Schuldig sat in his favorite get-the-hell-away-from-normals hideout, and drank. It was quiet up there. That was why it was the best. As quiet as standing next to Bradley fucking Crawford. No one whining in his head about how they looked fat or they wanted to go to bed or how that damn redheaded gaijin made them nervous.
He drank, though he knew that was what Kudou was doing, and he didn’t want to be like that idiot. He drank because Bradley Crawford hated when he drank. Tequila, because it burned well, and Brad Crawford hated tequila. It was from Mexico, whatever that had to do with anything, and it had a worm in it.
Fuck Brad Crawford. What did he have to be angry about? Because he’d made a bet with Balinese? The bastard ought to be grateful for anything that turned Schuldig’s eyes to him. Crawford was hot, yes. But Schu was hotter, and he had his pick of playmates. Crawford was always alone.
Prince of the Universe? “The prince is a fool,” Schu growled, and spun to survey himself in the tinted glass door of the balcony.
Beautiful. Sexy. Hotter than hell, and Brad fucking Crawford knew it. What kind of idiot refused sex with a telepath, anyway? Any telepath? And Schu was the best, Crawford knew that, too. The things he could have done to the American…Schu growled and took another swig. Straight from the bottle, Bradley would hate that. Something solid, the damn worm–Schu swallowed the tequila and spit the invertebrate off the balcony. He’d heard that a pfennig dropped off some skyscraper in New York could kill a person. He doubted that, and knew this wasn’t comparable anyway, but maybe the damn thing would get stuck on someone’s shoe, drawing eyes and comments as the alcohol smell permeated an elevator, or collected under a desk…
The ants were on their way to work now, the sidewalks starting to fill. Miserable little drones, or they ought to be. Many of them weren’t, and Schu didn’t get that. It wasn’t ignorance. They knew they were vulnerable, to disease, to their bosses’ whims, to the predators that roamed the streets even in daylight. They had bills, they had problems, they walked through a dangerous world knowing that only hiding in anonymity might keep them safe, and yet they were happy.
In other words, they were sheep. And they liked it that way. Even with only pathetic Weiss to guard them from the wolves, the sheep were happy. Like Kudou. Sheepdog though he was, Kudou was one of the happy ones.
Fujimiya Schuldig could understand. Fujimiya lived for his sister’s happiness, knowing he didn’t deserve any of his own. On the rare occasions he did forget that, just a little nudge put him back on path. Tsukiyono–Takatori, rather, and wasn’t that a great joke!–was even better than Bradley fucking Crawford at lying to himself. Pushing a bit of truth into that busy brain was always good for a laugh. But neither were much of a challenge. And Hidaka–he wasn’t worth the trouble, he just wasn’t bright enough to see he ought to give up and die.
But Kudou. Schu couldn’t help messing with the man. It was like poking a stick in a marmot hole, or pulling the wings off of flies. He didn’t even do it out of cruelty–mostly. Tonight had been nothing but, and Schu had enjoyed ever second. Usually, though, he just wanted to see what the man would do. Because he didn’t get Kudou. Miserable as his life was, worthless and pointless and futile, he could be happy. Not for long at a time, of course, it didn’t take much to knock him down–but it didn’t take much to get him there, either. The first cigarette of the day. A grateful smile from Tsukiyono, or a not-rude word from Fujimiya, even just Hidaka using his nickname.
The sheep were happy. The sheepdogs weren’t, mostly, but they could be. And the wolves were not. Schuldig did not get it, not at all.
***
“Yohji!” Ken yelled again, pounding again. “Yohji, wake up or I’m tearing this door down!”
“Ken-kun,” Omi rolled his eyes, “do you really think he’s asleep with that noise?”
“Whiskey River, take my mind,” someone wailed, making Omi sorry he ever studied English. “Don’t let her mem’ry torture me.” And was that–Yohji-kun’s voice, too? “Whiskey River, don’t run dry. You’re all I’ve got, take care of me.”
“Agghh!” Ken kicked the door. “I can’t stand any more! Yohhh-jjjiiii!!!”
“Leave him!” a deep voice snapped.
“Aya-kun–“
”That’s fine!” Ken growled, “but who’s going to run the shop? You’re already on, and I’m not staying, and Omi has plans, and so does Aya-chan!”
“Go take over for Aya-chan. I’ll be down in five minutes, and I’ll run the shop alone.”
“Aya-kun–“ Omi started again. Ken cut him off. Again.
“Must have been some fight you two had,” the soccer player said with a grin. “What happened, did he grope you? Even better than last time?”
Omi dropped his head into his hand. Would he never learn? But the swordsman just looked at Ken. Not even one of his glares, just looked.
“I keep hearing you’re concerned about my happiness.” Ken shifted his feet. “All this thought you’re giving me is–”
“Mou ii!” Ken threw up his hands. “Just next time I want a day off, don’t get mad if I start a fight!” With that bit of illogic, he ran down the stairs. Omi stepped closer as Aya made to move on down the hall. Not in the way, he could see the more-than-usual anger in the redhead’s face, even if Ken couldn’t. Just–stepped. Aya looked at him.
“While you and your friends are worrying about me–“
“Anou, Aya-kun, it’s just–Yohji-kun hasn’t been out all day. I’m–I’m worried about him. More than usual.”
The redhead simply looked at him, Omi sighed. He really preferred when it was Aya in a funk, and Yohji to be sent to the rescue. Though oddly Yohji was harder to convince. What he really wished, was that the two would get it together. He’d really hoped last night–
“Counting flowers on the wall, that don’t bother me at all…”
Aya shuddered. “He probably is asleep,” he said.
“With that?” Omi demanded. Honestly. The supposed adults were worse–
“A-YAAA!” Ken yelled up the stairs. “I have to go!” Omi sighed again and stepped aside. He’d go see Hideo-kun, and when he got home, he’d go talk to Yohji. Aya was suffering too, anyone with eyes could see it. Maybe he just needed to go at the problem from the other side.
“Smokin’ cigarettes and watchin’ Captain Kann-ga-roooo..
Now don’t tell meee I’ve nothing to dooo…”
Omi cringed and left.
***
“Farfarello, I will throw your favorite knife in the bay if you do that one more time.”
The Irishman looked up from the turntable. “It’s supposed to be a spell.”
“It’s gibberish molded into a crusade by religious zealots who wanted to frighten children,” Crawford told him from where he lay on the couch. It wasn’t dignified, but he didn’t have the energy to do better. And he didn’t have the energy for the stairs, either. “Among the fo–three of us, we speak five languages, and it doesn’t make sense in any of them.”
“Aa,” Farfarello sighed, slipping the vinyl record back into its sleeve. Crawford sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Crawford-san,” Nagi said as a bottle of water and a bottle of pills floated into the room, “where is Schuldig?”
“I don’t know where Mastermind is.” The American sat up to accept both items. “I expect he will be home any time, drunk and make-up smeared and perhaps wearing a kilt this time.” Which would be more than he’d worn home last time.
“You don’t believe that,” the quiet boy said. His teammates stared at him. “Is he ever coming back?”
“Are you saying you can read my mind?” Crawford demanded, more irritably than he’d meant to. Nagi jumped, he’d been nervous all day. And he was staying at least two meters from Farfarello, though the white-haired assassin was having a quiet day. He was tired from howling half the night, even after Crawford shook him out of his dream. And then when he’d gone to his own bed, he’d heard Nagi crying, but he’d been glad when the boy didn’t answer his knock–
Nagi had said something. Crawford took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Did he even want to know?
“So we are children?” the boy said. “You dribble out information, you snap orders, you tell us only what you please, and we’re all supposed to just do what you say?”
“I am the leader!” Crawford snapped. He did not need this today–
“You are the leader of Schwarz,” Nagi said. Crawford gasped as he felt the couch lift. “But what is Schwarz?”
”Prodigy, stop this now!”
“My name,” the teen said, as his seat thumped hard enough to jar Crawford’s teeth, “is Nagi. Don’t act like we’re a team, if you’re going to treat us like this.”
Crawford stood, his fists balling without conscious direction. “Do not tell me–“
”Hit me,” Nagi said. “At least I’ll get to see it coming.” He sneered as Crawford relaxed his hand. The child was spending too much time with Schuldig. “But that isn’t your style, is it, Crawford? If I see it coming, I can defend myself. And you don’t want that.”
Crawford stared at the boy, astonished. Where had this bitterness come from? Rather, when had the child started aiming it at him? Did Nagi really see him that way?
“That hurt him,” Farfarello said with a chuckle. “Do it again.”
Nagi blinked, his face crumpled. “Gomen nasai!” he gasped, and ran. Crawford sat slowly. He should really go after the boy, but–
“Teenagers,” Farfarello said. “What can you do?” He picked up the prescription bottle. “Were you going to finish this?”
***
It was late afternoon, and Aya still winced at the bell when the salaryman left. If Yohji had been there, he could have asked the blonde what to do about a hangover.
Had Yohji been there, that was the last thing he would have talked about, Aya admitted. He should have tried before his shift. He should have realized Yohji wasn’t coming out on his own. Aya couldn’t blame him, he didn’t want to face the blonde any more than Yohji wanted to face him. The difference was, Aya had reason to be ashamed.
Despite Yohji’s fears–or hopes–Aya remembered everything from the night before. How he had shoved the blonde around, attacked him, mauled him, pawed him even while Yohji asked him to stop–
Aya cringed again, and flushed again. How could he have treated Yohji like that? Anyone like that, but especially Yohji, his teammate, his friend, his subordinate even, though Yohji tended not to see it that way. And Aya had jumped the man in his own bedroom, tried to handcuff him to his own bed, threatened his life when Yohji defended himself.
He deserved the headache. He deserved a lot worse. Aya let his head sink onto his arms at his work table. He needed to apologize. Before Yohji could, because Yohji would, and he shouldn’t. So the blonde had made a stupid bet with Schuldig. It was the sort of thing Yohji would do. For a smart man, he did some incredibly stupid things. Like wanting to get near the–the Ice Princess, they’d called him, and been right–in the first place. It was just…Yohji. He was a kind man, he couldn’t help it. Kind and forgiving. Only Yohji could have managed to forget that Schuldig was a sadistic bastard.
“Kudou, you idiot,” Aya growled, mostly out of habit. He felt guilty for it, after.
So Yohji had made his bet. He must have wanted Aya at the time. There were degrees of–of slut-ness, and Yohji was not one who would sleep with someone he didn’t find attractive. But then he’d changed his mind. And Aya had decided not to let him.
Had Aya been with a drunken Yohji acting like that, he would have left the man to find his own way home, or if he were too drunk to be left, just knocked him out and carried him. But Kudou was kind, and so Aya had made an incredible fool of himself, and still Yohji had been kind. Aya knew he had taken his shirt off, but he hadn’t removed his boots. Yohji must have. And Yohji had had water and medicine ready, when he woke the man usurping his bed. And then Aya had treated the blonde like that, ignoring the pain he glimpsed in Yohji’s face as he stalked out, too damn worried about his own humiliation…
Even now, Yohji would forgive him. Aya knew that. He shouldn’t, but he would. And he’d blame Schuldig for Aya’s behavior, as if reacting to the German’s prods were an excuse, as if Aya didn’t know quite well that Schuldig’s entire goal was to divide them, and he should act accordingly. Schuldig had almost turned Omi against the rest of Weiss, after all. Aya knew not to listen to the man.
He had to apologize. As soon as anyone came back, he would take a break and run up and–no, he would wait until he’d closed the shop. And he’d take–well, if Yohji was drinking, he wouldn’t want food. Aya hadn’t drank since leaving the club, and he still didn’t want to eat. But he would take something. Tea seemed right, but Yohji would prefer coffee, so that was what he would get. Maybe he’d go and buy some, Yohji complained that only Omi made decent coffee.
That was a good idea. He’d go buy one of those expensive coffees the blonde liked so much, and make it a real apology, a good one, because Kudou Yohji deserved it. He would give the man a formal apology, and he would promise never to drink again. Promising not to molest him was a little more than Aya could bring himself to say, but Yohji would understand what he meant. Yohji was good at that.
“Tadaima, Ran-niisan!”
Aya sat up straight, and felt himself flush again. K’so, to quote Yohji. He would not hide from his sister! “Okaeri, Aya-chan. Did you have fun?” Even embarassed, Aya took a moment to admire her, smiling and cheerful and awake. Alive. She was more happiness than he deserved, and any other dreams had been foolish anyway. He took the opportunity to hug her, as he always did. She hugged back, even as she complained.
“Mou, Oniisan, I’ve only been gone a few hours!”
“I missed you the whole time.” Aya released her, though. Yohji said he was smothering her, and Yohji was probably right.
“This was outside,” Aya-chan said, waving an envelope. “It’s for Yohji-kun, where is he?”
Despite himself, Aya flushed again. “Yohji–hasn’t gotten up yet.”
“Masaka! Have you been all alone? Ran-niisan, it’s after four!”
“He…didn’t get any sleep last night,” Aya explained, then realized how Aya-chan would interpret that. Kami-sama, if he blushed any more his face would explode! He tried to go into the back room, but Aya-chan caught his arm. Aya could not brush her off, and she knew it.
“Ran-niisan,” she said softly, “what happened?”
Of course she knew something was wrong. Aya took a deep breath and realized he could not tell her. He could not look into those trusting eyes and tell her what he had done to her sweet Yohji-kun. Aya had realized she didn’t have a crush on Yohji, but still, Aya-chan adored him. He put his hand over hers. “Nothing that concerns you,” he said gently. “I will take care of it, Aya-chan.” One more secret, added to the rest. One more secret, to keep her world safe.
“Ran, please–“
”I will take care of it,” Aya repeated. “Please take that into the kitchen, Yohji will find it when he comes down.”
She wanted to argue, she was a Fujimiya and did not take orders well. But “Hai, Oniisan,” she answered, and went. Aya stared after her.
Alive and awake, she was every prayer he’d prayed for years, every dream he’d thought would never come true. He should not have had the arrogance to try for more. He already had far more happiness than he deserved.
***
Ran was watching her, Aya-chan knew. He always was. Sometimes she had to make herself cry, thinking of him standing over her hospital bed for years, before she could keep from snapping at him for it.
Years. Ran thought he had only done his duty, and sometimes apologized for not having done it better. Aya-chan sometimes wanted to scream at him.
Like now. She closed the door behind her, and tossed the envelope on the table. She’d make tea, Ran would like that. It was one small thing he would let her do for him.
It was not fair. He never let her help him, though always, no matter what it cost him, Ran was there for her. She knew there was more to his new life than flowers. He hadn’t paid her hospital bills, and he didn’t get injured frequently, making and selling ikebana. No, there was something else, some huge secret he kept from her, though she was certain Ken-kun and Yohji-kun and even Omi-kun were in on it. Birman, and Manx, and Momoe-san wasn’t as crazy as she seemed, and that orange-haired man who seemed so familiar…Aya-chan tossed her head. Ran was what mattered right now, not that damn secret.
In the long view, though, that secret mattered, because whatever it was, it hurt him. She was starting to realize that Aya-kun wasn’t just a mask he wore, that icy man was what her sweet, shy, gentle brother had become. What he had made of himself. For her. It was beautiful and tragic, and it made her want to cry. And throw things, and avenge the boy she’d known, if only she knew who to kill. Ran wasn’t the only one with the Fujimiya temper.
But either because she had more sense, or she just lacked a target, Aya-chan chose to direct her anger more productively. She was awake now, and she wanted her brother back. Ran had known how to be happy. Aya-kun didn’t, and Aya-chan was sick of it. She was going to fix him. She had the Fujimiya determination, too.
Yohji-kun was supposed to have helped, he usually made Ran’s face lighter. This morning she’d thought Yohji had succeeded. Ran had not come out of his room all morning, and–Aya-chan flushed, remembering the handcuffs. She could almost think of them without blushing. Keiko and her older sister would never look at her the same, but Hitomi-san had answered Aya-chan’s carefully-vague questions, and apparently handcuffs weren’t that big a deal.
But when she peeped in the window of the Koneko–knowing Yohji-kun as she did, she was afraid she might walk in on something–and seen Ran alone with his head on his arms, she knew something had happened. Something had gone wrong, and Aya-chan wanted to know what.
Omi-kun was right. Adults were only pretending they knew what they were doing.
Aya-chan set a tray on the table, and collected what she needed. The envelope caught her eye. There were two, they had been stuck together. Aya-chan lifted the second one. A plain envelope with only her name on it, spelled out in the English alphabet. The other had Yohji’s name in kanji. Keiko had been talking about some party, but she wouldn’t have…Aya-chan opened hers, and stared at the only thing it contained. In shock for a long moment, then she didn’t even see it, as her mind raced.
Ran had her father’s katana, but he wouldn’t let her touch it. She didn’t know how to use it anyway. Think realistically. Her eyes focused again, Aya-chan made to shred the cursed thing, but she didn’t. Instead she reached for the other envelope, not even hesitating at the rudeness.
She read quickly, then turned off the stove before stalking up the stairs.
Mess with a Fujimiya, would he?
***
”Whiskey River” is Willie Nelson’s. “Flowers on the Wall”–the version Yohji has is the Statler Brothers.