Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Walking on Hell ❯ Committed ( Chapter 4 )

Walking on Hell
Scribblemoose

Never forget:
We walk on hell
Gazing at flowers

Issa

Chapter 4: Committed

"I hate lilies. They smell of death." Aya arranged long stems with a delicacy of touch that belied his sentiment.

"Smell like cheap perfume to me," said Yohji, with a smirk, "and happy, happy memories."

Ken rolled his eyes. "They're just flowers," he said. "Can we shut up shop now? We're not going to get any more customers."

"Just ten more minutes," mumbled Yohji, gazing out of the window. And under his breath: "damn. She said she'd be here by now…."

Aya looked up sharply. "Who?"

"What?" Yohji turned from the window, a little guiltily. "Uh... no-one."

"Hn." Aya flashed an icy glare at him before returning his gaze to the arrangement he was working on.

"There's football," complained Ken. "And I'm not watching it," he added.

"Just a few more minutes…" Yohji stuck a cigarette in his mouth, searching pockets for his lighter.

"You don't need me, anyway. You and Aya can manage, surely."

"Don't be a pain in the ass, Ken," said Yohji, "I'm on my way out, and Aya's still got a truckload of arrangements to do. You're supposed to be here for another hour."

"It's not my shift," Ken pointed out, with feeling. "I only said I'd cover for you because you lied about the football being cancelled."

Yohji shrugged, lighting his cigarette and drawing deeply. "You're too gullible," he said. "Think of it as training. Oh, and… if I'm not mistaken…" a feline grin spread across his face, his eyes fixed on something outside "I'm out of here. Don't wait up."

Ignoring Ken's rapidly growing fury, Yohji slunk out of the shop and down the street. Ken watched, snarling, as he greeted a tall, blonde woman. She simpered. Actually simpered. Ken snorted in disgust.

Aya raised an eyebrow.

"Some woman," Ken explained, kicking one of the flower buckets irritably. "As usual."

"You did swap shifts," Aya's rich voice reminded him. "Quit complaining."

Ken slumped on the worktable, settling down to some prodigious sulking.

Aya watched the soft focus image of Yohji and the blonde walking past the window, framed by the flowers that lined the shopfront.

It should make what he had to do easier.

But it didn't.

* * * * * * *

What did it matter whether he killed in the name of Weiß?

According to the news, Weiß were murderers. Terrorists. Innocent people were being killed in their name.

While the guilty ones ran for office.

What good was Weiß?

Ran watched Takatori Reiji as he advanced towards him down a long hallway. Every time Ran's enemy passed a door a monster would emerge, and rush at Ran, and Reiji would wait while he killed it, before he started to stalk again.

By the time he reached the last door, Ran was covered in blood. The stench of gore choked him, made him retch. But he kept on killing, and at last his true enemy was there, in front of him, and justice would be served. Or Ran would die trying, he didn't much care which.

They stood watching each other, swords glinting in the overhead lights. Ran raised his arm to strike, but at the last minute he was distracted: the final door was opening and a familiar voice was calling out for help, desperate and wretched.

Ran froze.

"When you go to help him, I'll get away," said Reiji, smug, as if Ran's decision were already made. "You'll never find me again."

Ran shut his eyes, his guts wrenched by the sound of Yohji's screaming.

Reiji's voice rumbled on. " It won't end here, Fujimiya. You'll be drowning in blood forever. Your sword is not for this. Go help your boyfriend. You know you can't let him die. Not even for your precious sister and revenge."

"Shi-ne!" Ran screamed, and charged at Reiji, skewering him and ripping up through his body, hoping he'd sliced through his heart; he'd imagined this moment so often, and that part seemed important, somehow. His sword grated against bone and he reluctantly pulled it free, watching with elation as the mass of bleeding meat that had been Takatori Reiji fell to the ground.

He turned and ran through the door to save Yohji, but of course it was too late. Aya looked on in horror as the dead Asuka stood back from Yohji's body, one end of his wire tangled in her fingers, the other end wound tight round Yohji's neck.

Ran couldn't loosen it, couldn't stop it stealing Yohji's life.

"Aya," gasped Yohji, clutching at Ran's blood-drenched hand, gathering his last breath. "I thought you. . ."

Aya woke to the slam of a door, and sprang instantly awake. For a moment his heart twisted, still in the dream, but the memory faded quickly. He'd become used to forgetting dreams. They all had, except Yohji.

Yohji.

He squinted at the clock, just making out the numbers on the luminous face: 3am. He snorted to himself.

It looked like Yohji was early for once.

It wasn't that he cared what Yohji did in his spare time, he told himself. It was that he needed to keep his focus, and it was distracting, endlessly worrying about what trouble the man was getting into. It was dangerous, as far as missions were concerned, because he was out for hours at a time, and when the order came to kill Takatori Reiji, they would have to move quickly. That could prove difficult if Yohji was completely shitfaced or out fucking some woman he picked up in a club.

Takatori's death was so close that Aya could taste it, and yet still the order didn't come.

One more day. He would give Persia one more day to give the order, and if it didn't come he would go alone.

He heard a muffled curse from the room next door, a dull thud as the headboard hit the wall, probably from the impact of Yohji throwing himself on the bed.

Aya turned over and went back to sleep.

* * * * * * *

He wasn't sure how much later it was when he woke again, except that it was still dark. He couldn't make out what had disturbed him, either.

He scrubbed his face with his hands, pulling himself to sitting. 4.30am. He may as well get up, there was no way he'd get to sleep again now. One disturbance he could overcome, but two - well, there was no point, anyway.

He heard a noise then, a low sob. Crying. Yohji was crying.

No. Not Yohji.

Omi.

Aya turned the light on, and listened to Omi's grief, the soft, inadequate expression of the boy's pain at the loss of the girl he might have loved, one way or another. Takatori's daughter.

Is that why he couldn't go and comfort Omi? Is that what kept Aya from taking him tea and offering to cover the morning shift for him? Or was it worse than that, was it that he still hadn't forgiven Omi from taking his vengeance from him?

Or was it that he still couldn't trust him?

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his robe. He'd go and get a glass of water, he reasoned. Omi would hear him open his door, and if he needed him, he could come downstairs too.

Omi could do that. Unlike the rest of them, he knew how to show how he felt, how to ask for help. Most of the time.

Aya opened his door just in time to see Omi's opening as well, but not for Omi to come out. He watched in amazement as Ken slipped inside the youngest assassin's room, speaking Omi's name softly, comfortingly. The door clicked shut behind him, and Aya realised he was staring.

"Was that Ken?"

Aya started. Yohji was one of the few people who could move so quietly as to take Aya by surprise, and Aya hated it.

"Sorry," Yohji murmured. He smelled strongly of smoky bars and flowery perfume, but he appeared relatively sober for once. He could stand unaided, for one thing, and sneak up on Aya, for another.

"Goodnight, Yohji." Aya was halfway back into his room before Yohji grabbed his hand to stop him.

"Don't," he said. "You want to talk a while?"

"No," said Aya. "I'm exhausted. Go to bed."

"Can't sleep," said Yohji, and somehow he was following Aya into his room, and Aya was letting him.

Aya pulled the robe tighter around him, and sat on the bed. Yohji sat next to him, dressed in his old sweatpants, his hair an unruly jumble around his face, his big eyes full of that odd combination of sadness and mischief that was so appealing.

"So, Ken and Omi, eh?" He reached into the pocket of his sweats for his cigarettes, but withdrew it swiftly in response to Aya's glare. "Who'd have thought it?"

"He was just being nice," said Aya, conveniently forgetting that he'd jumped to exactly the same conclusion.

Omi's unmistakable giggle drifted across the hallway, followed by a squeal of "Ken, that tickles!"

"Yeah," smirked Yohji. "Very nice, by the sound of it."

"So long as it stops him crying," muttered Aya.

Yohji lay back, propping himself on his elbows and bringing his knees up, feet flat on the bed. "Did I miss anything?" he asked, burrowing his bare toes into the soft fabric of Aya's comforter.

"Another bombing on the news tonight," said Aya. "You should stay around more. We could get a mission."

"Yeah, I know," said Yohji. "I've been thinking that I shouldn't be out so much. I'll try and be a good little assassin from now on. There won't be any more dates 'til all this is over."

Aya wiped the surprise from his face before he turned to look at Yohji. "I don't believe that for a second," he said. "It's perfectly obvious you want to be anywhere but here," he added, as if it were unacceptable for a person to want to be somewhere other than at the beck and call of those who would order them to kill, in a house that stank of death and misery. "And the day you take your responsibilities seriously will be the day hell freezes over." At which point the ice will crack and we'll all fall in, he thought, for no particular reason. He rubbed his eyes; he was tired, and his brain wasn't working properly. That was a dangerous state to be in around Yohji at the best of times, and it made him feel vulnerable.

"I got dumped," said Yohji.

"Oh." Aya turned his back on Yohji again, and tried not to be pleased. After all, whatever Yohji did with women was nothing to do with him. All he knew was that women made Yohji more out of control, pushed him closer to the edge, and that wasn't good. So he was pleased, if this meant it was over for a while. And, of course, it was a security risk, dating of any kind. That was probably why he felt so relieved. Of course.

"You could show some sympathy," Yohji huffed.

Aya closed his eyes and sighed.

"Or not," Yohji added. "It hurts, you know, when that happens. When someone says they don't want you."

No, thought Aya. It makes it easier.

"A hug would be nice," suggested Yohji. "I'm in pain here, you know."

"It's late, Yohji," said Aya. "You should get some sleep."

"Yes. So give me a hug."

They'd played this through so many times. Comfort, distraction, another body in the night. Aya resigned himself to it, however much it went against his better judgement, and lay his body next to Yohji's, pulled the other man into his arms, and kissed his hair.

"That's better," murmured Yohji, his tongue flicking out at Aya's earlobe. "That's much better."

Aya's body responded, as it always did around Yohji, completely without conscience. It was as if the immorality that Yohji exuded somehow polluted him when they got this close, stripped him bare, leaving him in a state of raw and dangerous excitement. He rolled on top of Yohji, kissing him hard, plunging his tongue inside Yohji's mouth to wash away the taste of that blonde slut and replace it with his own. Yohji moaned and clung to him, his hands moving the soft silk of Aya's robe to caress his back.

Something that Aya refused, absolutely and completely, to identify as jealousy moved him to be rougher than normal, stopping to bite into Yohji's neck, sucking to raise a bruise between the teeth marks, dragging his nails across Yohji's chest, pinching one nipple cruelly. Yohji revelled in his subjugation, throwing his head back, gripping Aya's shoulders and hissing between clenched teeth. Aya suddenly wanted to do more than distract Yohji from his disappointment. He wanted to possess him, claim him, take him over. He wanted to stop Yohji from running away and wallowing in misery, and become. . .

No. He couldn't. He could fuck him. That was all. Nothing else. He couldn't afford anything else. Just another body in the night.

He leaned over to the chest by the bed, pulled open the top drawer and grabbed lube and a handful of condoms. Yohji moved to help, but Aya pushed him back, pinning him to the bed with one palm pressed to his chest. Yohji looked a little surprised, but not, apparently, unpleasantly so. He slid his hand up Aya's thigh underneath his robe, cool against the heated flesh. He squeezed the taut muscles and watched with lustful eyes as Aya rolled a condom on, watching Yohji back through his curtain of crimson hair.

He intended it to be hard and fast, maybe a little brutal. He'd wanted to shut Yohji up, to punish him, for the blonde, and for not caring, and for Neu and Asuka, and the other women who shouldn't mean anything to either of them. But once he was inside, once the slick heat of Yohji's body was clenched around his cock and those emerald eyes were devouring him, once Yohji's beautiful face was uptilted as he threw his head back with a pleasure-filled groan; once Yohji was his again, all he could do was love him.

He moved slowly, hating his traitorous body for wanting it so, but unable to resist. Yohji moved with him, gripping the sides of Aya's body with his thighs, his fingers tangled in Aya's hair, eartails dripping down Yohji's fair-skinned arms like blood.

"Oh Aya. . . so good, so good, oh, Aya, yes. . ."

All he had to do was kiss him, and the words would stop. Better they stop now, before they got dangerous.

"Oh Aya. . . oh fuck, mine, mine, mine . . ."

He didn't know what he was saying, of course. It was just the passion, the rising orgasm, the same good feelings that made Aya's toes curl up and his tongue to caress his lower lip.

"That's it, right there. . . oh, shit, Aya but you're so hard. . ."

All of Aya's senses were overwhelmed: the smell of stale smoke, the feel of sweet, slick skin, the sight of Yohji underneath him, hair tumbling back from his face, a flush over perfect cheekbones; the salty taste of his skin and the sweetness of his kisses; the voice, oh the sound of that voice, pure desire. The deeper Aya thrust the lower it got, telling Aya how big he was, how hot, how hard, how incredibly beautiful, until Aya couldn't stand it any more. He started to stroke Yohji's erection swiftly, as if it were his own, holding himself still until the last minute, when Yohji screamed his name.

"Coming. . . Aya. . . coming. . . I. . . love - "

The most dangerous word of all.

Aya let himself thrust again once Yohji had started to spray himself white; he savoured every last sensation of blissful friction until finally he came too, filling the condom in a series of spasms that rocked his body and somehow made him sink his teeth deep into Yohji's neck, biting and sucking for all he was worth.

"Aya. . . ow! Shit. . ."

He raised his head with a start, suddenly realising what he was doing. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Carried away." His breathing was still rapid, his mind fuzzy.

"It's okay," said Yohji, rubbing his marked neck and grinning up at Aya. "I kinda like it when you get all vampy like that."

Aya grunted and pulled away. Yohji settled beside him, put his arms around him and held him close, whether he liked it or not.

"Thank you," he yawned. "I needed that. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Aya closed his eyes, and hugged him back for the briefest of seconds. Yohji felt so warm, so good, his skin soft under Aya's lips.

"You'll cope," he whispered.

But Yohji was already asleep.

* * * * * * *

By the next sunset, Aya had stopped waiting, and he'd gone to the kill on his own.

He wanted it over and done. He knew what Persia had said was true, that he wasn't as strong alone, that he shouldn't risk his life when Aya-chan relied upon him. He knew these things. He also knew that Omi and Persia had lied to him, that Weiß was riddled with the same disease he had sworn to eradicate from the face of the earth.

He couldn't, wouldn't wait.

He should have done.

He should never have gone alone, to throw his life away so stupidly, to be fooled so easily. The humiliation of lying in the gutter under Farfarello's blade while Crawford mocked him, was nothing, compared to the humiliation of knowing Persia had been right.

Takatori had been denied him again, and it left a bitter aftertaste of futility and hopelessness. But he didn't want to die, not yet. Just as he was contemplating the irony of that realisation, and waiting for the final blow to come, the world shifted again, and there wasn't any dying after all.

Manx pulled him across her lap in the back seat of Persia's car, stroking back his hair, tending his wounds, and he was surprised at how glad he was to see her.

"Do you see now why you can't fight alone?" Persia's voice was low and angry. Aya supposed he had a right to be. A feeling of dread grew inside him - he'd tried to leave. No-one left Weiß of their own accord, unless they wanted to die.

Aya watched Persia's eyes in the rear view mirror. "What are you going to do with me?"

"I need your help," Persia admitted.

That wasn't what he'd expected. "I thought I told you," he said, coldly. "I won't be fooled."

"Then why don't you see for yourself," spat Persia bitterly, "how long just three of Weiß can last against the power of a Takatori!"

What? Aya's eyes widened, and his stomach lurched.

"If you don't want to mourn their deaths," said Persia, "you must help me."

The mission. He gave them the mission, when I was gone. He sent them to die. I let him send them to die.

Manx's fingers soothed his aching head, and Aya fought back tears.

"No," he whispered. "No more death."

* * * * * * *

He'd never forget how he felt when he saw them that night. He'd hardly dared believe any of them could still be alive considering the sheer number of Special Forces at the landfill site, never mind the hardware they were using. He killed with a rage that came from deep inside, the rage that had built every minute of every day since Takatori had stolen his family and his future, the rage that never diminished, was never spent, now had a whole new feast of anguish to gorge itself on.

By the time he could think again, the remainder of the Special Forces were running for their lives, as the wreck of the last helicopter rained burning metal to the ground, and all he could do was look at Yohji and will him to breathe.

One eye opened, glinted at him in the dim glow of the headlights from Persia's car. "Well done," came the familiar voice, at last, a weak echo of its usual vibrant timbre. "The entrance was a little over-dramatic, but all in all, good job."

Aya was itching to touch him, to hug him, to shower him in stupid kisses.

"I'm sorry I was late," he said, standing his ground, whatever he might have wanted, standing still, clenched fists shoved in the pockets of his coat, hidden.

"Omi! Omi, you're alive!" Ken blurted.

Omi was coming round in Ken's arms, big cornflower eyes slowly flickering open. "Ken-kun," he breathed. There was blood everywhere, and Omi was ghostly pale. "Aya-kun, Yohji-kun. . ."

"Oh, Omi!" Ken was suddenly and, from Aya's point of view, embarrassingly, showering Omi's face with little kisses, tears falling down his cheeks. "I thought I'd screwed up again, I thought. . ."

"Ken!" squeaked Omi. "That's enough!" He put his good arm around Ken's shoulders, hugging him close in the squalor and stench of the landfill crater. "That's enough," he whispered again, softly, and his eyes fluttered shut.

Manx came over with the first-aid kit, and she and Aya started to patch the other three up as best they could.

"There's an abandoned warehouse not far from here," she told him. "Take them there, sort them out as best you can, and lay low until we can get further orders to you. The Koneko won't be safe. You've done enough," she added, gently. "Persia will take it from here."

"Hn." Aya wiped antiseptic roughly over a long gash down Yohji's arm, ignoring the other man's protests. His mind was racing. He couldn't, wouldn't be denied his kill. Not now. The hunger for Takatori's blood was unbearable. But he could see that the others were in no shape to fight: fuck, Omi had been barely alive, the kid was still hopelessly weak. Manx was right.

As dawn started to streak the sky crimson, cream and gold, Aya pulled Yohji to standing, draping one lanky arm around his shoulders.

Omi held Ken in his arms, rocking gently back and forth, as they watched Manx and Persia drive away.

Aya wove his fingers through Yohji's, and kissed his filthy hair.

"Hey, Ken," said Yohji, squeezing Aya's hand. "Here's another screw up!"

Omi stared at them, as if seeing something for the first time. "Yohji-kun!" he said, "Aya-kun. . ." The wretched sound to his voice ripped at Aya's heart.

Ken managed a weak grin. "Too right, Yohji," he murmured.

"Can you walk?" Aya asked. "We can't stay here any longer."

Ken nodded, grimacing as he gently extricated himself from Omi's embrace and pulled himself up. He gingerly tested his weight on his injured ankle. "Just a sprain," he said, relieved. "Looks like my soccer days aren't over yet."

Omi's hand snaked into Ken's, and gripped like he never meant to let go.

Aya tightened his hold around Yohji's waist, and led them to safety.

* * * * * * *

Yohji and Aya settled by their makeshift fire in one corner of the concrete warehouse, watching Ken and Omi sleep. Aya leaned against the rough wall, Yohji's head in his lap, gently stroking back the hair from his face.

"You were right," said Aya, softly. "About Ken and Omi."

The two younger assassins were lying in each others arms. Even in sleep Omi had a grasp on Ken that looked as if he never planned on letting go.

"I had my suspicions for a while," said Yohji. "And Ken said something, tonight. About Kase. About not screwing up again. And I realised he meant the chibi. It figures, I guess."

Aya sighed deeply.

"I'm glad you showed up," said Yohji. "It was good to see you hadn't managed to kill yourself."

"Hn."

"It hurt like fuck, you know," Yohji went on, long fingers curled around Aya's knee, stroking little circles. "When Omi said you weren't coming back. Like a knife in the gut."

Aya's eyes darted to Yohji's face, surprised.

"But then I guess I should have expected it. You have a whole mission going on that none of us are part of, don't you?"

"Yes," Aya admitted. "And it's my fight. Nobody else's."

"You're wrong, love," said Yohji. "That bastard has ruined all our lives, one way or another. It's not just you."

"But. . ."

"We're all a mess, Aya. Look at us. Omi has been raised to kill his father. Ken has lost the love of his life. . . well, two of them anyway." Yohji lifted his head a little to look at Ken and Omi, and smiled indulgently. Then he turned to kiss Aya's thigh, just once, an affectionate peck, before he settled back down in his lap.

"And you?" Aya just wanted him to keep talking, he wanted to hide in the shameful comfort of Yohji's voice.

"You don't need to ask me that, Aya. You've held me in the night after the nightmares. You know."

"But. . ."

"The way I see it," Yohji went on, "you're our weapon, Aya. You're the sword, sharp-edged and mean and deadly. But you're no good without the rest of us. A sword without a body to wield it is just a symbol. People don't die of symbols, and that bastard has to die. Use us. Let us help you to kill him."

There was a long pause. Aya fought the tightness of his throat, the tremble of his hands, watched the play of the reflected flames on Omi's pale skin.

"I couldn't bear to lose you," he whispered, eventually. "Any of you, but, you. . . I. . ." He tailed off, his hand frozen in Yohji's hair.

"Baka," snorted Yohij gently. "Didn't it occur to you that we're not exactly keen on losing you either?"

Aya's head drooped. A tear spilled over his lashes and streamed silently down his face.

"You shouldn't care," he said.

"No," agreed Yohji. "But it's not like I have a choice."

"Yohji," whispered Aya, after a while.

"Yes?"

"I want to kill him so badly it burns. It sits in my head all the time, in my guts, in every part of me, and if I don't get to do it soon. . ." Just the thought of it was thrilling him, making his body sing with need.

"Then let's go kill him," said Yohji, quietly. "But make sure you really do it this time, okay? I'm getting really sick of the bastard. He's ruining my sex life."

Aya's mouth twitched into a little smile, despite himself.

"And you'll. . ."

"I'll do anything I can," promised Yohji. "The others will, too. You'll see."

"Then. . ."

Yohji kissed Aya's leg again, nuzzled his head in Aya's lap, grabbed Aya's hand and clasped it to his chest.

"You saved me, after all," he said. "It's the least I can do."

* * * * * * *