Artificial sweeteners. Polish hotel rooms, boredom and ugly-assed pot plants. Schuldig x hand.
He slides a hand between his jumper and his waistband to scratch his balls idly. The contrast is odd, touching cold fingers to warm, intricate folds of flesh that stayed warm, that would maintain such impractical blood temperature even when he was barely aware of his own existence. He strokes the underside of his cock with the backs of his nails, and pretends he's not doing anything at all.
In Takatori's old office there were pot plants with thick, waxy leaves. Schuldig thought for a long time that they were fake, but twisting at the leaves in boredom one day, he discovered that they bruised with sap under his fingernails. Things like that, when real things look like plastic and yet food that tricks its way into his mouth loses its taste and he realises too late it's all corn syrup and modified starch - it makes him irrational, makes him simultaneously want to burn everything clean and to grind his shoulders in dirty, revel in the dowdy ridiculousness of it.
He has to pause for a moment to unbutton his flies and shuck his trousers down below his hips. The sheets here are smooth and a little slippery with polyester. He spits on his hand to have it evaporate, slick before it's gone, as he jerks off to a collection of sense memories that have nothing to do with sex.
Trying to keep pace with someone and hold his breathing steady, having it form a tight knot in his throat that makes him want to yawn but nonetheless catches only a little. Taking a gun from a dead man's hand and finding it still warm, like the seat of a public toilet after some other stranger has just used it. Twisting the hair at the nape of his neck with his fingers.
It's something he's good at, touching himself. A language with an alphabet he can't read, bare ploughed fields and polyester sheets on the bed, so he arches his back eyes-shut like it's the only thing in the world. Pretending, so that it is. A little sweat prickles his top lip and the base of his spine. His blood taps twitching patterns along old scars. Schuldig thinks choking corn syrup, sticking at the back of his throat, rolls over and comes into the scratchy blanket, hair clinging to his face with static.
Schuldig enjoys being in places and at times that no respectable person should be. In a hotel room, at noon, jerking off. He can twist things round so that he gets off on how pathetically reality presents itself. Mostly, though, he's just doing it to pass the time.
He wipes off lazily on the covers and eases his trousers back on without sitting up. As an afterthought, he rolls the covers into a ball and pushes them off the bed, to make the room more presentable. He waits.