allein

Jul. 2nd, 2013 01:35 pm
schmetterling: (Schuldig)
Schuldig was in a good mood. Having a good time. He'd been in a good mood since leaving M√ľnchen.. Wait, or was it Paris? No, he'd been in a terrible mood upon leaving M√ľnchen: everyone else gearing up for the mayhem of the yearly fest until he'd thought he was going to fly apart, bursting into so many pieces he'd never find them all, never restore the fragments to the container of his mind. So he'd fled. To Paris. And hated it. Hated the people, hated the food, hated the weather and the stink of the city and.. good God, everyone else hated it too! A slow smile can be spread over his memory at this point. It had been intoxicating how unhappy the Parisians were, a toxic miasma and his mind thrilled at the presence of his favorite drug, favorite flavor, favorite.. everything.

Though he'd miss it all, he was in a terrific mood when he left Paris.
Well-prepared for the inevitable crash in that he'd be coming down from the highest of highs; why do anything half-way, if it's.. no additional effort or work to do it spectacularly high-speed, full-throttle, wings wide.

Schuldig has no wings. He stands on the footwide balcony-for-show in the rathole hotel he's chosen and spreads his arms to the night. Stretching {ostensibly to any unknowing observer}, trying to fly {he tells himself, giddy, lying}, trying to fall {trying not to think this, ignore it, but the giggles give him away}. He laughs, it's forced out of him as he leans forward, hips pressed to the cold metal railing at a magical point that is just low enough to appear very very dangerous, and just high enough to prevent him from spilling over and decorating the concrete below; a red carpet of glossy blood, a tangled fluff of bright hair, long limbs broken and twisted.. he can see it, with his minds eye, and realizes he's failed to ignore the thought that he's courting death out here, pressing against the night. The quiet whispers and voices and thoughts battering in like endless waves or winds tease, utterly without the mass to hold him up. It's not fair, they press against him and pass through him, he feels them, gaining entry and smashing about.. he presses back and would fall against nothing down into nothing. Until he hit the pavement. Not fair at all.

He grunts, dissatisfied, and lets his arms drop, picking up his head to look out over the street below. Smoke time; he rummages in a pocket and produces pack and lighter, shakes a slim cigarette up to his lips and sparks it with quick, economical movements. Plenty of time to watch the night, smoke in the dark, play with his precarious balance in the gusting wind and unpredictable mindscape of Tokyo. God, he hates it here, why is he back here? It's insane, this place is insane, the people are insane, they make each other insane, it all makes -him- insane; the pavement below tempts, attracting his attention with a flicker from a malfunctioning soft-drink vending machine. "Hn," a puff of smoke and his eyes flit to the low rooftops nearby, though some reach a few tentative and weak floors higher than his building; he's discontent to continue watching, waiting, maybe someone will try to outdo him. The 4th floor would hardly be considered making an effort.

A smirk and the sparking, glowing buttend of his cigarette makes the leap; a shining orange-tipped proxy, winking out before it has a chance to bounce from sidewalk to street. Now.. that *really* pisses him off. Oh he hates this place..

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Schuldig

March 2014

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