Winter 40 511 AV
Wake up. Wake up, damn you.
Winter had come; that was as plain as the hoarfrost that edged a murky window. Dust motes danced between streaks of morning light that bleached blood-speckled sheets and a slumbering twosome, no more than two blackened tufts of hair beneath layer upon layer of linen and cotton and goose down. One groaned, stirred, and reached blindly for the warmth of the other while a brazen toe tested the rumpled white landscape that lay untouched by bodies; it sang of a morning as frigid as the night that has preceded it, and with a shudder Seven withdrew his leg to tangle it between those of his sleeping human.
Sleep tugged against his heavy eyelids, cajoling him back into bottomless black. A bell barely had time to pass before those pallid lashes parted again and he abandoned Nysel’s clutch with a gasp and a scrabbling attempt to rid himself of too many blankets. Whatever had startled him was already fading from his memory, teasing the corners of his wits and darting out of his grasp when he reached. A vacuous frown turned pleasant when a hand snuck up along the inner crook of his elbow and tugged him back into a nest of body-warm respite.
Those eyes burn when he stares at you. Crimson eclipsed narrow rings of iron before black lashes fluttered shut again; his human’s mind was too weary to show contentment. He had grown familiar with those tiny changes, as much talent as they were a perversion of djed; Seven had no right to pass judgment, he who could weave his very essence into an invisible safeguard. His resolve broken, he settled into the feather mattress, offered the brief sting of fang against tired lip, and buried his nose in a musky sea of silk ebony. Sleep took its time finding him again.
When Seven woke, the hot fingers of the sun had drifted far above their heads, and the crackling frost had melted into a thousand glassy beads, clinging to the corners of the dirt-riddled window. Again, an olive-wrapped collection of fingers protested Seven’s move to the far side of the bed. They snagged him at the hip, drew desperate lines across wan skin with tired fervor. Words without nuance briefly filled the air, an unintelligible plea. The effort earned a breathy laugh before the digits were gingerly dismissed in favour of a bitter cold room.
The hearth wasn’t lit. Its fire probably died bells ago.
Seven fished across the floor for discarded trousers while a deep yawn stole his sight. An index finger hooked a worn belt loop, and two slim brown legs swallowed a set of pale ones. He was still fumbling with the leather string that cinched the threadbare pants around his waist when he approached the window. A pair of free fingers tipped back half-drawn curtains. “It’s nice,” he remarked, to no one in particular, despite the body that occupied the bed, basking in incomparable warmth and a reluctance to accept morning’s arrival. He envied the man so immune to the guilt that came with wasting a perfectly good day in bed. Then again, he could not remember when Alvadas had shown Victor the way home that morning.
Seven let the curtain drop and knock half-heartedly against a dusty sill. He licked his lips, dry, and still hot from sleep. “For winter.”
