I keep knives in my closet

         Farfarello stood by the large sliding glass doors in the living room of the Schwarz headquarters, his single, tawny eye locked on the raging stormy sky outside. The rain poured down in relentless sheets, and the icy wind blew so hard that the rain was forced to fall at an angle, further obscuring what little was visible through the thick panes of glass. Every few seconds, the sky would fill with a flash of lightning, casting long shadows as the powerful bolts flooded the living room briefly with a pale light. Then the low, rumbling thunder would follow, shaking the glass doors in their panes.

         A light grin crossed the Berserker's pale lips as he heard the front door slam and footsteps cross the entryway to the arched living room doorway; that would be Schuldig--the German had left just before he had, stating that he "wouldn't be long". Apparently, to Schuldig, "not long" consisted of a minimum of seven hours. He had left at around eleven, and it was now early evening.

         The Berserker raised a porcelain-pale hand to the window, resting the thin, spiderleg-like digits on the glass, and leaned his head on his wrist as he listened to the German's approaching footsteps. "God is weeping, Schuldig..." The Irishman grinned again as he heard the German stop a few feet away from him.

         "I've noticed," Schuldig responded, wringing out the lower part of his orange-red hair. "With the rain pouring down like this, you must've killed an entire church."

         Farfarello didn't respond; he simply grinned, his tawny eye still fixated on the continually darkening sky.

         "You know Braddie's not going to be pleased if he finds out." The German ran a hand through the upper portion of his hair, ruffling it a bit as he grinned at the Irishman's back. "Ah well... I'm going upstairs to try and sleep off this headache. Try not to wake me up with any maniacal laughter, will ya?" The German chuckled a bit at his own joke, then Schuldig crossed the living room to the flight of stairs that led to the second floor of their home. "Heh, I'll see you later." He headed off up the staircase, leaving Farfarello alone in the living room.

         The Berserker raised his head slightly, allowing his hand to slide down the crystal-clear pane of glass as he fixed his gaze on the rain again. After a few moments, he turned away from the glass, crossing the desolate room to place one hand on the oaken banister of the staircase, glancing up at the eerie shadows. It was too quiet; the kind of quiet that wrenches at the heart and tears at the soul, the silence so complete that one cannot possibly stand it, let alone comprehend. The Irishman glanced out the window once more before ascending the abandoned staircase to the second floor.

         Upon arriving at his bedroom, the Irishman slid the door shut quietly, crossing the room to the small window that was set high in the wall. Directly below the window was a small table, on which the Berserker had approximately a dozen half-burned candles--the only source of light in his room. It was these candles that Farfarello lit before crossing the room to what served as his bed--a single white mattress on the floor, strewn with a bloodstained powder blue blanket, a faded multicoloured patchwork quilt, and a small assortment of pillows. Certainly, the Berserker had been offered more, but he was quite content in the simplicity of his living quarters.

         Farfarello laid down on the mattress, not bothering to undress, or indeed, even remove his shoes. He rested his arms against the pillows behind him, interlocking his fingers as they laid across the back of his head.

         Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a white ball of fluff catiously creeping out of his closet. The Irishman had found the cat four days earlier, and took advantage of the fact that nobody was home by taking it in, feeding it, and making a place for it to stay in his closet. The cat didn't seem to mind, either, what with getting free food and all.

         The Irishman half-smiled as the cat made its way over to his bed, meowing softly before climbing up onto his lap. The Berserker lifted his head and brought one hand forward to scratch the cat under the chin lightly before rubbing it behind the ears. The cat purred softly and rubbed its head against the Berserker's hand, the tip of its tail flicking lightly in content.

         The Irishman continued to stroke the cat's fur, listening to the beautiful melody of the storm as he began to drift into slumber.

~†~

         When Farfarello awoke the next morning, the torrent of rain had finally slowed to a dull drizzle. He sat up, then pushed himself to his feet with one hand. The candles under the window had burned themselves out over the night, and the cat had abandoned him to curl up in a corner.

         The Irishman crossed the room to stand by the window, his gaze fixating on the rainy sky as he crossed his arms over his chest, almost as if he were hugging himself. After a few moments, the Berserker turned away from the window, crossing the room to the door. He slipped quietly into the hallway, closing his door behind him before making his way to the staircase.

         The Berserker slowly made his way down the stairs, his attention focused on the tips of his steel-toed boots. Upon arriving at the first floor, he made his way into the adjoining kitchen. Schuldig grinned at Farfarello as he entered, ruffling the Irishman's hair as he walked past. "Heya, Psychopath." Farfarello ignored both that comment and the one that followed, getting himself a drink. So where'd ya get the furball? You still haven't told me. The Berserker completely ignored the German's attempts to piss him off, knowing full well that retaliating would get him nowhere; instead, he posed a question of his own.

         "No missions?" The German shook his head. "Nope. We're on down time for once." The Irishman nodded, saying nothing more, and headed out of the kitchen into the living room.

         "Oi Farf!" The Berserker stopped and glanced back over his shoulder, waiting to see what Schuldig wanted.

         "Heh, I was planning on watching a movie tonight... You wanna watch it with me?"

         The Berserker arched a brow slightly; the German had his hands spread before him in an expression of sincerity. But that was the problem when dealing with the Mastermind--he was, after all, a master of manipulation. One could never tell what to believe and what not to, and sincerity wasn't exactly his strong suit.

         Farfarello simply turned, drink in hand, and headed for the staircase once again. He didn't answer the German; there was no point.

         The Mastermind simply smirked, his crystal blue eyes following the Berserker's retreating back. I'll take that as a yes, then.

~†~

         A few hours later, the Berserker sat in his room upon the mattress that served him as a bed, stroking Shinryakusha's fur gently. The Irishman was lost in thought, his tawny eye gazing into nothingness as the cat purred and rubbed against his hand. It was only slightly obvious that the Berserker had been drinking, and that he'd drank quite a bit, what with the way he had been acting and all the alcoholic beverage bottles strewn around the room. It was a rare occasion when the Irishman drank this much, but recently he had been drinking more and more. Wasting life away, he thought bitterly.

         The Irishman threw the last bottle away, smirking lightly at the sound of shattering glass. Shinryakusha jumped, leaving long gashes on the Berserker's arm, though Farfarello took no notice of it. The day he did would be a cold day in Hell indeed.

         The cat hissed at Farfarello, skirting across the room to take refuge in the Irishman's closet. Farfarello, however, took no notice of this action either, but simply sat there for a few moments before drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He sighed lightly, the sound barely audible. He then rested his chin atop his knees, his gaze shifting to look out the window at the depressingly bright sunlight. The sun was, however, sinking fast, and orange-red streaks soon filled the once-blue sky, submersing the Berserker in an all-too familiar sense of longing.

         He was jolted to his senses when he heard a knock on his door. "Oi! One-eye! You're gonna miss the movie!" Even without seeing him, Farfarello knew that the German wore that familiar grin on his face. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room and exiting it. After closing the door behind him, he turned to follow the German down the staircase, wondering silently where the Oracle and Prodigy were.

         Schuldig smirked once more. Ol' Braddie's got some business to take care of, and Nagster went to some café, or so he said.

         Questions sprang to the Irishman's mind, but before he had a chance to ponder the possible answers, the German spoke again. It's just you and me today, Berserker.