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Sweet Talk	By : CardDragonBall Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1255 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Sweet Talk
- 2-2
- 1
- 2
Title: Sweet Talk

Fandom: Weiss Kreuz

Series: http://cards-slash.livejournal.com/tag/hot+fuss
Hot Fuss over at LJ

Author(s): Card, Casey and also featuring QuietLadyBirman as Ken's Letter.

Rating: Nc-17 (mostly?)

Disclaimer: I
wrote the disclaimer, but Card said that was still stealing. So. We don't own Weiss Kreuz,
etc and anon.

Warnings: Sex,
violence, slash, swearing? Why is there no s in violence?

**Also, long. Too long for one LJ-post apparently.

_______________________________________

Schuldig spent the better part
of two days in a state of belligerent euphoria.
At least, Omi assumed that he did.
He himself left somewhere early in the morning after he arrived home
with his shoulder bandaged--"Asshole stabbed me," he'd said, and
presumably he was talking about the same asshole he wouldn't fuck with a
nail-studded pole. He left, after
spending the night on the couch, when it became clear that this shift in
demeanor hadn't gone away after sleep and a pointed lack of sex, and therefore
it might not go away at all for a while yet.

He'd almost packed his things and taken them, too--not
all of them, because it would have taken too long to find the socks he thought
he might have lost under the bed and collect his toothbrush and comb from the
kitchen drawer they were stashed in (because Schuldig
never actually used those, and therefore they were safe) or see if he had
really dropped that volume of manga behind the
couch. Almost did--because this version
of Schuldig reminded him too much of the bastard he'd
met in the rain on the side of the road a month ago. Too much of the man Omi was more than happy
to label an enemy.

(Liked him better when he was halfway
between amused and prickly. Liked him better when he was sleepy and defiant of having done
anything stupid. Liked him better
when he said things like "Stay" and "I like your mind in one
piece" and even when he stared like he was shuffling around through Omi's
thoughts. Liked him
better when his hands and mouth were occupied with various patches of skin,
coaxing out little moans and gasps and shivers. Liked him best then.)

Omi wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, though,
that maybe this was a temporary thing.
So he left, and left all his things where they were to prove that he did
intend to come back at some point, and went out to spend time in anyplace at
all that Schuldig wasn't.

He ended up in Shinjuku out of habit more than design and
had nearly turned onto the street the Koneko resided
on before remembering that he had no business being there, or anywhere near
there, and he would probably do well to remove himself from the general area as
quickly and quietly as possible.

So he backtracked, climbed on the subway and rode back to
the station nearest his apartment and the high school he'd left behind only a
few weeks ago, now--felt longer than that.
Felt like an eternity of waiting and checking the mail and distracting
himself with a telepathic redhead.

Schuldig was interesting, he'd
decided, because he was a kind of puzzle.
An endless one, like a Rubik's cube spliced with the genes of a
hydra. You made all the twists and turns
and figured out the pattern of the first cube, and then, just as you solved it,
three new ones grew in its place.

They always got the sex right, though. That part wasn't a problem.

He bought two skewers of takoyaki
from the vendor on the corner and had polished them both off by the time he
arrived at his apartment, and considered doing some grocery shopping at
whatever point he decided to return to Schuldig's. The man never had anything decent to eat.

Omi spent most of the late morning and early afternoon
cleaning his apartment, and by the end all the clutter was carefully stowed
away and his futon had aired out and had its linen changed and was rolled up
back in its cabinet. And, wonder of
wonders, there was actually space to move around in the small room. He'd even found a stash of wasabi chips and pocky he'd forgotten about.

He found a shoulderbag and
packed the Nintendo in it, because Schuldig's
apartment was in desperate need of a console.
He stuffed some more manga in alongside that,
because he'd been meaning to read those and had nothing but time on his hands
these days.

He sat for a while staring at the laptop closed and
silent on the small desk (it had been hiding under some laundry, previously)
and considered it. Under any other
circumstances, it would already have been set up and operating quietly on a
coffee table or counter at whatever location Omi found himself staying in, but
in this instance... that was his 'work' laptop.
Kritiker-issued for mission specs and related hacking, and it wouldn't surprise him in the least if it fed
back data to them as well. He wondered,
for another moment, what they must think of this apparent radio silence
emitting from their protege. No phone calls, no laptop activity, nothing
really to track or trace. They had to be
relying, now, on all the hardwiring in his head to keep him in line.

No, he couldn't take the laptop. If for no other reason, those two parts of
his life had no business mingling. Maybe
he could buy a new one--personal use. He
had that expenditure account, and there was no tuition to pay anymore. It was a thought.

At precisely three o'clock, like clockwork his head
turned toward the door and his eyes landed on the mail slot.

Schuldig had been right about
that--conditioning like barbed wire, he knew it was there and he could almost,
almost push back against it but at some point the barbs dug in. Painful. He could try--just a little, just to test the
limits, but not more than that. Just a
little bit of rebellion, because he was bored.

(And that's totally why you're sleeping with the enemy, Tsukiyono.)

An envelope slipped through the slot, hit the bottom of
the box with a light, metallic thunk. The sound felt louder than it actually was,
and for a moment Omi thought he could feel the vibration of it right down to
his toes.

He walked over with all the
normalcy in the world, reached down to pull it out. Nerves singing. Just a small, white
envelope, local postage. No
return address, but he knew the handwriting on the front. Something in his spine deflated and his body
relaxed.

Not Kritiker--nope. Just Ken, yet again.

Tore the envelope along the short edge and pressed it
open, catching the paper inside with two fingers and drew it out. Notebook paper, three holes in one side,
folded in threes and ridges in the back from the press of a ballpoint pen. Something scribbled on the back in
pencil--'tea rose + lily, white ribbon'.
Flower order? Odd.

(He could pick out the arrangement in his head,
though. Decide the width and cut of
ribbon and how to tie it.)

Dear Omi. the letter began,
Ken's kana-scrawl tracking across the top.
Omi felt a hint of a smile jumping around on his face.

I haven't heard from
you lately so I thought I would write to you to see how you were.

How have you been? I know you said you weren't
wanting to do college so I wondered what you were doing with your self or if maybe you had changed your mind. I can't
really imagine you going off to work in a suit every day yet and college sounds
fun but I guess you could get a good job now even without that. But do what
makes you happy.

Anyway I hope your okay still. If there is anything the
matter and i can help at all please get in touch and
let me know but I guess that's likely not it. your
still just busy a lot even though school is out. If you want to call or
anything I would like to talk again sometime, only could you do it in the
evening because I've got another job. Still coaching Tuesday
and Friday nights though so maybe not then though.

So I probably didn't tell you but I am now working at
another flower shop. I cant
quite believe it either but it beats Lotteria which
sucked and the hours aren't so bad, they're a lot more regular. Terada got me
onto it, he said he didn't know why I was working parttime
at a burger place if I could do flower arranging and stuff and i guess he was right, it was kinda
stupid but it feels weird to be doing the flower stuff and not the rest of it
and it's strange being by myself. I got a couple of girls show up from nowhere
and ask where the rest of you were though. One asked me if I knew Aya's phone number! I just said i
didn't know which is true enough I guess.

I kind of miss you guys when I am in the shop. My boss is
nice but she is very diffrent.

Yesterday I tried calling Youji
but i can't remember his phone number, I must have
written it down somewhere but I lost it. And I looked in the book but I
couldn't find him there, I guess he hasn't been working by himself long enough
to be there. Do you have it?

Maybe we could meet up some time soon. I guess there
isn't much about us you want to remember but it's still strange to not see one
another at all any more. I could buy you some coffee
or something some time. If you want to call me then maybe we can fix something
up?

I should go now because it's late and I need to be at
work early tomorrow. The commute is a bitch.

Love, Ken.

"You're, Ken," Omi murmured to himself and the
empty room around him. Felt the little
tremor in his voice. "It's you're."

He folded the paper back up and replaced it in the
envelope, then almost slipped it into the bag with the Nintendo and the manga. Then almost
set it on the windowsill next to Ken's graduation card, then changed his mind
and almost stuck it in the bag again.

Then straightened, envelope clutched in one hand and
pulled the cell out of his pocket, flipped it open for the first time in weeks
and hovered right there, thumb over the button, Ken's name and number lit up on
the screen. Right on
the edge of doing it.

What are you going to say, Tsukiyono? They might not call you back, they might never
call you back but Ken doesn't seem to care all that much, he has the luxury of
not having to care. Of just assuming
they can all be normal again, that you, even--you can be normal, with a normal
job and a normal life. What are you
going to tell him?

He folded the phone over, slowly,
thumb pushing it closed until it clicked into place. Slid the letter, carefully,
just under the edge of the laptop on the desk, so it didn't get lost. That part of his life would have to keep
itself company for a while longer.

Omi shouldered the bag on his way out the door--he would
go pick up some groceries. No, he'd go
browse Akihabara for a laptop, first--waste some more time away from Schuldig and hope to god he'd gotten over himself by the
time he got back. Bring some
groceries. Something for dinner, not
that he could cook worth a damn.

He never thought, once, that he wouldn't go back. But the idea of that slipped over the surface
of his thoughts and aside so easily that he didn't bother pondering on it
anymore.

________________________________________

Do you really Crawford had said, or maybe thought, the only
difference between the two in him was the tone of disinterest his voice could
maintain. Intend
to sleep on the floor of my office? Yes, yes he
did. Because he couldn't tell the difference
between a thought and a spoken word without concentrating hard enough to make
his temples ache. He was getting fuzzy,
he was in pain and the only damn way he was going to take anything for that
pain long enough to sleep, long enough to give his head a rest, was-- He didn't trust
Crawford on the merit of his word alone; that was all Rosenkreuz
training, the two of them had been together since Crawford stepped foot in the
school. Crawford would keep him alive
because it was default functioning. The
bastard didn't know that, not consciously, he clung to the idea that he could
let Schuldig die or just kill him when he didn't need
him anymore, but he did need him.

At least he was entertaining.

I heard it's
comfortable he had said back and popped the
pills into his mouth, chased them down with water and accepted the pillow that
Crawford handed over with flat wordless glare.
Nagi might have worked, but bribing him into
coming to Schuldig's apartment when it stank of
little Weiss boy would have required more of a commitment on his part than he
wanted to offer. Besides, the kid had
delusions of romance floating around in his head. So he slept on his new black coat on the
floor of Crawford's office. Comatose sleep, nothing to hear but the silence of his own mind and
nothing to feel because the raging white pain in his shoulder had settled down.

There was coffee waiting when he woke up. Crawford was sipping his own over on the
chair, leaning back with his feet crossed at the ankle and not exactly looking
at the screen. Schuldig
sat up, rubbed his head because the voices were back, dull whispers but back
all the same, and his shoulder throbbed a little in protest to movement but it
was easier to manage. Pelagatti was there too, a red spot in the corner of his
head doing nothing but existing because he was too far away to manipulate. Schuldig stood up,
grabbed the coffee and stood behind Crawford's chair, just to see the screen.

Hospital records.

And then Crawford tipped his head back, smug arrogance in
that smile across his face because he'd gone off and done his part like a good
boy. Something vicious
in the white edge of teeth that Schuldig always had
liked about him. I found it, the singsong sweet little melody of a thought. Schuldig leaned in
over the chair, fingers resting on the back of it, not quite touching Crawford
but their minds were close enough it felt like it.

The sacrifice--Ms. Aya Fujimiya--and Schuldig felt the
grin stretching across his face. The
laugh bubbling up in his chest and he straightened up--some things were too
fucking good to be true.

I
thought you'd like that, Crawford said and
looked at him, twitch to his eyebrows.
"Your love mouse is going to be bringing you dinner."

"Mausi," he said and
switched to English for the damn arrogant American. "It's little mouse, Crawford." Without any amount of thought into why he
bothered correcting it. Felt the way
Crawford's mind disregarded his correction because it simply didn't
matter. All the years in Rosenkreuz weren't going to convince Crawford German was
worth speaking and therefore not hardly worth translating into English
correctly.

Omi. Schuldig frowned at
that, at Omi coming back when he'd left in such a flurry of thought the other
day. His programing
and his instincts screaming to get the hell out because the thing he was
sharing space with was exactly what it always had been. And because there was that name on the
screen, an echo of the life that Omi was waiting to come back and wouldn't he
be just happy to know that Schuldig was about to give
it to him--his ticket back to Kritiker's soft
embracing folds. "Anything
worth eating?"

"Have you ever heard of a Nintendo?" Crawford
asked dryly. He was waiting for Schuldig to leave because he clearly deserved to go out and
get laid himself. He smiled at the blank
look that Schuldig was giving him and stood up. "Its
just as well, if you'd won any of the games you would miss out on the
sex."

Schuldig cocked up an eyebrow
on that one and took a drink--of course, losing games theoretically was one
thing. Sitting on the floor of his
living room watching Omi beat him again--that was another thing entirely. Omi had come back like it was purely a scouting
mission, to check and see how the weather was or something and when it turned
out that Schuldig was almost normal again (whatever
normal was supposed to be anyway) he'd stayed and made dinner and produced some
kind of box thing from his bag that turned out to be the Nintendo. The Super Nintendo, as it was clearly superior to whatever the
original game box thing was. He'd
agreed to it under the pretense that there wasn't much of anything else for
them to do, bum shoulder and all.

(Crawford said if you lose enough you'd get laid.) That was questionable logic at the moment,
what with the gleeful way that Omi effortlessly defeated him again--what the
hell was this game called again? Mortal
something?--considering he could get laid any damn time of the day. Sitting on the floor hitting buttons he
didn't quite know the function of and watching the badly dressed thing on the
screen that was him getting its ass kicked--it had better be damn good sex he
was going to get.

Since he just lost again. Dead on the ground while Omi's thing did its
little victory dance and Omi gave a wiggle and looked over at him with a
grin. Must be nice
winning every time. (Yes, lets pretend like you don't know exactly how that
feels.) Schuldig
just rolled his eyes and frowned down at the controller. (You could just cheat,
its all there in the mouse's brain.) He could.
A sympathetic kind of look on Omi's face. "I like you better when you're not
perfect."

(Well, isn't that just adorable.) Schuldig just
glared back over at him. The nicer
glare, since Omi wasn't entirely convinced that Schuldig
was the right sort of company to be keeping.
(That'll teach you for coming home half-high, won't it.) And then he looked back at the TV screen with
a sort of smile and flipped through the screens until the fight started over
again. His mind kind of settled into a
low hum, it was like meditation and wasn't.
It was simply that the part of him that was all himself
was busy over there and that left Kritiker's pretty
programming set on low hum. This game
was no threat, there was no threat--time to clean house, inspect the
wiring...what a self-sufficient little program.

Schuldig pressed the buttons at
random, figured that he couldn't do any worse than he already had and watched
Omi's mind working over itself, looking out for those spots where it was weaker
and found a few of those pinpoint holes that could be tore open a little
wider--considered it. Omi deserved a fighting
chance, anyway, what with the world descending into chaos in a matter of
weeks.

Then he lost again, felt the jolt in Omi's mind. Schuldig frowned at
the controller in his hand and threw it at the Super Nintendo. "I think you have an unfair advantage,"
Schuldig announced.

Smile that could have been a smirk with a little more
effort and Omi settled his hands in his lap, fingers still poised over those
keys for no good reason. Apparently this
gaming thing was a long standing habit of his.
"Fair enough. How do you propose we level the playing
field?" And then again, he looked
at the controller that was upside down and half under the TV stand. "And by the way--don't throw my
controllers." The smug was gone
long enough to assure him bad things came to those who abused the Super
Nintendo.

Schuldig leaned back, weight to
the one side to keep his other shoulder from starting to hurt too bad and one of his legs bent and kind of hanging open. Considered this playing field thing and
wondered when he was actually going to get laid. He'd lost enough games. (And weren't Crawford's delightful nonspecifics just helpful?)
"I propose you come over here," Schuldig
said.

Omi gave a little smirk, fingered the controller a little
like he was really going to protest.
(And how could he when you're so cute pouting.) No that wasn't it,
Omi set the controller down and crawled over, one hand grabbing the couch
behind Schuldig to hold himself up, leg coming up and
across and then he settled into his lap.
(Too far away though.) "Better?" Eyes flicking over to his right shoulder with
a cautious kind of glance. He didn't
want to hurt that, still looked raw and painful.

"No," Schuldig
informed him. He shook the hair back
over his shoulders and figured that it was pointless to even try,
it was falling forward around his face again.
(Yes, well, think of all the people you've mind fucked into the exact
knowledge of how to cut it like that...)
He was going to miss that when the world descended into chaos. Never would be able to find a decent
hairdresser again.

Omi scooted forward, knees across carpet and settling so
much closer and better and leaned in too.
Smile, somewhere lost under the long sleeve of his shirt the muscle in
his arm was showing. All wiry and thin, Schuldig wrapped his hand around Omi's elbow, almost felt
it and licked his lips, smiling back into the look he was getting. And kissed. (Still isn't entirely sure about you.) Yes, well, the first time they did this was
against a wall and Omi got over that then.

Instinct told him to be a good boy and keep his hands to
himself so he rested his other hand on Omi's hip instead of in his hair. Because the notion of it was nice, fist in
his hair, tipping his head, leaning forward, changing this unsure half sweet
little kiss into something else entirely and yet--he rested his hand on Omi's
waist instead, fingers dipping under the shirts and finding skin. Just resting there, thumb against his belly
to feel the way it pulled in and the little bit of breath around the kiss. Hand, palm, no fingers, down against his
arm--right arm, no couldn't touch there, that hand went back on the couch, the
other one came up, opposite side, same touch, smoothing down and getting a
grip, scooting closer and kissing harder.
Broke apart with a smacking sound and the word like a
pant against his mouth. "Now?"

Well, all except he couldn't see Omi,
couldn't feel most of him under the two shirts and why the hell did he have to
wear two shirts? (Why the hell do you
have to wear the green jacket all the damn time.) Because, unlike the shirts that hung too
loosely and bulky on Omi and hid all of his better attributes, his jacket made
him look good. (Of
course.) He dropped his hands
down, grabbed the shirts by the hem and pulled them up. Stuttered little reaction time there, Omi
leaning back, arms up and then down to pull free of the shirt. Schuldig dropped
the stupid things somewhere else and ran his hands down Omi's chest, kind of
liked that (gonna miss that when the world goes crazy
too?) over his ribs, scars and down, around his waist and stopped there for a
second. "If I grab your ass am I
going to get stabbed?"

"Schuldig,"
Very seriously. Maybe it should
have been very obvious. "If I carried
my shuriken without sheathes, I'd be stabbing myself constantly."
But why, he was asking himself, was he even trying to apply logic.
Stared and then sighed. "The
answer to your question is: no."

Someone really ought to have taught the boy how to play,
all this seriousness was going to get him killed before he made it out of his
teens. (Right, because neither his association to you or his profession will do
that first.) Schuldig
pouted and dropped his hands down to the floor.
"Now I don't want to."

Omi laughed, tried not to at first, holding it back
except that first one that must have gotten out without his permission because
he checked Schuldig's face for signs of murder before
he started really laughing. It wasn't
exactly funny and Omi figured that it was--winning all those games must have
gone to his head or something. He let
him laugh and picked at the carpet under his hands idly, trying to figure out
exactly what he was supposed to being getting out of all that losing he'd just
done. (Figured, in absence of a golf
club or a half open can of peaches, there wasn't much more losing he could be
doing.) There, a kiss, an apology for
laughing at him and making him pout like that again. Even if it were cute (see there, your Mom was
right about something, you can be cute when it serves your purpose). "Ok, then. Be that way." Amused. Omi scooting closer again,
tipping his head and kissing him, like he had been before. Like the gateway to better things.

That was, of course, if Schuldig
stopped petting the carpet and put his hands to better use. He let Omi worry about it. Not that he was worrying about it, not even a
little bit, smug kind of not thoughts because they'd already proven that even
if it weren't a great idea neither of them were exactly jumping at the chance
to put a stop to this--and Omi was warm anyway.
Warm and half naked and petting his collarbone now. (Because its not your shoulder, of course.) Schuldig let out a
sigh through his nose and brought his hands over: knees first. Short kid, there wasn't much of a walk
between his knees and his hips. Working
his way up and trying to remember exactly where all of the shuriken were
hidden. They needed to go. So where did he hide them? Waistband. Pockets. He found the one just around his side,
fingers closing around the sheath and tugging it free, dropped it to the
side. And then ran his fingers along
until he found the next set, and the next, down and in his pockets, another one
and another one and a half breathed laugh into the kiss.

Distracted but determined, Omi tipping his head and
lifting up on his knees, oh and there was another one. Schuldig ran his
palms up the back of his thighs, didn't feel anything, nothing around that
sweet curve of his ass either, and he brought his hand up, let his fingers
tangle in the dampness of Omi's hair and kissed him harder. No distraction, just the kiss, just long
enough to feel his weight shift and his mind start to hum and then--

Grabbed his ass. Rough and got something just about a squeak,
oomph, nearly knocked their teeth together and barely missed busting his lip
with Omi's face. Then the laughing
started, Omi just about cackling at him.
Some half thought or another, too faint to catch but he knew the way it
felt, he'd felt it in other minds and it was...
(No, not hardly.) "You missed one," Omi informed him,
all smiles and shifting, leaning close, all that muscle in his chest and arms
getting tighter, ropey and Schuldig looked back at
his eyes, felt the grin going across his face and lifted his eyebrow to convey
his interest in this fact. "Better
keep looking."

(In your language that means 'fuck me
into the floor,' roughly translated.)

Schuldig pushed him back then, following
after him. The sound
of elbows and hands and knees hitting the ground muffled by the carpet, Omi
relaxing back into the carpet as he leaned over him. Kissing him the way he should have done
before, felt the fingers in his hair, brushing it back away from his face,
(hair just didn't taste as good as it looked) and brushing up against him just
to get the room to spread his legs, settling again. Schuldig licked his
lips and pressed another kiss to his lips, then gone, his cheek and his jaw, up
by his ear and his neck, down to the hollow of his throat and his collarbone
and then tipped his face down. Fingers
getting his pants
unbuttoned, pushing them down--damn boxers in the way--caught them with his
thumbs and pushed them down. Slim hips
lifting up, short legs pulling free and he tossed the whole mess over his
shoulder. (Watch that shoulder...) Pressed his palms against Omi's thighs, just
above the knee, slipped them up and around his ass, squeeze and Omi's breathed
out laugh, back down to the hollows of his knee and up, dragging up the inside
where the skin was the softest, made him shiver. All the way up and over, out, grabbed his
hips and dragged him down.

"Got 'em," he said,
like there was any need to keep up the pretense. Omi gave him some kind of smile for being
such an efficient boy. And Schuldig kissed him again, weight on his elbow, hand going
under his back, around his shoulder and Omi was holding onto his ribs, kissing
back and complaining about how he was the only naked one. Working around to doing
something about that, really. Schuldig figured waiting would be good for him, built
character and all that. Rocked his hips down against him anyway, nothing but thin pants
between them. Free hand going
down Omi's side, ribs, that scar there at the bottom, felt smooth and he ran
his fingernail across it, liked that one and for no good reason. Coming back up and back
down, mindless pattern in time with the grind. Omi tipping his head back just long enough to
breath, reaching down his back, trying to push his pants down, wasn't working,
damn buttons and all the same, trailing his fingers around his side and between
them.

His head cocked to one side and looking
down. Licked
his lips--red, pink, pretty damn colors under the right circumstances. This one was good, the blush, the red lips
and he waited, helped out a little before he got bored with that and bent his
head, mouth down on Omi's neck and kissing, nipping at the taste and Omi cursed
at him for being damn distracting--maybe--fought with his pants until they
moved and then congratulated himself with more kissing.

Fingers in his hair and he had started to almost like
that. Different, almost nobody touched
his hair (and why is that?) but Omi didn't seem to care about that. Warm skin, flushed with
heat and hard body that was pushing up against his. Wanting and asking for it with no uncertain
amount of shamelessness. Didn't even
need to feel the mind behind it to know--breathed out as he pulled back,
looking over, where was the damn table?
Looked the wrong way, found the coffee table on the left and reached
under it to get the lube.

Didn't even have to hunt for it this
time. (Benefits of knowing it was
coming, surely.) Pop open cap because he
figured he wouldn't care for wasting time unscrewing the damn thing. Dripping down the back of his hand as Omi
stared at him, something like a kind of grin, fingers reaching out to touch him
anywhere he could reach, going for his shoulder and changing direction, ribs
instead. Chest, spending time tracing
lines there; Schuldig pressed his fingers against
him, spreading the oil until Omi was shifting around, biting his lip and not
too pleased about this need for teasing.
Pushed them in, tight grip of his body, warm and just short of rubbing
where it felt best.

Omi had big eyes, the kind that
people mistook for innocence and trusted without giving a second thought as to
why. (Well some people.) Blue too, pretty color, he could get away
with murder (and did quite frequently) and there again: that look should have
looked strange on his face. Eyes
half-closed and pink cheeks and he was about to tell him exactly what kind of
bastard he really was. Schuldig kissed him instead, playful and hard and shutting
him up, pressing in deeper and rubbing.
Felt the body under him arch up, the mewl and
the stuttered out breath as the fingers grabbed at his shoulders. And then didn't; couldn't
grab his shoulder like that, going to tear the stitches or make it bleed, hurt,
something--

A dozen little seconds, drifting along, Omi kissing back
and telling him exactly how he wanted it.
Fascinating, even without the mental soundtrack to back it up, and he
pulled his fingers free, hand up on his thigh and pushing his leg open
farther. Grinding down against him but
that was all and it wasn't enough and why the hell was he teasing anyway. Hands in his hair again
because the shoulders were off limits.
Omi's mouth against his ear, all damp breath and wet
lips. "Fuck me," like
every dirty thought he'd ever had. "Now."

"Sure thing, boss," like sarcasm was really
needed. Schuldig
grabbed him by the arms and shoved him down, heard his body hit and watched his
face. Tipped his head to one side and
grinned at him. Lube,
cap, (brief consideration to that nice lady that comes and scrubs this kind of
thing out of the carpet) and Omi's hand up on his left wrist where he was
holding him down. Lost eye
contact, just half a second, free hand pushing Omi's leg up farther and then
down, shifting on his knees and just against him and then up again--watching
Omi's face, his lips, eyes-- Rocking his
hips forward; flutter of eye lids, shiver of his mouth as his head fell back,
little groan rattling in his chest.

Schuldig kissed his throat,
sucked on it and felt Omi's hand on his back.
Nowhere specific, wasn't even sure where, and pulling at him. So he reached back, blind, caught his hand,
threaded his fingers through and shoved it down against the floor. Half a second to wonder at that and then the
thought was lost. Better things to worry
about--mind sliding in that same motion, rocking and getting slippery, wet--Schuldig grinned at him and couldn't explain why, bent his
head down and kissed him. (Yes, about
that...) Hungry little noises against
his mouth, didn't know exactly where they came from, didn't care, pushing his
hips forward a little faster, deeper.
Knees up on his ribs and tight, hard knots there
digging in. The fingers around
his were gripping hard enough to leave marks and Omi was moving back against
him.

(Just can't hold him down.) No, not unless you were Kritiker.

Hand slipped, too wet, sweat and movement, hit the carpet
and Omi's arm was free, he got it up, under Schuldig's
chest and around, the back of his neck, buried in his hair, pulling and tugging
and twisting it. Had to breath and lost the kiss, got a dozen more in return, nips
and licks and then nothing, Omi shaking his head. Hair sticking to his
forehead, muttering something that was too low to hear and losing all the well
tended corners of his self control.

Fuck. (Yes.)

Leaning back then, hand off Omi's, shaking his head to
get the fist out of his hair, dragging his palms down Omi's side, rough grip,
pink marks in his wake and curling around his hips, pulling him back into every
thrust and watching the arch of his back, his neck, heavy swallow and crazy
pulse--he was--(Fuck.) Yes. Watched his arm go over his head, trying to
get purchase on the carpet, pushing back, shameless little noises with every
move and rhythmic sway of his mind--

Close, close and Omi's hand down,
wrapping around and almost violent jerks of his hand. Biting his lip, eyes closed
and almost shiny as sweaty as he was.
Tight belly--shiver, staring to shake. Schuldig moving
again, (too close, shame its almost over) hands under
Omi's knees and slipping down, elbows, leaning down again. Frantic, messy, pointless
kiss like their mouths just rubbing or crashing together when they lined up
right. Faster
and harder and Omi's hand on him now.
Up around his shoulders, hanging on tighter so he was all but off the
ground and--

(Beautiful.)

________________________________________

Sweat hadn't even cooled yet. He could feel it damp in the hair at his
temples, in the curve of his neck and the small of his back and sticky in the
space between his cheek and Schuldig's chest. And that was a strange place to be
recovering--but the couch was close and the bed wasn't and the couch, although
close, wasn't terribly wide. So.

The blanket fell at a strange angle across his back,
almost diagonal and onto the floor, and one arm was limp and dangling with it,
knuckles brushing the carpet; other arm bent at the elbow, palm resting on the
skin just over his head. Schuldig had one hand over his eyes and the other arm
almost straight in the air, half-leaned against the back of the couch.

Their legs were kind of tangled, but neither bothered to
do anything about that. Or straighten
the blanket. Sweat hadn't even cooled
yet.

Omi thought he might have said something in there--wasn't
exactly sure about what words had come out of his mouth, wasn't exactly sure
about what the thought was behind it.
Didn't seem to matter, now, when his back was chafing red from the
carpet and his body was sore and stretched and Schuldig's
shoulder was probably hurting like a bitch about now. Didn't seem to matter, but--

It had been something ridiculous, too. Completely ridiculous
thought and the words that slipped right along with it. Maybe Schuldig
didn't notice--if he had, Omi would hear about it later. Repeatedly.

For now, he let out a long breath and didn't bother
opening his eyes. "So, there was
this German to Japanese dictionary on your bookshelf."

Schuldig shifted beneath him,
just slightly. Resettling his legs and
his knee rubbed against Omi's thigh.
"There was?" Puff of
breath, unconcerned in this statement of doubt.
Why would he have something like that, anyway--when it made perfect
sense, of course.

"Mm." Half a hum for the shift
and the accidental touch, and an affirmative. Too sated and sore to not multi-task in
vocalization. "What, you don't know
your own books?"

"They're not mine.
They're just there to look normal."
Schuldig shifted again, upper body this time
and Omi moved with him, opened his eyes and tilted his head just enough to look
up, saw him reaching for his shoulder. Yeah, he'd be regretting that--it might need
to be redressed, could probably use some ice.
Hopefully he didn't rip any stitches.
"You want to know about my name?"

"That's just it, right?" Murmured it, still too worn
to speak any louder. Omi rolled
his shoulders, turned his head upright and rested his chin on his hand, staring
up the plane of Schuldig's chest to see his
face. "It's not a name, not a
proper one, anyway. It's a word."

"It's my name, more than the rest of them."

Omi shivered, just a little. Might have been Schuldig's
knee against his thigh again, might have been the chill in the apartment, but
maybe he just knew exactly what that meant.
Wanted to ask why--because there had to be a reason someone called
themselves 'guilty' on purpose and why that was a better representation than
anything else. Particularly for a person
who never appeared to feel bad about anything.
Ever.

There was a story behind that. Omi wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to
know it.

"My birthday," he murmured instead by some way
of explanation, "is February 29, 1981."

Schuldig made a noise of
derision--kind of a half-chuckle, half-snort.
Maybe both in succession, presumably at how clever he thought that was.

"Wasn't my idea." Omi turned his face back down, nose pressed
against skin and inhaling. Resettling
there on his impromptu pillow and closing his eyes again. "You'd be surprised how often it never
even occurs to people, though."
Ken, in particular, had never quite got the joke.

Smelled nice--(and it's never been like this before, has
it?) Quiet afterwards, yes. Conversation sometimes. Sleep sometimes. Never this close,
and it shouldn't feel as good as it did.
Shouldn't like the warmth and the smell and the stick of sweat between skin, almost cool now but still a bit tacky. Shouldn't want to stay
here, like this.

Did, though.

(How do you do this to
me?
That's what the thought was, the words, right there in the middle when it
tipped out and you lost your mind, because he's just so good at making that
happen. Perfect
thought, just right for a cheesy romance or a BL manga,
wrapped up in rice paper and blue ribbon tied just so.)

Schuldig's fingers slid into
his hair, just through his bangs at first, pulling them back from his
forehead--sweat damp still so they stuck up at angles when the hand slipped
lower. Light tug. Slow pet. Just for a moment,
and for a moment everything kind of dissolved.

Liked it, this body and this smell and
that hand, this skin touching him.
Wanted it.
Liked the voice sometimes, even, liked the mind behind the voice most
days, liked figuring out all the little
hydra-puzzles. Liked
it when he sulked. Even liked
when he was always two steps ahead because every once in a while Omi would
catch up--and then something would spark and click into place.

(You're in trouble, Tsukiyono.)

The hand left his hair--one last, slow stroke and then
pulled away, probably back to cradle the injured shoulder. Omi made a murmuring sound, something
appreciative even while trying to dismiss that whole moment. It wasn't going away. It wasn't, so he pushed himself up, settling
his knees against the cushions and crawling up enough to hover over Schuldig's face. Quick, soft kiss.
"I'll get you some ice."

Schuldig's hand on his elbow
stopped him. "What's your
theory?" And his mouth was tugging
up in amusement, eyes just a bit narrow and glittering the way they did when he
was about to outsmart someone. Two steps ahead and no way to catch up. "About my name."

Omi licked his lips and paused there, elbows against the
pillow under Schuldig's head, careful not to catch
his hair. How the hell did someone
answer that, anyway--when the one offering the query already knew you were
wrong.

Maybe, he thought, you call yourself 'guilty' so that
everyone else knows it, too. You're
egotistical that way.

He laughed--not teasing the way Omi had laughed at him
earlier, him and his pout and his fear of shuriken hidden in Omi's
clothes. It was appreciative, deep and
long. "You're only the second
person to think of it that way."
Murmured words and the sound was close enough
to brush against his lips.

Omi noted, aside from the comfortable sensation of lying
there with the laugh rumbling against his chest and his chin settling on one
hand, staring down at Schuldig and the feel of breath
against his mouth--that this didn't necessarily mean he was right. And when the laugh was gone and Schuldig was just lying and staring up at him, shift of his
shoulder for comfort, the expression changed.
It was... strange and thoughtful and completely unlike anything else,
the tease or the smirk or the pout or--

Something approaching unsettled.

Omi wanted to kiss him and that whole idea was
stupid. Because they only kissed when it
was bracketing sex and because the urge to do that had something to do with
reassurance and that entire concept when coupled with Schuldig
just did not compute. The entire concept
of unsettled
when coupled with Schuldig did not compute.

(Then again, the idea of you coupled with Schuldig--)

"There's not enough time for regret when you could
die at any second," Omi said, licking his lips slowly, because that was
the more serious answer to the question.
Or his opinion on the subject, anyway, occasionally hypocritical though
it may be. There were a few things worth
regretting.

Leaned in and kissed him anyway. Soft, broke with a low smack and hovered
there a breath of space away. "I'll
get you some ice," murmured there, then pushed
himself up again.

The room was cold--it was always fucking cold, that was
why he'd found a spare blanket to leave on the couch. Let that blanket fall away and crawled up,
shivered and yanked his boxers back on and walked to the kitchen, sweat-cooled
skin breaking into goosebumps. Schuldig climbed to
his feet somewhere behind him and appeared in the kitchen just as Omi was
pulling a tray out of the freezer. Pants
back on, leaning against the counter and staring.

No expression, really, just staring--he could almost feel
things moving around in his head, though Schuldig
might not be doing anything like that.
There was no way to tell if he wasn't echoing or responding to thoughts.

Omi was just starting to twist the tray over the sink
when he said abruptly, "If your precious Kritiker told you to kill Ken, would you?"

The tray cracked and jumped out of his hands, a shower of
ice and plastic crashing in a metal hail in the bowl of the stainless-steel
sink. His hands landed on either side,
wrapped carefully around the edges because they were shaking too hard and no
one else needed to see that. He knew the
answer without even having to think about it.

"Yes."

Silence behind him while he pulled himself together,
grabbing a hand towel and picking the ice cubes out of the sink, piling them up
and focused on the way they clacked and re-froze together. Why would he ask that, anyway--maybe just to
see the reaction.
Maybe it had something to do with the conversation they'd been
having. Didn't want to
find out right now.

"The name's unimportant," Schuldig
said without any kind of consideration for whether or not Omi wanted to know,
but his voice was soft. "And Teufel just sounds stupid."

Omi smiled a little at his hands, shoulders relaxing just
a bit--because that did sound kind of odd.
Had a hard time wrapping Japanese syllables around
that. He hummed something like
acknowledgment, twisting the ice up in the towel.

"As for Ken--you only know what they told you that
you know. And absolute obedience is hard
to command." Could hear the smirk
in Schuldig's voice, right there--twist to the words
like maybe he'd tried it before and knew just how wrong that could go. "Harder to maintain. Even for the best of
us." Schuldig
being among that number, of course, and his voice was a little bit closer
now. "Minds adapt, change. Barbed wire gets rusty, weak--it'll
break." Hands settled on his hips,
not pulling or pushing or turning but just existing
warmly. Schuldig's
presence at his back, close enough his hair brushed a little against his
shoulder. "If you
want it enough."

He did want it--in the tiny little part of his mind that
he was allowed to want it, he did. And
that might have been more leeway than he'd ever had before.

There were a few thoughts; random, ridiculous thoughts
that he shoved aside and simply turned around.
Felt Schuldig's hands
resettle on the edge of the counter behind him. Omi leaned back against it, reached up to set
the ice pack carefully in place against the white bandages. Held it there for a minute and shoved all
those thoughts away again, staring up at him.
"You should get some rest, or it'll never heal."

And in response, just a hint of a
smirk.

(You're in a lot of trouble, Tsukiyono.) Yeah, well.

________________________________________

There were two courses of action for every history
Crawford saw. It was a puzzle, more or
less, trying to figure out if you should accept the future or fight against
it. Some paths could not be altered no
matter what effort you put into it, some could be delayed and other ones were
only nebulous what-ifs and could-bes waiting for
someone to step in and make a decision.
Their precious sacrifice being taken from her dearly psychotic older
brother by Masafumi’s idiots—that was
preventable. But in doing so they would
alert Estet to the knowledge they had regarding that
girl’s importance and why bother to do that?
There were things left to do, time before they could proceed forth. The longer Estet
had before the ceremony the more opportunity they had to figure something
out. Aya was
kidnapped and her dearly psychotic older brother was on his way back to Weiss
while Omi slept.

Omi. Crawford had offered the information
regarding his departure with a sour twist of his lips, distaste for having to
bother. “Your love mouse is leaving,
tomorrow, 8:51 AM.” With some kind of
hope in his mouth that with the stupid short Japanese assassin gone Schuldig would return to normal operating procedures. Schuldig had
shrugged and looked at Crawford’s watch and wondered how much longer Pelagatti was going to be in the bathroom—stupid bastard.

But that was yesterday when the inevitable path wasn’t
three minutes from happening. Three
minutes to—(what did it matter when the world’s going to hell anyway?) It didn’t.
Omi was just as fucked whether he was here or not. (Fucked but not well
fucked, important distinction, surely.)
There he was sighing into the air as he woke up, fingers up and rubbing
the hair away from his face, looking over toward him with something like a
smile on his face.

(And love in his head, how the hell did that
happen?) Most emotions had flavors, most
emotions were pointless and troublesome and only useful because they could
twist reason any which way they wanted.
(Like giving you enough reason to chisel away at that programming in his
head? How sweet.) The kid deserved a chance—but love. Love felt like something, it didn’t taste
like anything. He’d felt it before, felt
the perversion of it, felt the hideous thing it twisted into and he’d laughed
himself sick over it plenty of times.
But never, not since before he could clearly remember, had anyone loved
him.

Omi loved him.
(How sweet.)

Two minutes. The
world was going to chaos, Omi was going back to his masters like a lap dog and
given the chance, Crawford would kill him as soon as he could. (Because Crawford can’t kill you—the love
mouse, that’s another story. That bitch
can die just fine.) Nagi
would do it, probably enjoy it. Omi
would understand it somehow, his mind would wrap around the idea, accept that
it was what you got for fraternizing with the enemy. Aesop’s snake story. But the smile on his face as he opened his
eyes and the pink drag of his tongue across his lips.

(It’s poisoning.)
He knew that; he just didn’t care to get away from the source. (Because it’s nice and
sweet and tingles like sunshine and orgasms?)

He leaned forward, hand on the blanket covering Omi’s
chest and kissed him. Wondered at the
way Omi didn’t object, didn’t demand to know what he was doing or—and scooted
closer, moved his hand down, to his wrist, felt his pulse and the way he
reacted. The hand in
his hair and the tip of his head.
Murmur somewhere in there that could have been hello or good morning or
his name. (Poisoning.) The seconds bled away like that, with Omi
warm against him. His hand
slipping down and his fingers going through Schuldig’s.

And his mind, where nobody but him saw, where Omi didn’t
even see it fully: (Poison.) Love.

8:51, he pulled back and stared down at him. Hand out of his and up, brushing the hair
back away from his face, thumb lingering on his forehead. He pressed a kiss there at the top of his
nose. “Fuck Kritiker,”
he mumbled in German. 8:51, ten seconds
and the phone rang as he pushed himself up.
Stood on the bed in time with Omi’s mind realizing,
reacting, going for his phone.
Stepped off when he flipped it open to answer it.

Stood at the closet door, thinking
about shirts when he heard that quiet little: “Yes.” Settled on deciding later about the time of
the: “Understood.” Schuldig
didn’t look at him, didn’t see the point in making it harder than it had to be
because it would just get him stabbed.
He left the room about the time Omi was on his knees grabbing his socks
out from under the bed, listened to his mind going blank, reacting to instinct,
going around and gathering up everything he’d ever brought over to the house.

Leave nothing behind.

Schuldig picked up his
toothbrush and turned on the sink. Stood
there and brushed his teeth while Omi retrieved his manga
and stuffed it into his bag, the stupid game and controllers and then to the
door, his shoes. And it would have been
just as nice to have him pause in that doorway and look back but he didn’t.

He smirked around the toothbrush, swept his hair back
away from his face and spit into the sink. Rinsed the toothbrush and then
dropped it. Wiped his mouth with the
towel hanging over the bar and dropped that into the sink too, shook his hair
away from his face and watched it fall forward again.

Omi was on the street now, running back to his master.

Schuldig picked up the
hairbrush as he walked back toward his bedroom.
Combed the rats and tangles out until it was smooth and dropped the
brush where he stood. Contemplated
shirts and pants, ended up staring at the bed and contemplated burning the
whole damn building down.

(And then it’d be like it never happened.) But it had.
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Sweet Talk