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“I smell alcohol.” The Beast stops as soon as he has one foot in the barn, head angled upward, sniffing at the air.
“According to you,” Enoch murmurs in good humor. “I always smell like alcohol.”
“You smell like liquor,” The Beast corrects offhandedly, taking a broad step into the barn following his nose.
“Of course, I smell like spirits , dear. If I didn’t, I would be concerned.” Enoch chuckles at his own joke, grinning fondly at the Beast.
The Beast’s head swings around to fix him in a positively unimpressed gaze, eyes tinged with green displeasure.
“You smell like liquor,” The Beast reiterates, pointed silence following his statement as if daring Enoch to try to make his pun again. The green recedes from his eyes when Enoch wisely remains silent. “I smell wine.”
“Ah, yes, I bought a few casks of wine from a traveling witch. They’re a touch too strong for my Pottsfeilders, unfortunately.”
Interest sparks blue and wispy in the Beast’s eyes.
“Strong you say?”
“Well, that and it’s quite magically enhanced.”
The Beast leers at him.
“You have my attention.” The Beast purrs, and Enoch grins down at him, fabric pulling taught behind his smile.
“I was wondering if you would like a drink, dear?” Enoch bats a ribbon at the Beast coyly.
“Say no more, Harvest Lord,” The Beast’s eyes flare with blue. “I will gladly undertake the sacrifice of helping you empty out your stores.”
Enoch chuckles.
“I’m afraid I don't have glasses. I only have the tea set you so kindly donated for our tea nights.”
“Alcohol is alcohol, regardless of how it’s served.”
A few minutes later, they are arranged sitting in the corner of the barn, a cask of wine temptingly close. The maypole sits slumped in the corner, the Beast half tangled in it, and the catskin curled up with its own teacup.
Enoch fills each of their cups, and the Beast takes it in eager claws from his ribbons.
The Beast cradles the cup in his claws, sniffing delicately at the ruby liquid sloshing in his cup. He relishes in the scent, eyes sliding shut. The catskin and maypole watch silently, trying to keep his adoration out of his scent as he watches the Beast take joy in the smell of the wine.
When the Beast’s eyes blink open, there is a curious tinge of red in them.
“This reeks of copper.”
The cat skin’s tail flicks coyly.
“I mentioned blood magic, did I not?” Enoch asks.
“No,” The Beast says, “You did not.” And proceeds to knock back his cup.
Enoch takes that as his cue to lap at the liquid in his cup.
Smoky and wonderful. Perhaps a touch on the dry side, but that doesn’t stop Enoch from delving back into the cup. Chocolate and copper dance through the drink, twining, and dancing, the magic in it sparks dully against his tongue.
When at last, he is only chasing remnants of ruby in his cup does Enoch glance up to the Beast’s purple ringed eyes.
The Beast peers into his own cup, eyes sparking curiously.
“That is quite the drink.” He says at last, and Enoch laughs, warmth creeping through him.
“Oh, dear, if it’s too strong, neighbor, please feel no obligation to continue drinking.”
“Too strong.” The Beast echoes, staring at the cat. “What do you take me for, Harvest King? A lightweight?”
“I did not mean to imply, my dear, anything about your drinking prowess, but-”
The Beast levels a sharp gaze at him, taking Enoch’s cup from him and downing the last remnants of wine.
As he sets down Enoch’s cup, a challenge burns blue in his eyes.
“I’ll drink you under a grave, Cat.”
“Are you so confident, Hope Eater?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll make you a wager, Cricket.”
Sparks of interest flicker in the Beast’s eyes.
“What do I get if I win?”
“What do you want?”
“Hmm.” The Beast taps at where his chin is beneath shadow. “I want a kiss.”
Enoch blinks at him, then shakes his head as if to rid himself of a thought.
“I must be drunker than I thought I was already,” Enoch blinks, checking for telltale signs of soft fuzziness at the edge of his vision. “I thought you asked for a kiss.”
The Beast laughs, soft and warm in a way that shouldn't be possible coming from the mouth of winter.
“I did.”
“You want a kiss?” Disbelief colors Enoch’s voice and scent. “Rather than a favor?”
“It's a drink between Companions, Harvest Lord, not a trade.”
Enoch stares at him dubiously, still not entirely sure this whole thing is not a result of the drink.
“If you’re sure.”
“I am.” The Beast says. “Now fill us up again, I’m eager to beat you so I can claim my reward.”
Enoch laughs at that.
“Now hold on, neighbor. We’ve decided what you get if you win, what do I get if I win?”
The Beast seems to consider that for a moment.
At last, he speaks.
“You get a kiss.”
Enoch grins at that.
“Allow me to make sure I have this straight, neighbor.” His tail flicks. “If you win, you get a kiss, and if I win, I get a kiss.”
The Beast nods resolutely.
“Yes.” One of the Beast’s eyes canters upward as if challenging him. “Do you have any objections?”
Enoch giggles.
“No, neighbor, I was just making sure.”
They go through the next three cups, and Enoch finds himself mildly miffed that he cannot drink as quickly as the Beast, who slams back his drink every time Enoch places it in his claws. The Beast does not comment on the time it takes Enoch to lap up his drink though, watching instead with crescent moons and humming lightly.
Somewhere around the fifth cup, Enoch starts to feel properly tipsy, heat creeping under his furs, the barn seeming significantly hazier.
He settles himself forward, tail flicking slowly.
A few more drinks in and the Beast’s eyes are filled with swaths of blue instead of dancing sparks and whisps.
“I’ll admit, dear, I didn't expect you to hold your liquor so well.”
“It's not liquor,” The Beast says, voice soft and warm. “Its wine.” He corrects, eyes blazing blue.
The Beast leans forward, claws twitching slowly as he caresses the catskin’s ears.
“Only a figure of speech, sugar,”
The Beast laughs, soft and light, like snowflakes in the wind.
“Hm, call me that again.” The Beast demands.
Enoch blinks, when had the Beast pulled the catskin into his lap?
“What? Sugar?”
“Yes.” The Beast purrs, claws combing gently through the catskin’s fur. “Why a cat?”
“Pardon,” Enoch says, trying to focus on the Beast’s question instead of how lovely it felt to have claws running through his fur, petting, stroking gently. “I didn't quite catch that, dear,”
“Why a catskin?”
“Oh? I like them.”
The Beast blinks down at him.
“Like what?”
“Cats,” The Beast giggles.
“Yes,” He says at last when his mirth has sputtered out. “They are very likable. All pointed ears, and sleek fur,” The Beast says, claws brushing against Enoch’s ears.
Enoch purrs, eyes sliding shut, tail swiping.
“Your fur is so messy,” The Beast huffs, plucking a piece of hay out of Enoch’s fur.
“I don't have much time to groom it.”
“Hmmm” Enoch hums, warm and fuzzy, relishing the feeling of the Beast’s fingers raking through his fur.
The Beast’s deft claws still, and Enoch huffs, annoyed.
“We were drinking,” He says, a note of confusion in his voice. “Pour us another drink.”
“You need to let me off your lap.”
“Hm.” The Beast considers that. “No.”
Enoch dissolves into giggles.
Clumsily, the maypole pours them another drink, and then another, one of the Beast’s clawed hands, never leaving Enoch’s back.
They’ve made it through half the cask of wine, and Enoch isn't feeling all that assured in his fine motor control with the maypole, he has to focus on keeping from spilling wine all over the both of them.
Thankfully, he’s not the only one feeling the alcohol’s effects.
The Beast swears lightly, wine sloshing out of his teacup and coating his hand.
The Beast shifts, huffing as if annoyed, he removes his hand from Enoch’s back to hold his teacup while he tries to shake off the last of the alcohol from his claws.
The Beast seems to find the effort futile and instead downs his cup, dropping his wine-soaked hand to rest on his knee.
Enoch peers up from the rim of his own teacup, ears twitching, and licks at the Beast’s claws chasing the flavor of wine and copper across them. The magic snaps against his mouth, like drinking lightning.
The Beast recoils, pulling his hand away from Enoch’s mouth.
“Don't lick that.” He scolds, words somehow unslurred. “You’ll get splinters.” He admonishes, and Enoch starts to laugh, leaning forward to keep licking at the Beast’s claws.
“Stop that!” The Beast insists again, but there is no bite in his voice, only fondness.
Enoch slides golden eyes to fix on the Beast, and then, very deliberately, licks his hand again, trying very hard to keep his mirth in check.
“Stop!” The Beast starts to giggle too.
They have another drink and then another, and then for good measure one more.
The maypole’s ribbons aren't quite obeying him, far too interested in seeing how deeply they can tangle in the Beast’s antlers, and they’re going to reek of copper and wine in the morning. The catskin’s vision is growing hazy, the only things of note in its eyes the blazing blue of his drinking companion and the wine in his cup.
The Beast, for his part, has relaxed, leaning back into the maypole’s seeking ribbons, his eyes dance with blue and flickers of purple and yellow. His words are not nearly as messy or clumsy as Enoch’s, but they have softened and are full of warmth. His claws move between stoking Enoch’s fur and lifting his teacup to his mouth, hidden in shadow.
Enoch stretches the cat skin, sipping from his cup, smoke, and copper dancing to unheard melodies across his tongue.
“The ravens die.”
“Hmm?” Enoch hums distractedly. “What are you talking about, pumpkin.”
“You asked me why I don't send messages with my flock.”
“Did I?”
“Did you?” The Beast asks, confusion tinging his voice.
“I can’t recall.” Enoch licks his muzzle, “Why do…” He struggles for the word. At last, he settles on a substitute. “...they die?”
“Everyone here is dead, you’ll have to be more specific, Cat.”
“No, not Pottsfeilders. The… the..” He still can't remember the blasted word. “The birds.”
The Beast stares at him uncomprehendingly and takes another sip of wine.
“The birds.” The Beast repeats.
“The message birds.” Enoch tries again, and the Beast starts to laugh, mirth shaking his whole body and vibrating up through Enoch’s skeleton and ribbons so much sweeter than any wine.
“The ravens!” That's the damned word- “They get too used to the cold and die from the heat.”
Enoch hums at that.
They lapse back into silence, continuing their drinking.
They finish the cask and move on to the next, both thoroughly drunk, laughter flowing hot and warm between them. They might have spilled nearly as much wine on themselves as they’ve drunk of the second cask.
Enoch grins around a mouth of sharp teeth, as the Beast struggles through a story about a maiden in the woods. The Winter Warden trying to force the story out between bursts of laughter and sips of alcohol.
Enoch nuzzles close into the Beast’s furs, his teacup balanced precariously on the Beast’s hip, filled with ruby nectar, the Beast's hands moving in strange patterns across his back.
The Beast is cold, like laying in the shade on a hot day, soothing the fire set alight by the wine under Enoch's skin. The Beast has started to hum ever so slightly, the sound rumbling through Enoch’s chest and harmonizing with his own purring.
They’re somewhere into the third cask when the Beast asks Enoch a question.
“Why are we drinking?”
“Hm?”
“Why are we drinking?”
The Beast has a point; Enoch tries hazily to remember the answer.
There must be one.
“A…” He pauses, squinting into his cup as if it held the answer. “A wager, I believe.”
“Ah.” The Beast says as if Enoch’s answer explains everything. “A wager over what?”
Enoch’s tail sweeps in lazy arcs.
“Who could drink more, I should think.”
The Beast falls into silence, taking another sip of alcohol.
“Who won?”
“We’re both still drinking, are we not?”
The Beast blinks down at him.
“I've had most of your drinks for the past hour, King of the Stalks.”
Enoch squints at that.
Has he? Enoch can't remember. That would explain how his cup had been emptying so quickly for the last cask or so.
“Oh.” Enoch murmurs. “I suppose you won, my dear. I don't know if I can catch up to you before dawn.”
“There was a time limit?”
Enoch laughs.
“I have a town to tend to. I can't spend all of tomorrow drinking, dear.”
“I won?” The Beast asks.
“Yes.”
“What did I win?”
“I can’t recall.” Enoch mutters.
“What can’t you recall, Lord of the Peaceful Dead?”
Enoch chuckles, light and lofty, and almost dissolves into giggles.
“I never remember how forgetful you are when you’re drunk.”
The Beast blinks down at him distantly, his claws rubbing entrancing circles behind Enoch’s ears.
“What am I forgetful of?”
Enoch licks a stripe up one of the Beast’s claws and settles against his chest, the maypole’s ribbons dragging the Beast down against it.
“Sleep, dear, I’m sure in the morning I’ll remember what you’ve won.”
Enoch half expects the Beast to ask if he won something, but the Beast simply hums and falls into the closest thing to sleep he can.
Enoch coos at the sight of him, tangled up in ribbons and reeking of Enoch and wine and copper.
Enoch curls upon his chest and settles into sleep, hoping he will be just a touch soberer in the morning.
Enoch wakes up with a set of claws stroking through his fur, a chill radiating from where he lay up though his catskin.
He squints his eyes open and finds himself staring into pools of blue. The catskin’s nose twitches at the alluring smell of forest and wine and blood. The mouth-watering concoction of aromas draws him from the haze of sleep.
The Beast hums, and the sound resounds up through Enoch’s paws and into the tips of his ears.
“Good morning, Harvest Lord.”
Enoch yawns, flashing sharp teeth, tail flicking.
“Good morning, Winter Warden.” Enoch murmurs, butting his head into one of the Beast’s hands and receiving a gentle chuckle in return.
Enoch casts himself into his web, throwing his awareness wide and into the maypole.
He is suddenly acutely aware of how badly the Beast is tangled up.
“I suppose I should start untangling so that you can make your way to your forest before the sun gets too high.”
The Beast laughs, his voice like cool icicle chimes in the air.
“It's much too late for that. It's nearly noon, Lord of the Peaceful Dead.”
Enoch’s fur bristles.
“Noon? Why didn't you wake me at dawning? I'm sorry, dear, I suppose you’ll have to stay until dusk.”
“I was asleep at dawn, Harvest King.” The Beast croons so sweetly. He caresses Enoch’s catskin.
Enoch hums.
“I suppose I owe you a kiss.” Enoch says, at last.
“Yes.” The Beast purrs. “You do.”
One of the Beast’s hands untangles itself from Enoch’s fur.
Enoch huffs at the loss but jolts in surprise when the Beast tangles that hand in his ribbons and yanks the maypole’s head down.
Enoch isn't exactly sure that it counts as a kiss, being that neither the maypole nor the Beast have lips, but he certainly isn't complaining.
The Beast tilts his head to press it closer against the maypole’s mouth, embraced by ribbons. Enoch sighs, pure plenty dancing through the air as he pulls the Beast flush against him.
It's a press of bodies, but it is as close to a kiss as they’re likely to get. Enoch can feel the line of the Beast’s mouth against the maypole, pulling into a grin.
When the Beast pulls away, his eyes spark.
“You smell like wine.” He says.
Enoch barks with laughter.
The cat skin stands, stretching. Enoch noses along the line of the Beast's jaw before hopping off of the Beast.
“I have some Pottsfeild matters to attend to, I do hope you won't mind if I leave you here.”
The Beast waves him off with a flick of his claws.
“I shall be quite alright, Cat. Go and attend to your town. I will be here when you return.”
Enoch hums, watching through gilded eyes as the Beast presses a kiss into the back of one of his ribbons, and then starts making braids in the maypole’s nest of ribbons.
He purrs delightedly at the sight of the Beast, tangled in the maypole reclining in one of the corners of the barn, and then forces himself to turn away so that he can exit the barn and make his way into the Heart of Pottsfeild.
As he splits himself to leave a shred of his consciousness in the maypole, he hears the Beast laugh.
If he can't keep a giddy grin off of his face or his anticipation out of the catskin? His Pottsfeilders turn a blind eye to it, all the while trying to stifle their giggles behind their hands.