Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Weiss Kreuz in any way.

Part: 1 of 2

Archiving: Please ask.

Once, along the way

by fiery frost

His violet eyes are closed, and the fiery strands of hair lie darkly against his face, casting shades of greyness across the pallor of his skin. He breathes, barely. The world is spinning abruptly, as I hold him against a backdrop of backseat fear and frantic voices in front.

I breath. Watch him.

The slow blooming of redness across his chest so surreal, his scent – faint peach shampoo and soap and cinnamon – in my nose and suddenly I have buried my head in copper strands and he's warm-living-there – thank God.

- - -

It's later, and there is nothing left in my head but the blank whiteness of the waiting room. There are chairs there, cool plastic rows and a coffee dispenser. It comes in little containers that can be stacked. And a nurse comes in to exclaim at the pile I've collected, all crushed white plastic and coffee drops.

He's still in there.

- - -

There are noises, coming closer. A babble of curt, staccato sounds emerges from the room where he's in as the doctors leave. They look normal – minds already moving on to their next patient.

I guess he's alright.

And the feeling of overwhelming lightness that accompanies the thought makes me sway on my feet, the effect of too much coffee and too many cigarettes on an empty stomach finally catching up with me.

Collapse into one of the hard plastic chairs. Breath; just breath.

- - -

I wake to gentle hands on my shoulder. The sheer innocence of the touch is all that prevents me from lashing out with silver strands, nerves roughened and sensitized to a dull pain.

She's young, wide eyes and the barest hint of makeup combining to make her look even younger. She's saying something now, and I have to focus, bring myself away from the untainted purity of her eyes.

Can't sully her, too.

- - -

I am shooed, gently, firmly, from the room. Told – ordered – to take a rest. I do, pliable as the silver strings I wield. She smiles at me, and I see the shadow of a chance of redemption in her youth; to drown the splatters of red on carpeted floors and white walls in the blank canvass of her body.

It works, you know. Every night I drown myself in the whirled maze of oblivion they bring, I forget a little more. Lose myself a little more.

Maybe I'll even forget who I am.

That'd be nice.

- - -

I pace, languid footsteps uncommonly hurried as I stride across the grass of the park beneath the grey shadow of the hospital. I fancy I can see his window amidst the uniform squares bordered by white lace.

I like to pretend we have a connection somehow, forged by the blood and the tears and the guts of the people we kill. I like to pretend, because nothing is real.

- - -

He dreamt of Asuka that night, of her lifeless corpse and Neu's face as she tried to kill him. She spoke to him, the old Asuka – the dead one – and the new, young-girl-pretty and as sweet as Snow White's apple; a strangely pleasing disharmony of overlapping voices.

He woke up to disjointed recollections and the smoke-stained ceiling, feeling as though he'd forgotten something important.

- - -

I went to see him again, skiving off work with a charmer's grin and the common refrain of a 'date' on my lips. They laughed and waved me off, long since inured to my irresponsible ways. Yohji the playboy, the slacker, the one you entrusted nothing to if you wanted it done.

But pointing me at a target… that was alright.

- - -

Aya's room is silent and bare, as are all hospital rooms. He is asleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest calming the half-named fears within me.

People always say that you look different when you sleep, vulnerable and without daylight defenses. But Aya still looks like Aya, steel-wrapped silk and pale skin. My hands are outstretched before I know it; barely stopping myself when I see the wire-scarred darkness of fingers nearly touching a white cheek that is lightly stubbled. So he /is/ a redhead.

I chuckle softly at the inconsequential thought, then trail my hand through his hair. It's likely the only time I'll ever get to do so without sustaining life-threatening injuries in the process.

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