Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money
Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex
Warning: sex. Well, duuuuuh
On with Insanity
Just like a car crash
Just like a knife
My favourite weapon
Is the look in your eyes
Ministry, Stigmata
He had no memory of waking, only the sudden, clear knowledge that he was awake, that he was staring at the ceiling of a room, bathed in the blue colours of night, and that he was in a straight jacket. Through the part of sleep that is neither dreaming nor waking, the half-hour, half-minute staggering between two states of awareness, Farfarello felt weightless, and yet drowning, floating on a wave of fractured images and half-forgotten happenings of the past. If it was his past, or someone else's, Farfarello did not know.
He moved his legs, flexing the muscles. Crawford had put him in a straight jacket, mouth a grim, thin line. This room, lying between the American's and Schuldig's, was to be Farfarello's room. It was a nice room, with a window front and a high ceiling. Curtly, the American had informed him they would put bars before the window, and a security lock on the door. Not that it mattered, for this room was the closest thing to actual living quarters Farfarello had had in nearly ten years. He did not care if there were bars, if there was a lock on the door. There were empty bookshelves, a table, and two closets. A little sink next to the closets; this had been their guest room, though who had previously been supposed to sleep in here was anyone's guess. Assassins did not invite people into their home to share a pleasant evening and a morning toast.
Time to get out of that straight jacket. He had let the doctors and wards in St. Joseph in the believe Farfarello could be held by mere cloth and straps - actually, it was exceedingly easy to get out of the restricting garment. That was, if one had flexible toes, which he had. Sitting up, he crossed his legs and bent his torso over them until he felt the buckles on the arm of the jacket brush against his foot. From there on, it was only a matter of seconds before he had pulled the three straps free.
When his arms were free, he shrugged the jacket off and hung it over the headboard of his bed. The belt that contained his knives hung there, though now sadly devoid of said knives. Crawford had taken them with him before he left Farfarello alone, muttering something about self-mutilating idiots. Farfarello took a look at his arm. The cuts he had inflicted upon himself were closed, the only evidence they had been there in the first place a few raised, red lines. These would go away within the next twelve hours, he knew from experience. It was a phenomenon every doctor who had ever touched the Irishman had wondered about: did his immunity to pain further his body's healing abilities? Each wound inflicted upon the human body results in shock, no matter how shallow or small the cut, meaning that body processes were slowed down, chemical reactions going slower than they usually did. It was a response to the pain, a result of the adrenaline that coursed through a wounded body. Farfarello's physical state did not include adrenaline reactions to pain. His body did not stagnate, did not slow down.
Farfarello walked to the window front and looked out. He had no idea as to what time it was, other than that it was night, the street lights guarding the streets below keeping watch. Despite the assumed lateness of the hour, the streets were filled with people. He wondered briefly if Tokyo was the same as London, as Dublin, as every other metropolis he had been to. In London and Dublin, though as hectic and none-the-less grand they were, there was always this half hour of complete silence in the short stretch that was not night, but not yet morning. A half hour when the city came to rest, the early risers not yet leaving their homes, the late birds not yet sinking down to their nests.
He wanted to go out and see for himself if that was true for Tokyo, too. He wanted to mingle with the people down there, get a feel for how they lived, how they died.
The door to his room opened. Farfarello turned and saw Nagi standing in the doorway, a nervous look on his young face. That thought gave him pause. They were all young, all four of them. Well, Crawford, he was older than the rest of them. Farfarello put him at close to thirty. But Nagi, Schuldig, and he? Mere children, by the standards of the western world. So young, and yet so old, each of them looking at the world around them with eyes that had seen their share of violence, death and betrayal to last for a million lifetimes.
"It's time to go." Nagi stepped aside, making room for the Irishman to pass through the door. Farfarello noticed how the youth tried not to look at his bare arms only to fail miserably; but there was no revulsion in his stare, only curiosity. Yes, so old, and yet so young. The world had not yet managed to reap everything from them that people their age were supposed to do and feel.
"Are you coming with us tonight?" He went through his suitcases, not yet unpacked, and chose a simple black shirt and comfortable trousers for the night's activities. Schuldig had asked him about his choice of mainly black clothing when they had been in London, joking about Goth preferences. But that was all it was - a preference. He liked black. His doctors had tried to persuade him of his choice of colour being a sign of his hatred for god; yes, sure, all people who wear black hate god and are diehard Satanists. But what was Satan, if not a negative copy of God? If it had been Satan who told the lies, Farfarello would hate him just as much.
"Yes. I am part of Schwarz, you know." Slight accusation in the boy's voice now, paired with the unmistakeable hint: I am not that young; I only look like a twelve-year-old. Farfarello did not care. Nagi was of little concern to him, as was Crawford. The thing that did matter had green eyes, red hair, and tasted like sweet smoke.
"We'll wait in the living room." Seeing how the Irishman was obviously taking his time to dress, Nagi left the door open and vanished. At least the youth did not try to pretend Farfarello didn't put him off. Open hostility was a wonderful thing; it made it easier to categorize the people around one into friends and foes. Not that he cared much for friends - the ones he had had, before his vow had changed his life, were distant shadows. He had killed most of them, trying to erase as much of his past as possible. Attachments were hindering. With them came responsibility and the fact that sometimes, one had to chose between one's own wants and needs, and that of the others. Farfarello only had to chose between hurting god, and not hurting god. Easy.
"Well, where is he?"
Nagi barely glanced at Crawford, sinking down on the couch with a sneer. "Dressing."
"For a psycho, he's remarkably aware of his looks. Wouldn't you agree, Schu?"
The German did not answer. He stood by the open window, smoking, his hair held back by a yellow bandana, dressed in a long white coat and grey slacks. He had been staring out at the city for the last twenty minutes, refusing to rise to Crawford's taunts, refusing to think about Farfarello. He was angry - with Crawford, with the Irishman, with the world in general. Most of all, with Taketori, for if that old bastard hadn't sent them to get Farfarello, then Schuldig wouldn't be in this ridiculous situation now. For some odd reason, he was also angry with himself. He was the mindreader around here. He fucked with people, and then fucked them over. He was the person supposed to know what was going on in the others' heads.
What good was a mindreader who did not know what was going on in his head? Fuck, all it took for Schuldig to lose his marbles was one crazy individual who 'loved' him? He had had countless lovers; willing, unwilling, most of them dead now, and none of them had ever rattled him that much. On the contrary, he had rattled them.mixing up their thoughts, making them believe he was their reason for existence, exploiting and exploring them until they did not interest him anymore and he threw them away. Most of them had been a means to Schwarz's end, tools. Secretary workers who suddenly gave out classified business information because the love of their life told them to. Heterosexuals who suddenly found their partner lacked everything, while Schuldig had everything they lacked.
What had Farfarello found in him, seen in him, that Schuldig hadn't known he had? None of the things he had seen in the Irishman's mind had given him any clue as to why Farfarello had decided he loved Schuldig. Decided.that was the word for it. It hadn't been a slow process of coming to realize feelings, it had not even been love at first sight. It had been a decision to love, to take in, to own.
Own?
"Finally." Crawford's voice interrupted his thoughts, announcing Farfarello's arrival in the living room. Schuldig refused to turn. He did not have to; a moment later, the Irishman was standing next to him, leaned against the wall. Out of the corner of his eyes, Schuldig saw him buckles those two belts over his chest, lovingly fitting his knives into the sheaths. He was not looking at the telepath, not yet, his eye trained on Crawford and Nagi, waiting.
"Dressed to kill?" Crawford stood, shrugging on his dress jacket, settling his gun in its shoulder holster. Of the four of them, Nagi was the only one who usually did not carry any weapons, his power of telekinesis rendering them nearly meaningless. The youth had learned to break necks with an aimed blow of his power, learned to send people against walls so hard all their bones broke.
"Our assignment is a group of people meeting in an apartment building in about two hours. Taketori wants them gone." Crawford picked up his car keys. "We will go in, and you will kill them. Have you ever had any training?"
"No."
"Then this little trip will determine which training you'll go through. Ripping someone apart is fine, but we don't always have time for that. We need you to be fast and skilled."
Schuldig snorted. Fast and skilled. Farfarello had taken Fujimiya apart with his bare hands, how much more skilled was he expected to become? And fast? Schuldig was quick on his feet, amazingly so. It was a fact, not something he boasted with. Fujimiya had nearly gotten him once during a fight, when they had first met the other assassin group. What use was speed if the person who attacked you simply absorbed your fast blows, and latched onto you to then kill you slowly and messily?
"Schu, is there something in my words you disagree with?" The American's voice was tight, threatening. He rolled his eyes. Four years, and still it hadn't gotten through that Schuldig was not impressed by threats.
"No. Get off of your little trip, Crawford, and get the hell going." Schuldig flipped the butt of his cigarette out of the window, closed it, and stalked out of the living room.
They piled into the Thunderbird, joining the rows of cars on the street. Driving along lit boulevards, they soon arrived in a more silent neighbourhood. Here, where the hectic lights of downtown Tokyo did not burn as brightly, where apartment block stood next to apartment block, the streets in-between narrow and littered with trash, the other side of the glamorous whore's face looked at them, staring at them out of boarded windows and doors closed with padlocks and chains. The bars and shops were not as gaudy here, their lights moody, depressing, burned out. Even the faces in the pictures hanging in curtained windows, hinting at the person behind them who waited for another customer, another fix, seemed different from the ones that invited people downtown; call boys and call girls with bruised eyes and hungry loins, chafe marks on their ankles and wrists, their skimpy dresses faded.
Crawford switched off the headlights, the Thunderbird rolling noiselessly along the paved street. Only stupid people drove through here with the lights on, drawing attention to them. Only tourists came here with cameras hanging around their necks, shooting pictures of people who would then shoot them. At a junction of the street, they stopped. Farfarello, Schuldig and Nagi got out of the car, sliding into the shadows of an entranceway, waiting until Crawford had parked the car a few streets away and returned to them on foot.
Farfarello observed how the bickering between Schuldig, Nagi and Crawford died away as soon as they were on an assignment. Now, they were what they were: assassins, caretakers, cleaners. Youth and personality falling away to leave behind minds that knew no mercy, no regret. Just as he felt no regret. Not a word fell between them as they slipped down one narrow street, avoiding the trash and the rats, as silent as cats on the hunt.
He was surprised when he heard Nagi in his head all of a sudden. The youth stopped at a fire ladder, beginning the climb upwards with amazing agility that belied his weak features.
I'll check the windows
Yes Crawford talking now, his mouth closed. Farfarello looked at Schuldig, noting the man's tight face. Was he acting as a medium between the three, sending their thoughts through to them all?
Farfarello
His eyes snapped to Crawford; following the American's outstretched arm he saw a door in the brick wall a few feet away, obscured by a dumpster. So, that was where they were going? As he looked, the dumpster began to move, sliding to the side without a sound. Nagi. The dumpster came to rest a few feet away from the door, set down with the utmost care and not even a rustling of trash. A sliver of light lined the doorframe.
Let there be light.
And there was light? Schuldig's voice was teasing. That's where we'll be going - into the light
Their eyes met, golden in green, searching. The redhead's gaze was slightly narrowed, as if he didn't know what to look for.
Are you two lovebirds done? I -
Crawford stumbled back, steadying himself against the wall behind him with an outstretched hand. His face showed confusion, pain, shock - and then blind fury. His scream of anger was cut short as Schuldig cut the connection to Farfarello, keeping whatever was said between the leader of Schwarz and the telepath. Whatever Schuldig had done, it had hurt. A lot. A thin stream of blood was running out of the American's nose, dripping onto his white suit. He wiped it away with one hand, the same hand that connected with Schuldig's jaw a moment later, sending the German tumbling into Farfarello, blood on his lips. His body was so rigid he was trembling, his moves as he straightened up lacking their usual grace. Without a further word, Crawford turned from both of them, setting to work on the closed door. It was opened quickly, swinging inwards with a small creaking. Crawford made a mock bow, his jaw set.
Behind the door was a short corridor that lead to a flight of stairs. They took the stairs, moving upwards on silent feet, stopping at each landing to check out the doors. Most of them were locked, the apartments behind them silent. Graffiti on the walls, obscene painting done in red and black. Gang names, Farfarello presumed. He traced two fingers over one, the plaster coming off in flakes and crumbs. The entire place was old, falling apart, decaying because the people who had once lived here did not live here anymore, moved away to follow different dreams than the ones that had died here, leaving the old ones to rot.
Two more flights, seven all in all, and they stood in front of a door marked with white graffiti. Behind it, voices. Muffled by layers of wood and secrecy, belonging to whoever had chosen this rat hole for their hiding place, here and there pierced by the scrapping of a chair, or the rustle of clothes, or the snapping of a lighter. Farfarello could smell the smoke of their cigarettes, smell them, that sour, bitter smell of old sweat and hair gel. He looked at Schuldig, meeting the German's almost giddy stare. Schuldig was looking forward to this fight, he realized. Did he hope to let off some steam of his own?
A tiny, metallic clink at the end of the corridor, and their heads reared up like snakes. Nagi. The youth floated in through a broken window and down the empty hallway, coming to rest on his feet next to them.
All windows secured. We'll soon be the only living beings in this house
Farfarello liked that choice of words.
Then he turned to the door and kicked it open.
A hailstorm of bullets rained down on them.
It was instinct that saved him rather than experience. He heard the safety going off on too many weapons in the split second before Farfarello's boot connected with the brittle wood of the door and threw himself to the side, taking Nagi with him. Bullets hit the wall behind them, small craters in plaster, each one marking a sure way to die.
"What the hell - ?" Schuldig, crouching on the other side of the door, his back to the wall, his gun drawn and held ready in both hands, stared at them, confusion on his face.
What is going on here? They knew we were coming!
Crawford shook his head, as baffled as the telepath. He crawled off of Nagi and checked the youth for wounds to find none; Nagi was more surprised than anything. It took them a few moments to gather their wits, to understand they had walked right into a trap. But how -
"Taketori!" Schuldig yelled, face drawn into a mask of hate. "That bastard!" His hate turned to sudden worry. "Farfarello!"
"Schu, stay down! Do you want to get sieved?"
"But - "
"Stay down!"
Like hell he would. He threw his mind onto the room and searched for a thought pattern that was not Farfarello's, sending a cacophony of noise into the man's brain. He felt the snapping of the connection as the other's mind was ripped apart, grim satisfaction experienced and then forgotten as he found another presence and attacked it, too. Crawford pushed Nagi behind him and risked a glance around the door, seeing only swarming bodies and the cold metal of too many weapons. Fuck. He could not shot into them, blindly, the risk of hitting the Irishman too great. He couldn't see the other, but he heard him: the unmistakeable sound of metal on flesh, the splatter of blood. It was a miracle he was still alive; but Crawford, used to all things unexplainable, believed in miracles.
Crawford shrank back as a man stumbled out of the door, hands pressed over his ears, his mouth open in a silent scream. Blood was rushing out between his fingers. He wobbled grotesquely for a moment, and then fell forward on his face. Schuldig. The telepath's eyes were closed, brow knit in concentration. Crawford had nearly forgotten the German could kill with his powers.
What seemed like an eternity was, in reality, not even two minutes. The bullets stopped singing their deadly song, one by one they were replaced by the singing of metal parting air as it descended to cut through necks and chests, the dull thud of flesh hitting the floor, the even duller thud of fists connecting with bones and lips and teeth. Schuldig opened his eyes again, feeling the number of minds in that room diminish by the moment. He got to his knees and peeked into the room; a heartbeat later scrambling back as a second man staggered out of the door. He was clawing at the hilt of a knife jutting out between his shoulder blades, yelling in pain. The yelling abruptly stopped as a combat boot-clad foot rammed into the back of his neck, driving his face into the plaster amid the craters and graffiti, breaking his jaw, nose and orbital bone, spreading his blood across the wall like cobwebs spreads in the corners of cellars. A gurgling sound escaped the man's throat, dying away as he slid to the floor, a trail of crimson marking his downfall. Farfarello bent to yank his knife out of the man's back, his fingers slick with blood, his clothes fairly soaked with it; it dripped from his arms and chin and ran in rivulets down his face, staining his grinning mouth.
For one perfect moment, time stood still. Carnage all around them, Nagi, Crawford and Schuldig slowly comprehended that there was no one alive in that room anymore.
Then Farfarello collapsed like a dead weight onto the bodies of the gangsters that lay on the floor.
"Bravo!"
They turned their heads. Taketori stood on the landing, surrounded by a cluster of bodyguards in body armour. He was dressed neatly, a bow tie and a white flower accentuating his needled suit, a brightly wrapped parcel under one arm. Behind him, dwarfed by bodyguards, stood another. A woman, dressed in a curvy miniskirt and fur coat, jewellery glinting at her throat.
"You!" Schuldig spat.
"Me," she answered, sneering. "What, Schuldig, not happy to see me? I'm hurt!"
The German got to his feet, holstering his gun. "Tot, the day I'm happy to see you will be the day I cut my own throat."
"Tsk, tsk, my dear, be careful what you wish for."
He ignored her and Crawford's glare and moved to Farfarello's side. The Irishman was unconscious, the black of his clothes making it impossible to determine if he had been hit by bullets, if the blood on him was coming from the gangsters he had killed or from wounds he had attained.
Schuldig pulled the shirt Farfarello wore up, exposing his back, wincing as he saw the exit wounds on the blood-slick skin. Four of them, one dangerously close to where his heart was on the other side. He laid a finger on the Irishman's neck, sending a note of thanks to whatever gods were watching over them as he felt a steady but weak pulse.
"Is he alive?" A shadow fell over Schuldig. Taketori, trying very hard not to step into any puddles.
"Yes," Schuldig ground out. "He is alive. Now - " He rose again, his face inches away from Taketori's, and yelled, "Would you kindly tell me what this bullshit was supposed to be? You nearly got us all killed!"
"You're still alive, aren't you?" Taketori sneered and pushed the telepath away. "This was Farfarello's test, and, might I add, he passed it with flying banners. Incredible! Twenty-nine people, and he killed them all. I had my doubts about him, but now - "
Taketori gagged as his back connected with the wall, Schuldig's hands around his throat. A second later, a gun was rammed under his chin, and the woman leaned into him, breathing into his ear, smiling, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
One snap. One twist of his hands, and those brittle bones he held in them would break. Everything inside Schuldig screamed at him to do it, and fuck the consequences. Fuck Tot, fuck Crawford, fuck Eszet.
Crawford's hands wound around his forearm, pulling him off of Taketori, away from Tot. The American held him tight as he struggled, giving him a warning squeeze when his head started to hurt. During it all, Schuldig's eyes held on to Tot's face, as if he wanted to memorize her taunting smile, her belittling expression. She lowered her gun, the weapon once again disappearing in a fold of her fur coat, and smoothened down her dress, latching on to Taketori's arm.
"For that, you bastard, you'll get no pay check this month!" Taketori glared, rubbing his throat.
"Fine. I don't want your money."
"Oh?" Tot brushed a hand through her hair, coyly playing with a strand. "Would you rather go to Eszet Headquarters with me and explain to them why you've been attacking your employer?"
Would you rather not tell me why you fuck an old fish like Taketori? Money problems?
Tot's mouth drew into a line, and Schuldig pulled away from Crawford, ending the 'conversation' by walking away from them, down the hallway.
"Sir?" Crawford forced himself to stay calm. "Are you finished? I'd like to take Farfarello to the doctor."
"Yes, yes, make sure he heals quickly." Taketori smiled at Tot. "Such a valuable addition to my men shouldn't go to waste over a few bullet wounds. When he wakes, tell him he has passed my test. He's now a permanent member of Schwarz. Naoe, I expect you to arrange things with the bank."
Nagi, rigidly, fists trembling at his side, only nodded. None of them said a word as Taketori, Tot and the men turned and descended down the stairs, leaving them amid chaos and carnage. They heard the door on the ground level of the building open and close, the sound of cars getting started. A few moments later, they stood in silence.
"Well shit," Nagi said.
"That doesn't even remotely cut it!" Schuldig yelled from the end of the corridor.
White.
White light.
White light and voices, carried by a soft breeze. The floor, stone, was cold beneath his feet. He walked a few steps, turning, but the brightness was everywhere, nearly blinding him.
And then it was dark, and he stood at the foot of an altar, fifteen years old, rosary slung around his fingers, hands raised in supplication, praying with fervour, praying with faith. He loved it here. There was silence, and there was love, the love of god for all good children. God came to him here, took him in his arms and guided him through the storm of his adolescence when his parents did not know what to do to help him.
"Looking for moral guidance?"
Someone stood at his side, a soft smile on her lips. Sister Ruth. She was always so friendly to him.
"Hello, sister."
"Hello, Jay. It's nice to see you here so often." A grin. "Most people have forgotten their faith in the lord."
"Not me!" He showed his clasped hands to her. "I pray to our Lord every morning and evening!"
"I know." Tinged with sadness, and that Mona Lisa smile was quavering a little, but not enough for a fifteen-year-old to understand that it was heartbreak making those lips quaver. "Jay, I wanted to talk to you.for a long time now."
"Yes?"
She took his arm, then, soft little hands fluttering like doves. "I - I have sinned, Jay. I have committed a terrible crime."
Consternation, and the blinding fear: did God not love her anymore? "Why, what have you done? There is no sin under the sun our lord will not - "
"Stop it!" The white doves hurt now, fingernails sharply digging into his skin, leaving marks. "People sometimes do foolish things the lord cannot forgive, Jay. They are sinners, and I have sinned."
"What? What did you do? Oh, tell me, and maybe we could - "
"No." That sad smile again. "It's too late for me. But you - you can make up for me, Jay, if you haven't already."
"Me?" Confusion. "How - I mean, what did I do?"
And Ruth smiled at him, and said, "You were born."
And the walls came crashing in on him now, tumbling all around him like his faith, his love, his sanity. Stripped of all defences, forced to listen to that soft voice telling him the truth, believing. Knowing. A whole life, washed away with a few words, its shreds and shards ripping at his soul until it lay there naked and screaming at the silent sky, screaming for answers. Fickle hopes, fickle dreams, fickle believes, and helplessly looking on as they were torn from him he turned away from the world that had lied to him for so long and sought help in the welcoming arms of hate and anger. The Ten Commandments told of respect for one's parents, but how do you respect someone who has lied to you? They had told him they loved him. They had lied. They had betrayed him.
They would pay.
Morning now, and he stepped out of his room, his past, his sanity. His sister was the first to greet him, as usual, his little bitch of a sister who had played with him, and cried with him, and been with him under the canopy of childhood. She was the first to die, her second smile preserved for all eternity as she lay on the threshold to the kitchen in her ruffled blue dress and golden hair spread around her like a halo, her blood shaping his footprints as he calmly walked into the kitchen, and turned off the blaring radio his mother always listened to in the morning, and covered the room with the blood of his parents. Just like Sister Ruth's blood covered the confession booth.
But he could not kill god, the origin of the lies. God was not here for him to kill; god was in heaven, its gates barred to Jay McKinnon for all eternity. God taunted and teased him, whispering to him when he slept: if I am such a liar, then why do you believe in me?
And Farfarello answered: because no being under the sun could come up with lies like you, and make people believe them. Their blind faith, their hunger, their faults - they are all your doing.
Then why don't you renounce me, and be done with it?
Because you betrayed me.
And what will you do?
I will kill you.
Try.
"That is most remarkable!" Hands moving, holding the thin needle of an injection, ready to pierce into the sensitive flesh between the fingers again, and Doctor Kobayashi found himself subject to a blinding headache and a death glare. He retreated from the motionless man on the bed, rubbing his temples, regarding the silently fuming redhead who stood at the head of the bed with annoyance. "Schuldig, this man does not feel pain! There was no need for you to give me a headache!"
"If he doesn't feel pain, then why do you try to hurt him? Are you trying to prove a point that has already been proven?"
Kobayashi knew that tone of voice. He had known it for four years now, hearing it every time the redhead had to be patched up. He had just never been on the receiving end of that tone, and it reminded him of whom exactly he was dealing with here.
"All right, all right, I'm going already. Give me a call if those wounds open up again."
"They won't."
"Ah. Uhm, all right. Good night to you, Schuldig." Kobayashi grabbed his bag and fled from the desolately empty room, collecting his payment from the Japanese youth at the door. As soon as the door closed behind him, he heaved a deep sigh of relief. It had been spooky enough to treat a patient, with four bullet wounds in his back and two in his arm, who needed no sedative, and slept through the operation. Thankfully, those bullets had not hit anything vital. The thought of having to open the man's body with Schuldig breathing down his neck was enough to make the idea of changing professions look delicious.
Crawford pulled the curtains together after he had seen Kobayashi drive off and turned. Nagi stood in the door to the living room. Wordlessly, the boy vanished, the sound of his door closing with a click rather than with a slam the best indication how angry he was. Different from most people, Nagi became quiet when something made him mad.
A moment later, Japanese Death Rock came blaring through the walls.
Well. So much for indications.
It would be a long, loud night.
Looking down at his dirty suit and bloody hands, Crawford decided it was time for a shower. He had carried Farfarello to their car, Schuldig mercilessly killing everyone they met on their way there. It was a rare occasion to see the telepath that angry, rare to see him pass staring people and kill them without even looking at them. It was even more rare that Schuldig had not taken off for a night of drinking himself into a stupor, his usual remedy for all things Taketori.
His cell phone had rung once they arrived home. Tot, telling him Eszet was very pleased Farfarello had been 'discovered', as she put it with a laugh. God, he hated that woman. She was Eszet's representative in Tokyo, sent here the day Crawford had started to work as a bodyguard for Taketori. He did not know if she had any psychic powers; yet, he did know better than to defy her. One call, and Eszet would send people to fry them. One call, and they'd either be dead, or on the run for the rest of their lives.
This was the downside of being Schwarz. Sometimes, it was enough to make one think of suicide.
He slipped into the shower and stood under the warm spray for a long time, letting it massage his hurting neck. His head hurt, too. Schuldig's mental attack in that alley had come unexpected. As had a lot of things, lately. His earlier call to Eszet had not given him any clue as to what he was supposed to do about the problem with his visionary powers; they had been as surprised as he was. In retrospective, he wished he had not called them. They could have done away with Farfarello before; now, being known to them, the Irishman was as much 'protected' by the mainframe as the rest of them were. Right now, Crawford guessed, they would be sending out their people to gather as much information about Farfarello as possible, if they hadn't already. There were more strange things on earth than people believed, and one call from an English doctor, even if it came from a mental ward, even if it concerned a madman, must have made them giddy with anticipation. Eszet had raised Crawford; he had spent the better part of his life in their clutches, yet he had never heard of someone who was immune to pain.
Or of someone who hampered visionary powers.
A sharp knock on the bathroom door, and he groaned. Schuldig strode in, yanked the shower curtain back, and stared at him.
"What?"
"I hope you're happy. You had to call them, didn't you?" The redhead sighed angrily. "Now we'll have Tot snooping around here again."
Crawford had a brief flash of the blue-haired woman moving atop Taketori, his hands cupping her breasts. A vision? Wishful thinking?
"I think not," He spoke slowly, regarding Schuldig with concern. "I just had a vision of her fucking Taketori."
"That was more than I ever wanted to know about that woman's sex life, thank you." Schuldig raised an eyebrow. "I thought your visions are on the fritz?"
"I thought so, too. Hand me a towel, will you? And close the door. I don't think Farfarello would appreciate it if he saw us like that, me standing here buck naked."
Another snort, and a towel hit him in the face, followed by the bathroom door closing. "Farfarello's out cold in his room. I would notice it if he suddenly woke up. Since when do you care about that? Afraid he'll rip your cock off or something?"
"Yes." He wiped his face and fished for his glasses. "I know I've been making jokes about it all evening, but I'm afraid he's rather serious about it."
Schuldig did not answer this. He sat down on the lid of the toilet and lit a cigarette, and for once, Crawford let him smoke without reprimanding him. Towelling off, Crawford slipped into sweatpants and a sweater, and then sat on the rim of the tub, watching the telepath smoke. They didn't often sit like this, in silence, each following their own thoughts. Shaped by the years, shaped by experience, their opposing characters made it nearly impossible for them to be in the other's company without starting to lash out. There had been a time when this had been different, but neither of them wanted that time to return. They had tried it, and failed, both too proud, too headstrong, too set in themselves.
"What are you going to do?" Schuldig's voice cut the silence at last.
"About what? My visions? I don't know. If it is Farfarello, then we'll have to find out if he inhibits me when it concerns him, or when it concerns us in general."
"Mh. I vote for the latter."
"Why?"
"Because - oops." A nervous grin, and Schuldig stood, edging towards the door. Crawford knew that grin. He had him by the neck before the telepath had reached the door handle.
He awoke to screams and insults. Mentally taking stock of his surroundings, Farfarello saw he was in his room, in his bed, with his blanket drawn up to his chin. The light was turned off, but the street lights outside made up for that, dipping the room in blue and black. A blaring jumble of what he supposed was supposed to be music came from somewhere outside, partially covering up the angry voices. Rising to a sitting position, a dull pressure made itself noticed in his chest. He drew the blanket away and saw that his torso had been bandaged up, the blood wiped off his skin. He was still wearing his pants; they felt stiff, dirty. Had he passed their 'test'? He dimly remembered hearing the old prey's voice after collapsing, along with another, aggravating, female voice.
The door to his room flew open, and a very agitated, angry telepath stormed in.
"Why the fuck are you up? Lie down!" Somewhere behind the German, he could hear Crawford yell another obscenity and the banging of a door. They did that a lot around here. He lay back down, then propped himself up on one elbow.
"I said down!"
"Did I pass that stupid test?"
A sigh, followed by hands brushing through hair and the lighting of a cigarette. "Yes. Yes, you did pass. It's a wonder you're still alive."
"There were more people than we expected. And they knew we were coming. How?"
"Taketori. Apparently, that old fuck thought it would be too easy for you."
"It was easy."
"You've been shot six times. You call that easy?"
Farfarello nodded. He lay down with his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. The men he had killed had known he would come, and still they had died. They had been armed to their teeth, and still they had died. God had tried to betray him once more, and still he now cried, writhing in agony on his throne.
"I wish you'd stop thinking about god all the time." Schuldig sat down at the table, watching a smoke ring trail upwards. "One day, it will get you killed."
"God will cry that day."
"If you're so anxious to hurt him, why don't you kill yourself? Wouldn't that hurt god?"
"That would be doing him a favour." Farfarello smiled. "And I would have to kill you, too. I wouldn't leave you here." He looked at Schuldig, grinning at the other's sour face. "That was a joke," he lied, knowing the telepath knew it to be a lie.
"What if I kill you first?"
"Then you'd be hurting god. Mission accomplished."
Schuldig laughed and shook his head. "You're a nutcase." He walked to the windows and opened one, sending the butt of his cigarette flying. "Crawford wants to put bars before your windows, you know that?"
"Yes. I don't care. I don't intend to run away from you."
He said nothing else, the sentence hanging in the air between them like a dancer precariously balanced on a wire.
"Why?" Schuldig asked.
"Why what?"
"Why did you decide that? I don't understand it. Explain it to me." The telepath turned, leaning against the glass behind him. "I know you speak the truth, but I don't know why."
"Has no one ever loved you?"
"No. Well, my parents maybe, before the sent me away. Nobody ever decided they love me. I can make people love me, Farfarello. I could make you kill yourself. I am the voice behind the voices, I am what people hear before they swallow the gun."
You are beautiful
A weak smile. "Really? When I look in the mirror, I only see orange."
"You are beautiful," Farfarello repeated, out loud this time. "You're just too jaded to see it. You've been looking at yourself through other peoples' eyes for so long, you don't know your own face anymore."
"If I were really doing that, I'd have killed myself a long time ago. You'd be amazed at how rotten peoples' thoughts are." Schuldig laughed hollowly. "I'm rather surprised you believe in the concept of love. Isn't that something coming from god?"
"Maybe. Who knows? If it is, then I am certainly hurting him by taking it."
"An eye for an eye. God took away your love, and you take it back from him. Is that it?"
"Roughly. Come here."
For one long moment, Farfarello thought the telepath would run out of the room. For one long moment, he saw emotions pass over the elegant, aloof face he bet only Crawford and Nagi knew to be included in Schuldig's repertoire of feelings. Surprise, worry, fear. Pride, commanding Schuldig to tell him to fuck himself and stalk out; pride, commanding him to accept the challenge that was no challenge. Now, Schuldig looked his years. Pain, betrayal and experience had made him build up walls around himself, and even though Farfarello knew he could not yet entirely crumble those walls, he had at least succeeded in making a dent in them.
Baby steps. If he took this slowly, then maybe by the time he'd arrived at the bed, common sense would have won over the insanity that seemed to have taken up residence in his mind. By all means, he was crazy. The Irishman had rubbed off on him.
Baby steps, but why did they feel like giant ones, covering the distance between the windows and the bed in so little time. His knees bumped against the bed frame. What was he accepting? What was he giving away? Nothing, maybe, but then why did it hurt so much? He knew, the moment he lay down on that bed, down next to the man in it, there would be no turning back, no running away. Did he love Farfarello? No, it didn't feel like it.
A hand came up, fingers crawling into his palm.
Love didn't exist. He had seen it in peoples' minds too many times, this thing they thought was love. Somewhere, he had once read, the more I see of love, the less I like the look of it. So true. People didn't love each other, they needed each other, needed a mirror to look into, needed admiration, care, support. People were egoistic beasts that sought only their own pleasure; and he was one of those beasts, and he was proud of it.
And still...knowing all this, why did he let himself be pulled down?
There was only the slightest resistance as he pulled the telepath down to him, onto the bed, scooting so they both fit in. Schuldig's eyes were closed as Farfarello rolled him onto his back, leaning over him. With the utmost care, the Irishman brought a hand up to that white oval of a face and brushed one fingertip over silky lashes, a dark rusty red in normal light, black during the night. Schuldig's eyelids twitched as he followed their contours with the same finger and the barest hint at pressure; and who is stupid enough to trust a madman to lay a finger on their face, anyway?
Madmen did not caress people. Madmen hurt people.
"Schuldig. Schu. Open your eyes."
He did, and for a brief moment, he expected the other to say it had all been a joke and drive a thump into his green orbs. It would have been sort of amusing.
Farfarello's face looked even more haunting in the gloomy lights of the night than it did during the day. The night painted shadows where there should be none, edging high cheekbones, the curve of the lips, dipping into the corner of his seeing eye. The other, covered by the eye patch, almost looked like a black hole - devouring. All-consuming. But that face, that body, were also beautiful, the physical attractiveness of a predator on the hunt, seconds before the jump. For once, Schuldig enjoyed being the victim. For once, he did not mind it would be him, lying there bleeding on the ground in the end.
Farfarello lowered his head and rubbed his lips over the telepath's, not really touching, but still the contact was there, tangible, like electricity singing between them. The hand that had caressed his face laid on his chest now, fingers splayed over the cloth of his shirt. His own, Schuldig realized, were ripping holes into the bedspread. He forced himself to relax - love or not love, he was not a blushing virgin waiting for her first fuck. If Farfarello wanted to sleep with him, then Schuldig would let him, and he would enjoy himself. He could always forget about it in the morning.
It's nice to know how easily people can lie to themselves.
"What are you doing to me?" Schuldig whispered, staring into the single eye above him. It was nearly closed; yet, the iris was glowing, as if Farfarello was a cat. Schuldig half-expected the golden glow to drip out of the socket and onto his face like honey. "This won't end well."
"Nothing ends."
"Then why bother?"
Farfarello kissed him then, a real kiss, stealing his breath. It was like any other kiss Schuldig had experienced before, and yet it was different. He responded to it before he was aware of it, his tongue moving against the Irishman's in a frenzied dance, battling for dominance. Giving in had never been that easy before, and with that came abandon, the freedom to allow someone else to take over whatever was going to happen. Farfarello's hand wormed its way under his shirt, skittering over his belly, smoothing along his ribcage. The other tangled in the telepath's hair, winding the strands around his fingers. Schuldig arched his back as the hand beneath his shirt found his nipples, thump and index finger capturing one small bud of flesh, rolling it.
Farfarello let go. He pulled back from the kiss, intently looking at the German, and his fingers moved again, again stimulating the sensitive nub, twisting it this time; a tiny sliver of pain filtering through the creamy-slow avalanche of lust Schuldig was drowning in, and through it all Farfarello was watching him, studying his reactions. He kept up his ministrations, steadily adding pressure, each time twisting a little harder; and my god Schuldig thought as he moved around on the bed now, trying to get away because it hurt so much but felt so good. He had never known he would get hard from having someone do that to him. The Irishman seemed to know exactly what he was doing; the flashes of pain were exquisite, never hurting too much, never being too weak.
The sharp edge of a fingernail began to dig into his nipple. He took a deep breath, hissing it out. Farfarello eased up, only to do it again, and again, and again. He stopped at last when Schuldig couldn't contain the small moan anymore; a small sound of pain and need that got lost somewhere on the way to Schuldig's smoke rings that still wandered along the ceiling.
Farfarello swallowed the moan that followed, his fingers once again gentle, soothing against now swollen flesh. Schuldig shivered under him, fingers that had somehow, miraculously, found their way onto Farfarello's arm falling away with the fingernails slick. Their kiss became languid and then stopped; a few nips and licks, and both sighed, Farfarello resting his head on the pillow, his face turned towards the telepath. He pulled his hand out from under Schuldig's shirt, smoothing it down.
"You didn't answer me. Why bother?"
"Because I love you."
The look Schuldig sent him was unfathomable; the telepath's eyes narrowed. "You won't for long."
"We'll see."
"Yes."
Farfarello smiled as the door closed behind Schuldig, and settled down for sleep.
The first day of January 2000, and no planes fell out of the sky; no computers crashed, no new wars were begun. The world heaved a deep sigh and got ready for another thousand years, another round of enduring. Earth was good at that. Humans were just another disease on her long, slow way to one day become a dying star, to one day smile, and bow to the universe, and explode in happiness of having made it, sending her light out towards other planets, becoming the guiding star for other diseases. It would be her way of letting the others know there was an end to all pain, all enduring.
Sadly though, the entire concept was lost on Schuldig as he, once again, walked the streets of Tokyo, turning peoples' heads. In a crowd of mostly dark-haired Japanese men and women, he stood out like a ball of fire; his hair had grown in the last year, dangling past his waist now, catching every light and playing with it. He had taken to braiding it whenever they went on an assignment, the chance of catching on to something or someone catching on to him too great.
It was also amusing to listen to peoples' thoughts and learn how many of them thought he was a woman when they only saw him from behind; the consternation, disgust, or plain admiration coming from them when they realized he was a man a refreshing change from the dullness.
He had spent last year's end dancing, partying amid an anonymous crowd gathered in front of the Tokyo Tower, and for the sake of it having been a party, and not an assignment, he had even refrained from mindraping everyone around him.
That had been yesterday.
Today was now.
What a beautiful man...I wish my husband would look like that!
What's it with these punks today? Is that real hair? I bet he's wearing a wig.
I wanna fuck him
He snorted at that last captured thought. Fuck him. He'd been doing that a lot lately, spending his free time and most of the evenings away from their apartment, seeking the sanctuary of seedy hotel rooms and strangers. He could stand it if someone he did not know thought of him as cheap, vulgar, or plain annoying, but it had become harder and harder to accept these thoughts when they came from his teammates. Well, not all of them. And it wasn't this new, either. Crawford had always thought him sort of a slut, and Nagi, well that kid thought of everyone who had a sex life as a slut. He was seventeen now, and still a virgin. Novel. Crawford had been disgusted at Schuldig's idea of renting someone for the poor baby; the telepath had the sneaking suspicion Nagi would actually appreciate the thought.
He stopped at a small park and found a bench. Snow had not yet fallen, but the air was crispy-clear and cold, turning his breath white. The remnants of last night's fireworks littered the flowerbed and pathways, the ruins left by the old century. Schuldig sat down, lit a cigarette, and exhaled the smoke at the sky. He wondered briefly how the others had spent Sylvester, as the turning of the year was called in his native language.
Crawford would have taken it with his usual stern face and what-do-I-care-about-such-trivialities-face. He would have sat at the fireplace in their apartment, reading a newspaper, drinking coffee. Nagi would have spent it either listening to his music, or on the Internet, where he seemed to be having most of his 'friends' nowadays. Schuldig drew a face. What good were friends you couldn't touch, couldn't hold in your arms? What good were friends, anyway?
And Farfarello would have sat on the roof of their apartment, waiting for Schuldig. When the redhead didn't show up, he would have smiled, as he always did, and started another self-mutilation round, or read a book, or polished his knives. In the beginning, Crawford had insisted these knives be taken from the Irishman, but they had learned that even a plain sheet of paper was sufficient material for Farfarello to hurt himself. Simply locking the madman in his room had not been an alternative either. It was inhuman, and it gave Farfarello too much time to spend with his own mind, the danger of him sliding further into his madness becoming greater the less things he had to occupy himself with. Yes, of course, he still cut himself up, and killed as often as he could and the chance presented itself, but he did not do that while he was reading. Five bookshelves stood in his room, filled to bursting. Neither of the other Schwarz members would have guessed how many interests Farfarello had. When he had requested books, they'd expected him to buy bibles by the truckload and desecrate them. Now, the shelves in his room were filled with books on culture, art, animals, and the odd mystery novel.
No bars had been put before his windows. Through the four months he had been with Schwarz now, he had never once tried to run away. He killed without abandon, sometimes so lost in his blood frenzy the others had to forcibly pull him away from a body, he scared people wherever he went, but he did not run away.
The reason why he didn't still amazed Schuldig. He and Farfarello had come to a truce of sorts, albeit a strange one: the Irishman said he loved Schuldig, Schuldig ignored it. Since that night after Farfarello had been integrated into Schwarz, nothing physical had happened between the two. If one didn't count the handholding, snuggling, and occasional kiss. Handholding pretty much wherever they went, snuggling when they were both tired or hunched together on the couch, kissing...well, kissing usually after Schuldig had taken yet another head dive into the Irishman's mind. He knew the place now. He didn't collapse anymore at the sight of unspeakable violence Farfarello either dreamed or remembered. Often, Schuldig asked himself why he took those dives. They always ended in kisses. He didn't do it for the kisses, at least he liked to pretend he didn't. He guessed it was because Farfarello's mind was a land where all things were different, twisted, new. No matter how many times he took the step between madness and sanity, Schuldig always discovered something new, something interesting, something to explore. He had learned to close his eyes to the things he did not want to see. At times, he felt bad for doing it, for systematically digging through the Irishman's thoughts, exposing every dream, every fantasy, but Farfarello didn't seem to mind. He simply let the telepath, held him afterwards, and kissed him, and then they would get up and get on with their daily routines.
Schuldig looked at his watch: early afternoon. He had been up for forty-eight hours now; weariness was slowly seeping in. One more cigarette.
They had an assignment tonight, some stupid dance'n'dinner party at Taketori's...oh, he was so looking forward to that, like someone looks forward to having a tooth pulled. It did interest him, though, why Taketori had insisted all Schwarz members were to guard him that night. Was something going to happen? Crawford's visions had not told them of anything, yet Crawford's visions had become somewhat of a liability.
Endless hours of tests and tries had shown them Farfarello did hamper the American's powers; Crawford now usually resorted to spending a few hours alone, in the city, when they had an assignment coming up. There, the visions would come, clear and sharp as ever. He had once claimed the better he knew and understood a person, the more accurate were his visions. Did that mean Farfarello inhibited the oracle because no one could understand the Irishman? Crawford claimed it was a possibility, which had lead to one of Nagi's better jokes of Schuldig getting a sex change and a uterus implant and having a child with Crawford. A visionary-telepath bastard would be the end to all their problems.
He heard the crunching of gravel beneath boots heading his way and looked up. A familiar figure, clad in a white Armani suit and winter coat, strode towards him along the pathway, a newspaper clasped under one arm.
"Well, speak of the devil," Schuldig muttered under his breath. Crawford. The American raised a hand in greeting as he saw his teammate on the park bench and an eyebrow as he peered into the telepath's face. Schuldig refrained from reading the other man's thoughts, knowing which direction they were heading, betting his ass Crawford would...
"Afternoon, Schu. Hangover? Problems walking straight? Both?"
...say it out loud anyway.
"Sitting and thinking, Crawford. You're not the only one capable of doing that. A happy new year to you, by the way."
"To you too, Schu."
"What are you doing here? Vision walk?"
The American chuckled and sat down next to him, taking a deep breath. "Something like that, yeah. And you?"
"Hangover."
They both chuckled, and Schuldig lit another cigarette. The silence that stretched between them was familiar, and not unwelcome, that kind of silence that existed between people who 'd known the other for years and did not need to say everything out loud.
"Schu?"
"Mh?"
"We haven't...talked a lot, lately."
"Oh really?" He grinned at the American. "We never do. What do you want to know that you didn't already see?"
"It's about tonight."
"Yeah, so?"
"Tonight's dinner party will be...interesting." Crawford shot a sideward glance at the telepath, one that did not escape him. That glance worried him. Over the years, he had had ample opportunity to study the many expressions of Bradley Jacob Crawford; this one was clearly going into the 'something's gonna happen and I most likely won't like it' section.
"Why? Something up?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"It concerns you and Farfarello."
Something about Farfarello? That included bloodbaths, insanity, endless discussions about god, and a lot of handholding. Nothing new here. Nothing he could not deal with, or hadn't already dealt with a thousand times before.
"And Tot."
Okay, that got his attention. "Why? What's going to happen?"
Crawford studied his hands, seemingly not comfortable to have this conversation. For a brief moment, Schuldig considered going into the man's mind and find out himself. However, it would only make Crawford angry, and truth be told, Schuldig did not feel like starting a fight first thing in the New Year.
"Schu, do me a favour? For the sake of Schwarz, at least make sure they won't find the body?"
"Crawford, what the fuck are you talking about?"
The American stood, sighing. "You'll see. And don't think I'm not telling you all of it because I want to annoy you. I'm actually trying to help you."
"Crawford, what."
But Crawford was already walking away, long strides widening the distance between him and the telepath; a distance that Schuldig was too baffled to master then and there; and when he finally came around to his senses again, the white-suited broad back of the oldest member of Schwarz was already out of sight.
Schuldig hated it when Crawford did that. The man was a goddamn oracle, why the hell didn't he just spit out what he saw? More often that not, these cryptic remarks had brought them into precarious situations; more often than not, Crawford seemed to enjoy making said remarks.
Sometimes, Schuldig thought, Crawford's lust for sadism outdid even his own.
"Daddy! Is that real caviar? Oh, hi Nagi! How are you doing? Is that a real gun? Are you happy to see me?"
"Yes."
Ouka Taketori giggled, and asked, "Yes to what? Yes to that being a real gun, or yes you' re happy to see me?"
"Yes, that's a real gun." Nagi Naoe forced his most polite smile, teetering somewhere between a sneer and a baring of teeth, on his face, bowed curtly and walked away, returning to Schuldig's side. "What did she think?"
"The usual. Do you want me to draw you a schematic?"
The Japanese youth shook his head, staring after the girl hanging onto Taketori's arm as if she was solely responsible for every catastrophe on earth.
"I swear, Taketori lets her in on these parties to torture me!"
Schuldig, leaned against a pillar with a champagne glass in one hand, looking slightly uncomfortable in his stiff, white dress suit, chuckled. Ouka Taketori's fascination with the slight telekinetic was no secret. Nagi being in the company of Farfarello and Schuldig was probably the only thing holding her back from dragging him onto the dance floor. She was afraid of the silent Irishman, afraid of the sardonically smirking redhead, had been ever since she had met Farfarello for the first time, met Schuldig for the first time.
He let his gaze wander over the assembled party guests, suppressing a yawn. Politicians, businessmen, women with too much diamonds on them. What was it that people saw in gatherings like these? They were a waste of time and strength; and listening to these people did tire him out and bore him more quickly than listening to Crawford's ramblings did. The tall American stood in another corner of the vast hall amid the top floor of the Taketori Towers, appearing as bored as Schuldig. What were they doing here, anyway? The lower floors were swarming with security, ensuring unwanted guests were not coming in; and even here, as unobtrusive as elephants in a gardening shed, the broad black shadows moved among the guests.
Schwarz, Schuldig thought with sudden pride, had style at least.
They wore white suits, all four of them, tailored to fit the lines of their bodies. Even Farfarello's eye patch was white. Other than these black-clothed gorillas, Schwarz could melt into the crowd, become invisible.
A finger sliding down the small of his back caught his attention; turning to Farfarello, he saw the Irishman looking straight ahead, as if nothing was happening. The single finger became a hand, resting on the back of his hip, their standing close together making it impossible for others to see the gesture. For a moment, Schuldig lost himself in Farfarello's touch, by now welcoming these little intimacies like a desert welcomes rain. They were signs of affection, given by one who did not lie when he said he loved Schuldig. They had become as much a part of their strange relationship as the kisses had.
"Bored?"
"Fascinated. I never thought so much idiocy could fit into one body."
He followed the Irishman's stare and found it resting on Ouka Taketori, that simpering girl. She was standing with her father and Tot, the latter of the two grinning snidely as she caught the redhead's look.
"Don't you like her?" Schuldig teased, elbowing his partner. "Such a sweet girl, it's a shame she has the hots for Nagi. The two of us could have some really great time together."
The look that last remark got him nearly made him laugh out loud, Farfarello's expression holding as much revulsion as horror. The Irishman looked at Ouka again, and then shook himself.
"If you ever sleep with that girl, I will never touch you again, I swear!"
Now the telepath was laughing. "Why? How much more could she dirty me?"
"Not dirty. Degrade. There's a difference. Not even you deserve to fall that low."
So much passion in that sentence, in that heated stare directed at him, and Schuldig found his insides melting, feeling the hand on his hip tighten. Sometimes, Farfarello was simply sweet.
"Guys, I'm gonna check the windows again, since the two of you are obviously occupied." Nagi rolled his eyes. Lovebirds.
"I heard that," Schuldig said.
The telekinetic rolled his eyes another round and went off to check the windows for the millionth time this evening. He went pretty much unnoticed, the telepath and the Irishman still sinking into each other's eyes. Schuldig leaned forward, planting a small kiss on pale lips.
"That's a new one," Farfarello showed genuine surprise. Usually, it was him who initiated their kisses.
"See it as a New Year's gift."
They returned to their task of keeping the party guests safe and sound; an oxymoron in itself. They were both assassins, trained to kill.
Schuldig thought about killing as he saw Tot making her way towards them, hips swaying. The blue-haired woman, in the same age span as Schuldig, was once again wearing a miniskirt, this time with umbrella prints, her hair in two 'shit heaps', as Crawford called them, on top of her head. He wondered briefly how one could have such an obvious lack of good taste and still think of themselves as beautiful, then figured this aspect of Tot was still the least alarming one, considering she was screwing Taketori.
She stopped a few feet away from the two assassins, hands on her hips. A slight nervousness overcame her as her eyes met Farfarello's. Schuldig felt a tremor run through the hand that still lay on his hip, felt the miniscule scraping of fingernails over the cloth of his suit.
"Good evening, Schuldig. Farfarello." Tot made a point of looking them up and down. "So, I see you've done your best and 'integrated' our psycho into the family. How is it? Is he a good fuck?"
"The best," Schuldig purred. "How's Taketori doing? Still getting it up?"
She bristled at his words. "That's none of your business, mindraper."
"Neither is my relationship with Farfarello yours. What brings you here? Mingling with the mighty?"
"Checking out the market. For business, and not the horizontal one."
He snorted, realizing with concern how Farfarello slowly became restless at his side. The Irishman hated Tot. It wasn't the same hatred he had for god, but it was there, palpable, hovering between him and the woman like a veil threatening to tear any moment. Schuldig did not know if Tot was aware of the hostility; at times, the Eszet representative was so air headed it was a wonder she knew which way was up and which was down.
"Anyway, I'll leave you two to your flirting now." She blew them a kiss. "My lover is going to take me to the theatre later on; I do hope we won't see each other there. Have fun, boys."
And off she went, leaving Schuldig to contemplate, once again, the disturbing fact that 'my lover' meant Taketori. Across the room, Crawford caught his eye, making a questing gesture. Schuldig shook his head: nothing had happened. Tot's way of making small talk and an annoyance out of herself. Still, there was an expression on the American's face that jammed the telepath. Crawford's words from the park came back to him; if his vision had been about the few words Tot had exchanged with them, then it surely hadn't been as big a thing as the American had predicted.
"I'm going to rip that bitch apart," Farfarello muttered.
Make sure they won't find the body
His eyes shot back to Crawford, then to Tot. She was standing at Taketori's side again, smirking at Schuldig.
Was Farfarello going to kill Tot? Tonight?
And if he did, would Schuldig help him, or hinder him?
Tot had watched over them, or rather, sent reports about them to Eszet, for as long as Schuldig had been in Taketori's service. The minute they had laid eyes on each other, a mutual disliking had been born, and both made sure to nurture it every time they met.
The thought of doing away with her, under the cruelest circumstances possible, was exhilarating.
The thought about what Eszet would do with them when they found out turned his stomach. It would simply be too much of a coincidence if a representative of the organisation were killed in a town that housed another 'representative'.
"Farfarello, that's not a good idea." He linked his arm through the Irishman's, pulling him closer so he could look into his eye. "Killing that woman will only get us into trouble."
"So what?"
"So, maybe you like dying, but I don't. Stay calm."
The glinting amber eye focused on him, clearing a little. Only a little. Farfarello sent another glare at Tot, then sighed.
"Can we get out of here for a moment?"
Schuldig furrowed his brow. "Taketori won't like this."
"Do you care?"
He thought about it. "No."
Crawford shook his head as he saw them leave through a side door, unnoticed by the guests. He searched the room for Nagi, finding him at a window, nearly hidden by the curtain. The youth had not noticed. Crawford concentrated, focusing on his inner eye, searching the patterns of the future, finding the threat that connected to Schwarz. It was thin, silver. Stretched.
Down a few stairwells, through a metal door marked 'Private', and they found themselves in a narrow hallway with no cameras. When Taketori had had his towers built, the old man had made sure secret passageways were included. There were few who knew about them; Schuldig only did because he had searched through Taketori's mind the day he started working for him, the beating he got for his indiscretion well worth the knowledge. There was no such thing as too much information. He doubted Taketori knew he knew about these passageways.
Neither of them spoke a word as the walked along the corridor, listening to security staff scuttle on the other side of the walls. It had been some time since Schuldig had last been in the corridor that lay next to the one leading to Taketori's private office; but he did remember to steer clear of the automatic weapons and motion trackers installed in regular distances along the hallway, focused away from them. At the end of the corridor, they turned left, ending in another, shorter hallway with doors leading off. He chose the first, closing it behind Farfarello.
The rooms they stood in were spacious, dark except for the light coming from the halos outside. Clothes and knickknacks were strewn across the floor, girl's clothes and schoolbooks. Schuldig realized they stood in Ouka Taketori's apartment. Farfarello looked at her things with disdain, snorting as he saw the plush animals on the chairs and couches.
"You never had any plushies, I assume." Schuldig wondered if Ouka knew there was a secret door hidden behind the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the east wall of her apartment.
"Mine had style," Derisively, Farfarello poked at a pink mouse. "This is an abomination."
"What did you have? Gutted teddy bears?" He sank into a heavenly soft couch and rested his head against the cushions. Damn, no smoking in here, or it would be obvious who'd been inside these rooms.
"I had a turtle. His name was Spike."
Grinning, and Schuldig closed his eyes. It did feel good, the chance to let the simmering murmur in his head subside, the inane chatter about stock markets and the cost of jewellery. He felt the couch dip as Farfarello sat down by his side; what he had not been prepared for was the arm that slid under his neck and pulled him against a broad chest, the other arm coming around to lock him in a gentle embrace.
Cuddling?
The Irishman didn't answer, his fingers drawing errand patterns on Schuldig's back.
It was in this moment that Schuldig knew Farfarello had won.
"I think your constant wooing finally takes effect," he said quietly, nuzzling into the folds of Farfarello's suit. He withstood the hands that tried to lift his head, trying to come to terms with the sudden knowledge. "It's crazy, you know. There really isn't any reason for me to give in to you, to that thing you claim is love."
"Well, I'm crazy. Maybe that explains things."
"Not really."
And that, as they say, was that. Honestly, how does one explain something as elusive as love, this thing that waves and shivers like a dancer on a dark, dark ocean? How does one explain the fluttering of hearts that has nothing to do with physical stimulation; how does one shape words with a mouth that had learned the language of kisses and wanted to speak in that tongue?
How does one explain the sudden urge for sappiness that overcomes people when they realize they're in love?
They moved without haste, without urgency, worry that they might be discovered shoved away into dark recesses of the mind. Like snakes sliding over hot stone during summer, they moved up against each other, mouths locking in a gentle, deep kiss, hands roaming, beginning the playful dance with zippers and buttons. Schuldig had felt the Irishman's hands countless times, but still the skin-to-skin contact came as a shock as they slid into the neck of his shirt, tracing his collarbone. He bent to Farfarello's neck, sucking the skin there, grazing it with his teeth, allowing himself to be pushed up, and off the couch, and onto the floor, onto the floor littered with schoolbooks and knickknacks. A happy childhood, desecrated with the act of lovemaking. It made him grin, made him bite into the soft skin of the neck he was sucking on, made him shiver as a low purr rolled through the other man's chest.
Off came his dress jacket, off came his shirt. Cool night air - an open window somewhere - kissed the skin of his back, Goosebumps trailing in the wake of Farfarello's hands as they shaped the contours of his shoulder blades and descended to the small of his back, playing with the waistband of his pants. Schuldig slid his mouth upwards, worrying at the Irishman's lower lip, nipping it. His hands found the buttons to Farfarello's shirt; one by one, they came undone, one by one, like soldiers falling in gunfire. The chest and stomach below, not marred by scars but perfected by them, were hot to his touch, burning him. He played over the ridged muscles, the tip of one finger fitting so perfectly into that bellybutton.
Farfarello decided Schuldig had the smoothest skin any human being could have. It felt so soft beneath the calluses of his fingers. He rested his hands as Schuldig's mouth closed over one of his nipples, tongue swirling over the hard nub, suckling like a babe at its mother's breast. He moved again, wanting to feel more of that skin, and the telepath didn' t seem to mind. He only moaned slightly, softly, as Farfarello's fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his pants, cupping his buttocks, rubbing their groins together, hardness meeting a matching hardness. Trailing one finger down the crack between the muscular half globes, Farfarello hissed as teeth came into play on his nipple, adding to the sensation. He might not feel pain, but he sure as hell felt the difference between sucking and biting. Growling, he tightened his grip on Schuldig's ass, rolling them over so he was on top, for a brief moment delighting in the widened eyes staring up at him, set above a gasping mouth. He ground his hips down hard, pulling the other's hips up, lifting them off the ground. Those pants had to go.
For such a complacent guy, you sure have determination when it comes to sex, Schuldig whispered into the other's mind, and then forgot about minds altogether as Farfarello opened the button of Schuldig's pants and pulled them off, taking the boxers beneath the pants on a ride.
A sliver of the Irishman's mind took in the telepath beneath him, currently dressed in socks and shoes, and laughed its ass off.
Annoyed, Schuldig toed said items off. "Funny. Really."
His back arched a moment later, his hips lifting of their own volition, as Farfarello splayed his legs and bent down to take the head of his straining erection into his mouth. Schuldig gasped, meeting that burning hell with helpless little thrusts, whimpering as Farfarello pulled it away. He took Schuldig's cock into one hand, rubbing a thumb over the sensitive head, trailing the veins. He felt a pulse beat beneath his fingers, and it was as raw, as beautiful as holding a real heart in his hands. Schuldig stretched like a cat, hands trailing along his own torso, coming to rest on his nipples, playing with them. He met the Irishman's calm gaze with his own; green and gold in the velvet half-light of the night.
Then, someone gasped.