The coffee pot buzzed with overheat, demanding his attention. His blurry eyes gazed out of the bright windows gleaming with flickering morning light as he maneuvered the apparatus. Sagging a bit under the weight of the pot, Spirit poured the steaming brown liquid into a plastic cup. His dry contacts were glued in crinkles to his retina, and all he could perceive were smudged blotches of color.
Mornings in Death City were always beautiful and refreshing like droplets of sprinkled water in summer heat. And, of course, they always made Spirit feel sick to the stomach. They gave off a message of happiness and hope as if he should leap out of the window and embrace the whole world. That wasn't how it was supposed to be, not after all the dark empty nights he spent alone in the confinement of his room or in the shallow company of the women in the bars.
He sipped on the dark beverage, and felt the muscles in his throat and stomach contract with the rise in activity, his eyesight slowly returning to normal. Putting the cup back in the bed table, he rose from his seat and lurched to the wardrobe, his low-blood pressure causing him to feel dizzy. The crested wooden doors opened to reveal his elected clothes, crimson shirt and black tuxedo, and Spirit slipped them on slowly, careful not to wrinkle them too much.
Distracted by the feel of the smooth cold fabric brushing against his skin, Spirit replayed the events of the previous night. Images of wine glasses, fishnets and lace underwear came unbidden to his mind, and Spirit found himself wondering why he couldn't just have forgotten it all. The shoes snugged against his feet, the tie properly knotted, Spirit shoved the keys, mints and his wallet into his vest pockets and dragged himself out of his room and down the hall, and climbed the long staircases to the cafeteria.
/
The cafeteria was bustling with the chattering of students and the clank and scrapping of cutlery on ceramic. It reverberated on his brain, jolting his conscience from stupor to alertness each fifteen seconds. As soon as Spirit had finished his meal, he almost raced out of the room, his pulse throbbing in his temples. Intent on quickly taking the first corridor in the right to the inner garden to rest for a few minutes before his morning conference with the Soul Reaper, Spirit spun on his heels as he leaped forward and felt his whole body collide with something hard.
He desperately reached out for support, his fingers closing over fabric and suddenly he was sprawled on the floor, a heavy weight pressing him against the floor.
"That was unnecessary," Came Franken Stein's glassy voice, carved in indulging intonations. Spirit's face blanched and he froze in his awkward position, "Sempai."
"Stein!" he finally managed to blurt out. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see you. I was kind'a in a hurry." His color drained a few extra shades as the Professor roused from the floor and scowled at him from above.
"Just be careful." His eyes glinted spitefully. "You don't want to have to be stitched up."
"I'll keep that in mind." He gulped down his exasperation and sprung to his feet. But then a hesitant hand found its way into Spirit's shoulder.
"Sempai, are you alright?"
Severe but kind orbs bore into his and the casual smell of tobacco filled his nostrils. That was Stein. He was dangerous and problematic and Spirit was senselessly afraid of him. But at the same time Stein felt like home. Like all he needed was to look at him and his personae would click into place, his problems pair up with their solutions, his distress dissolve like cerulean paint in water.
"Yes." Spirit lied, biting his lower lip to repress the urge to do something careless.
Spirit could swear he saw Stein's right eyebrow move upwards a millimeter before the man walked past him and continued down the corridor. Still fixed in his spot, Spirit angled his head to the right, observing the scientist as he walked away, his broad shoulders slumping slightly with each step, the white lab coat swaying in his back.
Spirit exhaled slowly. His eyes lingered for a moment in the place where the trail of Stein's lab coat disappeared in a corner and then turned to continue in his own direction. It took him only a few minutes to finally arrive at Soul Reaper's office. The death god greeted him with a nonchalant 'ah, Spirit-kun' and a hospitable 'have some tea?'. But Spirit just shrugged it off, still immersed in his pre-lunch philosophies, and sat himself in a small stool that supported his weight miraculously.
"How is the state of things in the East?" Spirit handpicked a biscuit from a hamper placed in the middle of the small lounge table.
"It is confirmed." The Death Reaper proclaimed reticently. "Arachne is dead. There are several eye witnesses, Arachnophobia was disbanded and her soul wavelength is gone."
"But?" the red-head casually nibbled on the ginger biscuit.
"Her body is gone." Death Reaper sighed, the words coming out reluctantly, "It seems Medusa has in fact taken possession of Arachne's body." His face distorted in a comical grimace.
"Ah, damn, just when everything seemed to be over!" He cursed, fragmenting the biscuit to smithereens. "So what are we gonna do now?"
"Well, we still have the issue of Justin Law." Death God held his chin with two humongous fingers. "I guess there's no option but to wait to see what Medusa's plan is. Meanwhile we will proceed to investigate their whereabouts."
"What should I do?" Spirit asked wearily.
"Spirit-kun, you will form a search team together with Stein-kun and Azusa-san." Spirit flinched, his hand travelling to his eyes and sliding down to pull at the skin beneath them, producing a mighty look of terror.
"I'm sorry, Spirit-kun, but the times demand a little sacrifice from us all." He stated solemnly. As the Death Scythe continued to sulk in the floor, apparently trying to strangle himself to death, Shinigami put an end to his wallowing with his renowned "Shinigami-chop".
/
"I don't understand life."
The foamy liquid wobbled precariously near the edges as Spirit shook his glass of champagne to illustrate his speech.
"You think you've got it but then" he made the motion of grasping air with his free hand, "it slips from your fingers."
The woman caressed his shoulder lightly in a comforting way, brushing the tips of the red hair backwards. "Don't worry, Death Scythe-san, I'm sure you'll figure it out." She said in a way that was supposed to be reassuring but it sounded off-topic and meaningless.
And that was Blair for you. The Enchantress. Gorgeous as a flower in morning snow, refreshing as a cooling breeze in hot summer. Or at least Spirit had told her so once.
Spirit leaned in slowly, his eyes fixed on her lips. Blair made no motion. Then their lips met and she opened her mouth to push her cold catlike tongue against his. Spirit complied for a few seconds and then drew backwards.
Then Spirit flopped in his seat in the downy couch, wishing he could have a smoke even though he'd never smoked before in his life. She didn't taste like anything. And it felt so cold, like kissing a dead body. Spirit never thought a kiss could be so empty, so devoid of spark to ignite the fire.
Spirit leaned on his arm as sickness took over him, his conscience attempting to slip away as he pondered when had his life become so cheap. Eventually he made it to the entry hall and outside, where the cold air breezed through his hair and skin, cooling out his spirits. The next day would be better. It always is.
A/N: I once read somewhere that authors should always let their readers know they have full control over the flow of the story. Well, I can honestly say I have no clue what's going on here. I was writing it while thinking "Dude, what's Spirit doin'?" But it felt right and that's why I wrote it. I planned this to be a oneshot but decided to make it longer. Probably a two-shot anyway, so don't expect much :P
Anyways, first fic for this fandom!