Author: Sayuri (sayuri_tama@hotmail.com)
Title: The Story of an Hour: Nagi
Type: On-shot; first in an eventual series
Rating: PG
Pairing: Implied Crawford x Nagi
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I do not own WeiB Kreuz (of course!)
Summary: A look into how much life can change in an hour
Author's Notes: The concept for this series, and this story in particular, is heavily inspired by the short story, "The Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin. In her story, she details one hour which dramatically changes the life of her female lead. What I attempted to do here was pay homage to this story (I prefer "homage to" rather than "rip off") by re-telling her story in the world of Schwartz. What will eventually be created is a series of short stories detailing one-hour of the lives of various characters in the WeiB-verse. These stories will, of course, not follow the same formula that this one does, being a direct re-telling; rather, they will be more diverse in topic.
Enjoy!
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He was a sensitive kid, for a professional killer. They knew, then, that they couldn't just drop a bomb like that on him; no, it was going to be much harder to find the proper way to tell him that their leader wasn't coming home.
In the end it was Schuldig, who, in a halting manner uncharacteristic of the telepath, told with little detail and much padding that news had come in from Estet of an explosion at the training facility in Germany Crawford had been visiting. It was believed that he had been with the targets of the assassination at the time of the blast, so he probably died instantly. It was a quick death, see, and so they shouldn't be upset; rather, they should do as he would have wanted them to, and stay steadfast in their mission.
Although he hated to let anyone see him cry, although he'd rather let people believe he no longer had the capacity to feel human emotions, a sob tore loose from his young throat which long afterward rang in Schuldig's ears. Even Farfarello cringed at the sound which neither anticipated, a sound which carried unimaginable pain and loss. Nagi threw his head into his arms for a moment before violently getting up from the table and running to his room, slamming the door shut with his powers.
He lay on his bed for what seemed an eternity, staring at the ceiling and regaining control over his breathing. When he felt he had no tears left, he wiped his nose with his sleeve, slowly sat up, and walked over to the window, sinking into his high-backed desk chair.
Through the slats in the blinds he could see the sun shining brightly and the breeze blowing strongly through the trees. Children were on their way home from school, book bags swinging in their slender arms, laughter ringing out from smiling mouths. Older teenage girls chewed gum and chatted on cell phones, boys traded cigarettes and swore, trying to outdo each other. A stray cat begged for milk at the café across the street, an elderly man swept the sidewalk. Nagi's vision focused in on the broom, swaying gently back and forth.
He was only sixteen, and by all rights, he would be a part of that world below, the world that he had only ever glimpses at with scorn through the blinds covering his window. But this time, he sensed a fundamental change sweeping over him, starting somewhere deep inside and threatening to drown him in the sheer newness of it all. The people looked different to him; the very sun, trees, and sky seemed no longer seemed of a world apart, but things which he, like those teenagers below, was able to grasp.
Shaking his head slightly, he rose to his feet, gripping the windowsill tightly with one hand and reaching for the blind with the other. He grabbed the string and pulled, raising the barrier which separated himself and the world below. The shock of the sudden light made his eyes water, but he stared on, determined to face this new and foreign realm.
"Free!" The word was a whisper on thin lips, the very idea shocking him, but refusing to be silenced. "I'm really free!"
In that moment, Nagi knew that there would no longer be any need to separate himself from the rest of the world. Under the tutelage of the other members of Schwartz, his powers were now under his control, and it was only out of a sense of obligation and self-preservation that he had remained bound to the group. Now, he knew for certain that with the death of Crawford those bonds were forever severed. He no longer had to face night after night of death, of blood, of pain. His life was now his own.
Yes, he had become dependant on Crawford. Yes, he would miss him; he knew that his life would be emptier without him. And yet, he could no longer imagine shedding another tear for the American. There was so much more waiting.
A knock at the door; an insistent voice, Japanese with a light German accent. "Nagi, come downstairs. You'll make yourself sick locked up in here. Have something to eat, okay? We can talk about whatever you want."
To think, that there was even the freedom to speak his mind! To eat what he chose!
Nagi crossed the room and opened the door, looking into the eyes of his teammate, and seeing sympathy. He gave a small smile and nodded, following the German to the kitchen.
The sound of keys turning the lock went unnoticed by the companions drinking coffee and arguing over the last stick of Pocky. Brad Crawford, a little worse for wear due to his back to back international flights from Germany via Singapore, but otherwise unscathed, entered the Schwartz flat, placed his bags neatly on the floor, and, with great precision, hung up his coat. Giving a quick glance at himself in the hall mirror before proceeding further, he straightened his tie, smoothed back a stray piece of hair, and headed to the kitchen, where he knew Nagi would be indulging in junk food.
Schuldig gave a start when he saw Crawford looming in the doorway, a short sound escaping from his throat: "Brad!" The laughter died in Nagi's throat. Before Schuldig could stop him, the youth turned his head, his eyes wide, his head feeling like it was exploding.
The Estet doctors told Crawford and Schuldig that he had suffered a sudden loss of control of his powers, and that his skull had been crushed, along with the table and a good portion of ceiling. They should count themselves lucky that they hadn't been killed, too.
Only one of them took a moment to remark on the irony of being killed by the joy of seeing Crawford alive
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AN: Ok, apparently the point is too subtle for some…no, the point of neither this fic, nor the Chopin story is not that they died of happiness. If you can't see the real tragedy, sorry: you'll have too dig deeper.