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It's sometimes a stress to keep up with schoolwork, the flower shop, and leading Weiss at the same time, but Omi manages, one way or another, even at the worst of times.
Right now, though, it's not so bad; they haven't had a mission in a few weeks, there are no holidays coming up, so the shop is only averagely busy - he can afford to take his time with his homework, sitting at his desk and working out the problems slow enough to enjoy them, rather than having to rush through so he can get on to more important things.
His mind wanders, though, in the middle of his calculus: the girl who sits next to him had been watching him earlier, and he wonders if she was trying to flirt; if she'll turn up to the Koneko and start after him. He hopes she doesn't: it would make trouble with Ouka, who's, well - persistent, that's one word for it.
You're not very good at this, he hears suddenly - but there's no one in the room, and no one in the hall; besides, he hadn't recognized the voice.
Eventually, he shakes his head, goes back to his desk, figuring he must have imagined it, though why, he doesn't know. Maybe he should get more rest.
Good plan, the voice says again, sarcasm dripping from each word, and he starts to his feet, looks out the window this time. A car drives past on the road below, but otherwise the street is dark and empty.
Definitely time to sleep, he decides, though - strange, he doesn't feel that tired.
Omi's dreams are full of blood: his sister's, his brothers', his own, pouring over his hands and through his mind like an undammed river. It's irresistable.
Not that Schuldig wouldn't have come anyway; despite what they say about returning to the scene of a crime, he likes to admire his work, to take his time and really feel what he's done in the sharp edges of pain, the sweet tang of fear and grief and loss.
They usually punish themselves, and Omi's no exception: the self-incrimination and guilt are rolling off him in waves as he stands dreaming amongst the bodies of his family. It's delicious in its predictability.
Quietly, Schuldig slips forwards, manifesting behind him and slinging a casual arm around his shoulders in a mockery of cameraderie, drawing a jump, a gasp. "Nice collection you've got going," he says, flicking his fingers at the corpses, the three close up and the indistinct shadows of dozens more in the dim dreamlight.
Omi's subconscious doesn't know what to make of this intrusion; he stands silent, gaping, and Schuldig smiles lazily down at him.
"Sch-schuldig," Omi manages to stammer out, making an unholy mess of his name. But the fear and horror in his mind is fading, shifting to hatred, at the appearance of someone else, anyone else to blame for what's happened to him, what he's done.
That's not in his plans; he likes Omi like this, torturing himself over worthless shit. He tightens his arm around him, leans down just a little; he's starting to struggle now, trying to throw out the foreign presence without knowing what he's doing. "You'll be adding your father and uncle soon enough," Schuldig tells him, and leaves, laughing, while Omi's mind is still slack with the effort of fresh denial.
He'll be back soon enough.