Schuldig leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. Private jets - one of the good things about being part of Schwarz. On regular flights all the seats seemed to be made for people much shorter than him.
Farfarello was sitting in the seat next to him, absently tapping the armrest, gazing out the plane window and thinking of all the pretty colors. Puzzled, Schuldig looked outside as well. The sky was a grayish white, clouds obscuring the ground, making it impossible to see anything. Pretty colors?
Farfarello's fingertips continued to silently tap a steady rhythm on the padded arm of his seat, making Schuldig feel that all too familiar restlessness coming over him. He found himself unable to avert his eyes from that hand, the slender fingers protruding from the black gloves, moving slowly up and down, marking the beats of a song Schuldig had never heard before and guessed that Farfarello simply made up as it went. Farfarello's hands were pale and adorned with tiny little fading scars that almost looked like paper cuts. His nails had jagged edges and were a little longer than customary. Normally Schuldig would have considered chipped nails a bit of a turnoff, but then again, normally he probably wouldn't even had paid any attention to something so trivial, and now he imagined that hand sliding down his back, those nails clawing at his bare skin...
Schuldig blinked a few times and turned his head away. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he cast an angry look at no one in particular. Wasn't the air-conditioning supposed to be on?
Eager to find some distraction the German looked over at his other teammates. No luck. Nagi was sound asleep and Crawford was on his cell phone talking to some kind of authority figure, judging by the tone of his voice.
Sighing inwardly, Schuldig crossed his legs, wishing the plane ride would be over soon. He reluctantly glanced at Farfarello. The Irishman was still looking out the window, still thinking about those pretty colors, and still breathing. Schuldig specifically noticed that. Farfarello was breathing calmly, evenly, his chest rising and sinking... rising... sinking... rising... sinking...
Suddenly bursting into a coughing fit, Schuldig embarrassedly leaned back in his seat. He'd been so busy studying Farfarello that he'd forgotten to breathe himself.
Farfarello stopped his tapping and looked over at Schuldig, a slight smile on his face.
"Is the thought of me choking really so amusing?" Schuldig finally asked when Farfarello wouldn't stop staring. He made a point out of not looking directly at the Irishman and tried not to raise his voice enough to upset Crawford, who was still talking over the phone. As much as he enjoyed enraging his leader, now just wasn't the time.
Farfarello shook his head, still smiling. He wasn't thinking about Schuldig choking. He was thinking about the pretty colors.
"Pretty colors," the redhead repeated with a smirk. Then he looked over at Farfarello again, and the snide remark he'd had in store managed to completely escape his mind. He traced the younger man's body with his eyes, amazed that someone could look that good and be so completely unaware of it. The broad shoulders, the black vest that bared his lean arms, the tight black pants...
Schuldig squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn't happening. It was just the airplane. It had to be. Farfarello wasn't sexy. Or maybe he was, but Schuldig sure as hell didn't think so. Right? Right. He opened his eyes a little and then quickly turned his head. He had to get out of here. Now.
Somewhat shaky, he got up from his chair, leaving the plane corridor behind in just a few steps. Time for a cigarette break. He could definitely use one right now.
Farfarello's smile grew even wider. They were really such pretty colors. Orange and yellow and green...