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Midri was a fool for moving to Skyrim, where the air was colder than he preferred. In his defense, he didn’t expect to stay there when he visited. Now, he had recently married a Companion and was actually tied down to the country. For as much as he loved Vilkas, there were times where he would regret his decision to stay. Times such as tonight, in the middle of the month of Morning Star — where winter was coldest — made him miss his much more temperate home in the Imperial City.
On bitter nights like this, he would usually cuddle his husband to beat back the cold. But, of course, Vilkas was nowhere to be found. This left him lying wide awake on his lonesome, shivering every few minutes and trying in vain to wrap the blankets and furs around himself tighter. He yearned so strongly for the warmth of another person. He was tired, but not tired enough to fall asleep despite the cold. The longer he went without Vilkas, the more sleep he lost.
He knew his husband was at home, but where exactly could he have been?
Toss and turn, toss and turn. Midri finally rolled over onto his back in defeat, legs tangled with the scarlet, woolen blanket that topped the bed. He let out a long, nasally sigh as his eyes darted across the ceiling.
This was going nowhere.
He swung his legs out of bed and sat himself straight up, stretching his arms high above his head. He then swiped the blanket tangled around his lower half and cloaked it over his shoulders before standing to leave the room. It didn’t make sense for him to have been in the bathing room this long, nor the kitchen. That left the dining area and the back porch open for searching.
Gently, Midri padded his way out of the shared bedroom and through the lower halls of the mead hall. Knowing from experience that the sound echoed rather well in the basement, he made it his mission to go as silently as possible. That all changed when he hit the stairs. His blanket trailing behind himself, the elf found himself tripping over it as he ascended. He clumsily stifled a startled yelp while rebalancing himself for a moment.
“This isn’t working,” he thought to himself, disgruntled. Accepting defeat over faceplanting into the steps, Midri balled up the blanket underneath his arm and carried it the rest of the way.
The top level of Jorrvaskr was devoid of people. Save for the dying flames of the firepit in the center, the dining area was shrouded in darkness as well. For as tempting as it was to laze there and stoke the fire, Midri knew he had to find his husband and return to bed. He gave the firepit a longing look and shook his head, then hurried past it to the back doors. Before swinging them wide open, the cold, cold Dunmer tightly wrapped the blanket around himself again and braced for the nighttime breeze.
With one free hand, he cautiously pushed the doors open. The brisk air hit him in an instant, eliciting a pathetic whimper. Sure, he may have expected this, but by Mother Mara, he thrived in the warmth.
And there, sitting in a chair facing away from the doors, was a hunched over, muscular man in bed clothes. None other than his muscular man.
His shoulders would twitch and arms shifted in neatly repetitive movements over his lap, though he seemed to be rather still otherwise. He also did not notice Midri coming out to the porch, and did not once look up from whatever he was doing.
Midri stood directly behind his spouse, his hand outstretched as though he were going to shake him out of his trance.
No, he didn’t want to scare him too badly. His hand slipped back under the protection of the blanket.
“Vil?” He softly called.
A sharp gasp.
Just a second later, Vilkas was out of his seat and stumbling over himself to hide whatever was once in his lap.
“Ye gods, man,” he hissed, “you nearly made my heart stop. You should be in bed.”
Midri blinked at him in awe of his obliviousness, his scarred mouth hanging open. He stayed silent for a moment to let his expression sink in. “I would be in bed, if not for your absence.”
Vilkas turned his attention to the cloudy night sky, biting his lip. “Well, uh…”
“What are you even doing out here that makes you so late to come in?”
“Absolutely nothing,” he said while shaking his head.
The long-haired elf tapped his foot against the stones, shifting his shoulders beneath the blanket. “Bullshit, Vilkas. You didn’t even notice me coming out here,” Midri barked.
Quick on the draw, Vilkas blurted out an excuse. “I was reading, you see.”
“Ah. A changed answer. May I see the book?” His right eyebrow raised. He wasn’t fully sure he was buying this excuse. He could have just as easily read in bed or by the fire.
“You know, it is late. Maybe we should—”
“Vilkas.”
“...What?”
Midri threw his hands in the air. “You are such a terrible liar! I know you weren’t reading out here at, what, three hours from sunrise?” The moment he brandished his arms outward in incredulousness, the woolen blanket slipped to the ground.
Bad move.
The frigid wind immediately nipped at the mer, hairs standing on end. His hands clapped to opposite arms, rubbing his palms intensely against his skin to generate warmth.
Vilkas hurriedly bent over and picked up the blanket, doing his best to envelop Midri in comfort again. He tied the blanket under his chin with a gentle knot and patted his shoulders. What he failed to realize is that the project he had tucked under his arm had fallen to the ground when he prioritized his husband.
Once the (partial) warmth had returned, Midri stopped trembling like a small, scared animal. He exhaled in relief and opened his eyes — but his attention was soon snared by the mysterious bundle on the ground next to him.
“Vil…what is that?”
The Dark Elf stepped forward to investigate the colorful pile. It was rather large, and had loose lavender yarn trailing from what appeared to be an unfinished sleeve. Hooked into the yarn was a steel knitting needle. By its side was a spool of said lavender yarn. Just as he was about to bend over and pick it all up…
Swiped.
“Hey!” Midri cried, his silver ears drooping, “I was looking at that!”
Vilkas cleared his throat, tucking the project back underneath his arm again. “It’s not for your eyes,” he declared boldly, though he couldn’t even meet Midri’s gaze, much like a dog that got in trouble. His cheeks heated up a bit in flush.
“Are you…knitting me something?” He asked with a cocked head.
“No. Even if I was, you wouldn’t get to know about it.”
The elf chuckled. “Are you sure? If it’s not for me, why can’t I see it?”
“Well— I…w-well…” He started to stammer.
“Well, what?”
Midri took delight in seeing him squirm, despite putting their tumultuous past behind them. If anything, the love they shared for one another now only fueled the fire to torment the usually snippy warrior. It was something Vilkas didn’t quite appreciate, but he knew not to fight it.
A serene smile spread across his face as he watched Vilkas fumble his excuses.
“Ysmir’s beard, can’t you respect my privacy?” He finally settled upon after a minute of pursed lips and pacing back and forth.
“Oh, you rotten thing. Is that the best you can come up with? Besides, who else around here wears purple on the regular?” He batted his eyes at Vilkas innocently.
The Nord pointed at Midri harshly. “If anyone’s a rotten thing, that would be, by definition, you.”
But Midri did not relent. “So you were knitting me a sweater then, right?”
“I…” He grimaced and hung his head in defeat, hair falling over his face. “...aye. I was. It was supposed to be a surprise, and I’ve been whittling away at it for a few weeks now. Started it on that last job with Ria during our downtime. I know how much you loathe Skyrim’s winter weather, so I thought I’d help you thrive in it.”
The battlemage felt his heart melt. Though it was like pulling teeth to get the truth out of his stubborn husband, he did appreciate the gesture, and frankly didn’t care if it was a surprise or not. It was nice to know he was noticed and he was loved.
Midri closed the gap between them with a delicate brushing of black strands of hair away from his cheek and a good five second kiss. “You’re only rotten because you’re actually sweet as can be underneath all that,” he softly said.
Vilkas grumbled in protest, but his expression was gentle; his voice equally so. “I could kick your ass, you know.”
“And I’ve beaten yours on more than one occasion,” the Dunmer smugly replied. He outstretched his hand while turning towards the door. “Come on, let’s go to bed, now.”
“You’re not going to hog all the blankets and furs tonight, are you?” He asked as he daintily took Midri’s smaller hand in his own.
“...We’ll see. You should be punished for misbehaving and abandoning me to the cold, after all,” Midri announced matter-of-factly.
“Gods, you’re insufferable sometimes.”
“I know!” He beamed, swinging open the door and prancing inside. “Love you, too.”