Work Text:
“Do you know how to play, Fritz?” Hans asked, silently shutting the games’ room door behind him. Frederick was half-rested against the billiards table, one of his slender dancers’ legs barely planted on the ground. He rolled the cue absent-mindedly between his fingers, antsy for a cigarette instead. Hans swore, he lept from the screen—a totally unremarkable, remarkable beauty—with the way his head cocked to the side, lips parted subtly. Like he knew he was being watched and didn’t mind, enjoyed it actually. His rosy lips tugged in the corners. Needed it, Hans thought. Fritz always needs a standing ovation.
Frederick shook his head, a few of those golden-brown hairs falling loose from the pomade’s hold. “No.” His lips formed that characteristic, playfully pouty O. “Could you teach me?” He asked after a moment. “It would be nice to have something to talk about with those oafs in the next room.” He meant the other rich idiots, who’d come to hobnob with each other and were only capable of three topics of conversation: the economy, their mistresses, and, of course, gentlemen’s sports.
“Why not? It’s getting a touch boring out there.” He grabbed a cue. “And I much prefer the view in here.” He usually waited for Frederick to flirt first, he watched for his mouth to twitch up and a wave of relief washed over him when it did. “Okay,” he began, a little more confident. Hans tapped his fingers on the table’s heavy oak border. “This,” he swept his hand over the green fabric, “is the Kitchen. And these, the head and foot rails.”
“What do you call the part in the middle, Hans?” Frederick appeared over his shoulder, tracing his pointer finger across the table’s centre, slowly.
“The field,” he invented. “You need to shoot the balls across the field, like in football.”
“Really?” Frederick once again, resting his weight against the table, this time he let himself sink a little onto Hans. But was far too impatient. “How do you shoot?”
“With the cue, of course.”
“I know that much.” He tried to feign frustration, but it was hard to even pretend to be mad, staring at Hans’ doe eyes. He’d seen his father and his friends play a few rounds, knew the basics. Frederick leaned forward over the barrier and did his best to line up the shot until Hans snatched his target from the ‘field.’
"Ah-ah,” Hans tutted. “Your position is all wrong! Don’t slouch forward so much; here let me show you.”
“Oh?” He kept his voice cool and collected, letting Hans stand behind him, locking Frederick’s hand’s in his own, melting the frames of their figures together until there was nothing between them but anticipation. Frederick felt one hand move down from where it was meant to rest on his side. “Oh.” Frederick wouldn’t ever point it out, enjoying it too much, but he could feel the nerves in Hans’ light touch. “Go on,” he coaxed, in more ways than one.
“It’s all about waiting, knowing what you want.” Hans reddened. He would have laughed his throat raw at such clichés if he’d heard this in one of Joachim’s skirt-chasing tales. But to them now, they were a passionate innovation that had only belonged, and would forever only belong, to them. “Don’t hold yourself so tense, Fritz.” Fritz watched Hans flush in the room’s mirror panelling. He could no longer hold back a triumphant smirk. He thought that rosy hue looked lovely on Hans, and more importantly, he loved to put it there himself.
It was a terrible shot. The balls clattered, clacking filling the air. And then laughing. But neither one moved. “I think that’s, say, five points?” Hans guessed.
“You have no clue how to play billiards, do you?”
“Not at all,” Hans whispered. Frederick could feel the tickle of his airy words against his neck. And then a hesitant peck of Hans’ lips below his ear, so quick that Frederick almost thought it was an accident.
“That’s okay,” Frederick straightened, shooing Hans’ off of him, only to catch him in his arms once again. With a quick hop, Frederick pushed himself up onto the billiard table. He laced Hans’ beautiful, perfect fingers in his own, dirty with ash. “You have other talents, I’m sure.” One hand broke free from Frederick’s grasp. Instead of nervously begging to wait or checking the lock on the door, as Frederick was sure Hans would do, this hand slipped under his chin.
“I do.” They stared back at each other. “May I show you?”
“Naturally.” Frederick hooked his legs’ around Hans, pulling him closer. Hans was an excellent kisser, he realized. His was the definition of gentle. A blessing and a curse. When he pulled away, Frederick’s mouth ached for more, never feeling satisfied. Eventually, he cupped Hans’ face with certainty, desperate. “God, I love you.” Frederick’s was the type of kiss that left you out of breath, dainty lips constantly searching, exploring. Hot and wet, Hans was sure their marks would stay forever. In between, Hans panted as if he’d just run a marathon. He wasn’t tired, instead, a cloud of exhilaration filled him.
“I love you too.” He offered it like an adoration, gazing up at Frederick, head swimming. He imagined this is what devotees of Dionysus felt. An exhausting, addicting rush, where it feels natural and necessary just to keep going. Hans wanted to keep going. “I love you,” he repeated, drunk on the words and the intoxicating smell of Frederick’s cologne. He fumbled for the buttons on Frederick’s trousers. Busy little hands stopped him.
“I love you, but I won’t fuck you at my sister’s engagement party.” Frederick kissed his knuckles instead.
A giggle escaped Hans’ lips. “I can’t believe I was about to…to do that.”
“Absolutely debauched creature!” Frederick teased, still holding Hans close. “There’s always nightfall for things like us, no?” He let the words hang there, a temptation, before hopping down and tidying the cues and balls.
“You know,” Frederick mused after a few moments of silence. “I almost think that you liked having me bent over a table, Hmm?” He sipped his drink and scampered off, leaving Hans to sit happily in his answer: I did.