Ordinary People
A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by laila
Standard Copyright Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz, it's characters, indices, and everything else about it remain the property of Kyoko Tsuchiya, Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiss and Movic, as well as the individuals and groups who perpetrated the terrible US dub. I have time on my hands, a head full of twisted visions and believe that a decent psychological fic can be got out of this terrible staple plot and have absolutely no notion of profiting from my strange fondness for angst and torment.
Author's Notes: This is a sort of side project for me, based on a plotbunny that has been nagging at me for now and one of the oldest staple plots in the Weiss Kreuz fanficcer's repertoire. It's a combination of an (extremely) guilty pleasure and a genuine attempt to take an often gratuitous and somewhat overused plot angle, combine it with my fondness for angsting various Weiss members silly, and make it work in a way that is actually vaguely interesting to read. Only time will tell how well I succeed in this ambition. Please note that I have no planned update schedule – though I have plans and intend to finish the fic, it is a side project – and the chapter parts are intended to be of varying lengths. Some will be less than a page, others will span several. They're just supposed to finish when they finish. Finally, the first couple of chapter parts may not seem like they have a lot to do with Weiss but trust me, they've been there all along...
Warnings: Bad language, violence, physical and psychological abuse, m/m gang rape (implied). If any or all of the above offend you then please, please read no further. Thank you.
+ coda
Somehow, it felt like falling.
Blue. Powder blue, sky blue, the kind of blue that mothers dressed their baby boys in. Innocent pale blue on a storm-grey background: a scrap of fabric caught on the edge of a broken shelf, all snap and rustle in the sudden breeze. There was nothing to hear but the leftover noise of the city, the rumble and murmur of traffic, the sudden staccato of a woman's high heels as she hurried down the sidewalk: he couldn't cry out, he hardly knew if he wanted to. There was nothing else to see, just that single scrap of blue. Like wings, or the sail of a ship. He'd move but it hurt.
The sky was clogged with clouds like soapsud scum in dirty dishwater and he wouldn't have screamed anyway and there was going to be an afterwards after all.
And him lost and bloodied and hurting, and abruptly out of context.
He had become an it: that at least didn't surprise him. It was just what happened when you killed.
He had been taken and used, and finally broken, and cast carelessly aside. Like a – he'd heard it said enough times, that bodies looked like large and damaged dolls. He'd never thought it a good analogy but he felt like junk all the same, like the pointlessly poignant debris found strewn across grassland or tarmac at the scene of an accident, or the scene of a crime. A scrawled obscenity on a crumbling wall.
(He didn't, of course, look like anything of the sort. He looked like a person, a badly wounded person. Like a victim.)
And, though he knew it, somehow he was thinking of nothing of the sort. Somehow, it didn't matter in the least. The only thing that mattered was that he wanted to go home and he couldn't, and the trapped fabric twisted and writhed in the breeze and a skein of birds threaded across the sky and it meant nothing, nothing at all.