Schuldig remained with Farfarello for another few hours. He watched the psychopath play with his knife and eventually drop it, sedatives making an encore in his blood stream and knocking him off. When Farfarello went slack, Schuldig pulled him back into the arms of the straight jacket with the care a parent took in pulling up the covers of a child's blanket. Then he just sat there, in the other corner and stared, eventually nodding off himself.
The padded walls did feel comfortable, once he got used to them.
A rectangle of light opened up on the cushion floor, hitting Schuldig and startling him into wakefulness. He winced at the intrusion, emerald eyes unfocused and dull, set upon the imposing shadow blocking the door. "...Crawford?"
His cream colored suit was wrinkled. His glasses no longer sat properly on his face; now they leaned at an angle as if the metal had been bent. He stood in a slump, favoring his right knee. As Schuldig adjusted to the brightness, he could make out a slight sneer of pain marring his leader's usually stoic face.
"Craw..."
Crawford's hands reached out and wrapped around Schuldig's wrist. The oracles movements were a blur, he crossed the room and yanked Schuldig to his feet, silent and animal-like.
Booze, the smell of bourbon and rum, white collar drinks, sweltered off of his American lover in sweaty droplets. Schuldig choked and pulled away, ready to pull forth a strand of insults and complaints, but was silenced by Crawford's lips, roughly smashing against his mouth. Their teeth bucked, Crawford pressing, Schuldig resisting.
A moan escaped the German, and it wasn't one of pleasure.
In the cell, Crawford's arms looped around Schuldig's waist, Schuldig was surprised to fell a tremor under the sturdy grasp. Lust, he wondered, or something else. They bumped hips, more of a colliding smash than a melting, merging of two bodies, the bottom of Schuldig's rib cage was grinded against the back of Crawford's holstered gun.
'Rough day at the office?' The all-knowing, undaunting voice of the Mastermind teased. 'What's the matter, Craw-daddy, Takatori wanted to be on top again?'
"Shut up." Crawford growled, breaking lips.
Schuldig's smirk drained. Crawford wasn't in the teasing mood and Schuldig would pay for it. Damn, why'd he have to say... think... anything? Big mouth, big mind, big consequences.
Crawford wasn't going to be gentle tonight. And the red head was getting tired of pretending he liked to be man-handled, beaten, before intercourse.
A fist wrapped around the back of Schuldig's head, snatching his hair in a painful tight hold. Lips met again. For a second, Schuldig's eyes watered. Than he remembered, he deserved it. Big mouth, big mind. He deserved everything he got.
He was slowly led out of the cell. The door slammed shut and locked. Two pairs of feet shuffled across the floor, one marching, one half-dragging. The door to Crawford's door creaked open, but didn't close. The bed springs began to move, Schuldig's pale whisper "...no..." echoed down the hall.
Nagi could be heard coming down the stairs, into the living room, turning the television on, the volume up.
In the abandoned darkness, a ember eye watched and burned.
=========================================================================
The next morning Schuldig had to remind himself that he didn't cry. He didn't cry. He didn't...
He was Schuldig, the guilty one. The reaper of honey and innoncent thoughts. The pervert in the red convertible that stalked young women and smiling, lead them to the slaughter. The bodyguard of one of the most wicked men in Japan. The fuck toy of Germany. The king of wet dreams world wide the...
Very upset telepath.
Schuldig leaned his face towards the shower head, letting the water pour down his neck and shoulders. All that fell across his body to the white floor was from the faucet, not him. His face burned, his breath gasped quick in his chest, but he, like a good villian, refused to cry.
Another rough night with Crawford, he was left sore and bloody. It was hard to reap his own sexual pleasure when he was being torn apart, when his lover became so wild and involved in his own needs that he banged the other's skull into the headboard and didn't notice.
When, after he finished, he made Schuldig get up, help him change the bed covers and lay still in his corner, back turned to the still panting, still hungry young man. Closed and isolated.
Something had happened that night that really upset Crawford. Schuldig couldn't begin to guess what, and it wasn't like he could pluck anything out of his lover's mind. Crawford was a blank to him. A mental wall that had once been so refreshing, so silent and stable, but was now beginning to drive him crazy.
Schuldig, who was used to knowing everything, every secret, every whisper, every thought, every redundant detail, was lost and in the dark when it came to Crawford.
The German sniffed and put his weight on the shower wall. His hands lifted to play with the waterproof CD player attached to the support railing. One of Nagi's CD's was in, some classic gothic cross dressing Japanese band that was considered dark and morbid in this country, but would have be considered Sunday morning Show Tunes in his native Berlin. Sissy stuff, J-Pop. This country needed a wake-up call, at least where the music industry was concerned. If anyone wanted Schuldig's opinion, every punk wannabe artist should be required to include the words RAPE, MONKEY, and FESTERING CORPSE in every song of their next album.
"Pansy fuck boy bands." He mumbled, thumbing through the song list. "Still stuck in the 80's... fucking techno... an entire generation of candy asses..."
Where was he?
Oh yes, Crawford.
Asshole.
Schuldig supposed it had been the silence that drawn him to his leader. That and his natural instinct to screw his way as high as possible on the social ladder set him into seducing the American. He stopped with Takatori though, he knew he could, he knew the old perv went for those sort of things, but he had given up that life style a long time ago.
But the silence...
The refreshing silence. Like a breath of fresh air, no, a life line. Schuldig remembered meeting Crawford for the first time, and for the first time hearing nothing but the sound of HIS own thoughts, HIS own breathing. And he was in love.
Frightfully in love.
Schuldig reached for the scrub brush and soaped it up with body lotion. He set the sponge on his shoulders and was caught by the sight of a fresh bruise running across his collar bone.
A memory of Crawford slamming his hands below Schuldig's neck to brace himself as he grinded into him, inside of him, flashed across Schuldig's mind.
Painful. Schuldig dropped the brush and lowered himself to the shower floor. His quick breath rose to his throat and contracted painfully. He bowed his head, red locks drew a curtain around his face.
When did things get so complicated?
The water grew cold.
========================================================================
"Don't get over-zealous." Crawford warned, watching the pale boy stretch across the matt.
"Me? Over-zealous?" Farfarello's mutilated lips twisted into a rare smile. "Never." He began to bounce from foot to foot.
The oracle snorted and finished wrapping his hands. They were in the gym attached to their penthouse, a small training dojo Schwartz had converted when they moved in there; they had bought the rights to the apartment's top floor swimming pool and weight room.
The walls were Plexiglas, newly polished, and streaming of dusky orange from the fading afternoon sun. It bathed Farfarello's ivory white skin an odd honey color, it set sinister shadows across the dark contours of Crawford's face, it bounced off his glasses and glowed. The floor was mostly padding, a fighting arena with a little room left on the side for a weight set, punching bag, and treadmill.
The punching bag was Crawford's, though he rarely used it, the treadmill and weight set was Nagi's, or was suppose to be. Try as he might, Crawford couldn't motivate the computer genius into working out on a regular schedule.
Nagi could just as well levitate an attacker and twist his body into a pretzel than have to touch him, thank you, he didn't need physical training. If he had trouble in school, where he was forbidden to use his powers, well... he could run very fast when he needed to.
"There's a safety word, Farfarello." Crawford warned, "Remember it."
The psychopath nodded.
"Mouth."
A sigh ran through the youth's lips. He dropped his shadow dance and approached his leader, jaw lowering. Crawford pressed his fingers against Farfarello's face and examined. A long moment passed, Crawford looked ready to step back, the tension in Farfarello's body slacked. Then, "Wait. Tongue, lift it."
Farfarello wanted to roll his eye.
His tongue lifted and hit the roof of his mouth. Crawford snorted, "Drop it." Farfarello's lips shut. "...Farfarello." A saliva drenched razor blade was spit into Crawford's awaiting hand. It was cast aside. "Alright. Are you ready?"
This was what Schwartz called 'Farfarello's Weekly Therapy.' An hour long free style with the group's leader. A tension reliever for both of them, it exercised any excess energy and aggression Farfarello had pent up inside of him from missions or lack thereof, mostly it was used to keep him from going stir crazy between cell time.
The fights had yet to have gotten out of hand. Farfarello and Crawford never went at each other at full strength, nothing was ever broken, cut, or bruised too heavily, they were never really aggressive. Crawford could predict most of Farfarello's moves and Farfarello could react instantly to anything Crawford threw out at him.
They were evenly matched.
Were begin the primary word.
"You're going a little rough today." Crawford noted. He dodged a knife cut to his shoulder with a smirk and raised his leg to tag Farfarello on the pelvis. The Irish man countered and grasped the other's shin, ready to flip him over.
Farfarello thought about the shower he missed that morning because Schuldig used all the hot water.
How easy it would have been to tighten his grip on Crawford's ankle and snap it like a chicken bone.
A fist scraped across his cheek and threw him into a stumble. "...and you seem distracted." Crawford added.
"Couldn't sleep last night, Schuldig was screaming too loud." Farfarello muttered. He picked himself up and began to circle around Crawford.
Crawford made his hands into fists, "I could up your medication so that you would be too oblivious to hear him, Farfarello."
"You could fuck him so he doesn't scream, Crawford." The lunatic snapped. He dodged a punch and blocked another.
"Don't confuse the noises Schuldig makes for pain, that's just the way some men are." He threw out another punch, a second, then landed a jab in Farfarello's gut. The younger psychic hunched over for a second, schooled his breath, and kicked out, easily sweeping Crawford aside.
"I don't understand pain. Or pleasure." Farfarello whispered. He tilted his head and waited for Crawford to stand up. "But I'm not stupid."
"You don't understand love or intercourse either, Farfarello. You're still a virgin, I know it. You can't understand the difference, what some people do in certain situations." They exchanged blows, punch for punch, kick for kick, both rocked back and ended up with one knee on the matt.
A loop-sided sneer twisted across Farfarello's face, "...like beat up men weaker than them?"
Crawford's fist split Farfarello's lip. "Watch it."
Farfarello stepped back and tasted the blood. "I've been watching it. Blood. Pain. You're bad."
The circled again. "This from a man who would get off mutilating his lover while he fucked them. From a man that would find intercourse mixed with amputation erotic. Don't you dare lecture me, Farfarello."
A flare, an emotion he couldn't put his finger on, but related closely to anger, rage, like that feeling he had when he found his family in... Farfarello's heart fluttered and he growled, "I would never hurt Schuldig."
Crawford barked a laugh, "Now you sound as if you were in love with him."
"Do I? Are you? In love."
"My interest in him is waning, to be honest, he reminds me of a cheap whore. A quick thrill that gets boring fast." The words were spoken without thought, Crawford's eyes diluted. Is that what he really thought about Schuldig?
His snap dragon.
That was enough for Farfarello.
It was like seeing his parents still, unmoving, and bloody all over again. Except this time, God was standing right in front of him as flesh.
"Farfarello..."
Farfarello regretted having a padded matt underneath his feet as he lunged and tackled, fingers clawing at Crawford's throat like a wild animal. The matt broke their fall, he could have cracked some precious bones if it had been a hard floor. He could have crushed Crawford's skull or snapped his back in half.
Oh well, he'd have to be happy with strangling.
The padded walls did feel comfortable, once he got used to them.
A rectangle of light opened up on the cushion floor, hitting Schuldig and startling him into wakefulness. He winced at the intrusion, emerald eyes unfocused and dull, set upon the imposing shadow blocking the door. "...Crawford?"
His cream colored suit was wrinkled. His glasses no longer sat properly on his face; now they leaned at an angle as if the metal had been bent. He stood in a slump, favoring his right knee. As Schuldig adjusted to the brightness, he could make out a slight sneer of pain marring his leader's usually stoic face.
"Craw..."
Crawford's hands reached out and wrapped around Schuldig's wrist. The oracles movements were a blur, he crossed the room and yanked Schuldig to his feet, silent and animal-like.
Booze, the smell of bourbon and rum, white collar drinks, sweltered off of his American lover in sweaty droplets. Schuldig choked and pulled away, ready to pull forth a strand of insults and complaints, but was silenced by Crawford's lips, roughly smashing against his mouth. Their teeth bucked, Crawford pressing, Schuldig resisting.
A moan escaped the German, and it wasn't one of pleasure.
In the cell, Crawford's arms looped around Schuldig's waist, Schuldig was surprised to fell a tremor under the sturdy grasp. Lust, he wondered, or something else. They bumped hips, more of a colliding smash than a melting, merging of two bodies, the bottom of Schuldig's rib cage was grinded against the back of Crawford's holstered gun.
'Rough day at the office?' The all-knowing, undaunting voice of the Mastermind teased. 'What's the matter, Craw-daddy, Takatori wanted to be on top again?'
"Shut up." Crawford growled, breaking lips.
Schuldig's smirk drained. Crawford wasn't in the teasing mood and Schuldig would pay for it. Damn, why'd he have to say... think... anything? Big mouth, big mind, big consequences.
Crawford wasn't going to be gentle tonight. And the red head was getting tired of pretending he liked to be man-handled, beaten, before intercourse.
A fist wrapped around the back of Schuldig's head, snatching his hair in a painful tight hold. Lips met again. For a second, Schuldig's eyes watered. Than he remembered, he deserved it. Big mouth, big mind. He deserved everything he got.
He was slowly led out of the cell. The door slammed shut and locked. Two pairs of feet shuffled across the floor, one marching, one half-dragging. The door to Crawford's door creaked open, but didn't close. The bed springs began to move, Schuldig's pale whisper "...no..." echoed down the hall.
Nagi could be heard coming down the stairs, into the living room, turning the television on, the volume up.
In the abandoned darkness, a ember eye watched and burned.
=========================================================================
The next morning Schuldig had to remind himself that he didn't cry. He didn't cry. He didn't...
He was Schuldig, the guilty one. The reaper of honey and innoncent thoughts. The pervert in the red convertible that stalked young women and smiling, lead them to the slaughter. The bodyguard of one of the most wicked men in Japan. The fuck toy of Germany. The king of wet dreams world wide the...
Very upset telepath.
Schuldig leaned his face towards the shower head, letting the water pour down his neck and shoulders. All that fell across his body to the white floor was from the faucet, not him. His face burned, his breath gasped quick in his chest, but he, like a good villian, refused to cry.
Another rough night with Crawford, he was left sore and bloody. It was hard to reap his own sexual pleasure when he was being torn apart, when his lover became so wild and involved in his own needs that he banged the other's skull into the headboard and didn't notice.
When, after he finished, he made Schuldig get up, help him change the bed covers and lay still in his corner, back turned to the still panting, still hungry young man. Closed and isolated.
Something had happened that night that really upset Crawford. Schuldig couldn't begin to guess what, and it wasn't like he could pluck anything out of his lover's mind. Crawford was a blank to him. A mental wall that had once been so refreshing, so silent and stable, but was now beginning to drive him crazy.
Schuldig, who was used to knowing everything, every secret, every whisper, every thought, every redundant detail, was lost and in the dark when it came to Crawford.
The German sniffed and put his weight on the shower wall. His hands lifted to play with the waterproof CD player attached to the support railing. One of Nagi's CD's was in, some classic gothic cross dressing Japanese band that was considered dark and morbid in this country, but would have be considered Sunday morning Show Tunes in his native Berlin. Sissy stuff, J-Pop. This country needed a wake-up call, at least where the music industry was concerned. If anyone wanted Schuldig's opinion, every punk wannabe artist should be required to include the words RAPE, MONKEY, and FESTERING CORPSE in every song of their next album.
"Pansy fuck boy bands." He mumbled, thumbing through the song list. "Still stuck in the 80's... fucking techno... an entire generation of candy asses..."
Where was he?
Oh yes, Crawford.
Asshole.
Schuldig supposed it had been the silence that drawn him to his leader. That and his natural instinct to screw his way as high as possible on the social ladder set him into seducing the American. He stopped with Takatori though, he knew he could, he knew the old perv went for those sort of things, but he had given up that life style a long time ago.
But the silence...
The refreshing silence. Like a breath of fresh air, no, a life line. Schuldig remembered meeting Crawford for the first time, and for the first time hearing nothing but the sound of HIS own thoughts, HIS own breathing. And he was in love.
Frightfully in love.
Schuldig reached for the scrub brush and soaped it up with body lotion. He set the sponge on his shoulders and was caught by the sight of a fresh bruise running across his collar bone.
A memory of Crawford slamming his hands below Schuldig's neck to brace himself as he grinded into him, inside of him, flashed across Schuldig's mind.
Painful. Schuldig dropped the brush and lowered himself to the shower floor. His quick breath rose to his throat and contracted painfully. He bowed his head, red locks drew a curtain around his face.
When did things get so complicated?
The water grew cold.
========================================================================
"Don't get over-zealous." Crawford warned, watching the pale boy stretch across the matt.
"Me? Over-zealous?" Farfarello's mutilated lips twisted into a rare smile. "Never." He began to bounce from foot to foot.
The oracle snorted and finished wrapping his hands. They were in the gym attached to their penthouse, a small training dojo Schwartz had converted when they moved in there; they had bought the rights to the apartment's top floor swimming pool and weight room.
The walls were Plexiglas, newly polished, and streaming of dusky orange from the fading afternoon sun. It bathed Farfarello's ivory white skin an odd honey color, it set sinister shadows across the dark contours of Crawford's face, it bounced off his glasses and glowed. The floor was mostly padding, a fighting arena with a little room left on the side for a weight set, punching bag, and treadmill.
The punching bag was Crawford's, though he rarely used it, the treadmill and weight set was Nagi's, or was suppose to be. Try as he might, Crawford couldn't motivate the computer genius into working out on a regular schedule.
Nagi could just as well levitate an attacker and twist his body into a pretzel than have to touch him, thank you, he didn't need physical training. If he had trouble in school, where he was forbidden to use his powers, well... he could run very fast when he needed to.
"There's a safety word, Farfarello." Crawford warned, "Remember it."
The psychopath nodded.
"Mouth."
A sigh ran through the youth's lips. He dropped his shadow dance and approached his leader, jaw lowering. Crawford pressed his fingers against Farfarello's face and examined. A long moment passed, Crawford looked ready to step back, the tension in Farfarello's body slacked. Then, "Wait. Tongue, lift it."
Farfarello wanted to roll his eye.
His tongue lifted and hit the roof of his mouth. Crawford snorted, "Drop it." Farfarello's lips shut. "...Farfarello." A saliva drenched razor blade was spit into Crawford's awaiting hand. It was cast aside. "Alright. Are you ready?"
This was what Schwartz called 'Farfarello's Weekly Therapy.' An hour long free style with the group's leader. A tension reliever for both of them, it exercised any excess energy and aggression Farfarello had pent up inside of him from missions or lack thereof, mostly it was used to keep him from going stir crazy between cell time.
The fights had yet to have gotten out of hand. Farfarello and Crawford never went at each other at full strength, nothing was ever broken, cut, or bruised too heavily, they were never really aggressive. Crawford could predict most of Farfarello's moves and Farfarello could react instantly to anything Crawford threw out at him.
They were evenly matched.
Were begin the primary word.
"You're going a little rough today." Crawford noted. He dodged a knife cut to his shoulder with a smirk and raised his leg to tag Farfarello on the pelvis. The Irish man countered and grasped the other's shin, ready to flip him over.
Farfarello thought about the shower he missed that morning because Schuldig used all the hot water.
How easy it would have been to tighten his grip on Crawford's ankle and snap it like a chicken bone.
A fist scraped across his cheek and threw him into a stumble. "...and you seem distracted." Crawford added.
"Couldn't sleep last night, Schuldig was screaming too loud." Farfarello muttered. He picked himself up and began to circle around Crawford.
Crawford made his hands into fists, "I could up your medication so that you would be too oblivious to hear him, Farfarello."
"You could fuck him so he doesn't scream, Crawford." The lunatic snapped. He dodged a punch and blocked another.
"Don't confuse the noises Schuldig makes for pain, that's just the way some men are." He threw out another punch, a second, then landed a jab in Farfarello's gut. The younger psychic hunched over for a second, schooled his breath, and kicked out, easily sweeping Crawford aside.
"I don't understand pain. Or pleasure." Farfarello whispered. He tilted his head and waited for Crawford to stand up. "But I'm not stupid."
"You don't understand love or intercourse either, Farfarello. You're still a virgin, I know it. You can't understand the difference, what some people do in certain situations." They exchanged blows, punch for punch, kick for kick, both rocked back and ended up with one knee on the matt.
A loop-sided sneer twisted across Farfarello's face, "...like beat up men weaker than them?"
Crawford's fist split Farfarello's lip. "Watch it."
Farfarello stepped back and tasted the blood. "I've been watching it. Blood. Pain. You're bad."
The circled again. "This from a man who would get off mutilating his lover while he fucked them. From a man that would find intercourse mixed with amputation erotic. Don't you dare lecture me, Farfarello."
A flare, an emotion he couldn't put his finger on, but related closely to anger, rage, like that feeling he had when he found his family in... Farfarello's heart fluttered and he growled, "I would never hurt Schuldig."
Crawford barked a laugh, "Now you sound as if you were in love with him."
"Do I? Are you? In love."
"My interest in him is waning, to be honest, he reminds me of a cheap whore. A quick thrill that gets boring fast." The words were spoken without thought, Crawford's eyes diluted. Is that what he really thought about Schuldig?
His snap dragon.
That was enough for Farfarello.
It was like seeing his parents still, unmoving, and bloody all over again. Except this time, God was standing right in front of him as flesh.
"Farfarello..."
Farfarello regretted having a padded matt underneath his feet as he lunged and tackled, fingers clawing at Crawford's throat like a wild animal. The matt broke their fall, he could have cracked some precious bones if it had been a hard floor. He could have crushed Crawford's skull or snapped his back in half.
Oh well, he'd have to be happy with strangling.