Rain and Music Boxes | Chapter 7
A Weiß Kreuz Fanfiction by Majokai Yukiko
Pairing: Crawford + Schuldich
Warnings: Sex, drugs, mind control and violence
This is an amateur effort and does not intend to infringe on the rights of Takehito Koyasu, Project Weiß and their associates.
A/N: Oh great, now I've lost whatever plot bunnies I had for this story. Why the hell do I need Ken and Nagi for again?
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Berlin, Germany
Two Years Ago
The German did almost everything that he could. He danced, he smoked, and he had sex, painful sex. The only vice that he still refused to touch was drugs. Stupid, he knew. After all that he had gone through, drugs would only be another desperate measure to silence the voices in his head. But he had pride. He remembered making a promise to someone about not resorting to drugs to block out the noises. He could only do that much as to honor that promise.
The whip cracked painfully down on his bare back. But the young man only welcomed it with tears of joy in his eyes. Damn, I'm turning into a masochist. He chided himself. But had he any other choice? Only the pain, his dreadful concentration on the pain could bring him away from the heavy pounding in his head.
Another night of mindless sex. But he had no complains about it. He had no past, no memories, no name and no money. All he had was the clothes he had on, his body and the insanity in his head.
Some part of him told him that it was a test. Somebody had left him on the streets to break him. It was this endless routine of sex, dance and alcohol that had cost him his memories. But that would mean that one day, some one would come by, collect the pieces and put him back together the way they want it to.
Come and take me now, he pleaded mentally. I will gratefully sell my soul to you. Who cares if you are the devil or not?
The next morning, the flame haired man picked up his clothes from the floor of the cheap moth infested motel room and began roaming the streets of Berlin again, hunting for more cigarettes with the money in his pocket. If he were lucky, he could find another john to spend the night with.
He stopped outside a shop window. It was a gift shop, one of those things that were doomed for closing down during times like these. Who on Earth in East Berlin would bother to enter a gift shop when they even had problems feeding themselves?
But something at the show window had attracted his attention. It was a music box. Cheap, and badly made. The wood was rough and casually painted over. But to him, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He looked at the price that went with it, and dug into his pockets to make a quick count of the money he had. Not enough.
***
Schwarz Apartment
Present
The Schwarz morning started off with a very loud scream of "WHAT THE FUCK?!" followed by a string of German curses that were too fast for anyone other than the speaker to catch. There was a lot of noise inside Crawford's usually silent room. The sound of things breaking, of knuckles against bone, and finally an angered growl that could only come from the leader of Schwarz.
Worried, Nagi leapt out of bed and quickly made his way down the hallway to the locked room, using his telekinesis to break the lock. Crawford could scold him about respecting his privacy for all he cared later.
The room was a nightmare. The floor was a mess, filled with old things, useless things, broken things that a certain German telepath had trashed in his tirade. Nagi looked around, realizing that said telepath was standing with his back to the window, completely naked with a wild look of hatred and confusion on his face.
Crawford was sitting on the bed, also naked, and looking just as confused as the two other men in his room. An ugly purple bruise was already darkening on his jaw, no doubt gifted by the redhead.
"No shit, chibi, get out," Schuldich ordered shakily. Crawford shook his head, swinging his legs off the bed and walked towards the German with a hand reached out.
"No, Nagi, stay." Crawford studied every change on Schuldich's face carefully, a worried frown creasing his handsome face. "What's wrong with you, Chris?"
"Who the fuck is Chris?" Schuldich yelled, glaring from the American to the teenager in the room. "And what sort of sick game are you playing this time, Crawford?"
The American winced. Even during Schuldich's worst tantrums he had refused to call him by his last name. Crawford never thought it would hurt that much when he finally did. He placed his hand over his eyes, predicting the upcoming arrival of a full-blown migraine.
//Look into my mind, Schuldich//
The German did not need a second invitation.
Memories; memories of Schuldich fainting in Crawford's office in the Diet Building, memories of Schuldich waking up as Chris Heinrich (Who the fuck is he anyway?), of the hurt expression on his face every time Crawford called him anything other than 'Chris', bittersweet memories of them sleeping in each other's arms just last night…
Schuldich bit his lip and wrenched himself out of Crawford's head.
"Damn, you are sicker than I thought you are." Either that, or I'm really going crazy. Schuldich thought warily. But it was more than that that had frightened him. It was the feelings Crawford evoked when he called him Chris, the impulse to throw himself into Crawford's arms and sob like a baby, or a lover, when the American was looking at him with that concerned frown on his face. That was what that had scared him witless.
The name 'Chris' sounded like a whisper from long ago. And it frustrated Schuldich to no end, the same way one would feel when a line of a song kept repeating itself in your head but you simply could not remember how the rest of it sounded like.
He reached out his mental feelers to the Japanese boy in the room. //Nagi, please, may I? // He asked. The boy stared at him with a look of puzzlement on his face, but nodded all the same.
Such trust, Schuldich thought. What had I done to deserve that?
Nagi's mind was, to his surprise, clearer than what Crawford's were like. The boy slowly revealed to him, day by day, how the German woke up looking different, thinking differently, insisting that his name was Chris Heinrich and was a childhood friend of Brad Crawford's.
The room was silent, as silent as the grave, while Schuldich slowly digested this information.
"This 'Chris'," he finally started, trying hard to find the correct words to say. "He a friend of yours?"
Crawford hesitated for a moment, and then gave a nod. //Perhaps more, I'm not sure//
"Oh God," the redhead slumped back onto the floor with a sigh. "Do you believe in ghosts, peeps?"
***
It was a ghost. It had to be! There was no way in Hell Schuldich could connect himself with that frightened young man from his teammates' minds. The German knew nothing of fear. Strange it was, but perhaps he had been born like that. His earliest memories were of himself roaming the streets of Berlin during the Soviet occupation, selling his body for any distraction he could to dull the voices in his head: sex, alcohol, pain…just about anything except for drugs.
A strong hand encircled itself around his wrist and squeezed down hard, Chris dropped the syringe in his hand out of pain.
"What do you think you are doing?" Brad shouted.
"Leave me alone!" Chris pushed Brad away desperately, reaching desperately for his rush again. "I want to be deaf! I want the silence!"
"Is it worth it? Is it worth getting addicted on this trash just to make those voices shut up?" Brad picked up the plastic syringe and rolled up his sleeves, all the while keeping his eyes on his friend. "If you think it is, I'll join you on your way to hell."
Dark green eyes widened with fear as he grabbed for the drug, only ending up in falling head on into Brad's arms.
"Don't…" Chris sobbed, grabbing on to Brad like a drowning man to a plank. "I don't want you to be like me…"
"Then promise me," the black haired boy let the syringe drop from his hand and he tightened his hug around the smaller boy. "Promise me that you won't even think about doing drugs again." He whispered, pressing his lips onto Chris' cold sweaty forehead.
Schuldich grabbed his head painfully, fingers winding around his long orange locks and pulling at them, wanting the sting in his scalp to distract him from the visions his mind was giving him.
Was that remnants of a ghost, or remnants of the ghost of a memory?
"Get out…get the hell out of my head…please, save me…Mutti…Brad…"
+++
End of Chapter 7
Continue to Chapter 8
Note: 'Mutti' means 'mother' in German, I think.