Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Our Games ❯ six ( Chapter 6 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Warnings: I’ve been getting a little lax with these since I think people know what to expect, but this one probably needs a language, blood, and talk of suicide warning.



Our Games
Chapter Six


There was no answer to his accusation, but the cold disbelief was clear even through Aya’s surprise.

“Look at this!” Yohji demanded, yanking open the nightstand drawer and pulling out the prescription meds. First, the sleeping pills. “How often do you take these? Once a week, twice? Every night? Do you need these to sleep, Aya?”

There was no answer, so he tossed them to the bed. Next came the two psych meds, and he dropped first one and then the other to the bed in front of Aya.

“What about those? You don’t take those. Why not? That’s not fine. You’re not exactly fucking leveled out without these. And this, what the hell is this?”

He grabbed the loaded gun from the dresser.

“Why’s it loaded, Aya? Why’s the safety off?” Pointing it experimentally at his own head, he watched for reaction; there was a slight tensing, but Aya didn’t move. Yohji put the safety on and put the gun back, moving on to stand by the chest of drawers.

He expected Aya to freak, to jump up, run to stop him, maybe to hit him. He didn’t expect the guy to just lay there, propped up on his elbows, watching, angry but unmoving.

Yohji knelt down and opened the drawer.

“Whose is this?” he questioned, holding up the maroon sweater. “It’s not yours. Is it even important? I don’t think so, not anymore. It’s just a cover, right? Just like that fucking orange one you wear.”

Throwing the sweater aside, he picked up the tangled, messy sheet and drew it out of the drawer. He held it up, put it aside. A certain chilled anger had started to settle over him, and it was with ruthless tenacity that he took each thing from the drawer.

“Did you grow this?” he asked, showing Aya the pressed orchid. “Aya, did you grow it?”

“No,” he answered, quiet. Yohji was surprised, and he waited. “It was from the funeral.”

“Whose?” he answered with equal quiet.

“No one, drop it!”

Oh, well, so much for that, “Tell me.”

“Fuck you,” was the reply, but it sounded tired and stressed; Aya didn’t like him touching this.

“Tell me.”

“My parents’, okay!? What does it matter, put it down, just put it down!”

“All right,” he answered, setting it gently on the top of the sheet. He thought it best to bypass the picture; they’d already gone there, and Aya wasn’t giving up any answers. So he took the plunge and picked up the shot glass.

“Drink a lot?”

But Aya had gone silent again, just glaring.

“I drink. I get that, Aya. It’s this,” he reached in again and took out the syringe, “it’s this that’ll get you. I’ve been there, and it’s not a solution. You know?”

“I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

“You fucking need one.”

Yohji looked in the drawer; he didn’t want to touch what was still in there, didn’t want to feel the dried blood. Swallowing hard, he picked up one of the razor blades and held it up clasped carefully in the fingers of his right hand.

“I hate this,” he said honestly, shaking his head, “I hate that you do this.”

From the bed, Aya sat up to stare at him. He couldn’t read the expression, and that made it worse.

“Where do you cut? Your arm? Your leg? Why? This…this doesn’t fix it, does it? This is bullshit.” He dropped the blade listlessly into the drawer, staring down at it. Had anything made an impression, or was Aya going to pick it right back up again?

No, he decided, they were going to have this out one way or another.

The thing with the flower had been a small breakthrough, and Yohji was going to keep digging until it happened again, even if he had to tear the place apart, he was going to drag Aya out, secret by secret. Standing, he left the drawer open, its contents piled on the floor for Aya to see. Turning to the closet, he slid open the door, and suddenly Aya was on his feet. He didn’t move from beside the bed, but he reached out a hand in some futile gesture.

“Leave it alone,” he stated

“What?”

“Leave it alone.”

“What’s in there?” He had thought the drawer was the worst, but obviously not. Disregarding the painful whine Aya made when he did it, Yohji slid open the closet door. He didn’t know where to start, so he watched Aya. There was no reaction as he fingered the clothes, no movement when he shifted the lid of the smaller box, no acknowledgement as he lifted out the collar; he moved through the uncomfortable silence, watching and listening. Then, in accident almost, his hand fell to the lid of the large wooden box; Aya stepped forward, halted, stepped back as if to cancel the action. But Yohji had seen.

But he had been in that box. It was just clothes. No, wait, he had only opened it. Yohji was figuring out that looking didn’t work with Aya; you had to dig.

Taking firm hold of the box, he drug in out into the middle of the floor.

“What’s this?”

“Nothing,” Aya answered, the anger was gone; it was a quiet, pleading kind of voice that didn’t belong to their leader. “Leave it alone.”

Yohji shoved off the lid to reveal the expensive, white fabric of a haori. He wiped his hands on his jeans before touching it and heard Aya groan as he pulled it out. But there was nothing to it, and he laid it aside. Beneath were a pair of hakama; these he put aside and found a heavy, white kimono. Beneath that was another sheet.

He was beginning to hate white sheets.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled it away.

It didn’t register at first, not like the things in the drawer. He had expected something horrible, bloody towels, a stash of drugs, but there was nothing so dramatic. In one corner was a box, small and black lacquer. Beneath it was a stack of rice paper, and beside that thin strip of white cloth. There was a sword; it was short and clean, probably old, with its wooden handle engraved in kanji Yohji couldn’t read.

He thought it looked like something out of a samurai movie.

Then it hit him, a sudden, sick realization. He turned on Aya, staring, wide-eyed and truly terrified.

Aya stared back, frozen.

“Don’t,” the swordsman finally whispered, “don’t touch it.”

Yohji shook his head, “Why do you have this?”

“Don’t touch it,” Aya repeated.

“The fuck I won’t. I’m taking this, all this shit, I’m not gonna sit here—”

“No!” Aya yelled, and with a sudden movement he had thrown himself down by the box, leaning over it protectively as he tried to gather the clothes back into its confines.

“Get away from it!” Yohji demanded, trying to shove him off it.

“No! Go away! Leave me alone!”

“Fuck no! Get off it!” He shoved, hard, and Aya fell back. He scrambled to get back to the box, but Yohji had it shut and behind his back. Aya lunged for it, and Yohji caught him, shoving him down again and landing half on top of him. The redhead got one hand free and grabbed Yohji’s hair; flipping them over, he banged the taller man’s head against the floor hard enough to make him see stars.

Aya was trying to get up, but Yohji took the most direct route he could think of and punched him, hard, in the stomach. It didn’t slow him down, but it did bring his focus back to Yohji. Laying flat on his back didn’t give him much chance to move, and before he knew it, Aya was straddling his hips and the swordsman’s rough hands were once more at his throat, his own longer fingers trying to pry the others off his neck as he struggled to breathe.

There wasn’t much dignity in it, but he was choking, damnit; he kneed Aya in the groin. The other gasped, and Yohji used the moment to change their positions, using his weight to hold Aya down while the younger man struggled, but Yohji had his arms, now, and if the wire was good for anything, it was upper body strength, and, at that moment, all he could think about was keeping Aya away from that damn box.

“Stop it!” he demanded when Aya tried to roll to his side The little shit was hard to hold, but Yohji was determined. “Calm down!”

“Get off me!”

“Not until you stop!”

“Fuck you!”

That was it. He was helping one way or another. It was risky, but he couldn’t afford to sit on Aya all night; he would get away eventually. So, taking both his wrists into one hand, Yohji used the other to free his wire. Carefully, he wrapped it around the thin wrists, trying not to look at the poignant look of betrayal on Aya’s face.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, but don’t pull on this or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Was it ironic or stupid that he was telling Aya not to hurt himself? Would the idiot take advantage of the wire to slit his own wrists? Yohji decided not to leave it for long, because he wasn’t sure.

Still straddling Aya’s thighs to prevent an escape, he pulled the redhead into a sitting position, keeping careful hold of his collar.

Then everything went to hell, again.

There was pain, and it took Yohji a second to realize Aya had head butted him like a fucking goat.

“Shit!” he cried, hand going to his nose to stem the bleeding. Then he found himself flat on his back and devoid of  his prey. Aya slipped out from under him and made for the box. Yohji didn’t think either of them had an idea of what they were going to do with it; this had degraded into some kind of morbid king of the hill game.

His face ached as he rolled over to watch Aya kneel by the box and struggle with his wired wrists.

“Don’t,” Yohji warned, even as he saw blood start to run down the other’s arms. There was some satisfaction, he admitted, that he had scored an attack, but even the feeling made him sick. This is what he didn’t want. “Stop it!” he demanded again as Aya fought the wire with more aggravation than skill.

Pushing himself off the floor, Yohji took a swipe at his nose, smearing the blood over his face and staring disgustedly at his own hand before going back to Aya.

“You stupid fucker,” he accused. Aya looked up at him, glaring hard, obstinate as he tugged again at the wire, making it bite deeper into his flesh. Taking a deep breath, Yohji stepped close; without warning, he kicked Aya in the stomach. The man doubled over, coughing, and Yohji had him. Kneeling behind him, Yohji had the wired out in an instant, looping it around Aya’s thin shoulders, trapping his arms to his sides with the steel coils. It wasn’t easy; Aya struggled and coughed and swore at him, as desperate as a wild animal.

Assured he was caught, Yohji gathered everything back into the box, careful to keep the clothes clean. Securing the lid, he stood and lifted it into his arms.

“Don’t,” Aya said, looking up at him from his place sitting on the floor. He was struggling again, the wire biting into his arms, starting to draw blood even through the sleeves of his sweater.

“Sit still. I’ll be right back,” Yohji told him. Just as he turned, Aya yelled at him.

“Don’t take it!” he commanded. Yohji didn’t turn back, and the next call wasn’t so demanding, “Please, Yohji, don’t take it.”


~tbc?~

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