Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Die Fürsprache (bait and switch)	By : quietladybirman Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 2406 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Die Fürsprache

(bait and switch)

a Weiss Kreuz fanfiction by laila

________

+ intercession

The floor is slippery and cold, shining like rain-slick paving in the dim overhead light; the damp creeps insidiously upon him, soaking into his jeans and, even through the gauntlets he wears, chilling his palms. His heavy leather jacket seems to offer him no protection at all. The quiet tick of dripping water sounds somewhere behind him, punctuating the silence. Ken is cold. No wonder it feels so dank here; the humidity is almost tangible. He feels as if, were he to choose to, he could reach out and wring water from the air. He wonders how badly Youji has been hurt.

Schuldig only smiles. Ken thinks he knows what he wants from him; he is wrong. Death, for Weiss, would come too easy. There is more than one way to tear a man apart.

“Clever boy,” he says archly, enjoying the way Ken scows at him, giving free reign to his irritation in the hope of camouflaging anxiety. The boy is nervous – not exactly frightened or at least not yet, but obviously uncertain, lost somewhere strange and unsettling whose habits he cannot even hope to comprehend. For all he might try to pretend a certain indifference to the situation his uncertainty is palpable, detectable as a discreet agony even before Schuldig thinks to look closer. What do I have to do? As if Schuldig would tell him. He enjoys the spectacle of Ken's insecurity. “You’re armed,” he points out, and his voice is full of cold, scrupulous unconcern. It is as if Ken's vulnerability is no concern of his, nothing whatsoever to do with him. “Lose the weapon, kid.”

He’d known it was coming but still Ken can’t claim the thought of being unarmed in front of a Schwarz doesn’t unnerve him, or leave him even more so than he is already. That it won’t leave him feeling vulnerable, even essentially naked. He should, something inside him whispers, have taken his chances with the madman. At least his game is simple. Ken knows the rules; kill or be killed. There is an eloquent simplicity about a fight to the death. What does he know of this?

(He’s still gonna kill you, Hidaka. God knows what he’ll do to you before he deigns to let you die and all he’ll do to Youji is lay off him for a while— but if it buys Youji time…)

So he complies. Grudgingly, he acquiesces with Schuldig’s demand even though to do so is to commit a showy kind of suicide. Without the heavy gauntlets his hands feel small and pale and bare; they are only unremarkable after all. The realization surprises him. He doesn’t feel he has any right to claim normality, for all it may be only apparent, but maybe normal is all he is now. It feels, in a weird kind of way, as if he had discarded Siberian with the bugnuks. Where does that leave Ken?

The only thing Ken can think to do about his apprehension, his – why not admit it? – fear is to try, and try hopelessly, to hide it. He seeks refuge in anger, finding reassurance in its familiar patterns. Anger is an old and heavy coat, familiar to the point of banality but comforting all the same. The gun he scrupulously blanks, pretending he hasn’t even noticed it. The too-categorical nature of Ken's defiance is enough to betray the pretense for what it is. Are you scared, Ken? Schuldig’s disdainful smile asks. Do I frighten you?

No. No, you don’t – and Ken can’t make himself believe it. He is frightened, and it is fear of the unknown as much as it is fear of Schuldig, and nothing for him to do about it but deny it. Pretend that he isn’t— but he is frightened, and he is sure Schuldig knows it.

“What now?” He asks, and wishes he hadn’t spoken the minute the words are out. His voice, at least, still sounds normal enough. It’s a victory of sorts, though he wishes he hadn’t spoken at all.

Schuldig doesn’t reply at first. He says only, “Get up, Ken. Oh, and lose the jacket.”

It surprises Ken when he merely complies, shrugging off his jacket and letting it drop clumsy to the floor, landing at his feet with a soft, heavy thump. He steps away from the clumsy puddle of leather when a single preemptory gesture suggests he should. He is cold, his hands feel useless; absurdly, he catches himself wondering if he should place them on the back of his head. A cinematic kind of gesture. It worries him how easy submission is coming. Siberian is forgotten, he leaves Weiss behind: he is only Ken Hidaka, three years younger and almost painfully innocent, led by the hand into a reality whose existence he couldn’t even have dreamt of by a man whom, even now, he can only love though he is dead and perfidious. The muzzle of the gun – he can’t ignore it after all – singles out one of his eyes, promising an early end to the game should he decide to try and bolt, to break the rules.

Ken wonders if Schuldig plans to shoot him, only to realize that would be far too easy. It isn’t a comforting thought.

Schuldig doesn’t trust him. It’s the way it should be. Ken tells himself he isn’t gratified when the man seizes his upper arm, presses the gun hard against his ribs as he leads him over to the center of the room. It’s strangely flattering to realize that, even under these circumstances, the Schwarz isn’t underestimating him. Confident Schuldig may be, but for now at least he is not arrogant. He isn’t so sanguine as to assume he would have Ken's co-operation regardless. Only fear constrains him and it isn’t even fear for himself – God, I don’t care what it takes, just don’t let him kill Youji. Please. Lose the advantage and, or so Schuldig has good cause to suspect, he’ll lose his grip with it: Ken won’t play the game without good reason, and Schuldig likes Ken where he is.

He reaches in his pocket; now Schuldig holds something in his free hand. Ken strains to see what it is. That Schuldig lets him, raising his hand so that he can get a better view, tells Ken that for whatever reason Schuldig wants him to know he has it. He likes Ken uncertain but there are times when uncertainty isn’t quite sweet enough. Sometimes he likes his prey to see the snare for what it is and, atypically obedient, Ken plays into his hands. He couldn’t have scripted it any neater. Ken will fall, and nothing to catch him when he does.

“When did you take that?” Surprise forces Ken out of silence. The look in his eyes suggests understated fear. But Schuldig says nothing and Ken understands that he needs to stop asking questions which will never be answered.

Schuldig must have worked so fast. He could be so damned fast… Ken feels sick.

Checkmate. You lose. Schuldig has Youji’s wristwatch. He has them both injured, both unarmed… somewhere across the room Ken thinks he hears Youji stir, but even should that be anything but wishful thinking what difference will it make? Youji has been shot. He, they are both trapped. What the Hell does Schuldig want with Youji’s watch, for Christ’s sake— but Ken knows, he can guess, and he winces and hates himself for the display of weakness. He doesn’t like where this is going. I want to go home, he thinks hopelessly, and knows it isn’t even worth wishing it. He knows there is nothing he can do, no way out and he hates it, hates his helplessness. Oh God, oh God can he even remember how to pray?

They stand beneath the filigree of the catwalk and the intricate tracery of girders that run its length, holding it suspended. Ken stifles a yelp, struggling against the sharp tug of premonitory fear as Schuldig grabs his wrists and, catching the both of them in one slender hand, drags him forward. His grasp is painful. The gun grazes against Ken's side. He is snared on Schuldig’s eyes. Lips slightly parted, eyes full of soft apprehension, he watches Schuldig’s face. He can’t look away, can’t ever look away; Ken feels as if he’s been entranced or, maybe, drugged. He doesn’t hear Schuldig fumbling with the release that frees Youji’s wire from the watch it hides in. The sudden bite of pain as it cuts into his wrists breaks the spell.

Don’t struggle, Schuldig whispers, or he might perhaps have only thought it. You’ll only make things worse, Kenken.

(Please, please don’t call me that. It’s not right. God damn it, it’s just not right from your lips…)

He starts. Tries, instinctively, to pull free. Hisses softly in understated pain as Schuldig yanks his bound hands above his head and somehow – he knows he’ll never be sure quite how the man accomplished it – secures the wire to one of the girders that so ensnare the side of the catwalk. The wound in his side, pulled open by position, grumbles in protest. A single tentative tug against his bonds is enough to tell Ken how fast they are. He doesn’t know why he’d expected anything less. Hope? The wire, deceptively fine and fragile-looking, cobwebs his forearms and gnaws at his pinned wrists. It looks like snapping it should be no effort at all. It lies. Don’t struggle.

Ken feels a droplet of blood, just one, begin a slow insect crawl way down the sensitive skin of his inner arm, and he shivers.

He wishes he were different. That he had more composure. Aya would give Schuldig nothing; what of him? You’re far too open, Siberian, Manx had said reproachfully once upon a time, and all he had done was smile in helpless contrition. What could he do about his face, his eyes? His eyes are wide, expressive, a betrayal. His face is too frank, leaving emotion exposed. He is candid, a danger, he doesn’t know how else to be. Doesn’t know how to change or he would have. You’re such a child, Ken. And nowhere for him to hide. It is much too late for him to learn control.

Ken's eyes are all the clue Schuldig needs to find out what he is thinking; he need look no further than that. His mind isn’t what interest Schuldig. He is far more attracted by the faint stirrings he can detect, tucked away somewhere to the back of his own awareness, that tell him Youji is dragging his slow, painful way back to consciousness. They have a soft feeling, those thoughts, they are warm and languid as those of a man waking from pleasant dreams – Schuldig waits; he knows that all that gentle hesitancy of attention implies is the few brief and blissful moments of zero recall that mark the return to consciousness after sudden and traumatic collapse.

Things are about to get interesting.

(For Siberian was only ever convenient.)

Reality is staking its claim on Balinese. Schuldig watches with a certain anticipatory delight as Youji stirs, raising his head. His hair is tumbled across his face. Just for a moment his eyes are dazed, even dreamy— hard focus snaps back into them as recent memory floods back, so fast and decisive that Schuldig imagines the young man will be pulled under. At first Youji says nothing, only trying to push himself purposefully back to his feet but agony constrains him; two of Schuldig’s shots hit home and for all they are not grave, were in fact never intended to be anything of the sort, his injuries debilitate him. He collapses at the top of the shallow flight of stairs, the railings that flank the balustrade catching him, breaking his fall when they dig into his uninjured side. He struggles to hold himself upright, one hand grasping the railings for support. Pain has Youji trapped where he has fallen surely as the wire round his wrists restrains Ken. It is exactly what the Schwarz intended.

He remembers the shots. Remembers reaching for the coiled, sleeping wire and sudden pain spreading from his thigh and abdomen before his fingers could close round the release, and stumbling. Falling backwards. It seemed, and how peculiar the thought felt, as if it really had happened in slow motion. He must, he realizes, have struck his head against the wall. Youji knows he is lucky not to be dead already. He can’t quite imagine why he isn’t.

Ken's sudden presence is a complication and a frightening one. Without his jacket and gauntlets Ken seems abruptly half-dressed, as if he left home in indecent haste and little more than half-prepared. Without them he looks like nothing very much, far from dangerous and far too young; he is nineteen. Stood like that, hands over his head and back slightly arched, he looks as if he has been caught in the middle of a stretch. At first Youji can’t understand why Ken would be standing so oddly only to realize, as his blurred vision clears like condensation melting from a pane of heated glass, that his hands are tied. The wire that binds them sparkles faintly and malevolently in the half-light, droplets of radiance glistening along its length like dewdrops on cobweb. It takes only a moment for Youji to realize his watch is missing. And Ken is looking right at him and, oh Christ, his eyes hold nothing but a desperate apology.

He understands now. He’d been even stupider than he’d thought. Ken’s hands are going numb, and he flexes his fingers slightly in the hope of coaxing back sensation. The wire slowly tears into his forearms.

“Nice to see you’re back with us.” Schuldig says, regarding Youji over one banked shoulder. An insubordinate hank of hair falls over one of his narrow eyes, like a half-drawn curtain; a negligent, practiced toss of the head and it slips clear. It’s like opening a blind and staring into a tropical storm, something terrible and elemental and far beyond morality.

Youji doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t speak to him. He says only, “What’s the deal here, Ken?” He looks as if Schuldig has struck him but Schuldig isn’t what matters; his eyes are angry, but they are trapped in a face shock has rendered almost expressionless. How did this happen, what’s going on, what the Hell are you doing?

Ken tries to speak, to say something, anything, in reply, but the words stick in his throat and they just won’t come. He wants to reassure Youji, somehow, but all he can manage is to give him a shaky smile which doesn’t engage his eyes and is no reassurance at all. He hates the eloquent betrayal of his indiscreet eyes. He wants to say, don’t worry about me. Wants to tell Youji that all this will be okay, somehow – Ken wants to lift his weight off Youji’s shoulders but he can’t. He can’t lie and make it sound convincing. If he can’t make a lie the truth in his eyes what point is there in practicing deception?

He can’t believe they will be okay. Not when Schuldig plans to kill him, and wants Youji to watch.

Schuldig notices Ken's distraction. Indifferently, with just a hint of negligent brutality, he grabs the boy beneath the chin, angling his head toward him. “No,” he says, as if he is scolding a disobedient child, “at me, Ken.” But he isn’t looking at Ken. His attention is all on Youji.

Youji bridles. Let go of him, he thinks furiously. “What do you want with him, goddamn it?” Somehow it is a demand.

“We’ve come to an agreement,” Schuldig says with a smile. His fingers, where they hold Ken's jaw, dig into his flesh. The grip is easily hard enough to hurt. Only an effort of will keeps Ken from flinching. “He wanted you to live.”

It seems a very small thing for Ken to have wanted, and far from worth the price he is due to pay.

Ken has become hyper-aware of his own breathing. Drawing breath suddenly feels a strange thing to have to do, as if there were something flatly unnatural and almost perverse about the idea of inhalation even at the best of times. It’s funny, he thinks, how when he starts realizing he is breathing it seems impossible to imagine he’ll ever be able to do it unthinkingly ever again. As if, when he allows himself to stop thinking about it, he will suffocate. He knows it isn’t true. It feels true, though.

Ken remembers someone telling him (and he thinks it was Kase but he’s not sure; in memory his childhood is all Kase, so much so that Kase feels like the only friend he ever possessed though Ken had, in truth, always been popular enough) that it was impossible to commit suicide by holding your breath. When you pass out, they, he had said, you immediately start `breathing again. It’s harder to die than you think— it probably was Kase who’d told him that; he had long been aware that his friend positively enjoyed anxiously flirting with the shadows. What Ken hadn’t used to do was imagine it meant anything. Kids, he knows, have far darker minds than adults ever give them credit for and there had always been something vaguely morbid about Kase, as if God had designed him to die young.

Killing him was the hardest thing Ken had ever done, but Kase died easy enough for all that.

His mind is running wild on him. He’s not even surprised; it’s happened before. Ken knows it for little more than a silly kind of denial. He doesn’t want to think about his situation so he tries, and tries desperately, to think of nothing at all. It isn’t working. He can’t fight back that awareness. In over his head, Ken knows he’s going under and nothing to do about it but wait and see if he is to be drowned or spared. He got himself into this; why can’t he get out again?

Ken doesn’t want to die.

What he wants is scarcely relevant.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Die Fürsprache (bait and switch)