Work Text:
There's something about watching Farfarello at work that Schuldig can't deny. It's disgusting, yeah, how much he enjoys it, the twisted way his mind curls around facts and lies and presses them indistinguishably together to make sin and God - but it's fascinating at the same time.
It's Schuldig's job to keep track of him, but work's not why he does it. Farfarello might be more physical than Schuldig prefers, quick and sloppy and too inclined to work on the material plane, but he's an artist in his own way, and there's something cultured about watching an artist at work.
Farfarello's favorite (and so Schuldig's) are churches, full of the faithful for him to work out his rage on. He likes the blood spattered across altar cloths, pooling in cryptic designs on white marble, profaning statues and crucifixes and smeared across stained glass. (Schuldig likes the people: their agony, the way they die cursing God for letting this happen to them, their families, their flocks; he shares it with Farfarello sometimes, when he's in a good mood.)
Afterward, Farfarello often turns his knife on himself, cutting deep patterns into his skin, slices and curves that heal quickly and never scar. Schuldig - sated with violence - finds this less interesting; Farfarello doesn't hurt so much as he burns, his mind jagged with denial and self-delusion. Without the mirror-image of pain, the specter of death, the echoes sweet in his mouth, it's not nearly so appealing.
He usually watches anyway.