Fic : Half-Light
Fandom: Discworld
Summary: There is no need for anything right now but this.
Pairing: William/Otto
Rating: PG
Half-light
The light is drifting in cautious and vague. Otto likes it that way; seeping in and insinuating itself around the black curtains he keeps to prevent the morning from jolting him too much. It hurts, rather-not the light, but the lack, the fact that something so beautiful should be nearly dangerous, like this, and so always slightly distanced. A tracery of light is in a line across the coverlet, and Otto follows it with a pale finger; it nearly burns too, but wonderfully, something that only nearly is.
The line of light leads a trail right to William’s collarbone. Otto’s hand stops there, caught now by real beauty.
He is only half-awake still, and William’s breathing is deep and even, but it is morning, so Otto feels sleepy and warm and content and not guilty in the least, will not be in the least repentant if this wakes William. And anyway, he reflects, in a dazed and fuzzy way, tracing the light on William’s collarbone with first fingers, then mouth, he doubts William will be especially displeased by this either.
The boy stirs, beginning to wake. One of Otto’s hands curls in William’s hair, the other against the curve of his shoulder, turned burnished-beautiful by the light. William makes a sleepy, surprised sound, but Otto cannot quite be bothered to look up from the junction of shoulder and neck. It wasn’t a noise of protest; they’re both half-asleep yet, and Otto vaguely suspects that it might be exactly this that makes this even more wonderful than it might have been. It would be wonderful no matter what, but at any other time the light might not be like this; William would not be making those little noises, surprise melting into encouragement.
The kiss William pulls Otto up for is as slow and dreamlike-light as the rest of it. Otto returns it with no thought but of this moment-which is odd. He is always thinking of something, of light or iconography or the paper or how yesterday has gone or what tomorrow might hold or what happened at the last League meeting or the one to follow or whether or not he should be buying some new teacups soon-always thinking, but this-
There is no need for anything right now but this.
Otto marvels still at how it feels to be in love. And it is not an ache, something desperate and hopeless and burning; it’s slow as this kiss, warm as William’s mouth and the light against his shoulder, quietly fierce still, in a way that makes Otto fight for breath sometimes just to be looking at William. Amazing.
When they pull away for a moment, the light is brighter; it is no longer a muted half-thing that makes everything seem surreal and completely possible. Not all kisses can be like this, and already the next one is exchanged with more lucidity, both of them awake enough now to realise what they are doing and appreciate it differently, less soft and vague and dreamlike.
Otto does not regret the moment gone, not if all moments are to be like-oh Villiam-this, but he puts it away in his mind, the white soft morning light and the languid love-filled kiss.
Moments like that are worth anything.
Summary: There is no need for anything right now but this.
Pairing: William/Otto
Rating: PG
Half-light
The light is drifting in cautious and vague. Otto likes it that way; seeping in and insinuating itself around the black curtains he keeps to prevent the morning from jolting him too much. It hurts, rather-not the light, but the lack, the fact that something so beautiful should be nearly dangerous, like this, and so always slightly distanced. A tracery of light is in a line across the coverlet, and Otto follows it with a pale finger; it nearly burns too, but wonderfully, something that only nearly is.
The line of light leads a trail right to William’s collarbone. Otto’s hand stops there, caught now by real beauty.
He is only half-awake still, and William’s breathing is deep and even, but it is morning, so Otto feels sleepy and warm and content and not guilty in the least, will not be in the least repentant if this wakes William. And anyway, he reflects, in a dazed and fuzzy way, tracing the light on William’s collarbone with first fingers, then mouth, he doubts William will be especially displeased by this either.
The boy stirs, beginning to wake. One of Otto’s hands curls in William’s hair, the other against the curve of his shoulder, turned burnished-beautiful by the light. William makes a sleepy, surprised sound, but Otto cannot quite be bothered to look up from the junction of shoulder and neck. It wasn’t a noise of protest; they’re both half-asleep yet, and Otto vaguely suspects that it might be exactly this that makes this even more wonderful than it might have been. It would be wonderful no matter what, but at any other time the light might not be like this; William would not be making those little noises, surprise melting into encouragement.
The kiss William pulls Otto up for is as slow and dreamlike-light as the rest of it. Otto returns it with no thought but of this moment-which is odd. He is always thinking of something, of light or iconography or the paper or how yesterday has gone or what tomorrow might hold or what happened at the last League meeting or the one to follow or whether or not he should be buying some new teacups soon-always thinking, but this-
There is no need for anything right now but this.
Otto marvels still at how it feels to be in love. And it is not an ache, something desperate and hopeless and burning; it’s slow as this kiss, warm as William’s mouth and the light against his shoulder, quietly fierce still, in a way that makes Otto fight for breath sometimes just to be looking at William. Amazing.
When they pull away for a moment, the light is brighter; it is no longer a muted half-thing that makes everything seem surreal and completely possible. Not all kisses can be like this, and already the next one is exchanged with more lucidity, both of them awake enough now to realise what they are doing and appreciate it differently, less soft and vague and dreamlike.
Otto does not regret the moment gone, not if all moments are to be like-oh Villiam-this, but he puts it away in his mind, the white soft morning light and the languid love-filled kiss.
Moments like that are worth anything.