Four drabbles written for the Annerose drabble challenge at the iserlohn LiveJournal community. Contains non-explicit m/m sexual references, spoilers for up to episode 36.
Konrad clicks his tongue when he sees Annerose undo a week's worth of work.
"It's just a small mistake."
She smiles, a dainty bow of her lips. "It changes everything."
The tapestry unravels under her fingers, blue following green following gold: Frigg in her robe of clouds, stooping down with a hand outstretched in entreaty to a host of creatures. The mighty boar with his tusks lowered, wolves and their leporid prey united in supplication, trees bowing in a windless forest -- all swearing never to harm Baldur.
Forgotten, unasked, a wreath of mistletoe blooms high on an oak tree.
Schonkopf likes to do this slow, slow, tracing the veins on the underside of Yang's arm with his tongue and pressing /there/, just to feel the pulse. Content to wait and accept, Yang strokes lazy patterns down his side, fingers sliding over old scars.
Incongruous, that this pliant creature should also be the Alliance's greatest military strategist. But Yang Wenli is Yang Wenli, and his thoughts alone traverse the galaxy like the harbingers of a storm.
"You change the universe just by existing."
Yang's eyes flutter open to look at him, catlike in their deceptive clarity. They do not forget.
III. The Summer and Winter Garden
Reinhardt hangs his locket by the mirror. He watches the sunrise reflecting back and forth from gold to glass, infinite and unchanging.
Kircheis has been gone past eight days, and Annerose to her mountain exile. Reinhardt still strains for the sound of Kircheis' footsteps -- he would know them anywhere, from the marble halls of power to a snow-covered park in the long winter.
Sometimes he fancies he hears them in the mirror. Kircheis holds out a rose to him, the rich red colour darkening into black in the moonlit room.
"From Annerose's garden," Kircheis says, smiling, and Reinhardt awakes.
Konrad's hands are slowly roughening. Annerose notices the callouses, and the way her novels would fall open on scenes of a hero's derring-do or grand masquerades in magic castles. She remembers, too, how the stories go.
When gold-filigree masks and feathers cloak memories of cunning eyes, Annerose sets aside her needlework. Konrad, well-attuned to her moods, jumps to his feet. On these rare nights, he is a nobleman again, and she a flower of the court.
They spin around from room to room, humming waltzes and laughing at every stumble. Konrad's eyes -- young, worshipful -- never leave her face.