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One AM	By : CardDragonBall Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1067 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-One AM
- 1
Title: One AM

Fandom: Weiss Kreuz

Characters: Aya

Rating: R

Warnings: Bad language, alone-time naughtiness

Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss *weeps,* I make no money I mean no offense.

Author Notes: This references canon found in An Assassin and A White Shaman (http://www.kekkai.org/wkcorner/manga/manga.html). Which, if you haven't read--YOUSHOULDOMG.

One AM. Red numbers on the clock, only light in the room, and he was watching them. Killing time and avoiding sleeping. Habit that had become. Safer not to dream because in his dreams Aya was awake again; when he woke up she was still there, laying in that bed, in the hospital, eternally the same as she had been that day when he took her to their parent’s building.

(If you hadn’t had done that—) the eternal chorus. Yes, his parents would still be dead and he might have some passing guilt about that, but she would still be alive—maybe even away at the nursing college and he would still be—still be working in the same damn restaurant listening to Obayashi telling him about his date. (You’ve gotta take it slow, Fujimiya, dinner and flowers and—) Wearing the black vest, serving the same dinners to the same faceless people, and wearing that nametag that always seemed to hang too loosely—and it would say RAN. (But it didn’t matter, because he had done that, and no amount of thinking of the opposite would change the facts.)

One O Three AM.

Rolled onto his back, away from the clock, blankets somewhere down about his knees, didn’t care enough to kick them off the rest of the way. The ceiling was the same, another dark blur in the darkened room. Nothing up there, nothing across the room, nothing but the red numbers. (And the contradiction, why turn off the light if you did not want to sleep. Tell yourself the truth--Ran--you can’t sleep, this isn’t a choice.) No, this was going through the motions, like waking up and eating breakfast, going to work at the flower shop. Going through the motions of living, waiting for—(stop.) No, no stopping it, not anymore, it started a long time ago with that fucking foreign bastard (Schuldig, Omi said his name was) laughing at him.

(Taste the sin of surviving.)

Bastard. Started there, with his sister bleeding and his parents dead and the people—all the people—laying, crying out, some of them screaming, parts of the building and the blast, fire burning out of control. All those people killed by his parents’ pretty dream. It had started there and it wasn’t going to stop now, not just because it was one in the morning, not just because he thought he’d like it to be still for a moment, not for anything.

It didn’t stop. When it stopped, he died. Goodbye, I lived my life for you, Aya, I made them pay for what they did. (And who was going to make you pay?) Burn in hell for that, for the mistake, for all the people that died under his blade and all the people left that he was going to kill. He’d burn in hell for that; but Takatori would go first.

Aya turned his head, looked at the clock.

One O Seven AM.

Looked back up at the ceiling, back at the blur, his hand on his stomach and the other behind his head. Silence loud and heavy in the room. Had been listening Ken, moving around, his music, getting ready for bed, and then settling into bed. But he’d been asleep for hours now. Would be awake in a couple more, up and out of his room, then back, shower, and sometime after that Omi would be up and out to school. Aya would get up then, put clothes back on, down to the kitchen to get something to eat and then to work and another day would pass. Another day crossed off the calendar and another twenty four hours that Takatori had lived (and Aya had not.)

One Ten AM.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore; Takatori, Schuldig, the accident or the people he’d watch die—killed. (You should admit it. Before you lose your mind.) Not that it had ever mattered what he wanted to think about. Considered it a matter of futility, trying to control the turn of his mind, should have learned it long ago, you don’t control anything.

Breathed a heavy sigh into the air, arm coming down out from under his head, his other hand sliding across his belly, down lower, fingers trailing along the rise of a hipbone and then falling down to the bed. Brought one of his legs up, knee in the air, turned his head to look at the clock—again.

One Twelve AM.

One palm against his thigh, fingers moving restlessly—nothing but the dark ceiling over his head. Looked at his leg, at his fingers, watched them moving, fingertips curling in over the skin, thumb rubbing against the inside of his thigh. Feeling the shiver of skin running down—contemplated it. The feeling, weight of his hand against his leg, the warmth of his palm through the pants. Had told himself, last night or the night before, or both nights—told himself that he didn’t want to, didn’t want the feeling, didn’t want the act, didn’t care about it. It wouldn’t help him, it served no purpose and he wasn’t going to waste his energy—

Stopped moving his fingers, pressed his hand into his thigh—frowning at it.

Rolled onto his side, away from the clock, reaching a hand down to grab the blanket still around his thigh and pulled it up, over his shoulder and closed his eyes. (Could still feel it, where his thumb was rubbing, the spread of skin under the pants, tingling.) Turned his thoughts back around to Aya, digging back through his memory to find something (that wasn’t blood soaked?) to remember. Something before that Saturday.

(Like Tokie.)

Aya learning to make miso—teaching herself out of book, shouting at him for help and he had been trying to do his school work. Told her then she should stick to instant ramen and she’d given him the pout. Damn pout, she knew when to use it and he had just sighed. They’d spent the rest of the afternoon working on the soup—finally made something edible and hadn’t liked it. Didn’t change Aya’s enthusiasm, she’d spent a half an hour rambling about alternative ingredients, flipping through their Mother’s cookbook and asking him if he thought tofu or eggplant would be better?

(Tokie didn’t like miso—told him that it made her feel like an outcast. Everyone liked miso.)

Didn’t want to think about her—put her (and the freckle on her left shoulder) out of his mind. Kept his eyes closed, hands pointedly up by his chest, on his pillow, blankets lying against him and it was warm. Still felt that drag of his thumb on his skin, like a brand on his thigh, and the feeling moving up.

Tokie. Remembered her in a string of memories, and never had decided if he liked her—had liked her well enough, he guessed. She liked him, talked a lot, didn’t ask questions. Followed him home one day (to work on something, whatever the excuse was, he had invited her, Aya had been out—studying at a friends.)

No.

Aya rolled onto his back, looked over at the clock.

One Twenty AM.

Tokie had kissed him first—and he would have found it odd, downright strange, unusual, would have, but it didn’t matter. She kissed him, her hand on the back of his, leaning across from the chair she’d been sitting in, and he had kissed her back, leaning back against her.

No—and doesn’t this seem like a waste? What would it hurt, in the dark, in his room, when he couldn’t sleep anyway, and there were those thoughts on his mind? Wouldn’t go away unless he made them. Could get up, go run in the dark, or practice with the katana, or—could burn it out of his system until he was exhausted and Omi would be asking him the next day if he’d slept alright. Could stay right here, kick the blankets down—

Pulled his leg up, pushed the blanket down, felt it drag over his chest, belly, and down his thighs, kicked it all the way down and stared up at the ceiling. Leg up again, heel pressing down into the bed, hand on his thigh and the other on his belly.

One Twenty Three AM.

Remembered the breathy sound of Tokie’s voice, whispering his name—she didn’t blush, he had blushed, but she hadn’t. She had asked where his room was; knew what was happening but he’d shown her the way. Mumbled some half thought explanation for why it was decorated the same as it had been when he was five. (Somehow, “my parent’s forgot I grew up,” didn’t sound right given the situation.)

Ran his hand down his belly, fingers under the waist band of his pants, pushing them down, other leg pulling up, lifted his hips, wiggled the pants down and ran his hands back up, over his thighs. One leg free from the pants, the other laying back down against the bed.

Tokie had a freckle, on her shoulder, remembered it, remembered watching it, trying to focus on it, trying not to think about all her skin against his and the desperate urgency—blushing embarrassment—her fingers in his hair and on his shoulders. Remembered the freckle, had stared at it—better to stare at it than to feel her legs, her thighs, warm and smooth and pressed against his sides, legs around him—her sigh.

One Twenty Six AM.

Hand down, rubbing, teeth clenched, eyes watching the clock—time ticking away—and then falling closed. Easier to close his eyes, move his hand, think of Tokie far away and long ago in a different bedroom, in his bed, with her breathy sigh and sharp fingernails in his shoulders.

Easier to think of that, in the dark.

Working out the tension, head rolling back, grip shivering as his hand moved faster—(Tokie’s freckle, remembered that.) Half a pant, too loud in the stillness of the air, his heel digging into the bed harder, hips pushing up. Nothing but that feeling, everywhere, belly and thighs and in his palm. Another pant, louder, and he clenched his teeth down—moving faster. Pushing it until—

Laying in the stillness, sweat on his face now, sticky fingers, and pants around his ankle.

Alone in the dark again.

One Thirty Three AM.

Pushed himself up, pulled the pants off, left them on the bed and walked across his room to the bathroom, flipping the light on—blinking—washing his hand and his face and staring at himself.

(You should admit it. Before you lose your mind.)

No. Not tonight. Turned the light off, back across the room, toward the red glow of the clock, picked his pants up, pulled them back on and laid back down. Blankets back up over his shoulders, head back on the pillow—facing away from the clock, away from the thoughts, and closed his eyes.

One Thirty Six AM.

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