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The Christmas tree towered over its inhabitants from the corner of the living room. It was adorned with shining ornaments that reflected the purple flame in the fireplace. Knotted fairy lights were strung around the tree, sending dots of reds, blues, greens, and soft whites across the room. The gold and red bows adorning the tree helped give its sharp nettles an illusion of kindness, and the deep red of the skirt complemented the tree’s greenery. The skirt managed to catch the nettles perfectly when they shed—you suspected Stephen had enchanted the set up to make sure there wouldn’t be too much of a mess in his dilapidated Sanctum.
A green foliage of garland was draped over the mantle place, the silver leaves nestled within the nest of green stuck out like razor blades—ready to slice into anyone and anything that came too close. In the fireplace below, a purple flame danced in the fireplace, ravenously licking at the walls of its stone confines. It could draw no satisfaction from eating at the wood below it—it could not grow too much, nor could it falter and fade. It could only appear and disappear at Stephen’s command—though he wouldn’t flick his wrist to command the fire until you were ready for him to do so.
You were laying across the sofa with your head in his lap. His Columbia sweatshirt, and the blue blanket wrapped around you provided a padded layer against the springs that jutted into your sides. His cold hand had warmed up ever so slightly from touching you, or perhaps you had gotten used to the temperature. He would trace your cheek, and then your jaw before his fingers settled against your throat, lightly resting over your pulse point. It was an odd gesture at first, and even once you had gotten used to it, you couldn’t help but silently point out its peculiarity. He would often kiss you where your heartbeat was strongest—the coldness of his lips defining your heartbeat even more. When he wasn’t holding onto you tightly, he would rest his hand lightly over the spots where your heartbeat was felt easily—spots he had claimed as his own.
You peered up at him from time to time, as you went between closing your eyes and opening them again in an attempt to rid yourself of a headache. You would watch as the fire flickered in his eyes—doing well to bury the grief that was constantly infesting him with a glare and a calloused demeanor. Shadows were pressed against the bags under his three eyes, making them look like holes in his face—as though the skin could peel away with ease, revealing something darker underneath. The shadow pulled away from the sharp tips of his pale cheekbones, and flooded back in at the bottom of his face. It pronounced the darkness of his hair, and made the point of his beard resemble a black spike.
Stephen shifted his focus between you and the ancient text he was reading. A tinge of worry circled around his ribcage when he looked down at you and saw you resting your eyes. He knew your headache was likely due to fatigue, or the sudden drop in temperature, or you not drinking or eating enough. But being a former neurosurgeon, and knowing there were still things in this world that could harm you, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a different underlying cause.
The dark sorcerer absolutely hated winter, and he wasn’t sure he could endure another one alone. The snow storm outside lasted for days on end with no sign of stopping, nor any sign of day or night. It always sounded like the Sanctum was filled with static to a TV he had no way of controlling. Even before being left alone with nothing but his thoughts, he never was too fond of winter. Winter brought holidays, and holidays brought forced smiles, family arguments, shouting, eerily silent meals accompanied by the irksome sound of chewing. Holidays meant extra hours scrubbing his hands in soap before finding himself in another operating room, people sitting in waiting rooms as they decided to wait out a bout of snow or ice while they waited for their loved one, downing coffee only for it to seem to have little affect, unwelcomed hugs he was forced to endure as a child and as a surgeon that left his skin feeling uneven and fiery hours after they even occurred.
Worst of all, winter reminded him of his sister—if he wasn’t careful with his thoughts, that one would flood his brain until he eventually tipped over. Those memories toyed with his emotions and his temper enough as it was. He didn’t need to be reminded that the real reason why he hated winter was because it was infested with death. The death of the earth. The death of loved ones. The death of patients—some of whom had put off seeking care until the winter when their insurance would cover it. The death of co-workers, residents, and students who got into car accidents, or realized they could no longer handle the stress.
You were the only thing currently keeping him grounded—your heartbeat drumming against his fingers, and in his ears against the sound of the static. The slight rise and fall of your chest against his leg, the pressure of your head in his lap, your hand shifting from beneath your head, to against his hip, and to wherever felt comfortable next. It all kept him from flying into a fit of blind rage that he knew would end with him standing in the midst of splintered wood, torn pages, and destroyed candles. He wouldn’t bother to look around at what he had broken before he flicked his wrist, sending the objects flying about the room as they went to mend themselves, and went to bed. Every time he would hope that he would be able to sleep through the winter, or until that maddening static went away at the very least.
You were the one who suggested decorations. There were times when he noticed you getting restless; there were bouts where you would reorganize one of the shelves in the library, or clean something that would be covered in dust the next time the house settled. At times, you would walk laps around the inside of the Sanctum before you found yourself in whichever room he was currently occupying, and sit next to him.
“Stephen?” Your voice was small when you spoke—smaller than you intended.
His gaze flicked down towards you, indicating that you had his attention.
“Can I have some tea?” You hadn’t fully grasped being able to conjure things out of mid-air, leaving you to rely heavily on Stephen for whatever you wanted to eat or drink. You didn’t ask for much at first—you would always state that you weren’t picky, or that you weren’t very hungry. For the first couple of weeks, the latter was true. Your nerves often got in the way of your hunger, and it took you nearly passing out for him to pay more attention to your eating. He may have become a monster, but he wouldn’t kill you for no reason.
“Hold out your hands.” He replied, his voice cold and thin from not being used very often.
You sat up, and held your hands out together. His hand hovered above both of yours, and formed a circle—conjuring a cup, before he dipped his hand down, and raised it back up, subsequently filling it with liquid. You adjusted yourself so that you were leaning against him, and took a sip of your tea. It was the perfect temperature, and he had enchanted it so that it would stay that way for hours.
He knew he did nothing to deserve something as kind and caring as yourself. He knew it very well. He had done nothing to hide what he had become.
And yet you still nursed your cup of tea next to him in an attempt to soothe the pounding in your head. You set it down on a side table when you were done. You stood up, wrapping yourself in the blanket, and looked back at him.
“Do you need to read?” You ask.
The variant of him you were with before needed to do things. He pretended to be busy to tell himself there was still something out there for him.
He flicked his hand upwards under the book. The motion itself would’ve simply knocked the book off balance, but with the aid of magic, it gently folded to a close.
“Not now.” He stood, and placed his hand on your back as he followed you towards your room. The fire died behind him.
In your room, he quickly got changed, before getting in bed on the side closest to the door. He didn’t need to pull you in before you pressed your forehead firmly against his chest, trying to alleviate the tension. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, drawing patterns along your back every once in a while. He would always find it endearing that you were able to find comfort in him—he wondered how long it would take until you found him unnerving and pulled away.
It was slightly unsettling to listen to the static outside while you were trying to fall asleep—even for Stephen it felt like he was about to slip into a lucid fever dream where he would wake again and again until it was impossible to tell what was real and what his brain was showing him. But you still found yourself becoming drowsy in Stephen’s arms, and even he found it easy to become content simply laying in bed.
You felt a wave of sleep pulling you under. It was difficult to keep your eyelids open, and the pain in your head was starting to lighten. The static was beginning to fade and grow fuzzy. Like it was something you could get used to. Something that was just in the background. Something that was normal. It wasn’t a sign of danger.
The last thing you remembered was Stephen lightly kissing you on your neck exactly where his finger had been earlier.
He listened to your heartbeat lull as you fell asleep. He rested his chin on the top of your head, securing you against his body. There was nothing left in this world, but he would be there to protect you anyway. The thoughts and images of losing you never left his head. They would always grow inside his head like parasites—never leaving, always eating away at whatever brain tissue they could find. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someday, something, somehow would rip you away from him, and take you far away from this place.
Because you sleeping soundly in his arms was something he didn’t deserve.