The next evening Schuldig found himself safely locked indoors trying to figure out how to dislocate his arm.
Nagi stood over him, thin arms crossed around his waist, expression borderline between sympathetic and amused. "You know... I would pity you if I didn't think you'd deserve it."
Living with Farfarello had given Schuldig reason to muse over all the advantages and disadvantages of being confined in a straight jacket. Previously he had been able to outweigh the pros over the cons - straight jackets were fairly fashionable in this post-gothic era, they looked comfy, and dagnabbit, walking around... say the mall, bound and gagged from mouth to ankle could make even Bill Gates (or Nagi) look like a badass.
At the moment the inability to raise his arm and flip the younger assassin off shattered all the standards of 'coolness and straight jacket' to the grave yard.
"And your hair is turning green." Nagi also pointed out.
Schuldig's brow knit together and he began to plot his revenge.
Beside him, Farfarello cackled at the television. The two murderers were seated in the living room, on the floor because Straight-Jacket-Schu kept sliding off the couch, watching a video. Farfarello had slithered in less than half an hour prior with a movie. He had snatched the remote control from under Schuldig's toes, tossed it across the room, and attacked the VCR.
Now with a knife twirling absently in one hand, he engaged in a lively conversation with the television.
"What floats?" Asked a man on the screen.
"Small rocks."
"Bread."
"Churches!" Farfarello crowed.
Even footsteps vibrated down the hall, causing Schuldig to straighten. Crawford rounded the corner, adjusting the collar of his dress coat so that it was perfectly vertical. He cast a disdainful look towards the living room.
"Um...uh...churches!" The television proclaimed.
Farfarello cackled.
Nagi rolled his eyes and walked away.
"Are you staying in tonight?" Crawford asked before the teen was able to brush by him. Schuldig glowered at the question, knowing full well that their leader was shoving Nagi's freedom in his face in his own sneaky Crawford way.
Nagi gave him a flat look. "No. I'm meeting some friends at a cyber cafe. I should be back by one."
Simultaneously, Mastermind and Berserker turned their heads around and whispered, "Nagi has friends?" The teenager flipped them off in reply.
The American nodded, "Farfarello and I are leaving in a few minutes. I want a voice message if you're going to be any later. Keep your cell phone on." Nagi made a grunt of acknowledgement and continued on to his room. "Farfarello, let's go."
Before he stood up, the pale haired psychic turned his blade on Schuldig and traced the knife edge along the German's throat. "Want a dedication?"
"Carve Craw-bitch into somebody's stomach for me." Schuldig whispered and nipped at the metal.
Farfarello stood up with a smirk tugging at one corner of his scarred lips, the closest the madman could get to a grin without being drenched in blood and carnage.
Crawford opened the front door for him, "Schuldig. I trust you won't go out tonight."
Farfarello paused to listen in the hall.
And Schuldig glowered.
"Hm," the American's head tilted to the slide slightly, characteristic for snotty amusement. "in that vestment I suppose you can't. So I won't worry."
Schuldig waited to scream in rage until he was sure his lover was out of the building and safe from any satisfaction he might get in knowing how much humiliation he was suffering.
*
"Where's Mastermind?"
The question didn't have its desired affect, nothing surprised or slowed Farfarello down when there was blood to drain. If anything, it pissed the Berserker off more and before he knew it, Kudoh Youji was on his knees with his back arched from the weight Farfarello was placing on it and a butterfly knife pressed against his throat.
Hidaka Ken ran across the office space, intent on getting to a cornered Omi who had just reported being held hostage by the American Oracle and his handgun via headset a few minutes ago. "Balinese!" He barked. "Quit playing around!"
Youji's mouth opened to answer but clamped into a shiver as Farfarello's lips and heavy breath suddenly brushed upon his ear.
"Asking about Mastermind?" He panted, veins flooded with bloodlust, "Why?"
The piano wire lashed out and wrapped around Farfarello's wrist. He smiled and released the kitten, tugging him around with the connected line so that he stumbled to his feet and for one sick moment looked like he was dancing around the Irishman before crashing into his chest.
"Oh. You know," Youji released more line and twisted the wire around Farfarello's neck. "its just not the same without that annoying German nasal."
A too-wise, too-sane amber gaze studied him. "You sound like you care..."
"I could snap your head off your shoulders right now." Youji growled and proved his point by tightening the line, a circle of blood spurted from wrist and neck decorating both their faces.
"So, why don't you?" Farfarello laughed and pulled back.
Lazy emerald eyes widen to thin dots expecting to see Farfarello's body go creening in one direction while the head went spinning in the other. Instead he found himself tumbling backwards onto the floor, line slack.
Farfarello let the blade he used to cut loose the wire from his wrist fall to the ground. He leapt onto Youji's stomach, his blood streamed down and covered the white assassin's face, blinding and drowning him.
"Open your mouth, pretend its His blood." He whispered.
Was he referring to God? Berserker was always referring to God.
Warm, red, putrid. Youji gagged, his stomach twisted into knots of disgust.
"Drink this," Farfarello cooed. "In memory of Me."
Was he talking about Schuldig?
Someone screamed his name in the far distance, the weight disappeared. Youji sat up, hands clawing at his face to remove the black scarlet carnage. He blinked and found Farfarello pressed against a corner, a leather clad figure pinning him down, katana abandon, beating senselessly into the assassin's pristine white face.
For a moment Youji honestly believed he was going to throw-up.
"Berserker." A stern voice beckoned from the office exit. Crawford stood in the doorway, gun hidden, hand raised up to the flickering neon lights studying a small, slightly bleeding knick on one of the knuckles. "It's time to go."
Play time's over?
He spoke in the tone of a mother calling a child in from kickball to wash up for dinner.
Crawford's 'injured' hand snaked forward and snatched a steel arrow out of the air, discarding it to the side. Youji's head turned to spot Omi with his crossbow raised and trembling, and Ken, fists balled, standing at the other end of the exit.
"Don't think so highly of yourselves." Crawford denounced.
Weiss' fourth member flew across the room and rolled painfully about the bloody carpet. Farfarello, face purple with bruises, neck gushing blood, stood up and calmly marched towards the exit. He nursed his bleeding wrist with his tongue.
Crawford took in his teammates injuries, eyebrows raised ever so slightly, then turned his gaze to the other assassins. "Until next time."
Then they were gone.
*
"...Crawford, it's me. The cafe closed, we're taking the subway to Nagora's house. Don't worry, we aren't doing anything illegal... Not that it really matters. Just... some assholes on an on-line game are trying to take over our kingdoms. Yeah. Kingdoms. Don't ask. Anyway, Nagora lives in Kanota, so I'm going to be spending the night. My cell phone's on. Call you in the morning."
*
He listened to the message and pinched his temples. Great, not that he didn't approve of Nagi having a social life, especially when he could use it to rub in Schuldig's face, but... what about Schuldig?
Snapdragon.
The white glare of the hospital was beginning to irritate his vision. He had already removed his glasses and taken a few pain killers, but his stress level remained constant. He anticipated blood, but nothing in the future told him Farfarello was going to allow himself to get as cut up as he did.
"Sir," one of Este's staff workers approached. She was a nurse lacking psychic abilities, only on the payroll because she was good at what she did, committed to her job, and bribable. A civilian. "Doctor Jinsa would like to keep him here overnight, you can come back and pick him up in the morning."
Schuldig was home alone in a straight jacket.
"That's fine. I'd like to stay a few more hours." He waved her off. "I assume he's out of surgery?"
"Yes sir. We know that he heals very quickly, and though he claims to feel no pain, Doctor Jinsa would like to have him on pain medication and anti-inflammatories for the remainder of the week. I'm preparing a medical kit and directions on how to clean the wounds..."
Living with Farfarello for almost six years and they thought he didn't know how to clean wounds? That was almost amusing.
How many times did he leave Farfarello home alone in a straight jacket?
"Can I see him now?"
He would call the house but Schuldig wouldn't be able to answer.
*
Hands wrapped around the collar of his jacket. "Damn it, Kudoh, why do you always have to be so careless?"
Quit playing around...
...All we ever do is dance.
Youji sighed and allowed his partner to throw him around the bedroom a few more times. Grimly, he knew that somewhere in the house Omi and Ken were mistaking the bangs and shouts for fucking. "Okay, stop, Aya."
"Do you want to die?" The red head snarled, pushing him harder against the wall. "Is that it? Do you have a death wish?"
"I said that's enough, Aya." He shoved him away and stomped towards their bed, hands fumbled in his pockets searching for a cigarette. Farfarello's blood remained dry on his face and for some reason, he didn't want to wash it off. "I messed up, okay? Don't vapor lock."
Aya had to punch the dresser to keep from hitting his lover. "We're assassins, we don't mess up." He growled, his voice a glacier and ice, cracking.
He remembered the bitch rant Ken spat at him as they dragged themselves home. Damn it, Youji, you were suppose to be with Omi, and damn it, you know to tell us when you're jumped by Berserker so we can help you and blah, blah, blah. Fuck off, Ken-Ken.
Oh, Aya was still talking. "...smoke in here. And take a shower."
For some reason he felt beaten. And not by that damned madman. Youji slide off the bed and grabbed his towel.
"I'm setting the alarm. You're going to the clinic first thing in the morning. You probably got a disease from that freak."
Farfie, huh? Youji stalled at the door and gathered enough energy to wink. "Aw, c'mon, Aya. Don't get jealous. It's not like I slept with him or anything." He grinned at the death glare and added, "Not yet anyway."
Another gap cracked formed in their relationship, widening the canyon.
*
Crawford didn't realize he had nodded off until the gentle prod of a finger against his thigh woke him. Snorted in slight surprise he blinked and looked down at the bed-ridden psychic who in-turn observed him with a heavy lidded, heavy drugged gaze.
"No Exit." Farfarello whispered.
Bewildered, Crawford choose to respond with a raised eyebrow. Who knew how far gone Farfarello was in this state.
The twenty-year-old heaved a sigh because it was painful to stay awake with the sedatives they gave him and the lacertian on his throat made talking difficult. "Sartre."
Crawford removed his jacket and folded it up on his lap. "What about him?"
His neck was outlined in black stitches. "We make our own hell. Do you love Schuldig?"
"Of course." He responded without thinking, then blinked.
One corner of Farfarello's mouth pulled upward, the closest he could come to a smile. Of course. "Then why..." He paused, "why aren't you with him?"
The Irishman went still, eye dropping downwards, either from the drugs or exhaustion. Or maybe just defeat. He was done, it was time to take care of Schuldig.
Crawford stood and found his car keys.
Nagi stood over him, thin arms crossed around his waist, expression borderline between sympathetic and amused. "You know... I would pity you if I didn't think you'd deserve it."
Living with Farfarello had given Schuldig reason to muse over all the advantages and disadvantages of being confined in a straight jacket. Previously he had been able to outweigh the pros over the cons - straight jackets were fairly fashionable in this post-gothic era, they looked comfy, and dagnabbit, walking around... say the mall, bound and gagged from mouth to ankle could make even Bill Gates (or Nagi) look like a badass.
At the moment the inability to raise his arm and flip the younger assassin off shattered all the standards of 'coolness and straight jacket' to the grave yard.
"And your hair is turning green." Nagi also pointed out.
Schuldig's brow knit together and he began to plot his revenge.
Beside him, Farfarello cackled at the television. The two murderers were seated in the living room, on the floor because Straight-Jacket-Schu kept sliding off the couch, watching a video. Farfarello had slithered in less than half an hour prior with a movie. He had snatched the remote control from under Schuldig's toes, tossed it across the room, and attacked the VCR.
Now with a knife twirling absently in one hand, he engaged in a lively conversation with the television.
"What floats?" Asked a man on the screen.
"Small rocks."
"Bread."
"Churches!" Farfarello crowed.
Even footsteps vibrated down the hall, causing Schuldig to straighten. Crawford rounded the corner, adjusting the collar of his dress coat so that it was perfectly vertical. He cast a disdainful look towards the living room.
"Um...uh...churches!" The television proclaimed.
Farfarello cackled.
Nagi rolled his eyes and walked away.
"Are you staying in tonight?" Crawford asked before the teen was able to brush by him. Schuldig glowered at the question, knowing full well that their leader was shoving Nagi's freedom in his face in his own sneaky Crawford way.
Nagi gave him a flat look. "No. I'm meeting some friends at a cyber cafe. I should be back by one."
Simultaneously, Mastermind and Berserker turned their heads around and whispered, "Nagi has friends?" The teenager flipped them off in reply.
The American nodded, "Farfarello and I are leaving in a few minutes. I want a voice message if you're going to be any later. Keep your cell phone on." Nagi made a grunt of acknowledgement and continued on to his room. "Farfarello, let's go."
Before he stood up, the pale haired psychic turned his blade on Schuldig and traced the knife edge along the German's throat. "Want a dedication?"
"Carve Craw-bitch into somebody's stomach for me." Schuldig whispered and nipped at the metal.
Farfarello stood up with a smirk tugging at one corner of his scarred lips, the closest the madman could get to a grin without being drenched in blood and carnage.
Crawford opened the front door for him, "Schuldig. I trust you won't go out tonight."
Farfarello paused to listen in the hall.
And Schuldig glowered.
"Hm," the American's head tilted to the slide slightly, characteristic for snotty amusement. "in that vestment I suppose you can't. So I won't worry."
Schuldig waited to scream in rage until he was sure his lover was out of the building and safe from any satisfaction he might get in knowing how much humiliation he was suffering.
*
"Where's Mastermind?"
The question didn't have its desired affect, nothing surprised or slowed Farfarello down when there was blood to drain. If anything, it pissed the Berserker off more and before he knew it, Kudoh Youji was on his knees with his back arched from the weight Farfarello was placing on it and a butterfly knife pressed against his throat.
Hidaka Ken ran across the office space, intent on getting to a cornered Omi who had just reported being held hostage by the American Oracle and his handgun via headset a few minutes ago. "Balinese!" He barked. "Quit playing around!"
Youji's mouth opened to answer but clamped into a shiver as Farfarello's lips and heavy breath suddenly brushed upon his ear.
"Asking about Mastermind?" He panted, veins flooded with bloodlust, "Why?"
The piano wire lashed out and wrapped around Farfarello's wrist. He smiled and released the kitten, tugging him around with the connected line so that he stumbled to his feet and for one sick moment looked like he was dancing around the Irishman before crashing into his chest.
"Oh. You know," Youji released more line and twisted the wire around Farfarello's neck. "its just not the same without that annoying German nasal."
A too-wise, too-sane amber gaze studied him. "You sound like you care..."
"I could snap your head off your shoulders right now." Youji growled and proved his point by tightening the line, a circle of blood spurted from wrist and neck decorating both their faces.
"So, why don't you?" Farfarello laughed and pulled back.
Lazy emerald eyes widen to thin dots expecting to see Farfarello's body go creening in one direction while the head went spinning in the other. Instead he found himself tumbling backwards onto the floor, line slack.
Farfarello let the blade he used to cut loose the wire from his wrist fall to the ground. He leapt onto Youji's stomach, his blood streamed down and covered the white assassin's face, blinding and drowning him.
"Open your mouth, pretend its His blood." He whispered.
Was he referring to God? Berserker was always referring to God.
Warm, red, putrid. Youji gagged, his stomach twisted into knots of disgust.
"Drink this," Farfarello cooed. "In memory of Me."
Was he talking about Schuldig?
Someone screamed his name in the far distance, the weight disappeared. Youji sat up, hands clawing at his face to remove the black scarlet carnage. He blinked and found Farfarello pressed against a corner, a leather clad figure pinning him down, katana abandon, beating senselessly into the assassin's pristine white face.
For a moment Youji honestly believed he was going to throw-up.
"Berserker." A stern voice beckoned from the office exit. Crawford stood in the doorway, gun hidden, hand raised up to the flickering neon lights studying a small, slightly bleeding knick on one of the knuckles. "It's time to go."
Play time's over?
He spoke in the tone of a mother calling a child in from kickball to wash up for dinner.
Crawford's 'injured' hand snaked forward and snatched a steel arrow out of the air, discarding it to the side. Youji's head turned to spot Omi with his crossbow raised and trembling, and Ken, fists balled, standing at the other end of the exit.
"Don't think so highly of yourselves." Crawford denounced.
Weiss' fourth member flew across the room and rolled painfully about the bloody carpet. Farfarello, face purple with bruises, neck gushing blood, stood up and calmly marched towards the exit. He nursed his bleeding wrist with his tongue.
Crawford took in his teammates injuries, eyebrows raised ever so slightly, then turned his gaze to the other assassins. "Until next time."
Then they were gone.
*
"...Crawford, it's me. The cafe closed, we're taking the subway to Nagora's house. Don't worry, we aren't doing anything illegal... Not that it really matters. Just... some assholes on an on-line game are trying to take over our kingdoms. Yeah. Kingdoms. Don't ask. Anyway, Nagora lives in Kanota, so I'm going to be spending the night. My cell phone's on. Call you in the morning."
*
He listened to the message and pinched his temples. Great, not that he didn't approve of Nagi having a social life, especially when he could use it to rub in Schuldig's face, but... what about Schuldig?
Snapdragon.
The white glare of the hospital was beginning to irritate his vision. He had already removed his glasses and taken a few pain killers, but his stress level remained constant. He anticipated blood, but nothing in the future told him Farfarello was going to allow himself to get as cut up as he did.
"Sir," one of Este's staff workers approached. She was a nurse lacking psychic abilities, only on the payroll because she was good at what she did, committed to her job, and bribable. A civilian. "Doctor Jinsa would like to keep him here overnight, you can come back and pick him up in the morning."
Schuldig was home alone in a straight jacket.
"That's fine. I'd like to stay a few more hours." He waved her off. "I assume he's out of surgery?"
"Yes sir. We know that he heals very quickly, and though he claims to feel no pain, Doctor Jinsa would like to have him on pain medication and anti-inflammatories for the remainder of the week. I'm preparing a medical kit and directions on how to clean the wounds..."
Living with Farfarello for almost six years and they thought he didn't know how to clean wounds? That was almost amusing.
How many times did he leave Farfarello home alone in a straight jacket?
"Can I see him now?"
He would call the house but Schuldig wouldn't be able to answer.
*
Hands wrapped around the collar of his jacket. "Damn it, Kudoh, why do you always have to be so careless?"
Quit playing around...
...All we ever do is dance.
Youji sighed and allowed his partner to throw him around the bedroom a few more times. Grimly, he knew that somewhere in the house Omi and Ken were mistaking the bangs and shouts for fucking. "Okay, stop, Aya."
"Do you want to die?" The red head snarled, pushing him harder against the wall. "Is that it? Do you have a death wish?"
"I said that's enough, Aya." He shoved him away and stomped towards their bed, hands fumbled in his pockets searching for a cigarette. Farfarello's blood remained dry on his face and for some reason, he didn't want to wash it off. "I messed up, okay? Don't vapor lock."
Aya had to punch the dresser to keep from hitting his lover. "We're assassins, we don't mess up." He growled, his voice a glacier and ice, cracking.
He remembered the bitch rant Ken spat at him as they dragged themselves home. Damn it, Youji, you were suppose to be with Omi, and damn it, you know to tell us when you're jumped by Berserker so we can help you and blah, blah, blah. Fuck off, Ken-Ken.
Oh, Aya was still talking. "...smoke in here. And take a shower."
For some reason he felt beaten. And not by that damned madman. Youji slide off the bed and grabbed his towel.
"I'm setting the alarm. You're going to the clinic first thing in the morning. You probably got a disease from that freak."
Farfie, huh? Youji stalled at the door and gathered enough energy to wink. "Aw, c'mon, Aya. Don't get jealous. It's not like I slept with him or anything." He grinned at the death glare and added, "Not yet anyway."
Another gap cracked formed in their relationship, widening the canyon.
*
Crawford didn't realize he had nodded off until the gentle prod of a finger against his thigh woke him. Snorted in slight surprise he blinked and looked down at the bed-ridden psychic who in-turn observed him with a heavy lidded, heavy drugged gaze.
"No Exit." Farfarello whispered.
Bewildered, Crawford choose to respond with a raised eyebrow. Who knew how far gone Farfarello was in this state.
The twenty-year-old heaved a sigh because it was painful to stay awake with the sedatives they gave him and the lacertian on his throat made talking difficult. "Sartre."
Crawford removed his jacket and folded it up on his lap. "What about him?"
His neck was outlined in black stitches. "We make our own hell. Do you love Schuldig?"
"Of course." He responded without thinking, then blinked.
One corner of Farfarello's mouth pulled upward, the closest he could come to a smile. Of course. "Then why..." He paused, "why aren't you with him?"
The Irishman went still, eye dropping downwards, either from the drugs or exhaustion. Or maybe just defeat. He was done, it was time to take care of Schuldig.
Crawford stood and found his car keys.