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♪ Oh, I won't ask for much this Christmas
I won't even wish for snow
I'm just gonna keep on waiting underneath the mistletoe… ♫
Jean must have planned this. There was no other explanation for it, for why, currently, 13 personifications were stuck at a holiday party due to vicious weather outside.
Snow had piled up on every window in the estate, sticking to foggy glass. Particularly, in the kitchen, with the air warm and heavy with the smell of freshly baked goods.
"This is absolutely ridiculous," Oliver huffs, setting a tray of cinnamon cookies on the stove with a tad bit more force than necessary. "Surely, planning around a snowstorm that's been forecasted for almost two weeks isn't a difficult feat."
Marie is to his left, busy making up dough for gingersnap biscuits, dress brushing her inner knees with every step. She gives a soft laugh, glancing over. "Oh, Oliver, it's not that bad. Brings us together, doesn't it?"
Oliver looks at her for a good moment in slight disbelief. "Not that bad? Marie, there is not enough beds in this place for all of us. I know it's massive, but still— and where is Nanook supposed to sleep? In a laundry basket?"
"You worry too much, Oliver. You do know couches are a thing, yes?" Marie hums, stirring egg and molasses in a bowl with the rest of the ingredients, "as for Nanook, a laundry basket wouldn't be all that bad. Lord knows we slept in worse when we were younger."
"Oh, please, that was nearly 400 years ago. Matthew did his best with what he had, and even then, something tells me it was safer then a laundry basket."
Marie slows in her mixing, looking up at Oliver. "That… wouldn't have been Matt at the time, it would have been Arthur."
Oliver's fingers pause on a knob on the stove, in the middle of setting the oven back to 350°F. "Oh. Right, sorry."
"No, I'm sorry, Oliver. I know you don't like talking about—"
"Marie, don't."
There's an awkward silence for a few seconds. Marie looks back at her mixing bowl before picking up the wooden spoon to scrap the edges, the sound loud in the now mostly quiet room.
Oliver brushes a hand through his hair, sighing. "… Point is, I'm not exactly looking forward to staying the night here. We'll have to share beds, won't we?"
"Yes, but I'm sure that won't be difficult to figure out… you with Jean, no?" Marie looks up at him, scrapping the cinnamon cookies off the tray with a spatula, setting them down on a plate to the side.
"Uh, well…" Oliver trails off, looking away almost ashamedly. "You know how we are…"
Marie tilts her head, smiling softly, even if it's a bit forced. "On a break, are you?"
"You could say that," Oliver shrugs, beginning help Marie ball up the gingersnap dough. "I don't even remember why, to be honest."
"What, did he insult the Leafs again?" Marie hums, gently bumping his hip with her own. Oliver rolls his eyes, scoffing playfully.
"No… but I'm sure I have my reason." He looks up at the window in front of them. The weather hasn't calmed down at all. In fact, it was starting to build up noticeably on the ledge, curving at the sides against the frame. He shakes his head, huffing again as he took the tray and slid it in the oven, warm air brushing his face.
"10 minutes?" He asks.
She nods. "10 minutes."
Just as Oliver closes the oven door, there's a creak on the wood behind them. Both blonds turn toward the noise, Marie's hands holding a dish towel.
"How many are y'all making there?" Ralph's standing there, leaning against the dark wood doorframe, lazily chewing on a wad of gum with his shirt undone two buttons too low for the temperature outside. "'Nough for the rest of us?"
Marie slides the plate of cinnamon cookies towards him. "Well, there's this, and we've got a batch in the oven, so… should be enough, yeah? How's everyone else doing?"
Ralph glances over at Oliver, gaze flicking from head to toe before looking back at Marie. "Well, they've got your husband and Ben singing 'Baby, It's Cold Outside,' if that says anything."
With a muffled laugh, Oliver kneels down to peer through the oven glass. "Who's singing the lady's part?"
" Joel." Ralph replies.
"Is he?" Marie gasps, delight lighting up on her face. "Oh, excuse me, I've got to see this." She grabs the plate of biscuits as she leaves, heels clicking against tile, then wood. Ralph turns to watch her leave, then faces Oliver again.
"So…" Ralph starts, arms crossed and hips against the counter now, "You and Jean on a break, eh? What time is this, the eighth?"
Oliver looks up at Ralph from the floor. "What?" He gives him a stern glare, almost incredulous. "Where did you he—"
"You're not exactly a quiet talker, Oliver." Ralph grins, "Could hear you and Marie gossiping a kilometre away."
"Oh, please, we were not gossiping. And it isn't your business anyways." Oliver pushes himself back up, bringing his arms over his chest. "I fail to see why you're so interested in my love life, Ralph."
Said man looks like he's genuinely holding back a laugh, not even in a mocking or teasing way. As if the whole situation was actually funny to him. "It's amusing, ain't it? You easterners and your drama."
"Stop bullshitting me. It's not just the East that has… issues to deal with, dimwit."
"I dunno…" Ralph slowly walks around Oliver, towards the fridge, pretending to think. "I seem to remember a certain incident in the 80s involving Jean and—"
"For fuck's sakes, Ralph, would you shut up!?" Oliver whips around to Ralph, arms stiff at his sides. Ralph pauses, brows raised, caught in the middle of grabbing a can of beer from the fridge shelf.
The space is quiet, except for the soft snap of the tab on Ralph's drink. He brings it to his lips, eyes still on Oliver the entire time. "Touchy subject?" He asks, voice low now.
Oliver scowls at Ralph. "'Touchy subject'— are you serious? You're just making stuff up."
Ralph makes a half-assed noise in response. "Mhm, right."
The oven starts beeping incessantly, a shrill noise. Oliver's glad for the distraction, turning away to open the door, grabbing the cloth hanging from the oven handle. Carefully this time, he sets the tray on the stove top, then tosses the rag aside. "Are you done interrogating me?"
"Depends. Are you done looking like a neglected cat?"
"Are you going to stop making slanderous accusations?" Oliver retorts.
Ralph only shrugs his shoulders, stepping toward the hall that lead to the living room. "Tell me I'm wrong, Stanley," Ralph walks backwards a few steps, hands out as if weighing two things (as best as he could with a drink in hand), "Go on. You won't." and then he's gone before Oliver can say anything in defense.
Oliver stares at the empty doorframe for far longer then he would have liked, before groaning, head in his hands.
Later— far, far later— Oliver's seated on the couch, wine glass in hand. He hasn't done much drinking of it, not with Ilan very drunkenly dozing against his shoulder. Probably the most human contact Ilan had ever let himself receive in the past hundred years.
Mostly everyone was asleep now, actually. Across from Oliver, Owen was past out in a leather armchair, bottle of whiskey close to slipping out of his hand. Oliver decides that it isn't his problem to deal with.
He passes the glass he's holding to his other hand to place it on the end table, jostling Ilan slightly with the movement. Ilan grumbles in complaint, curling closer. For a split second, Oliver thinks about pulling out his phone and taking a picture.
Before he can think the decision over, a muted shutter sound comes from across the room. Oliver winces at the sudden bright light before staring at the offender.
Ralph. Of course.
"Well, ain't this interesting," Ralph smiles, cockily, looking at the photo he took before pocketing his phone. "Getting all cozy with Ilan, hm?"
Oliver gives him a blank stare. "Do I really look like I'm doing this willingly."
"With you? Who knows…" Ralph huffs a laugh, pocketing his device. "You need help gettin' him off ya?"
"You? Offering help? How drunk are you?" Oliver squints at him. "Speaking of, I thought you were laying off the drinks."
Ralph saunters over, hauling Ilan to the other side of the couch by his hoodie collar in a surprisingly gentle motion. "Only had two tonight. And they were coolers."
"Right."
"You don't believe me, do ya."
Oliver sighs, almost reluctantly, rubbing his sore shoulder. "No, no, I do. I watched you grab one from the fridge."
Ralph makes a noise in the back of his throat as a response, akin to a low chuff. "Mmh. C'mon, get up. Don't you have a bed to get to?" He offers a hand to Oliver, waiting.
"What, and sleep next to the man who refuses to listen to me? The man who doesn't know when to back off?" Oliver basically spits the words out, arms over his midsection as he sinks back into the couch cushions.
Ralph stares for a second before letting his hand drop. "So what? You sleepin' on the couch then?"
"Guess so."
"… That's stupid," Ralph mutters, sitting down and wedging himself beside Ilan and Oliver. Both grumble in complaint. "He does care for you, y'know."
Oliver shakes his head, curls tousling with the movement. "He's terrible at showing it."
"Nah, I think he shows it too much, and it pisses you off." Ralph tilts his head towards him, cheek against the back of the couch. It's dog-like and lazy, his eyes half-lidded.
"Who knew being intoxicated would make you smarter." Oliver says, not a question at all.
"Hah, no… Just makes me say things without thinkin'."
"You do that already."
Ralph hiccups a laugh, almost jarring in the silence. "Right."
The two of them don't talk for a while, but it's a comfortable quiet. Cozy, layered by the howling wind outside. The storm hadn't eased off. Oliver knew in the morning, it would be a group effort trying to open the front door, stuck frozen to the frame and blocked by snow. Part of Oliver dreaded the possibility of being stuck under this roof for any longer. What was it called, cabin fever?
The other part of him didn't mind the sense of community. Longed for it, maybe.
When he turns to face Ralph, the man is still gazing at him, smile on his face.
"Stop looking at me like that."
Ralph's grin only widens. "Like what?"
"Like you want something."
"And if I do?"
Oliver pauses, staring at Ralph. "Ralph. I am not in the mood for flirting."
"Who said I was?" Ralph asks, tone innocent. He lifts his arms far above his head, shirt riding up with the stretch, revealing a trail of coarse, blond hair from his navel down. Oliver dies a little inside.
"I give up," Oliver stands up, suddenly and snappily, "there is no such thing as peace and quiet and calm in this goddamn house. Especially not with you around." He huffs, walking over to the grand dark oak archway, stumbling a bit before leaning against the wood.
"Ollie?" Ralph rises too, walking over to place a concerned hand on Oliver's shoulder. "You 'kay?"
"Don't call me that. And don't touch me." Oliver growls under his breath, shrugging Ralph's hand off him.
Ralph hesitates before taking a step, slumping against the other side of the arch. "Y'ain't okay, are you."
Oliver gives him a wry smile, flushed in the face. "Just peachy, Ralph." He pinches the bridge of his nose, brows furrowed. "I'm just tipsy, that's all."
"You get headaches when you drink?
"No, Ralph, I get headaches around you." Oliver retorts, spinning around to face him. He winces, squinting, eyes unfocused as he attempts to stare down Ralph. It fails miserably.
The Albertan rolls his eyes, head tilting back slightly. And that's when he sees it; wrapped in a red ribbon, white berries on the end of each stem. Mistletoe, in all it's romantic, irritating glory.
Ralph holds back a grin, teeth digging into the flesh of his cheek. "Hey, Oliver. Look up."
"No."
"No?"
"No, because if I do, I have to acknowledge it's there." Oliver has his eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched tight enough to go pale at the knuckles.
"Ah. So you already know about it." Ralph responds, taking a step to lean closer to Oliver. He smells like prairie dust, dry and heady, not like alcohol which Oliver was expecting. It's almost pleasant, as much as Oliver hates to admit, even to himself.
"Yes, I know about it, I helped decorate the damn house, Ralph." Oliver says, tone sharp.
Ralph is quiet for a few seconds longer than Oliver is comfortable with. He finally opens his eyes, attempting to take a step back when he realizes how close Ralph is, only to bump into the archway. His brows furrow again, examining Ralph's expression, which has now gone from mocking to unsettlingly fond.
No, not fond... interested. In the same way a chronic smoker is about a pack of cigarettes laid out on the counter.
Oliver chews on his lip, glancing away. "Ralph… don't you make me regret this."
"Huh? Regret what?" Ralph smiles awkwardly, brows knit together slightly, confusion written on his face.
Seemingly, Oliver murmurs a prayer— or a curse —under his breath before pulling Ralph in by the collar of his shirt, lips pressed against his, hot and wet and insistent.
Pulling back with a gasp, Ralph stares at Oliver dumbly. "Dude— what?"
Oliver's hold on Ralph's shirt tightens, red in the face. "Shut up, I'm drunk."
"Thought you said you were tipsy?"
"I said shut up."
Ralph listens to Oliver for once, and pulls him in by the waist, nipping at his bottom lip, hands caressing his lower back. His hands tug at Oliver's shirt, pulling it out from where it was tucked into bootcut slacks.
"Christ, you're desperate." Oliver hisses into the kiss, smacking Ralph's hands away, which only inspires Ralph to leave one hand on Oliver's waist, the other ending up in his curls, tugging.
"And you aren't?" Ralph retorts, reaching down to undo Oliver's belt buckle with one hand. Oliver sucks in a breath, hips tilting forward, encouraging the act.
Leaning in, Ralph nibbles at Oliver's neck, evoking a low moan from him. Oliver's hands tangle in Ralph's hair, giving a sharp yank when Ralph sinks his teeth into his collarbone, leaving angry marks on the pale skin.
Warm breath brushes against the indents left by teeth, Ralph nuzzling the bared flesh, panting heavy. "How good are you at bein' quiet?"
"What? Why?"
Ralph cocks his head to the living room, gesturing to the two others that were asleep. "Don't want 'em waking up, right?"
Oliver raises a brow. "Being quiet won't be a challenge for me, Ralph."
"Mmm, think I might take that as a challenge." Ralph whispers, reaching up to unbutton Oliver's dress shirt, uncovering soft pale skin. Then, he drops to his knees, unlooping the belt rested against Oliver's hips.
Lips parted, Oliver gazes down at Ralph in a mix of shock and awe, hands hovering above Ralph's dusty strands. "What— What are you doing?" Ralph only smirks from his position on the ground, then licks a line up Oliver's waist, never breaking eye contact with Oliver.
Oliver knees him in the jaw.
"Ow! Shit, Oliver, what the fuck—!" Ralph yelps, reaching up to cradle the side of his face with a hand. There's a groan and shuffle from the couch at the exclamation, and Oliver snaps his head toward it before scowling down at Ralph.
"Oh, shut up, Ralph. That was barely anything."
"Last time you told me to shut up you were comin' onto me, not committing assault!"
Oliver grabs Ralph by his hair, dragging him up. Ralph makes a pitiful noise, wincing. "If— and that's a big if —anything happens tonight, it's not happening in a living room, Ralph."
Ralph grins again. "So there is something happenin'?"
"You really make me want to hit you sometimes."
"You basically just did." Ralph says, placing his hands on Oliver's shoulders and trailing them down his arms. Oliver shivers at the touch.
"Get upstairs." Oliver sighs, pulling Ralph in for one quick, chaste kiss before shoving him back. Ralph beams at him, padding to the stairs, looking over his shoulder once before scaling them.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
Oliver wakes up with a stretch in the morning, pale light coming through the window, blinds undrawn. He groans, shifting onto his side and reaching an arm out to pat the beside table for his phone, only to be met with solid wood against his palm.
He sighs, burrowing back under the blankets, savouring the lingering warmth from sleep. Strong arms wrap around him from behind, and he leans into the hold, humming appreciatively.
His mind's groggy, but slowly and surely, last night's events come back to him. The singular glass of wine, him and Ralph on the couch, the mistletoe…
Oh God. Ralph.
Oliver shoots up, or at least attempts to. Ralph groans, refusing to relinquish Oliver, pulling him closer. "Ralph— Ralph, if you don't let go of me, so help me God."
"Whyyyy." Ralph whines. Oliver's eye twitches.
"Because I would like my clothes back on my body!" Oliver wiggles out of bed, hopping on one foot briefly as the other tangled in the sheets. He was completely bare besides a single sock. "Ralph. Where are my clothes."
Ralph, turned over onto his back, gazes at Oliver, mind blank for a moment. "I don't think I wanna tell ya, Ollie."
Oliver scowls from his place at the foot of the bed. Ralph swallows.
"… Tossed 'em somewhere over there." Ralph jerks his head to his right. Oliver huffs, muttering a half-assed 'thank you,' walking over to collect his clothes. He pulls his boxers on first, glancing at the clock on the bed side table.
Already nine? he thinks, frowning. He rarely sleeps in past seven.
There's a knock on the door then. Both Ralph and Oliver turn towards the sound.
"Ralph!"
Victoria.
"Raaaalph! Get your damn lazy ass up— the front door's frozen solid and Ilan's too hungover to do anything about it!"
Oliver stares at Ralph, who currently has the blankets ruched up to his chest, face flushed red like some damsel. Ralph stares back, stammering before finally getting words out in a whisper-yell.
"Get in the damn closet!"
"I'm not getting in a damn closet, Ralph!"
"Ralph?" Victoria's voice comes again, sounding more curious than concerned. "Is someone in there with you? Who the hell is it?"
"I— I'm fine, Vic!" Ralph shouts, nearly choking on his own spit. "Just talkin' to myself."
There's silence for a few beats. Long enough to make Oliver think she's walked away.
Wrong. The door swings open, Victoria taking a step in before her eyes lock on Oliver, then Ralph. Then back to Oliver. Her jaw drops immediately. Another long pause follows.
"… Y'know what? I don't want to know." She shakes her head, ponytail swinging. "You do you, boo. Think I'm gonna go light up in the kitchen, though." She raises her hands in mock surrender, closing the door behind her as she exits.
Ralph's lips are parted in shock. He stares at the closed door, then looks at Oliver, who seems to be contemplating everything. "Ollie…?" He tests, shifting in bed.
Oliver simply resumes getting his legs into his slacks. "I think I'm going to go join her."