FicWad

Variety was the spice of life.

At least, that's what his Schuldig always told them. Brett thought it was probably a good piece of advice, all things considered. He only wished it wasn't always followed up by some strange new concoction that could almost pass as a meal.

If they could live through that every couple weeks, they could all take a bullet to the gut and be none the worst for it.

But when it wasn't followed by tripe pancakes or worse, the redhead generally agreed. Take their house, for instance. Never boring, often insane, but it /worked/. Mostly. Four psychic assassins and their spawn- religious maniacs, sociopaths, would-be hermits, hopeless teenagers. No matter how big the house was, there was always someone there.

For Brett, at least.

He didn't have the luxury and burden of his Schuldig's years. Didn't always know when to drop a shield or when to build it tighter. Couldn't block out all the little things, couldn't block out anything when he had a vision.

Love, obsession, lust, hatred. It all rolled into one.

A little sweet, a little burnt. Almost always bitter.

Sitting in his room, he could find anyone. His fathers, cinnamon and gunpowder and his life, often together or somehow connected. It could have been heart warming if there wasn't that thread of hostility. Defiance. Annoyance.

It chilled him more often than not.

Cailin tasted like sunshine and copper-tang. And when he felt her he wanted to meld into her, see the world like she did. All plastic dolls and family. He would shelter her and keep the nightmares away, felt the need curl in his stomach, until the wine and blood of her father took his place.

He couldn't taste Kirito, didn't know if he wanted to though sometimes he did, but he felt him around the corners of his mind. Strong and pushing, but shifting in corners like his father did. Until he wanted to be noticed. Then it could be like a nine-iron to the head. Painful, bold. It made him want annoy the boy all the more.

And his brother, almost a character from some book he read as a child, faded in and out of his grasp like a flame. Sometimes Alex seemed like he was right there instead of a whispered name or memory. It sent hot sparks down his back. Red and hot and cold, himself turned inside out. It made him ache, made him hurt, made him wonder if he would be replaced too.

Wondered if maybe then he could see his brother again.

Wondered if those things would ever be enough.