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As little as Nightmare enjoys winter, he can’t deny the beauty in a fresh coat of morning snow. Undisturbed outside the manor doors, save for the brief indents of a passing fox or two, ethereal white blankets the world outside. Harsh wind slips into the cracks between his sleeve and his gloves, between the neckline of his sweater and the edge of his mask. Even the trees have agreed to this picturesque wonderland, a pleasant clumping of snow weighing down pine branches as far as the eye can see.
The tedious task of clearing some semblance of a walkway would be easier if that wretched old man were around with that dysfunctional robot of his. Long since has he vacated this place, though, robot and all. Nightmare cares little of his fate, and only mourns the inconvenience of having to shovel it all himself. But, more than worth it, his reward waits within the manor walls, bustling around as best he is able to prepare the inside while Nightmare covers the more physical aspects of wintry preparations.
As he shovels, methodical as he crosses along the path, he considers it: how warm and cozy Frederick Kreiburg must be at this moment, safe within the insulated walls of his manor. Their manor, maintained together, the ghost of strife and experiments left far behind for the time being. Like this, he can play a new role of domesticity, a husband clearing the walkway so his frail little dove won’t slip and fall on the ice. Far better for Nightmare to handle it than the alternative — though he cannot deny the appeal of a miserable and trembling Kreiburg, the risk of a serious illness befalling the composer’s delicate constitution is too great to bear. It’s a simple thing, a beautiful indulgence, if only for a moment. Come spring, the next phase will begin, yet he need not consider those variables now. Winter games have proven time and time again to be a failed effort, and there are more important things begging his attention.
Back inside, with the walkway clear despite a fresh dusting of snow already threatening to ruin his hard work, Nightmare shakes the moisture from his hair and hangs his knit hat to dry. His coat goes alongside it, a dark plaid thing he’s proud to have tailored himself.
“Try not to track your muck too far into the house,” comes an airy voice from above; Nightmare looks up to see a familiar head of white hair peering down at him from the banister. Obediently, he takes off his shoes to rest in the closet, revealing the vibrant pair of Christmas socks Frederick had gifted him some time ago. Too gaudy for his average taste, but good enough to keep him warm.
Something smells pleasant as Frederick descends the stairs, one hand gripping the rail for dear life; Nightmare meets him halfway, bending to nuzzle an imitation of a kiss into the crown of his hair.
“All the fires in the world can’t seem to keep the drafts from slipping through, I suppose,” the composer muses, a faint smile gracing his thin face as he tilts back to press his lips to Nightmare’s beak in return. The cold brings pale blues to the perpetual hollows beneath his eyes, but there’s a warmth in his gaze that Nightmare, ever-greedy, basks in the knowledge of such a thing being reserved for him and him alone. Abruptly, he scoops Frederick into his arms just to hear the startled yelp that escapes him as his feet are divorced from solid ground; the composer’s protests fall on deaf ears as Nightmare ascends the stairs for the two of them.
It’s not as though the man is struggling to break free. On the contrary, his arms come up to loop around Nightmare’s neck, adjusting to his own comfort, even as he grumbles and complains about being able to walk perfectly fine on his own, thank you, and Nightmare has no place to uproot him from his peace — what a brute he is, truly undeserving of Frederick’s attention! Yet it is Frederick who is hesitant to unlatch his arms from Nightmare as he’s set down gently on the lounge.
“Orpheus,” he scolds, but it comes out more half-heartedly than he'd likely intended; that indignant flush Nightmare enjoys so much trailing down his cheeks until it disappears beneath his collar. Nightmare only chuckles in return, low and hearty, sitting down alongside Frederick to preen at his hair. It’s a habitual thing, a small indulgence the composer allows him. Perhaps he likes it, the methodical rhythm of Nightmare’s beak tugging gently through pale curls, his absent humming the only sound between the two of them as Frederick relaxes into his embrace.
He reaches forward, gnarled fingers running along the embroidery of Frederick’s vest. It’s a new one, freshly tailored. The man doesn’t protest, so gently, Nightmare works open the silver-capped buttons. To his credit, he doesn’t tear at the crimson velvet, desire to send the fastenings tinkling across the floor kept quiet so as to not shatter the peaceful moment between them. It’s the holiday season, why shouldn’t he take things slow?
Beneath is a simple cream-colored blouse, and beneath that, Nightmare can feel the boning of the custom brassiere Frederick has worn as long as he’s known him. Beneath that, Nightmare knows of the ruddy patterns twisting across Frederick’s pale flesh, has traced them countless times and committed them to memory. He’s absent with his ministrations, attentive to how Frederick shifts and sighs in his hold.
Outside, the faint flurries have intensified to a whirlwind storm. The manor creaks around them, wood of trees long since milled to the core bending and aching as the wind picks up. Nightmare’s work may be left in vain, but the endeavor was not entirely without purpose if this is to be his reward: a quiet afternoon, complete with the rare sight of a relaxed Frederick, sinking into Nightmare’s warmth. It’s enough to draw a coo from him, low and soft, vulnerable in their shared silence.
And then the man bolts upright with a curse, startling Nightmare out of his reverie.
“I forgot —” he gasps, breathless enough for Nightmare to rise alongside him, concerned fingers trailing along his shoulder only for a moment as Frederick slips from his hold, muttering something about an overboiling stove as he disappears from sight, leaving Nightmare with little choice but to follow. How fleeting must their moments of peace remain? Relegated only to the seconds in-between, brief transitions with sweet words exchanged in a passing hallway... even now, with few responsibilities on the horizon until after the holidays, both of them are ruled by the clock. Cruel of a fate as it may be, he remains the lucky winner: two steaming mugs of mulled wine, one for each of them to enjoy as the winds howl outside.
“I can only pray the alcohol failed to cook off in time,” Frederick muses; Nightmare chuckles in return, sipping gently at his own cup. Before he can respond, the composer takes a drink, brow arched in anticipation, and follows with a curl of his lip — “Well, it’s not terrible.”
High praise from a Kreiburg, he knows. His chest rumbles with humor and a growing warmth, caused by the wine and the man before him in equal parts. Though brief, he is thankful for the chance to exist in these transient moments, for the privilege of watching Frederick and his eccentricities so closely. It may not be enough to satisfy the longing in his soul, but it is enough to soothe the ache, patch it over with something nicer as Frederick finishes his serving far too quickly and busies himself with tidying the mess. Where the winds may whip outside, the manor walls are more than sturdy enough to keep them safe and warm within.