Read My Mind

Birman was sitting in his room when he opened the door. On the desk chair, legs crossed in a parody of daintiness, one stiletto heel tapping a slow clock-like rhythm on the floor, perfectly manicured fingernails tapping against her knee in time. Perfect in form and dress and grooming, not one hair out of place, and perfectly out of place in an eighteen-year-old assassin's one-room apartment over a flower shop, all his possessions from his previous residence already boxed and returned to sit in piles around the floor; Kritiker's rapid relocation of Omi's life without his knowledge, a quick and clean getaway.

Her smile was prim and deadly. "Bombay."

"Birman." Omi pushed the door closed with his heel and walked the rest of the way into the room, like her presence wasn't so much unwanted as merely a surprise. Set the backpack and the shoulder bag down in a corner without much care, because feigning unimportance would keep her from wondering. Too much prodding would probably reveal some rumpled clothing that smelled rather like sex. He noted the laptop, already turned on and whirring away happily on his desk. Ken's letter stuck beneath it as though the old apartment had merely been transplanted here. A careful, practiced flick of the tablecloth and all the dishes remained in place on the table. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

His own smile was flowers and sunshine, equally as deadly but opaquely so. Some flowers were poison and some had thorns; sunlight would give you cancer over a long enough period of time.

Birman's fingernails stopped tapping and flattened over her nylons, slow, thoughtful pat. "Let's call it motherly concern."

You're not Manx, Omi thought, and had to remind himself that he was no longer in the presence of someone who could hear it. Just as well--if Birman could hear his thoughts he'd be in restraints on his way back to headquarters by now. Death or reprogramming, one way or the other.

(It would be different with Manx, though. She wouldn't have you on the ground with one of those stilettos digging into your spine--she'd stare, and her eyes would go sad, and she'd pick up her gun and tell you to move.)

Omi opened a box, idly, shuffling through the contents with disinterest. "That's very kind of you."

"There's been some interest." She lifted her hand, brushing one perfect lock of hair behind her ear while uncrossing her legs, recrossing in one smooth movement with a whisk of nylon against fabric. "You've been out of contact for weeks, and you weren't staying at your apartment." Shell-pink lips pursed into something like a frown. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Omi?"

He flipped through some of the game cartridges at the bottom of the box--beat them all already. Should find his Playstation, it was in here somewhere. "I was bored." That much was true enough; he watched Birman sideways, through the fall of bangs over his eyes and wondered if that was the whole story. How much she knew and how much she suspected. "I went to stay with a friend."

Strange thing, applying that word to Schuldig. He wasn't a friend, he was--no, not that, either. Something else.

Birman's eyebrows rose into two perfect arches, product of careful grooming and schooled in just the right expression. "Oh, I see. We didn't realize you might be... lonely."

Of course not--he was programmed not to be. To go to ground and sit there and wait until Kritiker whistled and called him back.

"Humans are social creatures," Omi commented smoothly, pressing the cardboard closed and stepping back, hands in his pockets and turning to face her. She had the information she wanted, now, knew that something was up and that yes, he'd worked around some of the more basic compulsions and furthermore, and most importantly--no, he was not going to say anything further. "You'll have to excuse me, now. I need to unpack my room, and the others will be here soon."

She made a sound--soft, sweet hum that might have been pleasant if he didn't know better, if he hadn't spent most of the memorable portion of his life somewhere in her presence. Her heels clacked against the floor when she stood. "Well, then. Wouldn't want for you to be unpresentable, Bombay."

Tap, tap, tap across the floor, perfect swing of legs and whisk of nylon, perfect whiff of jasmine in her wake. Omi associated it with blood and cold steel. He remained in place when the door swung shut, stayed while the tap, tap, tap continued on the landing, then the stairs, then the pavement below.

She bugged his room--he knew it with the instinct that kept him alive. They'd never done that before, never needed to with all the efficient suggestions in his head but maybe now they were wondering, considering the possibility that their barbed wire was failing. That he was growing something that dangerously resembled free will.

He unpacked his room just like he said he would; started a load of laundry in the little washer in the closet. Made his bed and pinned some of his posters back up. Found all the little cameras and ignored them, not so pointedly that they'd know he knew but enough that they might suspect their plan wasn't going to work. The bathroom, when he carried his toothbrush and some towels into it, was the one concession. A show of trust, maybe, that they weren't going to watch him shower. How nice.

(Starting to sound like him.)

It was in the shower, then, that he deflated. Let out the breath he'd been holding since he walked into his room to find Birman there and slid down to sit on the tiles, head on his knees and water beating against his back. It was in the shower that he wondered why Schuldig hadn't even tried to stop him--hadn't said a word, just watched him leave. Knew what would've happened if he'd tried, probably; Omi had just been reactivated and he was an enemy. If he acknowledged Schuldig he'd have to kill him.

Didn't matter, anyway. It didn't; it was inevitable, all of this. Wasn't like he was sitting on the floor of his shower with the water on full blast and slowly curling around himself, arms around his stomach because it was tying itself into knots. Wasn't trembling. Eyes weren't burning. No.

It was just a diversion, that's all.

Ken was in the kitchen; not that it was any kind of surprise, he had a domestic streak a mile wide and was probably the only one of them whose immediate thought upon returning to the Koneko was to adjourn to the common area and start making dinner. He might even have gone to the market himself--he would have thought about something like that, made a trip of it and arrived at the back door to face Birman smiling over an armload of rice and bok choy and little jars of umeboshi.

The dashi was already starting to simmer on one burner and Ken was heavily involved with the other, pushing a pan full of sizzling chicken and vegetables around with a wooden spatula. Omi peered around him before announcing his presence, hovering in the doorway and eying the spread of ingredients--little jar of curry paste and a bowl of noodles, little pile of scallions chopped and ready on the cutting board because he had to be fancy and 'garnish' stuff like that. Ken's back to him, humming something tuneless under his breath.

"Hey."

"Huh?" Ken paused in his frying pan agitation, peering over his shoulder with a blink before his face dipped into a pleased smile. His eyes crinkled up when he did that. "Oh, hi Omi. Didn't see you there." A bit sheepish, like he knew he should have noticed someone approaching him from behind, what with being an assassin at all, but not really worrying about it because Omi wouldn't scold him. Now, anyway. "How've you been?"

(Crying in the shower.)

"Okay, I guess." He wandered further into the kitchen, leaned backwards against the counter on the side of the stove the dashi was on, nudging the curry paste idly. The glass made a rolling sound on the counter. "Bored. It's kind of nice to be back, isn't it?" Nice for himself, maybe, but he wanted Ken to agree with him, even if it was only to be polite.

Bit of a shrug; Ken was wearing a soccer jersey, something for one of the local teams. Large blocked 8 on the back in yellow. "I guess so." And his attention returned to the food, eyebrows drawing together as he determined whether the chicken was done enough for his liking. Reached out to flip the burner dial to 'off'. "I kinda missed you guys. Where've you been lately?" Brown eyes darted to the side, to Omi lifting the little jar and tossing it absently from hand to hand. Nothing accusatory in the words or the look; curious, concerned, maybe just a tiny bit hurt. "Your phone's been off a lot."

Hasn't been off, Omi thought, I just haven't been answering. Gave a shrug, unconcerned up and down motion of the shoulders and spun the jar between his fingers. "I've been out a lot. Got your card, though." Paused and diverted his attention just long enough for a smile, sincerity in droves to hide the lie. "Thanks."

"No problem. Congratulations, by the way." And smiling, hand out for the curry paste and oh, Ken. How easily you believe.

Omi didn't say anything for a while, watched him mix in the curry and the starch and the sauté and closed his eyes when the smell filled the room, warm and when he leaned forward to look through the window Youji was in the parking lot out back, hauling some duffel bags out of Seven's trunk. Aya was probably downstairs already, sorting through mission specs or whatever it was that Aya did when he was alone and unhappy with life.

"Oh!" Ken paused with the bowl of noodles in his hand. "Did you get the letter?"

Omi wet his lips, watching Youji walking across the lot, lit cigarette already between his lips, sunglasses awkwardly in his hair (like someone you know, maybe?) but his arms were too full to do anything about them. Paused halfway and looked to the side where Birman was still waiting by the back door, because he'd been the last and he was late and her heels had kept an ominous click against the pavement while she waited.

"Yeah," he murmured, and lost focus just long enough that it sounded distant.

"Omi?" Ken was just out of his line of sight but he could hear his expression in the tone, smile gone and eyebrows drawing down in confusion and he still had that bowl of noodles in his hand, soup simmering away in front of him and waiting for them. "What's up?"

"I meant to call you." He tried for a smile, got the corners of his mouth turned up and figured that was good enough. Now, change the subject. "Youji-kun is here."

Finally tipped the noodles into the pot, plucking away the ones that stuck to the side of the bowl, but Ken didn't look entirely convinced. Frowning a little in thought at the bubbling liquid. "I made enough for four."

"I'll get Aya." Omi made the offer quickly, pushed away from the counter because Youji was going to come through the door any minute and then he wouldn't be able to get away and recollect. Not think about letters or phone calls or sunglasses that held back hair. Aya didn't take much notice of smiles and tones of voice that weren't quite right--and his sister was missing. Aya wouldn't take notice of much of anything.

"Hey." Ken's voice stopped him halfway across the kitchen, half-turned away from the pot, spatula resting lightly on the edge where his hand was tapping it. "You'd tell me if something was bugging you, right?"

Omi was glad he was facing the doorway. Away from him. "Of course." Of course, Ken-kun. I'd tell you anything that wouldn't get us both killed.

Omi tasted like squid—or octopus. Might be octopus, might be something else, he had no idea. Whatever it was that takoyaki was made out of, that's what Omi tasted like. That and skin, warm, sweat—his mouth was—it wasn't that, it was the way his thigh kept brushing up against his waist. Sitting on his lap like that, made him wonder what they were sitting on and didn't. Thigh, warm and soft and brushing back and forth, restless motion of his hips that matched his mouth and the fingers combing through his hair. Murmurs in his throat that Schuldig could feel under his thumb. Fingers around his neck, feeling the same restless movement and that thigh, up higher, his whole hand slipping in under those shorts.

Most days he loved the shorts and now he hated them, they were in the way. Omi was there and warm and close and rocking against him, one leg curled around his back (what the hell were they sitting on?) and both hands in his hair. Felt good. Pushing the bandanna down off his hair, all the way down. Kissing once, twice, three times—the blond color of his hair, the smile on his lips that were pink and darkening, tongue darting across and faint shimmer of wetness. He was smiling, smiling at him, fingers on his shoulder, in the back of his shirt and up, in his hair, kissing like there hadn't been a pause and—Schuldig rolled them over, ended up on a bed somewhere, all that warmth under him and the same restless movement, the same fingers, the same mind that was humming along with that (poison).

Damn.

"Oh, for fucks sake. Roll over and take your pants off." And something hit his back.

Schuldig didn't open his eyes, in some vain hope that he could get back to the dream. The neutral territory of the non-space it occupied and Omi's mouth that tasted like squid or octopus or— "Go to hell, bitch."

Crawford snorted something derisive and yanked the blankets back. "I was in hell," he was informed from the side. "It involved Omi Tsukiyono's left thigh."

What? Schuldig pushed himself up to his elbows, hair across his face he had to shake behind his shoulders and looked up at Crawford. "What the hell are you doing in my dreams?" Never mind that the demand was completely illogical. Crawford couldn't get into his head, but he could damn well get into Crawford's. Which meant he was projecting the dream which in and of itself was—

"You're still wearing your pants," Crawford said instead. Attempting to come up with an answer was obviously beneath him. Besides there was only one answer and that was the disgusting little truth. Schuldig had lost enough control over his own mind that he was pushing out his own thoughts. He pushed his hand through his hair, felt the tangles that were starting and leaned back onto his side.

"Why the hell would I take my pants off for you?"

"Because you want to get fucked and I want to sleep," Crawford told him. Which explained why the cocky American bastard was standing in what amounted to his room in nothing but whatever pants he'd had close by to throw on and bearing a bottle of anything that would pass for lube. Schuldig couldn't see the label because it was too dark but he trusted enough to know that Crawford was a whole hell of a lot pickier about it than him. "Without the nightmares about your love mouse."

"You better be good," Schuldig mumbled. He fell back on the futon and reached down to push his pants off, hips up to get the low and kicked them off. Crawford picked up the bottle as he crawled onto the bed, right between his legs.

"You know I am," Crawford retorted like there never was a doubt and all those dark circles under his eyes weren't going to have an effect on his abilities at all. Damn impersonal bastard, hand up under his knee pushing it toward his shoulder and sure he was flexible but that didn't mean he wanted to impersonate a pretzel. "Better than the midget."

"There's a remarkable lack of—" Grimace there because Crawford could care less about finesse when it came to sure things. Rough fingers pressing inside and the confident, cocky, arrogant way he leaned over him. The man had forgotten a lot of things since the last time they'd done this. And then again, it was some kind of stupid sense of vengeance for putting them both through this for the sake of some stupid Japanese boy. A stupid fuck that he probably should have killed. "Comparison." Then he reached down, hand grabbing Crawford by the wrist. Moved his leg and brought it up between Crawford's. Pressure that made him stutter that perfect mastery. "I'm not some fucking girl, Crawford. And I'm not exactly begging to be with you either."

Hand down against his thigh to shove his leg back down, then under his knee and shoving it up again. Smirk on that arrogant face, his glasses were gone or he would have found the only light in the room to get a gleam from. It was enough to see the white of his teeth and hear that amused little laugh. "That all you got?"

He hit him and Crawford knew it was coming, always did, didn't let him connect but he did roll onto his back. Dragged Schuldig back on top of him, and grabbed him by the ass as he sat up. "I know you aren't a girl. Not even the stupid ones are this fucking skinny." Dragging him down to grind against him and there was nothing there, not even the memory of the dream in that touch. It was the point, naturally. Crawford was like a bulldozer in a china shop. He lacked any manner of subtlety.

Oh and he could have seen it coming but some things were unavoidable. Schuldig knocked him back fast enough he hit his head on the wall, scooting up farther so he was across his stomach instead of his legs, hands grabbing Crawford's by the wrists and putting them over his head. Oh, all the muscle in the arrogant American fuck, all those hours watching him box and lift weights and listening to the slobbery thoughts of the other pointless jocks staring at him doing not so much as one push-up. His hair falling around his face and getting in his eyes, getting in Crawford's mouth until he was spitting it out and glaring at him. "I don't need you to fuck me, Crawford. Don't overestimate your importance."

"Too tall for your tastes? Maybe you should go nag Nagi, he might fuck you if you promise to suck him off. I keep hearing you're real good at that." There was something nasty and mocking in his mind, something like jealousy that was too real to be funny. It went beyond the accepted way of things that Crawford was Schuldig's and Schuldig was Crawford's it was—

"Nobody fucks me," he said back and sat back. Crawford pulled his hands free, big paws down on his waist and pushing him back until he was where he was wanted again, steady pull and slow rock up against him. Damp and hard grinding against him. He tossed his hair over his shoulders and went looking through Crawford's mind.

Ended up on his back and felt that smirk against his mouth. "I do."

"Once," Schuldig corrected. "And you barely managed that." Legs up and out of the way, no thinking about what it was all going to mean because there was a reason he'd projected the dreams to start with. The world was ending tomorrow there was no reason to get all frigid tonight. Fingers pushing back inside and they weren't any less clinical just not painful.

"Why," the tight question, Crawford shifting on his knees, pushing his leg open and Schuldig tipped his head down, watched him and listened to the chaotic buzz of his head. All the streams of future going past endlessly and nonsensically. Crawford's thoughts were usually coherent but when he got distracted like this— "Do you insist on being on your back?"

"Shut up and fuck me," Schuldig said. A laugh into that space between them and Crawford pushing forward, sinking inside and fuck—fuck--Schuldig let his head fall back and grit his teeth, felt the lips against his throat and fisted both his hands in slick black hair. Kissing then that was more violent than the sex was sure to be. Tearing at each other's mouths in a way that left his mouth sore and it didn't matter.

Crawford wanted Omi dead.

"Don't," gasped into his mouth. "Scratch my face."

Because Crawford wanted Omi dead. Wanted him bleeding, wanted him broken into a pile of pointless little pieces that couldn't be put together, his mind in shreds and his memory nothing but a joke. He wanted to destroy it because it was—because—Schuldig clawed at his back, at the thoughts, at the closeness, at the body against his and inside and the kiss that wouldn't stop, at the memories of the life they'd had and what they'd always talked about.

Of Rosenkreuz and Hyde and hell. Of his mother, of his name, of the prophecies and the Elders and Estet and planning the chaos to right the world because it sure as shit wasn't right anymore. Stupid humans walking around acting like they ruled the world and hitting him with a golf club. Fucking assholes.

Sank his teeth into Crawford's shoulder, down into that muscle all but hard enough to draw blood and heard the laugh before he felt it. Hands on his shoulders shoving him down against the bed. Hips coming forward hard, faster, driving inside and it damn near hurt but it didn't.

Significance is what you give it.

Love was an excuse for murder.

People were playthings and puppets and fuck toys.

Crawford kissed him again and Schuldig jerked back against him. Biting at his tongue and his lips until he got bit in return and then laughing because his mouth tasted like blood. Crawford's face against his chest, everything was running on seconds now, wasn't going to last. Too much violence in it, brutal and it was going to hurt as soon as it was over, right now storming beyond what he could control—that close and that tied into Crawford's mind, felt everything. His body, Crawford's, and everything, sinking inside of him and—

There.

He opened his eyes and looked over, at where Crawford had collapsed next to him. "We're going to fail?"

A nod, sweat in his perfect black hair, flush on his arrogant face. "We're going to fail." He rolled onto his back and brushed his bangs back out of his face. A second for his breath and body to settle, to think back to the projected dream that started it all. "You're ridiculous."

"You're a whore," Schuldig said back.

"At least I'm high priced," the counter as Crawford shifted his weight next to him and began to wonder about where his pants had gone to. If he should take a shower now or sleep and if it mattered either way. Wondering why he hadn't run for the door himself yet. "You're a dime a dip street corner bitch."

Schuldig snorted. "You'll kiss anyone's ass, Crawford. Whether you're getting paid or not."

"You're in love with a fucking midget Japanese boy that's a mindless slave for more stupid Japanese midgets." He wasn't supposed to say anything to that and Crawford didn't give a damn if he did anyway. A mental kind of flinch that was interesting if not terribly pleasant to feel. "Hyde would laugh her ass off at you."

"You killed Hyde," he said because it didn't matter. "He loves me; it doesn't go the other way."

Oh the laugh wasn't funny at all and that seemed to settle it as far as Crawford was concerned. He wasn't going to lay here and accept this line of bullshit when he could be washing himself up. He sat up. "He's going to die, Schuldig."

"Fuck you. No he isn't," Schuldig snapped back.

Another laugh and that one was louder, ruder, more amused and not at all. Hand around the back of his neck, yanking him forward all condescending and arrogant, the fucking American kissing him again, laughing into his mouth and then tipping his head, forehead still slimy with sweat as they pressed together. "Don't be a fucking coward, Schuldig. Admit it. Everyone loves someone. Even dogs." A pause there to punctuate the next thing he said. "And he will die."

Because Crawford wanted him to.

"Get out," Schuldig said.

Another smirk as the bastard got to his feet. "Sweet dreams."

Crawford's grin was a cruel mockery. "Schuldig," he remarked, looking back at him and catching that spare slant of light. Always that, always the glare across the lenses like any of his ridiculous manipulative tactics had any effect on the man that could stare straight down through his mind to the whimpering little boy he'd been. "You pick all the wrong ones." Mockery, it seemed, of Omi.

"I'm sure you'd have gone for the athletic idiot, right?" Schuldig retorted. He ran an absent hand down the white front of the suit he wished he wasn't wearing and brushed his hair back over his shoulders. "That way he'd give you a night's worth in bed and sit quietly in the corner gasping at how smart you were?"

"Mm," Crawford agreed with some sarcasm as they came for them. The three old ones were dead, Aya was safe from them and now it was going to end. Once and for all—Schwarz simply had to die. The comfort came in that they all fully intended to kill them, and in that when the world broke apart under their feet all of them were still going to be alive. Whatever came next, he didn't know. Crawford didn't know—they hit the water and the future stopped. "I bet he'd ride you cross-eyed and then we could box."

"Don't kid yourself," he said as he shifted on his feet. Speed, coiling it down into all of his muscles, getting ready to move because they were close and coming closer. Nagi was standing to the side, looking as bored as he ever did. His mind was numb and beyond caring—they had let Tot die, you see, and everyone had to die. The whole world. "You can box while he's riding you."

Farfarello laughed and flexed his hand around his knife, his mind slipping down into those blood-scented dark places. Primal, evil, an instrument of pain and death and beyond all the normal patterns of thought; it was a disgusting feeling, to sink that low into him. Schuldig glanced at him, one last time, the scars and the smirk and the insanity that was bubbling up like pus and blood. He gave a half-hearted hope that the man would die when he hit the water, heard Crawford's laugh.

"As interesting as it would be, Hidaka's still got a dick—not interested," Crawford informed him.

Nagi snorted. "All recent evidence to the contrary. Why can't I kill them now?" And while Crawford had spent hours and years training Nagi to look at him first with all the obvious obedience a well taught child should have—Nagi looked at him. His mind following his eyes and waiting for the silent command.

"That wouldn't be sporting," Crawford assured him and shrugged the jacket off his shoulders. "Fujimiya is the one I'd take, Schuldig."

"Fujimiya is a pathetic Momma's boy that needed his daddy to give him a hug," which could very well have been the last thing that he ever said. It moved from there, the fight—Crawford and Aya, Farfarello took off after Ken (he assumed it was a Catholic thing and left them to it) and that left Nagi who stepped forward with a click of his heel. A certain kind of shimmer to his mind which betrayed some thought that he'd been hiding under those layers of hate.

Hate, hate, hate that tasted like beer and wine and coffee burnt black on the bottom. Hate for him and Crawford, hate for Weiss, hate for every mortal that had ever walked on this earth, hate for living, hate for love—hate that sank into his bones and his thoughts. But he was stepping forward, through the fight like the chaos that was building around him was nothing more than a puppet show. Energy churning up under his feet—outside, a block away, people would feel the tremors and wonder—and here, Nagi brought one hand up, threw Farfarello and Ken backward when they nearly ran into him and starting to grin.

Omi (oh, so careful not to see him, not to notice, not to think about those shuriken he's got hidden up his sleeve and how very much he'd like to sink a few into you after all this) saw Nagi. Reacted with all that programming, all that training that had kept him alive and not so much as a whisper of a thought as to whatever else there had been. (But, look to the left, maybe.) Then again, Omi didn't know of the times Nagi had stood outside the door, in the stairwell, in front of his car, waiting for them to finish. He knew nothing about the ridicule he had earned (love mouse) and—

"Son of a bitch," Schuldig said out loud, slipping into German without half realizing it. One step forward that was jerked backward, something around his neck and how the hell had he missed that? (Didn't look to the left.) Yes, well and then there was Kudo. Bastard, he never had liked him, the smell of cigarette smoke that always clung to him, and the way his mind slid along on itself. Oh he was a sly enough bastard for the sleazy private eye sort. Drinking away his life and it melted away your mind until it was nothing but too slick thoughts that—didn't matter because there he was with the creak of his gloves, the grimace across his face and some kind of grim satisfaction to his thoughts that he could take him out.

Kidnapper and all that. Rapist, think of what he had done to Sakura and Aya-chan and who the hell had orange hair anyway? His knees were against Schuldig's back to get the leverage to yank his arms back, fingers curling in the wire to pull it tighter; didn't seem to matter, the manic tilt of his slippery fucking mind, there were spots in front of his vision. Hands up and clawing at his own skin just to try to get under the wire and that didn't seem to matter because there was a thunderous crack somewhere in there.

(There goes the world.)

Nagi was smirking, all over himself, inside his brain where the hate twisted up in his stomach. Both of his hands out and pushing forward, taking his time making it slow. Slow as standing in a stairwell peeling paint off the wall because the stupid ass telepath that had once been so reliably three minutes late was too busy getting off in the blond idiot with the too happy smile. (Love mouse.) Oh, Nagi was going to kill him, bone by bone until there was nothing left and he was damn sure going to enjoy it. (And the rest of them, they were going down, down to that water.)

He's going to die, Crawford had said.

"Fuck," he spat with breath he didn't have to waste. One elbow back and connecting with something on Kudo's body that got him a grunt and half a second respite from the pain and the breathlessness. He reached out, mental hands and grabbed Nagi, down below the hate that would utterly disregard him, down deep where he couldn't disobey and screamed at him. Stop. Echoing in every language he could remember and then he lost it. Kudo didn't take it nicely that he was bothering to fight back, yanking harder and leaning back himself, dragging him off his feet as he grabbed for that wire again. Wasn't going to work, and his neck felt hot already, fingertips bleeding—

(There goes the world.)

There it went, the first crack, and the second and then it fell. Down, down to the water. Somewhere, there, in front of him or beneath him or above, lost in the jumble of all that falling stone, Omi was alive. (That's nice.)

Omi woke up to the sound of a pulse in his ears--only no, it wasn't a pulse, it was the electric beat of a heart monitor. Woke up to the whiteness of sun through the blinds and the sterility of a hospital room and sat up, head spinning, feeling gauze at his temple and arms and tugging the nodules off his chest. Pulling the IV from his arm. Sliding to the edge of the bed and ripping more wires and tubes away and all the machines started screaming.

The nurses, when they arrived, tried to push him back down and he lashed out because no--it was too open here, too bright, no protection and the weak and wounded should go to ground. Needed security, needed his teammates, needed--

Bright floral arrangement by his bed, on the table, off-white envelope in among the Traveler's Joy and tulips and Omi paused, lifted it away and pulled out the card inside.

5/13, 7:30PM home, the note read. Get some rest.

He went back to bed.

It wasn't until weeks later--just a couple of weeks, he thought--three days in the hospital, a few more at headquarters while Kritiker pulled their agents back together and decided what to do with them. Another week on the road, getting used to the RV and the close quarters and making sure Aya and Ken didn't kill each other. No mission, yet. They needed time, Manx said, to find their feet.

He had dreams, some nights--they all had dreams, the screaming ones and the cold-sweat ones and the slow, sad ones. Omi had a particular kind, and this new sort wasn't so bad. It was quiet and comfortable and sometimes he didn't even have to fight for the covers. Sometimes there was an arm over his hip and murmured words against the back of his neck. Murmured words in the back of his mind.

It was a nice dream, but somehow it woke him up. He blinked in the darkness, cold knot in the pit of his stomach and stared up to where Ken's arm was dangling from the edge of his bunk, hand limp and curled slightly.

That was the first time he wondered--when was it? The last time he saw Schuldig.

Youji had wire around his throat--and you didn't watch, couldn't watch, couldn't watch anyway because Nagi was crushing you to death, and that kind of commanded your attention. Could feel how your body started to give and knew in a moment all your bones were going to crack, splinter. Somewhere to the side that wire was going to go limp and you'd both die together. How romantic.

He didn't, though--because Nagi had stopped right there, right at that last second when the pressure was so great he was screaming at the pain of his body trying to resist it. Right there, he just stopped.

And he turned his head, didn't he? Omi squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his forehead, trying to remember. Nagi had turned his head, eyes narrowed and glaring. Looked right at--

Schuldig told him to stop.

All the hardwiring in his head tried to clamp down when he slid out of bed, silently, but something had jostled loose when the temple came down. Something had ripped, a wire had snapped and if he was careful he could wind those barbs away. Let all those commands and compulsions slide over the surface of his thoughts and away.

Eventually--someday, he thought, he'd wriggle free entirely.

He slipped out the door just as silent, carrying his shoes to put on outside but all that stealth amounted to nothing, ultimately, because Youji was standing outside with a cigarette in his mouth, leaned against the side of the RV. Sunglasses low on his nose and staring up at the blank night sky over the top of them, edges of city lights in every direction. Quick dart of a look over at him, sideways, lifted a hand up to draw the cigarette away. "Hey."

"Nice night." Omi sat down on the steps, tied his shoes and tried to think of anything at all other than what he was doing, right now. Tried to not look Youji in the eye without looking like he was trying to not look Youji in the eye.

"What're you up to?"

"Need some air." Omi shrugged, nonchalant--turned to wander over to where his moped was parked alongside Ken's bike. "I'll be back by morning."

Youji's chuckle was softly knowing, but Omi didn't think he knew the whole or even half of it. "Sure thing."

He waited until he was three blocks away to gun the motor.

The city pulsed softly in the dead of night, still lit as bright as day in places and active with movement and the hum and rumble of vehicles and the rhythmic throb of music. His nerves sang with it, the lights and the beats of time and the need to go, go, go, get there and his pulse thudded in his ears in time with all of it. Had to change tactics, parked the moped and dove into the subway tunnels, took the Yamanote until he was close enough but far enough away to double back. Lost himself in the crowd somewhere in Shibuya.

Go, go, go, faster. Stomach fluttered with his pulse.

He approached the apartment building from the far side, dark aside from a single porch light on that end where it flanked an alley and a department store. Fidgeted with the lock for a minute and palmed the picks so it would look like a stuck key from the right angle, security cameras or whatever. Was two flights up the stairs before it occurred to him that maybe Schuldig wasn't there anymore. That he had no reason to stay, really, Takatori was dead and Estet's plans had failed and he could be anywhere by now. China, the States. Germany, even.

Omi's footsteps slowed, ground to a low, trembling halt in front of the door. Pulse not so fast now, butterflies tying his stomach in painful knots, and stared at the doorknob. Schuldig never locked it.

And he'd sped and run and raced all the way here, and now, right at the threshold, he couldn't bring himself to reach up and try the latch. It was too much, knowing and not knowing.

He bit his lip until it bled, just a little; rested his hand on the knob. Felt the cold bite into his skin (Schuldig always kept his apartment cold). Turned.

The door swung open. Air shifted, washed over him. (Smells like--)

Pulse thrummed. Stepped inside. Let the door fall shut behind.

He left his shoes and jacket in the entry, hands shaking too hard to put them in any kind of order and--footsteps in the hall, bare feet on carpet and Schuldig appeared there, in the box of grayish half-light from the city shining through the windows. Hair mussed and rubbing sleep from the corner of one eye. Sweatpants on him and nothing else.

Omi thought, for a minute, that he might give out right there. Collapse in a boneless heap like Nagi really had crushed him into unrecognizable bits. Stood still, though; curled his fingers against his palms to stop the trembling.

"Took you long enough," Schuldig muttered, stopping just at the edge of the half-light, hand dropping from his face with a tired sniff.

Smiled.

Something clattered to the floor when he moved; Omi didn't know what it was or if he'd actually knocked it over but it didn't seem to matter, much. Five steps, exactly, soft carpet giving way under his socks. Five steps and his hands on shoulders, fingers tangling in hair, arms pulling him closer, warm body and so familiar, the smell on his skin--

Hot mouth, lips, soft and hard and harder. Murmur somewhere within the kiss, the press and just a little wet. Hint of tongue against his lips.

A shift, then, a turn and his back was against the wall, another shift and Schuldig was tugging him up, legs around his waist (like before, against the refrigerator, remember?) and he could almost hear the thought that went with that. 'You're too short.' Almost laughed into the kiss and sighed instead, just enough press against his hips to feel nice without feeling too much.

Tilted his head back and--mmm--kiss deepened, shivering and long and Schuldig's hands were everywhere. At his waist first and up his back, into his hair, down the side of his face, neck to shoulders to bunch the fabric of his shirt then slide beneath--everywhere. Slow and lingering and pressing, just a little (want) and Omi mimicked it, almost. Palms sliding down Schuldig's chest and back up to loop around his neck, comb through his hair and drag him closer.

And something in the back of his mind said, you've got to be kidding me. This can't be right, him touching you like this--like you mean something. But no, Schuldig saved his life. Saved his life, and egomaniacal sociopaths just did not do that.

Felt the smile in the kiss, Schuldig's mouth pulling against his and the little hum, breath on his lips in something that wasn't really a laugh. Little tease of teeth before the kiss resumed, deep and slow, press of tongue against his and shiver of fingers down his spine.

He loves you.

Egomaniacal sociopaths didn't do that, either. But what the hell do you do with all evidence to the contrary?

(You're in a lot of trouble Tsukiyono.) Yes, well, he didn't fucking care anymore.