Author's Notes: Don't chew on Safety Pins.
7
The moment we get home and drop our shoes by the door, Schuldig grabs me and drags me toward the bathroom. All the blood on my skin and clothes has dried by now and it flakes off as I move, stains the carpet. Housekeeping won't ask, though. They never ask. It's what their paid to do, like everyone else that keeps our lives comfortable.
Schuldig shoves me into Crawford's bathroom, the entirety of it far more lavish than our own. The shower in the bathroom between Schuldig and my rooms can barely fit one of us, but Crawford has one of those combination bath and showers that are popular everywhere else in the world but Japan. Schuldig locks the door and I run the bathwater as hot as it will go. The mirrors are steamed up and Schuldig's hair starts to frizz in a matter of moments. The air is thick and heavy and my eyes droop.
We undress and do a preliminary cleanup with the red washrags, kept for just such a purpose. I clean off most of the blood on my face and neck and hands and check for any wounds. I am bleeding from a small bullet graze on my left shoulder, but it isn't serious. Schuldig makes sure he isn't injured as well and yanks his hideous yellow bandanna off and tosses it to the side.
He turns the water off and slips into the bath, pulling me along with him, grinning like a maniac.
It's my free day, the one day of the week that I'm allowed to go out and about, see the world outside of our apartment. It's a way to keep me from getting restless, even though Crawford and Schuldig have to physically shove me out the door on most days. Truth is, I'm not fond of cities. They only look great in pictures and from our grime-covered windows. Down among the ants, it's intolerable. The noise of taxis and the stepping of millions of feet at the same time is unnerving. The chatter in a language I barely understand is enough to set my teeth on edge. I grind them the whole time I'm out and I can feel the enamel suffering from it.
On these days I go grocery shopping, or pick up books from the English bookstores. Once I mistakenly stepped into a museum and spent so long in there that Schuldig and Crawford had to come and take me home. On some days I'd go to the graveyards and shrines, not to soak up any of the culture, just to find some peace from the city, somewhere where I could hear myself think, assuming I had something worthwhile to ponder over.
I growl up at the apartment building from the sidewalk, head and shoulders taller than everyone else here, and shove my hands into my pockets as deep as they will go. It's chilly this winter and my coat isn't thick enough to fend off the cold air completely. I was more unwilling that usual to go out today because of this deplorable weather, but Crawford said I had no choice because I'd been avoiding it all week.
What did I say about him being a prick?
Just as I am about to walk off in my chosen direction, I feel someone slip their hand into my pocket and grasp tightly to mine. My head snaps around so fast my neck cracks and I'm already pulling a knife when I recognize that flash of disturbingly red hair. Schuldig smiles up at me from under that messy mop and shoves his sunglasses back into place on his head. His eyes are flickering with an 'I got you' look, teasing me when I really don't feel it was fair.
Schuldig's a prick too…
"Thought you might like some company," he said by way of explanation.
"We can catch colds together. I'm touched," I grumble and shove the knife back into my pocket before anyone can see it. The black-haired and vacant-eyed businesspeople pass by without so much as a glance in our direction. It's Japan, they've probably seen weirder.
Either that or Schuldig is mentally telling them to ignore us, which is fine by me too.
"Come on let's go get some coffee," Schuldig says and starts to pull me through the crowd, obviously knowing where he's going. His hand is still deep in my pocket and wound around mine. Half a block later and we step into a slightly stuffy little commercial coffee shop. The line parts before us and Schuldig orders our drinks; mocha somesuch and whatever for him and plain boring black coffee for me. It's too early in the morning for disgustingly sugary drinks. They make me sick anyway.
Schuldig hands me my steaming cup and sits down at a tiny table in front of a window. We silently watch the morning crowd come and go for another hour, not really talking except quiet observations about people's appearances or thoughts. I'm studying the electric colored hair of the girl behind the counter when Schuldig's eyes focus on me. I pretend not to notice for a few moments, but he doesn't look away.
"What?" I ask, finally turning to look at him. He's just smiling at me.
"We haven't been on a date in a long time," he observes.
"Don't flatter yourself," I snort, "The presumption isn't very appealing."
"Let's go do something fun! Date stuff!"
This is why I hate going out. I get dragged into all sorts of shit.
"And it's almost Christmas. We can go shopping."
"You failed to notice the antichrist sitting across the table from you," I say flatly. Schuldig just blinks at me, as if the thought never occurred to him. Then he gasps, as if appalled.
"You mean you don't celebrate the birth of our lord and savior!" he demands in the perfect mockery of a horrified Christian. I would've gotten the same reaction if I ever went back to my hometown. The resemblance isn't funny and I almost reach across the table to smack him.
"You just want to charge huge amounts of money on Crawford's cards. He told you not to."
"Right, and I listen to him." He flips his hair over his shoulder and smirks, bares a few teeth.
"Smarmy little prick."
"How about this," Schuldig says with a sigh, leaning on the table, "I'll let you burn down the first tree and manger scene we see after the holidays if you go with me, okay? Besides, you've grown so much this year that I really have no idea what clothing size you are."
"Liar. You just want to drag me into department stores."
"At least I won't make you hold my purse."
I can't believe I'm doing this, but I am. Schuldig dragged me into an overcrowded mall and is now piling racks of clothes in my arms. Horrible, brightly colored, garish things I would never consider for a second that he expects me to go and try on. I think he just threw a pair of purple trousers on top of the mess, but I can barely see over the mound.
Somewhere to my left a gentleman with a nametag I can't read is asking if we need any help. I hate his timid little voice. Schuldig latches onto him and smiles in a way that makes me a little sick.
"Why yes, you can," Schu purrs sweetly, putting his arm around the man's shoulders, which only makes him twitter. Japanese people don't like to touch…weird for a country with as dense a population as this…
"He would like to try these on for size." I grit my teeth as Schuldig passes the blame to me. I can feel his self-satisfaction.
"Of course, please, right this way."
When I drop the clothes I find myself in the closet-like space of the dressing rooms. I fend off a mild panic attack at the close quarters and Schuldig is at my back in a moment, his fingers smoothing over my shoulders to calm me, his mind pressing into mine and projecting boring images of tranquil waters.
I shove him out and set about trying on the clothes, lacking any intention of actually buying them.
Well, what do you know; there is a pair of purple trousers in here after all.
"All those beautiful clothes and you settle for the usual. Christ, Farfarello, you're so boring sometimes," Schuldig complains loudly over the roar of the crowds. We're walking out of the third store and he is carrying twice as many bags as I am. I shrug, used to this complaint.
"'Usual' works for me," I grunt. We shove our way through the crowd without any particular direction.
Who ever thought shopping was a good date? He or she should be shot.
Schuldig laughs.
"Monochromatic is so last century."
"As if you would know. I prefer to think of it as Dada."
"You're spitting upon the face of common society?"
"When aren't I?" I say with an elusive smile. He just keeps walking.
"What do you want for Chirstmas, Far?" he asks, completely outside of the conversation we were just having. I take its change in stride. I can see on his face the crowds are finally getting to him. We should go home before his headache gets worse. He shakes his head and pulls me to the side, eyes jovial and serious in a strange combination.
"What do you want?"
"Ruth's head on a stake," I say with equal seriousness. He laughs and shakes his head.
"Something I can do that wouldn't take away from your enjoyment."
"I could use another bible…"
"No."
"You mean something that Crawford hasn't already prohibited?" I groan. He just nods.
I twist my fingers into his hair and think. I don't really want much of anything. I have everything I need, so why would I want something more? Frugality isn't what drives my thoughts, but I don't see a point on wasting money on useless things.
I could get something that pertains to the job; a new knife, or maybe a fresh whetstone (though I just recently bought one myself). I could ask for a set of anatomy books. I could ask for any number of things, really, just for the job.
I might want books. I've read almost all the ones I possess cover to cover. I'll read any genre, any setting and storyline, however pathetic; poetry, literature, non-fiction, tactics used in the Civil War, algebra textbooks, anything. But then, Schuldig was just complaining about the 'usual'. He hates my black and white and gray clothing, its simplicity and comfortability and 'lack of taste or style'.
"Sweatpants are not style," he spits and I laugh softly.
I think some more, my fingers still twisting knots into his long hair and the crowds passing by us and pressing against his brain. At any other time I would love to watch him fall apart under this pressure, but not right now. I press my palm against his cheek and meet his gaze, open my mind to his to maybe let him ground himself, get his shields back in order.
"How about a vest," he offers. I raise an eyebrow.
"I already have a vest, two, actually."
"A blue one…You'd look pretty in blue…"
"Pretty isn't the look I typically seek," I say, the same incredulous lilt in my voice. He laughs and takes hold of my hand to lead me through the crowds toward some unknown direction.
Christmas morning is the worst morning ever conceived by the human imagination. I used to adore it as a child, sit up all night for some fat elf to shimmy down the chimney and hand me a puppy or something. I still can't sleep, but I stopped waiting for Nick years ago. He doesn't make appearances in hospitals and I've been an awful person these past few years. I don't think he'd even drop by to hand over the coal.
Schuldig is sleeping, spread eagled, mouth open. His limbs are spread wide across the mattress so that I have no room whatsoever. An hour ago he had a nightmare, or someone else's nightmare, and I didn't have the heart to wake him up again. It wasn't as if I'd sleep. I never slept on Christmas morning.
I get up slowly and pace the room. In an hour the alarm clock will buzz and Schuldig will be up in record time, ready to open presents and devour whatever breakfast I serve. I was thinking about making something utterly disgusting this year, but when he ate the blood sausage last year without blinking an eye I gave up on trying. He's German, he's probably eaten worse.
Crawford wouldn't even try it. He knew better.
The city around our little apartment is humming with activity, alive and aware and excited. The air is permeated with hope and I can't repress the snort of amusement. Hopes are worthless on days like these. Everyone is disappointed somehow. It's never enough for people to just be alive, to be well and moving, talking, breathing, praying…
It's never enough to just be…
Humanity is a paradox I rather wouldn't ponder. I wake Schuldig up a half hour early and he drags himself out of bed to the living room. Crawford refused to invest in a tree this year, so we just piled gifts on the coffee table. Our leader is still in bed and isn't expected to wake up until well after noon. He had a late night attending Takatori's Christmas party as a personal bodyguard. Besides, he doesn't like Christmas, as an atheist.
Just as well, he pisses me off in the morning. I start the coffee maker and plop down on the sofa next to Schuldig. We each grab a present and start unwrapping it. His paper goes flying in all directions while I peel mine apart carefully so there's less to pick up. It's funny to watch him sometimes. His face lights up with that ugly emotion of hope, his smirk turning a little boyish without him noticing.
He looks years younger. He looks his age.
Fin chapter 7
Please review
Author's Notes: Let me warn you now. The next chapter is both short and very strange.
I've had a bad few weeks and it's bled into my writing.
(licks up blood) Slurp.