Title: Appearances

Author: Becka

Pairing: BradxOmi. SchuxOmi.

Warnings: Dark, angst, crazy Omi-kins, Brad-POV, OOC(?), AU(?).

Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz does not belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

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What's today? Thursday? I believe so.

Black suit, Armani. Holiday Green tie, often mistaken for Kiwi. Black shoes, highly polished to the point of obsession. Downright White button down, Oxford. Onyx cuff links. Simple glasses, black frames.

Altogether a stunning appearance.

/ Christ, fearless leader, don't you ever _sleep_? It's too early to go to work... /

Schuldrich. His quiet words penetrate the haze of my mind. I can feel him buried deep within his blankets, safe and warm. Snuggled against him, in my minds eye, a small, deceptively fragile body with tussled blonde hair. Sleepy blue eyes blink open, guileless innocence flickering there.

Appearance, of course.

The German murmurs in my mind, sharing this quiet moment with me. As if it were my arms wrapped around the slim waist. My face buried in the baby down soft hair, inhaling the sweet scent of green apple. My fingers stroking absently over flawless, youthful skin. Me. Mine.

I can't even begin to repay him for these moments. Some things are priceless.

Even to cold-blooded killers like us.

Like him.

It's so funny to think of him as that. A killer. Perhaps even harder than that, because he's colder than we could ever be.

But he still smiles as us.

Appearances still.

Perhaps that's why I need him. Because I've only known one person who he reminds me of. And they don't stare out at me through the eyes of a child. He reminds me of -

father

master

god

- myself.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and turn my face to the side sharply. It takes me a moment to recover. Visions come at the most inopportune times. They don't even have the decency to let me complete my thoughts in peace. Then again, half of the visions I get are triggered by those same thoughts. My visions. My gateway to the past, television to the present, and open door to the future. They might be a gift. If they weren't so unbearably painful, that is.

Precognition is a terrible thing. It takes all the hope out of wonder.

The four of us, Schuldrich, Farfarello, Nagi and myself were brought together because we are special. A telepath, a berserker, a telekinetic, a precog: four men with gifts that can change the world.

With gifts that can break it.

I've heard what our associates call us. Anomalies, freaks, demons. They see Schuldrich, his attitude, his style, and think cheap, trashy whore. They see Farfarello, his scars, his smile, and think disturbing, sadistic devil. They saw Nagi, his glasses, his uniform, and think high school geek. They see an indestructible force who can rape their minds and steal their souls, and they fear us.

They don't know the truth. We're just – god – four lost and lonely little boys. How ironic. That's the only phrase that comes even remotely close to describing us. I suppose our masks are too perfect, too complete. They could run their hands along the smooth surfaces and not find one crack, one weakness. The four of us, we may be boys, but we were never young. We were never allowed to be.

I've been accused, quite often, of being a cold and heartless bastard. Calm, collected. I'm indestructible.

At least, that's what they tell me.

The perfect machine, the perfect man. What an appearance I make.

And yet when they see Omi, the bright blue eyes, the rosebud mouth, the tussled blonde hair, they think, "Cute kid."

I wonder how cute he would be to them if he were tearing out their throats with his teeth.

Every night, he sits with Farfarello, reads to him quietly, makes him hot chocolate. Then he slips into my room, silent as a wraith, and into my bed, making his way under my sheets and into my heart. And after he gives me a taste of his warmth, he lets me hold him for a sparse moment before stealing it away.

I want him to stay, just a little longer. I want to feel him in my arms, in my skin. I don't want to be alone.

But he won't. He can't. He'll slip out of my bed and into Schuldrich's, and the German will open his mind to me and share the scent of his shampoo and the heat of his skin.

I can't hate them. Not when they keep me alive.

He'll push the covers away, slide off of the bed, and walk out of the room, silent as only an assassin can be. He leaves me and I let him.

We both have appearances to keep after all.

I wonder if someday he'll stay 'til morning.

I wonder if someday I'd let him.

It doesn't matter that I'm a cold-blooded killer; I know what I feel. I suppose though, what truly frightens me is that I have no idea why he stays with us. My gift shows me what was done to him, what he's done, and what he will do. I don't believe he even has the ability to feel. But he comes back to us. And again, we let him.

I know how his teammates treat him. I know why they do so. And I don't believe that we're much better, save that we're honest about what we do. I don't even know if that makes any difference to him.

I have so many doubts. But all I do is send a quiet thought to my red-haired companion.

/ What day is it, Schuldrich? /

/ Friday. /

/ Ah. The cornflower blue tie, then. /

Holiday Green slips back on the rack and I pick up the appropriate color. Carefully, I tighten the noose around my neck.

We all have appearances to keep, after all.

o

fin

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Note: Yes, for those of you who mailed me about this. The cornflower blue tie is indeed a nod to Fight Club.