Sanders Sides One-Shots!!

7. fly away with me (roceit)

Life isn't a fairytale. Roman knows this, even as he wishes it were.

(But perhaps...perhaps life doesn't have to be like the stories to be magical.)

*

Pairing(s): Roceit (Creativity | Roman + Deceit | Janus), platonic but could be read as romantic if you want

Content Warning(s): blood mention (teeny, non-graphic, in passing), brief partial nudity (someone getting dressed lol), can't think of any others, but let me know if you think I should tag something!

*

"Hey."

A voice pierces through a groggy Roman's mind, slicing through what had been a rather nice dream about...he thinks it was sword-fighting. And flying. Yes. Sword-fighting and flying about on the deck of a ship, sword-fighting a hook-handed pirate with a mustache and a cackle that looked and sounded suspiciously similar to that of his brother's.

Yes, whatever it had been, it was a nice dream. Roman would quite like to get back to it now, thanks.

Letting out a quiet, annoyed little "mmrmph," Roman rolls over and blindly grabs for one of his spare pillows, snuggling tightly into it.

The voice sighs heavily, growing irritated as it speaks next. "Come on, you great big oaf." Hands slither across his body and attempt to roll him back over. "Wake up already."

"Nooo," Roman protests sleepily, clutching his pillow more tightly to his chest and curling his legs up and in on himself.

The hands briefly disappear from Roman's torso, and he thinks that maybe whoever it is has finally given up. Good, that means he can go back to sleep. Already he can see the pirate ship and his sword and a strangely masculine Wendy reappearing; already he can hear the cries of the gulls and the tinkling of Tinkerbell; already he can smell and taste sea salt and blood and the pirates' bitter defeat—

—and then the hands reappears, roughly yanking Roman's pillow out of his grasp.

"Nooo!" Roman whines, more petulant this time, and he reluctantly rolls over to see who or what is so important that they had to interrupt his beauty sleep.

Roman slowly blinks tacky eyes at the blurry, somewhat familiar figure standing beside his bed. "Who...izzat?" he slurs. "Who're you? Why—"

"Roman, you idiot," the person sighs, sounding annoyed and affectionate all in one—and he knows that voice, Roman does, only one person he knows can manage to properly pull off that tone—but who? The answer dances on the tip of his tongue, just barely escaping him in his drowsy state.

With the help of the mysteriously magnificent stranger, Roman slowly sits up in bed, his sheets clutched tightly in his fists and strewn about him. He relinquishes his grip on them to reach up and rub at bleary brown eyes.

Once he has successfully rubbed most of the sleep out of his eyes, Roman turns and takes a closer look at the stranger who had so rudely awakened him.

And—oh.

There, at the side of his bed, clothed in a ridiculously formal black and yellow outfit, as per usual, stands Janus, arms folded across his chest, toes tapping impatiently at the wooden floorboards of Roman's bedroom.

Somehow, knowing who the person is makes both more and less sense in Roman's head all at once.

"Jan—Janus?" he mumbles, tilting his head curiously at his best friend. "What—what're you doing here? Why'd you—"