Fanfic: Next Time
Title: Next Time
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Rating: PG
Summary: A oneshot tangent with Schuldig and Crawford.
Notes: This thing is ancient. Three years, I think. Back when I used to RP as Schuldig--there was a companion written by the girl who was Crawford, which I still have in my possession. Unfortunately we got in a really huge, year-and-a-half long fight, and our friendship is now...strained. Anyway, I'll put the companion up, too.
Still, it's very hard to resist an awesomely cheesy show with eight "straight", single guys, who are only opposing assassin teams.
The night air is cool as he steps onto the balcony of their hotel room. He sits up on the stone of the railing and looks down at the people below. There are only two: the bellboy, sent out to watch for late night visitors, and a young woman waiting for a cab to pass. By the look of her, she is a hooker, picked up by some old rich guy looking for a good time. He’d bet she’s annoyed-it had happened to him plenty of times-but the man probably paid well, so she isn’t fuming.
Slowly, carefully, he lies down on the rail and looks up. The stone is cold on his bare skin, but it’s worth it. He doesn’t get to really look at the sky all too often.
The sound of rustling comes from the bedroom, and then the soft padding of the footsteps coming near. He doesn’t look up.
“What’s wrong?” the voice is unusually soft, a rare moment of catching it still sleepy.
A shrug of the shoulders, pale skin bluish in the dark.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says.
The shape in the dark moves to lean on the stone by his feet.
“Any particular reason?”
“Nuh-uh.” He pauses, and then says, “We spent all that time in the old apartment…I’m not used to moving around anymore.”
“Ah.”
He looks up, finally. His lover isn’t wearing glasses at the moment, and is wearing a dark robe. Having black hair and not nearly so fair skin, the man gives the illusion of melting into the night. It’s strangely appropriate.
“It could be worse, though,” he adds. “I could be alone.”
His lover turns to look at him suddenly, studying him for a moment.
“I…” He pauses.
“…Need me,” the dark haired man answers.
“Yes,” he sighs. He’s lost his nerve again. Maybe next time.
He sits up on the rail and the dark haired man comes up in front of him, touches his hand, runs strong
fingers through bright hair.
“Come back to bed.”
He jumps down and follows. Maybe next time.
69696
Golden sunlight washes over the room, and he looks down at his lover lying next to him. It paints the man’s slightly golden skin, and brings out brown highlights in his hair as only the sun can do. He watches with some degree of the eternal fascination as his white hand touches the black of his lover’s hair.
It’s not often he wakes up first, and even more rare that he rises from bed first. He values the moments he can see the man asleep like this. The true face that one has when sleeping was an impossible expression to see on the man, something only he sees.
He wonders if he can sneak into the bathroom and back without waking his raven-haired lover. And when he shifts, so does the man next to him. Nobody likes waking to a cold bed, even if the one next to them was only taking a pee.
But it can’t wait, and soon he is shifting from between white sheets and into the equally white bathroom. There he is caught staring at himself in the wall-length mirror. Ten minutes later, he is gently crawling back into bed.
But it doesn’t work, and he’s soon looking into the coffee-brown eyes of the man.
“Morning,” his lover says, slightly sleepy.
“Morning,” he responds.
The man grabs a strand of bright hair and twists it around strong fingers. He vaguely notices that his lover likes to do that a lot. A fuzzy memory of himself trying to dye his hair black comes to mind, and a more clear memory of the green result.
“Hungry?” he asks. Really, he means ‘Will you go get the breakfast tray?’
His lover smiles at him and rises, grabbing the black robe from the dark puddle it made on the ground and pulls it on, tying it around his waist and puts on glasses. After a moment, he follows, pulling on his own blood red one. Aside from the fact that a certain teenager wouldn’t particularly appreciate them eating alone-the boy had gotten used to them sharing the room, and often a meal alone together, but the fact still bothered him from time to time-he was hungry and didn’t feel like waiting.
But the boy isn’t awake yet. He sits down and picks a piece of toast, spreading marmalade on it. He doesn’t worry about how he sits, so that he isn’t revealing too much, and he knows his legs are almost completely showing. His lover raises an eyebrow, watching him from behind glasses, as the man sips black coffee. He smiles and spreads his legs ever so slightly, causing the American to look away. Not good to get the man all heated up in the middle of breakfast, and where the other two can walk in on them.
“Did you sleep better after you came back last night?” the man asks.
“Mmm,” he responds, taking another bite of toast. “With you wrapping your arms around me? Yes. Definitely.”
Another silence. He likes to think it’s a comfortable one. They certainly have been around each other enough for it to be. They’re friends, at the very least. Lovers, he’s sure. Lovers-he wonders whether that
means that they’re in love. He gives a small smile at the thought.
He catches the man studying him, the way he had the night before. Trying to figure him out. It won’t work, he thought. Just the way I will never figure you out.
He opens his mouth to speak, just as the door opens. He and his lover look around to see the teenager walk into the room. The teen pauses, glancing between the two of them, wondering if this is an interruption.
He stands, and makes his way back into the bedroom. It isn’t fair. But then, he’s learned that life is never fair. He hears his lover move into the room behind him, and hug him around the waist while they look out the door to the balcony.
And he thinks that he wouldn’t mind staying here like this. Wrapped in the arms of his lover. Even if he never does get to say it.
---
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Rating: PG
Summary: A oneshot tangent with Schuldig and Crawford.
Notes: This thing is ancient. Three years, I think. Back when I used to RP as Schuldig--there was a companion written by the girl who was Crawford, which I still have in my possession. Unfortunately we got in a really huge, year-and-a-half long fight, and our friendship is now...strained. Anyway, I'll put the companion up, too.
Still, it's very hard to resist an awesomely cheesy show with eight "straight", single guys, who are only opposing assassin teams.
The night air is cool as he steps onto the balcony of their hotel room. He sits up on the stone of the railing and looks down at the people below. There are only two: the bellboy, sent out to watch for late night visitors, and a young woman waiting for a cab to pass. By the look of her, she is a hooker, picked up by some old rich guy looking for a good time. He’d bet she’s annoyed-it had happened to him plenty of times-but the man probably paid well, so she isn’t fuming.
Slowly, carefully, he lies down on the rail and looks up. The stone is cold on his bare skin, but it’s worth it. He doesn’t get to really look at the sky all too often.
The sound of rustling comes from the bedroom, and then the soft padding of the footsteps coming near. He doesn’t look up.
“What’s wrong?” the voice is unusually soft, a rare moment of catching it still sleepy.
A shrug of the shoulders, pale skin bluish in the dark.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says.
The shape in the dark moves to lean on the stone by his feet.
“Any particular reason?”
“Nuh-uh.” He pauses, and then says, “We spent all that time in the old apartment…I’m not used to moving around anymore.”
“Ah.”
He looks up, finally. His lover isn’t wearing glasses at the moment, and is wearing a dark robe. Having black hair and not nearly so fair skin, the man gives the illusion of melting into the night. It’s strangely appropriate.
“It could be worse, though,” he adds. “I could be alone.”
His lover turns to look at him suddenly, studying him for a moment.
“I…” He pauses.
“…Need me,” the dark haired man answers.
“Yes,” he sighs. He’s lost his nerve again. Maybe next time.
He sits up on the rail and the dark haired man comes up in front of him, touches his hand, runs strong
fingers through bright hair.
“Come back to bed.”
He jumps down and follows. Maybe next time.
69696
Golden sunlight washes over the room, and he looks down at his lover lying next to him. It paints the man’s slightly golden skin, and brings out brown highlights in his hair as only the sun can do. He watches with some degree of the eternal fascination as his white hand touches the black of his lover’s hair.
It’s not often he wakes up first, and even more rare that he rises from bed first. He values the moments he can see the man asleep like this. The true face that one has when sleeping was an impossible expression to see on the man, something only he sees.
He wonders if he can sneak into the bathroom and back without waking his raven-haired lover. And when he shifts, so does the man next to him. Nobody likes waking to a cold bed, even if the one next to them was only taking a pee.
But it can’t wait, and soon he is shifting from between white sheets and into the equally white bathroom. There he is caught staring at himself in the wall-length mirror. Ten minutes later, he is gently crawling back into bed.
But it doesn’t work, and he’s soon looking into the coffee-brown eyes of the man.
“Morning,” his lover says, slightly sleepy.
“Morning,” he responds.
The man grabs a strand of bright hair and twists it around strong fingers. He vaguely notices that his lover likes to do that a lot. A fuzzy memory of himself trying to dye his hair black comes to mind, and a more clear memory of the green result.
“Hungry?” he asks. Really, he means ‘Will you go get the breakfast tray?’
His lover smiles at him and rises, grabbing the black robe from the dark puddle it made on the ground and pulls it on, tying it around his waist and puts on glasses. After a moment, he follows, pulling on his own blood red one. Aside from the fact that a certain teenager wouldn’t particularly appreciate them eating alone-the boy had gotten used to them sharing the room, and often a meal alone together, but the fact still bothered him from time to time-he was hungry and didn’t feel like waiting.
But the boy isn’t awake yet. He sits down and picks a piece of toast, spreading marmalade on it. He doesn’t worry about how he sits, so that he isn’t revealing too much, and he knows his legs are almost completely showing. His lover raises an eyebrow, watching him from behind glasses, as the man sips black coffee. He smiles and spreads his legs ever so slightly, causing the American to look away. Not good to get the man all heated up in the middle of breakfast, and where the other two can walk in on them.
“Did you sleep better after you came back last night?” the man asks.
“Mmm,” he responds, taking another bite of toast. “With you wrapping your arms around me? Yes. Definitely.”
Another silence. He likes to think it’s a comfortable one. They certainly have been around each other enough for it to be. They’re friends, at the very least. Lovers, he’s sure. Lovers-he wonders whether that
means that they’re in love. He gives a small smile at the thought.
He catches the man studying him, the way he had the night before. Trying to figure him out. It won’t work, he thought. Just the way I will never figure you out.
He opens his mouth to speak, just as the door opens. He and his lover look around to see the teenager walk into the room. The teen pauses, glancing between the two of them, wondering if this is an interruption.
He stands, and makes his way back into the bedroom. It isn’t fair. But then, he’s learned that life is never fair. He hears his lover move into the room behind him, and hug him around the waist while they look out the door to the balcony.
And he thinks that he wouldn’t mind staying here like this. Wrapped in the arms of his lover. Even if he never does get to say it.
---