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Coming Home	By : katami Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 2558 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Author’s Note: This is for Ginny, who thought it deserved to stand alone. Hope you enjoy the fruits of your suggestion.

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Tokyo sucked. In fact, if there was a bright shining center of the universe, and Schuldig was fairly sure there wasn’t, Tokyo would be the farthest place from it. Because as he’d said - Tokyo sucked. The first time he’d been out of Rosenkreuz for any serious length of time and it was in a place that sucked. Story of his fucking life.

He pulled a long hard drag from his cigarette, not caring that his housemates would bitch at him in the morning. He needed the nicotine. That anal son of a bitch Crawford wouldn’t let him have anything stronger - had beat the shit out of him the first time Schuldig had come home stoned. He’d pissed blood for a week and wasn’t keen on repeating the experience, so nicotine was the drug of choice tonight.

He glanced at the clock, after 4 and the city showed no signs of winding down. In the distance he could hear the jumbled thoughts of those people still awake, closer were the surreal dreamscapes of those sleeping. Sleep eluded him however.

The eighth night in a row. And they had only been in Tokyo two weeks. Schuldig wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to hold out - and Crawford hadn’t mentioned leaving any time soon.

No one had ever told him how big Tokyo was, how loud it was. That was the one thing he’d forgotten while locked away in Rosenkreuz, how fucking loud cities were. He snorted and took another pull on his cigarette, who knew that there would actually be something he missed about that hellhole. Rosenkreuz had at least been quiet.

Tokyo was never quiet. There were people everywhere. People awake at all hours. Hundreds, thousands, millions of people all around him. Pressing in on him. Filling him with their stupid little thoughts and their trivial little concerns. Invading his mind and distracting him so that he forgot who he was and where he was.

He took another hard pull from his cigarette, noticing the tremble in his hand and cursing softly. It was too fucking loud. All the time. All those people. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax for an instant or risk being washed away by all them.

He fiddled with his hair, touched the desk he was sitting next to, tried to focus on the feel of the chair cradling his body, the taste of the smoke filling his lungs. He tried to force his mind to remember where he was and who he was. But he kept drifting, kept picking up tiny snatches of everyone else.

Six blocks over two men were fucking in an alley. Three blocks over a woman was starting her day and bitching about the fact her boss was making her come in so early. A block away a man was dreaming about his high school trip to the US. Two floors down a woman was dreaming of fucking her step-son. Next door Yamada-san was fixing breakfast and wondering why his wife had to buy the cheap noodles when he didn’t like them. In the next room Nagi was caught up in a nightmare of the year and a half he’d spent on the streets. Across the hall Farf was quoting scripture again And he was all of them…each and every one of them.

He silently wished for a drink, something hard and smooth, or at least some sleeping pills. But telepaths weren’t allow sleeping pills - all part of the Esset Care and Feeding Guide for telepaths. A guide Herr Crawford swore by. No sleeping pills. No hard stimulants. Keep alcohol and sedative use to a minimum. Bastards!

He had a fucking city in his head and nothing to blunt the edges. Nothing but a fucking cigarette! He tossed it away angrily, his face twisting in a mask of rage, hands clawing at his hair. “Shut…The…Fuck…UP!” he screamed at them, wanting just a few blessed seconds of peace. A chance to take a breath and gather up the tattered edges of his mind and try and knit them together again.

The pressure seemed to ease for a second and then he was swamped as dozens of minds around him shifted from sleep to wakefulness. There was pounding on the wall, Nagi pissed about being woken. Farf began howling. Yamada-san was wondering what the hell those gaijin were getting up to now. The neighbors on the other side were startled and frightened, wondering if they should call the police. The people below them were calling the police. The people above were confused, not sure what had awoken them.

He screamed at them, lashing out, just wanting them to go away, to leave him the hell alone. He felt one mind shatter under the assault but it was too little too late and did nothing to lessen the torrent. He was lost in a flood of thoughts and feelings that were not his own, clawing desperately for his sense of self only to feel it being washed further and further away with each passing moment.

A sharp blow to the face brought him back and sent him to the floor. His lip was split, blood seeping into his mouth and down his chin, his jaw aching horribly. Crawford was standing over him; no, not standing, looming.

His hair was mussed from sleep and his glasses gone, taking years from his face and reminding Schuldig that the pre-cog was only five years older than him. He was wearing only dark blue pajama bottoms and glaring down at Schuldig, rubbing his knuckles as if he was debating hitting him again. Schuldig glared at him, hating him even as he knew that he would be wanking off to this image for years to come. He may have hated the bastard but no one could deny that Brad Crawford was fucking hot. Twenty-one and the Elder’s golden boy, great things were expected of the pre-cog, it didn’t make him any less of an asshole though.

“What the hell is your problem?” demanded Crawford, who had apparently decided not to hit him. Schuldig was glad - Crawford had a mean right hook.

“Nichts, nur ein schlechter traum,” he muttered in German.

“One person is dead because of a bad dream?” Schuldig could hear the disgust in his voice. Crawford had never been out of control, never had to fear for his sanity, never fought against something he couldn’t beat and Schuldig hated him for that.

“Es war ein sehr schlechter traum,” he told the American blandly, lighting another cigarette and taking a hard pull at it. He needed something to help calm his nerves, to help make it clear to Crawford that he was in control, that he had meant to kill - he took a moment to reach out and find out just who it was he had killed - the grandfather of the family below them.

Crawford was pissed, didn’t believe him, but Schuldig didn’t care. Killing the old man and Crawford’s punch had bought him a little breathing room.

“Put that out. It’s a disgusting habit.” I’m amazed they didn’t detox you before now, Schuldig couldn’t hear the thought, Crawford was too well shielded for that, but he knew it was there. What Crawford didn’t know was that Rosenkreuz only detoxed telepaths off the hard stuff - there was no reason to wean them off nicotine when they wouldn’t live long enough for lung cancer to be a concern. Damn number crunching bastards. But the average life expectancy for a telepath was 26 and most smokers didn‘t get lung cancer until their 50‘s or 60’s. So nicotine was allowed for telepaths. It was also something nice and addictive the trainers could hold over their heads. Be a good little soldier and you can have your fix. Fuckers.

Of course with the way he was going he would be dead from sleep deprivation before he hit seventeen so the cigarettes wouldn’t be a problem. Even if he was up to a nearly a pack and a half a day.

“Ja, Ja,” he said carelessly waving the cigarette, but not putting it out. He needed even the small hit it gave him. Needed the calm.

“And you are suppose to be practicing Japanese - not German.”

“Fuck off, Brad. It’s four in the goddamn morning,” he snapped, a little shocked that he hadn’t been speaking Japanese, but covering it with annoyance. The pre-cog glared at him, not as imposing without his glasses noted Schuldig with mild interest. One day Schuldig was going to figure out how Brad always managed to get the light to glint off those glasses so menacingly. But he was too tired to care tonight.

“Put out the damned cigarette and go to bed, Schuldig,” ordered Crawford, turning and stalking out. He liked having the last word and tonight Schuldig was too tired to fight him for it. Most nights he would have just to remind the other man that while he might control the others, Schuldig followed because he chose to.

No one ruled him. Not Herr Noviki, or Herr Kiedel, or the Elders, or Brad Fucking Crawford. No one. Not anymore.

He snubbed out his cigarette finding the silence of the house annoying against the counterpoint of the voices in his head. He grabbed his coat, a green, navy pea coat he had seen in Berlin that Crawford proclaimed an eyesore, his wallet and his keys. Crawford wouldn’t let him drive - another from the care and feeding manual - but he was fairly sure he could find an open bar within a few blocks. With the night he was having he had earned himself a drink.

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German Translations:
Nichts, nur ein schlechter traum - Nothing, only a bad dream
Es war ein sehr schlechter traum - It was a very bad dream
Note: All German is to the best of my meager abilities, if I totally screwed it up, please tell me so I can fix it.
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