Black And Cold
"He doesn't." Crawford was blunt. He was annoyed. Schuldig had tried to clean up and made a greater mess of it than it had been. Dirty towels everywhere, because he had found nothing else to wipe the floor, a heap of broken glass and half-melted tablets next to the bathroom bin because there had been no dustpan or brush, the soap almost melted in the sink… he had forgotten to take it out. Crawford had surprised him by turning up that very evening, as if on Yohji's heels.
Crawford had brought a box of takeaway noodles and a pizza, which went nicely with the remaining can of beer from the sixpack that amounted to Schuldig's current provisions.
"If you cannot pull yourself together, you're dragging us all in."
Schuldig listened, sitting on the bedroom floor at Crawford's feet, which were encased in speckless black leather shoes. The shoes smelled of dead hide and polish. Familiar. He wanted to kiss them, hug them to his skinny stomach, or sprawl on his back and place the hard soles flat onto his chest. The words flowed through Schuldig's mind without registering, but the tone of Crawford's voice, flat and cool, washed over him. He felt empty, soothed, and restful.
"I want you to clear up this shit," Crawford said, "this is a pigsty. I refuse to return to this unless you sort it out. Buy some cleaning utensils. Make the bed. Wash your hair."
Schuldig tentatively leaned against Crawford's leg. Waited, tensely, for a kick or a shove. None came, and he dared to relax a little, pale blue eyes drifting shut. "Yes, Brad."
Crawford fell silent, then he bent forward and ruffled through Schuldig's hair. "You're such an idiot."
Schuldig smiled. There were ways and ways to make Crawford admit it. Getting his voice to soften a little like that, getting him to touch and formulate precise instructions about housekeeping all belonged into this category.
"Watch it," Crawford said, letting go as he caught sight of Schuldig's face.
And Schuldig carefully and obediently blanked his expression.
xxx
Next chapter: The Curb