Categories > Anime/Manga > Weiss Kreuz > Met In Circles
The Hanged Man
"Ever have a noose around your neck before, Schuldig?" the instructor was saying, hands clasped behind his too-broad back as he circled. Waiting, watching, reveling.
"No..." a pause, long enough to be considered rude, "sir."
There was a plain oak chair beneath his feet, the only thing between him and hell. The rope was too tight, raw, around his neck and hands and he felt like a puppet, strings plucked and moved. Beautiful and rare but not so precious as to not to be dropped mid-air.
Blue eyes were narrowed. "I'd like to thank you for volunteering."
As if he'd had a choice in the matter. As if there weren't bruise marks on his arm from vice-like grips and red marks on skin from kicks and slaps. His hair was a mess of fire strands, his throat dry, and the soles of his bare feet felt too slippery on the cool wood seat.
Because Sir Bastard here had a grudge to feed and the perfect excuse.
Schuldig wanted to spit on the man and figured this could be the perfect, and worse, time to do so.
"You understand that it is a necessary exercise."
And the chair was kicked away, far away, with a loud clatter that made the telepath flinch. But hell didn't come, dangling below, as his feet hit an invisible scaffold.
The instructor grunted and turned away sharply, disappointment on the lines of his angular face. "Excellent control, Naoe. You're beginning to surpass our expectations of you, at a remarkably young age. I'll make note of this in your file."
The small, dark child didn't respond at first, eyes focused and sweat beading on his forehead. Then a whispered, "Thank you, sir."
Schuldig wanted to squirm, wanted something solid beneath his feet. But he didn't move, didn't talk. Didn't even smirk as one more icy look was directed his way before crisp uniform lines turned and walked away with a nonchalant 'dismissed.'
Just bit his tongue and bided time as the rope unraveled and his feet hit the ground.
Someday, he'd cut his own strings. Just not quite yet.
"Ever have a noose around your neck before, Schuldig?" the instructor was saying, hands clasped behind his too-broad back as he circled. Waiting, watching, reveling.
"No..." a pause, long enough to be considered rude, "sir."
There was a plain oak chair beneath his feet, the only thing between him and hell. The rope was too tight, raw, around his neck and hands and he felt like a puppet, strings plucked and moved. Beautiful and rare but not so precious as to not to be dropped mid-air.
Blue eyes were narrowed. "I'd like to thank you for volunteering."
As if he'd had a choice in the matter. As if there weren't bruise marks on his arm from vice-like grips and red marks on skin from kicks and slaps. His hair was a mess of fire strands, his throat dry, and the soles of his bare feet felt too slippery on the cool wood seat.
Because Sir Bastard here had a grudge to feed and the perfect excuse.
Schuldig wanted to spit on the man and figured this could be the perfect, and worse, time to do so.
"You understand that it is a necessary exercise."
And the chair was kicked away, far away, with a loud clatter that made the telepath flinch. But hell didn't come, dangling below, as his feet hit an invisible scaffold.
The instructor grunted and turned away sharply, disappointment on the lines of his angular face. "Excellent control, Naoe. You're beginning to surpass our expectations of you, at a remarkably young age. I'll make note of this in your file."
The small, dark child didn't respond at first, eyes focused and sweat beading on his forehead. Then a whispered, "Thank you, sir."
Schuldig wanted to squirm, wanted something solid beneath his feet. But he didn't move, didn't talk. Didn't even smirk as one more icy look was directed his way before crisp uniform lines turned and walked away with a nonchalant 'dismissed.'
Just bit his tongue and bided time as the rope unraveled and his feet hit the ground.
Someday, he'd cut his own strings. Just not quite yet.
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