Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ When It Rains, It Pours ❯ Golden Humor [Schu] ( Chapter 5 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Disclaimer: I dun own these people! @-x My muses are just so darned promiscuous…

Golden Humor [Schu]
By Koyuki Aode

Mein Gott, it is so good... so decadent, I want...

Well, I want to screw someone. Or to be screwed. Or both, actually. Why bother with details, it's just so luscious and *divine*, it can't be ruined by anything else. And there's still sauce left on the fork!

It even helps me forget the constant murmur of voices in the background. It's that good.

I take the utensil into my mouth, unable to resist the urge to smile contently as a scant of sweet sauce greets my tongue, with the richness of a melted jewel. A shuddering breath whirls within me as my eyes threaten to close. Then, sensing some reaching thoughts, I turn my gaze away from the window.

Farfello is intent on giving me an odd look as he waits for the busboy to come. He actually *stops* playing with his tea and rubbing the butter knife to assess the scene. His pale, full lips press together uncertainly as he moves his hand up to rub a section of cropped, snow-tinted hair; ashen skin mingling with the almost complete lack of color. Still unsure of his attitude toward me, he internally struggles for words to say. Skittering, jumbled thoughts tickle the roof of my mouth and I almost let out a laugh as each of his piercings gleam sheepishly in my direction.

The candlelight, though misplaced between the two of us, is effective enough; it does well in causing his skin to glow with the warmth that his personality lacks. Anxiously, watching me, his leather-bound knee grinds against the table. Several seconds wasted tick uncomfortably for him. Grinning back at him, I find it hard to bite back the soft moan that rolls from my tongue as I suck on my fork.

Finally, his golden eye widens and he blinks rapidly. He opens his mouth slightly as he raises an eyebrow at the fork. "You are very strange." His own tongue covertly slips out to lick the remains of crimson beverage off of his lips. I turn my eyes down for an instant to watch as more tea drips from his fingers, relaying a pattern onto the almost pristine tablecloth. That hand... lethal, pale, dexterous, and always - still - dripping with crimson.

It sure took him long enough to respond. "Wha?" I try my best to pout and speak through the fork. *I'm* the strange one? "Ihf guuuuhdh!" With a snort, he flicks his fingers in my direction, sprinkling my side of the table with the paling red. As the liquid meets my face, my mouth opens in protest. "Hey-" my hand closes over the fork that threatened to fall, "-What was that for?!" Self-conscious fingers grasp wildly at my jacket for violating droplets.

"For being a hungry fool," he smirks back at me, still shaking his hand dry. "Also, I don't want to stain my clothes." His other hand gestures down at his vest and leather pants. The leather pants he is intent on perforating with butter knives.

My hands gesture wildly at the air in front of my jacket. "Well- I-" What am *I* wearing?! "Use a nap-"

"-And for not telling me your plan." His voice has reached an all new, low level. It's not the non-chalant, observant articulation from the back of his throat - he's actually quite curious. Or, demanding to know. Inquiry is for more subtle people; Farfello doesn't do subtle.

"Didn't I tell you to trust me?" I glare at him above the napkin I've taken to my cheek.

He nods, confirming the statement. "I trusted you for two whole minutes. Now I deserve the information."

"I'll tell you, just wait a little longer!-" My mouth snaps closed, and I scoot over just in time to avoid a flying plate. More dishes follow and I remain pressed against the wall and window until the tripped busboy has come to a complete stop. Farfello's taken to biting his lip, almost disappointed as he regards the boy in silence. I, on the other hand, had been in *danger* the entire time. "Well, geez, kid. You could've hurt someone!" Carefully avoiding plate shards, I scoot back into place.

An exasperated sigh escapes the victim's mouth, as well as a few well-placed curses, and he pushes himself back up through the debris. This'll take a lot out of his salary. Anger is boiling and he wants to punch Farfello so badly, he can taste the crimson dripping from his offender's hand.

Ah, the gore that would follow - I just can't allow it this time.

~Don't mess with what you don't know, kid.~

His head snaps up at me, but I return to my pudding, ignoring the helpful clean-up staff that has come to clear the area.

~It's not worth it this time.~

*

A deep breath captures the scent of heavy whiskey sauce and it's almost impossible for my senses to ignore anything but the dish. I can feel the gleam in my eyes as I attack the dessert with my fork again, plunging into fleshy beige brioche, enhanced with a lavish sprinkling of plump, tight raisins. Slowly, achingly, I take the glob drowned in sinful sauce, illuminated by a golden sheen of liquid sand, and slip it between my lips. My tongue is wrapped in sheer jubilation as I tease my taste buds with the chunk.

Shit, this is great stuff. I could probably get hard off of it.

Again, Farfello's looking at me. I swallow hurriedly, still tugging at the morsel for a glimmer of sauce. As I lick my lips, I indulge on the remains of the tastefully obscure "New Orleans Bread Pudding." A difficult name in itself to remember, I had to get him to read the menu for me when I ordered it. Who knew that they served this sort of sinful food in Japan?

~Are you going to tell me?~ Now that his small task is done, he's got both of his legs folded as he leans onto the table with his elbows. One of his hands lingers on his tea glass.

I tilt my head right and stare at him. ~Rather impatient, aren't you?~ He's taken to non-verbal conversation again. Woo, I'm in trouble.

~Maybe.~ He pushes the glass in inch forward, then indicates his tilting hand with a nod.

I straighten up in unconscious alarm. ~You wouldn't...~

~Only you know.~ He smirks in reply.

So. He's got the power now, and it's sloshing in a half-empty glass of raspberry iced tea. Of all the irritating, incessant... IMMATURE... ~Are you convinced?~ I hadn't noticed it through the telepathy, but his voice had returned back to normal.

What a way to end a great meal! If one single drop gets on this jacket... Damn, dry-cleaning is hell. Prick. No, wait, Bradley's the prick... Nagi's the brat... he's the... asshole? I'm the asshole. Jerk! ~Well, that depends.~ I drop the fork and dab at my mouth with a rough napkin. ~Do you like me, or not?~ Ha, take that.

Without warning, the cup falls over, spilling watery crimson in a nice, tight circle over the surface of the tablecloth. Thankfully, it's spreading slowly enough to allow me escape of the invading liquid. Farfello looks up at me - no… past me, his smirk twitching into a bemused smile. When a shadow finally falls over my view, I turn my head to the window. And there he is.

Bombay.

His small, anxious hands are evenly spread upon the windowpane, as flashing cerulean eyes narrow in contempt. Sniffling almost confidently, his tongue darts out, lips half-parting in an accusing way. ~You…~ The mental hiss makes its way into my head, in a terse, caustic whisper.

His chest heaves with ragged breath, and clouds of fog puff into both of our views from the cold window. ~I've found you.~ His lips barely move, but I can hear the lone, triumphant thought in his mind. I nod back at him, feeling another smile creep onto my lips.

My eyes dart to Farfello. ~You seem to be feeling better.~ I examine the glimmer of distant pleasure in his eyes as his hand slips away from the cup. He nods, then, without a word, he stands and finds his way through a few spare dish shards, leaving enough money for the meal. Where he got that much currency, I have no idea.

As I move to follow him, the aggravated kitten tails us from outside, watching intently through the windows as we walk past each one. We've also, again, elicited stares from the restaurant patrons. The staff seems to have disappeared.

When we reach the door, I grab the handle from Farfello's grasp, and peek outside, spying the flash of Weiss' cap and a glimmer of straw-colored strands from around the corner.

"Feel like picking off another Takatori?" My gloved hand shows him the way out.

He brushes past me, already reaching into his vest pockets. "Always."

I refuse to be beaten for it this time.