"I wouldn't know what to do with another chance
If you gave it to me
I couldn't take the embrace of a real romance
It'd race right through me
I'm much better off the way things are
Much much better off, better by far, by far
I wouldn't know what to say to a gentle voice
It'd roll right past me
And if you chalk it up you'll see I don't really have a choice
So don't even ask me
I'm much better off the way things are
Much much better off, better by far, by far...."
He stood by the wall opposite to the door, brushing his wildfire hair, eyes lightly closed. He kept himself well groomed because he loved to play with his hair. He loved it to shine, and glisten, and shimmer in the light. No one ever brushed his hair for him, although sometimes, he longed to have fingers that were not his own running through his fiery mane.
His shirt was unbuttoned, because sometimes, those sent to him were clumsy, and he didn't like sewing buttons back on. It took time and energy and he was definitely not a patient person, suited for the tedious task of sewing buttons.
He ran the brush through his silken hair, staring down at the floor. For all his small form, he was no longer a child, though he was only eleven. He had become any age those he pleased wished him to be. It was no longer a fact that belonged to him. Hardly any part of him was, anymore. His body he had given away long, long ago, and his mind had never truly been his own.
Schuldig could hear the boy coming, feel his presence tugging in the back of his mind. A bit repressed. A bit too ordered. He paid no more attention. He was good with the boys; he always made the ones who thought they were in control think differently. In fact, he had even become a bit bored with the process. Ritualistic, repetitive. He had yet to find a challenge.
With a whoosh of air the door was pushed open, and Schuldig crossed the room, placing his hairbrush down on his desk, then sweeping the flame colored silk back over his shoulder. The boy that stood in the doorway was quite white, like everything was in Rosen Kreuz. That, Schuldig had expected. He turned to survey him calmly, jade eyes running over a surprisingly well-muscled form hidden beneath the white uniform of the upper grades; his suit was Americanized, though, which was unusual. Mocha eyes were hidden by a sheen of light glinting off glass, his glasses slipping down just slightly over his perfectly carved nose. His skin was pale, very pale, his black hair a dark contrast to the rest of him. A few wisps fell into his eyes, over his pale forehead.
He did not seem pleased.
This startled Schuldig, although nothing in the jaunty angle of his body or the nonchalant curve of his lips in a familiar smirk revealed that. Usually, those who came to him were hungry for release from everyday monotony. This boy, who looked to be a good five years older than Schuldig himself was, was, while repressed, not at all like that. He stayed in the doorway, silent, looking on Schuldig with a mixture of annoyance, contempt, and pity.
It made the young German feel quite insignificant. It made him a bit angry, even. He didn't like the look, certainly; he wasn't made to be pitied or condescended to.
"This is my reward?" the boy snorted, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with his index finger. "They think they're doing me a favor..."
"If you waited to see, you might think it so." Schuldig frowned just slightly, mentally. No easy game this would be. A challenge, perhaps?
"I know how it would be," the boy said calmly. "It is no favor to me." A brief, unnoticed probing of the boy's mind discovered the boy was an oracle. Schuldig's frown deepened. Being judged before judging. Something angry rose up within him.
"The future can always change," he responded quietly, stepping forward while shedding his shirt to the floor below. He knew how he looked, how his body, more curved than a normal male's shape, was pleasing to so many. He was beautiful by all standards, his looks exotic and his charm cultivated into an art form. Yet, something like fierce indignation was brewing inside him, where he had never felt something like that before. He would have this boy, or this boy would have him, and he would make sure that the boy before him would cry out his name into the night. Schuldig. Laced with pleasure. Laced with need.
He would make sure of it.
He came closer, a hand lifting to the boy's tie.
"What's your name?" He murmured, leaning up to nip at the boy's ear.
~Bradley Crawford,~ his mind replied, immediately. Instinct. Schuldig loved that about the reflexes of one's thoughts. They always worked to his advantage.
"You don't need to know that. Get off of me." Bradley Crawford pulled away with a snort of disgust.
"Do you prefer Crawford or Bradley? Or Brad...?" Schuldig moved closer, an arm slipping around his waist, a hand slipping up his chest to undo the buttons in one smooth, practiced motion.
~Crawford.~
"Get -off- me." He pulled away again; more forcefully, this time. "Get away. How many people have claimed those lips, before me? How many others have been rewarded with your body, have earned the rare gift of you?" He paused, eyes narrowing behind the cold glass. "Do you even know? Or is it too many to remember."
Schuldig recoiled from the words as if the boy before him had lashed out with a fist, striking a harsh, physical blow to his body. He was not a cheap trinket, one given when children at a different school might have gotten three gold stars. He was the top of his class, he excelled above all others. He -- what was he?
He shook his head faintly, clearing it of those hideous thoughts. The Elders would be angry if he didn't give this boy his proper reward. They wouldn't care whether the boy wanted it. The boy needed it. Release: they all needed it. Schuldig paused, then moved closer once more. He would just have to make him see. He used that part of his brain, long-familiar and ever-useful, and made the other one more... amenable.
One of his slim, knowledgeable hands ran up the side of Crawford's pale neck, cupping his cheek, urging him down for a slow kiss. He would make this boy see. The fingers of his mind probed Crawford's deeply, and found what he had expected to find. The teen liked to have control. So be it, then. Schuldig could surrender. He had done it before.
He tugged Crawford towards the bed, dropping back against the sheets and pulling the teen over him. He gave no struggle to the redhead's ministrations; he removed Schuldig's clothes even as Schuldig undressed him.
After all, Schuldig was the best student there was.
He tangled their bodies together urgently, hungrily. Of course, Crawford returned the urgency, as Schuldig knew he would; it was rare that a student could be blessed with release, release that came by the joining of two bodies. And, for the first time, this was something Schuldig wanted. He was usually passive about love-making, allowing his mind to drift off into silence, and enjoying it that way. There was nothing to look forward to but that, but even that only left him empty, possessing a blinding headache when it was over, screams he had refused to voice the night before echoing in his brain. But this had been a challenge. He had won something, even if he hadn't won it fairly. Now, he took time to notice things; how, even controlled, Crawford was oddly gentle with Schuldig's thin, almost frail body, how he sighed softly whenever he was especially pleased by something, how a few beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. His eyes were softened with each kiss. When the glasses were removed, Schuldig could finally see them clearly, framed by dark lashes, warm and somehow reassuring.
Even as their pace sped up, both their cries echoing off the soundproof walls, Crawford's kisses stayed sweet, lingering on Schuldig's hungry, experienced lips.
The German had never been kissed that way before.
After Schuldig's initial urging, Crawford took command, as the German knew he would. Their bodies twined together; Crawford held him down, made love to him, fingers tangled in his fiery hair.
Tangled in sheets, the smell of sex and sweat, and something else. Perfect warmth. Schuldig sighed softly against Crawford's bared chest. 2:40 in the morning.
"You can't sleep?" A weary voice asked in English. Schuldig blinked. He hadn't known this night's lover was still awake. And, if he had, he certainly wouldn't have expected Crawford's tone to be one containing concern. He had long since taken his influence from the teen's mind; he had half expected to be alone, now, after a bout of indignant rage on Crawford's part.
A moment of silence.
"Do you prefer Crawford or Bradley?" The German asked again, for the second time that night, wondering if now the answer would change. He preferred always to answer questions with questions. "Mein Amerikaner..." The American frowned just slightly, tracing absent circles over Schuldig's spine.
"Why am I still here?" Something told the redhead that Crawford never answered questions, either.
"Because you were wrong."
"... Perhaps." A moment of silence. Schuldig shivered, trailing a finger over the muscles outlined on Crawford's stomach. As if on instinct, Crawford flexed them just slightly, allowing them to become more defined beneath the pale skin. Schuldig paused, then leaned over to press a soft kiss to the one little line by his navel. Again, he felt a tensing. The German rested his head there, felt a relaxing once more. "Because it's warm, actually." Schuldig felt a little unsure at that. He hadn't expected it, certainly.
"Will you be coming back, then?"
"... Perhaps."
They lay like that for a while, simply silent, exchanging the occasional sweet kiss or tender touch. Schuldig was suddenly, infuriatingly shy in the American's presence, a bit unsure, a bit hesitant. Strong pale arms held him close to an amazing warmth, stroking his elbow, or the dipping curve of the back of his hip, or a shoulder blade, strange places to focus on on his body. Places that no one had ever before touched. Places that became Crawford's as soon as his fingers grazed over them.
It was morning all too soon. Neither of them had slept, and Schuldig suddenly wasn't able to search Crawford's mind for a reason why the American had stayed up all night with him. It wasn't because Crawford had rebelled against the invasion of privacy and blocked him out, because he hadn't. The German didn't know why. He certainly wasn't developing a conscience, at this age.
At an unspoken agreement, they both stood, and both began to search for Crawford's clothes. Silently, the American pulled on his pants and Schuldig buttoned up his dress shirt, running a regretful, almost longing hand over the teen's bare chest before obscuring it entirely behind the white, chaste fabric. The room was still dark as Crawford shrugged his jacket on and Schuldig closed his eyes, remembering the way the muscles of the American's shoulders flexed beneath his hands. Perhaps, he had said. Perhaps.
"Goodbye," the German murmured after a moment's hesitation. Crawford stepped towards him, pausing, then leaning down to claim his lips in contemplation, in thought.
"I am hardly ever wrong," he whispered into Schuldig's mouth, and then he pulled away, leaving the young German all too cold and all too alone. ~I will be back...~
People's minds were always honest. They couldn't hide lies, they could only give promises, wishes... the truth.
Schuldig gave a sigh of relief, a sigh of something like gladness. The American would be back.
The next night, Crawford came. And the night after that. Each night, when Schuldig was designated to please, Crawford stepped through his door. The tall seventeen year old from America -- Schuldig had searched his mind for this information; later, Crawford told him -- was cool when he first stepped in the door and blazing when he took the young German into his arms. After years of relinquishing his body to anyone who desired him, Schuldig had given his body to this boy, and this boy only, for a full month.
For a full month Crawford had been a regular visitor to Schuldig's bed, the only visitor, in fact. When he was there, his host found silence, indescribable pleasure, and deep, comforting warmth, feelings which, he was slowly coming to realize, he had never found during even the most advanced of lessons. In the warmth and heat of their love-making was everything either of them ever wanted, and, for Schuldig, it was all he could ever need. They took of each other, and gave to each other in return, and Schuldig came to wait each night almost eagerly for the knock on the door that would signify the American's presence. For he would always knock.
And then, one day, even though he had said that he would arrive, Bradley Crawford's knock never came on the hard wooden door.
Bradley Crawford was always on time.
Schuldig waited for an hour at the door. He had never been one to think about patience. Finally, he stood, tugging on a warm jacket -- the school was cold at night -- and traversed the halls to the room of his only obsession, the room that he had never seen.
He knocked, and the door swung open. He allowed his eyes to rove for a few seconds over his surroundings. The room had nothing about it, nothing to distinguish it from the room of any other student, and he had expected that. Estë liked it that way, for it discouraged jealousy. But Estë had failed in this mission, for Schuldig would have done anything for this room. In that bed, Crawford slept most nights. In that closet were the pristine jackets that he wore, that he would wear across the halls all day and then, finally, that he would have on when he came to Schuldig's room at night.
And all around, permeating the very stone of the walls, was that scent. That glorious smell of just him. Bradley Crawford. Neat and clean and intoxicating. Had Crawford not been there, he could have taken it in for hours, never bored, studying how immaculately clean and neat it had been kept, rifling through the few books on the desk. But there were more pressing matters. Crawford was standing before him, already mostly prepared to go to sleep. After a slight pause, hesitation he only gave into around the American, he moved close, wrapping his arms around the other's waist. Crawford flinched.
"Why have you kept me waiting?"
Crawford was silent for a moment, though he relaxed a bit, in Schuldig's arms. His only reply, though, was another, fierce blow to Schuldig's expectancies. "I would rather not, this night." The German was dismayed. He paused again, licking his lips, trying to pull the other closer. His attempts failed.
"Why...?" He queried, jade eyes looking up at Crawford's pale face. Questioning. Unsure. Hurt.
"I don't feel well."
Without having to check, Schuldig knew this was a lie. Crawford was never ill; the students at Rosen Kreuz were hardly ever sick. Sickness was a sign of imperfection, and was therefore intolerable. He sighed deeply. Crawford had lied to him, and now he had no choice but to let himself go, and find out what it was that the American had lied to conceal.
He dipped his consciousness into the strands of Crawford's memories, unseen, unfelt, unheeded, and therefore unstopped. He passed over a grueling final the teen had taken earlier that morning, searching. He walked with Crawford from class to class, through the hallways, until he was called up from his seat near the end of the day as the rest of the students filed out of the white classroom. Unsure of himself, Crawford tucked his books under his arm and stepped forward to his teacher, who smiled and -
Oh hear my prayer you people please
--it was unclear, it was cold, he could see Crawford's form, pressed up against the desk, and then he was seeing things through the American's eyes, everything blurred into fuzzy unfocus, even the face before him, leering into his eyes...a hand on his hip, rough, that would leave bruise marks for a few days, another on the back of his thigh, harsh and grasping and making something, a lump of cold fear, a lump of heavy despair, hang in his stomach--
Incline your tiny minds to me
--and suddenly his pants are gone, where have they gone, and what-God-fuck-no--
It's time to kiss the candyman
--and it hurts, because there's nothing to stop the roughness, the careless handling of his body...a dog...a dog...those are his cries, muffled by a calloused hand pressed over his mouth, blocking them out...his cries of "stop" and "no" and then "please please please..."--
It's high time you were here instead of fighting, I don't want to fight
--begging--
but if by chance the cold wind blows...
--GodGodplease--
Candyman, candyman, candyman
the candyman took it...
He pulled out of Crawford's mind, pale, cold. He knew now why the American had winced so, when he had tried to take him into his arms. Slowly, he allowed a hand to travel down Crawford's body, tugging at his boxers, slipping them down over one bruised hip, bruises like fingerprints on his pale, previously unmarred skin.
"... Crawford."
"How dare you--"
"Crawford. -Crawford-..."
"You--" Schuldig's arms came up around him again, careful of his body, this time, not knowing where the American was hurt. He buried his face in Crawford's chest. Shaken. Desperate.
Afraid.
He felt a hand lift to his hair, brushing through it, soft and caring. Crawford had fallen silent with a pained sigh. Schuldig shivered faintly. He should feel pain, at each unwanted time. So why didn't he? He should have felt that fear, that hollow despair, but he didn't. Had he been so drained of everything - emotion, caring, feeling - that he was hollow? That it didn't matter, anymore? And as for Crawford -- anger was slowly replacing his discomfort, his fear, of the countless invasions of his body, his own lack of objection. Rage seeped into his veins for the American, coursing through his body with fierce pain.
"Schuldig..." The voice was soft. Crawford's lips formed the German's name perfectly, smoothly. Schuldig shuddered.
"You said...You would rather not tonight..." He swallowed, forcing himself to face the boy once more. "Do you still want to be alone...?"
Silence.
Then:
"No." The American led Schuldig back to his bed, and they eased themselves into nakedness in silence, disturbed only by the rustle of cloth as their clothing fell to the floor. Crawford slipped into the bed with a wince and Schuldig followed suit, shutting his eyes lightly at that, pain flickering over his own features. He drew the covers over them both, pulling Crawford against his chest. The American sighed softly, eyes falling shut, weary. Limp.
Schuldig refused to sleep, even as Crawford found peace and rest, in his arms. He stared down at the sleeping almost-seventeen year old in his arms, occasionally held him tighter, his thin arms wrapped around the other's shoulders. His face was softened in sleep, pale and perfect. Schuldig bowed his head, pressing his lips to the soft skin of the American's neck.
"Es tut mir leid..." he murmured against the expanse of pale flesh, eyes squeezing shut, hair falling like a canopy over Crawford's bare chest. "Mein geliebte..."
~Mein geliebte.~
People's minds never lied. They told the truth of situations, they betrayed feelings hidden deep within a person that he or she could not voice. Complicated and hungry and puzzling as they were, they never lied.
As a result, Schuldig hated liars. Their words tasted sour in his ears, bitter to his mind. A lie was a foul thing that hid in his senses and made the sweet honey of truthful passions turn to acid. Therefore, the German never lied. He could not in his mind, and he refused to let anything other than the truth pass his lips. He could twist the truth, of course, or slant it to fit his purposes. Or he kept quiet. But he had never directly lied in his life. It would have made him ill.
"Kann es wahr sein?" Of course it was. Schuldig pulled back for a moment, fully prepared to slip out of the room and make sure he never saw the American again. What he had said -- what he was feeling -- it couldn't be right. He had to stop it as soon as he could.
But something tugged at a hidden part in his chest, making his throat tight at the very thought. Crawford shifted, murmuring something almost incomprehensible in sleep.
"Schul..."
Schuldig froze. Crawford shifted again, his eyes opening into narrowed, questioning slits. Slowly, ever so slowly, Schuldig relaxed, easing Crawford's body back against his chest. With a slight, soft sigh, the American let his eyes fall shut again.
~What is this anger?~ Outwardly, the young boy was calm, silent, nuzzling against Crawford's neck. Inwardly, he was unsure. What was he to do? This bubble of rage building inside him needed to be relieved, the pressure almost causing him to scream in anger. In fury. From the uselessness he suddenly felt. He could not kiss the American's cheek and murmur something soft, enticing, to make the pain and the fear that he had seen disappear. He was out of his league, and he hated it.
He looked down at the sleeping boy -- almost a man -- in his arms. Carefully, he lifted a curious hand to the muscles of Crawford's pale arm, stroking the spots of shadow with graceful, slim fingers. Those fingers explored further down the arm, to the inside of his "geliebte's" elbow, surveying with hidden fascination the way the veins stood out underneath the ghostly skin. The next few hours of the night were devoted to the study of Crawford's body. When Schuldig reached the boy's bruised hip, he froze. Rage began to boil inside him once more, at the marred spot that had been so perfect a day before. He bent down to brush his lips over the spot, but he could not kiss the fingertip-shaped bruises away. He clenched his fists. Tomorrow, he would do something. Something he did not yet know, something plain and simple for revenge.
Slowly, Schuldig eased Crawford from his arms and lay him on his stomach. A slight, sleepy murmur of protest was muffled by a pillow, and the American was asleep once more. Schuldig danced his fingers over the spine before him, down to the small of Crawford's back. Below that, there was a reddish-blue bruise in the shape of a hand. His own hand was about half that size. He shuddered.
Anger again. And a sudden flash of Crawford's memory surged into his senses --
"Be a good boy and don't tell anyone." A self-assured, self satisfied voice murmured in his ear. He stumbled forward as the hand that held him up was removed. His pants, which had been tossed aside, were returned to him. "I'm sure you have work to do. That is all for today."
-- and Schuldig clenched his jaw, eyes shut once more. Lessons. How many lessons, like that, had he endured? He didn't want to think about it.
He forced himself to concentrate on the pale body stretched out before him. His hand trailed down over the back of one thigh, to the inside of Crawford's knee. It was soft, there, soft like baby's flesh. He leaned down to kiss it. "Warum?" He whispered. Crawford shivered faintly in his sleep, and Schuldig pulled himself away from that spot, curling up next to the American's side. "I'm tired..." His English had gotten better.
"Sleep, then."
"You're awake?"
"Ja." Crawford was too weary to smirk, but under other circumstances, he would have. As Schuldig imitated the American's own native tongue, he mimicked Schuldig's German. Together, they spoke a mixture of both languages that would have been quite amusing to any outsider's ear.
"I'm sorry. I woke you."
"Nein." He paused. "Why can't you sleep?"
"I'm angry."
"I'm too tired to be angry, Schuldig." A slight shifting of his position, a creaking of bedsprings and the sound of sheets crinkling. "Do you ever sleep?"
"... Nein." The American had shifted to take the slim German into his arms, pulling him close. Schuldig rubbed his cheek against Crawford's chest. "I'm too angry to be tired." Crawford's arms tightened around his lithe form, and a light, soft kiss was pressed to his temple.
"You should sleep."
"I can't. What was done to you--"
"Don't say it."
"How can it not be said?"
"-Don't-, Schuldig." Chastened into silence, Schuldig closed his mouth. He was not expecting what came next. "Please. If I can forget 'what was done to me', as you put it, so can you."
"But you haven't forgotten," he murmured.
"I will."
"It's too hard to forget." Crawford's head snapped up at that, mocha eyes narrowing.
"Ihnen...?"
"It's too many to remember, like you said." The American sighed, pained, tugging Schuldig closer, muscles tensing slightly against Schuldig's thin frame. The redhead was curled up into a little ball against Crawford's chest. ~It's only so long before you discover the truth.~
"...If you don't sleep, I won't. Sleep, mein Schuldig." Wide jade eyes blinked up into a pale, heart-shaped face. "Mein Schuldig," Bradley Crawford repeated, leaning down for a soft kiss.
"... Mein geliebte." Crawford lifted an eyebrow.
"I don't know what that means, Schul." Schuldig paused, licking his lips.
"Beloved," he answered finally, and then looked away, feeling foolish and quite too young to be saying such things. Inscrutable mocha eyes studied him for a moment in the eery silence of the room. He could feel them, watching him, looking him over.
"You may call me Brad," the American said finally, curtly.
And that was really all Schuldig had ever needed to hear. It was acceptance. It was caring. In his own strange, cold way, Crawford had returned the unsure emotion Schuldig had first expressed.
The German felt somewhat giddy.
It was in that moment he realized what he had to do.
At last, in the very early morning, they both fell asleep. The time before that was spent in silence; there were times like that, between them, when they never needed to speak, and this was one of them. Schuldig woke at six, after an hour of sleep, and kissed Crawford on the cheek. He woke immediately.
"I don't want to leave," the German whispered.
"I don't want you to, either."
Schuldig pulled away, gathering up his clothes and dressing in the heavy silence. Crawford watched him, propped up on one elbow.
"I'll find you tonight?" Crawford questioned as Schuldig paused in the doorway.
"Please," was Schuldig's reply, and then he slipped out into the hall.
He spent the day running through his mind the blurred picture of the man who had done those things to Crawford the day before. Halfway through the day, the image clicked perfectly. He was an administrator who had given Schuldig more than just one lesson, since Schuldig's first years at Rosen Kreuz. Names and faces had blurred, but perhaps he had even been the first. The German quickly rifled through the files of his teachers' thoughts to find his name - Herr Mannheim. He felt a sort of anticipant fear rise in his chest as the day wore on, but he pushed it down, his cool, confident mask hiding anything he felt beneath it.
After his classes were finished, he searched the man out, not pausing to think about the consequences his plans would bring. He found the man in his office after the halls were empty. It took Herr Mannheim a moment to remember the redhead's name, but the teacher had remembered his face. A cool, thin smile tugged at his lips.
"Schuldig, is it not?" he asked calmly, looking up from a stack of papers. Schuldig nodded, calmly, keeping his motive hidden. He wasn't quite sure, yet, of how to go about this.
Herr Mannheim soon solved Schuldig's indecision. The man stepped towards the boy, his work suddenly very unimportant. "Stay still," he smirked, reaching out a hand to grab the redhead by his hip.
//"Stay still."
"But I want to go back..."
"Stay _still_!" A rough hand grabbed him by his hair, pulling him close, and he had felt this in Munich, night after night, he knew what this was and it hurt and--
"Be a good boy...Schuldig, is it not?"
He couldn't scream. A hand held his mouth closed and--
"I hope to see you again, Schuldig." Herr Mannheim stood, smug and cool and entirely unrumpled. Desensitized, the small seven year old could only whimper, a hand stand with his own blood.//
"I'm sure your pathetic little oracle will enjoy both of my presents. You both are too foolish... You believe you can be each other's, when you are Estë's, and no one else's."
Schuldig hit him with all he had, giving the man no warning. A flood of power, a blast of sheer force. His brain collapsed instantly under the attack. The man cried out once, blood pouring from his nose, then crumpled into a limp, lifeless ball at the foot of his chair after a mere second.
For a minute, Schuldig stood there, staring. His anger slowly disappeared, retreating back into him, and he withdrew his attack. Vacant, horror-frozen eyes stared up at him, seeing nothing. Schuldig couldn't move.
~Punishment.~
Hands grabbed him from behind, dragging him through the empty halls that were far from silent. He saw eyes watching him and heard the buzz of voices behind heavy doors. He couldn't make any of their words out. Once he thought he heard a voice he recognized, a sharp cry of "No!" and the sound of something smashing.
And then he was in the Northern Corner.
It was a different world. Everything was filled with a cruel, cold silence, not even the sound of their footsteps echoed on the walls. It was as if someone had deleted all signs of life, as if anything living was afraid to make its presence known.
For a moment, and a moment only, he wasn't afraid. A brief, breathless moment, he allowed himself to think "so what?" of the whole thing. Then, the hands tossed him into the darkest room he had ever been in in his life, and punishment began after a few moments of chilling, breathless quiet.
The sounds of screams echoed throughout the school for three solid hours. Not out loud, of course -- mental, internal; felt, more than heard.
Crawford collapsed onto Schuldig's bed, holding one of the German's shirts close to him, breathing its scent in deeply.
"You idiot," he hissed. "Schuldig..."
There is hardly anything to be said about the three hours Schuldig spent, locked in the small room that closed in on him every second. It was silence, while being shrieking, cacophonous chaos, a pure swamp of sound. It was pitch black and it was burning brightness. It was a Hell cultivated to include his every hidden fear. In three hours, the Black Room deleted his mind from his self, tore him to pieces and then sewed him back up into a shaky remembrance of who he was. He was returned to his room, broken and desperate, empty and sick, with nothing left that belonged to him...
Except for the American who waited in his bed.
"It was my battle, Schuldig," he whispered as the door was slammed shut behind him. Schuldig opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. His throat was raw and voiceless with strain, and his knees were giving way beneath him. Crawford was there in an instant to catch him as he fell. The teen held the limp redhead in his arms, taking him back to the bed and cradling him close. He spoke softly and in a low, soothing voice, stroking his fingers through Schuldig's hair as he said anything that came to mind. "He died instantly. Everyone's talking about you, and how you're simply amazing. They don't know how much, though. I saw it happening too late. You shouldn't have done that. I can't help you, now. When you can speak, you'll tell me what to do."
~Hold me.~ Crawford caught that, thin and weak as it was, and nodded, pulling off his glasses and placing them on the bedside table.
"I thought I was. Tighter? I suppose so -- as tight as you want me to. Will you be able to sleep? I doubt it." Somehow, the sound of his smooth voice was comforting. Beautiful and familiar. Just wonderful. "Mein geliebte. Schuldig."
~Keep talking...?~
"What should I say? I feel foolish." He sighed deeply. "I was worried. I'm surprised by you. -You- were foolish. Too foolish. I was mad at you at first, I almost broke everything in my room because of it. And then I was just worried. How dare you. You're wonderful. Don't ever do something like that again..."
~Danke schoen...~
"Bitte, Schuldig. Never again."
~... Never again.~
"What did they do to you?"
~...~
Crawford gave up on questioning him further. He had long since fought rage out of his system, but now, he didn't know what he was feeling. Shaking his head a bit, the American pulled Schuldig close to his chest, and smiled just faintly as the German shifted to press his cheek over the other's heartbeat. "I suppose you won't tell me, then. Was it that bad? I've never been punished." He went on, "Tomorrow is Sunday. I sometimes take optional classes then; I won't tomorrow. I'll stay with you, would you like that?"
~Ja...Bitte, Brad...Ich möchte das.~
"I will, then." He paused. Brushed his fingers over the German's cheek and then returned to tangling them in the strands of silky wildfire. So pale, compared to the flame color of Schuldig's hair. "Schuldig. Schuldig, you are a fool." He paused again, brushing a kiss over the boy's pale forehead. "My fool, if you will allow it."
~I will.~
"Good." Schuldig allowed himself a weak smile before shivering; Crawford lifted a hand to wrap a cover around his shaking body.
~I...~
"Schuldig?"
~...Danke, Brad.~ He passed out a few moments later, leaving his American frowning, though softened, and holding him tight. Crawford spoke to him late into the night, unsure if this was to comfort himself or the unconscious German in his arms. Whenever Schuldig was plagued by nightmares during the night, and that was often, Crawford was there. The American was not used to comforting anyone, but he did his best, stroking the boy's back and murmuring soft things into his ear. Relaxed things; things that Schuldig would never hear, and could therefore never remember.
Sundays were Schuldig's only days off. He woke late, in the slightly relaxed arms of Bradley Crawford, who was slumped against the wall in sleep. If he were not too drained to think straight, too pained to feel, he would have heard the pang of that something unnamed flash through him as he gazed upon his Bradley's face.
"Brad." His voice was scratchy, harsh, and it was painful to speak. He winced, and Crawford woke immediately.
"Schul...?" He was slightly rumpled, and the pang was loud enough to be heard quite clearly, this time.
"I...sorry, Brad, I just..." He swallowed. He needed a drink, but he still felt wobbly. Immediately Crawford stood, slipping out of his rumpled jacket and smoothing it out over a chair before disappearing into the bathroom and returning a few moments later with a cup of water from the sink in his hand.
"Here," he murmured, sitting down next to the boy and pulling him close once more, lifting the cup to his lips. The water was cool and refreshing and Schuldig gulped it down gratefully.
"Thank you," he sighed, and Crawford set the cup down.
"Better?"
"Much."
"Good." A soft kiss was pressed to Schuldig's neck, and the German melted back against Crawford's chest.
"Thank you," he said again, eyes falling shut.
"Mm." After a moment of wonderful silence, Crawford spoke again, brushing his fingers through Schuldig's hair. "Are you up to anything today? Or shall we just stay like this..."
"What did you have in mind?" His voice was still a bit shaky, and Crawford frowned.
"Perhaps not..." He mused, absently toying with a brush on the bedside table. His frown grew as he ran his fingers over the bristles, sighing a bit.
"Brush my hair?" Crawford blinked.
"What?"
"...No one ever has." The American lifted a brow and the hairbrush at the same time.
"I'll hurt you."
"It's hardly tangled." Crawford almost voiced his thoughts - 'Then what's the point of brushing it?' - but stopped himself suddenly. What could it hurt? The German's hair did fascinate him, long fiery tendrils tumbling over his shoulders like silk... Slowly, carefully, he lifted the brush, and ran it gently through Schuldig's wildfire hair. It was like silk. It rippled and shone, and Crawford repeated the motion as Schuldig shivered. "Mm..." The German shifted sighing softly, shoulders arching into the stiff bristles.
Carefully, Crawford swept the flame colored bangs away from Schuldig's forehead with his index and middle finger, his ring finger brushing over the German's forehead. A low purring sound started in Schuldig's throat, causing Crawford's well sculpted brow to lift further in his pale forehead.
He kept the steady rhythm up for a good ten minutes as Schuldig relaxed, soothed, silent except for his breathing. In those ten minutes, the German's life focused around the American behind him, playing with his hair. He could almost forget the Black Room -- almost. It was still a nagging coldness in the back of his mind. But it was pushed aside for the warmth he felt, the warmth that could delete everything else but the hand on his thigh and the fingers combing through his hair. It took him a moment to realize Crawford had put down the brush.
"There," he said quietly.
"Don't ever go back to your room." Schuldig had to say the words quickly, or else he would have had time to realize how foolish they sounded.
"Can I go back to get my clothes, first?" Crawford's tone was dry; he was smirking. Schuldig looked away. "It wouldn't be allowed, you know. And I'm not letting you go back...there."
"Ja. I know."
"But I won't go back until tomorrow morning, as promised." Schuldig nodded, a bit numbly.
"I only have two more months," he said quietly. "Less, now." The American blinked, tilting his head to the side slightly and unconsciously pushing his glasses up further on his nose.
"You only have two more months for what?" He queried, curious, a bit of his usual surety slipping. If Schuldig hadn't known better, he would have thought the American was nervous. But Crawford was never nervous. At least, Schuldig had never seen him display that emotion before.
"Before the Elders come for me." Crawford frowned.
"I hadn't known they were coming. Only two months?" Slowly, the German nodded, and Crawford pulled him yet closer. "Mein geliebte. That's still what you are, isn't it? You still will be." He held him tight, possessively so. It was glorious, to have those strong arms fighting off everything for you. Schuldig nuzzled back against him.
"Liebchen...I don't want to leave you."
"I know."
"I'll miss you," he murmured, looking down.
"And I you." The young German in Crawford's arms was staring down at his lap. He didn't know how to cry, no one at Rosen Kreuz did, but Schuldig's throat had suddenly grown tight. Crawford lifted a hand to his young lover's cheek and rubbed his thumb against the soft, pale skin. "For now, we don't have to think of it, you know." Again, Schuldig nodded. "I've never spent the day in, before. Shall we?" With the beginnings of a smile, the redhead looked up into surprisingly gentle mocha eyes. They had been raised to be killers, the slaves of Estë. Here, in each other's arms, they had found something they could call their own.
Bradley Crawford. Age sixteen. Oracle and top student in all his classes. He had never before held another human in his arms the way he held the German. He had never before been touched with such tender, amazing care.
'Schuldig.' Age eleven. Telepath of astounding power and whore in all forms. He had never before been so very happy in someone's arms. He had never before wanted any one person with such fierce, desperate passion.
They spent the day and the following night in Schuldig's bed, as close to each other as they could manage. In that day, Crawford told Schuldig all of his plans, all of the things he had foreseen, and, finally, his past. During the night, Schuldig told the American every thought he requested, the workings of dreams, and, finally, his own past -- what little he remembered, shameful as it was. At six in the morning, Crawford departed.
The next two months they devoted to each other. Every night, every day off, every lunch hour they spent together. They made love every chance they could; because of this, they hardly ever slept. As a result, Crawford's grades began to drop, and Schuldig failed half his classes. It was worth it. Both knew every inch of the other's body better than they knew their own; ten to thirty minutes of each day were devoted to the process of grooming the German, as Crawford knew it pleased Schuldig so very much. Neither of the two had ever been so content.
But two months passed quickly. Crawford clung to Schuldig on their last night, and their love-making was filled with short cries and Schuldig's tears and despair.
"Schul, don't leave me," he panted into the German's mouth between hot, hungry kisses. Schuldig whimpered, fingers holding fast to Brad's sides. Tears streamed down his cheeks as the American attempted to kiss them all away.
"Bitte..."
"Schul, don't leave me."
"Brad..." Crawford pulled away, his pale back glistening with sweat as he faced the wall. A painful tightening sensation in his chest as Schuldig reached out a hand to touch his lover's shoulder-blade. He ran his palm up and down the American's spine and stopped as it rested on Crawford's neck. "Gott, Brad...don't turn your back on me now..." Slowly, the pale teen turned around, dark lashes framing frankly honest eyes, which were filled with an indescribable ache.
"I don't cry," he murmured. "But you're going to leave me." Schuldig collapsed against him, weary to the bone. His heart stung and Crawford had made love to him five times that night. "I..."
"Will we ever see each other again?" His voice was muffled against Crawford's flesh, but it was fiercely trusting. If anyone knew the answer, the American did. Schuldig waited for it, pressing tender kisses to his skin.
"I don't know," Crawford replied finally.
"What does that mean?"
"No, or not for a long time." Strong arms snaked around the redhead's form, hurriedly pulling him close, holding him almost painfully tight. "We have three hours left." Schuldig shivered, his own, thin arms slipping around Crawford's waist. "I just want to hold you..."
When the morning came, they said no goodbyes. There were only kisses and longing, hungry touches. No "I'll miss you"s, no "I'll see you tomorrow night"s. Things had changed. They were both numb, and their only goodbye was a hug, fierce and crushing and filled with loss. For students at Rosen Kreuz, emotions like grief were not allowed. But the feeling of pure loss was left, a hollow space in both their chests, the pain of parting that even Estë could not plunder from them.
Crawford left at six, as usual, and Schuldig waited a mere minute to be escorted through the hallways and into a pristine white car. Rosen Kreuz disappeared into the mountains behind him, along with the young man -- a young man, now, and a boy no longer -- who sat, alone in his room, finally allowing himself to give in to tears.
It was the last time Bradley Crawford would ever cry again.