The sun was shining in his eyes. Yohji groaned and burrowed under the pillow. Drunk or not–he recognized the signs, he’d been drunk–it was still rare he forgot to close the blackout curtains. Why–
Uh oh. That noise was a shower running. He wasn’t alone.
And–he wasn’t in his bed. K’so. Where was he this time?
Probably a more immediate question, who was he with?
Oh shit. His stomach got even worse as every time he searched his memory, the last person he remembered talking to–was an orange-haired sadistic bastard of a telepath.
Please, please, let him not somehow be in Schuldig’s bed.
Whoever the bed belonged to, Yohji was lying in it naked. Damn it, damn it, this was bad…he shoved up on his arms, and fought the splitting headache. Umm…vodka, yeah, definitely a vodka hangover…and something else. Rum? Yeah, that too, but there was more. Strong, not something he usually drank…tequila? Ow. Vodka, rum, and tequila, this would not be good.
Why the hell would he drink tequila? They put worms in it!
He’d listened to that CD too many times, the music started in his head and “Jose Cuervo” wasn’t even on that CD. Well, it fit.
“Now wait a minute, things don’t look too familiar.
And who is this cowboy that’s sleeping beside me?
He’s awful cute but how’d I get his shirt on?
I had too much tequila last night.”
Oh shit. He’d sang that, he remembered bits, shouting it out, Schuldig laughing his ass off and waving bills to stick in Yohji’s pants as he danced…Schuldig knew about the country music. Yohji would never be able to face Schwarz again.
Get out, Kudou, get out and go–go borrow Aya’s sword, after this he’ll loan it to you to commit seppuku…Aya was traditional enough, he might even help…
Yohji managed to sit on the edge of the bed, the hotel room whirled around him. Oh yeah, gonna be a fun one. He lit a cigarette and looked for clothes. That was the next step.
Hotel room, he noted as he looked. Not a love hotel, at least. A nice one. Somewhere bright. Ick. Clothes, the same as in his memory of karaoke, damn–
“You’re awake!” Schuldig, in nothing but a towel. “I thought you were going to sleep another day.”
Oh God. Yohji jumped into the pants. No underwear, had he been wearing–
Who cared? He slipped on Aya’s shirt.
Aya. Yohji let his head fall into his hands. He loved Aya, and he’d fucking spent the night with Schuldig.
“What’s wrong, pussycat?” Schuldig flopped on the bed, the towel slipped. Yohji snatched sandals and ran. Schuldig called laughing endearments after him.
Okay, don’t panic, Yohji decided in the elevator. It could be worse. He was pretty sure the bastard was just messing with him. Yohji did not remember having sex, and that was something he usually did remember. He didn’t feel like he’d been uke, and if he’d been drunk enough to black out, it wasn’t likely he’d been conscious enough to be seme. He hadn’t slept with Schuldig. Finally, something had gone right.
It was a long ride, must be a tall hotel. And something was subtly wrong, Yohji couldn’t put his finger on it–
The door opened, he headed straight for the desk. Call a taxi and get home, sort it all out later–but the clerk just stared at him, and answered in gibberish. Yohji shook his head and asked again. Had Schuldig–
“Ah, gomen nasai, Okyakusama,” another girl came to say. “Jenny doesn’t speak Japanese. I am Ayeka, can I help you?”
“Nani?” Yohji gulped his stomach down. “Where–Ayeka-san, where am I?”
She giggled. “Okyakusama, you are in Waikiki!” She threw out her arm, as if to introduce the lovely ocean view he hadn’t noticed. “Honolulu?” she added as Yohji stared at her. “Oahu? Hawaii?”
Yohji dropped his head to the desk. A warm hand patted his shoulder.
“Okyakusama, do you need a doctor?”
***
Aya swept the sidewalk. Again. At least it felt like he was doing something.
Two days. It was the second morning since Yohji disappeared, and not even Kritiker could learn anything. He had to believe Schwarz had taken the blonde, nothing else made sense. Though why Yohji–it couldn’t be for information, they would want Bombay or Abyssinian for that. Besides, by the time they had taken Balinese, Yohji’s brain must have been so pickled Schuldig would have gotten a contact high from trying to read his mind.
It didn’t matter why. What mattered was they had not given him back.
Omi was searching the internet for any hints, Ken was sitting on the phone like it would hatch. The last time Schwarz had kidnaped someone–Sakura–it had only been to arrange a trade, to get Aya-chan back. Ken and Omi were hoping that would happen again, that Schwarz did want something else. Anything that gave Weiss a chance at getting Yohji back.
Aya wasn’t so hopeful. Though he could not bring himself to believe that Yohji was dead, he could think of no reason he wouldn’t be. Schwarz killed enemies even more willingly than Weiss, Farfarello and Schuldig for the joy of it alone.
That provoked a shudder, thinking of Yohji in their hands. Aya did not want to be sweeping the sidewalk. He wanted to take his katana and find a way, make a way, leave a trail of bodies across Japan of every person who knew ‘Balinese’ as more than just a breed of cat, he wanted–
He wanted to be able to lie to himself again. To tell himself that killing Schwarz would bring Yohji back. Like he’d convinced himself killing Takatori would bring back Aya-chan. She had come back to him, yokatta. But it hadn’t happened after Takatori died. It had been so long after that, Aya had nearly given up hope, though never would he have stopped trying…
Even knowing it was a lie, he was going to do it anyway. In twelve hours and thirty-seven minutes. Birman had used Aya-chan to blackmail him into promising to give Kritiker forty-eight hours to come up with something. He had already made other arrangements for Aya-chan, she would be better off far from Kritiker, and she had always been fond of–
“Ran-niisan,” Aya-chan caught the broom, “it is clean.”
“I know.” He smiled at her, she tried to smile back. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and that shot anger through him again. She blamed herself, she didn’t know about Schuldig. She had misunderstood, and she’d apparently said some horrible things to Yohji, and she was the last to have seen him–
Alive.
“He’ll be back,” he told her, knowing he shouldn’t. “Yohji has been known to vanish.” Not for this long. Not without even his credit card. And not after chasing a red-haired gaijin through the streets, barefoot and yelling obscenities. He hadn’t told Aya-chan that part, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she knew. “It wasn’t your fault, Aya-chan.”
“Oh, Ran!” Again she flung her arms around him and started crying. “You don’t know–I was so hideous, I thought–“
”You jumped to a reasonable conclusion, from what you knew.” Aya stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head. He’d explained the handcuffs as him being really drunk and really stupid, and Yohji trying to protect him. Protect him from what, he hadn’t said, and she didn’t ask. He’d explained the letter. He couldn’t explain the picture, but Aya-chan was too upset to wonder who had taken it. Ken and Omi had received copies too, Aya had confiscated them. And there had been one addressed to Yohji. Siberian had thought he wouldn’t notice that one.
“He’s alive! Aya-kun!!” Omi’s voice was a shriek. “Aya-chan! Ken-kun! Yohji’s alive!”
Aya managed to protect his sister from the Ken stampede, and still get to Omi first. He was at his computer, pointing at the screen and jumping. “He’s alive, he’s alive!”
On the screen was a picture of Yohji in a chair on a beach, wearing a horribly loud shirt, floppy hat, dark sunglasses–and sitting next to Schuldig. Both of them were grinning, both held exotic drinks.
“Che,” Ken growled, but he was smiling. “He’s gotta be sloshed, Yohji wouldn’t be caught dead in that shirt.”
“It’s not just a picture, it’s video,” Omi growled, not amused. He clicked on an icon.
“Ohayou!” Schuldig pulled a pixie stick from his mouth to talk to the camera. “Just wanted to say hello, and we wish you were here! Not! Say hello to our friends, Yohji-chan!”
Yohji giggled and waved. Ken shook his head.
“Omigod, is he plowed.”
“Kudou,” Aya growled, barely meaning it, “you idiot.”
“The e-mail is from–Yohji’s friend’s address. Do you want me to reply, Aya-kun?”
Aya-chan squeezed his arm, Aya smiled at her.
“Can you find him?” he asked.
“I’ll find him,” Omi said.
***
“Crawford-san! I have an e-mail from Schuldig!”
At last. Crawford finished pouring his coffee before he went to peer over Nagi’s shoulder. “Where is he?”
“He doesn’t say. But there’s video.” He clicked, and Schuldig popped up, sitting on a beach with–Balinese? The Weiss blonde did not look his best. “Ohayou!” Schuldig said, pulling a pixie stick from his mouth. “Just wanted to say hello, and we wish you were here! Not! Say hello to our friends, Yohji-chan!”
Balinese giggled and waved. Crawford gripped Nagi’s shoulder.
“Find him, Nagi.”
“Crawford-san, you know if you go after him, he’ll–“
”Find him, Prodigy.”
“Do you–want me to reply?”
“If you normally would. Do not mention I want to find him.” Crawford walked away, outside. Nagi would find him. Even more than his telekinesis, his ability with computers was what made him truly valuable. Nagi would find Schuldig.
And then what? Why would he come back to Schwarz? Beach, booze, and Balinese–his favorite place, his favorite pastime, his favorite toy. Schuldig had all he ever wanted, right where he was.
Crawford pulled a pixie stick from his pocket, looked at it for a long moment. He went back inside.
“Nagi, let me see that again.”
The telekinetic sighed, but he interrupted his search to open the video file again. Crawford leaned over his shoulder and studied Schuldig.
Sunglasses on top of his head, as usual. Eyes only as red as expected, considering how drunk Balinese clearly was. No tremor that he could see. The telepath wasn’t suffering, not yet. When it came it might be too sudden for him to do anything about it, even if he realized–
“When you reply,” Crawford said, “tell him you think I’m sorry.”
“N-nani?”
Crawford walked back outside.
If Schuldig thought he was suffering, and then he apologized when he did find the German, that might–maybe–be enough. He might come back, if only to gloat over Crawford. The telepath knew the only thing that irritated his leader more than a smirking Schuldig, was a gloating Schuldig. That might be enough. But Crawford didn’t think so. More likely Schuldig would try to make Crawford beg. And that he would not do, because then Schuldig would know. That was unacceptable.
According to Schuldig, Crawford was in denial, he didn’t want to believe he was gay. Schuldig was wrong. Crawford didn’t need anything, man, woman, or child. He regularly stopped drinking coffee, because he could. Sometimes he didn’t kill, he let Farfarello do it. He didn’t take his headache pills because he didn’t need them. They were a convenience only.
Schuldig, though–Schuldig was a weakness. Crawford could kill or not, he could let himself run out of coffee, but Schuldig–Crawford knew he could never let him go. But if he let the telepath realize it, then it would be Crawford who was trapped. Schuldig was already high-maintenance, and as amorous as two rabbits in a cage, and Crawford did not want Schuldig thinking he could make demands of him. Though seeing him on a beach with Balinese, who was almost as amorous–both of them had the morals of goats. It irritated Crawford that he was so enamored of the beautiful German. A more unsuitable person did not exist.
Beautiful–he ought to tell Nagi to tell Schu to start wearing a hat, he was getting freckles–Crawford shook his head on that irrelevancy. He hated how Schuldig made him think like that. What did freckles matter to such as they?
Besides, that little sprinkling across his nose was cute.
Focus, Crawford. The German was unsuitable. He was amorous and indiscriminate, he was vain, he was high-maintenance, he obeyed only when it pleased him and there was no way of knowing when that would be–
Of all the irritating things about the German, that was the worst. Crawford hated that he could not see Schuldig’s future, not even the next thirty seconds of it. It had something to do with their powers, he couldn’t read Nagi’s either. Or Farfarello’s, not well, but that was because his future was fractured as the man himself. But he could usually sort it out. And Nagi he knew, and could predict. Schuldig was chaos itself. He ruined everything. The best-laid plans were a shambles, after the impulsive telepath wandered through. He upset Nagi, he encouraged Farfarello, and he irritated Crawford. All for the sake of something to do.
He could not yield in this. If he gave Schuldig the power, the telepath would wreck him, just as he did plans and missions and random strangers and the BMW every time he got hold of the keys.
But. He’d quoted “Princes of the Universe” to Schuldig, and the telepath had understood.
And but. If he did nothing, Schuldig would die. He didn’t need to see the redhead’s future. Crawford had seen his toxicology reports.
Though he’d rather be shot, Crawford admitted to himself that he would do whatever he had to do, to get to the man. Gloating, obnoxious, and infuriating Crawford could deal with. Just so long as Schuldig was alive.
And here would be preferable as well. The quiet was starting to set Crawford’s teeth on edge.
***
Note to self: Never again set a story straddling the International Date Line. What a pain in the butt it is, having Weiss and Schwarz A DAY AHEAD of Yohji and Schu!
“Jose Cuervo” is a great song by Shelley West. It’s my karaoke song. Like you wanted to know that.
Anyone who thinks I’m writing Yohji dumber than he is–please remember, even he doesn’t know how long he’s been drunk.