Won't you close our eyes?


A/N: Um, okay, I've already posted this on the BradxSchu ML, but anyway... I haven't really gotten to write the last part, so I thought, maybe if I post it here I might get more ideas... Or not. X/ I need more coffee... And another pack of cigarettes... *calls to her "sister" Lenn-chan* Would you buy me some?! We could share! I'll say it again; It was hard to think of a German name for Schuldig. I hate the common stuff like Arnold and Friedrich and stuff. Then I saw this German documentary and in the credits there was this guy called Florian Schrödler, and I was like, "Hey, that's kinda nice". And it sounds kinda Schuldig-y, don't you think? And about Brad's name... Don't ask. I was tired. Yeah. And 'Vaughan' sounds... like some knight's name, doesn't it? Cool, knight-y Crawford!
Anyways.... Here's the story. It's another of those Schu-goes-mad-stories, but hell... I felt as if I was going mad, so I started writing on this. Don't hate me. I'm just so... cute? Um, yeah. And review! I'll die without reviews! ...I'll give you cookies.


Warnings: Um, yeah. Can everybody say "OOC!"? Come on, you can do it! I don't think the language is too bad, and even though there's some morphine and stuff later on it's not so bad... I think. Um, right. All the faults in spelling is blamed on the spellingdemon. Also, I based my Nagi on a Nagi I know. *waves* Hi!! Um, yeah. That's it. HAAAAAI!

italics means thoughts
~...~ means flashback
'...' means diary-entry, or part from a diary-entry
"..." means telepathic thought, or thought picked up by telepathy


Acknowledgements: First of all, Lenn-chan for being such a party-babe! Yeah! Still wanna go this weekend? Party on!
Secondly, to Wacky, who reads through all my stuff and says "I don't get this" "you should change this" and stuff. Um, yeah.
Then, of course, to Eike who helped me out with the German stuff. I don't know shit when it comes to German.
And, not to forget, Omi-kun who's in the hospital. I'm glad you didn't succeed in killing yourself this time, either, cutie!
And last, but definitely not least, to the peeps at the bxs ML! What would I do without your mails! *mwwwaa!*


Disclaimer: I don't own these peeps. I don't know if I want to... Though they're really cute! ^_^ Oh, and the song's not mine, it belongs to His Infernal Majesty. Yeah. They rock! Goth guitars all the way, baby! *bounce bounce* Um, so don't sue me, people, 'coz I'm like... Broke. *boohoo*



Chapter I: Florian Schrödler is dead


Just because he was a workaholic didn't mean he enjoyed dealing with annoying persons. And Schuldig was often more than a handful. There were times when he considered locking the redhead up just so that he could be absolutely sure of where he was. Although he doubted that he would succeed. Firstly, the German hated it when people tried to control him. Secondly, even though he had the physical strength to drag the redhead into a room and lock him up, Schuldig was at least twice as fast and agile than he was.
He heaved a heavy sigh, took off his frame-less glasses, put them on his spotless desk and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. Too many hours in front of a computer screen was beginning to take its toll. Just as he finished rubbing his eyes, the laptop in front of him let out a short "beep" to inform him of an incoming message. He sighed again, put the spectacles back on and searched the bottom of the screen. Estet. He clicked his way to the message and read it through. The mission was as if it had been especially designed for Schuldig. Speaking of which… He looked up from the screen. Where was he, anyway?
After searching through the two floors of the house he and the other Schwarz members shared he had yet to find the German, and he had run out of floors to look on. Passing a hand through his raven hair, the American shot a glance at his wristwatch. 11.18 PM. Great. He can be anywhere, he thought with an irritated frown. Then it hit him. The roof.
When he climbed out onto the dark tilted roof he saw a trail of thin smoke from the western-most side. Carefully walking towards the smoke, he could vaguely discern a black-clad figure lying on its back on the cold roof, its legs drawn up and crossed while its green feline eyes absently watched the grayish smoke rise and disappear into the dark of night.
"What do you want?" The sound of a voice nearly made Brad trip. The German's hearing was impressive. At times, his resemblance to the feline was eerie.
"There's a mission for you." He sat down carefully, glad that he had decided on wearing dark pants.
"Killing?" Another trail of smoke being watched.
"Yes."
The redhead licked his lips. "There's a woman screaming not so far away," he said slowly and flicked the cigarette-butt away into the night.
"You've been listening." It wasn't a question. Those questions were useless, he had learned.
"They are so delicious when they're frightened," Schuldig purred and stretched before putting another cigarette to his lips and began digging through his pockets for a lighter. The other refrained from commenting. "You know," he continued once he had lighted the stick of nicotine and taken a long drag. "It's not as if I particularly like to smoke."
"Then don't."
He smiled into the darkness and took another drag, watching the smoke swirl into the dark sky as he exhaled. "I just hope it'll kill me before my brain does," he said after a while, dragging out every syllable, as if tasting the words. Then he sat up and put out the rest of the cigarette. "Now, you said something about a mission?"
Crawford would have shaken his head, had it not been too obvious in the night. He would never understand how the German thought. But then again, he had never considered the other to be sane. It had to be hard to try and stay sane, with a hundred voices screaming in your head for several years before you learned how to filter them out. And so far, it hadn't gone too well. He drew breath and began explaining the mission, watching how the redhead nodded every now and then, licking his lips unconsciously every time the target was mentioned. When the American finished, Schuldig laid back down on his back and re-lighted the cigarette.
"Fine," he said. "I'll do it."
Brad left the redhead there and went back down-stairs. Oh, well, he thought as he reseated himself at his desk. As long as it gets done.
About one and a half hours later Brad walked to the kitchen to get a new cup of coffee to sustain himself for another half-hour so that he could finish the report of the day. The kitchen was almost completely dark, with the exception of one lonely candle burning alone on the tiny, round table. And within the light's radius sat Schuldig, bent over the table and writing. Brad frowned. The German was supposed to still be out. The mission he had been sent on had sent him to the other side of Tokyo. And yet, there he was, completely absorbed with writing.
"I sincerely hope that that's the report you're writing," the American said while switching on the light, a yellowish glow bathing the tiny kitchen in warmth. Schuldig looked up, a strangely haunted look on his face. Then he acknowledged the other man and his well-made mask slipped on. He smirked.
"There isn't much to write," he said without taking his eyes off the raven-haired man.
Brad measured up the coffee and turned on the brewer, used to having the other's eyes on him. Schuldig, he had learned, loved to watch people. "You mean that you're already done, then?" he asked, leaning back against the counter while waiting for the coffee to brew.
"From the roof," replied Schuldig and got up to sort through the refrigerator.
Crawford frowned. "The roof?"
Schuldig shrugged his shoulders before bending down to look through the bottom shelves. "I wasn't… I'm not feeling too well, so I decided I would stay here." He frowned to himself and looked as if he was about to say something more, but never did.
"And you're absolutely sure that you killed him?"
At this Schuldig licked his lips absently. "Sure." He looked up from the vegetables to find the American frowning at him. Crawford sure did frown a lot lately, Schuldig noted. "Oh, come on. It's not that hard, you know. Make a call and check, if you like." He held up a jar of mayonnaise. "Turkey sandwich?"
"It's unhealthy to eat in the middle of the night," Brad said, pouring himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee.
Schuldig frowned, then shrugged his shoulders again. "I've got a headache," he said, as if that reason was as valid as any other, and dug out more things from the fridge. "Are you sure you don't want anything?"
Crawford sighed. Something was wrong. Maybe the telepath was getting ill? Whatever it was, he wanted to know, so that he could handle it with proper care. "Alright. Just one, though," he added, seeing the growing pile of food on the round wooden table.
"Pour me a cup of tea, will you?" the redhead asked of the American and Brad complied while knitting his brow. As cutlery was placed on the table, Crawford turned on the CD-cassette-radio standing on the windowsill. Quiet Mozart spilled out into the kitchen as the CD player started playing. Schuldig made a face.
"Let me play one tune, at least," he said, digging through the pile of CDs stacked next to the radio. Picking one out, he exchanged it for the Mozart-CD, skipped to track four and pressed play. Drums, Goth guitars and a soft, almost soothing vocal flowed out of the speakers on low volume.
"I thought you had a headache," the raven-haired man said with arched eyebrows.
"I do. This helps me relax. Deal with it," Schuldig replied and sat down, taking the teacup between his long-fingered hands. "Turn off the light, will you? It makes my head hurt."
Brad complied once again before sitting down. He found Schuldig's behavior a bit strange. He had never heard of a telepath having a headache. As far as he was concerned, telepaths were supposed to give others headaches, not get them. And Schuldig never got ill. None of them did, thanks to Estet. It just didn't fit.
"What were you writing, if it wasn't the report?" he asked, spreading the mayonnaise over his slice of bread with the help of a knife. The clairvoyant had missed American sandwiches. It surprised him that they had been able to get a hold of so many western food articles. But then again, this was Tokyo. He was grateful that one could find just about anything there.
"Why do you want to know?" Schuldig asked back, his face looking strangely much like china in the flickering light of the candle. The verse and chorus spilled into the room.

In our diabolical rapture we live on and on
And death keeps knocking at our door
So we open the door and we die a bit more
We're in love with death and we die on and on
Won't you close our eyes?
We'll be by your side

Brad frowned at the lyrics. "What is this?"
"What is what?"
"This song, what is this?"
Schuldig smiled. "Why, you like it?"
Brad shook his head slowly. "No, I just… It reminds me of something."
"Then shut up and listen."
He wanted to tell the German to stop being rude, but he caught himself as the second verse began, reminding him of something he could not truly remember. It bothered him.

In your heavenly rapture we die on and on
And you keep waiting at our door
Yes - we open the door - let us die a bit more
We're in love with you and we die on and on
Won't you close our eyes?
We'll be by you side

Then he started and nearly dropped his sandwich. The only instrument left was a guitar and the singer's soft, almost whispering voice. He was so very sure that he had heard it before, he just couldn't place it.

Your love is the only thing I live for in this world
Oh, how I wait for the day your heart burns
In these heavenly flames I have already scorched in
I just want you to know I'll always be waiting

Then the same bit was sung again, and Brad shook his head. "What is this?" he asked again. Schuldig, listening to lovesongs? He felt confused.
"HIM." Schuldig took a sip of his tea. "The album's called 'Greatest lovesongs volume 666'. Why?" The German ran a hand through his unruly hair that had been let free from the restraining bandana.
"It just…"
"It reminds you of something, yes you've already said that."
"What were you writing, then?" he asked again, seeing that he had yet to get an answer.
Schuldig frowned. "Really, can't I have at least some privacy?"
Brad shrugged and they continued eating in silence, the music strangely quiet in the background, even though there were lots of drumming and electric guitars. The candle-flame danced every time one of them moved to reach over the table. It burned out and was replaced, the redhead complaining over the bright light of the lamp.
It was nearly 3 AM when Schuldig fell asleep, his head rested in the cradle of his arms upon the table. Crawford sat quiet, watching the German intently, as if he could find out what was wrong by just looking at him.
Once the raven-haired man was sure that the other was deeply asleep, he rose and picked up the pocket-sized book that Schuldig had been writing in earlier. As he leafed through the pages he was met by a curly, cursive handwriting. At times the writing had been written in such a hurry that it seemed some letters got lost on the way, especially m, n, i and u. But the writing was strangely beautiful in its own odd way.
It was a diary. He could tell not from the text but from the dates and the fact that every entry was signed "Dein Schuldig" making him wonder if the German had meant for someone to read it. He knew hardly any German, only a few words and phrases, and he had always had some trouble reading cursive, which was why he always printed. But he caught a word here and there, mostly just weekdays, months and some pronouns. Ihn, sie, Montag, Juli. But not much else.
Carefully laying it back down on the table, he began putting the food back into the fridge, pondering if the reason to the headaches was written in the diary, and if so, how he would be able to find out.
Schuldig stirred. "Was machst du?" he mumbled, blinking tiredly.
Brad smiled, though with his back to Schuldig. "I'm not German, you know."
Schuldig frowned slightly, then shook his head. Brad turned back to face the table. To him, the German's hair looked crimson in the dim light. "I mean, what are you doing?" the redhead corrected himself. Brad tilted his head slightly to the right.
"Sorry. I just assumed you were done eating, considering that you had your hair all over the salad."
Schuldig shook his head carefully. Crawford actually made a joke. Whatever this headache was, it definitely wasn't good for him. He was beginning to hear things, he thought with a slight smile.
"Well, I'm done, anyway," the American continued. "And if you've been having a headache I strongly advice you to take an aspirin and go to sleep. Perhaps in your bed, but if you prefer a wooden table, go ahead." And with that, he left the kitchen, leaving the redhead behind. Schuldig was about to shake his head once again, but the headache made itself known by giving him a dull ache in the form of constant thudding in the back of his head and he refrained from doing so. He picked up the book, wrote a few quick sentences and went to bed.

The next few days, Crawford wondered over Schuldig's diary writing. He had never considered the redhead to be the kind of person to keep a diary, and this had awakened a curiosity highly uncharacteristic in the American. The oracle found himself almost constantly thinking about the diary, even considering trying to take a closer look at it. But he could never find a good reason to go into his teammate's room and look for it, no matter how hard he searched his head.
Then, one day, the reason came to him.
"Crawford?"
He nearly started at the sound of the Japanese boy's voice. Nagi hardly spoke a word these days. "Yes?"
Dark eyes the color of lapis lazuli studied the dark desk. "Can I ask you something?"
The American nodded.
"Schuldig is acting weird. He left just now."
Although it wasn't an outright question, Brad heard the question the boy wanted to ask.
"I don't know," he said. It was true that Schuldig hadn't been himself for the last few days. But he could only guess why. If he only had the diary…
"You don't think he… You know… Because that would totally ruin things for Schwarz." Nagi shoved his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans and looked at the clairvoyant through dark brown bangs.
"I don't know," Crawford repeated, running a hand through his hair, ruffling the bangs that had been perfect just moments ago. "But I will see."
The teenager nodded and left as quietly as he had come and soon after, loud music was heard from another part of the house.
Crawford furrowed his brow. Well, it was his business if one of the members on his team was into something as unhealthy as illegal drugs. With that reason in mind, he rose from his perfectly clean desk, walked into the redhead's room and looked about. The bed was only halfway made; clothes were piling on the chair by a short desk where a TV sat. Next to the television-screen stood a stereo, the two speakers placed in different parts of the room. Stacks of books, magazines and CDs lay on the floor, a green pajamas lying on the bed. And something beneath the bed… A box. Ten to one that the diary was in it.
The raven-haired man kneeled beside the bed and pulled out the box, opening it carefully. Inside was not one, not two, but four diaries. The first one was almost eleven years old, Crawford counted with the help of the dates. That meant that Schuldig had written in it when he had been about ten or eleven. The second was from the year after. The third was written only three years ago and seemed to be a summary of the years with Estet. The fourth picked up where the third left off, meaning that the book Schuldig had been writing in most recently was the fifth in the row. Chances were that he kept it elsewhere.
With a determined look on his face, Crawford stood up with the four books in his arms and went to have them photocopied, else the redhead would miss them. On the way back home, he stopped by a bookstore to buy himself an English-German/German-English dictionary. Whatever was causing the German those headaches and the sense of being ill, he was going to find out.

'Florian. I hate that name.' Brad frowned at the text. Schuldig had never given the impression of someone who was or had been bullied. Telepaths rarely were. He fought on with the dictionary close at hand. 'I want to change it. It's too girly. Maybe I could take some stupid name. Like Schuldig. Dad says everything's my fault all the time, anyway.'
The raven-haired man put the pen down and looked at the translation thus far. He was going to need a better dictionary, he noted absentmindedly. His frown deepened. So that was Schuldig's given name. Florian. It was rather pretty, the American thought to himself. He had always liked names that ended with -ian. Brad had also changed names, so he didn't blame the German for also doing so. Once he had moved away from home he had taken an entirely different name to fully put his past life behind him. No doubt Schuldig had wanted to do the same. Crawford, though, had kept his given first name as his middle name. A lot of people had Lawrence as their middle name, anyway. 'Crawford' was very common and easily forgotten. 'Vaughan' wasn't.
He shook those thoughts out of his head. There was no use in dwelling on the past, the clairvoyant had learned. The future was far too important.
He was just about to continue when there was a knock on his door.
"Yes?" he called, beginning to put the things into a drawer.
"Can I come in?" came the muffled reply. Schuldig. He never knocked, Brad noted to himself with yet another frown. He closed the drawer and put his laptop in front of himself. "The door's open," he said and the redhead entered, his presence immediately demanding all attention. Too late did Crawford realize that he had forgotten the note with the translation on it, as it still lay very visible, shining white on the dark desk.
"I just wanted to tell you that Nagi has been acting really strangely lately, and…" He stopped when he saw the name 'Florian' on the piece of paper that the American was currently folding up and putting away with his usual bored-looking face. Schuldig found himself suddenly hurled into his own memories.

~
"Friedrich Schneider?"
"Hier!"
"Florian Schrödler?"
The redheaded boy with the ponytail sat by the window, lost in his own thoughts. His eyes followed the shape of the clouds outside the classroom's window. His mother, she had been acting so strangely that morning. She always did after he and his little sister had heard their parents yell at each other the night before. But somehow, she had been more distant that morning…
"Florian Schrödler?" the teacher, an old lady, tried again, searching the classroom through her glasses.
An elbow was shoved into his ribs. He jumped. "Ja, hier!" That would leave an ugly bruise, and from the look of the boy beside him, the other knew it as well. And his father… He always freaked when he saw that Florian came home with bruises. Bruises that he hadn't caused, that was. The boy furrowed his brow slightly. His father was what he worried about most. If someone could lose his temper, it would be that man.
"Please, Schrödler, do try to pay attention. You will need to if you are to catch up with the rest of the class."
He nodded, his eyes already gazing out the window again. The other boys snickered to themselves, but he decided he didn't care. He hated new schools, like this one. Not that it mattered. He had never had a hard time making new friends - he was just bad at keeping them.
"Girly boy. He'll be easy to tease."
Florian nearly jumped at the voice that had come unbidden into his head. He hated when that happened. Especially late at night. He wondered if it was true, that he really was insane. Or screwed up in the head, as his father said. He pushed the thought aside. So what if he was insane? At least then, maybe someone would come and take him away from home…
~

"Yes?" The American's deep, even voice broke through the haze of the memory. Schuldig was suddenly immensely grateful for that. He definitely didn't feel like going back to his not so warm and friendly childhood memories.
"Um, where was I?"
"Schuldig, is there something I should know about?" Brad looked him intently in the eye, emerald meeting chocolate. "Are you still having headaches?"
'All the time!' he wanted to scream. 'All the time! I'm losing control! I can't filter anymore! I can't build walls anymore! Please, oh, please make the voices go away!' But he didn't. Instead, he shrugged casually. "Nagi's just acting weird. He looks at me as if I'm on the needle or something."
"He has mentioned his concern, yes," the oracle said with a slight nod.
"Then, would you mind telling him that it's none of his concern, and for everybody's information I am not doing that stupid things." Schuldig's brain was meanwhile working like crazy. Why did the clairvoyant have 'Florian' written on one of his papers? Why?
"I will." Schuldig still stayed, although the topic was closed. He absently brushed his fingers lightly over the dark wood of the desk, looking at something that wasn't there. "Is there something else?" Crawford asked him.
"What? No," Schuldig said hurriedly. "It's nothing." He stopped by the door. Without turning around, he asked, "Where's the aspirin, again?"
"Second from the left."
"…Right." It bothered him that his memory was beginning to fail him as well. He hated this. Estet had warned him that some telepaths, very rarely and purely at random, suffered the same consequences as empaths - every time they killed a little bit of themselves died with their victim; every time they picked something up they lost a little of themselves. It began with headaches and nausea, then the loss of memory, later the loss of one's personality and one's self. Lastly, unless the one suffering from it hadn't already killed himself, his brain would stop working, leaving him as a shell without a mind. He was frightened by the fact that he could well be one of those rare telepaths. It scared him to death.
Once Schuldig had left, looking a bit disoriented, Brad shook his head slightly. There was definitely something wrong with the telepath. Now, if he could only figure out what…


~tbc~


Soooo... there you have it! Now, I'm off before someone wants to strangle me... If you want to read the rest, then feed me REVIEWS!!! Or cookies. Cookies are good... Yeah! *runs off to party*