Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Can't See Me ❯ Can't ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: I do not own Weiss, nor do I make any money from writing about the characters. As for the torturing angst, please remember that fanfics do not come under the jurisdiction of humane law and hence authors cannot be prosecuted for abusing the poor boys.


Notes: Yet another angsty oneshot written at five a.m. near the end of yet another bout of insomnia. Maybe some vague Y/A, but not really shounen ai. Sort of eating disorder-ish, so if that bothers you, please don’t read. Also a little AU, I guess.



Can’t See Me


“You’re doing it again.”

“Hn?”

Aya roused himself from his deep thoughts as he was required to actually process what Yohji was saying to him. The blonde was gesturing to his plate, and it was obviously something there he was concerned with. He looked at the collection of food, baked chicken, cheesy potatoes, tossed salad.

He looked back to Yohji, silently questioning.

“C’mon, Aya. It’s not like I’m not gonna notice. Look,” he pointed again at the plate, “you’ve cut everything to bits, but if you’ve eaten more than a mouthful, I’m just a social drinker.”

Aya shrugged. He hadn’t really noticed, having been lost in thought about something else entirely. And since when was it Yohji’s business what the hell he decided to eat?

“Point, Kudou?”

“My point, Aya, is that you’ve been doing this shit for a week and I’m starting to get worried. You’ve been having just tea for breakfast, even though Omi’s made your pancakes twice; you disappear at lunch and I haven’t seen you touch whatever we keep for you; and when someone corners you for dinner, you pull this slice and dice routine.”

Had he been doing that? Upon reflection, Aya couldn’t deny it.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“It’s a fucking cry for help is what it is.”

“Kudou, if I need your help, I’ll ask,” he stated coldly as he stood and dumped the rest of his food in the trash, glad to have done with it. “Until then, back off.”

~*~

Aya stared at the ceiling, watching the subtle play of sunlight across the gray surface and thinking about what Yohji had said. He had no doubt that the blonde was right, about what he had been doing, not about the cry for help. Aya didn’t do help, let alone pleas for attention. Attention was the last thing he wanted.

So what was all of this about?

He didn’t know, not really. He’d noticed himself becoming more detached lately, from the missions, the shop, even his own intentions. It was a vaguely cold feeling, but it made it easier to slice open a man and then make beautiful bouquets with only a shower and cup of tea in between, so he let it grow.

Now, he was starting to get worried. Aya liked to be in control, to determine his emotions and then put them away, but this, this inaccessibility was…difficult.

~*~

“Hey.”

Look ing up from his book, Aya stared at the blonde in his doorway. Why would Yohji be in his room?

“Mission?”

“Nope. C’mon, we’re going out.”

“Out?”

“Yeah, the four of us are going to dinner at Suzuri’s. Ken’s paying.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he burned the noodles. Get up, train’s leaving.”

“No thank you.”

“Aya…” he sighed, “I’m not leaving unless you go with me. So unless you want to spend the evening having a heart to heart about the many ways you’re trying to fuck up your life, I suggest you put on that god-awful orange sweater and come on.”

~*~

Aya was glad he’d put on the sweater as the normally cozy restaurant felt chilly. Still, it was nice. Suzuri’s was one of the few local places that Aya actually liked; they had good sashimi and traditional seating that leant to a rather quiet, restrained atmosphere, at least before nine o’clock when the serious drinkers arrived.

At a little after eight, the small place was filled with subdued conversations. Ordering was simple enough as it was always the same: Yohji’s tonkatsu (to be doused in ketchup), Omi’s tempura, Ken’s ramen, and Aya’s sashimi. Sitting next to Omi and across from Yohji, he lifted his glass when Ken toasted ruined noodles and cheap sushi.

He listened idly to the conversation they traded, keeping silent. Really, what could he say about sports? The only one he knew in depth was kendo, and he hardly followed it avidly anymore. So he didn’t bother to follow too closely, turning his attention to the food when it came.

Carefully he prepared his soy sauce, adding a gratuitous amount of wasabi. He checked the consistency of the bowl of rice to his right, finding it prepared nicely, with just that amount of stickiness to cling to the end of his chopsticks without being gluey. He hated gluey rice. The fish looked good too, thin and cleanly cut.

Something tapped his knee. Looking up, he found green eyes on him.

“Eat,” Yohji said quietly.

Aya felt his brows draw down into a glare, but that only prompted Yohji to glare back. Not enjoying the appraisal of his habits, he took up a piece of fish and promptly shoved it in his mouth, silently asking if that satisfied the nosy man. Apparently, it did, at least for the moment.

~*~

It was a little past three and the fangirls were in full force. They swarmed the shop, closing in on its four employees with continued barrages of questions interspersed with gratuitous praise. While not as hands-on as Yohji’s portion of the crowd, the girls surrounding Aya pressed close, trapping him in an unmoving circle as he tried to complete the simple task of relocating a small pot of Burgandy out of the afternoon sun.

“What’s that, Aya-san?”

“It’s pretty! What’s it mean?”

“How much?”

“Did you grow it, Aya-san?”

“Do you like it?”

“Forget the plant, do you like my new hair bow?”

“Ah, Aya-san, what about my bag? It’s cute, right?”

He felt warm, too warm. Attempting to move away from the girls, he found himself still in the middle of circle. He didn’t realize exactly what was happening until the edges of his vision began to fade to black.

“Aya-san? Are you okay?”

He was going to pass out.

It was a disconnected thought as the pot slipped through his fingers to crash on the floor.

“Aya!”

~*~

Well, that was stupid.

Aya felt the cool floor beneath his back and a cold cloth on his forehead. He dreaded opening his eyes, but there was no helping it. Blinking against the bright light, he gradually focused on the face looming over him.

Yohji.

He might have been happier to see Schuldig; at least the German would have the decency to kill him rather than prolong the horrendous embarrassment of the ordeal. Yohji just held up two fingers.

“How many?”

“Two.”

He reached up to shove the intruding fingers out of his face, becoming further annoyed when the action was executed as a weak bat. With the room coming back into focus, he could see the worried faces of the girls, held back by Omi and Ken who didn’t look terribly reassured by his return to consciousness.

To be fair, the last time this happened he had conveniently forgotten to tell them he had been shot twice the night before.

Aya wished he had that excuse now.

Closing his eyes against their stares, he gathered his resolve and got ready to get up and try to avoid as many questions as possibly. Just as he went to move, a hand on his shoulder stopped him, holding him down. His first instinct was to fight, and only Yohji’s voice in his ear stopped him from punching the blonde.

“Don’t make a scene,” he whispered. It took Aya a second to realize why Yohji was leaning so close, why he was being jostled. By the time he put it together that Yohji intended to pick him up, he was laying weakly against the older man’s chest and being toted from the shop like an injured child.

Aya sincerely longed for unconsciousness as Yohji settled him on the couch. He hoped the other had left when he disappeared for a moment, but he only returned with another cool cloth. Sitting carefully beside Aya’s prone form, he placed the cloth on Aya’s forehead and pushed his hair away from his cheeks.

Why was Yohji being so gentle? Didn’t he know it was unpleasant?

“What are you doing, Aya?”

He wasn’t doing anything!

“We have a mission tomorrow. Tell me…”

What was going on? There was too much emotion in Yohji’s voice as he stopped to take a breath, too much feeling in those eyes.

“Tell me you plan on coming back.”

What?

Aya shoved himself up, sitting to meet Yohji’s eyes; the cloth fell from his forehead, landing softly in his lap.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said.

“Yeah,” Yohji seemed to shake it off, averting his eyes. “But that goes double for you.”

~*~

After forcing down about half of his dinner, Aya had found himself unexpectedly sick. There had been some vague thoughts of going back to the kitchen to try something else, but throwing up really didn’t do anything for his appetite.

He got only a few hours of fitful sleep, but he woke up with resolve and spent most of the day toting around two energy bars until he got them down in small bits. It was mission prep; it was simple, and, upon evaluation, he felt a little better. At least his sword didn’t feel as heavy in his hand as it had lately.

Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe Yohji was right.

But he didn’t have time to think about it. He drew the black leather around him, folding himself into Abyssinian and finding the cold center he needed to kill. Even that didn’t seem real.

~*~

It wasn’t getting better.

He was worried, in a sort of clinical way. He felt his body getting weaker, and though he knew how to fix it, it wasn’t working.

Aya stared down at the mangled piece of toast on the plate in front of him.

It was the middle of the night, and he’d come down to the kitchen with the determination to force his body into submission. He hadn’t turned on the light, going through the motions without thinking, determined not to think.

It had been fine until he was t the table, staring at the single piece of dry toast in the dark, dreading it and knowing that it was absurd to do so. He had torn off the crust, then dissected the middle, feeling the bread come apart between his fingers, thinking he could manage it if it was just in smaller pieces. Surely he could manage those, some of those, just a few.

When he put the first piece in his mouth, he nearly gagged, forced to spit it back onto the plate.

He tried again, with similar results.

What the hell was wrong with him? It was just food.

He had to be hungry. He hadn’t eaten anything in over a day and only a few bites before that. Wasn’t he hungry? Wasn’t he starving? Why couldn’t he tell?

Frustrated, he shoved another piece in his mouth, clamping his hand over it when his gag reflex threatened. He chewed, swallowed, shoved in another.

He managed three small pieces before it hit him. Leaning over the sink, he threw up toast and water and bile. He turned on the water, rinsed his mouth, and let it run as he clutched at the sink with trembling arms. He felt his balance go, and though his nails scraped against the stainless steel, he knew he was going to fall.

Someone tried to catch him, but they both went down together.

Cigarettes and aftershave.

He landed softly in Yohji’s lap, finding his hands holding tightly to the tanned arms that circled his middle.

They sat that way for a long time, crumpled on the floor in the dark kitchen. Finally he had enough strength to shove away from the warm chest, barely realizing that he didn’t want to. Yohji let him go, helped him sit against the cabinets. Then he lit a cigarette and watched him through the dark.

“Talk to me, Aya,” he said.

Aya just shook his head; he didn’t know what else to do.

“Okay, try this. Does this make you happy?”

“No.”

“Are you doing it on purpose?”

“No.”

He took a long drag off his cigarette, the orange end flaring in the dark.

“What happened?”

“Huh?”

“When did all this start? What set it off?”

What…

He didn’t know. The shrug didn’t seem to appease the blonde.

“You know. Stop fucking around, Aya. I’m too tired for this shit.”

Fucking around? Was he? Tired…yes, he was tired. He’d been tired since…since…

“I went to see my sister.”

A nod, slow, waiting. It was dark; why was Yohji wearing his sunglasses?

“Aya, what about your sister? What was different?”

Right. He had to stop fucking around. He was tired. Yohji was tired.

“Go back to bed, Yohji.”

Yohji laughed, and it was as dark as the room.

“Tell me about your sister,” he replied, flicking ashes onto the floor.

“Aya-chan,” Aya found the name on his lips before he considered it. Something hurt when he said that, and it was the first thing he’d really felt in days.

“Tell me about Aya-chan.”

“She’s…she’s…not well.”

Liar. He heard the word in his own mind. Stop fucking around.

“She’s…I went to see her and she’s…”

He felt his breath hitch and wondered at it. Say it. Say it. Tell me about Aya-chan.

“Aya-chan is…not responding anymore…her body’s rejecting…the feeding tube’s not working…she’s…”

Why didn’t Yohji just go back to bed? Why couldn’t he breathe right? Stop…

“She’s dying.”

Something broke and it hurt.

Yohji’s hands were hot as they wiped at his face, his voice rough as he tried to shush him. When he tried to fold over on himself, to stop the pain in his middle, he was tugged back into Yohji’s lap. He couldn’t do anything but clutch at the man’s shirt as sobs shook him.

“Shh, it’s okay.”

No. No it wasn’t okay. Aya-chan was…she was going to leave him. He didn’t want to be alone.

“You’re not, Aya. You’re not.”

It was a long time before he got enough air back into his lungs to think about anything else than trying to breathe. The shoulder of Yohji’s t-shirt was damp with tears as he rested his cheek against it, hands still holding, vice-like, at the sides. Yohji was rubbing his hair, petting him like a kitten.

He didn’t have the strength to resent it.

~fin~

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