Author's Note: This is my first Weiss Kreuz story, and I will admit right away that I have only seen the first 15 episodes of the anime. I don't think I've even seen anything where Farfarello says he wants to hurt God, I've only read it in fanfic, so Nagi and Farf may be totally out of character here. That said, I've always been fascinated with Farfarello in particular, because he's so cookie-cutter crazy in the episodes I've seen (licking his knife, come on), and actually having experience with psychotic people made me love to speculate what he might be like outside of situations where he's not required to kill people. But that concept, of him wanting to hurt God, is such a cool one, that I knew I wanted to explore it. The whole idea for the story started with the opening image…
If anyone actually likes this, or even notices it, it will probably get another chapter, or maybe a different story continuing it. My personal favorite Weiss fics all deal with Ken/anybody, though, so he might show up eventually as well. I don't know. There're so many things I'm unsure about in this fic it's not even funny. This is really new territory for me, so I would appreciate any comments anyone has, good, bad, or in-between.
Oh, as a final note, if anyone actually knows the band that is quoted below, and writes me and can prove it, I will write you a story in any fandom you like (providing I actually know anything about it). You will also get the dubious pleasure of having shocked me out of my socks. The song below does not literally have anything to do with this story, but whenever I hear it, it always reminds me of Farfarello.
* * * * *
i'll carve out my grandfather's spine
and turn it into a boat
shore up the holes with my hands
and see if the vessel will float
steer it into the waves
with the devil at the rudder
i'll carve out my grandfather's spine
and turn it into a boat
"Lovers in Flames", The Thought Industry
The young man with the cropped white hair wore an expression of intense concentration as he worked his way up the neat line of pansies and violets, very carefully stomping on each plant and grinding it thoroughly into the dark earth. He would take one measured step, canvas sneaker landing on a delicate blossom, twist his foot precisely three times, then move on to the next. In this manner he worked his way along the whole bed of blooms that decorated the edge of the path until each and every plant had been obliterated.
The boy trailing behind him watched this display with a mixture of interest, amusement, and frustration. The flower crusher stopped at the end of the bed, tilting his disfigured face to the clear blue sky. An enormous grin lit his half-handsome features and he called out with great delight, "Fuck you, God! What d'ye think of that?" Satisfied, the older boy stepped back onto the paved path, looking questioningly at his dark haired companion.
"Why do you do that, Farf?" the younger boy asked, knowing he wouldn't get a straight answer, but unable to stop himself.
"We're all God's creatures," Farfarello answered cheerfully, tucking his hands into his pockets as he fell into step with his younger companion. "Why does anybody do anything, Nagi?"
Nagi rolled his eyes. "That's not a real answer, and you know it," he pointed out, but didn't push any further. Farfarello was having one of his lucid days, and he didn't want to do anything to spoil that.
"Yeah, well," Farfarello shrugged fluidly, still smiling.
Nagi was really the only member of Schwartz that could take Farfarello out like this. The telekinetic was the only one with the raw power to control the sometime-lunatic. Sure, if Farfarello got it in his head to do something less than socially acceptable, Schuldig could mess with his head, and Crawford would see it coming, but both required a great deal more effort to control the Irishman than it was for Nagi. All he had to do was think, and Farfarello would be stopped in his tracks.
Nagi thought that was maybe the reason the other boy was so calm with him most of the time, out like this. He knew he couldn't do anything, and so maybe didn't feel as much pressure to lash out. It was like the burden of being responsible for "hurting God" was taken away, leaving him to act at least a little more like the nineteen-year-old he was. Nagi glanced back to the trampled flowers. Well, almost…
"What are ye thinking?" Farfarello asked, and Nagi glanced back up at his companion, shrugging.
"Not much, I guess," he responded slowly.
"Is it about how weird it is to be out walking with a psychopath and a murderer like we were normal people?" Farfarello asked, studying Nagi's face with an innocent expression. Nagi coughed violently, glancing over at the happily chatting couple that was passing on their right. Not for the first time did he thank the fact that he and Farfarello generally spoke in English when out in public like this. The older boy's Japanese was okay, at least for conveying things like, 'I want to hurt God' and 'Isn't my knife long and sharp?' and 'Get me out of this straightjacket!' But for more complex concepts, he tended to mangle the language terribly, whereas Nagi's English, while not flawless, was certainly much better. Good enough that he could understand Farfarello despite his thick Irish brogue.
"Something like that," Nagi muttered, glancing at the ground, pinking at the cheeks. It was a funny thing – he had lost track long ago of how many men he had killed, but he still felt somewhat embarrassed by his companion's tendency towards petty vandalism and his own transparency when it came to thinking less than polite thoughts about said vandal.
And it was odd. During missions, Farfarello tended to be out of control, rarely able to form coherent thoughts on things other than his violent intentions. He wore a permanent expression of enthusiastic mania, and those odd white vests he wore were almost always tainted with blood about ten minutes in. He ranted and licked his knife, and did all the things a textbook crazy villain was supposed to do. He was ageless at these times, more an expression of his madness than an actual person.
Outside of missions…well, Farfarello was a real mixed bag. At times silent and contemplative, Nagi had seen him sit in the same position on the couch or in his room for over 24 hours, practically catatonic. At other times he cowered in a corner, constantly mumbling to himself and looking around frantically, flinching whenever anyone came near. There were the days he spent carving on himself, his face calm and blank. And then there were times like this.
Not as rare as an outsider might imagine, Farfarello sometimes had weeks of perfectly lucid functioning. Nagi supposed it had something to do with whether he was taking his medication or not. During these times, Farfarello acted so…well, like a lot of other boys his age. He liked to listen to music, he watched American movies with a lot of sex or action in them (gleefully confessing to Nagi at these times that 'God must be really irritated with Hollywood, don't ye think?'), he whined desperately for Crawford to let him go to the clubs and listen to some live music (the answer was always no, even on the rare occasions that Schuldig seemed to find this amusing and added his endorsement of the idea), and he went out for walks in the local parks.
He even dressed more normally on these occasions, though Nagi had to admit he still made a pretty odd picture. For one, Farfarello almost always wore sleeveless shirts, weather permitting, presumably to show off the ladder work of scars up and down his arms. Some old and white, almost faded, other a fresh and angry red, crusted with new scabs. He had a tendency towards muscle shirts or t-shirts with the sleeves torn off and baggy cargo shorts or pants.
Oddly enough, Farfarello got more stares for being a gaijin than he did for the strange white-blonde hair, the eye-patch, or the even stranger gold eye. Nagi was used to attracting attention when he went out with the older boy, and in some sort of compensation, he supposed, he tried to dress as completely normally as possible at these times, leaving behind the neat uniform he wore during missions, and sticking to jeans and long sleeved shirts. Not everyone wanted to show off their collection of scars. He also kept his head down, letting his too-long bangs hide the blue eyes that marked him not fully Japanese.
"Ye're quiet," Farfarello commented, bringing Nagi out of his contemplative daze. He blinked, brushing his hair out of his eyes, almost startled by the bright sunlight, and looked around. They had walked nearly half a mile since the Irishman had last spoken, and he had noticed none of it.
"It's not like I talk much, anyway," he pointed out, and indeed, he tended to be the more introverted of the pair. Farfarello could chatter on about nothing for hours, it seemed at times.
"Different kind of quiet," the older boy pointed out, and Nagi glanced sharply up at him.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, sometimes ye have this sort of 'listening' quiet, like when ye're letting me natter on. And this was more the 'I'm thinking so shut yuir gob' sort of quiet." Nagi blinked at him taking a while to process the unfamiliar slang. He had learned his English from Crawford, and sometimes Farfarello's Irish dialect caused him problems, though he was slowly catching on.
"I suppose so," he answered slowly, scrubbing a hand through his thick, walnut-brown hair, another gift from his unknown American father. "I was thinking, if that's what you're asking."
Farfarello nodded contentedly, bending his neck to put his face in Nagi's, that too-clear golden eye startling big. The Japanese boy stopped, pulling back a little and coloring. He still had a hard time with Farfarello's 'personal' space…the other boy was always touching him and getting close to him in this really intimate way that bothered him. Not like the distant jostling of the trains or the malls. Sometimes Farfarello would lean in to whisper in his ear, making the younger boy awkwardly aware of the Irishman's warm breath at his neck.
"So what were ye thinking?" Farfarello asked, punctuating his comments with a soft poke in Nagi's chest. The boy pulled back even more.
"None of your business!" he snapped, putting on an irritated façade to hide his discomfort. "And why are you always getting in my face like that?"
Farfarello pulled back with a wicked grin, and Nagi winced, just knowing something terribly embarrassing was coming. The pale boy only ever got that expression when he was about to totally violate Japanese customs of appropriate public behavior. And he could get away with it, too, because of that white skin and hair – it was amazing what the Japanese would put up with and in fact laugh tolerantly at in gaijin behavior.
"What on earth are ye implying, Nagi?" he asked in a melodramatically, painfully loud (at least to Nagi's ears) voice. "D'ye think I'm a bloody queer?"
"K'so!" Nagi swore in irritation. "And what do you care if I do?" he added, again thanking all the gods for Farfarello's poor Japanese. "Doesn't that hurt God?"
Farfarello laughed, the expression lighting his face, making him look younger, almost Nagi's age. All the tension leaked out of his body when he laughed, and his broad shoulders shook, his lean, muscled arms resting on his knees as he leaned over. "It does, Nagi, it does," he agreed when he finally came up for air. "Though almost all kinds of sex hurts God, unless ye're married. The only kind of sex that makes it into the ten commandments is adultery, so I suppose to really hurt God I'd have to shag a married man."
Suddenly a knowing glint danced in his one good eye, and his grin turned sly again. "I don't suppose ye're married, are ye?" he asked Nagi.
"Nani? No, you idiot, of course I'm not!" he spluttered, crossing his arms over his narrow chest defensively.
"Too bad," Farfarello sighed, turning back to the path and continuing along it, allowing Nagi to lead him by a step or two. Then, with a grace and speed that seemed to be unique to the craziest member of Schwarz, he leaned forward, breathing into Nagi's ear.
"That's a damn shame, we might o' had some real fun." As Nagi processed the words with a belated sense of outrage, he felt the older boy move his hand to his lower back, a warm pressure, then slide it down to pinch his ass lasciviously.
"Farfarello!" he squeaked, jolting forward violently. He looked back at the other boy, his face a mask of total shock. Farfarello was no longer looking at him, however, sauntering past him casually with his hands once more in his pockets.
Nagi stared at the older assassin's retreating back, still gaping. Finally, he shut his mouth with an abrupt snap, and trotted to catch up with the Irishman, scowling furiously. "This is why I hate going out with you," he muttered wrathfully.
"Why, because I'm such a charming devil an' ye kin hardly resist me?" Farfarello queried cheerfully.
"No, because you're an unpredictable asshole," Nagi answered, rubbing his offended posterior viciously.
"All part of me charms," Farfarello threw back airily. He seemed about to say something else, when he caught sight of a small kiosk a hundred yards or so up the path. "Oh, ice cream! Let's get some, huh, Nagi?"
Nagi never ceased to be amazed at how quickly the older boy could switch gears. Then again, it was getting kind of hot – he could feel sweat pooling at his lower back under his shirt, and wished he could take it off – and ice cream did sound pretty good right now. "Yeah, okay," he answered, "Schuldig gave me some money."
"Brilliant," Farfarello grinned, and slung his arm companionably around Nagi's shoulders, coaxing another blush from the younger boy. "Yuir treat, right?"
"Well, it will have to be, won't it, since you don't have any money?" Nagi asked, rolling his eyes and hunching his shoulders. Farfarello refused to take the hint, however, and Nagi was subject to the weight of the Irishman's arm along the back of his neck the entire walk to the ice cream stand, not to mention the other boy's callused fingers brushing casually along his chest. He felt like he was about to spontaneously combust on the spot.
As the two stood in line, the little girl in front of them glanced back, and suddenly began furiously whispering to her companion, a bright faced little boy of about five or six. Their mother glanced down, and began scolding them in a low tone, glancing back nervously at the older boys, doubtless somewhat embarrassed by her children's reaction to the two. Nagi inclined his head politely, then peered at Farfarello out of the corner of his eyes.
The Irishman was staring intently at the little girl, and Nagi tensed, afraid he was going to have to restrain the other assassin. Farfarello was…unpredictable…around children. He got ready to pull Farfarello back as the older boy crouched, but the pale gaijin simply smiled as he spoke in his thickly accented Japanese.
"Be sure to ask for a cherry on your ice cream, okay? Those are the best."
The girl nodded solemnly, then suddenly broke into a sunny smile, before hiding behind her mother's legs. Farfarello stood satisfied, and was quiet throughout the rest of the ordering process, walking with Nagi to a clear spot on the grass under a spreading maple tree. He licked and nibbled on his chocolate cone contentedly as he lazed, legs outstretched, on the grass. Nagi sat cross-legged next to him, neatly consuming his own strawberry cone.
They ate in a comfortable silence, Farfarello finishing before Nagi, and then spending the next five minutes licking all the drips from his fingers and the backs of his hands. Some even had apparently dribbled down to his wrists, and Nagi watched in warm-faced fascination as Farfarello unselfconsciously ran his red, red tongue along the line of his own pulse, cleaning himself like a cat.
The Irishman looked up suddenly, and caught the younger boy watching him. He smiled again, this time a sort of lazy, knowing smirk, and leaned back on his elbows. He pushed up his shirt, exposing the taut muscles of his stomach as he scratched there indolently, still watching Nagi.
Nagi blinked, then ducked his head, blushing furiously. Gods, it felt like he spent more time embarrassed around Farfarello than not. He turned his attention back to his ice cream, pointedly not looking directly at the other boy who had rolled over onto his side, propping his head on his palm as he continued to stare.
"See something you like, chibi?" Farfarello asked, in a drawling voice.
"I'm not a kid!" Nagi answered furiously, still staring at the ground, the slightly flattened grass, a rich spring green.
"I know," Farfarello answered quietly, and this startled the younger boy enough to bring his twilight eyes up.
"Do you?" he asked a bit bitterly. "No one else seems to. I guess because I look so damn young…"
"You don't look young," Farfarello answered seriously, and Nagi frowned. He knew how the rest of Schwarz perceived him: slender, delicate, childish. He was fifteen, and he was a killer. Wasn't that enough?
"Oh yeah? How do I look, then?" he challenged, blue eyes angry.
"Like a sidhe," Farfarello answered promptly, and Nagi blinked in confusion.
"A….shi? What is that?"
"Sidhe," Farfarello corrected, but the sound of the word was too foreign for Nagi to reproduce properly. "Uh…an elf?"
"Elf? Like…with the pointy ears? Oh, great, that's so much better," the younger boy sighed.
"Sort of, but…well, in Eire, the sidhe are an ancient people. Very powerful. Ye don't look like a child, yuir features are too sharp for that." The pale gaijin was sitting up now, leaning in as he explained, a far-away look on his face. "Ye've got the right eyes, too, just like the sea at sunset, and hair like the dead autumn leaves. Ye know more than any child, I can tell, the way you talk, the way you carry yourself."
He paused, then continued in an almost whisper, "The sidhe were there before God."
Nagi simply gaped. No one had ever talked to him this way before, not only as an equal (for certainly on missions he was expected to hold up his end and behave as an adult), but as something…more? He hadn't realized Farfarello had been paying such close attention.
All thought was erased, however, as Farfarello leaned in and pressed his lips gently against Nagi's, like an offering. The younger boy sat utterly still for a moment, mind blank, then let out a soft sigh that the Irishman took as invitation. His tongue was warm, but still bittersweet with the sticky dark chocolate, and Nagi relaxed, letting his mouth open wider to allow Farfarello in, his eyes falling closed.
He felt the sudden press and squeeze of a hand at his shoulder, clutching at him, bunching up the thin cotton there, and in answer he laid his hand at the other boy's neck, resting the pad of his thumb at Farfarello's pulse as he was kissed breathless. Such a strange feeling, having another person's tongue in his mouth, and it should have been disgusting – he'd always imagined it as disgusting – but it wasn't. It was hot, and squirming, and it sent an odd tingle into the pit of his stomach, and most of all it was completely overwhelming.
He wasn't thinking about who might be looking, or what he should be doing, or why the other boy, the madman who carved blasphemies into his own body, was kissing him, he was simply experiencing. The gentle weight at his back of Farfarello's other hand. The slightly musky scent of the older boy's sweat mixed in with a sharper tang of his shampoo. The press of lips, the upper one impossibly soft, and the lower somewhat rough and ragged from where Farfarello has worried at it with his teeth. The alien taste of someone else's saliva, not like his own, under the chocolate. The somehow thrilling sound of hitched breathing, and he didn't know if it was his own or Farfarello's, or why it was so exciting.
He didn't resist as he felt himself being bent back, laid gently in the grass, though Farfarello's tongue never left off of its careful exploration of his mouth, now dipping in and out in small, sucking kisses. The grass was cool at the back of his head, and the sudden smell of it engulfed him. He found himself winding his arms around the Irishman's neck as his own lips moved to kiss back, cooperating clumsily but willingly in his own seduction.
Finally Farfarello pulled back, his palms resting on either side of Nagi's head as he stared down at the younger boy. His pupil was wildly dilated, the black almost swallowing the yellow, and that strange, gaijin porcelain skin was flushed a lovely rose. In the butter-yellow sunlight filtered through the jagged leaves of the maple, he was otherworldly. The sharp, sturdy line of his jaw, and the spikes of thick, near-white hair. His eyelashes were white, too, Nagi realized in some distant corner of his mind, delicate ivory strands.
Then suddenly the older boy was sitting back, looking away, his shoulders rising and falling as he struggled to control his breathing. Nagi sat up, confused, and placed a hand at the other boy's shoulder. "Nani…?" he asked.
"We should…we should go back," Farfarello answered him, face still hidden. His voice was thick, his brogue nearly indecipherable.
"Why?" Nagi asked again, still not quite able to think clearly.
"Because I can't…if you let me…this. This is a public place." That final sentence brought Nagi back to himself, and he glanced around a bit frantically, noting to his horror that a gaggle of teenage girls were watching the pair intently, giggling as they noticed him looking.
"Why do you…? You've never cared before," he said, his mind now too clear, and all the implications suddenly came rushing in…he hadn't even known he was gay (though he had his suspicions) let alone…and Farfarello? Of all people? Shouldn't it have been Schuldig, with his lean, sculpted body always on display as he padded around their shared apartment in little more than his boxer shorts and those ratty, ripped sleeveless undershirts? Or Crawford, with his classically handsome features and untouchable demeanor, so tempting in its coldness?
"You care," Farfarello answered, and Nagi glanced back at him sharply. He remembered what the Irishman had said earlier…and all the knowing grins the older boy had been giving him lately, the suggestive comments, and more telling, the way he had watched Nagi, all the time, when the younger boy was in the same room with him.
"Yeah, I guess I do," he replied, glancing again briefly at the whispering girls. He had a lot to think about. Maybe it was for the best that Farfarello had cut things a bit short. "Okay, let's go home."