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Die Fürsprache (bait and switch)	By : quietladybirman Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 2425 -:- 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.

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Die Fürsprache

(bait and switch)

a Weiss Kreuz fanfiction by laila

________

+ desecration

Youji sounds frantic and for a moment it leaves Ken, circumstances be damned, feeling nothing but surprised. Thrown. Youji doesn’t lose control. Youji is all languid unconcern, a smiling figure indolently sprawled in a shaft of sunlight, his eyes peering sleepily and uninterestedly out at the world over the dark glasses that have slipped halfway down his nose. He recognizes the panic in his teammate’s voice and, briefly, he opens his eyes, but he can see nothing of any moment. Can’t see Youji at all though he knows he is still there. Is that a comfort or quite the opposite when all it means is being seen? Youji cannot help him. Nobody can help him. God is dead.

“Youji—”

He gets no further, breaking off with a gasp as he feels Schuldig’s hair lightly brushing across his chest and shoulders when he bends toward him. Ken twists in his captor’s grasp and tries to pull free, put much-needed space between Schuldig and himself but can’t move far enough, hasn’t got the leverage, he tries to kick but Schuldig isn’t there, isn’t anywhere although he stands over him… the man gives the side of his neck a brief yet agonizing nip and Ken realizes his pain isn’t enough for Schuldig. His death isn’t enough. His eyes go wide as understanding tears through him; it is a gunshot, or the sudden sharp thrust of a knife – a penetration.

“Oh my God.” It’s all Ken can think of to say. He can’t be serious. “Oh God… stop it, you fucking psycho!” Frightened now. Please, don’t let him want what I think he does. Please!

Schuldig laughs softly into the curve of Ken's neck. “You lose, Kenken.” He says smoothly, raising his head slightly so that he can look into Youji’s eyes. He spares the blonde a single, wicked half-smile before he speaks again. “I thought we had an understanding. You were the one who wanted to save your friend. You agreed to this. Don’t—” his voice becomes a whisper, a soft, menacing thing, “—make me change the terms.”

Ken, preoccupied with Schuldig’s proximity, isn’t paying attention to conversation. He barely hears him, but he catches enough of Schuldig’s words for their import to sink in. But this wasn’t part of the deal! Surely, surely this couldn’t have been part of the deal! Wasn’t death enough of a recompense? Pain he had been expecting. Pain was something he could, ultimately, handle (of course he’d been there before, he was used to it). What was this?

He thinks of – Christ, and he think of Manx sitting at, no, on a desk, not much of a teacher, talking flatly to him about… and he can’t recall her words any more. Ken remembers only staring out of the window at the perfect afternoon trapped beyond it, wishing he were out in it and wondering, such a stupid thing to think, whose life is this? Briefings. What the fuck good is a briefing? A woman’s serene voice speaking dispassionately on torture and rape…

Rape. How can he let this happen? How can there be nothing to do, no way to stop it? Ken can’t be sure what’s worse about his situation; Schuldig’s intentions or his own helplessness in the face of them. He’s never been good with inaction.

Ken struggles in Schuldig’s grasp as the redhead snatches at the button of his jeans, and Schuldig gives his hair a savage yank before letting that hand trail perversely lightly down the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw and down his chest before coming to rest on his abdomen, pinning the boy against him. The buttons of Schuldig’s jacket dig, cold and hard and emphatic, into the torn, abused flesh of his back, and he winces and tries to pull away. There is nowhere to go. He couldn’t have explained why he still endeavors to fight if he were to try for hours. A rivulet of blood surges down one arm. Funny thing, it tickles.

“No,” Ken says desperately as if simply by saying it he could negate the truth. I don’t want this. I never wanted this…

“No? I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you, kid,” Schuldig says, and his casual tone is nothing but an obscenity. “I could still change my mind about sparing your friend here. You wouldn’t want that to happen now, would you? After you’ve come so far?” Ken says nothing. Schuldig can feel the tension in his muscles. Even with all his attention on the honey-rich turmoil that is Youji’s mind, he fancies can almost taste Ken's terror. Absently, Schuldig drags his fingernails across the boy’s torso enjoying the way Ken winces and pushes back against his chest, trying to flee from pain, make it hurt less. “I could kill him any time I wanted, Weiss. I could shoot him dead now and that would be the end of it. I might still do it…”

“Don’t. Please, don’t hurt him,” Ken whispers hopelessly, and Youji stares. No, Ken! That’s not how it works, that’s not how this has to be! How in Hell could he have bargained with Schuldig? How could anyone want to throw themselves away for a man like him? Oh, Ken. You bloody fool. God damn the kid, he could be so stupid. So thoughtless. So terribly brave.

It breaks Youji’s heart that Ken hasn’t once looked to him for help. He hasn’t even thought to ask for it. Like it or not Ken sees clearly.

Schuldig nods briskly, a businessman concluding a successful negotiation, quietly gratified by the concessions he has wrung from his counterpart. “Then the arrangement stands.” His gaze drifts back across to Youji and the fury in his trapped eyes and oh, but he could get drunk on the young man’s thoughts.

Ken instinctively resists when Schuldig once again reaches for the button of his pants, tensing and shying away at the first shock of contact before, with almost visible effort, calming himself. Superficially calm. He struggles to control his breathing as Schuldig quickly and unceremoniously strips him of his jeans, his underwear. The whimper he suppresses by biting his lip; nothing he can do about the blush that spreads across his cheeks save wish it weren’t there. The cuffs of his pants get caught on his boots; lose those too. Nothing like doing a job properly. Ken closes his eyes and pretends he isn’t anywhere any more. He pretends he’s dead. He is angry. He isn’t angry enough.

Youji murmurs something. Curse, exclamation, simple statement; Ken doesn’t catch it. He only knows Youji has spoken. Schuldig, though – he must have heard it, or something, because it makes him laugh. Laugh, and rest one hand at the base of his spine. Schuldig is playing. It seems perverse that his hands should be warm, his touch gentle.

“No,” Ken says, and he doesn’t know what he’s denying. I don’t want this. Please, don’t let me cry…

“No deal, Ken.” Schuldig says softly, his voice seductively dangerous. “I could have killed you. You chose otherwise. Cope with it.”

Truth. It is unbearable, almost. Ken flushes furiously in sheer embarrassment even as the cold – and still he isn’t used to it – makes him flinch. Ken knows this is – nakedness is nothing. Nothing at all. It, he isn’t even anything new to Youji, goddamn it, he’s passed out on the guy enough times before now and it’s not like the others could clean him up without undressing him. He’s done locker rooms, done public baths, never had a problem with them… what’s the problem now?

Context is all; he is humiliated. Degraded. On some level not quite human.

Don’t look at me, Youji. Please don’t look… As if Youji has any more choice in this than he does. As if there’s anything he can do. Oh Christ, he’s going to make him watch I'm sorry, mother of God I'm sorry, I never meant this, I don’t want this, you said you’d leave him alone— you never really believed that did you Ken, where are the others? Don’t let them be dead, they can’t be dead so where are they?

(Help me.)

“Ken!”

Youji’s voice. Then the harsh, dry crack of the gun. Ken cries out, losing his footing and landing heavily on his front, barking shins and elbows when, instinctively, he tries to protect his head. The shot has cleaved the wire that restrains his hands in two. Freedom of sorts, but Ken doesn’t move from where he has fallen. He merely lies still and stares at his numbed, pale hands, his torn and blood-streaked forearms as if he has never seen them before, and struggles to catch his breath, snatching vainly at calm even as he feels it slipping from his fingers. The damp clings to him, he wants to pull away from the clammy floor, wants warmth, will he ever be warm again? Ken shivers. From the cold? He hopes it’s only cold. He can hear movement behind him. Don’t think about that. Don’t think, Ken.

If he raises his head he can just about see Youji. Youji, pale and aghast, his clothing spattered with blood – Ken tells himself it’s shock and blood loss, that Youji needs a doctor, needs to get out of here, don’t look at me. Youji who doesn’t know what to do with himself, doesn’t even know how he should be looking. His face is a frightening nothingness. Youji is struggling to rise again, fighting a fait accompli only because he doesn’t know what else to do, because he doesn’t want to admit defeat, because inaction hurts worse than any physical pain.

Ken can’t watch, can’t bear to see his normally collected teammate giving in to dismay. I always fuck things up… What is he doing, what in Hell has he done? Why is it always the simple ones? He closes his eyes.

“Stop it, Schuldig! You’ve made your point!” What’s worse, Youji is wondering frantically, furiously. Who is this worse for? He can’t believe he’s even thinking it. “Leave him be, God damn you!”

“I’m sorry,” Ken whispers. His words will tear Youji apart. “I'm sorry, Youji.”

And the rasp of fabric on fabric, horribly pointed, horribly loud. Schuldig hooks an arm round his waist, yanking him forcefully to his knees. Ken gasps and tenses all the while knowing it’s wrong, has to relax but how? and tries to pull away, feeling Schuldig’s nails digging painfully into the flesh at his hips. Hail Mary full of grace I can’t do this, I can’t just let him do this—

“No!”

Pleading is all Ken can do and it’s not enough. It could never be enough.

There is no other warning. No preliminary, no matter how perfunctory. Just pain, sudden excruciating pain as Schuldig forces his way inside him, and he screams.

(Help me!)

Ken screams. Screams in agony, disbelief, terror, fury or all of them, or none of them, and the desperate, wordless mayhem of his scream sticks in his throat, is torn in two by a single sharp gasp. It hurts so badly he can hardly breathe, pain and Schuldig tear him apart and he twists in his assailant’s grasp (do something, Ken, do anything, anything at all you can’t let him do this to you call yourself a man holy Mary mother of God make it stop hurting, I can’t do it, can’t do it I just can’t stand this it hurts Christ it hurts please God mother Youji anybody help me make him stop!) but the Schwarz isn’t giving an inch, he holds him fast. Ken wants to collapse and he can’t, can’t move, can barely even think through the pain and the gathering haze of shock and the terrible, calculating humiliation of it all.

Youji is shouting something now, but it means nothing to Ken. A thread of sound, barely audible over his own screams and no more relevant. He doesn’t hear the catch toYouji’s voice, wouldn’t have believed it was there even if he had. Ken cannot see the way Schuldig, bent over his back, lifts his head to smile at Youji from behind a fall of hair. To smile, and his smile is triumphant. Youji’s thoughts flood his mind, mingling gloriously with his own, a study in contrasts; somewhere on the edge of everything the grace-note of Ken's distress, a fragrance barely smelt but heady and unmistakable nonetheless.

Schuldig tangles his fingers in the boy’s hair and, negligent, brutal, yanks his head up forcing an artificial arch to his neck, a painful curve to his back. Difficult for Ken to catch his breath when breathing is a sharp, ragged thing, when every inhalation is searing and shallow and his tears half choke him. The hanging ends of Schuldig’s hair trail across his shoulders and back, the nails of one of his hands dig into his abdomen, he is buried deep inside him, moving smooth and mechanical and savage, he isn’t even looking at him. Still Schuldig watches Youji, still he is smiling. Turn away. I dare you.

Youji guesses the import of that smile and it horrifies him. It leaves him chilled and shaken and furious, absolutely furious to consider how little this means. It was him, he realizes. Only him, always. He’s the constant. Ken could have been anyone, so why him? Youji can’t tear his eyes from Schuldig’s face. He can’t even imagine what look the redhead might find on his own. He wants to cry but what good will that do either of them? He tries to close his eyes but he can’t shut out Ken's screams. Not to see is worse. Not to see feels like shame.

This, Youji knew, was what would hurt him the most. Not Ken’s violation, but his own furious helplessness in the face of it. His reluctant voyeurism, turning him into a co-conspirator in his best friend's rape. Schuldig had made it into a spectacle.

Oh God, Ken. Not you, not you too! I’m not worth it, kid… I was never worth this!

A necessarily silent shriek.

Ken cannot think. He screams – pain, only pain – and barely realizes it, barely recognizes the sound of his own voice. Barely recognizes anything. A quiet room, a hot day, the composed, clipped cadences of Manx’s words: it’s nothing but bullshit. All the world is Schuldig and pain and something in his head that feels like a prayer. After a while he realizes he is crying. After a while he realizes he isn’t screaming any more. After a while it all becomes extraneous and Ken surrenders to the sanctuary of shock, gratefully losing himself in it.

And time becomes a quiet irrelevance. He doesn’t know how much longer it lasts, none of them do. Schuldig climaxes with a jerk of the hips and a sinuous shudder and even at that moment of hideous transport his eyes are on Youji’s. He withdraws quickly, roughly pushes Ken to the floor with a single abrupt motion before getting to his feet, turning all his attention to scrupulously tidying his disheveled clothing. Leave no trace. It is as if, Youji notices with a certain detached horror, Schuldig can barely wait to get away from Ken.

Ken lies face-down where he has fallen, his bound hands before him. It would almost be easier for Youji to bear if he were still crying but aside from his ragged breathing he lies silent. A bad sign. His bare shoulders shake as, exhausted, he fights to catch his breath. Youji can’t look at him without feeling guilty and ashamed. This should never have happened, not to Ken; what can he do now it has?

(And still all he wants to do is hold him.)

Schuldig grins, making a few final adjustments to the hang of his jacket. Obscenely elegant, out of step with his macabre surroundings, he lights a languid cigarette with a casual flourish. “You’re not missing much, Weiss.”

“You fucking disgust me.” Youji says viciously, but his voice trembles. “Why him?”

Schuldig quirks one eyebrow, as if surprised Youji should prove so unbearably naïve. He says only, “Whyever not?”

“Don’t think this is over, Schuldig.” Youji says, spitting the Schwarz’s chosen name at him like it were nothing but a curse, but for all his fury and loathing, for all he means every last word, the assertion sounds only pathetic. Hopeless. It sounds like nothing more than an impossible fantasy designed only to shore up the ruins of self-respect. “I’ll have your life for this!” No matter how long it takes, he promises himself – he promises Ken – Schuldig will pay.

The cold is the only thing Ken comprehends. He hardly notices when Schuldig steps away from him. He is frightened and torn and agonized; he hates Schuldig with all he has; he would break down and weep if he could only find the strength, but more than any of that he is numb. Nothing matters. He can’t even find it in himself to care whether he lives or dies when both prospects seem equally unenviable. Slowly, his abused and aching body wracked with uncontrollable shivering, Ken curls up on his side and draws in on himself, in flight from the unbearable cold. His eyes are half open and vacant as a daydreamer’s, fixed on an unremarkable spot on one of the stained walls. He sees nothing. He doesn’t move again.

Something in Ken has already broken, and it has broken irrevocably. He crouches naked amongst the shards, palms and legs cut to ribbons, bleeding and weeping as he tries to pick up the pieces…

Survival hurts worse than death, sometimes.

Which is why Schuldig lets Ken live.
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Die Fürsprache (bait and switch)