Work Text:
‘...expected to hit by the hour, accumulating up to and including six or seven—”
Halsin presses a button beneath the TV and cuts off the weather forecast. Astarion eyes him flicking through the channels from the sofa over a mug, lingering on his backside for too long. It’s getting to be that time he wraps up here in Grovington, get back to the city with all the blueprints and clauses and finer prints in tow. Granted, any sane man would miss the fresh calamari by the bay and an actual nightlife more than anything, but he’s still here, in this little town, with this little town man who’s been nothing but unbelievably kind even the moment Astarion fell into Grovington and proceeded to curse at the snow, curse ice, curse little towns.
“I’m mildly surprised you have a TV,” Astarion had remarked the first time he stepped foot in Halsin’s cabin. “Oh, and a stove. And fridge. Ah, even running electricity.”
In which Halsin took it in stride, simply chuckling quite closer behind Astarion than he anticipated, “It benefits to keep in touch with the outside world at times.”
They proceeded to spend what evenings Halsin rarely had available pouring over documents and bickering over ‘preserving natural habitats’ and ‘the integrity of the environment’ and the importance of accepting a damned economical boon when the city is willing to extend it; all would exhaust even the biggest coffee pot in the continent.
The newest draft between the Aldermen of Grovington and Astarion, as the representative hired by the Baldurian Builder’s Society, sits in his business bag sitting on one of the dining room seats and the handle drooped to the floor as if to raise its non-existent eyebrows to give him a knowing look. All he needs to do is get around the mountain and back to the city and have it approved and all the hard work and longer nights will fall into place.
Tacky, jingly music blasts from the TV. Astarion lowers his mug from his face, dread seeping in like the cold just before Halsin turns, meeting his eye with a smile that makes his own into twinned glittering bulbs of festive spirit.
Then he busts into a pose, arms spread out like he’s holding a giant instrument and starts stringing it, hitting his heel on the hardwood floors in beat.
Astarion chokes down his cocoa and tries not to laugh, accusing, “What are you doing? Gods, this is what the holiday spirit does to a man!” but it only encourages the goof. Halsin swings his arms around and around and sways his hips, and in more and more horror, Astarion realises the merriment creeps closer. He hunches down in his so very protective cushion and wags his head when Halsin pauses the jigging and wiggling to flap a hand, coaxing him into the madness.
“Join the festivities, Astarion.”
“You’re a one-man festivity in himself.”
“All the better to make it double.”
Astarion brings his cup to his face, trying not to smile into it staring up at Halsin jingle-bell rocking his hips like some snowbird putting on a show. “Who says I dance?”
“I never said either one of us dances,” Halsin jests. “You can step on my feet if you’d like.”
Strangely enough, his hand falls into, gets taken by Halsin’s. “Uh huh. Damage control.” Even stranger, his mug sets on the coffee table and his rump leaves the furred blankets too easily. Halsin gently pulls him around the couch, only giving a tug at the last moment and Astarion’s socks slip on the floor and it leads into a spin where they go around and around each other and he does step on Halsin’s foot but only laughs as Halsin doesn’t mind, all grins. The music tinkling from the television, the real garlands of green hanging over the wood banisters, the seep of cold from the front door, all of it is so much more real here than just grey-sludged streets in the city, it’s almost magic.
Especially the way Halsin smiles down at him in that toothy sort of way, and surprise takes him as Astarion does, lifting their hands over their heads and giving a spin for the hells of it, laughing at the whimsy of it all until a hand snags around his hip and yips as he’s twirled right into Halsin. That hand cups his back, broad and warm right through knitted fabric, like the rest of him keeping them close. “I sworn you said you didn’t dance.”
“I must’ve lied.”
Halsin’s grin only grows, and his eyes trail down, falling to Astarion’s lips. He quickly glances back up, rumbling in a laugh between them both and Astarion only gives him a knowing smile.
Then Halsin proceeds to lean back his head and bellow shamelessly to the room, "‘...what joy this Yuletide brings, with us by the firelight the warmth we sing!’"
“Oh Gods!” Astarion laughs. “Spare me for once!” Halsin continues, so he has to raise his voice, shake their hands to rough him out. “Did you slip liquor into your cocoa?!”
Halsin squeezes his hand back. “None at all.”
That song fades to its end and they slow but not stop as the next song starts in a dainty skip of bells.
“Just the festive mood, then.”
They scuffle on the floor. Astarion actually dances to a holiday ode, the first time in...at least centuries. Cocoa filled their bellies. The fireplace warms their cheeks. Halsin gazes down at him like there’s nothing else in the world.
“Starlight…”
Astarion pimples in goosebumps.
Worse of all, he’s become utterly smitten for a country town man just like all those sappy, snow-laden movies.
Being in this little town drove him mad the first step he took into it. Let alone finding this other elf he was supposed to be meeting to discuss the business he’s come for, let alone the staunch stubbornness behind a cool-headed voice, let alone meeting every one of Astarion’s challenges to his little town view with his own on the city. He’s done nothing but driven Astarion mad and it’s beautiful, this wonderful, soft, wintery sort of madness as if he falls face-first into snow. It prickles his ears. His lips burn.
If he stood on his toes, he could—they would, surely Halsin would meet him halfway like everything else he has, to finally stop wondering what it’s like to kiss him to finally know.
If he does—he can’t—there’s no going back, no picking up this desire once it’s allowed to spill onto the wooden floors. Astarion lives leagues across the other side of the mountains. He was only ever to stay in Grovingon temporary, it’s just he hadn’t ever and didn’t expect to actually enjoy a job so much, certainly not in some mountain-backed town. Being away from the bustle of the city became a breath of fresh air he didn’t realise he needed after long days of work and getting back into law school before that, cramming dissertations and books thicker than his upturned hand between ‘clients’ where he’d see little of the pay. A mere few tenday is enough to braid a fairytale of his heart. The kind trill of busybodies. Charities, soup kitchens, gift-giving just for being there, for free, for the holiday spirit. Big, little town men hauling firewood in flannel—yes, they still exist, and one of them gives Astarion’s hand another kind squeeze. It was too easy to get lost in this little town and too easy to find a quickened heartbeat from Halsin’s chest. Most fretfully, it didn’t take long at all for Astarion to settle in that beat, of another person meeting him eye-to-eye, as a challenger yet as a guest, a newcomer welcomed as any other, as if Astarion belonged. Too often he found himself mock-arguing in the shower as if Halsin was in there with him and looking forward to bringing up new points the next time they could catch each other somewhere within the too-uncommon but rather enjoyable nights free in Halsin’s absurdly busy schedule. A big little town man gives out his whole heart; Astarion has wondered if he even managed to trance some nights.
The curtain over the front windows are cracked enough for the porch light to shine on an utter eclipse of white. The snow comes down harder than Astarion knows snow could do.
“Ah, look at that.”
Halsin’s hand subtly twitches in his own, but they slow to a complete stop when he follows Astarion’s sight. It’s a break, an opening to slip away, and Astarion already misses the warmth as he stops before the door. Chunks pour out of the dusk sky almost as fast as rain. A dusting already covers Halsin’s truck sitting in front the cottage. He gazes out, managing not to jump when Halsin’s hand settles on his shoulder to chase right after his nimble slip away. Though he does find a mild wonder in the storm and the way it sparkles when it lies, only because he’s on the other side of it safe and dry.
Halsin twitches the curtain and they both stare out to the gravel lane and road cutting through the pines leading to the town beyond.
Astarion’s due for the city again soon. He shouldn’t enjoy it so much.
“It’s coming down rather hard,” he starts.
“Chilly,” Halsin says. “Would you like another cup?”
Astarion agrees, but he sets a hand over Halsin’s, only to pull back again. “You’ve been a dear, Halsin.” That much is and has been unbelievably true. The big elf pulls a tight smile; both of them know what’s coming, “I really need to be going. Especially if we have nothing more to discuss with the terminal agreement,” he adds on quickly, quietly. The steam from his cocoa still warms his cheeks, it makes his voice thick. “If I leave now, I can probably make it back to the lodge before they close the roads.”
Because that’s something small towns do. The city never sleeps. Trucks pour salt and shovel the streets relentlessly; here in Grovington volunteers put those enormous shovels on their pick-ups and plough the roads. If individuals chose to salt the pathways, that’s their own wishes...as if slipping on ice is just as nature intended. The oncoming onslaught continues on the other side of the glass.
Come to think of it, Halsin doesn’t ever seem to sleep, either.
Astarion shivers from the cold beginning to seep into his skin when Halsin takes a step to him again, “As if I’d ever bide you to go out there alone.”
He’s too close. Astarion is highly aware of the arm hovering behind his back, always reaching out but never pulling toward himself. There’s a small space between the front of the door and that offering hand, only a miniscule getaway only to be caught into wood and flannel and pine tendrils, some fey-like wilderness of Halsin’s own—paintings of trees on the wall, a bookshelf full of atlases and animals, the wool carpet before the fireplace that alone almost sold the rest of Astarion’s shrivelled heart upon first sight. Still, he leans heavy on one foot from Halsin, always having to look all the way up but he’s met him chin-to-chin formulating their little arguments and agreements between the city and Grovington, but now he might wither under that steady, honey-melting gaze. Worry, like always. Intensity, like too much. Something else, maybe Astarion’s already gone insane. He can’t stare too long. He can’t stay longer. He’d only miss it all ever more.
“What would you have me do?” Astarion forces a scoff. He quickly answers before Halsin could, would, “Fine. I’ll see about calling a taxi.”
He turns away before he gets trapped and it’s something he craves and knows he probably won’t ever get. Not with the way they both work and work has them.
During his time in Grovington he picked up a few things, including the number to the local taxi service. He steps into the hall from the living room to dial just that. The line drones on and on and his heart sinks further every time.
‘We’re sorry, there is no one available to take your call right now. Please try again later. Our hours are…’
Oh. Astarion double checks the time. Oh, dear. Oh, it’s getting that late already? It’s not late at all, really, but little towns and all that.
Astarion hurries back into the living room, gnawing on his lip and glancing around for Halsin, who he hears clattering about in the kitchenette because the oaf won’t keep still for two moments. The curtain on the front door is still ajar just to remind him of the white dousing the front stoop.
“No one picked up,” he says loud enough for Halsin to hopefully hear. “Blasted little town, it’s like nobody goes out at night around here.” Then, “And I don’t want to hear anything about it being time for the bears or raccoons or deer to come out.”
Halsin comes out of the kitchenette with another cup and a fat marshmallow bobbing on top of it. “How about the cats, bats, and owls, then?” He splits into a grin as Astarion rolls his eyes and pointedly turns his face toward the window. The mug comes into view, and Astarion starts when fingers graze his back. “It’s all right,” Halsin soothes, offers, “I could drive you there, if you’d like.”
“Then you would have to come all the way back here.”
“I’d rather spare the taxi driver.”
Astarion rather spare him. He presses his lips together, keeping them shut.
“Go on.” The mug lifts a little higher. “I know you get cold fairly easily”—understatement of two centuries—“and once you have a chill…”
“I—well, I can’t.” Astarion clamps his mouth shut so short-circuiting doesn’t spit any volts out of his mouth. “Just what are you implying?” he asks, taking the mug.
“Stay here for the night,” Halsin tells him.
His skin erupts in gooseflesh. Good thing it’s sweater weather. Astarion brings up the cocoa, busying himself with blowing on it and half-turning away, as if to contemplate.
“There’s a spare room. Plenty of blankets.” Plenty of flannel. “I have some old clothes I don’t wear, should you need something for bed and the morning.” Plenty of tight, little spaces in there to press closer and be kept warm.
‘Say, what’s in this drink?’
‘Baby you’ll freeze out there.’
And the wool rug before the living room mantle—even after all the places and all the people he had to be with, he’s always wanted to make love by fireside on a bear-skinned rug, possibly deer, but he’d settle for sheep just to try it.
Seconds fall and keep falling like the snowflakes just on the other side of the glass, Astarion shouldn’t let himself be so seduced but the thought and very possible possibility of not having it at all, not trying even once to hurt his mangled heart hurts even more. Just being here, clinging just one more night, a few hours more, a room and some walls away—that hand settles against his back and he catches himself leaning into Halsin. The plan falls into place before he even plots it.
“I couldn’t bear if something were to happen to you out there.”
“What, even if it’s me slipping in the snow?”
“Again?” Halsin does one of those rumbling chuckles from inside his chest as Astarion shoots him a ‘glare’ from over his cocoa.
“Yes, again.” Another not-so subtle step closer and the gap between them is gone. “You do know your nosy townspeople are going to talk, right?”
“I have a feeling they’re already talking anyway.”
The steam from the cocoa zings pink up to the tips of Astarion’s ears. The body brushing his is a column of pure heat, a whole lot of elf and even more man to handle. Halsin can wrap both his arms so easily around him. Keep him close. Keep him warm, yes, it’s all already too late. They’ve both been wanting this, and this is the one and only night that may very well give it to them. “I suppose we always could tell them we did stay up all night...bickering on the finishing touches of our little agreement.”
“We could always do that.”
‘It’s cold outside...’
Another tooth in a grin shows and Astarion huffs, turning a cheek so Halsin doesn’t see him fighting one himself and losing. “All right,” he ‘relents,’ and it’s a pure hit of sugar sweet straight to his veins. “You’re right, I’m in no rush to get my feet wet, really.”
The fingers against his back twitch. Astarion stays still, half-expecting to be grabbed and yanked close and squeezed but a light touch settles atop his shoulder. In the reflection peeking between the curtains, Halsin leans down and presses his face to Astarion’s sweater, almost kissing him, undoubtedly breathing him in. Astarion gazes at the window, blinking like a fool, lips zinging like they were the ones kissed. Halsin sighs as he pulls away, “Neither am I.”
He leaves the living room, Astarion feels him leave but his hand, his eyes linger, “Stay by the fire. Keep yourself warm. I’ll get the room ready.”
Once he’s alone, he brings up his mug just to lament a whisper into the cocoa, “You’re a bloody little fool.” The proud surveyor who can rip a contract to its baseboards crumbles just as easily as the first drafts. Surely Halsin conceded first, welcoming but stern and well-eloquent for a supposed hippie mountain Alderman in this little town to press close and stay there, burning eyes against a reverent-quiet voice? This is what all that pine fresh mountain air has done to Astarion. It’s a foolish thing. It’s a flighty thing.
But it’ll hurt more if he doesn’t reach out and take it, if he doesn’t take these memories back home.
‘I’d hate for you to go out in the cold.
But as long as you hold me tight,
All the way home I’ll be warm!’
Astarion jabs a finger at the TV, turning it off.