[Weiß Kreuz][Fanfiction]The Journey (Part I of II)
Title: The Journey
Part I: Footsteps
Part II: Scars
Genre: Romance-tinted character study
Pairing: Mamoru/Aya-chan
Total Word Count: 5,320
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Inspired by the het theme at wk_fic_finds. Thanks to quietladybirman, pither, and fireun for all your constructive feedback with this story. You girls are all awesome, and I appreciate your input so much.
This fic is dedicated to koree, without whom I never would have gotten into this pairing so effing hard. Love you girl ♥
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
Part I: Footsteps
Word Count: 2,345
Rating: PG
The most trying aspect of life is change. Loss is change. Unforeseen complications are change. New developments that require adaptation are change. The inevitable lack of constancy in life is a beautiful blessing that paves the way for progress, and it's a heartbreaking tragedy that eventually destroys everything held dear. As a country we treasure the phenomenon of transience, yet as individuals we mourn whenever it uproots our cherished habits and familiarities.
When life split the paths of Ken-kun, Yohji-kun and Aya-kun away from my own, saying goodbye was one of the hardest things I've done. Aya-kun in particular was difficult. Since the age of fourteen, I've looked to him as a role model and a foundation of strength, and I've always considered him a dear friend. I walked away from the harbor that cloudy afternoon feeling as grateful as ever for the chance to have known him, even as I felt an ache in my chest knowing his footsteps would no longer fall beside mine.
When I first had the thought to learn about his sister, she was a simple curiosity. As the motivation, inspiration, and namesake for one of the most influential figures in my life, I wondered what exactly he'd been fighting for all these years, only to leave it behind once he had it. I was prepared to keep my distance, with no plans to engage her on a personal level. Had I thought for a single moment that she'd be as observant as her brother, I never would have used the pretense of buying flowers to investigate her.
Girls have an impeccable talent for ruining plans. What I learned about Aya was that she has too much in common with the last girl I loved. Her personality is softer, but she has the same strong spirit unafraid of challenge. She's determined, perseverant, and highly focused towards realizing her desires. Lovers are no exception; she's the kind of woman who hones in on one and pursues him relentlessly, no matter how he tries to push her away. At that point, there are only two possible outcomes for such a woman: success or death.
Aya honed in on me. She pursued relentlessly, I tried to push away, and sixteen months later, I wondered as she turned the light off if marriage would really prove the better ending.
It wasn't unpleasant. Aya is affectionate, vibrant, witty and playful. She has a sweet temper and girlish charm. Her laughter is infectious, and she declares contests over whether she can make me catch it. I don't laugh easily anymore, but she can usually make me smile.
We live with Grandfather in the country, a peaceful distance from the crime and tragedy circulating through the heart of Tokyo. It's not ideal for privacy, but it serves its purpose, and I think I should live here for the remainder of his days. It's generous of him to let us stay here, considering he doesn't like Aya-- she's too modern for his tastes. I'm sure if he'd had his way, I would have married through arrangement and selected a bride that increased our wealth or strengthened political ties.
Two years ago, I wouldn't have minded that. It would have made everything much simpler; I doubt it would have taken two weeks to have sex, for starters. Aya probably thinks I avoided it because I didn't know what was I doing. The truth is I couldn't look at her and not think about her brother, who has been a source of insecurity ever since I returned to the name Takatori. Even after his explicit acceptance of my choices that day, I couldn't escape the idea that he would probably truly hate me for this one.
The reason for that insecurity was a complication in its own right. I wasn't going to tell her about my uncle, but I'm in no place to criticize curiosity about family, or the deep-rooted need she felt to know why she no longer had it. I'm in no better place to withhold the information; she had a right to know, and Aya-kun, I know, would expect nothing less from me.
I still thought it smarter to not mention I knew him. I reveal things to solve problems, not to create them-- the same rationale behind my never telling her of my duties as Persia. I intend to keep it that way.
I don't think about her while I'm working; I've gotten much better at keeping my personal life separate from my professional one. I haven't added her photo to my desk, and I finally removed the one with my old teammates from it. The reason is simple: emotions are a weakness at my job. I no longer allow any sign of possessing them there (Knight has had to learn this entirely too well).
Sometimes the two sides of my life can't help mingling, last week for example. I fired the "other" secretary I kept as a politician for being an unwitting accessory to espionage and a hostage conspiracy. Unfortunate that he wouldn't give up his friendship with the man using him to investigate my schedule with Aya, but I can't fire the real culprit-- he doesn't work for me. And the threat wasn't largescale enough to merit using Weiß or Crashers, which left no other options despite his excellent job performance. I draw the line when my wife's or grandfather's safety is compromised; nothing is more important to me than protecting my family.
Rex has been a more long-term cause of overlap, and a far greater source of conflict, but I won't fire her-- she understands me too well. That's probably what makes her seem like competition to Aya, who becomes bitterly jealous when I choose Rex over her as my escort to social events. It's a childish reaction, but perhaps unsurprising from someone used to getting her way. We've argued over it several times, but I've never apologized for it. I don't regret facing my responsibilities, and between Rex's gun and Aya's smile, I would rather have the gun there.
The choice hasn't gone unnoticed. The general population has taken the liberty of presuming Rex to be my mistress. It isn't true, but I must admit, it is convenient. No one suspects a mistress to be a weapon, and when a terrorist group opened fire at a campaign dinner last year, Rex took down two of the gunmen before getting shot in the shoulder of her firing arm.
Eight people died that night. As I led Rex to the ambulance, I noticed that she'd lost her gun in our escape. Expectable given the location of her wound, and ultimately not a concern. Guns are easily replaced.
I stayed at the hospital until she was out of surgery, then had the two hour commute home; it was nearly two o'clock when I finally called 'Tadaima.' I vaguely registered the sound of the news from the family room television, and almost got the first shoe off before Aya assaulted me in her pajamas, distressed, crying and shrieking profanities at me while she hugged me so hard that it hurt.
I realized two things at that point. The first was that I'd forgotten to turn my phone back on. The second was that I really ought to start calling home after emergencies. Life truly is different now.
The adjustments haven't been easy. I'm a private person and like having time to myself. With so little time outside of sleep and work, a wife that wants to spend time together seems like an imposition when all I want is to be alone. Before her, solitude was easy to find-- it was there whenever I wanted it and no one cared. After getting married, I started having to reserve my bath as personal time to decompress. I allow myself to be selfish about that.
In exchange for that hour of selfishness every night, on Sunday I belong entirely to her. Our daylong dates vary from week to week, but they always include sleeping in and sex. I didn't like the lack of productivity at first, but I don't mind being glued to her as much as I thought I would. I've spent most of my life being valued as an asset. Being around someone that so adamantly wants me for nothing more than company is strangely addictive.
Most days end with that sense of appreciation for her presence. She has dinner ready when I get home, manages the housework while I'm away, and at least passively offers herself almost every night. (The less passive nights are the ones that worry me-- those are never pretty.) Every so often she gets in a bad mood that leaves her too needy, too picky, or simply too hormonal, but those days are comparatively few. I can usually tolerate it; if she becomes unbearable I simply stop speaking to her. I consider that the better alternative to losing my temper. I'm careful not to do that around her.
We don't always get along even with that caution. Skirmishes seem inevitable, usually over something petty like chopsticks, the trigger for our first one. She doesn't hold them correctly, and I made the mistake of pointing it out to her. Who said this isn't the right way turned to 'Almost anyone I could ask' obviously doesn't know this way is easier, which became Will the people at those silly dinner parties really even notice if I'm not holding them right?, and looking back on it, I don't know why it happened at all because it was so stupid. I wouldn't have expected the most conflict to arise from the trivial-- I consider myself more mature than that. On the other hand, if it means there aren't more important matters of disagreement then I think I should be grateful. A little immaturity is probably a fair price in that case.
Some of Aya's habits don't cause disagreement, but they are incredibly strange. The most prominent is her after-dinner ritual of Häagen-Dazs on the family room sofa. It sounds innocuous until the catch: she doesn't use a spoon, preferring instead to lick it straight from the cup. Grandfather despises it, and I don't blame him. Watching her clean the container of its contents using nothing but her tongue is bizarre, disgusting, and confoundingly erotic. It leaves her sticky from nose to chin, and she's the only one who will ever know I steal a taste before handing her a damp cloth.
She takes a bath after her ice cream; I go to bed, where she'll join me later with her hair still wet. Her feet are always freezing, and she always presses them against my legs to warm them up, having no regard for whether I'm already asleep. She puts her arms around me and hugs my middle, or if I'm particularly unlucky, slips her hand between the buttons of my nightshirt and traces the katana scar on my chest with her fingertips. She's eerily drawn to that scar her brother created. It's terribly uncomfortable but I never complain-- her feet are always cold, but her hands, at least, are always warm.
She kisses me a couple of minutes later and scoots back to her half of the bed, keeping my hand as a souvenir. She fidgets to become comfortable, followed by the muscles of her hand spasming against my palm, signaling her descent into sleep. I tell her goodnight but lay awake to watch, because there's a painful, unavoidable guilt in those moments that she submits herself to unconsciousness, completely trusting, and utterly oblivious that she's sleeping with one of the most ruthless men in Japan. The ironic part is she probably wouldn't believe it even if I told her.
Sometimes, when she retreats to her own side of the bed for the night, I notice the sheets are wet under my shoulder from her hair, and use the excuse to move my pillow a little closer. I'll never be able to admit it, but I like to be near her.
For the past two years, this has been the pattern of my life. My situation is still the same as it was before I met her: I'm living with my grandfather, commanding Weiß, pursuing politics, and occasionally pissing off Knight. Rex is still my secretary, and Ken-kun, Yohji-kun, and Aya-kun are still nothing but a memory.
Yet I can't help the feeling that things are different, if only in subtle ways. I don't spend as long in the bath anymore. I secretly anticipate finding her on the sofa with ice cream around her mouth. And Sunday has always been my favorite day of the week, but lately, I've found myself appreciating it just a little bit more.
She doesn't know its significance, but on our most recent date, I took her to the harbor where I last spoke with her brother. We left our shoes under the dock and walked the beach with joined hands, letting the tide tickle the tops of our feet while wet sand pushed between our toes. The clouds sat on the horizon like a thin afterthought of backdrop for the rising sun, which enflamed the sky with pale shades of orange. The breeze kept the air comfortably cool, and gently wisped the hem of Aya's sundress against the skin of my calves.
When it was time to retrieve our shoes, I turned around but hesitated to move. For a few moments, I stood in silence beside my wife and looked back on the path we'd drawn through the sand, a pair of footprints side by side, stretching behind us as far as the eye could see. The tide was slowly washing them down to nothing, and when I thought that in a few hours they'd be completely gone, I felt vaguely depressed by the reminder that nothing can last forever. But something about seeing how far we'd come felt satisfying all the same.
The journey began on a harbor, when I lost the most amazing person I've ever known.
To Part II: Scars
Part I: Footsteps
Part II: Scars
Genre: Romance-tinted character study
Pairing: Mamoru/Aya-chan
Total Word Count: 5,320
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Inspired by the het theme at wk_fic_finds. Thanks to quietladybirman, pither, and fireun for all your constructive feedback with this story. You girls are all awesome, and I appreciate your input so much.
This fic is dedicated to koree, without whom I never would have gotten into this pairing so effing hard. Love you girl ♥
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
Part I: Footsteps
Word Count: 2,345
Rating: PG
The most trying aspect of life is change. Loss is change. Unforeseen complications are change. New developments that require adaptation are change. The inevitable lack of constancy in life is a beautiful blessing that paves the way for progress, and it's a heartbreaking tragedy that eventually destroys everything held dear. As a country we treasure the phenomenon of transience, yet as individuals we mourn whenever it uproots our cherished habits and familiarities.
When life split the paths of Ken-kun, Yohji-kun and Aya-kun away from my own, saying goodbye was one of the hardest things I've done. Aya-kun in particular was difficult. Since the age of fourteen, I've looked to him as a role model and a foundation of strength, and I've always considered him a dear friend. I walked away from the harbor that cloudy afternoon feeling as grateful as ever for the chance to have known him, even as I felt an ache in my chest knowing his footsteps would no longer fall beside mine.
When I first had the thought to learn about his sister, she was a simple curiosity. As the motivation, inspiration, and namesake for one of the most influential figures in my life, I wondered what exactly he'd been fighting for all these years, only to leave it behind once he had it. I was prepared to keep my distance, with no plans to engage her on a personal level. Had I thought for a single moment that she'd be as observant as her brother, I never would have used the pretense of buying flowers to investigate her.
Girls have an impeccable talent for ruining plans. What I learned about Aya was that she has too much in common with the last girl I loved. Her personality is softer, but she has the same strong spirit unafraid of challenge. She's determined, perseverant, and highly focused towards realizing her desires. Lovers are no exception; she's the kind of woman who hones in on one and pursues him relentlessly, no matter how he tries to push her away. At that point, there are only two possible outcomes for such a woman: success or death.
Aya honed in on me. She pursued relentlessly, I tried to push away, and sixteen months later, I wondered as she turned the light off if marriage would really prove the better ending.
It wasn't unpleasant. Aya is affectionate, vibrant, witty and playful. She has a sweet temper and girlish charm. Her laughter is infectious, and she declares contests over whether she can make me catch it. I don't laugh easily anymore, but she can usually make me smile.
We live with Grandfather in the country, a peaceful distance from the crime and tragedy circulating through the heart of Tokyo. It's not ideal for privacy, but it serves its purpose, and I think I should live here for the remainder of his days. It's generous of him to let us stay here, considering he doesn't like Aya-- she's too modern for his tastes. I'm sure if he'd had his way, I would have married through arrangement and selected a bride that increased our wealth or strengthened political ties.
Two years ago, I wouldn't have minded that. It would have made everything much simpler; I doubt it would have taken two weeks to have sex, for starters. Aya probably thinks I avoided it because I didn't know what was I doing. The truth is I couldn't look at her and not think about her brother, who has been a source of insecurity ever since I returned to the name Takatori. Even after his explicit acceptance of my choices that day, I couldn't escape the idea that he would probably truly hate me for this one.
The reason for that insecurity was a complication in its own right. I wasn't going to tell her about my uncle, but I'm in no place to criticize curiosity about family, or the deep-rooted need she felt to know why she no longer had it. I'm in no better place to withhold the information; she had a right to know, and Aya-kun, I know, would expect nothing less from me.
I still thought it smarter to not mention I knew him. I reveal things to solve problems, not to create them-- the same rationale behind my never telling her of my duties as Persia. I intend to keep it that way.
I don't think about her while I'm working; I've gotten much better at keeping my personal life separate from my professional one. I haven't added her photo to my desk, and I finally removed the one with my old teammates from it. The reason is simple: emotions are a weakness at my job. I no longer allow any sign of possessing them there (Knight has had to learn this entirely too well).
Sometimes the two sides of my life can't help mingling, last week for example. I fired the "other" secretary I kept as a politician for being an unwitting accessory to espionage and a hostage conspiracy. Unfortunate that he wouldn't give up his friendship with the man using him to investigate my schedule with Aya, but I can't fire the real culprit-- he doesn't work for me. And the threat wasn't largescale enough to merit using Weiß or Crashers, which left no other options despite his excellent job performance. I draw the line when my wife's or grandfather's safety is compromised; nothing is more important to me than protecting my family.
Rex has been a more long-term cause of overlap, and a far greater source of conflict, but I won't fire her-- she understands me too well. That's probably what makes her seem like competition to Aya, who becomes bitterly jealous when I choose Rex over her as my escort to social events. It's a childish reaction, but perhaps unsurprising from someone used to getting her way. We've argued over it several times, but I've never apologized for it. I don't regret facing my responsibilities, and between Rex's gun and Aya's smile, I would rather have the gun there.
The choice hasn't gone unnoticed. The general population has taken the liberty of presuming Rex to be my mistress. It isn't true, but I must admit, it is convenient. No one suspects a mistress to be a weapon, and when a terrorist group opened fire at a campaign dinner last year, Rex took down two of the gunmen before getting shot in the shoulder of her firing arm.
Eight people died that night. As I led Rex to the ambulance, I noticed that she'd lost her gun in our escape. Expectable given the location of her wound, and ultimately not a concern. Guns are easily replaced.
I stayed at the hospital until she was out of surgery, then had the two hour commute home; it was nearly two o'clock when I finally called 'Tadaima.' I vaguely registered the sound of the news from the family room television, and almost got the first shoe off before Aya assaulted me in her pajamas, distressed, crying and shrieking profanities at me while she hugged me so hard that it hurt.
I realized two things at that point. The first was that I'd forgotten to turn my phone back on. The second was that I really ought to start calling home after emergencies. Life truly is different now.
The adjustments haven't been easy. I'm a private person and like having time to myself. With so little time outside of sleep and work, a wife that wants to spend time together seems like an imposition when all I want is to be alone. Before her, solitude was easy to find-- it was there whenever I wanted it and no one cared. After getting married, I started having to reserve my bath as personal time to decompress. I allow myself to be selfish about that.
In exchange for that hour of selfishness every night, on Sunday I belong entirely to her. Our daylong dates vary from week to week, but they always include sleeping in and sex. I didn't like the lack of productivity at first, but I don't mind being glued to her as much as I thought I would. I've spent most of my life being valued as an asset. Being around someone that so adamantly wants me for nothing more than company is strangely addictive.
Most days end with that sense of appreciation for her presence. She has dinner ready when I get home, manages the housework while I'm away, and at least passively offers herself almost every night. (The less passive nights are the ones that worry me-- those are never pretty.) Every so often she gets in a bad mood that leaves her too needy, too picky, or simply too hormonal, but those days are comparatively few. I can usually tolerate it; if she becomes unbearable I simply stop speaking to her. I consider that the better alternative to losing my temper. I'm careful not to do that around her.
We don't always get along even with that caution. Skirmishes seem inevitable, usually over something petty like chopsticks, the trigger for our first one. She doesn't hold them correctly, and I made the mistake of pointing it out to her. Who said this isn't the right way turned to 'Almost anyone I could ask' obviously doesn't know this way is easier, which became Will the people at those silly dinner parties really even notice if I'm not holding them right?, and looking back on it, I don't know why it happened at all because it was so stupid. I wouldn't have expected the most conflict to arise from the trivial-- I consider myself more mature than that. On the other hand, if it means there aren't more important matters of disagreement then I think I should be grateful. A little immaturity is probably a fair price in that case.
Some of Aya's habits don't cause disagreement, but they are incredibly strange. The most prominent is her after-dinner ritual of Häagen-Dazs on the family room sofa. It sounds innocuous until the catch: she doesn't use a spoon, preferring instead to lick it straight from the cup. Grandfather despises it, and I don't blame him. Watching her clean the container of its contents using nothing but her tongue is bizarre, disgusting, and confoundingly erotic. It leaves her sticky from nose to chin, and she's the only one who will ever know I steal a taste before handing her a damp cloth.
She takes a bath after her ice cream; I go to bed, where she'll join me later with her hair still wet. Her feet are always freezing, and she always presses them against my legs to warm them up, having no regard for whether I'm already asleep. She puts her arms around me and hugs my middle, or if I'm particularly unlucky, slips her hand between the buttons of my nightshirt and traces the katana scar on my chest with her fingertips. She's eerily drawn to that scar her brother created. It's terribly uncomfortable but I never complain-- her feet are always cold, but her hands, at least, are always warm.
She kisses me a couple of minutes later and scoots back to her half of the bed, keeping my hand as a souvenir. She fidgets to become comfortable, followed by the muscles of her hand spasming against my palm, signaling her descent into sleep. I tell her goodnight but lay awake to watch, because there's a painful, unavoidable guilt in those moments that she submits herself to unconsciousness, completely trusting, and utterly oblivious that she's sleeping with one of the most ruthless men in Japan. The ironic part is she probably wouldn't believe it even if I told her.
Sometimes, when she retreats to her own side of the bed for the night, I notice the sheets are wet under my shoulder from her hair, and use the excuse to move my pillow a little closer. I'll never be able to admit it, but I like to be near her.
For the past two years, this has been the pattern of my life. My situation is still the same as it was before I met her: I'm living with my grandfather, commanding Weiß, pursuing politics, and occasionally pissing off Knight. Rex is still my secretary, and Ken-kun, Yohji-kun, and Aya-kun are still nothing but a memory.
Yet I can't help the feeling that things are different, if only in subtle ways. I don't spend as long in the bath anymore. I secretly anticipate finding her on the sofa with ice cream around her mouth. And Sunday has always been my favorite day of the week, but lately, I've found myself appreciating it just a little bit more.
She doesn't know its significance, but on our most recent date, I took her to the harbor where I last spoke with her brother. We left our shoes under the dock and walked the beach with joined hands, letting the tide tickle the tops of our feet while wet sand pushed between our toes. The clouds sat on the horizon like a thin afterthought of backdrop for the rising sun, which enflamed the sky with pale shades of orange. The breeze kept the air comfortably cool, and gently wisped the hem of Aya's sundress against the skin of my calves.
When it was time to retrieve our shoes, I turned around but hesitated to move. For a few moments, I stood in silence beside my wife and looked back on the path we'd drawn through the sand, a pair of footprints side by side, stretching behind us as far as the eye could see. The tide was slowly washing them down to nothing, and when I thought that in a few hours they'd be completely gone, I felt vaguely depressed by the reminder that nothing can last forever. But something about seeing how far we'd come felt satisfying all the same.
The journey began on a harbor, when I lost the most amazing person I've ever known.
To Part II: Scars