BY : MikoNoHoshi
Category: Weiß Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 4283
Disclaimer: I get no money from writing these fics, nor I don't own Weiss. In fact, I'm not even allowed to touch the pretty least not in any of their special places...

Notes: I’ve put out repairman bait, but he still doesn’t come . . . thank you all for your patience.

Chapter Seventeen: Detain Me

His owner seemed lost in deep thought; either that or he was falling asleep. Sprawled back on the couch with his eyes closed, the tall man breathed rhythmically. Aya waited patiently in the silence, resting easily beside his owner’s leg. It was the position least likely to cause offense, and, he had found with Crawford, least likely to result in serious injury if he could just keep his head down. While properly submissive in appearance, it also offered a tactical advantage; sitting close made it difficult for Crawford to stand quickly or achieve proper leverage for kicks. It wasn’t impossible, but the precious seconds it allowed let Aya better brace himself.

He wondered when his new owner would punish him. He had committed more than one offense in the last few hours. Between talking without explicit permission and not knowing how to formulate a proper response when he was supposed to speak, he had really messed it up. And throwing up; Crawford would have given him to Farfarello for that disaster.

Aya took a deep breath, feeling nervousness tighten his chest. How was he supposed to do this? His new owner didn’t go by Crawford’s rules; everything was different, and Aya couldn’t figure out the logic behind the system. He wanted to avoid being punished too severely since he wouldn’t be able to keep his owner pleased if he was unconscious or unable to move for very long, and if Schuldig happened to come then it could be disastrous. He had made up his mind to withstand the punishment as best as possible, but he spent a lot of time anticipating the first blow; it would be horrible, he was sure, taking into account all the missteps he had made.

His owner had been angry. Aya had heard the frustration in his voice and knew it would be leveled at him soon. When would his owner snap? Would it be with hands or that wire? Aya dreaded the strange weapon, but the thought of injury by those hands made the feeling in his chest worse.


Omi’s hand on his shoulder startled Yohji into wakefulness, and he had just enough presence of mind to obey the boy’s request for silence. Shifting his brown grocery bag quietly to his hip, Omi lifted the finger from his lips to point. Soundlessly, Yohji turned to look, instantly understanding the smile Omi had been wearing.

Aya had fallen asleep. The stiffness, the tense anticipation of violence, the worry had all fallen away to leave a being who was, to Yohji’s delight, unmistakably cute. He’s seen the potentially beautiful part before (who wouldn’t?), but with his head resting against the corner of the couch cushion and one hand tucked under his cheek, Aya, had his condition be slightly less pitiful, would have been very near adorable.

“Put him on the couch,” Omi whispered, already picking up a throw from the chair.

Yohji nodded, gathering himself and standing. When the cushion shifted with his movement, amethyst eyes snapped open and Aya body jerked back into its rigid kneel, both hands lifted to shield his face like his was going to be hit.

It was good defensive technique, but hardly a way to wake up. Yohji lived in a house of assassins, guys who needed to watch their backs, but none of them did that.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Yohji reached for him, and Aya didn’t jump back, just tensed his arms and shut his eyes. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” He reached a little further, using both hands and taking hold of Aya’s splayed fingers. They were shaking, but the boy let him lower them, moving only to turn his face to the side, obviously waiting for a punch.

“Come on. I said I’m not gonna hurt you.”

He didn’t look, didn’t move. He was ready for it, and it hurt to be the root of such expectation.

“Please, Aya. Don’t do that.”

Yohji couldn’t take it. He couldn’t look at Aya, not like that. Dropping the boy’s hands, he stood and turned away.

“Watch him.”


“Stay here, Aya.”


Omi turned to watch Yohji walk away. “Yohji-kun, wait—”


It was a piteous call, and when Omi turned to meet Aya’s eyes, he found them full of desperation. Omi thought he might cry.

“I’m sorry,” his head fell forward, shaking a little back and forth. His hands hung limply in his lap. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Aya-kun, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. Please, don’t get rid of me, please . . . please.”

His breath was halting, becoming shallower with each word as he struggled to get them out. He was almost hyperventilating now, back hitching with each breath as he hunched over himself.

“Please,” he begged.

“Shhh,” Omi set down the throw and bag then knelt at the boy’s side. Carefully, he reached a hand to rest it on Aya’s shoulder; it was shaking.

“I’m sorry,” a brief, high-pitched moan as he drew closer to the floor, “Come back . . .”

“It’s okay. He’ll come back.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll do whatever,” a gasp for breath, “whatever Master wants. I will. I swear. Don’t tell,” another, “don’t tell.”

It was like a panic attack, the scared, gasping breath; was he getting enough air? And the hurried, frantic spill of words fit the pattern too. He couldn’t very well slap Aya to startle him out of it, and Omi wondered if he was going to have to sedate him. There was a dart tucked into his pocket, but with Aya’s low body weight, there might be detrimental effects of using it. He had only one other idea.

“Aya-kun,” he spoke sternly, “Stop it.”

The babbling hushed immediately and Aya seemed to try to keep his gasping quiet.

“Sit up.”

Omi let his hand fall away as the younger boy complied, slowly dragging himself up into a kneel. No tears streaked his face, only a lingering pallid quality of someone long sick. His breath was still shallow, but no longer a cause for concern.

“There. Now, let’s—” It was Omi’s turn to gasp. “Your arm!”

Aya’s right hand clamped suddenly over his left forearm, but Omi had seen it. Just below the pushed up sleeve; there was blood. He reached, thinking to pry the fingers away, but they gave easily under his own. Setting the interfering hand aside, Omi examined the wound. Scratch marks, four deep parallel lines on the underside of the thin arm, filling with blood.

He instinctively looked to Aya’s face, whether to check his eyes or glean an explanation, even Omi wasn’t sure. It was suddenly blank, indifferent, a stark contrast to the panicked moment mere seconds before. The change was disconcerting, and Omi had to shake it off before taking up the familiar role of nurse. If he was to be honest with himself, he was glad to have something to do instead of consider that glazed expression.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The blank eyes stared through him a moment longer, like Aya wasn’t even there.


The purple orbs cleared mere seconds before they were hidden away, leaving Omi to look at disheveled red hair.

“Come on,” he said. Without releasing Aya’s arm, Omi stood. The redhead followed quietly to the kitchen and didn’t protest when Omi deposited him in a chair, carefully stretching the injured appendage out on the table before releasing it. There was a small med kit under the kitchen sink, and he had it quickly out and on the table. Pulling a chair around, he sat across from the boy and began his work.

Wiping the opposite hand first, he cleaned away the blood with a damp dishtowel before swabbing the wound with alcohol. Aya didn’t flinch even though it had to burn. The cuts weren’t serious, but to go so deep with just his nails! They would certainly have to be cut.

“Do you . . . does this happen a lot?” He was trying to be calm, but Omi could feel his brows drawn together into what Yohji called his ‘serious face.’

“No,” the other whispered in a self-depreciating tone that hinted that he knew that Omi wasn’t going to buy it.

“Good. Hold still, there.” He offered a little smile and soft pat as he finished off the bandage. He looked up just in time to see Aya snap his head back up from an exhausted loll. The boy needed sleep; he wasn’t well, either, though in how many ways Omi wasn’t sure. Obviously he hadn’t eaten well in a long time, and it made sense that he’d been deprived of sleep. Yohji had said something about wounds, too. Omi hadn’t thought before, but to drop off in a strange place even with the expectation of being punished for the act, Aya was probably ready to fall down.

“Want to take a nap before dinner?”


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