Author's Notes: I sent this in an emailto a friend of mine. I have yet to receive her comments:

This is a test of the Industrialized Economic and Political Oratory Group (IEPOG) National Liberality Feminist Art and Anti-Warbush Protest (NLFAAW-BP) alert. This is only a test. Please use the ten minutes given to you to practice hiding your head in the bucket of sand under your desk and praying to your respectively non-existent gods that no one in the office will notice you pissed your pants out of fear of the Liberal Lefties (LL, copyrighted).

If this was a test, a barrage of tie-dye-wearing Marxists would be living peacefully in their commune and Social Anarchy would be the norm. Your tie, suit, briefcase and paycheck would mean nothing, and your supposed 'higher learning' would not exist to the wonders of drug addict philosophers. You would be a worthless nobody.

This concludes the testing of the Industrialized Economic and Political Oratory Group (IEPOG) alert. It was only a test, so you can go back to your consumerism-induced lives. Now for your regularly scheduled program…

(I was having a sardonic moment.)

On A Plain

I'll start this off without any words
I got so high I scratched 'til I bled

I love myself better than you
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

The finest day that I ever had
Was when I learned to cry on command

I love myself better than you
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

I'm on a plain
I can't complain
I'm on a plain

My mother died every night
It's safe to say don't quote me on that

I love myself better than you
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

The black sheep got blackmailed again
Forgot to put on the zip code

I love myself better than you
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

I'm on a plain
I can't complain
I'm on a plain

Somewhere I have heard this before
In a dream my memory has stored
As a defense I'm neutered and spayed
What the hell am I trying to say?

It is now time to make it unclear
To write off lines that don't make sense

I love myself better than you
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

One more special message to go
And then I'm done and I can go home

I love myself better than you
I know it's wrong so what should I do?

I'm on a plain
I can't complain
I'm on a plain

-Nirvana "On a Plane" from the Nevermind album.

5

Schuldig isn't speaking to me. In fact, he hasn't said so much as a little whispered 'fuck you' in my ear in the past two days. He's even stopped fighting with Crawford and picking on Nagi. He's stopped leaving his room, when he's at home at all.

It's actually quite nice…the house has never seen such silence.

I know he's pouting, he does it to get attention sometimes, probably because he lost our little fight earlier this week.

/I didn't loose. You didn't let me finish./ he snaps, obviously reading my thoughts from across the room. I glare at him and drink my tea, look for the knife I use to sharpen my charcoals.

"Ignoring you," I say nastily and go back to my drawing. Tennyson's asleep in Crawford's favorite armchair across the room, shedding his white fur all over the plush black material. Brad's going to throw a fit, but at the moment, the cat is making a good subject.

/I doubt you could ever ignore me, Farfie./ he purrs back, his rings clinking on the side of his coffee mug. He's still dressed for the rave he just got back from, at dawn, entirely smashed. Brad and I had to drag him upstairs to bed, he was so sloshed, and he is apparently too hung over to bother taking his makeup off…he looks like he got punched.

"Please don't call me that, you know I don't like it," I say smoothly, using a tone remarkably like Crawford, all calm manipulation. I don't even look up from the paper, as if this fight isn't worth it.

I can practically feel him seethe and I revel in it. Now I know how housewives feel when they get the better of their husbands…or mothers to their spastic sons, either one…

Schuldig slides the chair back and storms over to me, somehow making enough noise with his bare feet to wake the cat and ruin my picture. He grabs the paper out of my hands and stand over me, his face so red it's nearly purple with fury.

'Oh shit,' I think, 'I am so dead.'

"You're gonna wish you were in about ten seconds, Far-far-ell-o," he grits out between his teeth. I don't know how he manages it, his jaws are clamped to hard it makes a crocodile look like a toothless toddler.

I notice that he's crumpled my drawing and am mildly annoyed. I repress the urge to smack him, grip my fists only slightly, then lean back on the couch and look up at him, expectant.

I want to see what he thinks he can do to me.

"I have no idea what spawned this tantrum, but you're acting ridiculous," I murmur as I set my charcoal and knife aside. No need for those.

"Oh, shut up!" he shouts and throws the crumpled paper in my face, "Pompous freak of nature!"

Eh? I nearly sputter.

"Hey now, name calling is out of bounds," I counter, still trying to referee this sensibly, "What's all this about, anyway?"

"I know what you're thinking, my little Irishman," he starts, his voice in the same condescending tone my mother used to use when she was about to ground me for something.

"That must be nice," I growl back. Half the time I didn't even know what I was thinking, "Care to share with the rest of the class?"

He leans down and grabs my chin in his thin fingers, surprisingly strong, though I have no idea why I'm surprised. I try to pull away, but he holds me fast, forcing me to meet his half-glazed eyes, darker blue with exhaustion, just a little bloodshot. He looks like a madman.

"Is this still about the shower?" I ask, now a little bit confused. I can't really think of anything serious to have made him mad…

"This isn't about the fucking shower, Farfarello!" he nearly screams, hysterical. I briefly fear that he might break my jaw with those fingers. "This is about your curiosity about a certain kitten killer!"

I glance at where Tennyson went to hide, but I know what he's talking about.

He's so jealous…It makes me smile.

"Stop laughing, you fucking asshole!" he snaps, jerking my chin so I look at him again. I frown and grab his wrist, pull his hand away and stand up.

"What did I just say about name calling?"

He doesn't even notice my grip on his arm, crushing now that I'm a little angry. He ruined my picture, after all.

"You aren't allowed to do that," he rants, probably unable to realize that he stopped making sense minutes ago, "You're mine! You stay with me! You're mine!"

"Schu…" I say, softer, sighing. I really don't feel like dealing with this right now. Right now I just want to shut him up. He knows it too, punches me weakly in the chest, his eyes watering like they do when he has a headache.

"Mine…"

I give a suffering sigh and pull him against me, let him put his face into my shoulder as I pet his hair. He hasn't combed it in days, it's tangled. I try to pick out some of the knots blindly. I don't think he's crying, but he certainly sounds like it.

I let him stay there, there isn't any reason not to, and it beats getting yelled at. It's several minutes before he finally pulls away, looking haggard and extremely hung over.

"Menstrual cycle?" I ask bemusedly.

He sniffs and nods, looking away in slight embarrassment. "I hate family-neighborhoods."

"I know. You ruined my picture."

He looks down at the sad piece of paper on the couch, then back at me apologetically.

"Sorry about that…crime of passion."

"I wouldn't like to see you in action form something premeditated…"

He just smiles and I remember my hair…it had been red for months…totally embarrassing.

"Go get some sleep. And for God's sake comb your hair," I order and push him at the stairs.

"Would you bring me a heating pad and lemonade too?" he asks with a laugh.

"No. Take your own aspirin."

He snorts and leaves, muttering something that sounds remarkably like 'unsympathetic prick' under his breath.

NS

"What was all that racket before?" Crawford asks as he pokes his head around the corner. He is smearing cream cheese on a bagel and offers me one. I shrug and get up to go help him (and to dig out those lochs in the fridge). I sit on the counter and spread the fish over the bagel with an eager smile.

"Some girl down the street is on the rag and Schuldig got wind of it," I explain around a mouthful of bagel, "its fine now, nothing's broken, but he did crumple my drawing."

"I see," he says distractedly, frowning at my bagel. I offer him some, wondering if he'd be brave enough to try. Not everyone likes fish. Not everyone eats it on bagels or straight from the can.

I don't know how those people survive, but they've got to exist somewhere.

"How're your medications holding up?"

"Since we upped the dosage?" I shoot back, annoyed at the sudden change of subject.

"Yes. You've stopped hearing things?"

I sigh and set the bagel down with slight reluctance.

"Look, Brad, if I'm going to have a fit, stop hedging and tell me."

"I'm not hedging," he replies sourly. I give him a look and his mask slips briefly.

That alone terrifies me.

"How bad and how much time until it comes?" I ask, my voice small. I really didn't want that…not now…

Actually, never again, if it's possible…

"One of your more infamous ones, but I can't pin down when exactly," he allots, even though I can tell he doesn't want to tell me anything at all. Jerk. "Sometime later this week. It'll be an inconvenience for the rest of the team, but there's nothing to be done."

I have the inexplicable urge to blame him for it…

I abandon my bagel and silently walk upstairs. I slide into Schuldig's room; the walls painted dusky red, white curtains over the modest windows, and crawl into bed with him. He opens his eyes slowly and groans at me for waking him. I can feel the resonating headache and the nausea of a hangover in full swing. I offer him a placating smile and sling my arm over his hips, drawing us closer to one another.

"What?" he grumbles, obviously too pissed at me to remain silent.

I smile again and press my face into his hair, wonder at the faintest scent of perfume…

Unless he's projecting again…

/Don't let Crawdaddy's hay-says bother you/ he says softly, his mind caressing mine.

So predictable…

"He isn't usually wrong," I whisper back, my face still in those bright orange strands.

/Nothing you can do about it. Why worry/

I bite my lip. I can't say it aloud…

They frighten me…

/I know, but I'll be right there with you./

I stay silent and Schuldig's arms tighten around my waist, his thin hands against my back, his breath dampening my skin.

/Get some sleep, Farfarello. We'll talk about it later./

Aye.

A pause.

/I smell fish./

NS

Schuldig was gone when I woke up, his side of the bed cool under the crumpled sheets. I didn't fret, though, I could hear him washing up in the bathroom across the hall. I stayed in bed, watching the tree outside his window until he shut the water off and came back, shutting the door as he entered. His face was clean, freshly shaven, his hair washed and dripping on the carpet as he moved, soaking into his tattered tee shirt as he moved around the bedstead to sit next to my hip.

He stroked the back of my hand with his fingernails and I squinted up at him. He was smirking, like usual, no teeth bared. His hair cut jagged lines around the sides of his face. He looked spectacular for a man who'd just gotten over a hangover. If it were me, I'd still be half dead…

Must be a German thing…

He smiles wider and leans down to press his lips against mine, moving slowly as if marking me for a possession. He pulled away minutely, ignoring my protest, and smiles yet wider. It's creepy.

"I haven't really apologized about the drawing," he whispers dangerously against my cheek, my nose, my forehead, my hair.

"Actually, you did," I say back, wondering why on earth he wants to fuck now. The prospect of a deliriously frightening upcoming fit of madness is enough to make me a celibate man. Schuldig's hands wander down my chest and between my legs. His thin lips part in a tooth-baring grin that I can only describe as predatory.

"Certainly you don't mean that," he snorts against my ear, his tongue pointed around the shell…

I just barely manage to stifle a groan.

"I might…" I threaten, but I really don't mean it. He looms over me and we kiss again, his arms supporting him on either side of my head. I wind my hands into his hair to keep his head steady as I pillage what I can from his throat, savoring every heady moan, every full-body shutter. We roll, I push him into the sheets and help him out of his shirt, then his trousers as he slides his hands down my back and grabs my ass.

We grind together and groan. I can feel Schuldig's mind slip into mine, I notice how he's sharing everything he feels with me. I sigh and close my eye as he lifts my eyepatch off and sets it aside, as he runs his hands across my face, tracing every numb scar.

In the back of my mind, I feel like a cancer patient having a last fuck…

Ah, the morbidity in the lives of flies…

"Shut up," Schuldig growls and crowds my mind with other thoughts, pleasant, sensual thoughts. I notice his nod of approval and smile, if not a bit desperately.

Fin Chapter 5

Please Review

Author's Notes: I have decided that I adore Dire Straits…

Well, some of their music, at least…

I also like to photograph doors.

To My Readers:

Morbid Knight: I just realized I did some shota in the last fic…whoops…I cross my own line…shit…

Even through the age gap, though…well, yeah, you're right, but I just can't agree. It's cute to think about, yes, but for some reason I've never liked the pairing much. Eh, opinions, everybody's got one…(laughs)

And secretly, I hate Kenken. He's tragic, yes, and that attracts evil little girls like me, but he doesn't go about being sad in a stoic kind of way, like Aya or even Yohji. It's kind of the same way I don't like Omi. Omi totally ignores his problems, or he's really good at acting, and I identify too much with him to really like him. With Ken, he goes about being sad quite openly, but like Omi, he stills comes off as pathetic to me.

Sad, but true.

Either way, I love the review…long reviews make me so happy. It made me doubly happy you can spell! (high fives) I swear to God I'm not trying to be sarcastic…(laughs)

Rori BartonI feel slightly manipulated…

xKokurox: …You know, my imaginary prozac makes me do the very same thing…weird how we both obsess about the same things…although you're probably not into it for the literary porn…Am I allowed to mention 'porn' here?

(looks around for Politically-Correctional Mojo Police)

Now I'm scared…