And there, like the flash of a lighthouse in the distance, was something calling him back. The contact between himself and Yohji - there was nothing whatsoever romantic in the fact that it allowed him to stabilize, just a little bit; all that mattered was that, in the touch, there was someone else feeling the exact same contact he was. That narrowed the thoughts that could be his down to two minds, his own and Yohji's, and as he dragged himself back into his own head something like awareness returned to his eyes.
Shame. It was intense, and loathsome as it was it was another identifier of his own thoughts - he hadn't broken down since Rosenkreuz, never in front of an enemy, and the thought of being seen like this, of having it made so inescapably clear how precariously he balanced on the edge of the catastrophe curve, burned like a sun.
It was the first time he'd actually felt shame of any sort in a long while, and he dropped his eyes. He wasn't sure what was worse, losing his sense of self or being pitied - it would help if one didn't tend to lead to the other.
He was hardly stable yet - he was still swimming against the tide - but he'd managed to find a few threads to cling to. Provided none of them broke, he might still be able to claw his way back to balance if not dignity.
"Asuka," he tried, then swore colorfully. No. He kept a tighter grip on himself this time, refused to be thrown - given how damned much Yohji brooded over her there was no shame in saying her name when he meant another. "Crawford," he tried again, more emphatically.
For perhaps the hundredth time, Schuldig wondered where the hell the bastard was. He'd always been there before when the German needed him, if only because Crawford always knew when exactly he would be needed.
Then, as if to welcome him back, the headache hit, so powerful that Schuldig shuddered and retched before groaning and trying to curl up on himself. "No fair," he muttered. Then, with an effort, managed, "Get one of those vapid cunts to bring me aspirin."
Given the situation, he damned well thought crudity was appropriate. Then, with considerable relief, embraced the fact that he thought.
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Shame. It was intense, and loathsome as it was it was another identifier of his own thoughts - he hadn't broken down since Rosenkreuz, never in front of an enemy, and the thought of being seen like this, of having it made so inescapably clear how precariously he balanced on the edge of the catastrophe curve, burned like a sun.
It was the first time he'd actually felt shame of any sort in a long while, and he dropped his eyes. He wasn't sure what was worse, losing his sense of self or being pitied - it would help if one didn't tend to lead to the other.
He was hardly stable yet - he was still swimming against the tide - but he'd managed to find a few threads to cling to. Provided none of them broke, he might still be able to claw his way back to balance
if not dignity."Asuka," he tried, then swore colorfully. No. He kept a tighter grip on himself this time, refused to be thrown - given how damned much Yohji brooded over her there was no shame in saying her name when he meant another. "Crawford," he tried again, more emphatically.
For perhaps the hundredth time, Schuldig wondered where the hell the bastard was. He'd always been there before when the German needed him, if only because Crawford always knew when exactly he would be needed.
Then, as if to welcome him back, the headache hit, so powerful that Schuldig shuddered and retched before groaning and trying to curl up on himself. "No fair," he muttered. Then, with an effort, managed, "Get one of those vapid cunts to bring me aspirin."
Given the situation, he damned well thought crudity was appropriate. Then, with considerable relief, embraced the fact that he thought.