Work Text:
When Farfarello comes in early morning, Nagi is in the kitchen making more coffee. At first he thinks Farfarello has dyed his hair bubblegum pink, for whatever reason that made sense to the man at the moment. Then the reek hits him: a heavy scent of blood cloying the air, curling its way through the waft of fresh coffee. Now he notices the wetness of Farfarello’s shirt, the little half-footprint stains he leaves behind.
Farfarello slumps into a chair at the table, resting his head in his hand. A trickle of blood from somewhere around his temple drips off his chin onto the laminated surface. There’s something like a rusty fingerprint on his eyelid and the wet darkness of wounds on his arms. He looks tired, which is enough to make Nagi hesitate.
He hasn’t seen Farfarello tired since Tokyo.
He regards the coffee in the pot with some regret, pours it into a cup and sets it by Farfarello’s elbow. Farfarello cracks his eye open, gives Nagi a tiny nod that’s more of a slow blink. As Nagi pours more coffee grinds and water into the maker, he hears the shuffle-drag and stuttering clack of the cup being picked up and set down. He waits restlessly for the coffee to drip through the filter, but then has nothing to do once it’s done. Nagi holds his cup between his hands, stares into it, digs a spoon out of the drawer to stir even though he never puts anything in. Puts the spoon into the sink. Washes it. Finally he sits down opposite Farfarello, cautiously. Sips his coffee.
The pink in Farfarello’s hair has crusted a brownish red in places, short strands matted together like scabs. At least he has stopped dripping onto the table.
They sit for a while, drinking their coffee. Nagi watches Farfarello’s arm move slower and slower with every rise of his cup. The white china is stark against the flaking blood on his hand. The smell is visceral: raw and metallic and pungent. On Farfarello it’s almost pleasant, but perhaps that’s just Nagi being used to it by now.
Farfarello draws his knee up, rests his cheek against it. He smiles faintly at Nagi, eye half-closed and one hand idly pushing at his cup.
”It’s hard sometimes,” he says, and even his voice is weary, a soft slur. It makes him sound almost less dangerous. Almost peaceful.
Nagi gets them both more coffee. They drink. They don’t say anything more.