Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Snippet #1: Touch ❯ One-Shot

Inspired by a chat posted to an ML. ^_^

Disclaimer: Not mine. Someone else's. Not trying to infringe on any damn copyright. Trust me on this one.

Notes: I'm playing fast and loose with Yohji's history. Apologies. Also, slight Aya x Ken hints. Blink and you'll miss it.

Rating: PG-13 for language.

Yohji's fingernail scraped at the brown crust marring the white surface of his bowl. It was, quite possibly, the remains of the curry rice he had for dinner last week. House Foods' "Vermont Curry" like his father used to make, complete with fortnight-old chicken and green potatoes.

Behind him a small pot of boiling pasta gushed steam to the frigid air, condensing on the window of the small kitchen. Next to it was a saucepan, filled with viscous red liquid. An empty jar lay in the trashcan, still cold from its lodging in the fridge, a mute testimony to its origins.

Finally, the brown stain gave up its hold with a quiet "klik!" Yohji subjected his fingernail to a critical gaze. A small chip, easily filed later. Not even enough to catch his monofilament wire, should he neglect to tend to it. The chestnut-haired man hesitated, then left the kitchen only to return seconds later with a nail file. He slouched on a much-used stool, filing his nail as he waited for the pasta to cook.

He poured the pasta into a scratched colander, careful not to splash hot water on his hands, leaving it to strain while he grated some low-fat cheese. Ken wandered in after a while, wrinkling his nose at the concoction.

"Should you be eating that?" he asked, looking vaguely horrified.

Yohji leered, because he was supposed to. "I put a lot of things in my mouth, KenKen," he laughed. "That reminds me... how's Aya?"

Ken blushed and fled. Yohji ate his dinner in silence, watching the darkness outside the window without really seeing it. He carried his dishes to the sink, turning on the hot water and picking up a pair of rubber gloves. He frowned. There was a large tear in the left glove.

Sighing, he cast the gloves aside, eyeing the dishes apprehensively. Aya had promised to exact swift and brutal vengeance should Yohji leave his washing to moulder "one more time", and he really didn't feel like testing the melting temperature of a katana-wielding iceberg. With another sigh Yohji grabbed a sponge and set to work, grimacing.

Music floated through the open door of the kitchen. He recognized it as the opening theme to "Serial Experiments Lain" -- Omi again. He watched it once, paying more attention to the youngest member of Weiss than the freaky girl in the anime. Yohji didn't think it made sense to anyone who didn't live just this side of the computer screen, but he'd been amused by Omi's enthusiasm.

He smiled. His detergent-slick grip loosened, sending the utensil he'd been holding tumbling into the sink. Instinctively, he grabbed at it -- and froze as pain flared in his hand.

"Fuck!"

Yohji dropped the knife with a clatter, holding his right hand to his chest. Blood turned white foam crimson, trickling down his arm to cool on his skin. He pressed a wadded-up washcloth to the wound, swallowing a whimper.

Don'tpanicdon'tpanicdon'tpanicdon'tpanicdon'tpanic

He slid down to sit on the floor, light brown hair sticking to his sweaty face. Despite the pain, he clenched his right hand into a fist, then wriggled his fingers. Yohji bit his bottom lip. It didn't feel as if he'd damaged a tendon. Probably just a shallow cut.

Yohji looked down at the red stain that was beginning to creep through the rough cotton. It had to be a shallow cut. He'd be healed enough by the next day to use his wire without fouling up. The lanky man bowed his head, realizing that he was trembling.

"Fuck," he whispered.

-owari-

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