Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Walking on Hell ❯ Mercy ( Chapter 1 )

Walking on Hell
Scribblemoose

Never forget:
We walk on hell
Gazing at flowers

Issa

Chapter 1: Mercy

"Aya-kun… he looks so pale. Will he be alright?"

"He's lost a lot of blood," said Aya, grimly.

"He'll be fine, Omi," Ken reassured. "Yohji's strong."

"He got the information, by the looks of it," Aya handed Omi the small grey disc. "Go have a look, see if you can find that schedule. Ken, get the med kit."

"Of course, Aya-kun." Omi headed for his computer, Ken for the bathroom.

Aya sat on the edge of Yohji's bed with a sigh.

"Oh, Yohji." He picked up Yohji's clammy hand, kissed the palm. "Come on, wake up," he murmured.

Unusually obedient, Yohji's eyes fluttered open. "Maki?"

"Aya," Aya corrected, "just Aya."

"Maki… is she okay? She ran, I told her to run, and then…"

"Yohji, shh. Who's Maki?"

Huge green eyes gazed uncomprehendingly at Aya, swimming with tears.

"She ran," he said, hopelessly.

"Yohji," Aya began, but before he could finish his sentence Ken was back with the med kit.

"Is he awake?"

"Yes, but only just. Painkillers first, Ken. Then we'll sort out the dressing."

"Maki…" whispered Yohji, his eyes sliding shut.

* * * * * * *

"How's Yohji?" Omi looked up anxiously from his computer screen.

"He's sleeping," said Ken.

"How did you get on?" Aya noticed Omi had found the schedule. At least Yohji's efforts hadn't been in vain, then.

"Perfect! The three of them are getting together tonight."

"Tonight? But what about Yohji?"

"Leave him alone," said Aya, with his usual authority. "We can manage, if we have to."

Omi nodded, resigned as ever to Aya's lead. Ken looked a little more concerned, but Aya clearly wasn't taking opinions.

Yohji showed no signs of stirring when they left the Koneko that night. Omi looked in on him, and said he was sleeping, although Aya doubted it. But he didn't say anything. They set out in the thunder and rain to deliver Kritiker's justice in silence.

Looking up at the Riot building, garishly exposed in strobes of lightning, Aya felt a presence behind them, and wasn't surprised that it was Yohji. They exchanged an intense look; he noted the paleness of Yohji's face, the pain he was fighting, the wild hatred in his eyes.

Aya knew that hatred.

One more flash of power through the sky, and he led them to the kill.

* * * * * * *

Maki had been beautiful, Aya realised. Even bruised and broken, defiled by evidence of torture and death, it was clear she'd been beautiful. From the way Yohji was looking at her, she'd had something else about her, too. Perhaps she was more than just a shade of the dead Asuka, after all.

He turned away. Aya's relationship with Yohji was complicated, a perilous mire of undefined boundaries, but he knew this: that Yohji's affairs with women were destructive, and fickle, and nothing to do with Aya at all.

He left Yohji to his grief, Omi and Ken following him out of the room.

"I'm glad," said Ken. "Riot deserved to die, every last one of them. How could anyone do that to a girl? It was…"

"It happens. All the time." Aya leaned against the wall, waiting for Yohji, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"It's sick." Ken slid down to sit on the floor, fiddling with some mechanism in his bugnuks.

"How did Yohji know her?" Omi asked, "did he know her from before? He really cared for her, ne?"

Aya regarded Omi through narrowed eyes. The young assassin was perceptive, especially when it came to his teammates. "He rescued her. That's all I know. And it must've been her who brought him back and called us."

"Hai. So she rescued him back, in a way. And got herself captured again…"

"What a stupid waste." Ken kicked one booted heel against the floor.

Yohji appeared at the door, then. He and Aya exchanged a nod.

Wordlessly, Aya led them home.

* * * * * * *

Back at the Koneko Yohji went straight to his room, and Aya didn't follow. It was too early, he knew. Yohji needed to sleep, and to let the memory of the killing and the bitter, fruitless revenge fade a little. Then he would be able to talk, for a short while, and then it would be too late, and he'd be Yohji again, flirting and pretending and slacking.

Aya knew these things because, like the others, he lived them every day. They all had their own ways of trying to cope; Omi's denial, Ken's temper, Aya's silence and Yohji's escape.

None of them worked, not really.

"Aya-kun? I was going to make tea, if you'd like some?"

Omi's sky-blue eyes looked up at him, a little sad.

Aya nodded. "Thanks, Omi."

The youngest assassin scuttled off to the kitchen.

Ken threw himself into the sofa, remote in his hand. "I don't understand how anyone would get their rocks off killing or maiming women," he said, flicking through channels to find anything that remotely resembled sport. "It's unbelievably sick."

"It's about power," said Aya, sitting in the armchair and retrieving his book from under a cushion. "Like rape. It's nothing to do with sex."

Ken looked at him, startled. It wasn't like Aya to offer a view on such things. "But those women didn't have power to start with," he said, "they were tied, or drugged, or just weak. They didn't stand a chance. Where's the power in that?"

"In making them that powerless," said Aya. "Making them desperate enough that they'll work for dangerous people, doing dangerous things, without questioning, just for a living. Eventually they believe they're worthless anyway, the guilt and the sin have eaten away at their souls and they don't think they deserve any better. That's when they lose their power. The killing's just the natural end of it all."

Ken wrenched his eyes back from Aya's intense violet eyes to the television.

"I still don't see why. Why do they need all that power? How can they get anything out of breaking people? How…"

Ken was interrupted by Omi rushing back into the room.

"Aya-kun, I'm worried about Yohji-kun. He wouldn't answer his door. I think he's locked it."

"Just leave him alone," Aya opened his book, running his index finger cleanly between the pages.

"Aya-kun, please. I'm worried. He was screaming. What if his fever's back?"

Aya looked up, sharply. "Screaming?"

Omi nodded, and added, softly: "Asuka."

Aya rose wordlessly, and headed for the stairs.

* * * * * * *

The door was only locked with a key, not bolted from the inside. Yohji hadn't wanted to keep everyone out, then.

"Yohji, it's Aya. Let me in."

He waited a few moments, then heard the lock clicking open, and the door swung in. Yohji padded back towards the bed without looking at him. He wore only sweatpants, and Aya got a glimpse of a tearstained face before he turned away.

Yohji sat cross-legged on the bed, and reached for his cigarettes.

"Omi said you were screaming. Are you okay?" asked Aya in the same matter-of-fact way that he might have asked Yohji if he was sneezing from catching cold.

"I must have been dreaming. I fell straight asleep, damn painkillers, and… it must have been a dream."

Aya joined him on the bed, folding long legs easily underneath himself. "Asuka," he said, watching Yohji carefully.

Yohji nodded, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, taking a long drag on his cigarette. "She died in front of me," he said, "all over again. I hadn't… it's been a while."

"It's not surprising," said Aya, soothing. "Maki…"

"I know. I know. I don't suppose there's anything to drink in the house, is there?"

"You mustn't drink," Aya reminded him. "Not with those painkillers."

"Oh yes, that's right," said Yohji, with a trace of bitterness. "I must remember to thank Kenken for giving me the 'no alcohol or operating heavy machinery' ones."

"They're the only ones strong enough," Aya admonished him, gently. "It's not Ken's fault."

Yohji sighed. "I know," he said. "But he makes a good scapegoat."

"Omi's making tea."

Yohji pulled a face. "I'm not that thirsty," he said.

There was a pause, before Aya said: "tell me about Maki."

Yohji sighed out a lungfull of smoke, ran his tongue over dry lips.

"I only spent one day with her," he said, "I can't really say I knew her. She was sad. She was full of life, curious, kind. She didn't deserve to die."

"She'll be the last. Riot won't kill any more," said Aya, his voice steady and low.

"No." Yohji leaned towards the ashtray, wincing as his wound pulled. "But others will. Or worse."

Aya couldn't answer that. You couldn't be in Weiß for long without being aware that the world was a bottomless pool of dark beasts, and even more so of those other, more ambiguous beasts, the ones who may not have earned Kritiker's brand of justice, but still eluded the other kind. Causing endless pain and suffering. Endless evil.

"She reminded you of Asuka."

"Yes," said Yohji, quietly. "She was funny, and spirited, like Asuka. And bright. And she looked after me, like Asuka did. . . And I let her die, like. . ."

"Yohji. . ." Aya's warning tone.

"If I'd helped her escape straight away, or if I'd not waited for that stupid download. . ."

"Yohji, you were on a mission. Thanks to you, and Maki, Riot are gone. There won't be any more Makis. You saved countless women."

"But if. . ."

"There's no point." Aya reached out a hand to stroke Yohji's hair, pulling it back from his shoulders into an unbound pony tail. "We completed the mission. That's all."

Yohji slumped. "I know," he whispered. "But. . ."

"Shhh. . ." Aya shifted his touch to Yohji's back, rubbing gently in small circles.

"Aya. . ." Yohji turned pleading eyes to Aya, vivid green and swimming with unshed tears; "will you stay?"

Aya nodded.

"Thank you," Yohji squeezed Aya's hand.

"Get rid of that cigarette and get into bed," said Aya. "You need sleep."

Yohji obediently crushed the burning embers into his already-full ashtray, and slid under the covers Aya was holding back for him. He watched as Aya got undressed, slowly unbuttoning shirt and pants, slipping cotton over lithe limbs, carefully folding. Finally, clad only in soft cotton underwear, he slid into Yohji's bed and took him in his arms.

Yohji was warm, and felt good tucked against Aya's body. Lying on his uninjured side, he eased one leg over Aya's thigh, one gangly arm over his stomach. Aya resumed his stroking of Yohji's back, soft and reassuring.

"I'll get the light," he said, shifting to reach the switch.

"No," said Yohji, "not yet."

Aya turned to him, surprised. "You want to sleep with the light on?"

"No," Yohji's voice sounded a little like his teasing one. "I don't want to sleep, just yet."

"Oh, Yohji," sighed Aya. "You're wounded, you stupid bastard."

"I just want. . . please, Aya? I'm fine, really. I could. . ."

Aya silenced him with his mouth, kissing Yohji softly. He felt the familiar desire wash over him as it always did when he held this slender body in his arms; Yohji's knowing tongue was sliding easily between Aya's lips, tasting of cigarettes and coffee. They both knew that kissing him like that was the best chance Yohji had to persuade Aya of anything.

"You have a gunshot wound. I don't want to hurt you," Aya murmured. "You need sleep, Yohji."

"You won't hurt me. Aya, please?" Yohji turned on the full force of his pleading emerald gaze.

"All right. Let me turn the light off, and I'll think about it," Aya conceded, one hand gently rubbing Yohji's arm. "OK?"

"Alright," Yohji agreed, and released Aya long enough for him to throw the light switch.

They settled back into each other, eyes adjusting to the new dark.

"OK?" said Aya, brushing Yohji's hair back, stroking the side of his face.

"Yes," said Yohji, moving one hand up to tease one of Aya's nipples, his eyes fluttering closed at the approach of Aya's kiss. He moaned softly, losing himself in warmth and touch.

Aya could feel Yohji's arousal, quick as ever, quick as his own, pressing into his thigh through his thin fabric. He stroked one hand down Yohji's side, bringing sleepy flesh to life with his firm touch, sweeping over his hip and dipping under elastic and cotton to greet Yohji's waiting sex.

He felt Yohji's own hand smoothing down his belly, on its way to return the compliment, and broke their kiss. "No, Yohji. Just relax. This is just for you."

Yohji whimpered in reply, too confounded by desire and drowse to argue. He rested his hand over Aya's belly button, and reclaimed his mouth, sliding his tongue in again, cigarettes and coffee, and Yohji. . .

Aya massaged his cock carefully, not too gently but not too harshly, caressing the head with its sheath, long, loose strokes. Yohji simply melted at his touch, hips rolling slightly in rhythm, whimpers turning to moans of pleasure. Aya kissed his eyelids, his nose, the soft skin of his cheeks and jaw, his throat.

"Aya. . . want you . . ."

"No, Yohji," Aya made his name sound like a honeyed breeze, "this is for you. Just for you." He increased the pressure a little, as if to squeeze all thought from Yohji's mind and just let him feel. . .

Yohji responded with a moan, raising his head a little for a deep kiss, his fingertips fluttering slightly over Aya's belly. His sex was hard and eager in Aya's hand, pulsing life.

Aya stroked him steadily, kissed him tenderly, held him close, and loved him.

Yohji didn't scream like he usually did, when he came. He buried his face in Aya's neck, his open mouth and hot breath caressing Aya's skin, and whispered: "Aya . . . oh, God, Aya, so good . . . Aya," and then his body stiffened, and he spurted into Aya's waiting hand, over and over, still breathing his name.

Finally his body trembled to limp, and Yohji raised Aya's slick hand to his own lips, licked palm and fingers clean.

"Let me. . ." he whispered, his hand snaking under the covers again, but Aya caught it, and held it once more over his belly. His centre. His ki.

"Sleep, Yohji," he breathed, putting his own insistent arousal out of his mind. "Sleep without dreams," he murmured, fluttering kisses through Yohji's hair.

Exhausted, spent and warm, Yohji slept, while Aya guarded him from nightmare.

* * *