Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Falling to Pieces ❯ Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Dark Hunter 
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Suspense / Romance / Occult / Hentai / Drama / Comedy / Angst / Action | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 03.31.2003 | Pages: 3 | Words: 4.9K | Visits: 460 | Status: Work In Progress
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Suspense / Romance / Occult / Hentai / Drama / Comedy / Angst / Action | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 03.31.2003 | Pages: 3 | Words: 4.9K | Visits: 460 | Status: Work In Progress
Chapter Two. What else can I say? I used up my bubbling enthusiasm in the author comment department the first few go-rounds with this fanfiction. Longer chapters, shorter schpiel! Yay!
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I manage to escape Aya's vindictive clutches and retreat to my room. As long as I lie still and take shallow breaths, the discomfort isn't overwhelming. It's cold in here, unbearably cold. I had opened the window before I first lay down, and let me tell you, my ribs didn't like that bout of activity either. Now the thought of getting into motion again and wrestling with the stubborn, warped wood frame is just too much.
A light knock at the door. I'm assuming it's Omi, here to make sure I'm all right. Being Omi, he was bound to notice I wasn't in the best of shape. This should be fun. I wonder if I can convince him to go away without actually moving anything or breathing at all.
"What do you want? Just come in, I can't hear you through the door." The words sound weak with no breath to back them up. I'll have to work on that when I care enough to give a damn.
The door pushes open just enough to allow him to come in, the silhouette of the tray in his hands pretty much confirming his identity for me. The door is carefully shut while he presumably balances the tray. Footsteps shuffle around in the room just barely illuminated by an outside street lamp down the way. You don't get much from the moon itself in the middle of a city.
"You think it's dark enough in here?" The words are dry and caustic. They also are definitely not coming from Omi's mouth. In fact, I'd almost bet my life that the voice belongs to Aya.
"You want the light on while you bother me, go right ahead." I carelessly gesture with my hand, not really bothering to remind myself that he cannot see me anyway.
I hear the clink of the tray he was holding being set down on my desktop before the footsteps move away and the overhead lights do their best to blind me. With an indrawn hiss of breath, I cover my eyes with bare forearm, side drawn taut.
Cool fingers push up my shirt a bit more, past my ribs. Somewhere or another I find the incentive to sit bolt upright and push him away. "Don't need your help." I mumble, choosing pride over pain, and what a pain it is!
He walks over to my desk, picking up the tray and setting it down on the end of my bed. I don't bother to look at its contents. It's probably nothing but medical supplies: scary looking surgical knives and various appliances that look like modern torture devices.
"I'm not going to leave until you let me take a look at your ribs." Flat. Emotionless. As usual he's being his warm and caring self. Unlike his freezing cold hands. Considering the fact that the air temperature has me shivering, if his hands are that noticeable, I'm thinking it's time to buy the boy some gloves.
"There's nothing wrong with my ribs, honestly! I just twisted my body to a bad angle back at the factory. There's no significant damage done to any part of my body." I fall back slightly, my elbows bent and propping my upper torso up, shoulders thrust forward.
Aya stares me right in the eyes, contemplating some twisted "Aya" type thing, or another before curling his fingers and punching me in the side. That's about the point where I black out.
My eyelids resist the effort it takes to open them again. It's still dark out. How long have I been unconscious? I start to push myself upright, the pain in my ribs has strangely abated. My cautious fingertips probe my sides, meet with the sensation of skin rather than cloth. My shirt is gone. I spot it folded neatly at the foot of my bed in a moment, the tray is no longer occupying that particular spot.
What happened? I stand too quickly and fall to my knees, leaning against the bed for support. The room shouldn't be spinning, should it? The door creaks behind me, but I only register it through a haze of nausea. I'm going to be ill pretty soon.
"Going to be sick." I gasp out, trying to make it clear to whoever entered the room, trying to struggle to my feet while the spinning of the room does its best to topple me once again.
Someone supports my weight and helps me stumble to the hallway, and then down to the darkened bathroom, flicking the light in passing. I tear myself loose just in time to go into a series of dry heaves over the toilet. My hair is pulled back from my face, discombobulated fingers tucking the too-short strands around my face behind my ears.
The retching only lasts for a few minutes, though they certainly drag on like hours. My trembling limbs threaten to give out on me the whole while, but I persevere. When the queasiness passes I shift back, leaning against the solid weight of my helper.
"Are you alright?" It's Aya again. Doesn't he have anything better to do with his time? I can't force myself to move yet; I need a few more seconds to stop shaking. My hair is released and it tumbles down around my face again, I revel in the way it hides my face from his prying eyes. I don't have to pretend to be strong for a few minutes.
"I didn't mean to cause you to lose consciousness. I only meant to prove the point that you obviously weren't fine." Almost a hint of remorse there. Almost. I think he is worried he might have done more damage, making me into more of a hazard for Weiss as a whole. He'd better believe I wouldn't let a little thing like that keep me from my night job. Now, my day job... that's another story.
"Yeah." I lean forward, the pain in my sides subdued to a tolerable level. It takes more strength than I thought it would to pull myself to my feet on the edge of the counter, but as it usually does, in the end my body gives in and does what I want it to.
I hang wearily over the sink, splashing water on my face and sipping some from my cupped hands. My stomach seems to have settled, no problem now. I glance up into the mirror. The whole right side of my face is swollen from alternately being banged into a wall and being punched with a fist. Funny, it doesn't' feel that bad at all. My eyelashes spike together, glistening from the cold tap water. Wow, I look like at least a million dollars right now. Note the sarcasm. If good looks came from a thrift store, that would be me right now.
Aya hovers nearby, refusing to meet my bleary eyes in the mirror. "What?" I tuck hair behind my ears. He doesn't reply, merely stands behind me, twisting the hem of his shirt, unsure what to do with his hands.
"If you have something to say, spit it out." That good old nicotine craving is starting to hit me, blowing everything out of proportion on the irksome scale inside my mind. My fingers want to claw at the smooth marble counter top, want to scrabble along the walls, dragging my body behind them until they can get a hold of the cigarette they want oh so much right now. Another fault for Aya to jump on.
Sighing, I take a few steps before stumbling on the bathmat, graceful as always. Aya's hands cup my elbows again, déjà vu. I wrench away and stomp down the hallway back to my room. If I just lie down for a little while everything will fix itself on its own, and if it doesn't I'll find the energy somewhere to go out and get drunk.
I kick the door shut behind me, the room dark once again, just the way I like it. Alone with my thoughts finally, I collapse face down on the mattress, nose flooded with the sent of my own shampoo. It's still cold here, but I don't mind for once. The cold is sort of pleasant, raising goose bumps on my bare back.
I feel the urge to scream as the door opens once again. If it's Aya with surgical gloves and a needle I'm really going to. Or maybe he's got brass knuckles this time so he can do it right when he decides to inflict more bodily harm in the name of first aid.
A soft hand on my shoulder, the cool skin not as noticeable anymore. "Sit up. You need to eat."
Oh fuck; is he trying to drive me insane, plaguing every moment of my days and nights? Growling, I turn my head away from him. "Not interested. No Interest. Go away." I close my eyes and wish for a cold breeze to come through the window. Something to clear away the cobwebs in my head and to ease the heated ache behind my eyelids.
"If I have to I will physically drag you up into a sitting position like the stupid child you are." Thems are fighting words, and he knows that.
"Alright I'm up. What the hell do you want? You want to spoon feed me goddamned 'Chicken and Stars' soup?" I glare up at him. The light from the window harshly lights his frame, the tray in his hands. I swear he's trying to freak me out by pulling an Omi act.
"No stars in this soup. I didn't see any in the kitchen." Aya sets the tray in front of me. I'll be damned; there really is a bowl of soup on it.
This is almost frightening. Did he poison it? That would be a nice twisted, homey sort of gesture on his part. Here, have some soup, I cooked it all myself, just a few special ingredients of my own: some salt, some (cough) Drain-o, saltine crackers, and milk.
"I'm sure you can still feed yourself though." He hooks the chair in front of my desk over with his foot. Apparently he's going to sit and watch while I eat. Why doesn't he just give up and drip it into my arm with an IV, stubborn son of a bitch. Steam rises from the liquid only to be whisked away by moving air from the open window.
Aya's eyes follow the breeze backwards to the source. He levers himself to his feet, intent on closing the window.
"No. Don't." I catch his sleeve as he passes.
"You're shivering. It's cold." He explains as if it somehow makes all the sense in the world. I scowl and ignore his matter of fact attitude.
"I'm not cold. It's my room. Don't shut the window. I'm eating your damned soup aren't I?" I blow on the spoonful before raising it to my lips, the warm liquid gliding down my throat, easing an ache I hadn't noticed up until this point. My body immediately reassures me that this is what it wants, what it's been waiting for.
Why soup, I have to wonder. Soup is what you give invalids. I'm not sick, just tired and sore, though the latter of those complaints is certainly fading the longer I stay stationary. It's good though; for all that it's probably the cheap condensed kind from a tin can. He didn't even think to bring up some saltine crackers. How Aya like. I guess in his book crackers aren't necessary, merely a luxury. That description applies to a lot of things I do that he hates.
It quickly becomes apparent that I don't have room in my stomach for all the soup. I certainly try though. What can I say? It's a big bowl and my stomach is used to being empty. Aya watches each trip the utensil makes from the tray to my mouth, studying the way I start to slow as I loose my appetite.
The metals ring against each other as I drop the spoon down, wearily rubbing at my eyes, wincing as I come in contact with the bruised side of my face. Aya moves the tray to the side but makes no move towards the door.
"You will be out of commission while you heal. I don't want any accidents."
My temper flares up. "You mean you don't want any accidents caused by me. I'm a big boy, I know when I can and cannot take care of myself. Don't presume to know me better than I know myself. You barely know the first thing about me. How could you? You're too wrapped up in your self-absorbed morbid contemplations."
His eyes narrow, unable to see me with my back to the light as it is. He sweeps to his feet, all ice and bottled up anger as he storms past, back out into the rest of the world. He leaves the tray, maybe hoping I'll eat the rest of the soup and not die of malnutrition, maybe just not caring either way.
I turn towards the window, crawling forward across the blanket on my knees, bunching up the unmade sheets and covers. The winter outside is more than glad to lend a hand, numbing my body. My thoughts are already packed in cotton, resting in muffled graves.
On a whim I shuffle into my shoes, pulling a coat on over my bare torso, silently tip-toeing down the stairs escaping even Aya's detection. Is it colder outside without solid walls to shield me from racing winds? Will everything shut down, giving me peace for a little while?
I stop at the back porch, sitting on the steps, feeling the cold cement through my jeans. I lean my head up against the columns holding everything up. It's nice out. I shrug my coat off, ignoring the shivering of my body.
It takes some energy, but I drag myself upright, clambering up to sit on the rail, facing into the wind. Hair whips around my chin, gliding like silk across my cheeks. My palms cup my cheeks, the skin of my face icy and fake feeling. I run fingertips down my neck, across my skin. None of the sensations register on my body. It feels almost like touching a corpse. An empty body.
I wonder how much effort it would take to go back and get a shirt and hit the bar. I'm thinking too much, about things I shouldn't. Why should it matter if I'm empty and hollow inside? It doesn't matter. No one is perfect and happy all the time, and they just keep going anyway.
I cover my eyes and concentrate on the numbing of my body. All I want is to feel nothing.
I almost fall over backwards when burning hot hands press against my shoulders. I actually do when I turn my neck to identify the culprit. I crash down on top of solid human flesh. I don't even have to look to see who it is. This is quickly turning into some sort of feverish nightmare. Can't Aya leave me alone?
I try to shout at him but I can't stop shaking long enough to get a good breath. I settle for ineffectively pushing him away.
"You are a stupid moron!" He harshly growls, snapping my coat up from the ground and hurling it at me. I'm taken aback by the look of rage on his face. What's he angry about now? "Are you trying to die?"
I consider that question. I'm not quite sure myself. Finally I settle on shrugging in reply. The inquiry has captured my mind though. Do I want to die? Hasn't that always been an option I've been wholly against? A better question is do I want to actively make the effort to do something like that? Isn't it easier to just sit here and let my body run down on it's own.
"What are you doing sitting out here? I thought you were busy playing the martyr. Planning another trip out on the town?" He angrily stomps around the porch. This is more emotion then I usually see from him. He must be tired.
"I was just thinking." I rub at my eyes, pushing the coat off of my knees and onto the ground. "It's nice out here. I like the cold." I turn my eyes skyward and ignore Aya's intruding presence. This is MY solitude; he can't ruin it.
He snatches up the coat with one hand and grabs my upper arm with the other. "Get up." No other options then? I can barely feel the pressure either way. Just the heat. I thought his skin was cold before. I sway forward as my legs decide my full weight is too much after sitting for so long.
He mutters curses under his breath in a most un-Aya like fashion as he half-drags me back into the house. He slams me down on the couch and storms out of the room. I halfheartedly stare at the dark doorway he went through.
I hold up my shaking hands, turn them over, looking at the transparent skin of my wrists. I can see my veins through the skin; can see the patterning on my skin formed every time my wrists bend. It looks so fragile up close. The purple/blue veins are too close to the surface, visible to anyone who cares to look at such a vulnerable part of my body's inner workings.
The blanket is hurled down next to me, actually bouncing from the force. I blankly eye the worn blanket from the linen closet before staring up at Aya with a complete lack of comprehension.
Growling, he clumsily drapes it around my shoulders. He steps back and glares as I simply sit there, the fabric sliding down a bit under it's own power.
"I'm not cold." My teeth don't chatter so much when I say it. Not that he'd take my word for it even if they didn't. I, being Youji, must automatically be lying, right? Fuck, but Aya's a rotten bastard. I tell him as much with a lot more curse words thrown in to boot.
His mouth tightens but he refrains from commenting on the obvious, such as: if I'm so intelligent, why was I outside without a coat or a shirt? He grabs the ends of the blankets and pulls them together in front of me, avoiding any contact with my skin.
He sits down next me, staring at the ground. I let the blanket go and it sags down again. It doesn't matter. I don't feel cold. I don't feel anything at all, and that's the point.
He's studying my profile; I watch him out of the corner of my eyes. What is he looking for? Is he looking for an explanation for my erratic behavior, or a reason to put me out of my misery?
"What's wrong with you?" The words are soft, for once meant as an honest question, not a rude insult. Aya must have gone off his rocker. I'm almost positive he's just broken almost every one of the odd unspoken rules he lives his life by.
I shrug again, rubbing ineffectually at my eyes. My skin is still cold and bereft of sensation. "I was just thinking. Nothing wrong."
"Thinking?" Still calm and less angry. There must be some sort of trap he's springing. He must be trying for an admittance of weakness from me. He's still looking for a reason to kick me off the team, separate me from Weiss.
I concentrate on memorizing the contours of my knees, hair swinging forward, blocking my peripheral vision. He can go fuck himself then. Such vehemence from me is uncommon as of late, the raw emotion startling me. I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on blanking out again.
I am not useless. I am doing my job well; I am kicking ass for the good guys. I shouldn't worry about anything. All is going well. There's nothing wrong with me.
I start up the familiar litany that never manages to ingrain itself into my subconscious. There is nothing wrong with me. I feel fine. I feel nothing. All is going well.
I flinch as a hot palm grips my bare shoulder. This is my time; the night is when I have the world to myself. Why does he keep intruding? I shift away from the burning touch. I don't want to feel. What part of that is he unable to understand?
"What were you thinking about?"
"If I tell you, will you fuck off and leave me alone?" I try to keep the hope out of my voice. That will be an easy solution. I come up with some sane sounding, condensed version of my thoughts and in return I get peace for a short while.
He hesitantly nods. I smirk inwardly. It would be fun to make up a story about how I was dwelling on the many painful ways to end his life, but I try not to lie if I can help it.
"I was just wondering why I couldn't be numb to the world, to everything. I was wondering why I get up every morning when there's no point. That's all." I shrug and try to lift up my tone to match my usual attitude. 'Do you want to die?' The words echo in my mind, a private after thought.
Yes. I do. But I don't want to be the one responsible. I don't want to be the one to slice the vein or pull the trigger. I want a death I'm not directly responsible for. I don't deserve the easy way out, I never have.
"Those are bleak thoughts." His hand starts to reach for the covers around my waist, only to pull back and start twisting the hem of his shirt again. Without thinking, I tuck loose hair behind my ears. I pause.
I glance over; Aya's still doing his damndest to twist the fabric into a knot. I play with the ends of my hair. A nervous gesture. Is Aya nervous? I fixate on his pale fingers, clenching and unclenching. Stare at his tight, miserable expression.
I clear my throat. "I thought you were going to leave." This is all bringing on too many pointless thoughts. It's not that I'm slow or cannot cope; I simply refuse to.
Aya starts to stand-then stops. "I'm not leaving you alone until you're back in bed with a promise that you're staying inside this house until morning light." He looks so pathetically pleased to have a purpose that I stop myself from bursting his bubble.
How can I complain about his manner of coping? He does his thing; I do mine. I rise to my feet, calling up what little grace I have left. I turn on my heel and unsteadily make my way towards the stairs. I can do this. No problem. Everything is all right.
My door is still open, the air frigid, just the way I crave it. I crawl onto the bed, upper body slumping down over my legs, kneeling in a submissive, beaten position.
He stomps past me, slamming the window down with vicious force. He dumps the closet blanket down next to me for extra measure. Being the obsessive-compulsive neat freak he is, his next stop is my closet where he hangs up my jacket.
I gaze regretfully at the window, longing to be outside again. His presence stops right behind me, facing my back. No words. I can almost feel that baleful glare that always graces his features.
"I'm in my room."
"You're not resting. What the hell is your problem? Do you get some sort of sick satisfaction out of being so damned stubborn?" He starts to continue on with the tirade but manages to clamp his jaw shut before more slips out. Apparently he's used up his allotment of words for the month. He'll just have to write IOUs for any future conversations.
I gingery shift so I'm facing him again. He's wringing his shirt again. "Any particular reason why you're all but stalking me?"
"Because, damn it! If I wake up in the morning and you're dead and I could have done something to prevent it, that's just one more death added to my back. It's bad enough when it's someone I've never even met before, but I've known you for a while now, and as much as I hate to admit it, I'm involved." He slams his hand down on my desk.
I blink and try to sort through my shocked thoughts. Aya, feeling guilty? I have lost my mind. I'm having drugged illusions. "You're worried about me?" I don't manage to stifle the chuckles bubbling up in my throat in time.
His expression goes from awkward embarrassment to self-righteous rage in about two seconds flat. Oops. That was a stupid mistake on my part. Shit indeed.
"You're right. I shouldn't have wasted my time." He stalks out of my room, leaving the door open. I swallow. That hurt. A waste of his time. I don't know if he was just angrier or more honest than usual, but those aren't words I'd want to hear out of anyone's mouth pertaining to me. A waste of time...
I close my eyes and picture the expression on his face again. That unsure look seemed almost out of place on those usually Spartan, detached features. I sigh and curl up on my side, feeling suddenly childish and more alone than ever.
I shake my head. This is Aya I'm thinking about. I imagined that look. Aya is never unsure. He has the world at his feet and he's well prepared to trample it until it gives him what he wants. There's no place in his disposition for hesitation, for lack of confidence.
What if I'm wrong though? What if he was trying to do something nice for a change? People can be altered by time. I picture his eyes again, blanking for a second before flaring up in all their violet defensive rage. Cursing anything and everyone I can think of, I kick my shoes off and silently pad down the hall. Damn my human scruples.
I pause outside his shut door, running a finger over the cool metal of his doorknob. So cold. Everything is so cold. "Aya?" I whisper against the wood. If he doesn't hear I'll just go back to my room. It doesn't matter if he hears. It would be better if he doesn't. Loosing my resolve I turn to leave.
The door swings inward. Silence greets me. I should have knocked. I could have brushed that off as an accidental stumble, but not speaking. I can't claim I just brushed against his door this way. I twist my neck. His face is closed off, eyes narrow, skin ghostly in the fluorescent light of the hallway.
"I-I wanted to apologize." I mumble finally, eyes downcast. That was stupid of me. I'm not responsible for him, for how he feels. I'm not even able to control those aspects of my own emotions.
"For?" He's not helping me out any here. I didn't suppose he would. I was being a fucking asshole towards him the whole time. The stupid prick made me soup. Aya doesn't even like walking through the kitchen and he went and made me soup. I sigh.
"For being so difficult. For insulting you and belittling your assistance, even if you did punch me in my broken ribs." I summon a familiar, often-used, rueful grin.
"Not broken, a few cracked, mostly badly bruised." He automatically corrects me, forgetting himself. Somber eyes in a serious chiseled face, he looks like a statue, not even blinking.
I nod. It certainly felt worse than that earlier, but I'll take his word for it. "I'm sorry." I repeat for good measure. I rub at my eyes again, so very tired, so very, very numb.
When the stars against the black of my eyelids clear I open my eyes again to find a pale hand being offered to me.
"I don't talk that often, but I'm a good listener." Even less emotion in his face, drained of all humanity, waxen.
I hesitate before I catch sight of his other hand, twitching at the long sleeve of his shirt. I swallow before reaching out and briefly clasping his hand, almost regretting it when the flesh is released. He doesn't feel like a carven image, but more real than I do.
"Would you mind? If I stayed and talked with you? Just for a little while?" I gaze at him through my eyelashes, unsure of any of my actions, my decisions. Have I misread him? Is he simply playing the dutiful comrade for his own amusement?
Aya steps back and gestures inwards, towards the gold lit confines of his bedroom. Biting my lower lip, I step past him. I try not to jump as the door soft closes behind me.
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Ha! What do you say to that! Nyah! Darkhunter@ijustdontcare.com or Akainobaka@mchsi.com
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I manage to escape Aya's vindictive clutches and retreat to my room. As long as I lie still and take shallow breaths, the discomfort isn't overwhelming. It's cold in here, unbearably cold. I had opened the window before I first lay down, and let me tell you, my ribs didn't like that bout of activity either. Now the thought of getting into motion again and wrestling with the stubborn, warped wood frame is just too much.
A light knock at the door. I'm assuming it's Omi, here to make sure I'm all right. Being Omi, he was bound to notice I wasn't in the best of shape. This should be fun. I wonder if I can convince him to go away without actually moving anything or breathing at all.
"What do you want? Just come in, I can't hear you through the door." The words sound weak with no breath to back them up. I'll have to work on that when I care enough to give a damn.
The door pushes open just enough to allow him to come in, the silhouette of the tray in his hands pretty much confirming his identity for me. The door is carefully shut while he presumably balances the tray. Footsteps shuffle around in the room just barely illuminated by an outside street lamp down the way. You don't get much from the moon itself in the middle of a city.
"You think it's dark enough in here?" The words are dry and caustic. They also are definitely not coming from Omi's mouth. In fact, I'd almost bet my life that the voice belongs to Aya.
"You want the light on while you bother me, go right ahead." I carelessly gesture with my hand, not really bothering to remind myself that he cannot see me anyway.
I hear the clink of the tray he was holding being set down on my desktop before the footsteps move away and the overhead lights do their best to blind me. With an indrawn hiss of breath, I cover my eyes with bare forearm, side drawn taut.
Cool fingers push up my shirt a bit more, past my ribs. Somewhere or another I find the incentive to sit bolt upright and push him away. "Don't need your help." I mumble, choosing pride over pain, and what a pain it is!
He walks over to my desk, picking up the tray and setting it down on the end of my bed. I don't bother to look at its contents. It's probably nothing but medical supplies: scary looking surgical knives and various appliances that look like modern torture devices.
"I'm not going to leave until you let me take a look at your ribs." Flat. Emotionless. As usual he's being his warm and caring self. Unlike his freezing cold hands. Considering the fact that the air temperature has me shivering, if his hands are that noticeable, I'm thinking it's time to buy the boy some gloves.
"There's nothing wrong with my ribs, honestly! I just twisted my body to a bad angle back at the factory. There's no significant damage done to any part of my body." I fall back slightly, my elbows bent and propping my upper torso up, shoulders thrust forward.
Aya stares me right in the eyes, contemplating some twisted "Aya" type thing, or another before curling his fingers and punching me in the side. That's about the point where I black out.
My eyelids resist the effort it takes to open them again. It's still dark out. How long have I been unconscious? I start to push myself upright, the pain in my ribs has strangely abated. My cautious fingertips probe my sides, meet with the sensation of skin rather than cloth. My shirt is gone. I spot it folded neatly at the foot of my bed in a moment, the tray is no longer occupying that particular spot.
What happened? I stand too quickly and fall to my knees, leaning against the bed for support. The room shouldn't be spinning, should it? The door creaks behind me, but I only register it through a haze of nausea. I'm going to be ill pretty soon.
"Going to be sick." I gasp out, trying to make it clear to whoever entered the room, trying to struggle to my feet while the spinning of the room does its best to topple me once again.
Someone supports my weight and helps me stumble to the hallway, and then down to the darkened bathroom, flicking the light in passing. I tear myself loose just in time to go into a series of dry heaves over the toilet. My hair is pulled back from my face, discombobulated fingers tucking the too-short strands around my face behind my ears.
The retching only lasts for a few minutes, though they certainly drag on like hours. My trembling limbs threaten to give out on me the whole while, but I persevere. When the queasiness passes I shift back, leaning against the solid weight of my helper.
"Are you alright?" It's Aya again. Doesn't he have anything better to do with his time? I can't force myself to move yet; I need a few more seconds to stop shaking. My hair is released and it tumbles down around my face again, I revel in the way it hides my face from his prying eyes. I don't have to pretend to be strong for a few minutes.
"I didn't mean to cause you to lose consciousness. I only meant to prove the point that you obviously weren't fine." Almost a hint of remorse there. Almost. I think he is worried he might have done more damage, making me into more of a hazard for Weiss as a whole. He'd better believe I wouldn't let a little thing like that keep me from my night job. Now, my day job... that's another story.
"Yeah." I lean forward, the pain in my sides subdued to a tolerable level. It takes more strength than I thought it would to pull myself to my feet on the edge of the counter, but as it usually does, in the end my body gives in and does what I want it to.
I hang wearily over the sink, splashing water on my face and sipping some from my cupped hands. My stomach seems to have settled, no problem now. I glance up into the mirror. The whole right side of my face is swollen from alternately being banged into a wall and being punched with a fist. Funny, it doesn't' feel that bad at all. My eyelashes spike together, glistening from the cold tap water. Wow, I look like at least a million dollars right now. Note the sarcasm. If good looks came from a thrift store, that would be me right now.
Aya hovers nearby, refusing to meet my bleary eyes in the mirror. "What?" I tuck hair behind my ears. He doesn't reply, merely stands behind me, twisting the hem of his shirt, unsure what to do with his hands.
"If you have something to say, spit it out." That good old nicotine craving is starting to hit me, blowing everything out of proportion on the irksome scale inside my mind. My fingers want to claw at the smooth marble counter top, want to scrabble along the walls, dragging my body behind them until they can get a hold of the cigarette they want oh so much right now. Another fault for Aya to jump on.
Sighing, I take a few steps before stumbling on the bathmat, graceful as always. Aya's hands cup my elbows again, déjà vu. I wrench away and stomp down the hallway back to my room. If I just lie down for a little while everything will fix itself on its own, and if it doesn't I'll find the energy somewhere to go out and get drunk.
I kick the door shut behind me, the room dark once again, just the way I like it. Alone with my thoughts finally, I collapse face down on the mattress, nose flooded with the sent of my own shampoo. It's still cold here, but I don't mind for once. The cold is sort of pleasant, raising goose bumps on my bare back.
I feel the urge to scream as the door opens once again. If it's Aya with surgical gloves and a needle I'm really going to. Or maybe he's got brass knuckles this time so he can do it right when he decides to inflict more bodily harm in the name of first aid.
A soft hand on my shoulder, the cool skin not as noticeable anymore. "Sit up. You need to eat."
Oh fuck; is he trying to drive me insane, plaguing every moment of my days and nights? Growling, I turn my head away from him. "Not interested. No Interest. Go away." I close my eyes and wish for a cold breeze to come through the window. Something to clear away the cobwebs in my head and to ease the heated ache behind my eyelids.
"If I have to I will physically drag you up into a sitting position like the stupid child you are." Thems are fighting words, and he knows that.
"Alright I'm up. What the hell do you want? You want to spoon feed me goddamned 'Chicken and Stars' soup?" I glare up at him. The light from the window harshly lights his frame, the tray in his hands. I swear he's trying to freak me out by pulling an Omi act.
"No stars in this soup. I didn't see any in the kitchen." Aya sets the tray in front of me. I'll be damned; there really is a bowl of soup on it.
This is almost frightening. Did he poison it? That would be a nice twisted, homey sort of gesture on his part. Here, have some soup, I cooked it all myself, just a few special ingredients of my own: some salt, some (cough) Drain-o, saltine crackers, and milk.
"I'm sure you can still feed yourself though." He hooks the chair in front of my desk over with his foot. Apparently he's going to sit and watch while I eat. Why doesn't he just give up and drip it into my arm with an IV, stubborn son of a bitch. Steam rises from the liquid only to be whisked away by moving air from the open window.
Aya's eyes follow the breeze backwards to the source. He levers himself to his feet, intent on closing the window.
"No. Don't." I catch his sleeve as he passes.
"You're shivering. It's cold." He explains as if it somehow makes all the sense in the world. I scowl and ignore his matter of fact attitude.
"I'm not cold. It's my room. Don't shut the window. I'm eating your damned soup aren't I?" I blow on the spoonful before raising it to my lips, the warm liquid gliding down my throat, easing an ache I hadn't noticed up until this point. My body immediately reassures me that this is what it wants, what it's been waiting for.
Why soup, I have to wonder. Soup is what you give invalids. I'm not sick, just tired and sore, though the latter of those complaints is certainly fading the longer I stay stationary. It's good though; for all that it's probably the cheap condensed kind from a tin can. He didn't even think to bring up some saltine crackers. How Aya like. I guess in his book crackers aren't necessary, merely a luxury. That description applies to a lot of things I do that he hates.
It quickly becomes apparent that I don't have room in my stomach for all the soup. I certainly try though. What can I say? It's a big bowl and my stomach is used to being empty. Aya watches each trip the utensil makes from the tray to my mouth, studying the way I start to slow as I loose my appetite.
The metals ring against each other as I drop the spoon down, wearily rubbing at my eyes, wincing as I come in contact with the bruised side of my face. Aya moves the tray to the side but makes no move towards the door.
"You will be out of commission while you heal. I don't want any accidents."
My temper flares up. "You mean you don't want any accidents caused by me. I'm a big boy, I know when I can and cannot take care of myself. Don't presume to know me better than I know myself. You barely know the first thing about me. How could you? You're too wrapped up in your self-absorbed morbid contemplations."
His eyes narrow, unable to see me with my back to the light as it is. He sweeps to his feet, all ice and bottled up anger as he storms past, back out into the rest of the world. He leaves the tray, maybe hoping I'll eat the rest of the soup and not die of malnutrition, maybe just not caring either way.
I turn towards the window, crawling forward across the blanket on my knees, bunching up the unmade sheets and covers. The winter outside is more than glad to lend a hand, numbing my body. My thoughts are already packed in cotton, resting in muffled graves.
On a whim I shuffle into my shoes, pulling a coat on over my bare torso, silently tip-toeing down the stairs escaping even Aya's detection. Is it colder outside without solid walls to shield me from racing winds? Will everything shut down, giving me peace for a little while?
I stop at the back porch, sitting on the steps, feeling the cold cement through my jeans. I lean my head up against the columns holding everything up. It's nice out. I shrug my coat off, ignoring the shivering of my body.
It takes some energy, but I drag myself upright, clambering up to sit on the rail, facing into the wind. Hair whips around my chin, gliding like silk across my cheeks. My palms cup my cheeks, the skin of my face icy and fake feeling. I run fingertips down my neck, across my skin. None of the sensations register on my body. It feels almost like touching a corpse. An empty body.
I wonder how much effort it would take to go back and get a shirt and hit the bar. I'm thinking too much, about things I shouldn't. Why should it matter if I'm empty and hollow inside? It doesn't matter. No one is perfect and happy all the time, and they just keep going anyway.
I cover my eyes and concentrate on the numbing of my body. All I want is to feel nothing.
I almost fall over backwards when burning hot hands press against my shoulders. I actually do when I turn my neck to identify the culprit. I crash down on top of solid human flesh. I don't even have to look to see who it is. This is quickly turning into some sort of feverish nightmare. Can't Aya leave me alone?
I try to shout at him but I can't stop shaking long enough to get a good breath. I settle for ineffectively pushing him away.
"You are a stupid moron!" He harshly growls, snapping my coat up from the ground and hurling it at me. I'm taken aback by the look of rage on his face. What's he angry about now? "Are you trying to die?"
I consider that question. I'm not quite sure myself. Finally I settle on shrugging in reply. The inquiry has captured my mind though. Do I want to die? Hasn't that always been an option I've been wholly against? A better question is do I want to actively make the effort to do something like that? Isn't it easier to just sit here and let my body run down on it's own.
"What are you doing sitting out here? I thought you were busy playing the martyr. Planning another trip out on the town?" He angrily stomps around the porch. This is more emotion then I usually see from him. He must be tired.
"I was just thinking." I rub at my eyes, pushing the coat off of my knees and onto the ground. "It's nice out here. I like the cold." I turn my eyes skyward and ignore Aya's intruding presence. This is MY solitude; he can't ruin it.
He snatches up the coat with one hand and grabs my upper arm with the other. "Get up." No other options then? I can barely feel the pressure either way. Just the heat. I thought his skin was cold before. I sway forward as my legs decide my full weight is too much after sitting for so long.
He mutters curses under his breath in a most un-Aya like fashion as he half-drags me back into the house. He slams me down on the couch and storms out of the room. I halfheartedly stare at the dark doorway he went through.
I hold up my shaking hands, turn them over, looking at the transparent skin of my wrists. I can see my veins through the skin; can see the patterning on my skin formed every time my wrists bend. It looks so fragile up close. The purple/blue veins are too close to the surface, visible to anyone who cares to look at such a vulnerable part of my body's inner workings.
The blanket is hurled down next to me, actually bouncing from the force. I blankly eye the worn blanket from the linen closet before staring up at Aya with a complete lack of comprehension.
Growling, he clumsily drapes it around my shoulders. He steps back and glares as I simply sit there, the fabric sliding down a bit under it's own power.
"I'm not cold." My teeth don't chatter so much when I say it. Not that he'd take my word for it even if they didn't. I, being Youji, must automatically be lying, right? Fuck, but Aya's a rotten bastard. I tell him as much with a lot more curse words thrown in to boot.
His mouth tightens but he refrains from commenting on the obvious, such as: if I'm so intelligent, why was I outside without a coat or a shirt? He grabs the ends of the blankets and pulls them together in front of me, avoiding any contact with my skin.
He sits down next me, staring at the ground. I let the blanket go and it sags down again. It doesn't matter. I don't feel cold. I don't feel anything at all, and that's the point.
He's studying my profile; I watch him out of the corner of my eyes. What is he looking for? Is he looking for an explanation for my erratic behavior, or a reason to put me out of my misery?
"What's wrong with you?" The words are soft, for once meant as an honest question, not a rude insult. Aya must have gone off his rocker. I'm almost positive he's just broken almost every one of the odd unspoken rules he lives his life by.
I shrug again, rubbing ineffectually at my eyes. My skin is still cold and bereft of sensation. "I was just thinking. Nothing wrong."
"Thinking?" Still calm and less angry. There must be some sort of trap he's springing. He must be trying for an admittance of weakness from me. He's still looking for a reason to kick me off the team, separate me from Weiss.
I concentrate on memorizing the contours of my knees, hair swinging forward, blocking my peripheral vision. He can go fuck himself then. Such vehemence from me is uncommon as of late, the raw emotion startling me. I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on blanking out again.
I am not useless. I am doing my job well; I am kicking ass for the good guys. I shouldn't worry about anything. All is going well. There's nothing wrong with me.
I start up the familiar litany that never manages to ingrain itself into my subconscious. There is nothing wrong with me. I feel fine. I feel nothing. All is going well.
I flinch as a hot palm grips my bare shoulder. This is my time; the night is when I have the world to myself. Why does he keep intruding? I shift away from the burning touch. I don't want to feel. What part of that is he unable to understand?
"What were you thinking about?"
"If I tell you, will you fuck off and leave me alone?" I try to keep the hope out of my voice. That will be an easy solution. I come up with some sane sounding, condensed version of my thoughts and in return I get peace for a short while.
He hesitantly nods. I smirk inwardly. It would be fun to make up a story about how I was dwelling on the many painful ways to end his life, but I try not to lie if I can help it.
"I was just wondering why I couldn't be numb to the world, to everything. I was wondering why I get up every morning when there's no point. That's all." I shrug and try to lift up my tone to match my usual attitude. 'Do you want to die?' The words echo in my mind, a private after thought.
Yes. I do. But I don't want to be the one responsible. I don't want to be the one to slice the vein or pull the trigger. I want a death I'm not directly responsible for. I don't deserve the easy way out, I never have.
"Those are bleak thoughts." His hand starts to reach for the covers around my waist, only to pull back and start twisting the hem of his shirt again. Without thinking, I tuck loose hair behind my ears. I pause.
I glance over; Aya's still doing his damndest to twist the fabric into a knot. I play with the ends of my hair. A nervous gesture. Is Aya nervous? I fixate on his pale fingers, clenching and unclenching. Stare at his tight, miserable expression.
I clear my throat. "I thought you were going to leave." This is all bringing on too many pointless thoughts. It's not that I'm slow or cannot cope; I simply refuse to.
Aya starts to stand-then stops. "I'm not leaving you alone until you're back in bed with a promise that you're staying inside this house until morning light." He looks so pathetically pleased to have a purpose that I stop myself from bursting his bubble.
How can I complain about his manner of coping? He does his thing; I do mine. I rise to my feet, calling up what little grace I have left. I turn on my heel and unsteadily make my way towards the stairs. I can do this. No problem. Everything is all right.
My door is still open, the air frigid, just the way I crave it. I crawl onto the bed, upper body slumping down over my legs, kneeling in a submissive, beaten position.
He stomps past me, slamming the window down with vicious force. He dumps the closet blanket down next to me for extra measure. Being the obsessive-compulsive neat freak he is, his next stop is my closet where he hangs up my jacket.
I gaze regretfully at the window, longing to be outside again. His presence stops right behind me, facing my back. No words. I can almost feel that baleful glare that always graces his features.
"I'm in my room."
"You're not resting. What the hell is your problem? Do you get some sort of sick satisfaction out of being so damned stubborn?" He starts to continue on with the tirade but manages to clamp his jaw shut before more slips out. Apparently he's used up his allotment of words for the month. He'll just have to write IOUs for any future conversations.
I gingery shift so I'm facing him again. He's wringing his shirt again. "Any particular reason why you're all but stalking me?"
"Because, damn it! If I wake up in the morning and you're dead and I could have done something to prevent it, that's just one more death added to my back. It's bad enough when it's someone I've never even met before, but I've known you for a while now, and as much as I hate to admit it, I'm involved." He slams his hand down on my desk.
I blink and try to sort through my shocked thoughts. Aya, feeling guilty? I have lost my mind. I'm having drugged illusions. "You're worried about me?" I don't manage to stifle the chuckles bubbling up in my throat in time.
His expression goes from awkward embarrassment to self-righteous rage in about two seconds flat. Oops. That was a stupid mistake on my part. Shit indeed.
"You're right. I shouldn't have wasted my time." He stalks out of my room, leaving the door open. I swallow. That hurt. A waste of his time. I don't know if he was just angrier or more honest than usual, but those aren't words I'd want to hear out of anyone's mouth pertaining to me. A waste of time...
I close my eyes and picture the expression on his face again. That unsure look seemed almost out of place on those usually Spartan, detached features. I sigh and curl up on my side, feeling suddenly childish and more alone than ever.
I shake my head. This is Aya I'm thinking about. I imagined that look. Aya is never unsure. He has the world at his feet and he's well prepared to trample it until it gives him what he wants. There's no place in his disposition for hesitation, for lack of confidence.
What if I'm wrong though? What if he was trying to do something nice for a change? People can be altered by time. I picture his eyes again, blanking for a second before flaring up in all their violet defensive rage. Cursing anything and everyone I can think of, I kick my shoes off and silently pad down the hall. Damn my human scruples.
I pause outside his shut door, running a finger over the cool metal of his doorknob. So cold. Everything is so cold. "Aya?" I whisper against the wood. If he doesn't hear I'll just go back to my room. It doesn't matter if he hears. It would be better if he doesn't. Loosing my resolve I turn to leave.
The door swings inward. Silence greets me. I should have knocked. I could have brushed that off as an accidental stumble, but not speaking. I can't claim I just brushed against his door this way. I twist my neck. His face is closed off, eyes narrow, skin ghostly in the fluorescent light of the hallway.
"I-I wanted to apologize." I mumble finally, eyes downcast. That was stupid of me. I'm not responsible for him, for how he feels. I'm not even able to control those aspects of my own emotions.
"For?" He's not helping me out any here. I didn't suppose he would. I was being a fucking asshole towards him the whole time. The stupid prick made me soup. Aya doesn't even like walking through the kitchen and he went and made me soup. I sigh.
"For being so difficult. For insulting you and belittling your assistance, even if you did punch me in my broken ribs." I summon a familiar, often-used, rueful grin.
"Not broken, a few cracked, mostly badly bruised." He automatically corrects me, forgetting himself. Somber eyes in a serious chiseled face, he looks like a statue, not even blinking.
I nod. It certainly felt worse than that earlier, but I'll take his word for it. "I'm sorry." I repeat for good measure. I rub at my eyes again, so very tired, so very, very numb.
When the stars against the black of my eyelids clear I open my eyes again to find a pale hand being offered to me.
"I don't talk that often, but I'm a good listener." Even less emotion in his face, drained of all humanity, waxen.
I hesitate before I catch sight of his other hand, twitching at the long sleeve of his shirt. I swallow before reaching out and briefly clasping his hand, almost regretting it when the flesh is released. He doesn't feel like a carven image, but more real than I do.
"Would you mind? If I stayed and talked with you? Just for a little while?" I gaze at him through my eyelashes, unsure of any of my actions, my decisions. Have I misread him? Is he simply playing the dutiful comrade for his own amusement?
Aya steps back and gestures inwards, towards the gold lit confines of his bedroom. Biting my lower lip, I step past him. I try not to jump as the door soft closes behind me.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ha! What do you say to that! Nyah! Darkhunter@ijustdontcare.com or Akainobaka@mchsi.com