[Epitaph]

part one

A different country, a different nation.

Black cabs, double-decker buses and European cars move sluggishly, filling up the wide street graced with middle-aged architecture on both sides - buildings of marble, stones and concrete. Coffee and cake shops, high street stores and hotels have invaded these structures on the ground level, creating an odd mixture of the new and old.

This is Regent Street, Central London.

This capital has always given him a funny feeling. It seems strangely similar to his homeland yet nothing quite like it. The Londoners take their time to do things, they don't move with the contained violence he sees in the Americans and they surely look like they have less worries in the world than the Americans. The Londoners are too busy in work and having fun to give much of a care to a drop in the Doles Index or the recent technology advancements. They pick up a copy of The Times or Daily Telegraph, skim through it but not much of the newspaper will stay in their minds for more than a day or so. Completely unlike the people in New York or Washington City.

Today, he has let himself follow the pace of the Londoners and relax. This made him realise one thing: efficiency and relaxation are, more often than not, inversely proportional to each other - as one goes up, the other goes down. He doesn't really care, because he is working for no one and he can spend his time how he wants.

He finishes the cheesecake, leaves a five-pound note on the table and steps out of the warm café, sticking his hands into pockets as the rush of still chilly March winds hit him. He walks aimlessly down the quieter side of the street, where the coffee shops and Scottish wool shops concentrate instead of the crowded side where the toy, gift and fashion stores are. Then he spots a familiar figure across the street, just coming out of Hamleys, the enormous multi-stories toy store.

He fishes out a couple of notes from his wallet, hands it over the counter and slips the change down the charity collection box. Not because he wants to do good, but he likes the sound of the coins hitting the bottom of the plastic box: A small dull thud, like the sound of a bullet entering flesh. He smiles bitterly when he notices that the collection goes to a charity that helps the deaf children. Sometimes he wishes he is deaf.

He still hasn't found him, and he begins to doubt that his wires gave him true information. Or perhaps he is a step behind. Again. He should have expected it. Carrying his new 3D jigsaw puzzles of the Big Ben, he idly wonders how large his collection of souvenirs has grown since the search had begun.

He decides he will hop onto a tour bus and take a look around this capital like a tourist. Perhaps by doing this he can understand why that man had chosen to come here, and perhaps then he can be a step closer to him. Look at the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London, the Madame Tussauds. Maybe he will step on the same soil that man has once stepped on, breathe the same air that man had breathed. He has been living - no, surviving - on these valueless, substance-less somethings that he knows mean nothing but are the only things that mean something to him.

It isn't making sense again, this wrecked brain. He shakes his head, red mane tumbling wildly then settling to frame his thinning face once more.

---What if he finds him?---

The answer to this question is not known.

---Why is he looking for him?---

'That's because...' He hisses as he exits the toy store, wrapping the scarf around his neck again. 'In the beginning, you were the one who said "come with me". Bastard.'

The figure across the street looks up and sees him. Then he is a blur of movements, disappearing behind a red double-decker, swivelling around the traffic like mercury and stopping in front of him. It has taken him five point five seven seconds to cross the four-lane road down the middle of Regent Street.

'This is a small world, Crawford.' The glasses are worn properly instead of being on his flame-coloured hair. The English has much improved since Crawford last heard it.

It had been some three, four years since he last set eyes on this man, and he still looks the same, except that the glint in his eyes has gone a little duller, and now he looks polished, not only in appearance but inside the person as well. A removal of juvenility that can only be caused by experience, Crawford notes. Experience is the only thing that makes people grow, provided they learn from it.

He wonders what caused this change. He also wonders how he has already noticed this, in a matter of seconds.

On the sidewalk, the flow of the crowd parts like the Dead Sea where the two men are standing. For a moment, Crawford is lost for words. Without that aura of childlike wickedness, the person before him is so familiar yet a total stranger to him. Something is tugging at his nerves, warning him that this young man has returned to the animal he was when they first met.

This young man had been a teenager then. He was sitting in the corner of his prison, streaks of dirty long hair falling over his eyes that displayed a raw desire to destruction, revenge and beneath that, a longing to something. When this youth turned from staring at the ceiling to look at him, Crawford felt the gaze, intriguingly green in the darkness, pierce through and he had fought hard not to step back in awe and, he had to admit, fright.

He expected questions and resistance from the youth, but nothing was asked. The young man stood up and followed him until Schwarz was no more, hiding the beast inside him and instead, turned into one smooth-talking bastard who used more of his smile than his psychic ability to manipulate.

Now, looking at this man years later, Crawford sees that same certain longing has possessed this person once again. He does not understand this longing. He doesn't think he should care.

After a while, he realises he should say something. He can't just stand and stare like this.

'What are you doing here, Schuldich?'

Because he heard rumours that Brad Crawford was seen in London.
Because he is looking for him.
Because he doesn't know what else to do with himself after the four of them went their separate ways.
Because Crawford told him to go with him since his new life had begun.
Because a puppet is lifeless without its puppeteer.
Because -

'Farfie wanted to see Ireland again, and you know he doesn't like planes, so I kind of escorted him there then came down here for shopping.' Schuldich says in English. His tone is calm and smooth, even though the sharp edges in Crawford's question has already nicked him. He dismisses this feeling like he would to a paper cut. He hasn't expected any heartbreaking reunion with them asking what each other what they had been doing for the past few years. He doesn't know what to expect.

The American lifts one eyebrow, looking slightly more interested than before. 'You two kept in contact?'

Schuldich's steps fall into pace with Crawford's. He is aware that they are drawing attention again, like they did in the old times. 'Just phonecalls, really. Didn't see him again 'till last week.'

'You're lying.' The taller man says, without thinking.

'Not about the phonecalls.' Schuldich snickers. Crawford still knows him too well. But he also knows Crawford better than that man may think. 'Farfie is part of the reason. But you wouldn't be interested in my true reason of coming here anyway, would you.'

He wishes Crawford will surprise him and say he would. Silence is the answer.

So Schuldich returns the silence. Crawford asks questions but never tells anyone anything; Schuldich knows this for a fact. In a way, nothing has changed.

The silence stretches between them.

Like a child facing his teacher, Schuldich fumbles with words, searching for something to say. What can he tell Brad Crawford? Is there anything that the man would be interested in that Schuldich has to offer?

No.

That was why they parted, wasn't it? If Schuldich had something Crawford wanted, then he wouldn't have left him behind. Simple logic, so simple, so true that even Schuldich cannot deny, no matter how much he wants to.

However, he will not accept it, even if he cannot deny it. Because without someone to follow, Schuldich is nothing more than a pretty puppet in the shop window. People come and go, saying 'oh look, what a beautiful thing', but that's all he is. A beautiful creature. Finally, a man claims him to be his own, promising him a new life. That man is his life.

Without this man, without someone to tuck at the strings, a puppet is just a slump of nothing.

'Hey, Crawford, want to go to dinner? My treat.'

With a piece of cheesecake still in his stomach, Crawford does not particularly fancy meals right now. But, is that disappointment that just flashed on Schuldich's features? Forever a child, isn't he. Schuldich is someone who needs companionship; he craves and works for it. Crawford sighs and changes his mind.

They jump on a bus that takes them back down the street, then walk their way to a Japanese sushi bar near Covent Garden. Nothing classy, typically Schuldich. The younger man is looking excited once more, just like when they used to go on their assignments, and they order some udon before starting to choose the sushi.

'So how long are you staying here for, and where're you going next?' Schuldich asks before slurping in the thick white rice noodles, pulling off his glasses at the same time so that they don't get steamed up. He doesn't really need them anyway.

Crawford doesn't quite want to tell. He doesn't like anybody knowing where he is. For the same reason, he disliked mobile phones before such things called 'caller ID' were invented, because before that, he could not choose whether to pick up a call or not. Everybody could find him anywhere, as if he was a dog on a leash.

But Schuldich has that trademark smile on his face now, and Crawford doesn't want to cause any frowning or tense atmosphere. When Schuldich goes cold, the power in his eyes is deadly. Even the smile takes on a hard edge. Crawford is by no means afraid of that, he just isn't fond of seeing it because it is too much like himself.

'I haven't got any plans. Maybe down to Berlin or Madrid.'

That is already telling too much, but never mind, it's only Schuldich. Schuldich is harmless, Crawford simply loathe being stared at, which is the price to pay for being with the younger man. Schuldich is an attention seeker, but he is not. He'd much rather live without anyone gaping at him, without the pressure, without being judged. He is an efficient man, but by no means is he going to put up with any expectations unless he chooses to. He had enough of that already.

No, Schuldich doesn't judge him, Crawford knows that. Pretty much everyone else does, though, especially when the two of them are together. It is easy to say that he doesn't care about anybody's views, but in reality, who doesn't?

If Schuldich doesn't bring along all that staring, Crawford thinks he can actually like the German.

Men dressed casually or in suits and women mostly wearing too little clothes for this temperature, beer cans, wine and spirit bottles fill the street. It is Friday night. Schuldich smiles. Even though the voices sometimes drown him, he likes the crowds. He knows Crawford doesn't.

'Where're you staying?' The American asks as a hint that he is going to leave.

Schuldich finds himself shrugging to that question, and answering honestly, 'Don't know yet.'

'Why?'

'It was like a last minute decision to come here, so I didn't have time to arrange anything... Can you accommodate me?'

Crawford half smiles and turns away. A 'no', that is.

An exaggerated sigh. 'Heartless man.'

With that, Schuldich turns and leaves. He cannot keep Crawford with him, the American like no ties that hold him back. But now that he has found him, he will tie himself to Crawford and follow him, the way his life was set out to be.

'See ya, Crawford.'

Crawford pushes his way down the stairs of Leicester Square Underground station. 95.8 Capital FM greets him in bright red and blue, but like most Londoners, he is too used to that advertisement to pay attention to it. Shoulders shove against shoulders, arms against arms. He wants to be away from here as quickly as possible. London is no longer attractive to him, it is merely another city where its people live in false contentment. His flight to Berlin will be in four days' time.

Once inside the ticket gates and on the escalator, he pulls out some mint chocolate and breaks a little piece for himself. A hand reaches from over his right shoulder and takes the last of the chocolate away.

'Learn the art of sharing.' A voice speaks in an amused tone. The speaker consumes his prize, filling his breath with minty sweetness.

'Learn to ask before you take anything.' Crawford replies bitterly, half turning to shoot Schuldich a look.

'Since when,' The German steps off the escalator after Crawford. 'Have we asked anyone before taking their lives?'

Schuldich shrugs off his coat, tempted the wrap it around Crawford's head to get a better, more obvious reaction from the man than just a bitter or sarcastic reply. Crawford is fun when he goes mad. But maybe Schuldich is the only person to think so. People never mess with Brad Crawford, but Schuldich is no ordinary person. He is Brad Crawford's disciple.

'I want you to leave me alone.'

This is one of the only orders Schuldich does not listen to from Crawford.

'Ah, but I don't - '

Bloody hell, why did she do that?

A couple of lines will do. Just get the money from mom's closet. She'll never know.

' - quite want to.'

Bastard! You know I love you!

They're all lying. I'm not sick. They're the ones who need to see the doctor.

Schuldich mutters a curse in German and bites down on his lip. He forgot how the voices attack him whenever he is with the American. The hand holding the coat clenches into a tight fist as he fights off the hummings in the back of his head. He needs a physical contact with Crawford for the silence to return, but Crawford is already annoyed enough with him. Chemically treated hair falls to hide his pained expression when he bows his head, as if that will make the voices fade.

He jerks his head up when a hand grips his arm and suddenly there is silence again. Brad Crawford lets him go and rolls his eyes. 'Masochist.'

A smile creeps onto Schuldich's lips. No matter what he says, Crawford is still the man he knew since Schwarz. Perhaps he is a masochist to still stick around this man when he brings along all this noises in his head, but Schuldich will learn to like this too, if this is the price to pay for following Crawford.

Passengers stream beside them when the train stops at platform 2.

'For one last time, stop following me.'

'You don't hate me that much.'

'Quit it, Schuldich.'

People from the platform begin filling up the train.

'I thought you've always wanted to understand me and such.'

'I believe that was when we had to work together.'

'You stung me, you know?' Dramatically Schuldich places a palm over his heart and bows his head again. 'You're so harsh to moi.' He says in a casual tone that can fool all but post-Schwarz members.

Sighing, Crawford pulls off his glasses and wipes them on his shirt. His long-sightedness prevents him from seeing Schuldich's reactions to his words, and he knows it's better this way. It always makes him feel somewhat guilty to hurt Schuldich like this, perhaps because he did make Schuldich his own responsibility in the first place. Leaving a liability behind is not a Brad Crawford thing to do, but neither is having someone to follow him. Crawford will choose to be a lone wolf over being a leader.

'The past is the past. We're not a team now, get used to it.'

'Four years.' Schuldich bites his lower lip. Over 1500 days of searching, but Brad Crawford will never know that. 'And you haven't changed your mind a bit?'

'Don't think I ever will.' Crawford steps into the train, feeling relieved as the doors close. He doesn't need to live with this guilt - he has never felt guilty about anything, and he intends to stay that way. If this means he has to run away like a coward...

He turns his back to the windows as the train start off and accelerates.

Standing on platform 2 of Leicester Square underground station, Schuldich watches as the train disappears into the utter darkness of the tunnel.

Brad Crawford puts down the receiver and ticks off the tasks in his daily planner. Not wishing to leave anything to chances, he has cancelled all his flights for the next few days after foreseeing an air accident. He has no plans to die as of yet, even though he hasn't found anything to live for. One day he'll find it, and before that, death is out of the picture.

It does not surprise him when he turns around to see Schuldich outside the phonebox, tapping his foot.

'Crawford, you're very bad.' Schuldich reaches into the box and pulls out one of the stuck-on advertisement cards when the American walks out. 'You should know better than to call up these services.'

Crawford pays no attention when Schuldich waves the card with a nude woman and a phone number on it in front of him.

'You'll catch STDs, you know?' Schuldich smiles and throws the card away, picking up his steps easily beside Crawford.

'Even that will be none of your business.'

'It will, because if you die, then I can't bug you.'

'Death sounds like a good option now.' The harshness in his voice surprises Crawford himself. The air is suddenly dense and he feels as though he cannot breathe when slowly Schuldich takes a wider stride to step in front of him, dark green eyes narrowing into slits.

Before Schuldich has said anything, Crawford takes a step back. This is the same Schuldich he once met in the concentration camp in Hamburg, the brutal, wounded animal. This is a man he doesn't understand or know how to deal with.

But when Schuldich opens his mouth to speak, his voice is not filled with anger, only hurt. 'What have I done wrong, Crawford?'

To this, Brad Crawford cannot answer. The attention he attracts? The knowledge that he has changed this young man's life? The devotion he does not know how to handle?

None of it is Schuldich's fault.

Suddenly Crawford becomes very aware that he may be a more flawed person than he thought he was. Perhaps he doesn't like attention because he doesn't want anyone to see his imperfections. Perhaps he doesn't want to acknowledge his effects on Schuldich because he doesn't know if he has ruined Schuldich's life or not. Perhaps he doesn't know how to handle devotion because he thinks he isn't worth it.

'Give me one reason why you hate me so much.'

For the first time in his life, Crawford struggles to find the right words to say. He turns away from Schuldich's demanding stare, wishing this conversation never started.

Feeling defeated, he opens his lips to apologise.

But when he turns around again, Schuldich has gone.

[to be continued]