Bed of Roses Chapter 1: Default Chapter, a weiss kreuz fanfic

Author: Mirrordance

Title: Bed of Roses

Type: part 1/6

Spoilers: generally, with references to entire series

Warnings: drama, angst, language, violence, yaoi

Teaser: After two years of semi-retirement from Kritiker, Ran and Yoji return to action when they discover the new target is a murderous, out-of-control Siberian

Note: Chapter 1 is an old fic from May 2001 called "Heights." "Bed of Roses" can probably stand without it and vice versa, because both began as different fics. However, dealing with the same issues, I decided to merge them. Those who have kept correspondence with me and was privy to the information that "Heights" had long been planned as the first part of a trilogy, might know that "Bed of Roses" is not the original sequel/continuation, but I thought this might be more fitting instead.

"Bed of Roses"

a WKff by Mirrordance

don't own anybody…

CHAPTER 1: Heights

Yoji Kudou knew very little fear in his life.

As a kid, it was strange how he had feared darkness. How funny it was to think about that. Fear of darkness is so difficult to reconcile with his current profession. He sought out the darkness, now. Was a part of it, in some other life that not many people understood.

After that, his fear had been borne of losing loved-ones. He had no family left, barely enough real friends (though there had been quite a string of girlfriends). He had lost his partner Asuka. And later, a call girl who aided him during a mission, Maki.

After that, his fear had been that he would lose himself. Almost had, with two devastating loses. But then, he never counted on killing Neu, the deceptive Schreint agent who had fooled him. It doesn't help at all that she looked just like Asuka.

Flesh was such a goddamn boundary. Some fucking hindrance. People die all the time, but why did he have to have such a huge piece out of the mortality pie?

After that, he knew to stick to simpler things. Love was one heck of a complication. He knew to stick to those who would be most dependable.

Weiß. Also known as his friends. They were survivors, the four of them. With Manx, a relatively distant second. They'll live forever. He'll never have to face loss again.

It's been awhile since fear hit him. That tightness in your gut. The queasiness in your stomach. The way you felt cold even when it was warm. The way the hair on the back of your neck stood. Like freezing silver, creeping through your veins and spreading slowly throughout your entire body.

Yes. It's been awhile.

But fear… it hit him then.

He was standing by the door to the moonlit kitchen, silent and captivated by the morbid sight that greeted his eyes.

Ken Hidaka, in his bloodied mission clothes. It's been hours since they returned home and yet there he was, still in those stinking things. His bugnuks still on his hands, as he stood by the sink.

Ken didn't seem to know he was watching. It seemed as if the brunette was deep into a world of his own.

Blood.

So much, so much, so much.

The smell of it was killing him. The feel of it, caked on his skin and his clothes. On his soul. It would be pretty fucking hard to wash them off, dried up on him as they were. And yet it hardly mattered.

It was beautiful.

A shade so deep, so rich. Redder than a rose. Languid as it flows, like poetry. And as it dries, a cracking rust red, like the Earth. Soil and life.

Grinning a little, he started drawing patterns of blood on the white tiles. The long, graceful fingers grazing through the sterile blankness, giving it vivid red life.

It was so beautiful…

And suddenly the smell, the metallic tang, was more welcome than anything in the world. He wanted it. Stuck to his flesh, stuck to his soul and drowning every single one of his senses.

He's never felt so fucking alive.

He looked at the bloodied metal claws at the backs of his hands.

What would it taste like?

Chuckling a little, he thought about God and Eve and Adam. About the woman who had been tempted by a snake in the Garden of Eden, to taste the fruit and know things that only God knew.

The apple, incidentally, had been pretty damn blood red too.

Yoji stiffened as he watched Ken raise his hand up to his mouth, and watched his tongue tease at the bloodied blades. Tasting first. Trying. Then liking. And taking again.

He gulped, in remembrance of Weiß's old enemies. One of Schwarz, the pallid, scarred Irishman, licked blood off his knife all the time. From the scars on his body, some of them might have been his own, though Yoji was sure most came from unwilling victims.

He watched Ken, fearing.

Fearing for himself, that he might ever come close to that state of mind. And feeling for his friend, losing himself.

Farfello, Yoji recalled, had been Ken's personal nemesis. The literally unfeeling villain, and Ken, who always felt so much. Too much, sometimes.

"You're becoming," Yoji said, stepping forward, "Exactly what you've always hated."

Yoji watched Ken stiffen, but that was the only indication that he had been surprised by this arrival. Or affected by the observation. Ken lowered his hands to his sides.

Yoji stared at him. Unable to set aside the madness that had touched that young, innocent face.

The insanity had probably begun long before.

Ken had been forced to kill his own best friend, as he dealt with the years of love and betrayal that stood between him and that goddamn Kase.

After that, the onset had been slow, but sure. Yoji hated it that he did not see it coming. He hated it more that he was helpless in trying to stop it.

Ken rose and fell, riding a parabola of moods that took him from guilt to bloodlust in a wild, merciless and never ending roller coaster. Other times he was so happy it's as if he had successfully convinced himself that nothing ever happened.

There had to be something he could do.

"Didn't know you were still awake," Ken said coolly, discreetly wiping at the blood drawings on the tile. Pale streaks of the telling red remained.

Yoji shrugged, stepped forward again, slowly closing the distance between them. "It's three in the morning, Ken. Go to sleep. You're tired."

Ken bit his lip in thought. Said nothing, but held his ground.

"Fine," Yoji said, bracing his hands on the counter and sitting atop it as he pulled out a cigarette, "Since we're both here, I think we need to talk."

"I have nothing to say--"

"Good 'cos I do," Yoji said, his smugness hiding the rage and the fear that threatened to overwhelm him, "You're seriously fucked up."

"Don't I know it."

Yoji took a long drag from his cigarette, his eyes never leaving the face of the younger man. Ken met his gaze squarely.

The silence was thick with things unsaid, screaming for words. It was then that Yoji suddenly realized he didn't know how to say what he wanted to say.

He disposed of the cigarette disgustedly, annoyed at himself.

"Is that all?" Ken asked him coolly.

Yoji's voice softened, his emerald eyes searching the other's face earnestly.

"Don't ever be like them, Ken."

Yoji tore his gaze away, feeling the contempt in the other man. The disgust, the denial. The internal struggle that found no other recourse but to toss all the animosity toward the only one who was trying to help him.

"Like who?" Ken asked darkly.

"You know who," Yoji replied.

"Well I resent that."

What had it been, about this mission that pushed him to the edge? What was so different about it, than any other night, any other kill?

"Tell me what you're thinking," Yoji insisted.

"I'm thinking I'm no more screwed up than any of the rest of us," Ken replied, "I'm no more screwed up than you."

"How the fuck did the blood taste, Ken?"

"Salty," Ken answered, not missing a beat, "Metallic. Familiar."

"I fail to see the point of this conversation," Ken commented, pulling off his gloves and setting them on the sink.

"I'm telling you that it's just a job," said Yoji, "I'm telling you that don't let it consume you. I'm telling you that if you need to talk--"

"I get it, I get it," Ken cut him off, "Heard it all before. Easier said than done, though, isn't it? You know what's pretty fucking easy, though? If you have to do it, you might as well fucking enjoy it."

"I can't believe you just said that."

Ken looked away, jaw set. His eyes were overbright, even in the darkness. He looked young and tired.

"I'm not like them," said Ken, "I'm not."

"I know," said Yoji, "Just don't be."

"I don't want to be like them," said Ken shakily, "I don't want to kill for fun. I don't want to betray my friends. I don't want to want blood. I don't want to… be like them…"

Yoji moved closer, wary of human contact and at the same time, feeling it was somehow needed.

Ken looked down at the bloody tiles and his bloody clothes. Bloody everything. They blurred and spun and melded together, looking like a nightmare. He suddenly couldn't breathe. It was going to eat him. He was going to drown in it. Choke on it. All he could see is red. It's all he could smell and all he could taste.

"I'm scared shitless," Ken said with a nervous, ironic and completely joyless chuckle as he glanced at Yoji.

"You know most people who are really very afraid of heights are usually the ones who jump from buildings and kill themselves," Yoji said.

"Oh?" Ken asked, in such a way that Yoji got the distinct impression he was wondering how this was important to him.
"Yeah," added Yoji, "They just got so tired of being afraid."

"Don't let me fall, Yoji."

"Don't jump," the older man said wryly, "Hang on to me instead."

"I'll never let go," Ken promised.

"Good," Yoji commented, slinging one arm around the younger man's shoulders and leading the way up toward their apartments, "Come on, I'm sleepy. Clean up and go to bed."

Ken was a mess, and after this, so would be Yoji, who had just freshened up.

But maybe that was the point. If you shared it, maybe it wasn't too heavy, wasn't too dirty, wasn't too bad.

* * *