[Fic] Winter Frost
Title: Winter Frost
Pairing: If you can guess, you get a cookie.
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Notes: I wrote this while listening to the orchestra version of Love In the Ice, from the Classical Tohoshinki thing? You should also listen to that while reading it, I think. :3
Inspiration: [Click me.]
Disclaimer: It's cold here, but that doesn't mean I run with the idols.
It's cold out today. The windows are opaque on nearly every car I pass as I make my way to work, hands buried deep into the pockets of the warm parka over my suit. The fur-lined hood would keep me warmer, but I prefer to be able to see easier; frigid wind whips past my ears, turning them red to match my cheeks, but still I grin as I side-step small piles of snow on the sidewalk.
The coldness is worth the ability to see the sunlight sparkling against patches of ice and wind-tossed snowflakes.
A man is struggling with his car in the early morning chill; annoyed, he swears as he scrapes glittering frost from his windshield. The car is already running, the heater inside working to melt away the delicate patterns swirled across the rear window. I pause, and I can feel my face folding into a frown at the loss of such a beautiful thing. Reminding myself that it wouldn't have lasted long anyway, I give the man a small smile and continue on my way.
Before I turn the corner, I look back. He's still working away at the thin ice that obscures his windows, and even from this distance, I can see the small puffs of breaths that carry curses.
Sometimes, it saddens me. How so few people can see the beauty in things. I pause once more as I come across a car at a stoplight, its windows only half-scraped, I suppose, for the sake of expediency. The formations in the frost are peculiar, and before the light can change and the car can escape me, I fumble for my phone to take a picture.
With numb fingers, I send it to him. This reminds me of you. Have a good day.
An hour later, the reply comes. I've already reached the office, and begun my day's worth of tedious work when the phone buzzes; even though I'm in the middle of typing up a report that's been passed on to me, I reach for the phone and read the message.
You see me in everything. I shouldn't be surprised.
The response is everything I expected. He's not one to spare feelings or mince words. I smile, and almost miss when the screen changes and moves to the bottom of the message. Tacked onto the end, just before his name, are two words.
You too.
Those two words mean a lot to me.
Work is what it's always been. My job doesn't require much of me, mentally, and my mind roams as my fingers tap the keys, writing out someone else's words because the world is full of lazy people who won't do it themselves. Not that I'm one to complain about it; my job depends on such lazy people. Still, my thoughts wander in circles, creating their own ideas, and eventually circling back to him.
This is how the day always goes.
It isn't until four in the afternoon that something out of the ordinary happens. Once more, the phone goes off, and once more, I reach for it. I've only two hours until I can go home, something I spend all day looking forward to. Fingers pause on the keyboard, and I find myself frowning at the mobile in my hand; he's calling. He never calls during my work hours. It takes me another second before realising that he really shouldn't be calling right now. He's supposed to be in his English class, the last of his courses for the day before he heads home from the university.
I answer the call.
"Hello?"
There's a thump, and I swear I can hear a voice that doesn't belong to him before the line goes dead. Frown deepening, I end the call from my side as well and stare at the phone, wondering what is going on and trying to decide whether I should call him back. I'm about to do so when I get the text message.
Forgot to lock my keyboard. Seems my pocket wanted to talk to you. See you at home.
It takes me all of five seconds to decide he's lying. However, as I'm at work and he's not my child, there's nothing I can do at the moment. Distractedly, I turn back to my keyboard and try to finish what I'm meant to be doing.
The last two hours of work drag on endlessly. My fingers may be busily flying over the keyboard, but my mind is busy dissecting his text message, trying to find any indication that I should be as worried as I am. The 'see you at home' is comforting enough that I don't feel as if something too terrible has happened, but... He's a man that seems to never make mistakes. And the voice on the other end of the line hadn't sounded happy.
I pull my hood up over my head on the way home. The wind's gotten colder, and the sun's almost all the way down now. The whipped up snow no longer sparkles as it flits about, just leaves cold pinpricks along exposed skin. It's quiet in our neighbourhood, but I can't find the lack of sound as comforting as usual as I curl further into myself and hurry towards home. Dark quiet reminds me of him, and my worry deepens.
Our apartment is on the third floor, and I take the steps faster than I should, considering my shoes are damp and slippery. I almost fall more than once, but the railing keeps me up. Even before I reach the door, my fingers are fumbling with my keys, and I have to take a second to calm myself before I open the door. It's quiet inside, but the lights are on, and I can hear the television on in the living room. I take a breath, and slowly work at removing my coat and shoes. His are already here, tossed haphazardly.
This worries me. He's the neater of us, and always terribly pointed about making things at least look tidy. There's snow melting off of his canvas sneakers, which I told him not to wear in the snow, and his jacket is damp all over.
He's in the living room, curled up on the couch. He doesn't move as I approach, but I can see his feet. He's too tall for our couch, and his legs arch up over the armrest, bare feet dangling above the table placed next to it. Tentatively, I lean over the back; he's curled up on his side, eyes closed, lips parted slightly as his chest moves in and out with calm, silent breaths. He's sleeping.
He's also very obviously beaten up.
The bruise across his cheekbone looks the worst. The skin's split open in a spot, but the small cut's long since stopped bleeding, and he's obviously washed his face as the expected blood isn't there. There's already a dark circle around his left eye, his bottom lip is swollen, and his right hand seems to be twice its normal size. I find myself vaguely pleased that he at least fought back, yet also displeased because it looks as if he's broken his hand.
With a sigh, I lean down and gently kiss that little cut on his cheek, and his brown eyes flutter open at the touch.
"How many this time?" It's a question I'm used to asking now. This has happened at least half a dozen times since he started at the university, mostly for the same reason every time. He sits up and stretches, wincing slightly at the stretch in his muscles, and I slip toward the bathroom to fetch the little first aid kit that we make a point of keeping now.
"Five," he calls, and I can hear the scratchiness of his voice even through the wall. "I think."
It's not as bad this time as it was last time, though we fight a little over going to the hospital for his hand. I wrap it carefully, watching his face as he flinches, and he swallows painkillers without comment. His face is going to look like hell in the morning, which I inform him of with a soft smile. He smiles, his swollen lip making the expression a little odd, and replies that he knows.
"You'll still love me though."
Sometimes it worries me, that that seems to be the only thing that matters to him.
His fight this time was, once again, because he's too honest. The fact that he refuses to hide the fact that we're together, that all the girls want him despite that, and that even with his sexuality he's better at most physical things than the other guys his age. And he's smarter than most of them, as well. I know his life would be easier if he didn't acknowledge our relationship while in university. I've told him he doesn't have to. But still, he refuses to lie about it.
He states his relationship status as a quiet, flat, indisputable fact. Girls call him cold, and hateful, and say he's a liar. He's close with only a handful of people at his university. His emotions are difficult to figure out, he hides them so well. Every day I remind myself that this is the man I've decided to spend my life with.
The boy that reminds me of winter frost.
I didn't mean for who they are to remain a mystery all the way through, but it worked out that way. I wonder if people can guess?
Pairing: If you can guess, you get a cookie.
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Notes: I wrote this while listening to the orchestra version of Love In the Ice, from the Classical Tohoshinki thing? You should also listen to that while reading it, I think. :3
Inspiration: [Click me.]
Disclaimer: It's cold here, but that doesn't mean I run with the idols.
It's cold out today. The windows are opaque on nearly every car I pass as I make my way to work, hands buried deep into the pockets of the warm parka over my suit. The fur-lined hood would keep me warmer, but I prefer to be able to see easier; frigid wind whips past my ears, turning them red to match my cheeks, but still I grin as I side-step small piles of snow on the sidewalk.
The coldness is worth the ability to see the sunlight sparkling against patches of ice and wind-tossed snowflakes.
A man is struggling with his car in the early morning chill; annoyed, he swears as he scrapes glittering frost from his windshield. The car is already running, the heater inside working to melt away the delicate patterns swirled across the rear window. I pause, and I can feel my face folding into a frown at the loss of such a beautiful thing. Reminding myself that it wouldn't have lasted long anyway, I give the man a small smile and continue on my way.
Before I turn the corner, I look back. He's still working away at the thin ice that obscures his windows, and even from this distance, I can see the small puffs of breaths that carry curses.
Sometimes, it saddens me. How so few people can see the beauty in things. I pause once more as I come across a car at a stoplight, its windows only half-scraped, I suppose, for the sake of expediency. The formations in the frost are peculiar, and before the light can change and the car can escape me, I fumble for my phone to take a picture.
With numb fingers, I send it to him. This reminds me of you. Have a good day.
An hour later, the reply comes. I've already reached the office, and begun my day's worth of tedious work when the phone buzzes; even though I'm in the middle of typing up a report that's been passed on to me, I reach for the phone and read the message.
You see me in everything. I shouldn't be surprised.
The response is everything I expected. He's not one to spare feelings or mince words. I smile, and almost miss when the screen changes and moves to the bottom of the message. Tacked onto the end, just before his name, are two words.
You too.
Those two words mean a lot to me.
Work is what it's always been. My job doesn't require much of me, mentally, and my mind roams as my fingers tap the keys, writing out someone else's words because the world is full of lazy people who won't do it themselves. Not that I'm one to complain about it; my job depends on such lazy people. Still, my thoughts wander in circles, creating their own ideas, and eventually circling back to him.
This is how the day always goes.
It isn't until four in the afternoon that something out of the ordinary happens. Once more, the phone goes off, and once more, I reach for it. I've only two hours until I can go home, something I spend all day looking forward to. Fingers pause on the keyboard, and I find myself frowning at the mobile in my hand; he's calling. He never calls during my work hours. It takes me another second before realising that he really shouldn't be calling right now. He's supposed to be in his English class, the last of his courses for the day before he heads home from the university.
I answer the call.
"Hello?"
There's a thump, and I swear I can hear a voice that doesn't belong to him before the line goes dead. Frown deepening, I end the call from my side as well and stare at the phone, wondering what is going on and trying to decide whether I should call him back. I'm about to do so when I get the text message.
Forgot to lock my keyboard. Seems my pocket wanted to talk to you. See you at home.
It takes me all of five seconds to decide he's lying. However, as I'm at work and he's not my child, there's nothing I can do at the moment. Distractedly, I turn back to my keyboard and try to finish what I'm meant to be doing.
The last two hours of work drag on endlessly. My fingers may be busily flying over the keyboard, but my mind is busy dissecting his text message, trying to find any indication that I should be as worried as I am. The 'see you at home' is comforting enough that I don't feel as if something too terrible has happened, but... He's a man that seems to never make mistakes. And the voice on the other end of the line hadn't sounded happy.
I pull my hood up over my head on the way home. The wind's gotten colder, and the sun's almost all the way down now. The whipped up snow no longer sparkles as it flits about, just leaves cold pinpricks along exposed skin. It's quiet in our neighbourhood, but I can't find the lack of sound as comforting as usual as I curl further into myself and hurry towards home. Dark quiet reminds me of him, and my worry deepens.
Our apartment is on the third floor, and I take the steps faster than I should, considering my shoes are damp and slippery. I almost fall more than once, but the railing keeps me up. Even before I reach the door, my fingers are fumbling with my keys, and I have to take a second to calm myself before I open the door. It's quiet inside, but the lights are on, and I can hear the television on in the living room. I take a breath, and slowly work at removing my coat and shoes. His are already here, tossed haphazardly.
This worries me. He's the neater of us, and always terribly pointed about making things at least look tidy. There's snow melting off of his canvas sneakers, which I told him not to wear in the snow, and his jacket is damp all over.
He's in the living room, curled up on the couch. He doesn't move as I approach, but I can see his feet. He's too tall for our couch, and his legs arch up over the armrest, bare feet dangling above the table placed next to it. Tentatively, I lean over the back; he's curled up on his side, eyes closed, lips parted slightly as his chest moves in and out with calm, silent breaths. He's sleeping.
He's also very obviously beaten up.
The bruise across his cheekbone looks the worst. The skin's split open in a spot, but the small cut's long since stopped bleeding, and he's obviously washed his face as the expected blood isn't there. There's already a dark circle around his left eye, his bottom lip is swollen, and his right hand seems to be twice its normal size. I find myself vaguely pleased that he at least fought back, yet also displeased because it looks as if he's broken his hand.
With a sigh, I lean down and gently kiss that little cut on his cheek, and his brown eyes flutter open at the touch.
"How many this time?" It's a question I'm used to asking now. This has happened at least half a dozen times since he started at the university, mostly for the same reason every time. He sits up and stretches, wincing slightly at the stretch in his muscles, and I slip toward the bathroom to fetch the little first aid kit that we make a point of keeping now.
"Five," he calls, and I can hear the scratchiness of his voice even through the wall. "I think."
It's not as bad this time as it was last time, though we fight a little over going to the hospital for his hand. I wrap it carefully, watching his face as he flinches, and he swallows painkillers without comment. His face is going to look like hell in the morning, which I inform him of with a soft smile. He smiles, his swollen lip making the expression a little odd, and replies that he knows.
"You'll still love me though."
Sometimes it worries me, that that seems to be the only thing that matters to him.
His fight this time was, once again, because he's too honest. The fact that he refuses to hide the fact that we're together, that all the girls want him despite that, and that even with his sexuality he's better at most physical things than the other guys his age. And he's smarter than most of them, as well. I know his life would be easier if he didn't acknowledge our relationship while in university. I've told him he doesn't have to. But still, he refuses to lie about it.
He states his relationship status as a quiet, flat, indisputable fact. Girls call him cold, and hateful, and say he's a liar. He's close with only a handful of people at his university. His emotions are difficult to figure out, he hides them so well. Every day I remind myself that this is the man I've decided to spend my life with.
The boy that reminds me of winter frost.
I didn't mean for who they are to remain a mystery all the way through, but it worked out that way. I wonder if people can guess?