[drabble] Bart/Billy; for enthroned
Characters: Bart, Billy
Rating: G
Theme: Snow
Bart hated the cold. He could feel it in his bones, chilly fingers creeping beneath his skin to take hold, bring back the memory of old injuries and their familiar ache. Whenever he voiced these complaints, Sigurd would tactfully point out that perhaps Old Maison should share some of his ointments for rheumatism while Billy, the brat, would roll his eyes and tell him to stop acting like an old man. He could bear the hottest suns without complaint, traverse the deserts as any seasoned sailor could the seas.
One time Margie snuck a sliver of ice down the back of his shirt and he had shrieked like a little girl. Fortunately, no one else had been around, and he had sworn her to secrecy. She had teasingly replied of course, she couldn't have the enemy finding out his weakness.
Sometimes their travels forced them into regions where he and the climate were decidedly incompatible. While the milder desert winds would tease and caress as gentle as a lover, the glacial breezes were as frigid and biting as some of the nuns in Nisan. He tended to spend as much time as he could wrapped beneath his blankets, the only time outdoors to hurry from one point to the next.
Billy seemed to enjoy the weather, much to Bart's surprise. Some days he would return with flushed cheeks and an unconscious smile on his lips after a walk outside, coming back with ice clinging to the bottom of his robe and snowflakes lingering on hair and eyelashes before melting into crystalline droplets. Bart didn't know why he noticed these things, and didn't question too deeply. With a shake of his head, he would just toss one of Old Maison's tea towels at the priest and comment that he was going to catch his death of a cold someday. That was, until Billy presented him with a challenge.
"Have you ever even tried to enjoy the snow?" Billy pulled off his gloves and flicked some of the white powder off his shoulders, in Bart's direction.
He wrinkled his nose, a few chilled droplets reaching him. "Do I look suicidal to you?" There was a pause. "Oh, fine, don't answer that."
"Maybe you're just afraid you'd lose."
"At what? Catching pneumonia?"
"Snowball fighting."
Bart looked at Billy as though he had sprouted another bow. "What?"
"C'mon, don't tell me you don't know what that is."
"I'm not that uninformed. I just can't believe mister prim-and-proper priest is suggesting we have one."
An exasperated sigh. "I'm not a priest anymore. And besides, we used to have them at the orphanage, whenever the weather permitted."
"Still."
"Scared, are you?"
"Of you? Don't make me laugh."
"Then let's go. Unless you really are chicken."
"Fine. But don't come crying to me when you lose."
Bundled up in his coat and the other winter gear he had, Bart joined Billy outside. Only to be smacked in the face with a white ball as soon as he had. Wiping away the snow with a mittened hand, competitive nature took over any protest to the cold. Billy had already taken off, and Bart followed hotly in pursuit, scooping up a handful of snow on the way.
After a while, Bart lost track of the time. His senses adjusted, adrenaline pumping through his body at the pursuit and attack until he was warmed all over. Shouted taunts and triumphant whoops, merriment and protest as they flung snow through the air. When they were both exhausted and out of breath he tackled Billy into a snow bank, mingled laugher hanging in the air. Pinning the slighter boy beneath him, their eyes met, filled with good humor and camaraderie. Without so much as a second though, he leaned over and pressed his lips to Billy's.
The snow wasn't so cold after all.
Rating: G
Theme: Snow
Bart hated the cold. He could feel it in his bones, chilly fingers creeping beneath his skin to take hold, bring back the memory of old injuries and their familiar ache. Whenever he voiced these complaints, Sigurd would tactfully point out that perhaps Old Maison should share some of his ointments for rheumatism while Billy, the brat, would roll his eyes and tell him to stop acting like an old man. He could bear the hottest suns without complaint, traverse the deserts as any seasoned sailor could the seas.
One time Margie snuck a sliver of ice down the back of his shirt and he had shrieked like a little girl. Fortunately, no one else had been around, and he had sworn her to secrecy. She had teasingly replied of course, she couldn't have the enemy finding out his weakness.
Sometimes their travels forced them into regions where he and the climate were decidedly incompatible. While the milder desert winds would tease and caress as gentle as a lover, the glacial breezes were as frigid and biting as some of the nuns in Nisan. He tended to spend as much time as he could wrapped beneath his blankets, the only time outdoors to hurry from one point to the next.
Billy seemed to enjoy the weather, much to Bart's surprise. Some days he would return with flushed cheeks and an unconscious smile on his lips after a walk outside, coming back with ice clinging to the bottom of his robe and snowflakes lingering on hair and eyelashes before melting into crystalline droplets. Bart didn't know why he noticed these things, and didn't question too deeply. With a shake of his head, he would just toss one of Old Maison's tea towels at the priest and comment that he was going to catch his death of a cold someday. That was, until Billy presented him with a challenge.
"Have you ever even tried to enjoy the snow?" Billy pulled off his gloves and flicked some of the white powder off his shoulders, in Bart's direction.
He wrinkled his nose, a few chilled droplets reaching him. "Do I look suicidal to you?" There was a pause. "Oh, fine, don't answer that."
"Maybe you're just afraid you'd lose."
"At what? Catching pneumonia?"
"Snowball fighting."
Bart looked at Billy as though he had sprouted another bow. "What?"
"C'mon, don't tell me you don't know what that is."
"I'm not that uninformed. I just can't believe mister prim-and-proper priest is suggesting we have one."
An exasperated sigh. "I'm not a priest anymore. And besides, we used to have them at the orphanage, whenever the weather permitted."
"Still."
"Scared, are you?"
"Of you? Don't make me laugh."
"Then let's go. Unless you really are chicken."
"Fine. But don't come crying to me when you lose."
Bundled up in his coat and the other winter gear he had, Bart joined Billy outside. Only to be smacked in the face with a white ball as soon as he had. Wiping away the snow with a mittened hand, competitive nature took over any protest to the cold. Billy had already taken off, and Bart followed hotly in pursuit, scooping up a handful of snow on the way.
After a while, Bart lost track of the time. His senses adjusted, adrenaline pumping through his body at the pursuit and attack until he was warmed all over. Shouted taunts and triumphant whoops, merriment and protest as they flung snow through the air. When they were both exhausted and out of breath he tackled Billy into a snow bank, mingled laugher hanging in the air. Pinning the slighter boy beneath him, their eyes met, filled with good humor and camaraderie. Without so much as a second though, he leaned over and pressed his lips to Billy's.
The snow wasn't so cold after all.