Something Me In You p.10
Schuldig’s mood, lightened by his brief conversation with Yohji, took a nose-dive as he woke to the aches and pains of his battered body. He sat up with a groan, cursing under his breath as a few scabs peeled off with the sheets. He pushed hair out of his face and glowered at the clock beside the bed.
7:12 p.m.
"Well, so much for today," he muttered, standing and groaning some more as he stretched. He wandered over in the general direction of his closet, where his clothes were piled haphazardly. As he dug through the piles in search of something appropriate for his plans, he glanced over his shoulder at the full-length mirror attached to the door, checking out the damage to his back with an irritated scowl.
/ What the hell happened to you? / Yohji demanded in surprise.
Schuldig cursed under his breath in German. / None of your business, / he thought back firmly.
/ Jerk, / Yohji shot back reflexively. He was silent a moment, then observed quietly, / Some of those look like they might scar. /
Schuldig chuckled grimly as he straightened, clutching a handful of clothing. He faced the door mirror with his customary smirk firmly in place, bare chest marked with random pale stripes and puckers of scar tissue. / Wouldn’t be the first time, / he observed unnecessarily. He became aware of Yohji studying his reflection, and the smirk tightened slightly. Aside from that brief startling glimpse in the bathroom, Yohji had done a very good job, up to this point, of avoiding every opportunity to observe Schuldig’s body. The German had been somewhat glad of that. It might have been nice to have Yohji drooling over him, but he was realistic enough to acknowledge that was unlikely. For one thing, Yohji refused to admit, even to himself, that he had any sort of physical interest in males. For another thing…well, there were the scars. His years in service to SS, as well as his time spent living alone on the streets of Berlin, had left a roadmap of markings all over his body. His dark skin tone only made the white scars more shockingly apparent.
Schuldig had been assessed before, and preferred to avoid the experience. It was hard on the ego to know another person’s true and detailed opinion of your appearance.
Still, he was never one to back down from a challenge, so he stood there and stared calmly into the mirror, letting Yohji take a good, long look.
Yohji just studied him with a detached curiosity, reflexively cataloguing the various marks as bullet or knife wounds, and a few as unidentifiable.
/ Hey, some chicks dig scars, / Yohji finally commented soothingly.
/ Lucky for you, since you’re going to have a nice big one on your belly, / Schuldig snapped back, perversely irritated by Yohji’s lack of reaction. He sensed startlement from the Japanese man, then Yohji swore creatively for a while. Schuldig smirked to himself in triumph as he stripped out of the rest of his blood-spattered clothing from the previous night, and pulled on the broken-in jeans and long-sleeved tee shirt he’d fished out of the semi-clean pile.
He checked himself out in the mirror again, fingering the yellow strip of cloth across his forehead thoughtfully. Being a telepath meant being more familiar with the reality behind psychological quirks than most people. So while he recognized that the bandanna was just a symbolic physical representation of his mental shields, he also knew it was in a way connected to the internal reality of those shields. He sometimes felt a little silly about equating the flimsy strip of cloth to his solid mental barriers, but he knew better than most that the mind worked in odd ways at times. At the moment, though, the bandanna was a lot more substantial than his tattered shields, which made him feel odd about wearing it for an entirely different reason.
He frowned thoughtfully at his reflection for a moment. He really wouldn’t need his shields where he was going anyway, that was sort of the point of the excursion… With a shrug, he pulled the bandanna off, retrieving his red-lensed sunglasses from the dresser and perching them on his nose. Then he swept out of the room and downstairs, ignoring Yohji who was now sulking in the back of his mind.
He strode into the kitchen and slumped into a chair, smirking at Nagi as the boy warily looked up from his books.
"Coffee," Schuldig requested.
Nagi snorted. "Get it yourself," he replied, turning back to his homework. Schuldig ignored the pang of regret for the return to their usual routine of bickering. They both needed the distance. Most of the time.
"Coffee," Schuldig repeated more firmly, adding a little mental jab for emphasis.
Nagi winced slightly, then glowered up at the German. "I have work to do," he protested.
"Coffee!" Schuldig demanded, poking harder.
"Alright, damn it!" Nagi snapped, standing up and rubbing at his forehead. He shot Schuldig a petulant frown, and limped over to a cabinet.
"If you’re cultivating that limp for sympathy, don’t bother," Schuldig advised him.
"I wouldn’t dream of it," Nagi grumbled, turning from the cabinet and tossing a cylinder across the room to Schuldig. Schuldig caught it, then wrinkled his nose in distaste at the canned coffee.
"Oh, not this shit… At least warm it up," he whined.
"Warm it up yourself," Nagi muttered, dropping back into his seat.
"My back hurts," Schuldig complained.
"My leg hurts," Nagi snapped in reply.
They glowered at one another for a moment.
"If you weren’t so damn cute, I’d shoot you," Schuldig declared flatly, popping the tab on the can and sucking down most of the contents with a grimace.
"Likewise," Nagi replied with a smirk, turning back to his homework.
The front door opened and closed and a moment later, Farferello stepped into the kitchen followed closely by a darkly scowling Crawford.
Schuldig vacated his seat, crossing the room to dump the empty can in the trash. Crawford grabbed the Irishman’s shoulder and steered him into the chair. Farferello sat without protest and gazed around the room with his single unfocused eye.
"Well, it only took me fourteen hours to track him down," Crawford announced irritably. "He killed two missionaries and a nun before I located him. What’s been going on here?"
"Nagi’s crippled for life. I say we officially rename him Gimp," Schuldig replied, stepping up behind Nagi’s chair and laying a hand on the boy’s head.
Nagi squirmed out from under Schuldig’s hand and glowered up at the smirking German. "Bite me, Schuldig," he snapped.
Schuldig grinned at him. "You asked for it," he announced, bending down and fastening his mouth to Nagi’s neck, grazing his teeth against the soft skin and sucking hard for a moment.
"Hey!" Nagi protested, pushing him away.
Schuldig stepped away from the angry telekinetic, chuckling to himself. "Try and explain that to Tot," he challenged.
Nagi’s eyes went wide at the implication of that statement, his hand clamping over the mark Schuldig had made on his neck. "You didn’t…" he demanded. Schuldig just smirked at him. "Crawford! He gave me a hickey!" Nagi wailed in protest.
"You told me to bite you," Schuldig pointed out innocently.
"It’s just an expression! And anyway, I said bite, not suck like a vacuum cleaner!"
Crawford glowered at them both, speechless. Schuldig laughed. Nagi pouted. Farferello licked his lips.
"Can I bite you?" he asked calmly, wolf-yellow eye fastened on Nagi’s bruised throat. "I promise I won’t suck. I just want to see you bleed," he declared conversationally. Nagi glared at Farferello with mingled disgust and fear. Farferello smiled pleasantly at him, always a disconcerting sight. Schuldig laughed again.
Crawford, having had enough of this conversation, backhanded Farferello viciously. The Irishman’s head snapped to the side at the force of the blow, but he turned back immediately to frown in mild annoyance at Crawford. His pale skin was red from the blow, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"Aw…how cute," Schuldig purred. "Let me get that for you, Farf," he offered, coming around the table and pressing his lips to the edge of the younger man’s mouth, sliding his tongue inside Farferello’s scarred lips to caress the bloody split on the inside of his cheek. He drew back with a smile. Farferello watched him, expressionless.
"Sodomite," the Irishman declared flatly.
"I say we officially rename you Slut," Nagi added. Schuldig stuck his tongue out at the Japanese boy, who returned the gesture.
"Schuldig," Crawford stated coldly. "Quit messing around. We need to talk."
Schuldig gave the older man a cool, assessing glance. "Maybe later," he replied, starting to walk past Crawford, out of the kitchen. Crawford caught his arm and pulled him to a halt.
Schuldig glared directly into the American’s narrowed eyes, once again reveling in the fact that he’d grown to match Crawford in height. The American had enough psychological advantages in their relationship as it was.
"Not in the mood, Brad," he muttered warningly.
"I don’t like to leave things unresolved," Crawford stated tersely.
"Yeah, I know," Schuldig agreed with a smirk. "It really pisses you off." Then he twisted skillfully out of Crawford’s restraining grip, putting on a burst of speed to make it to the door. He stuffed his feet into a pair of boots and yanked the door open, sensing the rapid approach of an annoyed Crawford. "Don’t wait up for me!" he called cheerfully over his shoulder as he departed, closing the door on Crawford’s furious scowl.
_____________________________________________
Aya sat silently in the uncomfortable hospital chair, frowning at nothing.
It was really supposed to be Ken’s shift on guard duty right now, but Aya had left the younger man sleeping peacefully in his bed. He just hadn’t had the heart to wake Ken up and kick him out. So he had crept out of bed and come to the hospital to relieve Omi himself.
Omi had been surprised to see him, and asked worriedly if there was something wrong with Ken. Aya had told the boy that Ken was just tired and stressed from the events of the past few days, and Aya had wanted him to get some more rest. Omi had not looked completely convinced, but had accepted the explanation and left.
Aya had not yet shared his theory on the unlikelihood of Yohji’s recovery with Omi. After the disastrous confrontation with Ken, he had been reminded that it had taken him a very long time to even start to consider giving up hope of Aya-chan’s recovery. It was really much too soon to expect either of his teammates to entertain the possibility that Yohji wasn’t going to get better. He knew the things he had said had hurt Ken, so he had decided not to talk to Omi about it just yet.
And of course, there had also been the fact that he hadn’t felt like talking to anybody after his discussion with Ken. The younger man had been right about one thing, Aya wasn’t ready to let go of his sister yet. Deep down inside, he didn’t want to believe she was dead, and saying it out loud like that… He’d been confused and upset, and true to form, had retreated within himself to brood. Normally Yohji would tease and/or annoy him out of such a mood, but, well…
He’d been so surprised to find Ken outside his door when he came home from the hospital that morning that he hadn’t known how to react. He hadn’t wanted to make things any worse between them, so he had let Ken follow him into his apartment. When Ken had, with his usual bumbling tactlessness and uncanny intuition, managed to hit his vulnerable point right on the head with his opening statement, Aya had fought dirty. Ken and the others thought he was so oblivious, but Aya knew very well how the younger man looked at him when he thought Aya wasn’t watching, and he knew it would unsettle Ken to see him undressed. Part of him had hoped the younger man would be spooked enough to give up the argument and leave.
But Ken had stuck it out, showing his determination to reach Aya. Another part of Aya had been grateful for that, and so he had given in, and against his better judgment had opened up and revealed himself to Ken in a way he had long been avoiding.
It had felt…good, to let some of the pressure off. To finally give voice to feelings and longings that he’d held inside for so long. And Ken’s response, while predictable, was also something he had needed, had wanted…
Aya had been lonely for a long time. It had been so nice, just for a while, to let go of his fears and his pain, to lose himself in Ken’s warmth.
Aya sighed, letting the frown melt from his sculpted features, leaving his face blank and empty. It had been nice. But it couldn’t last. Eventually, it had been finished, and while Ken had fallen quickly asleep, obviously having been awake most of the night, Aya had found himself unable to drop off.
He…cared about Ken. He really did. He cared about all of Weiss. They had become a substitute family for him, and so he wanted to protect them, as he hadn’t protected his real family, and he wanted them to be happy.
Regret was not a new feeling for Aya. He sometimes thought he had more regrets than he did memories. But the regret he felt now was different, more like…guilt.
He should not have slept with Ken.
Ken Hidaka was not the sort of person who did anything by half measures. His lips might have said "only right now" but his eyes…
Aya let his own eyes slide shut, rubbing at them wearily with one hand.
Part of him wanted to take Ken up on what his eyes had offered. Wanted to wrap himself in that easy warmth and affection, be accepted and cared for… But that would be wrong. He wanted Ken to be happy, truly happy. And Aya knew he didn’t have much to offer in a relationship. He cared about his teammates, he really did, but…he just didn’t have the strength left to love them. His heart had been shattered and torn so many times, there just wasn’t enough left for him to offer anyone.
If Ken were more like…well, Yohji, things might have been different. Yohji would have understood that anything between them could only be about comfort and kindness, and never be anything deeper or permanent. But Ken…wasn’t Yohji. Ken wanted someone to accept the heart he wore on his sleeve in trade for their own. And Ken deserved that.
He deserved better than what Aya could offer him.
He should not have slept with Ken.
Still, it was done, and regrets and guilt would not change that.
He wished Yohji were here to tell him what to do now. He would even have accepted the scolding and teasing his predicament would surely have provoked, if only Yohji could shake his head at him in despair and tell him how to fix things without hurting Ken more than was absolutely necessary.
Of course, if Yohji were here, none of that would be necessary, because he wouldn’t have been upset enough to give in to his disastrous desires in the first place…
Yohji…I don’t know how we’ll ever hold together without you… I don’t know if we can.
Aya sighed and glanced at his watch. It was only 8:30. Still an hour and a half until the next "shift," and who knew if Ken would show up to replace him or not.
Either way, there was a long, dark night ahead.
______________________________________________
When Yohji finally roused himself from his extended pout over the prospect of his gorgeous, chick-magnet body being permanently and hideously scarred, he was surprised to find the world outside Schuldig’s head awash in people, light and noise.
Screaming crowds, pounding music, blaring car horns and gleaming neon assaulted his borrowed senses, and Schuldig seemed to be reveling in the cacophony of Tokyo at night.
/ Equilibrium, / the German informed Yohji cheerfully. / There’s so much going on outside my head, that I can’t distinguish it from inside my head. /
/ I would have thought crowds like this would be awful for you, / Yohji replied dubiously.
Schuldig gave a mental shrug and laughed. / You’d think so, wouldn’t you? And yeah, sometimes crowds are bad. An angry mob, for example, can completely overwhelm me, turn me into a brain-dead sheep. But a crowd like this doesn’t bother me much. It’s kind of like with sex, I guess. They’re all so focused on pleasure and basic instincts…most of them are drunk and/or looking to get laid… They’re actually not as easy to read when they’re like this. /
/ Weird, / Yohji declared, but Schuldig seemed to be telling the truth. He could hear the echoes of thoughts from the press of humanity, but it was nothing like the shocking, burning impact he’d felt when Schuldig had dropped his shields.
/ They’re as good as dropped right now, / the German informed Yohji with a snort.
/ What? / Yohji demanded in panic. He never wanted to experience a telepath’s power without shields again.
/ Don’t freak, Kudo. I just need some downtime, which is why we’re here. You’re stressing me out, my shields are like Swiss cheese. But I’ll be fine by morning, / Schuldig assured his passenger.
Yohji was not convinced by this speech, but elected not to argue. Schuldig was the telepath, after all, and had been dealing with his powers far longer than Yohji had even known of Schwarz’ existence.
Schuldig was making his way slowly but steadily through the crowd, heading for one of the numerous brightly lit clubs with people spilling out the door in a rowdy, disorganized mob. He used his power judiciously to clear a path for himself through screaming teenagers with fake ID and too much makeup, half-drunk college students, and implacable bouncers alike.
/ I guess telepathy has its practical applications, / Yohji observed, impressed despite himself at the ease with which Schuldig gained entrance to the packed club.
The German smirked, projecting self-satisfaction as he made his way to the bar and ordered overpriced imported beer. Schuldig turned, sucking down half the bottle in one long swallow and leaning his back against the crowded bar, surveying the dimly lit interior of the club.
The dance floor was packed, and the music could barely be heard over the screaming, swaying masses of people that glowed eerily in the black light and seemed to move in stop motion under the strobe. The heavy bass line was about all Yohji could make out. This had never really been his kind of place. He preferred quieter, more intimate settings that encouraged chatting at small tables.
/ Don’t you like to dance, Yohji-kun? / Schuldig crooned mockingly, finishing his beer and signaling for another.
As the German waited for his drink, Yohji pondered the question. / Well, yeah, I guess, / he replied slowly. / Some of the places I like to go are like this place, all noise and sweaty bodies, but… /
/ But you like to show yourself off to your dates, / Schuldig declared cheerfully. / And in places like this, you can hardly see each other, much less carry on a flirtatious little conversation. /
/ Well, yeah, / Yohji agreed, as Schuldig made short work of his second beer.
Schuldig slammed the empty bottle on the bar and negligently tossed a few thousand yen down beside it. / Well, I don’t have much use for conversation, / Schuldig declared, pushing away from the bar and making his way toward the dance floor. A feral, predatory grin spread across his sharp-featured face as he moved, sliding through the crowds with the unconscious grace of a large cat. He finally got out onto the floor, sandwiched between fellow patrons, brushed by hands and hips, and let his body start to sway, seeking and finding the beat with practiced ease.
/ How can you hear the music? / Yohji asked curiously, a little unnerved by the closeness of the crowd. How was this press of anonymous people not bothering the telepath? It was bothering Yohji simply because of the ingrained nervousness of his profession. It should be bothering Schuldig on many levels.
But it wasn’t. The German was almost entranced by the throbbing beat of the music, hips grinding impersonally against some unknown person. Yohji hissed to himself in shock at the feeling of a hardened bulge grinding against Schuldig’s thigh in response to the German’s motion. Schuldig laughed merrily at Yohji’s reaction, even as the aroused man moved off to another partner.
/ I still can’t hear the music, / Yohji complained irritably, unnerved by the brief encounter. He’d been rubbed against a few times himself, in clubs like these, but it always shocked him a bit.
Schuldig laughed again, and replied, in a languid, distracted voice, / You don’t listen to the music, Yohji-kun…you feel it. Feel it pounding up through the soles of your feet…feel it beating against you, waves of hot air and sound and human touch…/
Yohji frowned to himself, drawing deeper into the shadows of Schuldig’s mind. The German seemed to be enjoying himself a little bit too much, in Yohji’s opinion.
/ It’s like sex…/ Schuldig added distractedly, moving with the pulsing rhythm Yohji couldn’t help but be aware of to sway and rub against another dancer. A woman this time, at least. / Hmm…Want to dance with me, Yohji-kun? / Schuldig asked teasingly.
Yohji frowned. / I’m inside your head, / he pointed out irritably. / Even if I wanted to dance with you, which I don’t, I couldn’t. /
/ Sure you can, / Schuldig assured him. / All I have to do is…this. /
And suddenly, Yohji stumbled in surprise, finding himself standing on the dance floor in the middle of a press of people, buffeted by bodies and noise. He whipped his head around in confusion, and a red haze covered his vision. Reaching up to rub at his eyes and clear them, Yohji discovered the haze was actually…a veil of frighteningly familiar red hair.
He looked down at his hands, and they weren’t his hands. The palms were more square, the fingers blunter, though still long and tapered. The skin was a darker tone than his own, and the cuff of one sleeve had slipped partway down the wrist to reveal some interesting scars Yohji was certain he didn’t possess…
"Hey, handsome, aren’t you going to dance with me?" a feminine voice taunted, and Yohji looked up in surprise as slender arms slid around his neck, a warm, barely dressed female body pressing up against his chest.
Or rather, Schuldig’s chest. Or something.
He gazed down in confusion into dark brown eyes highlighted by some sort of eyeshadow that glowed eerily under the black lights. The woman, who was young and pretty and easily fit his usual parameters for attractive, smirked up at him.
And he knew that expression.
"Sch-Schu?!?" he demanded incredulously.
"Got it in one," the woman drawled, smirk widening.
"What are you - are you hurting her?" Yohji demanded, confused.
The woman frowned prettily at him, and he wondered if the expression was natural to her, or to Schuldig.
Iie! Scratch that thought! Schuldig couldn’t frown prettily…
"Of course not. She’s so drunk she’s hardly even noticed I’m here," Schuldig declared irritably. Then the smirk reappeared, and he…she…the woman’s body pressed harder against Yohji. "So…are you going to dance or not?" Schuldig demanded challengingly.
"This is incredibly weird," Yohji declared flatly.
The woman shrugged and sighed impatiently, slipping her arms back down from Yohji’s neck and spinning to grind her rear against his groin.
Yohji couldn’t help whimpering slightly. It had been a few days…
The woman threw him a sultry glance over her shoulder, that familiar smirk still in place, and Yohji gave up the fight. Even if it was Schuldig in her head, the woman’s body was eliciting a response from his that he didn’t feel like denying.
The woman grinned in triumph as Yohji’s arms snaked around her, his body matching her rhythm as they both moved to the music. It felt good, but most of all it felt familiar, it felt real in a way nothing had since he’d woken up inside Schuldig’s head, and Yohji let himself go, reveling in the moment, the freedom.
They danced for a while, then she dragged him back to the bar and they had a few drinks, then back to the dance floor… It didn’t take Yohji long, with the help of a good amount of alcohol and hormones, to forget that the body he was wearing was not his own, and the "woman" he was with was actually an enemy, a killer, and, most importantly, a man.
Before he even knew what was happening, several hours had passed, and the crowds were beginning to thin. Yohji was beyond pleasantly buzzed, almost to the point of losing coordination, but the woman seemed mostly sober. Sober enough that he didn’t feel like a cad for inviting her to a love hotel.
She smiled strangely at him, and asked if he was sure he wanted to do that. With perhaps less than his usual charm, Yohji had still managed a dazzling smile and some heavy-handed flattery to convince her of his sincere desire to spend a few hours sweating and screaming in a more private location.
She smirked at him in a disturbingly familiar manner, and he felt a moment’s doubt over his plan of action, but quickly pushed it aside as she pressed eagerly up against him and murmured assent before kissing him with a rough passion that promised an interesting encounter ahead.
It turned out to be everything the kiss had promised, and more.
The woman was amazing. She seemed somehow to know exactly how and when and where to touch him… Her mouth moved across his skin and drew him inside like a savored delicacy. Her body welcomed him as eagerly as her mouth, just as warm and wet, and he buried himself in her even as she rose above him, riding him, head thrown back and gasping in ecstasy. She shuddered suddenly, body clenching tightly around him as her hips ground insistently against him, and he came along with her, biting his tongue to keep himself from calling out Asuka’s name.
Then she was shivering, sweat running down her body as she panted in exhaustion, staring down at him with a curiously rapt expression.
He stared back at her, and because she was beautiful in that moment, he smiled at her.
She reached out and traced the line of his lips gently with one finger, then murmured softly, "Even like this...You are beautiful when you smile." Then she eased herself down beside him and sighed softly in contentment.
Yohji wrapped an arm around her bare shoulders, and only had a moment to wonder why the Japanese girl had made that last comment in German before exhaustion and alcohol overcame him, and he slipped into unconsciousness.