Need to remember, Schuldig thought, holding his second cup of coffee to his aching head. The first cup had finally hit his bloodstream and let him think. Need to remember Kudou had clever hands, and thumb wars were fought on reflex, not thought. Too deep to read, in other words, unless he wanted to make it a different kind of battle. Kudou couldn’t fight him off that way, of course, but stomping on what the playboy laughingly called a brain would take all the fun out of their shallower contests.
Which was why Schuldig hadn’t just taken the blonde, one of the times he ran into the Weiss kitty out clubbing. Balinese forced into submission would be great fun, no doubt. But Kudou a willing participant, forgetting animosity for a few hours of pleasure, followed by months of gut-wrenching guilt–ah, that was a far more enticing image. And if Schuldig ever got bored with the guilt, he could just tip off Abyssinian and let the games begin…
Games–Schuldig raised his eyes to Crawford. Or tried, rather, the American was wrapped in his damned paper. Figuratively and almost literally, since he held the stupid thing as a wall between himself and his teammates. One more goddamned barrier, like Crawford needed another.
Not Crawford. Brad. He’d never insisted on his last name, so that was the first thing to go. Step one was going to have to be taking down those damn walls.
***
First step, Yohji told himself, had to be taking down those damn walls. He sat on the fire escape, smoking like a chimney while he stared at the notebook in his lap. He’d tried watching Aya do katas, thinking the inspiration might help, but found that all of his thoughts were of the redhead in his bed, without one glimmer of how to get him there. Even now the forms twisted through his thoughts, that perfect body glistening with sweat, the beautiful eyes not glaring–
God. Yohji rubbed his eyes and sighed. How could he have been so stupid, falling for the moody redhead? If he ever did get close, he’d freeze off his favorite body part. K’so! The great Kudou Yohji, sex machine, turned into a love-sick fool by a man who only noticed he was alive if Yohji managed to be annoying enough.
Though he’d been through it a hundred times before, Yohji followed the trail of his doom one more time. Like maybe this time he’d spot a way out. He didn’t have to be in love with the walking icicle to win the bet, after all.
Unfortunately for Yohji’s sanity, Aya wasn’t made of ice, and Yohji knew it. He’d been intrigued from the first time he saw that leap, that gods-sexy attack that had nearly impaled Ken. Then Yohji had wrapped Aya in wire, and felt the redhead’s rage and passion vibrating into his sensitive fingers. And instantly those fingers had wanted to touch, to do away with the wires and the gloves and the clothes…
He still might have been all right. Sure, Aya was drop-dead gorgeous, but he was cold and sometimes cruel and apparently asexual. Not Yohji’s scene at all. But he’d seen glimpses of something more, just enough to keep him looking. Aya’s rage at anything Takatori. When he told Omi he wasn’t Takatori. His intensity, with anything involving his comatose sister. The gentle way he told Birman she’d only hinder them, going after Aya-chan.
When he told Sakura his name. Yohji had thought then that he’d lost his chance, but he hadn’t been in love yet. He could have handled it. But then–
Then Aya-chan woke up. And Yohji realized that it wasn’t Aya the icicle who interested him. It was Ran.
Fujimiya Ran. The man Yohji had seen only in brief glimpses, Aya-chan brought to the surface, brought Ran out where a man could see and wonder and fall in love.
Pathetic, Yotan, being jealous of a man’s sister. But he was, or at least envious. Yohji loved to watch them together, and he hated it. Aya never took one second with his sister for granted. When he was with Aya-chan, his entire being was focused on her, cherishing her, spoiling her, drinking in every glimpse of her alive and awake, restored to him when even he had finally begun to doubt–
Yohji wanted that focus on him. He knew he could never have the tenderness Aya-chan enjoyed, but he wanted some of it. He wanted to be the second-most important person in Fujimiya Ran’s life.
He wanted to be able to call Abyssinian by his real name.
And he damn well needed to win that bet, he’d never have a chance with Aya if the swordsman learned he’d gone to a bondage club with Schuldig. Not in a hundred lifetimes would ‘revenge is all’ Aya forgive him going out with one of Schwarz, especially the man who had actually touched Aya-chan, kidnaping her for Esset. And Ran would probably be sickened by the club itself, making it yet more unlikely he could ever be won to Yohji’s bed. And Schuldig would make certain the redhead did find out, oh, how he’d enjoy watching Yohji suffer after…
“Baka!” Yohji snarled at himself. Why had he accepted such a challenge, with so much at stake?
To get past his cowardice, of course. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and he’d barely even flirted with Aya since falling in love. Terrified of doing the wrong thing, he’d done nothing. And that was a sure way to lose. Aya was too beautiful, Ran too wonderful, someone was going to find a way through the ice that had become more habit than anything, thanks to Aya-chan. If Yohji were even going to try, it had to be now.
So. Yohji flicked the long-dead cigarette and lit another. Back to the notebook. How to melt the ice, and make sure Aya/Ran enjoyed the process.
***
Stupid, Schuldig told himself. Stupid to make the bet about the one man on the planet whose mind he couldn’t play like a harp, the one man who stood a good chance of detecting even minor fiddling. Telepathy had its limits, and Brad knew them well.
Deciding it was best to save such dangerous attempts for when they would do the most good, Schuldig started by doing research. It was going to have to be romance, after all, he’d tried everything up to and including sleepwalking naked into the American’s bedroom.
That had not been a wise thing to do.
Schuldig shook his head and reviewed his progress. He’d noticed how Brad took his coffee, and now sometimes he fixed it for him. He got up a little earlier, to scan the paper for things to talk to the American about. He stopped going out so much, since it clearly annoyed his leader. He started being nicer to his teammates, in the hopes of earning favors to call in when he had nailed down a plan. And he tried to ignore how good it felt, when he teased Nagi into laughing, and Brad actually almost sort of smiled at him.
Betting on Brad had been stupid. Infinitely worse was the feeling growing inside every time he watched the American too closely. Brad Crawford was the leader of Schwarz, always had been. It just made sense to put a precognitive where he could do the most good. It had never occurred to Schuldig, what a burden that must be. They weren’t exactly an easy bunch to handle.
Brad did it though, and he did it with style. He was the one Farfarello listened to, the one Nagi looked up to. The one Schuldig searched out, when he needed a challenge to drive off the boredom. Brad could handle him. Brad, who stood firm against the most insane Farfarello rants, but gruffly gave in to Nagi’s big-eyed pleading. Who made sure every time Farfie blew up a blender, a new one appeared. Who helped Nagi with his homework and made sure a certain telepath never ran out of pixie sticks.
Who charted the team’s course, serving who he pleased, when he pleased, always for the good of his team and not giving a damn about anyone else. Manipulating, confusing and generally screwing clients and employers, never letting them see it coming until it was far too late…Schuldig had never realized before how wonderfully twisted Brad Crawford’s nasty little mind could be. He was even turned on by the fact he couldn’t read those convoluted thoughts unless Brad let him.
Damn Kudou Yohji anyway. He seriously hoped Abyssinian gutted the idiot. Slowly.