Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Y~K ❯ Chapter 1

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

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Disclaimers: I don't own Weiß, to my great distress, and I'm not trying to look like I do. The story is simply for entertainment's purposes, probably mine more than the readers, so don't sue me, please. ^_~ And don't take my idea, or I'll come hunt you down and make you watch badly dubbed Card Captor Sakura as retribution. :P Thanks for reading!
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Y~K: Part One



Saturday, August 25


I can't believe I'm doing this. It's all because Ken decided that I was too closed up, too withdrawn in my feelings. Can you believe it? Me, withdrawn? To tell you the truth, I'm starting to think Ken's losing it. Not that I blame him . . . sometimes, when I'm alone in bed at night, I begin to wonder if we're not all doomed to death, if not a death of the body then a death of the soul. Or perhaps we're all dead inside already, frozen into a crude simile of life, smiles carved from cold marble and limestone.

Aya didn't say anything, when Ken bought me this journal. Didn't even look in our direction. I suppose that's to be expected, but wouldn't you think -he's- more closed than I am? I've only ever seen him react in anger, perhaps at the mention of Takatori, or perhaps at an insult to his sister. Now -there's- someone who needs counseling. Honestly, couldn't he at least make the attempt to smile? It's only a little thing, a cold comfort to the rest of us in this hell on earth we live in.

And so, I'm beginning a diary . . . It doesn't make sense, any more than it made sense for Ken to buy it for me rather than for Aya. How am I supposed to write down my inner feelings and desires and musings in a book that anyone could pick up and read at any time? I'm going to have to find a place to hide this book if I'm going to write any more in it. I'm having second thoughts. Ken's an idiot.




Tuesday, August 28



I'm hiding this journal in my nightstand drawer. I'd overlooked it at first, thinking it was too obvious a hiding spot, but I'm rethinking it. They're all too innocent to think of looking under the box of condoms and pushing aside the erotica magazine to find something so innocent as a journal, after all.




Thursday, September 6



So sue me for not writing, I've been busy. Ken, if you're reading this, go away, because you're too young to be reading the journal of Kudou Youji, ladies' man, playboy extraordinaire.

There's a mission tonight. Kritiker thinks they've found the hideout of some pedophile, the cause of all the little children missing lately. We almost had to physically keep Aya from heading to the old warehouse in broad daylight, right then and there. The idiot's always unable to keep himself from interfering when it comes to children. I suppose I don't blame him, really.

I'm out of cigarettes again. I could have sworn that I had another two boxes in my underwear drawer, but when I looked, they were gone. So even that place has been violated -- what moron's been searching my -underwear- drawer to keep me from supposedly smelling up the shop with tobacco? Omi keeps saying it's because they don't want me to get lung cancer or something, but I'm not an idiot. Lung cancer isn't an immediate danger, especially if I could die any day on a mission. The four of us stay together because on the outside, we make a good team. We don't die, we kill the bad guys, and then ride off into the figurative sunset on the backs of our metaphorical white stallions. But underneath, there's friction, a fire waiting to get out and tear us all apart. None of us are friends; if we're left together in a room for too long without a mission to keep us occupied, we end up shouting at one another over the stupidest of things.

Sometimes I wish we'd all met under different circumstances. I feel like I could have been friends with any of them -- yes, even Aya the ice maiden. But it can't happen, because real life is nothing like a happy-ending manga. Our lives are all so tenuous, brief flames from burned out candles, liable to be snuffed out at the first treacherous breeze. A stray gunshot could finish any of us off, a flick of a blade, a flare of fire. We could even kill each other, if not on purpose, by accident. Once or twice, I think Aya's been a step away from killing me. I admire that man's self-restraint. Odd. Earlier, I said that he had none.

But the point remains that we're all too likely to be killed at any time. There's no room for friendships, no room for anything besides hunt, search, kill. No time for anything except survival. There's no glory in being an assassin, nothing for the fangirls in the shop to swoon over if they knew. It's bloody, dirty, hellish, and there's no escape. None of us can live normally after doing this for a living.




Friday, September 7



I think Aya almost got killed last night during the mission. Of the four of us, he's the rashest and the worst planner, for all his usual cold cynicism. We'd planned to split into two groups, one at the front and one at the back of the warehouse, to scout it out. I was to be with Ken, and Aya with Omi. But no sooner had Ken and I reached our posts than Omi's voice suddenly crackled over our communits, startling Ken into tripping flat on his face. We couldn't tell what he was saying, the static was so bad. I thought that maybe his face was too close to the mic, so I told him to calm down and talk slower. There was a pause, and Omi said between gritted teeth, "Aya is gone!"

It turned out that the moron had lost patience and slipped away when Omi wasn't looking. We went to look for him, and found him unconscious on the floor. The pedophile himself hadn't done anything about him after shooting Aya with the tranuilizer he'd used on the kids, which wasn't the brightest of ideas. I assume he thought that Aya was a relative of one of the kids, and had come alone. I reached the man first and while I dealt with him, Omi and Ken went to Aya and discovered that the tranquilizer was no tranquilizer at all, and that it had been a slow-acting, old poison. It was easy to find the antidote, and Aya's conscious and already scowling at us from his sick-bed, but it had visibly shaken more than one member of our group.

The old man himself was easy to finish off. I remember that the first person I ever killed, I had killed with a gun. It was surprisingly easy -- I had him pinned against a wall, the gun pointed at his snivelling, sobbing face. It was easy to pull the trigger, and somehow the gunshot didn't even seem to be that loud. It was only later that night, in the small hours of the morning when I was trying to go to sleep, that I realized what I had done, remembered the fear in his eyes, and later the sight of half his face blown away, his corpse lying in a cooling pool of blood. I still remember that night, my despairing cries and the uncaring, unfeeling silence that swallowed them. I vowed that night never to kill anyone else, and a week later, I killed my second man.

Killing by strangulation is very different from killing with a gun. A gun almost gives you a feeling of anonymity, a feeling of detachment from your victim. All you have to do is point and shoot, and the man falls down dead. You don't even have to be anywhere near him, and it only takes a matter of seconds. Using a wire is different. You have to touch the victim, feel him, smell him, taste his breath upon your tongue, taste the smell of fear in the air. You have to watch as first disbelief crosses his features, then a soul-devouring fear, and then finally, aching despair. You have to watch his eyes bulge and his tongue protrude and his face begin to turn blue. You have to hear his throat closing and lungs straining and feel his thrashing limbs slowly subside into stillness. And you have to stand back up and leave his corpse lying there, cooling slowly, face contorted with the basest of fears and despair.

I've wondered before why I don't just get a gun to fight with. They've got some that are near silent now, so it's not an issue of making quiet kills. I think it's an issue of guilt. With every person I kill, another piece of me dies along with them.




Sunday, September 9



Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to take one of the other three assassins as a lover.

(You see, Ken, this is why you shouldn't be reading this. Go away, if you are.)

Most people would stare at me in shock if I said this, of course. For one thing, I'm supposed to be the ladies' man, the playboy. Straightest of the straight, of course. I've bedded more women than the other three ever will, put together. But the truth is, I'm not completely straight. I enjoy women, don't get me wrong. But you can have just as much fun with another man as you can with a woman, just a different sort of fun.

I've only done it once, when I was younger and a private investigator. It was before I met Asuka, of course, and he was a great guy. One of my best friends actually, both before and after we had sex. I was a bit dubious at first, but we were both a little drunk, and the party was loud and hot and the lights were low. It wasn't hard to slip away. It was fast, hot, with no strings attached, no loving kisses and no murmured endearments. Neither of us were virgins, after all, and even though he was gay, I still knew what I was doing.

Bedding one of these three would be different from that hurried night of exploration. All three of them are so beautiful, in their different ways. I've imagined what it could be like before, but I'll never know for sure.

Aya is probably the one I'm most physically attracted to. He has beautiful skin, and from the few times I've touched him in order to dress wounds, it's soft as well as pale. His hair starkly contrasts that marble-like skin, silky and thick, falling over the curves of his face like honey. He smells of dark musk and midnight thunderstorms and danger, with violet eyes that could sear the very scraps of your soul from your body. Aya, for all his masculine angst and boyish stubbornness, is very like a woman. I'm not even sure if he's not a virgin sometimes. No, scratch that -- I've heard him late at night before, and anyone who has dreams like -that- can't possibly be a virgin. His room is right next to mine, after all, and the walls of these apartments are so thin. From the dream-talk and murmured fantasies I've heard, he's very submissive during love-making, like the traditional woman's role.

Ken, now . . . Ken is not a virgin. I know, because I walked in on him and a young woman once. It had been on a weekend, when we weren't having any serious missions coming up that we knew about. I was looking for my cigarettes, and I was meaning to ask Ken because he's the most likely to give in and tell me where they were. I opened the door and walked in without knocking, because I didn't think about it. Ken was sprawled, head thrown back, his back against the headboard. He didn't have a stitch of clothing on, and I'm still surprised when I think back on just how muscled his wiry frame was. I suppose I had always imagined a skimpy body to go with his boyishly clutzy personality. The girl's dark head was buried between his legs, and from the faint moans escaping Ken's lips, she'd had experience doing what she was doing before. Ken must have seen movement, because his eyes struggled to focus on my startled face. The girl didn't notice -- or, perhaps, she had noticed and not cared. She continued her work, and Ken was dragged back into his pleasure with a strangled cry. I quietly shut the door and left, though the sound of the bedsprings and Ken's muffled gasps followed me down the hallway. He blushed whenever he saw me for about a week afterwards.

Omi's the one I would have the greatest chance with, I think. He's so young, and so innocent. I know he's a virgin, by the way my teasing makes him blush, and the way he knows nothing about anything remotely sexual is a dead giveaway. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't know what homosexual sex -was- until I started teasing him that he never had a girlfriend. I could seduce him in record time, if I ever wanted to. Sometimes I do, I feel so lonely. It would be wrong, though, to seduce him just because he's innocent -- no, innocent isn't the word; anyone who kills for a living has had their innocence long since stripped away. Sexually inexperienced, I suppose is a better term. It would be disgusting of me to convince him that he's gay, to mess with his mind just to get him to sleep with me. But it's tempting. It's painfully tempting.

It's one thing to have one night stand with some girl picked up off the street. It's another thing entirely to be able to share that intimacy with someone who knows who you are, even superficially. It's painfully tempting.


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Author's note:
This is my first try at writing this sort of POV fic. It's also my first posted attempt at the more explicit sex/yaoi references. It's also . . . well, just suffice it to say that it's my first attempt at a lot of things. This is the sort of story that I don't plan, so anything could happen. I would really, really appreciate any comments on this, either in the review form and/or by emailing me at saezuru@hotmail.com. ^_~ Thanks a bunch for reading! I should have the next installment out pretty shortly, as I've got most of it written already. Ciao!

PS: *glomps Suni-chan* She's the best. If she ever opens an author account here, I command you go read her stories. ^_^