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There's something beautiful about watching Farfarello bleed. Nagi sees him get stabbed in the back and pauses to admire the view. He doesn't need a shrink - or you, Schuldig - to understand why.
Besides, he’s killing time before he can tear the building down behind them; his second favourite part of work, these days.
His most favourite blinks through his own blood, held down by a tangle of men. Nagi rolls his eyes, waits a heartbeat, then nudges a knife closer.
Farfarello turns and slashes some throats and there’s beauty in that, too, but it's gotten a little harder to appreciate.
Nagi feels his mouth open, licks his lips.
The pocketknife is lodged beneath Farfarello's shoulderblade. Nagi could easily pull it out by telekinesis, but reaches up and curls his fingers around the handle. It's wet and sticky with blood and Nagi loses his grip and accidentally twists the blade, steel grating against bone. Farfarello doesn't complain; he never complains.
Nagi bites his tongue and watches the blood, the ragged edges of the wound, the pale skin and old scars and he could reopen every one of them if he wanted.
Farfarello nods thanks, then Nagi’s shivering alone, knife in hand.
There’s something beautiful about watching Farfarello bleed. The filter of Nagi’s badly hidden vengeance-bloodlust just brings it into focus, like being held at gun point or fucking.
He lets out a shaky breath, feels himself tremble and Farfarello just stands there, knife in his back and blood on Nagi's hand. Well. There's a metaphor.
Schuldig smiles sharply, head against the brick wall, cock in hand, keening with the confusion of anger and want, metal on bone, the smell of blood and sweat and the blow of orgasm like splitting scars -
And after, the one thought:
More.
It isn’t his.