pouf

The book lying beside Kami is one that I did not know existed until googling ‘marriage counseling books.’ It is entitled ‘Loving your spouse when you feel like walking away,’ and is by the author Gary Chapman. So, there’s some credits. I am not the best at writing in print, especially not that tiny!

The sketch process is somewhat humorous to me. Spirit began as that. And, not to rant, but I know it’s that shrink and her. Shove them both into a woodchipper. It’s 04:04 in the morning. Weird noises. It is gnawing. Anyway, just in case you do not know Russian, the picture in the reflection of the mirror above the bed reads “Семья,” and means “family,” as I mentioned above. I keep seeing them. They need to stop being unnerving and agitating. The external disturbances are more agitating than they are at this point. I don’t want to be watched anymore. They’re everywhere. And I cannot do anything- not without being labeled as “criminally insane” and being thrown into a mental hospital for the rest of my life. Ok, goodbye.

Wait. Random note but I hope he doesn’t look too stiff.

Disintegration was far from easy to bear witness to; similarly to taking a lawn chair out to helplessly watch as every last bit of the supposedly stable world you knew is blown to smithereens, only rubble, ashes, and fire remaining - burning every last bit of whatever green is still visible into a cloudy, black nothingness, for that is all you are able to do.

But refuge could be found simultaneously within the madness, within the harrowing, yet captivating static.

It could be found within the maddeningly pleasurable sadism you tried your best to force into latency, within the pleasant curiosity - both the sadism and scientific inquiry intermingling and joining as one, bringing about a thrill with them, becoming a delectable cocktail of pure, and unbridled, fervent pleasure like no other.

Exacting what they consider violence on others was exhilarating; though for him it was not about the fact that it was barbaric or homicidal. He was merely interested in anatomy, in souls, in what lies beneath the surface. An inability to view others as thinking and feeling agents certainly helped, along with the enjoyment he found in the fear and utter trepidation in people’s eyes - for it was simply so incredibly fascinating to observe. It is as though they revert back into small children, pleading for mercy, and pleading for their parents; predator and prey, the cycle of life.

And he’d always experience the seething desire to find out how and why.

::::———::::———::::———::::———::::

The clock ticked on endlessly, the noise reverberating throughout the unnerving and breathing walls, reading ‘02:46.’ And it had been well over a week since Stein had last dissected an animal.

He trudged from out of the whispering shadows of his bedroom, through the threatening and chilling air of the corridor, utensils in hand, clinking gently together.

His frigid hand interacted with the frigid knob of Spirit’s door, an entranced and thrilled grin contorting his chapped lips, as he removed, or ,rather, opened the border between him and his favorite test subject.

Stein had often described people and their fleshy outermost layers as being something like wrapping paper, their insides and what lies at the bottom of the iceberg to be the gift within the gift box. Though you may keep the pretty wrapping paper until it’s no longer useful to you and throw it away, ultimately, that was much more of an adult thing to do. Even if he had himself utilized others to his advantage. And it was in moments like these where Franken felt the most immature, only after his own hedonistic desires, little care for anything else. He never once had any real interest in the wrapping paper covering the box. He may admire its beauty, and even find it to be rather fascinating, but at the end of the day, he’d always mercilessly rip it to shreds to get to the goodies on the inside; what he truly wanted.

And Spirit’s innards, the very recesses of his soul were what intrigued him the most. He wanted to know what the soul of such an interesting individual was precisely made of, what all his body was made of - even despite his extensive knowledge of the average human body. But how different was a weapon’s body from that of a regular human’s?

Truly, viewing photos and diagrams for the sake of studying and getting up close and personal with fluid-covered and eye-catching organs were two entirely separate things.

Stein made short and hushed steps closer towards the weapon, of whom had the idiotic tendency to sleep with his shirt off, which was only idiotic because he lived with a certain opportunistic meister.

As more and more of the redhead came into view, he could see how disheveled and sprawled out both his long hair was, and his body happened to be, the comforter only covering his thighs and a small portion of his abdomen, on which was already a few leisurely healing scars scattered about; products of the meister’s previous endeavors.

His grin grew into a disturbingly wide and manic smile as he beamed at the sight before him, his weapon-partner’s pale skin absolutely littered in markings. The sight was almost too much to bear…… Surely blood would be even more stunning on the male subject’s complexion.

He placed his utensils neatly upon the steel medical tray had he brought along with him, which he put on the bedside table, of which was only occupied by a lamp and a compact clock. He ensured that they each made little noise, taking precautions, despite his scythe being quite the deep sleeper.

As the final scalpel had been lied down onto the reflective and shining surface, Albarn’s fingers twitched, his head turning to the side, his lips pursing as a soft groan escaped him.

‘Perhaps he is having a distressing dream,’ Stein pondered to himself, tilting his own head curiously to the side like a quizzical mutt. His own life was one big distressing dream - torturous, even. Thus, he more than certainly could understand the need to audibly make that known, whether in the form of words or not.

Franken retrieved the latex gloves that had been impatiently awaiting his impending usage of them, tugging them roughly, yet carefully over his fingers, spreading his digits outwards, fitting the gloves over his palms. And with a sense of precision, and a sense of elation, he grabbed the appropriate scalpel, handling it with a tenderness he hadn’t the capacity for when it came to any other existing object or creature. He brought the blade down to the plush, vulnerable flesh of Spirit’s abdominal cavity, applying pressure as he drug it through the lengthy organ, blood beading up from the cut, slow and methodical.

A giggle bubbled up in his throat, on the cusp of his tongue, fully prepared to burst with the slightest of movements. Stein was left desperately trying to suppress the euphoric feeling from escaping from the confines of his skull, focusing instead on ensuring that the moaning scythe not awaken.

The ginger’s hand rose by a slight margin, falling over his face with a noiseless slap, as Stein revealed the blanket of subcutaneous fat and abdominal muscles beneath the sheets of flesh.

The meister’s eyes widened to an unprecedented size, marveling at a sight he’d seen a dozen times.

It never became any less awe-inspiring.

He took a rag, dabbing at the rushing blood, as he grabbed a syringe, entirely unsure of what wonder he wanted to perform first.

Allowing for the middle of Spirit’s abdomen to hang open, Franken placed the needle into a bottle of liquid iodine that he had been planning on using for quite the long while, filling the barrel with the halogen.

He smacked the aforementioned barrel with his fingertips, making certain he wouldn’t be injecting air into his partner’s veins.

Stein brought the needle down, on level with the arm that was simply lying straight upon the sheets, maneuvering the male’s fingers in such a way that he could forcefully form a fist.

A blue vein made itself known, as the meister lowered the needle further, shoving the foreign body into the unwilling skin. A bit of blood poured around the sharp injector, as he thumbed down the plunger, injecting just enough iodine to lead to mild poisoning, but not enough to be lethal, not enough to need an emergency room visit over, curious at to what might happen.

He padded the area with square, fuzzy gauze, allowing it to simply sit there and soak up any blood that dared to spill from the near-microscopic hole left by the needle, shushing the mildly writhing Spirit, whilst moving back to the enchanting incision he had made only moments prior.

He picked the bloodied scalpel up from off of his peacefully dreaming chest, his movements languid, as he scanned every picturesque feature on Spirit’s face. The weapon truly was rather beautiful, at least in Stein’s eyes. And that only made him want to rip him gracefully limb from limb even more so. Perhaps he’d keep his head in a large sort of jar, and he’d fill it with formaldehyde so his beauty could be preserved much longer. Perhaps he’d consume his nutrient-dense liver, allowing his beauty to spread throughout his gastrointestinal system, to be filtered by his own liver… He never had much interest in practicing cannibalism, however… Other than purely scientific.

The scythe’s eyelids were still delicately shut, both of his long sets of eyelashes almost cuddling with one another.

He and Marie were the most fascinating subjects he’s ever been in possession of; two picturesque, scientific wonders of his. It was almost too good to be true.

Stein took his scalpel, placing the blade at the very top of the incision, dragging further upward, the slice extending through Albarn’s thoracic cavity.

The crimson liquid rolled from the blade down to the handle, and off onto his subject’s already dirtied skin, as Franken raised his hand from the male’s form. He placed the tool down onto the tray, taking a moment to admire the buttery yellow, and the reddish striated patterns before his eyes, and just how mesmerizing they were.

He, then, proceeded to take a moment to sigh, a little disappointed he couldn’t take it further to the level of a full on dissection, forced to control and withhold his inexplicable desire, because that technically wasn’t today’s experiment, and he was out of any proper anesthetic that would leave his partner knocked out for the process.

Stein fetched his nylon sutures, readying himself for the concurrent enjoyment and dissatisfaction that always came with sewing his partner back together again.

::::———::::———::::———::::———::::

The morning rays of the rising sun shone through the blinds of each and every window, dusting across Stein’s face.

He lay with an alert expression, eyes having been wide open since he finished with his little experiments, staring daggers into the crawling animals on the ceiling.

The sound of anxious pitter-pattering towards the bathroom caught his attention, as he shot upwards. The same individual those rushing footsteps belonged to began hurling, hacking up a mixture of hydrochloric acid and their own profuse amounts of saliva.

He knew who that ‘they’ was.

The trials had begun.

“Spirit?” He called out, having stepped out into the hallway inquiringly.

The weapon whimpered, Franken listening as he, ever the crybaby, choked on a sob.

“Don’ feel good,” he slurred, his fingers gripping the toilet bowl like a vice, his complexion impressively pallid, somehow even more so than Stein. The only color present in his visage being his vermillion-coated cheeks, of which stretched out to the very tips of his ears.

Stein kneeled beside the scythe, placing his hand upon his sweat-slick forehead, of which was scorchingly hot. Spirit nuzzled into his partner’s freezing touch, shakily whining.

“You have a fever.. Would you like me to get you some Zofran and water?” He offered. “I can get the thermometer, too..”

“Yeah… An’ some Advil. Why’re you bein’ so nice?” He questioned exasperatedly.

Because I am here to observe every single symptom you exhibit that I have bestowed upon you.

“I’m bored and I find illness fascinating,” Albarn rolled his overtired eyes, leaning into the crook of his arm to roughly cough.

“Yeah, that tracks… Thanks, anyway,” he sniveled. “C’n you call ‘n sick for me, too? I clearly can’t go to school like this.”

“Sure,” Stein agreed, exiting the bathroom to retrieve all of the necessary supplies, including his cellphone.

Spirit’s hushed mewls could be heard in the background as he conversed with the staff working in DWMA’s office, more acid being excreted from his churning stomach.

“Here, Spirit,” Stein held out an ondansetron tablet towards his weapon-partner after having finished with the call, placing a glass of water on the counter, ibuprofen beside it, holding the thermometer for himself.

Albarn graciously accepted the medicine, putting it beneath his nasty tongue, allowing it to dissolve into his bloodstream, attempting to ignore his pounding temples whilst it did as such.

He massaged circles into his skull, his countenance stuck in a permanent grimace, as the meister merely stood, watching him, observing him with pensive eyes.

He was underneath the inspecting lens of Stein’s microscope.

“Advil and water, please,” he held his hands out expectantly, Franken handing him the gel pill.

“Do you want me to help you with the water?” The ginger popped the Advil, awaiting the pleasantly cooling liquid.

“Why?”

He pointed towards the weapon’s hands. “You’re trembling.”

“Oh, yeah… Tremors,” a disappointed sigh racked his shuddering frame. “Fine, if I have to.”

Stein grabbed the glass from off of the marble, moving to sit beside his partner, as he slotted the edge of the cup in between his most likely bitter-tasting lips, tilting it upwards.

He obediently took sips, swallowing the pill, only to place both of his hands around the glass and, with assistance from male next to him, swig every last drop of water down his burning, scratchy throat.

“Ah,” he put his relief on display. “Thank you,” Stein stood, depositing the glass back onto the counter, as Spirit fussed, evidently seeking comfort from the same individual who had hardly heard of the concept. “I wanna go back to bed.”

“Let me check your temperature first,” Franken spoke in his typical monotone, sticking the thermometer into his ear, the beeping disturbing the both of them.

A part of Albarn found his meister’s voice to be the least soothing thing ever, a public display of his apathy. But another part of him found its gentle timbre to be relaxing, its steady, unchanging rhythm something he could easily fall asleep to.

“39 degrees,” Stein read aloud, Spirit groaning in response, as deliberately sitting it next to the emptied glass. “All right, let’s go… Here,” he lifted the scythe up by his armpits, shifting him and allowing him to lean against his form, Spirit’s head resting against the top of his own.

Franken pushed open Spirit’s bedroom door, assisting him with getting settled under the comforter, pulling the blanket all the way up to his collarbones.

The scythe winced, sucking in air through his gnashing teeth, moaning in pain.

“What is it?” Stein knowingly asked.

“I’ve b’n having, like.. not only inner stomach pain, but outward, if that makes sense. It’s like my skin… and even some of the deeper layers of my skin are really tender, an’ it hurts when I move in certain ways,” he deliriously elucidated. “An’ I don’ ev’n know how I ended up with this shirt on me. I could’ve sworn I’d fall’n asleep with my shirt off… Maybe I sleep walked? Or jus’, actually, forgot to take it off?”

Stein shrugged his shoulders, inching farther and farther away from Spirit - much too far for his liking.

“You’re not leaving are you?” Albarn rushed out, almost sounded panicked.

“Well, I wasn’t planning on it,” he slinked under the covers with his partner. “You actually want me to stay?

The redhead appeared almost bashful as he replied, his already vibrant cheeks becoming rosier. “Well, um… I don’ really like bein’ alone like this. I c’n hardly ev’n think, y’know?”

“Yeah, I get it,” he chuckled, making himself comfortable on the weapon’s awfully silky sheets.

“Oh! An’, uh… My right arm’s b’n a little sore, too… A li’le bruised.. ‘M starting to think I really am a sleep walker..”

“You’re ending up like me,” he jested with a smirk.

“I really am! I wake up with cuts an’ bruises an’ shit all the time, an’ I never know how I got ‘em! Like, huge scars, too! Kinda like you… I don’ know how you manage to wake up with new bruises all the time, but now I do, I guess,” he allowed for the weight of his eyelids to emerge victoriously as they fell, a particularly piteous and raspy cough beating its way from out of his oral cavity. “There was ev’n a little speck of blood on my sheets, I think, when I woke up.”

I suppose I got a little sloppy this time.

“Going to sleep?” Stein asked, suppressing a pleased grin as he imagined how the previously gaping hole in the male’s abdomen must look now.

“Thin’ so,” he murmured sleepily.

Humans were so adorable sometimes, along with fascinating. How could Spirit possibly fall asleep with an individual such as Stein merely right beside him? Franken often questioned whether or not he should even sleep in the same apartment as his weapon… And really in the presence of anyone, which only served to worsen his treacherous and horrid insomnia.. Though, perhaps that was a good thing. He knew the truth. Perhaps this was Spirit’s way of tricking him into believing that he was safe to sleep, and he’d exact his revenge on him come nightfall.

Whatever the case may be, the moment the scythe’s breaths steady to a certain point, and his wheezing ceases, he’d examine the infuriated scar that was clearly forming. He’d need to take the stitches out rather early and hope for the best… Or perhaps he could utilize a little ability he had been working on..

Albarn soon stopped moving entirely, though Franken still poked him a couple of times simply to make sure.

He soundlessly twisted himself out of the coziness of his partner’s comforter, tip-toeing over to where he tranquilly rested, pulling the covers down slowly and gently. The ginger whined a long complaint out in his sleep, but as soon as Stein began deliberately running fingers through his scalp, he returned to his former contented state.

How easy.

He found the hem of the male’s shirt, lifting it warily, as the owner writhed. The sight before him was a heavenly one; the cut was enraged, ruby red and pinkish, the stitches holding the skin together evidently against its will.

With ungloved hands, Stein pulled each and every section of the thread out conscientiously, a little bit of blood smearing on his fingertips.

The incision reopened - not to completion, but it could still most certainly be classified as having been open, as the mad meister took an attentive seat on the edge of the bed, just barely not touching the older boy’s legs.

He had been rigorously practicing it for a long while, practicing making sutures with his soul wavelength, and it had been going rather well, but he never once tested it on a breathing human subject, despite the passionate desire and impulse to do so. Thus, as he eyed the angry wound, he muttered as quietly as possible, “Soul thread sutures,” holding a focused hand above the injury, concentrating on his static-filled wavelength, as he heard the faint sound of skin being sewn together.

His soul-curated stitches were crafted in such a way as to not be visible to the naked eye, to anyone’s naked eye, not simply just so he could continue his non-consensual and delightfully unethical human experiments, but also so he could utilize them on the battlefield - leaving enemies sewn to the ground and unable to continue fighting, confused as to what has caused their sudden paralysis.

It was nearly flawless.

And as he opened his eyes, the incision was sutured perfectly together, the skin almost appearing as one again, if it weren’t for the long line going down the scythe’s middle. It, thankfully, just looked like a healing and irritated scar now.

With this, and hopefully with a shipment of proper anesthetics, he could, soon, proceed with a true dissection. Of course, he couldn’t detach his organs from the rest of his body, but he could definitely have a little look around, and analyze whatever differences and similarities exist between weapon-human bodies, and average human bodies. He could observe what this most engrossing and riveting scythe was made of.

Just the thought was enough to brighten his morning in a way no other thought or other thing could. He didn’t just want to dissect him and everything else, he needed to dissect him and everything else. There was nothing else that made him feel so… good. He might even give up cigarettes if it meant he could dissect all day, everyday…. If he could face no repercussions for his actions. Sure, the possible consequences add an obvious layer of thrill to the vivisections, but they were such godsends on their own, that they didn’t need that extra layer. He couldn’t care less whether there were consequences or not - dissection, both metaphorical and physical, and observation were all that mattered to the unhinged, maladjusted scientist - without it, what would he be? Who would he be? How would he be?

He bit into his lip, hard enough to draw a teensy bit of blood, as he tittered, pulling the weapon’s shirt back down, and tossing the covers back over him.

If he lost the ability to dissect, he’d lose everything. He owes his life to dissection, to the scientific method itself - it’s how he’s survive in a world not suited for the likes of him.

It was an addictive force.. It was his drug, besides the nicotine. It was his only shred of will to live. But what would become of him if he indulged in it too much, if he fell into it like an abyssal hole he failed to detect? What would become of him if he allowed himself to disintegrate, allowed it all to slip through his fingers? But it felt so wondrous…

It was the static that felt as gut-wrenching as a crucifixion. And surely he’d be crucified if he were to continue. But he had to. What else would he do? Dissection was his life, it was the oxygen he breathed, even the static had become a cruel mistress to him. Even if he was being destroyed, where would he go in the forest without that vintage radio? Without his scalpels?

But he could never put his steel blade down at the end of the day. Nor could he release his hold on the radio and allow himself to be taken away by those shouting endlessly into the waves of static, pleading for his return, or really, his first steps into their world.

Perhaps he’d just allow for the thievery of his soul. He’d observe, sitting in a lawn chair as everything and everyone crashed and burned.

After all, he could never learn to properly care.

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