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Casca huffs as she flips to the next page. The texture of the paper is pretty sticky, and she’s loathe to think on why that may be. The quiet hum of the heating is still bothering her, making her long for the choppy splashes of Venezia. Of home.
Guts grunts something in his native tongue as his model clicks in an alarming fashion across the room. The German ox still can’t get a grip on using tweezers instead of his paws. Casca rolls her eyes fondly, listening as Griffith’s tittering cuts under Guts’ cursing.
The Frenchman rises like a swan from a lake, retrieving his snowy self from the fort he’s made of their stuck together mattresses and blankets. Casca swears that if he could, he’d leach even the stored melanin in her skin to get at the warmth of the sun there.
Greedy things, her two men. She huffs as Guts’ hands wrap around her waist, lifting her from her desk. “The exam is tomorrow. I have to pass the bar to get your ass out of jail, stronzo.”
Griffith tuts, “Ma dame, you have been ignoring us all week! We grow cold in your absence.”
His pouting pink lips are very tempting, Casca is sure. But she’s seen them wrapped around a variety of things, and the charm is a bit dull. Under the demure angelic flair, he is a gremlin through and through. A grabby little gelato, always seeking to rob her and Guts of heat and muscle.
Casca huffs as he snatches her from Guts’ lumbering frame, pulling her into his ice cold chest. She smacks his tit, smirking at the whine and jiggle both.
She huffs, “Griffith, if you’re cold, you should just admit to it. This is unbecoming of ‘Le Cinquième Ange,’ non?”
She doesn’t know if the pouting cat’s glare she receives is for her bad French or the use of his stage name, but it’s satisfying.
Guts groans something in German again, register too low and vibrating for her to want to interrogate it. His large, bearish frame pins the both of them. Squirm as they might, the pair are crushed. Their muscles are well defined, same as Guts’, but God plays favorites.
As seen with the man’s ridiculous size advantage in all fields.
Casca bites him, and he sharply grunts. She grins. Griffith nuzzles her hair, and she grins wider.
Griffith sighs, “Ma dame, you are too cruel. We are simply trying to revel in your presence. Would you deny us, sweet Casca?” He hides half of his face in her shoulder, silver curls framing him like a waif. “Would you leave me out in the cold of lonesomeness?”
Casca’s wry grin is his answer, and she bites his nose. He stifles a yelp as she pinches his cute ass through his frilly little nightgown. “Brat. I can’t believe I thought you were some kind of untouchable statue in freshman year.”
Griffith glares. “I could be.”
Casca hums, smacking the red flesh. He squeaks. “Yeah, sure you could.” She smirks up at Guts, the bastard. “And you! Stop trying to bury me!”
Guts grunts, “I’m not burying anything right now.” His grin looks like a nasty sneer, but she knows it to be boyish enjoyment. Sap. “’Sides, Griffith makes a good point. My hands hurt like shit, and your eyes are pretty red. We could use a nap.”
Casca rolls her eyes. “You two could use a nap. I could use two men who don’t need a teddy bear every five minutes.”
Griffith wraps a thigh around her waist possessively, the soft, but promising muscle threatening to wind like a snake. Moody little thing, her snow angel.
She strokes his scalp, but he only tightens his hold. Big baby. She says as much and suffers his kiss for the trouble. Guts laughs above them, and her cheeks flush. She is content, here.
She thought Switzerland a cold place, and that might be true. But here in her apartment, with two co-workers come roommates… she is near a warm hearth.
Griffith kisses her slowly as Guts shuffles the little nest around them to properly cover and vent their heat in the right ways. Civil engineering will suit him. With her law degree, and Griffith’s financial pursuits, they may be lucky.
Lucky being finding jobs at the same firm, or starting their own. They only need each other, a roof, and some money to get by. Nothing will make her happier.
She knows Guts has a wanderlust to him, and Griffith that damnable ambition, but she’s sure so long as they talk, they’ll be alright.
Then again, the itch remains. The thought that the snow outside means something. That the long nights where each has shifts unaligned might lengthen. Might leave her cold and void inside.
But she knows better than to listen to an itch so bitter. Her little nona made sure to tell her that if the ache is bitter, then its an old wound. A scar she must tend and beware. So long as she tries to avoid the things that make it itch, she will be fine.
She kisses Griffith, and it abides. She kisses Guts, and it rankles. She kisses neither, leaving them to shyly kiss as she’s asked of late, and it falls silent.
She watches them prod each other with tongue and fleeting touch, and smiles like a lunatic.
They’re going to belong to each other as much as they belong to her. As her to them. All three combined? They’ll fly like hawks over an endless field of flowers.
It’s cold out in Switzerland. But it’s nice and toasty in Casca’s little treasure trove of blankets and kissing boys.