Succour
The first thing he stirred to was the sensation of something blunt and heavy pressing into his shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt him, but nevertheless strong enough to effectively pin him facedown to the mattress.
Panic, surprise, and then a strong instinct for survival kicked in instantly. Refined control of his muscles over the years allowed him to suppress his first desires to twist around and fight off his enemy – it had taken a particularly nasty lesson to remind him that the other party usually expects such a reaction and typically arms himself just for that.
He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, the cotton in his mind rolling away quickly to allow processing of his current situation. His breathing almost stilled in his effort to concentrate on the pinning hand; he could tell that the hold was not firm enough to survive a sudden jolt. His instincts told him to jerk up roughly to throw his attacker off, then whip around to take the motherfucker's head off with one clean swipe.
"Don't." A voice like steel – cold and unbending.
Ken startled at the tone of the voice, taking him several moments to place a name to it.
Yes, he remembered now – he had spent the night in an unfamiliar bed, and he was unarmed.
Stupid. Very stupid.
He tested a few muscles; the ache was strangely familiar.
He turned his head towards the light to seek out the source of discomfort, betraying his surprise in a few quick flickers as he saw Crawford looking straight into his eyes, one arm shoved against his shoulder blade to restrain him. He laughed a breathless laugh against the pillow, and then met the man's gaze with equal coolness.
"You're trying to keep me from leaving," Ken observed. He made no movements in the meantime to free himself, finding that the pressure applied lacked malice. He forced his body to calm down, privately berating himself for being too jumpy. Had Crawford not placed his hand there, he might have just swung around and struck him.
Clairvoyance had its perks.
Crawford said nothing, his breathing and gaze both steady all this while.
They spent several minutes in silence, each waiting for the other to say or do something first. Moments as such always puzzled Ken – he knew Crawford to be a proud man who would not allow himself the weakness of speaking first; Ken himself was oftentimes equally or if not more stubborn. If Crawford had seen the immediate future and saw himself speaking first, would he stubbornly hold out longer to force words out of Ken instead? Wouldn't that change the future already? Doesn't that destroy the credibility of Crawford's visions?
It was too early in the morning for this, though he would like to set those questions upon Crawford. But he'd save those questions for some other time.
At length Crawford relented, looking away as he released his hold on the boy. Ken drew himself up into a sitting position and eyed Crawford suspiciously, concerned that the man's act of putting on his monocle was nothing more than an attempt to avoid him.
"It doesn't suit you," Ken offered up abruptly, and then added, "I could say the same for the suit and hair as well."
He thought he saw Crawford's shoulder twitch, and wondered if he had said something wrong.
"I'd ask for your opinion if I wanted it."
"Yeah, but the fact is that the monocle makes you look old... well, the hair and suit does too, come to that. Did Schuldich recommend you his makeover artist or what?"
Crawford's voice dropped to a muted whisper, "Hidaka."
Ken recognised that tone, so he belted up at once.
The monocle in place, Crawford turned to face Ken. The boy had adopted a lazy slouch, the blanket carelessly tangled about his lower half while he rubbed the last traces of sleep out of his eyes. He looked unaware of his undressed state, frankly.
He considered the situation – only a single blanket separated him from the smooth, tanned skin underneath. A larger stretch of said person's skin became exposed as Ken shifted backwards. It didn't matter if the action was deliberate or not – the effects were being felt. A glance into Ken's eyes served to reaffirm his suspicions that the boy's train of thought was stopping at the same station.
Crawford bit his tongue. He had arranged for an appointment an hour from now – he would have to leave soon if he were to be on time.
He drew in a breathe, then diverted both their thoughts, "I broke my glasses in Germany a little over a year ago. The monocle was the only suitable replacement there at that time and place."
Ken raised an eyebrow, and Crawford knew him to not buy the story. He cut the boy off by speaking before Ken could raise his next question, knowing ahead of time the words that would be used against him.
"Weiß were not the only ones to have experienced necessary changes in these few years." This he had said with flitting grimness, an unaccustomed feeling to the man.
Midlife crisis was the term that Ken had been groping for, but he came to understand that those words alone would not be adequate to describe Crawford. Something had happened while he was away. Omi mentioned that Schwarz would come to their aid minus one member – the madman Farfarello. Ken knew that the Irishman was a valuable member of Schwarz to Crawford: Farfarello was the only one to have never challenged the man's authority, a quality he knew to be important to the American. Yet he was missing from the team on the fateful night, and Crawford had said nothing about it.
Ken had questions; many questions.
If only Crawford wasn't so wrapped up with appearing in control, he might actually get some answers for a change.
He stretched out his arms, warming up the sleep-drugged muscles. Funny – he always slept a little better on nights like these. Ken looked to Crawford, not surprised to find the man looking towards the open windows.
It had been awkward to say the least; after close to 2 years without seeing each other it was almost ridiculous how easily everything fell into place. The familiarity both scorned and comforted him – a part of him knowing that he would have to leave this forever while the other realising what he had to look forward to.
Torn into two.
Aya had not said anything to him when he left, and Ken later understood what it meant.
If he wanted the answer, he would have to find Aya.
But if he wanted Aya's answer, he would have to look away from the barely whispered one he received the night before.
He reached over to place his hand on Crawford's bared shoulder, but the man did not respond. So he chanced a glance at the man's other shoulder – the one that he injured several months ago.
A trailing streak of pinkish skin, folding over itself and squeezing together to form a scar. It didn't look that bad now, but from the last traces of fresh stitches running down the length of the mark he knew the injury to continue causing the man trouble.
"I have done it purely for Schwarz – you have nothing to feel guilty about," Crawford spoke with his characteristic stiffness. He half-turned his head to look at the resting hand, and Ken took it as a signal to remove his hand. Sighing soundlessly, he curled around to look away from Crawford.
They were going nowhere, the both of them. Strains have started appearing a long time ago in the arrangement between them – neither liked to talk about his weakness, and their conflicting goals served as a constant reminder of what each needed to achieve without intrusions from the other.
One was as black as the other was white.
But Brad Crawford had an impossible quirk to work with – he would never relinquish what he thought as his.
And Ken knew where he stood.
Torn into two.
Turquoises fixed themselves into the exposed back, leaving Crawford to feel ill at ease under the boy's gaze. He turned around to meet the boy's gaze, frowning at the temptation laid before him.
"Do you have something to say, Hidaka?"
Hidaka. Hidaka. Hidaka. Hidaka.
Ken was getting pretty damn sick of being called by his surname.
Tangling a finger among his unruly fringe, he looked up at Crawford's piercing ambers. His lips curled into a sabre-like smile as he spoke in a playful drawl – "Yes: are you going to or not?"
Crawford blanched.
Ken thought he looked rather cute for a moment there.
Squaring his shoulders, Crawford levelled mistrustful ambers into the taunting turquoises before him. Was Ken even aware of what he was saying, of what he was suggesting?
Perhaps it hadn't been a good idea to shove Ken so roughly against the headboard yesterday – that blow on the head must have accounted for some part of this strange moment.
"I have an appointment," Crawford allowed calculated indignation to seep into his voice, "I will not be made to arrive late."
Ken smirked and shrugged, causing the blanket to slip even further, "Hey, it's always about you, right, Mr. Crawford?"
Crawford's eyes darkened at the accusation – not so much at the words themselves, but rather at the truth in the remark. His fingers tightened about the blanket, squeezing it as if hoping to transfer his anger into the fabric instead. Ken saw but said nothing, instead twisting over to the other side of the bed to peer over the edge.
"Where the hell are my clothes?" He half-rolled off the mattress while patting his hand against the floor to feel for his missing attire.
"I sent them to the cleaner's."
Ken lifted his head and peered over his shoulder, "You really are trying to keep me from leaving."
Crawford scoffed, "Do not hold yourself in such high regard, Hidaka."
"So what am I supposed to do now? Walk home naked?"
"If it bothers you so much, you may take something from my wardrobe."
Ken blinked, then said, "I think we're forgetting here that you're taller and bigger than me; I'm going to need at least a dozen safety pins to get your clothes to work for me."
"I don't have any safety pins," Crawford held his silence for a moment to keep Ken guessing, "However, you may stay the day while I attend to my business. The cleaner will be back in the evening with your precious jeans."
"Oh, joy," Ken rolled his eyes as he threw up his hands, "You're going to leave me padding around naked here for almost the whole day. Or am I supposed to spend the whole day tied to the bed or something?"
Crawford gave him a razor-thin smile – "I am sure a reasonable length of rope can be arranged for in a few minutes."
Yikes.
Without warning, Crawford lifted himself over Ken, both palms planted firmly against the mattress as he graced the boy with a confident smirk. He knew Ken hated that, and sure enough, the boy was scowling in no time. A finger placed on the boy's lips softened the angry line almost instantly – just as he descended upon them with a dangerous scrapping of his teeth against their soft insides. His cold monocle chain fell on Ken's cheek, causing the boy to squirm slightly.
One hand slid up the length of Ken's arm, coming to rest at his wrist and effectively pinning his hand above his head. He found the posture awkward and made to shift into a more comfortable posture, but his movements stilled the instant he felt Crawford's free hand slipping under the blanket.
He opened his eyes and chuckled breathlessly at the sight of a fiercely concentrating Crawford – "You said you didn't want to be late."
Impassively, Crawford asked, "Hidaka – what am I?"
"A clairvoyant?"
"Good," he breathed his answer into the boy's ear as his teeth found their mark, "Then leave the future to me."
"I hate you."
Crawford looked up at the speaker from behind his newspapers and seemed to be considering what to say in reply. In the end, he decided that it simply wasn't worth his time doing so and propped the papers up once again.
"I mean it, Crawford," a hand came to push the newspaper downwards, forcing Crawford to look at the man, "Seriously, what sort of a name is that – 'Solomon Breeches'? I swear I've never had a steward laugh right in my face before."
Crawford deadpanned, "You don't like the false identity I created for you?"
"Solomon Breeches!" The man practically shierked, "Gott, Crawford – I always knew that you are a sadistic bastard, but Solomon Breeches?!"
Crawford's cheek twitched at the pitch of the man's voice – there was no doubt that they were attracting the attention of every single patron in the airport restaurant, and probably calling a few dogs at the same time; Crawford did not like attracting attention.
"Sit down, 'Solomon'," he ordered.
"Please," his companion threw up both hands in exasperation as he plonked himself down on the empty armchair across Crawford, "Call me Schuldich or Screwditch even, but stop with the stupid Solomon, ja?"
The waitress approached their table to take Schuldich's order, looking somewhat intimidated by the sight of two foreigners glaring daggers at each other. Well, just one, actually: Crawford was doing his best to ignore Schuldich – not that it took much effort in the first place. Schuldich stole a glance at Crawford's half-full cup and asked for the same drink, knowing that no matter how appalling Crawford's taste was when it came to choosing names, at least his taste in some other areas were better.
"So..." began Schuldich as he picked up a packet of sugar and fiddled with it, "Whatever made the high and mighty Brad Crawford send for little o' me?"
Crawford folded up the papers and set them down on the table before replying in a clear voice, "You know the answer."
At this, Schuldich practically beamed, "Ja, I do. The next time you want to find me telepathically, don't do it while you are screwing Hidaka – I had to rinse my eyes in acid afterwards."
"I did not give you permission to dig in my head," Crawford could feel unaccustomed heat rising to his cheeks, but he managed to mask whatever embarrassment he felt by reminding himself that it was Schuldich that he was talking to.
Schuldich continued to grin, much to his chafe. The redhead pinched a corner of the sugar sachet and spoke while he torn the corner off to spill sugar into the dish below, "I didn't have to, Crawford – your mind was open."
No outwards emotions were betrayed as Crawford rapidly slammed down his mental shields. Years of training in Rosenkreuz and around Schuldich had turned the process of shielding into a subconscious act already, and an impregnable one at that. Yet to his great surprise he had failed to notice that his shields were down all this while.
"I did warn you, Crawford. I told you that it would happen with that boy..."
"Enough."
The next few minutes were spent in silence, both facing and yet not looking at each other. The lull broke only when the waitress came with Schuldich's coffee, the shrill clink of bone china against the wooden tabletop bringing both men's attention back to each other. Schuldich lazily stirred his drink, at the same time repeating his question as to the man's purpose for calling him back.
"Fujimiya Aya – do you know where he is?" Crawford found the name strangely hard to pronounce all of a sudden.
Schuldich shrugged as he lifted the coffee to his lips, "That depends on which Fujimiya Aya you are talking about."
"How many do you know?" Crawford narrowed his eyes suspiciously; he did not know what sort of a game had Schuldich in mind when he said that.
Another clink as the cup was returned to its saucer, followed by Schuldich holding up a hand to start counting fingers off one by one:
"Well, there's one in Houston, one in New Jersey, another in San Francisco, one in New York... and oh – one in Vancouver." Schuldich tilted his head and muttered more to himself than anyone else – "That's a lot of places to cover in a couple of months if you ask me."
Crawford raised an eyebrow, "He went to Canada too?"
"So did I – I got an invitation from this gorgeous lass while in New York; went up north to Quebec with her. She even taught me a bit of French while I was there." Schuldich looked positively pleased, and Crawford decided that he wasn't interested in knowing how or why did Schuldich get such an offer.
Clearing his throat dramatically, Schuldich forced away his German accent as much as he could as he drawled, "Bonjour, Monsieur Crawford." Then he grinned triumphantly – "How's that?"
If he was expecting Crawford to be impressed, he was a decade too late.
"Je suis satisfait de voir que vous vous consacrez à apprendre quelque chose qui est cultivé au lieu de vous permettre vos passe-temps decadents. Peut-être, après quelques ans, vous pourrez me dire quelle heure est-il et que Tante Abigail prend le train à Toronto à six heures."
Schuldich blinked, then remarked, "Oh, yeah - you were the only loser to sign up for Advance French classes in Rosen-fucking-kreuz"
"It was a necessary course if I wanted to make field leader status," Crawford dismissed Schuldich's surprise, "At any rate, I wasn't the only one taking that class."
At this, Schuldich looked away, eyebrows knitted in anger.
"Ja... The Bastard took that class too, didn't he?"
A nod, "Yes, he did."
The redhead didn't return Crawford's gaze for several minutes, and Crawford knew that he wasn't in the position to barge into Schuldich's memories at that point. Rosenkreuz had left scars on each of them, whether they liked it or not.
Schuldich broke the silence at last – "So... back to what you were saying..."
"Have you been trailing him?" Crawford asked.
"Nein – he's really boring to follow around, actually. All he does is go from city to city plying his skills as a murderer, trying to think things through at the same time. And when someone thinks as loudly as Fujimiya does, it's quite hard to ignore him."
Schuldich then sneered, "A lot of those thoughts were centred on your dear katzchen, Crawford. I'd be pretty damn worried if I were you."
Crawford deadpanned, ""Then it'll save me telling you the story itself."
Tanzanites met ambers; Schuldich could feel Crawford's shields dropping again, and the man seemed completely oblivious to it. So he gave him a quick mental poke as a reminder.
Instead, Crawford bristled at the intrusion, reading it as the telepath's attempt at prying into his mind. Fortunately, Schuldich recognised the look that he was getting from his former leader, and wisely held out both hands as if to show that he wasn't trying to do anything.
At length, Crawford said, "I am going to order you to do something for me, Schuldich."
"Kinky," Schuldich leered as he wiggled his eyebrows – "Should I lean over your table and spread my legs while you're in that mood?"
Crawford reached up in time to stop the monocle from slipping off his face. And Schuldich, much to the irritation of the man, could not resist a guffaw at the look of shock in Crawford's eyes. His peals of laughter were abruptly stopped by a single thought projected into his mind – striking with the precision of an expert archer:
// I want you to help Hidaka find him. //
The redhead sobered up at once.
"You're kidding."
"I am perfectly serious, Schuldich," Crawford spoke as if annoyed.
Schuldich leaned backwards into the head of the armchair and sighed loudly. After what looked like a series of solemn mentations, he jerked his head down and made to lean towards the man.
"Crawford, you are not thinking straight."
Cool ambers met his gaze, "You are in no position to question my decisions."
// Fuck that, Crawford! Schwarz is gone – you've no power over me anymore. I'm telling you this as a friend... or whatever you want to call it. Whatever it is, you are being incredibly stupid now. //
// Have I ever been wrong in my decisions, Schuldich//
Schuldich had to stop to think at that statement. Yes, it was true – as their leader, Crawford had constantly steered them in the right direction time after time. Oh, there have been a few slip-ups here and there, but he had to admit that during those times, he was at least partially responsible for the mess.
Still, he had to say it.
"You know you can't, Crawford."
Then silently// You can't bear to, and you know it. //
// No // the reply from Crawford was firm// The boy is right – he does not belong to me. If he wants to leave, then keeping him here will do me no good either. //
Silence hung thick in the air around them, both knowing where the argument was going to lead to in the end and neither wishing to prolong it. Eventually, Schuldich pulled out a pen from his pocket and scribbled a number on the discarded sachet wrapping before taking Crawford's hand and pressing it into the curved palm.
"You know best, Crawford. But just in case you ever get lonely when your sweetheart is gone and you need a good lay, give me a call on my mobile and I'll scoot right over," Schuldich forced himself to grin as suggestively as possible in light of the tension between them.
Crawford snorted in contempt, then shook the piece of paper into his half-drank coffee. Moments later the numbers on the sachet were stained beyond comprehension.
"I won't count on that happening, Schuldich."
Schuldich could only stare at the brown paper as he muttered quietly – "I hate you."
"I know."
- End chapter 2
French translation: "I am satisfied to see that you are finally applying yourself towards learning something cultured instead of following your usual decadent pursuits. Perhaps a few years later you can tell me the time of the day and that Aunt Abigail is taking the six o'clock train to Toronto."