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You’re still a stranger to pillow talk, but somehow this feels right.
“Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.”
Your eyes were still closed when Chrollo started murmuring to you. His voice was soft, low, and even. It’s almost enough to lull you back to a restful slumber, but the tickle of his fingers across your cheeks keeps you alert. You smile into the touch, breathing in deeply the scent of the morning stretching across your sheets. There’s sunlight- entering your sanctuary through the cracks in the window, but you don’t welcome it just yet. Instead, you let it lay across eyelids and peak through where it can.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
A kiss to your forehead accents the last word of the last line. You sigh into the feeling, a warmth bubbling in your chest. The bed you share is your heaven. And Chrollo? Chrollo is your Saint Peter. Your guard. Your protector. Together it creates the perfect safe haven. An idealistic world where you can unwind and rest. It’s peaceful in your oasis. There’s only been peace in your oasis. The harshness of the world, the difficulties of society, and the violence of man become strangers when you crawl into bed. They’re locked out of the pearly gates, never to be seen or heard or spoken of. Chrollo has the key. And so- forgotten, ignored, dismissed they will become.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
It’s a poem, you realize, he’s reciting. The revelation is both relaxing and dizzying. The beautiful words he murmurs into your ears flows perfectly with unseen rhythm and pacify less than enjoyable parts about waking up. But his usage of inflection and the deliberate selection of this poem causes you to fluster. It was your first time ever hearing such a poem. But to greet it as an utterance of his lips is the most intimate of places made your head spin. The language of the piece is soft and soothing, and its message feels childlike and innocent. But with Chrollo, you couldn’t help but search for a deeper meaning within his choice. Within his words.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
His finger takes a moment to press lightly at the tip of your nose before he begins combing through your hair. Long fingers thread through your tresses, combing through it softly to avoid tugs and pulls. You hum, enjoying the special attention he’s giving you this morning. It’s such a simple, romantic moment, and you know you have to treasure it. It’s not every day where you can keep him all for yourself like this. For now, you want to bask in every single second you can get. You love how he spoils you. You love how he’s soft for you. How he takes care of you and your needs. Always protecting you, always guiding you. In the back of your mind, you can’t help but wonder if that’s why he chose this particular poem.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding cake.
At his last words, your eyes flutter open. He’s facing you, laying on his side as his eyes are trained on the delicate curves of your face. The words, ‘wedding cake’ echo clearly through your mind, causing you to shutter with anticipation for a future you can only dream of. Maybe you’ll ask him about it. Maybe one day. But for now, you’re content with just looking into his dark, intelligent eyes with a small smile. Fortunately, he’s not.
A second later, your faces are just barely apart. His warm breath fans over your face, and your foreheads touch. The moment doesn’t feel desperate or needy- it’s soft and slow. These amorous moments between the sheets remind you of what’s important. Of what’s real and what matters. It’s charming how you’ve fallen for him- your protector.
Your bodyguard.
“Winter-Time” He mutters a title, pressing a chaste kiss onto your lips.
Your little Saint Peter.
“A poem…” He trails off before closing his eyes and coming in for another kiss.
Your everything you’ve ever needed.
“By…” And another one.
“…Robert…” and another.
“…Louis…” and another.
“…Stevenson” and another.
Your absolutely everything and more.