#FINALLY should be formatted right holy shit what a fucking trial.

[femmeslash]

cooking some weird yuri. fausin?? sinfaust???? faustclair???? grippy faust kromercore sinclair kissies?????????

text under cut for accessibility if you prefer to read that way

Sinclair doesn't know exactly when he realized it, the existence of Faust's N Corp. identity that ties the two of them together. Oh, there's a few of them in the same Mirror World—Kleinhammer, Mittelhammer, Großhammer; but none have such a firm hold as Faust. Faust, tangled up in an N Corp. uniform and covered in blood and kissing him on the lips, feels to Sinclair like a memory that has not yet happened.

She's not Kromer, but she fits in Kromer's place, slotting in neatly as the One Who Grips. The Faust that Sinclair has come to know is nothing like Kromer: she's always tired, soft-spoken, blunt. Faust doesn't do things she deems unnecessary, and thus has never brought up their shared identity to Sinclair. (He wishes she would. It would be easier that way.) So Sinclair remains trapped by the thought of her, the way she moves when she uses that identity, the way her eyes seem bluer and brighter when she looks at him. The way he imagines her body, though he tries not to—the way Kromer overlaps her, the way he can't stop himself from staring as he tries to imagine seeing not his dead ex-girlfriend or his family's murderer, but only Faust.

~

A gentle knock on the door in the night isn't unusual on the bus, though normally it's just Ishmael coming to wake him up for their shared night watch or Don Quixote visiting because she's bored. It's certainly never been Faust before, and her presence in the doorway has Sinclair kind of puzzled, honestly. Especially when she has her usual unreadable blank stare, leaving Sinclair's imagination to run wild with all the potential things that could be wrong. "Um, good evening," he says, instead of voicing any of them.

Faust ignores his greeting. "Faust has noticed that you have become distracted as of late."

"Huh?" (Sinclair wonders how it's possible to be both so enigmatic and overly honest.)

"Faust's observations suggest a preoccupation with the N Corp. identities we share. Let Faust in. It would be difficult to explain fully while standing in the hall."

Of course she'd get it in one. "Ah, um, okay," Sinclair says, wishing he wouldn't stutter so much. Faust walks past him, deliberate and catlike, and moves to sit on Sinclair's bed. "What about N Corp. did you want to talk about?" he asks. His heart is fluttering; he doesn't want to believe this could be about, well—Sinclair doesn't even want to put it into words.

"Since Manager Dante's acquisition of the link that allows them to draw from the mirror world where we are Nagel und Hammer's One Who Grips and One Who Shall Grip, Faust has noticed you are distracted." She's unbuttoning her vest, slipping it over her head as she speaks. "When considering combat application, these identities are a tremendous asset. Yet you, Sinclair, have been performing below your usual average. Faust has considered all probabilities and is here to address the problem at its source." By the time she's finished, she's unbuckled her belt too, though she leaves it on.

"The problem?" Sinclair asks, lightheaded. He feels out of place in his own room, unsure what to do about Faust undressing on his bed.

"What do you remember of our lives, Sinclair?" Faust's gaze is piercing, like she's reading right into Sinclair's soul. "Come sit with Faust, please."

[araxiis]

The Art Of Anaesthesia- Kuzupeko

For @let-it-be-canon ♡

Words: 2547 (jesus)

Based on the song The Art Of Anaesthesia by SayWeCanFly (video above)

Read on Wattpad

A/N: I had an idea for an AMV but I can't draw so I wrote it out :) it's really long and the format screwed up and I'm sorry

Bold italics are lyrics

---------------------------------------------------

Sometimes I think about who I should believe,

The people who are dead or the people who are free.

Sometimes I hear them as they whisper to me.

I try to stay awake so I won't die in my sleep.

The game was over. The Neo World Program had been destroyed, the students freed from their false reality. The 5 survivors woke up in a hospital, fashioned with everything they needed to recover from their stasis. Luckily for them, it was a rather quick process to get them back on their feet. When they could walk steadily on their own, they were permitted to go to the wing where the 'dead' students resided.

Sonia found Gundham's room first, with Kazuichi trailing behind her like a lost puppy. She tested the handle, but found the door to be locked. Akane did the same to Nekomaru's door, and received the same result. It seemed all the doors were deadbolted, impassable. Hajime lingered behind the rest, quietly coming to terms with the fact that there was no door with Chiaki's name written on it.

Fuyuhiko walked slowly through the wing, reading each nameplate carefully until he found the one he was looking for. He put his fingers on the edge of the door's small window and peered inside. She was there.

Lying unconscious, facing away from the window, glasses missing, but she was there. And according to the doctors, she would be okay. Fuyuhiko fumbled for the doorknob, but came up disappointed as he remembered the boundaries set. He heard Sonia's bright voice from behind him.

"Don't worry Fuyuhiko, it should not take too long for everyone to return to us."

She was wrong.

And I was quick to take a second look through

The window on the door of the operating room,

And the adrenaline, it threw my eyes

To the table on the floor where the patients lie.

I saw his face and I could not speak,

As the anesthetic kissed his cheek,

I felt my lips go cold and my limbs go weak

Because the body on the table where the patients die was me.

It was me.

It should have been him.

He should've been the one that got executed, not her. The whole thing was his stupid fucking idea anyways. He leaned his head back, resting it on the cold steel of Peko's room. Ever since the wing was opened six months ago, he spent every day sitting in front of her door. He would stay there all night if he could, but the staff weren't too fond of that idea. Sometimes he would talk to her, about how everyone was doing, about the final trial, whatever he was thinking about. He knew she couldn't possibly hear him, but it made him feel better either way. He saw Sonia down the hall, crying in front of Gundham's room, Kazuichi trying desperately to comfort her. Fuyuhiko closed his eyes tight, on the verge of tears but refusing to cry. It was gonna be okay. Just a little fucking longer.

Give me back my oxygen mask,

Cause I don't want to feel the walls of my heart collapse,

So put me under.

I would sooner die on this table

Than face what causes me to be so unstable.

The five of them sat in a small lobby in the hospital, waiting for the patient's wing to be open. They were talking normally, trying to distract one another from the harsh reality they were living. At seven precisely, a tired-looking doctor opened the door to the wing and addressed the classmates.

"Good news. The first of your classmates has woken up."

The doctor continued talking, but was unheard. The group sprinted past him and frantically started testing the doorknobs on the rooms. Fuyuhiko ran to Peko's door and clumsily reached for the handle.

It didn't move.

Something in his chest dropped. He couldn't contain his disappointment, but was distracted when he heard crying down the wing. Blinking his eyes clear, he continued to run until he reached the open door. Upon entering, he saw Sonia, crying, arms thrown around Gundham's shoulders. He looked like absolute hell, but there was no denying he was alive. Akane and Hajime were smiling politely, and Kazuichi was in the corner of the room, face as pink as his hair. Fuyuhiko half-smiled, nodded to Gundham, and left. He walked towards the room he was staying in, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was happy for Sonia, and Gundham, obviously, but he couldn't help but wish it had been Peko. He stopped by her door and placed his hand on the thin, wired window.

"Cone back to me soon, okay?"

There was a lie between my demons and me,

And a body made of paper in the passenger seat.

As I open my eyes, I could not see.

I felt the stitches come loose and the blood run free.

Six months after Gundham had woken up, almost all of their classmates had returned to them. There was no structure to their recovery. Two days after Gundham, Mikan woke up. About a week after, it was Mahiru. (That was a rather uncomfortable reunion for Fuyuhiko.)

Twelve of them were awake, but three remained asleep.

Nagito, Ibuki, and Peko.

Fuyuhiko sat in one of the poorly-upholstered chairs in the lobby, staring down at his hands. It had been two weeks since Teruteru woke up, the next person had to wake up soon, right?

Just then, he heard shouting down the patient's wing. His heart filled with hope. Someone woke up. It had to be Peko, right?

Yeah, it had to.

He ran towards the sound of voices, anxious and hopeful, but was stopped short when he found the source. The class was gathered in the room across from Peko's, door propped open, talking to Ibuki.

Ibuki...

Fuck.

Fuyuhiko's body began to shake. Why the fuck wasn't Peko waking up? It was his fault, wasn't it? He felt anger, worry, hate, building up inside of him, and he punched the wall at full force. The walls were sturdy and solid brick, but he couldn't feel anything but his blood boiling. He kept punching, yelling, until his fist was bloody and mangled. One punch hit a nerve that shot sparks up his arm, and he dropped his hand to his side. Sweating and overwhelmed, Fuyuhiko looked down at his broken, bloody hand, the pain of his actions finally setting in. His head went light as the pain started to spread, he felt his knees give out below him. He heard Hajime distantly call his name, and everything went dark.

And as my thoughts began to shake,

I felt the hand of the darkness kiss my face.

And then the devil woke up and he grabbed my throat.

He pulled me down to the place where the silence grows.

He looks at me with hollow eyes,

And he whispered my name as the flowers died.

I felt my heart go cold as I sank between

The ocean I am and the river I'm meant to be.

I'm meant to be...

Fuyuhiko opened his eyes to find himself lying in a hospital bed of his own. His clothes were still dusty and stained with blood, but his hand had been stitched up and wrapped in gauze. Running his good hand through his hair, he leaned back onto the paper-covered pillow.

"What the fuck happened?" He mumbled towards the ceiling.

"You passed out," a voice replied.

He was talking to himself, so he was rather startled when he heard the response. His head snapped towards the door, where he saw Hajime leaning against the doorframe.

"It was either shock or blood loss," he continued. "Twogami and I got you here, and Mikan helped the doctors fix you up. We're just across the hall from everyone else. You should be fine to walk around now, just be careful." Hajime turned to leave, but paused outside the door.

"Don't take too long though," he said over his shoulder. "There's.. something you should see."

With that he left, leaving only Fuyuhiko, considering his words. Something he needed to see? What the fuck was..

Holy shit.

Give me back my oxygen mask,

He practically fell out of the bed in his panic to get out of the room.

Cause I don't want to feel the walls of my heart collapse,

So put me under.

He ran faster than he ever had before, shouting breathless profanities at the nurses that tried to stop him.

I would sooner die on this table

He sprinted through the lobby, down the blank white halls, to the door he had spent so much time talking to. He forced his way through the group of his classmates gathered outside of it and-

Than face what causes me to be so unstable.

She had been looking for him too.

As soon as he burst into her room, their eyes locked. They stayed frozen like that for a while, Peko sitting perfectly straight in her bed, Fuyuhiko struggling to catch his breath in the middle of the room, eyes never leaving each other's. Eventually, Fuyuhiko slowly crossed the room to Peko's bed, and perched himself on the edge. Peko had so much she wanted to say to him, but for once, she wasn't able to find the right words. He rested his good hand gently on her leg and started the conversation himself.

"You look like hell."

Peko smiled weakly. "So do you," she retaliated, noticing the bandages on his arm. She reached out to take his hand in hers, but pulled her hands quickly to her chest when she realized what she was doing. 

"Forgive me, Young Master, I wasn't-"

Fuyuhiko leaned forward and took her clasped hands in both of his, startling her into silence. He held their hands between them, even though the rest of the class was only feet away.

"Forget that shit, Peko. I'm just so damn happy you're okay."

Peko felt her face go warm as the reality of his words set in. She could remember their last moments together on the island, but that hadn't been real.

This was real. They were real.

Fuyuhiko let go of her hands, which saddened her for a moment, until his hands came to rest on either side of her face. She felt her heartbeat quicken as he rested his forehead against hers. He stroked her cheekbone gently with his thumb, able to feel the corner of her mouth twitching up. Cautiously, Peko rested her shaking hand on his side, just to see what would happen. His smile grew wider, almost splitting his face in two, and he whispered something she could hardly hear. She couldn't be sure, and it could've been wishful thinking, but she could've sworn he said 'I love you'.

She slid her other arm around his waist and locked her hands behind his back. They could hear the quiet words of their classmates, as well as Kazuichi scoffing "fucking finally" and getting shushed by Sonia. They were both smiling wide, eyes closed, beyond thankful to be together again.

Now I'm standing by the window on a Sunday.

And I can't quite recall

Why I cannot move at all

Neither one of them wanted to leave the other's side, but Fuyuhiko insisted Peko start the recovery process as soon as possible. Her body was weak from being immobile for so long, so, much to her dismay, she was bound to a wheelchair. Most days she sat with her back to the room, staring vacantly out the window.

And I feel so tired and wounded,

Like the stitches on my soul came apart.

I'm standing here in the dark.

Despite his protests, the doctors refused to let Fuyuhiko stay with Peko at night while she recovered. During the day, however, you would never find him anywhere else. He stood by her side when she stared out the window. She would admire the view, he would admire her.

Well, maybe it's from the drinks we had last night,

But good god, I love those friends of mine.

The best that alcohol can buy.

Sometimes they talked, but mostly they enjoyed the silence. It was that special kind of silence, where you don't have to talk to enjoy each other's company. On this day in particular, though, Peko's voice cut through the quiet.

"I could hear you. While I was asleep."

Fuyuhiko raised his eyebrow slightly, but said nothing. Peko was still staring out the window, but her eyes seemed less vacant than they were before.

Or maybe it's from the lack of sleep,

But all those secrets I've kept, trying to be so sweet to you.

It's dark, my dear,

But it got me through,

It got me through.

"Most of the time, it was just dark. Dark and quiet," she continued. "Sometimes, though, I heard you talking. It was difficult to tell what you were saying, but I am certain it was your voice. I was unsure what it meant, but," she paused. "But I had reason to believe you were okay. And it was.. very relieving. Before I woke up, I remember hearing you yelling. You sounded hurt, but it got suddenly silent a moment later. I believe-" she looked down at her knees. "I believe my concern for you in that moment was the reason I was able to wake up."

Fuyuhiko stayed silent, causing Peko to fear that the words she chose were the wrong ones. She searched for the right words to apologize with, but her panic was cut short by the feeling of his lips on hers.

So give me back my oxygen mask,

She would be lying if she said she had never imagined this moment before, but never in a million years did she think it would actually happen.

Cause I don't want to feel the walls of my heart collapse,

So put me under.

It wasn't just their professional relationship that wavered her hope; she knew him well enough to know he wasn't exactly the sentimental type. She was unaware at the time, but losing her had been the thing to change him.

I would sooner die on this table

She wasn't complaining though, quite the opposite. She was rather inexperienced though, so she was unsure what she was meant to do. Luckily, she wasn't the only one who was nervous.

Then face what causes me to be so unstable.

She brushed her fingers through his hair, their kiss growing more intense.

Causes me to be so unstable.

He rested one hand on the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

Causes me to be so unstable.

They could worry about consequences later. For now, they were the happiest they had ever been.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm only a ghost,

Wearing human skin I never chose.

I listen to the devil as he spoke

Because he tempted me with a beautiful rose.

[poundfooolish]

So I think I just found my favorite fucking assassin in US History:

The assassination of Abraham Lincoln was deemed a fluke due to the Civil War, and Garfield, like most people, saw no reason why the president should be guarded; Garfield's movements and plans were often printed in the newspapers. Guiteau knew the president would leave Washington for cooler climes on July 2, and made plans to kill him before then. He purchased a gun he thought would look good in a museum, and followed Garfield several times, but each time his plans were frustrated, or he lost his nerve. His opportunities dwindled to one—Garfield's departure by train for New Jersey on the morning of July 2, 1881.

Like. God fucking bless.

He inherited $1,000 from his grandfather as a young man and went to Ann Arbor, Michigan, in order to attend the University of Michigan. Due to inadequate academic preparation, he failed the entrance examinations. Despite cramming in French and algebra at Ann Arbor High School, during which time he received numerous letters from his father concerning his progress, he quit, and in June 1860 joined the utopian religious sect the Oneida Community, in Oneida, New York, with which Guiteau's father already had close affiliations.

Despite the "group marriage" aspects of that sect, he was generally rejected during his five years there, and was nicknamed "Charles Gitout". He left the community twice.

Wait, I’d actually heard of Charles Gitout, I didn’t realize this was the same guy HOLY SHIT. IMAGINE GETTING KICKED OUT OF THE ORGY CULT. Shit this is even the cult that’s all about group shaming, imagine being not only rejected from the orgy cult but having to be the guy no one likes in the orgy cult during the weekly shame-offs. No wonder he left twice.

Guiteau then obtained a law license in Chicago, based on an extremely casual bar exam. He was not successful. He argued only one case in court, the bulk of his business being in bill collecting. [..]

He next turned to theology. He published a book on the subject called The Truth which was almost entirely plagiarized from the work of Noyes. He wandered from town to town lecturing to any and all who would listen to his religious ramblings [...]

On June 11, 1880, he was a passenger on the SS Stonington when it collided with the SS Narragansett at night in heavy fog. The Stonington was able to return to port, but the Narragansett burned to the waterline and sank, with significant loss of life. Although none of his fellow passengers on the Stonington were injured, the incident left Guiteau believing that he had been spared for a higher purpose.

IMAGINE BEING SO EGOTISTICAL THAT BEING ON A SHIP WITH A 100% SURVIVAL RATE MAKES YOU THINK GOD SPARED YOU SPECIFICALLY FOR A HIGHER PURPOSE

His personal requests to Garfield and to cabinet members as one of many job seekers who lined up every day were continually rejected; on May 14, 1881, he was finally told never to return by Secretary of State James G. Blaine.

I mean. I can’t fucking blame you Blaine. This man was such a collossal failure holy shit. 

Borrowing $15 from a Mr. Maynard, Guiteau went out to purchase a revolver.

HE DIDN’T EVEN BUY IT HIMSELF HE HAD TO BORROW MONEY SO HE COULD KILL A MAN OH MY GOD

 He knew little about firearms, but did know that he would need a large caliber gun. He had to choose between a .442 Webley caliber British Bulldog revolver with wooden grips or one with ivory grips. He chose the one with the ivory handle because he wanted it to look good as a museum exhibit after the assassination.

I don’t know whether this is “extra” or prudence I mean he has a fucking point BUT STILL

Though he could not afford the extra dollar, the store owner dropped the price for him. He spent the next few weeks in target practice – the kick from the revolver almost knocked him over the first time – and stalking Garfield. The revolver was recovered after the assassination, and even photographed by the Smithsonian in the early 20th century, but it has since been lost. 

HOLY SHIT, HE LITERALLY ONLY EVER DID 1 THING RIGHT IN HIS WHOLE LIFE, EVEN HIS CAREFUL ATTEMPT AT MAKING A GOOD MUSEUM DISPLAY FUCKING FAILED. I’m just. So in awe at the concentrated failure here. 

Guiteau became something of a media sensation during his entire trial for his bizarre behavior, which included him frequently cursing and insulting the judge, most of the witnesses, the prosecution, and even his defense team, as well as formatting his testimony in epic poems which he recited at length, and soliciting legal advice from random spectators in the audience via passed notes. He dictated an autobiography to the New York Herald, ending it with a personal ad for "a nice Christian lady under 30 years of age". He was oblivious to the American public's hatred of him, even after he was almost assassinated twice himself. He frequently smiled and waved at spectators and reporters in and out of the courtroom, seemingly happy to be the center of attention for once in his life.

Guiteau attempted to convince President Chester A. Arthur to set him free through a letter as he had just increased Arthur's salary by making him president.  At one point, Guiteau argued before Judge Cox that President Garfield was killed not by the bullets but by medical malpractice ("The doctors killed Garfield, I just shot him").

MY DUDE WHAT THE SHIT ARE YOU DOING, though actually apparently some historians do believe that Garfield would have survived if the doctors had practiced any sort of sterilization, but that didn’t come for another 10 odd years.

While being led to his execution, Guiteau was said to have continued to smile and wave at spectators and reporters, happy to be at the center of attention to the very end. He notoriously danced his way to the gallows and shook hands with his executioner. On the scaffold, as a last request, he recited a poem called I am Going to the Lordy, which he had written during his incarceration. He had originally requested an orchestra to play as he sang his poem, but this request was denied.

Extra to the FUCKING END, I looked up the poem and:

After "stubbing his toe on the way to the gallows", as he put it to the executioner, Guiteau read Matthew 14:28-32 and announced that he would now read a prayer of his own composition. After paraphrasing Matthew 18:3, Guiteau proceeded to read the poem from a piece of paper in a style described as both "sad and doleful" as well as "high pitched" and "childlike". Guiteau had requested an orchestra to play behind him as he recited his poem, but his request was denied. After completing the first verse in song, Guiteau stopped singing and chanted the rest. Multiple times during the reading, Guiteau's voice would fail and he would begin sobbing, even stopping to lay his head on the shoulder of a man standing by him. Right before the completion of the poem, Guiteau raised his voice even higher into falsetto to deliver the final two lines. As the executioner fitted the hood over Guiteau's head and put the rope around his neck, he held onto the piece of paper on which he had written his poem. As per request with the executioner, Guiteau signaled that he was ready to die by dropping the paper.

This man... holy shit this man... literally to the fucking end

Upon his autopsy it was discovered that Guiteau had the condition known as phimosis, an inability to retract the foreskin, which at the time was thought to have caused insanity that led him to assassinate Garfield.

God I love old-timey medecine. That’s absolutely it you mad motherfuckers, he was driven mad by foreskin.

I fucking. Love. History.