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Heaven is Wrapped in Chains	By : YamiBakura Category: Weiß Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1602 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiss Kreuz or any of the characters. I'm not making any money from the writing of this fiction.

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Do you erase and replace

What you’re thinking

Do you erase and replace

What you feel

Do you know how it hurts

When you lose a friend

You waste your time with anger

Waste your time with fear

“Erase and Replace” – Cinema Bizarre

~*~

Waking up on an unfamiliar couch, Omi jerked upright, his right hand going out to steady himself. An instant later he regretted it as pain washed through his body. It went all the way up his arm and into his chest, and his breath caught in his throat.

For a moment he couldn’t recall where he was, and then upon closer inspection of his surroundings, he realised it was because he honestly had no idea. His short-term memory seemed to be malfunctioning. He couldn’t remember where he was or how he’d gotten there, or what was going on. The last thing he remembered clearly was the mission he and his team were running, but that didn’t explain why his wrist was bandaged up. It felt like it was broken and he probably needed to see a doctor about it and get a cast put on, or at the least something stronger than just the bandages.

He looked around again, and it struck him that the house he was in was extremely luxurious looking. A large flat-screen television took up the majority of one wall, surrounded by multiple video game systems. On shelves just to the side of the entertainment center were what looked like hundreds of movies and games. On the floor were expensive looking oriental rugs covering a beautiful wooden floor. Massive paintings decorated the beige walls, and potted plants – some real, but others, he discovered as he touched them, were fake, either silk or rubber – dotted the corners and some of the tables.

Everything, from the spaciousness of the apartment – which in Tokyo was rare enough – to the decorations screamed opulent. Whoever lived here, he knew it wasn’t anyone he knew. Not even Manx or Persia had had an apartment this large.

He found the kitchen; a discarded jacket lay over the back of one of the chairs, and two glasses of water, half empty, rested beside the sink. He took a peek into the fridge out of sheer curiousity, and found it full of take-out boxes. Some of the logos were from expensive restaurants, and almost out of place were the bottles of beer labeled Krombacher lining the shelves on the door. In the freezer half was more alcohol.

“So they’re rich drunks,” Omi told himself. “Doesn’t tell me who they are or what they want with me here.” He tried calling for someone, but didn’t get any answers, so he continued on his tour. The massive living room siphoned off down a hallway, so he followed it. Six doors were visible, and he tried the first one. For some reason, he’d been expecting it to be locked and he was surprised when it swung easily open.

The room was done out in blue; dark blue walls and curtains, light blue sheets. A turquoise blue comforter was folded up at the foot of the bed, and the whole theme was offset by the wooden floors – complete with blue rugs – wooden bed frame, and the neon blue light coming from a massive fishtank in the corner. Like everything else, the fish looked expensive – one of Kritiker’s other teams actually ran a pet store, and Omi had been taking their reports for a while. They explained the difference between the tropical fish that were more expensive – upwards of three hundred US dollars an animal – and the guppies and goldfish most people could buy for about fourty yen. He couldn’t tell what type of fish they were, or make a guess as to how expensive they might have been, but from their size and colours, he imagined they were as expensive as everything else in the house.

Other than the blue theme and the fish, the room was fairly unremarkable. There was a computer on the desk, and a large stereo system with a huge rack of CDs. Omi took a moment to glance over some of them, slightly startled when he realised he recognized most of them.

He backed up out of the room and tried the other doors. The rooms were almost indistinguishable from one another; he thought to himself, maybe that explains the colour schemes, because that was just about the only difference. One room held two dressers, two CD racks, and two lamps, but only one bed. The entire scheme was green. It was slightly nauseating, and he didn’t linger.

The third room was done out in red, and contained even less personalization than the other two. There was a laptop computer and a television in this room, but no CDs or other personal effects. The fourth was an office, with two desks and another television. These people are obsessed with their tv, he thought, but didn’t touch anything. The remaining two doors lead to a linen closet containing spare sheets and blankets and towels – all, he noticed, in the same shades of red, blue, and green – and the last one was a bathroom.

If he wasn’t convinced that whoever lived here was rich beyond belief before this, the bathroom was more than enough to convince him. A massive shower encased in glass, with multiple showerheads in the walls as well as sprouting from the ceiling was flanked by a claw-footed tub and what could only be described as a Jacuzzi. Five or six people could have easily fit into the bath at once, and being empty of water only made it easier to see the built-in seats with water jets positioned for massaging whoever happened to be sitting in it. The whole room was permeated by a sort of antiseptic smell, the kind of bleach or cleaner one normally associated with hospitals. The entire apartment was supernaturally clean, and he wondered briefly if anyone actually lived there. He remembered the fish, and decided that maybe they were just extraordinarily clean, or maybe had a maid. It wouldn’t have surprised him.

Omi made his way back out into the living room, and found the front door. The genkan was supplied with multiple pairs of indoor slippers of varying sizes – it didn’t look like any more than three or four people lived there, so he guessed they had a lot of guests. A shoe cubby was tucked cleverly into a closet that would be hidden by the front door when it was open, and he again noticed the serious discrepancy in styles and sizes. White dress shoes, black dress shoes, running shoes, thick black boots, loafers – they all rested comfortably beside one another, stacked neatly into the little cubbies provided.

The array tugged at memories, but part of his mind shied away from them. He didn’t want to know right now. He heard voices coming through the door, and backed away from it so that he didn’t surprise whoever was coming in. He suddenly felt awkward for having poked around, but whoever owned this place had brought him here for a reason, and then left him. They must have expected him to do some poking.

The voices grew louder, and Omi prepared a smile, considering how to thank them for taking care of him and welcoming them home. No matter who you were, it was always nice to be welcomed. Suddenly, the door wrenched open and slammed into the closet door. Omi’s breath caught in his throat as the welcoming smile froze on his face as he saw just who it was who lived there.

Schuldig was turned around, yelling at the people behind him, so his first impression was a wild tangle of orange hair topping the long green coat. The words didn’t sink in immediately, overwhelmed as he was with the sudden return of his memories.

Schwarz.

The mission.

The building.

Weiß!

Omi staggered back, one hand over his mouth to keep himself from being sick. A strangled howl wrenched itself out of his throat, and he was only vaguely aware of the three of them pausing in a semi-circle around him.

“Schuldig, Nagi,” Crawford said – just their names, but it didn’t make any sense to Omi. His team was gone. His friends were dead and he was – he was trapped here with Schwarz. Schwarz lived here in this antiseptic, colour-coded apartment. He felt the familiar hand of Naoe’s gift wrap around him, keeping him still. A moment later, he could hear Schuldig’s voice slide into his thoughts.

//You have to calm down. You’re making us sick. Calm, Omi, calm!//

Calm? Calm? How was he supposed to be – what about this –

He tried to reach up and tangle his hands into his hair, let the strength drain out of his legs. Naoe was supporting his full weight, but he still couldn’t move.

“Schuldig!”

A wrenching in his mind and everything went dark again.

~*~

“Scheiße! How’d Farfarello even manage that?”

The voice was familiar. Omi groaned, his eyes opening against his will. He was looking up at a familiar ceiling – he’d been there before – and he turned to look around the room. Schwarz was crowded into one half of the large sitting room, Naoe and Schuldig sharing a seat with Schuldig sitting on the back of it. This time the return of his memories didn’t overwhelm him – everything was muffled somehow, removed. He still felt the loss keenly, but it was like it was farther away this time.

“Are you willing to be rational?” Crawford asked. Omi sat up, looking around warily.

“Why am I here?”

There was a brief moment of dead silence in the room. Omi thought he could hear the sound of the fish tank’s filter pouring water like a fountain through it. The three Schwarz members exchanged a glance, and then focused on him as one.

“Excuse me,” Schuldig said, getting to his feet. “I need some aspirin.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

“Not the whole bottle,” Nagi warned, and scurried after him. Crawford sighed, and Omi might have found it funny that Schwarz had abandoned him to deal with the big bad Weiß if – if there had been any kind of Weiß left to be big and bad.

“Farfarello perished in the building alongside your team,” Crawford began. “You are here for observation because Schuldig said he did a very stupid thing before he died.”

Omi’s breath caught. “So you know for a fact they’re all dead.” The words seemed to echo inside his head, and he thought maybe it was because his heart had been ripped out of its place, leaving an empty space behind.

Crawford closed his eyes, and fixed Omi with a solid stare. “Hidaka Ken and Kudo Yohji and Farfarello were recovered from the building by Kritiker this morning. There was no sign of Fujimiya Ran when we left.”

Omi whimpered involuntarily, and Crawford put up a hand as if to stop him.

“It’s true,” he murmured, and fixed Omi with his eyes again. “You must stay calm. Until Schuldig’s gift reorients itself, you must be calm.”

“Calm?” The word was quiet. “Calm?” He lunged at Crawford, wishing for his darts or his throwing-knives but perfectly willing to rip the prescient’s throat out with his hands if he had to. “How do you expect me to be calm!?” Before he connected with the older man, Naoe’s gift caught him and pushed him back into the far wall. One of the painting frames caught his shoulder, and he winced. His wrist throbbed in time with his racing heart and he snarled.

“Let me go you pint-sized freak.”

Naoe increased the pressure, leaving him breathless. Behind Naoe, Schuldig stepped out of the kitchen, his hands on his hips. He studied Omi for a long moment and then threw his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed.
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Heaven is Wrapped in Chains