Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Crazy Sunday Mornings ❯ A Snippet of Things ( Chapter 1 )

A thing like that, no one looks past from.

 

In the deep of the night, a tall shadow stood out from under the dimmed light of the city moon as it noiselessly stole from behind the floor-length maroon curtains. The room the shadow was standing in was bereft of any sign of being lived in, save for the books aligned on one of the four walls and clothes just now discarded onto the chair dragged from its usual place before the study to stand near the bed. If one can follow the stare of a shadow, one would find, indeed, that it was staring at the occupant of the bed. The thick blanket stopped at pale shoulders that, had it belonged to a less muscled individual that did not own a specific part of anatomy, would have looked fragile. The occupant lay on its left side, one arm underneath the pillow supporting its head of cascading hair of, on some days a brilliant but on nights a deep, wine red. And if one looked real hard, one would find several stitches; some healed burns and old wounds that marred the pale skin of the body steer clear of the face, and barely see those thick lashes flutter.

 

Yes, a thing like that no one could overlook.

 

The shadow seemed, if a shadow could indeed, to hesitate, and after a few seconds, the light poured through the window, and the wind moved the curtains now unhindered by shadows. And the lashes flutter, and the lids open to reveal eyes like pairs of clear-cut amethyst that seemed to pierce the bare space it looked out to, and which swiftly moved to the exact place the shadow had been, as a white-knuckled hand clenched and unclenched on the katana it held carefully hidden below the thick unassuming blanket.

 

A thing not easily dismissed indeed.

 

* * *

 

Morning found him seated before Ken and Omi, nursing a mug of coffee. It wasn't really nursing, not really, because he didn't even once sip the stuff. He merely liked holding something warm between his hands, is all, just after a night out in town. He could almost hear himself counting …3…2…

 

“Kudou.”

 

Immediately Yohji's face brightened up, pasted on a smile and looked up to a would-be assailant. He could see himself, with his invisible eyes afloat somewhere in front of the scene, sitting there with a smile that all that was missing was the `ting!' (sound equivalent of a gleaming white teeth sparkle, mind you) in front of a very pissed off would-be assailant, who, to begin with, was already really pissed off.

 

“Aya”, a voice started to whine, but then everyone knew who it was, “you promised not to bring your katana in the dining room especially when we're eating!”

 

Yohji saw the eye twitch ever so slightly and could imagine how Aya wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose and count to ten in all the languages he knew, which, by the way, was around the minimum of five not including the dead languages. That made Yohji's smile grow wider. No one spoke a word, and he knew Ken was holding his breath by the way the young man's palette was slightly turning red.

 

They stayed that way for some time, Yohji's facial muscles miraculously holding that smile (which seemed to become maniacal more and more with every second that goes by), Omi staying in a brewing tantrum, Aya standing with hands gripping the sides of the table with the katana lain suggestively before Yohji. In fact, Ken was the only one who made some of his muscles move when, after remembering it, he started to breath very discreetly. And, as expected of a house of Assassins, nothing made noise, not even a fly (not because they trained assassin flies, mind you, but because there was no fly because all four gentlemen, yes even Ken, liked to be at least hygienic. When you've seen what they've seen night after night, you would like to be hygienic too. In fact, you'd hold hygiene as one does a security blanket and maybe, as in the case of Aya, develop some sort of obsession to it).

 

One thought occupied all minds present: `someone had better fucking give in and make the first move, because we'd go on like this `till sundown just like last week!'

 

Of course, none of their faces betrayed this thought. The curious tableau continued for some more moments… and then a sigh. Not a tired sigh, but more of a definite `you're-not-getting-away-with-this' letting out of air because there is nothing better to say. Aya gave a final menacing glare to Yohji, who thought it a wise decision to wink (which is not a wise decision at all), which made the formers eyes become dangerous narrow slits and stalk off in a huff. When Aya was presumably a great comforting distance way away, the rest started moving- Ken reaching for the plate of eggs, Omi glumly drinking his orange juice, and Yohji gingerly massaging his cheeks and moving his mouth about to wake up some of the facial muscles that fell asleep or frozen up from that too long of a smile. Yes, indeed. Same shit every damn Sunday morning.

 

“Well”, Ken said between forkfuls of pancakes, “that went better than last week.” The other two nodded in agreement. “At least we didn't all move at the same time and ended up holding our weapons to the neck of the nearest person.”

 

“Who was me, in an unfair sort of way because this is a square table right? That possesses even sides? Which means we're all each other's nearest person? RIGHT?” Said Yohji, a tad reproachful, placing his hands back to their places around the mug.

 

Omi spared the older man a raised eyebrow. “You had your wire looped around all our necks.” Both younger men gave Yohji a look, which Yohji, being himself, promptly ignored.

 

“Yeah, well…” he trailed off, a bit lamely, and then cleared his throat, “by the way Ken, how come you held your breath that long?”

 

Ken, failing to see the question as a mere diversionary tactic of Yohji's, or if he did he just disregarded it nonchalantly in a significantly Ken way which is somewhere between being `simple but not stupid' and `just plain stupid' (which he was not, mind you, just sometimes seeming to be so, deceptively), shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you know Aya- he can get worked up an' angry at you just because you're breathing.”

 

“Ah.” Both Omi and Yohji said, because, well, just what do you say to logic like that? Sometimes, Ken baffled them more than Aya did. They continued in their breakfast, and then someone popped THE question.

 

“Why is he always like that every Sunday morning this past month, Yohji? Threatening to kill you an' everything?” Ken casually asked, though the question burned and itched at the back of everyone's mind… well by everyone meaning Ken and Omi. The two turned to look at Yohji, expecting an enlightened answer as though he was Buddha and knew what the heck was happening. Yohji shrugged, “like hell I'd know what crept up his butt and died there.”

 

And though there was two pair of eyes on him, they seemed to miss that slight maniacal edge to the laugh, the glint in the eyes, and the awkward way he held the mug. And if the two were interested enough, they'd notice the way Yohji's hands twitched ever so slightly as he loosened his grip on the almost invisible wire blocked from view by the erstwhile warm mug of coffee that Yohji seemed to fancy but never really drank these Sunday mornings of late.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, that's the first installment. Reviews are welcome. Really. Welcome. REVIEWS. Hint hint. =)