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Tourniquet
folder
Wei� Kreuz › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
940
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Wei� Kreuz › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
940
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
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.
Tourniquet
Disclaimer: I don\'t own Weiss Kreuz or any of its characters. They belong to some cool Asian guy overseas. I do, however, own a healthy collection of manga, if he\'d be willing to trade. The title of this ficfromfrom a song by Evanescence, from their album \"Fallen.\" I don\'t own the song, or the lyrics, either.
Warning(s): This is a Far-centric. You should know what that entails. This might be a little OOC, only because I just moved from GW to WK, so...
Note(s): I used to write GW fanfiction, but I\'ve moved on to what I consider a much more interesting, if not under-appreciated, series. (See my updated profile, if this presents any confusion.) If I fuck up any basic and obvious facts about the series/ manga, please tell me? I\'ve gone with a lot of the series facts--eye/hair color, apporximate age, etc.--only because I own the series, not the manga. x.o C&C very much welcomed.
Also, thoughts denoted by <...> and lyrics by /.../.
Tourniquet
Switchblade003
/I tried to kill the pain
But brought only more
I lay dying
And I\'m pouring crimson regret and betray
\
\"Dammit, Far...\"
He\'s done this before, sliced himself into ribbons and lay bleeding on the floor of his room, but God Almighty, I\'ve never seen so much blood. I\'ve never seen him this cut-up, before, and my mind is flying, racing, trying to think of what to do.
I\'m mopping up sticky pools of red off of his alabaster skin, searching with something bordering on panic for the source of this never-ending bloodflow, and he lies there on his back, single amber eye glazed and unseeing. I don\'t care what spurred this on, or he\ he\'s so fucking unresponsive, right now; I have to clean him up before Crawford gets home.
/I\'m dying praying bleeding and screaming
Am I too lost to be saved
Am I too lost?/
His mind is quiet. It\'s startling to me, as I realize this, because his mind is always a vir tor torrent of twisted thought, of crooked logic that almost perpetually ends in dead ends and iambic pentameter. I don\'t doubt that Farfarello has lost his touch with reality, but he is far from insane. He just sees things a hell of a lot differently than most of us. His mind is ever-curious and ever-working, much like a child\'s, except that our Irishman is capable of much more complex thought.
I dig deeper, hands still working furiously to stop him from bleeding out, and I can hear a faint noise, a little boy\'s voice, reciting some litany in lilting English.
And I realize that something inside of Farfarello is praying.
/My God my tourniquet
Return me to salvation
My God my tourniquet
Return me to salvation/
What shocks me perhaps more than this minor revelation is that it\'s not really Far who\'s praying, but Jei, the wide-eyed child that he had once been. Jei, trapped somewhere in a dark corner of Farfarello\'s jaded mind, is praying for their salvation.
This is so fucked up.
I sit behind him, hook my arms under his and pull him back against my chest to elevate him. He\'s warm, a lot moreso than I\'d expected, and he remains docile, submissive, as he\'s apt to do when he\'s not in Berserker mode. The blood flow has stemmed considerably, but the room is still a mess. He\'s got his dagger clasped loosely in his left hand and it\'s not a threat. He\'s never attacked one of Schwarz before, and I seriously doubt that he would, now.
I rest my forehead against the soft silver spikes of his hair and sigh deeply, prodding through his thoughts once again. He knows I\'m in there, knows that I\'m listening to his internal monologues, but he doesn\'t care. He never has.
<...The Lord is with thee. Blessed art Thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our deaths...>
/Do you remember me
Lost for so long
Will you be there on the other side
Or will you forget me/
I knew that he had been Catholic at some point. I\'m also very aware of his profound hatred for God and all things Christian, his intolerance lieslies, and his ire for sins. He\'s made a life\'s pursuit of \'hurting the Great Liar\' and hunting down clergy--\'His minions.\' I\'m fairly certain that I\'ve managed to pinpoint where all of this anger stems from, but his memories aren\'t that reliable. His rage, his destructive thought processes have warped what only time could tell me, and all I know now is that Farfarello murdered famifamily when he was younger, and he honestly believes that someone else committed the crime.
He blames God for not protecting his family, but he should be blaming God for not protecting them from himself. It\'s twisted, it\'s morbid, and it\'s what makes him Farfarello.
If he didn\'t loathe God with every fiber of his being, then I wouldn\'t love him as much as I do. It\'s what defines him as a person: his passion, his rage, his destruction, his carnage.
Of the four of us, at least Farfarello has never kidded himself about what he is. We kill for money. We\'re guns for hire. He takes this knowledge in stride, while the rest of us battle our closet of skeletons on an almost daily basis. That doesn\'t make him unpractically insane. It makes him insanely practical.
/I\'m dying praying bleeding and screaming
Am I too lost to be saved
Am I too lost?/
Some small part of him--Jei--wants desperately to go back to being a sheep,loviloving God and living a righteous life, but the more intelligent, mature, and jaded side of him knows how impossible that would be. He\'s embraeverevery negative, animalistic, and primal urge that we as humans experience, where a majority of people would repress those desires out of humiliation or despair. He\'s true to himself, his mind and body, and perhaps that\'s what scares people about him.
I\'ve watched him for the last two years, observed his thoughts, listened to his dreams. His mind is both terrifying and beautiful, and I don\'t want to lose him.
I realized this after a mission we had a while back. He got shot and my stomach twisted in on itself. It wasn\'t the anxiety I experience every time that Nagi or Crawford are injured in battle; it was personal. I think he knows that I love him. I don\'t know that he cares. But I can deal with that; I honestly wasn\'t expecting much from him.
/My God my tourniquet
Return me to salvation
My God my tourniquet
Return me to salvation/
He blinks, slowly at first, as if reorienting himself with his surroundings, and then that honey-colored gaze rests on me. There\'s always curiosity in his expression, as well as a subtle manic gleam that never really goes away. \"What happened?\"
His voice is soft, low, almost a growl of breath, and his lilting accent is thick. I sigh, shaking my head, and tap one of my hands where it rests on his stomach. The muscles there jump under abused, angrilly red skin, but he doesn\'t feel the sting. He never does.
\"You cut yourself up, again.\"
He nods noncommittally, absently. He reaches down to brush my hands aside and trace the seemingly random cuts he\'s made into his own skin. He\'s still wearing those worn, fingerless black gloves, the leather permanently reeking of old blood, and his ever-present collar. He\'s always had an odd taste in fashion, though I can\'t really say anything.
Pot, kettle, black, right?
/My wounds cry for the grave
My soul cries for deliverance/
If he has any qualms about our current proximity he says nothing. His mind is still oddly quiet, and he rolls onto his side between my thighs, curling around my leg, his head against my stomach. There are moments like now when he almost returns my black affection for him, my briefly-entertained notions of telling him how I feel, as he stretches lithely against me and settles back down.
Sometimes he\'s like an overgrown housecat, though I don\'t mind. He\'s listening to Jei murmur long-forgotten prayers, his eye closed, his fingers still clasped around the hilt of his blade.
My jeans are covered in blood, and I don\'t care. He\'s warm, close, and something tells me not to leave him alone, again. Crawford will be home shortly, he\'ll find us sitting in a pool of Farfarello\'s blood, and all of hell will break loose, but right now I just don\'t care. Maybe our Berserker\'s apathy is contagious.
I reach up unconsciouly to run blood-smeared fingers through his short hair, leaving trails of glistening crimson through the silver, and we listen to gospel hymns, Farfarello\'s slowly-strengthening mental voice, and Jei\'s tears.
/Will I be denied Christ
Tourniquet
My suicide/
Warning(s): This is a Far-centric. You should know what that entails. This might be a little OOC, only because I just moved from GW to WK, so...
Note(s): I used to write GW fanfiction, but I\'ve moved on to what I consider a much more interesting, if not under-appreciated, series. (See my updated profile, if this presents any confusion.) If I fuck up any basic and obvious facts about the series/ manga, please tell me? I\'ve gone with a lot of the series facts--eye/hair color, apporximate age, etc.--only because I own the series, not the manga. x.o C&C very much welcomed.
Also, thoughts denoted by <...> and lyrics by /.../.
Tourniquet
Switchblade003
/I tried to kill the pain
But brought only more
I lay dying
And I\'m pouring crimson regret and betray
\
\"Dammit, Far...\"
He\'s done this before, sliced himself into ribbons and lay bleeding on the floor of his room, but God Almighty, I\'ve never seen so much blood. I\'ve never seen him this cut-up, before, and my mind is flying, racing, trying to think of what to do.
I\'m mopping up sticky pools of red off of his alabaster skin, searching with something bordering on panic for the source of this never-ending bloodflow, and he lies there on his back, single amber eye glazed and unseeing. I don\'t care what spurred this on, or he\ he\'s so fucking unresponsive, right now; I have to clean him up before Crawford gets home.
/I\'m dying praying bleeding and screaming
Am I too lost to be saved
Am I too lost?/
His mind is quiet. It\'s startling to me, as I realize this, because his mind is always a vir tor torrent of twisted thought, of crooked logic that almost perpetually ends in dead ends and iambic pentameter. I don\'t doubt that Farfarello has lost his touch with reality, but he is far from insane. He just sees things a hell of a lot differently than most of us. His mind is ever-curious and ever-working, much like a child\'s, except that our Irishman is capable of much more complex thought.
I dig deeper, hands still working furiously to stop him from bleeding out, and I can hear a faint noise, a little boy\'s voice, reciting some litany in lilting English.
And I realize that something inside of Farfarello is praying.
/My God my tourniquet
Return me to salvation
My God my tourniquet
Return me to salvation/
What shocks me perhaps more than this minor revelation is that it\'s not really Far who\'s praying, but Jei, the wide-eyed child that he had once been. Jei, trapped somewhere in a dark corner of Farfarello\'s jaded mind, is praying for their salvation.
This is so fucked up.
I sit behind him, hook my arms under his and pull him back against my chest to elevate him. He\'s warm, a lot moreso than I\'d expected, and he remains docile, submissive, as he\'s apt to do when he\'s not in Berserker mode. The blood flow has stemmed considerably, but the room is still a mess. He\'s got his dagger clasped loosely in his left hand and it\'s not a threat. He\'s never attacked one of Schwarz before, and I seriously doubt that he would, now.
I rest my forehead against the soft silver spikes of his hair and sigh deeply, prodding through his thoughts once again. He knows I\'m in there, knows that I\'m listening to his internal monologues, but he doesn\'t care. He never has.
<...The Lord is with thee. Blessed art Thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our deaths...>
/Do you remember me
Lost for so long
Will you be there on the other side
Or will you forget me/
I knew that he had been Catholic at some point. I\'m also very aware of his profound hatred for God and all things Christian, his intolerance lieslies, and his ire for sins. He\'s made a life\'s pursuit of \'hurting the Great Liar\' and hunting down clergy--\'His minions.\' I\'m fairly certain that I\'ve managed to pinpoint where all of this anger stems from, but his memories aren\'t that reliable. His rage, his destructive thought processes have warped what only time could tell me, and all I know now is that Farfarello murdered famifamily when he was younger, and he honestly believes that someone else committed the crime.
He blames God for not protecting his family, but he should be blaming God for not protecting them from himself. It\'s twisted, it\'s morbid, and it\'s what makes him Farfarello.
If he didn\'t loathe God with every fiber of his being, then I wouldn\'t love him as much as I do. It\'s what defines him as a person: his passion, his rage, his destruction, his carnage.
Of the four of us, at least Farfarello has never kidded himself about what he is. We kill for money. We\'re guns for hire. He takes this knowledge in stride, while the rest of us battle our closet of skeletons on an almost daily basis. That doesn\'t make him unpractically insane. It makes him insanely practical.
/I\'m dying praying bleeding and screaming
Am I too lost to be saved
Am I too lost?/
Some small part of him--Jei--wants desperately to go back to being a sheep,loviloving God and living a righteous life, but the more intelligent, mature, and jaded side of him knows how impossible that would be. He\'s embraeverevery negative, animalistic, and primal urge that we as humans experience, where a majority of people would repress those desires out of humiliation or despair. He\'s true to himself, his mind and body, and perhaps that\'s what scares people about him.
I\'ve watched him for the last two years, observed his thoughts, listened to his dreams. His mind is both terrifying and beautiful, and I don\'t want to lose him.
I realized this after a mission we had a while back. He got shot and my stomach twisted in on itself. It wasn\'t the anxiety I experience every time that Nagi or Crawford are injured in battle; it was personal. I think he knows that I love him. I don\'t know that he cares. But I can deal with that; I honestly wasn\'t expecting much from him.
/My God my tourniquet
Return me to salvation
My God my tourniquet
Return me to salvation/
He blinks, slowly at first, as if reorienting himself with his surroundings, and then that honey-colored gaze rests on me. There\'s always curiosity in his expression, as well as a subtle manic gleam that never really goes away. \"What happened?\"
His voice is soft, low, almost a growl of breath, and his lilting accent is thick. I sigh, shaking my head, and tap one of my hands where it rests on his stomach. The muscles there jump under abused, angrilly red skin, but he doesn\'t feel the sting. He never does.
\"You cut yourself up, again.\"
He nods noncommittally, absently. He reaches down to brush my hands aside and trace the seemingly random cuts he\'s made into his own skin. He\'s still wearing those worn, fingerless black gloves, the leather permanently reeking of old blood, and his ever-present collar. He\'s always had an odd taste in fashion, though I can\'t really say anything.
Pot, kettle, black, right?
/My wounds cry for the grave
My soul cries for deliverance/
If he has any qualms about our current proximity he says nothing. His mind is still oddly quiet, and he rolls onto his side between my thighs, curling around my leg, his head against my stomach. There are moments like now when he almost returns my black affection for him, my briefly-entertained notions of telling him how I feel, as he stretches lithely against me and settles back down.
Sometimes he\'s like an overgrown housecat, though I don\'t mind. He\'s listening to Jei murmur long-forgotten prayers, his eye closed, his fingers still clasped around the hilt of his blade.
My jeans are covered in blood, and I don\'t care. He\'s warm, close, and something tells me not to leave him alone, again. Crawford will be home shortly, he\'ll find us sitting in a pool of Farfarello\'s blood, and all of hell will break loose, but right now I just don\'t care. Maybe our Berserker\'s apathy is contagious.
I reach up unconsciouly to run blood-smeared fingers through his short hair, leaving trails of glistening crimson through the silver, and we listen to gospel hymns, Farfarello\'s slowly-strengthening mental voice, and Jei\'s tears.
/Will I be denied Christ
Tourniquet
My suicide/