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15 September 2011 @ 08:55 am
Fanfic: Companion Piece to "Next Time"  
The actual author of this will remain anonymous

Title: Next Time (Companion Piece)  -- Original Half Here
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Rating: PG
Summary: A oneshot tangent with Schuldig and Crawford.
Notes: Ever since posting the half of this story from Schuldig's point of view, God, over three years ago, I have fought with myself about putting this one up. For one, I didn't write it (obviously; to this day, I'm not nearly so romantic, or my writing as flowery); I wrote the original and sent it to a friend, who then wrote the same thing from Crawford's POV. The main thing, though, is that this is a piece of my past that I'm not comfortable with; back when I RPed as Schuldig, this friend and I did a lot of stuff together with them--we wrote spoofs that should never have been concieved, pr0n that was never meant to leave our harddisks, drew art, the whole shebang. Then we had a falling out--a real falling out, not simply fading from each other's lives--and this is one of the only pieces to have survived. I will admit, that due to the memories, I get uneasy myself when I read it.

But after over six years, it's time to let go, and I feel that this is the first step. This story belongs with its counterpart, no matter my own feelings.


His first conscious thought is that the bed is cold.

After a few moments, he manages to detangle his mind from the last sticky threads of sleep and looks over, weakened eyes still sharp enough to tell that his lover is no longer beside him. The absence of warmth is explained, then—he, for some reason, is cold, always cold, and nothing but the presence of his lover can make him warm.

But why had he left the security of their bed? What had drawn him away?

The man climbs out of bed, reaching for his dark dressing robe and pulling it on, foregoing his glasses for the moment. A cool night breeze tousles his sleep-mussed hair as he glances about the room, and suddenly he realizes the door to the balcony is open.

He pads onto the balcony, and there lies his lover, nude and bathed in moonlight. His fair skin casts an ethereal glow, and the combination with his wild hair is striking.

He looks as a fallen angel would, silent and contemplating the heavens.

“What’s wrong?”

The angel doesn’t look up, but shrugs as if he had known of the man’s presence all along. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He moves closer, leaning on the cool stone at his lover’s feet. “Any particular reason?”

“Nuh-uh.” He is silent a moment, considering, and then, “We spent all that time in the old apartment…I’m not used to moving around anymore.”


It makes sense now, and all the pieces fall into place. The restless spirit in him had finally been appeased, or he had resigned himself to this life...but either way, the move was an unwelcome disturbance in his now-welcomed routine. His heart wrenches a bit at the thought of his lover unhappy...but the change cannot be reversed now.

But now the angel looks up, meeting his eyes, and it is then that he realizes his position has shrouded him in shadow. Such a contrast...if the man before him is an angel, bathed in light, then he must be a demon, cloaked in darkness...

“It could be worse, though,” he adds quietly, the words falling from his lips with ease. “I could be alone.”

His eyes flicker towards the other in surprise at these words. Could it be...? Was he, perhaps, finally ready to admit to himself that their futures were hopelessly intertwined, that they were more than just occasional lovers and partners...?


But the angel trails off, seemingly unable to bring himself to finish the sentence. Desperate to preserve the moment, the man completes it for him.

“...Need me.”

Does he?

Could he?

“Yes,” he finally sighs, and that confession is all it takes. His heart leaps to his throat with a newfound hope; his angel’s one spoken word is as good as a promise of all the years to come.

He cannot resist any longer, and as the other rises from his place on the balcony rail, he reaches out and threads his fingers through thick, windswept hair. He is warm, so warm...

“Come back to bed,” he murmurs against the angel’s ear.

Blissful sleep with his love in his arms sounds perfect at this moment.

~ ~ ~

The sunlight on his face awakens him gently, carefully luring him out of his dreams.

He finds himself fighting down the reflexive action of opening his eyes as he realizes he can feel a hand running through his hair.

It’s his lover, it must be...and somehow, he knows how much his lover values these moments of watching him as he sleeps. It is because of this that he keeps his breathing as steady as possible, mimicking sleep and silently treasuring the feeling of fingers twisting and smoothing his ebony locks.

A few priceless minutes of sensation, and he can feel the bed shift under him. The angel is moving, probably to sneak out of bed again, and before he can fight down the instinct his body moves, trying to stay near the warmth.

But he is a fraction too slow, and as the sheets fall back into place his body aches for the warm presence of his lover, soft and firm in his arms. He longs for the sensation of silken hair threaded around his fingers, tenderly holding his lover in place, chaining them together...

The wait is long, almost unbearably so, but finally the man returns. He tries to be slow and cautious in returning to the cocoon of blankets, but it is enough movement to warrant “waking up”.

He opens his eyes, fixing them on his beloved.

“Morning,” he whispers, voice still heavy with sleep.

“Morning,” is his reply, and for an instant he thinks he may have seen a brief smile cross those soft lips. Perhaps? But it is gone in a heartbeat.

That lush, wild hair is within reach now, and he cannot resist reaching out to twirl a few strands around his fingers. It’s soft, he notes idly, tugging extremely gently so as not to hurt his love; so soft and thick, wavy in some places and straight in others...it is an untamed mane of fire, and he loves it.


His lover would never ask outright to be served breakfast, but his question is close enough to a plea.

He smiles, gracefully rising from the bed and donning his robe and glasses, heading for the kitchen. As he walks, he can hear the rustling of sheets and then the gentle thudding of footsteps behind him.

Ah, it seems his angel doesn’t want to wait.

The kitchen is empty, so there is no one to delay him in his mission of preparing toast, jam, and hot coffee. When he returns to the table his lover is waiting, legs dangling at odd angles—provocative angles.

He sips his coffee, watching his lover carefully and fighting down a few stirring thoughts of foregoing his usual breakfast of toast and coffee, and feasting on something more...exotic for his morning meal.

His lover notices his stare and smirks, shifting position ever so slightly and widening his spread legs to compensate.

He has to force himself to tear his eyes away from the intoxicating sight before him. Any more of this teasing and he may end up doing something he’d later regret...

Well. He wouldn’t regret the act. But the thought of the other two walking in on...that, taking place on the kitchen table...

Better to just look away.

“Did you sleep better after you came back last night?” he asks, just for something to take his mind off the images of intertwined bodies dancing through his mind.

A feline expression crosses the other’s face, and as he takes a bite of toast he almost looks like a cat, licking his whiskers in anticipation. “Mmm. With you wrapping your arms around me? Yes. Definitely.”

He is silent then, basking in the glow of his lover’s words. His unpredictable, changing moods are a pain to keep up with sometimes...but the moments like these make it worthwhile. No words are necessary for these moments—just the simple, unspoken bond between them.

But what had brought on this mood? A tiny smile quirks over his love’s lips, and he can’t help but wonder what is on the other’s mind. A hundred thousand things could be running through his head at that moment; it was a tangled web that he itched to somehow unravel.

Someday I will figure you out, he thinks to himself.

He is about to speak—but the moment is shattered as the door opens with a creak and the tousle-headed teenager peeks in. The look on his face is guilty, almost...guilt. Such a strange emotion for anyone except—

His lover stands, smiling at the boy and retreating to their bedroom. With a careful shrug towards his ward, he takes a last sip of his coffee and follows, spotting the angel staring out over the balcony again.

He can’t help but move to his side, sliding his arms carefully around his slender waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. Then, after a few moments, he tilts his face slightly and kisses the side of his love’s neck.

He can tell his love is dwelling on unspoken words. But for this moment in time, no words need to be said.

They’re perfect, just the way they are.