WeissKreuz – Ritual
Fandom: WeissKreuz
Rating: T/NC-13
Warnings: references to male male affection, bleakness
Pairs: Yohji and Aya
Summary: Aya likes rituals, Yohji hates dreaming...
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Aya.
The starkness of crimson and white.
His gaze shuttered, his expression serene.
Behind him a glaring white screen, beside him a pair of ikebana arrangements in tall ceramic vases.
He is perfect, thinks Yohji, watching from a distance.
The whisper of rain.
A soft murmur of cool water, droplets settling on Aya's pale cheeks, staining his wild red mane and the stark white kimono he is wearing.
Small, round shadows that soak into the flawless silk, and into the golden-green tatami on which he kneels.
His hands are busy, Yohji can tell, but he cannot quite make out what Aya is doing.
Yohji fumbles to take off his reading glasses.
The flutter of paper.
The neat lines of a poem, black swirling on white, women's writing and a couple of kanji, Aya's name.
Fujimiya Ran, a name that tastes like flowers in early summer, the delicate blooms of wisteria raining over the walls of a shrine.
A small, square pond overgrown with lilies and moss, raindrops dancing on waxy leaves, bursting in little fountains on the dark water.
Rings spreading and breaking on the mossy walls, and Aya glances up to meet Yohji's green gaze.
The gleam of steel.
Cool and grey, in Aya's hands, those small, hard hands Yohji knows like his own heart.
A scene he finds familiar but it holds no comfort for him now to watch as Aya uses a small silk tassel to daub the blade with rice powder.
His tanto, shorter than the katana that sits on a black laquered rack to his left.
Aya takes a square sheet of rice paper and begins with calm, measured movements, to wrap the middle of the tanto's blade.
Something breaks.
Yohji can feel it as he sees Aya turn the blade, Aya's silvery gaze still holding his as the tip touches white silk, bare skin.
Something is off, Yohji could sense it, and now it hits him like a train, and he wants to jump up and scream...
Terror strikes him when he realises he can't. Paralyzed, mute, suffocating in agony, he tries to toss and break loose, but he can't.
Something holds him down, fills his mouth, presses onto his chest with leaden chill.
Yohji.
The echo of his name, of Aya's name, of a howl beyond anything he's ever heard, and he comes round.
Still screaming, breathless, burning and fighting, until Aya's concerned face swims into Yohji's view, and Aya's voice sinks into his mind.
"Yohji," says Aya, his tone calm and resolute. "Quit thrashing." He is close, and he holds Yohji's reading glasses in one hand.
"What have you been reading? My haiku?" Aya shakes his head. "I didn't realise they were that bad. You were yelling, so I came to have a look."
Yohji's pulse is racing.
He can feel his heart pound in his chest as he realises Aya has clamped him down on the futon, those pale purple eyes boring into his own.
"Yohji," Aya murmurs, wiping a strand of sweaty blond from Yohji's brow. "I made you tea. It's better than coffee. And don't get any ideas now."
Releasing Yohji, he begins to rise to his feet. Yohji seizes his hand before he can leave. "Ayan," he gasps, the aftershocks of his nightmare still shaking him.
"I heard," Aya says quietly, "Yohji, get a grip." But he sags back, and he lets Yohji hold on to his hand, and they stay like this until the tea is cold.
xxx
THE END