Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Come As You Are ❯ My feelings are more important than yours ( Chapter 12 )

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Weiss Kreuz, Koyasu Takehito, and the makers of the official yaoi of NASCAR (dodges rotten tomatoes).

 

“I like vanilla ice-cream.”

There was a heavy pause in the room, as if nobody was sure if that sentence had just been uttered or not.

“What?” Yohji asked again like he'd been struck deaf. It had just been so out of place in the usual `quiet time' Aya liked to have in the afternoon. Which pretty much was one huge pile of bullshit to go up into their bedroom without having to explain anything to Ken and Omi- where Aya could feel safe enough to truly relax.

Aya was easily riled up if he got bumped or hassled one too many times in the flower shop, when all his yelling and dark glares didn't get him anywhere. He was never able to understand that resisting so much only made people want him more.

Yohji didn't mind it at all, more than happy to play along with Aya's little act. They both knew it was because Aya simply couldn't bear the presence of too many people for very long without becoming dangerously homicidal. Yohji had learned long ago not to mention so . . . in fact, he pretty much wasn't allowed to talk during these quiet hours when Aya had his nose stuck in a book.

Thankfully, no such rules applied to touching. Yohji could cuddle up to Aya as close as he wanted- providing he didn't get in the way of whatever the redhead was trying to read. As of right now, he had managed to get his head nestled in Aya's lap, the rest of his body lying out on top of the bed with long legs dropping over the side of the mattresses.

He had been half-drowsing, his left hand bent over backward to play with the hem of Aya's loose shirt, simply enjoying the warmth of Aya's body and the slow rhythm of his breathing. He hadn't been expecting any deep, soul-bearing comments like this.

“I . . . I like vanilla ice cream,” Aya repeated, a little bit shaken that he had to repeat himself. Yohji blinked up at his lover, violent eyes glaring down underneath the rims of his reading glasses like he was about ready to strangle kittens.

Yohji knew just how damn hard it was for Aya to voice his own opinion. He had just disregarded it for so long, always putting his sister, his revenge, and the few friends he had managed to make, ahead of himself. Aya had been quickly brought down to a screaming, tear-filled argument over something as simple as what he wanted for dinner. Aya would always agree with Yohji did, even if the result was eating something that made the man gag reflexively- somehow setting off certain memories they had both sworn to never talk about again. Aya never wanted to admit that he had been a victim.

“Do- . . .” Yohji had to stop and recover, his own voice sounding like a squeaky teenager's. “Would you want to go get some right now?”

It was downright hilarious that something this innocent could be so awkward.

But, that small admittance of Aya's own free will probably hadn't happened since he was sixteen. Yohji was desperate to play this right, to make sure that it was all natural, that Aya could feel comfortable talking about whatever he really wanted.

It was hard enough just figuring out what books the man liked- even though Yohji had most of the titles shoved into his face on numerous occasions. While he may be a natural socialist, able to pick up languages and cultural nuances with ease, he couldn't read foreign text worth a shit. Yohji could only sit there waiting with his mouth shut, having learned better than to push a bruised point with Aya.

Aya sighed . . . his own personal, silent way of saying `please wait a moment while I get ready.' He moved his bookmark to save his place, setting the novel down along with his glasses in a slow manner that just stank of deliberate. Aya was buying a bit of time, brushing back too-long bangs behind an ear as he gathered himself up. The expression he gave Yohji looked like watered-down agony, trying to hide something that made his violet eyes go a little bit more of a dusky plum color.

“Are you paying?”

Yohji could swear there was the smallest touch of a Cheshire's grin coming in on his lethal little Abyssinian.

He was already nodding like an idiot, jerking out of the warm spot they had made together on the bed as he rushed about the room for a shirt. Aya took his own time in moving off of the sheets, seeming to find humor in the sight of Yohji opening up the wrong drawer in his haste. The cursing that followed made Aya laugh aloud, though Yohji seemed to miss the height of it while struggling to get his arms through the right holes in the top.

For the first time in his life, Yohji Kudoh didn't spare a second thought to his outfit- just dragged the rest of it over his waist to wait impatiently for Aya to follow. The man only stared at him, combing back his longer-than-shoulder-length hair behind his ears in compete silence. Aya somehow had a small hair band on his person, dragging the deep, wine red silk back in a loose ponytail. Yohji just waited there in the tense hush that Aya had managed to create, sure that he was in trouble but didn't know why.

“Just this once, I'll let you wear it,” Aya grumbled out as if Yohji had chosen to go out in high-heels and a garter belt. He looked down in confusion . . . and immediately realized the problem when fuzzy, threadbare orange smacked him in the face.

He was wearing Aya's favorite turtleneck.

It was one thing to have Aya slipping into Yohji's clothes. The man was a little more discrete about it, shoplifting but unable to help it. If he would just ask, Yohji would have said `yes' a million times over. But, it was just another rough edge that hadn't been smoothed down yet. And Aya always managed to look good in Yohji's shirts and sweaters- at least the ones that were decent enough to wear amongst the everyday public.

Yohji had yet to work up the courage to do the same. He knew very fucking well just how touchy Aya's boundaries could be, having been smacked upside the head several times before for daring to do something as simple as move a few of Aya's books off the bed. The orange sweater was even more sacred- the only thing he had leftover from his past as a simple teenager that would never dare to hurt another person . . . much less kill some couple-odd hundred victims for money. Yohji supposed having your family blown up- literally- could do that to a man. He almost started feeling guilty about it, beginning to wonder if he should take it off entirely . . .

“Are we going or not?” Aya snapped over his shoulder, already standing impatiently in the doorway. Yohji didn't know when Aya had managed to get across the room without him noticing, but he was already forgetting what was holding him up in the first place . . . just stopped thinking at all as he hurried to catch up with Aya, swaying hips on top of long legs, the length of his hair flowing behind, the slightest bit of violet twinkle as Aya sneaked another glance back at him as well . . .

“Yohji?”

Such a terribly jarring sound. Yohji hadn't been expecting anything other than Aya's deep, distinctive tones. He blinked up at the blurry outline of a face- one he could slowly identify as Ken. He'd been curled around the smaller man like he'd become a comfort pillow, just like Yohji used to do with Aya after either one of them had a particularly bad nightmare. Being able to hold onto the solid warmth of your lover was more reassuring than any words could ever be.

Except Yohji didn't have that option anymore, with Aya fenced off by plastic curtains and chirping machinery.

“Are you awake already?” Ken asked in a hushed voice, obviously not sure if Yohji was still sleeping or not. He answered that question by shoving his face down into Ken's shoulder, burning hot tears spilling over beyond his control.

“Hey, come on. Don't do this first thing in the morning,” Ken coaxed him softly, an arm immediately coming up to rub Yohji's back. He couldn't react, couldn't stop himself from breaking underneath the weight of it all. Aya was in a coma. It wasn't like he was really crying; it was just his eyes watering reflexively upon waking up. How was a guy supposed to just take this all in stride- act like there wasn't a huge chunk of his heart ripped out?

He suddenly was beginning to understand Aya's early cold and untouchable personality a little bit better. Yohji had always known the facts, had been graced with the bare truth a few quiet, faltering times late at night. It had been was Aya was particularly tired, the last traces of his outside armor gone as he murmured along about a cement wall crushing his little sister to death, too heavy to move . . . the wreckage having come from his parent's company building . . . How Ran had spent a few weeks in the hospital at his sister's bedside, the utter shock robbing him of human functioning until he had gained the determination for his revenge.

Aya still didn't talk about the time before he had finally caught the eye of Kritiker; a stray cat that was killing anyone that had anything to do with a Takatori. Yohji knew why now, experiencing it himself for the first time. At least when Asuka had been shot to death, it had been instantaneous.

This hellish limbo of not knowing when Aya was going to wake up or just drift off slowly into his own death was more than Yohji could deal with. He couldn't even move away from Ken right now, so damn needy for human contact. He couldn't shut down his emotions like Aya had, not when it felt like he was rotting away on the inside.

“Jesus Christ! Yohji, if you keep crying, I'm gonna start too. You don't want that, do you?” Ken forced out in a gruff voice, so obviously pained that Yohji felt worse just listening. Another repeat of what happened before. It was all his fault. Everything was. Yohji should have come back sooner that night, should have apologized like he was did, shouldn't have ruined that priceless moment when Aya finally had trusted him enough to try being on top. He'd gotten so drunk that he couldn't even recognize a murdering, psychopathic, telepathic German sonuvabitch. Just saw red hair . . . or at least, thought he had . . . long enough to walk straight into Schuldig's web and get his mind screwed up beyond recognition . . .

“Please, I can't handle any more tears,” Ken pleaded in a softer voice, obviously pained. There had certainly been more shed over the past few days then usual. Just when everything was getting somewhat normal, when nobody woke up screaming in the middle of the night because of a flashback, and they all weren't worried about whoever was going to walk into their home and blow their lives apart next . . . Even though this all felt like an inside job.

Ken dropped his forehead down against Yohji's own, bringing their faces close together. All Yohji could see were Ken's shut eyes, pupils moving around rapidly underneath. He couldn't tell what the other man could be thinking about, but it was probably along the same lines as him. Yohji hadn't considered that Ken might be feeling guilty as well. That his own lover was somewhere far away, either in an office somewhere or a coma in the very same room. They were both trying to cling to their pseudo-family, holding onto that last little piece of brotherhood between them.

“ . . . Sorry,” Yohji didn't know what he was apologizing for, but it just seemed appropriate. Ken sighed heavily, a cynical smile creeping onto his features even though his eyes remained closed.

“Yeah, we're all pretty fucking sorry right now,” Ken murmured, referring more to their general state of being. Yohji couldn't help but grimace himself at the dark humor, finally managing to blink away the wetness at the corner of his eyes. They just stayed liked that for a while, both of them too lonely and miserable to move away from the other.

Yohji kept forgetting about Ken's own pain, that Omi wasn't here right now. Amazing that the person he used to think had the biggest heart in the world wouldn't even pay a hospital visit. Little Omi had gone off and become Persia. Somehow Yohji couldn't even feel angry at the pure hypocrisy of it, numb to everything that didn't relate to Aya. He was selfish and rotten to the core, but found amazing freedom in the fact he didn't care.

“Could you get me some things from the house?” Yohji asked brokenly, his own voice barely recognizable. He hadn't said all that much in the last few days beyond grunts and single-syllable words. It had been too much effort. Ken raised an eyebrow at the request, eyes darkening in a flash of emotion Yohji couldn't catch.

“That's fine, but wouldn't you want to come with me? Get out of the hospital for a few minutes?” Ken tried to coax him out of the funk Yohji was falling deeper and deeper into. He really was a better friend than Yohji deserved. He hadn't really been doing anything for Ken lately, or for their team falling apart at the seams. All he had ever cared about was in the hospital bed next to him.

“I . . . I can't leave Aya again,” Yohji whispered. The hollow feeling in his stomach was enough warning. He didn't want to separate from Aya and come back to find he'd attempted suicide or gotten kidnapped or was being tortured . . . Their luck was too damn awful for Yohji to lower his guard now.

Ken just sighed again, shaking his head in a resigned sort of understanding.

Then, he asked Yohji to make a list of what he wanted.

 

***

 

Depression was a curious thing. He didn't usually give into that emotion, an unspoken oath to never regret the decisions he had made in his life. But, things had just been so awful, bad things happening one after the other. The blackness only seemed to be growing, swallowing him whole . . .

He should have just given up long ago. What was the point in struggling any more? His optimism had been worn down underneath reality, knowing that the second things started looking up, something bad would happen again. He didn't have the strength to face it any more, drifting in between agony and unconsciousness.

After a while, Omi finally came back to himself.

He couldn't be sure of what had happened in the past couple of hours.

The last thing he could remember was visiting Aya's hospital room to find Ken and Yohji snuggling together like sleeping kittens. They didn't seem to care about the man in a coma on the other side of the room, or that Omi was sacrificing his entire future to save them all.

He wasn't bitter about that, more than ready to do anything to keep his friends from any more pain. What did hurt was the fact that Yohji and Ken would comfort each other without even considering him. They had left him to deal with everything alone, utterly cut off for becoming a part of Kritiker again.

. . . So, then, who was petting the top of his head?

Omi realized he had his face buried into someone's leg, cotton shorts wet from tears and snot. Omi thought he recognized Ken and his bed sheets underneath the strange set of legs. They were too pale and skinny to be Ken's, almost exactly the same as his own. But, Omi was still wearing the uncomfortable formal suit he'd been in since this morning, soiled fabric sticking to his body. For one terrifying moment, Omi thought it might be someone his Grandfather had sent to keep an eye on him.

The hand was gentle though, fingers sliding over his hair in a soft, delicate manner. A Kritiker agent wouldn't try to console him. Ken would never be able to be this quiet, this nice for so long. He'd get frustrated with Omi's sensitivity and leave until they were both in better moods. Omi weakly wondered how long it would take this time.

A few scattered bits of memory finally clicked together in his head as Omi remembered greeting someone outside the shop. A slow glance out of the corner of his eye confirmed the person, none other than Nagi Naoe.

Omi had never really appreciated the sharp humor of irony until now.

Yohji and Aya both seemed to rejoice in it, sharing painful grins with each other at particularly dark humor. Ken would usually make a short snicker as well, though Omi could rarely see a reason why. He understood it now, when the humor of the situation was slapping him in the face.

Nagi and he were supposed to be enemies without question. They had always ended up being paired off together on the few occasions when Weiss and Schwarz would clash. Despite it all, even Omi had been able to recognize that resigned, empty look in the other boy's eyes. Because he had felt it too, so many times before in his life.

Just like tonight, when it all got to be too much. He couldn't even hold up his usually cheerful optimism, not in the face of everything that had happened. He had broken down completely- something that Ken didn't have the patience for. Omi would have usually found himself alone after throwing such a fit, but instead had Prodigy hunched over him like any concerned friend.

“Are you alright now?” Nagi asked awkwardly when he realized Omi had come back to his senses.

Omi thought he might burst out into tears all over again. Thankfully, he was already exhausted and his eyes were too dry for any more. He hadn't realized how long it had been since someone wasn't glaring at him, passing strange looks over the newly appointed Persia. Nagi didn't know of his promotion, or most of what was going on with the rest of his teammates, but he had still tried to help out in his own way. He'd been more understanding than the people Omi had always trusted before. The sudden reversal of everything left Omi sick to the point of laughter, if he hadn't already spent up all his feelings a while ago.

“I'm sorry, I didn- . . .” Nagi started out quickly, obviously unnerved by the long silence.

“You don't need to apologize,” Omi interrupted, fascinated with this boy that was turning out to be even more sensitive than himself. He didn't think anyone like that could possible exist, but here they were. Nagi had always been so tense in class, with constant glances over his shoulders as if he still expected trained enemies to jump out of the corner.

It was kind of like how Ken and Aya had been when they began killing people for money. The two of them had always had a hard time disassociating that trained suspicion with common, everyday people. They would tell Omi he was too naïve and trusting of total strangers, but most of the time he was right. People were corrupt, but it took a different kind of human being to actually commit murder. He would know.

“How long have you been here?” Omi questioned absently, trying to bring his mind around to the current situation. How much time had he lost by simply breaking down? Would his Grandfather already be sending out agents to find him? Were Ken and Yohji done yet . . . or had they already moved past cuddling to-

“I'm not sure,” Nagi muttered as he glanced around the room for a clock. He didn't even realize the train of thought he'd interrupted, for which Omi was grateful. It was easier to pretend that nothing bad had happened in front of other people. Even so, he still didn't quite feel like moving yet.

It had been a while since someone had comforted him without expecting something in return. Ken could be so selfish, always thinking that everything had to begin and end with sex. He wouldn't have lasted as long as Nagi had, unable to sit still and listen to Omi cry for very long. Ken would just get frustrated and storm out, though he would always apologize later. He had never once stayed through an entire episode, until Omi finally wore himself out and went near catatonic. But, Nagi had stayed. He should have been taking advantage of the opportunity and slitting Omi's throat, or something equally gruesome, but Prodigy hadn't done anything worse than get out all the tangles in his hair.

“I should probably get back,” Nagi announced, though his voice was only slightly louder than a whisper. “Crawford's going to be mad at me,” he added on quickly as his free hand snuck up to his ear. He started thumbing at the lobe, visibly stressed and not handling it well. At least Omi had learned to cover his discomfort with a smile, but Nagi didn't seem to have any kind of defense at all.

Omi didn't know what set him off first. It could have been that the lonely desperation in Nagi's eyes was something he related to. Maybe Nagi actually looked so cute and vulnerable that he couldn't help himself. Omi suddenly understood why Ken would suddenly jump on him at unexpected moments. It was like looking a stray puppy in the eyes when it was wandering around in the rain. There was no way to keep himself from reacting. He leaned in and planted one quick kiss on Nagi's cheek.

There was an immediate jump, like Omi had stabbed the other boy with a needle instead. Nagi clapped a hand over the wet spot, staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. The silence turned awkward as Omi realized he had overstepped his bounds. He didn't really know Nagi beyond the few classes they had together . . . and the times they had been trying to kill each other.

“I'm sorry!” They both forced out at once, blinking in surprise at the mirrored reaction.

Omi couldn't think of single reason why Nagi should be apologizing to him. He'd become so accustomed to being blamed for everything lately. Ken wouldn't even look him in the face, fleeing to the one place he knew Omi wouldn't go.

Aya's hospital room was an impossibility. He respected the man so much, had always placed Aya on a super-human level after seeing the man cut through human flesh with all the expertise of a machine. He went beyond invincible in Omi's mind; always able to recover quickly from the worst of situations . . . He wasn't supposed to be in a coma.

Even so, the situation hadn't stopped Ken from finding all the comfort he could with their best friend- or at least what was left of him. Yohji was hardly recognizable as the carefree, romantic joker he'd once been. The shaved head made him look like he'd been struck with some sort of terrible disease, though Omi knew better. There were people that were much worse off right now . . .

Omi might have become Persia in order to get stable care for Aya that he could trust, but his teammates hated him for it. Kritiker was everything they stood against, but nobody could argue that it was a necessary evil. He couldn't pretend like this was all some sick game done under the cover of night any more. Omi was in charge now, after all- installing his own fair share of bugs throughout the place. He couldn't trust anyone, not yet- especially his Grandfather.

The reality of it was unbearable. He glanced over at Nagi's face, responsible for that slightly betrayed expression. It was strange how that could hurt more than all of Ken's glares and muttered insults combined. Omi was taking advantage of Nagi's kindness, just as cold and heartless as Ken accused him of.

“I . . . I have to go back home,” Nagi echoed himself numbly, hiding behind his long bangs. He tensed up, getting ready to stand up and escape from the bedroom.

“Stay here,” Omi begged before he could even stop himself. He looked down at his hand that had latched onto Nagi's arm, wondering when it had gotten there himself. It was surprising that he was even able to stop the brunette. He was used to Ken's overwhelming weight and muscle that he could only wrestle down if Ken let him. Omi made a conscious effort not to hold too tightly, to make sure that he didn't force Nagi into a decision he might regret. The fact that Nagi could just telepathically flatten him like an empty soda can didn't even occur to him. Not when those dark eyes were beginning to waver with emotion.

“You want me to?” Nagi asked in an even softer voice than before, if such were possible. He bent his head down, hiding behind his bangs, with his shoulders hunched down protectively. Nagi was expecting violence just for asking a question, and he wasn't even going to try to defend himself. It shocked Omi to see the other boy react like that. As Prodigy, he had always been ruthless and cold; had nearly crushed Omi to death several times over. He still remembered the sensation of his own ribcage splintering into his lungs underneath the weight of the telekinetic's mind.

But, if Nagi wasn't on a mission or surrounded by his other teammates, he was an extremely sensitive person underneath it all. Omi could understand Nagi's pain better than anyone else could, because he was the very same. He always worried too much about everyone else, to the point where his own wellbeing didn't matter anymore, and ended up getting himself hurt instead- because everyone else was selfish and didn't give a damn.

Omi just couldn't smile through it any more. He didn't have anything left in him to pretend like it was all okay. At least Nagi wasn't waiting for some cheery, fake words. Nagi didn't even expect the common respect one should have for a human being. Omi was no fool, knowing that with teammates like the ones in Schwarz, Nagi had suffered. He was just as needy for comfort as Omi was right now, but too shy and awkward to take advantage of the situation.

Omi was aware of being a total hypocrite, but that still didn't stop him from kissing Nagi again. All it took was a little bit of pressure to have them both slowly fall back into the mattress that he used to share with Ken. That fact alone should have caused enough guilt to make him stop.

But, his hands were already pushing up the loose shirt Nagi had borrowed, touching smooth stomach muscles and getting a surprised gasp in return. It was strange to be the calm and knowledgeable one. He was so used to Ken taking advantage of every sensitive and ticklish part. Sometimes Omi didn't even really like it, but he had never said anything to Ken. He caused so many arguments anyway . . .

Nagi made a weak attempt at Omi's name, his voice squeaking nervously before snapping his mouth shut again. It was immediately followed by a blush that went from the tip of his ears to the bottom of his neck, Nagi obviously embarrassed.

It made Omi aware of the fact he was pushing himself on top of the other boy, forcing the situation beyond what Nagi was comfortable with. He started to back up, feeling guilty as all hell. He was starting to turn into the very thing he hated, really losing himself to the codename of Persia.

“It's okay. Schuldig told me what he'd do i- if he ever got me alone,” Nagi began to explain, stuttering a bit through his tough farce. “I know what to expect.”

Omi didn't even want to imagine what that sick pervert might have told Nagi.

He'd seen a few pictures of Mastermind's victims, enough to haunt his memories and make zucchini impossible to ever eat again. Omi was supposed to be an assassin, but there were some things even he couldn't deal with. The thought of Schuldig explaining sex to Nagi was so bizarre and twisted, Omi couldn't keep a small giggle from coming out of his mouth.

Nagi raised an eyebrow up at the reaction, obviously inappropriate for the situation. If Omi hadn't already cried his heart out a few hours earlier, he would have felt worse. As of now, he was just too dried up and bitter to do anything other than laugh at the irony. For some reason, that seemed to calm Nagi down as well. His body language went lax, no longer quite as tense as before.

“Just tell me if I do anything wrong, okay?” Omi gave Nagi the opportunity to say `no' if he wanted to. There was a quick nod, all the conformation he needed to start working at Nagi's pants. Surprisingly enough, there was a dual set of hands on his own belt. Either Nagi was following his lead or Schuldig had actually told him some good pointers about making out. Omi didn't particularly care, more concerned about getting their mouths connecting together again.

They obviously thought so much alike; kissing each other like it was some kind of replacement for oxygen. Omi couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to be affectionate with someone. Ken had been angry with him ever since Omi had agreed to his Grandfather's deal. Mad enough to completely ignore Omi and get Yohji involved in their fight as well. It wasn't fair that Ken had called dibs on the older man. He'd effectively taken away his best friend and lover, so selfish in ways Omi had never expected. It was about time that he did something for himself instead of giving up everything for other people.

Nagi's skin jerked around nervously when Omi let his hand wander down the other boy's side. It was strange to feel nothing but bones and soft skin, nothing at all like Ken's body. More impressively, Nagi wasn't pulling away from him. His mouth opened underneath Omi's lips, allowing his tongue to slip inside. He only made a light exploration of Nagi's teeth, not wanting to be too aggressive. He remembered how awkward French kissing had been for him until he'd just gotten used to Ken's forceful style. The soft moan he got in return was enough to know he was doing the right thing.

It had been a long time since he had been naked in front of another person. He doubted if Nagi ever had from the way he was trying to hide underneath his bangs, cheeks and ears beet-red. Omi had honestly never seen anything more adorable in his life. He'd never really been in complete control during sex, but suddenly everything was in his hands.

Was this the way Ken saw him, trembling and passive? Did he enjoy watching pale skin break out into goose bumps just from running his fingers over the surface? Omi didn't know the answers, strangely detached as he began fondling Nagi by the balls. The other boy jerked immediately in response, sheets twisting around underneath him. Omi used it as an opportunity to start kissing Nagi again. He wanted to lose himself in the sensations and forget about what he was trying so desperately to avoid. He wanted something that would belong solely to him.

Omi knew where the lube and condoms were. He broke contact with Nagi's mouth to reach over toward the bed stand. It took a few seconds of fumbling around with the drawer before he actually got his hands on what he wanted. He had to ignore Nagi's half-closed eyes and drool coming out of the corner of his mouth in favor of breaking open a condom packet. No matter how many times he used them, the plastic wrapper never ceased to frustrate him.

Nagi didn't even seem to have the patience for safe sex, even though he was supposed to be a virgin. He was kissing Omi again, this time with a hand gripping his shoulder desperately in case Omi tried to pull away once more. Something about this was just so natural, both of them sweating and breathing heavily, legs twisting around one another. Omi barely managed to get the condom on, but he thankfully had plenty of practice to do it without thinking too much. He could still play with Nagi's tongue while squeezing out a generous glob of lubrication.

“That's cold!” Nagi burst out, jerking away from the excess amount Omi had split onto the other boy's thigh. Omi had to choke down his own laughter and keep the gel in his hand at the same time. He'd forgotten what it was like to be unfamiliar with the sensation of cool lube between two sweating bodies.

Nagi frowned at the muffled noises Omi tried to conceal, turning his face away in a mini-pout. Omi had done the same to Ken many times before. He knew from experience just how to turn everything around in his favor. Even so, it would still be the first time he'd ever been on top. Ken had been open to all types of experimentation except when it came to their positions. He'd never been able to give up that level of control, which only made Omi wonder about the meaning of his own submission.

At least with Nagi he didn't have to worry about anything. He wouldn't even know if Omi was being awkward or hesitant. And, Omi was sure anything he did with Nagi would be much better for a first sexual encounter than whatever Schuldig had cooked up for him. It was kind of ironic to be worrying so much about the other boy when Prodigy could crush every bone in his body with a single thought.

Omi rubbed his fingers together, greasing them up before he let his pointer finger slide down behind Nagi's balls and onto the puckered ring of his anus. Warm and soft flesh relaxed and tightened along with Nagi's own minute shivers, resisting even the lightest probe of Omi's digit inside.

He didn't bother with telling Nagi to relax. He put his mouth to Nagi's chest instead, finding a nipple and sucking on it. It was better to distract Nagi from his discomfort than try and talk him into believing it would be all right. Omi didn't want to waste his breath on it.

Nagi finally loosened up enough for Omi to begin sliding his finger in and out with ease, his nipple hardening against Omi's tongue, an erection twitching around between his legs. Omi wondered if Nagi had ever allowed himself the simple pleasure of masturbation. He was so sensitive in ways Omi would have never expected. Maybe he had just gotten too used to Ken to know the difference anymore.

“Omi, I- . . .” Nagi attempted to say something, but it ended in a shocked gasp as Omi added another finger. He started trusting them into Nagi's body with more vigor, curling around the warm, velvet walls that protected precious organs. Nagi lost all ability for coherent speech and simply moaned wantonly between his uneven gasps for air. His hips started jerking forward in an instinctive motion all men knew, no matter how little experience they actually had.

Omi could tell from Nagi's flushed cheeks and twitching skin that he was ready. He slowly moved his fingers out, knowing that now was the right time to finally insert his own erection inside Nagi's swollen anus. Ken had done it to him so many times before. It was funny that having the position changed could suddenly be so scary.

He didn't want to be too rough; remembering the few nights when Ken had drank too much with Yohji and was more violent than usual. He was used to bruising though, not having the same build as the other guys. He didn't even dare think of Aya, whose eyes would narrow dangerously whenever Omi leaned too heavily on the banister as he limped down the stairs. Ken had gotten in so much trouble for it, even though it was Omi's fault for suggesting they go just one more time.

Omi realized he was panting even harder than Nagi as he slowly pushed in, guiding the head of penis in with his fingers. There were still a few unavoidable grunts and jerking muscles spasms as Omi worked his way past the initial resistance into warm, malleable flesh.

It was amazingly different to be on top. Despite all the crazy things Ken and Omi had done together, Ken had always been averse to changing their positions in bed. And, if Omi didn't have sex with Nagi now, one of his teammates would likely end up raping him. As long as he was in Schwarz, Nagi would never have any chance at normalcy.

Finally able to justify it all to himself, Omi concentrated on burying himself inside of Nagi's body. He felt his balls squish up against Nagi's butt cheeks, managing to work his entire length in without even knowing it. Nagi was squirming against him, eyes clenched shut as if he was expecting some sort of horrific violence to follow. His nipples were now perk and red, face flushed, his own erection starting to bob around and leak a little bit of precum . . . but, tears were beginning to leak out of the corners of his eyes.

Omi was immediately kissing the other boy, since he couldn't really express himself through words right now. He didn't want Nagi to feel like a mere object Omi was using to vent out his frustrations. He wanted Nagi to be just as willing as he was, lonely and desperate for someone that wasn't going to blindly judge him.

Nagi cried out into Omi's mouth, thighs cleaning against Omi's hips. Omi didn't even know why that should excite him, but it did. He was already thrusting forward in the instinctive manner all men knew how to do deep down in side. It felt good to have Nagi's flesh wrapped around him, insides warm and yielding.

“I'm. . . scared,” Nagi managed out, pushing both hands up against Omi's shoulder in objection. He realized that it might not just the first time ever having sex with another partner, but ejaculating as well. Omi assumed everyone had masturbated at some point in their life. Nagi had his eyes clenched shut, teeth biting down on his lower lip, his whole body quivering with sensation.

Omi really should have stopped there out of consideration for Nagi's fear.

He really should have.

Instead, already pushed to the edge some time ago, he just kept on moving rhythmically inside Nagi. Omi was a hypocrite and a liar to the end, just like Ken accused him of being. At least he had the courtesy to slip a hand down between the both of them and grab ahold of Nagi's own penis. Despite his protest, Nagi had an erection of his own, throbbing and hot to the touch.

Funny how just the feeling of it should be so arousing. Soft, velvety skin; the faintest bit of resistance from Nagi's pubes. Omi never had the staying power that Ken did.

He came right then and there, spasming over Nagi's body before he could even start to lead the other boy into an orgasm. He managed to hold himself up on arms and knees, shamed into keeping himself from passing out. Omi panted as he tried to regain control of his jerking loins. His whole body was still caught up in the sensation, blood pounding in his ears and his heart jumping along like a rabbit about to die.

Nagi didn't seem to be doing any better, still caught on the edge. He didn't know how to finish this, still twitching about on the bed sheets in desperation. It was Nagi's weak grunts that still sounded like a `no' that kept Omi from passing out. He wouldn't be selfish, passing out before his partner had even come to completion, like Ken had done on several occasions.

Slowly, moving on pure will alone, he managed to pull out of Nagi with a obscene, wet, sucking sound. His own ejaculation was leaking out of Nagi's swollen anus, even though his genitals were still red and engorged.

Omi immediately brought himself down upon Nagi's member, opening up his mouth and swallowing it whole. Nagi was smaller than Ken, so it was easy to take the whole length down on the first go. After all, practice did make perfect.

Nagi cried out, his fingers and toes digging into the sheets and stretching until the fabric ripped. Omi only sucked harder, determined to have Nagi's first time be a good one. He let his free hand trail up the inside of Nagi's thigh, brushing along sensitive skin until he touched his own lips. Omi starting to fondle Nagi's balls, surprised at the feeling of surging muscle beneath him.

There was a small hush before Nagi came inside Omi's throat, nearly chocking him the process.

The following explosion and sound of shattering glass and wood made Omi jump right out of his skin. He got a splattering of cum over his face for pulling away so suddenly, but he couldn't fight that instinctive urge to leap away from a possible threat. Omi realized just how right he was when he looked around the darkened bedroom.

Everything was pushed back against the wall, dirty clothes and furniture alike, glass picture frames and windows broken out from the full force of Nagi having an orgasm. There were even fine cracks in the walls where the paint had splinted underneath telepathic pressure. Omi didn't know why he was still in one piece, other than the fact he had been close enough to Nagi to be spared. The perpetrator himself was laying out in front of Omi, mouth open and eyes dazed as if he was half-dead.

“Nagi?” Omi still had enough sense of mind to be worried, even though destruction was all around him. There was a flickering of lashes as Nagi blinked back up at him, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He didn't even have to say anything for Omi to know what Nagi was thinking. He had done something wrong, it was his fault, even if there was no good reason to believe that.

“I love you,” Omi whispered aloud, the first honest sentence he'd uttered since becoming Persia. Nagi made a choking noise before finally letting a few fat, wet tears roll down the sides of his cheeks. Then, he lunged forward with both arms wrapping around Omi, gripping on hard enough to make Omi wonder when he might ever let go.

 

***

 

It was a simple thing to help Schuldig out of the car, up the stairs, and into the bathroom. He didn't even bother with getting his suit jacket back, not when Schuldig was grasping it tightly enough to make the stitching break. He just turned on the light and pushed Mastermind toward the tub. Schuldig didn't say anything, rather obedient for once . . . though it was the jerky, fearful reactions of an animal beaten into submission.

Beaten severely and repetitively the entire time since Crawford had checked him in. He was too abused to do anything but operate on raw, primitive instinct instead of that annoyingly confident façade. Bradley could only hope that the German would be able to grasp the fact that he was home now, and that he should take a shower. The stink of chemicals, sweat, and urine covered Schuldig, even worse than his usual cologne.

Crawford left the door partially open, not wanting to give Schuldig the sensation of being locked in after being tortured by Esset specialists . . . they were very good at what they did. He waited outside in the hallway until he heard the water start running.

Certain that Schuldig would be able to handle the rest by himself, Crawford went to retreat into his own room. He was tired from the effort of constantly suppressing Farfarello into the back corner of his mind. Why couldn't the madman have the dignity to die and go to hell like everyone else?

“I heard that, you arrogant bastard!” Farfarello snapped out, giving off the sensation he was shaking a fist in threat. Was it just him slowly going crazy from having two separate personalities in one body, or were Farfarello's rantings and insults becoming more lucid? Crawford didn't care to think about it, quite fed up with everything that had been going on and only wanting to get some sleep.

“Just shut up!” Crawford bellowed out as if the Irishman were standing right there in front of him. At least then he could have the satisfaction of hitting Farfarello.

Yelling aloud did seem to have an effect though. Though there were still whispered curses drifting about, otherwise Farfarello withdrew his uniquely infuriating presence. He didn't fill up Crawford's thoughts like before, but he didn't have any doubt that Berserker was listening to him intensely.

Not that it mattered much anyway. Crawford didn't have anything really important left to think about. He'd gotten Schuldig back, relatively in one piece, so Farfarello was happy. He knew that Nagi would never try to defy him, so there was no need to check on Prodigy. It would just be wasted effort at the end of a very, very long day. At least everyone in his team was accounted for tonight, in some form or another.

He made it to his bedroom in relative peace, not even bothering with the light switch. He just found his bed and lay down on top of the sheets in his dirty clothes. Now that he had finally reached relative sanctuary, his body began to demand rest as well. He had already had enough of trying to keep his team together through this relative chaos- it was time to allow himself to rest.

Loosening his tie and putting his glasses down on the side table was all the preparation he needed. When Crawford finally allowed himself to relax, it was pathetically easy to drift off into sleep. It didn't even matter that there was some fucking crazy Irishman lurking around inside his head, it was all something he could deal with in the morning . . .

Bradley had all but actually passed out in a faint, deep enough to start snoring, before someone beside himself made the mattress dip. He was so exhausted his instincts didn't even kick in to automatically break the person's neck. Crawford just blinked forward at the blurry darkness of his bedroom, checking for the glint of any weapons and finding none. Only a curiously heavy weight that was beginning to make the sheets damp.

A wet, naked German was curled up around his feet at the end of the bed, obviously fresh from the shower and hadn't bothered with a towel. There were pink splatters of diluted blood across his skin, what few scabs that had managed to form washed away. It was rare to ever see Schuldig take such little care in his appearance. Most of his self-confidence was based on the fact that he looked good; strikingly handsome despite all of Crawford's attempts to ignore it.

However, Schuldig didn't resemble the arrogant and powerful telepath that Crawford had been in charge of for the past several years. His face was buried into the sheets, his whole body trembling from shock . . . or perhaps it was simple, human emotion. Crawford forgot to attribute that kind of sensitivity to Schuldig, not when he saw what was in the dumpster every Sunday morning.

The German was just as bad as Farfarello had been, permanently fucked up in the head, to tear human bodies apart into their most basic parts. He didn't know how to let go of grudges, chasing after Fujimiya until the man's inherent bad luck brought Schuldig down as well. Crawford had tried to warn Mastermind before things got out of control, but it had been too little, too late. Now he had a teammate trapped in limbo within his own skull, as well as another that had already been pushed over his breaking point.

Crawford sat up, rubbing at eyes that he'd barely gotten to close, completely lost on just what the hell he should do. It was hard to decide what the right course of action would be for this situation. He'd never had an unexpected visitor in his bedroom before; certainly not one that was soaking the sheets with his naked, wet body.

“What are you doing here?” Crawford didn't mean for his words to sound so harsh, but it was the only tone his voice could manage. Schuldig just shook his head, burrowing down into Crawford's ankles in a pathetic attempt to hide away.

“I won't say anything, I won't be annoying,” Schuldig promised desperately, his whole body shaking. It finally occurred to Crawford that Schuldig was afraid of him. As Oracle, he was always removed and cold, the kind of professionalism needed for assassins. He'd never done anything to make anyone think otherwise. Even so, it hurt to know Schuldig expected to be hit by him just as much as those goons in the hospital. Even worse, Crawford could just send Schuldig away again, passing him off to another department without a second thought.

Bradley sighed heavily; pulling himself up from the mattress as he realized sleep would still be a long ways off. He had spent too much time with Schuldig to let the man suffer such a misconception. He grabbed Schuldig by the shoulders, forcing the German off of his legs and into an upright position. Crawford had to put his hand underneath Mastermind's chin just to get the man to meet his gaze.

“Are you okay?” Bradley asked in all seriousness. Schuldig's bruised face paled even further than it already was, eyes glimmering with what might just be honest to God tears. He leaned in tentatively; pausing when Crawford didn't strike him away immediately, until a set of lips gently brushed the side of his face.

It sparked a sudden rush of desire that was so violent Crawford couldn't entirely call it his own. Farfarello was probably the reason behind it all, but for the first time since finding the Irishman inside his head, Crawford wasn't concerned with it. He was already kissing Schuldig with an open mouth, rejoicing in the sensation of a tongue exploring his own. He grabbed Schuldig by the back of the neck to hold the German still, deepening their kiss even further. There wasn't any resistance, no attitude, just an eerie silence as Schuldig seemed to surrender completely.

Crawford almost felt guilty as he began loosening the buttons on his shirt. Schuldig didn't try to help him, too intent on keeping the physical connection of their mouths together. Two wet arms locked around the back of his head as Crawford finally managed to get his shirt open and continued on to his pants. A little bit of awkward maneuvering underneath the German, and finally they were both naked.

It wasn't the first time they had sex. When he had first gotten Schuldig, the telepath had assumed everything had to be paid for with his body. Crawford had sternly refused the offer, but that was more because of personal distaste for making love to a minor. As he grew up and became more independent, he'd initiate sex just for the hell of it. Crawford knew it was some kind of power trip for Schuldig to make another man cum . . . only a small fragment of Mastermind's general psychosis.

Sometimes it was just easier to screw his subordinate rather than go out to a bar and find some random woman to make love to. It had always been cold and removed with Schuldig, but this time was different. Somewhere along the line he'd allowed himself to care about the man. The much had been made clear by the way his heart had jumped at the sight of Schuldig being dragged out for pick-up. It wasn't just Farfarello influencing him, but an honest-to-God concern for Schuldig.

You're a little fucking late to realize that, Braddy-boy.

Crawford didn't even have the time to scold Farfarello for interrupting him during such a personal moment. He felt his mind, persona, soul, whatever get physically pulled away from his own body. Crawford scrabbled for a hold on something, anything, but only found himself trembling in some sort of limbo.

Stay there for a while. Maybe you'll learn some damn sympathy for me afterward. Farfarello was laughing at him. Crawford couldn't see or hear anything, merely the victim of Farfarello's thoughts being projected upon him. The disorientation only became more heightened, leaving Crawford to wonder just where the hell he was. Or if he was still sane. Crawford had been having his doubts ever since he begun sharing his mind with Farfarello.

He could still `see' his own body hunched over Schuldig's with the strangest grunts coming out of it. Crawford had more a sense of what was going on than a visual, but it was still enough to piss him off. He snarled at the idea of that crazy Irishman having control of his body instead of himself, all the more determined to switch things back to normal. He began to stretch his senses out, looking for a weakness that he knew had to exist. Farfarello just laughed maniacally at him, frustratingly in control for once.

“Thanks for staying with me at the end,” Farfarello wanted to say the most important thing first. It was strange to hear it in Bradley's voice even though it was his thoughts. Farfarello supposed it didn't really matter much. He finally had a chance to talk to Schuldig, instead of depending on Crawford for a conduit. Old Braddy hadn't conveyed so much as a peep of what he demanded be told to Schuldig.

At least Crawford finally had the grace not to be a complete bastard and share part of his mind with Farfarello. Strange how the lucid, rational thought-process of the man could imprint itself upon him. Either that or death had finally freed him from the drugs and hypnosis and torture and brainwashing and electroshock and the moment he broke down enough to ask for salvation.

Payback is such a bitch. Just like God. Farfarello sent it inward to the conscious forced away from his own body. He was rewarded immediately with a surge of outrage from Crawford, a fierce scrabbling for control. Farfarello pushed the man away, easily ignoring whatever followed. He had a little more practice at ignoring voices inside one's head.

Schuldig, however, didn't seem to be reacting as happily as Farfarello thought he would. Still, it was absolutely hilarious to see those eyes widen in shock. He couldn't remember the last time he'd managed to get Schuldig so good. He hadn't even acted that surprised when Farfarello left the hollowed-out skull of some nameless virgin on his pillow for an awakening gift.

“Farfie?” A child's whisper, disbelief in every part of his being. Schuldig put a hand up to the side of Crawford's face. The lack of sensation made Farfarello realize the extent of his control. Schuldig was usually soft and warm, but now there was nothing. Bradley was finally unconscious, but it was still his body. All of those lovely nerves for pain and pleasure were beyond his reach. At least he could make Crawford's limbs move like he wanted them to. It was far better than being some apparition floating outside the realm of reason.

“Hey, hey, what's with that face? You're gonna make God laugh at you,” Farfarello warned, slapping Schuldig lightly on his cheek. That drew another faltering breath from the man, clearly not able to comprehend the situation.

“Are you really in there?” Schuldig begged the question, obviously wanting a `yes,' whether it was a lie or not.

There was a tentative push against his own mind. Farfarello had never been the kind of refined telepath like the rest of Schwarz. He was a just more sensitive to that strange sixth sense; that ability to know more beyond the physical, spiritual, all of those vulgar words that tainted the one bit of feeling he had left. Nerves and emotion had always been a touch beyond him, ever since Kritiker had shown him the way.

Now . . . Now it was even harder being in this disconnected hell, but at least he still existed. It was proof enough that he was here, making Crawford's arms embrace the man he probably hated the most. Mastermind had never shown anything but lukewarm acceptance of Schuldig's feelings. Farfarello knew. He knew Schuldig better than anyone.

Even so, it was a bit awkward, felt through Braddy's body and indignant rage that his body was being used to channel Farfarello's spirit. Schuldig was able to slip through it with ease. He had been exposed to Crawford's psyche before, had come back down to Farfarello's dark dungeon with the bruises to prove it.

I will destroy you! Crawford insisted through their bond as Schuldig ignored him. He was more intent on seeking out Farfarello, pressing his body against the other one. Even though it was naked flesh upon flesh, it did nothing for Farfarello. Schuldig's own presence grew stronger though, his flickering mental resolve hardening . . .

. . . along with something else.

Farfarello was amazed at Crawford's reaction.

His original body had never been able to have an erection without blood being drawn. He had always needed the pain, the slightly metallic stink, the whining squeals of a victim helplessly pinned underneath him to be aroused. Schuldig used to have to beat him until bones were broken and Farfarello simply couldn't stand up any more for him to being to feel pain, and with it, pleasure. Orgasms had never been anything but a laborious task.

It might not be his, but Crawford's flesh was still drawing some pleasure from the whole situation. The only thing Farfarello could feel was separation of his will from the muscles. Crawford was livid inside his mental cage, completely appalled with the stiffy between his own legs. Farfarello knew that Crawford had taken Schuldig before, had seen the marks that were left afterward. Funny that the sex should upset him now, just because the positions had been reversed.

A new, sudden onslaught of panic hit Farfarello.

Braddy-boy was afraid of being on the receiving end.

He still had some virginity left to him.

That girlish fluttering instantly turned into cold rage. Farfarello could almost believe the Devil himself had bestowed power upon Bradley Crawford. For a moment, his soul was in danger of being blown away, but Farfarello clung to it with everything he had left. He would not disappear now, not that he had finally gained a sense of lucid, coherent thought while being trapped inside Mastermind.

More importantly, he might finally be able to make love to Schuldig.

Maybe not on a true physical level, but it was close enough for him…

Good enough reason to cling on after death.

Schuldig's mental pressure grew warmer, obviously enjoy the same thing he was. Oracle wasn't in charge for once. Even if Farfarello could only move like a broken puppet, Bradley Crawford would make love to Schuldig. It was the one thing that the German had ever wanted, and all Farfarello ever wanted was to make Schuldig happy. What a twisted, sick, and beautiful love they all had.

This isn't `love,' you pervert! Stop this right now! Crawford stormed against Farfarello's existence. He was trying to wrestle back superiority by sheer force of will. For a moment, it might actually happen. . .

And then Schuldig was there, repressing Crawford down deeper than Farfarello could have ever managed. Schuldig had always been the better telepath. The man pressed their mouths together, easily taking the lead. He understood that Farfarello's command of Crawford's body was somewhat limited. He just rolled them both across the bed, maneuvering Braddy onto his back while Farfarello went along for the ride.

Schuldig wound up between Crawford's thighs, smiling while his own body shuddered in pain. Taking a shower had only made the bruises darker, beginning to blossom into pinks, light blues, and yellows. It was a gorgeous decoration for the man, far better than any clothing or jewelry could ever be. They would likely turn black and puffy by tomorrow, but for now Schuldig could move without too much agony.

Schuldig chuckled at that thought, shaking back wet hair from his face. Farfarello could sense the man's own satisfaction at being appreciated, being absolutely sure in his own attractiveness. It was a far cry from the trembling, restrained animal Schuldig had been reduced to when they had picked him up from the hospital. Farfarello liked Schuldig better when he was acting like this- confident, arrogant, greedy and so beautiful.

Danke sehr, Farfie. Schuldig sent in, lowering his chest down against Crawford's. Skin hardened, muscles contracted, breathing quickened, hair bristled at the contact and Farfarello didn't feel a thing. It was different from his usual numbness for pain- it was complete lack of anything. There was no physical reason why this should make Farfarello so content. It was the situation, being superior to Crawford for once, and Schuldig actually enjoying himself as well. Farfarello's own happiness was just a by-product.

Farfie. An admonishing tone pressed against his mentality. He hadn't even realized he had been broadcasting those thoughts. Here he was, in the middle of sex with the man, and he wasn't even paying attention. Never mind the lack of actual contact- there was no excuse for letting one's mind drift. Usually at this point Farfarello would have cut himself or the like in order to focus, but now he was denied even that.

“Here, just feel it through me,” Schuldig murmured into Crawford's ear, slipped it into Farfarello's mind. Schuldig knew. He picked up on it when Farfarello would have just ignored his own discomfort. Farfarello had nothing but mutilated passages throughout his brain, nothing connecting up where it should. At least that had been the case when he'd been alive. Schuldig didn't move, just allowed Farfarello deeper into his own psyche. . .

It felt so good. He was aware of Schuldig's ragged breath, fresh sweat beading upon his damp skin, blood rushing down to his groin and hardening the organ there. Schuldig began sucking on his own finger, slathering his own spit upon the digit before jamming it into Crawford's own ass.

There was a surge of panic that wasn't Farfarello's own. It didn't affect him like before, now that Schuldig was there holding Oracle down both mentally and physically. How he managed to handle two men's separate mentalities along with his own was beyond Farfarello. Schuldig just kept working away at Crawford's anus, a mere courtesy for the man that had tortured them both for so many years.

Farfarello knew that by all physical laws of science, he should have been on the receiving end. Instead, he felt the slight pressure on the top of Schuldig's cock, pressed up against a barely prepared entrance. Then, Schuldig jerked his hips forward violently, burying himself home with one stroke.

Tight enough to make the both of them bleed, but so awesomely fulfilling. Schuldig was almost in danger of ejaculating before anything had even begun. It took a lot of mental control to help support Farfarello and suppress Crawford's personality at the same time. . . while was slowly burying himself inside another's person ass. Schuldig was biting his lip, eyes clenched closed in concentration, knuckles white as they fisted up in the bed sheets. He wasn't even halfway in, too much resistance from muscle and flesh to allow it despite several tears splitting further and bleeding more.

Farfarello was blissfully aware of it all. If he had more control over Crawford's body, he would have forced the man to relax and be a willing little slut.

He would have wrapped both arms around Schuldig and held onto him forever.

Just being there while Schuldig screwed the man he loved more than anyone was enough. He cared too much for Schuldig's own happiness to even be jealous. At least he was being allowed to feel things again, that desperate need to belong to someone.

Schuldig was already crying out, grunting between his own squeals of pleasure. Crawford's body was being ripped up inside but nobody really cared.

It felt too good.

Farfarello managed to get both hands onto Schuldig's ass. He gripped down, unable to haul Mastermind forward and drive him as deeply home as possible. He didn't have that kind of control . . . but Schuldig understood the motion. One arm slipped underneath Crawford's back to hoist the body up into a better position. Legs shifted and the rhythm was broken for moment. Farfarello was almost ready to whimper at the pause-

-When Schuldig began ramming into him with a renewed vigor. It was violent and fast, enough to make Farfarello cry out in his own pleasure. Both physically and telepathically, his own voice mixing with Bradley's until he wasn't sure whose was whose. All that mattered was being there with Schuldig.

Crawford's body climaxed, tightening up and spilling out a load of semen. It splattered across his thighs and stomach, hot and yellow-white. Crawford's body shuddered, limp and exhausted now that certain needs had been satisfied. The orgasm didn't even register with him, not as much as the feedback he was getting from Schuldig.

The German was still thrusting into yielding flesh over and over again. He had found his rhytm but not the right angle. Schuldig got a hand underneath one of Crawford's legs, hoisting it up to make muscles and organs shift around. It made a pleasant resistance to pound into, taking advantage of Crawford's body like he had everyone else. Schuldig was getting off more on the reversal of power rather than the actual sex. It was all about domination, leaving behind bruises or worse, so there would be no denying the proof.

Schuldig fucked Crawford until he came to his own shuddering conclusion. He collapsed immediately afterward, the physical fall not nearly shocking as the mental one. Schuldig's firm support faltered before completely giving out, leaving Farfarello to drop.

Drop back into the mess that was Crawford's head. Back to where he couldn't feel anything. Residual sensation kept crawling over his existence. He had cummed. Orgasmed. Shot a load. Had felt every glorious last detail of it, down to the wet sticky stuff sliding underneath his balls.

You are a sick fuck. Crawford wasn't being held back by Schuldig. He was back to his old bitchy Brad self. He still wasn't in control, but he could make smart comments that made Farfarello wish he had a body. That way he could stab Braddie-boy up so full of holes they would need the dental records to identify him.

Of course the man would ruin the one precious moment he had shared with Schuldig. He needed to die.

It shouldn't have been him.

Farfarello fell even further, away from the brief control and sanity and back into that murky, dark limbo that still rippled around the edges, all shiny like an oil stain. There wasn't anything to hold onto. Schuldig was letting him go, too exhausted to maintain two separate personalities. Crawford was willing him out of existence with everything he had.

Farfarello wished he had hands, ears, so he could cover them. Legs and arms and a body to use when he wanted to curl up into the fetal position.

Instead, he just went back into that corner that was all his, a little pocket where he could rest and not worry about disappearing. He had already slipped past Death itself, so Bradley Crawford held little fear for him anymore. It was just the fact that Schuldig was never going to see Farfarello for himself, ever again.

Always inside Crawford's body, yet never truly existing.

It was a sick, fucked up thing indeed.

 

***

 

Ken treated himself to breakfast. It might have been one in the afternoon or later, but all he wanted was some eggs and bacon. There was a dingy little café on the way home too, and all he had to do was withstand the waitress asking where his young friend was. Omi and him had gone there enough times to be recognized on sight by the staff, though no one really had names beyond `Hon' and `Sugar.' It was the pleasant, normal atmosphere, the framed pictures of the owner and his wife behind the register that Ken loved. That, and the free refills on coffee and never-ending toast.

It wasn't like he had ever seen the place full before, but today seemed especially lonely with only the two waitresses, the cook, and an old man reading a newspaper at the counter. Usually Omi would be filling up the space across from him, talking about so many things that Ken could barely even get a response in. It wasn't like Omi had kept him from his food before, but Ken found a meal by himself went incredibly quickly. He barely even tasted it, just knew it was warm, filling, and he felt slightly better leaving then he had coming in.

He wanted to call Omi. Ken wanted to know if he was alright, if his grandfather was being a crotchety old asshole, if they were treating him right . . . If Omi had gotten it through his thick head that he was working for the bad guys yet. Just because Kritiker was a lesser evil didn't excuse all of the terrible crimes they committed. And now Omi wanted to be in charge of that organization. How much longer did Ken have before he started speaking with Omi through a television with a blurry picture and altered voice?

At least he still had Yohji, however damaged and shell-shocked he was. All he had to do was try and keep the man in one piece. Sanity was a lost cause at this point. Ken couldn't imagine how any of them could recover after these past few days.

Especially Aya.

Ken didn't even bother with the garage door, but parked the bike in the driveway. He was pretty sure he'd be able to fit all the stuff Yohji had asked for into a backpack, and it wasn't like there was much reason to stay there beyond his original purpose. He could water the flowers that were no doubt wilting in the front store, but he simply didn't have the heart. He kind of wanted them to die.

The back door wasn't locked. Ken couldn't remember if he had left it open or not. The house was still quite on the inside, no signs of anyone being home since his last visit. A burglary on top of everything else would be just too cruel.

Ken set his helmet down on the counter along with his keys, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed heavily. He really didn't like being in the house by himself. He didn't like being alone, period. Omi had become a given, always there like oxygen, water, or gravity. Ken had never imagined that Omi would make decisions without talking to him first, or that he would actually leave. Maybe it wasn't another person, but Kritiker had snatched Omi away from him all the same. He couldn't even get mad at the organization, too huge and evil to even really consider. It was Omi that had made the choice.

He was actually quite proud of himself for not taking out his anger on anything in the house. If this had been a week ago, even a few days, he would have probably ripped the stove out from the wall. Thankfully he had burned out all his emotions a while ago. He didn't have any energy left, only the sense of loyalty to his friend. Yohji needed some things, so he was here getting them instead of sitting in the hospital with him and Aya.

Still, Yohji had asked for some odd things. He had to explain the places he had hidden certain things in the bedroom. Ken was more surprised that Yohji had even managed to keep something secret from Aya. He thought he had already known all of the sordid hobbies Yohji enjoyed, but he managed to surprise Ken once again. He took out the crinkled list Yohji had made for him, peering down at the items as he opened up the door to his own bedroom. He was already heading toward the closet for an empty backpack when he noticed the sheets on the bed were messed up.

He knew that it had been made neatly, since Ken hadn't actually slept in the bed since Omi had left for Kritiker. There were too many memories in the pillows and mattress for him to deal with. But, now, the one person he'd been thinking about all day long was there, a curled up lump underneath the sheets and a blonde head poking out from the top.

“Omi?” Ken had to ask it aloud, not even sure if this was reality or a hallucination. There was a little twitch in the bed before Omi started rising up on his arms, white shoulders glowing softly in the late-morning sunlight coming through the window. He looked over his shoulder at Ken, big blue eyes still dazed from sleep, and stared for a moment as if he didn't even recognize who was standing in Ken's place.

Then he finally seemed to be awake, a look of pure and complete terror settling over his face. Ken couldn't understand it until someone else moved in the bed.

“Omi, what's going on?” Came a slightly slurred voice as Prodigy sat up, rubbing away sand from his eyes. His other hand went over Omi's back like it belonged there, cuddling closer to the blonde until he noticed Omi had gone stiff. His gaze slowly swung around to look at what had Omi so scared. It was almost funny how similar their reactions were, mirror images of being caught in the middle of the act.

They were both in the same bed. They were both naked, at least from what Ken could see. He didn't believe there would be any clothing underneath the blankets. Not with how close they were, how they seemed to be clinging to each other. Omi wasn't even trying to explain himself, still stuck in his initial shock of having Ken show up.

He should have been able to expect this. Omi had talked about a new friend at school that had fit the description of the naked youth next to his lover. Ken had seen how Omi defended Nagi for double-crossing his own team, when anyone else would have the common sense not to trust the boy. He had gotten an instinctive fit of anger and jealousy the first time he heard Omi talking on the phone with Prodigy. He should have acted on it back then, should have grabbed Omi and kept him away from the rest of the world. Not only had Omi been avoiding him, but now he had more than likely fucked Nagi.

Ken honestly didn't know who he wanted to kill first.

 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: (checks watch) So, we're officially on two years since my last update. I think I can blame a lot of it on bar hopping for the first year, second one went toward school and life. I have no intention of quitting fan fiction writing, its just a matter of when I might update next… and I know, this is a terrible cliffhanger, but the scene just wouldn't work unless I split it here.

In happier news, I finally have a website. You can visit it for up-to-date releases and info, with no more formatting errors and less spelling mistakes. Read the stories the way I intended them to be at http://homepage.mac.com/gherrific/index.html. Thank you for all the support throughout the years, and here's to many more to come.