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Orym drifts through dreams as warm and soft as the nest of blankets and pillows he’s burrowed into, his marriage quilt a heavy, soothing weight atop it all. He stretches without opening his eyes, hugging one of the pillows closest to him, the one that smells like Will’s pine scented shampoo.
Thousands of years ago, when halflings lived in burrows under the ground, they had survived during the long and bitterly cold winters of that time by hibernating, curled up with their families and loved ones for warmth. Over the generations, as circumstances and the world had changed, the need to sleep through winter had slowly begun to fade from halflings as a whole. But here and there were still some “heavy sleepers,” of which Orym is very much one.
The sound of a door opening brings new smells that manage to penetrate Orym’s hibernation nest. Hot apple cider, butterscotch gingerbread, ham baked in honey, and a dozen other smells of a full Winter’s Crest table. He can hear the murmur of conversation, his mother’s voice mingling with his mother in law’s, the sound of laughter like a silver Winter’s Crest ribbon winding through the halls.
The bed on which Orym’s constructed his nest shifts. “Hey, sleepyhead,” Will says softly. “You coming out for Winter’s Crest or are we coming to you?”
They’ve done that some years, friends and family visiting Orym throughout the feast, their voices flavoring his dreams as they leave gifts to be opened later. Orym stirs, poking his head out from under the blankets and blinking at Will’s smiling, earnest face in the soft light of their bedroom. He reaches up and tugs on the collar of Will’s Winter Crest sweater, all sparkly blue and silver snowflakes, and pulls his husband in for a kiss.
“That didn’t answer my question,” Will says with a chuckle as Orym snuggles into his chest. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Give me five minutes,” Orym says with a yawn as Will’s hand gently cards through his hair. “And then you can bully me into getting dressed.”
“Can I bully you with kisses?”
“Only if you want to make our guests wait even longer.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Orym chuckles into the wool of Will’s sweater, already halfway to falling back asleep. He tries to snuggle even closer, breathing in Will’s scent, wool and pine soap—
(He’s being held against a chest that smells like sweat and muscle salve and warm stone while someone is singing Winter’s Crest carols in the kitchen)
Orym blinks, shifting slightly in Will’s arms as he looks up at him, at his tan skin and the fall of his brown hair, the healthy flush of his cheeks, the twinkle in his eyes and the smile that never fails to remind Orym just how lucky he is. It’s the face he’s always known, ever since they were children growing up together.
It’s a face Orym hasn’t seen in ten years.
“This is a dream,” Orym says softly.
Will’s smile shifts, just the tiniest bit, a sad little twist to the corner of his mouth. “It’s the only Winter’s Crest gift I could give you.”
“I love it.” Orym stretches up to kiss Will again. “I love you,” he whispers against Will’s lips. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.”
“Little Moon, you already gave me everything.” Will kisses Orym once more, long and deep and so tender that Orym feels tears form in the corners of his eyes. “I couldn’t have asked for a better life, a better friend, a better love. Just keep finding your happiness every day. That’s gift enough for me.”
“Will—”
The feeling of Will’s arms around him fades, replaced by arms that feel like warm velvet over stone. The wedding quilt is no longer a weight pressing down on him, but the firm and comfortable base of his bedding nest. Orym curls into the warmth of Ashton’s chest, his heart so full of feelings that they can’t help but turn into tears.
“Orym?” The blankets move aside. “Hey, you all right?”
Orym nods, wiping away tears as he scoots up through the layers of nest so that he can more easily look Ashton in the eye. “Yeah, sorry, just a really intense dream.”
“No bad dreams on Winter’s Crest,” Ashton declares, brow furrowed in concern as he kisses Orym on the forehead. “It’s forbidden. I forbid it.”
“Wasn’t bad,” Orym assures him even as he wipes away a few more tears. “Just intense.”
“Gotcha.” Ashton’s hand splays across Orym’s back, comforting and warm. “Want to talk about it?”
Orym considers for a moment, then shakes his head. He knows neither Dorian or Ashton will feel jealous or displaced if he tells them that he’d been dreaming about Will, that’s not his concern. Maybe it’s selfish, but he wants to keep it for himself for just a little longer. “Later? I want to— sit with it for awhile.”
“‘Course.” Ashton closes his eyes. “Halflings got the right of things, in my opinion, mostly sleeping through winter.”
“Are you all right?” Orym’s on the wrong side of Ashton to see the glass side of his skull, can’t see if there’s the yellow and red of pain streaking through the normal purple and blue like lightning. “Pain worse than usual?”
A few years ago, Ashton would have hesitated in answering or quickly assured Orym he was fine. Now though, they give a half smile up at the ceiling, eyes still closed. “Overdid things in the kitchen, you know how I get.”
Orym does. Winter’s Crest had been a mostly foreign holiday to Ashton, who had only known of it through hilariously terrible reenactments at the Bassuras branch of Taste of Tal’dorei before he had met Orym. He’d quickly gotten into the spirit of the holiday when he had learned that it was mostly about giving gifts and sharing a warm meal with friends. Granted, they had interpreted ‘warm’ to mean ‘spicy’, but that was still very much in keeping with the season.
“Left Dorian to finish up the sausage stuffing for the ducks while I came in here to relax before dinner,” Ashton continues. “Got everything else done though, the goat curry and the flatbread and the five pepper cornbread that Fy’ra Rai gave me the recipe for last year.”
“Does Dorian need help?” Maybe it’s something about the dream, but Orym feels more awake than he normally does during the longest and often coldest night of the year. “I could—”
“Everything’s all set!” Dorian proclaims, his own personal breeze opening the door and bringing the smells of Winter’s Crest with it, spicy and sweet as he sweeps into the room, a tray with three mugs balanced on one hand and his phone in the other. “All our side dishes are under a charm to keep the hot things hot and the cold things cold. The ducks are in the oven, Nana Morri is bringing the ham and what sounds like half her liquor cabinet, Fearne made chocolate truffles in both regular and ‘extra special’ varieties, clearly labeled this time she swears—”
Ashton chuckles. “Last year certainly was interesting. I occasionally still hear colors.”
“—Chetney says he’s bringing a goose as big as he is,” Dorian continues as he hands mugs of hot chocolate to Ashton and Orym. Orym holds the wooden mug decorated in dancing bears (a souvenir of Whitestone) in both hands, breathing in the chocolate and cinnamon smell. “Dariax and Opal are bringing as many pies as they can carry, Imogen’s made a huge pan of her macaroni and cheese of course and your mother—”
“Everyone’s going to have enough leftovers to last through until New Dawn,” Orym says with a smile. “Now if you don’t put that phone down and come relax for a second, I’m going to drag you in here by force.”
Dorian had known even less about Winter’s Crest than Ashton had before he had started dating Orym, living in a perpetually traveling floating city had meant not really having a concept of a solstice or the corresponding celebrations. But he loved hosting parties and finding the perfect gifts for all his friends and loved ones. The trick was getting him to take breaks so he didn’t run himself into the ground.
“Oh wait, Orym, your fruitcake, I forgot to take it out of the cupboard—”
“It’s been in there for two weeks, Dorian, it can stay in there for another two hours,” Orym says. “And I spritzed it with more rum last night, it’ll be fine.”
Dorian looks at the bed nest, then at his phone again. “—Just let me set an alarm—”
Something in Orym’s chest that he hadn’t known was tense eases as Dorian settles into the bed nest next to Orym. He’s warm and safe, surrounded by people who love him and are loved by him. “How long until everyone arrives?”
“Two hours, give or take.”
Two hours. Plenty of time to trade hot chocolate flavored kisses, to snuggle under the quilt that Dorian and Ashton had made and given Orym their first Winter’s Crest together. Soon he’ll be surrounded by family and friends and good food and he’ll have a wonderful time, as he always does. But even if all he had was these few hours, it’d still be a perfect Winter’s Crest.