Study In Red

Schuldig sat on the edge of the pier, long jeans-clad legs dangling nervously over the concrete ledge, feet bare. His boots – black, heeled things of cuffed lacquer that practically screamed take me – carelessly thrown behind him. Hunched over so he could watch the dirty water slop against the slimy green wall, bony elbows propped onto skinny thighs, Schuldig was smoking while he kept brushing back his long, unbound hair. He wore a clean pale blue button-down shirt that flapped loosely around his lanky form, and Yohji guessed it to be one of Crawford's things.

"He's gonna kill you if you're ratting down his stuff," he said, plopping down beside the redhead. Schuldig did not even twitch. He would have sensed Yohji long before a gust of warmth and spice enveloped him, and he merely puffed a thick blue cloud of cigarette smoke through his nostrils.

Yohji tried to figure out why Schuldig was studying the bits and pieces that floated on the oily brown water, and gave up. Rubbish, the bloated cadaver of a drowned rat, some stained orange peel, a piece of driftwood and a broken red plastic bucket. Things like that fascinated Schuldig and bored Yohji. Without a word, Schuldig offered him the cigarette. Yohji accepted and took a deep pull. The filter tasted bitter and salty, a little of mint and a hint of coffee. Schuldig's flavour. His smell, a mixture of dankness – like the whiff of clothes kept in a damp cupboard for too long – clean skin, cheap soap and sharp aftershave.

"You ought to be more careful," Yohji tried again, knowing that Crawford would never have allowed Schuldig to roam about this freely, a target now that Eszet were hunting Schwarz with a vengeance. Unless…

"Fuck careful," Schuldig groused and tossed the cigarette butt into the water. It expired with a hiss, and he flung his hair back over his shoulders with both hands. A sexy gesture, displaying his body with this odd mix of innocence and knowing temptation that always irritated Yohji. "Brad wants me to run about a bit, see whether they've cottoned on to us yet."

"He's using you as bait?" Yohji shook his head and fumbled for his own cigarettes. Schuldig's tobacco had tasted foul, of pot. He did not want to be fogged up now; with the redhead around it was better to be careful.

Schuldig leaned into him, making full contact and sliding his hands into the pockets of Yohji's slacks, then sliding up his flanks and finding the cigarettes and lighter in the breast pocket of his blazer. "Here." Wedged between index and middle finger, he dangled the packet before Yohji's nose. Yohji snatched it and shoved against Schuldig, who only sagged more into him.

"Idiot," Yohji growled, lit two cigarettes and slipped one between Schuldig's lips. "Let off and sit."

"Mannerly, so you don't get into shit with your little toy?"

"Shut up," Yohji snapped through a lungful of smoke.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm quiet already."

Yohji began to count. Schuldig managed five seconds before he wriggled, pillowing his head in Yohji's lap and blinking up at him with hooded eyes. "Good."

Yohji stared down at him. Surprised, uneasy and oddly touched that Schuldig's pale young face bore an expression of rare contentment. When had Aya ever been content like that?

He studied the faint pattern of freckles, a smattering on Schuldig's cheekbones, a few golden specks on the tip of his nose and on his brow. Lifted his hand that still held the cigarette packet and touched a blue-green bruise on Schuldig's jaw with his knuckles. "Why do you let him beat you?"

Schuldig's eyes closed, his face drained of colour and went blank. "Never mind."

"You like it?"

Silence. A dense cloud of smoke obscured those sharp young features, before Schuldig turned his face into Yohji's groin even as his arm snuck around Yohji's waist. Yohji jumped, Schuldig clamped down on him, and they struggled briefly before Schuldig suddenly released his grip and Yohji succeeded in pushing him off.

Schuldig laughed. "You're too sweet for your own good, Bali."

"Fuck off."

"Yeah. Do I like it? Do you like this? Hanging out with me when I'm diggin' around in your little mind? You any idea just how innocent you are? Bloody innocent, it makes me sick, that's why I'm staying out of your friggin' head. It's no fun. Too simple, Yotan. You only got a couple of things up there, a woman and a bloke. She's dead, and he is too 'cos he's an ice block, and he hurts you, you're bleedin' inside 'cos he's tearing you to shreds – so do you like that?"

He spat into the filthy water. "And now you won't ask me anymore why I'm goin' back for more 'cos you know why. I want an answer, and he's not fuckin' givin' it to me, but one day he will. He must. In the meanwhile, we're just going insane." He shrugged and gave Yohji a grin that bared his teeth and made his eyes too bright. "Sums it up?"

Yohji swallowed a mouthful of smoke. "Piss off," he said listlessly.

Schuldig sank back onto his heels and patted Yohji's back. "See? You understand. It's nice to know someone who understands, isn't it?"

xxx

Schuldig stood in Crawford's bedroom, in front of the long mirror that formed one door of the built-in wardrobe. The room was cramped and tidy. Crawford was anal. In the mirror, Schuldig could see the closed wooden blinds, grey daylight trickling through the gaps between the horizontal slats. The single bed shoved up against one wall. The bedside cabinet with reading lamp, a neatly folded pair of spare glasses, and a foil of strong prescription headache pills that had been obtained without bothering a doctor. Behind Schuldig stood a small computer desk, with a clothes trunk for a seat. Inside the wardrobe hung Crawford's suits and shirts, ironed and smelling of cleanliness.

Schuldig stared at his own reflection as he buttoned up another shirt, a white one this time with faint grey stripes. He wore boxer shorts beneath and nothing else. The sensation of air on his skin an illusion of freedom as he enveloped himself into the shirt as though it could replace Crawford's presence. Last night, sleeping alone on the narrow bed, he had tossed about in the throes of a nightmare so intense, he woke up screaming. Blind with pain, he had swallowed too many of the tablets, pressed out of their foil with shaking hands, and then he had spent some time with his head over the toilet bowl with his finger down his throat until he spat bile and the whitish goo that had been the tablets.

To sit down trembling on the tiled floor, his hunched back resting against the cold porcelain of the toilet, and stare at his hands until his fingers stopped twitching and he could trust his legs not to buckle when he crept on hands and knees into the bedroom.

The whole job was a mess. He had only agreed because Nagi looked ready to faint and Crawford had asked and told him no one else could do it. It was true, but Crawford knew… and Schuldig could not say no. Even though this was scaring the living shit out of him. His brains were one swimming mass of colours, noise and smells. He could not sense anything in particular. He had lost his focus the moment he dived into the craziness of the big city and was erring about in a haze of fear and exhilaration. He could not even remember where he had left Crawford and Nagi and Farfarello, and prayed Crawford had not just dumped him.

Where the hell are you, Brad?

The house lay in one of the suburbs, in a spot that was easy to find and easy to observe: a clean, open street with lots of gossipy neighbours and a small shop cum café down the road. Schuldig was unable to filter anything but his own grinding anxiety from the amorphous mass of emotions and thoughts that spun him in like some garish cocoon.

I am going crazy.

He laughed quietly at his image in the mirror. It flashed bared teeth back at him. His team would be around somewhere, watching whoever was watching him. Which did not necessarily mean he was safe, or did it? The shirt smelled of Crawford, a precise, starched smell. The sharp, stiff creases of the fabric slid over Schuldig's skin like the blunt edge of a knife. Farfarello liked knifes, Schuldig remembered fuzzily, and where did that come from now? Ah, creases… sharp…

He shook his head, freshly washed hair flapping about his face in a shower of droplets that began to trail down his skin, drip onto the shirt and leaving dark stains on the fine weave.

The blue shirt lay crumpled on the stained carpet. Since Schuldig had settled in the empty house, he had hardly touched anything in one of the other rooms – three bedrooms, one lounge, a kitchen large enough for a table and four chairs. Bathroom down the hall, opposite the main door. Schuldig had inspected everything, found a bug in each room and left them as per Crawford's briefing. Which did not include orders where to sleep or to keep the place clean. The kitchen contained a mess of empty coke cans and discarded junk food boxes, crunched up on the floor, and from the bathroom to this one a trail of wet footprints and used towels marked Schuldig's tracks. Not that he did not try, but he was as unable to keep things tidy as to bundle his thoughts. He forgot. So Crawford, never one to waste time on pointless matters, had not even bothered to tell him.

He closed the button closest to his groin and let his hand linger in his crotch, his eyes drifting shut as he leaned forward and touched his brow to the cool glass of the mirror. Moving his fingers over the slight bulge. Swallowing the soft groan – he hated the idea of the bugs catching him out at this.

Playing sitting duck did not go down well with him at all. It made him ill, as anything restrictive did. Schuldig had to move about to feel reasonably well, and now he was stuck here, on Crawford's whim… no, no, no, not a whim, Brad doesn't do whims, always methodical to a fault; why can't he ease up for once, at least in bed, and cut his stupid discipline, fuck him, oh, I'd like that, thank you very much, but it's his holy cow and…stop rambling. Stop it. Now. Schuldig thought of Yohji too often who would be close, somewhere in this damn big pot of a city. He thought of how he had been yelling at Crawford, screaming out his panic until Crawford hit him, with cold precision, and knocked the wind out of him. Leaving him gasping, and then breathing the life back into him with a harsh kiss. And he had caught a glimpse of those dark chill eyes who were not chill at all and much darker than he had ever seen them, and it nearly unhinged him because…

Crawford was afraid. It hit Schuldig like a wave and left him aghast and speechless for once.

Crawford had not allowed a break. You must be careful, he had instructed Schuldig, lips close to skin, breathing even if a little faster than usual. You must pull yourself together. I rely on you. I cannot afford to lose you. There is no margin for error. They are after us, and I must know who they sent, and how close they are if I am to save our ass.

So you love me after all?

Crawford had simply walked out. Stalked off with long strides, not turning back once. It took Schuldig a while to understand that Crawford had left the house and would not return until further notice. Even when he heard the front door and the engine of the car spring into grumbling action, Nagi and Farfarello having one of their spats, cut short by the slamming of the car doors. He still refused to understand when the car roared off, the sound melting into the noise of other traffic on the busy street. He was standing in the middle of Crawford's room waiting like some dope. Stubborn. Determined to outwait him.

No one ever outwaited Crawford. No one ever outwitted him, either.

When he had to move because he needed to use the bathroom, he went to smash everything, relishing in the wave of cold, systematic rage that washed through him. He broke the plain mirror of Crawford's shaving set, the bottles with tablets and drops of whatever stuff they used to keep their diverse defects at bay – headaches, depressions, tempers, something for everything, all in a mess of puddles and crunched up crumbs on the tiles. He tore down the shower curtain and slashed it to strips with the shaving knife Crawford fancied. Then he sat down in the shallow tub and inspected the dull grey blade.

Mesmerised by its vague gleam. By its contrast to his white skin. He had always been pale. Against the steel of the knife, his hide was chalky. He stroked it experimentally with the blunt edge of the blade. Watching the thin, blushed line fade quickly. Too quickly. A swift, biting swipe with the sharp edge left a much more satisfying crimson line. Small beads, shiny red, pearling on silky white, trembling, quaking, reflecting, enlivening the garish striplight above the empty medicine cabinet.

He tasted those droplets. The flavour salty, metallic, disgusting. He spat out and smeared the glob with his bare feet, leaving a broad, reddish-brown streak on the dirty yellow tiles. Then he was sick into the toilet bowl.

"Why you stupid shit," a familiar voice poked into the soup that was his brains. A hand cupped his jaw, hard fingers pried open his mouth and stoked about a little until he was retching and heaving again and brought up the rest of the things he had swallowed. His vision swimming, he blinked up at the lanky figure that folded into a crouch by his side. "Bali?"

"Pull your act together," Yohji said, almost amused. "What if some of your friends found you like this?"

"Or you?" Schuldig managed, tried to pull himself up and fell back onto his knees, knocking his elbow on the bowl. He winced, and Yohji rose and pulled him up as well.

"Here, wash your gob," he said, turning on the tap over the sink and held Schuldig down so that the stream of tepid water hit his face.

He opened his mouth and drank, eyes closing against the glare of the lights. Yohji's grip on his arm and the back of his neck eased, and he was about to sag away again when Yohji caught him and dragged him out of the bathroom.

"Man, I must be daft," Yohji grumbled, "which room? Stupid question."

Schuldig found himself dumped on Crawford's bed and Yohji standing in front of the window. Arms folded, backside resting on the windowsill, a curious expression in his pretty eyes. "What's up, Schuldig?"

"Whatcha doing here?" came the cranky retort.

"Thought I'd pay a courtesy call."

"Yeah. Love you too."

Yohji smiled and lit a cigarette, then, after a moment of consideration, handed it to Schuldig. "When did you last eat?"

"Gods, Bali, you're not my mother."

"No, that's Crawford's job, not that I'd envy him."

"Did he send you?"

"Do I look like his runner boy?"

Schuldig felt the smoke pour into his lungs and another wave of nausea rise. He shook his head and held the cigarette out for Yohji to take.

Yohji took a few long pulls, dangling the cigarette loosely between his long, elegant fingers. Both men let the silence spread until it enveloped everything. It was a good silence, Schuldig thought, not thick or heavy or tense, like with Crawford. It was always tense with him because he would never allow himself to ease up. With Yohji, it could be easy, depending on the mood and the occasion.

"Then why the hell are you here?"

Yohji shrugged. "Dunno. You ever been jealous?"

Schuldig nearly choked, then he burst out in laughter. "You joking, right?"

Yohji shot him an odd glare.

"Jealous?" Schuldig sucked his lower lip between his teeth and began to worry at the pale flesh. His eyes slid half shut, and he wriggled a little, raising his arms to bed his head on them and drawing up one bare leg. In nothing but Crawford's shirt and the pair of skimpy blue boxers, in this rather wanton pose on the mussed bed, he looked strangely vulnerable.

Yohji's gaze rested almost lazily on the skinny form. Taking in hard, angular lines and the wild nest of copper hair that framed freckled cheeks. The gleam of pale blue eyes, knowing and alluring beneath long dark lashes, and the bobbing adams apple at the bird-thin throat.

"Like what you see?" Schuldig enquired, writhing some more in a surprisingly sensuous way.

Yohji bit onto the cigarette filter. Aya, you asshole… "Forget it."

Schuldig huffed and squeezed his eyes shut. "Man, like shit I've been. He's drivin' me bonkers, but it's nice to know I can do it to him."

"Huh?"

"Get him mad at me."

Yohji gave Schuldig an odd glance. "So he hits you?"

Schuldig bit back a grunt. "And what? It'll heal. It's not like you and that nutcase of yours. Brad's not gonna kill me one day, yanno."

"Really."

"Really, really, really," Schuldig parroted, curling up and turning to the wall. "Why don't you just piss of now, Bali? Or are you checking up on me, hm? Brad been waiting for you then?"

Yohji said nothing. Smoking in silence, he swathed himself into layers of blue-grey. "How can you be so sure?" he asked after some time, not entirely sure whether he was talking into Schuldig's dreams, but Schuldig jumped a little – still awake then, sort of – and swore quietly.

"You're so stupid, Bali. I wanted to get an eyeful now, okay? I'd say it's a matter of trust. We trust one another. You don't. That crazy idiot needs you more than you need him, so he's trying to turn the tables on you. Get it?" Groaning, he sat up and raked his fingers through his mop of hair. "You know how often I get to sleep? And here you go…"

"Want a cigarette now?" Yohji slipped from the windowsill and settled on the footend of the bed, the mattress – hard and rigid like Aya's bed – dipping ever so slightly under his weight. Schuldig, swift and smooth as a cat, turned and bedded his head on Yohji's lap before he could protest, effectively pinning him down. An oddly hungry look on his young face as he slanted a quick glance up at Yohji. Almost pleading.

Yohji leaned back against the wall and let him take the cigarette that was almost down to the filter. Schuldig's hair felt soft and silky between Yohji's fingers when he rested his hands on his thighs. "Did you tell him I screw you?" Yohji asked, staring back.

Schuldig's lips curled in something approaching a smirk. "He assumed. Why should I put him right? Ouch! Don't pull my hair, I hate that!"

"Shut up." Yohji pondered, Schuldig lay still. Not restful but waiting, lurking, skulking in the shadows of Yohji's thoughts, as if counting his heartbeats… until he could pounce…

Schuldig liked games like this. Yohji was a nice toy, tough and bright, sweet and sharp. The flavour of ginger and spiced honey. Schuldig did not need to worry about breaking him soon. He licked his lips and burrowed his head deaper into Yohji's lap, relishing the hard grip of long fingers in his hair even if those fingers pulled in a rather hostile way. His own hands wandered, restlessly, over the rumpled sheets, seeking some sort of purchase, something to crunch and knead, or better still, tear into something.

"Stop it," Yohji ranted.

Schuldig stilled. Contented himself with breathing in Yohji's aroma, a mix of cleanliness, sex and the faintest trace of sweat. It made him dizzy and wanting to do something… anything…

Yohji's grip in his hair tightened, catching him in a vice. Still not wanting to hurt, but reminding him… a reminder of the steel beneath the velvet. Schuldig rubbed his head, ever so slightly, no more than a tiny shift, into Yohji's groin. He could hear Yohji grind his teeth and suppress a hiss. The hand that clutched at his hair pulled harder, until he was virtually unable to move. Strapped down against this firm, clean scented flesh by his own hair.

Schuldig breathed a low, soft sigh, laced with the last of the cigarette smoke, dangled his arm over the edge of the mattress and dropped the smouldering butt onto the neat wooden floor. Yohji stretched out one long leg and ground the cigarette end out with his heel. "Do you have to be like that? All filthy, like a pig?"

"Yeah, yeah. Go on, call me names if you like."

"I won't. I think you're pretending. You're not like that."

Schuldig tensed. Yohji watched him, he could feel it, and suddenly it was not a nice game anymore. He hated being stripped. Crawford could but never did it. "Let go of my hair."

"You would like to have some nice, clean little place to yourself. Nothing like that dump you had once, but a real place. Something to call a home. You would like to have silence in your head, for once. And you would want Crawford to tell you-"

Schuldig yanked his hair free, a few bright copper tendrils remaining in Yohji's grip, and coiled up like a loaded spring. Yohji was quick, Schuldig was faster – before Yohji could jump after him and catch him, Schuldig had spun towards the window and strung a wire taut between his hands. Yohji huffed – the redhead held one of his own hariganes, gleaming faintly in the grey light.

"You couldn't use it."

"Try me."

"I'm stronger. I'm taller. It's no good if you're lighter and shorter than your target."

Schuldig bared his teeth, blue eyes cold and manic. "He tried it?"

Yohji gave him a calculating glance. "Never mind that. You would want him to tell you he likes you. Just once. You want someone to tell you that. Crawford more than anyone."

Schuldig stared. His hands, thin and steady until then, began to tremble with a faint tremor that ran from his fingers through his wrists and arms, until it shuddered through his entire body.

Yohji sat back against the wall again. "Ah." He pulled up one knee and folded his hands over it. "So not even your pet-"

"He has a name," Schuldig managed, voice croaky and angry.

"Yeah."

An odd silence fell. Neither Yohji nor Schuldig stirred. Until Yohji cast a quick glance at his watch and let out a low whistling sound between his teeth. "Gotta go." He rose with sparse, few movements, tugged his clothes smooth, and shook his head. "You wanna freeze there?"

Schuldig blinked. "Huh?"

"Huh," Yohji aped, "just listen to yourself. You don't make sense, Schuldig."

"You would know," Schuldig hurled back, waking from his angry stupor.

"I do." Yohji turned briskly to leave. Schuldig, after a fraction of a second, ran after him down the hallway, to the door, and caught him by the sleeve just as he was stepping outside.

"Why did you come here, Bali?"

And Yohji sunk one of his strangely soft-cool green gazes into those wild blue eyes, a heartbeat of silence, the world stopped in its tracks, the breeze died down, even the swirls of dust on the road died down… and then he shrugged, smiled this infuriatingly gentle smile of his and said, "No idea, Schuldig. Really. I haven't the faintest idea."

Schuldig was torn between hitting and fleeing. Yohji walked a few long, smooth steps, before he turned, winked and said, barely above his breath, "Perhaps I like you, asshole."

And then he went, not looking back, and Schuldig gaped after him until his shape, tall and trim, with a certain sway to his hips, vanished behind a passing car and the next street corner.

xxx

Next chapter: Black And Cold