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Change Your Mind	By : CardDragonBall Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1534 -:- 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-Change Your Mind
- 1
Title: Change Your Mind

Authors: Card and Casey

Fandom: Weiss Kreuz

Characters: Schuldig/Omi

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Sex, Slash, Language, liberal interpretation of the prompt. It's for "30_lemons" at LJ

Disclaimer: Not ours. No money is made. Just borrowing.

Prompt 30: The Playroom, or, "Wow, Santa Never Brought Me That Kind of Toy!"

Sequel to Bling and takes off directly where This River is Wild left off.

_______

For a few minutes it was warm and perfect. Heavy blankets over him, arm across his stomach and fingers still brushing a bit over his side, breath evening out and body relaxing, thinking seriously about a nap. Thinking not much about anything else at all. Quiet and peaceful and so mercifully warm.

Then Schuldig rolled over and took half the blankets with him.

That wasn't so bad--Omi had once been shipped off to Sapporo for a week with Ken, brief undercover mission and they'd had to share close quarters, and damn if Ken didn't like to kick in his sleep and tug the covers up so his feet stuck out. That was before Youji and Aya, and he preferred not to think how that particular job would have gone with one of them instead of Ken. Of course, Aya would have been stoic and disgruntled and would probably have slept sitting propped up against the door or something, and Youji would have found a more entertaining bedmate and left Omi alone for the night. In all likeliness, anyway.

Schuldig's apartment, though, was fucking cold, and the bit of sheet he'd been left with wasn't doing much to keep that cold away from his skin. He grumbled, tugged a bit at the covers but Schuldig was gradually inching himself into the center of the bed, all but shoving Omi towards the edge. Totally unaware and unconcerned, in his sleep, that he was sharing this space with another body.

Figured.

Omi finally rubbed his eyes awake and sat up, legs dangling over the edge of the bed and let Schuldig have his space and cocoon of blankets. Shivered and stood up, wandering over to the closet to look for the proffered shirt, choosing a white button-down at random and pulling it on--had to roll up the cuffs and the thing fit him almost like an incredibly skimpy dress. He paused buttoning, the thought finally floating to the surface of his mind. So... what're you going to do now?

Oh shit, school.

He was halfway to the door before the reality of this little scenario sunk in. Clothes--somewhere in the basement, no telling where exactly and they couldn't be dry yet, there might not even be any dryers and he'd have to string them up out on the balcony and wait. And even assuming that, he wasn't going to go out like this, nothing but a shirt--definitely not taking the stairs, someone coming up might get an eyeful, not taking the elevators like this, either. Even if he pawed through Schuldig's clothes for some pants, it was patently obvious that he was wearing someone else's clothes, and out in the halls, in the stairwells, who knows whom one might run into? And you know how people are, in apartment buildings--they watch their neighbors, even when they act like they don't, and there was no doubt that everyone in this building knew exactly what unit the redheaded gaijin who kept strange hours lived in. And oh, did you hear? The other day this high-school boy was going in and out of there dressed in clothes five sizes too big for him; oh, scandalous.

Reputation, damn it to hell, was fragile. There was no leaving this apartment, not without careful timing and his own clothes on.

School!

Searched the living room and kitchen, all the countertops until he found a cell phone, picked it up and quieted his mind for a moment to remember the number. Nothing new here, calling in sick, usually due to sheer exhaustion after going days on little to no sleep, missions and schemata and planning and hours writing reports or searching data, hacking through the world's network and pulling out little chunks of it. And realistically he could have called in a lot more often than he did, but tuition was expensive and wasting it wasn't so much of an option. Living on his own, though, over the winter--no missions, no late nights, no Weiss--it had been a while since he was so much as late to class in the morning.

The secretary was on and he faked a hoarse voice--which surprisingly wasn't difficult, just what kinds of noises had he made when--no, he was sure he'd be okay tomorrow, just a bit of a cold, some rest would take care of it. Thank you very much, ma'am, you have a lovely day. Turned the phone off and set it down, staring at it like it might start ringing, some force of nature or other on the line telling him that Tsukiyono Omi does not get days off, not sick days, not snow days, not any day that isn't spent working or studying or otherwise making himself useful for Kritiker and society as a whole.

Silence. Well, what now?

***

He raided Schuldig's fridge first. Not much in the way of cuisine there, mostly heat and eat, instant stuff, cold drinks. He pulled a bottle of Ramune out of the door and set the teapot boiling for a cup of ramen. Pocky, wasabi chips. Junk food. Ken would be scandalized.

Daytime television turned out to be not so hot. Game shows, variety shows, some anime here and there but nothing he found terribly interesting. Spent a while watching some overdone drama until he realized it resembled his life a little too closely and changed the channel.

Schuldig's apartment had lots of windows, and once the rain finally slowed to something more approaching a sprinkle it was worthwhile to look out them, busy people going about their busy lives. Monochrome umbrellas and crisply ironed suits. And you know, Tsukiyono, you're going to graduate in a little more than a month--and then what, you going to pretend to be one of them, too? Have a nice little suit and tie and a nice little briefcase, walk down the street to get on the nice little train every morning, go to work and bow to the nice little receptionist, go about your boring job and go home, or go drink, push paper until you're too old to care about much of anything other than earning enough to live in that nice apartment in Shibuya. Is that how an assassin meets his end?

No. No, it isn't, and it can't be, because Weiss may be dissolved, but that doesn't mean Kritiker let him go.

It wasn't like they ever would, either, too much time invested and too much knowledge in his head. Too much effort and money into him and whatever they had done that took his memory away; whatever conditional 'training' he'd been given in those hazy months before he was fully awake. And he knew they had, no matter how often Persia or Manx made that assertion, that he was his own person and had the right to his choices. Because when it came down to it, there was always that suggestion, right there in his mind. Always a wall that made him stop, always a tug that made him go back to them, tell them what he'd seen. What had happened. Yes, there's a problem with Abyssinian. Yes, Siberian spooked the target. Yes, of course, I'll keep an eye on them all.

And what would they think of you now, half naked and lounging around in your enemy's apartment, eating his junk food and messing with his electronics after a nice round of morning sex? What, you don't have any conditioning specific to this kind of scenario, no trigger to keep you from lying down and writhing when someone touches you just right? Maybe Kritiker didn't cover all their bases after all--because you waffle and sidestep and try to escape, but once someone pushes you past that point...

Well, needless to say Schuldig was good at pushing, and probably knew about that button better than Omi did. Should ask him, sometime; ask him what he sees in your head. Whether it can be rewired.

Dangerous thought. Stop right there.

He stood up abruptly, turning his back on the windows and returning to the fridge for another soda, picking up the cell phone on the way and just holding in for a minute. Trying to remember his number--gave it to Omi in that email, half in caps lock because Ken was trying to thumb-type a letter on his cell and coach soccer at the same time.

Calling him now, here. Not going to outpour all the events of the morning, not going to tell this time. Not to Ken, or anyone, and that--wasn't that interesting? Punched in the number and listened to the tone.

Ring.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Sneaking suspicion in Ken's voice, unlisted number showing no doubt. Fortunate, explaining Schuldig's name attached to it would have been difficult. "It's me."

"Omi!" Genuine surprise there, warming. Omi smiled a little, to himself, walked back across the living room to the couch, rested his chin on the back of it to continue watching the ant-people scurrying about on the streets. "Damn, I didn't expect to hear from you out of the blue. What's up? Did something happen?"

That intent, the assumption--you wouldn't have called unless you had something to say, unless there was business to be dealt with. You wouldn't call without a reason. Omi blinked a moment, arm dangling over the back of the couch, reflection in the window blinking back at him, raindrops creeping across it and down. Reached up to poke at one, finger tracking it across the glass. "I just wanted to call you."

He heard the pause on the other end of the line, a moment where Ken was deciding how to react to that, to launch in on Omi--no, really, what's going on? Why aren't you on your own phone and what's with that tone of voice and since when do you call people because you feel like it?

Well, you see, Ken, I'm kind of trapped in Schuldig's apartment at the moment with no clothes, and you know I had sex with him this morning, totally willingly, and by the way it was really good--I've done it before, you know, did I never tell you about that? And so all this has caused me to rethink my motivations and wonder if this whole Weiss arrangement is really over. Whether I can let it be over, whether I'll be allowed to let it. Whether an agent is going to walk through this door any second now and drag me back to headquarters for reprogramming. I know Persia's dead now and I know there's no one looking over my shoulder anymore but I can't get used to that. I don't know whether to be relieved or terrified.

Ken, what's it like to be free? You still remember that, don't you?

"Okay, then." Mental shrug on Ken's part--probably a physical one, too, knowing him. Could almost see it. "Hold on--damn rain, I'm still soaked here." Sound like a towel rubbing in his hair.

"You too?" The words were out of Omi's mouth before he realized it, small chuckle. Imagined the look on Ken's face.

"Oh? Were you running this morning?"

"Yeah, it was pretty nasty."

Ken laughed. That was good to hear. "Hey, shouldn't you be in school? Or don't they care so much this close to graduation?"

"Not so much, I suppose. Everyone else is cramming for their college exams."

Strange pause there, could almost hear Ken blinking. "Oh. Um, don't you need to study, too?" Nothing pointed or admonishing in that tone, Ken had that genuine quality. Even when he was awkward.

"I'm not going to college."

"You're not? Why?" More genuine there--surprise, and if he was there he'd be rubbing his forehead, staring at the floor. Long moment of silence and then a hurried, "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I kind of thought--"

"With my grades and my positive attitude and efficiency at test-taking I could apply to a college of my choice, prepare for a suitable career and ensure my future," Omi finished in a monotone. "Yes, that's exactly what my counselor said."

"Oh." Nothing said for a minute while Ken processed that, stored it away and decided it seemed best not to address it further. "So, what have you been up to, then?"

Omi looked around the room, couch and chairs and TV and windows and all the scattered signs of Schuldig's life. "Nothing really. You?"

"Coaching. It's really fun, actually." Heard the warmth there, in Ken's voice, the tone he got whenever he talked about soccer. The envious state of truly and completely loving what one does for a living--even in a past tense. "So... Omi--" Something awkward there, but Ken was cut off by a gruff, almost stern 'Hidaka, we need you over here.' Ken being called away. "Sorry, I have to go. Can I call you back?"

Really, he paused longer than was strictly necessary. Something else to clue Ken in that he was off today. "I borrowed this phone, actually. One of my classmates." Pretty lie, that. "I'll get back to you later, okay?" Another one, ought to start keeping score for the day.

"Oh, okay. Sure." So much genuine happiness. "Later."

Omi pushed the end button, slowly folded the phone closed, loud click in the silence. Slowing patter of rain and the honk of a horn from somewhere on the street. Television on mute. The bottle of Ramune was still in his hand, sweating now and not as cold as it had been ten minutes ago. Condensation rolling off and dripping onto his bare thigh.

He opened it, popped the marble and took a long drink, leaning back on the couch until his legs were stretched out, pale against the dark brown fabric.

Wondered when Schuldig would wake up. Wondered what Ken had been called away to do.

***

The computer was tucked away in its own corner of the living room, quiet on a clutter-free desk. Omi had noted it earlier, contemplated it and ultimately left it alone until all the other options had been attempted and abandoned. Bored with the TV, bored with Schuldig's German movie collection and German book collection and complete lack of video games. That had to be some sort of crime in Tokyo, for a residence to not have at least one console.

He sat backwards in the desk chair out of habit, crossing his arms over the backrest and waited for the system to boot. Made a face when it took too long--damn German telepaths, always waited too long to upgrade their systems. No love for the computers. Waited and frowned a bit at the roman keyboard, ignored it in favor of the desktop displaying and--

Damn it, the whole fucking thing was in German. This day could be going better for an impromptu vacation, really.

It wouldn't be so hard to navigate, still, but Schuldig seemed to have custom icons, and they were all pictures. Of himself. Who the hell was that vain? Omi shook his head in a kind of stupor, leaning back. He could always make the computer display Japanese, of course, could even set it so it wouldn't display any other language just to be a pain in the ass--seriously, icons of himself? Schuldig more than deserved it.

Omi should have wanted to do just that, too. Should have immediately rolled the chair forward and got started without even pondering on it and finished off by making one of those icons into a screensaver with a big blinking arrow that read 'Flamboyant Narcissist' or something along those lines. But--just didn't feel like it. Not today.

Instead, he found himself picking up the Rubik's cube sitting on the corner of the desk, turning it over in his hands before giving it a few twists. Frowned. Turned it over a few more times, eyebrows drawing together in thought and made another, more calculated twist.

Echo in the back of his mind, something from training, somewhere in the middle of the fog. Solve the puzzle, Omi. Sickly sweet voice full of promises, always challenging but never awarding the prize. Hit this target, now this one, and the next. What, you want something, praise, some stupid incentive? Someday, boy, the fact that you are still alive will be its own reward. Now hit the goddamn target.

That may be, Omi thought, but I never knew that one day I'd have a preference for killing people over living a quiet, normal life.

He turned in the chair to face the hallway, waiting for Schuldig to wake up. And maybe, ultimately, that's why he was here. In Schuldig's apartment, in his shirt, still feeling a bit of that stretch from Schuldig inside him. Maybe he'd begun to understand, just a little, how it was in that particular camp--how one got to that mentality.

Omi gave the cube another twist, a bit of a smile as the pattern started to come together.

That, or he really was just that bored.

***

No—didn’t want to be awake already. (Already?) Too soon if there was still sun coming in through the windows. Didn’t even have to open his eyes to know the sun was still out, coming through the rain-soaked sky and—(…on a leash—) Half a thought, not even that, somewhere in the lower decimals of a whole thought, not even a full flavor to it—but the fact that he could hear it that loudly and closely and—

(Forgot that, already?) No. Rolled over on his back, looking across the room at the open door. Blankets tangled all around his waist, tugging him half back over on his side. Shouldn’t Omi have grabbed his shuriken and ran for it as soon as the petting was over and the sweat had cooled? (You took his clothes; every action has an equal or greater reaction, right?) No. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. (Whatever. You took his clothes, pay the consequence of dealing with his—naked?—ass until you get them back to him.) Naked, he had very few problems with dealing with Omi. Naked Omi seemed to work out well enough for him.

Yanked the blankets from around waist, felt them stick and drag across his skin, had lift his hips off the bed to get them out from under him, and kicked them down. Sat up on the edge of the bed, one hand curling around the edge, the other rubbing against his face—brushing against the tangle of hair. Other voices coming into tune now, Omi’s getting lost in there for now. Let it get lost, had to get to the bathroom first, find a brush, get pants and then he’d listen to those thoughts.

Hungry; get some food. Get some food and then deal with (naked) Omi.

Pushed himself up to his feet, not nearly awake enough, arms over his head, stretching. And then scratching at his stomach where it was sticky and itching. (Should have taken a shower.) Yeah, should do that now. Or later or some time. Shook the hair out of his face, moving now, out of the bedroom, found pants in the hallway and picked them up—last few footsteps to the bathroom.

Washed his belly before he pulled the pants on, picked up the brush off the counter and ran it through his hair. (Not too bad, all things considered.) Snagged a few times and spent almost ten minutes in front of the mirror picking the knots apart, and brushed it until it was smooth.

(You think Crawford would have something to say about leaving someone wandering around your apartment while you slept. Someone you know can kill and has weapons to do so? Bit arrogant isn’t it?) Maybe. Sort of a moot point given that he was clearly still alive and his belongings were still all in their right places and with the exception of a couple of drinks.

Walked into the living room, glancing over—Omi in front of his computer (brat, didn’t ask) one of his shirts on, collar hanging loosely open in the back and too long down his back. Saw the bend of one knee pulled up and felt the concentration in Omi’s mind. (Found your Rubik’s cube.) Good for him.

Into the kitchen, looking for something to eat—didn’t want anything he had. (Why did you buy then?) Would want it later, maybe—probably. Wasn’t that hungry. Found a box of pocky, shook it—still some left. Opened it up, broke the package open. Chocolate ones. Sucked on one, left the box open on the counter and went back to the doorway, leaned against it and watched Omi.

Seventeen seconds, Omi knew he was being stared at, twenty-three when he gave in and said: “What?” to the silence. Didn’t look at him, staring at the cube, working the puzzle in his mind.

Schuldig sucked on the chocolate in his mouth, considering the possibilities. (Considering that Omi’s half-naked and seems to have no objections to his current location and if he’s here— Future plans allowed little time for idle distractions.) “Don’t you usually run away after we fuck? No, I guess I left last time.” Saw his phone on the low table in front of the couch. (Not where I left it.) Looked back over at Omi; no movement except another twist of the cube, lining up another row—nowhere near figuring it out.

“It was raining.” (Has nothing to do with the fact that he’s got no pants, you might note.) Low-toned thoughts in his head, working over the nature of his programming or whatever. Nothing interesting enough to dig through.

“Are we still operating under that excuse?” he said. Didn’t push it, turned and went back for another stick of pocky. Unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth, tossing the wrapper into the sink. Back into the living room. Watched Omi again, felt his mind working through the puzzle, and sorting through its own endless little sorrows. (Not providing much entertainment is he?) Considered it, six seconds of thought to it, and he was across the room, hand around Omi, fingers closing around the cube, felt the start in Omi’s mind—knew he was getting closer but not that close and—didn’t want to give the toy up. Schuldig pulled it free and went over to the couch, fell back onto it, leaning back against the arms and looked at what Omi had done. “Laundry’s in the basement,” he said off hand.

Anger there now, bright. Omi standing up. “I’ve been working on that for two hours, don’t mess it up!” Standing there in front of him, reaching forward to grab the cube, fingers just around it and almost had it, pulling on it lightly—Schuldig letting him get a grip and then he yanked it down. (Oh, he doesn’t like that.)

And yet this was not a matter of what Omi liked, considering he was in Schuldig’s apartment, playing with his toy and wearing his shirt. (Yes, but the sharp things by the door are still his and lets not make him decide he needs to see how far into you he can stick one.) Schuldig slid down the couch, holding the toy in close to his chest—blunt edges pressing to his ribs. Crunched the pocky stick and got to his feet. “It didn’t seem to matter that I could have been working on it when you decided to play with it.”

(So—the operating strategy here is: ‘he’s seen me lose my keys, my balance and my lube, then spent several hours wandering around my apartment planting his naked ass wherever he wants, and he’s a good lay therefore I can act as completely childish around him as possible, never mind there’s a possibility I will want him to still fear me later?’) Could still fuck his mind over if necessary for the sake of future intimidation. The future wasn’t the immediate concern. (Oh of course not, because you’re not a precog, right? Make excuses. That’s always good.)

Omi, mind rolling over—yeah, whatever and give me a break. “It didn't seem to matter to you that you slept the day away leaving me here with no clothes and nothing to do.”

Schuldig smirked at him, nothing rude, just a smirk and a raise of an eyebrow, eyes dropping down to look at what he was wearing, where the tails of the shirt ended on his thighs. “Obviously you found clothes and seeing how I was in my own bed I feel no guilt for having slept.” He tossed the toy back at Omi. “I’m hungry.” (Turns out two sticks of pocky aren’t a full meal.) Walked back across the room, floor cold under his feet and into the kitchen.

Heard Omi’s quiet pad of footsteps as he followed him. "I ate some of your ramen, by the way. And some chips. And pocky. And drank two sodas."

Schuldig looked over at him. “Piglet.”

Omi twisting the cube in his hands again, an almost shrug—an implied shrug. No concern really. “I’m a growing boy.”

Rummaged through the cabinet for something he wanted to eat—didn’t want to eat any of it; never did really, but it was food and it was easy and here. Picked the first thing that fell onto the counter. Stared at the damn Japanese on the package, focusing his mind around the characters of the words.

“Just don’t grow too much, I only like the short big eyed Japanese boys.” (And somewhere, Nagi’s heterosexuality is cringing at that statement.) Wondered if he could get Omi to make the damn food for him since Japanese was his native language and he was used to reading this shit anyway.

Another twist—half twist—Omi looking up. “I’m not short.” And even if he were, there were benefits—like fitting in ventilation shafts and a nice grocery list of other things Kritiker had trained him to do. Nothing like taking pride in your job when it involves occasionally wearing skirts and pretending to be a slightly airheaded blonde girl. Didn’t prove Omi’s point though, and there was some frown of irritation in his mind. “And I don’t use pictures of myself as computer icons.”

Schuldig smiled, something almost like a laugh, (inside joke, don’t ask) and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t leave my clothes lying around unattended on the floor to take a shower when I know the person I’m leaving them with doesn’t have enough of a conscience not to take advantage of the fact I’m already naked.” Decided Omi probably wasn’t going to make the damn noodles for him (or else decided not to ask him to) and just put hot water in them.

Another twist of the cube somewhere in the middle of what he was saying, Omi’s mind flexing around the words, not putting much effort into being offended by them—working through the puzzle and the words—had a comeback in his head, could feel it forming and then Omi looked up at him, mouth open to say it—saw him running hot water in the sink. Package of noodles on the counter. “You know you’re supposed to boil the water first, right?”

“Nagi probably told me about the last time he was here. I haven’t noticed a difference in the flavor so I side with my own laziness.” (Why not just show the kid where you keep your IDs so he can get your real name, bank card and hack into your past? Find out you used to wear knee high socks and lederhosen and leave your shoes out to get candy from the Christkind?) “Did you get what you wanted?”

“Did you get what you wanted?”

“Yes. Well, I thought I might get a little more participation from the audience considering the horizontal nature of the performance—but, it was good enough.” Stirring the noodles in their cheap little microwave safe bowl, and then set them down on the counter and pushed the paper back over them to keep the heat in.

Omi mulling over the thought—another twist and his mind ticking away at that problem, half devoted to the conversation at hand. Decided on his next move and twisted the cube, decided it was a bad move and twisted it back to where it started. Then looked up at him. “Was that a thinly veiled insult or an observation to bear in mind for the future?”

(For the future?) “Call it constructive criticism.” He picked the noodles up and stirred them again, figured they were eatable and carried them out of the kitchen, stepping past Omi to get through the doorway; smirking at the thoughts in his head now.

Analyzing the sex, now, low toned and wondering over it. Trying to figure out what it was that he had failed to do or not done enough of or—(Like to see how much you participate with an ungodly tall German on top of you.)

Schuldig sat back down on the couch, slouching, feet up on the table, knees spread; bowl balanced against his chest and cradled in his hand. Snorted a bit. “You know, I never have fucked any Germans. Had an unnecessarily heavy American on top once.” (And now we bring him into the conversation—see his face already with that slightly sour look. ‘Don’t bring me into your sex talk, Schuldig.’) Took another bite of the noodles. Not quite cooked all the way through, and the broth was cooling down already.

Noted the lack of attention that cube was getting, now that Omi’s mind was curling itself up in this idea of sex. “American? You mean Crawford?” Bad taste look on his face (and won’t Crawford be disappointed to find out that little Omi Tsukiyono doesn’t want him) as he crossed the room and sat on the couch, back against the arm and looking at him. Eyes dropping down to that damn cube again and trying to get his focus back on it.

Schuldig laughed. “He was available at the time.” (Strange conversation to be having.) Took another bite, chewed it up—tasted gummy—and then leaned forward to set the bowl on the table. Finished chewing it up as he leaned back and looked over at Omi, following the line of the shirt as it dipped down his chest, and licked the taste of the broth off his lips. “Want to fuck?” (Your eloquence is truly shocking.)

"I was going to let you eat first."

“I’m done.” And he waved a hand in the general direction of the bowl. Omi all staring back at the cube now, and not even noticing. (Now is this some kind of game or has the Rubik’s cube been underestimated for too many years?) “You’re never going to figure that out, just so you know.”

“Why not?” No reason he couldn’t, just a pattern, been trained to do that—taught to do it—tested on it. Applied the theory in his work, and this was just a toy. Just a matter of time and the pattern would show.

“I had Nagi peel the stickers off and put them back on in the wrong order—it pisses Crawford off that he can’t figure it out. He has no idea.”

Stopped, the thoughts and his fingers twisting the cube, looked up at him with at sweet and innocent smile—(violence there)—“How nice of you to inform me of this so promptly. I don’t feel like I’ve wasted my day at all.”

(Nice smile there, isn’t it? Second time in one day you’ve gotten it. Could be some sort of record.) “Be glad I told you at all.” (That was a completely selfish decision. Watching Crawford is fun—getting ignored in place of getting laid is not.)

Cube on his lap now, Omi’s fingers still holding it loosely—not nearly as important to him now. Look on his face, assessing this bit of dialogue, and there he’d figured it out. “You really want my attention that badly?”

(Should have let him play with the cube, don’t really need his attention to fuck him.)

“Consider it practicality. Given that you are not an idiot nor singularly convinced of your own superior intellect, you would have realized eventually that there was a fairly high probability that the puzzle was not solvable. Having realized that you would have remembered it was in my possession, connected that with my tendency to irritate people for amusement and come into the belief that I purposefully messed up the cube. Which would have led to bitterness or me having to listen to you bitch about it in the future after you’d wasted much more than just two hours on it.” (Only thing he doesn’t have is the long standing knowledge of your personality—Crawford should have figured it out by now.)

“So you wanted my attention.”

Felt the smirk across his face, almost like a real smile. “You are walking around without pants, wearing my shirt and I think I have already displayed more than a passing interest.”

Answering smile on Omi’s face, smug and amusement brightening in his mind. Nice tickling quality to it, like a chuckle. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

(Gonna try to work your way around admitting this for the third time? As you have done such an excellent job thus far. Really.) “Yes.” (Now ask yourself how you got from here to there. He used to hate you and fear you—and now he’s sitting on your couch in your clothes smirking at you because you aren’t even slightly fooling him.) Omi held out the Rubik’s cube until Schuldig took it and dropped it on the couch on the other side of him. “Can we fuck now?”

(Is he? He's pouting. Never once considered Schuldig and cute in the same context, but that---it would be adorable if it wasn't so goddamn funny.) Short laugh there, Omi caught between disbelief and plain good humor.

Schuldig moved, pulling his legs up onto the couch—one hand on Omi’s leg, behind his knee, tugging him down a little so he could lean over him, hand against the arm of the couch and leaning down over him. “Of course I’m adorable.” Smile on his face—(now you’re playing with him and he’s laughing at you)—“Shouldn’t have taken you this long to notice.”

“So--should I laugh some more or take pity on you?" Lifted his hand to rest against Schuldig’s shoulder—calm and unbothered by the weight against him, Schuldig leaning over him—close though. (Close enough to kiss.)

“You can do what you want.” Kept one hand on the couch, the other dragging at the skin visible through the splay of the shirt collar, pulling it down, felt it drag, caught behind Omi’s shoulders like that. And ran his hand down the line of the buttons. (Questioning it now; this compulsion. Blaming Estet for taking up too much of his time or Omi for standing out there at the right moment or-- Question it though, because attraction was based on some subliminal desire. What do you have that I want? Question that.) Hooked his thumb into the space between the buttons and rubbed against Omi’s belly. “I don’t believe in pity.”

Little mental breath, liked the way it felt to be touched. “Because it’s a manifestation of self-absorption or because you don’t want it?” Omi’s fingertips falling down, across his collarbone.

Pulled the shirt up, watched it lift up, and pulled it up enough to slip his hand under, right against the curve where Omi’s leg met hip. Up, to his belly, fingers dipping around his body and then looked back up at him. “Because it’s condescending and false.” (Because pity means nothing more than emotional masturbation. Oh, I feel so sorry for you from over here where it’s safe and you can suffer and I’ll just tuck myself in at night safe in the knowledge that I felt bad for you but couldn’t help.) “And it tastes like burnt chocolate.”

Hands against his shoulders now, Omi pushing him back until he was slouching and following him, crawling into his lap and settling into place while his palms slid across his chest. “No pity for you, then.” Brush of his lips against Schuldig’s, light and soft and not quite a kiss yet. Would be.

(Tell yourself all you want from him is the feel of his mind while you fuck him. Couldn’t be more than that, and is that enough to justify the means to the end?)

Schuldig’s hands resting against Omi’s thighs, loose grip, and he moved them up, leaning forward, his lips brushing back, almost a kiss still but not quite there. Felt the smoothness of Omi’s belly, the tightness of the muscles under the soft skin, up to his ribs, fingers curling in and the shirt bunched around his arms.

Humming in Omi’s mind, echoed down in his throat. Shiver under skin as his body pressed itself forward against him. Hands working their way over his shoulders, smoothing down the back of his arms.

(What does he have that every other pretty boy whimpering for you doesn’t? A tighter ass, a nicer smile? A pocket of pointy things and the very real ability to kill you?) No.

Schuldig’s fingers digging into skin, slipping down, dragging just above his hips, pulling Omi closer.

(A contradiction in his brain? Moral dilemma? Called you on your lie and wasn’t that strange? How quickly he seems to forget what happened between you? Almost killed him and here he is, on your lap and in your shirt. Is that what this is? Just easy?)

Kissed him, pulled one hand out of the tangle of that shirt and up, fingers into Omi’s hair, tipping his head and kissing him.

(Could be just easy with anyone—doesn’t have to be him.)

Lost the thought somewhere between Omi’s hands slipping lower, between the couch and his back and the mouth opening against his—kissing back, nothing in his head but the feel of the touch. Not doubting it or rethinking it or trying to fight it this time. Murmuring that hum again, pressing closer to his chest, so the buttons were rubbing against his skin.

Let his hand drop again, out of Omi’s hair, on his neck, fingers down the back of the loose collar, and then moving down farther, over his shoulder, feeling the wrinkles in the fabric, the warmth of the body under it, down his back and rest there—momentarily—holding him close as he shifted his position on the couch, slouching more and pulling Omi into a better position. Rubbing right against his lap—warm skin, felt the heat of it through the thin cotton pants.

Kiss slowing, ending, Omi moving back first, nipping at his chin, hum ending in his throat and then he was leaning back, straightening up again. One hand still idly against Schuldig’s skin, and the other against the back of the couch. Eyes looking at those windows and the world outside of it—light breaking through the clouds now; rain finally drying up off the ground. Omi’s mind shifting, didn’t care—didn’t care at all if they could see in, see him, right here, like this, on Schuldig. Didn’t care at all—hoped they did see. (Almost, not quite, not nearly that defiant.) Licking his lips now, eyes focusing back on him. “Seriously, though, boil the water next time.” (Doesn’t like the taste of half-cooked and gummy noodles.) Omi’s fingers dropping to work at the top button of the shirt. Little frown of concentration.

Schuldig breathed a laugh, quiet and almost not even a real sound. “Taste that bad, huh?” Moved his hands off Omi, trailing back over the cushions of the couch on either side of him, and down, slipping into the crack, feeling around.

“You could use a mint.” Got the first button open now and was working on the second one. Looked at his hands digging around in the couch. “What are you doing?”

(Looking for the lube I lost in here about a month ago—) can’t even remember who he’d been fucking—remembered the mess the little bastard left on the table. “I’m—“ Moved one hand back, around his own back, digging into space, feeling around. It was in here somewhere. “—Looking for—” Leaned to the right a little reaching farther toward the edge. (Oh perfect, wouldn’t it be? Can’t find the lube, gonna have to get up and go back to the bedroom and) felt the slick rounded top of the bottle. “The lube,” he finished, tugging the bottle up and holding it up between them.

Smile there on Omi’s face, almost laughing again. “Do you keep a bottle in the kitchen drawer, too? Or is it lost behind the refrigerator?”

Schuldig smiled back. “Never fucked in the kitchen, actually. Lost a bottle on the balcony once.” Held the lube in one fist, the other hand raising up, fingers against Omi’s neck, and down, over his collarbone, lower, following the open buttons, spreading out and sliding under the shirt, toward his shoulder, dragging the shirt open and up, over his shoulder. Pale skin for a Japanese boy, still darker than Schuldig’s was. Bent his head down, hand moving down his back, dragging the shirt farther down Omi’s arm, licked his lips and ran his tongue across the skin. Tasted a bit like dried sweat—licked his lips again.

Half-heard a thought in Omi’s head. Wondering about that balcony comment, only a little. Omi still working on pulling the buttons open. Could feel his arms moving against his chest while he nipped at the skin of his shoulder, moving in toward his neck. Felt Omi shifting in his lap, a little squirm and pressing his shoulder up against him, tipping his head to one side just a little. More skin to explore with his mouth.

(Should get rid of him now.) Not immediately, after. (After you’ve still got to dry his clothes, remember?) No, just send them home a nice plastic bag. (Right.)

Moved his hand back up, palm against skin harder, over his shoulder, slipping across the wet trail left by his mouth and down, dragging over his skin, down to his chest. Palm flat and rubbing against him, his mouth on Omi’s neck now, sucking at the skin. (Still tastes like your soap.) Short noise, couldn’t quite decide what it wanted to be—moan, whine, whimper. Close to his ear, breathy and Schuldig sucked harder on the skin.

Omi’s hands moving to his shoulders now, tugging him closer and he moved, back off the couch, pressing closer to Omi. Let his arm go around his back, still inside that shirt—two buttons at the very bottom still together. Collar slipping off Omi’s shoulders and riding low on his arms. Schuldig lifted his leg a little, enough to get the bottle of lube under his thigh—to get a second free hand, to keep track of the damn thing—and rubbed against Omi’s knee, fingers slipping up higher, could feel the loose ends of the shirt there, toyed with it.

Stopped sucking on that skin, licked it, felt the heat of it, breathed against the dampness of the skin, lifting his head up, cheek brushing against Omi’s jaw, turned his head to look at him. Fine blush across his nose—matched the grip of the fingers on his shoulders, loosening now and petting him. Shifting in his lap—Schuldig pressed his heels against the floor and rubbed back up against that squirm, his own half-caught breath, almost a noise. His hand flat against Omi’s back, the other up around his hip now, grip tightening, pulling down as he rubbed up.

Omi’s exhaled pant, head tipping back, mouth open, pressing down against the rub. Felt the muscles in his thighs clench and loosen, fingers harder against Schuldig’s skin and his mind, slipping right into the sex, whimpering and asking for more.

(Is this what he has? Could get this in other places.) Yes, but this one was right here and willing.

Schuldig kissed him—brief and wet, hips still rocking up and rubbing—fucking pants in the way because he could feel the warmth and the weight of Omi pushing back down. Little noises into the kiss and those hands slipping down his arms, gripping there and pulling in time with the grinding. Dropped the hand off Omi’s hip, down, between them, thumb under the waist band of the sweats and yanking it down—awkward angle, and not moving much, too caught up in the rubbing and—

Omi’s eyebrows drawing down, noticing this movement, the hand that wasn’t on him, lack of rub—more like wiggling under him now—looking down between them, caught between annoyance for the pause and impatience for more. Pressed his knees into the couch and lifted himself up, thighs widening a bit, giving him room. Schuldig lifted his hips, shoulders back against the couch, both hands pushing the pants down, sliding much easier now, down to his thighs—far enough—and then reached up, gripping Omi’s hips again and pulling him back down.

Kissed him again, moan into his mouth, hot skin against his. Slipped his hands up the back of the shirt, loose against his skin, guiding the movement, grinding up and Omi pressing down. His smaller fingers against Schuldig’s skin, his back, his shoulders, his arms, restlessly tracing lines here and there. Answering moan back into the kiss, breaking it for a minute, just breathing against each other’s mouths now.

Schuldig leaned back, against the cushion, one leg up so his foot was resting on the table (heavy fucker isn’t it, lucky you) and grabbed for the lube still under his thigh, half caught in his pants now. Catching his breath—unscrewed the lid and looked at Omi, reached up to brush the hair out of his own face, felt it falling right back into place.

(You are going to shower after this right?)

Took Omi’s hand off his shoulder, pulling it down, tipped the bottle—handful of lube, felt it dripping from between his fingers—warm drops on his chest, sliding down. (Good, its warm,) Omi’s thought. Low in his mind, holding it in his hand and then lowering it, eyes dragging down, following the movement, and Schuldig poured more out onto his own fingers, screwed the cap on one handed (years of practice to develop that skill) and dropped it on the couch. (Because that way you’ll know where to find it right?) Stuttered gasp when Omi’s hand closed around him, firm grim and stroking; Schuldig’s eyes half closed, fingers clenching around Omi’s knee—adjusting to the feel of it, other hand reaching down, between Omi’s spread legs, fingers brushing up against him, rubbing, pressure, teasing but didn’t push in.

Saw Omi through the tips of his bangs, eyes still half closed—saw his white teeth, closed around his lip, urgent whimpers. (More now, please, thank you.) Tugged him forward, slippery fingers around the inside of his thigh. Leaned back against the couch cushions, shifting to get more comfortable. (Come on, now.)

Omi’s hand moving, lifting away from him and his hips following the tug of Schuldig’s hands. Knees pressed deeper into the couch as Omi shifted his weight. His hand on the back of the couch—forearm brushing against Schuldig’s hair—and the other on his shoulder, slippery grip to steady himself. Still worrying that lip with his teeth, concentrated, breath heavy and loud, and his head tipped down, watching. (Wonder if the neighbors are watching too?) Pushing down—Schuldig tipped his head back, felt Omi’s fingers against the back of his head, mouth open, exhaled heavy breath—heard a whimper, rising out of Omi’s chest as he sank down, tremble running through his body and could feel it—fuck, felt it right there, all around him.

Pressed up, against the feeling, sliding deeper and moved his hand, back up, around Omi’s side, against the small of his back, pulling on him. Biting back the noises (feeling his mind, and wasn’t that pretty, warm and wriggling.) Licked his lips, pressing up again—Omi’s eyes sliding open, looking at him; teeth off his lip now.

Could feel his fingers tightening into the couch behind him, hear the heavy pant of his breath—moving, rising up, knees dipping into the couch, arm flexing—could see the muscles there, under the skin, and Omi’s eyes, looking right at him.

(Yes, I’m watching you.)

Schuldig pushed his foot against the table, pressing up as Omi pushed down. Rumbling little moan there, caught in his throat, mostly breath. Wiggled his hand up under the shirt, and slid down off his back, thumbs digging in against the edge of his hipbones, fingers curling around and gripping—pulling up, and tugging down. (Not making a difference, is it? You’re not in control, lean back and enjoy it.) Wanted more.

The hand behind Schuldig’s head moving, pulling free, the other slipping off his shoulder, trailing down his arm, still slippery but drying up—getting sticky now—down to his wrists, felt the thumbs against his pulse, pulling his hands off. (You wanted audience participation—now you have it; stop interrupting.) Loose grip on his wrists, Omi’s thighs moving again—warm skin—up again, eyes still watching him. Sinking back down, little tremble, Omi’s head tipping back and a breathy sigh, grinding down, grip shivering.

Pulled his hands free, back on Omi’s knees, skin was slick with sweat now, rubbed his palms against it, tracing up and down with the movement; pressed his foot against the table, felt it shift against the shove—rubbed his hips up against Omi.

(Can’t let it go, can you?)

His palms sliding up, under the shirt again and Omi’s breath, heavy and loud and full of those noises in his throat. Whimper and whines and little moans. His hands—somewhere—had his head tipped back, hair falling back wet with sweat, eyes almost closed, still half watching him, his neck bare and that shirt off his shoulders—fuck—shirt caught on his arms, around the elbows, all that bare expanse of his chest, and shivering tease of belly.

Moving on him, rhythm faster—felt Omi’s fingers now, on his shoulder, one back on the couch, fisted in the fabric, slipping grip, and then behind Schuldig’s neck, fingers tangled in his wet hair and pulling on that but it didn’t matter—(Too busy watching him, and what a sight.)

Mouth open now, white teeth, pink tongue—reddened lips and sounds, those gasps. Schuldig felt his foot slip, hit the floor, didn’t matter, pressed up with his hips, slipping lower on the couch or resting more of his weight back against his shoulders, pressing up and Omi was pushing down. Had his hands back on Omi’s thighs, thumbs stroking way up high. (Close, close, but not there yet.)

Kept his eyes open, watching it—the blush on Omi’s face, the tilt of his head, the line of his neck, sweat dripping down his collarbone—heard his own urgent little sounds, wanting more and asking for it. Panting and whining and one hand up higher, rubbing against Omi now—(oh that mind)—the other over his chest, dragging at the shirt, had it caught around his wrist, and then up on Omi’s neck, fingers in thick damp hair, thumb against his jaw, palm feeling the frantic pulse—

Rise and fall.

Omi’s fingernails scratching down into his skin, trembling, quivering, stuttered gasp, high toned and there. Schuldig pressing up, grinding, both hands on his hips, pulling him down—

Leaning up, head down, hair falling all around his face, teeth bare and a curse quivering there on his lips, but Omi’s hands on his back and his mind throbbing like that—body warm and, couldn’t even breath—head tipped to the side—and then back, hips pressing up again.

Fell back against the couch, breath coming hard, eyes still closed, hot everywhere and his lips were dry.

***

Omi sneezed for the first time while taking a proper shower, and at that point started to think that maybe that dunk in the canal hadn't been so harmless after all. He wondered, at that point, if this vacation might end up extended due to actual illness, or if perhaps he had somehow cursed himself by calling in sick.

He'd told Ken the truth, though; there really wasn't much to be done at school this close to graduation. Might even be a tremendous waste of time to keep going at this point, but...

What else are you going to do?

He didn't know, but this dallying with Schuldig ought not to be high on the list. In fact, by all rights it should be stricken from the record entirely. Because ultimately, no matter how long he sat and stared and thought and moped and wondered what the hell he was going to do with himself from here on out, sooner or later Kritiker was going to come knocking on his door. And when they did, he would follow at their heels like the obedient dog he was.

It was becoming more and more obvious that he really had no choice in the matter.

Omi shut off the water and grabbed a towel--same towel as before, retrieved from the random location it had dropped in Schuldig's bedroom. Most of the way dry, even. Rubbed idly through his hair and wrapped it around his waist before stepping out into the washroom, steam escaping through the door and--

Clothes, folded not quite haphazardly and stacked next to the sink. Well--at least he'd put forth an effort towards neatness, that was rather nice. Otherwise they'd be in a pile on the floor.

He might just appreciate the fact that you're a good fuck, don't count your blessings yet.

He dried off and dressed quietly, half-listening to the muffled sounds of Schuldig moving and muttering and generally existing in his living room. Sneezed again while pulling the tank top on; warm clean fabric on his skin. Comfortable. Getting late, should go home, now. Go to bed, dream all of this away.

Schuldig was on the phone when Omi walked into the living room, speaking rapid German into the mouthpiece, leaning against the wall by the kitchen door. A dark, annoyed look about him, glaring in the general non-direction of the cell against his ear. Omi passed him, still rubbing the towel in his hair, jacket slung over one arm. A little more secure now with his own clothes on.

"I'm going home now." Tossed the sentence over his shoulder, flat and casual and almost apathetic.

Schuldig muttered something sharp to whoever was on the other end of the call, one of his teammates most likely. Lucky guy to still have a team. He looked up at the same time Omi sat down on the bench by the front door, lowering the phone like something important was about to be uttered at this moment of parting, but it turned out to just be, "Bye."

Omi made a noise halfway between a snort and a scoff, picking up his shoes. Turning them over and feeling the insides. Still damp. "Nothing better to say now that you're not looking to get laid?"

Schuldig laughed. And he might have been imagining things, but there was something almost approaching sincerity in it. "I thought insincere well wishes would be insulting to your intelligence." Teasing words, subtle pause. "I can offer genuine praise; would it make you feel better if I patted you on the ass and gave you a gold star for most improved participation?"

Omi pushed his heel into the right shoe, looked up for a moment before tying it. A bit of a smile creeping onto his face. "If I take the praise, do I have to accept the rest?"

The phone started to make German-like noises, the person on hold becoming rather irate over being ignored. Schuldig raised it to his ear just long enough to snap the same phrase as before, lowering it so Omi could hear the tinny retort that came over the line in response. "Take what you want." Hint of irritation in Schuldig's voice at the interruption. "I'll keep the rest."

Left shoe tied off, and Omi sat there for a moment staring at them, knotted laces, felt a bit of damp creeping into his socks already. Leaned forward to stand up. "Thanks." There, that's said now, let's walk out the door.

"For taking your clothes, my shirt, the food, or the two rounds of great sex?"

Omi smiled, between his shoes and himself, stood up and turned to the door, shrugging his jacket on and hanging the towel over a coat hook. "For the day off." Now leave, say goodbye, and walk away. Because someday Kritiker will want you back, and that means someday you'll have to kill this guy, and you'd damn well better be okay with that by then.

But the word he heard coming out of his mouth, floating over the shoulder and back into the house just before the door swung shut, was "Later."
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