperately at the edges of a dream, but it dissolved between his fingers until it was nothing more than dewy haze and he found himself again lying in bed. Vaguely he realized that something had woken him, but he didn't understand it until the mattress dipped and he rolled toward another warm body that was sliding beneath the covers next to him.

Matze let a small smile stretch his lips, but kept his eyes closed, just in case it was only a dream within a dream.

Schuldig: Wow. That was…heavy.

TT: Hey, you're not so trim, yourself!

Ken: I think he meant the story.

TT: Well, that's because it was mostly about Weiß.

Youji: Hey, you're the one who killed off our teammate!

TT: You're better off without him, anyway.

Ken: …

Nagi: Agreed. We'd all be better off without him. Can you write Farfarello into a murderous rage?

TT: As unexpected as it would be, it might damage Farfarello's impressive fan base. I can't be responsible for that.

Nagi: Then may I please go home from the mission sick? I look foolish in a suit, anyway.

Schuldig: We could always try you out of that suit…

TT: Enough. You're getting some next chapter. Hornochse.

Schuldig: It had better be good…

Yet another A/N: First off, I really put a lot of work into this chapter. It is so crammed with psychology and deeper meaning, my roommate almost strangled me when I explained all the intricacies to her. So, please, feel free to do some digging in this one. Also, the next chapter is sex. That's all. Still intrinsic to the plot, though, thus I will provide a summary of it at the beginning of Chapter 11 for anyone who chooses not to read the smut. Bear with me, this may take a few days. I have finals this week and I just might need to study. I skipped a lot of class to write these first nine chapters!