Addiction
Fandom: Weisskreuz
Pairings: Yohji and Aya
Warnings (all chapters): A bit of swearing and references to sex; boys loving boys.
Summary: Perhaps painting by numbers is not such an unlikely pastime for Yohji as it seems. It grows into an addiction when it slowly reveals a kaleidoscope of colours, and bit by bit, the picture takes shape: Yohji is painting a portrait...
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This one is what it says, painting by numbers to roll out a character. Let me know what you think, folks!
Cheers.
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Painting By Numbers
When Aya arrived at the Koneko, the marks of my wire and my fingers on his throat and the scars of betrayal on his soul, we had no idea what he would do to us. We knew nothing, and he would not talk to us, so all we could do was watch him.
Omi joked that I have become addicted to watching Aya. Ken finds it disgusting. "Yohji, you're an idiot." Right. They really should show a tad more respect to their elders, but perhaps it does not matter because slowly, subtly, like colouring a picture, Aya comes to life for me as I try to pick up what makes him tick. When I was little, I used to be good at painting by numbers, picking out details by filling them in with my felt pens, revelling when I could begin to make out shapes, and finally complete my work. I guess some of that carried through into my previous job as a private investigator, and old habits die hard indeed.
If Aya knew that I plan to strip him off his jealously guarded privacy, I'd be toast, but he is obtuse that way, and that suits me fine. I am his stalker. Does that make him my prey? I'd rather not think about this one.
For someone so dour, he has a rather sweet tooth – he will eat a packet of mochi like nothing as long as he thinks no one is watching, and he is partial to pressed, flavoured sugar shapes and all types of candied fruit.
He adores money. He is not economical; he is mean, stingy, tightfisted, an utter and unabashed miser – I swear I've never come across someone like that in my life. Apart from his very occasional sweet treats, he spends hardly anything, hoarding his yen in what we suspected were wads of cash under his futon or wherever.
Back then, none of us had an idea just how expensive medical treatment for someone in a coma would be, that he had borrowed money, was keeping meticulous records of a bank account in his name, and was working to hold his debts at a bearable level. His Porsche, like my Seven, are provided by our paymasters, toys that will come and go like the flowershop for a cover, and the rest of our equipment with the exception of our personal weapons and working gear.
When we realised we were stuck with him, we soon knew that he was not one for light banter. In fact, he refused to let anyone close. We were reduced to figuring him out as we went.
I won't complain, and perhaps Omi is right: watching Aya has become my favourite pastime, beating booze, tobacco and clubbing by quite a few lengths.
Next chapter: Food