Rating: NC-17 for...uhm. Gah! Just read the damn thing, okay? It's nasty, that's why it's NC-17.
Warning: for general nastiness on Schu's part, as well as a symptom known as 'author has a moment of madness'
Has no spoilers and does not follow cannon
Notes: does anyone know any website with a detailed, good city map of Tokyo? I spent hours on the 'net and didn't find one...HELP!
And I'm slowly beginning to fear that this thing will be more than 200 pages long weeps
I suffer the dreams of a world gone mad
I like it like that and I know it
REM, Leave
They stumbled more than walked into her apartment, somewhere on the other side of Tokyo. Hands grasping and tearing at clothes, mouths locked in a sloppy kiss, Schuldig was grateful Sakura did not switch on the light. The desultory conversation in the bar, spiked with Sakura's more and more aggressive hints about where this evening would end, should end, had shown him exactly how air headed the girl was. He did not need a constant reminder of whom he was going to fuck; of course, he wouldn't have cared if Sakura had been an award-winning doctor. Right now, all he wanted was a body, not an attitude, and certainly not an opinion. He slipped his hands into her blouse and cupped her breasts, tweaking the small nipples with his fingernails, listening to her short gasps as he ground his thigh between her legs. She clung to him with fierce abandon, eyes closed. Maybe she, too, did not want to see whom she would spread for. Maybe she was just as jaded as he was.
And maybe, he did not care if she was either, or one, or none of all of the above. Schuldig had trained his body to react to physical stimulation, all the while keeping his mind occupied elsewhere. He had learned to pretend.
"Wait a moment," Sakura was breathless, her dark eyes glittering with the outside-lights of nighttime Tokyo. She pushed at him, moaning as Schuldig answered with a tightening of his fingers. "Need to go to the bathroom first, sweetheart."
He had a brief flash of Sakura washing her vulva, spraying on deodorant, and almost shuddered, almost lost interest. He let her go and grinned, his sneer hidden in the darkness of her apartment. Flowers. It smelled as if someone had loitered the entire apartment with flowers; sweet-smelling ones at that.
In the door that led to her bathroom, Sakura turned, striking what he saw in her mind she thought was a sensual pose. It was ridiculous.
"Make yourself comfortable, sweets. I'll be right back." She blew him a kiss, and the door was shut with a soft clicking sound.
Make yourself comfortable in his mind. You'll be spending a lot of time together, anyway
He wondered why Crawford's words came to mind just now, in some loser's apartment, only a few minutes away from blissful carnal activities. Schuldig shook his head and searched for the light switch. The low glow did not make that awful smell of flowers go away; now that there was light he saw them - on tables and on the windowsills, in vases, buckets, and even in glasses, flowers of all sorts. Taking a closer look, he noticed that some still had price tags attached to them with string. Odd. As if Sakura had bought them but did not care enough to take the price tags off.
He heard the sound of running water coming from the bathroom and decided it was time to take a tour. Sakura lived in a two-room apartment; she was a student most likely, or someone whose work did not pay very well. Cheap wallpaper, water stains. Imitated works of art, kitsch. What made it even worse was that she obviously had tried to cover the cheapness with tackiness - there were throw pillows in pink and pastel, frilly curtains-with-geese, the carpet an ugly shade of cream with footprints here and there. Schuldig opened the door next to the bathroom and found himself in her bedroom. A nightmare in pastel, again. He snorted as he saw the array of plush animals lined up on an easy chair next to her bed. The bed itself was large, a throw blanket in white covering it.
A white altar. He smirked. Time to defile innocence.
His eyes caught on some framed pictures that stood on the windowsill, half-hidden by the curtain. Family members, school friends, acquaintances worth taking pictures off so they would think they actually meant something to her if they visited. One of the pictures had a frame in gold.
Schuldig narrowed his eyes. The man on that picture looked familiar.
Awfully familiar.
On closer inspection, he saw that the golden frame had little red heats on it. He pulled his shirttail out of his pants and picked it up with the cloth covering his fingers, bringing it closer to his eyes. The background of the picture showed a street in Tokyo and a line of shops he remembered he must have passed at least a million times since he lived here. One of the shops, "Kitty in the House", a flower shop, always had an intimidating mass of schoolgirls waving in and out of the door.
The man on the picture, bearing the eternally miserable expression of one who does not like to be photographed but suffers it anyway for the sake of a friend or a lover, wore an apron and held a water hose in his right hand.
Schuldig nearly let the picture drop with surprise as he realised he was looking at Aya Fujimiya.
"Damn it, where is he?"
Nagi looked up from his laptop and watched Crawford stride to and fro between one wall of their living room and the other for what must have been the hundredth time this evening. The American was tense and angry, not surprising after his row with Schuldig. Being a telepath, the German had the infuriating ability to find out about one's deepest and most shameful secrets; being an asshole Schuldig had no inhibitions to use that knowledge to his advantage when it came to fights. The truth always hurt when it was thrown in peoples' faces, yet it hurt all the more when they knew their opponent knew it to be the truth.
The Japanese youth looked at the grandfather clock on the mantelpiece and was surprised by the lateness of the day. It was three in the night, yet he was not tired. Maybe the Jetlag would come later, or maybe Nagi was just too happy to be back home again to really feel any fatigue.
Then again, maybe it was because of Farfarello, who sat cross-legged in front of their bookshelves, his back to them. The Irishman had been leafing through a book for the better part of the evening, occasionally looking at the window that was now a pitch-black square of darkness.
"Why wait for him?" Nagi closed the laptop, stretching. "You know he never comes back before early morning, anyway. Why don't you just go to bed, Crawford?"
The American stopped in his tracks and gave Nagi a look that let the Japanese boy know he was expected to grow a second head anytime. The more than obvious stare at Farfarello reminded Nagi why he himself had reservations about closing his eyes and leaving himself wide open to any nightly visits. He looked at the Irishman; if Farfarello had noticed the exchange, then he did not show it. He seemed absorbed in his readings, bending over the book on his lap with concentration.
"I hate to ask," Nagi said in Japanese, "but what do you expect Schu to do about it?"
"Schuldig is a telepath. He could keep his mind open while he sleeps."
"You mean he would notice it if Farfarello experienced any.sudden urges?"
Crawford nodded, crossing the room once again. Damn that telepath and the woman that had spawned him! It was just so like the German to disappear while he was needed, to take off and let others deal with problems he could solve without even lifting a finger.
"Why did Schuldig name himself guilty?"
Farfarello's voice startled them. The Irishman did not turn, nor did he look up. Crawford raised an eyebrow and walked over to him to peer over his shoulder to see that it was a German-English dictionary he had been reading in all evening. The tip of one of his knives was tracing one of the words, as if the Irishman wanted to learn its shape and not only its meaning.
"Because of his past, I guess." Crawford leaned against the bookshelf, studying Farfarello intently. "Why did you name yourself 'Farfarello'?"
"That's none of your concern. Why?"
"Why - what?"
"Why did his past make him take on such a name?"
"I think you better ask him that yourself when he comes back," Nagi said from the couch. "He can get pretty riled up when he hears others talking about him, and - " he threw a look at Crawford, " - we don't need another fight. We just had one, thank you."
"Thank me?" Farfarello turned.
Nagi was pierced by gold shot through with amber and rust, experiencing what it meant to be the sole interest of a person all of a sudden. He swallowed dryly. Farfarello was still sitting on the floor with his legs crossed beneath him and his elbows resting on his knees, and yet it suddenly seemed so likely he'd be vaulting across the room any second.
"Not because of you," Crawford walked over to the couch and sat next to Nagi. "Schu and I tend to disagree when it comes to certain aspects of behaviour in front of Taketori."
"I thought you didn't like him, either."
"I don't. That doesn't mean I have to jeopardize our lives by mouthing off to one of the most influential people in Japan."
"So basically, you bow to that old prey." Farfarello smiled. "What is it that makes you Taketori's dog, Crawford?"
The American bristled at the Irishman's words, even more so since Farfarello seemed to have developed Schuldig's talent for finding out the truth in the last few minutes. And, he was unnerved by that unwavering stare levelled at him. Up to a few hours ago, it had been mainly Schuldig who dealt with Farfarello; Crawford had not yet had to try and understand him. Or speak more than two words to him.
Or look at him, at that snake's glare, lidless and unblinking.
"That's a story for another day," Crawford said at last, turning to Nagi. "Go to bed now. I'll stay here with him."
The Japanese youth threw a dubious look at Farfarello, but the Irishman was once again reading, the conversation obviously at an end. He picked up his laptop and left the living room. Closing the door, he locked it, drew the key and put it on his nightstand. On second thought, he grabbed a chair and put it under the door handle. Aware that it would not provide him with an atom of safety, but proud that he had at least thought of it, Nagi went to bed. His dreams were golden.
In the living room, Crawford settled in for a long night of waiting for a certain redhead to show up.
"...please..."
Whispered, squeezed through pain-stretched lips, and ignored. Again. Sakura did not know how many times she had uttered this word during the last...hour? Day? Year? She managed to open her eyes, closing them again when droplets of stinging water hit her face, running in rivulets into her nose and mouth. The shower was still on. She should turn it off before her water bill shot up into astronomical heights. She should get up before her skin was wrinkled, drained of moisture. Such a paradox - shrivelled in the bathtub, with water all around her.
The random thought was pushed aside violently as another presence entered her mind and ploughed into her again. It was as if her brain was being pulled apart, bursting at the seams. So, this was what people meant when they spoke of fucking with someone's mind.
But this man was not making love to her. Love was different, love was a night spent between the sheets, all the good places still throbbing from another kind of ploughing.
Again, a push, and her thoughts scattered. She suddenly thought about her childhood, about her time in kindergarten; mercilessly, these early years were pulled out, examined, and then discarded as useless. Useless? Why did she think of them as useless? They were her past, a part of her!
Schuldig frowned, shaking his head. How many useless things were in that cunt's mind, anyway? He'd been going through teenage romances and fickle problems for the last half hour, frustration rising the deeper he went. Sakura lay in the bathtub, naked, her limbs sprawled, her mouth slack. Once in a while, water would run past her lips and she would gurgle and sputter. He guessed he could have turned the water off.
Come on, I know you're in there
Her back arched as he splayed another corner of her mind open, she uttered a sound halfway between a keen and a wail.
Jackpot
Aya Fujimiya stared at him, apron around his waist, hose in hand, short of skipping. The day she had taken that photo: sunny, the sky clear of clouds. With the images came the sounds: the splashing of water, the song of birds, and the voices of other people in the background. A tidy, lovely scene in front of a local flower shop. Schuldig gritted his teeth. A tidy, lovely scene in front of a local flower shop with Aya Fujimiya standing in front of it, armed with a water hose. Now, which of the two things did not fit into the same sentence?
He looked deeper, beyond that day. Now he was inside of the flower shop, standing amid vases and moist dark soil, and the person in front of him was a young man, no, a teenager, with the too-trusting eyes of the eternally lost.
Someone passed by behind the teenager, a name popping into the telepath's mind like a whisper. Yohji. Lanky, a playboy's grin hiding in the corner of his mouth. Schuldig became aware of rising heat between his legs and groaned, cursing Sakura. For fuck's sake, did she want them all? Could she not make up her mind?
His internal plea was answered a moment later as his point of view changed yet again, and the blood rushed to his nether parts, the sensitive head of his cock scraping against the fabric of his pants. This time, there was a fountain of sorts. He recognized the place, having been there himself. One of Tokyo's beautiful parks, near the waterfront. He looked at Fujimiya through Sakura's eyes and felt her jealousy course through him, jealousy and the picture of a young girl lying in a hospital bed, lifeless. Aya Fujimiya's sister.
Thoughts of murder and wishful thinking crossed the telepath's mind. Schuldig snickered.
Now, Sakura, those are not very nice thoughts to have when the competition is in a coma and helpless He let go of her mind, a little, and walked closer to the tub, sitting down on the rim.
"Of course, that does cast an interesting light on Aya's, no, Ran Fujimiya's psyche. In love with his own sister. How novel. How nicely perverted." Schuldig cocked his head. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me why you are picking up strangers in bars when you have the 'deepest possible love' for Fujimiya. Or should I better say, had."
She moved feebly, turning her head, trying to open her eyes. Schuldig reached up and adjusted the angle of the showerhead so it hit her in the face yet again. She gagged, spitting water.
Conversationally, the telepath went on, "He's dead, you know. Now he'll never fuck you."
"N-no." More spluttering. Schuldig sighed. Taking hold of her mind once again, he soon found the reason why Sakura had spoken to him in that bar. Frustration. The feeling of helplessness at Fujimiya's obvious disinterest in her body or soul, paired with the stupid hope that the flower boy's interest would be piqued once she told him she'd fucked another.
He let his hand slide over her thigh, curling his fingers in the moist triangle of her pubic hair, his thumb sliding over the hard nub of her clitoris. Despite herself, she responded, lifting her hips, moaning. So wanton.
But, Sakura did not arouse him anymore. He admitted to himself to be put off by the truth, too: he would have been a stand-in, a substitute.
"I am not that cheap," Schuldig muttered to himself. He stood, put the plug of the tub in, and turned up the flow of water. When it began to pool in the concave of her belly, he bent and placed a hand on her throat, administering the barest pressure. Soon, water once again invaded her mouth. Sakura began to struggle weakly, gasping for air, swallowing more water. Schuldig's gaze, calm and disconnected from what was happening to the girl, was drawn to the oval hole of her mouth. Red, lipstick smeared from their kisses. He thought of Farfarello. That brief.kiss in that corridor. Farfarello had wanted him to taste Aya Fujimiya.
If Fujimiya had decided to make Sakura happy after she had fucked Schuldig, would Schuldig have lingered on her mouth, on her lips? Would a part of him have passed between the two and seeped into their pores, mingling with their saliva? The thought revolved him.
One of Sakura's hands weakly hit the side of the bathtub. Her body gave one long, deep shudder, air bubbles trailed out of her mouth, her eyes open now, pleading, begging, imploring. He held her down until they were unseeing, and then used her toothbrush to cleanse his mouth of her taste.
Picking up a washcloth, Schuldig dipped it into the water, stirring floating hair. Systematically, he went through her apartment, rubbing every surface he had touched, and some others just to be sure. Door handles, the picture frame, the light switches. Again using his shirttail, he closed the entrance door behind him, throwing the washcloth, toothbrush and toothpaste into a sewer opening four blocks away, making sure no one saw him.
Well. It had been an interesting night.
Six o'clock in the morning, and he heard the front door open and close, followed by footsteps down the corridor. They hesitated as soon as they stepped into the light falling out of the door to the living room, and Crawford turned around from where he sat on the couch to lay eyes on Schuldig. The redhead looked remarkably un-rumpled.
"Good morning," Crawford said. "Had a pleasant evening?"
Schuldig did not answer. He stepped into the room, letting his jacket fall by the door. Two wallets tumbled out of a pocket; Crawford sneered, knowing just how pleasant Schuldig' s evening had been. The redhead walked over to the couch. Farfarello lay curled up on his side, dressed in black sweatpants and a muscle shirt. He spent a moment gazing at the tattooed feathers, tracing their swirling patterns with his eyes, before he returned his gaze to the American who sat on the other end of the couch, a gun cradled in his lap, a coffee cup on the low table before him.
"Is that really necessary?" Schuldig pointed at the gun.
"Since you weren't around to tell me about the state of his mind, it is. I don't like the idea of being murdered in my sleep."
Schuldig walked around the couch and sat down on the coffee table, resting his face in his hands for a moment. When he looked at Crawford again, the American noted a slight amusement to his gaze.
"I don't think Farfarello would murder you, or any of us, in our sleep. I think he would want us to be awake for that." He reached for Crawford's cup and took a swallow, cringing as the bitter brew slid down his smoke-parched throat. "Look, I'm not in the mood for any further arguments right now. I'm tired, and I want to go to bed."
"Bad luck", Crawford stood, his voice acid, and dropped the gun into Schuldig's hands. "I spent the entire night watching him. As you seem to have enough stamina to last you for two bedflings, I think you can endure a little longer, and take over."
He walked out of the living room and closed the door behind him, leaving no time for protest. Schuldig groaned softly. He quickly searched Farfarello's mind for any signs of impending doom; finding none, he decided it was save to make a short trip to the kitchen to make more coffee. Coffee maker bubbling, Schuldig leaned against the kitchen counter and lit a cigarette. Crawford's mind was slowly sliding into the restless state of a visionary's sleep; Nagi's was sliding in and out of golden fields of swaying corn.
Two bedflings. Schuldig snorted. One of them had been more of a watery fling. He toed his boots and socks off and dug his toes into the carpet, mentally sifting through the things he had learned from Sakura. Had Crawford been in any better mood, Schuldig guessed he would have told him what exactly one of his 'bedflings' had made known to him.
The thought brought a frown to the German's face. Crawford actually should have known that. Other times, he had had the nerve to warn Schuldig which of the people the telepath would bed was infected with syphilis, and which one was making funny sounds when he came. Crawford's powers were at their strongest around the people he knew and spent time with; surely, the American should have seen Schuldig meeting Sakura in that bar.
"Can I have a cup, too?"
He very nearly screamed. Farfarello stood in the door to the kitchen, knuckling sleep from his eye.
"Fuck, you spooked me! Can't you think a little louder? I'm supposed to watch you."
The Irishman walked into the kitchen, yawning, his bare feet tapping on the tiles, noiseless on the carpet. He sat down at the table, regarding Schuldig with mild curiosity.
"You didn't hear me?"
"No." Schuldig glared. "I happen to be able to think of something other than you once in a while."
Farfarello shrugged his shoulders. "Can I have a cup? I've had nothing to drink since that guy in the cell."
"That guy in the.oh." Schuldig turned to take another cup off the shelf when he realized just what exactly Farfarello had told him. "You mean Crawford and Nagi didn't give you anything to drink?"
"No."
"You could have simply taken something."
"I don't know where anything is. I was in the living room all evening."
"I guess that means you had nothing to eat, too."
At the other's nod, Schuldig shook his head. "I swear, Crawford is the worst host I've ever seen in all my life."
"I think he was more occupied with figuring out how to keep me...calm." A sardonic grin passed over Farfarello's lips. "That man is supposed to be an oracle? Funny. He should have seen that I am not going to cause any trouble."
Just as he should have seen Schuldig meeting Sakura in the bar. The thought came and went too fast for the telepath to grab hold of it. He filled two cups with coffee, adding a generous amount of sugar to his own after Farfarello declined the offer. Setting one in front of the Irishman, he turned to the refrigerator, only to remember there was nothing in it.
"Fuck. I hope you don't feel like anything too special, 'cause it seems the only thing to eat I can offer you right now is a can of soup."
"Sounds good."
Soup warming on the stove, Schuldig sat down across Farfarello, stirring his coffee. It occurred to him how domestic they must have appeared to others, sitting together at the kitchen table, nursing their respective cups. Farfarello went to refill his, and when he sat back down again, put one leg up on the table, picked up Schuldig's coffee spoon with his toes, and played with it. Schuldig couldn't resist. He leaned forward and ran the tip of one finger down Farfarello's sole, grinning as the other growled and pulled his foot away.
"I thought you don't feel anything," Schuldig remarked.
"I don't feel pain. Tickling doesn't exactly fall into the same category." Farfarello shot a warning glare at the redhead as he reached out one hand, relenting when Schuldig only claimed his coffee spoon and filled his own cup again.
"What about emotions?"
"Emotions?"
"Yeah, emotions. Do you feel sad? Do you regret?"
"Sometimes."
"You don't like to talk about that, do you?"
Farfarello cocked his head, regarding Schuldig calmly. "I don't care about most emotions. They are useless. What use does regret have for a murderer?"
"Point conceded."
Silence fell between them. Schuldig filled two bowls with soup, and they ate without words, occupied with themselves. His thoughts returning to Sakura, Schuldig once again wondered about Crawford. Did the American really not know? Or had Crawford been too angry with Schuldig to have any visions at all? That had happened a few times in the past, usually during times of stress, when Crawford's mind was too crowded with more pressing problems than glimpses of a future that was changing while he looked at a drop of water falling from a faucet.
Strange how one like Taketori could rely on something as unsteady as a vision; yet the old man often planned entire business moves on what Crawford told him. He idly wondered how Taketori would react, were Schuldig to tell him such a crucial thing like the meeting with one of Fujimiya's acquaintances had slipped Crawford by. Maybe Crawford would get his head ripped off for a change.
Or maybe, Taketori would say it was all Schuldig's fault.
By the third spoonful, Schuldig was immersed in pleasant thoughts about Taketori and one of the old man's damn gold clubs, the latter of the two boldly going where no golf club had gone before.
Farfarello turned Schuldig's words over in his head. What about emotions? Just because he murdered people for the sake of causing god pain did not mean he was a numb shell that knew joy only when it killed. True, most emotions did not mean much to him, but that did not mean he didn't have them. There was always the sweet rush of satisfaction after a particularly beautiful kill. The pleasant tremor of nerve endings when his hands dipped into the waters of the body, stirring them. Even now, he was content, warmth slowly spreading in his belly, the hunger subsiding. Also, it was nice to move freely, after such a long time in straight jackets, cells, and shackles. He had no idea what items Schwarz intended to use on him to keep him calm; if they wanted him to wear a straight jacket again then he would wear one. They would not keep him in it. That was the point, yes. Now, he actually had the option of being free. Of being free to kill. Free to hurt god.
Is that all you ever think about?
He looked up. Schuldig was watching him intently, his eyes searching Farfarello's face with an intensity that made the Irishman wonder what he was looking for.
"What else is there?"
"Life."
"I have a life. It's just different from what most people think of as their lives."
The green eyes narrowed slightly; he felt the push at the barriers of his mind and surrendered them, not by choice, but not exactly fighting it, either. Odd as it may sound, Farfarello found the presence of the telepath, both in his mind and in the same room, a pleasant one. Being locked with him gave Farfarello the feeling of having found someone who fearlessly looked at everything, even at things that made him angry, sad, or sick. It was as if he could finally share something with another. He smiled as the fingers of Schuldig's power found that last thought and caressed it, turning it over, examining it. He could tell by the look on the telepath's face that it came as a surprise; yet, it was not pushed away, or ridiculed, or passed over as the meaningless ramblings of a madman.
"You, my friend, are out of your mind." Schuldig stated, mind still locked with the other's. "To trust me that easily. You do trust me. I don't know why, yet, but you do." He withdrew his mind, leaning back against the back of the chair.
Farfarello simply smiled. "I never claimed to be sane."
"How refreshing. Most madmen I've met claimed they weren't insane, only the world around them was."
"How many did you meet?"
"Enough to know what I'm talking about." He shook his head, effortless picking up the question Farfarello was going to ask him. "Don't ask. There isn't much to tell."
"Tell me anyway." Farfarello's tone was coaxing. "Please?"
"Guilty of murder, of rape, of things most people have nightmares about. Guilty of turning my back, of torturing minds." Schuldig closed his eyes, smiling. "You were right when you said I was never innocent."
"Yet you embrace it. You're contradicting yourself, you know that?"
"Yes. I know. I pick up so many things from the world around me; sometimes it's hard to tell which thoughts are mine. Crawford once said he wouldn't be surprised if a strong mind, stronger than my own, assimilated me."
Farfarello wondered if the telepath would pick up some of the Irishman's madness over time. Add a sliver of insanity to those green eyes, that mockery of a smile. Farfarello decided he liked the idea. Following that train of thought, he decided he liked Schuldig.
"Want more soup?" Schuldig rose, putting his bowl in the sink. He heard the scraping of wood over fibre as Farfarello pushed his chair back; the Irishman's bowl joined the telepath's. Standing together by the sink, they both stared at the dishes.
Someone who looked at everything. Someone not afraid of what he was capable of, what he wanted. Someone interested. Someone interesting. Someone who, one day, might take a look behind all the madness and find the reasons why Farfarello did what he did. Wasn't that what everyone was looking for - someone to share the pain of living? Wasn't that the ultimate goal, to find a soul that completed you, and made you whole?
Another decision.
It was by far the easiest one Farfarello ever had had to make.
The Irishman's fingers crept into Schuldig's palm, and Schuldig wondered why Farfarello was doing that all the time. He had not found any obvious reason for the other's action. Maybe Farfarello himself didn't know why he did it.
"I love you," Farfarello stated simply, out of the blue. He lifted their joined hands and touched his lips to them, then let go and wandered off into the living room. "I'll sleep on the couch. Go to bed, Schu. I'm not going to murder any of you in your sleep." If I did that, I would want you to be awake for it and I would make sure you enjoy it.
Then again, maybe Schuldig just hadn't looked in the right places.
Crawford spat his morning orange juice across the table. Nagi's cocoa followed not a heartbeat later.
"What?" they both shouted at the same time.
Farfarello picked up a butter knife and began to draw patterns into the mess on the table.
Schuldig groaned and rubbed both hands over his face. Another gesture he'd been doing a lot lately. Well, he was a man of many habits anyway, no point denying that.
"He said he loves me."
Two flabbergasted pairs of eyes flitted back and forth between the telepath and the Irishman, and it didn't need a mindreader to figure out they had a hard time deciding which of the two was currently more out of a few marbles, Schuldig or Farfarello.
"How many drugs did you take last night?" Nagi asked, being the first to regain control over his slack jaw. "Are you sure you're feeling all right?"
"Yes," Schuldig ground out. "Yes, I'm perfectly sane."
Crawford burst out with laughter, shaking so hard he tipped his chair over and fell on his back, roaring. He laughed so hard he had hiccups by the time he managed to stand without pissing his pants, fishing for a napkin to wipe the tears out of his eyes.
"That's not funny, you ass," Schuldig muttered, his eyes shooting daggers at the heaving American.
"Oh, it is!" Crawford managed to regain some semblance of control back over himself, beating down a bad case of the giggles. A brief vision of Schuldig throwing a half-eaten sandwich at him, and he caught the projectile in his napkin and handed it back, figuring that if looks could kill, he'd be decomposing by now. "Tell me, Farfarello, how - "
The sharp edge of a knife came to rest against Crawford's throat, and the laughter died away, making room for the ice-cold realisation: if Farfarello had wanted to kill him, then he would be dead now. The thought was as sobering as a cold shower. It mixed with another realisation. He had just had his first vision in three days.
"Are you mocking my feelings, Crawford?" The Irishman's voice was low and even, there was not even a hint at anger. He knelt on the table, amid dishes and food, one bare foot placed on the back of the chair Crawford sat in, toes grasping the edge of the wood. If Crawford tried to push backwards, Farfarello would pull the chair forward and open the man 's throat without even moving his arms one inch.
Crawford stared. He had seen the sandwich coming; why not this, this attack on his very life?
A hand appeared in his line of vision, wrapped around Farfarello's wrist and yanked it away. Schuldig. With a look on his face no one in their right mind would want to argue with.
"That certain someone isn't in his right mind!" The German's voice was cold, angry. He pulled the knife out of Farfarello's hand and threw it across the room, backhanding the Irishman as hard as he could. "Do that again and I kill you."
I know Farfarello smiled. It got him another backhanded blow, this one splitting the skin over his lower lip. As if nothing had happened, the Irishman sat back down in his chair and picked up the butter knife, drawing patterns again.
The silence that descended was uncomfortable and leaden, spiked with aggression. It was Nagi who moved first, announcing he had to go else he'd be late for school. The others paid him no attention as he slipped out of the kitchen, as he slipped out of the front door.
In the kitchen, the remaining three members of Schwarz sat and stood unmoving, only the scraping of the butter knife betraying their not being statues carved from stone. For one minute, for two minutes, the slow scraping filled the stillness. Then Schuldig yanked the knife out of the Irishman's hand and threw it the same way the first had gone; the metal clattering as it hit the cupboard.
"For fuck's sake, say something!" the redhead screamed, his voice bordering on hysteria.
"What do you want me to say?" Farfarello looked up and met the other's angry and irritated stare calmly. "It's true. There's nothing else to say."
Crawford came down from his shock slowly, learning how to breathe again. With his breath, the anger came.
"Schuldig, what did you do to him?"
Incredulity, and now Schuldig's green eyes were seeping poison. Farfarello observed with interest how the telepath's fists trembled, how he seemed so very close to seriously hurting someone. His own anger at the American's mockery of his feelings filed away for the time being, the Irishman lost himself in the study of the flushed face, so full of life. Yes, the redhead would complete him.
It would only take some time, but sooner or later, Schuldig was bound to see that he belonged with Farfarello. If he didn't, well, Farfarello could always help him.
"I," Schuldig pressed out, "did not do anything to him."
"Then why is he behaving like that?"
"Do you have trouble understanding the concept of love, Crawford?" Farfarello asked without turning from Schuldig's face. "Is love that foreign to you?"
"You don't know what you're talking about!" The American rose from his chair. "You are insane!"
"Yes, so?"
"But - but...you've..."
"Crawford out of words." Schuldig's voice dripped sarcasm. "Damn, I wish I had a camera."
Ignoring Schuldig, Crawford turned to the Irishman, "Farfarello, you've known him for two days. You barely know him, or what he really is like. Do you want to know what he is like? He's a lying, deceiving bitch who'll stop at nothing when it comes to getting what he wants."
"Hey!"
"Shut up, Schu." He shook his head. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation."
"Then don't," came Farfarello's quiet answer. "I've made up my mind."
"Oh? Really? And what about your 'vows' to hurt god?"
"The one doesn't negate the other. Love and hate, Crawford, are mismatched twins. They burn you, and they make you do strange things. Well, " Farfarello stood also, calmness incarnate. "You said you want me to learn Japanese. Got any books I can start with?"
It was mind-boggling. There was no other word for it.
Schuldig smoked his fifth cigarette in a row, ignoring his throat's protest. Flipping the butt over the edge of the roof, he hoped it hit someone on the street below.
What does one think after a diagnosed and self-proclaimed psychopath with a serious god-complex confesses his love? No, not confess. Speak. Proclaim. Make known. No blushing, no messages sneaked under the door when no one was looking, no: a simple announcement, spoken with a calm voice, the mind behind that voice honest.
Should he be flattered? Should he be swooning?
Or should he simply ignore it, writing it off to the tangles of a mind that hadn't known sanity - or what was normally assumed to be sane standards - for so long the man behind the mind could never be integrated into society again?
He had stood in the kitchen for a full five minutes, rooted to the spot after Farfarello's words, staring numbly at the Irishman's back as he walked into the living room. After that, Schuldig had stared at his hand, as if seeing it for the first time, the warmth of Farfarello's lips still lingering on the skin of his knuckles, thoughts about Sakura, Crawford, or the discovery that their enemy ran a flower shop a few blocks away, forgotten. Carefully testing his own mind, Schuldig had found out he'd not fallen asleep, and dreamed the whole thing. There were two bowls in the kitchen sink, two empty cups on the table. In the living room, Farfarello had lain stretched out on the couch, arms curled around a pillow, fast asleep. Schuldig had sat on the coffee table again, and stared at the Irishman for the rest of the night, and the morning. He sat and stared until he heard the door to Nagi's room open.
The telepath sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the roof, enjoying the soothing rays of the afternoon sun. After breakfast, Crawford had been considerate enough, after all, to take over watching Farfarello, beginning the task of teaching the Irishman Japanese. Schuldig had slipped into bed and fallen asleep before his head hit his pillow, plunging into an abyss of twirling lights and voices. Thankfully, the nightmare that had haunted him in London had not come back. Eight hours of sleep, a shower, and the telepath felt like he could conquer the world.
Then why, his treacherous mind asked him, was he so reluctant to go back inside, and assist Crawford? Why would he rather sit out here, on the roof of their apartment, and stare at Tokyo's skyline?
Another presence made itself known to him before the man it belonged to pushed the fall door to the roof open. Crawford blinked at the sun, shielding his hands with his eyes. In light like this, Schuldig's hair was ablaze, burning with a thousand shades of orange and light red. The telepath sat on the edge of the flat roof, his shoulders hunched. He gave a non-committal nod as Crawford joined him. For a few moments, the American looked at Tokyo' s skyscrapers and apartment blocks, at the people on the street below them. He had left Farfarello in the living room, the Irishman once again absorbed in a book. Nagi, holed up in his room, had instructions to keep an ear open for any suspicious sounds; as intimidated as the Japanese youth was by Farfarello, he would probably hear the proverbial fly cough. It gave Crawford a few minutes of peace, a few minutes he needed to talk to Schuldig and sort things out, alone. Farfarello sought Schuldig's nearness; while the telepath had slept, the Irishman had practically set up camp before the door to Schuldig's room, learning vocabulary.
When the silence became too heavy to bear, Crawford said, "We have our first assignment."
Meaning: Farfarello had another test coming up. "Oh?"
"Taketori gave me a call while you slept. Said he wants us to test Farfarello against a larger crowd and see how he deals with more than one opponent."
"Ah."
Crawford frowned. "Oh and ah? Is that all you're going to say?" No answer, and he continued, "At twelve o'clock this night, there will be a meeting in an apartment building near Kiyosumi Garden."
"How many, and who is it?"
"Twelve to fifteen people. Some small gang trying to get big. They 'persuaded' some of Taketori's business connections to sever the ties and start working with them. We are to persuade them this was a mistake."
An everyday assignment. That was all Schwarz ever got sent on: either cleaning up behind Taketori, or clearing up the paths for him. Of all Schwarz members, Crawford was the only one the old man really trusted - if one could call it trust. Taketori regarded Nagi and Schuldig, and now Farfarello too, probably, as means to use whenever it suited him or his plans. Crawford, on the other hand, was his personal bodyguard, the American escorting him wherever he went, the other two tagging along because they had nowhere else to go. If he had not been already used to it, Schuldig knew the thought should have upset him. As it was, it only slightly irked him; an unpleasant nagging in the back of his mind easily set aside.
"Schu."
A strange wave of concern coming from the other man made the telepath look at his teammate. It was both surprising and amusing - Crawford usually gave a damn about how Schuldig felt, what he thought, what moved him. Seeing him standing there, awkwardly misplaced on the roof of their apartment, wearing his usual white suit, was rather unsettling, too.
"About Farfarello...what...what is it between the two of you? I mean, is there something you want to tell me?"
The meeting of lips came to mind, the way Farfarello had smiled in the kitchen last night. None of it added up, none of it made sense. Schuldig still did not really know what to think about it - or about the Irishman as a person. He knew it was impossible to get a clear impression of someone he'd only known for two days, but still...the picture he had had of Farfarello in London, in Rome, in Taketori's office, had changed dramatically since the last twelve hours.
Yes. Yes, there was something, but Schuldig did not know how to shape it in words.
"No. Nothing." He forced a grin onto his lips, reaching up to punch the American's shoulder, hard. "You nasty! Is there going to be something? Tell me, tell me, I wanna know all about it!"
Scowling, Crawford moved out of Schuldig's reach. "That's another thing I wanted to talk about. Farfarello seems to hamper my powers."
"What?"
"I don't know why, but whenever I'm around him, I don't have any visions. At first, I thought it had something to do with the stress of the last few days, the jetlag and stuff. But it doesn't. It's him."
"What, like he has another power or something?" Schuldig asked, puzzled. "I never heard of that."
"Me neither. But, it is a possibility. I don't really know. I've got to contact the mainframe."
Schuldig snorted at Crawford's words. The mainframe. Their 'nickname' for 'Eszet', the reason behind Schwarz' existence, the reason why none of them could leave. God, how he hated them. a bunch of the Old and Wise, sitting somewhere in the Swiss Alps, hiding their true identity behind a research centre for the occult, dealing with paranormal activities around the globe. In reality, Eszet was an organisation that whored out psychics to politicians and rich businessmen like Taketori. Always the target of ridicule in science circles, Eszet had found out what cold science and common sense tried to deny so hard, keeping that knowledge well-kept from the world. Each of their 'members', gifted in one way or other; had been categorized, tested, tried. Each of their members knew there was no way to escape from Eszet's clutches. They had psychics working for them in every city on the planet, psychics able to snoop out others of their kind.
A thought popped into Schuldig's head. "Did you already tell them about Farfarello?"
"No." It came out reluctantly.
"Then don't. Bad enough they got a hold on us, they don't need to know about him." He felt protective of the Irishman all of a sudden, remembering what had been done to him in that English asylum. Whatever Farfarello was, whatever he had done, no one deserved to be thrown into Eszet's sticky web of threats and chains. "He's been tortured enough already."
"Schu, I have to. I have to at least hint at him, or else they'll never buy my story about not being able to 'see' anymore. They'll think I'm trying to worm my way out. Do you remember what they did to that necromancer who tried to get away? I don't want to end up like this. Besides, I'm betting my ass they already know. Do you really think that doctor in England works on his own?"
Yes, he did remember. As if he would ever forget that day when his mind had screamed in sympathy with the girl, a thousand miles away and yet so close, her mind wide open, sending her pain to every sensitive in the world. He could not imagine what they had done to her to make her scream like that. Every mindreader, every person who was the least bit sensitive to other peoples' thoughts, dreams, or feelings, must have died along with her.
The fall door to the roof banged open, startling them. Nagi stuck his head out, a look of horror pasted onto his delicate features.
"Guys," he said, his voice quavering, "I think you better come take a look at that."
And once again, Schuldig forgot to tell Crawford about his lucky meeting with the flower boy's unlucky friend.
He cut, and cut, and cut. Around the last tattooed feather, downwards to his wrist, the tip of his knife parting the skin as easily as hot butter. If he pulled the edges of the cuts apart, he knew he would see the layers of fat and flesh, and beyond that, if he cut deep enough, bone.
As always, the wounds were accompanied by sounds: the papery hiss of divided skin, the thudding of his pulse. Farfarello knew it should hurt, and yet it did not. Pain had left a long time ago, a dear friend parting without a word of good-bye, dimly remembered. He now associated his pulse with what was supposed to be pain - every thud, every pulsing wave of blood a message from his body: this should hurt.
And yet, it did not.
God hurt. God cried and shrieked in agony as one of his altars was cutting himself up, another son offering his life: Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani? God, my god, why have you forsaken me?
And god spoke to him, "What the fuck are you doing?"
Farfarello was sitting on the kitchen counter, the book with Japanese vocabulary next to him. Blood was running down his arm, seeping into his pants, pooling on the surface of the counter. From what Schuldig could see, the Irishman had neatly slashed his wrist with one of his knives, the one now held limply in his right hand as he leaned against the cupboard behind him, crooning softly, eye closed.
"Oh, great!" Crawford stopped in the kitchen door, disgust on his face. "Nagi, get us some towels."
The youth was only too grateful to leave. Crawford stepped into the kitchen, leaving it to Schuldig to take the knife away from Farfarello. After breakfast this morning, he did not feel like having another close encounter of the metal kind. Taking the towels from Nagi, who all but stared at Farfarello and then skipped back into his room, banging the door shut, the American placed the stack of towels on the counter, snorted, and left.
"Hey! Where do you think you're going?"
He turned, eyeing the Irishman, and the frantic telepath next to him, with derisiveness. "I'm calling Eszet. They will hear about him now, believe me. This - this psychopath is nothing but a pain in the ass!"
Crawford shouted the last words and stalked out.
"Oh, wonderful!" Cursing under his breath, Schuldig wiped the blood off Farfarello's arm as best as he could, noting with concern that the Irishman was nearly unconscious from blood loss. He would have to get those wounds stitched, or he'd be bleeding all over their assignment tonight. Schuldig gasped, taking a closer look at the ghastly cuts. Most of them, now that they were free of blood, were already beginning to close again. Was Farfarello's body so used to this treatment that it patched itself up faster so it could be slashed open again? Another power? Schuldig peered at the Irishman's face, noting the still-closed eyes. His breathing was deep and steady, not shallow and short as it should have been, considering the amount of blood he had lost. His entire front was soaked. "Shit, Farfarello...what on earth possessed you?"
"Come...and...see..."
Surprised, Schuldig looked at the other's face. A sliver of smouldering gold from under those black eyelashes, making the single eye appear as if a piece of the sun had been cut out and set into Farfarello's eye socket.
Diving into the man's mind, Schuldig swept aside the religious garbage that barred his entrance. Disconnected thoughts about god and suffering, the wish to get back at god for causing such terrible pain...pain? That was interesting. Forgetting he was standing in a puddle of blood, Schuldig took hold of that last mental image and followed it back to its origin. Past dark church rooms he went, cobwebbed and echoing with prayers said a hundred years ago, past whispered bible verses spoken with trust by a child who did not know any better, who had not yet learned how rotten the world really was. Schuldig looked at that child, looked out of its eyes, eyes curiously following a small finger that was tracing the words in an old, old book.
"Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani," The voice of that child, the voice of Farfarello as child, sweet and sugary as only children's voices can be. Schuldig experienced the little one's sudden fear - Jesus, god's loved son, crucified and bleeding, and his father was not coming to save him.
How cruel.
He wept with the child and felt the tiny seed of mistrust being planted in Farfarello's heart. If god was good, then why did he let his son die on a cross, arms and spine slowly breaking from the weight of his own body?
And now, a woman was speaking to him. One of the sisters, Ruth. Sister Ruth, who cared so much for Farfarello. Farfarello hated her. Jay liked her. Jay?
"Jay, I - "
Inhuman, the voice that answered Ruth now. She had become older, yet she was still beautiful, the ethereal beauty forever preserved in the hearts and minds of those who loved her.
"Mother?"
From mistrust springs hate, such is the way of the world. Love grows colder the older it gets, hate burns higher the longer it is not resolved, its needs not met. Farfarello's hate was a like a big, menacing cloud on a steel-grey horizon, threatening with rain. Schuldig was suddenly propelled away from that part of Farfarello's past, vertigo overcoming him. Another turning of years, and now Schuldig stood in a small kitchen, staring at three slaughtered bodies. Not ripped apart, but then, Farfarello had not yet learned to draw out the act, to enjoy the suffering, to perfect his skills to a point where he could spend hours within the anatomy of slow bereavement.
There they lay, the holy trinity: mother, father, and child. Three, and they do not leave enough space for a fourth. The fourth stood amid them, his still-clumsy fingers clenched around the hilt of the knife that had severed three necks, cut three ties, ended three lives.
The child, angelic with his unmarred features and wide eyes, looked up, his golden gaze meeting the telepath's presence.
I knew you'd come here
His eyes snapped open, the edge of the counter painfully digging into his lower stomach. For a moment, Schuldig had trouble finding his own self again, one day you will be swallowed by a mind too strong, too dark, too devouring for you, for one long moment, he frantically searched for the comforting dark of his own fractured mind; finding it, he heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes again.
Hands trailed over his shoulders, sinking into his hair. They were gentle, careful, twining in the strands of silk, whispering over his skull. Slight pressure on his hips, around his hips, slight like the pressure he had applied to keep Sakura underwater. Shying away from that thought, and he buried his face in the soft cotton he found beneath him, allowing those hands to tilt his face when they became too persistent for him to resist, and the warm breath on his eyelids, so different from the harsh breath of all the others he had let that close to him, was a welcome blessing.
He knew he should be afraid. He knew he should stand, and beat the holy crap out of Farfarello. He should be disgusted, frightened, fighting.
And yet, he was not.
I love you
I know
And finally, lips replaced the breath. He opened to them like a flower opens to spring rain; and funny how at other times you think only schoolgirls in love say something as sappy as that, but when it happens, you actually don't mind. With any other person, Schuldig would have been searching the other's mind now, searching for anything that could be used, anything amusing, and everything worth knowing. Every other person, and that simple kiss would have meant nothing. Now, it was a gift, a giving, and reciprocation. I have nothing to offer you for the thing you gave to me - all I possess is tainted, impure.
Enjoy this while it lasts Schuldig told Farfarello In a heartbeat, I will hate you for it
It will be enough for me. I can wait
Wait? For what?
You
Their lips parted, tongues meeting, sliding over teeth and the wet, red cavities of their mouths. Where had Farfarello learned to be so gentle? Where had he learned to draw the breath from Schuldig's lungs, and breathe his own back into him?
And why exactly was he doing this?
Schuldig wrenched himself out of the Irishman's hold with a shout and stumbled back, hitting the small of his back against the table. For one long moment, they stared at each other, Farfarello calm, collected, his expression unreadable. Schuldig would have died rather than gone into his mind now.
"Get up and clean yourself," the telepath ordered flatly, anger slowly replacing his former wooziness. "We have an assignment tonight, and I swear, if you fuck that one up I'll make sure they stick you in a hole so deep not even your precious god will find you in there."
Farfarello nodded. He hopped off the counter, picked up his knife and the book, and left without any further word.
Schuldig stood in the kitchen for a long time, staring at the blood on the counter.