The motel he was staying at was nice, in a rather cheap way. Upon entering you were struck immediately with how shabby it was, and how very clean: one bed only slightly stained sheets, a shower and bathroom, and a TV with a basic cable package. It was a place for very rich businessmen who had no budget to spend. A luxurious, inexpensive, slightly sleazy motel.
Schuldich liked it right away. And he was sitting at the brown guest table, looking out a crack in the curtain, smoking a cigarette and contemplating.
Part of him really just wanted to go back. Bite the bullet, and apologize. The rest of him wanted Crawford to be the one to apologize.
"So, how long have you been in Japan?"
"A while."
"You have no accent at all."
An amused smile, and the stranger ran his hands through his own red hair.
And in the end, he just wound up ordering some food (bad food, cheap food) and sitting at the very ugly brown table and thinking.
So what next?
The redhead touched his chin, tilted his head to one side and smiled. His eyes were reminiscent of a cat, the way they stared unblinking, right at him - straight through him. "You aren't that bad looking, you know."
A smile, "Thank you." And he thought that the redhead reminded him a little of the Cheshire Cat…
"Do you believe in fairytales?"
"What?"
"Fairytales. You know, scary monsters, fair princes…happily ever after? White rabbits with little watches and disappearing cats?"
He didn't look surprised, he made it a point not to be surprised, so instead he laughed, "Of course not. Those are stories."
"Of course." The redhead smiled down at him, looking very much amused. "You do look very much like someone I once knew. Shorter, though. Not quite as athletically built…" And the man smiled again, stroked his cheek. "Very much like him, in fact."
He got brave, "An ex-lover?"
The redhead laughed, "You can say that…he was, my prince, in a way."
"He saved you?"
And this time the redhead did look very much amused, as though he'd said something incredibly funny. "Yes."
He laughed nervously, trying to join in and understand what the joke was. But the man with the red hair didn't tell him a thing.
It really hadn't been much of anything to argue about. In fact, it was a very stupid thing to argue about. It really should be enough that he was actually with Crawford. It really should be enough that he got to stay by him, every day. And it wasn't really that he felt he'd die without Crawford at his side, and it wasn't really that his world revolved around Crawford. No, Crawford wasn't the only thing that defined his life. But Crawford was also more than just a passing phase, more than just someone he'd screw then throw away. They'd developed a friendship, in their years together. They'd developed a life. And although he didn't feel he'd die without Crawford, he certainly had no idea how to live without him.
"So, I suppose you like fairytales."
"I suppose I do." And the stranger looked at him, touched him again. "Why don't you come with me?"
"I don't know your name."
"And I don't know yours," the smile skewed to one side. "So why don't we be whoever, tonight."
"I don't do that sort of thing.."
"How nice."
But he followed anyways. Feeling drawn to follow, as though he were falling down a rabbit hole, tumbling after this stranger, compelled.
They went to a motel, which the man said he had a room at.
He felt almost unconscious, half the time, barely awake enough to enjoy himself.
What the hell had he been thinking? To throw his life away, just like that? What he had with Crawford was comfortable. Just because he felt lonely sometimes... When he knew he really shouldn't... just because there were times, when they were having sex, that he actually wanted to cry... because, he loved Crawford so much....
It was excellent sex, almost frighteningly good. He jerked his arms against the binds on his wrists, heard the headboard pull away from the wall a fraction and then fall back. Swallowed by an endless, seamless velveteen spell, a till then unknown magic he'd never even imagined before. Everything he'd ever wanted, given to him before he was even going to ask.
This was the magic of the stranger, he knew it. This was some sort of gift. And when he arched and let out a nonsensical cry, he felt lips at his ear, "God, Bradley, I love you so much…"
He didn't ask.
He decided that if this stranger was fantasizing about someone else, then it was fine by him.
Let him dream of princes.
There was a soft, arrogant laugh at his ear. "You are so kind."
And there was a light thumb at his throat.
"Bradley…"
Schuldich closed his eyes.
He shrugged at himself, went to sit on the bed. He'd only had two or three little "attacks" -- and he'd dealt with them just fine. The world had only tried to crush him for a little while. He'd survived, proving to himself that he didn't actually need Crawford to live through one of those things.
He'd simply gotten used to being guided, handled when that was happening. He was used to having someone tell him, specifically, what he had to do to end it. Crawford only smoothed out the wrinkles, made it easier to re-affirm who he was again.
But he missed them, and although he wasn't shaking and weeping from the loneliness, he had to admit that he was. He felt that without Crawford, his world was actually quite a bit less.
Good things to know.
"Brad…"
It was getting painful now.
And he said so.
"Shut up." The stranger growled.
He started to open his mouth, and say something else, when the thumb at his throat started to tighten.
"Just be quiet." It was like a snarl now. The stranger transforming in front of him.
Gallant to Monstrous.
"Why won't you shut up?"
And the redhead's eyes were no longer filled with lust and amusement.
They were now filled with anger.
Harsh and ferocious.
Violent.
And then it went from bad to worse.
They went cold.
Schuldich was rather bored. He lounged back into his bed, and considered the ceiling. There was a dark, tea-like stain near one of the sprinklers. He examined it, and declared that it resembled a blood stain, although he knew that it was probably from the sprinkler. Some minor incident, a lit cigarette perhaps, a small wastebasket fire, had probably caused it to go off, and discolored a part of the ceiling.
Civilian life was absolutely boring.
There was nothing to do. Nothing to distract him, interest him, offer him any unique pleasures. He'd considered doing drugs before he declared it too idiotic. There was no thrill to it all, no driving force. The world seemed to be a rather bland place to live.
He nearly got hit by a car, on his second day out. But as the car came to a sharp halt, and Schuldich considered it, he found he was simply unimpressed.
He clubbed. Sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the shorter, dark haired Japanese people, he picked up men and women. They were all fine. Attractive, the lot of them. But certainly not interesting.
Bland. Boring. Banal. No matter how many times he changed the definition it all added to the same thing.
He inhaled some smoke from his cigarette, gazed off in the distance. There was one window right now, which over looked the parking lot. It was grey, and tiny. A truly rich establishment, to afford such a parking lot. He knocked his ash into the ashtray, and stared at it. Rental cars lined up, side by side, looking brand new and beautiful, next to the shabby looking trees.
Bored.
There seemed to be absolutely nothing to do on the "outside" world.
He rolled his head, and considered the man who had shared his bed.
Schuldich tightened his grip on the man's throat.
Double assault.
Mind and fist.
Why
Won't
You
Be
Quiet???
And when the man had stopped thinking, Schuldich stopped killing.
The blood that soaked the white sheets was starting to turn brown, matching the stain on the ceiling. Black eyes had no focus, lost in some far away place. His hair was mussed, and there was a dark, dark bruise at his throat - a bruise nearly as dark as his eyes. Four small stab wounds on his chest.
Schuldich pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and knocked one out, lit it with the butt of his old cigarette. He sighed, mashed out his old cigarette and rested his chin on his palm. "Well. I wonder how I'm going to get rid of you." He said, his voice was still filled with amusement. Really, this had to be the most interesting thing to have happened to him since he'd left.
Boring, the lot of it.
There didn't seem to be a point to this type of existence.
Schuldich rather wished he could go home.
Schuldich walked up to the rent-a-house. He didn't pause to wonder why the front door swung open so easily, when Crawford always insisted that they insure it was locked. So he opened the front door, walked right in. The dingy brown carpet with the worn spots, the old old furniture, and a certain silence that didn't seem natural. Schuldich paused, and reached with his telepathy, and when he found nothing, he closed his eyes and smiled a small chagrined smile, and he laughed a little to himself.
Of course, the house was empty. What else did he expect of Crawford? Happily ever after?
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