Schadenfreude


by llamajoy


drag this neurotic to hysterics, leave him balked and unfulfilled
holding inside outwardly patient till the time he'll call it
alluring exotic twisted hero leaving him more lonely still
he waits around he's spun around and left without the power to stop it
peers don't know what they can't see-- they can't see inside of me
it's sickening how comforting the privacy of the mind can be
abstruse and lacking rationale, but making so much sense somehow
how much longer will I try before I realize I'm desperate in the situation that I'm in again
--"how much longer," eve6


When was the last time you were really alone? Always there are four of you, sitting in separate corners of your headquarters in uneasy familiar silence. You can never leave them far behind, even in your nightly city-prowls or your daytime dreaming. But they leave you be, not asking where you go, or why you come back smiling or brooding. They do not have to ask; you have lived with them long enough that there are few secrets.

Impatience might be your downfall, you know. The sun is dipping behind the building-tops; it's not yet time to walk out into the streets and find a new unsuspecting mind. Always more of a challenge in the dark, without your eyes to assist you. The shadows in the room stretch languidly, like waking harbingers of the slow-coming night.

It makes you restless.

In the thinning light, watch them with half-lidded eyes. Idly dip a seeking tendril into their minds, taste their thoughts. Not as tentatively as you would touch a new mind, not like the girl behind the counter or the prettyboy dancing at the nightclub. No, they do not need such delicacy; they know you. They, like you, are Schwarz.

From the white-haired one, as he polishes his knives with a lover's touch, indifference. Refreshing, a mind that parts as pages of a book, uncaring in the wake of your intrusion. Or perhaps it was once refreshing, the years ago when you first met. Now the twisted tortured corners of his mind are as commonplace to you. Still, the odd flavor of his faith never ceases to intrigue you.

~Such wasted devotion,~ you think. ~Whose disciple are you now?~

~Crawford's,~ he thinks simply, without even looking up. He is used to allowing your mind in his own. The evening light touches his face like blood, glinting off the slightest quiver of his upper lip as he concentrates.

Crawford, of course. Yawn. It is a tired conversation before it even begins. There is not much new to say to Farfarello, nothing of his creed he has not already violated threefold. ~So loyal, Laune-chen?~ you tease. His lips curl, and his hands quicken over his needle-sharp blade. He does not understand the nickname-- little moody one-- but he surely recognizes the mocking tone. His anger has a tang to it, unpredictable, and you drink it like wildflower wine. He ignores you.

Cross-legged on the couch across the room, the child is watching you, the boy with hell-bright eyes who can be quieter than the dead. From him, you scent mild curiosity, knowing his mind will be the next you search.

~Bored, Schuldich?~ he is thinking, just for your benefit. His eyes shine though he does not smile. ~It has been a while since we spoke this way.~

Raise an eyebrow, wink at him. Such a perceptive child, this tender thing who looks like a reject from the bishonen comics this country so loves. ~Ja, ja. It's only because I could intoxicate myself on your thoughts, Suess-chen.~

He smiles, lowering his eyes. It has indeed been some time since you've had the taste of such a sweetling, fine embarrassment lacing his thoughts like the shine of naked skin.

~You are bored, Schu-chan,~ he thinks, and his not-quite-smile is edged with keen understanding.

You could grin; your two languages are not so different, after all. ~Danke schoen, Nagi Suess-chen, for alleviating my boredom.~

And, with mutual consent, the link is gone, his mind and yours drawing apart once again. He is beautiful, eyes alight against the dimness of the room, slim legs drawn up beneath him in his silence. There is a fleeting instant of raw heat in your blood, knowing you could have him-- force him so easily-- and wouldn't he be sweet--

You won't, though you cannot think too closely about it. The urgency fades, though the tension does not.

You don't trust him, or any of them. You'd deserve to have your damn fool head taken off if you ever let them get that close to you.

Ah, but haven't you already?

Their thoughts are an accustomed bile in the back of your mind, a taste you can't quite swallow. The child, the psycho. And the man who saw you coming.

No one had ever seen you coming before; long ago you'd learned to avoid unwanted confrontation.

But in the rancid alleys where you found your bitter release, he was waiting for you.

If you thought about it, you could guess how he swayed Farfarello, easy enough to stand just so and promise him an outlet for his violence. To sanction the insanity with a blessing of his hand, to give him a dagger to stab at God. Shiver.

You do not know how he lured Nagi here, how he wrung devotion from the budding flower. Or even if he has; perhaps Nagi-- of all of you-- stays for his own reasons. You could have the answer, one firebright trail of questions to scald through young resisting thoughts. Somehow you never have. Maybe you don't care.

But then again, do any of them know how he lured you? Can they imagine you, huddled miserable forgotten on a backstreet, riding the cresting edge of withdrawal-- waiting for enough of the drug to subside so you could manipulate another's mind to get more. The drug never completely took the voices away. But it ate at them, till they softened and murmured, nothing so screaming insistent. The schreient silence of your mind-- That Takatori Bastard had to name his stupid girlteam that. What does he know of screaming?

Crawford did not stride into your life, broad palm open to extend an offer of silence, a strength of mind to take the voices away. No, Crawford made no such entrance-- he stood so still, so quiet in that shadowed alleyway, that it was as if he had always been there. When you met his eyes that first time, the lamplight sheen on his glasses made him seem like a god, all-seeing, bright. ~Hallo,~ he thought at you, and his mental voice was the first you ever heard distinctly. Precise and as clear as the Austrian crystal pendant you wore around your neck, the only remnant besides your language of your Teutonic past. The only thing you swore you would never sell.

Ragged-edged in withdrawal, you might have shouted, or wept. You don't remember.

He knew, he said, the burden of telepathy on a sharp young mind. He knew he could help.

But more than that, he knew you needed him. He knows it still.

Dangerous.

Now, with his back turned to you and his fingers clicking determinedly over his keyboard, he knows you are thinking of him.

~Nostalgia?~ he ponders, unkindly, and your fingers tighten unconsciously on the arm of your chair. Vividly the memory splinters, glassy shards of that crystal pendant when it shattered. Crawford broke it, as part of you knew he would, when you once tried to run away. Caught, you lay at his feet, your pendant flung out in front of you, still attached to the cord around your throat. And he stepped on it, finely-tailored shoes grinding it to sparkling diamond-dust in your face. He told you to forget your past and forge a future; he told you never to try and escape again. You never did. Naturally, you never had to, by then you were walking out nights to ease the strain. But you never forgave him.

~Nostalgia? Of course not,~ you think dryly, as your anger lingers in your veins, deepening and turning into something else.

"Schuldich, no." ~Schuldich, not now.~ His dark voice is laced with faintest annoyance, as he glances back over his shoulder only fractionally. He is the first to have spoken aloud, sounding odd in the silence of the darkling room. Farfarello snorts, thinking he knows the dialogue that is going on, unsaid. Nagi only watches, always with that mysterious not-smile.

"No what?" you drawl, not rising from your easy slouch. Not rising to the bait. Slowly you uncross your long legs, drape an arm over the low back of the chair. The buzz of Crawford's agitation sings into your skull, though his close-cropped head is inclined solely to his monitor screen. "You presuming to know my mind?"

Crawford absently pushes his glasses up his nose, catching a blue-white glare from his screen. Shiver with anticipation, and don't bother to wonder why you're edging forward into his mind. The challenge should be enough. "I do know," he says impatiently, "that you are going to come over here and try to interrupt my work. So don't," he adds coldly.

Smirk. ~What makes you think I have to move to distract you, Crawford?~ The words fall silkily into his mind; he has not put up as much of a resistance as you thought. It almost makes you want to laugh; Crawford responds most to the disrespectful way you say his name, not the latent threat.

"Schuldich," he says, with menace, his back stiffening just perceptibly.

"I'm not moving," you murmur, the fabric of your slacks whispering against the leather chair. "I'm not invading that precious personal space of yours." The clacking of his keyboard does not falter. ~Though I'd like to.~ Feel the hair at the back of Crawford's neck stand on end.

~Would you.~ The thought is almost conversational, but you can see the beads of perspiration starting like sweet pearls on his skin. "I'm tired of you." Aloud, but not to you. "Leave and let me do my work in peace." He speaks again to Farfarello, in English, and the albino's head comes up quickly. The language sounds of high green hills and rotting moss, potential unfulfilled. How fitting. You ken that Crawford's thoughts do not match his words. What sort of man lies to the madman in his native tongue?

They do not have to be asked twice. As Nagi is closing the door behind himself-- without touching it-- Crawford says loudly, "You have five minutes to leave this room, Schuldich."

Ah, an attempt to reason with you. The door swishes shut, and you can already scent his defeat. "Five whole minutes?" Your smile broadens just a bit. "You underestimate me."

The anger is delicious, but more savory still is the edge of uncertainty that he cannot quite disguise. His hands are sure in their movements, but his legs are tense, his neck trembling in the effort it takes not to react. "I'm timing you, Schuldich," he says tightly.

Practically an invitation.

~So uptight, mein Herr.~ you purr, sliding your hands up to work the muscles in your shoulders, as if you were massaging him. Feel the latent warmth in your palms, imagine that it's his double-breasted American suit beneath your fingers. Untouchable. Grin. Yeah right, you know better. Send the ripples of slow sensation across the room to him, feel the tingles in his fingertips as they strike his keyboard.

"I wouldn't be, if you would leave me alone," he says, flatly, without emotion.

Your hands travel upward, fingers splayed under your hair, lifting the red weight of it off your neck. It feels good, pretending it's someone else's hands tangling in your hair, half-closing your eyes, greedy to be touched. Greedy to forsake the tyranny of thought for a heartbeat or two of passion. ~I don't recall you leaving me alone, Crawford. Though I do think I asked you nicely.~

You both remember it full well; that first time, you screamed for him to stop.

An electric pulse beats in Crawford's carefully shielded mind, and he crosses his legs primly. Pointedly not turning around.

Run your hands over your chest, remembering lying spread-eagled on his desk and feeling the foreign pressure of him on top of you. Send him the memory, those years ago when you were still new to Schwarz and thought to fight back with your body rather than your mind. The room you sit in now is haunted by the ghost of you, eerie doppelganger. You both breathe the humidity of past air, see the tangle of bodies pale and sculpted out of early evening lamplight. You screamed mercy, you screamed revenge- and then you screamed his name. ~I've forgotten the feel of your mouth.~

The other man smiles thinly, and you can feel him struggle with the memory you lay upon him. "Am I not memorable?" So like him, still insisting on talking out loud, rather than letting you pick the words from his thoughts. But his thoughts begin to speak for themselves, leaking from him in liquid flashes. In the rising tide of images, you catch a glimpse of yourself, hair spilled around your head like an offering of blood, pale hips lifting in supplication to his need. In his eyes, you are thin, sick. And beautiful.

Moan, press yourself back into the yielding seat, spreading your thighs and listening to his discomfiture. Nothing else sounds quite like hot leather. ~Memorable,~ you echo, smirking. ~I got myself off more times than I can count, remembering the way you took me.~

His typing stutters.

Narrow your eyes. ~What, wouldn't you recognize the sound of your man jerking off?~ And you touch yourself finally, through your clothes, and you don't have to fake the throaty sound of pleasure at the contact. Die Hoelle, but you've gotten yourself hard. That first time, you found release beyond the pain-- or within it. And when he sought you out again, the burn in his eyes transparent even without your skill, you did not refuse him.

He knew your submission was never a gift.

He doesn't realize now that he's fingering his collar, face slightly flushed and clothes feeling too tight. You blink, for without your knowledge, your own hands have peeled away your clothing, jacket off and shirt unbuttoned, trousers unbuckled around your hips, slack about your ankles. Touching yourself like a wanton creature. This ache won't wait for the backrooms of a bar tonight; this sunset craving won't be satisfied by a lover whose mind you can drink easily as water.

This is as much vengeance as it is lust, and you know he knows it.

~Surely I remember. I just don't recall if you ever kissed me, mein Herr. A shame really, there's so much to be said for--~

He interrupts you the only way he can, short of physical contact. Into your mind unbidden springs the raw memory, his mouth plundering yours, skilled and violent. Never giving quarter, though he never learned that he was teaching you how to take. And expert that he is, with his mouth, his mind forced into yours-- his kisses took the voices away.

And now just the echo of them takes your breath away. Swear under your breath, your hips rising involuntarily into the quickening rhythm of your hand. His back is still turned to you, but the steady noise of his computer has stilled and all you can hear is his breathing.

~That's right,~ you manage, losing yourself along the manic edge of pleasure, drinking it thirstily. ~Touch yourself for me, Crawford; say my name while you come. Humiliate yourself so I don't have to make you.~ It doesn't matter anymore whether he's listening to you, for his back is arching and the only thing in his mind is hatred and a swift strong heartbeat.

Hoarsely he speaks your name, on his lips and in his mind, and the sound of it is like breaking, like the center of the storm. You are feuertrunken with the sheer incredible force of it.

"Ich kommen," you growl, muscles clenching as it wrings itself out of you, hot and deadly.

Thrash with the donnerschlag strength of it, thunderclap roiling through-- let him feel it as you do. Neither of you can tell now, just who is helpless and who taking advantage, coming together in the only way you can.

It leaves you, as it always does, merely human again-- human with a cursed gift. But unlike other minds that you leave in turmoil, Crawford is unnatural in his internal silence. Fuck him. ~Scher dich zum Hoelle,~ you mumble. Go to hell.

He thinks he recognizes your name in the epithet; he speaks little enough of your language. "Schurdich?" he mispronounces it, awkward from his Western tongue.

Shake your head, riding the last of the pleasure till the sated lazy heat ebbs through your limbs. ~Nein, Crawford. Schuldig.~ Guilty. Stretch with it, the traces of your release spattered on his expensive chair. Smile. Deliciously guilty.

Distantly you realize that the other two are standing in the doorway, drawn by their leader's shout. Ah, an audience. What, were they standing just outside? Nagi discreetly moves to go-- while Farfarello stands utterly still, childlike in his fascination-- but you wave an elegant hand for them to stay. Lithely you stand, pants loosely closed, shirt disheveled. Moving through the near-dark to stand by Crawford's chair, you toss your hair behind you.

"You said foresaw me coming over here, to distract you," you purr, fingers brushing lightly over the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. He is breathing heavily, fingers soiled with the evidence of his own release. Not so infallible, after all. "Well, here I am, mein Herr."

"You," he says, breathless for all to hear, "have twenty seconds left."

He's furious; it's written on the pristine smoothness of his face. Laugh, so hard your sides hurt. What have they got left to say about your sanity, anyway? "Indeed." And you lower your head, more territorial than contrite, and kiss his cheek. You've been a lover long enough now to speak as much with a kiss as with a brush of minds, and you both know your supple lips speak of victory and payback. His mouth twitches, but he does not move. The taste of his thoughts is sharp and delirious, like vintage wine his shame.

~I've found a way inside you, lover. It won't be long until I have my way.~

His is terribly quiet, expressionless. ~You've become too sure of your mind, Schuldich. It will not always serve to your advantage.~

Smile at him, show that you have heard. And that you do not care.

Pick up your coat, drape it casually over your shoulder. As you pass the other two, wink at Farfarello; he might understand. Verraten mit einem kuss.

Betrayed with a kiss.


~o~





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