Weiss Kreuz - slash_me_twice - 045. Reality
045. Reality
Sequel, of sorts, to 020. Country.
*
They make oranges. Or rather, Schuldig teaches Ran to make oranges, and then watches, hands in his pockets and soft smile on his lips, as Ran cups his hands around the leafy branches and then removes them to reveal ripe, fat oranges tugging heavily toward the ground. Every time Ran makes one, his eyes narrow in concentration. He has learned that he doesn’t need to close his eyes, but making oranges is different from making apples. From skin to texture to juice to seeds, they’re different, and Ran wants each orange to be nothing less than perfect.
Schuldig’s eyes squint against the sun, but he doesn’t move. It’s over Ran’s head and beaming down on him like Ran’s been Chosen with a capital C, but for what, even Schuldig doesn’t know. His pale skin looks luminescent. Schuldig wants to touch him, make sure even this specter of the real is not a ghost…but he doesn’t.
Ran finishes an orange and gets his self-satisfied look, the light twist of lips that indicates pleasure in his work, and lowers his arms. He made this orange in less than a minute, but the first took him an hour to create. Even then, it was not nearly as magnificent as these. Practice makes perfect. He has filled almost a whole orange tree since Schuldig parked beside the orchard. They are two rows in, and the car is a glint between the leaves. Ran did not ask why an orange grove would be so close to the highway. They are in California, now, and over the miles he has come to accept his mindscape as mutable, changeable, and not always understandable to his conscious mind.
But of course, he’s dreaming. Schuldig has told him so, and he is sure that is true. So perhaps conscious mind is not a term he should use. Even so, he reaches for the conscious mind he knows must be somewhere. Perhaps they are looking for it in their journey to nowhere. Or perhaps, they are making up for time Ran doesn’t remember losing.
Ran plucks a low-hanging orange, one of his last creations, and turns to Schuldig. He holds it out with a coquettish tilt of his head. “Do you want an orange?” he asks.
The sun beats down on them and Schuldig smiles, mouth dry for other reasons. “Sure,” he says, giving voice only to what is appropriate, and takes the orange from Ran’s outstretched hand. “Do you want some?” He places the orange in the flat of his palm and it rises a few inches into the air, peeling like a planet shedding rings of its skin as it goes. Juice drips onto Schuldig’s hand, and he winces, then shrugs. Ran breathes a chuckle; Schuldig is fastidious sometimes, and other times, perfectly willing to be dirtied.
The orange splits into pieces like a flower unfurling. A piece floats over to Ran, who takes it and puts the whole thing into his mouth; he likes biting down and letting the juice explode on his tongue. Schuldig chuckles at the pleasure on his face as he chews. Ran gives him a Look and Schuldig eats a slice of orange to keep his mouth out of trouble.
Ran comes close and grabs another slice of orange from Schuldig’s hand. But instead of lifting it to his lips, he lifts it to Schuldig’s. Schuldig hesitates, and Ran withdraws his arm, face downcast. He has made a mistake.
“Hey,” Schuldig says, tugging Ran’s wrist with his empty hand, “That’s mine.”
Ran looks up, hopeful, and smirks. “Then eat it before I do,” he says.
“Brat,” Schuldig says affectionately, and closes his lips over the orange slice and the tips of Ran’s fingertips.
Ran’s eyes are fixed on Schuldig’s as he withdraws his fingers, watches Schuldig chew and swallow. And then he smiles, small but brilliant, and folds one arm across his chest, puts the fingers that were in Schuldig’s mouth briefly against his lips. “I had hoped,” he said softly, and his eyes shine.
Schuldig reaches out and strokes Ran’s cheek, moves a bright red ear-tail closer to his ear. “Me too,” he says.
Ran leans into his hand and then reaches up, linking their fingers. “You ready to go?”
Schuldig nods, and the orange grove dissolves around them, growing blindingly bright and then-
Ran’s hand is empty. Where is Schuldig? Where is-
I’m right here, Schuldig says. But now everything is dark. He can’t see where “here” is.
Where am I?
The hospital. You’re awake now. Well…yeah. You’re waking up.
Ran feels a pinprick of pain and wants to squeeze Schuldig’s hand, as he had when he got his first headache on the carousel somewhere in Nevada and reached out for Schuldig before he nearly tipped off his plastic horse. Schuldig? It-
It’s the light.
And Ran’s eyes slide slowly open, fighting the heavy burden of his eyelids the whole way. The room is white, the window shades mostly drawn. Still, a bit of sunlight filters in, painting the walls soft pink.
Ran hears rustling to his left, and a warm hand grasps his. Schuldig?
And Schuldig, eyes wet and smile shaking and sweet, leans over Ran’s bed so Ran can see his face. “Welcome back,” he breathes.
Ran’s fingers tense around Schuldig’s, gripping as hard as he is able. “Aah,” he rasps. Thanks for waiting.
Sequel, of sorts, to 020. Country.
*
They make oranges. Or rather, Schuldig teaches Ran to make oranges, and then watches, hands in his pockets and soft smile on his lips, as Ran cups his hands around the leafy branches and then removes them to reveal ripe, fat oranges tugging heavily toward the ground. Every time Ran makes one, his eyes narrow in concentration. He has learned that he doesn’t need to close his eyes, but making oranges is different from making apples. From skin to texture to juice to seeds, they’re different, and Ran wants each orange to be nothing less than perfect.
Schuldig’s eyes squint against the sun, but he doesn’t move. It’s over Ran’s head and beaming down on him like Ran’s been Chosen with a capital C, but for what, even Schuldig doesn’t know. His pale skin looks luminescent. Schuldig wants to touch him, make sure even this specter of the real is not a ghost…but he doesn’t.
Ran finishes an orange and gets his self-satisfied look, the light twist of lips that indicates pleasure in his work, and lowers his arms. He made this orange in less than a minute, but the first took him an hour to create. Even then, it was not nearly as magnificent as these. Practice makes perfect. He has filled almost a whole orange tree since Schuldig parked beside the orchard. They are two rows in, and the car is a glint between the leaves. Ran did not ask why an orange grove would be so close to the highway. They are in California, now, and over the miles he has come to accept his mindscape as mutable, changeable, and not always understandable to his conscious mind.
But of course, he’s dreaming. Schuldig has told him so, and he is sure that is true. So perhaps conscious mind is not a term he should use. Even so, he reaches for the conscious mind he knows must be somewhere. Perhaps they are looking for it in their journey to nowhere. Or perhaps, they are making up for time Ran doesn’t remember losing.
Ran plucks a low-hanging orange, one of his last creations, and turns to Schuldig. He holds it out with a coquettish tilt of his head. “Do you want an orange?” he asks.
The sun beats down on them and Schuldig smiles, mouth dry for other reasons. “Sure,” he says, giving voice only to what is appropriate, and takes the orange from Ran’s outstretched hand. “Do you want some?” He places the orange in the flat of his palm and it rises a few inches into the air, peeling like a planet shedding rings of its skin as it goes. Juice drips onto Schuldig’s hand, and he winces, then shrugs. Ran breathes a chuckle; Schuldig is fastidious sometimes, and other times, perfectly willing to be dirtied.
The orange splits into pieces like a flower unfurling. A piece floats over to Ran, who takes it and puts the whole thing into his mouth; he likes biting down and letting the juice explode on his tongue. Schuldig chuckles at the pleasure on his face as he chews. Ran gives him a Look and Schuldig eats a slice of orange to keep his mouth out of trouble.
Ran comes close and grabs another slice of orange from Schuldig’s hand. But instead of lifting it to his lips, he lifts it to Schuldig’s. Schuldig hesitates, and Ran withdraws his arm, face downcast. He has made a mistake.
“Hey,” Schuldig says, tugging Ran’s wrist with his empty hand, “That’s mine.”
Ran looks up, hopeful, and smirks. “Then eat it before I do,” he says.
“Brat,” Schuldig says affectionately, and closes his lips over the orange slice and the tips of Ran’s fingertips.
Ran’s eyes are fixed on Schuldig’s as he withdraws his fingers, watches Schuldig chew and swallow. And then he smiles, small but brilliant, and folds one arm across his chest, puts the fingers that were in Schuldig’s mouth briefly against his lips. “I had hoped,” he said softly, and his eyes shine.
Schuldig reaches out and strokes Ran’s cheek, moves a bright red ear-tail closer to his ear. “Me too,” he says.
Ran leans into his hand and then reaches up, linking their fingers. “You ready to go?”
Schuldig nods, and the orange grove dissolves around them, growing blindingly bright and then-
Ran’s hand is empty. Where is Schuldig? Where is-
I’m right here, Schuldig says. But now everything is dark. He can’t see where “here” is.
Where am I?
The hospital. You’re awake now. Well…yeah. You’re waking up.
Ran feels a pinprick of pain and wants to squeeze Schuldig’s hand, as he had when he got his first headache on the carousel somewhere in Nevada and reached out for Schuldig before he nearly tipped off his plastic horse. Schuldig? It-
It’s the light.
And Ran’s eyes slide slowly open, fighting the heavy burden of his eyelids the whole way. The room is white, the window shades mostly drawn. Still, a bit of sunlight filters in, painting the walls soft pink.
Ran hears rustling to his left, and a warm hand grasps his. Schuldig?
And Schuldig, eyes wet and smile shaking and sweet, leans over Ran’s bed so Ran can see his face. “Welcome back,” he breathes.
Ran’s fingers tense around Schuldig’s, gripping as hard as he is able. “Aah,” he rasps. Thanks for waiting.