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: Sorry for the delay; my friends decided to drag me away from my laptop and to the beach (they forgot to take my notebook, though, bwahaha!). The downside, no posting. The upside, a fic where Aya and Yohji…well, you’ll see when I finish it. Anyhow, here’s an extra-long chapter to make up for my slacking.

Chapter Thirty: Wash Me

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The rhythmic pulse of the alarm clock penetrated his sleep, annoyance warring with exhaustion to see whether he would actually wake.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The alarm won, but it was a long battle, and by the time Yohji drug himself form under his pillow to pick up the oblong machine and glare at it, Aya was awake. The blonde spared a blurry glance at his bedmate and then tried to focus on the glowing red numbers.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

How the hell did he shut this thing off?

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He tried one button, and the clock beeped faster.


About to throw it across the room, he spotted the switch.


There. God damn. No wonder he didn’t use the fucking thing.

Yohji was bare seconds from flopping back onto the bed when he remembered why he had set the alarm in the first place. Aya. Friday.

He shook his head and blinked his eyes a couple times; reaching for his shades, he put them on and tried again.

It was Friday, and he was taking Aya to work in the Koneko. It was all part of his master plan of incorporating the boy into their lives and, he hoped, offering him some kind of independence.

Groaning a little, he ran a hand over his face and drug himself from under the covers. He yawned loudly, stretched, and finally righted himself to face the world, only to find his sleep pants uncomfortably twisted around his thin waist and taking much too much effort to straighten.

He really hated sleeping in clothes.

Stumbling towards the closet, Yohji shoved it open and debated. He didn’t really need to dress just yet; the navy drawstring pants would do, and he was even wearing a gray tank. That was damn good for seven a.m. Yohji; he usually went naked.

Okay. He had to focus. They needed to be in the shop at eleven, and that gave him a little under four hours to make Aya ready to face the world.

First, Yohji needed a cigarette.

As he turned to grab the pack from the nightstand, he caught Aya’s eyes.

“Morning, princess.”

The stare was curious, made rather kittenish when offered from beneath disorderly red bangs.

Deciding the trek outside wasn’t something he was going to do every morning, Yohji grabbed the cigs and lighter, walked around to Aya’s side of the bed, and, stepping carefully around their bags from the day before, opened the blinds and cracked the window. He stared at the street as he lit up, inhaling the first lungfuls of smoke that meant the day was supposed to start.

Yohji heard the soft creek the bed and felt Aya’s stare on his back. He took his time, flicking the ashes through the crack in the window and watching the scant passerby as they made their ways to work. When he found himself at the filter, he flicked the butt out the window and drew it closed, leaving the blinds open and bright morning light spilling into the room.

The morning was about to get interesting, in one way or another.

The things he had read all insisted on the healing nature of positive touch, to be offered first in moderation, of course. Recovery patients needed to know first that gentle, non-threatening touches existed and, second, that they were worthy of those kinds of interactions. It was a way to distance them from the world of captivity where a majority, if not all, of the physical relations they had were painful, dangerous, and frightening. Positive touch needed to be frequent, non-threatening, and comforting; they also, several sources suggested, should be greatly varied, especially until a doctor, family member, or caregiver, (or in this case, a Yohji) discovered which worked as soothing reminders of the new, safe environment.

Ideally, it should have been a slow process, but Yohji was all too aware that once Kritiker got wind of their situation, he wouldn’t be given that much time. He knew from experience that transformations, training, and field assignments via the organization were accomplished swiftly.

All in all, his plan sounded complicated and risky even in his own head, but Yohji had already taken Aya’s hand, and the boy had seemed okay. And on his part, well, it wasn’t as if he dreaded touching the other.

Now, though, he was going to push it a little, or a lot. But the entire process was practical as well as therapeutic, and they were just going to have to get through it. Plus, if all went as planned, it might serve to imprint on Aya’s mind the important thing Yohji was offering: a new start.

“Bath time.”

*** ** ***

//Don’t glare at me like that. You’re the messy one, kätzchen.//

Aya did glare, looking up from the floor where he was laying in an unattractive pool of his own blood. Farfarello had been overzealous, and though the cuts along his chest and arms were mostly shallow and would, per Crawford’s orders, leave no scars, the sheer number made the seeping blood accumulate around his prone form.

“Get up,” Schuldig ordered after he hooked the leash to the ring on Aya’s collar.

He struggled for a moment, getting onto his side and trying to press his body up. It was awkward with his hands cuffed in front of him, and he slipped twice in his own blood before gaining a kneeling position. Something ached in his chest. He sat there, panting for breath. Had Farfarello broken a rib when he threw him into the room?


Clenching his teeth, Aya staggered upward, swaying unsteadily. Schuldig started off, and he was yanked forward by the leash, hard enough to send him off balance. The stone floor caught his kneecaps painfully as he fell, then his neck was jerked forward, the collar coming up to scrape at his chin. He pushed up, fell, and had to crawl until Schuldig slowed enough to give him time to gain his feet.

With this stumbling, falling, bleeding pace, they reached his keeper’s rooms. Aya wasn’t granted a space of his own beyond the unnamed room of stone walls and floors where his punishments were staged, and so he was brought to Schuldig’s chambers for periodic cleaning. It was a process he enjoyed little more than punishment, and really just another name for the same.

//I’m not punishing you.//

Aya put as much energy as he could into the mental sigh.

“Look at you; you’re filthy. Would you rather stay like that?”



He glared; Schuldig yanked the leash again, sending him sprawling on the cream tile. His leash was tied to the handle of vanity, and Aya tried to sit, but he was dizzy, weak from blood loss and several rather serious blows to the head. And when had he slept? The tile was cool, and though he could see his blood smeared across it, Aya thought he might be able to sleep there, for just a second.

A sharp smack to the back of his head jolted him away; he tried to bring his hands up to his face, but it was Schuldig and not Crawford who looked down on him.

“No sleeping. You know that,” he said, rather serious for once. Then the smile was back, “It’s bath time for my dirty little kätzchen.”

The leash was unsnapped, but Aya found himself too weak to put up much of a struggle. He was still bleeding. Of course, Schuldig usually waited until he was in such a state to bathe him.

“Of course I do. You have a bad habit of hitting me when you’re not.”

Aya felt himself smirk; the expression threatened to open a wound on his lower lip and he soon gave it up to stoic repression as Schuldig pulled him up into a sitting position, propping him against the vanity. The cuffs at his wrists were removed, leaving raw, bruised rings along with dried blood. Aya tried to reach one hand to touch the other, but the motion failed; dark spots began to threaten his vision.

//Wake up or I’ll drown you.//

He was dragged back into consciousness, but whether by his keeper’s power or his own, Aya wasn’t sure. Strong arms lifted him off the floor, tilting him back against Schuldig’s chest not quite gently, but not with any real force. Maybe the man was afraid Aya would throw up on him again; that earned another small smirk, and the next shift of Schuldig’s arms was not so easy.

Aya was settled in the bottom of the empty tub. Leaning forward, with his knees slight bent, he dropped his hands between his thighs in some vague attempt at modesty. He wanted to wrap his arms tightly around his knees, curl up, and pass out.

Schuldig stood next to the tub. He removed his green jacket, laying it over the sink, then unbuttoned his white dress shirt and laid it there as well. Stripping off his white undershirt, he looked pointedly at Aya who was doing his best not to look at anything at all.

“Shall we bathe together today?”

Aya wasn’t sure if he managed a mental answer or if only the shudder of his frame informed Schuldig’s decision.

“So cruel.”

Tossing the undershirt to the sink, he knelt beside the tub in just his pants and reached to press in the plug and start the water. Lukewarm wetness began to seep around Aya’s feet and bottom, stinging his wounds as it rose. He wished it was hot, hot enough to burn away the dirt, the skin, all the feeling, to burn him away to nothingness.

The water was cut off before it reached three inches, as if his keeper was afraid he would try to do the drowning himself.

A rough cloth began to swipe at his face, dipping occasionally into the water then coming up to wipe away the crusted gore from lips and nose; the latter seemed to be always bleeding, and his entire face felt tender and bruised though it hadn’t been the focus of Farfarello’s blows.

There was a cursory swipe at the back of his neck, then a rough tousle of the top of his hair. Schuldig lingered a little with the eartails, removing the caked blood from the longer strands before rinsing the rag and moving downward. He swept the blood from the new wounds, tinting the water brownish-red. It made Aya a little sick to see it, so he closed his eyes and tried to think of something, anything else. This was shot to hell when the washcloth descended between his legs. It hit the back of his hands first, but Schuldig was quick to move them out of the way, tsking a little. Then the rag was cleaning him there, taking longer than necessary as it wiped over his lower abdomen.

//Open your eyes. Do it.//

He did.

“Stop resisting me,” a pause, “We could pretend to be lovers, Ran.”

Aya’s legs were forced further apart as Schuldig cleaned the creases of his thighs, and Aya fought hard against the embarrassed tears that threatened. He hadn’t cried yet, not in front of them. But the rag, a thin separation from the German’s hand, was scratching up and down his flaccid penis while Schuldig watched it attentively. He glanced briefly towards Aya’s face as he slipped the cloth further down, cupping his balls, rolling them in pretense of cleaning, taking too long.

“Bradley doesn’t let you pretend, does he?”

Aya wanted to die.

“I wouldn’t mind.” His hand crept further back and his voice turned mocking, “I could love you, Ran.”

And just when Aya thought he would be put off balance by the insistent hunting beneath his bottom, Schuldig retreated, going on to wash his legs as if it had never happened. But the obvious bulge in the German’s pants told a different story; Aya didn’t want to look and closed his eyes tightly as Schuldig wrapped him in a large towel and lifted him from the tub.

“You’re so much fun, kätzchen.”

*** ** ***

He followed his owner silently into the bathroom.


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