Mad Dancing ~ The Bolero

Disclaimers: Honestly, if I owned these guys, don't you think I would have inserted this fanfic into the regular TV series instead?

Author: Avium

Rating: (another one of those higher rating fics – gotta love me)

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 3/5

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: Fudge it – I've decided to add 2 more chapter to 'Mad Dancing' after all ^_^;; So it'll be a 5-parter instead of just 3 chapters, or the initial one-shot when I first wrote it. I wonder how much more of my nonsense can people take?

If anything doesn't seem to connect or make sense, don't fret. It'll all fall into place. Eventually.

-@-@-@-@-

It's not that I mind being kept in the dark. For almost 2 years I have worked with Yohji and never knew anything about his former lover except that she was killed while they were on the job. And suddenly, he told us just about everything there was to the girl - Asuka - from their meeting to their last assignment together. Omi had nodded knowingly - I bet he had been snooping around Yohji's files since that tall blonde joined us. Aya… well - he's Aya. He never cared about Yohji's past except when it started to interfere with his work. I doubt Aya would have batted an eyelid at Yohji's past unless the latter owned a soy sauce empire and burnt crisp bank notes for fun.

Then there was the whole ruse about Omi's past as Mamoru. Fucking damn, but no one told me anything, and to think that I was the second member to join Weiß after him. I only learnt about it after receiving the mission files on the kidnappers at the same time as the rest of the team did. So much for having spent quality time with our genki little florist.

So I guess you can say that I'm used to being the last one to get to know anything - probably because it looks easy to hide everything away from me.

But how was I to know that Schwarz meant it literally when they talked about keeping me in the dark?

They had left me in the same room that I was brought back to, but Crawford had insisted that they blindfolded me so that I would not be able to spring a surprise attack on them when they come in, since they are unable to monitor my actions through the camera anymore. He came in that day with the little psychokinetic in tow, and having ordered the boy to restrain me, tied the black strip of cloth over my eyes.

I had seen the young Japanese - Naoe Nagi - just before my line of vision was obscured by the fabric. I had taken his charming orphanage Sister from him a year ago, and I could never forget the spiteful Spinel-blue eyes glaring at me in utter contempt, especially when they were boring into me at that moment. I didn't have to be able to read minds to know that he had probably mentioned to Crawford the possibility of killing me straightaway instead of securing me like a kidnap victim.

I wonder what Crawford had said to that statement…?

I did not fight back, not because Nagi was there. But because when the dead knot was tied, familiar fingers had tangled themselves in my hair; they ran through my unruly locks and caressed gently for the briefest of moments before Crawford rose to his feet and walked away.

And turned the lights in the room off too, the bastard.

I have no means of telling time in that dark little cell. There are no ticking clocks to let me guess the amount of time that have elapsed; there are no windows for sunlight and moonbeams to seep through and heat or chill my skin so that I may at least guess the number of days that has passed. All that I have with me at this time are my healing injuries - a slow burning sensation as they seal off naturally.

That is all that I know about. Concepts of time are long lost to me; senses are dulled by a lack of stimulants; and the deliberately cruel touches as my wounds are cleaned and my body splashed with icy cold liquid are the only things left for my brain to process.

That had better not been you, Brad Crawford.

But then again, there is no telling who it is that cares so much and yet so little at the same time...

I curl up into foetal position, resisting the urge to wince in pain at my old wounds. This place is the same whether during daytime or the night - always silent until a commotion is stirred up out of the blue by either the German or the madman. There will be some bickering, a few harsh words exchanged and maybe a bit of a fistfight. But as soon as it begins, it will end.

It's a little like back at home.

… I'm cold.

-@-@-@-@-

"I understand, Crawford."

Good – that is all that I ask of you, Nagi. And thank you for your offer to put the surveillance camera together, but that Hidaka is too weak to even put up a token of resistance, let alone formulate grand escape plans – we can manage without it.

There is so much that I have to account for after we brought you back, Ken. Not only have I to watch that Schuldich doesn't set Farfarello on you again, I now find myself having to explain my actions to the youngest member of Schwarz – Nagi. It feels ridiculous at this moment – it is akin to a father having to explain his own decisions to his son.

I don't like my actions to be questioned. Not by you, nor Schwarz. I answer only to myself.

That's why I lay in bed, chiding myself night after night and wondering which spirit of insanity it was that had possessed me into practically kidnapping you. But I know berating myself is of little use – what is done has been done.

Wretched Fate.

But you won't know about it, of course. I will not allow myself to doubt my decisions openly, and neither will I allow anyone else to doubt them. If I had brought you back here, then I must have done it for some reason… perhaps for something yet to happen.

It'll fall into place, this little turn of events.

Eventually.

Because I am Brad Crawford of Schwarz. I am incapable of errant judgements. All my actions will explain for themselves in time to come.

I will not tolerate any more errors – neither on my part nor yours. So as long as you cooperate with me, Ken, I can assure your safe departure from this place.

The stack of paperwork on my desk seems to be multiplying by itself. Only yesterday did I have to bail Schuldich out for going over the legal speed limit for the 5th time this year, and what word of thanks had I received from him? A smirk and a, "I bet you would have done it for the kitten too."

Then there's Nagi – the legal guardianship that I've been applying for was rejected yet again for some strange reason. I thought I had Nagi to hack into the database to make sure that everything checks out fine, but apparently the kid isn't listening to me as much as he should.

Don't get me started on Farfarello.

…

Why are you trying to eat the doorknob now?

-@-@-@-@-

Sometime between today and forever, someone had forgotten to close the door to the disco in my head and the bouncers are on strike, leaving all the scumbags of the streets free to enter the club. It's not quite a pain – I know more than enough as to what pain feels like. It's just this dull, throbbing pulse rocking my head back and forth and blurring my vision.

I mean; if I can actually see the black fabric in front of my eyes dancing around, that has to be bad news, right?

Right.

Then there are these little waves of heat running up and down my spine; coming to concentrate at the back of my skull. I suppose I have managed to catch a chill after all despite my strong bodily resistance. Who won't, after being left half-naked in an empty room isolated from the central heating? And the cold baths probably share some of the responsibility as well.

One hand tries to reach up to my throat and scratch at the rigid column of flesh. The urge to tear away the burning sensation locked within my throat is threatening to eat me alive, but with wrists bound together there is very little I can do. Considering the fact that I've been a model prisoner for the past few… days, you will think that Schwarz will treat me a little better.

Remind me to flay them alive if the roles switch around, okay?

And Crawford… I suppose it must have been him taking care of me for the past few times, because it damn well doesn't seem likely that his henchmen have suddenly decided to treat their mortal enemy decently. Except for the ridiculously icy scrubbings and harsh bandaging of wounds.

… Definitely remind me to take revenge for the blindfold. How the heck do they expect me to see my caretaker?

Oh, yeah – that *is* the whole point. I am not supposed to be able to see them and attack them – DUH! Someone must have swapped their brains for donuts: how in hell do they expect me to attack them with my hands tied to my back in the first place?

Shuffling to my feet unsteadily, I lean against the wall and begin to pad along the perimeters of the room. I know it will be pretty useless to try and escape through the door, since I heard it being locked the last time it was opened. But I just want to lean up against it.

So maybe… I can hear when someone comes in for me. It's perhaps my own source of comfort – that I will no longer be alone in the dark.

It's pretty easy to tell the door apart from the wall. For one thing, it's made out of wood. For another, there is this protruding part called a 'doorknob' sticking out of it. I walk right into it, oblivious.

Oh my Jesus FUCKING Christ! That fucking HURTS!

As I double over from having painfully jammed my hip into the metal doorknob, I slide forward and my mouth awkwardly meets the doorknob.

… Ow.

The best part comes when the door finally decides to open from the other side and swing right into me.

-@-@-@-@-

I'm quite sure that we don't starve you to the extent that you have to eat the doorknob, Ken. So will you be so kind as to explain to me why you are trying to eat my perfectly good doorknob?

From you I hear no answers, and for the tiniest of moments I am worried that you are suffering from a relapse of your concussion after the door met your face. I reach for the light switch that is located outside the room and instantly your cell becomes a blinding white, invoking me to raise my hand over my eyes hurriedly, least I go blind.

I hear a gasp escaping you as the light rushes over your skin; watch you as you shiver and press yourself against the wall as if you are trying to escape from the light. I understand, of course – we have been keeping you in the dark for over a fortnight and the corridor itself is poorly lit. I was once told what this response is called – light starvation. Victims of such a disorder will find themselves disoriented and extremely sensitive to brightness for at least the next few hours until their senses begin to work normally again, having been used to groping in the dark the whole time.

I have not actually seen you clearly the entire time, Ken.

This is not my usual time for coming in to see to your needs, Ken. It'll make the others suspicious.

Why do you keep trying to push me into doing things that betray my basic character?

The door clicks shut behind me and I move to the other end of the room. I turn to watch you – a trembling little mammal, panting and gasping as if you have just ran for 20 miles without stopping. With a large predator pursuing you during that period no less…

"What were you doing at the door?" The next moment I am biting my lips again, silently admonishing myself for not being able to contain my curiosity. You finally turn towards me, body still shaking as you tilt your head in my direction.

"I wanted to know if anyone was coming…" An unhurried, dry swallow, "So that I can get a drink of water."

I wish you would stop being so honest, Ken. It sickens me to death.

Mouthing a curse under my breath, I reach for the small flask of brandy that I keep in my pocket. I wonder if it is a good idea to let you consume alcohol, considering that you've yet to ingest a proper meal today. But I know that if I am to go to the kitchen to get you what you asked for, I will have to deal with Nagi's glares. He's taken to studying in the kitchen after we placed you here – right next to his room…

I swirl the liquid around the flask lightly, the noise strangely audible within the confines of this room. Liquid in the voice-stealing desert.

Well, Ken. I do have something for you to drink. But you've got to come over and get it.

-@-@-@-@-

Bastard.

You know that I can hardly make out the size of this room in my feverish state, let alone walk over to you to get a sip of water. But you still insist on making me do just that.

I drag myself to my feet, growling as I finally place my body weight on my soles. The fever has left me weak and light-headed, and walking is a task best left to Hercules to perform now. But I need the water, and you're being a stupid asshole. So I have to get over to you. Crawl, stumble or run over you don't seem to care – as long as you can make me walk towards *you*.

I used to think that asking a drunken man to walk in a straight line was funny, especially when I once bet with Aya that Yohji won't be able to do that. The said man failed by falling smack on top of our fearless leader during that challenge which he took up most eagerly, and I got the next day off. Aya still insists that it's a fluke, of course, saying that Yohji could have done it if I didn't have my football so near the invisible straight line.

Today, I am not drunk, but I walk in a strange, feet criss-crossing fashion.

Today, there is no football, but I still stumble and fall.

Today, unlike on that day, there is no one to cushion my impact against the chilly concrete.

An angry grunt escapes me as I make facial contact with the floor. I can laugh off the jokes that people thrust onto me at my expenses, but in front of you… don't you think that I've lost enough already, Crawford? What is this ridicule worth to you – a plaster over your wounded pride? For having shredded tears in front of me?

Firm hands come around my shoulders and jerk me into a kneeling posture. I can hear a bottle cap being unscrewed, and I lean closer to the source of the noise. Next I can feel your hand latching under my chin and tilting my head upwards as you tip the bottle against my lips. The fiery liquid rushes over my lips and into my mouth, choking me with their unnatural heat.

That is not water, is it, Crawford?

Bittersweet burning fire – clawing its ways over my tongue and down my throat. It only worsens my thirst and stokes the fire already burning in the pits of my stomach. I try to close my lips against the torrent of liquid, but your hand keeps them firmly apart until the bottle empties.

A noisy clang as the tin flask is tossed across the room and strikes the wall.

"I hate you."

I can feel your warm breathes washing over my burning lips as the declaration is formed. Then stern, angry hands coming around the back of my head and struggling with the knot of my blindfold before it is rudely removed.

Blinded by the light.

-@-@-@-@-

I watch those dazed turquoises blink rapidly as they become exposed to the glare. He is trying to keep his eyes shut, but his control over his muscles are evidently slipping. As soon as those eyelids flutter shut they leap open wide again – errant and unpredictable muscle movements.

Like a broken toy.

His arms are struggling against the bonds that hold him, and in a gesture of overwhelming generosity I reach over and begin to carefully undo the ropes binding his wrists together.

He collapses against me yet again when freed. I can feel the twitching of his muscles; I can feel the burning sensation conveyed in each painful flexing.

I grasp him by his face and pull him up close to my own, glaring right into those darting turquoises with my own dark amber ones.

Do you hear me, Ken? I hate you.

I am full of contempt for you; full of contempt against you.

A frustrated growl slips past your lips as you struggle weakly against my tight hold over you. Your eyes continue to betray your weakened state as your hands fasten over my wrists and begin to clutch feebly at them.

You want to know why I am doing all these to you?

It's because I hate you, Ken.

I HATE you.

That's why I scare myself when I suddenly drag you into my arms and crush you in a painfully choking embrace. When your hands still continue to pound against my chest dully. When your lips are shoved against mine and dancing that slow, lazy dance…

Lord, I so fucking hate you, Ken.

-@-@-@-@-

I am not quite sure what is that shit that Crawford gave me. I have only 2 hints to work with so far – it burns when it goes down my throat, and it tastes like crap.

It can only be alcohol – the best cure for liver cancer by burning the entire organ away.

Now, I may not touch that stuff much, but I know enough to realise that consuming something like that on an empty stomach is going to get you sloshed double-quick. There's nothing quite like getting drunk when your senses are already shot by your fever. The best thing to do in such a situation is to find someplace warm and lie down to sleep away the throbbing headache.

The only source of warmth in this entire place is in his arms.

It's can also be found against his lips.

And… yeah, that familiar, hot hardness I find pressing into my stomach when I lean against him.

Why do you want me so much, Crawford, when you say time and again that you hate me so?

From you I can get no answers. All that there is left to feel is the heat from you – reassuring warmth from another human being. Granted, you have as much of a chance of being a human as a lawyer, and you declare your loathing of me aloud every single time we are alone.

So why do you want me so much?

How can you still want me? Now?

Your white clothes blend in perfectly with the whiteness of the room – like a chameleon trying to melt into the surroundings. All this white is blinding me, Crawford. And the heat… Christ, all these heat…

The red heat seeps in from all over – sometimes from my head, sometimes from your arms. At times, I can't even tell where the dull burning is coming from. Perhaps it is because of this lip-lock that we are now in – I am so caught up in the taste of you; the sensations of you – that I can no longer tell my desires apart from my needs.

My hand goes for the zipper that I know is always there, and finally catching it between my fingers, begin to pull at it.

The only sound left, as far as I can tell, is that overpowering metallic sound of each tooth in the zipper coming apart. Slowly, seductively…

Your hand, clammy with sweat, falls over mine accidentally as you reach for the buckle of your belt, and after undoing it; tosses it aside carelessly. It hits the floor with a single clang, and then the room is silent again, except for the sound of your breathing and mine.

Harsh.

Angry.

Loud.

Breathless.

-@-@-@-@-

This is madness. I am being consumed by the devil; I am going to waste when I am with you.

The dance should have ended a fortnight ago. When I told myself that it would be the last time I am allowing myself to get so close to you. Now I know why I am trying to impose such a rule on myself.

Because with you, I am lost.

Your hands are trailing over me, touching with familiar intimacy. I hate that feeling of closeness that we share together – it reminds me of exactly how weak I become around you when I am forced to throw aside my façade.

You are destroying me, Ken. Not just me, but everything that I stand for.

I hate you.

But don't stop now.

I like that feeling as much as the rational side of myself tries to deny it – your hands over me, firmly stroking and tugging, feeling and enticing. Contemptuous lies, I tell myself again and again: that is what my feelings are towards you. It's just the physical closeness that I am so obsessed over when it comes to you – the completion of the union. Do I sound too cliché when I say it feels a bit like crashing down into the flames of the underworld and suddenly touching the very first clouds of the sky the next moment when we are together like this? I guess it does.

But don't stop now.

It strikes me on how shockingly cold the room is when you have pulled my pants halfway down my thighs and are now holding me down firmly. I take the chance to check on myself, and am startled to find that I am now flat against the ground, propped up only by my elbows as you position yourself between my legs. For the longest time you do nothing and instead stare at me with those eyes of yours – volatile, tempting and…

Fuck.

-@-@-@-@-

How does that feel, Brad Crawford?

… You can't think clearly anymore, can you?

Good – because I hate it when you think too much; when you spend your time being that cold, calculative prick instead of paying attention to those around you.

Or in this case, yourself: you never seem to pay attention to yourself. It explains why you are always so out of touch with your own body – its reactions, its sensitivities, and its hunger.

You have always been an insatiable monster, Brad Crawford. Your thirst for power and your ambition easily put to shame a whole historical line of dictators. Your craving for adulations and respect make you blind to the number of innocent people that you have to crush underfoot or even annihilate to get where you want to go.

Yet you don't seem to acknowledge the desires of your body – its wants and needs…

So it is really so hard to accept the fact that you can want and desire like any normal human being, Crawford? I seriously doubt I can make you gasp any louder than you just did when I took all of you inside my mouth; when I have you displaying your lustful nature openly.

Don't try to cover your face now – I want to see all of you.

I want to see you wanting this.

Wanting…

Just wanting.

-@-@-@-@-

How can there exist such a heat within a single human body? It burns so thrillingly and slowly one moment, and then seethes and tears at bones the next.

Are you feverish, I wonder? Or am I the one that is delirious?

Because this feels like a dream; like a nightmare where I have no control over myself. A paralysing need for such base needs.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you… I hate myself.

Why does your tongue seem to burn into my flesh and mark me in a demonic fashion? I think I know the name to these sensations: it is called pleasure. It's a feeling that I try to avoid because it makes me incapable of functioning properly as a leader, because it makes me weak.

That's why I hate you for making me fall, Ken. What was it that attracted me to you right from the start? Your almost laughable sense of justice? The far and few glimpses of the innocence in your eyes? Or was it just that I opened up to you for no reason?

No, there had to be a reason… But I can't think when you are so intent on bringing me to the plateau that I don't want to reach.

Because I am scared of the sharp fall that follows each time I reach that pinnacle.

Rougher, harder, more demanding… Your nails are cutting into the skin along the inside of my thighs, marking them with small red crescents. I don't know if the liquid I feel pooling around your fingers is my blood or just sweat.

I force my elbows into position under myself so I can push myself up – to watch you and try to read your expression. Fierce concentration – that is all I can make out from your knitted eyebrows and closed eyes. Dare you not look at me?

There is no moment of greater shame then when I feel myself approaching that point of no return, uttering that sharp, unbecoming gasp and finally spilling myself into you while you still persistently continue drinking that bitter essence.

Why? Why are you doing all these?

-@-@-@-@-

This is not the first time that I've tasted you, but the flavour is so alien to me that I am bewildered as to how I can accept such an exotic, warm liquid as it slips down my throat and runs right down into the core of my being – where all the heat had gathered.

The wet stickiness coating the inside of my mouth seems a stark contrast to the sheer reality of the situation. Against my own heavy breaths I can hear your deeper, sharper ones – drawn rapidly and hungrily as you always do whenever you want to recover from the act immediately. It's not humanly possible, of course. I prove it by slowly climbing over that heaving form and hovering above, our faces only inches apart.

Those pools of amber are blurred under your fogged up glasses – perhaps you mean that to happen so that I cannot see you clearly. But it's alright, Crawford.

Because what your face hasn't shown, your body had already betrayed.

You are shifting again; you are trying to lift yourself off the floor and out of that submissive posture. That dizzying heat returns the moment your chest meets with mine, and as I lose my balance I fall against you gasping at the returning fever.

Is that reality, or am I building castles in the air again when I feel your lips crushing against mine in a desperate open-mouthed kiss?

… It must be the real world. In fantasies, there are no painful spectacle frames to poke into your cheek. Such a crude reminder of the realness of the situation that we are in. We are no longer holding back – we are just feeling, tasting and sensing each other…

Can you accept this, Crawford? This sweet bitterness that I have savoured so clearly only moments ago?

"Well, well, well – Looks like someone has been feeding the kitten properly after all…"

… I guess not.

-@-@-@-@-

The real world bites.

Just when I am drowning in this fatal art, just when I think I have finally found a moment of peace, Fate rudely enters the scene in the form of a telepathic German.

I try to maintain my composure as I roughly shove him off, dignity lost as I struggle with my disobedient pants before the zipper is finally pulled back up. All I know is that I am angry at this disturbance, and a maybe just a little upset at being spied on by my own subordinate.

"Schuldich… How long have you been standing there for?"

A flippant tone addresses the question, "Long enough to see that the kitten has gotten some cream."

He is standing so calmly and casually at the doorway: his back against the doorframe and one foot shoved against the opposite side… I cannot accept how he is glaring at me, those deep blue Tanzanites boring into me… then shifting over to Ken.

I swear by God: it is an automatic reaction as I shift myself over to shield Ken from his gaze.

Even with the distance between you and me, Ken, I can feel the heat from you burning into me…

::Which devil possessed you into doing such a thing, Brad?:: A tinge of hurt and disgust.

Lord help me, for I wish I knew…

~ End chapter 3

-@-@-@-@-

Author's notes: Schuldich is not a voyeur, because that would make me one as well. Don't ask.

Ken's seme tendencies are showing. Hmmmm…

Further chapters will appear as and when I am inspired to write them.