Hello! After a couple of years, here is my 4th Schwarz fic "Blinded", the sequel to "Epitaph". That obviously means you need to read the fics before this one, which are "010100" and "Epitaph". You'll find them under my account name. Review them too, please! And if you've read them before, it's good to read it again to refresh your memory first!
Finally, some warnings: Angst, evilness, swearing and spoilers to EVERYTHING related to Schwarz, and possibly shounen-ai.
Enojy the fic, and please write me some reviews!
=YS=
Blinded
Part One
Port of Liverpool, North-West England.
Crawford walks down the waterfront, where some twenty bodies are placed on the ground in a long row, each covered by a sheet of white cloth that is pinned down in two corners by pieces of stone.
The swamp of reporters and cameramen has already left, bringing their flashlights and films with them, enough for tonight's news programme. The sound of water crashing against concrete has drowned out the sobs and hushed voices coming from every direction. No one dares or wants to make any noise.
"Sir?"
He almost forgot why he is here, until he passes by a lone woman, who has peeled back the sheet that covered the body of her son, and let out the most desperate, heart breaking wail he has ever heard. He stops against his will, and watches the woman collapse onto the hard concrete floor. A policeman hurries over to help her.
"Sir... Sir? Can I help you at all?"
"Yes." Crawford takes a moment to gather himself. "I'm looking for a German. Male, late-twenties with long, orange hair."
The young man before him must have been here all day. The lines of his body shows a sad weariness, and his face is blank, knowing that smiles, even if meant to comfort, is not appropriate. "Over there." He points towards a floodlight that has just been erected so that people can search for bodies in the evening. The quicker the bodies are claimed, the better. "Just under the light. He was one of the firsts we found."
//Still the attention seeker.// Crawford leaves the helpful young man and walks to the covered body. Crouching down, he pulls back the piece of white cloth.
A feeling unfamiliar to him begins to boil in his chest.
The body is mostly intact. There is evidence of burn on part of the facial skin, hair, and clothing, but the face is totally recognisable. Crawford peels the sheet down further to find that an arm is gone completely from the left shoulder, presumably from the effect of the blast. He looks down. Part of the left leg, too, has been ripped from the body, as the sheet dents where the leg is supposed to be.
Crawford brings a hand to cover his mouth, as if to contain the strange, foreign sensation that is threatening to overwhelm him. It hurts more than a bullet wound, penetrates deeper than a knife. His legs shake and lose their strength, making him fall to a sitting position. The body next to him lays still in its eternal sleep, undisturbed by the movements or the sob that escaped from Crawford's lips.
Suddenly, he cannot see the body clearly anymore. As his vision blurs and tears begin to fall, he realises this new feeling he does not recognise is what people call pain.
This is, as far as Crawford himself can remember, the first time he cried.
If there is a phrase to describe Schuldich's mood right now -
//Bradley Chiu Crawford!// He says the moment he enters the hotel room, not bothering to knock or say any words of greeting. //I'm bloody pissed off, you hear me? If you had to leave, couldn't you at least leave a note or something?//
It has taken a ridiculous amount of mind reading to track Crawford from Berlin to Liverpool. The cleaning lady and the hotel receptionist saw Crawford leave. The bell-boy who got the cab for him heard him tell the driver to go the airport. Then at the airport, Schuldich had to tune in to every single airline staff he saw just to see if they have dealt with Crawford. God knows how many people he went through before finding out which flight Crawford booked. Then he had to trace his way to this hotel room. The mind exercise was time consuming and annoying, and if Schuldich still has a head, it would have exploded.
Crawford, wearing a black shirt with sleeves rolled-up, and same colour pants, lays face-down on the double bed, giving no reaction to Schuldich's speech. Judging by the way he is still wearing socks and his shoes are on the ground as if they have just been kicked off, Crawford may have just come back not long ago.
Not pleased, Schuldich walks around the bed so that he can see Crawford's face, which is turned towards the window. //Brad, what's your problem?//
Crawford just stares at the window. There is no sign of movement from him except for the slight rise and fall of his back caused by his breathing. His eyes are red.
Schuldich has never seen Crawford like this before. He sits down on the floor beside the bed so that his face is in front of Crawford's. Still no sign from the American. A realisation dawns onto Schuldich - Crawford cannot see or hear him.
//No way.// Schuldich waves his hand in front of Crawford's eyes. Nothing. He sits, wondering what he should do.
With no other options, the German decides to look into Crawford's head.
"Get out of my head, Schuldich." With a groan, Crawford sits up. Then he stops. Something is not right.
//Your barrier's down.// The redhead replies, relieved but stunned by what he just saw.
Crawford's head hurt. The splitting headache that began at the port is taking its time to go away. One word rings in his head: Schuldich.
//Brad?//
Crawford turns. The German is here, staring at him with wide blue eyes.
"Oh fuck." Crawford grunts, and falls back into the bed, his head hurting so much he wishes he can just tear it off.
If he chooses to, he can feel Schuldich touching him, arms curling around his head, pressing it against the chest as the German kneels beside him on the bed. But in his memory, he cannot remember Schuldich ever doing something like this when he was alive.
//Brad,// Schuldich whispers as Crawford takes the painkillers that the other man brought him, his movements not hindered at all by Schuldich's arms, because they do not truly exist. //How long has it been?//
Schuldich knows the answer. Crawford has never cried before. The rush of emotions was too much for the body, making Crawford nauseous and giving him a bad headache. The man was too shocked to maintain his mental barrier or to see Schuldich, as if he has finally realised that the German is really dead.
Crawford has never cried before. Schuldich never thought that anyone would shed tears for his death, either. He knows Crawford has made arrangements for the body to be buried in his grave in Berlin. Personally, he does not care. It is just a shell. But it matters to Crawford. Schuldich has never thought this is possible.
//Say something, Brad.// He says, a little louder, almost unnerved by Crawford's silence. He knows Crawford does not like to be seen weak, and the fact that he is allowing Schuldich to touch him this way is not normal. Crawford hates embraces, from women or men alike.
"Go, I want to sleep." Comes the dry reply.
Schuldich laughs. //Where can I go? This country is boring. You don't mind if I stay? You've got a double bed, after all.// He says, knowing that Crawford will shout at him and throw him out of the room.
"... Whatever." With that, Crawford flops into bed again, turns his back to the German, pulls the blankets over himself, and goes straight to sleep.
//Dear God.// Schuldich can only stare. //I've met a very strange Brad today.//
Brad Crawford has fine tastes. He always has. He knows what looks good on him, knows where the fine places are and how to get into them. Pretty things do not move him. Beautiful things do .
//Oh yes, he falls for things - gorgeous long hair, delicate faces, perfect necklines - oh the neck in particular. Long, slender necks with collarbones good enough to bite.//
Schuldich laughs, knowing that Crawford can hear every word he is saying but is not bothering to stop him. //And here he is, Brad Crawford, looking fucking good and being chatted up by a Hollywood actress in the bar of a famous hotel. Makes me miss sex. I think I better go before I ruin it for him.//
With that announcement of departure, Schuldich hops down from where he sat on the bar.
//Wait.//
//Come on, Brad, don't miss this for a no-body like me.// Schuldich laughs again. //I'll tell you what she's thinking - she's already planning what to do with you once you're in her room.//
//I'll tell you what's going to happen tomorrow - there'll be an angry boyfriend and a mop of reporters waiting for me.// Crawford replies, not glancing back at his German friend. He bids farewell to the woman, pays for her drinks and leaves the bar with Schuldich, heading to his room.
//Damn, I thought you were really missing out the sex for me.//
Crawford only replies with an evil smirk.
//You're looking much better today, Brad. I'm glad.// Schuldich suddenly says, looking up at the flashing numbers of the elevator screen. He notices that the American is starting to find those numbers interesting as well. It feels strange to avoid the look in each other's eyes. It is not something they normally do. But Crawford has not been normal for the last few days, either.
//Where were you the last two days?//
//You know me. Out and about, doing nothing useful.// They exit the elevator and enter Crawford's room. //Figure you might want some private time.//
Crawford does not answer. He is not sure if he does, not after collecting Schuldich's body and realising he is dead. Not after he starts asking himself if Schuldich's ghost is his hallucination. Not after all that he has been thinking through the past two days. He has began to wonder what he wants. Since disbanding Schwarz, he has travelled to so many places, thinking he knows what he is looking for. The truth is, he does not, and that is why he has not stopped moving. He does not know why he is doing everything he does now.
//You're a bit like Nagi, Farfie did tell you that?// Schuldich catches glimpses of Crawford's thoughts, and remembers the Japanese boy who used to ask himself the same questions all the time. //Except Nagi's the Japanese with the brown hair, and Crawford's the American with the black hair.// He imitates Farfarello's voice, complete with faint Irish accent, extracting a dry laugh from Crawford.
Crawford runs a hand through his hair, looking reflective. Him and Naoe Nagi. Even Crawford himself once wondered about that.
//That's one thing I never asked you - is that your natural hair colour? 'Coz it suits you.//
There is a long period of silence as Crawford settles himself on the bed without changing out of his clothes. He puts the pillows up so that he can sit comfortably with his back to the wall.
//Or maybe I shouldn't ask?// Noticing the lack of reply, Schuldich quickly wraps up the topic.
"My name. You know my middle name?" The ever-present evil smile is back on Crawford's face as he unexpectedly speaks. "Chiu. It's actually my mother's surname. It's Chinese. "
Schuldich leaves his chair and sits at the foot of the bed, like a child ready for a story. //Shit! You aren't pure-bred American? Your mom's Chinese?//
"She was."
//Ah.// Schuldich stares at Crawford, until a small grin finds its way to Crawford's lips, and he grins back. //But what can I say, I'm not surprised.//
"My parents were killed by a burglar in my home. The most unfortunate thing to happen." The hint of smile is still in Crawford's voice.
//I guess you didn't let the burglar live after that.//
"Oh no, of course not." Crawford shakes his head dramatically. "Not for what he did."
//Gods, I love you. You're so bloody evil.// Schuldich finds himself laughing a lot tonight. He gets up when there is a knock on the door, opens it, takes the bottle from the man's hands and wipes his memory clean. The man will faint if he sees the wine bottle floating away from his hands. //Let's do a toast.// He says, pouring wine into two glasses. //To your evilness.//
"To my evilness." Glasses clinked, then Crawford drinks from both, remembering that Schuldich can no longer drink.
//No worries, if I want to taste it, I can just tap into your head and I'll know.// Schuldich adjusts his position on the bed so that he sits cross-legged - the comfort factor no longer matters to him, but he just cannot seem to let go of such human habits. //Come on, let's hear it. Why did they have to die?//
"You want to know?" Crawford widens his eyes. Nobody ever showed interest in his life before. No one ever cared enough to ask.
The German changes position again and lays down on the bed on his side, supporting his head with a palm. //If you don't mind. Start from the beginning.//
"The very beginning?"
//The very beginning, if you will.// If Crawford is willing to tell, this is definitely too damn good to miss.
Setting the glass on the bedside table, Crawford rolls his head back and recalls...
Brad knew his parents always wanted girls. Or at least his mother did, a Chinese woman who was unloved as a child because of her gender, she was determined to have girls of her own. After his birth, his parents kept trying to conceive again, unaffected by Brad's dangerous premature birth. After the first child arriving fourteen weeks early and weighing only two pounds, the doctors were horrified by the Crawfords' determination to have more children. Once, recalling the birth, Brad's father had chuckled and said, "You just like disrupting people's plans and being a step ahead", which, when Brad thought about it twenty years later, found it only too true.
Brad was the only difficult birth the Crawfords had. James (they all called him Jamie) came a year after Brad, and another two years later, Harriet. It was quite a relief when Harriet finally came along, because if she did not, Brad guessed his parents would just keep trying until they got a girl. Then he would have had an army of little brothers.
Because of the difficult birth, his parents loved him the way they loved a piece of hard-earned treasure. They never let him out of their sight or shouted at him for breaking things, and they bought him mountains of presents whenever they felt like it. Jamie never received as much attention as Brad, it was a common secret, but Jamie was the type who did now allow anyone to feel sorry for him, and Brad was happy to oblige. But that only lasted until they finally had Harriet.
They spoilt Harriet to the extremes, dressing her like a doll, buying ribbons for her gorgeous chestnut brown hair, always getting her presents when they went on business trips. Both Brad and Jamie knew they had became second bests, extras, but they pretended not to care, as boys did. Jamie knew though, as much as Brad did himself, that he in a way loathed Harriet simply for her existence.
Brad could see the future since he was six years old. Everyone knew. Jamie was the only one to believe him, though, because he could see it too. Neither of them had control over what they saw, or when a vision would hit, but Brad always saw more than Jamie, to a greater accuracy. They kept the secret to themselves, knowing what could happen if anyone else found out. The very first time Brad mentioned it to his parents and predicted them winning a prize draw, they were overjoyed when it did happen. They did not let go of Brad then, the child suddenly gaining their attention. It was good, but Brad saw the consequences of how he would be used for such an ability. He carefully allowed his "predictions" to slip, and eventually his parents lost interest in their "lucky charm".
It was then that Brad taught Jamie never to reveal their secret to anyone, not even when both of them craved attention and love from Mum and Dad. Jamie listened to Brad - he always did - and only discussed his visions with his brother. If there was truly anything that separated them from Harriet, it was this special ability, and the jealousy they felt for their sister but refused to admit. Harriet, the pretty little girl, was liked but not loved by her brothers, and she knew it even at her age. Ever since very little, Brad and Jamie never approved of her.
This disapproval bit into her heart, but the parents never realised it. They knew their children's dress sizes and shoe sizes and the ages of their friends, but they did not know what kind of food or games or colours they liked.
Just for the record, Brad liked mint chocolate and cookies-and-cream ice-cream. He liked athletics. He liked black, white and chocolate brown. He liked Jamie, too, only Jamie was too much like the average little brother who always picked fights with him. Brad sometimes wondered what Jamie was trying to prove, because Jamie never won and always listened to Brad in the end. Brad was like the dad their father could not be, and even though the two of them were only a year apart in age, Brad was a lot more mature than his little brother. Brad had always been more mature than children of his age.
Jamie was a fairer version of Brad, with chestnut brown hair from his father, and looks from his mother. If not for their colourings, Brad and Jamie could have been identical twins. Their childhood was filled with Lego, robot toys, trips to the zoo - because Harriet liked animals - and water pistol games, interspersed with occasional visions of what the weather will be the next day, or what the words will be in tomorrow's dictation test.
In the year Brad turned twelve, the summer was unusually hot.
The Crawford family's house was air-conditioned. Brad was comfortably in bed, reading a Chinese novel - Mum had made the point that all her children must learn Chinese. He fingered through the pages, already able to guess what would happen in the next few chapters. Not because of his special ability, but sci-fi novels were usually just plain dumb. Setting the book aside, he ran a hair through his black bangs, wondering what it was that had nagged the back of his mind since beginning of the day, and at the same time telling himself that he should not spend time thinking about it, that he should act more his age instead of always thinking he was an adult trapped in a kid's body. After all, kids should only think about food, sleep and play. Brad told himself once again that he should wait a few more years before truly worrying about anything at all. He did not mind too much. Sometimes, waiting was half the fun.
Satisfied with that thought, Brad settled in his bed to sleep. "Night, Jamie."
Jamie's bed was against the wall opposite. The little boy jerked at the words, and he blabbed out some words as if they had been on his mind all night. "I... I saw something today."
"What?" Brad turned around so that he could see Jamie.
Jamie sank himself under his cobalt blue covers, peeking out just enough to see Brad. "Harri and I are in the car, and you are walking away with dad."
"So?"
"It's goodbye. I know I won't see you again, but I don't know why." Jamie's voice trembled. "I keep seeing this since last week. I don't see anything else anymore."
"Don't be stupid. You're having one of those lapses with what you see again." Brad replied, knowing that his little brother did not know the word 'lapse'. "If you don't sleep now, Mum will blame me tomorrow morning when you don't wake up, and I don't need to see it to know it."
Brad turned around again, indicating this was the end of the conversation.
"Brad?"
"Um."
"You won't leave us behind, right? Harri and I."
"I told you: don't be stupid. " Brad could feel the beginnings of sleep shutting down the active side of his brain. "Harriet maybe." He said, with a laugh. "Not you. Goodnight."
He thought, yes, he probably would not mind leaving Harriet behind somewhere his parents could not find so that they would stop obsessing about her, and pay him some attention instead.
[to part 2]