Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except maybe the chalk used in this fic.
Underfoot
Schuldich watched Farfarello, the way he always watched Farfarello, and wondered just what it was the Irishman was up to. They had been outside for a few minutes too long, and Farfarello had been practically carving something on the bottom of his boots with a crumbling piece of chalk.
"What exactly are you doing?" Schuldich broke his silence, craning his neck to try and get a better view of what his companion was doing. It should have been as easy as reading his mind, but it wasn't. Schuldich had tried that once when they first met. He'd had migraines on and off for weeks. Farfarello's was a mind obviously not meant to be fucked.
Farfarello didn't answer, he merely used his elbow to keep Schuldich at the desired distance. Or was it the desired closeness? Schuldich could only assume which it was, but he didn't like to entertain the what-ifs and the maybes that so often plagued his mind when the berserker was involved. In the end, nothing would come of it, because Farfarello wasn't one to speak his shattered mind or wear his broken heart on his sleeve.
"Aren't you a little old to color on your shoes?" Schuldich pressed on, hoping his taunts would coax an answer out of the other man.
Farfarello's single-eyed gaze was given to him for a moment. He wasn't amused.
"It isn't like you to use something so dull," Schuldich said as Farfarello turned his attention back to his boot and the chalk drawing. "A knife would be more effective, wouldn't it?"
"It's not meant to last forever," Farfarello mumbled. "I don't want this engraved."
Schuldich nodded, not that he truly understood because he didn't. He never would. "Well, what is it?"
The chalk was crushed and the dust was scattered between them both. Farfarello shifted to the side, brought one foot higher up on his thigh and bent it at the ankle to show Schuldich his work properly. Thick white crosses were drawn on the black soles of Farfarello's boots.
The German man cocked his head to the side and stood himself up, chuckling a little.
"Well... that's artistic, to say the least."
Farfarello stood himself up and brushed the dust from his hands. Schuldich followed suit and stretched.
"If you have nothing else to say, I'm going back inside." And, he made a mental note, he'd tell the rest of the team Farfarello and God were obviously not on speaking terms again. It would probably be best to get his room and straight-jacket ready.
"It makes it easier," Farfarello said, taking a step toward Schuldich, catching the man's shoulder in his grasp before he managed to turn around completely.
"Makes it easier? To do what?" Schuldich cocked an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder, never once feeling the need to shrug away the touch of the younger man. Even if his fingers were digging too harshly into his flesh.
"To step on God." Farfarello knew actions spoke louder than words.
-End