Yawning and stretching his arms over his head, Schuldig walked into the kitchen. No one took any notice. Leaning against the doorpost he cleared his throat and yawned again. Nothing. Damn.
"Good morning to you too," he stated irritably, glaring at the two men sitting at the breakfast table.
"Good morning," Crawford answered, not even looking up from his newspaper. Farfarello was too busy carving intricate patterns into one of his sandwiches with a large bread knife to bother with such unimportant things as wishing someone good morning. Nagi was probably in school already. If he even went to school, but why else would he wear that silly looking uniform all the time? Schuldig didn't really care though.
Squatting down on a chair, he nursed his head in his hands. He had a headache. And he was hungry. And he was tired. Too tired to make breakfast.
Crawford had finished eating long before Schuldig had even started to consider getting up, so the redhead swiftly reached for the only prepared food on the table - Farfarello's sandwich. The one he wasn't carving at. Schuldig quickly realized that the psychopath wasn't carving at any of his sandwiches anymore. Instead he was holding the knife against the German's hand, looking an awful lot like he was about to cut his fingers off...
"You weren't eating it," Schuldig complained, retracting his hand. It seemed like he'd have to make his own sandwiches. Damn.
Looking at the bread he noticed that there wasn't anything to cut it with. Trying to get Farfarello to give up a knife couldn't exactly be considered an easy task, but right now he was to tired to get up and rummage through the drawers to find another one.
"I'll need that," he unenthusiastically stated, nodding towards the knife.
The psychopath gave him a suspicious look, possessively clutching the large bread knife and then raising it to his mouth, licking the edge.
Schuldig hid his face in his hands, sighing. This just wasn't his day.
"How many?" The calm voice interrupted Schuldig in his self-pity and he raised his head to see Farfarello, knife in one hand, bread in the other, looking at him, quietly anticipating a reply.
"Three?" the redhead answered, surprised by the sudden mood change.
Yawning again he got to his feet, picked up one of his favorite mugs from a cupboard and went over to get himself some coffee. Taking a sip he noted that it was cold. Not cold as in orange-juice cold, but not exactly warm either. He considered pouring it into the sink, but then he'd have to make a new pot and he really didn't feel like doing anything like that. After all, cold coffee was better than no coffee at all, right? Not completely convinced, he returned to the table.
Three evenly cut slices of bread awaited him, neatly piled right in front of his seat. For a second he wondered if he could make the psychopath butter them as well. Probably not, he decided, setting down his cup and taking a seat. Farfarello had put down the knife now and was devouring his sandwiches with an enthusiasm Schuldig found rather amusing.
Too preoccupied with watching the Irishman eat, he didn't really notice that he had been hitting his coffee spoon against his cup until Crawford finally looked up, annoyed by the clinking sound.
"If you have to smoke then do it outside," he ordered curtly, before returning to his newspaper.
Schuldig shrugged a little, taking another sip of coffee before getting up from his chair and walking out of the kitchen to retrieve his cigarettes.