Work Text:
Soft showers of powdered snow quickly turned heavy and imprisoning as it settled over the manor. All exits were difficult to push open, but those select few who chose to enjoy the weather and play outside in childish merriment had bundled up and made their way, their snow-war battleground lit softly by the luminance leaking from the manors guiding lampposts and from the interior through the windows to the manor itself this night.
For those few remaining inside away from the action, in fear of catching cold or any other reason, the opportunity for rest was taken, and an even smaller percent enjoyed a small performance by their fellow guest.
Fredericks fingers gracefully pressed upon each key, punctual to the rhythm he decided upon for this piece; it was not a new score, but a revised, older one. It rested familiar in his fingers but had changed enough to be interesting to the composer's more refined and practiced tastes than when he first drafted it. An audience was not the pianists intention, but always welcomed. Surely the piece would go through a few more revisions should the inspiration strike, but for now the enjoyment from the others settled in the entertainment center, which featured a fireplace, bookshelves, two plush sofas and the piano itself, was enough.
Of the members basking in the performance, on one couch sat Victor Grantz, having been writing a letter to his beloved at the time the composer came to practice. Upon seeing the others head out to enjoy the weather as much as they could, the postman slipped out of his quarters for a change of scenery whilst he wrote. All other duties for the day had been performed and he’d taken to composition himself, similar to the pianist. Their mediums only differ in language, carrying the same capabilities of communication, in Victor’s opinion.
He admired the composer for it. Though it may be difficult for others to understand, Frederick’s song landed upon listening ears, which noted melodies and key changes, piecing together their own meaning of the song without lyrics. A subjective thing, music is.
When Frederick arrived to the room, he had notified Victor of his intended practice upon seeing the other sat busy in his own work, and the postman couldn't grant more acceptance to the company. It was the typical time when the composer came to practice anyway. While not at the front of the postman's mind when he sat down, he was subconsciously expecting the other man to show up at one point or another. Though unsure if the feeling was mutual, he found that the presence of music helped him focus and aided his search for the correct words in his writing.
At some point during the other man's performance, Victor had put more effort into dissecting and finding the meaning in the other's literature than completing his own. The small board which Victor used as a makeshift tablesurface to write upon was discarded to the blonde’s lap, now providing a careful surface for arms to carefully rest and hands to gently fidget with their owner's selected fountain pen in thought. He lightly chewed his cheek as he watched the composer's hands dance on the keyboard, trying to place himself in the author’s shoes and imagine what the white-haired man felt whilst writing this particular song.
Deeply in consideration, Victor was startled when a hand, placed as gently as possible upon his shoulder, managed to make him jump silently. A quick swing of his head back reveals the limbs owner and postman’s lover, the embalmer. He seemingly had been comfortable in having been stood there for a while, perhaps also attracted to the sound of music which floated through the manor's thin walls at this hour.
The embalmer’s eyes dipped low, looking over the postman's shoulder to read the work he had temporarily abandoned, the hand placed on Victor’s shoulder seemingly only to give him purchase in leaning over the back of the sofa to read the work in process. Upon noting the embalmer’s intention, the postman swiftly attempted to cover the half-filled page with his hands, pulling out another piece of paper to quickly write.
“Aesop, you scared me!” He quickly scrawled out as his quickened heartbeat died down. He cast a quick glance at the grey-haired individual before his wrist took motion once more, “What brings you here? I thought you might be resting early this evening?”
Aesop's eyes scanned the message once, twice to ensure he correctly read, dipping his head a bit lower to quietly communicate to the postman under the composer’s performance.
“I wanted something to read from the library. Though, it seems you're already attempting to quench my thirst for such literature?” he questioned, pointedly nodding back down to the postman's letter, which from the content he’d sneakily read already, was certainly intended for him and no others.
The postman blushed and shook his head, covering the work further. The man was already nervous about confessing his feelings and desires in such a tangible way when it came to the other man, let alone works incompleted! He certainly had a beautiful understanding and sensibility in his writing, but was nonetheless shy in sharing the creations he put so much of his own heart into… thus mostly sending wick to complete deliveries that didn’t require the postman’s presence.
“Not yet… I haven't found the words quite yet” Victor hastily wrote, taking to fidgeting with his pen in distraction from the proximity of his lover, the only thing filling the minimal space between them being the continued performance of the composer which the postman's staccato heartbeat seemed to mimic as both slowed from a high pace to one more comfortable and somber.
“Certainly..” The embalmer murmured, amused. He settled further leaning onto the back of the couch, with no intention to sit down. The two listened to the performance together, silently forming meanings of their own out of the remainder of the piece. In the familiar parts of the old song, Aesop took to gently humming, melodic, and undisturbing to other listeners.
As the final notes rang out, the embalmer pushed himself to stand as the postman gave small claps to show his appreciation of the composer’s work and effort in revising the old piece. Frederick paid little mind to the attention, though secretly did appreciate the audience. He made marks on the piece he just practiced and flipped through various sheets to find the next target of his creative scrutiny.
Aesop’s gloved hand gently rubbed at the space between the postman's shoulder and neck for a moment, leaning back down.
“I would like a drink. Joining me?”
Victor stretched from where he was sitting and simply nodded, abandoning his work to rest on the arm of the couch until his return. He took the embalmer's offered hand in standing up, appreciating the gesture more than needing the support.
A glance back and certain that the composer was buried in his own work, the hands of the two remained joined in their walk to the kitchen. The grand scale and extensive passageways of the manor caused the walk to take a minute, in which the lovers simply basked in each other's presence, empty conversation being something which both detested and the understanding of which being an equal attraction point to the two. Why waste the breath of life on unnecessary conversation, why use words in place of action? And to each, the warmth of the other's palm and presence at their respective sides was enough.
The music gently faded but persisted at a softer volume as they gradually moved away from its source.
Thankfully the kitchen was lacking any other guests, the large window providing a view of the inhabitants of the manor who chose to spend the evening playing in the snow as if they were children again. Perhaps their ability to find merriment in such detestable weather was something admirable, but the postman took more fondly to observing, as did the grey-haired man who was softly rifling through the cabinets and drawers, knowledgable as to where every needed item was located for making their drinks.
Victor leaned on the counter, watching the nightly activities outside through the grand window. He was certain if any paid attention, they could easily see him through the non-reflective glass as well, especially considering the bright light it provided to the moon-cast landscape.
“Chamomile?” The embalmer questioned, referring to which flavor of tea the postman would like.
Various teas were their shared preferred drink on nights like these, happily sampling any new additions to the kitchen's collection in the company of each other. Evenings granted, like these, were a blessing for the duo, giving time to catch up privately yet not forced to the confines of one of the other’s rooms. It was nearly domestic even, allowing the two for just a moment to pretend this was their home, their kitchen with their selection of teas and snacks. A space just for them..
“Lavender” The postman suggested, now speaking softly in their privacy.
Aesop set the kettle on the gas stove, clicking the machine to life and watching as the flames licked and worked its heat through their water. “Lavender it is,” he affirmed.
The embalmer joined the other man in watching the others, mimicking his leaning over the counter and appreciating how the postman shifted his weight, once comfortable, to be pressed into the embalmer. Though physical intimacy in their relationship wasn’t uncommon, it was certainly moments like these that they had been working towards for months, taking as much time as they needed to get comfortable in each other's presence since it seemed time was the only thing they had an abundance of in this manor.
Carefully, Aesop noted his other's eyes watching over the manor guests playing outside, unfortunately not following his gaze when Tracy pelted Luca with a snowball. He instead allows his own eyes to linger on the postman, his other half not minding the close observation when it comes from his beloved. Though uncomfortable at first, it's something he’d grown used to and acceptant of.
“Were you interested in going out tonight?” The embalmer questions, mostly already knowing that getting frozen and covered in wet snow was not likely to be the postman's activity of choice this evening.
“Mm…”
“... no, I like being here with you” He spoke just above a whisper, tilting his head just further into the other, emphasizing the point at which he spoke ‘you’. Aesop pressed back into the other man just a little more.
The melody of Frederick’s next song stopped and began, slipping through to the kitchen and providing far-off ambiance to their silence, filling the moment of silence before the postman spoke again.
“It's just so liminal, isn't it?”
The embalmer understood what the other meant. The eerie manor, which encased them all and was essentially its own layer of hell, still provided spaces for sweet moments like these. The embalmer and postman often found themselves caught in a space between it all. Both were often overlooked by others for whatever reasons, similar and unlike all the same. To be in each other’s company only felt natural once they took an interest in the other.
In essence, their existence of perpetually being alone together suited both and fit their needs for companionship accordingly. Neither expecting more or less from the other, occasionally assuming a dance of boundaries, every time softly tested and given into. Simple glances evolved to chaste kisses turned to needy mouths on necks, in nights which that was the form of affection that either desired. A cycle of give and take in which both were simply happy to be in the presence of the other and offer what they could.
“I suppose so. But you fill the space.” Aesop reached up to gently tug at the blonde's fingers rested on the counter, a method of fidgeting whilst the embalmer thought and a frequent action of his which both were comfortable and familiar with.
“...Sort of like your words fill the pages which you gift to me. You fill the time I'm gifted to spend with you.” his eyes remain cast down to their hands entangled, continuing his mindless ministrations of soft tugs and bends at the joints.
The postman gave a soft laugh at the other's words.
“A little sappy from you, dont you think?”
Aesop smiled gently in agreement with his accused cheesiness in his selection of words.
“Perhaps I've been referencing your works too much, Mr.Grantz” he poked back, earning a light slap to the shoulder closest to Victor, a teasing warning. Both were well aware of how Aesop enjoyed Victor’s writing, though the fact that Aesop still saves every letter Victor writes him is a pleasurable secret of Aesop's own. A guilty pleasure to look back and relish in the articles on lonely moments in which his lover was stolen away by matches or unavailable to his company.
The whistling kettle brought an end to their soft banter as Victor took responsibility for pouring the boiling water into their mugs and allowing them to steep. Victor did a small, nearly unnoticeable twirl while the put the kettle back ont he stove to cool, in time to Fredericks's piece, which still gently filled the manor with music.
Aesop noticed though. He stood up and intercepted the postman just as he was about to resume their prior position watching out the window while they waited once longer for their drinks to be prepared.
A soft gasp was uttered from Victor's mouth as a gloved hand wrapped around the other’s frame to be placed on the small of his back while the postman’s own adjacent hand instinctively placed itself on the embalmer's chest. Their free hands joined together in a soft hold, fingers intertwined. Once the postman was settled in his grasp, Aesop began a soft pace of swaying back and forth in unison to the tune of Frederick’s song.
“Aesop!” The blonde softly exclaimed in surprise, quickly accepting their position and smiling at the other’s mischievous forwardness. “You *Sweetheart*” Victor emphasized the word teasingly, allowing it to drip with romantical mushiness as he settled his chest flush with the other man, accepting his offer to dance and softly swaying along with him.
The lead in their dance hummed in amusement. Victor could feel the vibration of it as he took to resting his head on the embalmer’s chest in their joint movements. Their dancing wasn't exactly professional perse… just swaying in each other's grasps and each simply enjoying the other's presence. An occasional pivot of the heel cast them to clumsily move an inch or two here or there, taking full advantage of the empty kitchen they were blessed to share this night.
And like that they stayed, well through Frederick’s song and even the two that followed. Moving in sync, the occasional swap of who leads and the way in which they’d hold each other as each song dictates what feels right in the moment, their tea long forgotten…
(Might add more lolol)
…
The snowball war raging outside refused to die down for hours, only taking a pause when a certain prisoner cast his glance over to the large kitchen window, which light from the manor still pooled out while many other lights had been turned off at this hour. Within the frame, the silhouette of two of the manor’s residents swaying gently could be seen, and to any familiar it was clearly the figures of their own postman and embalmer, enjoying each other's company in the domestic display of affection.
“Lol, gay-” Luka began to say before promptly getting a snowball to the face from the opposing team.