fandom: weiss kreuz
word count: 976
notes: done to slash_me_twice's table found here, prompt 010: blurred.
credit to newtypeshadow for the idea that people's rotten brains rot Schuldig's own.
People’s thoughts can be like tar. They ooze into Schuldig’s mind, black and putrid, until they’re dry and hard, cemented on the inside of his skull. It’s difficult waking up, to try and raise his head from the pillow, because it feels weighted and heavy. Sometimes he just lies there and stares up. He imagines his eyes getting sucked into his head, sinking like they’re in quicksand, with things going blurry and then black. He imagines himself walking around sightless, stumbling along the street and laughing out loud, because then he can’t see the sorry faces that accompany the tar thoughts.
Aya, though—Aya is different. His thoughts are golden honey. They’re sticky yet flowing, dripping deliciously, and Schuldig opens his mouth wide and laps them up. He runs his tongue across Aya’s skin in long strokes, his fingers clutched deep into blood red hair, and he can feel the honey spreading through him, cool and soothing and amber. It’s then that he sees that when Aya is near him, things are at their clearest and his mind isn’t rotting.
But Aya leaves. He’s gone one morning from the bed and Schuldig doesn’t think much about it, because Aya likes to disappear and come back and disappear again. Aya says why sometimes, says where he’s going (to see my sister, to see the others in the shop; even though he never tells them he’s there) and Schuldig says whatever just go because he knows Aya will come back.
It’s a week after Aya leaves wordlessly when Schuldig understands that this time he isn’t coming back. The lingering presence of the honey thoughts hang heavily in the air, things like thisisn’thappeningtome and ihavetogetaway that make Schuldig wonder what the kitten is getting away from and how he thinks he can. It’s after Weiss and Schwarz and Estet, so there’s no danger anymore, no more missions or murders or threats, so Aya has no reason to leave unless it’s Schuldig himself.
Schuldig lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling. He figures it doesn’t matter that Aya isn’t coming back. They never were in a relationship—they shared the same apartment and bed and sometimes the same unified brain, but there was nothing attached. Schuldig used Aya for his own peace of mind. Schuldig never could see why Aya used him, not when the kitten learned how to shield, not when Schuldig didn’t care enough to break them.
So he lets Aya go and he doesn’t follow, because there has to be another person out there with honey thoughts to retain his sanity. He walks through the crowded city and scans any and all vulnerable minds, ones he can manipulate and keep and whore for himself.
He finds a few here and there, and he smirks and swoons them, a gentle nudge with his fingers and mind, to lie across his bed and writhe beneath him. He holds their heads—blond, brown, red hair—and plunges deep into their mouths, tasting and feeling for that clarity they could bring.
But it’s after so many bodies that those other people’s thoughts are like wax—they can mold easily enough but the taste isn’t pleasant and after a time they harden and he just can’t use them any more.
Schuldig sits and stares at his wall. The world around him is unfocused and dark, just like all the errant thoughts buzzing through the air, and he remembers the sweet amber honey that once rolled through him. He can no longer sense Aya’s lingering presence, all trace of him gone, and unexplainably Schuldig feels a blind rage. Then suddenly he’s standing and grabbing things off of dressers, chests, and stands, and he’s throwing them into walls and onto the floor and yelling who said you could fucking go because Aya had no right; he had no right just leaving like that, leaving Schuldig, and things are crashing and breaking into pretty little pieces—china, glass, and clay—shattering and cracking; and he doesn’t stop yelling out of his mouth and in his head even when his throat is sore and his head aches.
When there is nothing left to break, he bashes his fists against the kitchen counter and growls under his breath. Then he slumps—he just slumps down, hands still clutching to the counter with his forehead against the wooden cabinet.
So he breathes, and decides he’s done.
It takes him three years to find Aya. The little prick is good at hiding—he ran off to America and cut all ties and kept himself shielded. But Schuldig finds him anyway, and now he’s standing in front of Aya’s apartment door, staring at the wood and metal number, and thinking that it’s actually pretty funny, going through all that just to find the guy. He went through people and through their throats, even when they pleaded to not know a thing, just because it felt good and he missed seeing that blood red color.
Schuldig doesn’t knock. No, he grins and raises his foot and kicks the fucking door right in, watching the wood splinter around the locks and hearing the door bang and bounce against the wall. He laughs at the other people in the other apartments because they get startled and Aya inside does not.
Aya’s on the stairwell that leads to the entryway. He’s stopped on the steps, calmly regarding Schuldig as he saunters in with a pleased grin. Aya looks different—his hair is grown and braided, he wears reading glasses and a tie, and his eyes are sadder than before.
But when Aya turns to Schuldig with his familiar frown and honey thoughts, saying you’re paying for the door, Schuldig just laughs, and says he’s home.