Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Chains ❯ Supervise Me ( Chapter 47 )

Notes: Thank you all for the reviews and for the get well wishes; they gave me so many warm-fuzzies that a few slipped into the fic (keep an eye out for them next chapter).


Chapter Forty-Seven: Show Me

“My life sucks.”

This was the insightful comment Yohji offered the cab driver as he flopped into the back seat. The bearded man nodded, dark eyes flicking to the rearview mirror only once; Yohji guessed he was used to the ramblings of his more intoxicated passengers if he worked that area if town at that time of night. It was three thirty in the morning, and mundane comments like that were unlikely to get his attention; he asked Yohji for an address.

The bartender had been much more sympathetic; of course, Yohji had still been flirting with sober, and his discourse had been a much more meaningful tirade against the injustices that befell him when he was, for fuck’s sake, a decent human being.

Two hours and eight thousand yen later, he had admitted to the bartender that he wasn’t a decent human being, but he was trying, damnit. And what did he get for his troubles? Shit. That’s what.

The bartender, a thirty-something with dark hair and heavy eyebrows, had nodded, setting down another rum and coke. Yohji usually drank expensive vodka, but he needed time and large glasses to occupy his attention. He had still been nursing it when he saw the chick with the red hair. It wasn’t as bright as Manx’s, and she wasn’t as tall or thin, but she had nice tits and, at that moment, screwing someone who looked like the woman making him suffer seemed like a fine bit of revenge.

They had danced, and he had slipped his hands under her sequined top, fingertips edging under her bra. She giggled, he smiled, and thirty minutes later he was sitting on the cheap mattress of her dorm room bed. Yohji had brushed back her hair, not liking the feel of the clinging hairspray nor the revealed dark roots. But she was giggling again, squeezing him a little before she went down on him. She hadn’t been a pro, but he had leaned back on his elbows and tried to say encouraging things.

Then he had pressed her back on the bed, pushing her short white skirt up around her hips and running his hand down one soft flank as she laughed and told him to go on and do it. So he had. She had gasped and clutched the sheets, but somewhere in the middle of it Yohji had caught a flash of her red hair and realized it was wrong, not because it was dull, but because it was long. Suddenly it was Aya beneath him, thin and tight and warm, gasping his name and begging him, harder, yes.

He had come before he could get rid of the image, shocked at the suddenness of it as he rolled off the girl and tried to breathe. It had been more than the cheap fuck that made him feel dirty as he tied off the condom and tossed it into the wire wastebasket by the bed. The girl smiled and reached for him, but he couldn’t lie down with her, not with his stomach churning and his head trying to get a jump on the morning’s hangover. He had made some excuse, she said it wasn’t fair, and he returned that life wasn’t fucking fair. She had told him to get the hell out.

Now he sat propped against the door of the cab, feeling the dried sweat on his body and tasting the remnants of too much rum. It wasn’t supposed to go like that, not for him. He was supposed to come home feeling too damn accomplished to care that he didn’t smell good and that he had stained his newest shirt.

“Hey, buddy. This it?”

Yohji looked up to see the darkened storefront of the Koneko.

“Yeah.”

He dug out several bills as he leaned against the cab, paid the driver, then headed inside. When he didn’t have any trouble with the back steps or the door, Yohji realized he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he ought to have been or wanted to be. Shit. And he knew he had to go upstairs. And Aya would be there, in his bed.

He didn’t want to fuck Aya. It was the last thing the kid, right, kid, needed. He hadn’t been out in a week, and Aya had been on his mind. That was all. The thing with the girl had been a fluke, just another way life was trying to mess with his mind, one more problem for Yohji Kudou because he could never have enough of them.

Still silently bitching to himself, he made the weary climb up the steps, using the rail to drag his body upwards when it wanted to sit down and have a rest on the carpet. Maybe he could catch a few hours of sleep before work, where he’d have to take Aya. Then they had to deal with whatever training was going to be. The kid probably couldn’t even fight, let alone handle anything more complicated than a kitchen knife. It would be awkward and strange and probably painful, and Yohji just didn’t want to do it. He shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t have to fucking kill people, and he sure as hell shouldn’t be teaching someone else how to do it!

Yohji realized two things suddenly: Aya was sitting in the dark hall, and he had hit the wall hard enough to make the boy jump and look at him.

Reaching for the light, he flipped the switch. For a few minutes the blonde just stood there, leaning sloppily against the wall and looking at Aya over his sunglasses. He was sitting on the floor just outside the door of Yohji’s room, legs drawn up in front of him and arms around them. He looked tired, unsure, and almost scared, but any expression faded under a sudden chill of blank resignation that fell over his features. Ducking his head, he waited.

Though he had cultivated and stoked it all evening, Yohji felt his anger still, hot indignation turning cool as he stumbled over the reality of the situation. Aya. Beaten, drugged, raped, sold, thrown into something completely different and lined out to become an assassin at a little past sixteen. If anyone’s life was unfair, it was his. Yohji had burnt his own bridges, but Aya had never gotten the chance to.

“Hey,” he finally said, having to clear his throat to get it out. Aya didn’t move when he stepped towards him, but he flinched just a little from the hand Yohji reached to smooth his hair. “You’re awake.”

“Yes, Yohji,” he said without looking up.

Though his voice lacked inflection, Yohji couldn’t help but feel a kind of heaviness about him; it was in the way he sat, hunched over himself, head almost resting on his knees, and in the set response. There was no sense of anticipation, but some kind of certainty of something impending.

Tired with himself and the situation, Yohji wanted to go to bed. He wanted to walk past without another word, slip between his sheets, and pretend the whole thing wasn’t happening. But he couldn’t.

He had left Aya in what he thought were the best hands, but here he was by himself. He wondered where Omi had gone and how soon, whether he had even tried. There was a flare of anger at that, but it turned inward quickly. Yohji realized he hadn’t exactly given it much thought when he was leaving, while he was out. What had Aya been doing? Sitting here thinking, probably, alone with the idea that he was joining Weiss and a load of uncertainty about what that meant. Not exactly comforting. Had he been so desperate for company that he had come out in the hall?

Shifting his shades onto his head, Yohji ran a hand over his face. Turning, he leaned his back against the wall and slid slowly down to sit beside Aya. There were only a few inches between them. Thinking to make a try at comfort and apology by taking Aya’s hand, Yohji reached for it, his finger ghosting along one pale forearm as he moved and, unexpectedly, coming away a little slick.

“What?” he asked, watching Aya pull further in against himself, trying to hide his arm with his hand. But it wasn’t any good. On his knees now, Yohji got ahold of the boy’s arm; Aya didn’t resist beyond one small sound as the blonde drew the thin limb towards him, stretching it out to see what had left the blood on his hand. For a terrifying second, he thought Aya had slit his wrist, but it wasn’t that serious. Still, Yohji hissed at what he found. The day before there had been, he knew, a few thin, scabbed over places where Omi had tended Aya, but now the underside of the redhead’s forearm, several inches below his wrist, was pink and raw, repeatedly scratched by short nails until they dug deep enough to draw blood. It was smeared over pale skin, some of it drying, some still dripping towards the soaked cuff of Aya’s pushed-up sleeve.

“What the hell?”

“I’m sorry,” Aya said quietly, head bowed.

“Why did you do this?”

Aya just shook his head.

“Look at me,” Yohji demanded, glad to see purple eyes rise to his own. He tried to temper his anger, keeping his voice level as he coaxed Aya into talking to him, “Why did you scratch yourself?”

“I,” it was a whisper; the eyes fled, came back, “didn’t mean to.”

“What do you mean? Aya, talk to me.”

He waited.

“When I get…nervous, it just happens.”

Considering the sick look about him, a kind of waxy exhaustion ,Yohji thought ‘nervous’ was an understatement, but he let that go, “Why were you nervous?”

Aya just looked at him, but again he waited it out. Finally, “Because he might come back.”

“He? Who? The guy who sold you?”

Now Aya looked away, closing his eyes.

“I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, Aya.”

Yohji waited for his words to have an effect, but there was nothing.

~tbc~

Angst again, I know. Review to shoo away the angst and get the boys back in order.