Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Walking on Hell ❯ Driven ( Chapter 3 )

Walking on Hell
Scribblemoose

Never forget:
We walk on hell
Gazing at flowers

Issa

Chapter 3: Driven

Everything had changed.

Omi was a Takatori.

Omi had let the target get away.

Omi had pointed a weapon at Aya with a trembling hand, and let Takatori Hirofumi get away.

Omi's brother.

Takatori.

Aya turned onto his side with a grunt, squinting at the sunlight that blazed through the window into his room. He pulled the pillow to his chest, catching the faintest scent of Yohji on the crisp cotton.

From yesterday, he remembered, without smiling. From yesterday afternoon, when he'd been getting changed for the mission, and Yohji had come in with heat in his eyes and pushed Aya against the wall, kissing him roughly, fingers fiercely clutching his skull, twisting in his hair. When Yohji had peeled his jeans open, just enough to fish out his hardening cock, bringing him fully erect with a few swift strokes.

And it had been too much for Aya to take, this aggressive, needing Yohji.

Yohji had been that way ever since Neu. Once Yohji had seen the eyes of his dead Asuka behind Neu's mask, all he'd wanted was oblivion. Not the languid caresses or soft kisses they'd begun companionably to enjoy before Schrient invaded their lives. The nightmares had returned, and with them all Yohji's insecurity and pain. Only this time Aya's comfort didn't seem enough.

For the first time since Maki, Aya had smelt women on Yohji, and this time he couldn't bear it.

So yesterday, when Yohji had come here, to Aya's room, and demanded oblivion, he'd half-thrown his team-mate on his bed; he'd pinned his hands above his head and sat on his chest; he'd shoved his cock into Yohji's mouth, muffling any protest with a crude thrust of his hips. Yohji had glared at him, even as he'd made Aya's shaft throb with pleasure, his tongue busy and agile, his throat wet and tight. Aya had gripped Yohji's wrists tightly and let the pleasure build, rocking steadily into Yohji's mouth, until he'd felt the barest brush of fingertips against his anus.

"No."

He'd pulled out of Yohji's mouth then, moving back down his body, out of reach of Yohji's touch, stripping Yohji's pants off as he went.

"You know you want to," Yohji had purred. "Go on, love. Let me take you. Let me fuck you. Let me be the first."

"I thought you had women for fucking," Aya had replied, grasping Yohji's hips and turning him over, pulling Yohji back by his thighs so he was on all fours, his own tiny hole exposed to Aya's touch.

"I could extend my range," said Yohji. "It would be a first for both of us." Which might have been a lie.

"Never," snarled Aya, grabbing a tube of lubricant and a condom from the table by the bed and squirting a long line of clear gel down the crack of Yohji's ass.

He'd insisted on the condoms, once he'd found out that Yohji was seeing women again, however careful Yohji claimed to have been.

"You might like it," said Yohji, but his voice had lost it's usual seductiveness. It sounded flat and hard, and they both knew he'd already lost.

Then Aya had swiftly sheathed and slicked his own cock, and plunged into Yohji so fast it burned both of them. He could still feel it, now, twenty four hours later, the sharp edge of tenderness to his sensitive skin.

"Fuck, Aya!" protested Yohji, but he'd wiggled his hips back to take Aya all the way inside, just the same.

He and Yohji had fucked like dogs, right here on his bed, just yesterday; they had bucked and writhed together as if they were fighting each other, until they both came, Yohji first, catching his load in one hand, then Aya, pulling out at the last minute to pull off the condom and spatter Yohji's back with globs of white, marking him, for that moment, making him his.

Yohji hadn't said a word since Aya had first entered him, and he didn't say anything afterwards, either. There was no licking sated flesh clean, no collapsing in a tangle of shaking limbs onto the futon. Aya left him, face down on the bed, covered in come, his face buried in this pillow, this pillow, that Aya now held, that still bore the trace of his scent to Aya's flaring nostrils. Aya had snagged a towel and gone to the bathroom to shower, slamming the door behind him.

When he'd returned, Yohji had already gone.

The mission had proceeded as usual; it was as if nothing had happened at all.

Perhaps nothing had.

* * * * * * *

"Well done, Aya. You reduced Omi to tears. How did you manage it this time?"

Aya continued to gaze at the ceiling, still and quiet.

"Aya, you bastard, you…"

"Takatori."

"Yeah, I know. So he said. So? It's still Omi."

Aya turned his head and looked at Yohji, leaning in the doorway, his back against the frame, arms folded across his chest, all long legs and dark blonde hair. Aya's traitorous breath caught in his throat. "Is it?"

Yohji just sighed.

"What the fuck is it with you and Takatoris anyway? What did they do to you, Aya?"

Aya turned away, staring at the window once more.

Aya.

There was a silence; he began to wonder whether Yohji had given up and slipped away. Then he felt the dip of the futon behind him, the warmth of Yohji's body suddenly against his back.

"I'm sorry."

Aya's heart started to pound, and he hated it.

"Aya, I said…"

"I heard."

"It was just Asuka… Neu… whoever it was."

"What was?"

Yohji didn't hold him, he just carefully fit their bodies together, just touching his front to Aya's back, from their socked feet to the warmth of Yohji's breath against his neck.

"Yesterday. Before. Since… I behaved like a prick. I'm sorry."

Aya sighed. He wondered if Yohji was expecting a confession in return, or an apology. I'm sorry I was mean to Omi, but he belongs to a family that took everything from me, everything, my family, my home, my future, and turned me into a killer. He got between me and revenge, and I can't trust him anymore.

"I need you, Aya." Almost a whine.

Aya slowly reached back, and pulled Yohji's hand from where it lay between their bodies, draping it over his waist to rest on his belly. He felt Yohji's body relax, the puffs of breath came suddenly slower and deeper, and realised some of the tension had left his body, too.

That was a confession, of sorts. The only kind Yohji would be getting.

"Omi thinks the world of you," Yohji whispered in his ear. "And he's not responsible for what his family's done. Just think about it, Aya, please."

Aya said nothing.

* * * * * * *

Aya could sense Takatori Hirofumi in the corridor behind him, and he wanted to kill him.

He felt a rush of noise in his ears, and he couldn't concentrate.

It was easier when he didn't want it so badly.

He longed so much to feel the press of his katana against the man's skin, the fleeting resistance before the glorious, yielding moment when his sword sliced the flesh open and sank inside. He wanted to see crimson blood on that immaculate suit, and he wanted it to be the last blood the man ever shed. It felt like his destiny.

He moved without thinking, knowing it was dangerous, but unable to stop himself.

"Not yet."

Ken's voice, concerned, his hand firm on Aya's arm.

They were being watched.

"Too gloomy to be my fans," Yohji was saying, his drawl easy and casual but his eyes on Aya all the time, bright and alert.

The hairs on the back of Aya's neck bristled as Hirofumi passed the two white-suited body guards at the end of the corridor and moved out of sight.

"The exit," Ken murmured, "this way."

Aya caught a flash of orange hair and mocking eyes before he turned to follow Yohji and Ken. He shuddered.

He forced himself to stand still and watch Takatori Hirofumi be driven away, memorising the vision of him, looking forward to the moment he'd bring about his death.

"What are we going to do now?" Yohji asked. "The target's Omi's brother. This isn't going to be easy."

Surely he didn't think there was actually a choice?

Aya wanted to kill.

For her. For Aya.

"I don't care who's family it is," said Aya, coldly. "I will complete the mission."

He felt Yohji's concerned eyes on him, but it made no difference.

* * * * * * *

Yohji was waiting for him when he got home. Omi's bike was in the garage: he must have got back first, while Aya was still walking down by the Bay, avoiding the moment when he would be asked to explain to Yohji.

This moment.

Their eyes met briefly as Aya passed through the kitchen; he moved to the stairs and started to climb them, all the time expecting Yohji to speak his name. It didn't happen until he was half way up.

"Aya."

He kept moving, two more steps.

"Aya, it's not Omi's fault."

Aya froze. Of course, Omi would have told them about the hospital. He would think they had a right to know, because it might affect the mission. Of course.

"She's my sister, Kudoh, I have no choice."

There was a pause.

"Who's your sister, Aya?" Confused. Surprised.

Aya turned back, a frown on his face.

"In the hospital, where Omi…"

Yohji didn't know. Yohji hadn't known. Omi hadn't told him

Aya had told him himself, just now, without even meaning to. A secret kept so long, wasted on a guilty fear.

So he had to explain. He owed Yohji that much.

He sat on the stairs, halfway up, halfway down, and told Yohji about his parents, about the house blowing up, about Aya-chan, about his revenge.

Yohji moved forwards slowly as Aya spoke, as if stalking a frightened animal, until he knelt on the step below the one where Aya sat, his long fingers gently settling at the sides of Aya's thighs. Yohji's eyes seemed huge, misted with unshed tears. Aya contemplated those tears with horror; he'd expected anger, perhaps, that he hadn't told them before, or possibly sympathy, but this, this genuine pain was more than Aya could bear. And it raised a surge of hope in him that he didn't understand at all.

"We're the same," whispered Yohji, eagerly. "We both kill for… we both lost someone we loved."

"No. Nothing like the same," he said, coldly, his heart sinking again. "Aya is alive. Asuka is dead, Yohji."

"But revenge…"

"They took your partner. They took my whole life."

The kindness drained from Yohji's eyes. "I didn't know it was a contest," he said, coldly.

Aya let out a little sigh of frustration, rubbing his face with his palms, suddenly tired. "I didn't mean…"

"You took her name," Yohji said, his mind flitting, still coming to terms with the implications of what Aya had told him.

"Yes."

"Then…what's your real name?"

Aya opened his mouth to answer, and found he couldn't. Yohji had given him Aya's name, during the very first conversation they'd ever had, and it had seemed at the time almost as if, impossibly, Yohji knew about Aya-chan, as if he was accepting Aya's motives, his reasons for killing. It was an intimate, important thing, the giving of this name, and Aya didn't want to give it back.

He couldn't think of what to say, so he let the silence hang between them until Yohji realised he wasn't going to tell him.

"So I've been your… friend, all this time, but I don't deserve to know your name."

Aya sighed again, and made to stand up, reaching with one hand for the banister. Yohji slipped away from him, retreating a stair, letting his arms fall limply to his sides.

"Aya…"

"What?"

"I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do to help with your sister, anything at all…"

"It's between me and her," said Aya, quickly, jealous of his secret even now. "Don't tell anyone." Although suddenly, there was only one person who didn't know. "I mean, don't tell Ken. And Omi doesn't know much, there's no need for him to know more. I don't want to talk about it."

He wanted desperately to be alone. He was so afraid of the feelings welling up inside him, all the pain and want and hurt that he usually kept choked down so well, that were now threatening to rise up and drown him. But Yohji had other ideas. Instead of retreating downstairs, or waiting for Aya to leave, or arguing with him so he could storm off in a temper, Yohji took the three stairs between them in one easy stride, put his arms around him and tucked Aya's head under his chin, stroking his back in circles, as if he were comforting a child.

Aya fought the sobs that rose in his chest with every last shred of strength he had left. He swallowed down the tears and the rage, squeezing his eyes tight shut against Yohji's soft shirt, gripping his hips with white-knuckled hands as his shoulders shook.

He needed to do something, anything, he needed to move to keep away from the hurt. He couldn't let go now. There was too much left to do. He turned from Yohji, taking his hand, and led him upstairs to his own room, not Aya's spartan surroundings but the comfort of Yohji's well-worn luxury. He kissed Yohji to shut his eyes; he pushed Yohji's shirt over his shoulders, knowing that every whisper of skin on skin would make Yohji forget his concern. He rolled his tongue around Yohji's, driving thought away, first Yohji's and then, more slowly, his own.

Once they were naked, and Yohji was pulling him down onto the bed, Aya dared to let their eyes meet, relieved to see the familiar, heated desire in vivid emerald. No pity, no questions, just a desire for oblivion as deep as his own.

Yohji rolled him over onto his back and kissed him, fumbling briefly under the pillow before pulling out a condom and a jar of lubricant.

Aya held his breath, wondering for a moment if Yohji meant to…

Yohji smiled, seeing the sudden spark of fear or anger in Aya's eyes. He didn't say anything, but shifted back to straddle Aya's thighs, coating Aya's cock with a little lube before he stroked the condom over it. He slathered more lube over the top and rose on his knees.

"Oh God, Yohji," breathed Aya, because he had to say something, Yohji was so painfully beautiful, poised above his straining erection, somehow giving himself and taking Aya, all at once.

Yohji sank down on Aya's erection, his eyes sliding shut, head cast back just a little, a smile slowly spreading across his lips and lighting his face. He moved slowly at first, circling his hips and wriggling at the bottom of every stroke to fully impale himself. Then as Aya's hips started to flex, Yohji caught his rhythm, and after that there was just the feeling of Yohji's tight ass around him, Yohji's soft fingers on him, Yohji's rising crescendo of cries in his ears. The rest of the world fell away in a wave of blessed relief, and Aya surrendered himself, knowing that these feelings, the lust and want and whatever else he might have felt for Yohji, while dangerous enough, were nowhere near as frightening and deep and black as his grief.

He might have cried when he came, but they were tears of lust and passion, and they didn't count.

And afterwards, if he fell asleep in Yohji's arms, it was just because he was tired and his body was languid and sated, and not because he needed to be held.

And later, if he whispered anything in Yohji's ear, then he surely must have already been asleep.

* * * * * * *

Aya couldn't bring himself to look at Omi the next day. He avoided the youngest assassin as much as he could, busying himself with orders and compost, and ignoring Yohji's reproachful glances. He breathed a sigh of relief when the boy went out on a date and left the three of them alone in the shop to contemplate the mission. Aya refused to listen when Ken and Yohji dared to discuss whether there even was a mission.

It was only when Manx called later that evening, and said that Omi had been kidnapped by one of Takatori's bodyguards, that it even occurred to any of them that he might be in danger.

All the way to the address Manx had given him, Aya prepared himself for Omi's death. He might already be dead when they got there. Or he might be prepared to defend Hirofumi again, in which case Aya would kill him to get to the target.

Could he kill Omi?

They took their positions and waited.

The first time Aya caught sight of Omi's battered and bleeding body, he didn't recognise him.

Not because of the welts and bruises that covered his fragile young skin; not because the cornflower eyes that defined Omi's very being were squeezed shut against the pain. It was the dignity with which he was taking the beating that took Aya so much by surprise, the maturity and honour in his frail body. He looked older, wiser, and as he told his brother, the brother who for a few brief days offered him the hope of love and family, that he despised him, Aya's heart clenched.

"You are not my brother."

Omi's decision made, the three of them leapt to save him; Yohji and Ken distracted the orange-haired body guard, but not well enough. Aya howled with rage as his revenge was whisked away once more. Yohji crossed to the window and watched slack-jawed as their target was spirited over the rooftops.

"It's as if the bastard could read my mind," he murmured. "Nice hair though."

Aya cut Omi down swiftly, slicing neatly through the rough rope that bound and tortured his wrists.

"Can you get up, Omi?" he asked, gently.

"Aya-kun, why?" The big eyes were back, swimming with tears now. "I'm a Takatori," he whispered, sounding almost ashamed.

Aya caught Omi's gaze in his, and spoke slowly, his deep voice echoing through the spartan apartment. "Omi, you aren't Takatori Mamaru. You are Tsukiyono Omi."

Omi's face broke out into a huge smile that filled his eyes, and warmed Aya's heart so much that he felt like a traitor.

* * * * * * *

The following night, Aya came back from making deliveries to find Omi had gone out, and no-one knew where. He waited up with Yohji until two in the morning, when they finally heard the purr of his motorcycle in the garage, the soft click of the door as he came in.

Omi set his bow down gently on the kitchen table, with a slightly shaking hand.

"The mission is complete." His voice quiet and steady.

"Chibi? Are you alright?" Yohji put an arm around Omi's shoulders.

"Yes, thank you, Yohji-kun. I think I'll go to bed now." His eyes were red and puffy: he'd been crying.

"Of course," soothed Yohji. "You want anything? Some tea? Soda?"

Omi shook his head. "No, thank you, Yohji-kun. I just want to go to bed."

Yohji shot Aya a look, expecting him to say something, to comfort Omi for the sacrifice he'd been forced to make, for the choice he'd been driven to.

He couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to speak at all.

Aya watched Omi climb the stairs on shaking legs, deprived for once of the fragile mask of denial that so often made him seem the sanest of them all, and looking younger than his seventeen years. Aya watched him with narrow eyes, and an ache deep inside that he could hardly bear. His revenge had been snatched away from him three times, and now there was no hope.

Takatori.

Omi had killed the target.

Omi was not a Takatori.

Only Takatori Reiji remained.

Everything had changed.

* * *