Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Chains ❯ Suffer Me ( Chapter 44 )

Notes: Well, this would have been posted sooner, but I belatedly decided to add the flashback in the middle. It’s a bit long, so hopefully it will hold everyone over until I get the next bit finished. Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone! Whenever I see new reviews, it makes me want to go and finish another chapter for you all. Oh, and we have actual plot action this time!

Chapter Warnings: mention of non-con (nothing too graphic), minor blood



Chapter Forty-Four: Suffer Me

“I know it sounds bad, but you have to think–damn, no, you don’t have to do anything. Just,” he paused, trying to gather his thoughts that tangled like an unruly can of worms, “Kritiker might be able to help you. They’ve got a lot of contacts; they might be able to get your sister.

“Aya? Aya?”

It was silent for the first time in what seemed like hours. Yohji had rushed through it, moving from Aya’s briefly acknowledged recollection of his rescue to the admittance of the blonde’s real profession. He didn’t lie, but he set it out quickly: the shop as a cover, Ken and Omi’s participation, where the orders came from. And then he’d made the leap and told Aya why he should do it, why he should become a killer.

He felt like shit.

Aya was staring at the freshly planted flowerpot with a blank look in his eyes.

“Aya?”

He hopped off the table, stood close to the boy, hand hovering uncertainly over a thin shoulder for a second before being buried in his own hair.

“I’m sorry. I am. I wouldn’t drag you into this but, fuck, it’s the only option. You’ve been here, with us. You saw me kill that guy. If I hadn’t brought you here, you’d be dead, and if you don’t – damn, I don’t know. I’m sorry, Aya. Talk to me, please.”

Aya swallowed hard. His eyes drifted closed then reopened: cold.

“Aya?”

“Okay.”

 220;What?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Yes, Yohji.”

*** ** ***

“He won’t eat,” Farfarello whined. Crouched behind the silver dog bowl, he looked plaintively at Crawford.

Kneeling nearby, Aya stared down at his hands. They were bound in front of him, and he could see the scraped knuckles, still bleeding a little from where he had resisted while they had been trapped against the wall over his head. They stung, but it was a minor complaint compared to the stinging ache of his inner passages, freshly abused by Crawford. He was bleeding there, too, more than he thought was good as he felt the warm liquid drip down onto his heels. It hadn’t been so much since the first time, and he wondered if Crawford noticed. After dressing, the man had shoved him out the door and ordered Farfarello to feed him.

He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of eating. Besides, he felt sick.

“I want to sleep,” he said.

Crawford kicked him, his black loafer digging in hard just above Aya’s kidneys. Aya fell forward, hands just quick enough to keep his head off the wooden floor of the dining room. Crawford wouldn’t let him sit on the rug, not when he was bleeding.

“Get up,” the man ordered, yanking on the back of the collar and forcing Aya to right himself.

“Bad kitty,” Farfarello scolded, smiling as he ran his fingers along the edge of the food bowl. The touch of the silver echoed the press of Crawford’s fingers on Aya’s collar.

“Try again,” Crawford instructed him, “I think he’ll be more cooperative.”

“Come on,” the Irishman hissed as he slid the bowl closer, “eat.”

Aya looked at the bowl. It was filled with some kind of stringy meat along with a plain piece of bread. He felt his body react, but his stomach wasn’t sure whether it wanted to devour what was in front of him or throw up what was already in it.

He turned his head aside.

There was pain as Crawford caught the back of his hair, twisting his hand in the long strands and yanking Aya’s head backwards, forcing him to look up at an uncomfortable angle.

“Will you eat?”

When he didn’t answer, Crawford pulled his head farther back, making it hard to swallow let alone talk.

“Will you eat?” he asked again. There was no expression on his face, but Aya saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. His reply didn’t matter, and Crawford only wanted the satisfaction of hearing him recite the approved response as a token of submission.

He couldn’t answer even if he chose to. When he tried to give in, to fall back in the direction of Crawford’s grasp, the dark haired man prevented it, gave him another kick, and forced his head further back. It was getting hard to breathe, and Aya had a moment of triumph when he thought he would pass out without giving in.

But Crawford was too smart.

He let Aya lean forward but kept his hold on the boy’s hair. Kneeling behind him, he leant close to his ear.

“Eat, or are you hoping for another lesson? I know you like it, Ran,” he whispered as his free hand ran dry and smooth over Aya’s side, lower, to his too-thin waist where it squeezed, hard, over the bruises already there. “But you really must keep your energy up.”

Aya made some sound of protest, and Crawford’s right hand tightened in his hair, the left sinking lower, fingertips slipping between his naked thighs.

“Ask him again.”

“Want some food?” Farfarello grinned, shuffling even closer with the bowl. He shifted to Aya’s side, and the boy could feel his breath on his shoulder as cool fingertips ran over his foot, sweeping through the blood there and smearing it over his exposed bottom, tracing a pattern on the madman could decipher.

“Answer. Will you eat?” Crawford demanded, ignoring Farfarello’s play.

The hands moved again.

“Yes,” he conceded, tired and sick and hurt, “yes.”

Crawford’s nails scratched deep across his thigh.

“Yes, master.”

*** ** ***

Aya stood still for a long time after Yohji left him. He thought of nothing for a long as he could, falling finally into memories of forced decisions. He fought them back, trying to focus on the warm light of the greenhouse; it made him tired. He clutched hard at the edge of the table, but it was a losing battle, and when Yohji wasn’t quick to return, Aya gave it up and sank to the floor.

He saw it now, what Yohji wanted him to do. Of course it wasn’t as simple as working in the bright shop or warm greenhouse; of course it wasn’t just being close to the blonde. He had been stupid to think it could be so easy.

Aya had never killed anyone before.

His head hurt, and he leaned it against the leg of the table, trying to steady his thoughts as much as alleviate the discomfort.

He knew that he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Yohji had said as much; join this Kritiker or die. He would have gladly taken the second option if not for Aya-chan. There was a fleeting spike of irrational joy at the thought of declining, of taking the sudden end at the hands of some dark organization beyond his control. But then Aya-chan’s face was there, peaceful in more than sleep, the way he always imagined it.

And Yohji said there was a chance that they would find her.

Aya tried not to dwell on it, but the shred of hope was the first he had had in many months; it was, however, overshadowed by the cold surety that he would have to join them…Weiss…and kill.

He thought of Yohji and the relief that had washed over his face when he had agreed. His owner wanted him to do it; he wanted to think that the blonde wouldn’t punish him should he say no, but the vivid image of Yohji pulling the wire tight around Kaimo’s neck, the twitch of the man’s dying body. If Kritiker governed Yohji, then it was possible that he might be ordered to get rid of Aya if he chose not to cooperate.

There was no choice. Even if Yohji wouldn’t punish him, he had no doubts that Schuldig would.

Yohji hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about the bruises on his wrists, and Aya thought he was glad of it. But while his owner’s presence chased away the other, it was clear that he was not impervious to attack. Schuldig would come back, and should he find Aya to have disappointed Yohji by not taking up this post as an …assassin, then he would take him back. Perhaps it was what Schuldig had meant, the thing he had to do for his owner.

To kill or to go back to Crawford. He felt it was selfish in the worst possible way, but Aya knew he would rather take a life than go back. To stay with Yohji, to have even this flimsy guard against Schuldig, to avoid Crawford’s painful lessons, and to cling to the fragile hope of finding his sister, he would do it.

He would do it.

~*~

“Look her in the eyes, Aya. Don’t back down.”

~*~

Omi waited in the basement with Ken and Manx. He wanted nothing more than to sink down into one of the comfortable chairs, but it just didn’t seem right.

It had been a long day, and the orders had barely gotten done. Yohji had been on edge, and even when he tried to help it was with half-attention that produced nothing near his usual quality of work. Some of it had to be redone, and there was no way Ken could take off two hours to watch his game; this had made Ken angry, and Omi had to work to not only pacify the brunette but make up for Yohji’s inattention and fend off the barrage of questions from the fangirls who seemed dead set on the idea of his dating Aya. This did nothing to improve anyone’s mood.

When they had put down the shutters, he had hoped for a half hour of reprieve just to be by himself. This was the thought that got him through counting the till, and he hung up his apron with actual hope; two minutes later, Manx arrived. She was stiff and formal and clearly aggravated at all of them. Yohji had been briskly ordered to go get “him” and meet her in the basement. Ken and Omi were given little choice and trailed along behind her to wait.

She stood cool and professional by the television, seemingly a little put off by their request and Persia’s acquiescence. Her entire attitude read a desire to expedite some useless process.

“What is Kudou thinking?” Manx aimed at Omi.

He didn’t have an answer for that, and his attempt at a smile only seemed to frustrate her.

“Hell if we know,” Ken answered for him. Omi didn’t think it was quite right to distance themselves from the issue and lay it solely at Yohji’s feet, but it was tempting in the face of Manx’s aggravation.

Then Yohji was coming down the stairs with Aya, and once Omi glimpsed the boy’s thin face, he felt a wave of guilt for even thinking it. He wanted Aya to stay, partially because he was learning to think of him as one of their own and, more so perhaps, because he knew what would happen if he left. He took only a single step back as Yohji approached.

The blonde’s smile was fake and a little dangerous.

“Manx, this is Aya,” he stepped to the side so she could see the boy behind him, “Aya, Manx.”

Aya nodded, eyes surprisingly trained on hers.

“Aya?” Manx questioned, rather quiet; her anger seemed to shift to surprise, and Omi wondered if it was on account of Aya’s fragility. He looked good after Yohji’s changes, but not exactly strong enough to be Weiss material. Manx studied him, then sat down the papers she had been holding. Her brows drew together and she took a step towards the boy, examining his face. “Who are you?”

“Aya,” he returned, gaze flicking briefly to Yohji but coming back to hers.

“Aya who?”

Omi realized he didn’t know the answer. Had no one thought to ask?

Aya was slow to answer, “Fujimiya.”

“I thought…” Her voice was quiet, trailing off. Reaching out a hand, she took hold of his chin. Omi watched Aya tense, but he didn’t move. Gently, Manx tilted his head to the side. After a long moment, she nodded, let him go, and stepped back. Yohji was quick to go to Aya’s side, not touching him, just hovering close as he looked him over like Manx might have broken something with her curiosity.

“You want to join Kritiker? Join Weiss?”

“Yes,” Aya replied softly but without hesitation. It hung in the air

“Manx?” Omi finally asked.

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a camera and snapped a picture, leaving Aya blinking against the flash.

“Persia will consider his addition to the team.”

Just like that? It was quick, Omi thought, feeling something was off with the process.

“Not in this condition. You’ll need to make him a fit candidate,” she ordered blandly, looking now to Yohji. “We need to know he can handle himself, think quickly. Weiss is too valuable to screw up because of one of your whims, Balinese. He’ll have to be good. And he needs to demonstrate his ability with a weapon.”

“Right.”

“A month.”

“What?! You’re fucking kidding me!”

Omi really hoped Yohji decided to back out of Manx’s face before she changed her mind.

“That’s unreasonable! I can’t do it in a month. Three, Manx,” then, mellowing suddenly to present her with obviously false contriteness, “please?”

“Six weeks, Balinese. We can’t afford more.”

“Manx,” Omi started to step in, but she interrupted him.

“Bombay, you’re dismissed. Take Siberian and,” another stare in his direction, “Aya, with you. Balinese, you stay. We need to talk.”

~tbc~

Notes: Review to tell Manx to play nice...or to comfort poor Aya...yes, I know, one seems like lots more fun than the other, but we really must be fair.