Won't you close our eyes?


A/N: Ah, um, okay. So, here's the second part. Ummm... I don't really remember what I wrote to the ML, so I'll just improvise! Yeah! *dance dance* I know, Schu jumps out a window, but I was thinking of how he can like jump really far and move really fast and cool stuff like that in the anime (haven't read the manga). So there. Um, right. And throwing up sucks. Yeah.
About the mental wall Schu builds (or tries to build)... I actually made that up from this thing I found on the Net about "how to cope as an empath". It was this really cool site, but me and URLs... Don't ask for it, I can't remember how I found it. -_-;; So, if you're an empath or a telepath, try this out! After you let me know, that is. *heehee* Man, I'm tired. I need a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes.


Warnings: My bad ideas? Yeah, and OOC. This wouldn't be the way it is if I could just write it IC..... *boohoo*

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


Acknowledgements: Omi-kun! Always, honey. I know, I know, they're letting you go tomorrow... Can't wait!
And, of course, Lenn-neechan for giving me that cool anime-skin to my cell! I love you, babe, party on! And maybe to that weird maniac who keep calling my cell-phone. I still don't know who it is.
And to the ML-member (sorry, I can't remember who it was, remind me, onegai shimasu!) who told me that Schu's jumping/moving really fast and stuff was called celerity. Doumo doumo arigatou gozaimashita ne!
And last, but not least, wispykitty who showered me with cookies! And RnM who also reviewed! I'll love you forever! Have some cookies!


Disclaimer: Still, I don't own them. *duh* But damn, Brad's hot. Why doesn't my boyfriend look like that? Why, Sabin, whyyyyy!? Oh, right. I settled for the Rauresu-look. -_-;; And the song, "kinda i want to" (lyrics at end) is by and with nine inch nails [Reznor-sama wo homeru yo!! *bow bow*] which in short means I don't own it and I can't make any money of it and if I try to I'll have to pay. Litterally. So... All I have is some pocket-lint, a newly purchased Faye Wong CD and some chocolate chip cookies. And no, you can't have them. But I'll share the cookies if you review. *wink wink nudge nudge*



Chapter II: I can't shake this feeling from my head


'Why do people fight and yell? I'm tired of having to be the one to clean up after mom and dad have their so called conversations. A lot of things must have been knocked loose up there. And I don't like the way dad acts towards Anne. Everybody's acting so weird. And you know the whispers in my head? It feels as if someone has connected them to a speaker. They are so loud now that I can't sleep. Am I really crazy?'

It had been hard work to translate the diary. Most of the time, there were mistakes in spelling or grammar, which made the translation even harder, and up until that entry, there had been hardly anything that had something to do with the redhead's telepathy. It made him give a sigh of relief. At least now he might be on the right track.
Pulling forth his laptop, Crawford set to the task of report writing. For once, it had been an unusually quiet week, which disturbed him somewhat, although he liked to have time to himself. Especially now with the translation of the diaries.
Beginning to type, his mind was still wandering back to the papers on the other end of his desk, an urge to keep on reading building up in the back of his mind. If he knew, the American thought to himself. He allowed himself a slight smile. If he knew.

Meanwhile, Schuldig was sitting in his room, staring intently at the wall opposite his bed. In his head he went over the procedure of building a mental wall. First imagine it there, like a wall of light that stretches into eternity. Then make it solid. Feel it. See it. Touch it. And then it's there. It was simple enough. Just visualize it and know that it's for real.
Schuldig frowned as he concentrated unusually hard. He hadn't had to put any thought into building a wall for several years now and it felt odd to put so much strength and effort into something he had done every minute and every second for years. And yet it didn't work. When he felt the anger building he beat it down, telling himself that okay, so it didn't work this time, but next time it will.
It didn't.
The headache was getting worse again. It was knocking on his mental barriers and he knew that it would find a way in. Once it was inside, it would bring all the screams and whispers and hopes and desires and fears and whatnots from the rest of humanity. It always did. Why would this time be different?
And why won't the wall stand?
The redhead gave an irritated groan and rubbed angrily at his face. "C'mon, Schuldig," he said to himself. "Deep breath… And concentrate." Then he shut his eyes and visualized that same, pale blue, shining wall that he had seen for years. With a thought he let it stretch until he couldn't see the ends, and further still. Once he felt sure that the wall really was endless, he concentrated on keeping it that way. Carefully reaching with his mental fingers, he sought to touch it. His hands went right through it. With a sigh of slight annoyance, he pulled his hands back and concentrated on reinforcing the wall, making it thicker, more compact. When another minute or so had passed, he tried to touch it again. This time it was solid. Satisfied, he stepped back and looked it over one more time. It looked strong enough. And he let go of the visualization.
For a second, the wall stood.
Then it crumbled, shrunk and finally disappeared completely.
With an angry growl, he took a hold of whatever lay close and hurled it at the wall. The book hit it and landed on the floor beneath it with a dull thud.
"It's not working," Schuldig told himself and wiped his face on his sleeve. He hadn't even realized that the mental exercise had become such a strain that he was sweating. And the headache began working its way into his consciousness again.
He rose with a sigh of defeat to find the jar of aspirin.

There was a knock on the door to his office. Putting his pen down, he looked up and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Yes?"
"Um, Brad?" Schuldig's voice sounded muffled through the door.
"The door isn't locked," he answered, but when there was no reply and the door wasn't opened he rose from his desk and went to open the door himself. Outside stood Schuldig with a frown on his face, studying the floor. "Yes?" the American said, catching the redhead's attention.
"What?" Schuldig asked, turning his head up to look at the clairvoyant.
"You just knocked on my door."
"I did?" He blinked and quickly corrected himself. "I did."
"Yes you did, now will you tell me why?" Crawford asked, a bit irritated. He was definitely not up for a guessing game.
"I, um… Wanted to ask you something…" He frowned again. He knew he had been on his way to the kitchen to get something and that Brad knew where it was. But what was it that he had been looking for? "I was, um, looking for something, but…" His head suddenly began to spin, pulling his stomach into an unsteady dance, making him feel sick. When one turn came too suddenly, the redhead put a hand over his mouth and ran in the direction of the bathroom.
Brad frowned before following the mind reader. He found Schuldig hunched over the toilet, throwing up.
"Great," the American said, reaching to a shelf to grab a rubber band for the German's hair. "It's only noon and you're already like this." With a determined yet soft motion he gathered the wild red hair and braided it with the ease of someone who had done it a million times before.
Schuldig only coughed before his stomach heaved again. The American clairvoyant reached for one of the thick, blue towels and wet one corner of it in the sink. When Schuldig shook his head and sat back on the bathroom floor, Brad handed him the towel and filled one of the mugs with water.
"Rinse," he said, holding the mug to the dazed-looking redhead.
Schuldig complied, using the towel to wipe his lips. There were times when he wondered why the other cared enough to sit with him on the floor when he felt as if something big and nasty had chewed on him and spit him back out again. Sometimes he was flattered, but mostly it only confused him.
"Feeling better?"
"I know what you're thinking, and no, I'm not drunk," Schuldig answered, taking another mouthful of water and spitting it out into the toilet.
"There's something you're not telling me here, Schuldig."
The redhead shrugged his shoulders. He still felt a bit sick, and a cold sweat had broken out on his forehead. He wiped his face on the blue towel.
"Well, either you tell me, or I could just give Estet a call and ask them for every reason possible as to why your resident mind reader is acting strangely."
At this, Schuldig's head snapped up. "You wouldn't."
Brad tilted his head slightly to the side. "I would have to if you won't tell me. I'm not very fond of guessing, especially not when it comes to a wicked telepath such as yourself."
"I'll just take that as a compliment," Schuldig huffed. His throat burned every time he swallowed. "And," he added, "I can't tell you what's going on because I don't know myself what's going on."
"That's a lie." Brad shifted slightly, leaning against the bathtub. "To sum things up; you're having headaches, you're throwing up with no apparent reason, and you look constantly confused. Something is definitely not as usual." He pushed his glasses up his nose and ran that same hand through his hair. "Now, either you tell me, or I'll find out some other way."
For a moment it looked as if the redhead was seriously considering his options, but then he got an almost distant look in his eyes. "Why…" he began, but stopped to lick his lips thoughtfully. "Why did it say 'Florian'?" he asked. He had meant to ask earlier, but he hadn't remembered until then. It had puzzled him, as long as he remembered it, that is.
"What?" The clairvoyant frowned, blowing a particularly irritating strand of raven hair out of his eyes.
"On your paper, some… days ago, I think." He wiped his face on the soft towel once more, blinking several times to clear his vision. It was slowly blurring while the noise in his head began to grow again. He felt as if he would have to throw up again any time then, if he had anything left in his stomach.
"Why do you ask?" The American was watching the redhead intently from behind his glasses. The German seemed to argue with himself for a second or so before he looked up again and shook his head.
"I… I guess you're just checking up on me." Brad frowned. "I mean, looking for what's up." He looked down to the towel in his lap and sighed while twisting it slowly between his fingers. "If I told you what I know, would you find a cure?"
At this Brad furrowed his brow slightly, watching the German with uncertainty. "It depends on what it is. Not everything has a cure, you know."
Schuldig nodded slowly, still twisting the towel between his fingers, but faster now. After a minute or so of silence the voices in his head had grown in intensity to the degree that he felt as if he would start screaming with them at any moment. He got up, dropping the towel into the sink. "The aspirin?"
"What about it?"
"Where is it?"
"Second from the left, where it has always been."
"…Right." And with that, he left, leaving Crawford behind with a frown painted on his face. What was going on?

~
There was a loud knock on his door, more like a pounding. He pushed his window open and blew a strand of fiery red hair out of his eyes.
"Florian!" He checked his pockets. Lighter, key and some bills. "You come back out here, dammit!" Another hard pound on the door. It would probably give in soon.
With one last deep breath he climbed out the window, sat down on its sill, dangled his legs for a few seconds before turning, grabbing on to the wooden board with his hands. Using his legs to push himself away from the wall, he jumped and landed with an agility unusual even for boys his age. He stayed still for a moment, hearing the door give in to the weight of a grown man. Florian decided that there was no need for him to be yelled at through a window. The shouting done was enough.
Readjusting his ponytail he leaped the fence and was off.
~

'I thought dad would've been knocked out when I came back home, but he wasn't. Gods, it has never stung like this before. Now he's nailed my window shut and he's fixed the door from the outside in some way. "Sit there and think about what you've done and I might let you out again." Yeah, right. As if I'll just sit here. He'll just wait. I swear I'll find a way to make him hear all this noise. I swear I'll find a way to make his head explode. And when it does, let's see how fucking cocky he is.'
It surprised him how differently Schuldig wrote. In some entries he used a language close to the one of a journalist; at times he wrote like a five-year-old. Crawford absently wondered why. Another thing that puzzled him was the obvious hatred that he could almost feel by just touching the photocopies. Make a head explode. He didn't doubt it was possible, although he did doubt the fact that Schuldig would be able to do such a thing. For all he knew, even though the redheaded German was talented, he was still far from full-fledged. Or maybe he was just very good at hiding his own potential.
Throwing a glance at the timepiece on his desk he realized that it was already past 3 PM. And Schuldig had yet to get up. As far as the clairvoyant knew, the telepath hadn't been out at all for several days now, claiming that the air made him feel sick. Yet, he slept to well past noon. It definitely couldn't be healthy. With a sigh that had become a bad habit he rose from the dark desk and went to wake the redhead up.

The room was dark, thanks to the venetian blinds that was blocking out all light. The entire room looked like chaos, as if someone had gone berserk and thrown things about. Schuldig was lying in a tangle of dark sheets, his arms up and about his head, successfully hiding his face. Crawford walked with determination to the bed and shook the redhead slightly. No reaction. He shook the mind reader again, this time harsher. Still no reaction.
"Very funny. Now, wake up, Schuldig," he said, turning the telepath over onto his back, unwinding his arms. The pale face was completely slack and he was breathing deeply. With a frown, the clairvoyant opened one of the German's eyes to find that he was completely knocked out. Chocolate eyes swept across the dark room and stopped at the nightstand where a jar of pills stood. Picking it up, Brad studied the label. Sleeping pills. There was a warning as well, saying to never take more than two at a time. He looked back to the redhead, wondering just how many he had taken.
"Come on, Schuldig. Wake up." He shook the German again, long this time, not giving up until green eyes blinked open. They looked strangely hazed and it took a while before they focused on the tall American standing bent over the bed.
"…Hunh?"
"About time. It's past 3 PM."
"It…what?" Schuldig blinked repeatedly. His head felt as if it was filled with cotton-balls. He wanted to just close his eyes, roll over and go back to sleep before the voices came back.
"How many of these blue and white pills did you take last night?" Crawford asked, holding up the jar of pills, shaking it slightly to emphasize his words.
"Um…" Schuldig began to frown, but found that the action was too straining, so his face went slack again. "I don't know."
"Well, you obviously took more than the recommended dose, didn't you." He sat down on the bed and put the jar back onto the nightstand. "Why didn't you just tell me that you're having insomnia?"
First Schuldig frowned up at him, then there seemed to be a change in the emerald eyes. Suddenly, he laughed out loud. "You're kidding, right? 'Oh Brad, I can't sleep!'" he said, giggling.
"This is not like you, Schuldig," Brad said, pushing his glasses up his nose. There had been a strange change in the redhead's eyes, and he didn't think it was a good thing. Meanwhile, the German rolled over with his back to the other and kept on chuckling to himself. It irritated the American that the telepath was acting like a ten-year-old. When Schuldig mumbled something about not caring about school and that he would smash the window if he had to, a thought hit the clairvoyant. He cleared his throat and put a firm hand on the telepath's shoulder. Ignoring the obvious weight-loss he said sternly; "Florian, if you don't get up now, your father is bound to find out that you're still in bed."
The reaction he got was far from anything he had expected.
The mental force that slammed into his mind without warning sent him physically tumbling off the bed. The second later Schuldig had thrown himself over the American and handed him a hard blow with the back of his hand.
"Shut the fuck up!" he yelled, raising his hand again, but the raven-haired man caught the thin wrist in mid-air. Using the grip he had, he pulled the redhead down and rolled them over, pinning the telepath to the thick, dark carpet. Schuldig thrashed against the iron grip Brad had on him, shouting at him until his voice had faded to a whisper and his body protested. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't…" Then he stilled, his face turned away to the side, his eyes shut tight.
"Schuldig?" Brad tried carefully. When he got no response he let the redhead go and moved off him. His cheek stung, but he chose to ignore it for the moment being and, if need be, scold the telepath later. Carefully brushing away stray strands of flame-colored hair he said again, "Schuldig?"
At that, the redhead's eyes shot open and he sat up suddenly, throwing his arms about Crawford's neck and hid his face against the American's chest, sobbing, his hands fists clutching at Brad's white dress-shirt. "Don't do that again," he whispered, breathing in gasps. "I can't… Just don't…"
"I'm sorry," Brad said softly, the feeling genuine, hugging the redhead. Whatever was wrong he had to find out soon, before the telepath hurt himself or someone else. "I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."
Schuldig sniffed and hid his face best he could, pressing his ear to the clairvoyant's heart and concentrated on the soft beat as the voices in his head grew stronger again, making him nauseous. He wished they would go away. Closing his eyes, he focused all his attention at the warm body pressed so close, the slow, even breathing and ultimately at Crawford's steady heartbeat. Maybe, he thought, it won't be so bad if I tell him. Then he reconsidered. He thought of how the pre-cog never seemed to show much regret as to doing away with both things and persons he considered to have played their role. And if he found out that Schuldig could hardly keep his own thoughts in a straight line… Maybe he'll just shoot me… Which, Schuldig found, was exactly what he wanted the clairvoyant to do.



kinda i want to
"
I can't shake this feeling from my head
There's a devil sleeping in my bed
He watches you from across the way
I cannot make this feeling go away

I know it's not the right thing
And I know it's not the good thing
But kinda I want to

I don't know what I should do
When everything I'm thinking of is you
All of my excuses turn to lies
Well maybe God will cover up his eyes

And I know it's not the right thing
And I know it's not the good thing
But kinda I want to

Kinda I want to
Maybe just for tonight
We can pretend it's alright
What's the price I pay
I don't care what they say
I want to
I want to (I'll take my chance tonight)
"


~tbc~


Ahahaha!!! Be afraid! Be very afraid! I'm on a Utena-high! YEAH! *singing*Moshiku kushimo shimoku kumoshi mokushi shikumo! YEAH! Touga! TOUGA! *runs away waving banner saying: redheads rule!*
...oh yeah. Feed me reviews. I'll love you forever! And put you in the section in the next part! Yeah! If you don't want to review (can't imagine why...) drop me an e-mail! Woo!