*****************
"Never Let Me Down Again"
By Farfie no Miko
*****************
Disclaimer: Sadly, Project Weiß owns the most beautiful men of Schwarz. . . Oh, if I owned Farfie. . .*evil laughter* I guess this is the next best thing. This and my Farf and Schu Bears. Life is good.
Note: The title is stolen from a Depeche Mode song that inspired this fic; it's my theme song for them. Yeah, no one ever said I made much sense.
Warning: Language, because cussing is a hard thing to drop. Mild self- mutilation. S+F shounen-ai. Just me trying my hand at a serious, sappy fic for a change, and I can't even promise it'll turn out that way. That is all.
*****************
*****************
Part Two
*****************
The sun was already traveling downwards in its path in the sky the next day before the noise of jingling keys woke Farfarello. How long had he been asleep? It was soon after Schu had walked out on him before he had lost himself to unconsciousness.
The madman lifted his head to get a look at who had decided to let him out. Through groggy eyes, he could make out a figure in a pale business suit.
Crawford looked at him with a bit of surprise, "I thought. . . damnit! Schuldig was supposed to have let you down last night before he went to bed," the American swiftly walked up to the Farfarello and began undoing the various belts and contraptions holding him in place, until the Irishman fell limply to the floor.
Crawford sighed, "You can't count on Schuldig for anything, can you," he muttered to himself.
After he had helped the madman out of his straight jacket, Crawford took no time in firmly grabbing him by the arm to examine it. He then moved to pull up Farfarello's black tank top enough to expose the Irishman's purpled ribcage.
"Looks like you've already healed up pretty well, Farfarello, there's nothing but bruises left," he said as he gently pressed on the ribs of Farfarello's battered torso. The madman's unique ability to heal quickly always surprised Crawford. Even the nastiest of cuts that Farfarello inflicted on himself would heal fully in a matter of day or two.
Farfarello squinted his amber eye at the American, trying to focus his vision. His head was still swimming from being right side up once more.
"Where is Schuldig?" his voice cracked, his throat dry from not having anything to drink since sometime the day before.
"He left me a note saying that he went out. I found it when I walked in the door a few minutes ago," Brad pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, "He seemed pretty pissed last night. Knowing him, he won't be back 'til tomorrow morning. . ."
"And it seems that you're not pissed anymore, either?"
Crawford smiled, "This incident ended up working out to our benefit. I talked to Mister Takatori today, and have managed to shift the blame towards Weiß. Now our efforts will be concentrated on taking them out, getting rid of one our biggest obstacles."
The American looked at Farfarello for a reaction, for which he received none. Farfarello had lost interest, and was looking at the knives which he now had access to.
Brad sighed, "I won't take those away from you, you've been punished enough for one day." He turned to leave, "I'll have Nagi bring you your dinner in a little bit."
After he heard the door click shut and then lock, the madman reached for the nearest dagger to him on the floor. Whoever said that Americans were heartless?
He ran his tongue over the cold, hard surface of the knife that had been teasing him all of the night before, but stopped when another familiar taste mingled with that of cold metal. He pulled the knife out of his mouth to examine it. Usually, he cleaned his knives after he used them.
*Schu's blood from last night. . .* he thought. Farfarello shook his head and pushed the thought out of his mind as he took the knife and cut a jagged line down his upper arm.
*****************
Schuldig slipped in through the door of Schwarz's shared apartment, silently closing the door behind him and locking it. It was nearly 3 a.m. and the flat was dark, save for the dull glow of a computer screen shining from under Nagi's bedroom door. A quick scan of the bishounen's mind, told Schuldig that he was talking to the azure haired girl from Schrient online. *It's only a matter of days now, before he gets caught. He's becoming too bold,* the telepath thought to himself.
He passed his own door, briefly noting the yellow post-it stuck to it. No doubt something from Bradley, bitching him out about responsibility or some other crap that the American enjoyed preaching to him.
After turning into the bathroom adjacent to his room, the German turned on the faucet of the sink, leaning on the rim for a moment. He watched the flowing water as he allowed it to warm up, before splashing some onto his face.
He'd spent much of his day walking around town and mind raping the happiest, most hopeful minds that he came across. He had enjoyed visiting the local playground the most; children do have some of the most innocently optimistic minds, after all. No matter what is said, reveling in other's pain and suffering really does help in easing one's own.
After dark, Schuldig had taken to the nightclubs; simply feeding off the emotions of the local youth, as they drank themselves into a blissful oblivion, surrounded by dim lighting and pulsating music.
But the whole time, something had been gnawing at the back of his mind. He had left Farfarello, his friend, hanging in his room: the Irishman's most hated form of punishment. Left him and ignored him because he was angry. Anger that had turned into guilt as the pain of the previous day's beating soothed into a dull throb as he spent the day dispensing mental torture onto faceless strangers.
He grabbed a towel from a nearby wall hook and dried his face off. Carelessly tossing the damp towel onto the floor, he strode out of the bathroom and back into to the hallway, *I really should apologize. . .*
He took the key once more off the wall and unlocked the door to the madman's cell. The thin sliver of light from the hallway illuminating the room showed Schuldig that Farfarello was not in his bed. Opening the door more fully, the redhead could make out the Irishman's figure propped in the far corner of the room, unmoving except for the slow, shallow rising and falling of his shoulders from breathing. He was asleep.
Schuldig slipped in soundlessly, closing the door behind him, and padded softly across the room, settling down next to the hunched, sleeping figure. He rested his hand on his chin and regarded the other man in the dim moonlit room. The psychopath looked calm in his slumbering state, his almost effeminate features soft, and his harsh scars barely visible in the minimal light.
Reaching out almost hesitantly with his free hand, Schuldig brushed his hand through the Irishman's fine, shortly cropped hair, admiring its softness. *He looks so peaceful,* Schuldig mused, *so different compared to when he's awake, either quiet in thought, ranting about God, or crazed in the heat of battle.*
The German paused when his hands ran over something other than soft hair, but fabric instead. Leaning forward to get a fuller view of the other side of Farfarello's face, Schuldig realized that the cloth was a bandage. The left side of the Irishman's face was covered by bandages, some of which were wrapped around his head to hold them in place. A red streak of blood that had leaked through the cloth ran in a jagged road map of a line from just above Farfarello's empty eye socket and down his cheek. If he had one fresh wound that meant. . .
Schuldig took in the rest of the Irishman then. Farfarello had his legs pulled up and was holding them tightly against his chest. Fresh bandages, other than the ones normally used to cover the wounds in which he often hid knives, covered both his arms and bound around his wrists, hands, and fingers. More peeked out from under the fresh yet blood dappled white tee- shirt he wore, to cover his neck. In the darkness of the room, it had appeared, at first, that he was back into his straight jacket, which covered his upper body as thoroughly as the bandages did now.
His eyes continued to travel downward. Though Farfarello had on a pair of black denim jeans, Schuldig knew that there were more than likely more bandages underneath them, judging from the damage he had inflicted upon the upper half of himself. Pale, bony feet peeked out from the ankle of the jeans, marred only by light pink scars from previous bouts of cutting, seemingly the only part of him currently not hidden by bandages.
When he lifted his gaze once more, it met the dull sulfuric glow of Farfarello's eye. He regarded the German from behind his half-opened eye and silver eyelashes.
"What do you want, Guilty?" he asked weakly.
"What the hell happened?" Schuldig reached out and touched Farfarello's arm briefly to indicate the bandages.
Farfarello sighed and leaned his head back to rest on the padded wall, stretching and exposing his pale neck and healing scars that slipped out from under their bandages, "Nagi came in with dinner and caught me. He tattled to Brad, and now, 'no more knives for a month.'"
"That's not what I asked," Schuldig said quietly, shifting to sit directly in front of his companion, "Why did you cut yourself up like this."
"You know very well why," a slender, silver eyebrow rose, "Why don't you just read my mind and find out then, if you're not too sure?"
Schuldig let out an exasperated breath of air, "I've violated enough minds today. I'm tired."
Farfarello smirked and closed his good eye, "I was upset and aggravated. . . God needed to hurt for what he did to me yesterday. . ."
"God didn't do anything to you yesterday."
Farfarello let out a short, soft chuckle, "No? Then why did I hang upside down in here for nearly a day?" he asked in a tone that made it more than obvious he was baiting the German.
"Because I was mad at you, you asshole," Schuldig gave him a light smile and a playful tap on the leg, "You got me beaten by a golf club."
Farfarello lifted his head off the wall, and looked down at the bandage he had begun to fiddle with, "I know," he said quietly, "I know."
*****************
Holy crap on toast, this fic is getting somewhere! And I'm becoming more coherent as I go on ^_#!! Thank you to those who reviewed the last part! *glomps* I love you guys! Here, I thought I was doing terribly!
That very last part was OOC, according to Maggie, but that's kind of fixed in the next part. Which may take a little bit for me to post -_# I'm rather swamped at school right now, and only have about a page done on the next part. This second part was posted quickly because I had it finished and was just waiting to get my computer before I could get online and do so.
To those who've actually heard this song by Depeche Mode and are wondering what it has to do with anything about this fic, don't worry, it gets there in the next part!
Chocolate covered Aya's for all my reviewers!!!
((reposted 3/3/03. . . T_# big problems fixed. . . I'm such a dummy.))
*****************
"Never Let Me Down Again"
By Farfie no Miko
*****************
Disclaimer: Sadly, Project Weiß owns the most beautiful men of Schwarz. . . Oh, if I owned Farfie. . .*evil laughter* I guess this is the next best thing. This and my Farf and Schu Bears. Life is good.
Note: The title is stolen from a Depeche Mode song that inspired this fic; it's my theme song for them. Yeah, no one ever said I made much sense.
Warning: Language, because cussing is a hard thing to drop. Mild self- mutilation. S+F shounen-ai. Just me trying my hand at a serious, sappy fic for a change, and I can't even promise it'll turn out that way. That is all.
*****************
*****************
Part Two
*****************
The sun was already traveling downwards in its path in the sky the next day before the noise of jingling keys woke Farfarello. How long had he been asleep? It was soon after Schu had walked out on him before he had lost himself to unconsciousness.
The madman lifted his head to get a look at who had decided to let him out. Through groggy eyes, he could make out a figure in a pale business suit.
Crawford looked at him with a bit of surprise, "I thought. . . damnit! Schuldig was supposed to have let you down last night before he went to bed," the American swiftly walked up to the Farfarello and began undoing the various belts and contraptions holding him in place, until the Irishman fell limply to the floor.
Crawford sighed, "You can't count on Schuldig for anything, can you," he muttered to himself.
After he had helped the madman out of his straight jacket, Crawford took no time in firmly grabbing him by the arm to examine it. He then moved to pull up Farfarello's black tank top enough to expose the Irishman's purpled ribcage.
"Looks like you've already healed up pretty well, Farfarello, there's nothing but bruises left," he said as he gently pressed on the ribs of Farfarello's battered torso. The madman's unique ability to heal quickly always surprised Crawford. Even the nastiest of cuts that Farfarello inflicted on himself would heal fully in a matter of day or two.
Farfarello squinted his amber eye at the American, trying to focus his vision. His head was still swimming from being right side up once more.
"Where is Schuldig?" his voice cracked, his throat dry from not having anything to drink since sometime the day before.
"He left me a note saying that he went out. I found it when I walked in the door a few minutes ago," Brad pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, "He seemed pretty pissed last night. Knowing him, he won't be back 'til tomorrow morning. . ."
"And it seems that you're not pissed anymore, either?"
Crawford smiled, "This incident ended up working out to our benefit. I talked to Mister Takatori today, and have managed to shift the blame towards Weiß. Now our efforts will be concentrated on taking them out, getting rid of one our biggest obstacles."
The American looked at Farfarello for a reaction, for which he received none. Farfarello had lost interest, and was looking at the knives which he now had access to.
Brad sighed, "I won't take those away from you, you've been punished enough for one day." He turned to leave, "I'll have Nagi bring you your dinner in a little bit."
After he heard the door click shut and then lock, the madman reached for the nearest dagger to him on the floor. Whoever said that Americans were heartless?
He ran his tongue over the cold, hard surface of the knife that had been teasing him all of the night before, but stopped when another familiar taste mingled with that of cold metal. He pulled the knife out of his mouth to examine it. Usually, he cleaned his knives after he used them.
*Schu's blood from last night. . .* he thought. Farfarello shook his head and pushed the thought out of his mind as he took the knife and cut a jagged line down his upper arm.
*****************
Schuldig slipped in through the door of Schwarz's shared apartment, silently closing the door behind him and locking it. It was nearly 3 a.m. and the flat was dark, save for the dull glow of a computer screen shining from under Nagi's bedroom door. A quick scan of the bishounen's mind, told Schuldig that he was talking to the azure haired girl from Schrient online. *It's only a matter of days now, before he gets caught. He's becoming too bold,* the telepath thought to himself.
He passed his own door, briefly noting the yellow post-it stuck to it. No doubt something from Bradley, bitching him out about responsibility or some other crap that the American enjoyed preaching to him.
After turning into the bathroom adjacent to his room, the German turned on the faucet of the sink, leaning on the rim for a moment. He watched the flowing water as he allowed it to warm up, before splashing some onto his face.
He'd spent much of his day walking around town and mind raping the happiest, most hopeful minds that he came across. He had enjoyed visiting the local playground the most; children do have some of the most innocently optimistic minds, after all. No matter what is said, reveling in other's pain and suffering really does help in easing one's own.
After dark, Schuldig had taken to the nightclubs; simply feeding off the emotions of the local youth, as they drank themselves into a blissful oblivion, surrounded by dim lighting and pulsating music.
But the whole time, something had been gnawing at the back of his mind. He had left Farfarello, his friend, hanging in his room: the Irishman's most hated form of punishment. Left him and ignored him because he was angry. Anger that had turned into guilt as the pain of the previous day's beating soothed into a dull throb as he spent the day dispensing mental torture onto faceless strangers.
He grabbed a towel from a nearby wall hook and dried his face off. Carelessly tossing the damp towel onto the floor, he strode out of the bathroom and back into to the hallway, *I really should apologize. . .*
He took the key once more off the wall and unlocked the door to the madman's cell. The thin sliver of light from the hallway illuminating the room showed Schuldig that Farfarello was not in his bed. Opening the door more fully, the redhead could make out the Irishman's figure propped in the far corner of the room, unmoving except for the slow, shallow rising and falling of his shoulders from breathing. He was asleep.
Schuldig slipped in soundlessly, closing the door behind him, and padded softly across the room, settling down next to the hunched, sleeping figure. He rested his hand on his chin and regarded the other man in the dim moonlit room. The psychopath looked calm in his slumbering state, his almost effeminate features soft, and his harsh scars barely visible in the minimal light.
Reaching out almost hesitantly with his free hand, Schuldig brushed his hand through the Irishman's fine, shortly cropped hair, admiring its softness. *He looks so peaceful,* Schuldig mused, *so different compared to when he's awake, either quiet in thought, ranting about God, or crazed in the heat of battle.*
The German paused when his hands ran over something other than soft hair, but fabric instead. Leaning forward to get a fuller view of the other side of Farfarello's face, Schuldig realized that the cloth was a bandage. The left side of the Irishman's face was covered by bandages, some of which were wrapped around his head to hold them in place. A red streak of blood that had leaked through the cloth ran in a jagged road map of a line from just above Farfarello's empty eye socket and down his cheek. If he had one fresh wound that meant. . .
Schuldig took in the rest of the Irishman then. Farfarello had his legs pulled up and was holding them tightly against his chest. Fresh bandages, other than the ones normally used to cover the wounds in which he often hid knives, covered both his arms and bound around his wrists, hands, and fingers. More peeked out from under the fresh yet blood dappled white tee- shirt he wore, to cover his neck. In the darkness of the room, it had appeared, at first, that he was back into his straight jacket, which covered his upper body as thoroughly as the bandages did now.
His eyes continued to travel downward. Though Farfarello had on a pair of black denim jeans, Schuldig knew that there were more than likely more bandages underneath them, judging from the damage he had inflicted upon the upper half of himself. Pale, bony feet peeked out from the ankle of the jeans, marred only by light pink scars from previous bouts of cutting, seemingly the only part of him currently not hidden by bandages.
When he lifted his gaze once more, it met the dull sulfuric glow of Farfarello's eye. He regarded the German from behind his half-opened eye and silver eyelashes.
"What do you want, Guilty?" he asked weakly.
"What the hell happened?" Schuldig reached out and touched Farfarello's arm briefly to indicate the bandages.
Farfarello sighed and leaned his head back to rest on the padded wall, stretching and exposing his pale neck and healing scars that slipped out from under their bandages, "Nagi came in with dinner and caught me. He tattled to Brad, and now, 'no more knives for a month.'"
"That's not what I asked," Schuldig said quietly, shifting to sit directly in front of his companion, "Why did you cut yourself up like this."
"You know very well why," a slender, silver eyebrow rose, "Why don't you just read my mind and find out then, if you're not too sure?"
Schuldig let out an exasperated breath of air, "I've violated enough minds today. I'm tired."
Farfarello smirked and closed his good eye, "I was upset and aggravated. . . God needed to hurt for what he did to me yesterday. . ."
"God didn't do anything to you yesterday."
Farfarello let out a short, soft chuckle, "No? Then why did I hang upside down in here for nearly a day?" he asked in a tone that made it more than obvious he was baiting the German.
"Because I was mad at you, you asshole," Schuldig gave him a light smile and a playful tap on the leg, "You got me beaten by a golf club."
Farfarello lifted his head off the wall, and looked down at the bandage he had begun to fiddle with, "I know," he said quietly, "I know."
*****************
Holy crap on toast, this fic is getting somewhere! And I'm becoming more coherent as I go on ^_#!! Thank you to those who reviewed the last part! *glomps* I love you guys! Here, I thought I was doing terribly!
That very last part was OOC, according to Maggie, but that's kind of fixed in the next part. Which may take a little bit for me to post -_# I'm rather swamped at school right now, and only have about a page done on the next part. This second part was posted quickly because I had it finished and was just waiting to get my computer before I could get online and do so.
To those who've actually heard this song by Depeche Mode and are wondering what it has to do with anything about this fic, don't worry, it gets there in the next part!
Chocolate covered Aya's for all my reviewers!!!
((reposted 3/3/03. . . T_# big problems fixed. . . I'm such a dummy.))
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