Yami No Matsuei Fan Fiction / Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Monozuki ❯ Aya and Narcissus ( Chapter 6 )

Monozuki - An Idle Curiosity

A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover.

 

By Kelly

 

Monozuki 6 - Aya and Narcissus

 

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Somebody was going to die.

 

That was it, plain and simple. Death was the only option for the one who was idiotic enough to replace the milk carton back in the fridge when there was barely a drop left inside.

 

Feeling the beginnings of a tension headache rising up from that point just beneath the base of his skull, Aya swore softly, crumpling the liter-carton between his hands and lobbing it into the trashcan. He should have known the day, (he checked the wall clock hanging above the fridge) no, make it early morning, wasn't going to get better. What was that saying. . .misfortune came in threes? Whatever. His day had been spoiled by the stranger with unnatural eyes, made even worse by the just-as-strange young man with black hair who appeared to be slightly insane, and now the gods had forbade him milk just when he couldn't sleep for fear of seeing those eyes again.

 

Aya resisted the urge to slam the fridge door closed and in the process wake up Omi and Ken who were undoubtedly sleeping the sleep of the just. All the same, the steel door was shut with a little more force than necessary. He needed to vent a bit, after all.

 

The ceramic tiles cold beneath his bare feet, Aya hitched the waist of his cotton sweatpants up absently. The pants were threadbare, worn and fuzzy from constant use and utterly sinful, that was how comfortable the grey pants were. In retrospect, he ought to be grateful that he didn't wake the others up. He hated the thought of his teammates seeing him so. . . .normal.

 

(Yes, the cold, aloof Abyssinian liked to sleep in nothing butpajama bottoms almost as old as he was and damn if he was going to let anyone else be aware of that fact.)

 

So what was he going to do now? The dim kitchen didn't offer him any answers as he scratched unconsciously at an old, raised scar just above his right bicep. Courtesy of Schuldich's .9mm, the asshole.

 

Milk was out of the question (and it was going to be warm milk as well, dammit), and so was sleep. Not when he was this pissed off.

 

His eyes fell on an innocuous kitchen appliance; the hot water dispenser. And ah, thank the thousand bodhisvattva of Buddhism, there was still plenty of water inside and judging by the glowing orange light on the lid, it was still hot.

 

Moving easily despite the lack of a proper light save the one over the stove, Aya hummed quietly to himself, gathering a chipped mug, a canister of his best tea leaves and on a whim, a plate of cookies. Oatmeal raisin.

 

The steady stream of hot water splashing into his mug was the only other sound to break the stillness of two a.m., that, and his occasional humming. Aya paused. He had been humming the Pink Panther's theme song without being aware of it. The redhead assassin winced; great, just what he needed - more reminders of how absolutely bizarre, how freakingly Alice his day had been.

 

“Well, aren't we the lucky ones, Yohji my dear.”

 

Aya's hand jerked, involuntary reflex and he bit back a colorful curse as some of the hot water splashed his hand. Setting his now full mug down on the counter with a controlled thump, Aya stalked to the sink and turned on the cold water faucet, thrusting his hand beneath the spray and letting the coolness soothe away the red marks.

 

There was a low chuckle behind him, throaty and with that gravelly undertone. Yohji would never give up smoking, no matter how many times he was presented with gruesome images of diseased lungs and brains, courtesy of their resident hacker, Omi.

 

“What do you want, Kudoh?” Aya snapped, not bothering to turn around.

 

“Is that any way to greet someone who's suffering from a broken heart?”

 

Fuck. Where the hell had his self-control disappeared to? He had let the colorful curse out withoutbeing aware of it but most grating of all was that he didn't even realize the infuriating blond had actually sidled from behind, placing strong hands against the edge of the sink on either side of him, effectively trapping the enraged redhead in between.

 

Ignoring the still running faucet, Aya let instinct takeover. His own hands, dripping wet, shot out on either side, palms out and smacking the confining arms away from him. Only, the intended targetsweren't there. Aya had overestimated the force he put behind the move, failing to correct himself in time as his palms met empty air. Effectively helpless as the elusive hands settled on his waist lightly and using physics and gravity which decided to favor Balinese today, he was spun around, only to be pressed back against the sink by a hard and very trim body encased in leather and silk, cigarette smoke and the bitter smell of alcohol.

 

Blond hair escaping the confines of a tie brushed his cheek softly, tenderly, almost lover-like as Yohji leaned in, and it took the shocked, surprised and very much furious Aya a good minute to realize that Yohji was nuzzling him.

 

Nuzzling—!

 

Him!

 

“Ah, such pretty hair, dear Aya-kun. . .”

 

He was truly down the rabbit hole and drinking tea with the Mad Hatter. He just had to be. Why else would that little lilt to his name could freeze his ready scream of “Shi ne!” in his throat, for a very un-Abyssinian blush to color his cheeks?

 

Just recalling his code name and the dignity that was supposed to come with it snapped him back to his senses. With a hiss, Aya shoved the willing body away and could take little pleasure from his action, not when the blond ex-P.I. didn't even stumble so much as dance back out of his reach.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you, Kudoh?” he snarled, crossing his arms over his chest, inadequate cover for the bare skin. The sneer he kept well oiled came easily as he shoved the memory of a warm body against his into a dark, very dark corner of his mind. “Rejected, were you?”

 

A pout made disgustingly pink lips fuller. The man will never give up his nicotine habit if kami-sama failed to even curse the idiot with the normal signs of smoking. Instead, the constant scent of cigarette only added to the man's complex layer, became as much as his identity as those deceiving sunglasses.

 

“So perceptive, Aya-kun.”

 

There goes that added twist to his name again. He was about to inform Yohji just where he could stuff his lecherous libido when the taller man suddenly started dancing.

 

Aya resisted the urge to rub his eyes.

 

Yes, Yohji, Balinese, call him what you will, was dancing. Long, very long legs encased in dark blue leather that was practically a second skin did a slow, sensual glide across the kitchen floor, coming tantalizingly close to the wary Abyssinian but the only touch that came was the kiss of air, scented by a musky smell that was all Kudoh Yohji. Full sleeves billowed in the passage, forming patterns that Aya recognized as his wire-moves. Unbidden, his lips quirked in a small smile - trust the blond to use a skill like that to entice and lure.

 

Wait. . .his violet eyes narrowed. Entice. . .? Realization was just as effective as cold water. Aya straightened, hands at his sides, fists clenched. Just what the hell was wrong with the world today?! First there were those weird people coming into the store and tripping his finely tuned sense of danger, then his sleep was far from restful, someone (who was still going to die painfully) had finished all the milk, and now Yohji was coming on to him?!

 

But his partner and fellow assassin was speaking again, before he could unleash his frustrations on the unwitting target.

 

Still swaying to an unheard tune, Yohji had his arms wrapped around an invisible partner, eyes smoky with some fathomless emotion and pinning him with those half-lidded gaze. The tip of a tongue appeared, wetting lips before forming words he had to force himself to concentrate on.

 

“He was such a pretty boy, Aya-kun. . .my very own bishounen.” A sigh, a fuller pout, and Yohji twirled his invisible partner around before coming to a stop before the wary assassin, fingers tracing a melody in the air.

 

“He was so beautiful. . the way he moved, the way he lost himself in the music, and later on, losing himself in my arms. . .” Those dangerously smoldering eyes refused to break their hold on him and Aya felt a shiver (of. . .anticipation?) run down his spine. “I was positive I was going to heaven tonight, Aya. Lose myself in the feel of warm skin, hear him gasp and writhe underneath me, feel him. . .” Lips grazed his ear and he trembled, throat swallowing convulsively.

 

“Make him scream with ecstasy as I take him, in my mouth. . .from behind. . make him beg for more. . .”

 

It was the song of a flute. The words curled around his ears, licked the pale shell of a curve tantalizingly, drifted lower to stroke his groin with delicate touches till the grey cotton pants were made a mockery.

 

“But my bishounen, my pretty boy, was already taken. . what to do, Aya-kun? What to do when I lost him to such an equally beautiful man? What to do when I want to fuck them both silly and couldn't?”

 

Was it fate? Destiny playing its hand perhaps and saving him from a precipice he dare not look over the edge for fear of vertigo and losing his balance? Whatever it was, something broke the redhead assassin from the hypnotic lulling of words and barely-there caresses that made his body yearn for something more substantial. With a gasp, and a wordless snarl, Aya shoved the blond away with enough force to make the man stumble, and apparently, shocking the former P.I. out of whatever sick fantasy he was in.

 

“Aya. . .?”

 

“Fuck off, Kudoh,” he snapped and stalked out of the kitchen, forgetting his snack of tea and cookies. “Just fuck off!”

 

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Narcissus: Infatuation with one's self