by Eternal SailorM (Angel Maxwell)
Statement made to save one's own ass: I don't own Weiss kreuz, unfortunately. That belongs to Koyasu Takehito, Marine Entertainment, and a lot of other people who are a great deal wealthier than I am. I'm making no profit off this little fan adventure, so please don't sue me.
Setting: Post-first series, just before the drama CDs, and before Gluhen. Spoilers for the end of the first series, hints towards Gluhen.
Archive: E-mail me first. Otherwise, just FanFiction.net, MediaMiner.org, and DarkMagick.net
Usual suspects: This fic is dedicated to Renza, for pre-reading it.
There was another him inside himself. Not like a conscience or anything so mundane as that. No, this was an entirely different person who grabbed control of his body and did things with it that were totally against his nature.
Like that job. Ugh. It probably could have been a lot worse, but right now he was pressed to think how it could be. He wasn't sure which part of it was worse: the hungry eyes sliding over him like a piece of meat or the constant threat of pain and death. Probably the mauling eyes, since he was long since used to living under the threat of death. It had always been a part of his life -- both versions of his life, both his and the one belong to the other him.
Or maybe the eyes weren't he worst part. No, that was his lover, the asshole. He wasn't sure what he saw in the guy, to be honest. He was a slut, to begin with, and so effeminate to continue, and the qualities just went downhill from there. And the others... Equally despicable.
He missed the life he'd known before the other him. He'd had friends, loved ones, people he cared about -- and who cared about him. Now, thanks to him, that was just a distant memory. If he felt like making the effort, he could try to get to know his friends. But, really, what was the point? They were his friends, they only knew him, and honestly, he couldn't act like him if he tried. Besides, he wouldn't want to anyway. It wasn't right, it wasn't natural, it wasn't fair! He had been here first, so it should be his body, his life, his friends! It was just so not fair!
It was hard sometimes to remember his life before him. He wished the memories would just go away, instead of staying right there so close to the surface of his mind. He remembered smiles and laughter. He remembered sounds of joy and mirth. He remembered running into waiting arms. He remembered... butterflies. Beautiful, short-lived creatures with delicate wings to fly away with... He wished he wasn't so like them. He was caught in this spider's web, his wings torn off and cast to the winds.
And he was waxing poetic. It just proved he'd been around that guy too much. For a man who didn't speak much, he hid a shockingly poetic side. At least, he wasn't as annoying as the other guy, the one who was always so cheery and perky -- and clumsy. Ugh, then there was his lover, the slut, the one with at least one different person in his bed every night. What did he see in them?
For that matter, what was hold him here? He owed these people nothing, he held no allegiance to them or what they represented. So why was he still in their presence? Why hadn't he run yet? It wasn't like he hadn't tried before, repeatedly. Damn those bastards for leaving him behind! Had they forgotten who he was? Leaving him behind, not just one time either! Why was he continuously left in the hands of those annoying assholes? And when he tried to leave on his own, he always took over and went right back to the same assholes who were making his life a pain. He was cursed at every angle, cursed and alone. Awfully, miserably alone. There was no one else in the dark prison except him after all, and there would probably never been anyone else. Not anymore, not since she was gone. Her, he missed as much as his life before, a spark of brilliant light in his darkness. Her, he'd been willing to sacrifice as well for his shot at freedom. Of course, his desperate gambit had failed and she was dead and he was still imprisoned in this gossamer jail.
Their dunking in the sea, that incident he'd been sure was his great chance for escape. He'd dragged his sodden limbs from the salty water, not even taking the time to inspect the bruises and other numerous injuries his body had sustained under his care, and he'd started to climb the embankment to the highway, doing his best to ignore the way his vision swam and one of his knees felt swollen five times larger than it should have been. Finally, he'd gotten up to the highway and stuck out his thumb. He'd hitchhike his way to Nagasaki and then get the hell off this damned island. He'd thought he was in luck: a set of car headlights began to slow down and angle towards him. He'd held his breath -- then released it in a disappointed sigh as he saw it was his lover's car and all the assholes were in it. It came to a stop beside him, and he'd all too soon found himself enveloped in a soggy, navy blue mess that must have been supposed to pass for a hug. And so his great chance passed him by, just like all the others.
He was cursed. He had to be. Why else did nothing ever go right for him? Why else did nothing ever go his way anymore? It had before, before him. He just had to show up and ruin everything. Why did there have to be a him anyway? Wasn't he good enough? He always had been before, good enough for all the important people in his life. All but one... but that was probably his fault as well. Why else would he, the favored one, be cast aside? No, it had to be his fault -- or else there was a curse in his blood.
Curse or no curse, though, he would find a way to prevail. His will was strong, and he would never give up. Never, not until he was free. And when he was free, he'd never let him free from the dark prison he had spent so many years in. And... and he'd be sure to repay those years of torment on his friends, and there would never know what hit them. That was the beauty of the whole thing: no one would ever seen it coming. There would be torment and madness and death when he was released, and he would deliver them all with a smile. They would all know the true meaning of suffering...
... when the bruised, battered, torn butterfly of Takatori Mamoru was free.
20 July 2003
Whew! That was a ride!! This was fun to write, a real challenge. I don't think I could have done it without Renza reading my updates and giving me her honest opinions of what she thought. It helped tremendously, and I'm in her debt for it.
So... was anyone expecting it to be Mamoru? E-mail me please and let me know what you thought, or if you're reading this on a board (FanFiction.net, MediaMiner.org, LiveJournal.com, uJournal.org), please leave a comment. I live for feedback.