Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ No Mercy ❯ Say Goodnight and Go ( Chapter 1 )

Title: No Mercy

 

Author: Blythe

 

Archived: AdultFanFiction.net, MediaMiner.org, YxA ML, for now.

 

Disclaimer: I assure you that, were they mine, I would not be sharing. This is a work of fanfiction and is not for profit.

 

Rating: NC-17, for language and future lemons

 

Pairing: Aya/Yohji, implied OC/Yohji

 

A/N: I'm so sorry that it has taken so long for me to update! I've been battling some serious writer's block, but have finally managed to beat the muse into submission. A very special thank you to KD Sarge, who listened to me whine and loaned me weapons of muse destruction to help me obliterate the block. Moimoi-chan for sending me hug everyday, I thank you. I appreciate all of the feedback I've received and always welcome more. Thanks for sticking this one out with me everyone!

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1: Say Goodnight and Go

 

 

Yohji stood in the kitchen, supporting himself with arms braced on the countertop, forehead resting against the cabinet door. His hair fell forward to create a curtain, blocking out the feeble light from the window. He was practically asleep on his feet. It was way too damn early to be up.

 

The sweet aroma drifting up from the coffee maker coaxed his eyes open and a tiny smile to his lips. He poured some into a mug, wrapping both hands around it and bringing it close to his face to let the steam wash over him. With the first swallow of the scalding, precious liquid he felt the haze of sleep and dreams burn away, like the morning fog with the dawn.

 

He moved to stand in front of the window, waiting for the sun to rise and suffuse the world with color again. He hated this gray half-light before dawn. It made him feel as though he was still caught up in one of his dreams; that it couldn't possibly be real because real life had color and depth, sharpness and clarity. These wee small hours of the morning were chill, blunted by shadows, wan, almost achromatic. He knew, now, why most people slept through them.

 

He genuinely wished he could be one the blissfully slumbering, but lately, that was not his lot. Every night, he closed his eyes and slept, physically exhausted from the evening's activities and mentally exhausted from… everything else. Regardless of his physical and mental complaints, however, sleep never stayed with him for long. Like a fickle lover, he was graced with her presence for three or four hours, at best, and then left to his own devices again.

 

It was often the dreams that woke him. Sometimes, they were beautiful dreams. Dreams of open fields, of endless sky and ocean, of mountaintops kissed by clouds, of golden beaches and the sun warm on his face. Sometimes, he dreamt of a different kind of beauty. The kind where he could finish his classes, take entrance exams, hang out with kids his own age, leave the house unescorted. Sometimes, they weren't dreams at all, but nightmares, if they could even be called that. It seemed inaccurate to call them that. Nightmare implied, somehow, that the events weren't real or tangible, but they were. They were more like memories, glimpses of moments spent at this man's hands, mental scar tissue making itself known in sleep, reminding him that he'd never have those beautiful dreams. He woke the same way, no matter what dream it was. Shaking, cold, tears in eyes stifling his crying lest he wake the sleeper next to him. He cried for what he'd lost, for what'd never had. For what he would never have, so long as he continued to be owned by Keiji Hanajima.

 

So lost in his reverie, he'd failed to register the presence of another in the kitchen. Someday, he'd have better instincts, better reflexes, and a better mask. For today, however, he couldn't suppress the shudder, the telltale clenching of every muscle in his body as strong arms wrapped around him from behind.

 

“You know I don't like waking up alone, Chocho,” a deep voice grated over his ear.

 

Chocho. Butterfly. Endearment and insult in one.

 

Keiji didn't know that Yohji understood. He often underestimated his charge. Someday, he'd regret that.

 

The nickname was a reference to Madame Butterfly, the Puccini opera. Butterfly is the epitome of the traditional Japanese wife. Quiet, demure, devoted, beautiful, obedient. She is purchased for a few cents by an American sailor who already has a wife at home. She gives herself to him fully and when the war is over, he leaves to return to America. She bears him a child and waits, everyday, for him to return. She believes in him. She is faithful.

 

Quiet. Demure. Devoted. Beautiful. Obedient. Butterfly is everything that Keiji had trained Yohji to be. Except beautiful. Yohji had achieved that all on his own. It was the reason Keiji had taken him in, in the first place.

 

It had been a day like any other. Yohji had gone to class, rushed to the library to do his homework as soon as school let out. Then, he'd dashed off to stow his books and uniform in the condemned tenement where'd been squatting. Once changed into his street clothes, he'd headed out to see if he couldn't manage to scrounge up some dinner.

 

The Tokyo night had already fallen by then and the wind was chill. He didn't let it show. He walked down the street, looking for all the world like he was just another disenfranchised youth, with his blonde hair, low slung jeans, and too tight top. But, to the discerning eye, he was on the prowl.

 

Honestly, he'd thought he could maybe pick a pocket or two - he was already frighteningly good at being silent - or perhaps let some businessman fuck him in a dark alley. Either way, it would get him his dinner. If he was really lucky, he'd get picked up someone willing to spring for a hotel room and he could get a hot shower out of it. Those nights were rare, but appreciated.

 

He'd not been at all prepared for the sleek black luxury car that turned into the alleyway he'd been preparing to cross and blocked his way. He'd been about to mutter some very unseemly words at the occupant when the dark tinted rear window slid down. He'd certainly not been prepared for the rich chocolate eyes, the chiseled nose, cheeks, and jaw, the full, wickedly grinning lips, or the perfect, gleaming teeth that had greeted him.

 

And then, that gravelly voice had spilled over him. Three simple words and he'd been lost to this dazzling man.

 

“Need a ride?”

 

Assuming the man was too cheap to pay for a hotel and too rich to fuck in an alley, Yohji went willingly. It was warmer in the car, after all.

 

What he didn't expect was for the man to take him home. Or to feed him. Or to offer his enormous western style tub fit for a king for Yohji's use. He didn't expect the man to treat him like a rare treasure, a cherished possession.

 

He didn't usually ask names, for obvious reasons. He never offered his and if he asked, he used a different name every time. At least, he thought he did. He'd begun to lose track.

 

But this man, this man was different. He'd offered his name and glared at Yohji when he'd volunteered an alias in return. Once they knew each other's names, it was more difficult to think of it as just business. Yohji didn't like that.

 

He tried to get up, get dressed, and get out before the man woke up. He wasn't so concerned about the money just then. He'd gotten dinner and a bath; all in all, it was a very good night. Now, it was time to say goodnight and go.

 

However, when he tried to sit up, Keiji's hand closed around his bicep.

 

“And where do you think you're going?”

 

Yohji grinned. “Up for another round already?”

 

Keiji said nothing, merely looked at him, hard, an emotion in his eyes that suddenly made Yohji's flesh crawl. He wanted another bath.

 

“H-home,” he finally managed.

 

“Hn. You are home,” Keiji gruffly answered, throwing his arm across Yohji's chest and pinning him to the bed with it. “Now go to sleep.”

 

Yohji looked up and saw fire flare in Keiji's eyes. At that moment, he knew he'd gotten more than he bargained for. It wouldn't take long to find out just how much more.

 

Closing his eyes, Yohji drifted into slumber, those piercing, claiming brown eyes still watching him.

 

Or were they violet?

 

 

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Yohji woke with a start. He couldn't remember the dream, only that it left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. He was stiff and sore all over. For a moment, he wondered what he'd done. Then he realized where he was.

 

He rolled his head, trying to relieve some of the tension in his neck and shoulders. He lifted his arms, lacing his fingers together, palms up and stretched until he felt both shoulders pop. Then he stood, arching his back and roughly massaging the kinks from sore muscles. He could feel an odd crease on his cheek and he hadn't quite regained all of the feeling in his legs and feet.

 

His body was not shy about protesting his recent activities.

 

Of course, drooling on the keyboard couldn't be good for the computer either.

 

He supposed he should be glad that he was getting any sleep at all. He was so exhausted that he'd started dropping off at the worst times in the most uncomfortable places. He'd started a list of bad places to fall asleep and so far it included, but was not limited to, the front seat of the car (while on stake-out, no less), the kitchen table (cold Formica not being the nicest thing to wake up on), and now the computer desk was being added to the list.

 

A small, bitter laugh escaped him as he thought about how much he'd once loved his bed. Now, even thought of lying in it gave him a small shiver. Nothing good ever came of it, he'd decided. Looking back, the only things he'd ever found in his bed were nightmares and false hope. He'd left that hope behind. All that was left were the nightmares.

 

Those, he could do without.

 

Yohji didn't like the path his thoughts were heading down. He could feel the tension that he'd just worked out creeping back in. The more he thought, the worse it became. It was the primary reason he'd been trying to do anything but think for the past seven months. Any and every distraction he could come up with, he tried.

 

Why did he need to be distracted? Because the more he allowed himself to consider his circumstances, the angrier he got. And Yohji was very angry.

 

Angry at everyone. Angry at everything.

 

Yohji was angry at his father for driving his mother to her grave and driving his son from his own home.

 

He was angry at the dark beasts who had stolen Asuka from him.

 

He was even angrier at Manx for not letting him die in that alley.

 

Except that, really, he did die in that alley, and that made him angry, too. Angry with the gods for this mockery of life that he possessed.

 

He was exceptionally pissed off at Aya for thinking that a pity fuck would be just the thing to pull Yohji out of his funk.

 

But most of all, Yohji was absolutely furious with himself for believing, for even a fraction of a second, that he could be with Aya. That he could really find the mercy he so desperately sought in his arms. That Aya could ever actually love him.

 

There was no mercy.

 

Not for him. Neither to give, nor to receive.

 

Yohji didn't remember heading toward the shower, but the searing pain in his hand brought him back to his surroundings.

 

`Huh. Another broken tile.' That was seven now. Seven semi-rotten shower tiles that had met their end upon impact with Yohji's fist. His bruised and bloodied knuckles could attest to each one.

 

He turned away from the growing collection of shattered ceramic and tilted his face into the now warm spray from the showerhead. He let the water wash the blood from his hands and the sleep from his eyes. He felt the heat seeping into his tense shoulders and back, slowly releasing each muscle from its clench. As the pain drifted with the water to the drain, Yohji wondered how he could achieve the same effect for his other aches, particularly the one settled suspiciously close to his heart.

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