48 Days

A/N: This chapter was a stone bitch to write, it took something like six drafts and I\'m still not really entirely happy with it. But I\'m posting it anyway. Anybody with suggestions feel free to email me. And a hundred thousand thanks to all those who\'ve read and reviewed! I hope the next chapter won\'t take as long as this one!


Chapter 3: Pain and Pride

Yohji had tasted like sun-warmed honey and smoke. The mind against his had been sharp, even beneath the layers of drugs he’d pumped into the younger man; sharp and bright and filled with colors, like a god had splintered a rainbow and packed the shards into that beautiful blond head. Rich with feeling and ripe with life. And so much guilt hidden beneath those swift rivers of colors . . . like a black undertow ready to catch and drown the unwary.

The pretty kitty was like all the Christmas presents he’d never had packed into one damn-fine package.

Schuldig was almost giddy with anticipation, planning all the ways to unwrap such a delightful gift. Years with Rosenkreuz had taught him all about reconditioning and he every intention of putting all those hard-learned lessons to use for himself now.

Kudoh had always been his favorite kitten. Siberian he hadn’t even bothered with- all emotion and no brain, that one. Quick to become enraged, easy to manipulate, ergo, easy to break. The littlest one, Bombay, had been entertaining for a while. It had been surprising, though, as he’d burrowed beneath the boy’s surface thoughts, to find just how pathetically naïve the boy really was. It wasn’t completely an act, his happy, smiling mask. He actually bought into the whole justice, world of innocents-and-evils he’d practically been teethed on. And why not? Hell, even Rosenkreuz would’ve admired the mind-fuck Kritiker’d preformed on the little blond.

Abyssinian had seemed promising at first. Ruthless, dangerous, exotically beautiful. Filled to bursting with denial of a hundred things and a burning self-hatred centered around one useless little girl. The boy lived with some prior century’s ideals of honor and commitment. Pretty, talented little samurai- though he’d have probably been drown at birth had he been born to the century whose ideals he held in such high regard. Easy to wound emotionally and mentally, that one. The boy breathed self-doubt, after all, so easy to poke and prod and make him bleed and bruise inside. He’d do anything for his precious sister. And that was an easy to come by hostage, as they’d proved in the past. Which meant that breaking the boy would be child’s play.

He didn’t like the other redhead. ‘Aya’ fancied himself a realist, ‘just another murderer’, when he had just as many illusions as anyone- most of them forced into place like a shield against the world. Pretty good at charging blindly through gunfire, not so good at facing himself, was the alluring Abyssinian.

Yohji though . . . Schuldig licked his lips, chasing after the taste of his fascinating prisoner, a shudder running up his spine at the tiny burst of honey and smoke on his tongue.

Yohji didn’t care about how many illusions he might be harboring, as long as they didn’t get him or his teammates killed. He’d given up searching for truth and justice when he’d seen what people did to each other. Like his, now-former lover, he’d joined Kritiker for revenge, not justice. He’d sold himself into their slavery with open eyes, not so innocent as the other’s had been, for a chance to feel the blood of his first-love’s killers hot on his hands.

And he’d given up on salvation in a lonely building as a woman died on his back, his wire around her neck, her last breath words of love for another man.

Yohji *loved* living, loved *life*. Sought-out pleasures and companionship and temporary oblivion. And, having once known love, reached for it with a battered, but enduring soul. A strange, wondrous creature was Kudoh Yohji. So sleek and deadly as Balinese, the cool, smiling assassin. Charming and graceful as the simple florist. And, before that redheaded freak of nature, sex on two impossibly long legs clad in tight leather; glittering and glimmering, dancing like it was his last night on Earth because he knew it might be; with a smile that had melted hearts and gleaming emerald eyes that promised passion. He’d followed the blond, a few times, before his kitty had gotten tangled up with Fujimiya, and watched the denizens of the clubs scramble over each other to fall, willing prey, into strong, battle-scared arms, all of them longing for the lust and danger and wildness that was this golden god come down to play.

Gott, he’d been beautiful.

And now Yohji was his and not be long before his would turn his eyes only to him, would smile only for him.

Fujimiya was a fool.

Schuldig was nearly humming when he left the shocked/horrified/afraid blond in his ‘room’. It had taken a hell of a lot of talking to get Crawford to agree to turning their modest basement into Kudoh’s cell. Hell, it’d taken almost a year of sulking and bitching and even outright bribery (he paid for *everything*!) to get the American to agree to his project in the first place, get the room set up, and *finally* have the perfect opportunity to spirit his prize away with Weiss none the wiser.

He’d had to wait, watching Yohji fuck Fujimiya- developing *feelings* for the stupidly blind redhead. He’d been prepared, at the on-set of their ‘relationship’ to take drastic measures- like killing Fujimiya and dragging Yohji off, witnesses be damned.

But, luckily for him, the poor self-absorbed little samurai had been too blind to see the marvel that was before him, smacking Yohji down every time the blond attempted to deepen their . . . association.

As if Fujimiya even understood the concept of a relationship! The redhead only understood sister/obsession/revenge. The man had no idea the treasure that was before him. Had no idea that to possess Kudoh would be . . .

He shook himself out of his frolic down memory lane. Crawford had promised him time to taunt and torment the Japanese redhead later, when Yohji was his. Now, the prick wanted an immediate status report. The fucking *moment* Yohji woke up!

Schuldig was immensely displeased with having to leave his oh-so-recently awakened plaything. But, though he’d like to make his forced absence from his blond treasure *everyone’s* problem, he could not manage to be truly pissed off. No, right now he was high on the elation of finally having Yohji here, where he could touch him and taste him and bend him delicately to his wishes. And, best of all, there would be no Weiss looking for them. They’d hardly suspect Swartz of kidnapping the Balinese. Swartz had been very careful not to cross their paths for the past year and had taken no jobs at all the past two months.

Let Swartz fade from the memories of those who should know to fear them always. And meanwhile, guided by the Oracle’s visions, Swartz waited for the perfect opportunity to claim whatever they wanted of the world. Like the darkness they had taken their name for, you were never truly safe from the shadows and what waited within their concealing depths. And Schuldig had been planning his abduction of the oldest assassin, with the help of his team, for a year.

For all intents and purposes, though, it would appear that Swartz had merely dropped off the radar. So now, when one of the remaining kitties dredged up the memory of their old enemies, their searches would turn up nothing useful, nothing to indicate they might be involved with their teammate’s disappearance from a mission gone sour. Nothing that would make them suspect that their beautiful blond friend might be locked in a little room in a basement only a half-hour’s fast drive from their quaint little shop.

Which suited Schuldig just fine. For the time being.

And he could be down there right now and Yohji, instead of returning to the disassembly of this bed, could be learning what it was there for. But instead he was tromping up to Crawford’s office so the American could dictate the future for him; something he’d never really cared for- until it got him Yohji.

So for that reason he didn’t throw the polished oak door open and into the equally polished wood paneling or demand an explanation for the unwelcome summons. He was even smiling as the dark haired man looked up, frowning slightly.

Which meant nothing, because Crawford was *always* frowning.

The German dropped into the right most of the two plush, leather armchairs this side of the desk Crawford sat at, slouching and lacing his fingers together over his chest. He was drawing the breath to question his presence here, when the older man spoke.

“Do not get physical with Kudoh for at least the next four days,” he ordered simply.

Schuldig’s spine went stiff and his smile twisted into a snarl. “What?!” he barked, furious. Kudoh was *his* dammit! Crawford had no *right*-

“No beating or fucking for four days, Schuldig, or the man will develop an infection from one of his various wounds and die. Assuming that Swartz has not spent the last year planning to give Kudoh an ironic death over your obsession, we should endeavor to keep him alive.” The American’s voice never rose or fell, didn’t change tone- even for the near mockery the last sentence implied. “And I will not see a year’s worth of planning go to nothing. I will not allow you to squander an opportunity to appease yourself. You can wait four days more, Mastermind.”

Schuldig fumed silently as he absorbed the important information from this little sermon. They’d had an agreement dammit! Kudoh was his and his conditioning would be at Schuldig’s discretion! Goddamn Crawford and his stupid visions! Not that the man couldn’t be wrong- it just didn’t happen very often. And considering the stakes, *this* damn vision couldn’t just be ignored.

No. He’d waited far too long already to allow death to claim Yohji so soon.
Four whole *days*!
/Goddammit!/
“Fine,” he spat tightly, reluctantly. “No beatings and no sex. Am I allowed to *touch* him?”

Crawford seemed to think about it, eyes going slightly unfocused as he thought over what he’d seen, sorting through the visions, piecing them together to find his answer. “Yes,” he finally told him calmly. “Open hand hitting will be fine tomorrow. You may be . . . affection, I think is the term.”

“Right. So mild petting-”

“Whatever you wish to call it.”

Schuldig paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he briefly wondered if that’d been meant as an insult. He decided he didn’t care if it had been and went on. “He’s not going to trip or faint in the shower is he?” he asked sullenly, sinking further back into the chair. “I wanted to clean him up. What with the *high* risk of *infection*.”

“That should be fine.” Crawford’s amber-brown eyes gauged him consideringly. “You remember our bargain.”

It wasn’t really a question, but the German answered it as such anyway, rolling his eyes. “I get to keep him as long as I can train him to be a good doggie.”

“And . . ?” Crawford probed pointedly.

“And a useful member of Swartz.” Schuldig smiled with a sharp edge to the expression, hinting at a sadistic glee. “And when I say he’s ready, we all destroy the remains of Weiss. . . . I don’t suppose you’ve had any visions of *that*, have you?”

“Only the original vision that let you convince me to agree to this stupidity. I can see him fighting Fujimiya and winning.”

“He kills Fujimiya?” Oh, the idea was sweet.

“There are any number of ways I can see Fujimiya dying,” Crawford’s lips thinned into a cruel smile. “But, then, I can also see your Kudoh’s death.”

“Maybe I’ll kill him after I get tired of him,” Schuldig shrugged.

Crawford returned the shrug gracefully and, turning his eyes back to his paperwork, picked up a pen.

Schuldig understood this as the dismissal it was and left, mouth fixed in a half-smirk.

Crawford glanced up after the door shut behind the sulking German. He really didn’t care about the younger man’s obsession with the blond assassin. He wouldn’t have agreed to this to begin with, except that his visions had shown him a future where the Weiss assassin’s had become . . . troublesome for them. He wanted them destroyed and if it kept Schuldig happy and occupied, well, so much the better. Kudoh on his own would be no threat and once Fujimiya was dead the younger two would lack leadership in any form. The Takatori brat might still prove a formidable opponent, too smart by far. But Crawford had learned to calculate heartbreak into plans long ago and the loss of his little ‘family’ would certainly put the boy off his game long enough to remove him without difficulty.

He smiled coldly, enjoying the slight stirring in his blood from a victory he’d already won. How sad the Weiss boy’s didn’t know they’d already lost. Of course, if they had known, it wouldn’t be as devastating when the moment came and where was the fun in that?

Seeing the future since he was eleven had left him with a very skewed opinion on how to enjoy being able to drive people down the paths he’d chosen for them. It just wasn’t as entertaining if they didn’t understand that they’d played a game of his choosing, by his rules, and with a foregone conclusion.

* * *

Yohji slid down the wall, huddling in on himself and spat as soon as Schuldig left the room, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of a shaking hand. He wished desperately that he could vomit, to get the sick fear rolling in his stomach out of him, to rid himself of the taste of that German bastard. Whatever his plan, whatever his reasons- that little display had answered all Yohji’s questions well enough.

It made his skin crawl, made his heart tremble, the thought of what Schuldig was going to do to him. Just the thought of that slimy son of a bitch putting his hands on him made him want to *destroy* something- preferably Schuldig- to prove that he wasn’t that weak, hadn’t been made that helpless.

A much bigger part of him just wanted to crawl under the cot and hide and never ever come out again.

Because, no matter how he looked at it, he *was* helpless.

He was trapped, alone, with four mercenaries Weiss had never managed to kill.

And if anybody on the planet needed killing, it was these four fuckers.

He was wasting time. He knew that. Sitting here shaking with utter, overwhelming terror wasn’t going to so much as slow the telepath down. He needed a plan- and a weapon.

He crawled over to the cot, injuries sending needles of fire through him. He bit his lip against it and forced his hands to steady, to go back to taking off the screws. He couldn’t give up. The others were looking for him. He couldn’t give up. He was Weiss, Weiss never gave up.

Weiss wouldn’t give him up.

They wouldn’t leave him here.

Aya would never leave him here.

Tears stung his eyes, the thought of the redhead, on top of this unbelievable hell he’d fallen into . . . It was too much! It was too much to deal with and it wasn’t fucking *fair* and Schuldig was going to come back and there was *nothing* he could *do* about any of it!

/Just get a weapon,/ he told himself ruthlessly, hands doing there work, nimble even through the pain and lingering drugs and roiling fear. /Just get a fucking weapon. You can’t fight him barehanded in peak condition, much less the sorry state you’re in now. So get a weapon and when he comes in- he won’t kill you./

The realization shocked through him, momentarily stilling his hands and widening his eyes. The medical care, the prison, the forced kiss . . . Schuldig didn’t want him dead, not yet anyway. And if he’d just wanted to . . . rape him . . . Well, there were easier ways to go about it. But what had he done? He’d waited till he could take him after a fucked-up mission, wounded and incapable of fighting back and . . . Yohji bit his lip so hard he tasted blood as his mind stumbled abruptly on the next obvious step. Schuldig had taken him . . . when Weiss could- *would*, eventually, assume he’d died.

If they thought he was dead . . .

/Fuckfuckfuck/

If they thought he died on the mission . . . they wouldn’t be looking for him.

They wouldn’t come for him.

/No- just, fucking stop it! You can’t think like that!/

He focused back down on his immediate problem, pushing the shiver-inducing thought that no one was going to search for him into the back of his head. Because Weiss didn’t give up, right? No matter the odds. So he just had to . . . keep fighting.

/Think about Schuldig not killing you./

Schuldig wasn’t going to kill him, he held it in his mind, because as long as he was alive, there was a chance he could survive this and escape.

The thought of *why* he wasn’t going to kill him made his insides twist and heave, causing his stitched side to protest loudly. He could feel cold sweat beading on his body as a new series of events made their presence known. The thought that Schuldig would keep him here and rape him until . . . Until what? Either he died or Schuldig got bored with his game and killed him, same conclusion either way. Raped to death or raped and then murdered.

/Don’t think about that!!/

No. He couldn’t think about that. The stupid fucking screw finally came free and he jerked the legs apart. The stubborn-ass canvas stitching gave him a moment of grief, resisting as he tore at it savagely. There wasn’t time to be neat about it or worry about tearing the cloth in such a way that it’d be useless. Schuldig wasn’t going to give him time to work out anything complicated than yawara sticks and he obviously wasn’t going to let him be dressed. Yohji’s mouth twisted into a self-mocking smile. Better then, to stay naked, than have that whore-begotten bastard strip him.

And he wished his pathetically weak body would stop it’s whining. He *knew* he was hurt, that he should be in bed, resting, healing, but he couldn’t exactly do that *here*!

Apparently though, his body didn’t give a shit about circumstances and continued to send painful warning signals to his already over-stressed brain.

He hefted the cot legs experimentally. Real wood, but not too heavy, around a foot and a half long. When was the last time he’d done any training with sticks? Didn’t matter. /Remember your training. Remember that a weapon is merely an extension of yourself./ It would be a mistake to rely on the weapon more than himself.

And even if his weapon was taken away- and what were the chances it wouldn’t be?- he could still fight.

Even if the German raped him, tortured him, because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Torture. Power games.

Only, Schuldig didn’t want anything from him. Couldn’t want anything that he didn’t have the power to take from him. His very thoughts were open to the fucker.

That meant that there would be nothing he could do or say or give him that would make him stop.

It was a cold thought. But in a way . . . comforting. Cold comfort. He’d never thought about what that meant until this moment. Cold comfort that all he had to do was endure. And Yohji was a survivor. Pain was pain, no matter how it was inflicted on the body, even through rape, and Yohji was no stranger to pain. All he had to do was endure and keep resisting.

So when Schuldig opened the door, Yohji was on his feet- pain and drugs and fear banished for this moment by the fire of defiance.

Schuldig wouldn’t kill him yet and he only had to endure. Endure and fight this monster every step of the way.

Blue eyes regarded him in amusement, same self-satisfied smirk plastered on his arrogant face.

Yohji matched him with a feral smile of his own. In his leading hand he held the stick in a ‘reversed’ grip that laid the length of it down his forearm, the other hand gripped the second stick about mid-way, so he could use it equally for forward and backwards strikes. He was calm now, in the face of this inevitability, as ready for this fight as he was ever going to be.

“Yohji,” the German sighed. ~Has it escaped your notice that I can read your mind?~

The blond had expected that. Had expected it long before this moment, even before his capture. He’d first started working out how the fuck he was supposed to win against a man who could read his mind when they’d discovered they were up against a telepath. And he’d come to the conclusion that since Schuldig could read his thoughts he couldn’t have any for him to read. He couldn’t think about fighting.

Muscle memory didn’t require he think about his movements. His body knew how to find pressure points, weak spots, joints; his body knew how to kill.

So, eyes dark, the thought about one thing- He needed a cigarette. He focused on the craving, the hunger for nicotine, the yearning for tobacco.

Blue eyes went slightly wider as all Kudoh’s thoughts narrowed down to a single, simple desire. The addiction, that his body *wanted* it, allowed for it to be a powerful focus for the blond’s attention. Yohji could think about nothing but the honest desire to smoke forever he wanted to.

Schuldig was having to quickly revise his game plan. He’d expected a fight, true enough, but he hadn’t considered his kitty would’ve figured a way to stop him from reading his mind. Kudoh had actually discovered one of the ways the talentless could shield. He was impressed, really. He could still win, no question about it. He could take those little sticks and beat Yohji senseless, till he was nothing but blood and meat crying on the floor for *daring* to defy him-

He forced calm on himself, though it was no easy matter. Not when Kudoh was standing there, *fighting* him.

But he’d expected a fight, hadn’t he? And he couldn’t take the sticks, right now, because he’d have to hurt Yohji, a little at least, to get them. He wasn’t going to let Yohji die. Oh no, Yohji wasn’t going to escape. The blond’s life was his until he decided how to end it.

And this was just the beginning, after all.

So he smiled, shrugged, and retreated.

Yohji blinked, startled, but not yet relaxing his guard even as he listened to the cadence of multiple locks being thrown. /Where the hell is he going?/

~I’ll be back later, baby doll. Just sit tight.~

Fuck. Yohji fumed silently, knuckles going white on the sticks as he let his arms drop to his sides. Schuldig had too many ways to win here. He could go get the kid, who could take his weapons from across the room. He could wait, just *wait*, until Yohji passed out from exhaustion or, hell, hunger or thirst. And just where the *fuck* was he supposed to go to the bathroom?!

~You can’t win, baby. You sure you wanna go this route?~

/This ‘route’? What the fuck is *that* supposed to mean? Cause unless you want to let me out now and save us both some trouble, this is the only fucking ‘route’ available!/ Yohji thought the words *hard* hoping they *burned* when they touched the motherfucker’s mind.

~You could just be nice,~ Schuldig laughed, the not-sound echoing inside his skull.

/You could go fuck yourself!/ Yohji snarled back.

~When I have your lovely self to take care of that?/ Another mocking, invasive laugh.

/Cigarettes. Cigarettes. Lighting it up. That first delicious drag, as the smoke fills your lungs-/

Schuldig stopped actively listening, feeling the urge for a smoke himself now. He lit one as he mounted the stairs, *again*. He’d planned on getting the blond cleaned up first and *then* feeding him, but he could just work it the other way. Yohji had to eat and Schuldig had planned on drugging the food anyway. It might even make the shower more . . . interesting.

His elated mood had faded a bit.

The reality was, taming his kitty was going to be a lot of work. A lot of annoying, *hard* work. But he’d be worth it. He only had to think of Yohji dancing, Yohji killing, Yohji *breathing*, to know it’d be worth it.

He swung open the door at the top of the stairs, somewhat surprised to find Farfarello on the other side. He pursed his lips and arched a brow at the man. Farfarello was a worry. The man didn’t care in the slightest for plans or orders, just like the sounds of pain, the smell of blood, the weight of a life in his hands. Keeping him away from Kudoh was going to be tricky, he’d known that. Still had no real plan for accomplishing it- since you couldn’t predict Farfarello further than knowing the man would kill *anyone* unable to stop him. And it wasn’t as if he could beat the ‘don’t touch Yohji’ rule into him, since the crazy bastard didn’t feel pain.

“Farfie . . .” he purred, pushing the Irishman back slowly so he could take the last step out of the basement and shut the door behind him. “If you touch him I’ll drug you up and put you in your room. You know Nagi and Crawford won’t take you to hunt, so there’ll be no more kills for you.” He smiled sharply, challenge and trade in one. Schuldig would take him hunting, many victims, in exchange for this one.

A single gold eye narrowed. He knew that Weiss was here . . . and that the German had claimed him. He had thought about tearing open the stitches he’d glimpsed when the guilty one had brought his prey here. Tearing them open just a little, to hear the golden one scream, taste his life, but probably not kill him, since Schuldig would be less accommodating afterwards. But if the German was willing to trade him more deaths, more lives to savor the destruction of, so he could hog the pretty golden one all to himself . . . That was a good trade. For now.

Silently Farfarello turned and wandered back down the hallway, lightly letting his nails scrape along the wall.

Schuldig rolled his eyes and headed for the kitchen. Farfarello wouldn’t stay pacified for long, he knew. He’d have to be careful until Yohji could fend the madman off on his own.

Schuldig sort of *hated* cooking. Yohji really ought to be grateful he was willing to do it for him. He busied himself with pots and checking the cabinets for something easy to drug and easier to cook. It was a delicate thing, to drug a person’s food. If you drugged just one item and they didn’t eat it, you’d accomplished nothing. If you drugged all of the items with enough to knock a man out and they ate all of it, you’d just overdosed them. Spreading an effective dose throughout all the food meant that they had to eat it all, and what idiot would do that when he was a captive?

Simpler then, to just provide a single dish. He decided on soup. Soup was easy to make and easy to drug. He used little over half the working dosage, relying on the drugs still in Kudoh’s system to do the rest. And if they didn’t put him out, the combination would certainly render him . . . pliable.

He liked the thought of a pliable Yohji a whole lot.

He’d intended to keep the man mildly drugged for a while in any event. It’d keep Yohji more or less passive while his injuries healed. Drugs would slow his reflexes and reaction time, they’d fuck with his mental balance and sense of reality, which would make it much easier for Schuldig to manipulate and . . . rewrite.

Not too much though. If he changed too much it wouldn’t be Yohji. More delicate than any combination of drugs was the tweaking of the brain, the twisting of memories. And the first thing he had to do was break the kitty’s will to fight him, but leave his will to fight intact. Yohji had to learn his new place without losing the bits that made him intriguing in the first place. Schuldig was anticipating the process with something like glee, hungry for the triumph of owning Yohji at the end.

When the soup was ready, he grabbed a plastic bowl to pour it in and a plastic cup for water. Setting it all on a tray he headed back downstairs.

Yohji was on his feet once again, sticks still in his hands, fire in his eyes, and cigarettes in his mind.

Schuldig just smiled indulgently and sat the tray on the floor just inside the door. ~Dinner is served, baby doll,~ he cooed into the blond’s mind. Then shut the door again and locked everything back down. He’d give it an hour. Long enough for the hunger to overwhelm the paranoia and the knowledge that the food *had* to be drugged and for the drugs to start working. Then he could wash his kitty before putting him to bed . . .

And he could spend the next hour figuring out what he was going to do about the bed situation, since the cot was in shambles. Well, the floor was wood and Yohji was half-Japanese, so he supposed one of those pallet things they were always sleeping on would have to do.

Now. Where the hell was he supposed to *get* one?

* * *

Yohji eyed the food warily, as he’d been doing since the German had left it in his cell awhile ago. A bowl of soup, gone cold now, and a glass of water. The water didn’t *look* drugged, as if that meant anything. But his throat was *parched*, sore from inhaling too much smoke from the goddamned fire and the water was practically singing a siren song for him. And the more he looked at it, the more he wanted it.

/Hell with it,/ he thought acidly. /It’s not like it’s going to make a difference if I’m drugged or not./ So he picked up the water and gulped at it, quenching the fire in his throat momentarily.

And, if he was going to be perfectly honest with himself, maybe drugs would make . . . what was coming . . . easier to bear. He wanted the disassociation to the present, to his body, that drugs could offer. It was a dangerous, foolish thing to want, when a single opportunity missed could mean the difference between freedom and . . . *this*.

The sat the cup back down, wishing it’d been larger, held more water, but he was a fucking prisoner here, not like it mattered one bit what he wanted.

The soup looked edible and smelled delicious, though he expected anything would at this point. His stomach rumbled at him plaintively and he closed his eyes as he reluctantly picked up the bowl.

Drugged or not he had to eat or any future attempt to escape would fail because he’d be too weak to try. So he drank the soup and hated himself, just a little, for not being stronger. Aya wouldn’t have touched the food or the water. Aya would’ve starved himself to death before he’d allow himself to be voluntarily drugged, before he’d willing to take anything from his captors.

/Aya would be stronger./ The thought made his heart ache, with longing and loss and self-disgust. So he pushed it away and lifted the bowl to his lips, closing his eyes. Life had taught him to savor any pleasures it allowed you. And, the situation being what it was, a decent bowl of soup was featuring way up there by comparison.

/Aya wouldn’t have gotten caught,/ he thought, squeezing his eyes shut harder as if voluntary blindness was somehow going to hold the painful thoughts of his lover away.

He knew the soup had been drugged fairly quickly. It didn’t take long for him to notice the heavy feeling seeping through his limbs, the way his eyes were just staring at the empty bowl where he’d placed it between his feet. He could distantly feel one of his sticks in his right hand, but it took a lot of thought to remember why he was holding it.

The thought of Schuldig inspired a distant sort of panic, but it couldn’t seem to really touch him. Nothing could really touch him right now. He was wrapped in a comfortable haze that put a nice, safe distance between him and his blank little cell. Didn’t matter right now, even the pain of his wounds was a far-away thing, like a memory one couldn’t quite recall clearly. Maybe this was all just a dream. A really fucked up dream. Had he been doing stupid shit again?

He couldn’t seem to remember much of anything at the moment. Except- shit- Schuldig! He was captured. But no sooner had the realization sparked a surge of fear-driven adrenaline through him, than the drugs swallowed it up, lulling him back into a false sense of safety.

/I’ve been drugged. I knew I was being drugged./ He tried to force his brain to think around the heavy, sleepy feeling. /Schuldig’s out there. He’ll come back. Gotta be able to fight. This isn’t the first time you’ve been high as shit, idiot, get it together./

He tried to lift the stick in his right hand, holding it in front of him, eyes focusing on it slowly. He could hold the stick, but his wrist seemed to have lost all ability to stay stiff.

/Man, this is good shit,/ he thought, irrationally wanting to giggle.

And then there was a noise at the door. /The locks . . ./ Then the door swung open and Schuldig was standing there, smiling again, and damn he hated that smile.

The German came toward him, a sway in his step and Yohji tried, belatedly, to crawl away along the wall, the weapons forgotten as he tried only to flee.

Schuldig was laughing as he grabbed Yohji’s arms and pulled the man up. The tall blond was wobbly, struggling ineffectually to be away from him. Weak hands pushed at his arms and chest and the beautiful face turned away from him, golden hair swinging down to hide him from view.

It was delicious to watch, divine to feel Yohji moving and twisting against him, powerless to escape, to even fight back, really.

“Stop . . . lemme *go* . . .” Yohji insisted, voice slurred and slow.

Schuldig grabbed the blond’s jaw, pulling his face easily around and opening the man’s mouth by the simple application of pressure to the hinge of his jaw. He leaned in, plundering the man’s mouth as Yohji made soft, confused/anxious sounds, hands still pushing him away without strength.

He let his tongue learn the depths of the sinfully sweet mouth that had no right to taste so *good* after more than a day without a toothbrush. He traced his tongue along the rows of teeth Yohji was too out of it to use, tickle the roof of his mouth, tease at the tongue the younger man was apparently trying to swallow to get it away from his.

Then he was guiding the man towards the door. Yohji balked immediately, thoughts too tangled and indistinct for Schuldig to really understand. It probably had more to do with wanting to resist anything the German did, than actual fear of what lay beyond the door, not that it matter; as Yohji was too wasted to do more than be drug wherever Schuldig decided to take him.

Not that he was planning on taking him very far this time. The door to Yohji’s ‘room’ opened into another locked room, this one smaller, and graced with a shower stall and a toilet, each to either side. It wasn’t so small, though, that Schuldig had any difficulty at all maneuvering them both around in it. He put his blond kitty on the toilet seat and quickly stripped off his own clothing.

When he reached for Yohji again, the man shied violently away, almost toppling off the toilet. The older redhead laughed again as he easily caught the man and pulled him across the room to the shower and pushed him in first, crowding him up against the wall. He had to use his body to hold Yohji up, while he turned on the water, the sensation of warm/wet surprising a shocked jolt out of the half-conscious blond as the spray hit them.

Schuldig took his time with the shower and his attempting-to-protest kitten. He trailed his hands over the long-limbed body against his, dragging soap across golden skin. The water and the almost tender ministrations seemed to lull Yohji almost to sleep with the drugs working against him, his head rolled back against the tile, eyes shut, mouth slightly opened. His whole body was relaxed, almost boneless against him. Entirely too tempting to resist.

He let his mouth cover Yohji’s again as his soap-covered hand found the man’s groin. Yohji’s soft moan sent heat racing through him and he redoubled his efforts to awaken more of the unconscious sensuality that practically oozed off the man.

His hands stroked and petted and squeezed the elegant erection growing in his palm as his tongue tormented Yohji’s trying to coax a response from him.

He knew, rationally, that Yohji was drugged and didn’t have any idea what was happening to him. He man responded sluggishly to his caresses and kisses, though, and it was enough to make Schuldig longed desperately to take this further than Crawford had deemed safe.

He guided Yohji carefully down to kneel on the floor of the shower, carding his fingers through the water-darkened hair. He crooned nonsense to his golden godlet as he slowly pressed his erection into that pretty, slack mouth.

Heaven. Hot and slick and sending shivers up his spine. He was careful, so very careful to let Yohji relax into the movement of his cock down his throat. Prior lovers had conditioned the blond *very* well and the beautiful man lazily attempted to tease the length of flesh fucking his mouth with slow sweeps of his tongue.

/Mein Gott!!/ Schuldig thought, heart beating hard, eyes watching Yohji suck his dick with absolutely *no* resistance. Too beautiful, too perfect- he was tempted to let it end this way, but then Yohji might not remember it. And he so wanted Yohji to remember the first time he’d sucked him off.

So he waited, breathing in ever quickening pants, fists clenched full of tangled blond hair, until just before he reached the pinnacle- ~Yohji, look at me!~ he demanded, sharpening the thought so the pain caught all the man’s drugged attention.

Yohji’s eyes snapped open, dark and disgusted and confused and ashamed and Schuldig came, pushing his dick as far down the blond’s throat as he could as he empty himself into the younger man. He held Yohji’s head in place until the last of the aftershocks had faded, even as the man gagged and choked and pushed at his hips.

Then he released him and the blond collapsed backwards on the tile, shivering and gagging and *sobbing* and god, he was *beautiful*. Schuldig knelt and pulled the man into his lap, ignoring Yohji’s struggles. He kissed away the tears and trails of water and fisted the man’s fast fading erection, roughly jerking him off.

Yohji cried out in a strangled voice, trying to curl up, to hide, fumbling hands trying to push the German’s hand away from his helplessly responding flesh. It didn’t take Schuldig long to push the drugged man’s body over the edge of climax and the blond’s cry was more a sob as he came, shuddering as much from the trauma as the orgasm.

Yohji wept brokenly, curling up on the floor of the shower as Schuldig stood and turned off the water. Schuldig hummed in satisfaction as he toweled off and dressed, remembering the feel of pink lips wrapped around his cock and the despair darkening emerald eyes, all to the sound of broken sobs from the shower.

It was the work of a moment to haul the trembling man up and take him back into his ‘room’ after toweling him down quickly. He sat the man down opposite the wall where the destroyed cot was and let him have his little drugged-out hysterics as he moved the cot and all it’s pieces into the bathroom and hauled in a pallet and a couple of blanket and even a pillow. He didn’t want his pretty kitty catching a cold, after all.

Yohji struggled, more effectively this time, due mostly to the earth-shattering thought that Schuldig had just come down his throat, but still useless against the German. Schuldig picked him up and put him down on the new ‘bed’ and even tucked him and kissed his brow as if Yohji wasn’t trying to weakly claw his eyes out and hide under the blankets at the same time.

~I’ll be back tomorrow, kitty-cat. Rest up so we can play some more.~

Yohji screamed then, flailing at him, rage and shame and hatred pouring out of him and Schuldig basked in it. There were no words to Yohji’s screams, no real sense behind them.

Schuldig left him there like that. Yohji pulled at his hair and dragged his nails across his tongue and gagged uselessly. Hating himself for allowing it to happen, for not fighting, for not biting the bastards disgusting dick off! How could he have just let it happen? Being drugged was no excuse! He’d just opened his mouth and let it happen!

His body was wracked by sobs long after he ran out of the energy to move, he’d scored bloody tracks down his arms and face and mouth, glad of the taste of blood to banish the taint of . . . *that*!

It was all so hopeless now- He hugged himself into a tight, shuddering ball, nauseous and dirty and lost in the despair. It didn’t matter if he ever got out of here. All he wanted was to *die* so he wouldn’t have to live with the shame of what he’d done. So he wouldn’t ever have to face Aya and see loathing in violet eyes for the filth he’d become. Aya’d hate him now, no matter if he survived and escaped, he was detestable, weak, contaminated and defiled and foul from that monster’s touch.

Drugs and emotional exhaustion and lingering injuries conspired to pull him down into something to fraught with horror to be sleep. And even in this half-sleep, the tears still came.