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Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained	By : KDSarge Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 6318 -:- 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
- 5
- 6
- 7
Celebrations

“Chocolates,
Yohji?”

Progress,
that was the first time this week Aya hadn’t called him Kudou!
Yohji gave the redhead a lazy grin. “A lot of chocolates, Ayan.
You’re too skinny.” That was a lie, Abyssinian was
perfect. But the shi-ne glare would show up if Yohji said that, or if
he confessed he hoped to gain favor through Ran’s sweet tooth.
The blonde shrugged. “Share them with Aya-chan.”

“Oh,
Yohji-kun, how sweet!” Aya-chan squealed, earning the blonde a
scowl from her brother. Yohji had asked her not to do that, but
Aya-chan was a Fujimiya, and she did what she wanted to do. “My
other present is last, Oniisan!” She plopped another box in
front of Aya. The scowl mellowed to gentle disapproval as it moved to
her.

“Two
presents, Aya-chan? You shouldn’t have–“

”Nande?
You are worth two presents!” Besides, this one was from Yohji.
But he and his conspirator knew Aya wouldn’t take it from
Yohji. “Come on, open it!”

Yohji
tried not to focus on those long, sensitive fingers as Aya carefully
removed the wrapping. God, if he didn’t get some relief soon,
he was just going to tackle the man, and–no he wouldn’t.
There couldn’t be many more painful ways to die than
suicide-by-Aya.

“Che!”
Aya-chan exclaimed. “Just open it, Ran-niisan!”

“Aya-chan!”
Aya stopped to stare at her. “Watch your language!”

“I
know worse words than that, Ran-niisan, and if you don’t hurry
up I’ll use them!”

Aya
scowled at Yohji again, like he was the only one who swore around the
girl, and slid his fingers inside the wrapping paper to pull out a
box. He opened it and stared.

“Isn’t
it beautiful?” Aya-chan squealed. Though she didn’t know
what it was, all she could see was the color. Yohji had ordered it
very last-minute, and picked it up already wrapped. Aya lifted the
shirt and looked at it.

“Umm...it’s...lovely.”

“Anou,
Aya-chan,” Omi began, but stopped at a look from Aya. Ken just
walked away. Yohji kept an eye on Aya-chan’s raptures, and made
a note to never forget what an actress the girl was.

“Oh,
but the color suits your eyes, Ran-niisan! And when Yohji-kun said
you were going to go out this weekend...” Another glare at
Yohji, he just shrugged, and hoped he didn’t show a hint of how
much he wanted to see Aya in that top. Hiroshi was indeed the best.
The shirt was a deep purple-blue that really did do wonders for Aya’s
already beautiful eyes, it was leather, with a high but open collar
that would show off his incredible neck, it was short enough it would
show muscle when Aya moved, and it had zippers and buckles all over
it. Aya wore anything for his daily life–witness the orange
sweater–but for work he liked things with zippers and buckles.
As if he gave only his victims the courtesy of seeing his true self.
Well, that was enough of that. Yohji was all for zippers and buckles,
as long as they actually opened.

Aya-chan
was still chattering, Yohji caught her eye and glanced at the box.
The shirt wasn’t all. She caught the hint and poked her
brother.

“Hayaku,
Oniisan, there’s more!”

Okay,
Yohji might have pushed things a little. Aya stared at the vinyl
pants, and so did Aya-chan. Omi choked, Ken came back to splutter.
Black. Low-cut. Zippered. All the way up both sides. They’d
fit, Yohji was sure, Hiroshi didn’t need to measure any more
than Yohji needed dance lessons, but–

“On
second thought,” Yohji slid the chocolates away from Aya,
“better not eat these.”

“Aya-chan,”
the redhead said softly, “why?”

“Because!”
Aya-chan rallied. “Because I want you to have fun, Ran-niisan!”
She leaned to stroke her brother’s face. “You have been
too long in the dark,” she said softly. “I want people to
see you. Will you have fun? For me?”

“I–will
get the cake,” Omi said, pushing to his feet. “Help me,
Ken-kun?”

“Aa.”

“I’ll
get the plates,” Yohji volunteered, wanting to be behind Ken
and anything he was carrying. And to get out of the room before
Aya-chan blew, whether it was laughter or anger she was holding in.
Aya hadn’t noticed yet, he was still in shock.

Or
maybe not. “I won’t forget,” that deep voice was
rich with promise, “to thank you for helping Aya-chan, Kudou.”

Aya-chan
assured her brother just how much help Yohji-kun had been. Yohji
wondered if he’d mistaken Aya-chan’s intentions, if
instead of trying to help, the girl was angling to get dear sweet
Yohji-kun sliced into sashimi.

“No,
damn it, Farf, use the tongs!” Schuldig gave the pie crust
another despairing thump, it didn’t go any flatter than it had
with the last thirty or so. If Nagi had done it like he asked, damn
it– “Scheisse!”

“Why?”
Farfarello picked up the tongs, though, and fished the remainder of
the rubber spatula out. Then he pulled out a perfectly-done fried
chicken breast, with a lovely trail of melted rubber twined around
it. “White,” he said. “Where are the red and blue
ones?”

“Farf,
we are not decorating the fried chicken!”

Nagi’s
laughter sounded from the door, Schuldig reminded himself throwing
things at a telekinetic was an exercise in futility. Although Bombay
had gotten through with the mister...

“Apples
peeled and sliced,” Nagi reported. “Shouldn’t you
have that crust ready?”

Don’t
scream, Schuldig told himself, don’t growl, don’t snarl,
don’t swear. “Nagi, I will get you tickets and chaperone
you to that concert, if you will just get this crust to work.”

“It’s
sold out, Schuldig.”

Schu
turned, flour-covered hands on hips, and smirked at his teammate.
Nagi grinned.

“Okay,
Mastermind, you got yourself a deal. Get the filling ready.”

Finally!
Schu got out of the way, confiscating the rubber spatulas as he did.
“Farf, you could get the hibachi ready.” Since he’d
destroyed half the fried chicken, damn it! “Don’t set
fire to yourself, Brad won’t be happy.”

“Brad-chan,”
Nagi mocked, and fluttered his eyelashes. “Don’t you ever
get enough rejection, Schuldig?”

Don’t
scream, don’t growl, don’t snarl, don’t swear.
Don’t taunt back, tomorrow was soon enough to make the little
whelp pay. Schuldig counted ways until the urge to do it now
passed. Then he went back to the recipe. “This is easy,”
he muttered over the cookbook. “Can it be this easy?”

“Maybe
they thought the crust was bad enough.” The pastry dough
floated past Schuldig’s elbow, to arrange itself perfectly in
the pie pan. “Let me know when you’re ready for the top,”
Nagi said, floating a soda on his way out. “It’s too hot
in here.”

He
was right, it was. Farfarello had left too, hopefully not to douse
the hibachi with lighter fluid. Brad had only been willing to help by
buying beer, an absolute necessity, Schuldig had insisted. So, of
course, Brad had said he would get that American swill...the telepath
pulled his hair up and stuck a chopstick through it. Gott in der
Holle, Brad Crawford had better start warming up soon, or all of
Tokyo was going to be killing each other from the resonance of his
frustration. Not that he cared, but Brad would, if it interfered with
his plans.

Why
on earth had he decided to try to cook, anyway? Sure, celebrating the
American holiday was a good plan, but why try to do it home-made?
Fried chicken was easy to come by, after all, and apple pies had to
be available, there were enough Americans in Tokyo...

Because
the harder he worked, the more romantic it was, that was why. Schu
sighed and stole a peek at the potato salad, done and delicious in
the refrigerator, before he fished out the now-burned batch of
chicken. It wasn’t safe after Farf melted who-knew-what in
there anyway. He put another pan of oil on to heat, and turned back
to the pie. This, this and that, and the filling was made, and,
“Nagi!”

“Gotcha.”
The telekinetic leaned in the window, fanning himself as he stared at
the pie crust. Lattice-work, exactly like the picture, sometimes the
kid was actually worth knowing. “Done. Farf said the hibachi is
going, bring out the rubber spatulas when you come.”

“As
if.” Schuldig grabbed a popsicle from the freezer, tossed it to
the boy. “Thanks, Nags. Don’t ruin your dinner.”

“Between
you and Farfarello, I won’t have a chance to.” Nagi stuck
the treat in his mouth and rolled his eyes. ::Yum,:: he thought at
Schuldig. ::Sorry I teased you. If chasing Brad-chan makes you this
nice, I’m all for it.::

::Don’t
get used to it, Prodigy,:: Schuldig warned. ::I’ll be my usual
asshole self just as soon as I nail him.::

A
spurt of mind-laughter, and Nagi disappeared. ::Then I’ll start
packing ice in his boxers, Schu-Schu,:: his thought floated back.

Schuldig
managed to salvage half the chicken, Farfarello charred American hot
dogs and not himself, the potato salad had pride of place, the
lemonade was only a little too sweet, and the pie looked not too bad.
Schu surveyed the table with satisfaction. Now if Brad would show up
with the beer, and Nagi would get off the damn laptop and Farfarello–

Where
was Farfarello?

“Crawford!”
Nagi yelled. “In five, four–

“Nagi,
what–“

”Three,
two–“

Oh
Scheisse...

“One!
Liftoff!”

Schuldig
saw it go up, definitely larger than any of the fireworks he had
bought. Brad came around the house, empty-handed. Schu tried to smile
at him anyway, but that damn rocket was–coming down. Aimed
straight at–

“Nagi!”

Assassin
that he was, the boy moved in a blink, throwing himself one way as he
shoved the other.

“No!”
Schuldig yelped. But not even Nagi could stop it, there wasn’t
time. The rocket passed the lemonade, fizzled over the potato salad,
and just when Schu dared to breathe, Brad tackled him. Amazingly
enough Schu wasn’t in the mood.

“Brad,
the–“

The
damn thing exploded. Schu threw an arm across his eyes, partially to
protect them from potato salad, mostly to avoid looking at Brad.

Weight
lifted off Schuldig, the telepath was pulled to his feet. Schu stared
at the remains of hours of hot, messy work. Nagi and Farfarello
shared looks, and turned to slink away. Schu took a deep breath. He
could kill them both. It would be quicker than he wanted, but–

Brad
was laughing. Okay, he could kill all three of them.

But–Brad
was laughing. The brunette scraped a spot of potato salad off
Schuldig’s cheek and tasted it.

“Very...”
he gasped out, “very good, Schu...this was...”

“You
should have tried the pie,” Schuldig lied. Probably. Nagi knew
it, he laughed. Brad and Nagi laughing? Farfarello joined in,
with howls that started the neighbor’s dog going. He could kill
all of them, including the dog–

But
Brad, who had subsided into chuckles, winked at him. Winked! “It’s
the thought that counts,” he said. “Ne, Mastermind?”

Schu
shook his head and pulled himself together. “At least there’s
beer,” he sighed. It was the best he could do, he had worked
harder on that meal than he’d worked at anything in years.

“Yes,”
Brad said, pulling the forgotten chopstick from Schu’s hair, to
let it fall around his face. “There’s beer.” He
raised his voice. “Nagi, Farfarello, please bring the bags from
the car.”

“You
bastard,” Schuldig hissed. “You saw this!”

“Of
course I did, Schu-Schu.” Brad picked something off Schu’s
shoulder. “But you wanted to blow something up. And you have
been such a good little assassin lately.” He popped the
something in his mouth. “Mmm. Apple pie. Not bad.”

“Really?”
Schu asked before he could stop himself.

“Really.”

There
was more fried chicken. And lemonade, and apple pie, and German beer.
Good German beer. And there was something called a Super Soaker 3000,
that Schu found in his room when he went to change out of his
food-and-grass-stained clothes. Of course while he was gone Oracle
armed Prodigy and Berserker, too.

But
they only had little water guns.

And
hiding from Mastermind was an exercise in futility.

Author’s
note: You knew Farf and fireworks were a bad combo. Didn’t you?
Add not owning any rights to Super Soaker water guns to the list of
disclaimers. Though they ought to be happy I mentioned them, right?
But I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a 3000. It
just had a ring to it.

Don't
stop talking to me! * schnuggles all reviewers * Thank you!
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Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained