Summary: What if Aya and Yohji could choose to have their old lives back? What if losing one another would be the price for this? Is it right to be selfish? Generosity is not necessarily one of their strengths... and just which redhead did put that flea in Yohji's ear?
Rating/Warnings, valid for all chapters of this story: M for male/male affection, dirty thoughts, references to sex,and foulmouthed boys.
Disclaimer: This story is a not-for-profit work. All rights to the Weisskreuz characters with their current owners.
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Man, VampireLouis, your reviews just blow me away! You're a star, you know that?
LadyOrient, Rosemarykiss - it is so good to know you read my stuff, and I am glad about each of your feedback notes - much appreciated!
Okay, my conscience decided to prod me after I read all this praise, and I just had to amend and repost this story. I think it has improved a lot, and apologise for the errors etc. that were in the first sloppy version. So this new, shinier version is dedicated to you. Hope you like it.
Cheers,
one still waffy fanboy
LH
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Glitter Kitties
(Aya)
Sometimes they're just pissing me off. The whole stupid lot of them, including Kudoh. Especially Kudoh.
I do not like working the till at the shop because of the children. All those little girls, with hopeful eyes and silly little giggles, shy blushes and still daring, testing, beaming smiles at me... it's simply too much to bear, for it rakes up memories of my sister. But I am awkward with words, and the other three know it and let me sizzle.
Though Yohji will show me mercy now and then and simply take over, allowing me to slip away into the back to prepare arrangements or do the deliveries. He has the uncanny knack of catching me right before I'm ready to crack up; how does he do it? Omi tends to put us together on shift. I resent that, sometimes...
It was Ken – of course, the other two would have gotten him to do this, and he is brazen enough to actually dare – who shoved the single long-stemmed pink rose across the counter to me. From the stalk dangled a small card, covered with glitter and kitty pictures, and attached witha gold lamee ribbon. I never look at stuff like that; it irritates me but I have learned to simply ignore it. So I was about to toss rose and card into the garbage bag by the workbench at the back, when I caught Omi rolling his eyes and shooting a knowing grin at Ken.
Hey, told you, he's a coward, this glance, this smile proclaimed triumphantly, and Ken grinned back, yeah, smartass, 'cos you always know...
The chibis are inveterate gamblers; they always have some bet or dare running, and it is unfortunate and annoying that they should have chosen me as one of their favourite subjects. They know nothing of me. Perhaps that's why they won't let off.
Yohji leaned against the backdoor, his arms folded over his chest, a cigarette dangling from his mouth – of course, he is always smoking and tastes like it, too. He was watching the scene. I hate being watched like that, especially by him. It makes me feel naked.
"Won't you at least look at it?" Ken asked, all hazel-eyed innocence, and Omi had a hard time to keep from laughing, I could tell. They seem to think I'm stupid, and sometimes I am tempted to blow a fuse at them. But then, who would help me fulfil my dream? The only dream left to me: my revenge. So, in the end, it does not matter what they do to taunt me; it is just petty squabbling that cannot really touch me.
"Iie," I tell him, "but you might like it, Kenken: you should grab the chance while you have it, once in a blue moon."
He does not like that and gives me a heated glare. Omi looks venomous, but Yohji steps in, smiling and smooth, wily as always. He takes the flower and the card off me. "How nice," he says, winking at the chibis, and Omi at least has enough sense to nudge Ken; they leave, beating a rather hasty retreat through the front door. To go play soccer, I suppose, or visit one of Omi's schoolmates for a session of booze and heavy metal. They call that homework.
Yohji draws at his cigarette that is hardly more than a long stalk of ash by now. He reads the card, rakes one hand slowly through his shaggy bleached hair and smiles a bit more,a soft sheen in his eyes. "Man, Aya, I'd love to get things like this." Bet he does, he is easy to impress. He looks up, trying to see my face, but I am busy right now, counting the takings and totting up the sales. "But I can see what rankled," he says quietly.
I slam the register shut; it protests with a shrill ring. "Graceful!" I cannot help but blurt out in anger, "Delicate! Cute! Gimme a fucking break! I am no woman!"
He flinches a bit, does not like me swearing, and I have touched a sore point with him, too: he would like to top me more often. I even like it, but no matter what he tries to coax me into it, I cannot bring myself to give in unless I am to exhausted to fight him off. Apart from that, he uses me as his hold on the things in life he considers cultured, educated, beautiful. He does not like his illusion disturbed.
I have no illusions. When I undress in the evening, to get ready for bed, I never pass the mirror in the bathroom without a glance at least – not out of vanity, just to reaffirm what I see there: a bony frame, wiry muscles and taut sinews under my scarred hide. Angles and planes, no curves. No softness. I am no woman. My sister is, and my mother was. Now they are broken; tender, wrecked dolls, and my love for them has become nothing but a sea of pain. It is a bad world for women, and we make it like that, but I had to realise that nothing I can do will change this. My mother is dead, and my sister is dying. Every one of us lost the women that made our lives complete, and now we try not to get involved with women anymore because every time we try, there is more loss, more pain, more helpless anger... We have no right to be the cause of it.
I am a man, even if I let Yohji have me sometimes and he treats me like something that could break under his touch.
I hate that, too.
I do not think I am delicate in any way
And it feels good to confirm this with every mission we get.
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Next chapter: Balls And Butchers