WeissKreuz – Games of Spring
Fandom: WeissKreuz
Rating: M/NC-15
Pair: Yohji and Aya and Schuldig, a glimpse of Omi and Ken
Warnings: references to male male affection, gambling, getting drunk
Summary: It was a simple game: shake, toss, count. Least points lose. Loser buys round of shots and sheds one rag. Yohji was drunk. Yohji was down to his pants and briefs. Plus socks and necklace. Schuldig was drunk and winning...
xxx
Where is he?" ranted Aya.
Slanting him a rather dark glance, Ken wondered how he managed to rant without raising his voice or changing his cool, calm expression. "If YOU don't know..."
"Kenken," Omi butted in, a tad concerned, "why don't you take the deliveries this afternoon, and I keep the shop?"
"It's my shift," Aya groused, but he already untied the apron strings, his hands flying.
Omi raised his hands, palms out. "It's fine, Aya-kun, really. You can help me out another time." A token offer to soothe Aya's pride that was taken glacly. The chibi knew how to deal a smooth deck.
"You can have the bike," said Ken, his tone harsh to cover worry and unease.
"Remember the helmet," Omi yelled after Aya who whisked the keys from their box inside the till drawer and took off at a light jog... a fast run... the bike out and revving up into a scream in a matter of seconds.
"He's gonna kill my bike if he's doing that to a cold engine," winced Ken, but he didn't sound particularly cross.
Omi's fingers lightly brushed Ken's wrist. They both smiled, if only to keep appearances. Appearances mattered.
xxx
"You wear briefs?" Schuldig seemed startled, then laughed in a fuzzy way. He slapped his skinny, jeans-clad thighs, then shook his head. "I'll be blasted, Bali sugar."
"I'm no slut," slurred Yohji, sounding a tad offended. He wore one sock and a pair of black, skimpy cotton briefs, plus a slim leather necklace. His sunglasses were stuck in Schuldig's flaming hair, his green cotton shirt over Schuldig's black tee, his smart black jeans draped - bum down - over Schuldig's bony shoulders.
It did not look good for him.
He had bought a full bottle of something clear and potent when they decided to relocate before getting thrown out from the nice bar where they had started their game, and had taken it along to the bench in the park he tended to frequent when... no, not going there. Not mourning, not grieving, not thinking of HER again. Not now. Anyway, Yohji mused vaguely, there was no point in bothering with shot glasses anymore, so he and Schuldig were both taking turns swigging the stuff from the bottle that tasted of cigarettes and hot caramel.
"I'm sick," Yohji mumbled.
"I know," grinned Schuldig.
"Shit you know."
"I DO, asshole," snapped Schuldig, flaring.
"Fuck off... your hair's all wrong... Aya... I mean, look at him," said Yohji, eyes glazing over.
"All the time, all the time, Bali dear. I'll have his guts one day. Tripe 'n cabbage." Schuldig smacked his lips.
"Shit you will." Aggression, alarm, unhappiness made Yohji's voice thick.
Schuldig thought of Crawford and bit his lip bloody. "Yeah."
A small pause, then Yohji reached for the pair of dice they had placed between them onto the bench, and cupped them in his hollow hand. "He likes... well, whatever..."
"Not you," Schuldig supplied, helpfully, baring his teeth a little, smudges of crimson on his split lips.
Yohji grunted assent and tried to shake the dice.
"I like you, dickhead," said Schuldig, watching him from narrowed eyes.
One dice fell onto the stained wood of the bench, and kept rolling until it dropped onto the earthy ground. It showed one eye up.
"Hah!" Schuldig seized the dice.
"Doesn't count," Yohji protested.
"Does."
"Doesn't."
"It counts."
"Nah, unfair. It sorta fell out."
They paused, then laughed. Yohji sagged back and let his head loll back too. "Aw, bull, whatever..."
"Does," Schuldig decided, only a little bleary, his expression a mix of longing and hatred and hunger. "C'mon, Bali."
"Huh?"
"I think," a deep voice startled them both from their drunken stupor, "you just lost another sock, Yotan." Aya stood behind the bench, a slim dark shadow in frayed, grubby trainers, black jeans and a clingy black tee, the helmet wedged under one arm, a pair of black sunglasses pushed up into his blazing red mane. His expression was bland, though Yohji, even drunk as a bat, could have sworn there was a tiny, tale-telling twitch in a corner of that pale pink mouth.
"Shit," groused Schuldig. "You're spoiling my party."
"It's in my job description," came Aya's flat retort. "Yotan. The sock."
Yohji stared up at Aya. "What?"
"Take off that sock. It's forfeit."
"You're mean."
Schuldig stared from Aya to Yohji, a frosty gleam in his blue eyes. "Yeah, go on, Bali sweet."
"You ganging up on me, or what?" Yohji tried to straighten up enough to rise to his feet, but Aya's firm, small hand settled on his shoulder in a hard grip.
"Sit." Aya reached for the dice. "I might just join in."
Schuldig scowled. "It's against the rules." He seemed rather sober now. Yohji wasn't.
"I made new rules." Aya's tone held something akin to amusement, along with an undercurrent of something dark and cold. "Same game, new round, Mastermind. Winner takes one rag."
xxx
Yohji had no idea that Aya was into turning dice. How else could he explain his winning streak that did not seem to break whatever Schuldig did? Or Yohji's bad luck that drove him to finish that offending bottle. Schuldig, although still dressed, had lost all of Yohji's clothes to Aya. When Aya had cleared him out of his winnings, he paused.
"A...yan?" Yohji had trouble sitting. Slumped against the backrest of the bench, he kept lurching to one side.
Aya wrapped one arm around his waist and yanked him close, until Yohji was draped against Aya's back, his tousled head on Aya's shoulder. Aya snatched the fag from Yohji's lips. "Don't drool," he ordered brusquely. Yohji let his eyes slide shut, too tired and way too sloshed to care. Aya took a quick drag, slightly pushed out his lower lip, and let the smoke curl out lazily while weighing the dice in his small, hard hand.
Schuldig stared, pale eyes narrow, oddly sober, expression inscrutable beyond a vague smile that veered on the edge of a smirk. "You smoke to impress, Abyssinian?"
Aya snorted, a little puff of smoke issuing from his nostrils, and his lips twitched with contempt. "If I thought I needed to… now, where were we?"
"I'm done playing."
"Oh?"
"You weighted the dice."
"I did?"
Schuldig rose, his motion smooth and brisk. "I'm done," he repeated, taking a few steps back, slipping out of Aya's range. "I'm not getting bare-assed for you."
xxx
Aya bundled Yohji into a cab and followed on Ken's bike, weaving placidly through the evening traffic. He overtook only near the shop to get off the bike and be ready to hoist Yohji out of the car. He paid the fare and hauled the blond up the stairs without calling the chibis – Omi, for once, left him alone… perhaps they'were busy, with themselves.
He returned downstairs to wheel the bike into the garage, lock up, and eat some cold sushi rice while standing with his backside propped against the kitchen counter. There was cold tea for him, thanks Omi, and a meal of rice and pickles as Yohji liked it – all messed together in a bowl – thanks Ken.
Aya took the bowl and a mug of cold tea upstairs. Yohji lay on his futon, tossing about, the sheets tangled, his hair sticking in sweat-caked ringlets to his temples and cheeks. His eyes were half-open, unseeing, his lips moving.
He did not come to when Aya tried to feed him, but he stilled a little when the cool tea touched his lips. Aya dabbed a little of it onto heated flesh. Realised that the temperature was not from drinking too much.
"My fault, my fault, my fault," chanted Yohji, voice low, driven, torn.
Aya sat back and listened.
xxx
Yohji woke early. He lay still, trying to slide back into sleep and black oblivion, but the wild carousel in his head, his heaving stomach, and the reddish shine of light through his closed eyelids were against it.
He groaned softly, feeling sick to the marrow… and froze as he felt a firm, warm touch. "Yohji?"
Aya.
Oh goddammit, Aya, of all people.
"Yohji."
No. Not here. Gone boozing…
"I know you're awake." A shift and soft swish of clothes, and then a small, hot hand sliding over his arm, two fingers pressing against the pulse in his neck, probing, checking…
"I'm fine," Yohji croaked, voice rough from whatever he'd downed the evening before. No, wait, make that afternoon… midday…
Fingers sliding higher, over his jawbone, tracing his ear, tucking back a few strands of sticky hair, combing through the messy tangle of blond, brushing it back, carefully not to tug too badly. When would Aya start with his bawling out?
And then Yohji felt a violent surge in his stomach, and he only just managed to turn onto his elbow before retching and heaving.
xxx
Aya was taking Yohji's shift. Neither Ken nor Omi would protest.
"He will need to be able to work," said Aya, without being asked, to no one in particular.
"Yes, of course, Aya-kun," agreed Omi, smooth and bland, his smile plastered on as usual, eyes cool.
Ken had an accusing edge to the glare he sent Aya's way.
xxx
Yohji had found another bottle in whatever secret corner of the house. He was not able to walk, let alone work. He managed to crawl to the bathroom to puke his guts out over the toilet bowl.
That's where Aya found him, hugging the rim of the loo.
xxx
"I hate this time of the year," said Omi, his voice quiet and tense, even through the plastic smile he wore. "Cherry blossom."
"It'll be over soon enough," Ken tried to soothe – himself or Omi, he was not quite sure. They were tidying up, Omi running off the till, Ken sweeping the shop.
Aya was clattering about in the kitchen, steaming dinner rice, making tea, breaking dishes in the process. Better to stay clear.
Outside, a few cherry petals drifted past, to settle in the gutter, and a little later, Aya was outside sweeping the pavement.
Spring would be over soon.
xxx
THE END