Youji Stubborn
by Nix Winter
Disclaimer: I don't own WK. Alas. I do own some others. Google my name to find them.
But... Warnings. This is an Omi/Youji story. Omi is 22 in this story.
Youji Stubborn
"It is a very simple offer, " the woman said. "You tell me who you work for or I'll break another finger. You cried real loud last time."
Youji sat in a metal chair which was bolted to the cement floor. Both wrists were handcuffed to the metal chair arms. He wore the same club gear that he'd been in three nights before when they'd picked him up. "Oh baby," he tried to purr, "You sure know how to turn me on!"
Blood from a black a battered eye glued tangled blond hair to a swollen face. Youji knew death knew it really well. He knew it well enough not to be afraid of it.
"You are one dumb ass rice ball," she complained. "I know it thrill you and your little fuck buddies to see this city blown to shit, but I live here and I don't want my home fucked.''
The real problem with getting worked over by a good interrogator is that a person starts to believe them. He so wanted to say that's what he wanted too. Save Melbourne. That's where they were, he thought. Australia. Maybe. He couldn't remember straight.
Japan didn't like atomic bombs. Make people's skin fall off, hair fall out. "I like my hair," he whispered.
That was a mistake. He knew it the moment that he said it. The caress through his hair was soft at first, but then she had a fist full of tangled blond. "You bleach don't you?"
Well didn't that just go without saying. She was the only person he'd seen since he'd woken up in this chair. There were other people in this place. Omi. He'd been on a mission with Omi. They'd been meeting the girlfriend of a scientist who talked to much.
Weiss wouldn't have been there at all if she hadn't been Japanese. It wasn't like the world hadn't always had its share of dangerous demon fucking assholes, but setting of a nuclear bomb in a nice place like Sidney. No. Melbourne. Anywhere. Just made things so fucked up. ''I'm thirsty.''
"Tell me about your friends, Youji," the woman asked.
That was one thing he wouldn't do. Not now, not if she broke all his fingers. Omi would track down the bastards, put darts in them, save the city. Omi would go back to working on his master's level college in gods only knew what weirdness that he could find on the other side of a keyboard. Youji's mind wandered and he could almost hear those key clicks, so fast, predictable rhythm. He couldn't remember exactly the day Omi had stopped being just a kid, started being something more.
Not that it had ever been serious, just something nice to sleep in the chair and listen to him type, to feel his fingers caress lightly over a knee. Youji couldn't remember the day he'd really started feeling human again, but he knew it had been when Omi had touched his face. Maybe he did remember the day. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to die as long as he never gave up Omi. He'd never tell. Not if this chick were the cops, or the terrorists and it was so hard to tell.
"I don't have any friends," he liked. "I'm just a fucking whore. What did you think I was?"
Elsewhere...
Omi's fingers paused. He'd matured since Aya's sister had woken. He'd made choices for them. Stay with Kritiker, or work for the Japanese government. He'd made that choice and they'd followed him. Maybe, they really worked for Kritiker, but this way, he was still Omi.
Somehow, he felt, if he'd gone the other direction, he'd be Mamaru. Youji had the most beautiful eyes. The trail lead to a shipping company, and he would by pass their security before morning.
Youji had disappeared while they'd been at a club, and Omi knew. He knew Youji was alive. He had to be. Omi hadn't told him that he loved him yet.