Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Come As You Are	By : animegher Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 6971 -:- 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
- 8
- 9
- 10
Disclaimer: All characters and your little dog too belong to Weiss Kreuz and Koyasu Takehito. Don’t mess with them or Yuuki Hiro’s shorts will be shortened even further… though that would make for an interesting court day.

Aya was tired. He wanted to rest his head down on the floor, close his eyes, and finally relax… except every time he began to nod off, Farfarello would throw himself against the bars in renewed frenzy at his prey becoming so vulnerable. Aya would jerk awake immediately; self-preservation instincts forcing him to huddle up further underneath the table in even if they were separated by a wall- and hating himself for doing so at the same time. Where was Schuldig? What was he doing to Yohji right now? Would Yohji be able to tell the difference between the real him and the illusion Schuldig had managed to impress upon his mind? Aya hadn’t been able to. But, then again, he had always been susceptible to Mastermind’s talents and had been the German’s plaything long before he had ever managed to gain the courage to kill someone. Even that had been wrong… such a heavy sin to carry around, so many lives taken that Aya had simply lost count. What kind of killer was he, if he forgot his victims? He was so damn tired of feeling guilty, wanted to give up and let that exhaustion overwhelm him; but to sleep here would be to die. Aya could smell Farfarello’s bloodlust, likely ready to tear through steel bars if Aya made the mistake of letting his fatigue take over. It was a good thing that his arms hurt so much, the pain making it impossible to actually fall asleep. It reminded him of Yohji’s horrified face as he had pulled out, staring down on a flaccid penis smeared with cum and blood, strings of it stretching out between his and Yohji’s thighs. He had time to remember every explicit detail as Farfarello prowled his side of the wall, sticking a foot or arm in between the bars every so often just to check if he could reach Aya yet or not. He couldn’t help but think that in some way he deserved this for hurting Yohji so badly. He should have known… he should have felt something other than mindless passion at being completely incased inside of Yohji. Just because he loved Yohji thoughtlessly didn’t mean he should make love thoughtlessly. He truly was the cold-hearted bastard Yohji had accused him of being before.

Schuldig slammed open the doors, cursing so loudly in German that Aya couldn’t help whimpering and trying to hide in the large shadows of the basement he’d been thrown into. It didn’t seem to matter as large fluorescent lights were slammed on, blaring white down on the tile floor. Schuldig saw that Farfarello had escaped from his straightjacket and immediately was in front of the Irishman, screaming in German that neither of them could understand. Schuldig started hitting Farfarello in the face, over and over again until the man finally hit the floor. Aya knew that Farfarello felt no pain over the blows, even though the sounds were enough to haunt him. Schuldig seemed content with how badly he had beaten Farfarello, walking away after delivering half a dozen more right hooks than necessary.

"You smell like blood," Farfarello commented smartly for someone that was supposed to be insane, picking himself up off of the floor without a care.

"And you smell like shit. Fuck off!" Schuldig’s voice was so loud it broke into a shrill; there was nothing but pure insanity on the man’s face as he came right back around to hit Farfarello again. The only difference was that this time the German had a set of keys in his fist, dropping them down on top of his victim as Farfarello went down yet again. There was now blood on Farfarello’s face as he winked at Aya through the bars, cradling something between both hands. Aya only felt sick when the Irishman began to giggle in delight, turning away and pressing his face up against Schuldig’s legs like a contented pet. Ice began to form in the pit of his stomach when Aya saw that Farfarello had the keys Schuldig had hit him with.

"Go play for a little bit, okay?" the German used a gentle voice and sweet smile that better belonged on the face of a patient father, petting Farfarello on top of that short, white hair. Farfarello made a contented, keening noise that made the hairs on the back of Aya’s neck rise up before he was at the door. Aya heard the key slide in, the lock turn, the door creak as it opened to let the devil into his cell. He was quite proud of himself for not screaming as Farfarello came close enough to feel his body heat, to hear the irregular breathing. Schuldig turned his back, going over to the cabinets and shelves against the side of the wall while Farfarello came into the cell. His presence filled it up, suffocating Aya long before the man ever laid hands on him. He didn’t have the strength to fight Farfarello off; far too weak from blood loss to do anything more than yell hoarsely as he was slowly wrestled out of the protective ball he had made on the floor.

"What did you do to Yohji?" Aya demanded of Schuldig as Farfarello finally hauled him out into the open. He could hold that one thought in his mind as the psychopath sat down on his back. Schuldig just made a loud and indecent snorting noise, throwing his head back and barking out relief. Aya took in the bruised face and blood-splattered clothing in one clairvoyant moment before Farfarello ripped off the bandages on his right arm. Aya hadn’t seen the damage himself, horrified at the purple and red flaps of skin sewn together with black string. There was yellow puss at the edges; infection coming on as his body tried to kill itself slowly. Farfarello licked the tender and wet skin, making Aya shudder and sob in response. The madman touched his arm with cold fingers, almost reverently caressing the back of his hand before sinking his teeth into the stitches and tearing them back.

Aya screamed, lightning racing up all the way to his shoulder, up into his brain. He got his other hand up in Farfarello’s face, trying to push him off as sheer agony laced up his side. The Irishman turned, biting down on Aya’s hand and tugging out the rest of the thread with his fingers. Blood flowed once again as well as Aya’s tears, too weak to make any sort of vow like not showing emotion in the face of torture. He couldn’t stay silent as Farfarello put his thumbs on either side of the wound and stretched it open, licking at the blood that eagerly welled up.

"What are you doing, Farfie?" Schuldig chimed behind the Irishman seated upon him. Aya twisted his head back to see the German stab a needle into Farfarello’s neck. Those red eyes shuddered shut, some kind of sedative taking over as the man began to tremble over Aya. Schuldig stood back, bleeding from his nose but clearly not aware of it yet, his eyes already turning a horrible red. Schuldig grabbed Farfarello by the hair and hauled his head back, forcing the man to drop Aya’s arm. Aya curled around the throbbing of his wrist, still stuck under Farfarello’s weight as Mastermind began to use his powers on his friend, teammate…whatever you could call Farfarello. Schuldig’s eyes became brighter, a truer blue than Aya had thought was possible on a human being as Schuldig forced some kind of thought into Farfarello’s head. Aya couldn’t help but be entranced by it, even if he wasn’t the focus of the German’s gaze.

"Don’t you see you have an angel in front of you?" Schuldig demanded, shaking Farfarello yet again. He tossed the used needle away, physical threats having no effect on the Irishman. He was imprinting some sort of thought into Farfarello’s mind, the scrawny body beginning to twitch as the drug started to take effect. Aya didn’t know what Schuldig could possibly be trying to do; remembering how possessive the man had been over his favorite victim in the first few years that Aya had known him. He had done his best to forget it all, though it had been hard when Schwarz and Weiss would eventually cross in the relatively small world of professional assassins.

"God just abandoned him, but he still believes," Schuldig hissed, finally dropping Farfarello back down. Aya glared at the German, knowing very well that God had never cared enough in the first place to ‘abandon him.’ Farfarello just giggled at his mishandling, leaning in closer over Aya’s face. His scars were so much more grotesque up close, livid lumps of glistening and hardened silver skin. He felt no pain at the red swelling on his cheekbones from Schuldig’s earlier treatment. Aya’s wrist was going suspiciously numb, like his arm ended at the elbow. Even so, it still hurt, ached, burned, because Aya knew what a stupid mistake it had been now.

"He’s an angel?" Farfarello’s voice was almost childlike as he hoisted up Aya’s freshly injured arm. He couldn’t even struggle away as Farfarello dug his thumb into the wound, biting his lip and doing his best not to cry. He was just so damn tired, dizzy and sick with the effort of staying awake so he would know how Farfarello tortured him. For some reason, the thought of being unconscious for it was even more terrifying. His free hand scrabbling numbly on the cold floor, unable to do anything else when being assaulted with such pain, wishing that Yohji would come. Yohji would protect him from this.

"I took him from Heaven. He’s an angel," Schuldig laughed, the repetition horrifying, making Aya whimper as the two closed in on him. Schuldig didn’t even have to screw with his head for Aya to waver on the line of a mental breakdown. He wanted Yohji so badly, to be held by him so much, that there was a bad taste in his mouth and an ache in his stomach. But, Aya never wanted Schuldig to look at Yohji, to think something about his lover. They could torture him to death, could rape him until he bled, could piss on him and anything else that Schuldig could think of and Aya wouldn’t care. He had been through it all before. The thought of Schuldig putting his manicured nails on Yohji’s arms projected enough rage for Schuldig to spit on him over Farfarello’s shoulder. It was better him than Yohji.

"You think you’re protecting anyone, Kätzchen?" Schuldig laughed heartily, reaching into his pants pockets. Out came a cellphone and a pocketknife. It was a nice one, wood handle and silver edging catching in the poor light of the room. He dropped the knife down and Farfarello caught it with amazing skill. The blade was snapped out, a bright, sharp streak of light in between the albino’s hands as he played with it; feeling the weight and how the knife cut through the air before testing it on himself. Farfarello cut himself deeply across his own wrist, going the short and unlikely to be fatal way. Blood splattered down and hit Aya’s face, restrained as he was underneath the Irishman. Farfarello made a delighted noise, pleased with the sharpness as his one good red eye focused on Aya’s own. Schuldig’s cellphone beeped out merry electronic notes as he dialed a number, winking at Aya in assurance that he would make things as awful and atrocious as humanly possible.

---

The cellphone rang in between Crawford finishing the last bit off of the report for the latest mission. He had to explain yet again why Farfarello had left the target mangled beyond recognition. At least they had dental records on the man and were able to prove the identity. Crawford knew exactly what had happened- Farfarello had made a quick, efficient laceration to the neck that killed the target within seconds… but the sight of blood had set off the Irishman’s inherent berserk nature and he had begun to attack with his bare hands. Schuldig had declared his cigarette break all of two minutes before this had happened, which was the only time they had agreed to let the man have a break. There was nothing Crawford could do but stand back and wait for Schuldig to finish his cigarette, since the German was the only one who had the actual ability to call Farfarello off. Mastermind’s talents were profound, if crude. He could simply force Farfarello to stop everything, while Crawford was only able to predict what the man was about to do. Now, if only he could make up a good enough lie as to why Berserker had gone full-out on a man that had only embezzled some million odd dollars from a company…the man had a family that would have wanted a body for a funeral. Worse had happened, like Crawford having to deal with those decrepit, decaying council leaders of Esset. He hated how they smelled, the memory enough for him to type off the last sentence before he answered the phone.

"Hello?" Brad demanded irritably, not even taking the time to check the number. He would rather answer it than have to deal with dialing up a voice message. He had a dinner meeting at six o’clock with a foreign contact in Italy, and he would need Nagi to accompany him. Some of their employers liked to see that assassination was still a family business for some strange reason, which worked out well enough with having such a young member on their team. Crawford pretended that Nagi was his son, coming up with a tired lie of a mother on vacation with her sister, running down Nagi’s accomplishments and school activities like items on a tax return. Nagi would sit there and be pleasant enough until they got back into the limo… then the boy could be just as sullen as Farfarello after they had locked the damn imbecile up for botching another mission. Crawford had little care for his employee’s emotional well being, unless it began to interfere with their work. Nagi was too sensitive to be really good at murder, but he got along well enough with his psychic powers. Crawford would mold him into a business member of Esset soon enough.

"Crawford-Chef, do we have any barbwire in the house?" Schuldig’s voice sang out onto the line. Great. If the problem wasn’t with Farfarello, it was with Mastermind. Why couldn’t he have functioning, normal assassins working under him? At least this was through the cell phones instead of having to deal with Schuldig face to face. Crawford was also fairly certain that Schuldig couldn’t read minds through communication devices either. Mastermind had to be within eyesight of his victims in order for his gift to work; a quirk of his mental powers that Esset had never been able to explain… along with the hyper-active libido, super-human speed, dementia, and criminal tendencies of one of their top agents.

"Why?" Crawford immediately demanded, suspicious of Farfarello’s laughter in the background. He saved his file, beginning to spell-check as he waited for Schuldig’s explanation. He knew that there was some in the service shed, but he wasn’t about to reveal that he was so informed of everything around the house. He glanced down at the time in the bottom of the monitor, glaring at the 4:52. He liked to keep his business hours between nine and five, disliking overtime since it was a sign of ill management. He had wanted this file done so that he could relax for the night.

"Farfie wants to wrap a present for you," Schuldig explained in malicious tones, a mangled cry coming out through the electronic device as a static howl. They had someone new in the basement, and Farfarello had already started in on it. There were no active mission orders, nobody they need to extract information from, so Crawford couldn’t help but wonder just who they might have down there.

"Just what might this present be for?" Crawford demanded. He did not want to have to write up yet another report because Schuldig had decided to throw some innocent victim to Farfarello. Crawford understood why Farfarello was so incurably insane. He had seen a picture of him before Esset had dragged the Irishman off to their labs to be experimented on by Esset’s ‘scientists’. He had been called Jei at one time, still an albino, but a child with an innocent face and bright eyes. Now Farfarello had a tendency to tear out his victim’s throats with his teeth. Crawford hoped that Schuldig hadn’t given Farfarello any knives.

Blades were bad right now.

Crawford couldn’t tell why he would believe so, but he had learned to trust these vague instincts like written law. His gift was always unpredictable, the future ever malleable and fluctuating. He caught small glimpse at best, but it was enough to know that he didn’t like whatever Schuldig was up to right now. If it had anything to do with Weiss, Crawford really would kill the German this time. He had been becoming more and more tedious these days, and Crawford’s patience was finally running out. He had his hands full trying to groom Nagi into following his footsteps, since the rest of Schwarz was hopelessly insane.

"Because you’re such a skillful leader, scheisse! Do you want to know when I last fucked too?" Schuldig snapped, followed out by short, German curses. He could tell that Schuldig was irritated with having to explain whatever plot he hatched up this time- after Crawford had explicitly told Schuldig to not mess around with Farfarello. It was already hard enough to deal with the insane member of their team; too much time and work put into Farfarello to just shoot him in the head. Crawford had never tolerated this kind of disobedience before, but Esset demanded that their golden child be treated with a minimal amount of respect. Crawford was paid nice, monthly sums to baby-sit a fanatical albino and a screwed-up, telepathic German all day long. Neither man could be trusted to go on a solo mission. Not when they could barely get through a normal one without Farfarello going crazy or Schuldig making someone into a permanently blind retard. Everyone had such short tempers around here, and never seemed to take into account that one day he might get fed up. At least Schuldig gave excellent head in less than fifteen minutes, which would have worked perfectly into his schedule if he didn’t have to deal with the puppy love that came along with the deal. It was amazing to see the very definition of a psychopath trying to flirt with him when Crawford couldn’t have been more disgusted. Schuldig did nothing for him other than providing a ready partner to carry out the act with. The German had been acting like a snubbed wife rather than a subordinate, giving Crawford twice as many headaches as usual. He sighed, realizing he was going to have to do something to keep Schuldig happy.

"There’s some wire out in the shed. If I have to write a report for anything, Schuldig, I swear I’ll-…" Crawford started, almost unable to believe it himself. He was actually letting Schuldig have his way. It was better than the German doing numerous little pranks and antics that bordered dangerously on rebellious- but Schuldig made sure never to go that far. He just danced around the edges, like the man enjoyed seeing how far he could push the limits. Unfortunately for him, Crawford had very little give in his principles and judgment, which ended up with his knuckles still smarting from the last bit of discipline he had to give out. He had been beating Schuldig more than usual these past few months, and Crawford was really beginning to wonder if the man took more upkeep than he was worth. However, if they could smooth over whatever had been upsetting Schuldig lately with a bale of barbwire, Crawford had very little to lose.

"Don’t worry, Hübscher. I’ll take care of everything," Schuldig interrupted him as another scream drowned him out toward the end. Schuldig was obviously eager to go and take care of whatever his business was, hanging up on him before Brad could get another word. It also was the best place to take victims, since it was soundproofed and done entirely in tile. A quick clean with a power-washer once a month kept the place decent, since these sorts of activities tended to leave blood all over the walls. He hung up his cell, turning back to the computer screen and the semi-finished document waiting for him.

It was already several minutes past five.

---

Aya always thought that mental torture was the worst. It had a tendency to cling long after the matter was through, taking longer to clear up than any bruise or cut. Those seeds of doubt Schuldig had planted inside him from the very first day they met had grown up and suffocated him for the rest of his life…at least until Yohji. The man had so much belief and confidence in him, so much love that he boldly announced it every five minutes, that Aya couldn’t help but start thinking he might actually deserve it. He had always thought himself too much of a murderer, so helplessly tainted and dirtied by the history of his life that there was no way Yohji could love him. Aya couldn’t find a single good point about himself that might account for the blonde’s near-obsession, because Schuldig had always told him he was worthless and withdrawn. Aya had taken bullets before, gone up to his room and fished the metal out of his own body, the pain incredible. It still didn’t quite compare to the hollow ache of being alone. The thought of losing Yohji was terrifying enough to freeze Aya’s body up whole… even worse would be if Yohji ended up down here instead.

Aya now knew why Farfarello had been named after a demon. He had never been so utterly at someone’s mercy, certainly not anyone like Farfarello. Even the worst of the scum that would hire a male prostitute wouldn’t cut their lovers up. Aya had always had more value alive and mostly unhurt than as a corpse…until he was stuck with an absolute madman like Farfarello with Schuldig cheering him on. The second he had gotten that pocketknife, Aya had been in a desperate fight to keep the blade away from his throat and eyes. He had already lost so much blood. It was dripping down from his arms to his shoulders, the main jagged wounds Aya had inflicted himself opened up again and crisscrossed with new ones. He had long, straight, surgical slashes covering his upper arms, the already mangled limbs sacrificed to keep from worse damage. His fingers were so slick with his own blood that he could barely catch Farfarello’s wrist as the Irishman tried to stab the knife through his temple. The blade dug in; making a short cut that almost went from headline to the corner of his eyelashes before Aya managed to throw Farfarello’s arm away. He was left dizzy-high from the effort, weak and limp as Farfarello grabbed his wrist up again and made one careful, deep line sideways. Aya could hear Schuldig’s voice on the phone in the background.

He couldn’t keep himself from screaming any longer.

"Look, it’s a cross for all your sins," Farfarello explained the artwork he had sculpted into Aya’s flesh, drawing the bloody pocketknife through the parted skin one more time to make sure he had it just right. Aya stared at the wet, red wound, panting with tears flowing into his open mouth. He couldn’t understand where his usual tolerance for pain had gone. When he had been on active duty, he’d been able to run home on a broken ankle... but now he couldn’t take Farfarello one on one. Aya had made the foolish mistake of thinking that just because he had a clear goal that he could just as easily reassume that mentality that had allowed him to survive through years of working as an assassin. All he had to do was last as long as possible. Aya didn’t have any delusions about making it out of here alive. His captors weren’t the types to bestow him any mercy. He had already thrown his life away when he had hurt Yohji. What better than to have a second chance to actually make his death worthwhile? Perhaps he could entertain them so well that Schuldig and Farfarello’s bloodlust would be sated. He just had to find that old tolerance for pain that Yohji had managed to calm down. Aya hadn’t ever needed to fear being hurt when Yohji was around; the blonde had even been able to fix whatever had been broken on the inside, whatever had made him vulnerable to Schuldig’s mental persuasion in the first place… or so Aya had thought. Schuldig had been so easily able to trick him into thinking that it had been Yohji in that bathroom. He had believed it so willingly. He was such an idiot, making such a horrible fucking mistake. It really was all his fault.

"That’s right. I don’t even have to do anything to you for you to figure it out. Smart little Kätzchen, this is all your fault," Schuldig laughed, patting Farfarello on the shoulder like a proud teacher as he leaned in to see the work. Aya hated his handsome face, the kind that belonged to a model instead of a killer. How long ago had it been since this man had stolen into his dreams and forced him to relive the guilt of his family’s death over and over? How many times had Aya been shown his murders anew, starting with the very first mission he had been assigned as a Kritiker agent? Schuldig had been the one to teach him how hollow those assassinations had been, that his life was one horrible mistake. Aya knew all this, and yet a psychopathic, telepathic murderer could break through that understanding so effortlessly. Aya had never been able to stand against Schuldig, not when the man could fish out his deepest regrets and shove them right back in his face.

"Yohji didn’t think that I was you for a moment. He knows you so much better. Is his love greater than yours?" Schuldig asked sweetly, on cue. The simple truth stabbed right through Aya. Why would Yohji be able to see through Schuldig’s illusions when Aya had been unable to? The German had just seemed to be so real, so much like Yohji that Aya hadn’t doubted it for a moment. He hadn’t been on guard for an attack from an assassin team that should be dead, while he was on a college campus, nonetheless. Aya had just thought it had been because he had been surprised and open- but what if it was just like Schuldig was saying? Yohji certainly hadn’t been expecting an attack either, but he had been able to tell an imposter from the real one so easily. Aya had always considered himself an observant person, so what excuse did he have other than he must not know Yohji very well.

"Can angels really love?" Farfarello asked in a curious, high voice. The effort of conversation seemed to be enough to distract him from cutting up Aya. His arms were dropped back to the ground, useless from the shoulder to his fingertips. His cuts were switching between gentle, tingling numbness and a burning fire of pain, lacing up his veins and nerves until they reached his head. Aya’s vision was fading in and out; settling somewhere between a blurry mess as Farfarello was slowly picked himself off of Aya’s stomach. One pressure was relieved, the sound of his own hideously weak breathing filling up his ears. Aya was so sick and light-headed from blood loss that he wondered if he was even higher than Farfarello. It felt like he had been given the drugs instead, trying to desperately to cling to consciousness. He vaguely remembered seeing a needle back at the hospital, not about to forget that learned terror. Had he already been here long enough for them to wear off, or were they beginning to really kick in? Aya glanced up at Farfarello, hunched over him and sitting on the back of his feet, miraculously balancing like a bird watching its prey. The Irishman popped the bloody pocketknife up into his mouth, sucking on it like a lollipop as he waited for Schuldig’

"I don’t think so, Farfie. I think he’s just using Yohji-…" Schuldig sneered, beginning a jagged speech.

"Don’t use his name!" Aya wasn’t sure if he was angrier at his lover’s name coming out from Schuldig’s lips like they were somehow connected or if it was because of what Schuldig was implying. He wasn’t using Yohji! He loved Yohji too much for that to be true… too much. Everything had been put on Yohji, Aya’s entire emotional well being hinging on whatever the man chose to say.

"Listen to me, Ran. You were never anything more than a toy I spent too much time on. Now, Yohji," Schuldig held the word in his mouth so intimately that Aya began struggling up to hit the German for daring to say it. "I could really love him. He’s different and you don’t appreciate it," Schuldig continued indifferently, boot slamming down on top of Aya’s less mutilated arm. Aya started to cry out and caught it between his teeth, Farfarello mimicking his pained noise. He didn’t have the strength to get up after that, couldn’t do anything more than bleed on Schuldig’s nice, Italian leather shoes. Aya hoped he fucking stained them.

"I love him!" Aya screamed it loud enough to rip his throat, tears of frustration that had nothing to do with pain coming out now. Schuldig couldn’t taint that, couldn’t screw with that one bit of sanity Aya had. What Yohji and he had was real. Aya had been trying to remake his life for Yohji, be something better than a man that would do anything for money. Aya didn’t sell himself out anymore, whether it be for murder or fucking, because he didn’t want to cheapen himself any further, didn’t want to make less of himself when he had such a wonderful and perfect lover. He didn’t stand in front of a mirror trying to force out the three hardest words for him to say just because he was using Yohji.

Then, why could he only say ‘I love you’ when he was angry?

Aya wasn’t sure if that was his thought or Schuldig’s, and was really in no place to tell. But, it rang so true, so deeply that Aya felt something break inside of him. He had been crying before, except now it was with gut-wrenching guilt that Schuldig could possibly be right. Yohji had done everything for him, because he said that he loved him, but what had Aya done in return? They fought a lot, he cried a lot, sometimes Aya woke up struggling with Yohji because he mistook him for an assailant in a dream, sometimes Yohji would go outside for a cigarette and Aya would feel like shit until he came back. Yohji had to be the mature one, because Aya was so damn childish and selfish. What had he given back to Yohji other than headaches and temper tantrums? Schuldig giggled delightful at the twist Aya’s thoughts had taken, obviously following along inside his head. Aya hated him; wanted to be stronger in front of Schuldig, but couldn’t manage anything more than tears at this point. He wanted Yohji to come and rescue him, couldn’t have that because Yohji would likely be killed in the attempt, and because he just didn’t deserve him. Yohji could do so much better than him, had done so already. Aya certainly wasn’t doing anything to make him stay. It was better if Aya did die here. Schuldig didn’t even have to do anything more to have Aya turn into a useless mess on the floor.

"Farfarello, I’m going to leave you two alone for a bit. I want you to get along with him…" Schuldig grinned, running his fingers through Farfarello’s short hair like a master petting his dog. "Get along very well."

Schuldig turned around and walked away then, Farfarello laughing while Aya sobbed himself dry, blood beginning to pool out onto the cold floor.

---
Ken was sent out for more beer, more cigarettes of a particular brand so help him God or wrath of Yohji, some of those specialty coffee drinks Omi liked so much, and most of the fried food still rolling around in the display case at three in the morning. Ken didn’t really have a problem going to the convenience store for the second time today, buzzed enough to enjoy the walk. Yohji was probably sporting a mild concussion though he was insisting he was fine and they had to go find Aya…thankfully Omi had nothing better to do than fuss over Yohji until his grandfather called. They certainly weren’t going to be able to talk about anything, not in front of Yohji. Ken couldn’t believe that Omi had decided to do this on his own, not even him asking him before agreeing to become Persia! Hadn’t he changed his name to Tsukiyono so he could avoid the legacy the Takatoris had left behind? Ken was having a hard time keeping himself from simply slapping some sense into Omi, furious that the blonde wouldn’t just fucking tell him just what his plan was. Omi could be as self-sacrificing as he wanted, but he had another thing coming if he thought Ken wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. Omi was not going to become Persia. There was a way out of this… somehow. He just had to think of a way.

Did they really expect Omi to become Persia anyway? There was no fucking way that anyone would take orders from him in public, a smiling and sweet face commanding people to kill. Ken would like to see the face of a hardened assassin when Persia asked them to please kill the bad guys and be sure to stay safe in that innocent, naïve way of Omi’s. He would probably get laughed out of Kritiker without Ken having to do a thing; but he’d much rather put a end to this nonsense before it even got that far. Why the hell was Omi trying to do this all on his own? Omi should have known to come to him first, that they would be able to talk things out. Ken didn’t want to end up like Yohji and Aya had…

Omi was right when he had complained that Ken was insensitive.

They needed Aya back. It wasn’t just for Yohji any more. Aya would have coldly said something smart and honest that would have stopped all this madness in the first place. Aya had a way to stop everything with just one sentence, never one to waste words. Ken missed the bastard and his awkward friendship, how Aya was oblivious to common courtesy and the finer art of a little white lie. He wanted Yohji and Aya to fill the house up with screaming again, to throw things and bicker like drama queens for a full afternoon, then have loud makeup sex afterward. It was such a habitual routine, and eventually Ken and Omi would go off on a long date of their own to avoid the event. It helped keep things romantic and interesting. Ken didn’t think it was weird at all to have his sex drive turned on by his roommates; hell, it was ready to go off if Omi wore that white tank-top that was getting too small even for his frame. Instead, Omi was wearing the same drab, oversized sweater and shorts as he came walking up somberly to greet Ken at the backdoor. Omi flicked on the kitchen light, filling up the whole room with darkness. He could see Yohji lying on the couch, glassy and vacant eyes reflecting whatever was now on the television. Ken could hear a studio audience laughing in the background.

"How are you doing?" Omi asked guiltily, reaching out to take one of the plastic bags Ken was carrying. He avoided the smaller blonde easily, sidestepping around the blonde and setting his load down on top of the countertop. Omi only smiled weakly at that, as if he’d been expecting much worse. Ken frowned at the reaction; not exactly sure what he wanted out of that petty move but not satisfied either way. He was so angry he could hardly stand to be in the same room as Omi, emotions that he thought he had calmed down only boiling up again at Omi trying to be so damn nice when he was obviously about ready to cry. He hated it when Omi cried… just as much as he hated lying. Ken immediately began digging into the bags for more beer, not wanting to look at Omi when he answered.

"I feel tired."

Betrayed.

Omi almost looked like he had heard the unspoken part, the smile growing even weaker. Ken could see the little bit of hope Omi had left drain right out of him. His blue eyes were starting to glisten with tears; lower lip trembling as the poor kid tried to keep the happy expression plastered on his face. Ken cursed, always weak against Omi when he was sad. He was still angry with Omi, still felt like smacking him a good one for being so selfish… but when teardrops were glistening at the corners of Omi’s eyes, he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. No matter how upset he got with Omi, he still loved the little brat. Ken covered the short distance between them and put both arms around Omi. He was still soft and cuddly to a ridiculous point, but Ken had always loved that about the kid. Two hands buried themselves into the back of his shirt as Omi smashed his nose into the dead center of Ken’s chest without making a sound. This was what he was used to. Omi depended on him- he hadn’t become Persia, not yet.

"I can’t believe this is happening. I’m so sorry, Ken," Omi whispered hoarsely, like it was his fault that Aya had been kidnapped, that Yohji and Aya had ever gotten into that horrible fight. Ken was beginning to understand just how powerless they all had been to stop this mess from exploding into where they were now. At least he had Omi, even if it wasn’t going to be for very much longer. He wouldn’t be able to love anyone who went back to Kritiker willingly. Ken wanting this to all be a trick, a ploy on Omi’s part to get his grandfather’s help until they found Aya- but he also knew that Omi was honest to a fault. If he had promised to become Persia, he would do it. Ken had not been a factor in it at all; Omi obviously never once considering the fact that he might lose Ken over this. They might lose Aya as well. Ken felt like he had his back against the wall and couldn’t see whom was closing in on him, pulling Omi closer for his own needs rather than because Omi was about to cry... again.

"Don’t apologize right now," Ken murmured into the top of Omi’s head. He didn’t want to hear it, not yet. Maybe another day, like when Yohji and Aya were watching. That sounded like it might make everything even. There was no reason to make things even more miserable than they already were. Ken didn’t want to wait around all night for a phone call that may or may not come. Every single minute that Aya was missing counted, because Ken knew exactly what kind of sick son of bitches were in Schwarz. This wasn’t like any normal hostage situation where they might have been able to cut some sort of deal with Schwarz to get Aya back. The best they could hope for was a quick recovery of an Aya that was still in one piece. Someone in Schwarz seemed to have a fetish for dismemberment, if Ken remembered the file correctly. The bloody pulps of victims they had come across in following Schwarz were evidence enough of what that team could do. Human life meant nothing to them, especially not the one of a man that had thwarted their plans before. Ken hoped Omi’s grandfather called soon, the helplessness and the awful waiting beginning to eat away at him. It was still probably only a fraction of how Yohji felt right now.

Finally remembering the other member in the household, Ken patted Omi’s back in a signal that he was ready to pull away. Omi was being so strong right now, somehow able to keep himself from crying aloud as he wiped at his leaking eyes. Ken was silent as he watched Omi miraculously compose himself. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but his eyes weren’t as miserable as they had been before. Ken shook his head, wondering why he loved the shorter blonde so much. Nobody would have guessed that they would make such a nice pair, but Ken couldn’t imagine his life without Omi. He wasn’t going to let Omi go without a fight; was going to get Aya back without Omi ever having to return to Kritiker. He fucking liked the normal, boring lives they had made for themselves, and he was going to damn well keep things the same.

"Come on, I’m going to need your help trying to get Yohji to eat something," Ken gently urged, grabbing up the plastic cartons the convenience store had put the food in before heading back to the living room. Omi was quick to follow behind; picking up the bag that obviously held the beer and coffee without complaint or any teasing. It was well enough, because Ken didn’t really think he could take it if Yohji or Omi starting joking around with him. There was no way to get things back to normal, not like this. Ken felt like his stomach had become a separate entity and was struggling to escape his body, twisting around and tightening up beyond his control. Ken wouldn’t go so far as to say he was nervous, but he had a bad feeling about something. He couldn’t place it right now, and that only made him more anxious. At least there was going to be beer and fried chicken soon as Ken returned to the dark living room, Omi flicking on the overhead light behind him. The sudden change from nighttime gray and dark blue to bright white was harsh, but nobody complained. The live audience on whatever show Yohji was watching right now laughed aloud while the man’s face remained impassive, eyes fixed on the screen blankly. At least he was sitting up on the couch now, shirt and jeans rumpled, hair knotted and falling off to the left. Yohji didn’t acknowledge their entrance until Ken tossed that pack of cigarettes Yohji had been begging for into the man’s lap.

"Aya?" was the only thing Yohji asked, as if the guy working the register at the convenience store this late at night would have some kind of information on their friend. There was no greeting, no ‘hello,’ just this sort of raw obsession that had shoved everything else to the side. Yohji didn’t have anything else on his mind other than where Aya was, and it showed on each inch of his face. He already looked dead, worse off than any day of active mission duty for Kritiker. Ken shook his head, unable to say anything to that miserable and broken expression. He glanced back at Omi, who just smiled sadly as he set the bag down on the coffee table. He pulled out the six-pack of beer first, snapping off one for each of them and placing the cans respectively in front of Yohji’s seat and Ken’s when threw himself back down on the couch. Omi took up the other end, the middle spot an empty space between them. Omi took out his own iced frappe-mocha-crap that Ken only recognized by the label on the front, sighing and turning his attention to the television instead of trying to play nice with the rest of them. They all simultaneous cracked the seals on their drinks; Yohji and Ken left staring at each other as the beer began to foam up through the mouths, Omi frozen in the middle of tossing his own bottle cap away. It really should have been funny, but nobody laughed.

Yohji began dispassionately sipping on the beer, Ken waiting a little while longer before starting on his own. Omi just shook his head at their mood, reaching forward and finally grabbing the remote to change the horrible channel Ken had left it on. Yohji made no complaints, eyes flicking back and forth between the kitchen and Omi as the younger blonde flipping through the stations; like he could somehow make the phone ring if he thought about it hard enough. Ken wished he could say something, choosing to pop open one of the cartons and start munching on fried chicken instead. He was just as worried about Aya, was thinking that every minute that their friend spent in Schwarz’s possession was one too many. Aya hadn’t been in the best of shape even at the hospital, with all those wires shoved in him and nurses checking up rather regularly. They hadn’t even been a match when the whole team had been in their prime; hell, they had called each other by their code names during the day just because they hadn’t been able to shake the mission mentality with a good night’s sleep. They had survived encounters with Schwarz through either severe flukes of luck or because the Esset team didn’t want to waste the time it would take to kill them. How was Aya supposed to last, one to four, after a recent suicide attempt? Why was it taking so damn long to get a certain location? It wasn’t like the old man had to drag this out any longer- Omi had already agreed to become Persia in exchange for finding Aya. Could this be some sort of punishment now, for them not getting on their knees and begging for the chance to go back to murdering and running from the real law? They hadn’t been any agents of justice or a higher cause; they had just killed those who could no longer be allowed live. Ken had always tried to rationalize it away as a sort of survival of the fittest, but as the years went on, he finally got comfortable enough to admit that it had been nothing more than murder underneath a whole bunch of pretty words. Hunters of the night his ass. How could Omi go back to that so easily?

How couldn’t he, if they wanted Aya back?

Ken surprised himself at still being able to eat, mechanically chewing and swallowing without tasting a single fucking thing. He wanted to beg Omi to reconsider this; and then they could really lose all hope of finding Aya as anything other than a corpse. No matter what happened, Ken was going to lose someone that he loved. If Aya died, Yohji would probably follow soon enough through yet more fucking suicide or his own body finally giving out, Ken sneaking another peek at his friend. Yohji looked like he had managed to age five years in the time it had taken Ken to go to the convenience store and was ready for more if that damn phone call didn’t come soon. There was the crackle of plastic as Yohji opened up the pack and pulled out a brand new cigarette, a lighter magically appearing in his hands as the older man lit up right there in the living room. Ken and Omi didn’t complain, not even once. It was usually Aya’s job to bitch when Yohji smoked inside, Ken slowly realizing that he had been waiting for their resident anal asshole to come down yelling about the smell. Aya was practically a bloodhound when it came to tobacco smoke, able to tell within a few seconds if Yohji was lighting up inside the house or not. Ken had never really cared that much about whatever Yohji wanted to do, but now that Aya was gone he felt like he should say something in the man’s place

"Yohji-kun, why don’t you try eating something instead?" Omi suggested in a voice that even made Ken angry. He was trying so hard to be sweet and amiable when everything was so miserably wrong. How could he even pretend like nothing was really wrong when Aya might already be dead? All they could bet on was that Schwarz might want to torture Aya instead of simply cutting his throat. If they got there soon enough, they could have the man back in one piece. Ken missed that disagreeable son of a bitch, wanted his other friend back to normal as soon as possible. This wasn’t like how sad and pathetic Yohji had been when Aya started attending classes for the better half of the day- Yohji would seriously just die if they didn’t get Aya back. Couldn’t Omi see this, sitting next to him on the couch? Why did he choose to sit on the other end instead of next to him anyway? Ken didn’t like the sudden distance Omi had carefully put between them; not even coming up for a cuddle like they usually did when they watched television together. Ken even recognized the show as one of comedy acts that Omi liked so much, having sat through it many times before without laughing once. He glared at the side of Omi’s head for picking this, figuring that the kid didn’t think anyone could handle dramatic television or the fucking nighttime news. He was trying to look out for them, despite already going back to Kritiker. Ken could have killed Omi for his selflessness.

"Not hungry." Yohji wasn’t wasting a single word today, not even making the effort to put together one full sentence for them. Yohji was known for being able to talk no matter what the situation. Ken had been expecting the blonde to make some joke that would help Ken forget that at any moment, their lives were going to be ruined… again. Ken unconsciously mimicked Yohji’s own stance, arms braced on his knees, staring down at the beer in one hand and the floor beyond it silently. Maybe he should just tie Omi up and throw him in the closet until this was all over. If he thought he had a chance in Hell of finding Aya on his own, Ken would have done it. But, instead, he just absently sipped the beer and frowned at TV. He probably should have said something then, recognizing that Yohji wasn’t in the mood to talk to them and should just be left alone right now, but Ken was just too damn miserable. It was hard enough to just sit there silently, imagining horrible things happening to Aya that he couldn’t do anything about, how Omi and he were supposed to stay together after he became Persia again. Ken wasn’t going to join Kritiker again, and he had serious doubts to if he could sleep with anyone who was still involved with it- much less the figurehead of an underground assassination association. If Omi thought that he was just going to pretend like this was any other job, nine to five with a good insurance plan, he had another thing coming. Ken was impressed with himself that he had yet to start breaking things or outright scream at Omi, fights not a completely foreign thing between them. They just didn’t happen with the regularity of Yohji and Aya’s.

"You haven’t even had anything to eat since Aya’s… accident," Omi stumbled over the wording, making Ken moan while Yohji’s eyes narrowed. It was probably the most emotion Yohji had shown since they walked in the door, and his face was definitely pissed off. Ken didn’t even bother to stop this, figuring Omi deserved it for pushing the point when he really would have been better off saying nothing at all. Ken felt like he had already done enough by not getting angry with Omi in the kitchen only a few minutes before. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that he was taking any enjoyment out of Yohji being so rude with Omi…but sometimes he loved the smaller blonde enough to hate him.

"Don’t talk about it. Why don’t you call your grandfather back instead of bugging me?" Yohji warned lightly, eyes flicking back to the television in pure dismissal. It really should have ended there. Maybe, if they all hadn’t been so worried over Aya, maybe if Ken had thought a little bit more about how Omi was feeling about having to become Persia, everything would have gone a little bit differently. Ken had just stupidly been doing his best to pay attention to the show instead, no matter how much he hated it…because it was better than reality right now.

"Maybe if you had talked about things with Aya-kun, we wouldn’t be in this mess," Omi yelled it as he stood up angrily, one of the few times the kid ever purposely tried to be hurtful with his words. And, just like his arrows, Omi hit his target dead on as Yohji jerked in his seat, setting the open beer down with deceitful gentleness. His curly bangs were hiding his eyes; the bruising on the side of his cheek stretching as the man grinned.

Ken jumped over the coffee table, tackling Yohji down to the carpet before he could get a hold of Omi. Yohji made a painful ‘whomp’ on impact, reminding Ken that his friend had just be been beaten to his utter limits and sprinted something over a mile afterward. Yohji didn’t seem to care though, trying to get an elbow to come into contact with Ken’s temple. He managed to wrestle Yohji down by grabbing his upper arms, pinning him down with weight on the bruised or possibly broken ribs. Ken couldn’t really care right now, knowing that Yohji meant to do serious hurt. It didn’t matter if Ken had been angry at Omi only seconds ago, he wasn’t about to let him get torn apart by Yohji just because he had managed to say exactly the wrong thing.

"Fucking say it again! Come on, you little punk-ass shit!" Yohji screamed, trying to toss Ken off without any success

"Yohji, shut up!" Ken yelled at his friend, slamming Yohji back down when the blonde made another lunge at Omi. . He threw a leg over Yohji’s kicking ones, wishing that Omi would just take the hint and get the hell out of the room instead of watching them in horror. He didn’t need to stay here and watch as Yohji tried to get out from underneath Ken to kill him.

"Oh, God… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, Yohji-kun," Omi stammered out, trying uselessly to apologize. Ken couldn’t even spare the breath to tell Omi to just be quiet, his hands full with a struggling Yohji. Hadn’t he just run long enough to pass out? Ken couldn’t understand how Yohji could still be this strong, one eye swelling shut and a nice collection of red spots that were going to turn into some beautiful bruises later.

"I’m going to fu-…" Yohji snarled, hands trying to get up into Ken’s hair. Yohji was not one to play by the rules when he was pissed off, practically foaming at the mouth.

"Apologize!" Ken roared, slamming Yohji into the floor yet again. That finally got the blonde actually looking at him instead of just blindly trying to fight, his eyes turned a pale green with rage.

"I’m sorry Omi has a damn smart mouth," Yohji snapped back, sneering because he knew that it would piss Ken off. He wasn’t about to listen to anyone badmouth Omi; he could do that inside his own head, not so stupid as to say anything aloud. He really had no way to respond to that other than raising up his fist to hit Yohji in the face regardless of the damage that was already there, drawn up short by the phone ringing. The three of them all froze, glancing back to the sound coming from the kitchen before Omi was dashing over to answer it. Ken and Yohji panted softly, trying to listen in as Omi answered the phone and greeted whoever was on the other line with ‘grandfather.’ A short conversation followed, Ken slowly moving off Yohji as the both of them settled into a sitting position on the floor as Omi began excitedly answering the questions being asked him. Ken wiped at his face, keeping a careful eye on Yohji in case he suddenly tried attacking Omi yet again.

"Better?" Ken demanded a little bitterly, not about to let it go.

"I’m trying to listen," Yohji snapped right back, not even bothering to glare at him. Ken made fists before he even realized it, about to be the violent one instead. Omi agreed to something in the kitchen, a slam of plastic as the younger blonde hung up the phone and reappeared in the doorway.

"Get ready in twenty minutes, Grandfather is sending a car. They know where Aya is," Omi announced breathlessly. Ken didn’t even care to wonder how they could even possibly know. He just followed behind Yohji as the blonde raced upstairs to get changed and grab up whatever weaponry they could find.

---
After crying, Aya had gone numb. Not just emotionally, but had managed to get it to spread out into his body as well. He didn’t feel anything; not even the will to struggle as Farfarello stabbed various little holes and cuts into his limp body. The pain was gone now, but Aya doubted it was through any will of his own. He had probably lost too much blood to sense anything right now, floating a fine line between consciousness and eternal oblivion. It was just Farfarello’s high-pitched laughter that kept jerking him back into awareness, too loud and annoying to be ignored. Aya couldn’t even die in peace, reminding himself every time he was coherent enough to think that he had to last just a little bit longer, had to buy just a little bit more time.

When Schuldig came back from whatever errand he had gone on; there was immediately a loud explosion of German and Japanese at Aya’s state. Apparently Schuldig had wanted him to last a while longer as well, kicking Farfarello off of him and taking the pocketknife away. Aya didn’t catch what Schuldig did with it, just knew that Farfarello didn’t have anything sharp in his hands right now. The Irishman was still close, that one horrible, red eye glistening as it watched him like a predator waiting to be let loose. It was sad that Aya actually felt safer right now because Schuldig was there, messing around with something off to the side. The German wouldn’t let Farfarello kill him, not yet. Aya didn’t know what Schuldig had planned for him instead, trying to curl onto his side and unable to find the strength to do so. He was allowed to tremble and lightly moan on the floor until Schuldig finally picked Aya up and dragged him up onto the table he had been hiding under earlier. Aya lamely realized he was getting blood all over the front of Schuldig’s silk shirt. He was wrestled down to his stomach, more because of the unresponsive and limp weight of his own body rather than any actual struggling. He was arranged on his stomach, arms spread out and legs pressed together like he was about to be crucified. It was such a fitting end that Aya thought he might laugh aloud. There were straps bolted into the wood, obviously put there long before to make this nice torture device. Aya couldn’t think of any other use for it as his wrists and ankles were secured, larger ones across the back of his thighs, waist, and neck. The only thing Aya could do to make this comfortable was lay his head on it’s side, cheek pressed into the smooth surface and eyes staring forward at the blurry shapes he could make out. He wasn’t even sure if he was facing the back of the wall or the cell bars.

"Here, Farfarello," was the only command that Aya heard, Schuldig handing something to the albino that made him giggle with delight. It started on his left wrist, the one that Farfarello had already cut a miniature cross into. The Irishman had a bale of barbwire in one hand, tossing a loss circle around Aya’s arm and the table. He took up the end; twisting it around the length until the wire tightened and little metal spikes began to press into his skin. It wasn’t enough force to break his flesh, not yet, but Aya went very still as Farfarello began to wrap his arm from wrist to shoulder, dipping once underneath the table to start at Aya’s other arm. Farfarello repeated the treatment until he got to Aya’s wrist, bending and twisting the wire at a certain point until he was able to break it off, needlessly tightening it all up before tying it all off. Aya couldn’t have been much of a struggle even if he had been completely unbound; hell, only a few seconds ago he had been free and unable to take advantage of it. Farfarello’s fingers were bloody when he stood back from his handiwork, but Aya couldn’t be sure if it was from him or if Farfarello had cut himself on the barbwire. Aya could feel some of the metal tips beginning to dig into his flesh, several catching in open wounds and finding traction there to work in deeper. He felt one particularly sharp prick and managed to work his head around to the other side. Schuldig smiled as he taped down an IV line, a portable stand already arranged at his bedside with a several bags of a thick, red liquid hanging.

"Can’t have you bleeding to death, now can we, mein Lieber?" Schuldig asked cheerily, hooking a plastic tube up to one bag. Aya could only pray that it was his blood type, hoping that Schuldig would take the time to bother with such little details… wondering why he would even care if Schuldig got a compatible blood or not. He would probably die quicker that way than whatever torture Farfarello had planned for him. Of course, Schuldig wouldn’t be satisfied with a quick death either. He wasn’t going to let Aya have the sweet mercy of dying before the German could completely humiliate him. Because that was what he was going to do. Schuldig had always had one thing on his mind, and it had been Aya’s entire mental breakdown. The man was obsessed with seeing Aya cry aloud, scream in anguish over his parents’ death, the murders that had followed, how very still his little sister had been while in her coma.

"I still have some things to talk about with you. You and Balinese have taken to fucking around, yes?" Schuldig asked in such a way that he knew the man had taken pains to learn the particular phrase in Japanese. Farfarello laughed at that, even though he seemed to be more interested in playing with Aya’s pointer finger. It was like he was considering tying every digit down as well, cool and dry albino skin running along his own. Aya didn’t respond to Schuldig, more focused on trying to get away when Farfarello finally decided to break his finger. Just like that. A small sound of bone snapping before Aya made a louder noise, something horrible and mangled still managing to get through his teeth as Aya tried to bite down on his cry. The wire dug in, thick and brutal, nothing at all like the refined line Yohji used with beautiful precision. He didn’t have anywhere to go, left squirming, bleeding, aching and a hundred other complaints that Aya couldn’t list right now. It was agony no matter what; Schuldig doing the dubious mercy of pulling Farfarello back before he could break another appendage.

"So, Ran," Schuldig used his old name like a weapon, pressure starting to build up on his temples. Aya knew that Schuldig was trying to get into his head right now, could feel it as the man started to force back that little resistance Aya had managed to scrape together. "Just when did you start thinking that you could love someone?"

Aya did his best to not respond. If he got worked up, Schuldig would be able to slide through that emotional reaction and wreak even worse damage. He did his best not to think about anything, because Schuldig would be able to use that and somehow pervert it. Aya was familiar with how Schuldig worked. It had taken years to realize just how ridiculous and flawed Schuldig’s reasoning had been, even though Aya had always believed in it. Yohji had shown him differently, had helped Aya understand that even a cold-hearted sinner like him had a few good points. More than just a few- it was enough for Yohji to love him. It wasn’t a choice Aya had made on his own; hell, he had resisted as best as possible when Yohji had first turned his attention on him. Yohji had been the one to make that decision; Aya had never once assumed that he had enough worth as a human being to love. Most of that self-loathing could be blamed on Schuldig though; the depression Aya had been forced to live in for years- unable to escape even in sleep, because he knew Schuldig was waiting for him. Only now Aya didn’t have nightmares at all, because he had shared a bed with Yohji. He could swear he could hear Schuldig chuckling at that, desperately trying to cover up his inner musings far too late. Schuldig knew that every other thought in Aya’s head went right back Yohji, and he found it humorous.

"You don’t deserve him. You don’t deserve anyone, Kätzchen. You’ve been tainted by this world, by me, by yourself," Schuldig explained in condescending tones, a hand running down the side of his hip. Aya hated the mock intimacy, the smooth skin that lacked certain calluses. It only served to remind him of how this wasn’t Yohji. He couldn’t believe these words, hollow empty lies that were only meant to hurt him. Aya may not have those same mental shields as before but at least he could tell when Schuldig was trying to feed him such a ridiculous lie. Certainly, Aya had fucked up his own life, made the wrong choices over and over again. Schuldig had a hand in it as well; being the focus of a telepathic madman for years. He had woken up in an empty bed damp with his own semen from the horrible wet dreams Schuldig had forced on him before. Aya wasn’t the type to talk about his problems, to go out and fuck with someone to relieve the stress. He had been a virgin, too shy and scared to experiment with any of his friends until his family had exploded and his little sister went into a coma. Aya went straight to professional murder without ever kissing a girl, had never attended a single high school dance, had been so profoundly alone all his life that a small, sick part of him had actually delighted in the fact that a serial killer was interested enough in him to destroy his entire ego. Schuldig didn’t have to actually touch him when he could get the nervous system to respond with a few mental commands, but Schuldig liked the way Aya shuddered and tried to flinch away underneath the straps and barb wire. He could hear his own blood beginning to drip to the floor, Farfarello panting hard as he watched their little exchange. Schuldig seemed to get enough satisfaction out of watching Aya grew more and more terrified of having his mind being played around with. He wasn’t sure if he was beginning to remember so much because he was confronted with his old torturer or if Schuldig was prompting it, but Aya didn’t like it either way. His body wanted to shake instinctively and Aya did his best to repress it, trying to save his arms from any further damage. The trembling did reach his hands though, the broken finger screaming with every jolt. Aya focused on that instead of Schuldig trying to crawl up inside of him.

"You’re only good for suffering. That’s when you’re really beautiful, covered in tears and blood," Schuldig leaned down, pressing wet lips against the outer curve of his ear. Aya’s chin stuck on the table, the leather too tight around the back of his neck to move away. Schuldig was oozing sexuality right now, though not in the way that Yohji did. This was different, predatory, suffocating as Schuldig ran a hand through his hair. Aya could feel gray fuzz starting to surround his head, like he was being slowly enveloped by white noise. It was exactly like that attack in the hallway on campus as blood began flow from a broken vessel in his nose, but Aya retained consciousness. He was ready this time, determined to keep Schuldig out. He wanted to die with his own selfish desires and convictions; not whatever Mastermind would force him to accept. The past didn’t matter any more. There was nothing they could do about yesterday other than leave it behind. Every day was one more chance. Yohji had enlightened him about the simple charm of living each day to the next, nothing scheduled or planned beyond work. Yohji liked to make decisions on the turn of the dime, sporadically taking Aya out to dinner or the movies, car drives to nowhere, little surprise visits to the main Tokyo Library because Yohji knew how much Aya enjoyed the place. The hand in his hair tightened, yanking back as far as he could. The leather strap dug into Aya’s neck, biting down into his spine and somehow managing to choke him from behind, blood from his nose leaking into his open mouth.

"Why do you think Yohji is with you? It’s not love. He pities you," Schuldig snarled over Aya’s weak hacking as he struggled to keep breathing. "You’re like a stray, just begging for attention, and he’s weak against it. And you know who made you like that? Me, you filthy Schlampe."

Those words were worse than any sort of poison Schuldig could have injected into him.

It was hard to breathe for a completely different reason than Schuldig half-choking him. Yohji had always been weak against people that needed help. He had run off on countless missions, leaving his post because some orphan, kidnapped girl, or mistreated prostitute had to be saved. Aya had never understood that part of Yohji, the one that could so easily risk his life for complete strangers. Even the alley cats that wandered around the back of the shop were occasionally given several cans of wet food by a certain blonde that claimed to hate the animals. The things had fallen in love with him; some even started prowling around the garage hissing at anyone except Yohji. Aya had attempted to feed them himself once, but the stubborn creatures had refused to approach until Yohji had come out to see what was going on. Aya remembered how cats had suddenly come out of the bushes meowing and falling over each other in an attempt to get petted by the older blonde. How could he say he was any different? All Yohji had done was offer a little bit of attention and Aya had lapped it up like one of those starving stray cats. Nobody had ever been so affectionate with him before, or so open with touching. Aya had never considered himself the cuddling kind, but he had never known anyone who would tolerate it before. And Yohji practically lived off of those little physical brushes, even if it was nothing more than hooking a finger through a belt loop on his jeans while Aya tried to get some work done. He had even made the concession of giving Aya a back rub whenever he wanted Aya to sit through one of those moronic sci-fi television sitcoms he and Omi loved so much. Had Yohji been doing that all out of sympathy? Had he seen how needy and socially withdrawn Aya was… and started a relationship because he’d felt sorry for him? Just what did Aya have to give someone like Yohji anyway? It was clear that the older blonde was the better looking, not ashamed of his body in the slightest; was charismatic and engaging, not just a handsome face but a sharp wit as well. All Aya did was pale out beside him, never able to get as involved in things as Yohji was. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been able to tell the difference between the real Yohji and the illusion Schuldig had tricked him with. Aya simply lacked enough love to tell the difference.

He felt Farfarello’s paws ghosting over his hand again; pressing down on the broken finger to keep himself entertained when Schuldig and Aya stayed silent for too long. Aya gasped and Schuldig cursed, swinging around and catching Farfarello full across the face with the back of his fist. The Irishman fell back heavily, stumbling down to the floor as he reeled from the penalization- more the physical force of it than any real pain. Schuldig was obviously not pleased with being interrupted; Farfarello inadvertently breaking whatever spell the German had been trying to work over him. Aya wasn’t even sure where Schuldig had been trying to direct his flow of thoughts, already at his limit with the simple act of staying alive. It now hurt to breath, the pain of his injured ribs reawakened at Schuldig’s rough handling, the room temperature beginning to drop rapidly as more and more blood splattered down to the floor.

"You’re nothing but something to kill time with. I fucked you up enough for Yohji to love you, and now I don’t even get a thank you," Schuldig half-yelled it, pressing his hand down over Aya’s arm. The thorns of barbwire punching into his palm didn’t hurt Schuldig as much as it hurt Aya, digging further into open wounds. The German was putting his weight on it, his humerus about to fracture if his arm wasn’t cut right off by the contracting wire. Schuldig was laughing at him, Farfarello chuckling like a hyena as he circled around, waiting for his own chance to get back in on the fun. It pissed him off. Aya ground his arm back into the pressure, hoping to cut open Schuldig’s hand. His old stubborn pride wouldn’t allow any less. Besides, when he moved into the pain himself, it didn’t seem to hurt so much any more.

"Go… to hell," Aya whispered out in paper-thin defiance, forcing himself to smirk at the blurry figure that was Schuldig instead of crying again. He couldn’t think of any brilliantly original curse right now, satisfied with his words simply coming out at all. His lips were starting to go numb, along with his toes and fingers, the coldness seeping under his skin and beginning to spread.

"Already been there, mein Lieber," Schuldig chuckled out, pulling his hand away slowly. Aya’s little show of bravado had changed nothing. It hadn’t even pissed Schuldig off enough to accidentally kill him in an instant’s rage. Not that Aya even wanted that, reminding himself that he had to last longer than just a couple of hours. How were Schuldig and Farfarello supposed to be entertained with that? They would throw his corpse in a dumpster or some nameless river then swing right around to pick Yohji up. If he was going to be tortured to death by this pair, Aya could at least be sure that it would mean something.

"Maybe I’ll let Farfarello skin you alive. You think Yohji would be able to tell the difference if I wore your flesh?"

Schuldig was saying it just to be cruel. It was nothing more than a fickle threat, but the scary thing was that Schuldig might actually do it. Farfarello had probably already been planning such without even being told. He could see the Irishman in his peripheral vision, those albino red eyes wet and ringed with pink, bloodshot veins. He was even more frightening high, his pallor waxing gray instead of white as Farfarello shoved his face up in Aya’s. There was nowhere to run to, nothing to do but just glare back at the single red eye and black eye patch. Aya could see Farfarello in horrid detail; sweat beginning to collect at the man’s temples as the Irishman breathed heavily against his neck. Something was wrong, every instinct beginning to go off in sickening alarm as the albino breathed him in; placing lips against the curve of shoulder before the strap covered his neck. Farfarello hesitated there, making Aya wonder if the man was going to kiss him or bite him. A hand ran down his arm, spreading warm and sticky fluid across his pulverized flesh.

"Farfie?" Schuldig asked, not punishing Farfarello like before for daring to touch him without permission. Aya didn’t even have the German’s perverted obsessiveness to protect him as Farfarello began to crawl up onto the table, over Aya’s shoulders and back, eventually settling on top of the back of his thighs. Aya felt the warm tips of Farfarello’s fingers soaked in his own blood, tracing a curved line over Aya’s twitching shoulder blades.

"I’m going to give him wings," Farfarello announced finally in a chillingly calm voice. Schuldig was silent for a moment, considering the idea… and gradually beginning to like it as the man started laughing in that horribly nasal voice.

"I like it, Farfie. Our angel will be able to fly up to heaven soon enough, right? Ran?" Schuldig asked sweetly as Farfarello slid his fingers underneath the wire, dipping into split flesh for more blood as he started to trace out a design on Aya’s back.

---
Nagi glanced around his back in a surge of paranoia after he pressed ‘send’ on the email, half-expecting to see Crawford there. Who would have thought that it would be so easy to find the temporary leader of Kritiker’s email address? He couldn’t send it to Omi, not directly. That would be far too risky, to leave a straight trail to his new friend. Even so, had Crawford already had a vision about this? Nagi wasn’t sure how much he was crossing over the line right now. There was no way to judge it. He hadn’t even dared to lie to Crawford before, not even about the most miniscule of things. Now he was deliberately telling the enemy where they were- well, at least how to get into the underground chamber that held Farfarello. He knew that it was where the former leader of Weiss was being held right now as well. How could he not, when muffled screams were reaching up through the floorboards? Soundproof his ass. Nagi had complained before, sick of hearing Farfarello’s victims’ last cries as they were mutilated in the basement. Nothing had been done, of course, and Nagi had wisely never said anything else about it. He saw where asking the same question over and over had gotten Schuldig. The German was sporting a new bruise every week for pushing Crawford a little too far. Nagi had thankfully been spared these past few days, usually ending up as Schuldig’s whipping boy when the German needed someone to beat, but thankfully there was a new victim to draw Schuldig’s attention away.

Aya-kun.

He remembered how Omi had been crying over his teammate, honestly worried and concerned for the man’s well being. Nagi could have almost considered it familial, if he didn’t know they were simply a group of strangers- assassins, nonetheless. There was no reason for them to care for each other, to continue associating together after they had withdrawn from the world of organized crime. It was nothing like their group. He had been taught to trust no one, believe in nothing... just follow orders. It was too dangerous to do any differently. It may have been a very restricted way of living, but it was better than being sent to some Esset lab as a defective agent. He didn’t want to end up like Farfarello, so he just kept his head down and listened to what they told him to do. This was probably the stupidest thing he had ever done, but it was already too late. Even if Nagi hit delete and recalled the email before the receiver could open it, it would be too late. Crawford would have already found out already if he knew at all… Even still, it was quite a while before Nagi finally worked up the bravery to move again, his bedroom suspiciously quiet as he listened for predictable and angry footsteps that never came. He didn’t know if he was safe or if Crawford was just too busy to deal with him right now. With a workaholic like Crawford as a leader, sometimes they wouldn’t be reprimanded until late at night when the American was finally finished with all of his business. Nagi didn’t quite understand how there could be so much paperwork involved in assassinating someone, but he silently filed papers and made copies without complaint. He had always thought it was the smart way of trying to survive in Schwarz, but lately it had seemed rather cowardly.

Nagi brought out the bottle of aspirin again from where he had hidden it within his desk. It had been emptied long ago, but Nagi couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. He shouldn’t keep it, knowing just how dangerous it would be if Crawford found such evidence laying around in his room… but it was the first thing anyone had given him. He was an idiot, clinging onto such a meaningless gesture. Bombay probably hadn’t thought twice about it, even inviting him to lunch despite the fact it had given Nagi a perfect chance to poison the other boy. But, he hadn’t. Nagi didn’t think he actually could kill Omi when it came to the fact of the matter. The blonde had been so nice and friendly…so damn happy that Nagi couldn’t help but be infected by it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed besides Omi’s joke about Crawford in the cafeteria. Nagi frowned sourly, figured that he probably never had laughed before, at least not while he was in Esset. Showing that sort of emotion freely could get him into a world of trouble. He had to be careful about this, couldn’t do much more to help Weiss get Abyssinian back, or else Crawford would be able to figure it all out. No matter how stupid it was, Nagi liked Omi; enough to want to be friends with him. Nagi knew for sure that he had never had a real companion before. He wondered what it would be like for Omi to call him Nagi, without that ‘kun,’ just like he had done with Siberian on the phone.

"Mr. Naoe, I’ve brought your dinner," a servant announced outside his door, knocking on the wood to call for his attention. Nagi quickly pocketed the bottle of aspirin, turned the monitor to his computer off, and opened up a book like he had been in the middle of studying before undid the lock with his mental ability and allowed the maid in. Nagi frowned at the platter of steak, mashed potatoes, and string beans that was set down to the side of his desk, thinking back nostalgically to those few minutes in the school cafeteria he had spent with Omi. He bet that Omi was eating something strange and delicious with the rest of Weiss right now, instead of this meal he was forced to eat. Crawford would punish him for any leftovers, Nagi grudgingly picking up the fork and knife as the maid left to give him some privacy to eat. It was a quiet and loveless affair, nothing but the scrape of silverware and a few inarticulate cries from downstairs.

---
It felt so fucking weird.

Yohji ran a hand over his head, looking down grimly at the sink full of hair. He could feel the air on his skull and ears, the loss of the weight and familiar curls swinging around into his face. That was exactly why he couldn’t afford it anymore. He could have tried tying it back in a ponytail like usual, or wearing his sunglasses to keep his hair from falling into his eyes, but they were going to fight Schwarz. It would get loose and cost Yohji precious few seconds because he was blinded by his own hair. It was better to just shave the whole mess off.

Besides, how better to show Aya just how damn sorry he was? He knew that the stubborn bastard probably wouldn’t listen to anything that he had to say. This had gone past simple apologies. He had to show Aya, and there weren’t very many things Yohji prided more than his hair. It wouldn’t be a lie to say that he was a vain person, spending as much time in the bathroom getting ready as any woman would. Yohji just knew that he looked good and spent time on it, no different than maintaining a sports car like Seven. He had expensive shampoos and conditioners, put products in his hair before drying it out, made sure that there wasn’t a strand out of place before he left the bathroom in the morning. Now, he just had short fuzz left behind after hacking it all off with Ken’s electric clippers, bristling underneath his hand like an animal’s fur. He had to wince away when he accidentally touched a spot on his head that was still sore, hand falling away limply. He may have just fought it out in the street with Schuldig like a complete idiot and ended up with his ass half-beaten for it… but, God, what was that psychopath doing to Aya right now? Yohji knew the night terrors that Aya had, how desperately he would cry out in his sleep until he was able to wake the man up. Yohji had assumed most of the nightmares were from the times when Aya had sold his body, but one night Aya had shakily admitted that he was terrified of Schuldig coming back. Aya’s hands would start trembling whenever he talked about their former enemy, unless Yohji held them in his own. Hadn’t Schuldig already done enough? The German had messed around with Aya’s head before, managing to stuff that thick skull full of self-depreciation and guilt. It wasn’t like Aya had a tendency to feel that way with or without some damn telepathic forcing him too- Aya had always been ready to be the last one left behind, having a martyr streak a mile long. Yohji had thought it was some stupid fucking matter of pride and selfishness, until he had gotten close enough to Aya to know that the poor son of a bitch didn’t think his life meant as much. Aya simply didn’t understand how stunningly attractive he was, so graceful and elegant, or ridiculously smart onto the point of freaky genius. Aya didn’t take pride in any of it, aimply oblivious or outright ignorant of how remarkable he was. Yohji thought he had gotten through, had managed to completely banish those ridiculous fucking notions from Aya’s pretty little head, and the asshole had to go and attempt suicide.

He should have said something.

It didn’t matter that they had tried to work things out before going up to the bedroom where everything had consequentially fallen apart. Omi was right. Yohji should have been able to say something different, a honest line that would have had Aya smiling again. Well, at least what counted for a smile on Aya’s passive face. He had to get it back, had to have his Aya safe and sound one again, in the shop yelling at poor high school girls like usual. He asked for so little out of life, and this was how things turned out…

He checked his watch once again. He had replaced the wire with a brand new one from storage. Amazingly enough, Omi had brought out a cardboard box from the crawl space above the hallway, labeled neatly with Aya’s hand. Even when they had all made a grand show of taking all of the explosives, poisons, timers, gases, smoke bombs, and various other such dangerous equipment out to the city dump and buried it all underneath the foulest smelling pile they could find, Yohji had kept his watch. He hadn’t seen Ken’s bugnuks or Omi’s bow either in that load of crap they thought they would never use again. Aya’s katana had certainly not been tossed out, resting on a polish wood display stand on top of the bookshelf in their bedroom. He would catch Aya practicing with it every now and then out in the backyard, not about to let his skill with the sword turn rusty. Put a sword in Aya’s hands and suddenly he was complete, like he now could tell exactly where his center of balance was at all times. Aya was so much more graceful and elegant when he was cutting through air instead of people, a magnificent show that Yohji could never get tired of. Sometimes he’d just watch it through the kitchen window, because he knew that Aya would stop if he was aware that Yohji was watching. It was the same way for him whenever Aya had walked in on him drawing; skills they were both so good at and yet embarrassed of. He had just as many contradictions as Aya; that was why they belonged together.

He was going to kill Schuldig for trying to screw around with that.

Yohji looked himself over in the mirror, checking once again that everything was in place. It was amazing how simple it was to dress up for murder, a pair of jeans and a midriff, sleeveless shirt to go underneath his old coat with the crosses on the arms. It was comfortable to move around in, and one could appreciate a set of steel-toed boots when he pictured grinding them into Schuldig’s face. He had a small throwing knife tucked into a sheathe that was right inside the lining above his ankle, making him love the pair even more. It was nice to have the familiar weight of his watch back on his wrist, locked around a protective leather brace to keep his arm from being bruised too badly by his own weapon. He ran his palm over his tattoo once, reminding himself just what he needed to do. When the enemy was a telepathic psycho, a precognitive bastard, a telekinetic brat, and one plain crazy albino, it wouldn’t do to have distractions. He wanted Aya back, and he was going to kill anyone that had hurt him. Simple as that.

"Yohji, what are you doing? The car’s he-…" Ken started, yelling long before he opened the door to the bathroom and was brought up short. He was wearing his old mission gear as well, right down to the leather jacket and goggles pulled up on his forehead. Chocolate brown eyes blinked at him like a dog that didn’t recognize it’s master, Ken’s head going to the side and his mouth stuck open with no words coming out as he skidded to a stop.

"What… the hell did you do?" Ken asked at last, staring at the top of Yohji’s head in pure shock. He didn’t answer, grabbing his coat from the hook on the back of the door and throwing it on. He reached into the pockets, pulling out old gloves and yanking them over his hands, strapping in the wrist buckles and tugging the leather securely over his fingers. Ken was stepping toward the sink, his face horrified at the hair collected there and his own clippers sitting on the counter like an accomplice to murder.

"Let’s go get Aya," Yohji announced, finally brining the man to attention as Ken quickly became serious again, both of them going downstairs to met Omi.
IT’S GERMAN!

Which is only correct due to Aubriel and Cattley.

Chef- leader, chief.

Hübscher- handsome

Kätzchen- all the kittens lost their mittens and they all went ‘meow.’

mein Lieber- my lover, masculine ^^;;

Scheisse- German equivalent to ‘shit/ty!’

Schlampe- slut…

…giggle.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: -shrugs in explanation- Schuldig and Farfarello are evil. They are not characters that suddenly decide to go sane and live with Weiss, pick up the newspaper on Sunday mornings, and make pancakes while making kissy-face with... someone. They are ‘bad guys’ and therefore are bad. Of course, I took this too far. As long as there’s no character death, we’re all okay.

In case I haven’t mentioned it before…

I love my beta-readers.

They make it all so much better. Like milk in your cereal. I couldn’t get by without them.

Caynechild, Eternity’s End, Iie Nome, Thantos Eros. Booyah, a fabulous four.
AUTHOR’S ALPHABETICAL APPRECIATION:

Amethyst- thanks for leaving comment. I think this is exactly where nobody wanted the fic to go, but I couldn’t resist.

Cgaysherman- thank you for the emails and nice words, it must be weird to see your name thrown up here but I thought it was appropriate now.

Evilkat- mediaminer can go to hell and fuck itself, but you still leave a review. You’re my number one trooper. And, didn’t you mention something about Nagi playing a bigger role…. Because he WILL! (Evil laughter) It’s nice to know we’re on the same page. My ego loves the stroking too.

Flamingolo- thank you for another review! Now, you got more Aya than you could want! I love Yohji very much, I think that’s why I can write him with any sort of decency. Ken and Omi will be coming to a conclusion soon, though as for a good one… well, you’ll have to read to find out. *Evil laughter.

Jukebox- always nice to hear from you. I know my work suffers from lack of explanation, but I think I write in the Japanese style of dragging it out waaaaaay too long. Most of your questions will/are going to be answered in the next chapter or chapter after that… I suppose this is a perfect example of why I’m not a professional writer. Schuldig got his speech, but I think we’ll need his actual point of view soon. Please stick with me until then!

Kari- thanks for the email and it’s been delightful chatting on AIM. I’m always happy to hear from someone who likes my work.

Halcyon- Mediaminer has been having problems lately, hasn’t it? Thank you for wrestling around with it and leaving a review, that means a lot to me… and did I hear a request for Yohji torture? Then, you’re going to love where I’m going to go with this.

Koji-chan- I applaud the effort in spite of mediaminer, all five of them. The email was greatly appreciated too; I’m so complimented to see someone trying so hard just to give me feedback! (huggles)
- 8
- 9
- 10
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

Come As You Are