WeissKreuz – Cold Morning
Fandom: WeissKreuz
Warnings: Rated M for male male affection / Shonen Ai.
Characters: Aya and Yohji.
Summary: A cold morning, Yohji underdressed, Aya joining him for tea… savouring a rare moment of contentment…
xxx
A sunny cold morning in early spring.
My breath forming soft white plumes of mist as I fold back the covers of my futon.
I dress in blue denims and my soft orange jumper and walk down the dark stairs.
Stillness fills the house, with the sounds of traffic and customers drifting in from the shop, along with the whiff of moist soil and cut flowers.
The radio babbling quietly in the kitchen.
The aroma of fresh coffee, and the bittersweet scent of green tea lacing the chill, dank atmosphere of our makeshift home.
Yohji.
Lounging half-naked in black briefs and an unbuttoned green shirt on his chair by the table, a shaft of pale sunlight bathing his amber body and honeyed hair. His long, hard fingers curled around his mug of steaming coffee on the table, his eyes riveted on the morning broadsheet, spread out next to the mug. Along with a crumpled, empty packet of cigarettes, a pink plastic lighter, a saucer with crumbs of ash and two scrunched up cigarette ends.
The reek of stale tobacco smoke mingles with the smells of tea and coffee. Yohji has opened the window to the alleyway that runs past the side of the Koneko; hoping, no doubt, that the pong of cigarettes would air out. It only gets colder.
I pause by the door, just before stepping across the threshold. I wait.
I know what will happen next.
And I savour the anticipation. The small moment, a heartbeat no more, of perfect stillness – as if time had stopped altogether – before…
He glances up over the rim of his reading glasses and smiles at me.
My heart skips a beat.
His eyes: large, green, luminous. The light of summer caught in their depths.
His smile bright, sunny, a tad guilty, a little wondrous… and then he says, in the soft, slightly smoky voice he has after his first couple of cigarettes, "Hey gorgious… good morning…" Trailing off, reluctantly, as if he had meant to say something else, but thought it over.
I will myself to breathe again, and walk in, to pour myself a cup of the tea he made earlier and left stewing for too long in the blue enamelled pot, on the hotplate of the stove. Green tea mustn't stew like that, but Yohji treats it like the coffee he favours.
Yet when I sit down next to him, he – cautiously – leans against me, and I do not mind. Not the smell of cigarettes that clings to his hair and tanned skin, not the spoiled tea, not the frosty room… He shifts on his seat until he can settle more comfortably, and then sinks a little into himself. Adjusting his glasses, he returns to reading his paper. Relaxing.
He feels chill, and he shivers a little, goosepimples running over his long limbs.
"You're unreasonable," I tell him, with a hint of reproach, "to sit around here like this. It's too cold."
He presses a tiny bit closer. "Hai, Ayan. I'll get dressed in a moment… right after my coffee…"
"You better." I know his drink will be cold by the time he is done. And as I begin to sip the strong, hot, damnably bitter tea, it seems reasonable to wrap my arm around his shoulders to warm him a bit.
xxx
The End
