Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ This is Not My Life ❯ Don't know what to do... ( Chapter 11 )

“I don't know what to say, I don't know what to do….”

 

--AYA—

 

OW.

 

Why. Does. My. Head. Feel. Like. There's. A. Railroad. Spike. Driven. Through. It.

 

….

 

I must be sick.

 

My chest feels heavy, and I'm way too warm. Last time I felt like this I had the flu….

 

Shit. I'll be useless for missions for at least a week!

 

Manx will be pissed. I shoulda taken more vitamins…or…something….

 

I need to get up and find some medicine…but my head hurts too much to move….

 

Did I do something to make me sick? I can't remember.

 

Hang on…. I think my chest feels heavy because something's on it. What the….

 

….

 

There is an arm on my chest.

 

WHY is there an arm on my chest?

 

And the more important question…who in the frickin' blazes does it belong to?

 

I'm scared to look.

 

I really really don't want to look.

 

So, of course I look.

 

….

 

I knew I didn't want to look.

 

WHY is Yohji in my bed?

 

No, don't answer that. I'm positively certain I won't like it.

 

My instinct says to jump up and push him off, but 1) I think the sudden movement would make me pass out from pain, and 2) that would wake up Yohji, and he's the very last person I want to talk to right now.

 

Unfortunately, lying here not moving won't prevent him from eventually waking up anyway.

 

Damn.

 

Maybe if I pretend to be asleep he'll just go away?

 

Yeah right. He's been known to stay in bed for days.

 

I'm screwed.

 

I guess I'll just have to try to get out without waking him up. Well, this should be fun…..

 

I try shifting sideways very slowly. Yohji's arm responds by clamping down on me; he probably thinks I'm one of his stupid girlfriends. Ew. I don't want to elaborate on that thought….

 

Shifting the other way results in his head landing on my shoulder, and him breathing noisily in my ear. I might have to kill him for this.

 

It doesn't look like I'm going to manage to escape without waking him.

 

I should just get it over with and push him off, but when I said I didn't want to talk to him, I wasn't kidding. I have no clue why he's there, and it's a good bet the explanation is embarrassing. And Yohji, being the type of guy that he is, is never going to let it drop. I have years of harassment to look forward too, oh boy. So, not wanting to hasten my imminent mortification, I end up just lying here, stalling.

 

Damn, I wish I could remember what happened last night!

 

After a fairly long time spent with my eyes scrunched shut (pretending, rather unconvincingly, to be asleep,) I take the chance of opening one to check on my bedmate's status.

 

Mottled green oculars stare back.

 

Gah! How long has he been awake?

 

….

 

And if he's awake, why the bloody hell is he still hugging me?

 

I finally let my instinct step up, and push him off, hard.

 

Now it's his turn to go “Gah!”

 

If I wasn't so freaked out I would have enjoyed that.

 

We end up balancing on opposite ends of the bed, glaring at each other accusingly.

 

“What the hell was that for?” he cries, trying to look scandalized.

 

“What the hell are you asking me what the hell that was for?” I shout back, “Let's start with another question, like, what the hell are you doing in my bed?”

 

A smug expression creeps onto Yohji's face.

 

Danger Aya Fujimiya, danger.

 

“Actually,” he drawls, “this is my bed; it's not my fault you decided to crawl into it.”

 

I can actually feel the color draining out of my face.

 

No way.

 

He can't be serious.

 

I would never ever do…. But I can't remember what I did.

 

My distress must have been visible, because he grins and pats me on the shoulder. “Don't worry,” he says cheerfully, “you were great.”

 

What?

 

I…No. We…. Didn't. Wait, no, WHAT?

 

I'm throttling him before I even know what I'm doing. “Die.”

 

Just as quickly my grip's lost and he has the advantage.

 

“Chill out,” he says forcefully, “I was joking. Nothing happened.”

 

My arms drop limply as he releases my wrists. “Christ,” he mutters, rubbing the scenario in all the more, “I can't believe you really thought something happened.”

 

“What was I supposed to think,” I snap back, “waking up with someone like you practically on top of me!”

 

That was…the wrong thing to say. But I always seem to pick the wrong thing to say.

 

He goes cold, “Would you care to fill me in on exactly what you mean by someone like me?” Were his eyes always that piercing? For the first time I have an inkling of how his victims feel right before he draws his garrote. Well, two can play at that game. He may have a better glare than I'd given him credit for, but he can't out-glare me.

 

“Someone,” I reply icily, “who'd shag anything that moves.”

 

If I thought his first glare was bad, the one that followed literally makes the room temperature drop several degrees.

 

“I never took you for someone that'd take reputations at face value, Ayan,” he bites out, “I've been giving you too much credit.”

 

Using that stupid nickname he'd invented was obviously calculated to drive the knife in further, and it did exactly that.

 

“You deny it then?” I hiss.

 

“I deny that I'd take advantage of a person too drunk to even recognize who I was. What kind of sick bastard do you take me for?” The coldness collapses into an exhausted kind of hurt. I almost feel bad. Almost…. Hang on, is he saying I was drunk?

 

He reads the confusion on my face. “Don't give me that look,” he says, “you weren't just drunk, you were wrecked. And don't even think of blaming me, you did it yourself.”

 

Desperate to avert the awkwardness from myself, I accuse feebly, “What kind of answer was that? Are you saying you would have taken advantage of me if I was sober!”

 

I expect of course, a look of disgust on his face followed by vehement denial of even considering such a notion. Instead, to my shock, his expression goes blank. Then he frowns, and says carefully, “I don't take advantage of people.”

 

“You're dodging the question,” I say. All the forcefulness has left me now, I just feel uneasy. I can't read his face at all….

 

“No I'm not,” he says folding his arms across his chest, “I have to say that I'm extremely disturbed that you seem to view me as some sort of sexual predator,” his voice is tired and sad now, “I admit you're right, I have been around more than the average person, but I'd never touch anyone without their consent. I'm not like that.” Then he adds, “And I most certainly don't `shag anything that moves' as you put it, Christ.”

 

“That's not what I meant by that question,” my voice has gone funny now, no one's ever freaked me out quite this much before….

 

“Then you're going to have to re-phrase your question,” he says dryly.

 

“Your wording implied that if I were consenting you'd be willing to shag me.” I can barely get the words out, I'm sure my face is red.

 

He just blinks and then shrugs.

 

“What's that supposed to mean?” I squeak.

 

“I don't know,” he says way too calmly, “I never really considered it until you put the idea in my head.”

 

“You shouldn't have to consider it!” I find myself backing up, only to nearly fall on the floor, “And don't go putting that on me! It's your fault I got the wrong idea!”

 

“I at least consider everything,” he replies with irritation. “Just because I'll consider something doesn't mean I'll actually go for it,” he rolls his eyes, “it's not my fault you have no sense of humor, I think what's really bothering you is that you're realizing that you might have allowed yourself to be taken advantage of.”

 

“I wouldn't have!” I cry desperately.

 

“Then why'd you think I had?” he throws back at me.

 

“If I was drunk you could have overpowered me.” I say, the realization that I'm not going to win this battle of logic sinking in….

 

“Did you wake up with any injuries?” Yohji asks, the coldness creeping back into his voice.

 

I shake my head, not even capable of answering.

 

“Then I obviously didn't do anything to you without you letting me,” he says with finality, “which is inconsequential since I didn't do a damn thing except make sure you passed out on a bed instead of the floor. You're welcome for that, by the way.”

 

“Work out your own insecurities before you go attacking others,” he mutters before locking himself in the bathroom and leaving me feeling very small and lost.

 

Forty minutes later he remerges; showered and composed. There's not a trace of lingering negativity from our row. In fact, he gives no indication whatsoever that this morning had even happened. How does he do that? I can barely look at him without flinching. My mind is a shattered mess of guilt and anger. Why did I drink last night? I never drink. Why'd Yohji let me? He acts like he's my friend, but just because he didn't make me drink doesn't shunt all his responsibility. He was obviously there, he could have stopped me. How much is he really telling me, anyway, he's definitely holding something back; something happened, it might not be what we were fighting about, but something definitely happened. Damn him, how can he act so normal!

 

“So,” he announces casually, “where to today, Rokuonji?”

 

My jaw drops. He's willing to just go along and keep visiting temples after all of that? If I were him I would have snuck out and driven off, leaving me to get home by myself. Why is he still planning on following my agenda? I'm confused. I don't understand Yohji at all.

 

I shake my head. I don't feel like going to temples in this weird mood he's put me in. I wouldn't be able to concentrate on Aya chan at all. “You decide,” I say quietly, only because I'm at a loss for what else to do beside my original plan.

 

“Hmm,” he muses, “I'd really like to check out the philosopher's path.”

 

That raises my suspicions at once. It sounds entirely like a suggestion formulated to appeal to me, not him. What's he plotting?

 

“Why?” I ask skeptically.

 

“It's supposed to be one of the best places to see the cherry trees round here, you know,” he replies.

 

“It's the wrong season,” I point out, “there aren't any cherry blossoms.” Is he really that dumb?

 

“I have a good imagination,” he shrugs. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

 

As I don't, I somehow find myself reluctantly trailing after my maddening coworker beneath the row of cherry trees that line the walk along a stream through the middle of the city.

 

I still have a headache, but I'm too stubborn to ask Yohji to stop so I can buy some painkillers. He's obliviously walking along and commenting on the trees, which by the misfortune of the season are no more special looking than any other tree we might have passed within the city. Despite this, I'm trying very hard to find them interesting. I'm constantly diverting my attention to the stream and trying to find that interesting. But my traitorous throbbing head is stuck on finding only one thing interesting today, and that is the lanky blond strolling ahead of me. Lanky? I usually regard him as irritatingly thin. When did he become lanky?

 

I silently curse myself out. Last night, I apparently drank myself into permanent brain damage. There is no way I would have such weird thoughts about Yohji otherwise. I've given myself brain damage, and my broken mind simply can't move past the stupid ideas that Yohji planted in it this morning. He's going to pay for this.

 

The next thing I know there's a hand waving in my face. “Yo. Aya, wake up.” Yohji's saying.

 

I stop and blink at him. “What?”

 

“Are you okay? You totally spaced out and you look kind of ill.”

 

“Headache,” I mutter.

 

“Oh,” he nods and rummages in his pocket for a minute. “Here.”

 

I look at the pills in his hand suspiciously. It's not any brand I'm familiar with. “What are they?” I ask.

 

“Medicine for hangovers,” he says. As I've never before had to deal with a hangover, I suppose it's not surprising that I don't recognize them. My rationality is yelling at me not to take strange medicine I've never seen before, but the headache wins. If Yohji's trying to poison me, then at least I won't have to deal with weird thoughts about him anymore.

 

When did I become so cynical?

 

“You need food,” he announces and proceeds to drag me into a nearby café without stopping to hear my perspective on the subject.