TITLE: Song of the Gentle Wind

CHAPTER: Eleven

BY: Simply Kim

GENRE: Yaoi (Angst/Humor)

CAST: The guys from Weiß and Schwarz… who else? ^_^ (And, Ehehe... yeah, I forgot to mention in the preceding parts... the Crashers too. ^_^;

DISCLAIMERS: The series I'm referring to do not belong to me… ^_^

NOTES: A form of enlightenment… if you could ever call this chapter that! Oh, yeah, btw, again, this thing: (~*~), heralds Crawford's visions and recollections! Happy New Year minna!

CHAPTER 11: Temporary Insanity

This is getting old. Ran sighed, turning a weary eye towards his maestro.

If I hear this guy tell me that I should do voice lessons and improve the quality of my singing one more time, I'm going to kill him... Shi-ne screams and all that! - Though where he got the idea, he would never know... it just popped in this almost deranged head and just seemed appropriate...

There he was again, standing, his back against the wall as the head maestro yaks about him leaving the past behind and facing a bright future ahead. Then, wonder of wonders, he said Ran should start by singing.

Why wasn't I surprised? The redhead mused. He's been at it for, like, weeks, and I turn it down every time... the weird thing was - he does it again the next day. He shook his head slightly as if to clear it.

When will he realize that until I extract whatever it is that has been gnawing inside me, I wouldn't even touch a danged microphone? Like always, he gave the only answer he had for those types of inquiries.

"No sir, I will not sing."

There was complete silence as, for the umpteenth time, the middle-aged expert regarded him almost sympathetically. This show of understanding would only last for about... hmm... five more seconds...

Then he will say...

"How long are you going to keep up with this?" There was definite fatigue tangled with that voice.

Ran's answer?

He just walked out the blasted door.

This is getting old.

* * *

He felt as if he was going to be sick.

His head was pounding hard enough for him to think that ten gigantic elephants were dancing the funky chicken inside his brain.

Heh, the thought, no matter how ridiculous it was, was not comforting.

He wanted to die from the pain - someone just shoot his head and get the whole fucking thing over with!

However, he knew that his wish would never be granted - people around here are too weak for their own good... he shook his head. He must be delirious - since when had he ever thought that? Hn. Maybe his mind was unstable after all...

As if in violent response, his head began its agonizing ticking again, drowning out almost all his thoughts as all of his senses remained fixated on one sensation - pain. He murmured soothingly and apologetically to whatever living particle was in his brain for all the indignity he imposed on it...

Great, now he was starting to believe in supernatural beings trapped in his grey mass. Great, just great.

Groaning, he got up, and strode purposefully towards his bathroom door. No use in locking himself up inside his room till doomsday just because of a simple headache... even if the headache was driving him insane. He briefly wondered how in heavens name would he drive his car to his designated building with his vision wavering as if everything was oil-slicked.

He reached for the shower nozzle turned it, letting the cold, merciless spray spatter onto him in huge uncontrollable rivulets. The cold water did nothing for his desperate plight, but it did wonders for his bodily functions. He actually felt his blood channel through his vein, finally in working order, and to his consternation - increasing the drumming in his brain.

It was the feel of something heavy draped on his drenched body that prompted him to finally open his eyes and register the fact that he was taking his morning shower with his clothes on. Great, another reason for the creepy dorm laundry collector to complain about his job. Hn, as if the guy was needed there anyway. He was often sorely tempted to just shut up the guy by landing an upper cut on the sagging double chin. However, wonder of wonders, he managed to control himself and just tune out the unwanted prattle.

Groaning, he peeled the clothes off his body, needles sticking inside his brain more and more in every simple action. He needed to go to the clinic - fast.

CLINIC.

There was something that made him wary of such places. He did not like it. It was as if a memory was unfurling, and yet he had no recollection as of why he felt that way... It was laughable, the way he was shrinking away from the place... but he couldn't help it... it was involuntary action.

Weird.

Freaky.

He shook his head, the insides seeming to shake and rattle. He swore that his brain was by now oozing out of its protective membrane.

EWW.

Gross.

He turned the nozzle away from him and reached for the liquid soap that Schuldig gave on his recent birthday celebration. It calmed his pain somehow. The scent of wild apricots were soothing his sense, driving him up into the sky with its potent pseudo-hallucinatory power.

Sometimes, Schuldig makes sense.

The German had claimed before that it was soothing, calming and, well, arousing. Hell, he did not know about the arousing part, but it was sure doing its best in soothing and calming him down. Sighing, he rubbed the thick liquid onto the palms of his hands and began applying it on his body. The bubbly feel of the suds were making him feel a bit high - that, coupled with the scent... it was doing wonders.

His hands were by then caressing his abdomen, feeling every bit of muscle flex in his hands, the suds forming a titillating vision as his suffering mind conjured up a picture of smooth pale fragile-looking hands replacing his own, rubbing down... down... down...

Okay, he was going to stop.

He shook his head, mentally kicking his idiotic self as he pushed the picture away.

Breathing hard, he turned the nozzle towards hi again, letting the icy spray drown his perverted thoughts and his case of... something resembling morning wood.

He really needed help - and fast.

It took him twenty more minutes to finally finish his shower. He easily wrapped a towel around his waist as he padded towards his room, his feet encased in ridiculously cute bunny slippers Schuldig gave him for his birthday the other year. The guy sure has a knack for giving damned weird gifts.

Sighing, he opened his huge walk-in closet and surveyed the contents through his pain-riddled brain. It was still contracting, making his eyes water and his sight a bit blurry.

"Oi, Crawfie, you don't look too well."

The unexpected voice made him jump in surprise. He turned and glared at the intruder. "Schuldig, for the love of God, knock first before stalking in will you?"

"Oi, don't freak out on me, I did knock - you're just out of it. Good thing I brought you back." Schuldig gave him a tired grin.

"I locked the doors - how ever did you get in?" Crawford was surprised. He was sure that he had bolted his door closed. What was happening?

"Uh, don't get mad at me, alright? Uh, actually, I don't remember how I got in. I was a bit weirded out when I was first knocking at your blasted door and then in the blink of an eye, I'm already inside. Weird. Are you sure this place is not haunted, huh, Brad?"

Crawford blinked. He honestly did not know what to think of what his friend had just said. Weird. It was definitely weird. It didn't look like a poor excuse for barging in, but by the confused and tired look in the other's eyes, he wasn't so sure that he should doubt his words.

He took a full-sleeved grey shirt from its moorings and slipped it on, deliberating.

What was happening?

* * *

"Aya keep on running! Don't stop until I tell you to!"

"Demo, Ran-niichan! I cannot hold on anymore!"

Terror was evident... my heart beats erratically...

"We're going to make it, please, try to keep up - if we don't do this, they'll get us for sure!"

Hope... shining like the sun... bright... captivating...

"Niichan... *pant* my heart... Itai..."

"Aya!"

Black... the color of death... heaping sorrow into the deprived and torn heart... then that hope again... a spark of light amidst the darkness...

It was too late.

A gunshot...

"Aya..."

A smoking gun barrel... a glint of light reflecting, a metallic color against the darkness of midnight...

"Ah, Fujimiya Ran - just like your cowardly father. Always running..."

A hateful jeer... A familiar hateful face... cold steel against my forehead...

"KISAMA! Takatori Reiji - DIE!"

But then I looked up... I see unfamiliar, yet somehow familiar features...

Where have I seen him before?

A smoking gun... a glint of something shiny reflecting a car's headlights...

Familiar...

Eyes...

Vivid golden brown eyes shining manically in the dark...

Familiar... another one working for the despicable Underworld God...

Vivid golden brown eyes...

Familiar...

"They say you have a heavenly voice, Ran. They say it's as close to heaven as you look. I wonder if that is true..."

I cannot see anything but him... him who ended my sister's life... him whom I saw burn my home using his bare hands...

Vivid golden brown eyes...

Familiar...

I closed my eyes, finally away from the addicting orbs that show something worth more than bloodlust... emotions swirling around him in diverse display of color...

Then the green of desire... I can see it even behind my lids...

A curse that brought nothing but pain...

A curse...

I feel a pudgy hand being insinuated inside my bloody clothes.

"Maybe you should sing for me before bedtime."

Then came the ugly welt of black... the color of death... crossing paths with the green...

Black...

Vivid golden brown eyes screaming for something I cannot name...

Familiar...

Familiar...

Terror was evident... my heart beats erratically...

Yet all I could see are the golden brown orbs...

Set in a masculine face...

All I could see... is him.

* * *

Ran shot up from bed - sweat running down his body in inundation. The dream... the colors... what do they mean? He looked up at the high ceiling.

"I don't understand..." He murmured, his brow furrowing. His dreams... what do they mean? What are they? "I don't understand..."

"All you have to do is believe."

He closed his eyes, plopping back down on the soft mattress of his four-poster bed. "Crawford-san."

Vivid golden brown eyes...

"Am not!" Crawford scowled, his golden brown eyes shooting darts of irritation at the Irishman.

At the unbidden memory, his eyes snapped open mouth gaping in absolute shock. Crawford? Crawford of all people?

His heartbeat was accelerating. It cannot be... after all, the American wasn't the only one with golden brown orbs in the world...

But what if...

He closed his eyes again, calming his breathing as his mind conjured the image of Crawford laughing.

Crawford smiling softly down at him.

Crawford glaring at Farfarello and Schuldig.

Crawford sneezing when he had his infamous cold.

Crawford being dragged almost breathlessly behind as they ran from Ken's future wrath.

Crawford holding him, his arms comforting, and his golden brown eyes searching his, giving him encouragement...

Those arms... so warm...

Those beautiful golden brown eyes so deep and filled with emotion that one cannot resist but succumb to the addictive sight...

Those beautiful golden brown eyes...

It cannot be.

He was sure of it.

* * *

"Ahh! It's finished!"

The triumphant crow wasn't lost in Farfarello. Schuldig finally finished his project. "Great!" He called out teasingly from the thick walls of the bedroom. "Now I can finally have my sleep! Your racket is driving me nuts!"

"HAH! Suffer then, I don't care how much you suffer, you freak!" Came the scathing retort.

Freak.

Such a small word, and yet, his soul was resenting being called that... and his mind... his mind...

His mind was accepting it.

Shaking his head free of the confusing thoughts. Slowly, he got up from Schuldig's bed and padded barefoot towards the music room where his friends were.

Almost mechanically, he plopped down a soft couch covered with buttery leather that served as the German's midday nap bed, effectively pushing the guy towards the other end.

"OW!" Came a whisper of pain from his friend.

He immediately glanced at Schuldig, his eyes alert and body tense. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Schuldig was pointing at something...

Crawford's awed voice entered his field of hearing. He glanced down at his bare feet in disbelief.

"You're foot is bleeding..."

True enough, crimson rivers were staining the midnight blue carpet. He lifted his injured foot up and surveyed the wound. Schuldig was handing him a green towel, and he gratefully accepted it, pressing down into the huge gaping cut.

"You stepped on something sharp... a knife blade from the looks of it..." Crawford murmured, obviously amazed. "It's cut deep, we have to get it stitched."

"Found the knife!" The German yelled from the bedroom's front door. "Jesus, where did this HUGE thing come from?" He yelped as he hefted the heavy blade from the floor.

Farfarello turned his golden gaze on his best friend, squinting at the knife being held up. They looked familiar, but he swore he did not possess anything like that. Neither does Schuldig, nor Crawford. He shivered involuntarily.

"Does it hurt much?" The American was pressing another clean towel on the wound with one hand, his other holding a threaded needle. It took all of Farfarello's courage not to wince.

The Irishman shook his head. No, he did not feel any kind of pain. It was surprising though... he couldn't understand why he wasn't feeling any pain at the moment. Hell, he did not even feel himself cut by the damned thing!

It was eerie.

What was happening to him?

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Finally updated! Sorry it took so long, heh-heh... got lost somewhere in the plotline I planned before actually writing this piece. Well folks, enjoy! Reviews are very much welcome! ^____^