As Good as a Drink (March 2007)

...goddamned asshole telling me what to do terrible thing for her to say you don't mean it could be a great weekend party last night and I'm still stoned off my ass and just ruined my outfit I can't believe this is happening to me I wish it would stop by for something to eat maybe some Italian or a nice French wine I'm almost out I can't run out what will I do who will help me help me help me oh god I want to die...

The whispers – not really whispers so much as the thought of whispers – poured through him like liquid agony. He was drowning, drowning in thoughts and voices not his own and though he reached out a hand in supplication, no one sought to rescue him.

He'd always hated Tokyo – the press of people and the mental spaces that crammed together even more closely than bodies in the city streets. In places like New York, people carried with them their own pockets of space, giving him leeway, but not here. Here the collective mind of the city flowed like a river threatening to pull him under.

Usually, he could handle it, but there had been a taste to the air and his mind had blown open…

---

Yohji generally didn't take bottles home. That he didn't have a home meant little.

In fact, Yohji just preferred the atmosphere of the bars: the air, thick with smoke and perfume, nearly a living thing; the music, fading in and out of the background like the memory of a lost love; the patrons, nearly as drunk and downtrodden as himself; and the women. There was no point in keeping a 'home' that would only be used for sleeping when there was always a woman to put him up for the night.

Except on a night like tonight.

Rain sheeted down, a wall of water so dense it was impossible to see his hand stretched out in front of him. Only the lowest of the low ventured into the bars on nights like this – pity-me cases that came to whine about their love life because they didn't have the balls to go home and drunken monsters who would go home all too soon.

Yohji refused to be counted among them. Oh, he was low, that was a certainty, but he had bought into his lowliness, he owned it, and he would be damned if he spent an evening listening to some liquoured up, bloody-knuckled bastard brag to his buddies about how he put the little woman in her place. Yohji had done some vile things in his life, but, as far as he was concerned, men who beat on women to feel big deserved what they got. What they usually got, was him.

Unfortunately, bar owners didn't agree with his methods, nor did the police. So, on the nights too miserable for man, woman, or beast, Yohji took a bottle 'home' to a seedy little apartment building that rented by the month, week, or night and, if business was slow, by the hour.

"Faggot!"

"Freak!"

Yohji was still a block away from the building when the vicious cries reached him. It's none of your business, he told himself, but he hadn't yet succeeded in stifling all of his investigative instincts and these, coupled with a morbid curiosity, drew him in the direction of the noise.

It was closer than he expected. Muffled by the rain, the cries had seemed further off than they were. Yohji approached the alley from which they had drifted and cautiously peered inside. Roof overhangs and fire escapes provided some shelter and neither the rain nor the air was as thick in the alley as on the street. It was so clear, in fact, that Yohji could hear every grunt and kick of the attackers as they assaulted a man sprawled face down on the ground.

As far as Yohji could tell, the man was alive; his ragged breathing could be heard between the grunts and curses of his assailants. None of your business, his good sense insisted, but he didn't quite believe it. Although he had vowed never to use it again, he still wore his watch and its concealed weapon. He released the catch that held the wire inside and stepped into the alley.

"Hey!" he called, waving his bottle to punctuate his exclamation. He realized it wasn't the smartest thing he could do, but he'd be damned if he was leaving the booze behind and he needed his other hand free. "Hey! What do you assholes think you're doing?"

"Fuck off!" the largest one shouted back. "This ain't none of your business!"

Yohji snorted. "Three of you on one man who's half-unconscious? I think I'll make it my business if it's all the same to you."

"As a matter of fact, it isn't," the leader said. "This here faggot stumbled out of a doorway, grabbed me, and tried to ram his motherfucking tongue down my throat."

"You don't fuck mothers with that tongue," one of his companions said.

The first man laughed. "Too right. No mothers being fucked with a tongue like that. And not me either. We're going to teach this homo-boy a lesson about no meaning no and I don't know what a skinny-ass fart like you is going to do about it."

Yohji made a careless gesture with his left hand and then shook his head and sighed. "You know, a little common courtesy never killed anyone. As for what a skinny-assed fart like me is going to do…" He lazily flicked his fingers and drew back hard with his left arm. The gang leader gasped, choked, and grabbed at his neck. "I think I'll strangle you. If you think that's unfair, I could go find eight friends and give you the kind of justice you seem to prefer in these parts."

"Shit!" one of the punks hissed, backing away.

"Okay, okay, we'll go!" the other said, his voice edged with panic. "Just let him go!"

"You've got a count of ten to get out of my sight. Agreed?"

"Agreed! Agreed!"

The leader nodded his acceptance, too afraid to speak. Yohji flicked his wrist again and the wire released its hold. The three men stumbled back down the alley, anxious to be away from him. Yohji heard one of them shout something about a 'crazy fucker' and sighed. The criminal element wasn't what it used to be.

He walked over to the man, who seemed to be struggling to stand. Grabbing his arm, Yohji hauled him to his feet. It was too dark to see anything other than shades of grey, but Yohji could tell by the set of the man's jaw and the line of his nose that he was not the least bit Asian.

Yet he was whispering in Japanese.

"Are you all right?" Yohji said, trying to speak over the litany of words. Was it a prayer? If it was, he was sure he wouldn't recognize it.

The man seemed disoriented, clinging to his rescuer's arm like a lifeline, babbling nonsense. Looking at his hands and the shape of his body, Yohji felt a pang of familiarity, as if they had met once before. It wasn't until the man looked right at him, eyes wide and unseeing, that Yohji recognized him.

"Schuldig!"

"…what are you doing here have some more coffee please black no sugar for you I hate you hate myself to die help me look for it shouldn't be too much longer fuck fuck what are you doing here…"

Only when Yohji recognized the ghost of his own questions in Schuldig's raving did he realize that the man was trapped in a nightmare of thought. How long had Schuldig been like this, he wondered. Not too long if the man's condition was anything to go by. Schuldig was looking pretty damned good for a raving lunatic.

Yohji eyed the bottle in his hand. It was a waste of good liquour as far as he was concerned, but alcohol always stopped his thought process and right now Schuldig looked like he could use the break. Besides, now that he was in the thick of things, Yohji wanted answers more than he wanted oblivion.

He spun the cap off the whiskey and yanked Schuldig's head back, pouring a measure of alcohol down the man's throat, being careful not to let him choke. Schuldig swallowed once and then fought, spilling the whiskey down the front of his jacket and knocking the bottle out of Yohji's hand. It shattered on the ground.

Yohji swore, gave Schuldig a shake, and shoved him up against the wall. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he snarled. "That was a full bottle and that shit ain't cheap!'

It was a stupid thing to say, but since Schuldig couldn't understand him anyway, Yohji figured he should please himself. It certainly helped to relieve frustration. He was about to demand a restitution that would likely never come, when Schuldig managed to catch his head in both hands and kiss him full on the mouth.

Yohji had only a moment to note the chill of Schuldig's skin, the feel of Schuldig's tongue as it pushed its way into his mouth, and the taste of whiskey on Schuldig's breath. It was a perfect moment, poised and balanced on the edge of the universe like a pearl on the head of a pin.

And then the world exploded.

…never home for dinner always late in this weather horrible stuff traffic backed up I'm sorry I'll do better next time try a little harder we'll end up flooded what the fuck is happening here I don't know what you want from me shut up don’t understand what I did do you want are you doing shut up shut up shut up and help me help me help me…

…help me…

…help…

The tide of voices swelled and ebbed within him. Yohji's heart raced in fear and confusion as he tried to push away from Schuldig, to escape the terrible river that threatened to drag him down, but Schuldig was too strong. He clung to Yohji, pulling him closer, reaching beneath his coat and under his shirt, trying to make body contact as much as possible. They stumbled across the alley and Yohji found himself pressed up against the far wall, trapped, struggling uselessly, Schuldig's lips pressed to his in desperation as the black tide of minds began to draw away from the world around them, leaving it wet with thought and slightly eroded.

Or so it seemed to Yohji. The collective mind of Tokyo had filled him and in its passing taken something of him away.

Schuldig stepped back and wiped a hand across the corner of his mouth. "Weiss," he sneered, trying to look composed although he trembled like man in a mild state of shock. "It would have to be one of you, wouldn't it?"

Yohji snorted derisively and realized that he was shaking as well. "That didn't seem to bother you when you had your tongue down my throat," he said ruefully.

"That…was entirely different," Schuldig said. "I needed an anchor."

"Great," said Yohji. "So, what now? Are you looking for a fight?" He had his doubts about that, but he pulled out a length of wire just in case.

It was Schuldig's turn to look incredulous. "Please," he said. "I couldn't care less for lost kittens. Go home to the rest of your litter. Crawford might feel differently when he gets here."

"The rest of my 'litter' is scattered," Yohji said. "Check if you want." He hated the thought of Schuldig rummaging around in his head, but compared to the experience of a million minds pouring into him, it was nothing. His only clue that Schuldig has accepted the invitation was the look of concentration on his face as he verified Yohji's story.

"So, a stray cat then," Schuldig said, looking smug. "It's a good thing I'm not hunting strays at the moment."

"It's a good thing I'm no longer Weiss," Yohji countered. "I could have killed you not two minutes ago."

"True," Schuldig said after a moment's reflection. "Are you expecting a reward?"

"No, just a new bottle of whiskey," Yohji said, nodding toward the broken glass that littered the alley.

To his surprise, Schuldig laughed. "Easy to please," he said. "I like that in man. We could have been friends, Kudoh."

"No," said Yohji. He wanted to rail against the man who had subjected him to telepathic torture, but, at the same time, he knew that Schuldig was the only one who could understand how it felt. "No, never friends. But we might have had a drink."

Schuldig grinned. "Well, sometimes a drink is as good as a fuck."

Yohji was about to disagree, but the strain was beginning to show through Schuldig's mask of good cheer. He was wounded, not physically, but in a way that was perhaps much worse. He thought of the small, cheerless apartment he planned to rent for the night. It would not normally bother him, but the whispers of the telepathic onslaught still echoed in his head.

"You said you needed an anchor," he asked abruptly. "Why? How does it work?"

Schuldig offered nothing but an enigmatic smile, but Yohji stared him down and he gave in.

"On the off-chance that the press of minds becomes too strong," Schuldig explained, gesturing for emphasis, "it helps to find a single mind in the crowd and follow it out, so to speak." He stepped forward and reached out to stroke Yohji's cheek. "Physical contact helps. The more contact, the better."

Yohji refused to flinch. For a moment the whispers faded, replaced by the overwhelming presence of another. And yet, it was formless, hardly as strong as his own sense of being. On Schuldig's face the relief was obvious, although he tried to hide it.

A drink as good as a fuck…

"Just when is Crawford coming by?" Yohji said.

Schuldig let his hand fall and said nothing for several minutes. Then he smiled ruefully. "Tomorrow," he said as if daring Yohji to make something of it.

"Huh. Got someplace to stay?"

Schuldig eyed him skeptically. "Not anymore," he said and shrugged. "But there are always new places to stay."

"Stay with me," Yohji said.

Schuldig laughed, although his voice was shaky, and dismissed Yohji with a wave of his hand. "You would trust me?"

"No," Yohji admitted. "In fact, I think you'd love to take me for everything I have if you get the chance. But I have nothing and you owe me. I don't care what you're doing here and I don't care where you go tomorrow, but, tonight, you owe me."

"Owe you?" Schuldig said, surprised.

"You owe me for the whiskey and for putting these voices in my head."

"The voices will fade."

"I want them gone tonight."

"So, Weiss…little lost kitten," Schuldig said, grinning wolfishly. "What do you propose?"

"A fuck," said Yohji, "that's as good as a drink."

---

He'd always hated Tokyo – the press of people and the mental spaces that crammed together even more closely than bodies – but sometimes, if he tried, he could find an island of calm in the constant bustle of the city.

Tomorrow he would find out where the attack had come from; for now, the voices were gone, replaced by the overwhelming presence of a single entity.

The rain pounded on the rooftops, but beneath them the night was still.

–End–