Strange Liaisons - Book one
Author: Alexise-Z
Summary: The past influences your future in strange ways.
Pairings: Farfarello/Schuldig, Crawford/Schuldig
Other Pairings: Crawford/Aya (Ran), Nagi/Omi, Ken/Yohji
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash (m/m), violence, implied rape.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. If I did, Schuldig would probably be locked in my closet and Farfarello would be rolled under my bed
Lesson One: To Sell Your Soul
oOoOoOoOo
A man, dressed in white, walked amidst other men dressed similarly, dragging their patients by their confining clothes. A pair of thin wired glassed flashed, temporarily obscuring dark eyes so unlike the common Japanese man that was seen wandering around the streets of Tokyo. Doctors stared at the obvious foreigner who was dressed like them, acted like them and even spoke like them but he was clearly not one of them. They parted for him without a thought, knowing instinctively this was not a man to be reckoned with.
Brad Crawford stared critically at the peeling white walls of the German Institute for the Clinically Insane and wondered, not for the first time, who was this telepath Eszet had sent him to retrieve. He had seen flashes of bright orange hair and almost hysterical blue eyes, but beyond that, the visions had been erratic and confused, making it impossible to know what the future held for him.
"Permission to see patient number 11743." He stated calmly, stopping at a rusty looking door armed with heavy locks. The metal door opened slowly revealing a tall, thin and balding man who smiled greasily at him.
"Permission accepted," The Doctor paused, grabbing Crawford's arms. "Though I must warn you, this one is a fiery little thing. It's really fascinating how his mind works. Before his parents brought him here he was working part-time in the streets. A dirty skinny street whore, really. It took 3 month to break him; now he is reduced to a blabbering mess."
Crawford narrowed his eyes, staring distastefully at the bony hands that grasped his limbs in excitement.
"Yes, no matter. I think I may find some use for him yet. If not, you and your charge will find your usefulness somewhat lacking." He smiled and looked at the excited man with the usual cool detachment he used before he pulled the trigger.
The smaller man stopped pulling the other's sleeve in fear. The foreigner who entered the white room - shutting the door in his face, no less! - brushed him aside with indifference.
The corners of Crawford's mouth lifted sardonically as he heard the Doctor squeak half in fear, half in annoyance. He was the kind of person who thought he was placed in a superior plane of existence and when someone challenged his place, he was too much of a coward to do anything but watch. But he wasn't of his concern right now.
He turned and set his eyes on his new charge that was currently strapped tightly in a slightly bloodstained straight jacket.
The first thing Brad Crawford noticed was a pair of wide blue eyes which darted frantically from the door to him. His excessively thin face was framed by wild untamed orange hair that ended abruptly at waist level. He was curled into a fetal position, looking strangely calm. Almost catatonic. He didn't fit the picture Eszet painted – a defiant unabashed telepath with no respect for authority… or so he had been. Crawford didn't know and didn't particularly care.
"My name is Brad Crawford and I come here to recruit you for Rosenkreuz." He stepped closer to the paralysed figure. "Eszet needs you sane."
The redhead looked absently at him, as if only half listening to what he had to say. Crawford narrowed his eyes, not used to being ignored, and cocked an eyebrow.
"Are you listening?"
The man – no, boy – lifted his head slowly and looked mildly amused. A wide, cynical smile stretched across the pale face, masking a thick sense of fearhopepanickdread he thought long forgotten"You're silent." He replied abruptly.
"Excuse me?" He lifted the other eyebrow, the only indication of surprise on his otherwise passive face.
"You're silent." The telepath repeated softly. "I'm not insane, you know. People are slabs of meat. At first, they are full of words and promises they can't keep; in the end, if you peel off their skin, they are never what they seemed to be. But you, you're silent."
"I suppose that is a good thing." Crawford commented dryly.
"Yes." He replied simply.
"What would you do if you for that silence you crave so desperately?"
"Anything."
"You will regret that word."
"If you can give me silence, I'll do anything."
This was the part in which he sold his proverbial soul to the devil but unlike the poor sodden souls who shrieked in eternal agony and bemoaned their fate, he never felt so good in his life. And as Crawford unclasped the straightjacket and broke the chains with well-placed bullets, Eszet's newest acquisition felt at peace for the first time in many years.
Suddenly, Crawford saw white; he was splayed on his back, staring at the badly painted white ceiling. His right hand automatically reached for his gun, but before he could properly aim, he found his arms full of a trembling redhead. His lips were smashed in a rough kiss and he groaned, partially because his lungs were being crushed and partially because of a familiar stirring in his groin. He felt himself grasping for the threads of control, a control he found he did not have at the moment. Hands ghosted upon his chest, struggling with the first buttons of a shirt. The coat had long since been discarded. Brad Crawford, eighteen years of age and Eszet's only Level 8 Pre-Cog, lay on the floor unresponsive – that is, until he felt sharp teeth bite down on his lips.
His eyes snapped open and he grabbed the telepath, inversing their positions. He tasted the coppery red liquid and his eyes narrowed as he fought a wave of desire. "I don't have time for whatever games you're willing to play." He snarled, cocking his gun.
The other simply laughed. "Schuldig."
"What?"
"I am Schuldig."
Crawford gripped his wrists tightly enough to bruise. He released them slowly and growled. "Never do that to me again, Schuldig."
When Schuldig eyes glinted rebelliously, he lifted his hand and shot him without hesitation.
The telepath froze in shock, face twisting into a tight grimace of pain. Blood spurted from his shoulder wound, dripping messily onto the floor and on his pants, staining them crimson.
"Bastard." Whispered Schuldig.
Crawford stood up calmly and smiled slowly. "Come. Eszet is waiting."
oOoOoOoOo
Rinne Gainsen was by no means a young man, though he couldn't really be called old. Rumours have it that at ten years of age, his introduction to the artistic world had been less than stellar. He had found his uncle – a balding old man as he one day would undoubtedly be – with glitter and all, servicing his older brother upon an empty stage.
His love for theatrics was painfully discouraged by many family members, but it seemed as if nothing could stop his flaming ambition. Nobody, but himself.
He performed in Berlin, Paris, London and wherever his dreadful uncle would travel to. His part in the plays was always of a maverick child, a doomed child, which was ironically art imitating life. He was, in fact, doomed for failure, though at the time he thought he was at the top of the world.
He hadn't realized that youth and stardom were fleeting…
His passion soon faded, as he was unable to remain acting on an empty stomach, turning him into an embittered youth with a penchant for other's suffering. Gainsen became insanely jealous of all the young talents who survived stardom and became something - something he had always wanted to be - in life.
His jealously lead to hate and he ruthlessly took out his frustrations on his patients. He spent many years working in the Institute for the Insane and during those times, he had gained access to almost everything in the clinic and free reign over most patients due to his contact with Rosenkreuz.
Recently he had been sent a very enjoyable telepath they had found in the streets of Germany. He had only needed to pull a few strings for his parents to leave him there.
He called himself Schuldig.
Oh yes, Schuldig… Rinne Gainsen didn't like to be bested, especially by Eszet's henchmen and Brad Crawford was not an exception. As soon as he had vanished into the patient's room, Gainsen crept slowly down the stairs that led him to his lab, which brought him back to the present time.
He had distracted himself by labelling vials with shaking hands and storing experiments and liquids he had taken from Schuldig, knowing perhaps it would be the only vestiges of him he'd see in a long time.
He was slowly but surely immersing himself in his self-proclaimed hobby and he almost didn't hear the door move.
Terrified eyes took in the rather dishevelled-looking man and he felt a wave of smugness wash over him, calming his jittery nerves. 'Not so perfect now, bastard?' He thought in satisfaction.
"Herr Crawford. I believe you've found Schuldig to be in good condition?"
Crawford smiled tightly. "Yes, I believe I have. You, on the other hand, have outlived your usefulness."
There was no warning, no flash of light nor any premonition as three bullets ripped through his sallow skin, splattering blood all over his precious lab.
Dreams of stardom and failure dissolved quickly into the vast universe, as if they were never there, sinking into Crawford's cold calculating eyes.
Rinne Gainsen was dead before he hit the ground.
oOoOoOoOo
Roughly two years had passed since Crawford had last seen Schuldig. Twenty-four months of training in Rosenkreuz, 724 days of mind control, 17376 hours in a room with a pretty girl, 1042560 minutes alone with a pretty girl, 62553600 seconds… he really hated pretty girls. Schuldig first met Ellenya Singe after his second week in Rosenkreuz, in between gruelling sessions with a shrink and the ever-present desintoxication methods. Soon, days without his precious stash became rather unbearable, but at least he finally had his silence if not anything else.
What would you do for it?
Ellenya was to be his personal trainer, his own God-forsaken-Saviour. Oh, she was lovely enough, at least physically. She was a blond little thing, but size rarely mattered, at least in the world of Rosenkreuz. One never knew fully the extent of the other's powers, sometimes even their own.
Singe was a Level 9 Telekinetic and was the one who 'disciplined' wayward students (she was rather fond of broken bones). God knew why she had been assigned to him. There she was, clothed prettily from head to toe – Gucci, Schuldig thought – in white formal wear, a cigar hanging from her small coral lips. The smoke wafted softly from her mouth and she smiled – a sweet, long, childish smile. A fucking porcelain doll, that's what she was. Her brown eyes were as glassy as one too.
'Anything.'
Heartless bitch. For a long time, Schuldig resented Crawford for leaving him with her, although he doubted Crawford had a say in that matter. But he was cold and he was lonely, so Schuldig reasoned that blaming him was the most obvious thing to do.
Crawford with those strange eyes and thin lips that taunted him in his dreams – oh how he hated to dream about the American and wake up feeling strangely empty and oh-so-small.
Schuldig was obsessed with Brad Crawford. It was as simple as that.
And as he lay on the floor, reeling from Ellenya's latest disciplinary method, his unfocused eyes would become slits as he recalled Crawford's blunt refusals. Did he think he was too good for Schuldig?
"Schuldig, Schuldig. My sweet little slut. How does it feel?" She asked him playfully, while wrapping her legs around his body. His arms flailed weakly, unable to push away the weight upon his chest.
"Fuck you." He rasped harshly.
Thin hands touched him, as her gift wrecked havoc on his body. His bones creaked and snapped like a brittle twig but he still refused to scream. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction. But he was unable to stop the tears once they'd started.
"I think I shall miss this once you're gone in the morning."
"I hope you die a painful messy death. Fuck you, fuck you!" He said half-hysterically, words slurred because of the blood that filled his mouth. He had bitten his tongue in an effort not to scream and now he was choking on his own blood.
Ellenya Singe simply laughed, sounding like a little child on Christmas morning. "Scream for me…"
And Schuldig did.
oOoOoOoOo
- end of lesson one -