Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Our Games ❯ one ( Chapter 1 )

Notes: In a weird mood this morning, and this is the twenty-minute fic that came out of it.

Warnings: angst, blood



Our Games

It had started as a game, a small occupation when it rained for three days in a row and his little black book fell short in the face of dreary weather. It had been fun, the heady rush of danger, the anticipation of being caught, and then the look of confusion Aya would wear around for hours. But there wasn’t enough evidence to accuse, and Yohji got high off his immunity.

So he kept sneaking into Aya’s room. And he kept moving things.

It was small things at first, shifting Aya’s brush to the other side of the dresser, rotating a pillow on the bed, flipping his book over so the front cover showed rather than the back. Then he took on the shoes, hiding Aya’s seldom-worn black dress shoes behind the stereo and, later, moving his favorite boots from beside the door. He’d put them under the bed, and it had seriously pissed Aya off.

He never took anything.

But he began to learn a lot, and those small glimpses of Aya were just as addictive. He saw the long, thin knife the redhead kept under his pillow and the slightly scratched X-Japan CDs he hid behind the classical music. He found the cross necklace and heavy silver bangle lying on the dresser that hinted at some kind of fashion sense, something he had never suspected. And the gun; it was lying on top of the dresser, too, but he didn’t dare move that. It was loaded.

He couldn’t stop, though as he went deeper, the danger of true involvement grew.

At first, he opened the closet just to hide the cell phone, but in a few days he was rifling through it for more entertainment. Then he found the leather pants, a silky blue button down, and a white crop top that he had never seen on a mission. And in the box in the bottom he found the straps and buckles, the vinyl top with silver rings, and the wide, dark collar that he lifted experimentally to his own neck. He forgot to move anything that night.

That probably should have been a line.

He went back, this time to the nightstand. He found the notebook filled with figures, adding up to an insane sum. He found the creased porn magazine that confirmed Aya’s sexual preference. He found the pills. Some were pain pills, opiates mostly, the kind that Omi usually doled out on a reluctant basis. Two bottles were pysch meds; both were full and dated over a year ago. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or troubled that Aya hadn’t taken them. Then there were the sleeping pills, mostly empty: no surprise there.

He should have stopped; it was getting deep.

The next night he went through Aya’s underwear, finding it considerably less personal and moving the black boxers the other side of the drawer. He folded them in his own style for added effect, and did the man the courtesy of throwing out two pair past their expiration date.

He was already in the chest of drawers, so it wasn’t a big jump. He rifled through the t-shirts, trying to remember how three of them had gotten to be pink. He thought it was probably his fault, but he must have been too drunk that day. Two days later, he make it to the third drawer and found it empty.

Disappointed, he almost turned to the dresser.

Later, he wished he had.

But some call to thoroughness, even in this, drew him to the bottom drawer, and he settled on the floor to pull it open.

There was a burgundy sweater on top, thrown in, the only thing he had seen that was not folded neatly. He drew it out, lifting it to his nose without thinking. It smelled odd, not like Aya. He didn’t try to figure out how he knew what Aya smelled like, but set the sweater aside for later consideration. It was obviously not a moveable.

Underneath was a sheet, also shoved in, creased and smeared with too much dried blood. Unwashed. Disgusting. He turned his nose up at it, using two fingers to pull it out. He didn’t smell that; he knew what that much blood smelled like, and it was always wafting towards him. He pushed it aside.

Then he looked.

He shouldn’t have.

Or maybe he should have earlier.

Some of the items didn’t make any sense, like the dried orchid carefully preserved between clear sheets of contact paper or the crinkled page torn from some book. The worn picture was odd, but it matched the file Yohji had read more than once; that was the real Aya, looking young and innocent and not worth what else was in the drawer. The edge of the picture was smeared with blood, and he couldn’t look at it for very long; it made him sick.

There was a syringe, used, but with no accompanying evidence. And there was the filthy washcloth, blue and bloody, next to a shot glass that was chipped along the rim. Then there were the blades.

He might have written off one, but he had a utility knife in his own drawer that had never been used. There was nothing so common here, just the blades, thin and sharp. The package lay open, one new razor blade clinging inside. The others were scattered, some bloody, one broken in half. Blood had dripped into the drawer and pooled in the forward corners, dry and gross. He could see it too well, Aya sitting on the floor like he was, drawer pulled too far out into his lap, bare arm–was it the arm?–suspended over it as he–

He was really going to be sick.

He came back with an unpleasant bitter taste in his mouth, and stared down at the scattered things.

This wasn’t his.

Carefully, he restored Aya’s drawer with rare attention to its original state.

He should have moved it.

But he sat across the dinner table watching. And Aya sat there, poking his food, silent and cold and lying.

“What?” he snapped at the continued attention.

“Nothing.”

He ought to have moved them.

~tbc?~

Notes: This might be a one-shot, or it could have a few more chapters, I dunno. What do you think?