Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money
Rating: NC-17 for detailed m/m sex
Notes: I forgot - in the last installment of this series, I quoted something: "The more I see of love, the less I like the look of it". It's from Angela Carter's book Wise Children
Thankees: To the feedbackers, again. I can't thank you ppl enough. To tea. To cigarettes. To my spellchecker, and my German-English dict., that wonderful thing that refused to give me a translation for "Hundekuchenfabrik" (don't ask).
Soundtrack for this installment: three Apocalyptica CDs
Translation at the end of the poem
On with Insanity...
Oh if Death were a man that can die
I'd make sure you'd never be his
To -, copyright Ningengirai, June 2000, written after a good friend died
Now - there are things no one wants to walk in on.
Examples failed Ouka Taketori at the moment, but seeing two of the people she had nightmares about half-naked and naked on the floor of her living room, tangled into each other like vines, ranged close to the top.
For a moment, she was hard pressed to decided if what she saw was reality, or the result of one glass of champagne too many, but hearing the grindings of her mental wheels interrupted by a low hiss coming from the scarred, pale creature on her floor definitely decided her on the first of the two possibilities.
As she stared, stationary in her surprise, the scarred man's hands scuttled over the floor like white spiders, diving into a pile of white that lay crumbled next to the two. A flash of silver arced through the room, towards her. Her body rocked, falling backwards to collide with the door, effectively shutting it. Perplexed, Ouka looked at the Irishman. Something with her eyes had to be wrong. Everything was greying, as if someone was slowly pulling a veil over her head.
She fell forward without a sound, her impact on the floor driving the knife that stuck in the corner of her left eye in fully. She heard the crunching, sickening sound of cracking bone and parted tissue, felt the needle-sharp prick of pain, and died.
Her body gave one long, convulsive shudder and lay still.
Silence fell like a ton of bricks.
"Hello, Crawford."
"Tot." It was neither welcoming nor offensive, the simply acknowledgement of her existence. It was nothing she could twist, nothing she could use to her advantage - no offences, and none to be taken.
"Taki wants me to tell you that your 'service' is not needed for the remainder of the evening - that is, as soon as this party is over," Tot twirled a lose strand of hair around her gloved finger, smiling up at the American.
"Yes."
"Tell me, Bradley," and she moved closer to him, suggestively, laying one hand on his white shirt, "How is it to be able to read other peoples' future?"
The small smirk that appeared on his lips, set under stone-cold brown eyes, made her falter.
"Interesting," came his answer, and it aggravated her, let her know he was playing with her. She snorted and pushed away from him, blowing the lock of hair out of her face.
"You, Crawford, are the ultimate boredom."
He watched her stalk away, back into the circle of Taketori's arms. That woman was a walking nuisance. Incompetent, overbearing, useless for tasks other than snooping around in the lives of Eszet's pawns. But she was good snooping, he had to give her that. So good that at times, he had suspected her of being a mindreader; however, his contacts in Eszet and various other sources had long since assured him she was not. Tot had successfully slept her way through some beds to arrive at the point where she was now; secretly, Crawford thought Eszet only kept her on the payroll because she knew how to find possible clientele for the mainframe.
Nagi appeared at his side, looking bored. They exchanged a glance, and at the youth's suffering sigh, Crawford ruffled a hand through Nagi's mob of dark brown hair, chuckling.
"Only a few more hours, Naggels."
"You say that every time we get stupid assignments like this." The slight youth looked about. "Where are Schu and his attachment?"
"I wonder," Crawford furrowed his brow. They had been gone for nearly an hour now, the two of them. Killing Ouka shouldn't take that long, more so since the girl had retired to her room at the exact time he had foreseen this afternoon. "I hope they didn't get into any trouble."
"Trouble?"
"Later." Now that Nagi had reminded him, Crawford did ask himself where the telepath and his psychotic partner had gone. He had foreseen them making a clumsy attempt at fucking only to be interrupted by Ouka. After that, Schuldig would remember the passageway that lead to the underground canalisation, where the disposal of the girl's body should only take a quick splash. Surely, they would have accomplished such an easy task by now.
Dumbfounded, Schuldig stared at the girl on the floor. Ouka Taketori, as dead as a gutted chicken, and just as ugly, her head partially raised off the floor by the knife hilt sticking out of her skull.
Above the telepath, Farfarello blinked. He had thrown the knife before it had registered who was standing there, anger at the untimely interruption blackening his thoughts. He had been so close to.
He became aware of a slight shaking underneath him and looked down. Schuldig, hands covering his face, shoulders heaving. The telepath was fairly choking on suppressed howls of laughter, getting the hiccups.
Actually, it was kind of amusing, now that he thought about it.
They lay sprawled over each other, gasping for breath, muffling their laughs, clinging to the other like drowning men, until Schuldig heaved a deep breath, pushed Farfarello off of him, rolled onto his side and moaned, "Taketori is going to fucking kill us!"
"She walked in on us. We could claim it was self-defence."
The mental barrage of insults that followed degraded him to the lowest worm under the sun, and gave Farfarello pause. Schuldig was right - he had just killed Taketori's daughter. Not that it mattered whose daughter she was, not that it mattered that she had been at all, and that god surely had cried at the death of someone so young, but the thought of someone laying a finger on Schuldig sobered Farfarello up. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, pondering. They would have to let the body disappear. Fast.
Schuldig sat up, his eyes glittering. "I have an idea," he said, mischief making his voice sound breathless. Farfarello liked the sound.
"Damnit, Schu, where the fuck are you?" Crawford whispered to himself through a false smile directed at the last leaving party guests that were slowly making their way out of the hall. He walked past bored-looking security men leaning against the wall, ignoring their curios stares. Crawford was, as much as the other members of Schwarz, a mystery to them. They kept to themselves, answering only to Taketori himself; seemingly, yet many of the staff suspected Schwarz had their own agenda. Which was true, in a way, considering Crawford had long since started hoarding money and gather intimate information about Taketori Enterprise, using every conceivable trick in the black book of nastiness, including Schuldig, to find out about the old man's business. Had Schwarz not been under Eszet's thump, they could have made a fortune blackmailing Taketori, or his business partners.
As it was, Crawford played along with the rules others had set for him, for them. One day, their time would come to take what was theirs. One day, they would see Taketori bow before them. One day, Eszet would go up in flames.
His cell phone rang. Well aware of Tot's eyes lingering on him from across the room, where she was standing in a small cluster of Taketori's closest friends, the American retreated into the relative safety of a far corner and answered. For a moment, he heard only static bristle; his mind started reeling as a series of electronic beeps reached his ear. It was a code Schwarz had, indicating Schuldig was on the other end of the line, the topic of conversation requiring the safety of telepathic talk. Performing the usual act of frowning at the telephone, then sighing too loud and putting it away with an annoyed shake of his head, Crawford walked over to a window and turned his back at the security staff, and at Tot, who, to his satisfaction, had only smirked as she saw him put the cell phone away.
He opened his mind, letting go of the white walls he erected around his innermost thoughts out of necessity, necessity that had come along with a red-haired, green-eyed, snooping German telepath. Thinking of blue skies, of infinite forests, of wide-stretching oceans, Crawford let out a deep breath and closed his eyes. He knew what was coming, but still he jerked a little as Schuldig's voice rang clear and loud inside his head. Crawford knew the German was far more powerful than he let on; one day, Schuldig's mind would breach the distance of half a planet, half a world.
Crawford already pitied the world.
Crawford?
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?
Ouch. You don't have to scream. We're on the way to the flower shop.
What? He had to force himself not to shout it out loud. Why?
Oh, just you wait. The telepath's voice sounded smug. Didn't see that coming, didya?
And gone was the connection, leaving him reeling with anger and shock. On the way to the flower shop?
On the way to Weiss' base?
"You know, I didn't believe that until you showed it to me," Farfarello remarked conversationally, chin resting on top of his fist, which rested on the dashboard. "Kitty in the House. What a load of crap."
In the driver's seat, window open so he could finally smoke a long-desired cigarette, Schuldig smirked at the Irishman's words, flicking ash onto the concrete outside. He looked in the rear-view mirror, studying the lump that had once been Ouka Taketori. Now, all that was left of her was a cooling corpse wrapped in a sheet, grotesquely misshaped after Farfarello had broken her spine for easier carrying.
"Some people think of that name as sweet," he said. "Kitty. Kätzchen. A group of kittens hidden among the flowers, playing catch-me with the lions. And one of them wandered into the lion's den and fell in love with a lion's cub. How fitting."
"You're so poetic, it's frightening." Farfarello studied the dark front of the flower shop across the street, all windows black, all flowers sleeping, all kittens dreaming.
"Now, who's poetic here?"
"Oh, shut up." The Irishman sat up. "I do wonder, though, who the kitten is. Any idea?"
"Beats me. Come on, let's get rolling before anyone sees us. You can congratulate me on the ingenuity of my plan later."
They got out of the car, Farfarello lifting the white bundle out of the backseat, slinging it over one shoulder. Schuldig mentally checked the area, but found only drowsing minds, and the few that were awake were not aware of the two assassins moving like shadows across the street, into a little side street.
For a group of assassins, Schuldig thought, Weiss were dramatically trusting. They quickly found the backdoor, the problem of it being locked a matter of mere seconds, and slipped inside, at once surrounded by the heavy, sweet smell of too many flowers crammed into one room. Schuldig briefly thought of whatshername, thought of the abundance of flowers she had bought from this shop, only to let them wilt. If it hadn't been for her, Farfarello and he wouldn't be here now.
Despite the screaming fit Crawford had thrown after finding out Schuldig knew about Weiss' whereabouts, the American had been infinitely pleased with the knowledge. Strangely enough, the leader of Schwarz had insisted they do nothing with that knowledge, leaving things as they were. The disappearance of Aya Fujimiya, Weiss' leader, must have caused enough trouble for the 'good guys', rendering them confused and short one member. Schuldig had spent enough time in the nearer vicinity of the flower shop the find out more about them than they knew about themselves. Yes, a bunch of do-gooders, each of them fuelled by a horribly amusing past. Schuldig had thought Fujimiya's reasons for hunting Taketori had been amusing, but the minds of the other three had been so much more entertaining. They had met them in fight a few times since Farfarello had joined Schwarz; the Irishman was as little impressed by their skills as Schuldig was impressed by their reasons. One eternally lost child, forever fighting his past, his heritage. One battling the betrayal brought upon him by a friend. The last one, the lanky one, mourning over the death of love before love's call had been answered.
All in all, a pretty bunch of losers, fighting their demons instead of embracing them, instead of making them a part of themselves. Demons, Schuldig knew, could be powerful allies. One only had to learn how to feed them, how to make them grateful, how to make them stay.
But oh, to rape those demons, to reap the flowers of such pasts, such minds. It was enough to make him smile. Enough to entertain him for a while.
Standing in the backroom, the telepath mentioned to Farfarello to keep quiet. He sent his mind out, butterfly touches against the minds of the sleeping kittens, dipping his fingers into their dreams. They slept in the rooms above the store; another coincidence, just like Schwarz slept in rooms above a store, the only difference being Schwarz needed no cover for what they were, what they did.
Ouka Taketori's mind had hosted enough images of the flower shop for Schuldig to assume she was one of the regular 'customers'. In short, one of x-numbers of schoolgirls who came here to buy nothing, but stare at everything, and at one thing in particular. He had written it off to coincidence - after all, Ouka had attended the same school as Omi Tsukiyono. Perhaps Omi was the kitten in the house. He was the youngest of Weiss.again a coincidence. They came in heaps ever since Farfarello had stepped into his life. Nagi and Omi were of the same age; here ended the similarity, but it was enough to make one wonder what else was similar between the two assassin groups. Schwarz and Weiss. Black and White. Four killers on each side.
But he was wasting time. Soon, there would be no Weiss to think about anymore.
They silently walked up the stairs, listening for sounds as they stood on the first floor landing, hearing nothing other but the slow grinding of the wheels of time and sleep.
Ouka had been a customer here, yes. That, and more. As girls her age were, she had been dipping her spoon in many pots, never stirring long enough in one to taste it, never staying long enough to watch how one of these pots overflowed. He had picked the thought out of her mind a few weeks earlier, at another boring dinner party; as was his habit, he had kept the knowledge to himself. What were these people, other than playthings? He did not care if they broke. He could always get new ones to play with. Crawford would be mad at him, of course, but even the uptight American should see the irony in it.
The first door lead to the lanky one's bedroom. Farfarello and Schuldig passed it, as well as the next one. The third door opened under Schuldig's gloved hand. The sleeper slept on, unstirred by the violation of his privacy. In the blue night light, he appeared innocent, his face devoid of pain, of past, of pressure. Yes, he was under a lot of pressure. He was also in love.
Omi Tsukiyono's body convulsed slightly as Schuldig's mind clamped down on his dreams, driving straight into his soul, to the very core of his being. His eyes flew open, impossibly wide, staring without seeing. The telepath sat down on the bed, fingers caressing the half-open mouth. Behind him, Farfarello unbundled Ouka, extricating his knife from her skull, licking blood and fluid off.
Twist the bindings. Shake reality. So easy, and he could make this one believe in anything. Searching for so much, the youth's mind hungrily grasped at everything that was offered to him, sucking it in.
"It was...Yohji," Schuldig whispered, just as Ouka's corpse slid out of Farfarello's arms to rest atop the youth, his limbs moving to accommodate her ruined shell. "He picked her up before she arrived at that disco she was going to after her father's dinner party. Always the playboy, isn't he?Always the gambler. He murdered her. He took her away from you. Just like so many things have been taken from you."
Tsukiyono's mouth opened wider, a small keening sound escaping his throat.
"Sshhh..."
Farfarello watched with fascination as the boy on the bed shook, fingers clenching and unclenching on cooling flesh, leaving dents in the skin. So, this was how a mind was raped.
Schuldig stood, retreated from the bed step-by-step, smiling.
Isn't that beautiful? He asked into Farfarello's mind. I almost feel sorry for him...them
Farfarello did not answer. The youth was shaking now, trying to get the corpse off of him. It occurred to him that they simply could have slit each Weiss member's throat in their sleep. Instead, Schuldig had committed the ultimate betrayal. Friend against friend.
Not even god could have been so cruel.
They watched in silence how Tsukiyono finally managed to get out from under Ouka. Like a sleepwalker, the boy stumbled through the room, gaping like a fish on dry ground. He reeled, hands searching, finding the darts hidden in the folds of the jacket that hung by the door.
Farfarello noticed a drop of sweat making its way down Schuldig's temple, the only sign of the mental strain the telepath was under. He stepped close to the redhead, enfolding him in his arms, resting his chin on his shoulder from behind. His hands slid over Schuldig's belly, fingers entwining, holding.
The boy was through the door now. Schuldig and Farfarello did not move as they listened to his feet tapping along the corridor, to the sound of a door opening.
Farfarello pushed Schuldig forward, onto the bed, onto the corpse. He grabbed her by her hair and dragged her off the bed, not caring where she fell. Schuldig was sprawled on the bed, trembling from the mental strain, seeing through Tsukiyono's eyes, living the boy's traumas. He did not resist as Farfarello slid a hand under his belly and yanked his belt open, pulling his pants halfway down to his knees. His body arced as the Irishman knelt behind him, pulling his buttocks apart, tongue diving into the tiny muscle of his anus, teasing the folds to relax. There were horrible, horrible animal sounds hanging in the air between them; they came from the telepath as he shuddered under Farfarello's relentless tongue, every muscle in his body contracting and relaxing in quick succession. Farfarello closed his mouth over the quivering opening, suckling, stabbing the tip of his tongue into it, hands like iron clamps around the redhead's hip, nailing him to the mattress.
A high-pitched sound, like a snapping wire, and the heavy thud of a body onto the floor. It did not matter. Schuldig was moving with urgency now, pushing himself back onto the Irishman's tongue, eyes glassy, unfocused.
Screams.
Farfarello sat back on his haunches and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, breathing heavily. Off. Off with those clothes. He ripped at the white pants, and this time his mind did not stop to laugh at shoes and socks. His fingernails left deep scratches as he grabbed the telepath by the waist and threw him onto his back, sinking down on him to again grind his hips against the other man's. Schuldig whimpered, rough cloth against the silken skin of his cock, hurting. He gasped as teeth sank into his shoulder, fingers capturing his nipples, twisting them. Not for long. In his mind, he was staring at the eyes of a tall, lanky man, blood seeping out of a small puncture wound in his left temple. The image was torn apart, shredded to pieces as his insane lover drew blood, one hand scratching down to his hip, roughly manipulating his erection.
Farfarello pulled one of Schuldig's legs up, creating a space between the telepath's thighs to make himself comfortable. The leg slid onto his shoulder, leaving him free to unzip his pants, pull down his boxers, and fuck, he had never been this hard, this demandingly hard before. His free hand trailed between the German's buttocks again, finding the hidden nook, two fingers sliding in easily. Schuldig threw his head back and keened, animal sounds again and again. Farfarello twisted his fingers, growling as his lover attempted to get free, to get away. Never.
"You are mine," and a third finger pushed into that gripping heat, into the tight, tight passage, searching for the cluster of nerves. He stroked it mercilessly, revelling in Schuldig's helpless moans, the telepath still caught in Tsukiyono's personal nightmare world of dying friends, dying foes. It made him angry. Schuldig was supposed to look at him.
He backhanded his lover, hard. Blood sprang from Schuldig's mouth, running down his chin, and yes, finally, now his eyes focused, now he came back, and he came hard, inside, body strung tight as wire, snapping wire, came back to the reality of Farfarello's fingers still moving within him, Farfarello leaning over him and licking the blood off his chin, Farfarello pulling his fingers out and replacing them with his cock, forcing his way past rhythmically constricting muscle. It hurt.
"Farfarello!" A choked moan. "God!"
And the Irishman laughed, winding Schuldig's legs around his waist and pulling him off the bed, onto his lap, forcing the other to take him to the hilt.
"No. Just me."
He lifted Schuldig by his hips, sliding out until only the head of his cock still remained within that inferno. The long, slow slide back in was nearly enough to make him come at once, but he beat it down, an impossible task, but he managed. Schuldig's head fell on Farfarello's shoulder. He let himself be lifted again, mind whitening out as the hard cock inside him brushed over his prostate.
And then Farfarello stopped moving, holding him tight, keeping him in place, eye burning into Schuldig's.
"Say it."
Schuldig let out a groan, both of pleasure and pain, stretched to his body's limits. His mind whirled wildly, connecting with the Irishman's, gossamer-fine strands of reality slowly snapping. For a brief moment, he saw himself: on his lap, in his arms, filled. Owned.
And he loved it.
The walls were crumpling, allowing the Irishman to slip inside.
"Yours," he whispered, "Yours, yours, yours," and fuck what he had seen in peoples' minds was love, if this was love, then he would welcome it with widespread arms, and if it would be his downfall then he would fall with both eyes open.
Farfarello lifted him again, Schuldig's legs unwinding from around his waist, knees coming down for leverage. This time, they both moved; it was sweeter, and better, and greater than anything else the Irishman had ever experienced. God paled in comparison to this. His hands released Schuldig's hips, coming to rest on straining thighs instead, allowing the German to set his own pace. Their mouths locked in a kiss, Schuldig's hands digging into Farfarello's shoulders, adding his own splash of red to the swirling tattoos. Their rhythm picked up pace, flesh in flesh, the lack of lubrication adding to the sweet burn of pleasure. Their minds still connected, they fell over the edge together.
Schuldig fainted. He did not see Farfarello enfold him in his arms, cradling him, crooning softly. Time elapsed, how much the Irishman did not know. The coppery, heady scent of blood began to tease his nose. He lifted the telepath's hips once more, his slick, red-streaked cock sliding out of Schuldig's ass, a tiny sound of pain coming from the redhead. Fascinated, Farfarello watched a small trickle of pink-tinged semen make its meandering way down the inside of Schuldig's left thigh; capturing the small drops, he licked them off of his fingers. The taste exploded on his tongue, musky, bitter, and metallic, the fluids of life.
From outside, whimpers trailed in through the half-open door as the Irishman gathered up Schuldig's clothes, bundling them and the unconscious telepath into the sheet Ouka had been bundled in, adding Tsukiyono's blanket to keep his love from the cold. Lifting the precious burden onto his arms, he swept the room once more, making sure they left nothing behind that could be traced back to them. Orange hairs, if the cops found them, could belong to anyone. Droplets of sweat on the floor would be dry by the time the police arrived. The knife that had pierced Ouka's eye and brain was unmarked, just a thin, two-edged blade.
The boy, chest and arms smeared with blood, crouched in a corner of the hallway as Farfarello stepped out of his room. His arms were clenched around his meagre chest; he was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, eyes staring, unseeing. Blue, the eye colour of newborns. He looked up as Farfarello passed him, mouth working, chewing on his lips, tearing them.
"Sweet dreams," Farfarello whispered and smiled. Getting down on one knee, Schuldig pressed to his chest, the Irishman peered into those blue orbs, cocking his head. "Run, little kitten. Run away from here, and never return."
Those eyes burned into him, beseeching, the eyes of the lamb on the altar of god. Farfarello considered killing Tsukiyono, but the knowledge that the future that lay ahead of this boy was much crueller than death could ever be kept him from doing it. His mind so thoroughly mangled, he would never sleep to dream again; no, this boy would pray to die, running from his nightmares. Already, the gleam of insanity was in his eyes, flowing in the mumbled words that fell from his bitten lips.
Farfarello left the flower shop the way they had come, pressing his nose into Schuldig's tangled, untameable hair, humming under his breath, feeling Schuldig's heart beat against his own. At their car, he tucked his lover into the backseat and picked up the cell phone. One short call to the police later, he drove off, sirens beginning their ululating song behind him.
"Crawford. They're coming."
"I know." He stood up from the couch, depositing his newspaper on the coffee table, the vision of Schuldig sleeping in the backseat of his jeep still fresh in his mind. Nagi, at the window, let the curtain fall shut, turning to the American.
"Should I call the doctor?"
Crawford snorted and shook his head. "Trust me, none of them needs a doctor. Not yet."
Slight worry in the youth's eyes, his gaze flicking to the grandfather clock on the mantle piece. Four o'clock in the morning. They had been home for two hours, waiting for Schuldig and Farfarello to return from wherever they had disappeared to. Crawford had told Taketori both assassins had needed some privacy; this part of the American's story had not been a lie, that much Nagi was sure off. The telepath and his psycho partner had been fairly eating each other with their eyes the last time he had seen them at the dinner party at Taketori's. Their disappearance had not worried or surprised him. He was rather surprised they had not started fumbling right among the guests.
What worried him was Crawford's tight face, the way his eyebrows were swooping low over his piercing eyes. The American rarely became that angry; usually, only when Schuldig was involved.
Nagi followed his leader out of the living room, stopping at the door to his own room while Crawford walked on until he stood right in front of the entrance door. A minute passed. A soft knocking on the door bade Crawford move; he opened, lifting one hand to strike out. Nagi opened the door to his room.
Amazingly, Crawford let his arm sink back down again. Nagi could not tell if he was engaged in a mental shouting match with Schuldig or staring at a blood-covered Farfarello; however, the silence began to creep him out.
Crawford stepped aside, letting Farfarello into the corridor. The Irishman's expression was cold as ice, eye latched onto Crawford's face like a bloodhound latched onto the scent of a wounded deer. It took Nagi a moment to register Schuldig in Farfarello's arms, apparently asleep. The telepath was bundled into a sheet, his lack of clothing obvious, red hair falling in a shivering waterfall over his shoulders.
Wordlessly, Farfarello walked past the American, past Nagi, ignoring the youth. Nagi was glad to be ignored. He had not been aware of holding his breath in, but as the door to Schuldig's room closed, he let it out in a hiss.
A moment later, the door to Crawford's room banged shut.
"And they wonder why I never invite friends home," Nagi muttered to himself.
Gunfire, howling sirens, shouts in the night. He was the hunted, running along dark pathways, branches hitting his face, one, two, three branches, leaving wet warmth in their wake. The taste of blood on his lips, licking it away, stopping only to see they were still behind him. His eyes - two? - narrowed against the ghostly shadows of the forest, trying to tell dead tree from soon to be dead man. Flashlights piercing the darkness, and he ran again, seeking shelter in the arms of the night.
He found himself in the arms of his pursuers instead, them, waiting behind the trees, guns at the ready, hatred in their minds. Bullets screaming past him, into him, through him, and with the impacts came the sudden knowledge: I do not feel anything. I should feel pain. I should scream.
Nothing.
Howling now, and dance, dance, dance to tunes of death, show them the thing they came to hunt here, in the silent forest, Little Red Riding Hood still remembered by the wolves, her scream echoing in canine minds, telling the fairytale as it should be told, and these rivers, these little merry streams ran red when he washed his hands in them, stories and lives streaming towards the ocean.
In the grey light of the morning, his reflection in the water was blurry, unsteady. But he saw, with his good eye, the raw, red hole where his other eye was supposed to be, the eye above his heart, the eye favoured by god.
God had fucked him over once again.
He returned to the bodies of the townsmen, ripping them apart.
A hand in the small of his back, caressing his feverish skin. Another on his face, tracing the shape of his mouth. Schuldig opened his eyes and fell into an amber sea, drowning, fear overtaking him for a second. He was the hunted. He was the game.
"Ssshh...you had a nightmare, but it's over now." Farfarello's voice, rough, gentle, heavy with sleep, telling him that it would be all right, that it would not hurt him but only hurt God, but no, wait, that had been in England, months ago. Schuldig clamped his eyes shut, forcing his mind to return to the present. Farfarello's lips captured his, opening them with a persistent tongue, the kiss that followed everything Schuldig had ever wanted to wake up to. Still half asleep, he sighed as they parted, head resting back against the pillows of his bed. His own bed, he noticed.
"Are we back home?"
"Yes."
"What time is it?"
"Too early." Another kiss, a peck, rather, and it made him smile. "Go back to sleep, Schu."
He did. This time, he did not dream.
He awoke again, a few hours later, blinking at the grey day outside his window. Heavy raindrops pattered against the glass of the window, running down the pane in streaks and rivulets, the rhythmic pit-pat soothing to his nerves. Turning his head, Schuldig looked at Farfarello, who lay behind him, spooning him. One of the Irishman's arms was clamped around Schuldig's midsection, hand splayed over his belly. Possessive. Schuldig wondered if they would sleep like that for every night to come.
Would he tire of Farfarello, eventually? Would he one day lay eyes on another, more interesting, more fuckable soul and leave the other behind? Schuldig knew himself, knew how fickle a human soul could be. Every time he looked into someone else's mind, he was again reminded why he had chosen to be the trickster, the gambler, the one moving the stones. One had to realize how to fuck the world first, lest you wanted it to fuck you over first. When you know just how easy it is to wound people, it's only natural to close yourself off from them, put on a mask, and pretend you're everything they want you to be.
And now? Now Farfarello was a constant humming in the back of his mind, growing, festering like cancer, and just as deadly. Schuldig did not have to search for an entrance into the other's mind, all he had to do was touch that small ball of.pain, of ache, of.love, and he was in, swimming in the seas of insanity. It was just so like him - he, Schuldig, mindreader extraordinaire, falling in love with a complete basket case. But Farfarello wasn't really that crazy, was he? If one didn't count the killing sprees and the hate for god, the Irishman was among the most intelligent people Schuldig had ever met.
He began to wonder how things would be in the future. That was the one thing people never thought about - they revelled in the brief moment of ecstasy brought on by butterflies in the stomach, the brief second of utter euphoria. They never thought about the coming years. Waking up to the same face every morning, getting to know the other half of your life to an extent where that knowledge becomes.ordinary. People expected love to entertain, to nourish, to flower. They did not expect it to be something one gets used to.
How would he and Farfarello learn to survive each other?
The arm around his waist tightened, drawing him closer to the still body behind, Farfarello sighing in his sleep, his breath warm on Schuldig's shoulder. Carefully, the telepath trailed one hand along that arm, fingers tracing sharply defined tendons of muscle.
If this was love, how did anyone survive it?
It was well into the afternoon when they finally crawled out of bed and into the shower, washing away the sweat and the blood of the past night. They stood under the hot spray, mouths sliding over slick skin, looking at each other in normal light, and not the unreal illumination of another night. Both were satisfied with what they saw.
Farfarello washed Schuldig's hair, marvelling at the softness of that tangled mane. No matter how long Schuldig let his hair grow out, no comb could tame it. It was as if it had a life of its own, defying its owner and the head it grew upon. Schuldig purred under his hands like a cat. His purring turned to moans as the Irishman let a soapy finger slip inside his lover's body, teasing this time, not the rough fucking from last night. He did not hesitate to follow as Schuldig sank down, offering himself, and their movements were slow and gentle, heat building up between them until it shivered over them in a burning wave. As funny as it may sound, Farfarello compared the act of making love to the telepath to coming home. Everything was comfortable. He brought his hips forward, burying himself until his balls were cradled against Schuldig's.
"This will take some time getting used to," Schuldig gasped, forcing his muscles to relax. While Farfarello was not unnaturally large, taking a man to the hilt was not something he did often. He preferred the active part, had preferred to be the one driving the other to the edge and back. Being submitted to the overwhelming feeling of being breached, being filled till he could not discern anymore where he began and the other ended, was a new experience for him.
"Don't tell me you believe in that dominant/submissive shit," Farfarello rotated his hips, mouth latched onto one shoulder, biting gently, "Does it make you a lesser person just because someone fucks you? Are men degrading women every time they fuck one?"
"No," breathless, followed by a deep sigh as the head of the Irishman's cock rubbed over his prostate, "No, but I - I never let go."
Farfarello's voice was rough in his ear. "Then let go now."
"What if I fall?"
"I'll catch you."
And sometimes, that was all one could hope for. Sometimes, the fall hurts more than the impact on the ground.
Sometimes, it doesn't hurt at all.
Nagi was in the kitchen when they finally came out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Schuldig towelling his hair, yawning in greeting.
"'morning." Nagi's voice held stern disapproval. "If what you just did in the shower is an indication to what nights are going to be like in this house, I hereby inform you that I am not pleased."
"Wow, aren't we talkative," Schuldig teased, pouring two cups of coffee. "Jealous, Bübchen? Get used to it."
"You two come back at four in the morning, keeping me up all night with worry, and you expect me to be happy about getting up two hours later because I have to go to school?"
"You worried about us?" Farfarello pulled Schuldig onto his lap, taking one of the cups from his lover, ignoring the telepath's protest.
"Actually, I did. What were you doing, anyway?" Nagi leaned back in his chair, regarding both men with open curiosity. "Crawford won't tell me anything, you should have seen him storm out when I came back from school. He was fuming."
"Really?" Schuldig frowned. He had somewhat expected Crawford to be less than happy about their little adventure last night; however, in a way the American had had it coming. It wasn't Schuldig's fault Crawford never really told people what was going to happen. Crawford could have warned him, at least, that Ouka would suddenly make an appearance while they were engaged in carnal activities.
"Where did he go?" Farfarello asked. "Isn't today our day off?"
"Tot called earlier today, I believe. Ordered him down to the towers, said it was urgent." Nagi shrugged. "Now, what were you doing?"
Schuldig was about to tell him when the Irishman gave him a nudge, grinning. "Perhaps we should simply switch on the news channel?"
They went into the living room and switched on the TV, flipping channels until Schuldig made an agitated exclamation, pointing at the screen.
Nagi's eyes widened. The scene could have come right out of a cheap detective strip; yet, it was set against the background of a local street not far from Schwarz's apartment. The place was crawling with policemen and fire units, the unsteady picture of the camera showing the smoking remnants of a shop in the background. While they watched, three metal coffins were carried out of the door, camera lights flashing as photo after photo was shot. Over it all, the dispassionate voice of the newscaster, filling people in on what had happened.
"...three bodies were discovered, one charred so badly the sex has not yet been determined. Unofficial sources have remarked to one of the victims of last night's terrible tragedy being the daughter of a high-ranking businessman from Tokyo, yet nothing has been confirmed yet. And now, we'll switch to our local reporter..."
Nagi turned off the sound and turned to his partners. "You didn't!"
"Well, we didn't set it on fire," Schuldig said, grinning.
The youth laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Taketori won't like this. It is Ouka, right? How?"
"She interrupted us," Farfarello said, "She deserved to die for that."
"Crawford actually 'saw' it happening," Schuldig went on, "We just upped the ante. One of them, Tsukiyono, is still alive as far as I know. I...persuaded him to try his hand at murder. Never knew the kid would make such a decent pyromaniac, though."
"If Taketori, or Tot, find out about that we're dead, you're aware of that?"
"They won't. Ouka was practically dating that Weiss brat, and every schoolgirl in Tokyo will give testimony to the fact that one of the flower boys was a playboy like no other. So what if one of three young men living together gets a little mad over a girl one of the others is dating? Happens all the time."
"You two are definitely wicked." Nagi stood and switched off the television. "The old man's gonna be heartbroken. Ouka was a bastard offspring, but as far as I know she was his little darling girl."
Schuldig again wondered if Ouka had known about the secret passage behind the mirror in her apartment.
"Taketori is probably going to send us out to hunt for Tsukiyono now," Nagi continued. "Some fun at last."
The phone rang. The youth went to answer it, leaving Farfarello and Schuldig on the couch.
"'Fun'", Farfarello smiled. "I didn't know Nagi went in for that kind of thing. I expected him to scoff at us for coming up with an idea like that."
"Ah, but we're all murderers, " Schuldig answered, one arm coming around the Irishman's neck, squeezing. "He's not in Schwarz for being a sweet natured, helpful boy scout, you know. Every human has the potential to become a killer. Most just don't realize it."
"The killer in me finds his victim in you..." Farfarello pulled his lover closer, nuzzling his hair, breathing warm air into the ear he found there.
"Exactly..."
Nagi stuck his head around the door. "I'd hate to interrupt any upcoming activities, but Crawford's on the phone. He wants us to come down to the Taketori Towers. Now."
Schuldig sighed regretfully, finger trailing the earrings that pierced his lover's ear. "There goes the day off."
The golf club connected sharply with the side of Schuldig's face, leaving an angry, red bruise. The telepath shouted in pain, his arms coming up to shield his head as the golf club was raised again, ready to make contact with his skin once again.
"Useless, the both of you!" Taketori's voice cracked. "I pay you x-millions to guard me, and you? You let my daughter be taken and murdered!"
He screeched the last word, bringing the golf club down. To his surprise, it never hit its goal. One long-fingered hand caught it in mid-descent, yanked it out of his grip and threw it across the room. Suddenly, Taketori forgot about his daughter. Suddenly, Taketori realized his face was an inch away from Farfarello's, an inch away from the face of death. He looked into the single eye and saw himself suffer the tortures of an indescribable hell, thought up and executed by the cruel mind of a lunatic who knew no sweeter pleasure than peoples' pain. It was intimidating for Taketori to find himself on the receiving end of the hate he thought was reserved for god.
"Farfarello," Crawford's calm voice interrupted the frozen scene, "Back off."
For endless seconds, Farfarello did not move. Then, Schuldig's hand gripped his wrist, pulling him back, away from the gaping old man.
In a corner of the office, Tot clapped her hands together in mock applause. "If that's not love..."
"Shut up!" Farfarello turned to her, teeth bared in a snarl. "Shut up, or I'll make sure you'll never open that fuckhole of yours again!"
She shut her mouth, for once speechless. No one had ever talked to her like that.
Crawford waited until everyone was silent, clearing his throat. "Sir, I'm very aware of your anger. But taking it out on Schuldig will not help the situation. I need all of my men in one piece if you want me to find the murderer of your daughter."
"So nice of you to be concerned about me," Schuldig hissed, his eyes blazing. The bruise on the left side of his face had split; blood was running down to his jaw, dripping onto the collar of his shirt. He snarled at Nagi as the youth handed him a handkerchief; offended, Nagi retreated back to Crawford's side.
A few minutes of silence followed, accentuated by Taketori's rattling breath. The silence could have been cut with a knife; thick and menacing, the result of too many angry minds stuffed into one room. Finally, Crawford cleared his throat again.
"Sir, if you will again recount what your daughter was going to do yesterday after the dinner party.?"
"She was going to a disco." Taketori's shoulders slumped, leaving him a broken man. "My poor little girl, she was going to a dance, and this - this pig murdered her! And set her on fire!"
Schuldig bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, stifling a burst of laughter.
"Did you know she had a...relationship with Omi Tsukiyono?" Crawford inquired, sending a death glare at the telepath. "Did she ever mention anything?"
"No, she never said any - "
"That's not important, is it?" Farfarello's voice interrupted him. "You want Tsukiyono? Fine. Give us the assignment and we'll find him."
The tone of his voice made Schuldig look up at him. Worried, the telepath saw the seething anger behind Farfarello's chiselled features, anger that was ready to burst free any moment and descend on Taketori with glee. The Irishman was trembling, short of exploding.
So, this was what Farfarello's victims saw the moment before they died.
"F-find him." Taketori turned away from them, staring out of the windows. "Find him, and kill him."
"You don't want him brought in for questioning, sir?"
"No. Let...let Farfarello kill him. Tape it."
"...yes, sir."
In the car, on the way back to their apartment, the atmosphere was not any less charged than it had been in the office.
"I hope you had fun, Schu." The American stared into the rear-view mirror, taking corners with alarming carelessness. "You realize what situation your 'idea' brought us into?"
"Should I have left her there? In her own apartment, with us and Taketori the only people able to move about freely?" Schuldig lit a cigarette, ignoring Crawford's glare. "I'm not a complete idiot, Crawford!"
"You could have just let her body disappear!"
"You could have told me this would happen!" Schuldig screamed. "But you had to have your 'fun', right? It's your fault!"
"How was I supposed to know you'd do something that idiotic? Bring her to Weiss and then leave her there? And leave one of them alive? Tell me, how stupid is that?"
"Right! So I'm to blame, is that it?"
"Stop the car!" Farfarello yelled on top of his lungs.
They came to a skidding halt in the middle of the lane, and Nagi nearly hit the windshield. Before anyone could react, Farfarello had grabbed Schuldig by the wrist, opened the car door and pulled him out.
"Farfarello! Get back here this instant!" Crawford shouted, ignoring the honks and gestures of the people in the cars around them. It was useless; the Irishman kicked the door shut and stomped off, dragging Schuldig behind.
"God damnit!"
"I don't think god is listening," Nagi said sarcastically, rubbing the growing lump on his forehead.
People parted like the Red Sea before Moses as they saw one white-haired, one-eyed, scarred individual coming their way, a baffled-looking redhead behind him. Farfarello ignored them. His mind was switching back and forth between killing Crawford and killing Taketori, alternately exchanging their image with Tot's. The woman had not really done anything, but she stood for Eszet, and Eszet seemed to be the main problem when it came to Schwarz being free of limits, free of Taketori. If it weren't for Eszet and them selling out the 'gifted', Schwarz wouldn't be Taketori's lapdogs. If it weren't for Eszet, he wouldn't be here, on the leash, subject to the old prey's whims.
"Farfarello, you're breaking my wrist."
He stopped dead and turned, staring at his hand. His fingers were clenched around a wrist, squeezing so hard he could feel the bones shift under the skin. His eyes wandered up the arm he was holding, ending their journey on a face tight with pain and a small smile, left side of the face marred by an ugly, purple bruise topped with a small split in the skin.
If it weren't for Eszet, he would never have met Schuldig.
Farfarello unclenched his fingers, taking Schuldig's hand in both of his, stroking the bruises he had left. Standing close to the telepath, he forced himself to calm down, taking his mind off of Taketori and Tot and Eszet. They did not matter. They were pawns, just as he had once been a pawn; but whereas the others followed the lies, Farfarello had seen through them. Farfarello fought against them, causing god pain by believing in him, more pain than renouncing him could have ever caused. God did not like serial killers to believe in him. God was supposed to punish serial killers.
Farfarello had broken free of god's rules, creating his own.
The others had been sat onto a game board created by god, designed to manipulate other people like god manipulated people into believing the lies.
I manipulate people, too. Schuldig's eyes were almost sad. Why don't you hate me, too?
Because you don't pretend to be doing something good. You admit to your dark side. You may lie to others, but you never lie to me.
How can you be so sure about that?
I would know. I've seen what you are. I've seen what you can do. I love you. That's all I know
The smile that greeted him was filled with warmth and gratitude. "It's nice to know someone loves you despite your faults."
"Isn't that what love is about?" Farfarello tangled his fingers with the telepath's and tucked both their hands into the pocket of his coat. "Now, the only thing we have to do is get rid of Crawford, Tot and Eszet, and then we'll move into a cottage in the country and raise lots of dogs and cats."
"What about hurting god?"
"Well, let's make sure there's a church nearby. And the fact that we're two men fucking should do a pretty good job already."
Schuldig leaned into him and kissed him, chuckling. Out of habit, he got ready to check the minds around them, to see what they were thinking and maybe startle them a bit by replying. Then he realized that it did not matter. Let them think what they wanted.
"Let's go eat something," Farfarello nibbled on the telepath's chin. "I'm starving."
Schuldig rolled his eyes. "Thank you for that sudden change of topics."
"I'm a madman. I'm not expected to think in a straight line."
They walked down the street, as close together as only people in love can walk close together without stepping on each other's feet.
Notes for translation: "Bübchen", German, means 'little boy'. Is rarely in use nowadays. Armadas of grandmothers occasionally use it to insult 20-year-olds.
To -
Cigarette smoke
A wall of empty glasses
The creatures of the night have gathered
In their desolate spaces
Alone among the lonely
The pain a friend that stays
You were taken by a stranger
And I came here to make him pay
And he paid, my love, he paid
He's been a-float ever since
A-float in the river Thames
It did not silence the howling
The bitterness, the hate, the pain
If I could revive that stranger
I would - just to kill him again
It was you who took the risk -
The needle, the spoon, the bliss
Oh if Death were a man that can die
I'd make sure you'd never be his
I have killed once, I can kill twice
I would have killed gods
Just to see you through that night
But you died lonely, died by a careless hand
And it was to still my restless heart
That I did what I did in the end
You were against the death penalty
- do you condemn me now?
Go on, it'll add up -
You're a wound that's still bleeding, somehow
And after all, who's to tell what I've done?
There's only a rotting stranger who knows
A-float in the Thames, floating on
Ningenirai