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The cold always had a particularly potent way of gnawing into his heart. The subtle bite of an empty bed, tossing and turning as his fingers occasionally caught on a rip or tear in his blanket that he had not the knowledge nor the time to mend with his hands of inexperience. He would often pile them high on his bed, trying to cocoon himself in warmth, perhaps akin to a newborn chick huddling under his mother’s feathery bulk, seeking something to keep him steady and safe.
Tonight, the wind whistled through the house, the hail battering the windows. The noise sullied his sleep and stirred him awake, disturbed even more so by the lack of the telltale buzz of the gas pipes. Sitting up, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, he sighed as he felt his arm hairs stand on end. Each blonde strand was alert and tingled with goosebumps, unhelped by the thin slate nightshirt on his thin form. He shuddered, murmuring to himself.
“Bloody heating’s gone out… of all the times…”
Talking to oneself, perhaps not the most ordinary habit to confess, but Herlock Sholmes considered himself apart from the average gentleman. Why, at the age of 21, he considered himself a budding genius, a revolutionary in the field of detection, especially at the side of his dearest friend. However, even extraordinary detectives wind themselves up in extra ordinary situations, such as huddling in the blanket as he opens the drawer to retrieve matches for the candle at his bedside.
At the strike of his match, a rather patient and shy knock sounded at the door. Out of alarm, the ever genius found himself almost dropping his match onto his blanket. With a swift regaining of his bearings, and perhaps a soft yelp, he lit the candle and cleared his throat.
“Ah, er, enter!”
The doorknob turned and the door creaked open, as Mikotoba’s face was embraced by the warmth of the candlelight. The golden hue glimmered in his dark eyes, glancing at Sholmes with a tender curiosity.
“Evening, Sholmes. I see you’re up, did the cold wake you as well?” He asked, his voice somewhat weary, though that weariness was not one drawn from that of sleep. Rather, it was the weariness of the heart. Sholmes’s keen eyes squinted in the low and cozy glow, and saw soft patches of pink around those deep brown eyes. The ghost of tears.
“It did indeed, Mikotoba.” He answered simply, his heart uneasy at the sight of those tears. To ask would be to address it, which Mikotoba had not done. Silence was short-lived, however, as Mikotoba held aloft a wooden tray of a tea set and some biscuits.
“I was in the midst of boiling water when the gas ran out. Shall we have tea?”
“How very genius of you- yes, let’s.”
A soft smile of a bittersweet quality crossed onto Mikotoba’s lips, somewhat cracked and dry from the cold. He walked into the bedroom, setting the tray down on the bed and turning to shut the door, his sandals clacking softly against the hardwood planks, and then muffled by the tufts of the worn rug encircling his bed. A taste of home, he once had explained, a comforting reminder of his origins across the ocean, along with the robes he wore. He sat himself down on the edge of the bed, his eyes darting somewhat coyly towards the ground.
Silence seeped into the room once again, the beating of Mikotoba’s heart in his head, in his hands as he poured a cup of darjeeling for his partner. The potent steam of the cup warmed his face as he glanced up at Sholmes, huddled in a nightgown and at least three blankets. The warmth of his face was- with absolute and utmost certainty- from the steam and the steam alone, and not at all in conjunction with the manner in which his tousled flaxen hair seemed to glitter in the manner of spun gold in the candlelight’s sweet embrace.
With the steadiest form he could muster despite his shaking hands- purely from the cold, he re-asserted in his mind- he handed Sholmes the cup of tea. For the briefest moment, he felt his heart quiver in his ribcage as Sholmes' hand brushed his. Beating, beating away, his mind racing like a stallion, the jockey clearly uncontrolling and inexperienced as himself. Once the cup was firmly in his dear detective's grasp, he sharply withdrew his hand and went to pour his own cup of tea, anything not to look into those deep eyes of lapis, that gorgeous flaxen hair.
They easily slipped into a soft lull of conversation, something about a violin that Sholmes had recently purchased. He chattered eagerly about how it was apparently one of the best in the world. He guffawed with glee as he recounted how remarkable the discount was. Sholmes felt his chest bloom with warmth as the hot tea slid down his throat and into his core, his eyes tracing over the way Mikotoba would sit and listen fondly. Those deep, dark eyes shone in the golden light, hanging onto every word and gesture of his hands. With his heart brimming with that tender warmth, his goosebumps surrendered somewhat, and his stiff posture sunk into the pillows of his bed.
“Are you not freezing, my good man?” His eyes could not help but notice Mikotoba shuddering as well, bringing forth a rather sudden and perhaps unwise idea.
“I am a little on the cold side, yes, but I shall be fine.”
“Nonsense," Sholmes tutted, and set his cup on the bedside table. He pulled the blankets aside next to him and brought his hand down on the mattress, patting it twice. "come here.” As those words reached his ear, a little giddy budding ache in Mikotoba’s chest did a merry little jig.
“Ah, in.. in your bed?”
“Very well, if you insist.” He could not help but swallow a lump of air down his throat.
It’s a rather awkward affair, two adult men cramming themselves into a bed designed to hold one lone body. And so tenderly, they meet, with their shoulders and hands grazing, longing, wishing to push closer to test the boundaries. The tea tray lay atop the bedside table, tucked cleanly out of the way, their teacups drained and set aside. A thick fog of silence, boiling and brewing from the likes of tea and touch, rolled in for a good few moments.
“You have been crying, my friend. Whatever for?” Sholmes asked, a tentative tone that he had little practise in, piercing that cloud of quietness. His body shifted, turning onto his side to face Mikotoba, only to be met with averted eyes.
“Ah. I was just missing home, that is all. The comfort of holding another stings when removed, even after a few years of not doing so.” Mikotoba smiled softly, his hands wanting for nostalgic warmth. He kept his words brief, not wanting to dim the spirits of his dear friend by veering into matters unpleasant, and not to remind himself of how he yearned for the tender touch of one who will never touch again.
Sholmes nodded briefly,
“Well, perhaps you may wish to hold me? After all, the heating is out. I would not want either of us to go cold, nor you to wallow in sadness, my dear fellow.”
Potent as a curare-tipped arrow, those words struck through Sholmes’ chest and right through to Mikotoba’s, invigorating his heart to thud even more erratically in his chest. To hold his friend was an idea hardly entertained, depending entirely on what one would classify as an embrace. Is it an embrace to help your dear friend limp home after sustaining an injury, to carry him to his bed and stitch his wounds? How does one define the intimacy of such things?
Slowly, he turned to face his companion, outstretching his arms to welcome his touch.
Like the first shoots of spring, Sholmes slipped with ease into Mikotoba’s strong arms, shamelessly huddling close to his chest. Nothing could dull the ceaseless thudding in his breast as he felt such sweet arms wrap around his waist. Old instincts arose in him, and he had no choice but to let them reign, raising a hand to run through the short blond curls of his dear friend’s head.
“Is this comfortable for you?” a simple question, hiding a million others in its wake. Is this right? Are we supposed to be doing this?
A soft, pleased hum said all a thousand words that needed not be said, so Mikotoba continued to hold his partner in his arms, dormant in the soft glow of the room, until it faded with the candle.
With the warmth of a beloved body in Yujin’s arms, and someone to fend Herlock away from that bitter cold, they both found sleep with an ease they had forgotten. When the morning would come to wake them, they wouldn’t wake up to face it alone.