Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Strategic Retreats ❯ Chapter 1

Author's Notes: Oh, the sudden breaking of rules and departure from normal behavior! I've broken my own rule of not writing for anything I haven't actually seen. Though I am planning to buy the Weiss manga and own one art book, I have not actually seen any plot line yet. Only miles and miles of fanfiction. Actually, I have one thing posted under Weiss, but that wasn't written for it originally, so it doesn't count. Moreover, I have departed from my surprisingly-light-hearted, never-any-swearing style to produce this piece of... Schu. Both the pairing of Schu/Farf and the idea of Schu having bouts of near madness and lost control are delightful to me. Schuldig will probably seem OOC for most of this, which is partly intentional, as much as that pains me. I couldn't resist the opportunity to switch Schuldig and Farfie's roles/positions. Lyrics included are from Gackt's Death Wish, off the Moon album. The version I have was translated into English by a lovely lady, Mina-P, whose website I have forgotten. As usual, Weiss Kreuz belong to Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiss, and so on.

Warnings: Swearing, general mature themes, yaoi eventually

Strategic Retreats
A Weiss Kreuz Fic by Kitsuneko

Schuldig switched off the blaring television set and sat, limp, on the couch, staring at a point just above the screen. With a groan, he slid down in the seat slightly, causing his torso and neck to curl into an obviously uncomfortable position. His arms lay at his sides, palms up, and his lips were parted with the start of a word. His hair was slightly rumpled, as were his clothes, and only the virtue of his lack of body hair prevented an unsightly five o'clock shadow. This was how Nagi found him when he ventured out of his room, away from his computer.

"Bored, Schuldig?" There was no response, not even an eloquent roll of the shoulders. Nagi raised one eyebrow and continued into the kitchen. Posted to the refrigerator was a short list of contact information from Crawford, which Nagi idly noted as he prepared his lunch. The Schwarz leader was back in his mother country on a solo job, leaving Nagi to his school work and Schuldig and Farfarello to whatever vices they used to pass the time. Farfarello was normally restricted to the confines of his room, but Schuldig had a habit of recruiting him for company when clubbing by himself proved undesirable. Schuldig, for his part, alternated between said clubbing and making himself a nuisance around the house. Nagi contented himself with school, internet communication, and, when possessed by a sadistic frame of mind, hacking Estet's computer system and emailing them about the gaps in security. All in all, it was a comfortable arrangement.

Having finished fixing his lunch, Nagi left with plate in hand and walked back through the living room. Though nearly twenty minutes had passed, Schuldig still had not changed positions in any way. Even a normal person would become uncomfortable holding still that long and Schuldig was not known for his ability to withstand boredom.

"Schuldig?" Nagi set his free hand on the German's shoulder, lightly resting it there.

"Arranjo de flores!" Schuldig shouted, sitting bolt upright. Nagi, to his credit, did little more than tighten his grip on Schuldig's shoulder in his surprise. After a moment of heavy breathing on both their parts, Schuldig came to enough to start looking around the room in confusion.

"Christ, Schuldig, what's wrong with you? If I'm not mistaken, you just screamed something about flower arrangements in a romance language." Schuldig blinked at him, eyes steadily becoming less glazed looking, and finally shook his head.

"Don't be silly, kid. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Ja. But if you're wanting to play doctor, I won't object." Noting the sudden change in tone and Schuldig's customary- if unusually strained looking- leer, Nagi snorted and shuffled off to his room. Left alone, Schuldig slumped, all life seeming to drain from his body.

"Scheisse... I'm losing it again."

When everyone was present, the job of preparing team meals rotated between members (excluding Farfarello); when the organizing influence of Crawford was missing, Nagi ordered Chinese take-out for himself. He counted on Schuldig to find food for himself and Farfarello and, as neither one had died of starvation yet, he believed his system worked. He would normally only see either of his team mates when Schuldig finally flounced out of his room, dressed to, for once, not kill, dragging Farfarello behind him. Tonight, Nagi entered the kitchen to find Schuldig at the table, looking bored again, and Farfarello perched on the edge of the counter. What are they doing home?

"They only play crap on a Sunday night and only losers show up. So we aren't going out. Feed us."

"Feed yourself, idio-"

"Please?" Nagi blinked, effectively silenced. He did not recall ever having heard the word 'please' come from Schuldig in an honest manner. Something was excessively wrong.

"Okay, okay. What do you want?"

"I don't know..."

"Well, I can't rightly fix you something if you don't tell me what you want. So unless you feel like Chinese take-out, figure something out." Schuldig leaned forward so his cheek rested on the surface of the table, pressing his features out of place.

"Never mind. I'm not hungry anymore." Once again, Nagi was rendered speechless. Shaking his head and tossing Schuldig suspicious glances, he went to the phone, ordering enough take-out for all of them, including dishes that were Schuldig's favorites. Nagi shuddered under the watchful gaze of their resident madman, who observed the happenings as if he had a good idea of what was going on. This annoyed and scared Nagi, who had absolutely no idea what was going on.

When the food arrived, Farfarello actually managed to make himself useful, helping to carry the boxes in from the front door. He hadn't spoke a word all evening, which was not unusual for him, but it made Nagi less likely to expect useful behavior from him. Come to think of it, he hadn't been speaking for several days now. Nagi was convinced something was horribly awry in his universe.

Despite his previous rejection of food, Schuldig managed to lazily tuck into a pile of food, slurping it up without much interest. The other two members spent the meal carefully studying the German. Nagi had worried that Schuldig had been drugged in someway, poisoned perhaps, but there were no physical indicators of that. His eyes were not dilated, nor were they murky; his face was not excessively flushed or pale; speech, though out of character, was not slurred. The problem was, for the moment, purely psychological. And it had something to do with his telepathy, if his earlier, linguistically altered outburst was any indication. Though Nagi knew that Schuldig had moments of confused languages and nearly overpowering thoughts that were not his own, it was almost unheard of for Schuldig to slip so much as to let them out, as he had today. Schuldig was about control; they all knew that. No matter how wild his normal behavior was, he was still holding on to his mind with a miser's grip.

"I'm going to sleep," Schuldig suddenly announced. Nagi half expected him to simply fall asleep at the table, but he managed to stand slowly and turn to the door.

"Put Farfarello away first, please," Nagi asked, after a baffled pause. Obediently, Farfarello hopped down from the counter and followed after Schuldig. Nagi listened to doors opening and closing until he knew they were out of earshot. He quickly snatched the contact list off the fridge and picked up the phone, dialing without looking.

"Hello?"

"Crawford-"

"Nagi, you're supposed to call on Mondays. What's happened?" Concern, the lukewarm, salted kind that Crawford felt, colored his voice.

"Schuldig is bored and Farfarello isn't talking." Silence greeted him.

"Nagi," Crawford started, in his falsely patient, I-work-with-children voice.

"Wait, wait, you don't understand. Schuldig was sitting like his brain had melted and when I touched him, he screamed something in Spanish or Portuguese, or something. He didn't go out tonight and acted... depressed. Or brain dead. Hard to tell."

"I see. When you call tomorrow night, I'll want to talk to him." Ah, Crawford, always mellow, so damn mellow.

"But what the hell am I supposed to do with him until then? I can't leave him around the house like this when I go to school. He'll, he'll go killing with Farfarello or something."

"I doubt that. And I don't see anything disastrous happening to him in the near future, so we have time."

"But-"

"I will talk to you tomorrow." Click.

"He..." He hung up on me. Bastard. Nagi returned the contact list to it's former home and stomped upstairs, thinking loudly of how he'd like to take a baseball bat to Crawford's head someday.

Downstairs, Schuldig weakly pushed at the heavy door to Farfarello's room and, with the madman's help, managed to open it. Instead of closing the door and locking it though, Schuldig came into the room, gently pulled along by Farfarello. The Irishman lay him down on his makeshift bed, then sat cross-legged beside him. Schuldig read the surface of his thoughts and snickered. Put Farfarello away first, please. Hail Nagi, mother of Schwarz, obnoxious be his name. Schuldig shared that thought with Farfarello silently, provoking a small, choking laugh.

"You," Schuldig started, only to fade away as a fever heated up his brain. Farfarello wiped a corner of a blanket across his forehead, which had broken out in a cold sweat.

"You are my iron maiden," Schuldig got out, deliriously rubbing his face against Farfarello's hand. Farfarello radiated confusion, not getting the reference. Schuldig remained silent for a long time, slowing his breathing until Farfarello had to wonder if he had fallen asleep.

"Furniture that kills," he muttered. He missed seeing Farfarello's mouth quirk up into a minute smile.

"You're out of control." Farfarello commented, his voice like an unused door hinge.

"Says Berserker." Schuldig's lips continued to move as he mouthed gibberish in other languages.

"I'm supposed to be out of control. You aren't."

"Picky." Farfarello stroked his hair from his face.

"Tell me why?" He had asked, gently. In their years of knowing one another, Schuldig had somehow befriended him. Farfarello, for all his spherical thought patterns and antisocial ways (aside from the outright homicidal tendencies), had proven to be a loyal, understanding companion. Schuldig had originally used him as little more than a sounding board, loudly pushing his problems and thoughts at the madman. But eventually, Schuldig had stopped talking at him, instead of to him, and Farfarello had started to talk back.

"Sometimes, they get too loud, because it's always wearing me down." His gift and curse gave him the privilege of knowing the thoughts of others and the punishment of never being rid of them. On occasion, sheer exhaustion or physical separation allowed him to temporarily enjoy silence, or a close approximation, but the first was seldom desirable and the second was usually unobtainable.

"I need to get out of the city. Nagi already talked to Brad. Maybe he'll let me kill some people summering in the mountains and borrow their home."

"Unlikely." Farfarello watched as Schuldig's eyes lost their focus and his mind seemed to wink out of the room. Schuldig? What happened? Schuldig whispered the name of their leader, the sound slipping off his dry lips. Then, even without telepathy, Farfarello could sense Schuldig's mind explode outward, shattering against his insides before he lost consciousness.

After the phone rang at three in the morning (the only hour, it seemed, when Crawford could get to a phone) and an irate Nagi answered, Schuldig woke with Farfarello licking blood off his face, a headache that felt like ground glass in his skull, and a vaguely horrified Nagi watching from the door. Schuldig groaned and feebly batted Farfarello away, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and nose. It came back bloody and he groaned again. Fuck you, Brad Crawford, fuck you. You owe me big time for making my head explode.

"Schuldig, what are you doing here? And Farfarello, get away from him!"

"Sleeping. Or, I would be if you weren't so goddamn loud. Can't your booty calls come later in the morning?"

"It was Crawford. He said he saw you passing out and I had to check on you."

"Zucker... His own damn fault. As soon as my brain solidifies, I will call him. Until then, get out and leave me to my pain." Nagi frowned, shot a look at Farfarello, and left, closing the door partway behind himself. Through it all, Farfarello had sat by Schuldig, one knee pulled up to his chest, with his eyes fixed on him. He did not look away when Nagi had commanded him to move, but scooted back the minimum amount to be considered obedient. Now that they were alone again, he leaned over Schuldig's face, studying him for a moment before coming closer, about to lap at his blood again.

"Do not try to make a meal of my face again."

"A shame. Wasted blood."

"Shut up." Repentant, Farfarello lay down, pressing against Schuldig's side closely and started thinking. Loudly. This close, this loud, this familiar, it was impossible for Schuldig to ignore his thoughts, unless he put in the effort to block him, which his current headache prevented him from doing.

Smooth. White. Cold. Red. The images switched between a chalice of blood being poured out onto an alter draped in white and Schuldig's own pale flesh, streaked with blood now, and his bright hair spread around him. Farfarello's thoughts droned on; he was at his calmest now and impressions and images pulsed from him at regular intervals. This was his way of helping, by offering the comfort of obsessive focus and insane meditation. Schuldig sighed and rolled to his side, facing Farfarello, forcing his muscles to unknot themselves. There was a hand running over his head, to press with gentle firmness behind his ear before trailing down the curve of his skull to his neck. He rolled his neck, loosening the tension there, and turned onto his stomach.

"Okay. I'm good. Now to call that bastard and give him an earful." Farfarello let him leave unhindered, unfolding to stand and open the door for him. Schuldig gave him a parting smile, genuinely grateful for more than just the petty politeness.

"Alright, Bradley, what do you want?"

"Don't get mad at me. I only called because I saw you bleeding. You're out of control again, aren't you? It's been awhile."

"You make it sound like I'm some teenage girl ragging it. This isn't PMS, fucker."

"I didn't foresee this."

"You also have never been able to foresee what Farfie will do. You're not that omniscient."

"That hardly makes this situation seem better." Schuldig began to realize what that could mean. Crawford was able to predict him fairly well, no matter how out of control he played himself to be. But the madness that ruled Farfarello seemed to preclude the option of foresight. If he had been unable to see something this important, it could mean that Schuldig himself was spiraling out of control so quickly, he was reaching Farfarello's level, if not his manifestation, of insanity.

"You're important to my plans, Schuldig. I'm not interested in losing you. What can I do to help?" Crawford's concern seemed honest now, hot and cold at the same time. He was upset, afraid, angry. Schuldig felt terribly special when he thought like this. He also still felt like death warmed over, so he wasn't inclined to reward Crawford's efforts much.

"For one, you can not try to contact me when I'm like this. You're the one who hurt me in the first place."

"I know and I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you."

"I want to get out of town. We've got to have some place in the mountains at our disposal, right?" Schuldig's mind watched Crawford's flash images of a base like that, before his shields came back up.

"Out of the question. I won't be back in Japan for a week and I'm not letting you go alone."

"Damn it, don't screw around with me! My nervous breakdown isn't going to wait for you to have a free weekend," Schuldig complained, whining in his nasal voice. It annoyed him that he had to admit, out loud, that he was in trouble. He wasn't one to indulge in self-deceit, since he watched others doing it for work and pleasure, but knowing it himself and impressing the point on another were two different things.

"I'm sorry, but-"

"Fine. I'll take care of it myself." Schuldig forcefully hung up, slamming the phone down.

"I'll take you." Schuldig whirled around to see Farfarello leaning against the door jam.

"Eh?"

"Pack your things and we'll take your car. I'm taking you to the mountains."