Title taken from the poem Homosexuality by Frank O'Hara.

No amount of logic or badgering could convince Omi to leave Ouka's body in the park. They waited as long as they could, until they heard police sirens in the distance. Finally, Aya shocked him to stillness with a slap across the face and dragged him back to the car.

Yohji drove them home silently, eyes fixed on the road. He wasn't going to think about it, not now. The only thought he failed to shut down before it reached his awareness was a guilty relief that he hadn't told them, that he wasn't connected to this in their minds.

He knew it was a horrible thought. The guilt of it jabbed at his stomach all the way home and for the next five hours as he tried to sleep. He let it. He deserved at least that much.

The next morning, he was up so early it was really still night. The world outside was fading into focus, but not there yet, still too grey and dark. Aya was bent over his coffee at the kitchen table, more or less in the same position Yohji had left him in to go to bed.

"Hey," Yohji said.

Aya nodded briefly in greeting.

"We're gonna kill them, right?"

Aya looked up at him slowly. "Yes. We're going to kill them."

Yohji sat and drank coffee and thought about Schuldig's team. Schuldig's unfortunate sense of humor. Schuldig's body next to his as he slept. Fuck.

They were all going to die. They were going to go up against Takatori and Schuldig's people, and they were all going to die. It would probably be messy and painful. Well, that was that. He'd never expected a long life span in Weiss anyway.

Schuldig hadn't realized there was anything Takatori Reiji loved like he'd apparently loved Ouka. There was nothing in his head but blind rage, no room for subtle mental suggestions or prodding. Schuldig could still stop him, but it would leave him more fit for the produce aisle than high political office.

Farfarello's voice was a low grumble in the back of Schuldig's mind: killhimkillhimkillhim. Predictable and tempting. But you don't kill the people you're protecting, not without orders, or Eszett makes you real sorry. Way sorrier than a golf club to the head. And Crawford would be there soon. Schuldig could feel him coming. Running, actually, which made Schuldig smile even as Takatori clubbed him again.

It was all a little blurred; Crawford's explanation to Takatori, the nauseous walk to the car, the ride home. Farfarello held him more or less upright in the back seat. Someone dragged him inside. He couldn't see very well and every part of him ached. After that, there was nothing for a while.

Crawford was sitting next to his bed when he woke up, reading. He set his book face down on his lap. It was probably Anna Karenina because he'd been reading it for weeks, but Schuldig's eyes wouldn't focus on the cover.

"Why," Crawford said.

"Didn't mean for her to die," Schuldig mumbled. He hadn't. She would've been so much more entertaining alive, attracted to--as far as she knew--her own brother. And Omi, fuck, his anguish had been perfect, the fucking platonic ideal.

"Take these," Crawford said. He held out two small pills. "And explain."

Schuldig swallowed them, hoping they were painkillers. "Sounded like a good idea at the time?" He tried a weak smile.

"Schuldig." There was a warning in Crawford's voice.

"It was--fuck, how could I not? He's just blown off his his whole family, killed his fucking brother, gotten his memory back, declared war on the Takatoris, and the one chick he wants is not just on the opposite side, but his sister? Seriously. How did you not see this coming?"

"Somehow it didn't occur to me to monitor his love life as closely as you obviously have."

"Your fault then."

Crawford sighed. "I've been occupied. I assumed Mr. Kudoh would keep you out of trouble. I supposed you realize how effectively you've killed that relationship with this stunt."

"I wasn't even the one who shot her!"

"You gave Farfarello the gun. You know how he is when he's excited."

"Fuck you. And it wasn't a relationship."

"I see."

It shouldn't have been a devastating parting shot, but somehow, from Crawford, it was. He left and shut the door gently behind him.

Yohji wouldn't care, Schuldig thought. Not really. He didn't even know Ouka. They couldn't have exchanged more than a dozen words, ever. No reason he should care.

Schuldig reached out, searching mentally. He found Yohji easily enough, but there was a second when he wasn't sure it was actually Yohji. Yohji's mind had never felt so closed off before, not even when Schuldig had him tied up with a gun to his head. Schuldig poked at him, and got a such a wash of anger that he pulled back.

He picked up the phone. It seemed safer. It rang and rang and he didn't let himself think why he was bothering with this right now when he had so many better things to do, like abusing painkillers and forcing Crawford to bring him toast in bed.

It rang some more. He hung up and dialed again. It rang.

Finally, Yohji picked up. "Don't fucking call me again, you son of a bitch. Just don't."

He hung up.

Fine. Fuck Yohji anyway.

The clubs were exactly the same, right down to the familiar faces ringing Yohji in the red glow of the gelled spotlights.

"Where have you been?" Chigusa demanded, and the other girls joined in, voices high above the pounding bass of the music.

He had a drink and another and didn't really answer any questions, and it was like no time had passed at all. His world was suspended outside with all its craziness, and this could be any Friday night in the last five years, and he could be anyone at all.

Schuldig hadn't called again. Yohji raised his arms and danced and thought about killing him. He thought about doing it from far away with the sniper rifle. He thought about doing it up close and personal, his wire wrapped around Schuldig's neck.

He thought about telling Omi he'd fucked the guy who murdered his sister. Girlfriend. Whatever. He had another drink and wondered if Schuldig's team had been working for Takatori when Aya's family was killed.

You're scum, he thought. It was like a little tune playing in his head. He couldn't think of a single person who would disagree with him if they knew the truth. Except maybe Schuldig.

"Vodka," he told the bartender, knocked it back when it arrived, ordered another. He needed to make his brain stop, and if drinking himself blind was the only to do it, well, he wouldn't need his liver in his old age anyway.

He sat in one of the booths in the back, and the girls flocked around him. He felt touches on his thighs and on his stomach where his shirt rode up, no idea which hand was whose. He wished he could work up the enthusiasm to take any of them home.

His eyes started to blur with vodka and flashing lights, and probably that was why the flash of red-orange in the crowd looked so familiar. He looked away.

Schuldig and Farfarello stood on the edge of the dance floor. The whole place vibrated with music, and the clash of hundreds of minds was almost worse than the pain from the various lumps and bruises on Schuldig's skull.

Farfarello stood close enough that their shoulders touched. That made the crowd easier to bear. It gave him space to think, but thinking didn't help. He had no idea what he was doing here.

Spoiled for choice, Farfarello thought. He nodded towards the small harem clustered around Yohji over in the corner.

Like he's a fucking pimp.

And he had seven hundred wives, princesses, and three hundred concubines; and his wives turned away his heart. Farfarello paused. What's he thinking?

Wondering how much more he can drink before he passes out.

Not as wise as Solomon.

Not even as wise as you, nutjob.

Farfarello shifted, not offended, just impatient. Why are we here?

I didn't ask you to come.

Bored.

Looking for something to do? Farfarello turned towards him, light in his eyes. The girls, Schuldig told him. They can go.

Farfarello's hand flexed on the handle of his knife, and he faded away into the crowd. Schuldig hoped he would do it quietly, somewhere out of sight, but he didn't care enough to make it an order.