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Some hours had passed since Arthur and John had set out into the powdered snow, and their chatter was quiet beneath the constant sound of snowshoes pressing forward- not for any sort of resentment, but simply because the two had run out of things to talk about. There were only so many ways John could dictate to Arthur that the snow was deep beneath their feet, sinking past their ankles despite the snowshoes, that it fluttered down and danced around Arthur’s head, kissing their tan winter coat with perfect snowflakes, and that the tall pines were covered in plush-looking white blankets that threatened to fall if the wind blew hard enough. John had his hand stuffed tightly into their pocket, rubbing his ice-cold fingers in a fist against his palm. He’d chastised Arthur resolutely for leaving without any gloves, but they’d searched the cabin top to bottom to no avail, and diverting their trail to trek into town instead would have been just as freezing and miserable. In the end, he had conceded that they might as well just continue onward, but he’d bitten his tongue for long enough.
Arthur, my hand is fucking freezing.
“The pockets are fleece-lined, are they not-“
No, Arthur! John snapped, but he immediately retracted; a habit, or an instinct, but one he was trying to unlearn. No. I’m afraid we’re going to get frostbite. We’ve been walking like this for hours. We really should have waited until the snow let up.
Arthur sighed. John was right, but he was always loath to admit it. He stopped walking for a moment, letting his feet sink deeper into the snow past the knees. “Fair enough, John. Here, if I breathe on my hand a moment-“ Arthur demonstrated, lifting his hand up to his mouth and exhaling warm air, “and now you do the same-“ John tentatively lifted his arm, but the warmth on his fingers as Arthur breathed made him lean in closer. “There, and then we rub our hands together.” He confidently took John’s hand in his and began to rub his palm until John learned the right motion, fingers slipping in between each other as the friction began to generate heat. “Is that helping? Sorry, it’s… harder to do this when your hands aren’t coordinated.”
It’s better. John broke the motion and closed his fingers around Arthur’s, pressing their palms warmly together. This wind is just fucking unbearable, Arthur. I feel like my fingers are going to fall off.
“Not to worry,” Arthur smiled, and John was at once comforted by the chime in his voice- that tone he always spoke with when he knew he’d figured out an answer- and disheartened when Arthur broke their interwoven hands. “When I was a child, they used to dress us up in these thick winter coats made for adults, and the sleeves were far too big, so the cold just seeped in.” He smiled, recalling the memory. “So we all just slipped our arms out of the sleeves and under the rest of our clothing… it’s much warmer against your skin, but we waddled along like little penguins with the sleeves empty beside us.” Arthur chuckled and John joined him, his low voice full of warmth.
That’s a nice memory. Arthur liked when he could hear the smile so evidently in John’s voice- as much as a disembodied entity could smile, anyway. Will it work, though? This coat seems to fit quite well.
“It should.” Arthur reached out his hand and firmly held the furred cuff of his coat. “Here, John. I’ll hold the sleeve- if you just wriggle your arm out you should be able to shift past the elbow and inside the breast of the coat.” Fond childhood memories of icy winter mornings and oversized jackets and warm mugs of soup danced in Arthur’s mind as John struggled to shift his arm past the stiff fleece-lined sleeve- this task in particular seemed no more difficult than usual with two arms coordinating it separately. John let out a triumphant Ah! as he successfully wriggled into the wider body of Arthur’s jacket, nestling his ungloved hand between the warm fleece and the flannel underneath.
“Well done, John!” Arthur’s voice was tinged with a palpable smile, and John eagerly (but silently) committed the praise to memory. “Right, now, if you reach down beneath the flannel and untuck my undershirt, you can bring your arm up to my chest against the skin- Fucking Christ, John, that’s cold- right, there you are.” Arthur winced as the freezing wind brushed itself against the thin strip of exposed skin, and John’s touch was just as icy as he lingered just a moment above the jagged scar on Arthur’s stomach. Thoughts ran through John’s mind, unspoken- that in that moment they had become us instead of them, that nothing had ever frightened him more than the prospect of losing Arthur, and not just because that meant losing himself. John pushed those feelings to the back of his mind and rested his hand against Arthur’s chest, a tenacious heart beating steadily beneath warm skin. Arthur thought he heard a hum of contentment from John, but perhaps he had imagined it.
“Alright. It’ll feel colder for a moment, John, but I’ll put my hand on top of yours, okay? We’ll… both be much warmer.” Arthur Lester, ever the optimist, carrying such a chipper demeanour in the face of god knows how many more hours of trudging through the snow, and to an end that was far from certain. John had come to recognise him as the type to put on a brave face, no matter the situation- even when the two fought, little actions like brushing raindrops from John’s sleeve or tidying his cuffs belied a care for him that he could feel ever-present in the mind (or perhaps the heart) that they shared. Arthur was a candle- one that flickered, sometimes, but that refused to be snuffed out.
Arthur exhaled warm air onto his fingers once more before slipping his hand underneath his collar, finding John’s hand and holding them there for a moment. His touch was still frozen, and John made a noise like he was sucking air through his teeth; a sharp inhale, but as Arthur began to rub his hand over John’s he started to warm quickly. “Is that helping?”, asked Arthur, something like trepidation lingering at the edge of his voice. Those little moments when he shared a touch with John gave him a feeling he thought he’d never experience again, and one he wasn’t sure he really understood. A fluttering, a quickening of the heart and a warmth that came from within. He told himself he wouldn’t think about it as he rubbed his own hand over John’s, a gentle firmness in his touch, and he felt John press back into him ever so slightly; reaching closer.
That’s… very nice, Arthur. He turned his hand over so Arthur was pressing into his palm, fingers finding the gaps in between each other. I feel much warmer. Thank you… I can feel your heart beating. Arthur’s cheeks flushed in the cold, though John couldn’t have known it- what a shame for Arthur, then, that his composure so often betrayed him.
“I- You’re welcome, John. I had been finding myself rather cold as well, so- it’s nice.” His touch was fleeting against the soft flesh of John’s palm, but he moved gently over the other’s fingers, dipping between the knuckles but pointedly avoided the gnarled wood that consumed his pinky finger and ran its roots up into the back of his hand. John turned his hand over again and settled with his palm pressed against Arthur’s heartbeat, and the two stood silently for some time that neither of them cared to count. Arthur’s fingers moved less intently as they both grew to a comfortable temperature, gently caressing the backs of John’s fingers and eventually ceasing movement entirely. Although they stood amongst the biting chill of the wind, each breath exhaling a cloud of steam into the air (which John had found fascinating the first time he saw it) and snowflakes nestling themselves in Arthur’s hair as they slowly melted, he no longer felt the cold. Though his only physical company were the silent pines that stood tall on either side of their path- a presence that Arthur could feel, though he could not see- he had the sense that as long as he and John were together, he would never again be alone. For better, or for worse.