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Baby, It's Cold Outside	By : quietladybirman Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1639 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Baby, It's Cold Outside

a Weiss Kreuz fanfiction by Card and laila

________
Chapter Two
Back down the stairs—stopped at the bottom, disoriented. Had half a memory about the layout, mostly just places that stored weapons, places that you could hide in or get out of the cabin quickly through. Kitchen didn’t apply (except, it obviously did, given that he tried to kill you with a cleaver.) Went to the right, past the room with the fireplace, dying fire there but the room was still warm from it. Found the kitchen past the dining table, nice and tidy. Pristinely clean counters and stove. Smelled like something had been cooked, a while ago, maybe, but it smelled pretty good still. Might be the pans sitting in the sink.
Opened the fridge first, couple of different drinks—beer, liked beer, could drink that. Might make his arm stop hurting a little. (Right, could also take some pain pills except for the fact that you’re stuck in the mountains with a guy that wants to kill you and an extrasensory perception gift that doesn’t tolerate any sort of influence.) Found a container, condensation on it still—must have been made and not cooled off all the way yet. Pulled it out, opened it up. Smelled (Japanese) alright.
Threw it in the microwave to heat it up.
(And look at where we are, hmm. In a cabin with a (former, but obviously he’s forgotten the distinction) enemy bent on murdering him in some painful way—tied him to the bed though.) Couldn’t kill him. Hadn’t killed anyone in his life yet and wasn’t about to start right this second with this little boy when there was a much less messy way to do it. (Wimp.)
Microwave beeping. Schuldig pulled open the drawers looking for anything but a set of sticks to eat with. (Fucking Japanese people.) Found a spoon in the corner of a drawer, too big to be used for eating but he was going to use it anyway. Pulled the food out and leaned back against the counter, chewing and swallowing the food. (That was meant for Youji, you know. Isn’t that sweet, dear Kenken cooking enough for his missing teammate?) Right, sweet. Ate it all because it was hot, didn’t ponder over the taste or the texture or whatever the fuck it was supposed to be called. Rice and something (oh, shocking, Japanese RICE?)
Chewed the last bite, dropping the container on the counter, spoon still in his hand—contemplating what he was going to do to Crawford for this lovely excursion into the mountains. (There’s always the possibility he hadn’t seen this coming.) Yes, and there was also the possibility that Crawford really was as well-mannered and obedient as he appeared—except he wasn’t. People underestimated Crawford because he let them, and when they turned their backs on him and got two bullets in the skull, they always seemed just so shocked by it. (Oh, no, not the American, he’s been so well trained he’d never disobey.)
Licked the spoon, sucked on it, the last of the taste of the food, and then tossed it in the sink. No good thinking about what he was going to do later at the moment. Had to get through the snow storm first.
(Drink the beer, sleep next to the kid, that’s close range, you’ll still be able to hear his thoughts.) It was a bad idea. (He’s tied up, what harm can he do? Spit at you?) Always a possibility he would get loose. (No there isn’t.) Arm hurting still, pain radiating up to his shoulder, down into the center of his palm. Hot and swelling still. Pulled the fridge open.
Two beers. Downed them almost without breathing. Bottles in the trash, could feel the edges of his talent dulling, blurred, sounds out of focus. Tired now—wanted to sleep. Been long enough, Ken should have kicked and squirmed and yanked and pulled enough to get it out of his system. Found his way back to the stairs and back up them, rubbed his forehead—too tired, too dull—down the hall and back to the door, opened it.
Ken on the bed, ropes tightened around his wrist, his ankles, sheets pulled loose. (Idiot, lucky idiot that he didn’t rip open the skin of his wrist and bleed to death.) Couldn’t bleed to death that way, not without a lot of bad luck.
Schuldig closed the door, crossed the room and picked up the pile of blankets he’d thrown off the bed earlier. Pulled the thinner one away and laid it over Ken, covered his face and almost left him like that—(petty)—figured he’d get bitched at about it and tugged it down.
“Good night,” he said with a yawn. Laid down on the bed, gun uncomfortable against his side, wasn’t about to take it off anyway, tugged the heavier blanket up over him and reached to turn off the light.
“Oh, Jesus. Look, if I asked you really nicely, would you go away?” Words quiet, weary—tired.
(Look, I gave you a chance to be a good boy and you fucked it up, now shut up and sleep I gave you a fucking blanket.) Said nothing to him, tugged on the pillow to get it in the right place under his head, brought his legs up—moved a bit, trying to get the pressure off his arm. (Stupid to try, really. Just roll over.) But rolling over meant facing Ken. (And I’m sure he’ll love that.) Oh, definitely.
Did it anyway, rolling onto his right side, keeping as much space as he could. Got the pressure off his arm—beer buzzing in his head and his belly. Warm under the blankets, nothing but Ken shifting, ropes creaking, bed frame moving a bit and the snow. Still falling outside. Wind.
Beer. Didn’t drink very often, couldn’t remember why not, nice and sleepy now. Yawned again, closed his eyes—sleep. Not great sleep, couldn’t afford to sleep too deeply, with happy murdering boy there right next to him—couldn’t have slept too deeply, arm still hurt too much.
Slept well enough, drifting along in grayness, thoughts breaking through here and there when Ken moved too much. (Instant response, that, if he’s moving he could be getting loose, couldn’t let that happen.)
(Christ, it's getting cold in here.) Shut up Ken, trying to sleep here. (No wonder I can't get to sleep.) But Schuldig could and was, and would like to continue to be. So shut up. (Think my arm's gone to sleep, though, and isn't that nice for it. And I think I need the bathroom and why did I have to think that? Like this wasn't annoying enough as it is...)
Schuldig pulled the blanket up, over his ears (like that will help, this isn’t an alarm clock you’re hearing.) Ignored Ken’s shifting, the ripple of his mind trying to force itself to think about something other than this need to use the bathroom. (Good. Shut up and sleep.)
Almost all the way asleep again, floating right there above it, body settled, mind quiet, breathing even—
(Damn, I do need to pee. Um, okay, I'll... no, don't wanna wake him up.) Good thinking. Schuldig shifted again, rolling back onto his left side, away from Ken. Shut up, I’m tired of listening to you. ((Don't wanna wet the bed either, you're not four years old.) Yeah, but – excuse me, Schuldig, would you mind untying me so I can use the bathroom and I promise not to kill you in your sleep.) Have to be asleep first, so shut up Ken. (Yeah, that's gonna work...)
Blissful quiet there for a minute. Arm aching a little, too much pressure on it, but that was duller now—hours later—could ignore it for the sake of getting back to sleep.
(No, you're gonna have to wake him up, gotta use the bathroom – Ken, you're tied to the bed.)
Selfish bastard. (Don’t think he’s going to shut up, actually.) Schuldig rolled onto his back, looked over at Ken, wondered if he could see his eyes open in the dark—figured he probably felt he was being glared at. (Oh, kid, I’m hating you a little more every second.) Rolled back to his right side. (Can’t exactly let him wet the bed either.) Scooted closer, hooked a leg over Ken’s and pulled himself closer, half on top of him. Hand reaching up for the rope.
Indignant noise, almost like a yelp—wounded, offended, confused—”What the hell are you doing!”
Schuldig raised his head up, half on top of the boy, one leg between his and chest pressed against his shirt. Almost of his weight against him. (Might seem odd, you climbing on him in the middle of the night, barely dressed.) Looked right at Ken. “Do you want to go to the fucking bathroom or not?”
Anger now. “You'd rather I wet the bed? Of course I want to go to the fucking bathroom!”
“Then shut up,” Schuldig mumbled. Too much sleep in his voice, fingers fumbling with the knots. Dark, tired, left hand still not working its best and Ken shifting under him trying to move him so he wasn’t pressed against him quite the way he was—thigh between his. The blanket between them keeping things under the appearance of proper. Schuldig pulled himself up more, so his leg rubbed against Ken (and that was a complete accident) and his chest was right against his, hair falling down—in Ken’s face probably.
Noted Ken’s silence, and the boiling annoyance in his mind. Noted and ignored—finally got the knot around the cast free, pulled it loose and left it, shifting his weight again and reached for the left side, worked that knot free significantly faster (second one is always easier, right.)
Slid back off, pulling his knees up, turning, one hand between Ken’s legs, pressing down into the bed, the other on his leg—(Oh good God what is he doing?)
“I’m untying your feet, dumbass. If I wanted to fuck you I would have done it by now.” (Cranky bastard, aren’t you. Why not goad him some more because its not like you’ve left him tied to a bed for an undetermined amount of time and it’s definitely not like you’ve got your ass in the air near his newly untied hands—really.) That seemed to shut him up—just wanted to go to the bathroom. Trying to rub feeling back into his hands but one of them was hindered by a cast and the other was thick and almost entirely numb. Schuldig yanked the knot free from his right foot. Then pulled back, collapsed back onto the bed. “Still got the gun, can still hear your thoughts, still have no urge to kill you, so don’t do anything stupid because I really just want to sleep.” And pulled the blankets back up over him, curling back onto his right side and yawning again.

____
Cold now.
He hadn’t been intending to go back to bed. The plan had been – Ken hadn’t had a plan. Just to stay away from Schuldig, in case the bastard assumed his arrival in his own bedroom meant he really wanted to be tied to the bed again, and try and get some goddamn sleep. Didn’t much matter where: the couch, maybe. Or Youji’s room. Throw the suitcase off his bed and shove a chair under the door handle, for all the good that would do him.
Go elsewhere. That had been the intention, but it must have gotten lost somewhere between the bathroom and stumbling back into bed, because he’d come back to his own room anyway, and never mind the telepath in his bed.
No wonder the sheets were such a mess.
Should have gone elsewhere – maybe then he’d have gotten some decent rest. As it was Ken woke, weary and unrefreshed and shivering despite the bedsheets, from sleep that felt more like a blackout and found himself, despite the cotton-wool clouded quality to his thoughts and the thick, clogged feeling in his head, miserably awake within seconds, and miserably aware that there was absolutely no point trying to get back to sleep. Too watchful already, and far, far too cold. His broken arm ached.
He raised his head, glancing out of the window at the anarchic snow, still falling in flurries. The world looked white and large and frankly unwelcoming and he wished he’d stayed in Tokyo, where winter was just another half-assed season. The snow wouldn’t even cramp the city’s style: up here it had him trapped.
Worse, it had him trapped with Schuldig in an isolated cabin, miles away from anyone at all, never mind from anything useful. He only had to hope there was enough food to last the two of them, until the roads were cleared.
Correction: enough food the goddamn German wouldn’t bitch about.
(And why are you even thinking in terms of cooking for the guy, Ken? Well, why else would he be worrying about that? Ken had to eat too, and he happened to like living. He liked it a lot better when he wasn’t tied to his own bed.)
Cramp in his limbs, when he tried to move them. Jesus, was it really worth getting out of bed? If he was shivering beneath the bedsheets, the room had to be really cold and what the Hell had happened to the heating, anyway? Ken curled in on himself, muttering something even he didn’t quite catch but which sounded, from his tone, like it had to be a curse. God, he wished he could just get back to sleep…
Ken wished he were at home. Wished he were anywhere but stuck in Youji’s goddamn cabin with a bondage-happy telepath who was no doubt in his kitchen eating his food right this very minute.
But you’re not. You, Kenken, are well and truly stuck.
(Well, what gave that away? Was it the snow storm or the rope burns?)
Ken cursed again, louder this time, and sat up, the sheets slipping from him and Godfuckingdammit it was fucking freezing in here! Forget getting back to sleep – he’d have more luck curling up in an industrial chiller. No wonder he’d woken up, and no wonder he couldn’t get back to sleep. (Why was the heating off?) Drawing the bedsheets back about him in a desperate attempt to keep warm, Ken scrambled to his feet and over to his closet, stumbling slightly on the trailing ends. The floor was cold, too. Why oh why did Schuldig have to steal his socks?
It wasn’t until he was halfway through changing that he realized he still had a length of rope tied around one ankle. So much for your observational skills. Seriously, Hidaka, how have you lived this long?
Pausing only to curse Schuldig for what felt like the thousandth time in the last twelve hours (aren’t you afraid you’re going to run out of swear-words? Carry on at this rate and you’ll have to start making shit up), he bent to try and untie the rope, but his fingers were numb and there was no way he’d be able to do it anyway, with one hand in plaster.
“Fuck!”
(Yeah, he really was going to run out of swear-words.)
But what else could he do about it but carry on getting changed? Couldn’t just stand here shivering in a tee-shirt and an oversized sweater, most of the way out of yesterday’s jeans, with a length of rope in his hands.
“Schuldig,” Ken said to his closet, “I fucking hate you.”
Ten minutes and he was walking into the living area, carrying the end of the rope in one hand, together with half a pair of socks. Saw Schuldig stooped over the fire, glaring and cursing his way through the process of lighting it, dressed in a tee-shirt Ken recognized as coming from his own wardrobe and a pair of black pants of some absurdly clingy material that he remembered seeing on Youji more than once. They looked ridiculous on Schuldig, what with the tee-shirt and all. (They should have looked ridiculous on Youji, too, but somehow they didn’t.)
Schuldig had been eating Pocky: God knew where he’d gotten it from. Ken had thought they were out of that: clearly he’d been only half-wrong, since there was a half-opened box of it resting on one of the couches, and a stick of it dangling from between Schuldig’s – somewhat generous, he couldn’t help but noticing, and then wondered why he had taken the time to notice that – lips, like a cigarette. A carton of fruit juice sat in the middle of the sweep of the floor, but the cold had clearly caused the German to abandon his impromptu breakfast half-eaten. Dark in here: Ken didn’t have to ask to know the power was out.
Ken wasn’t even surprised to see him, and it surprised him that he wasn’t. Wasn’t surprised to realize that Schuldig looked just as cold and irritable as he himself was feeling. And a very good morning to you, too.
God knew what he was supposed to do now: offer Schuldig a proper breakfast, if there was anything he could cook? Sit down and talk? Share the rest of the Pocky and huddle in front of the fire together wrapped in blankets, like little kids around a camp fire? Jesus, he was going to end up trying to kill Schuldig again just for the sake of having something to do.
(You must really like being tied up, Kenken.) Okay, maybe not…
Schuldig struck a match; Ken flinched, just slightly. Get it together. Looked away as Schuldig touched the match to the kindling then dropped it into the flames, cursing under his breath. Sat back on his haunches and looked up, raising his brows at the sight of him. You knew I was there, didn’t you?
He said only, “That's a good look for you.”
Ken blinked. Good look? What the Hell was the crazy bastard talking about? Did he have a thing for guys with broken arms and unbrushed hair or something, and if so could he find a hairbrush in the middle of the living room? Probably, this was Youji’s place after all…
“What the Hell are you talking about?”
Schuldig gave him a look. It was a look that said, sure as screaming, Are you naturally this stupid, or do you have to work at it? “Oh yes,” he said witheringly, “baby I am hot for boys with broken limbs-- actually I meant the rope you seem to have forgotten to untie, unless you haven't noticed it.” He didn’t bother adding, idiot, but it was there – in his tone, in the look in his eyes.
“Oh, how did that get there,” Ken said sarcastically. “No Schuldig, I had totally failed to notice that I had a fucking rope tied to my ankle when I got dressed this morning, that’s why I’m holding it in my goddamn hand. Because I didn’t know it was there. My arm’s broken, you asshole!”
Laughed, short and sharp, a laugh that sounded more like a snort. He must have rolled his eyes. “Considering your track record of the past twelve hours or so I consider it to be a very plausible possibility that you would fail to notice something drastically obvious. And you can't blame stupidity on a broken arm.”
“Shut up and get me another knife.”
“No,” Schuldig said – and what had he been expecting, really? “Ask nice and I’ll untie it.”
“Fuck you,” Ken said shortly. “I’m freezing, my arm hurts, and I spent half the night tied to my own fucking bed, this is as nice as I’m gonna get and you can either deal with it or get the fuck out.”
(Definitely running out of swear words.)
“Unfortunately I can't get the fuck out,” Schuldig said – nothing much there; mild annoyance perhaps, directed as much toward the situation as it was at Ken, at whatever the Hell stupid reason he’d dragged himself up a mountain in the middle of a snowstorm anyway only to fetch up stranded in a cabin wearing someone else’s pants. “Get over here so I can untie the knot, we need to move the table and the couches so we have space to sleep near the fire.”
It seemed simplest to acquiesce.

____
Situation: locked in a cabin with a former enemy (who at least for the past several hours seems to have decided that killing you is not the best course of action, and that could have something to do with the rope burn now decorating his wrist and ankles.) Lying close enough to the fire not to need a heavy blanket, on his back, staring up at the ceiling—bored out of his fucking mind.
Nothing to hear but Ken’s mumbling little thoughts. (Those had been as amusing as the average hausfrau’s while the lethal assassin who killed things with his hands daintily boiled water for hot tea and cooked some rice.) Nothing to do except wait for the snow to stop or melt or whatever would allow for him to leave the cabin, get Estet’s fucking stone for them and get back to Crawford to shove a pair of perfectly practical shoes so far up his—
Schuldig pushed himself up, sighing, looked over at Ken who was sitting back on the couch, with two blankets and a highly developed and ingrained fear of fire. (Justifiable, that fear, maybe. Logical to stay that far away from the only source of warmth in a building that was rapidly cooling? No.) Another thirty minutes and the idiot would be shivering. (Not his problem really, since he had to be a nice boy until the snow let up.) If the snow ever let up, that was. And at this rate it seemed as if that was not going to be any time soon.
(Just go back to sleep. Nothing better to do.) Indeed, nothing better to do at all. Needed different pants then. Couldn’t sleep in these. The pajamas pants from the night before weren’t exactly thermal, but there were more blankets upstairs in Youji’s room that they hadn’t brought down yet—he’d just drag them down. Make the floor a little more comfortable.
Ken huddled in those blankets, on the couch, deciding that he should just sleep (because he was ALONE you see, ALONE, nobody else in the room not even that redhaired guy looking at him.) Which was fine, pretend ignorance was better than real aggression.
Schuldig found the pajama pants in the suitcase still open on Youji’s bed—right where he left them—and threw them over his shoulder (not going to take his pants off up here where he could see his breath, thank you very much.) He rifled through the suitcase—found dress socks, something that might have resembled underwear—maybe—and some shorts, a T-shirt to sleep in (hopefully) and…
Smirked, holding the bottle up in the darkness. Didn’t even have to see the label to know what it was. (Oh, definitely not, could probably find a bottle like this blind.) Shook it a little, found it to be rather full. Considered asking Ken just what kind of vacation him and Youji were supposed to be having up here all alone on this mountain—(figured Ken wouldn’t get it unless he spelled it out.) Kept the bottle.
(No way that boy is going to let you—)
At some point the cold boredom would necessitate entertainment.
Schuldig tugged all the blankets off the bed, let the suitcase fall to the floor and set to dragging all his newly discovered treasures back down to the living room. Dropped the blankets on the floor in front of the fire, and the lube on top of them, then rubbed his arm, big bruise there, and it didn’t like this idea he had that it ought to carry something.
Dropped his hands down to tug the button on the pants open (notice Ken NOT SEEING THIS.) Stepped out of the pants—too long, tight despite being a size larger and otherwise uncomfortable as they where—and pulled the pajamas off his shoulder to step into them.
“Yeah, make yourself at home, I always do, but then again I’m actually living here right now,” Ken said from his cocoon on the couch. (Apparently he did see.)
“Thanks,” Schuldig said, tugged the pants up around his waist and tied the drawstring so they wouldn’t fall of. That taken care of, he needed to arrange the blankets into something approximating a sleeping space.
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Something almost worth smiling about the bitter sarcasm in those words; he’d gone back to pretending Schuldig did not exist.
Spread out the thinner blankets on the floor—stole a pillow from the couch Ken wasn’t on and threw it on the floor for his head and then laid down—left the thicker blanket for covering up with and was back to where he started at, laying in front of the fire staring at the flames, waiting for time to pass and snow to stop with nothing to do.
(But with a noticeable presence of lube now.)
Yes. With that. Except that was of no benefit to him if the only other person here was huddling on the couch in a bubble of self-delusion. Figured that maybe, in another six or seven hours, Ken might overcome the nervous twitching of his mind enough to inch his way closer to the fire. By then, Schuldig could very well have died of boredom.
“Are you done being stupid and freezing over there?”
A bit of a sneer, a pointed look of not looking (I still don’t see you lalalalala) and: “Let’s pretend I haven’t.”
Schuldig sighed—annoyance, impatience—(To fuck him, first he has to be close enough to touch.) “Look, there’s plenty of space on this side of me,” side opposite the fire, of course. “And its warm here—” (Not convincing him, not even a little.) “And I’m closest to the fire so if anyone gets burned it’ll be me.” (Yeah, let’s give him ideas.)
Ken looked over at him, a flat annoyed look on his face, and something that might have been unsettled. “I didn’t see you give a shit if I was comfortable or not last night. Stop pretending to be nice, you’re freaking me out.”
Schuldig sighed. “That’s because you tried to stab me to death. Your attitude has improved,” Schuldig pushed himself up to his feet. (And I’ve got lube now which I’d like to put to use before I die of boredom.) “Now get over here.” He reached down and grabbed Ken by the arm—left arm, around his elbow, other hand on his wrist—grabbed him before he realized he was getting grabbed and pulled hard.
“What are you doing?” Instant outrage, clumsy attempt to smack at him with the cast-hand, but that produced more pain on Ken’s end than his. Had him half to his feet—or else half off the couch. “Don’t fucking touch me!” Ken yanking back, digging a foot in trying to push himself backward to get back on the couch, but the blanket got tangled up around his knees and he fell forward. “Hey GET OFF!” And resorted to kicking.
Landed one against Schuldig’s shin.
“Stupid fucking brat!” he snapped and let Ken go, closer to the fire with all his blankets still tangled loosely around his calves. Watched Ken fall back on his elbows and glare up at him. (Yes, you look terrifying there, with the rumpled T-shirt, wrapped in blankets and hair falling into your face. I’m terrified. I swear.)
“You’re seriously blaming me for this?”
“For kicking me?” Schuldig retorted, dropping back down on his blankets and tugging the couch cushion close again—close enough he could touch Ken without reaching very far. “Yes. I blame you for that.”
Ken pulling his legs free from the blankets, kicking at them and finally managing to free a foot with a bit of a indrawn hiss when it got caught around his ankle. (Serves the little bastard right.) “I told you not to touch me, you bastard.” Should have expected it—had expected it, but Ken felt that he should have expected it more, apparently.
Schuldig stared at him—watching him—his face and the expression of distasteful dislike. Still trying to sort out his blankets and looking around for the pillows he’d dragged down from upstairs. “Maybe you should go back to not talking,” Schuldig said. “You’re much nicer to look at than to listen to.”
“Well at least we can agree on something, you’re fucking annoying when you’ve got your mouth open.” Said it while he was reaching for his pillow, not even paying attention to him and then stopped, looked back at him (at the smirk on his face, maybe) and blushed, bright across his cheekbones.
(This might be easier than it looks.)
~*~
Wait – what?
So this is what happens when you run out of swear-words. Get tired of calling a guy a fucking bastard, start telling him he looks cute, at least when he’s got his mouth shut. You should have stuck with cursing, Hidaka; it’s less open to interpretation.
And here he was. On the floor – and what an awesome position of power that was. Lying on his side on the floor with a blanket round one of his ankles, his hair in his eyes and a pillow in one hand. And staring, quite openly, up at Schuldig with a flush on his face that he only wished he could blame on the heat from the fire. And too close to that for comfort. Too close, and far too cold to go anywhere else.
And where did that leave Ken, apart from stuck on the hearthrug with Schuldig and a bottle of ‘Naturel’ lubricant and nothing to do about it but waitaminute whatthefuck.
Lubricant. In a clear plastic bottle with a bright pink lid – did they really have to make it pink? – and even the fucking shape of the thing was embarrassing. What was that thing supposed to look like? (And Ken knew what that thing was supposed to look like, but what the fuck was it supposed to look like?) Did they have to package the stuff like that? (It looks like a goddamn penis! What kind of perverted idiot thought that was a good idea?) And who the Hell climbed a goddamn mountain in the middle of a goddamn snowstorm with a goddamn pink penis bottle full of Naturel lubricant stuffed in the pocket of their pants?
Apparently, Schuldig did. Should he have been surprised?
“It’s not mine.” Or not. “It’s Youji’s. Weren’t you in the room with me when I took my pants off?”
Ken flushed. (Again. Third time in three minutes, if you’re counting, Kenken.) Schuldig looking down on him, a satirical look in his eyes. Looking at him as he looked at that stupid, embarrassing little penis bottle, sat smugly in the middle of the hearthrug like it had every right to be there, and far more right than Ken. Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid.
“I’m not interested,” Ken said awkwardly, “in the contents of your pants. I wasn’t last night and I’m not now.”
Schuldig grinned. Wide and infuriating, lips pulled back to reveal the eye-teeth: it was the kind of grin Ken longed to punch – or at the very least score a direct hit on with a pillow. A grin, then a shrug. A nothing of a gesture, which should have meant nothing at all. It shouldn’t have meant oh well, your loss… Christ, it was a wonder there was any room for him in this cabin, what with having to share space with Schuldig and Schuldig’s ego.
Something about it – that grin, that shrug, the look in the young man’s eyes – told Ken he wasn’t going to like what was coming next. Not one little bitty bit. Ken felt himself tensing, his grip tightening about the pillow – no, Ken, stop that, you’re not really going to throw a pillow at him.
“Interested in Kudou’s, then?” (Oh, he didn’t.) “There's got to be a reason that he's got it up here, all alone, in a cabin--with you.”
(He did not just say that! The bastard.)
“Well, presumably he uses it during sex. How the fuck should I know what he’s got it for?”
It came out angrier than he had intended, and far more defensive: for a moment Schuldig said nothing. He reached forward, picking up the bottle between thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the light and regarding it with studious concentration, as if he had never seen anything like it in his life. Or as if – why not? – he was trying to work out what it resembled, with its hemispherical pink lid and its slightly bulbous base, as if it wasn’t totally goddamn obvious – you wouldn’t catch Ken sitting there fingering that damn bottle like that…
“What, exactly,” Schuldig said, “do straight boys use lube for?” He turned slightly, regarding Ken critically from over one banked shoulder, his narrow eyes half-hidden behind a fall of fire-burnished orange hair.
“You’re asking me?” Ken said. “How the fuck should I know?”
Which only earned him another predatory grin, another flash of the eye-teeth. Ken stared at it. Wondered what he’d said, and if he was ever going to stop blushing.
(You should turn away.) Ken hated the way Schuldig smiled. Hated the man’s face, the too-broad mouth he couldn’t help but stare at; the flash of the crowded teeth, too white and too sharp. It was the mouth of a predator – he could hardly help but wonder what it would be like to be bitten. He hated the way that Schuldig smiled at him, the patronizing look in his steel-blue eyes, the satiric twist of the lips: you’re a child, that look said, and a fool. (You should turn away, but you’re not going to, are you?)
He said only, “Really?”
(You walked into that.) Into what?
“Look,” Ken said – touch of irritation there; he always had hated the feeling that he was being kept in the dark. I’ve missed something important, but what’d I miss? “Are you going anywhere with this or are you just gonna sit there playing with that bottle?”
“I'd like to work around to sex.”
(Into that, Ken. You’re not even making this difficult for him, are you? You goddamn idiot!)
“What?” Ken raised his head, stared at Schuldig, felt a blush blooming hot across his cheeks. What did he just say? “You have got to be fucking kidding me!” For Christ’s sake, I hate you.
“If I assured you that I was absolutely sincere could we skip the offended virgin thing?” And, though condescension hung heavy in his words, in the tone of his voice – even the way he looked, somehow Schuldig sounded almost hopeful. “I don't like you but I'm bored and I've got lube and sex seems to be about the only thing we could do at this point considering our lack of conversational topics.”
Ken bridled. “Who are you calling a virgin, asshole?”
(Oh for God’s sakes, Hidaka. When you’ve got yourself in deep, stop goddamn digging.)
God damn, he wished Schuldig would stop smiling at him. Angry, and angry with himself for giving in to it, Ken turned away. Wished there was something safe here to look at.
“Obviously not you, so we have settled the following: you're not entirely straight, you've fucked before and you think that I'm worth looking at as long as I don't talk. I think we're to the part where you sputter and point and blush and tell me why we can't fuck.”
(You’re already blushing.)
“Why not? Well how about because I hate you?” Ken no longer cared how petulant he might have sounded, or how defensive. Didn’t care that he was playing right into Schuldig’s hands.
“I'm not asking you to like me,” Schuldig said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I'm asking you to fuck me.”
Ken’s turn to say nothing. He dropped his head, turned his gaze to the floor, tried to ignore the heat of the flames playing against his side, the almost oppressive weight of Schuldig’s gaze, the way the man’s eyes played across his body. He wished the guy would find something else to look at. Wished he’d find something else to do. Read a book. Play pen and paper games. Fall asleep in front of the fire. Anything at all, just so long as he put down the lube and stopped asking him for sex.
Stopped talking. He was all right when he had his mouth shut.
“I don’t make a habit of fucking people I hate.”
“I assure you that I don't make a habit of asking the idiot that tried to kill me last night to fuck me, either. In this situation of extreme boredom I'm making an exception.”
“Wow,” Ken said irritably, “Should I be flattered? Unfortunately, I’m not that bored.”
He didn’t wait for Schuldig to respond: the conversation, as far as Ken was concerned, was very definitely over. He simply lay down on his side and tugged his tangled blankets over him, and tried to pretend that Schuldig wasn’t staring at his back.
~*~
There was a point at which talking became futile. They had reached that point long before this particular conversation began—(No, this all served a purpose.)—and now Hidaka was pulling the world-famous all-purpose pout maneuver popular with adolescents the world over. Schuldig gave him a minute and half to lay there and pretend like nothing had happened, the bottle of lube wasn’t there and Schuldig hadn’t just asked him (more than once) to have sex with him.
Then he moved, right hand pushing on Ken’s right shoulder, rolling him onto his back so Schuldig could straddle him. Moved his hands, one on Ken’s left elbow the other on the floor, leaning down over him so his hair fell around his face and down so it brushed against Ken’s shirt.
“You like my mouth?—don’t bother denying it, I can hear your thoughts.” Dipped down lower—Ken’s face staring at him in that same denial and anger and his whole body coiled up tight. Could feel those muscles in the arm under his palm as they tensed.
Ken shoved him—left arm and Schuldig moved with it, leaning back like he was gonna give—”Jesus, you’re heavy, get off!” Turned his head to the right, pointedly not looking at him.
(And that’s encouragement, right there; why not just scoot back a little farther so he can knee you in the crotch too?)
Schuldig leaned closer, more weight against Ken’s elbow, holding himself just out of touching distance, watched his hair brush against Ken’s cheek, his forehead, down on his neck. Tipped his head in, breath close to his ear. (That’s a start, he hasn’t hit you yet.) Mouth open and the air between them wet—could smell Ken’s sweat this close and his unwashed hair and ran his tongue down from his ear, low on his neck and closed his mouth around it, sucked on his skin and pulled away. Took nothing but seconds of time, and looked up at Ken. “Want to see what I can do with it?”
“Get off.” Ken’s blush sliding across his face and down to his jaw line. Mind rolling all over itself (what is he doing and why aren’t I stopping him) boring standard amongst the boys that swore by their denial. “I’m not interested,” and might have carried more weight if his tone was even and his words were confident.
(You’re just saying that to say it, so you can tell yourself later you tried to stop.)
“Liar,” Schuldig breathed against his ear and moved down again, hand off the floor and against Ken’s shirt, mouth down, tracing the dip of his neck, down toward the center of his collar bone with his tongue. Then up, back to the same pink spot he’d left and pressed his teeth against it again, hand slipping lower and resting against his belly. Felt the fluttering there, half tensed to shove him back, half lost—didn’t understand or did and wanted to play the cute idiot. (No, I swear I didn’t know you could fuck someone you didn’t like.) This boy here was far too old to be playing that game. (He told you to stop.)
Schuldig pushed himself back, thumb under the hem of Ken’s shirt, rubbing up from his navel and then down, absent strokes of skin—could feel the goose bumps rising up under the touch. His other hand moving to his own thigh as he rocked back and settled back against Ken, rubbing right against him.
(Tell me you’re not at all interested—we both know that’s a lie.)
“That’s cheating,” Ken mumbled. Pushed at his shoulder with his left hand—Schuldig pressed down against him, grinding back against his hips, felt the shudder in Ken’s body at that.
“If I wanted to cheat, I’d be sucking you off already.”
Ken’s eyes wide, mind blanking out momentarily and his lips were parted. Breath just heavy enough to be heard over the crackling of the fire. Mind lost between (but I hate you) and (he just—what?)
Schuldig bit back the smirk. (Play this game to win, right? I’ve got you figured kid, and you’re playing along so very nicely.) Pressed his palm firmer against Ken’s stomach, and slid backward the stupid pajamas riding up to his knees, and his right hand down, tugging at Ken’s button and pushing down the zipper.
“But it’s cold,” like that was some real objection. Ken looking at him, watching him while he licked his lips.
(Going to ignore you.)
Bent down, hand still on Ken’s belly, the other one pulling his jeans down, and pushing his boxers out of the way. His hair was falling in his face and it didn’t matter one bit because Ken was looking away—avoiding the sight of it with all the focus in the world, still, shifting when needed to get his pants down far enough.
Ken’s thought (how the hell you’d get here Hidaka?) in counterpoint as Schuldig closed his mouth around him. Stomach tightening down, felt it under his palm, shift of his hips but Ken couldn’t figure out if he should press up or pull back. Liked, yeah, but why—just Schuldig sitting on his calves and his mouth and— Ken had his right hand against his forehead, not looking, mouth open and breath gasping.
Schuldig could feel his own hair against his hand, felt the shiver of Ken’s body in time with the movements of his head. Earned a choked back noise, denial in Ken’s mind, trying to push it away and tell himself that even if it felt good it wasn’t right and he should stop it but—there—and Schuldig’s mouth and— Dipped down a little lower—Ken shuddering a little heavier, intent floating somewhere in his mind, wanted his hand in Schuldig’s hair, wanted to push up into his mouth, wanted more or faster. Wanted him to stop a little but that was getting farther away from the surface, and— Had to shift a little, his neck was starting to hurt, let his hand fall off Ken’s belly and move down to the floor (arm throbbing a little from all the movement.) Heard the sound of a fist against the floor, Ken’s head rolling back, eyes closed and mind lost in the feel, down to that part where it didn’t matter what was making him feel that way because his hips were rolling up and he wanted it.
Right there—right there—just a little more and—
(Time to move on.) Schuldig pulled back, left Ken right there, shivering on the edge of an orgasm.
“Bastard!” Ken shouted.
He used his right arm to push himself up, left hand dragging the T-shirt he was wearing (Ken’s shirt) to wipe his mouth off. And looked down at him. “Want more?” Tipped his head back just a little, a bit of a smile across his face. “Gotta take it.”
Ken moved, all that skill built from years on the job, pushed himself up, right hand moving instinctively to grab him by the head, fingers against the back of his neck but the cast kept his wrist from moving—no grip and Schuldig leaned back away from the pull. Angry snarl that wasn’t quite a word from Ken’s mouth, and his left hand up, fingers tugging his hair as he pushed his hand through Schuldig’s hair and pulled his head forward.
Mouths pressed together, Ken shifting, right hand just awkwardly there, but his mouth. Kissed him with all the frustration and hate and (if you want me to take it, I’m going to take it, fucking bastard.) That hand in his hair moving, down to his shoulder; right hand digging fingers into his hip with the bulk of the cast pressing in hard. Ken leaning forward against him, and shoving him to the left.
Schuldig moved, all but falling back onto the blankets, elbows hitting the ground first and Ken right there, on top of him, sliding between his thighs and grinding down against him, mouth pressing harder and more insistent. The hand off his shoulder, down between them, fisting a handful of the stretchy pajamas and pulling them down.
(So much for hating you; why can’t people be honest?)
Schuldig pressed his feet against the ground, hips lifting up, hooked his thumbs under the waist band of the pajamas and pushed them down. Ken’s fist yanking on the left side; single minded in its purpose, until Schuldig pulled his leg up and free from the material.
Heard Ken’s hand slap against the blankets, right there next to his ear, kiss broken to breath, hard pants and hot breath, hips grinding down against him and the shiver up and down the body above him, could feel it against his thighs and licked his lips.
“What’d you do with it, damn it?” No let up in those hips grinding against him, or the focus in Ken’s mind.
(He’s going to fuck you.) The boredom level, however, was noticeably low.
Schuldig turned his head to the left, reaching out his arm, feeling around for the damn bottle. Found it half-under the edges of the blankets and pulled it out, tightened his fist around it and tilting his hips up, pressing back into the grind. Felt Ken’s impatience in his mind.
(Leave him waiting too long and you’re gonna be back where you started…)
Brought the bottle back, unscrewed the lid, dropped it somewhere and tipped the bottle, awkward with the limited space right there, Ken so close and showing no real inclination to move at all. (Which of course, was his own fault, right?) The lube pouring into his hand and down his arm, dripping onto his shirt—fucking mess—Ken half-watching, mouth open, breath hot against his face.
Schuldig tipped his head back, reaching his left arm up to drop the bottle out of the way of the blankets (hopefully upright in event that it would be needed again.) “Hold still,” he said. Wanted it to sound authoritative, demanding, came out like a pant with no more authority than a whimper.
A half realization in Ken’s mind, (holding still is in your best interest) and he held still, adjusting his weight and licked his lips, head tipped down so his hair was falling into Schuldig’s face, watching. Schuldig’s hand between them, loose fist around Ken, felt him heavy against his palm and stroking. Nice shiver running all through Ken, and his patience for the stillness breaking.
(Now wrap your legs around him and let him fuck you.)
Kissing again; abrupt as Ken shifting his weight to his right, resting it down on his elbow now with his left hand down between them, pulling Schuldig’s hand out of the way and slipping under his thigh, shoving Schuldig’s leg up toward his shoulders, hips pushing forward again. Rubbing against him, and then inside.
Schuldig broke the kiss, head tipping back and bit back the sound right there against the back of his throat. Pulled his leg up, hands on Ken’s back, fingers curling in, fingernails against his skin. Not enough room between them—couldn’t get his hips tilted right, Ken was pressing in, all his weight resting on Schuldig—(Surprisingly not comfortable; and it’s hard to fuck when you feel crushed.) Dull weight of Ken’s head against his collarbone, his hair in his mouth, hot breath panting wetly against his chest and—(boredom might be preferable, but then again, if you’d just wrap your legs around him this might work.)
Not hardly.
Schuldig dug his heel into the blankets, pushing up with his hips, rocking against the down thrust, trying to get the tilt right and—nothing, too much weight to the right, all of Ken’s balance shifting to that side and his left hand wasn’t doing anything more useful then pushing Schuldig’s knee up to his shoulder.
This was, decidedly, not working.
Ken making a futile sound, his mind echoing the sentiment. (Shit, this could be going better.)
“Roll over,” Schuldig said, and shifted under him, pulling his right leg free from Ken’s hand to get the leverage to push up against him. Felt the resistance in the body above him, the odd flavor of awkward confusion in Ken’s mind. (Still doesn’t know what he’s doing, how many points does that score for you?) Fuck the kid’s indecision, he pressed harder, rolling his shoulders to get more leverage and—
Ken gave, rolled onto his back, head against the blankets, and a stuttered little breath sound as Schuldig rested back on his hips.
(Oh, fuck yes. Like that.)
Schuldig tipped his head back, legs curled back and stayed there, eyes closed. Catching his breath and enjoying the feel, Ken shifting under him and rubbing right there—leaned his head back, shook his hair, felt it dragging sweaty against his neck, on his forehead, and it didn’t matter. Still wearing that stupid shirt though. Reached down and pulled it up, raised his arms over his head to get it off and then tossed it.
Better. (Much better.)
Body wiggling under him, hips pressing up against him. (Well, look at that, you’re stuck underneath him again.) Spot of complete and total rationality in the midst of Ken’s mind. Wanted him to move dammit—the other way was awkward and not quite right but at least there was fucking movement.
Schuldig smirked at him. “I do better on top,” he said, half in a breath.
“Shut up and move.” Voice tight and anger there again. Do what I say or I’ll shove you onto your back and fuck you and not care at all what you say.
Might have cared more about objecting to the thoughts or the tone, to the presumption of the demand, but it didn’t matter—not enough. Schuldig tipped his head back, right hand pressed against his own calf, steadying himself and lifted up. Thigh muscles tightening, stomach pulling in—Ken’s hand against his right side, pulling him back down and pressing up. Schuldig sank back down, panting a breath, feeling Ken inside and between his legs, shuddering.
Again, lifted, lowered, slow and steady, building a rhythm until his thighs were shivering and sweat was running down his back and it wasn’t enough to lift and lower, until Ken was pushing himself up on his elbow and curling an arm around him, dragging him down faster as he pressed up. Saw the white flash of those teeth, eyes closed and blush over his face, his neck.
Schuldig wrapped his hand around Ken’s shoulder, leaned forward, all his weight to shove the boy back against the ground, changed the angle, changed the rub, gasped a curse: “Fuck.” Eyes closing and all the world about the feeling inside of Ken moving, and his mind—slipped right inside of Ken’s mind, felt what he was like on the inside, what it was to be wrapped up in him, feeling the weight of him as it moved.
Shifted, palm pressing hard against the bone and muscle of Ken’s shoulder, heard his grunted objection and ignored it. Moving faster, thighs straining now. Felt that hand on his hip, moving up, over his back, sliding easily on the sweat, up to his shoulder and around the back of his head, fingers fisting in his hair, dragging him closer.
Moved with it, made the movement awkward again, pressing down close to him like that, licked his lips just before Ken’s mouth pressed against his. Messy, wet and breathy. Not even real kisses, tongues pressing together, felt the tilt as Ken pushed against him—(wants you on your back again)—moved with it, let himself be pushed onto his back.
(Let, right, let’s go with that.)
Ken’s weight on his elbows, belly rubbing against him, hips rolling in and pressing deeper. Schuldig curled his legs around him, high up, against his ribs, the dragging friction of the shirt Ken was still wearing making it easier to keep them there. Broke the kiss, groaning, left hand on his own face, across his eyes, fingers pushing the hair off of his forehead, the other on Ken’s back, fingernails digging in.
Pressed back into the thrusts, shivering and wriggling. Felt Ken’s teeth against his neck and shoulder. Shameless noises falling from his own mouth; (more now—thanks.)
One hand under his head, Ken’s fingers in his hair, pulling on it with the movements. Schuldig turned his head, watched Ken’s other hand, fisted up in the covers, pulling, sweat between his fingers.
“Fuck,” Schuldig gasped. Back arching, arms over his head and shoulders off the floor, head rolling back, felt the palm there, the grate of the bones against his skull—felt everything, the fabric of Ken’s shirt dragging against his chest, the flex of the muscles against his thighs, the weight against him and rub inside, the movement and friction and everything—felt it until it his skin almost hurt, suspended there. Rocking his hips back and letting the soundless little nothings—breath sounds, urgent and needy—happen.
(Shameless, Crawford had said once. You should have called yourself shameless.)
Ken shivering Schuldig felt that too. The tip and the need, and the sound of his voice through the pants; that hand under his head, pulling his hair. Moving hard and fast now, in and in and—
(There. Right fucking there.)
—Fell back against the blankets, breathless and all but dizzy, grin across his face and that heavy feeling all around him. Ken gasping and shivering.
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