Fluff Friday Fic: St Georg and the...Bill? (TH, 'gen')
♥Fluff Friday♥
Temporary Title: St Georg and the...Bill?
Fandom: Tokio Hotel
Pairing: Georg/ Bill
Rating: Gen... maybe.
Disclaimer: Fictional story, fictional situation (though probably not too far-fetched), real people
Warnings: No sex! LOL! And um...fluff?
Summary: Georg, Bill, a bed and underwear. And still no sex! (LOL!)
Author's Notes: Posted for Fluff Friday. Part of a longer, yet unfinished fic still growing mould in my hard drive. Maybe if I let some of it see the light of day, it'll start flowering. So no, that's not the real title, either. Hopefully the actual one will be less lame. Unbeta'd.
“I’ll be glad when this tour is over,” Bill sighed, flopping face-down on top of Georg’s messy bed. There was a pair of boxer briefs under one haphazardly positioned pillow and Bill scrunched up his nose when the side of his hand accidently touched it.
“Ew. Georg! Your underwear is everywhere!” he complained, picking up the article of clothing daintily and rolling across the mattress to wave it in Georg’s face where he sat on the floor.
“Hah!” Georg snorted with mock affront, making a grab for the boxers dangling just above his line of vision. “It’s clean, you know!” he retorted, making Bill laugh.
“Whatcha doin’?” Bill nudged at the back of one brawny shoulder with his nose. He was making Georg’s bed his own, definitely. It felt much more comfortable and lived in than his, anyway.
“What does it look like?” Georg looked back at the boy gazing earnestly back at him, chin supported on the back of his folded hands. Bill looked like a lost stray with his big eyes and messy hair. He was wearing one of his old, tatty T-shirts which was both too small and yet too loose.
“Dunno,” Bill shrugged, legs kicking up and down in tandem. He put on his most innocent, bewildered face, even though he knew Georg knew him too well to fall for it.
Georg chuckled and returned to his task, re-stringing his guitar. It was his personal one, the one he’d had since before he joined Tokio Hotel. It seldom saw the light of day anymore, but on free nights like this, he’d take it out and play it just like old times. Once in a while, he’d re-string it, not because it needed to be re-strung, but more so because he wanted to do it. Sometimes, he’d just take off the old strings and put them back on again when he didn’t have new strings on hand. It just relaxed him much more than a night on the town, if he were to be honest with himself.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Georg asked, quirking an eyebrow at Bill, who was now craning his neck to peer at what Georg was doing.
“Nothing,” Bill replied. “What are you doing now?” he asked, curious. “Are you writing on it?” Bill threw a rather alarmed looking stare at Georg. He’d never seen Georg do that particular step before. Neither had he ever seen Tom do the same to his guitar.
Georg looked up again, interrupted from rubbing the graphite over the string slot. “This?” he gestured dramatically at the mechanical pencil, holding it up and squinting an eye as though studying a newfound discovery. “I’m just making the slots a little slippery so the strings slide better.”
“With a pencil?” Bill gawped, eyebrows disappearing into his unruly bangs. He didn’t know whether to believe what Georg was feeding him. “Really?” he reiterated. Maybe Georg was pulling his leg. The older boys all loved doing that.
“Uhm,” Georg nodded as he bent back to his task. His hair was pulled back into a bunched up bun, a little messy with a few loose strands, but it was away from his face and Bill could see his profile clearly. “Hand me the chamois, will you?”
Bill blinked. “Chamois?” There didn’t seem to be anything like that around him. He pushed himself up by the elbows, peering underneath him in case it was somewhere there, or under the folds of crumpled bedding. “I don’t see it...,” he said, lifting a corner of the bedsheet for good measure. “Why don’t you just use this?” he grinned, handing Georg another pair of briefs, black this time and high cut.
“Bill!” Georg roared. The younger boy was endearing, really. Cute and charming and a total fungus. He got under your skin like nothing could and stayed there, growing roots and feelers until you just couldn’t get rid of him. Quite irritating, sometimes. This was one of those times, and Georg put aside his naked guitar as carefully as he could without slowing down too much, and lunged for the giggling bundle of boy on his bed.
Bill yelled, rolling away just as Georg managed to catch a handful of tiny t-shirt, pulling it until it caught under Bill’s armpit and didn’t have anywhere else to go. It was just like reeling in a large, wildly thrashing octopus. Only this particular octopus had two arms that were stubbornly holding on to his t-shirt and hitting out at him randomly, and two lanky legs that were kicking and trying to crawl away at the same time.
“Aaaahahaha...ow ow ow!” Bill howled, between snorting laughter that was both infectious and obnoxious. Georg had finally caught him, rolling him up in the bedclothes until he looked somewhat like a misshapen hotdog in a white bun. He got off Bill, letting him draw in a deep, noisy breath as though Georg had squashed out all the air from his lungs, which, Georg supposed, he must have come close to doing. For all that Bill had been overshooting his height ever since he turned fifteen, he was still the skinniest of them; Georg had much more bulk.
Georg panted, planting himself next to Bill’s gasping mass. “What are you doing messing around here, anyway?” he grinned. It had been some time since they’d roughhoused together. “Did you get locked out again?”
“Nooo,” Bill pouted, wriggling out of his cloth prison. “Tom’s busy.”
“Busy?”
“Busy. You know,” Bill waggled his eyebrows, a wide, knowing grin on his face. “Busy busy.”
“Ah!” Georg nodded sagely, understanding all too well what Tom was supposedly busy doing. “You did get locked out.”
Bill just looked at him with a kicked puppy expression, lower lip jutting out as he sat in the middle of the bed. “Mmm,” he nodded.
Temporary Title: St Georg and the...Bill?
Fandom: Tokio Hotel
Pairing: Georg/ Bill
Rating: Gen... maybe.
Disclaimer: Fictional story, fictional situation (though probably not too far-fetched), real people
Warnings: No sex! LOL! And um...fluff?
Summary: Georg, Bill, a bed and underwear. And still no sex! (LOL!)
Author's Notes: Posted for Fluff Friday. Part of a longer, yet unfinished fic still growing mould in my hard drive. Maybe if I let some of it see the light of day, it'll start flowering. So no, that's not the real title, either. Hopefully the actual one will be less lame. Unbeta'd.
“I’ll be glad when this tour is over,” Bill sighed, flopping face-down on top of Georg’s messy bed. There was a pair of boxer briefs under one haphazardly positioned pillow and Bill scrunched up his nose when the side of his hand accidently touched it.
“Ew. Georg! Your underwear is everywhere!” he complained, picking up the article of clothing daintily and rolling across the mattress to wave it in Georg’s face where he sat on the floor.
“Hah!” Georg snorted with mock affront, making a grab for the boxers dangling just above his line of vision. “It’s clean, you know!” he retorted, making Bill laugh.
“Whatcha doin’?” Bill nudged at the back of one brawny shoulder with his nose. He was making Georg’s bed his own, definitely. It felt much more comfortable and lived in than his, anyway.
“What does it look like?” Georg looked back at the boy gazing earnestly back at him, chin supported on the back of his folded hands. Bill looked like a lost stray with his big eyes and messy hair. He was wearing one of his old, tatty T-shirts which was both too small and yet too loose.
“Dunno,” Bill shrugged, legs kicking up and down in tandem. He put on his most innocent, bewildered face, even though he knew Georg knew him too well to fall for it.
Georg chuckled and returned to his task, re-stringing his guitar. It was his personal one, the one he’d had since before he joined Tokio Hotel. It seldom saw the light of day anymore, but on free nights like this, he’d take it out and play it just like old times. Once in a while, he’d re-string it, not because it needed to be re-strung, but more so because he wanted to do it. Sometimes, he’d just take off the old strings and put them back on again when he didn’t have new strings on hand. It just relaxed him much more than a night on the town, if he were to be honest with himself.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Georg asked, quirking an eyebrow at Bill, who was now craning his neck to peer at what Georg was doing.
“Nothing,” Bill replied. “What are you doing now?” he asked, curious. “Are you writing on it?” Bill threw a rather alarmed looking stare at Georg. He’d never seen Georg do that particular step before. Neither had he ever seen Tom do the same to his guitar.
Georg looked up again, interrupted from rubbing the graphite over the string slot. “This?” he gestured dramatically at the mechanical pencil, holding it up and squinting an eye as though studying a newfound discovery. “I’m just making the slots a little slippery so the strings slide better.”
“With a pencil?” Bill gawped, eyebrows disappearing into his unruly bangs. He didn’t know whether to believe what Georg was feeding him. “Really?” he reiterated. Maybe Georg was pulling his leg. The older boys all loved doing that.
“Uhm,” Georg nodded as he bent back to his task. His hair was pulled back into a bunched up bun, a little messy with a few loose strands, but it was away from his face and Bill could see his profile clearly. “Hand me the chamois, will you?”
Bill blinked. “Chamois?” There didn’t seem to be anything like that around him. He pushed himself up by the elbows, peering underneath him in case it was somewhere there, or under the folds of crumpled bedding. “I don’t see it...,” he said, lifting a corner of the bedsheet for good measure. “Why don’t you just use this?” he grinned, handing Georg another pair of briefs, black this time and high cut.
“Bill!” Georg roared. The younger boy was endearing, really. Cute and charming and a total fungus. He got under your skin like nothing could and stayed there, growing roots and feelers until you just couldn’t get rid of him. Quite irritating, sometimes. This was one of those times, and Georg put aside his naked guitar as carefully as he could without slowing down too much, and lunged for the giggling bundle of boy on his bed.
Bill yelled, rolling away just as Georg managed to catch a handful of tiny t-shirt, pulling it until it caught under Bill’s armpit and didn’t have anywhere else to go. It was just like reeling in a large, wildly thrashing octopus. Only this particular octopus had two arms that were stubbornly holding on to his t-shirt and hitting out at him randomly, and two lanky legs that were kicking and trying to crawl away at the same time.
“Aaaahahaha...ow ow ow!” Bill howled, between snorting laughter that was both infectious and obnoxious. Georg had finally caught him, rolling him up in the bedclothes until he looked somewhat like a misshapen hotdog in a white bun. He got off Bill, letting him draw in a deep, noisy breath as though Georg had squashed out all the air from his lungs, which, Georg supposed, he must have come close to doing. For all that Bill had been overshooting his height ever since he turned fifteen, he was still the skinniest of them; Georg had much more bulk.
Georg panted, planting himself next to Bill’s gasping mass. “What are you doing messing around here, anyway?” he grinned. It had been some time since they’d roughhoused together. “Did you get locked out again?”
“Nooo,” Bill pouted, wriggling out of his cloth prison. “Tom’s busy.”
“Busy?”
“Busy. You know,” Bill waggled his eyebrows, a wide, knowing grin on his face. “Busy busy.”
“Ah!” Georg nodded sagely, understanding all too well what Tom was supposedly busy doing. “You did get locked out.”
Bill just looked at him with a kicked puppy expression, lower lip jutting out as he sat in the middle of the bed. “Mmm,” he nodded.