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| I tried so hard
Smoke, sweat, and musk ... A heady combination to say the least: invasive, intoxicating, and oddly arousing. And it was what Schuldich smelled as he languidly rubbed his body against that of his dance partner's, both pulsating in tandem to the heavy beat of the music that thrummed through their blood. He smiled and looked seductively at his would-be prey tonight with heavy-lidded eyes, his attention focused only on the handsome man before him and nothing else. After all, the scene was always the same: a sea of young, nubile bodies, all dancing in a dark, too small club, prostituting themselves out for a one-night stand, either in hopes of forgetting their present lives or just getting a high from the thrill. None of them were even remotely aware of the unnatural forces and unimaginable terrors roaming the world that could so easily take it all away. If they wanted to die ignorant, then so be it. He would just watch amusedly on the sidelines as it happened. Schuldich mentally smirked at that thought. Sometimes, it seemed that the most unnatural force of all was ignorance itself, blinding and hindering those who had no concept of the real truth. Pathetic really, these humans with their limited senses. 'If ignorance is bliss, then I'm one fucked up little boy.' The stray thought ran through the German's head as he wrapped his arms around his dance partner's neck and leaned closer to run his tongue lingeringly along the underside of the other man's jaw. The salty tang of the skin aroused Schuldich even further and he groaned uncomfortably at the tightness in his groin. With his sleek leather pants and form fitting top, he knew he oozed sex and the telepath didn't need his powers to know that the blond haired, blue eyed stranger he'd targeted was thinking the exact same thing. "Let's get out of here. Go to someplace a little more quiet," the stranger said into Schuldich's ear. Quiet? Yes, someplace quieter would be perfect, away from the deafening music that was causing him a headache, away from the random thoughts of those around him that had snuck through his mental shields, away from the unending screams that seemed to echo in his muddled psyche. 'I must be drunk,' Schuldich thought benignly and nodded at his partner's suggestion. 'How else can I explain all the damn noise in my mind ... I'm drunk and everyone wants to have a fucking party in my head...' "I have a place nearby," the blond stranger's breath tickled the sensitive skin of Schuldich's ear, causing goose bumps to rise down his neck. "Lead the way," he purred in response as he passively let the man pull him off the dance floor. 'Nearby...' Schuldich thought dazedly. 'How convenient. There were a lot of things nearby ... like that old movie theatre around the corner, ... like that drugstore at the end of the street, ... like that alley down the road ... ' (***) Three weeks ago ... "Give me another one. Straight," Schuldich yelled as he slammed his glass on the counter, demanding the bartender's attention. As the man moved to comply, Schuldich turned around and leaned his body lazily against the edge of the bar, taking in the crazy scene before him. Strobe lights and half-naked youths greeted his sight as he watched the dance floor with a predatory gleam. Bodies jerked and swayed to the beat of the blaring music, painting an awkward and surreal tableau in the flashing white light. But through the crowd and noise, Schuldich's eyes alighted on something ... or rather, someone. Deep chestnut hair, neatly cropped, and piercing dark eyes complimented a well-built body and a devastating come-hither smile. He returned the man's invitation with a sultry look of his own as he grabbed his drink, downed it in one swallow and moved onto the dance floor to join the dark-haired stranger. "Schwarz's resident whore, am I?" Schuldich muttered to himself as he deftly moved his body through the throng of gyrating bodies. "Well, Bradley Crawford, I'll show you how much of a whore I can be." He could still feel the burn of the liquor in his throat, and was slightly lightheaded from drinking it so quickly but he ignored the uncomfortable sensations. Tonight, he was going to try his hardest to get the oh-so-stuck-up American out of his head. 'Schuldich ...' The telepath faltered slightly as he swore he heard the bastard call him. 'Fuck him. Fuck him and all his high ideals and mighty morals,' Schuldich thought as he caught onto the beat of the music and looked suggestively at the man in front of him. 'If I disgust him so much, then I'll just find someone who 'wants' to be with me. I'm not his lapdog and I won't come running every time he calls.' Schuldich moved his body closer to his dance partner's, enabling him to 'accidentally' brush up against the man in just the right places. "Come here often?" the man yelled above the noise. The German almost rolled his eyes at the blatant come on. Swallowing a snide comment, he merely shook his head and kept his body moving to the rhythm of the music. The man looked him up and down appreciatively and Schuldich could hardly suppress a victorious grin. 'See, Crawford, even a whore can have his share of power,' thought the telepath as he felt the other man place a possessive arm around his waist. For just an instant, Schuldich wanted to knock the hand off, to jerk back and say that he was taken, that he belonged to someone else, but instincts of his youth soon took over, convincing him to bear with it and just enjoy the ride. But as he forced his body to relax against the other man's touch, he couldn't quiet the little voice in his head that wished it was Crawford with him tonight, that it was Crawford touching him and looking at him with such desire in his eyes instead. Schuldich almost let out a frustrated scream. 'Get out of my head, you fucking bastard. I didn't need you then and I don't need you now! You opinion means nothing to me. Just like you mean nothing to me!' (***) Present ... "What's your name?" The whispered words, heavy with passion, made their way to Schuldich's ears as he busily removed his partner's clothes. He paused briefly before resuming his task. "It doesn't matter," the German replied huskily as he slipped off the other man's shirt and dipped his head to place a trail of kisses down the bared chest. "What matters now is this, ... and stopping the screams ..." The stranger tilted his head back and closed his eyes, fingers winding their way into Schuldich's silky hair to bring him closer. He released a pleasure-filled moan as the telepath caught a nipple in his mouth and circled it teasingly with his tongue. If what the telepath had said puzzled the man, he gave no indication of it, nor did he care, not when liquid fire was coursing through his veins and threatening to consume him whole. Without breaking contact, Schuldich tugged his partner onto the neatly made bed in the darkened bedroom. Divesting himself of his own clothing as well as what remained of his partner's, he moved to claim the other man's mouth, seeking entrance with his tongue almost immediately. His movements were sure, assertive in their intentions but possessed a hint of desperation of which neither was aware ... because, for Schuldich, the reasons behind his actions were not important. Nothing was for that matter, save for the cessation of the anguish and turmoil in his mind. He had naively assumed that leaving the club would make the screaming stop, but even here, in this small apartment far away from the swarms of people, the abusing screams still penetrated his mental barrier, confusing him, torturing him, ... taunting him. The man returned Schuldich's kiss with equal tenacity and the German tried to lose himself in the overwhelming sensations. He would do anything to get away from the chaos that was his mind, anything to get away from his life, anything to get away from thoughts of 'him'. Schuldich broke the kiss and gasped as he felt his partner's fingers glide along his length. 'Yes, lose yourself in this. Don't think about reality. Don't think about what is...' The stranger moved his head down and began to work his way toward his partner's groin, placing errant kisses on the sleek torso as he went. Schuldich glanced impassively at the mussed hair of his one-night lover, willing himself to respond even more enthusiastically to the man's overtures. And yet, through the darkness of the room, through the sex-induced haze, though the synthetic euphoria that surrounded him, Schuldich saw a pair of glittering eyes watching him with inexplicable intensity from the doorway. Unsurprised, he smiled sensually at the new arrival, daring him to enter and disturb his nighttime tryst. 'Like what you see, Bradley? Would you like to join us?' No response came from the still figure and Schuldich's smile metamorphosed into a smirk. Ever since that night three weeks ago when he had found the American lying in that alleyway, he had noticed that his every decision and his every action were being monitored by the stoic man. There had been no word of apology or regret regarding the night of their fight. In fact, there had been no words exchanged between them period; it was as if there was no 'them' altogether. But Schuldich brushed off that detail as he had brushed off all unpleasant things in his life - with an arrogant smile and a fond farewell. However, what disturbed him now was the American's permanent, albeit discreet, scrutiny of his every motion: the older man watched everything he did with those impenetrable eyes, masking all thoughts and emotions with a bland or bored façade. And through it all, Schuldich remained silent, his overblown sense of pride forbidding him from questioning the other man's obscure actions or the reasons behind them. After all, Schuldich was nothing more than a slut to him and sluts didn't question their superiors, right? The thought amused the temperamental assassin. 'Why did you come here tonight, Bradley? To see what your slut can do?' Schuldich held the American's gaze through the blackness of the room, strangely entranced at how focused and penetrating they remained as they took in the events on the bed. And thus, the telepath stared, compelled to watch his former lover and entirely oblivious of his current one. He was unaware of his bedmate's change in position. He was unaware that the man had somehow managed to retrieve some strategically concealed lube. He was even unaware of his partner thrusting into him, and pumping his hips to some ancient and unknown rhythm. No, all Schuldich was aware of was the unmoving man standing at the doorway, watching, judging ...accusing. 'Do you like what you see, Bradley?' Schuldich directed his thoughts toward Crawford as he vaguely felt his partner reach his climax. Instead of joining him in the sexual crescendo, Schuldich remained fixated on the condescending figure that still loomed in at the entrance. 'I am what I am, Bradley' the telepath mused, trying to ignore the sense of desperation that tainted his thoughts. He forced himself to mentally say the next words, but it was difficult, so damn difficult, almost as if … almost as if he was trying to convince himself. 'Like you said, I'm a whore ... I'm a slut and I ... I enjoy it ... I really do ...' (***) Schuldich casually straightened his clothes as he dispassionately looked down at the man quietly lying on the bed. He closed his eyes for a moment, and cursed when he heard the cacophony of screams still resonating in his head. He had to get away from this part of town: whatever or whoever had managed to telepathically penetrate his shields seemed to originate from this area. The soft sound of rustling clothes reminded him of his seemingly constant companion. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see the American standing solemnly next to him. Crawford didn't make any motion; he simply stood, eyes cast forward. How he wished he could read his former lover's mind right now. "Enjoy the show, Bradley? Never knew you were into voyeurism." Schuldich gave the older man a sidelong glance, his tone deceivingly light and taunting. Crawford merely ignored the telepath's comment and looked down at the bed. Blood seeped sluggishly from two fresh gunshot wounds, the sticky fluid flowing black in the pale moonlight. The acrid smell of smoke, emitted from a gun recently fired, lingered in the air between the two standing men. The sound still echoed endlessly in Schuldich's ears, and the image of his most recent conquest lying dead was etched deeply into his mind. Strangely apathetic, he now turned his full attention to the American. True to form, Brad Crawford's expression remained unreadable, those dark eyes unwilling to divulge the unfathomable secrets that undoubtedly lingered within. 'Why, Crawford?' No answer. 'Are you happy now, Crawford? Is shooting him somehow supposed to save me from myself? So now I won't regret tonight?' Schuldich gave a mirthless mental laugh. 'No, you're not that altruistic...' The man in question moved toward the door. He paused for a second and turned his head slightly, barely looking in Schuldich's direction. Then, as though Schuldich was no more than a common annoyance, he left the room without a word. 'Well, fuck you, Brad Crawford.' Anger and confusion threatened to boil over, and he only realized the extent to which Crawford had riled him when he felt gunmetal bite painfully into his palm. Glancing down, he wondered why he was holding Crawford's gun. Part of him wanted to follow that bastard, to hunt him down and shoot him with it. But he didn't. Not yet anyways. Gritting his teeth in frustration, Schuldich gathered the rest of his scattered belongings and left the room without a backward glance, his dead lover forgotten. (***) Tendrils of grey pre-dawn light had just begun to snake onto the dark canvas of the night sky when Schuldich finally made his way into Schwarz's current residence. Closing the door behind him, he walked purposefully toward the living room, his rioting emotions fuelling his increasingly sour mood. He knew who would be waiting there for him, just like he knew this to be his one chance to relieve all the pent-up anger and frustration that had simmered inside him for the past three weeks. Crawford's gun sat heavy in his pocket, the weight a constant reminder of its owner's recent behaviour. He traced the deadly metal, oddly comforted by its presence as his gaze finally found the shadowed figure seated casually on the couch. Eyes narrowing, Schuldich moved until he had Crawford straight in his line of sight. "Why?" The one word seemed to resonate hollowly in the grey room, both occupants resolved in their appraisal of one another. Even with the play of shadows across the American's face, Schuldich could discern the assessing stare that emanated from the man. "Why what?" Objective, emotionless, empty words ... just like their speaker. "Quit it, Crawford. You know damn well what I'm asking!" Schuldich could feel the fury seep into his voice, and frankly, didn't care that he was betraying his usually nonchalant exterior. "Why have you been watching everything I do? Why have you been following me around? And why in fucking hell did you kill him?" "I didn't kill him, Schuldich. You did." The redheaded assassin stared disbelieving at his former lover, the cold man's relaxed and calm demeanor further infuriating his already heated disposition. He forced himself to breathe out before he spoke again. "And what is that supposed to mean? I saw you, Crawford ... I saw you shoot him ... I saw you holding the smoking gun ... " A smile played briefly on the sitting man's lips, a quick flash of white in the surrounding darkness. "Believe what you will, Schuldich, but when all is said and done, you were the one ultimately responsible." Schuldich's grip tightened on the handle of the other man's gun in his pocket as he maintained Crawford's unwavering gaze. God, how he despised this man! "Damnit, Crawford, you're one arrogant asshole! Like I said before, you're nothing but a statue, a lifeless, cold statue with no concept of - " "Schuldich? What's going on?" The telepath paused at the sleepy voice that sliced through his tirade, slightly disconcerted that he hadn't heard or sensed anyone approach him. 'Shit. All that sex and alcohol must really be taking its toll.' Without turning around, he knew that Nagi stood behind him, undoubtedly awakened by their loud voices, or more specifically, his loud voice. Crawford wouldn't raise his voice in anger - or any emotion, for that matter - even if his life depended on it. That was simply who he was and nothing would change that. "Go back to bed, Nagi," Crawford ordered firmly. The boy glanced towards the couch but his attention quickly returned back to the standing figure. "Schu - " The German was too caught up in his own chaotic emotions to notice the worry that laced Nagi's tone. "Go back to bed, Nagi," Schuldich mimicked, his gaze still focused on the American before him. "But Schuldich ... " "Go, Nagi!" The force behind the German's command finally got through to the boy and Schuldich relaxed a bit when he heard reluctant footsteps moving toward the bedrooms. "Since when did you become so good at giving orders?" An amused glint entered Crawford's eyes. He watched the redheaded man closely as if curious to see what the erratic man would do next. "Stop it! I've had enough of your superiority and righteousness. You think you're better than the rest of us just because you don't feel? God, you're only deluding yourself if you believe that!" Crawford raised an inquiring eyebrow, more amusement creeping its way onto his twitching lips. "And don't look at me like that!" "Like what?" Crawford seemed to be quite entertained by the telepath's loss of composure. Schuldich saw red, anger blinding him as he drew out the gun from its makeshift holster and pointed it steadily at that mocking gaze. "What are you going to do, Schuldich? Shoot me?" Resolved green eyes continued to stare at their target. "You think I can't do it?" A small, mirthless chuckle accompanied the Schuldich's words. "Well, I can, Crawford. It's pretty simple, really. You mean nothing to me ... I can just pull the trigger and bang, no more Brad Crawford. Besides, what difference would it make anyways? You never really knew how to live, remember?" All of a sudden, Crawford rose and Schuldich followed the fluid motion with his gun. The amusement was gone now from the American's face, replaced by a deadly seriousness that caused a shiver of uneasiness to run down the German's spine. "Then shoot. Do it, Schuldich. Put me out of my supposed misery." The challenge reflected in Crawford's gaze caused the telepath to tighten his hold on the trigger. His vision blurred momentarily and a bead of sweat wound its way leisurely down the side of his face, marking its path like a teardrop down a lover's face. / ... Do it, Schuldich ... / The telepath closed his eyes, the echoing words playing themselves over and over in his head, joining the symphony of other whispers and screams that already resided in there. 'Shit, why don't they stop? What do I have to do to make them stop?' "I'm waiting." Schuldich opened his eyes again to take in the man standing tauntingly before him. It would be so easy ... so quick ... one less voice to plague him, one less person to annoy him, ... and one less lover to accuse him ... "Fuck this!" Schuldich growled as he lowered his arm, uncocked the gun, and dropped it to the floor with a clatter. Unconcerned with the American, and perhaps just too worn out to even care, he turned around and began to walk away. "Self-delusions aren't the problem, Schuldich. It's self-denial that blinds even the most jaded." The telepath paused briefly at Crawford's words, but then resumed his course toward his room, sick of the deceivingly wise façade that came from the American's very presence. (***) The bass of the pounding music once again greeted Schuldich as he made his way toward the familiar club, it's resounding beat vibrating through his blood and into the hollowness of his chest. He looked sightlessly at the nightspot's bright lights illuminating the surrounding night, splashes of garish colour against a cloak of midnight. He didn't know why he had come here again after all that had happened last night: perhaps it was to test Crawford one more time, to see if Schwarz's leader would replicate his prior actions should the redheaded man find another lover for the night. Or perhaps it was to torture himself once more, to relive that fateful night over and over again, when everything had changed between them. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. He made his way toward the club entrance and barely acknowledged the ushers' nods before he stopped. The mental screams were at it tonight as well, tearing through the fabric of his thoughts and causing him to stagger slightly with their anguish. Cursing vividly and closing his eyes against the unstoppable agony, he turned himself around and with swift strides, propelled himself away from the entrance and down the street. (***) Three weeks ago... He was running ... running away from the night club and the man he'd try to pick up ... running so fast that the city was passing him by in streaks and blurs. But he kept running, not caring whom he knocked down along the way, not caring of the burning that seared his lungs, not caring of the stitch that stabbed at his side. He could feel the rain start to fall, plastering his mane of red hair to his scalp and molding he clothes uncomfortably to his skin, but it was inconsequential. / ... I want to live, Schuldich. Teach me to live ... / He heard them, the words, the voice ... and he felt him, the dying essence, the retreating mind ... 'Brad...' Forcing his already abused body beyond its limits, the telepath sprinted even faster and finally turned down the alley from where he'd sensed the fading touch of his lover's mind. What he saw and what he did next would forever remain obscured in his mind's eye, smudged by the mist of the falling rain. 'He' lay there, shrouded in darkness, so still, so lifeless. Brad ... his favourite enemy ... his once passionate lover. Moving mechanically, Schuldich walked over to the body, eyes seeing but mind disbelieving. Kneeling down, he nudged Crawford gently, as if trying to wake the older man up but afraid of the anger he would incur. "C'mon, Bradley, wake up." He began shaking the man a little more violently, desperation slowly seeping into his movements. "C'mon, you're not dead. You can't be! You're Crawford and Brad Crawford doesn't die! C'mon, call me a whore. Call me a slut. Damnit, I don't care, just call me something!" Nothing. Thus, Schuldich waited and watched, waited patiently for the man to wake up and watched the still face of his lover through the darkness as the rain slowly washed away the dirt that marred the smooth skin. And as he sat there, a strange thought ran through his mind, totally trivial and out of place: why was the rain that ran down his face so much warmer than the droplets that hit him elsewhere? (***) Present... "Has the screaming stopped?" Schuldich walked deeper into the alley, pulled by some invisible thread and the distractive screams that were slowly driving him toward madness. Unconsciously, he ran his hands over the gun in his pocket ... Crawford's gun. Strange, how he couldn't seem to do anything without its familiar weight pressed against his body. "Has the screaming stopped yet?" the same voice repeated. Schuldich turned his head to meet the intense hazel eyes of the immaculately attired man standing beside him. "No, they haven't. How can I make them stop, Crawford? They won't go away." "Do you even know who's screaming?" Schuldich shook his head, confusion evident in his puzzled expression. "Probably some fucking idiots who apparently can't keep their thoughts to themselves." "You don't know, do you?" When the other man didn't reply, Crawford continued. "It's you, Schuldich. Don't you remember?" At that inquiry, Schuldich smirked. "You're confused, Brad. You don't know what you're talking about." But the American wasn't put off by the arrogant attitude. "You screamed that night, Schuldich. You screamed and cried until you lost your voice and had no more tears." The telepath fought hard not to laugh in the older man's face, although his attempt barely masked the artificiality of his reaction. "You don't know me at all, do you, Crawford? Why would I ever behave like that?" "I don't know but how do you explain the constant echoes in you head? Or why you keep coming back here? Or why you keep seeing me?" Crawford looked curiously at the German, his calmness clashing with the increasing panic of the other man. "Shut up! I just want to make them stop! I don't want to hear them anymore ... " His voice cracked, the sheer mental agony of the noise painting itself in the pained set of his features. "I can't, Schuldich. I don't know how." Crawford's voice was steady, irritating the close to hysterical telepath even more. "You can't or you won't?" Accusing green eyes turned their light towards the American, madness and confusion creeping into their verdant depths to produce a feverish gleam. "You don't even care, do you? Am I so beneath you that my pain means nothing to you?" Still, nothing came from the stony figure that stood frozen before him. "Well, screw you! I can handle it myself," Schuldich screamed, although the sudden increase in volume in his head prompted a fresh wave of self-doubt to wash over him. He squeezed his eyes shut and backed up against the side of the alley. As the screams got louder, he felt his legs give out, leaving him to fall ungracefully to the filthy pavement. "Make them stop, Bradley ... " he managed to squeak out as he brought his hands up to his head in a vain attempt to block out the noise. "I can't, Schuldich. I'm dead." "What?" The telepath opened his eyes, the word coming out no more than a breath. Crawford lowered himself, enabling him to meet the other man's gaze. "Don't you remember? I'm dead. You saw me." "No!" The denial was almost automatic, its speaker slowly losing his tentative holds on sanity. "It's true. I'm not real, Schuldich. Look at me ... " But the stubborn telepathlooked away, refusing to bend to the will of the older man. Old habits die hard, he guessed. "I said, look at me, Schu! Get rid of this stupid illusion you've been living in and face reality for once!" Crawford's forceful demands cut deep into the wall of self-deception Schuldich had subconsciously built to protect what little was left of his humanity. The telepath shut his eyes, hoping that everything would just stop, that everything was nothing more than some drug-induced nightmare brought on by his less than saintly lifestyle. But the voices and screams denied him that peace of mind, constantly assaulting him with painful shards of reality. "I'm just something you created to appease this guilt you feel. I'm not real, Schuldich." And that voice ... it was so real, as if Crawford was really there in front of him and not just some illusion created by his desperate mind. He opened his eyes, realization slowly crawling into their depths. "God, Crawford ... " His voice came out as a croak. "You're dead ... " He tried to swallow but found it nearly impossible to do so with the lump lodged in his throat. And then, what the apparition had said began to sink in. "Guilt? Is that what this is, Brad? This burning, this strangling pain that I can't get rid of? What do I have to feel guilty for? I'm never guilty... " The American didn't answer, as if what the other man had asked was a rhetorical question and could easily be answered by the inquirer himself. "I killed you, didn't I? I killed the only person I ever lo - " He couldn't say it. Even now, after all that had occurred, he couldn't make himself say the one word that had hovered in the back of his mind since he'd met an American named Brad Crawford. It had never been a word in his vocabulary and he had never thought he would ever have a use for it. " I let you die, Crawford. Maybe if I had been faster in getting here ... or if I hadn't fought with you that night ... or if ... " A hearty laugh escaped the German's mouth, a sound bordering on maniacal. "Funny, isn't it? I, Schuldich, have done enough reprehensible things in my life to send me to hell ten times over and through it all, I never felt an ounce of guilt. And now, this petty thing ... I ... Shit! How do normal people live like this?" He leaned his head back, letting the dreary atmosphere of his surrounding saturate into his very being. He heard a distant car horn honk and smelled the decay of days old garbage. 'God, this must have been what he heard and smelled as he lay dying ... alone ... and he called to me but I ignored him.' Schuldich swallowed and let the invasive emotion he had labeled as guilt consume his body. "There's no way to stop it, is there?" The spectre didn't answer, his presence another reminder to the German of all he had tried to escape. A humourless smile crept onto Schuldich's face. "You're just going to sit there and watch, aren't you? That's all you ever do ... watch, and accuse ... " He reached into his pocket, his hands reflexively gripping the molded handle of the semi-automatic that had once belonged to his dead lover. Slowly, gently, he pulled the weapon out as if it were the most precious treasure to be uncovered, and slid its barrel along his jaw line, reveling in the hard, cold metal that contrasted against the heat of his skin. "Or maybe I was wrong. There is a way to stop it, isn't there, Bradley?" A wicked gleam manifested itself in his narrowed eyes. He smiled at his old lover as he undid the safety latch on the gun. For all the filth and stench that lingered in that alleyway, it had managed to retain a sense of comforting seclusion. In its own way, the back street had its own charming aura of tranquility, providing a relaxing and soothing ambience of silence. And tonight, that didn't change one bit. Serene darkness permeated from every dark nook, disturbed only briefly by the reverberating sound of a single gunshot. End |
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