The Vain Struggle

Ch.4

\"We take less pains to be happy than to appear so.\" La Rochefoucauld

The front door closed softly, and Schuldig lifted his head from his arms. He had been laying on the couch, on his stomach, head on his crossed arms and half-asleep. He was lying in wait for his \"prey\", and the quiet, subdued steps that echoed to him bespoke of exactly who he was waiting for. Crawford was home, the question in Schu\'s mind was why was he just coming home?
He looked at his dark haired bishounen; his hair askew from the wind Schuldig could hear outside, glasses off and tucked into the breast pocket of his olive-toned dress shirt, light-colored suit jacket thrown over one shoulder, a gentle brightness in his blue-hued eyes. Schuldig noticed the brightness fade, robbing the radiant blue of their sparkle and leaving them flat and dull, when Crawford recognizho iho it was. The fluid strength that seemed to emanate from his body disappeared, and his appearance became slack and of one who was tired beyond measure.
\"You look tired, Bradley.\"
\"I am,\" Crawford hesitantly answered. The first thought that flashed in his mind was simple- now what does he want?
Schuldig pulled himself into a sitting position, sinewy body poetic in motion, and looked at his infatuation. \"Where were you?\"
\"Ah, the question I knew was coming...\", thought Crawford sadly. After a nice day, he had to come home to see Schuldig, spread upon the couch like the predator he was. This man, green eyes ferally agleam with predatorial instinct and generally misdirected malice, may have been dangerous, but he was still predictable. The next question he knew was going to be \'Who were you with?\'
\"... On a walk.\"
\"With who?\"
Hesitating again, debating between the truth and a lie, Crawford finally managed to say, \"... No one. I was alone.\"
His eyes narrowed in speculation, Schuldig eyed the uncomfortable, and obviously so, American. He was unhappy with Crawford\'s reaction, but this was not an unusual thing. Somehow, in some way, Brad was always disappointing him. Little things amassed to big things, which grew to issues that were unbearable. Things just seemed to pile up, bad things that caused stress. Brad was the object of his desire, his infatuation, his love, and the feelings were returned. Schuldig knew they were, even though the serious man did not show it. They had to be returned. Love was a two-way road, a transmission and a reception, not just one or the other.
As much as he loved Brad, he couldn\'t trust him. The bishounen had to have been with someone, he had been gone for almost three hours. Their eyes locked, the green intensely challenging the blue, but the blue would not fight today. Crawford looked away, stray strands of hair falling into his eyes, an unconscious try at shielding his face. Schuldig would not settle for that, he stood and approached his intended prey.
\"Brad...\" The purr, sly and fetching, came as the German stalked closer.
Crawford wanted none of it. Not today, not tomorrow, not anymore. He was fed up, he had had enough. There was only so much torture, emotional, mental and physical, that one person could take. He truly cared for the German, he did. But he couldn\'t care for him in the way the redhead needed to be cared for. There was no love in him, and when he heard Schuldig say he felt this way, Crawford died inside from the guilt. Guilt was becoming, by far, his most constant companion. The guilt was eating away from the inside, starting somewhere in his chest and spreading both down and up. The twisted, black feeling had claimed his body and mind, winding its way through him and laying waste to everything that could be identified as good.
The German, his red hair down around his shoulders, an allure in his step and a cheshire-cat smile on his face, came upon Crawford, his intent clear in his eyes. His hands snaked out as he passed behind his infatuation, sliding up the arms, across the shoulders and grazing the neck. Breath hot against Crawford\'s ear, Schuldig whispered to him, a light current that disturbed its listener greatly.
\"I missed you. Do you know how much? I can tell you, if you want.\"
He didn\'t want to hear it, Crawford didn\'t want this affection, the uncertainty and stress it guaranteed. He didn\'t want to deceive Schuldig, but he didn\'t want to hurt him either. That left him with no avenue of escape, no way out, no safe footing. It was like jumping from the path of one landslide and into another. There was no way out, no way through, no safe or sturdy footing. Nothing. He was left suspended in space, in between answers.
\"There are a lot of things I could tell you, Brad. If you were only willing to listen.\"
The voice was haunting him, driving him, chasing him from one end of his mind to the other. Vocal pursuer still taunting him coyly, Crawford stepped away from the warmth and fake tenderness of Schuldig\'s caress. The redhead should have taken the hint. He couldn\'t have shown his disapproval at being touched anymore than he already had, but Schuldig didn\'t want to see it. If the German didn\'t want to see something, he simply refused to acknowledge it and buriemselmself in some fantasy.
When the American turned slowly to look at his torturer, he was met by an annoyed and slightly angry glare. He wasn\'t sure if he could not care about Schuldig, but he was trying so hard to not. If only Schuldig wasn\'t... Schuldig. Things would have been better, easier, for them. Again they fought for control over the situation, a battle Crawford wasn\'t willing to lose, but didn\'t have the strength to win.
\"I have work to do,\" he whispered, clinging to the only excuse he was able to rely fully upon. The excuse didn\'t let him out of situations without a fight, but, then again, no excuse did. Schuldig was never willing to let him out of anything without a fight.
\"No you don\'t,\" the Telepath hissed, grabbing Crawford\'s elbow as he turned to walk away. \"I know you don\'t. You just don\'t want to talk to me.\"
\"Don\'t be a child, Schuldig,\" the American semi-growled, rounding upon his teammate, wishing to wrench his elbow out of the angry grip but doing nothing.
\"A child? I\'m acting like a child? What about you? Hm? You\'re no better.\" The acidic words grated against the already tender nerves of the pre-cog.
\"You don\'t want to start this right now. You really don\'t.\" Using his own steely grip, Crawford removed the offensive fingers from his arm as he spoke. This was the wrong day to begin an argument with him, a very wrong day. Turning in his own particularly graceful style, he left the obnoxious German standing there.
\"Don\'t you dare walk away from me, Crawford,\" a very angry redhead growled. When Crawford ignored and and continued to walk towards the exit of the living room, Schuldig moved quickly and spun him around, throwing the startled bishounen against a wall. The impact was abrupt, hard and definite. There was a slight amount of pain coursing through Crawford from his shoulder, but he was mostly startled. It was true that they had gotten into things like this before, but these \"instances\" were very rare. The two men looked at each other, anger flowing through them, between them, ceaselessly.
\"What do you think you are doing?\" Crawford managed to grind out after he recovered from the initial shock of impact.
\"I told you not to walk away from me.\"
\"Since when do you dictate my actions?\" With that statement, Crawford shoved the hand that was pinning his shoulder to the wall away and slid out from within the redhead\'s circle of possession.
They stood at a standstill, both knowing nothing would come of this, but each having different reactions. Crawford wanted the hell to be over, and he wanted it over now. Shuldig wanted Crawford to show his love, to be with him again. It simply could not be, and Crawford was willing to see this, but Schuldig was unwilling to acknowledge it. How he couldn\'t feel it, or see it, or realize it, was beyond the American. Denial seemed to be something the German was good at.
\"What\'s going on?\" A silver thin voice floated over them, the youth in the voice making the words harmless and trivial. Both looked over to see Nagi, dressed in his school uniform, eyeing them suspiciously, and maybe a little hostilely.
Crawford cursed the boy\'s timing, but loved the fact that he had a way out now. How long he would be free of the obnoxious redhead was a mystery, but right then he would be thankful for any time away from his tormentor. \"Nothing Nagi.\" A quiet, but definitely forced smile. \"Schuldig and I were having a discussion.\"
The teenager watched the man that was most like a father figure to him walk out of the room, Schuldig glaring at his back angrily. He hated what was happening between the two, the constant current of tension and anger that flowed between them.
\"Great going Nagi-kins,\" growled the German tersely, turning his back and stalking out of the door.
\"Bastard,\" the brunette snarled, angry at Schuldig for daring to harass the only member of Schwarz he could tolerate for an extended period, harsh treatment or not. Crawford had always been harsh to him, a protector and not a nurturer. Almost an older brother but not quite, more like a father or a mentor. One slap at a weak moment couldn\'t change all of that. Whatever Crawford was, he was important to the youth, very important, and he didn\'t appreciate Schuldig bothering who he was attached to.
The door slammed and Nagi\'s eyes narrowed to thin slits. He turned around and slipped down the hallway to Carwford\'s study, knocking once before the voice he knew so well called out for him to come in. Opening the heavily paneled door, the youth popped his head inside and smiled at the dark haired man behind the massive desk. There was the beginnings of a smile on Crawford\'s face, a new hope that Nagi felt needed to cultivate into full blown happiness.


\"All who suffer are full of hatred; all who live drag a remorse: the dead alone have broken their chains.\" Victor Hugo