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“Even an elf can be born with the heart of a Nord.”
That quote was attributed to Skjor — someone Midri never got to meet. In his case, Skjor was right. Midri had the fighting spirit, the capability to be valorous, and the ability to honor his brethren when the time called for such a celebration.
What he lacked, however, was the fortitude for alcohol. It was rather unfortunate for him that alcohol was one of the best ways to feel warm in Skyrim — especially in a frigid place such as Winterhold. It was doubly so unfortunate that Midri also lacked the upbringing that would have made him used to cold weather.
After a rather tedious job of culling encroaching ice wraiths, Midri and Vilkas huddled around the fire at The Frozen Hearth inn. As many people didn’t come to Winterhold these days, they were the only ones in the main room aside from Dagur and the drunken Ranmir. This was fine by the two Companions, for they only really wanted to bother with one another.
Midri had his head upon Vilkas’s shoulder, knees to his chest as he munched away at a buttered loaf of bread and sipped at his second bottle of mead. Vilkas had finished his own dinner by this point and was winding down with a book. Midri’s glazed magenta eyes were fixated on the low flames. For reasons unknown to Vilkas, the elf would giggle every now and again, but no words were exchanged.
After what had to be the fourth or fifth time he erupted in giggles, Vilkas’s gaze shifted from his book to the drunken little Dunmer that leaned on him. To see his husband so joyous did bring him a bit of contentment, but he did have to wonder why he was so joyous. He couldn’t hide the small smile that reached his lips, shifting the book to his left hand and using his right to play with Midri’s pearl-white hair.
“Is there a method to your madness, Mr. Shalithe?” He asked in a quiet, playful tone.
“Whatever do you mean, lovebug?” Was Midri’s louder, more sing-songy reply. “I’m not mad, I am happy. You should know that.”
Vilkas rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.” He snapped the book shut after shoving his feather bookmarker inside, and set it neatly in his lap. “Shor’s bones, you really can’t hold your mead, can you? Is this why you don’t drink at home as much?”
“I can hold it, thank you very much,” Midri said with a scoff. “Do you not see me holding this bottle right now?” He raised the bottle of Black-Briar mead high into the air, waving it around.
The Nord gently pushed his arm down to avoid an accident involving broken glass and spilled mead, but Midri shoved his hand away and raised it up again. Vilkas could only shake his head and click his tongue like a disappointed parent.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Vilkas asked flatly.
“Tryiiiing to read the label.”
“And why is that?” He inquired cautiously.
Midri hummed to himself, musing on the question given to him. “I…I wanna read it…so I know what it is.”
The last time Vilkas recalled Midri getting drunk was after their wedding; he wasn’t one-and-a-half bottles deep that time. He seemed fairly alert and conscious of his surroundings while also being a bit silly. It was perfectly balanced, and Vilkas much preferred him that way. Unfortunately, Midri had opted out of hot tea to warm himself tonight, citing the desire to “truly” relax. Since Midri was an adult capable of making his own decisions, there was nothing Vilkas could do to stop him — especially when he’d paid with his own coin.
“You already know what it is, honey—”
“YES!” Midri exclaimed proudly, causing Vilkas to cringe and the other two inhabitants to look their way. “It’s honey! There’s honey in it. It’s mead.”
A pathetic chuckle escaped Vilkas’s lips. “You…Gods, I didn’t realize you were such a lightweight.” The black-haired man shook his head and pulled Midri into a side hug, wrapping his arm around his shoulders rather firmly. “Why don’t you finish your bread?”
“I dunno. Guess I’m full,” Midri said, punctuated by a burp. He set his bread down on the tray given to him by Dagur.
“Full of mead?”
A hefty swig of the bottle went down his gullet. “No, not enough mead.”
“You’re not getting another bottle, lightweight,” Vilkas teased.
To this, Midri whimpered, but Vilkas laughed. He snuggled the smaller man into his side as closely as he could. Sure enough, he could smell lavender soap on the elf, intermingling with the scent of disgustingly saccharine mead. He no longer had the beast’s curse of heightened senses, but the mead Midri had imbibed was strong.
It took more than what he’d drunk to take Vilkas down, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy the fragrance of alcohol on Midri’s breath. Tonight, Vilkas merely felt a buzz rather than a full-on drunkenness. Had he opted to get as drunk as Midri, he definitely would’ve found himself regretting it in the morning.
He soon found his calloused fingers tracing Midri’s exposed collarbone, causing the Dark Elf to shiver.
“Do you mind?” He asked, trying to swat away his lover’s touch.
“Not at all, love.”
Vilkas wasn’t oft one to be affectionate — especially in public. But something about tonight made him care less about how others viewed him. He brought his hand to Midri’s back and rubbed faint circles into his shoulders, slowly pressing deeper.
“I never thought I’d fall in love with a battlemage, you know,” Vilkas started, “but here we are now. But that doesn’t mean I regret this decision of being by your side ‘til Sovngarde takes me.”
“I’m just that charming and handsome and amazing,” Midri chirped, poking at and pulling on his cheek dimple to exacerbate his smile.
“...Yes, let’s leave it at that. You charmed me, you little witch,” he said, drawing his hand back while leaning in to press his nose against his husband’s.
Midri playfully let out a gasp, feigning offense. “Why, I never!” He pulled away, free hand posed over his chest. “I’m no witch. I am a sssssimple man who learned everything from his parents, and I’ll have you know the Shalithes are just Cyrodiilic mages. I would never be a witch,” he pointedly argued.
“Cyrodiilic? You’re a Dunmer.”
His childlike smile fell into an exaggerated pout. “I come from the Imperial City, silly. We’ve been over this.”
Vilkas pulled him in for another hug. “I know, I know. I merely jest.”
“Shithead,” he sharply groaned. “So rude.”
“Such harsh language. All bark and no bite.”
“I can bite—” Midri began to say, but was interrupted with a sudden kiss.
When the larger man pulled away, he cackled. “No need. You’ve bitten me in the past already.”
And Midri sighed a deep, dramatic sigh, seeming disappointed that he could not make a meal out of Vilkas. Vilkas knew he’d get over it in the morning, though. Or perhaps sooner, if he offered him more affection. He set his book by his empty stew bowl and prepared himself to potentially get a grasp on the squirmy little elf.
“Would you like to sit in my lap?”
Midri’s tune changed rather abruptly. The drunken elf’s ears perked straight up, and he suddenly stopped what he was doing — drinking — which caused him to choke a bit on his mead. Vilkas patted his back gently.
“Easy, easy…I’ll take that as a yes, then?”
After he’d stopped spluttering alcohol, his glassy eyes focused on his husband. “Please,” he whined, “please let me sit on your lap. I wanna be closer to youuuuu…” His words trailed off into a whisper, clearly unable to regulate his volume as he normally would.
“Alright, settle down,” Vilkas said, strained, picking up the smaller man by both of his sides and firmly plopping him down square in his cross-legged lap, where his book once laid. He grunted as he situated his husband comfortably for him, but a bit uncomfortably for himself.
It was the price of subduing the bubbly elf (hopefully) for the night. He was ready to accept it. He planted a kiss — long and tender — atop his beautiful head of hair and wrapped his arms around him protectively.
“Better?”
“Yesss…” Midri drunkenly drawled, feeling the giggles return. He, of course, did not resist them. His delicate, smoky hands found purchase in entwining with Vilkas’s rough hands after ditching the empty bottle of mead.
For the moment, Midri seemed sated. For the moment, Vilkas was at peace. Midri closed his eyes as Vilkas rested his chin atop Midri’s head, staring into the flames. The Dunmer fidgeted with the wedding ring bound to Vilkas’s right hand for a brief moment, then dropped his grasp. It seemed that his drunkenness was slowly evolving into a stupor with an exaggerated yawn. Vilkas was perfectly fine with this outcome. Even he felt himself drift off ever-so-slightly.
Then, Midri piped up, causing his arctic eyes to snap wide open.
“Do you have your knitting supplies on you? I want you to knit me a blanket.” In his mind, this was a perfectly reasonable request.
To Vilkas, however, this made little sense.
And since when did Midri know about this?
“I don’t recall ever telling you that I knit.”
“We share a room, dummy,” he slightly slurred. “I was gonna see the stuff eventually. Plus, Farkas told me when I was just a weeeee little whelp.”
Vilkas’s brow furrowed while he registered this. Of course his beloved brother would give him away. Why would he not? Farkas had liked Midri long before Vilkas did, and didn’t appreciate his initial attitude with the elf. Farkas didn’t know at the time that Midri worked with conjuration magics, but Vilkas certainly did — hence the dour attitude. Anything to put his face in the dirt, he supposed.
“In any case, no, I only brought a few books and healing supplies,” he admitted, feeling the heat come to his face in shame. He hated letting Midri down…especially drunk Midri. Not that he was often drunk.
Midri burped obnoxiously, revitalizing his own energy for just a second. “You’re boring.”
“Thank you, dear, I’ll be sure to take it to heart.”
His dirt-speckled nose crinkled at the smell of mead filling his immediate breathing space yet again, but there was little he could do to rectify it.
Whatever. It wasn’t important. What was important was that Midri seemed oh so sleepy, hardly able to keep himself awake.
“May I…get you into bed now?” Vilkas asked through a yawn.
“If I can just have…’nother bottle,” came his feeble, mumbled response.
“Oh, no, you’ve had enough,” Vilkas policed.
Midri grumbled. “Fine, fine…let me just…get up…” He began to push away from Vilkas and tried to stand, but nearly fell face first into the fire. Vilkas’s reflexes were faster and yanked him back into his own chest.
Then came Vilkas’s bargain. “How about I just carry you?”
With what little energy he had left, Midri squeaked his pleas. “Yes! Please, babe, please…”
“So kind and gentlemanly of you…aye, let’s go.”
Vilkas hoisted him into a bridal carry, draping his long hair over his arm. The silkiness of it hitting his skin urged him to play with it, but he knew he had to get him to bed first. Careful to not trip over the book he left behind (he swore he’d get it tomorrow), the mostly-sober man walked his drunken love slowly back to their inn room. He nudged the door shut with his foot, then laid Midri on his side and tucked him in.
“CanIgetakissnooow…” he murmured, pawing at Vilkas’s night shirt meekly.
“Of course, my darling.” Right on the lips, Vilkas kissed Midri gracefully; the Dunmer’s side of it was rather sloppy, but Vilkas did not care.
As long as it made his husband happy.
Vilkas soon joined him in bed, pulling him into his chest once again. He buried his face into Midri’s back, hugging him lazily so that he had some breathing room.
“Love youuu~” Midri sleepily sang, and those were his last words for the night.
“I love you, too, dearest,” Vilkas wholeheartedly responded, but he was sure Midri had already slipped into his slumber.
His only hope now, as he tried to sleep, was that Midri would not wake up with a hangover.