-Italicized indicates telepathy
It's raining and whenever it's raining he knows that he should just stay away from the window, but as always he seeks out a mug from the pale oak cabinets in the little kitchenette, pouring his coffee and curling up in the bay window watching the silvery streaks slide over the glass. It isn't the rain he sees but the pattern, the way the individual threads meet and part to disappear over the edge of the glass to a world that he cannot see because of the mist heavy in the street. There is no good reason for this obsession, he knows, psychologically that it steams from a desire to be one of those destined droplets to run in and out of others lives and just leave traces of himself behind, but that would be harder then just admitting that he is the sun. In hours or minutes when the sun comes from behind the clouds the little droplets will disappear, oh, he knows that they evaporate and go back to the clouds and fall again somewhere else.
But do the people? If he were to creep and slide down the window and the harsh sun beat upon him until he were no more, would he fall again somewhere else? Would he remember this window and this place and the droplets that he met and embraced before pooling with them on the ground? Or would he just fade away and not fall again, sink into the earth to nourish the grass, to be lapped at in the cold street by the dogs and cats, and the damn mice all over London.
Or worse would he fall somewhere else, new and clean, or acidic, or dirty, clear water, bright water, different water.
He wants to be different. He knows that somewhere, sometime, this stopped appealing to him. At some point long ago when it was gleaming red droplets sliding down a wall and he watched them like he watches the rain, the spiders web of his sins and his pain, and he knows that he just wants it to stop.
Changes his name, moves away, leaves that night no words, no goodbyes, no whispered promises to return that they know he wont keep. There was no last kiss to the smirking lips that owned him, no last touch to the bright hair spread over his pillow, nothing, not a whisper to the boy he'd taken in, no thought even to the man in the backroom.
He left, the coward's way, refusing to even let them try and stop him. Which was why he could mope, gazing into the rain, remembering similar droplets of blood, seeing in his mind, laughing blue eyes, serious large eyes, and a mad golden eye, accusing him, missing him? Did they search for him? He thought maybe once he'd seen a glimpse of orange hair, like a phantom on a dark street, but when he'd turn there had only been rain. He hated the rain.
Long ago there had been a boy who loved the rain. He used to climb up to a leaky tree house with all a manner of terrifying stories and whisper them over and over again into the ear of his playmate. And even then laughing blue eyes had ruled his world. From that institute the eyes had followed him into a world of darkness, pain, and death and he'd left them.
"Es sieht nack Regen aus." Whispered words that had carried excitement.
Or a memory from long ago…
It's raining Crawford. Come back to bed. The mental voice that could curl through his thoughts, murmur into his brain.
"Not yet…" And Crawford, Brad, even then gazing out the window, rather then into those eyes.
A movement behind him and then there were arms around his waist. Tell me a story.
"What?" Brad looked back at him, the serious lines of his face hard and cold in the light from their lamp.
You used to all the time. Schuldig carefully led the rather resisting man back to their bed. "Here," almost growled in a sleep roughened voice, bending over and catching something from under the bed, an old paperback, pages bent, cover torn.
Brad leaned against the headboard tugging Schuldig beside him. "A long long time ago the ghost of Ricker Moore was said to haunt the……"
Just a memory, a memory of soft laughter, pleasant touches, adoring sentiments. Footsteps move close to him, long hair brushing his shoulder, soft lips touching his forehead. "You're too melancholy when it rains. We should move to the desert."
He laughs, tilting his head back, into laughing purple eyes almost hidden behind nearly maroon hair. "Wherever is fine. I thought you liked the history here?"
"Come back to bed. I like the history there better."
Brad stood, placing his coffee on the little table by the window seat padding into their bedroom. Sighing the former white knight leaned over opening the glass of the window leaning out, his hair falling over the edge, hitting the shoulder of the figure that crouched out of sight. "You do realize, Schuldig, that sitting, moping in the rain, every time it rains, in London, of all places is a good way to get pneumonia? Come in for some coffee."
"Ay…. What?" Came the startled gasp, red rimmed blue eyes gazing up.
A hand is extended, one accepts, one waits for a memory, one grasps the future.
Raindrops meeting merging, falling off the face of the glass.
-German -It looks like rain.
A/N I wrote this a while ago, it's very short, barely a drabble but I really like the imagery and decided to post it. In my heart of hearts I know Brad's my favorite Schwarz member. pleased sigh Concrit welcome, but this story is… Oh four years old? I'm not changing anything.