navy = inner blocked off thoughts to self
italic = open thoughts or telepath speech
Time standing still as he crushed Jei's body, tore his face. He didn't even notice when the lights went out. Strong hands snaked around his wrists, pulling him back from the unconscious child. They tugged his arms out to the side so that he could feel the physical warmth of another body pressed against the back of his. Stretched out and lifted off the ground roughly like the crucified Christ, a golden white light gleaming in the dark from behind him. That other presence, who shone with bright radiance that stung his eyes. The guilty one, the silver son of the morning star, was caught in the iron grip of his adversary, given the least amount of room to struggle free.
A familiar voice at the back of his head calling his name, scolding him, sounding so harsh and biting, so much like His when He had told him to, Go to Hell. Hands holding the guilty one up while the innocent victim slumped soundlessly down, down to the ground.
"Snap out of it! Would you look at this mess? You could have killed Farfarello!"
He saw nothing in front of his eyes but blackness, cold blackness that touched and stung him like a heated iron. It grew from him, this blackness, like the feather wings that restricted his vision, protecting him from something he didn't want to see. Red beads dripping down his cheeks like tears, slowly spreading where it stained his silvery tresses. Crimson, Mandarin, then Vermillion at last. The colour was dancing back into his vacant gaze. The guilty creature cast jade green eyes to see the fruits of his labour upon the child.
Jei, trapped in his mutilated body with those scars, postmarks of the suffering he had done unto himself in the name of God on high. And I'd just gone and added a few more to the collection.
He felt a twang of guilt at who was before him, a wave of heaven at the one behind.
"Michael?" The name was uttered almost affectionately. "Is that you?"
"Crawford," the voice corrected, detached of emotion.
"Whatever," He tried to catch his breath, his human heart pounding in his ears like thunder. It felt so good to be so close to Him, but Michael, or Crawford, whoever, was only a substitute. The thought started an aching in his chest.
"Let go," he said through clenched teeth. Held up by him in a twisted version of the bloody holy cross. The thought make him wish to laugh and weep. "Put me down!"
"I don't trust you to," the statement was honest and the truth always seemed to hurt. "Look at what you've done to him."
He was looking and it was bad. "Let go." Let go!
"LOOK at him!"
I AM, dammit! Don't TOUCH me! He screamed, pitching one leg forward while using the other as leverage, aiming for a low blow. Crawford saw what was coming, dropped him instantly. Schuldich hit the ground on his knees and doubled over with a faint gasp.
Crawford responded, his voice cold without mercy. "What the fuck did he do to deserve this?"
The sight of you, fallen one. If you knew how much it hurts me to see you like this. Why do you have to do this to yourself, to hurt everyone around you? Is it really worth it?
Schuldich bit his lips hard, concentrating on drawing blood to the surface of his tongue rather then the dull, throbbing pain in his kneecaps. He stared at the face of Jei, the innocent one, who he hadn't meant to strike at. He wasn't supposed to do that. He was here for a different reason. What was it?
What have I done to his face!
"Is he alive?" Will he remember what he saw?
"Yes," Crawford replied. "He'll remember, but he won't understand." He bent closer to Jei, kneeling, not quite touching the floor as he inspected the wounds on Jei's face and chest. "He'll probably thank you for those," he added, pointing at the slash across the bridge of Jei's nose, another cut still dripping, extending from the right side beneath his chin, to the corner of those full lips. A third started from his right check bone, a line almost reaching to his right eye. "Those are permanent."
Schuldich tore his eyes from the Irishman, turning from the child to his life-long partner. This man, Crawford, is an American with a distinct taste for cream white suits and clean cut killings. The two of them, one German, one American together, they made for an abundance of paradoxes.
Crawford, the very visage of light and order, drew at least respect and some degree of admiration from those who saw him. Schuldich stood for the complete opposite, wild chaos and guilty sin. He is all things dark and unspeakable, metaphorical or no.
The bright one stood and turned, expensive leather shoes beating out a solid, steady pulse on concrete with each step. Schuldich whispered something, voice so soft it was barely audible, but Crawford heard. He looked over his shoulder.
"What?"
He said, Jade eyes begging him to stay. Jei said, 'You're not alone.'
The bright one sighed, a stab of sorrow tugging at his heart strings. He chose to ignore it, adjusted his glasses and resumed his steps out of the cell. "Come. The doctors are on their way."
The redhead followed him quietly down the corridors, neither of them speaking as white coats hurried past. There'll be plenty of explaining to do when we get you cleaned.
Schuldich said nothing as Crawford took him into his bedroom, taking off his shoes and suit jacket before leading the redhead to the shower. He removed Schuldich's dirty bandana and jacket, began undressing him with brisk, almost mechanical efficiency.
"Get in." The voice was gentle, but underlying the softness was the strict command of one who expects to be obeyed.
Who is as God. Who is like God. Michael. Crawford.
Like a breath, a sigh, he heard the redhead call him in his mind. Not now. He focused on the task at hand, ignoring the mundane reaction of his human body, the sight of his companion's porcelain skin. "You should be ashamed of yourself," he chaste, though to whom he was speaking to he wasn't sure. "There's so much blood here the water's turning pink."
The German laughed and stumbled, drunk on the feeling of water and steam prickling his skin. The blood rushed him like a drug. Vicky would like this colour.
The American grunted. Victoria. My sister. She would. "Stand up."
He bared himself to his great Schwarz leader, his fingers twined together, his arms raised above his head. He looked coyly at Crawford and smiled. Wash my hair?
"You're acting just like a spoiled child."
A wet hand darted forward, pinching his glasses off. Schuldich stole his sight with a sloppy kiss. Crawford blinked in surprise, initially frozen in his place, warm water dripping down the front of his shirt. You're getting me all wet.
You're currently a man. A nasal German voice teased his mind as that slick tongue teased his mouth and lips. Men don't get wet; they get hard.
Crawford pulled back. "Schuldich!"
Without warning, the guilty one slipped and fell, a naked vessel of flesh and limbs, to the pull of gravity and ceramic tiles.
"Shit!" His arms shot out at their own accord and the bright one kept him from contacting the floor. Schuldich wrapped his arms around his shoulders, clung to him, breaking into ripples of laughter.
"You fiend!" Crawford hissed. "Don't you dare pull a stunt like that again!"
"You look so cute when you're scared!"
"I am not scared!" he snapped back. Why does he always do this to me?
"Liar, liar," the redhead chuckled, dangling his glasses to his face.
It took a long time for the two of them to step out of the shower. By the time they did, Schuldich was remarkably dry and Crawford's was thoroughly soaked, as was the rest of the bathroom. He looked at his shoes sitting by he door. He looked at his cream coloured jacket resting on his bed. He heaved a sigh of relief that both were still in pristine condition, untouched and dry.
He looked down at himself.
Why don't you just take them off? Schuldich played with a button on his shirt, picking it off by its threads.
"Stop that," he turned away, sparing the rest from their awful fate. He had stripped himself of the wet clothes when he felt something soft thrown against his back. A white towel, which had somehow escaped being drenched, landed at his feet. "Thank you."
Schuldich smirked at him from underneath the sheets and comforter. The suit jacket lay crumpled on the floor.
Why you - He closed his eyes and preyed for the strength to control the rising of his supposedly non-existent temper. Oh, screw the jacket, he thought drearily. He started to dry himself off.
Men aren't supposed to screw jackets, an increasingly annoying voice sang.
He shot a glare at the guilty party, deciding to change the subject. "What made you do it?" he said more seriously, referring to the child Jei.
"The jacket was in the way."
The bright one stared at him, his lips pulled into a frown.
Alright, alright. I... I already said it. He said I'm not alone. It's what ticked me off.
A memory of voices, of voices he ran away from.
We'll never abandon you, they said. They said, you're not alone. He'll always be there if you love Him. We'll never, He'll never, ever leave you alone.
God... what a lie. What a fucking piece of trash!
Crawford slipped into his bed. A touch on the redhead's shoulder. The guilty one curled up beside him, jade, greyish eyes closing tight.
It could be so easy to imagine you were someone else. You're too much like Him for me not to. Every time I look at you I see Him. No matter how much you try to change your outward appearance, Michael. I know. I have eyes. I see.
The bright one held him. I told you I'll stay with you. You must have forgotten when you fell.
Schuldich tried to peer into his mind, could read nothing in his chocolate gaze.
How can brown eyes look so cold sometimes, behind that pair of white-rimmed glasses, nothing but aesthetic touch? They used to be fiery warm, I remember. You're hair was never this short or straight. Not bad, of course. You'll always choose to be young and handsome. But no matter what I can find you anywhere. Why then?
He rested his head against Crawford's broad chest. What happened to that blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel I once knew?
The bright one winced inwardly. You have forgotten.
"Idiot. He never left you."
Part 2 | Fanfiction