Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Chains ❯ Center Me ( Chapter 87 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Chapter Eighty-Seven: Center Me

Normal.

The word echoed in Aya’s head. He fell asleep thinking it was impossible and woke up determined to come as close as he could. As he lay on Yohji’s chest, listening to the man’s steady heartbeat through the thin white fabric of his t-shirt, Aya started to make plans.

~*~

“Getting up?” Yohji slurred, having learned to ask without completely waking up.

“Yes,” Aya answered him as he slipped out of the bed.

“Practice?”

“Yes.”

“’Kay,” he answered, rolling over to cuddle into his pillow, “Eat breakfast.”

~*~

He could do this.

Aya had killed a man; he could handle breakfast.

But standing in the bright kitchen, he wasn’t so sure.

After an hour of practice with his sword (something that seemed to gain an excessive seriousness after having completed the mission), Aya had gotten a shower, dressed quietly while Yohji slept on, and come downstairs with the intention of fixing breakfast.

That was normal.

Nodding to himself, Aya faced the empty kitchen, trying to make decisions and ignore the voice in the back of head: it was insidious, whispering over and over how Yohji would punish him if he touched the things here, if he wasn’t where he should be, if he did something wrong. He forced himself to ignore it and focus on what he was going to make.

Going to the refrigerator, he hesitated, then made himself to open it. He stood, waiting instinctually for some kind of blow, his heart speeding up in anticipation. But nothing happened, and he told himself sternly to calm down. Taking a few deep breaths, he looked into the refrigerator and took stock.

Quickly he spotted the eggs and took them out. His first thought was to make a frittata. Aya-chan had loved those, with fresh tomatoes and lots of cheese.

Aya remembered late Saturday breakfasts, standing in their bright kitchen with an open cookbook while Aya-chan teased him gently about the pink apron he had borrowed from their mother. His parents had been out, constantly at some brunch or function, and he had enjoyed the time with his sister, making something she liked while slipping under his father’s radar.

But there were no tomatoes. And Aya wasn’t sure Yohji would like it anyway.

But he did like omelets. Doing something he knew the other would like momentarily reassured him, and Aya made quick work of getting his ingredients from the refrigerator, wishing for a few more but content with the peppers, mushrooms, onions, and cheese. He could make that work.

There were a few more tense moments where he found himself anticipating punishment, jerking around to make sure no one was watching him, having doubts that he was doing the right thing. He nearly gave it up, but he persisted, and eventually fell into the process.

Aya liked to cook. He wasn’t an expert, but he had learned a lot. There was a precision in it, a skill, but also creativity; it reminded him of kendo. So he lost himself to it.

~*~

It was almost eight-thirty by the time Yohji had showered and smoked and committed himself firmly to the world of the waking. He knew there was a big order in the shop—a wedding—and though he would never openly admit he had remembered this detail, he probably needed to go rescue the white roses from Ken’s clutches.

Aya wasn’t in their room, so he might be helping already. Mornings varied, depending on the time Yohji managed to get up. Earlier, he might catch Aya still at practice or coming back from the shower, a little later might find him waiting quietly in the living room (or, more often than not, nervously debating what he should be doing instead), and after nine usually found him in the shop.

Yohji did not expect to find him in the kitchen, and certainly not putting breakfast on the table.

Usually surprises with Aya involved breakdowns and unnerving revelations, so this breakfast thing was pretty damn good. Of course, Yohji wasn’t too sure Aya thought it was. Having put down two plates on the table, Aya had backed up against the counter and was watching him anxiously.

“Hey,” Yohji greeted, “You cook?”

Aya nodded. His fingers were tugging at the hem of his navy shirt.

Yohji took a seat, noticing that he had a knife and fork set neatly beside his plate, a cup of coffee just above it. The food looked good, a cheesy omelet and hashbrowns that didn’t appear as if they’d come out of the freezer.

“You gonna sit down?” he asked Aya. It took a second, but Aya moved forward and took the seat next to him, still watching, more worried than he should have been. Not that it was obvious, Yohji realized, Omi or Ken might well have read that look as emotionless detachments, but it was in his eyes, the way his hands worked the fabric, everything.

Deciding not to start their morning off with a conversation they had both heard, Yohji skipped the reassurances and went for the coffee. It was strong, the way he liked it. Casting a curious glance, he noticed Aya hadn’t set a cup out for himself and wondered why the boy hadn’t gone on and made tea.

By the time he had gotten halfway through the food, Yohji had decided Aya needed to cook more often. A lot more often.

“You like to cook?” he questioned, hoping to move Aya into conversation, make him feel a bit more secure, get him to actually eat something.

Aya nodded, then, “Yes, Yohji.”

Wow, they were back to that. Ignore it, he told himself, not wanting to think how easy it was to slip backwards; it was too depressing, and they were having a nice morning.

“You’re good at it. This is good,” he gestured to his plate. There was a certain combination of spices and flavors that suggested Aya actually knew what he was doing. “Aren’t you going to try it?”

Aya nodded, hesitantly, like the idea had never occurred to him, but he picked up his fork and began to eat.

~*~

“Shit!” Yohji jerked his finger back. The thorn had gotten him good, and he watched a bit of blood well up in the cut. About to stick it in his mouth, he was surprised to find Aya in the chair next to him. The boy reached for his hand, and Yohji was careful not to move too much as the redhead took it and gently pressed a paper towel to the tiny injury. After a few seconds, he lifted the paper towel, checked it, and let Yohji’s hand go.

“Thanks,” the blonde said, still amazed that Aya had taken that much initiative. Already he was shrinking away, ducking over his own arrangement. Yohji wasn’t sure how to stop it, and he didn’t want to push, but he definitely wanted Aya to hold his hand again.

~*~

“You must help me,” Yohji implored, “I’ve been blinded by your beauty.”

The elderly Hamami-san hid a laugh behind one wrinkled hand before it was taken by Yohji. He gallantly kissed it before returning it to her.

“You flatterer,” she accused.

“Never! Now, what can I do for you today? Tulips?”

Her brown eyes met his for a moment before drifting over his shoulder to the table where Aya was finishing a vase of purple iris.

“I think Aya-san will help me today,” Hamami smiled. “If you don’t mind, Kudou-san.”

Yohji thought for a second, debating whether or not to play up being hurt, but decided not to. He simply shook his head and called Aya over before leaning against the register counter to watch.

“Good afternoon, Aya-san,” Hamami greeted. Her small presence made Aya look taller as he stood next to her in his green apron.

He nodded, then after a pause, greeted her in return, “Good afternoon. Can…how can I help you?”

Hamami smiled gently at him and lifted a hand to place it on his arm. Yohji flinched at the touch, but after an initial start (and a concerned look from the old woman) Aya offered her a nod and let her half-lead him towards the coolers.

Yohji watched their backs and listened.

“I’m going to a party, Aya-san,” Hamami explained. Aya nodded. “My great niece is turning sixteen, and I thought it would be appropriate to bring her flowers. I need something…joyous to suit the occasion.”

Aya seemed to think for a moment, then stepped away from her to pull a few purple crocus from the cooler, bringing them back for her inspection.

“Yes, those are perfect,” she smiled. “Would you make me a bouquet?”

Aya went to put the flowers on his work station, coming back to the cooler for some green leaves, baby’s breath, and a bit of queen ann’s lace. Hamami  made her way to the table as he sat down.

“Do you know what they mean?” she questioned, gesturing a quivering finger towards the crocus laying at Aya’s elbow. To Yohji’s surprise, the boy nodded, and, when Hamami kept looking at him, spoke.

“Youthful gladness,” he said.

“And cheerfulness,” she added happily, clasping her hands in front of her patterned kimono and turning to Yohji. “I’m so glad! You’ve finally got someone who speaks my flowers!”

Had he not heard her soft complaints about how none of them understood what she wanted—Hamami-san was very concerned about what flowers meant—Yohji wouldn’t have understood that. He was more confused, though, about how Aya knew any of that to begin with. But as Hamami began to quiz him on the queen ann’s lace (delicate beauty) and baby’s breath (happiness, or festivity, apparently), Yohji had to admit Aya seemed well schooled. Soon, though, Hamami stumped him with a question about lisianthus.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I…I don’t know.”

Hamami just smiled and patted his arm, “Don’t worry, it’s a difficult one. I’ll bring you my book, then we can have a proper conversation about it!”

Aya, looking a bit confused, just nodded as he tied off the bouquet, a beautiful mix of bright crocus and delicate white blooms.

~tbc~


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