Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Let's get it on ❯ We're all sensitive people... ( Chapter 3 )

Chapter 3

 

“I can't believe you just said that to Mrs. Thoma.”

 

“Your concerns about customer service are touching, Yoji. I hate to tell you this, but we're not really florists.” Ken calmly turned the “Open” sign around and locked the door. “As far as I'm concerned, as long as I don't kill them, no harm, no foul.”

 

“She's a nice old lady, Ken.”

 

“Are you high? She's a God-damned bridge troll. And if you think this was bad, you should have heard what Aya said to her last week.”

 

Yoji pouted fetchingly -- not that it would do him any good with Ken. It was just second nature. “Well, it's not much of a cover if we don't have any business,” he muttered.

 

Ken rolled his eyes.

 

“So, what did Aya say?”

 

“I do not indulge in pointless negativity, Yoji. Suffice to say I was as impressed with him as I have ever been.” Ken picked up a broom and started sweeping. “And speaking of being impressed with Aya...”

 

Every muscle in Yoji's body tensed as he waited for Ken to continue.

 

“That, Yoji, was your cue to admit that you're gay as the day is long and you're so hot for our fearless leader that you need a pair of those M.C. Hammer pants to camouflage your hard-on every time you think about him.”

 

Yoji made a small choking sound.

 

“Did you just *yelp*?”

 

“I am not...”

 

“Don't even finish that sentence, you pathetic loser. I've been watching you dither long enough, Kudoh. The time has come for me to set your ass straight on this.” Ken wrinkled his nose slightly. “Well, that was obviously not phrased as well as it might have been. Anyway, we're gonna talk. Now. Make with the dramatic confessions.”

 

Yoji closed his eyes, feeling the stirrings of a headache. He was not going to have this conversation. Not with Ken. Not now. He could handle this on his own.

 

Aw, what the hell.

 

“I didn't realize I'd been so obvious.”

 

“Must have something to do with all the blood racing from your brain for your crotch every time he walks into the room,” Ken said, snorting.

 

“He's...”

 

“He's hot. I know. You don't have to be a fudge-packing ass pirate to see that -- and I mean that fudge-packing thing in the best possible way, you know.” Ken smiled good-naturedly. “He's a good-looking guy. And he's got that whole mysterious, strong, silent thing going on. Sort of a moodier Clint Eastwood, with more leather and buckles. So I get the basic gist of why you're into him. What I don't get is why you haven't done anything about it.”

 

“How about the whole I don't even know if he likes guys and he has a lousy temper and a sword thing? Do you get that?”

 

“Dare to struggle, dare to win, Yoji. You've been mooning over him for months now. And since your romantic attention span works in dog years, that's almost a lifetime. Talk to him, for Christ's sake.”

 

“Ken, he's weird and ill-tempered. And I have to work with him no matter what. And since I rely on him to keep psychos and thugs from murdering me, I kind of don't want him to hate me, you know? It just seems safer to cloud the issue a little at first. Leave myself a little room for frantic back-pedaling.”

 

“He's not straight.”

 

“How the hell would you know that?”

 

“I've seen him looking at your ass, and I'm pretty sure it isn't just in a `Wow, I can't believe anybody would wear their pants that tight on purpose' way, either. Straight guys don't look at other guys' asses.”

 

“I still... Really? He checks out my ass?”

 

“I think you're making this harder than it has to be. He's a *guy*, Yoji. Give him a few days to heal up, then go to his room and say, `Aya, I'm glad you're feeling better. I think you're hot. Let's fuck.'”

 

Yoji stared at Ken disbelievingly. “Are you trying to get me killed? I'm not just going to spring something like this on him. He's not really a `go with the flow' kind of guy.”

 

“You've been practically stalking him for going on two months and this is the best you can come up with? You must have been a hell of a detective, Yoji.” Ken shook his head pityingly.

 

“Ken: Can't live with him, can't dip him in batter for tempura,” Yoji muttered. “I'm going upstairs now to take Aya something to eat. I am going to attempt to have a conversation with him -- a conversation that will not include the phrase “let's fuck” -- and if I manage to get him to talk to me at all, I will consider myself lucky. I hope you can work past your disappointment in me.”

 

“Do what you want, man. But remember the old saying.”

 

“What old saying, `Nobody likes a smart ass?'”

 

“The old saying I refer to is: `He who farts around like a candy-assed loser never finds out if Aya can tie cherry stems into a knot with his tongue or not.'”

 

Yoji spared Ken one look of pure hatred before leaving the shop.

 

He stopped in the kitchen to make a cup of tea and grab a box of Pocky. He walked upstairs, head swimming with visions of things Aya might be able to do with his mouth.

 

He knocked on Aya's door, not really expecting a response; Aya didn't feel obligated to acknowledge anyone's existence when he wasn't in a common area. “I'm bringing you some food,” Yoji announced, letting himself in.

 

Aya was propped up in bed, staring at a wall. His complexion was pasty, he had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was starting to look a little greasy. This would be a ghastly look on most people, but on Aya it was more of a heroin-chic thing.

 

Yoji put his offerings down on the nightstand. “Don't know what's going to happen about dinner yet, so I thought you could use a snack.”

 

Aya continued to ignore him.

 

“Hey,” Yoji said, gently tapping Aya's good shoulder. “Drink your tea while it's hot.”

 

This got Aya's attention. He looked like he might argue, but then he just nodded. “Thanks.”

 

Yoji sat next to him on the bed and handed over the cup. “You look miserable. The next time you get really sick, you should wait a week or two before getting shot. Breaks up the monotony better.”

 

Aya's eyes narrowed slightly, but Yoji was pretty sure this was one of those situations where Aya wasn't as annoyed as he looked.

 

Yoji handed over the Pocky. He had gone earlier out to buy the vile wild yam flavor because he knew Aya liked it. Also, it was a pretty purple color that almost matched Aya's eyes -- for some reason, that had seemed like an important detail at the time. Perhaps he was actually suffering from some sort of dementia.

 

Aya tore into the package. Yoji knew what he was in for and thought he was prepared for it -- Aya tended to suck distractedly on the stick before taking a bite. He'd watched this performance in fascination many, many times. Happy times.

 

It turned out that the maneuver actually packed a greater wallop when performed in bed.

 

Yoji shifted uncomfortably, looked around the room to distract himself.

 

He hadn't really been able to work out a good game plan and was left with hoping talk would just materialize spontaneously, like flies from garbage. Not so. Aya didn't seem particularly nonplussed about having him here, but neither did he feel any responsibility for entertaining him. Having eaten, the redhead resumed his important regimen of staring into space, which Yoji had interrupted earlier.

 

Well, there were worse things than sitting on Aya's bed and wataching him with impunity.

 

He watched the set of Aya's face change slightly as his thoughts drifted, watched Aya's eyes finally shift back to meet his. Watched him look away again.

 

“Don't you even notice?” Yoji finally blurted.

 

Aya ignored him, then sighed, apparently changing his mind. He looked back and, with obvious reluctance, turned to face him. “What, you staring at me? Of course I notice.”

 

“So don't you get it? Or don't you care?”

 

Aya sighed again. “Neither.”

 

“What?”

 

“I get it, and I do care. I just pretend not to notice because I don't want to talk about it.”

 

Well, that was... huh. “Does it bother you?”

 

“No.” Aya looked away again.

 

“Aya, are you straight?” Yoji really didn't expect an answer to that.

 

Brief pause. “No.”

 

“Do you mind me thinking about you that way?”

 

Slightly longer pause. “No.”

 

“Are you celibate?”

 

Aya closed his eyes for a moment, one of those “God, give me strength” expressions on his face. “No.”

 

“Well then, what's the problem?” Yoji flashed a wicked smile. “Come on, Aya -- `We're all sensitive people, with so much to give...'”

 

Aya glared. “Yoji, if you don't stop singing, so help me God I'm going to kick your ass.”

 

Yoji grinned. “You don't like Marvin Gaye, huh?”

 

“What part of `I don't want to talk about it' didn't you understand?”

 

“Look, Aya, I...”

 

*Now* Aya looked pissed. “Is this some kind of a sport for you? Are you trying to get gigolo bonus points for picking up the most unsuitable person you can find?”

 

“Jesus, Aya, just how big of a jerk do you think I am?”

 

“Well, I'm obviously still evaluating that.”

 

“I'm not interested in tilting at windmills. As it were. I'm just trying to get to know you better.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why do you want to get to know me better?”

 

Well, this was obviously a trap, Yoji thought. Must proceed cautiously... “Because you fascinate me. You delight me. And you make my dick dance.”

 

Yoji had never been able to resist pushing his luck. It wasn't that he didn't know when to stop, as most people assumed. He usually knew when to stop. He just didn't want to.

 

Yoji wasn't going to try to interpret Aya's expression. He had *not* meant to declare himself -- *bad* Yoji. But having leaped naked into the void, he might as well plunge ahead.

 

“I don't get it. I feel like we've connected a couple of times lately. But you mostly act like I'm not even there. What the hell?”

 

In the few minutes Aya took to decide if he was going to respond, Yoji started to feel guilty. This was somebody he supposedly cared about, and he looked miserable, and he was sick... Just when Yoji had decided to leave him in peace, Aya started talking.

 

“I guess I understand the sex part -- not right at the moment,” he added, wiping his nose with a tissue. “But conceptually. The rest, though -- I don't know what you're talking about.”

 

“You aren't familiar with fascination or delight?”

 

That got a heavy sigh. “Not really. See, that's what I'm saying. What would you be fascinated by?”

 

“What? You're beautiful, you're interesting, and I've come to suspect you have a really twisted sense of humor, which is obviously something I appreciate since I haven't killed Ken yet. Why wouldn't I be fascinated with you?”

 

Aya looked frustrated. “Because there's no there there,” he muttered.

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

He sighed again. “I mean you're making all that up. I look the way I look, and I kill people. That's all there is. If you think you see anything else, you're making it up.”

 

“Now *I* don't understand. You only kill people, say, three nights a week. Which means that the vast majority of your time is spent not killing people. And you exist when you're not killing people; I know because I see you.”

 

This time Aya met his eyes. “I'm telling you that you obviously think you've figured something out about me that I keep hidden from everyone. And I'm telling you that's bullshit. I don't *have* a personality, Yoji. I'm just as two-dimensional as I seem. The only Zen you'll find on the mountain is the Zen you bring to the mountain.”

 

That was so stupid and juvenile it took Yoji's breath away -- well, except for the Zen thing, which was just kind of mystifying. “Aya, that was lame with an unbearable lameness. If you're going to try to shake me off, you're going to have to try harder than that.”

 

Aya was openly displaying a strange mix of emotions. He was annoyed, he was sad and -- Yoji would swear it -- he was amused. Yoji also realized that while Aya generally didn't bother with facial expressions, his eyes gave a lot away.

 

“I used to have a personality,” he said. He spoke quietly, his voice strained almost to the point of hissing. “It got burnt away with everything else I didn't need in order to be good at killing people. Bits and pieces of things I used to be still drift around, but basically, killing people is what I care about.”

 

Yoji snorted skeptically.

 

“You asked me about hell before. If hell existed, I'd be down on the seventh level, standing in a river of boiling blood with the other assassins, tyrants and war-mongers. Next door to the wood of the suicides. To the right of the scorching sand where fire rains down on those who committed violence against God and nature. In the same general area with the other blasphemers and sodomites, writhing in pain.”

 

Yoji stared.

 

“Dante's Inferno. A book I was attracted to for obvious reasons.”

 

“Oh. Well, if there's a special floor for assassins, I belong there too, right?”

 

Aya smiled slightly. “'Lusters are least dimmed among the damned.' If you get placed by your most dominant trait, I think you'd be blowing around on the second level with the rest of the raging libertines, Yoji.”

 

“Least dimmed -- that would be level one, wouldn't it?”

 

“Level one was Limbo. I told you, Limbo doesn't exist anymore.”

 

“Aya, a man who's analyzed which level of hell he'd be in according to Dante's Inferno is not a man entirely lacking in personality.”

 

Staring down at his blanket-covered lap, Aya seemed to be struggling with something. And, just like that, the clouds parted and he smiled. It was a sheepish smile, but a real one. He muttered something Yoji didn't catch.

 

“What did you say?”

 

Aya looked up. “I said I took a test on the Internet.”

 

“What?”

 

“You answer questions and it tells you what level of hell you belong on.”

 

Yoji laughed. “That's absolutely ridiculous. Can I play?”

 

Aya shrugged. “Just Google `levels of hell.' You'll find it.” Then his smile widened. At Yoji's curious expression, he shrugged and said, “That just reminded me of a trip my family took when I was little. We had my grandfather in the car, and we drove forever, like 500 miles. And every time anybody cut us off or was speeding or something, my grandfather would shake his fist and yell, `Drive like hell, you'll get there!'” He shrugged again. “I told you, things shake loose sometimes.”

 

Oh, yes -- Houston, we have progress. Must keep him talking.

 

“Hey, I was wondering about that thing you said about demons. Do you remember? In the bathroom?”

 

Aya's eyes widened slightly.

 

“OK, see, you thought something there. Tell me. Tell me what you just thought.”

 

Aya frowned. “I thought: `Oh. That really happened, then.'”

 

“Oh, yes. On a scale of one to ten, how indicative of your average level of angst was that?”

 

Aya hesitated, clearly not eager to answer the question. “Um, maybe a six?”

 

“Compared with an average, everyday angst level of what?”

 

Considering the question for nearly a minute, Aya finally said, “Three.”

 

“I see.” Christ, 10 must be fucking terrifying. It was also kind of heartbreaking to realize the pain he'd seen that night was alarmingly close to Aya's baseline. He didn't want to talk about this anymore.

 

“So, Aya, tell me something about yourself.”

 

Aya looked confused. “I just did.”

 

Yoji sighed. “Toss me a bone, OK?”

 

“I'm allergic to cash register tape.”

 

“What?”

 

“It makes the skin on my fingers peel and bleed. See?” Aya shoved his right index finger in front of Yoji's face so he could appreciate that yes, the skin on Aya's finger was in fact peeling and bleeding. Gross.

 

Kind of cute, though.

 

“Tell me something else.”

 

Aya frowned. It didn't have its usual force; more of a pout, really. Also cute. Life was looking up.

 

“I hate Eric Clapton.”

 

“You... hate Eric Clapton.”

 

“That's what I said.”

 

Yoji waited, then prompted, “Go on.”

 

“Well... the convenience store down the street. The last two times I went there, they were playing Eric Clapton. I refuse to go there now. The first time might have been carelessness, but twice -- that starts to feel like an intentional affront.”

 

“What song?”

 

“'Backless.'”

 

“Which one is that?”

 

“'I don't care what you do at night, oh, I don't care how you get your delights; we'll leave it alone, we'll just let it be; I don't love you and you don't love me -- la la, la la la, la la...”

 

“Um, is it that song, or Eric Clapton's entire ouvre?”

 

“It's just Eric Clapton overall. He's a bottom-feeding hack.”

 

Yoji nodded. Suddenly, he remembered something he was burning to know.

 

“Hey, what did you say to Mrs. Thoma?”

 

“What?”

 

“Ken said you insulted Mrs. Thoma last week. What did you say to her?”

 

Aya appeared to be trying to pull up the information from his customer confrontation database. Admittedly, he did have a fairly adversarial relationship with a number of the people who came into the store.

 

“Did you use the C-word?”

 

“The what?” Aya's brows knit in confusion, then dipped deeper in annoyance. “No!” Pause. “The *C-word*?” He rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Yoji,” he finally muttered.

 

“Well, what was it?”

 

“She complained that I wasn't being responsive, and I told her I'd like to see things from her point of view but I couldn't get my head that far up my ass.”

 

“Aya! She's a nice lady!”

 

“She's an abomination.”

 

“I don't know why you and Ken hate her so much. I've never had any trouble with her.”

 

“Right. I guess your rapport with females over the age of 18 truly knows no bounds.” Aya suddenly found something on the blank wall across the room that captured his attention utterly.

 

Now, admittedly, Yoji's brain was working at a bit of a delay in processing this bizarre and unexpected conversation. But his initial interpretation of that last comment was that Aya was jealous and that Aya hadn't meant to let it slip that he was jealous. But of course that wasn't possible. Was it possible?

 

“Aya, are you *jealous*?”

 

“No. `Disgusted' would be a better word.”

 

“Explain.”

 

“No.” Aya met Yoji's eyes again, and this time he meant business. “I told you I didn't want to talk about it. Thank you for the Pocky. Please leave.” Once again, the sheer force of Aya's will and Aya's hatred changed everything. Yoji felt himself getting up and heading for the door, almost as if he had no say in the matter.

 

And he didn't have any say in the matter. Aya wouldn't say another word now if Yoji tortured him, and being in the same room with him was suddenly almost physically painful.

 

What the fuck? Aya really had been more approachable since getting out of the hospital last week -- Yoji had started to think he was making progress with the petulant, bi-polar son of a bitch. But maybe it had just been an unexpected side-effect of the antibiotics, or possibly a temporary change in barometric pressure. Or maybe Aya's personal Glasnost just didn't quite extend the length of an entire conversation.

 

Whatever. Melodramatic little prick.

 

Yoji slammed the door on his way out.