Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ By the Book ❯ Is your name really 'Matze?' ( Chapter 8 )

Author: this thorn

Warnings: Schuldig being Schuldig. He's not much of a likable guy, is he? Too bad Ken/Matze is so kind and forgiving towards him. Still, it must be difficult: hundreds of voices in his head, yet he's alone.

A/N: Let's just say that, going into this chapter, I was terrified. I wrote to a friend back home and he gave me some good advice: Hör auf zu heulen. I also need to thank Bine for the reviews. I am so happy that people are actually digging deeper into the story. I wanted to write a story where that sort of thinking was possible. In theory, there shouldn't be any OOC behavior or plot holes. Warn me if you find something: I'll rewrite it on the double!

Bit more note: I know this takes place in Japan, and Japan has an exceedingly homogenous culture, but I filled the Schwarz kitchen with rather diverse foods. They are a diverse bunch, after all, and I can't Schuldig being content with traditional Japanese dishes, delicious though they may be.

Further notage: My dictionary translates `Schadenfreude' as `malicious pleasure.' Does that make sense? Bine? I wanted to use the word for Schuldig, but it seems English doesn't have one word for that. Or does it? Does `malicious pleasure' make you think Schuldig? Ach, I'm confused. On with the story.

After nearly two weeks, the flower shop finally opened its doors again.

Like any other day, swarms of high school girls descended upon the shop, chattering about the boys and buying flowers they didn't want just so Aya wouldn't throw them out.

But something was different. The three employees present looked tired beneath their bright smiles. It might have had something to do with the reason they were closed for so long.

A young blonde girl approached the register with a small bouquet of daisies, blushing when Omi turned his attention to her.

"Just this?" he asked brightly, and took her sudden fit of giggles to mean `yes.'

Omi passed the flowers on to Youji who, for once, seemed to be spending more time working than talking to the enthusiastic customers. The girl turned back to her friends who rewarded her with jealous glares and a thumbs-up.

"It will be 1000 yen, please." Omi's voice made her turn around, a sweet smile already at her lips as she handed over the money.

Eager to maintain conversation with the cute young florist, she asked innocently, "Where is Ken today?"

Omi visibly stiffened and turned to look at Aya, who had been watering the plants, but was now facing Omi with a hard expression on his face. The youngest employee looked down at his hands and gave a small sigh. "Ken…" he began.

Suddenly, Youji appeared behind him, placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and Aya left the hose running on the ground to stand beside them. "Ken went to America," Youji finished Omi's sentence, giving the boy's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "He might not come back," Aya added, a spark of something flickering in his otherwise cold violet eyes.

Youji passed the wrapped bouquet over the counter to the flustered blonde who snatched them, bowed her head and murmured a thank you before disappearing into the crowd. The remaining customers stood transfixed at the sight of their three favorite young men standing together in front of the store and, somewhere near the street, a camera flashed brightly.

Matze awoke confused. It was starting to become a habit: waking up in a strange place and spending the next few minutes piecing together how he got there.

For once, however, he felt he had a decent grasp on the events leading up to his waking in Schuldig's bed again. He'd been speaking with the one-eyed man, Gabriel, if that was his name. Regardless of the truth of it, he found the name somehow fitting, considering the man had carried him back to bed when he had presumably collapsed. And, judging by the white crayon next to a full glass of water on the bedstand, Gabriel was the one who had tended to him the previous day as well.

Which for a third time raised the question: Where was Schuldig? It would seem he hadn't come home at night because Matze was quite neatly tucked in and the pillow next to him looked unused. Matze was both annoyed and uneasy. He had expected from the first that he would simply stick to Schuldig's side while in the house, at least until he got to know his roommates better. They hadn't given him the impression that they liked him or wanted him around.

Instead, he found himself completely alone, except for maybe the kindness of Gabriel. His spirits brightened somewhat when he considered that Bradley and Nagi might prove to be equally amiable, despite their previous coldness, but that still didn't excuse Schuldig for abandoning him. He couldn't be certain of anything regarding his relationship with the redhead before the accident, but he didn't want it to be an affair of mutual neglect, precedent notwithstanding.

With that resolve, he crawled out of bed, noting with some pleasure that his headache was gone and his previous soreness was all but a memory. He also noted, much to his embarrassment, that he was clothed in a pair of comfortably-fitting flannel pajamas. Embarrassment because somebody - probably Gabriel - must have dressed him while he was asleep. He vaguely wondered who the clothes belonged to, Schuldig having already averred that all his own things had been destroyed.

Matze shook the last of his morning musings out of his head and made for the door, wincing as it whined in protest to opening. He hadn't bothered to look for a clock, but by the pale light filtering through the draperies in Schuldig's room, as well as the eerie quiet blanketing the apartment, he assumed it was still rather early. All the other doors in the hallway were closed, to his disappointment, and he briefly entertained the idea that everyone else was still asleep.

That notion was quashed when he entered the kitchen to find Bradley seated at the table sipping from a steaming mug. Judging by the pungent aroma it was coffee and, judging by the nausea it arose in him, he didn't like it. A quick scan of the kitchen revealed no other form of breakfast, and Matze's growling stomach reminded him he'd had nothing but a bowl of vegetable soup since he'd woken up three days ago.

Bradley's attention was focused on a sheet of paper resting on the table, but Matze was hungry enough to risk interrupting him.

"Excuse me," he said apologetically, "but what is there for breakfast?"

"Whatever you make." The other man didn't spare him a glance, but continued sipping his coffee, eyes boring into the single sheet of paper.

Matze was nervous to go digging in the cupboards, but it seemed like he had permission, so he gave a hesitant tug at the refrigerator door. There wasn't much inside: mainly condiments and beverages, but he spotted a carton of eggs in the door and took them out. A search of the cupboards revealed all manners of food in cans and boxes, as well as a loaf of sliced bread which he snatched after noticing a toaster on the counter. Returning to the fridge, he grabbed a tub of margarine and a jar of redcurrant preserves. Thus armed, he set out to prepare his morning meal.

He found the pots and pans beneath the stove, but the frying pan he wanted was on the very bottom. He gingerly attempted to slip the pan out without making any noise, nerves tense in the uncomfortable silence. He met with relative success, and it didn't seem that Bradley cared about the clatter, anyhow.

The older man's disregard convinced him to forgo timidity, and he began unabashedly rummaging through cupboards to find all the miscellaneous utensils he required.

He was just flipping his first pair of over-easy eggs when Schuldig appeared from the hallway, rubbing his neck and looking quite as though he'd slept in his clothes. And, considering his sour expression and uncomfortable wriggling, it hadn't been a particularly good sleep.

"Breakfast?" Matze gestured at the frying pan, trying to sound casual despite his burgeoning unease - it didn't take a genius to see Schuldig was in no mood to answer questions.

The redhead gave the proffered eggs a withering glance, but grunted in a way that implied he would, indeed, like something to eat. He seated himself heavily at the table, and Matze returned to busy himself with the toast. He was suddenly embarrassed to realize he did not know how Schuldig liked his toast. With careful tact, he carried the plate and silverware to the table, along with the margarine and preserves. Schuldig didn't acknowledge him, nor did he begin eating. Instead, he simply stared at the meal in front of him, and Matze anxiously wondered if he'd made some sort of mistake.

When it didn't appear Schuldig would make a move, Matze opted to break the silence. "Something wrong?"

"Coffee," came the mumbled reply.

Matze mentally kicked himself for not thinking about it, especially after noting his boyfriend's worn appearance. A bit of caffeine was probably necessary to get him awake and moving. As he fumbled around for a coffee mug - he'd seen them somewhere in his previous perusing - he spotted Nagi entering the kitchen out of the corner of his eye.

"Good morning," Matze ventured brightly, clutching a bright orange mug to his chest. "Do you want breakfast?"

His only reply was an unmistakably dangerous glare. The young boy then stormed past him, a white-knuckled fist clutching the strap of his bookbag, and slammed the apartment door on his way out.

Doesn't anyone talk around here in the morning? he wondered absently as he filled the mug.

No. And neither should you.

Matze started. He could have sworn he'd heard Schuldig's voice answer him, but he was looking clearly at the redhead's grimace as he held the coffee - those lips hadn't moved.

With a sigh, Matze returned to the stove and began making his own breakfast. The silence was unsettling, but he didn't want to try starting another conversation - no one seemed to appreciate it anyway.

He seated himself at the table and noticed pleasedly that Schuldig was looking considerably more pleasant than he had upon first entering the kitchen. He decided to hazard a benign comment.

"Do you think …Gabriel… wants breakfast?"

For the third time that morning he was answered with a glare but, for once, words accompanied it. Or a word.

"Who?"

Matze felt the beginnings of a blush. Apparently his first guess had been correct: the name was just part of some awkward game the fourth roommate had been playing with him. He decided the best way to cover his embarrassment at being so easily fooled was to not let the silence draw out.

"The other guy. With white hair and one eye." He meant to simply explain himself, but the shaky quality of his voice made it come out as more of a question.

Schuldig seemed to consider something for a moment before responding. "Yeah, you can take him something," he said with the air of someone bestowing a great favor. "But no silverware," he added as an afterthought. It seemed he had no intention of speaking any more, for he turned his full attention to his still full mug of coffee.

Matze finished his meager meal in silence and set to preparing yet a third installment of eggs and toast for his reclusive roommate. He almost forgot Schuldig's caution about silverware until a mental image of the white-haired man's scarred face and single eye provided him with his own reasons for stowing the fork and knife back in their drawer. His eyes lit briefly upon the still half-full coffeepot, but Schuldig spoke up from the table.

"I'll take him water later."

With one last glance around the kitchen Matze hefted the plate and headed for "Gabriel's" room. He found the situation strange: it seemed the white-haired man refused to leave his room, and all the others humored him. From his small knowledge of Bradley and Nagi, it didn't seem like something that they would do willingly or with any good grace. Matze briefly considered that he might be the one who had always handled the chore; it would explain "Gabriel's" friendly behavior. Speaking of which, he must have left the room to bring him the water and soup the day before. Perhaps the shyness was only a ruse? In the short walk to the closed door he had already severely confused himself. It was probably best to assume that things would become clearer with time.

Matze knocked politely, not wanting to disturb his roommate if he was still asleep. After a second attempt produced still no reply, he gently turned the knob, meaning to place the food on- he paused in thought, realizing he didn't recall any furniture in the room. Well, he'd place it in the room, at least. He smiled pleasedly at the idea of returning the favor.

Whatever he had expected to find when he entered, it was certainly not the sight that met his bulging eyes. The one-eyed man was seated in the middle of the floor drawing intricate patterns on his forearm with what would appear to be a very sharp kitchen knife, judging by the amount of blood staining his pale skin.

Matze had the presence of mind to hang on to the breakfast plate, but beyond that he seemed completely incapable of any action or speech. The other man stopped his carving and turned calmly to face his guest, expression blank and devoid of any recognition. They remained that way for a time, neither moving, until Matze felt sufficiently free of his previous shock to form a coherent sentence.

"Do you want me to get some bandages?" he ventured hesitantly, worrying his lower lip as his eyes roamed the ravaged flesh.

The other man also turned to look at his arm, then the knife in his hand. He considered it as if seeing it for the first time, then, much to Matze's horror, licked it clean with his tongue before settling it gentle next to him on the floor. Somehow the picture didn't hold well with the memory of the innocent coloring he'd been so engaged with only a day ago. Though, recalling the waxen scene he'd been shown, perhaps there had been something more to the childish activity. In fact, he would like a second chance to examine the picture - after he got some rags to clean up his roommate.

He returned quickly from the hospital room wash closet with a damp washcloth, vaguely bemused to see the other man staring intently into his plate of eggs as though he were reading a message there. He continued to stare impassively at the food as Matze gently seized his arm and began tending to his wounds.

As he wiped the vibrant blood away, Matze noted gratefully that the cuts weren't nearly as grave as he'd first thought them. In fact, it seemed they had already ceased to bleed, and he decided it was probably not worth the trouble to hunt for a first aid kit.

He backed away, resting on the balls of his feet and feeling slightly uncomfortable. He wondered whether he should question the other man about his rather shocking art form - and perhaps inquire as to the nature of the scars on his face, as well. But his roommate didn't seem to think anything of it, and Matze decided to let it drop, but not without taking the kitchen knife from the floor. He probably wasn't supposed to have it, if Schuldig's earlier caution had meant anything.

"Gabriel" didn't seem about to say anything, and Matze rose to leave. Suddenly, he stopped at the door, needing to give voice to the question that had bothered him since experiencing Schuldig's confusion at breakfast.

"Is your name really `Gabriel?'"

Matze had almost begun to think his roommate was nothing more than a cold marble statue, watching him completely unmoving, so it was no wonder he jumped as the lean man mechanically turned his head and something that might have been called a smirk ghosted across his pale lips.

"Is your name really `Matze?'" he intoned in a startlingly accurate imitation of the brunet's cadence.

Without waiting for an answer, the blonde returned to contemplating his morning meal, leaving Matze utterly baffled and ignored. He studied the other man's profile, looking for any small sign to clue him in on what the last statement meant. The brunet's eyes lit for a moment upon "Gabriel's" wounded arm, and he had the impression that the cuts he once thought life-threatening were nothing more than scratches. All the stress of the past few days must have really gotten to him - overreacting and panicking like a madman. He sighed and returned to the kitchen, carefully laying the knife beside the sink.

He had noticed a strange silence descend upon the room as he'd entered. There had certainly been talking before, else he would not have noticed a change. He directed his attention to the table where he found Crawford once more aloofly perusing his sheet of paper while Schuldig stared at him with undisguised annoyance. His mind was whirling: first Schuldig's coldness, then "Gabriel's" nonsense, and now secret conversations when he left the room. Before he could get a word out regarding his boyfriend's strange attitude, Schuldig was talking.

"Go get dressed. Your clothes are in my room." He seemed finished, but when Matze continued to stand staring at him, slightly hurt by his abrupt command, he amended himself. "In our room. Now go change."

Matze padded off without protest to do just that.

Schuldig stared into his full mug of coffee while he waited for his pet to get dressed. Crawford was right: if he didn't want Matze finding out about his ruse, he needed to act more like a lover. He just didn't want to.

The game wasn't turning out to be nearly as entertaining as he'd anticipated. In fact, the knowledge that he would have to get up and deal with Matze in the morning had been more than enough to discourage him from leaving the decidedly uncomfortable bed. He would have gladly stayed there all day, but he knew he could not. He was trapped.

Schuldig could feel it. Crawford was just waiting for him to give up, to go crazy. To admit that he'd lost control and admit that he was the amateur Crawford always knew he was. The feeling was even worse than the situation itself. Or maybe the situation wouldn't have turned sour if only Crawford had not been there, his gloating presence constantly antagonizing, even though he said nothing. He didn't even care if his arguments were sound: he had every right to blame the precog. He could have easily seen it all coming, but he said nothing. He was enjoying himself, and at Schuldig's expense.

He was well on his way to a stupendously foul mood when a soft voice broke into his internal rant.

"I'm ready. Are we going somewhere?"

The brunet had returned to the kitchen, comfortably clad in a t-shirt and khaki pants, which, Schuldig absently noted, seemed to fit quite well. Matze visibly quailed before the redhead's gaze and Schuldig's scowl only deepened in annoyance.

"It's getting cold. Wear a sweater. That's why I bought them for you," he said flatly, watching as Matze shuffled back to his room like a scolded child. "Screwed up again…" Schuldig had to smirk at his pet's train of thought: he was so eager to please. Maybe he wouldn't need to take Crawford's advice after all.

But Crawford never said anything without a reason. Schuldig again felt the infuriating frustration of being left in the dark about something that so obviously concerned him. Between Crawford's silent smugness and Matze's fawning ignorance, he was ready to snap. The telepath suddenly wished he could get into Brad's head and convince him he was a turkey. Or that he was madly in love with Nagi. Schuldig's lips curved in a smile, feeling his bad mood slip away as he considered all the amusing ways he could torture his teammates. The boredom and responsibility of keeping a pet like Matze were stifling - he felt sure he was due for a vacation.

His pleasant daydreams were shattered when Matze returned in a new outfit. The young brunet didn't say a word, but simply stood contritely in the doorway, seemingly quite interested in the cuff of his navy turtleneck. With a long-suffering sigh, Schuldig rose from the table and emptied his coffee into the sink. Suddenly, he grinned.

"You look great." His kitten brightened, offering him a shy smile. It was too easy. He smoothed out the clothes he had worn the night before and retrieved a jacket from the living room closet. "Shall we?" Extending his arm to Matze, he wrapped it around his waist and steered him out the door, feeling in control for the first time all week.

The ride to the supermarket had been easy enough. Matze had spent the entire ride staring out the windows, eyes flicking from building to building, mouth hanging open - but thankfully silent. Schuldig didn't think he could have handled being bombarded with questions when he was already developing a migraine. Damn public transportation.

In truth, he'd expected shopping to be just as painful. It was technically Nagi's turn to get the groceries, but the kid had covered for him while he was stuck babysitting the comatose Weiß assassin. Although it was fair payback, Schuldig had been hoping to sleep in for once - even if in a rock-hard bed.

As soon as they stepped off the bus, Schuldig had to put his hand on Matze's shoulder to make sure they didn't get separated: Matze was acting like it was his first time being in a large city. Feeling the urge to retaliate for all the inane thoughts he'd been drowning in on the bus, Schuldig snaked his hand around to Matze's right side and grasped his hand, resting their interlaced fingers on the younger boy's hip. At the sudden chorus of surprise and outrage that spiked around him, it was all he could do to keep from laughing.

There were other reasons to take Matze with him to the store - beyond having someone to grope and to carry groceries. It was nice to be served breakfast; he was usually willing to go hungry before he expended the effort to cook something at such an ungodly hour of the morning. Or anytime, really. For that reason he'd decided, at some point during his rather riveting breakfast with Brad, to make Matze into his own personal housewife. Judging by the brunet's pallor and poorly concealed discomfort, Schuldig figured he'd be spending at least a few more nights out before he'd be able to fully enjoy the pleasures of his own bed once more. Having his pet cook and run errands seemed a decent way to make up for the inconvenience.

Which was why, at the tender hour of ten in the morning, Schuldig was strolling down a garishly well-lit supermarket aisle helping Matze load his basket with all the items the men of Schwarz enjoyed - namely, food. As they reached the breakfast cereal, the brunet suddenly stopped and turned to Schuldig with shining eyes.

"Can we get a box of this?" he asked with scarcely veiled excitement. "It's my favorite."

"Your favorite?" Schuldig's smirk was mirrored in his voice. He immediately comprehended the importance of the revelation and found it amusing, though nonetheless unsettling.

"Yes," Matze replied, seemingly unaware of the significance of something so simple.

"You remember that?"

The brunet's eyes went wide with comprehension and a genuine smile split his face. Schuldig just watched and listened as Matze tried to probe the minute recollection for all it was worth, discovering, much to his disappointment, that it led no further than a memory of pouring the cereal into a heavy orange ceramic bowl.

Schuldig frowned. He didn't really want Matze to want to remember. While it would undoubtedly make holding him captive more exciting, Crawford would surely run out of patience and demand the Weiß boy killed. The precog took a perverse pleasure in cutting Schuldig's games short.

"Do we have any orange bowls?"

Had Schuldig not been unabashedly eavesdropping on his kitten's thoughts, he might not have had the good grace to act oblivious. "Orange bowls?" He frowned slightly, then rubbed his chin in thought. "We did have one ceramic one once upon a time, but it broke in the sink a while back." Perfect. Matze seemed quite pleased and lowered the box toward the basket, checking once more with Schuldig for approval. Even more perfect.

They wandered through the store for another half-hour, saying very little. Matze occasionally had questions regarding anything from the date to his accident, which Schuldig answered with the ease of a practiced liar: November 10 and having a few too many drinks before climbing to the rooftop.

Schuldig was glad for the lack of conversation; he was thinking. Thinking it might be best to keep Matze in the house where things wouldn't arbitrarily jog his memory. He wasn't quite ready to give up his newest acquisition, not right away. He considered how pleasant it would be to have control over at least one person in a household of men who treated him with cold contempt - grudging respect at best. It was almost tiring constantly broadcasting his skill and confidence to people who didn't respond or acknowledge him. Matze, on the other hand, seemed to hang on his every gesture.

In the long run, the excessive adoration was probably better than being ignored, he reasoned. And he almost choked on laughter whenever he considered what the Weiß assassin would say if he knew how he was behaving with his enemy. Ignorant of the redhead's thoughts, Matze turned and offered him a smile.

Reflecting, the shopping trip was one of the most relaxing he'd ever gone on, and knowing he wouldn't be preparing any of the food purchased made it that much sweeter. Going to the supermarket with Matze hadn't been so bad, after all. What a pleasant surprise.

Schuldig: You know, I picked up a can of whipped cream…

Ken: Please say you're not talking to me.

TT: Not me either, I've had quite enough of you.

Schuldig: Oh? But you're the one writing me. It's your own fault.

Nagi: Stop blaming the author for your idiocy, you moron.

Ken: But she's the one who's trying to hook me up with Schuldig.

Nagi: I don't want to hear you talk, especially not about that.

Schuldig: Jealous, kid?

Farfarello: Guilt is not a sickness, but a symptom.

TT: That's right.

Ken: What?

Schuldig: Stop that! Shouldn't you be locked up somewhere?

TT: Well, it seems he has a lot of fans. Far more than you.

Schuldig: So?

TT: Now who's jealous?

A/N (reprise): Hopefully this longer chapter will keep you happy for a short time. It is finals week, and I am working hard to write essays. I have to analyze "Die Küchenuhr" for 10 pages. Ugh. But that you for the reviews, and keep leaving them. It really doesn't take much time! Just say "write more" and I will be happy. //TT