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John’s hands were warm on his shoulders as he was pulled along to the window. “Arthur, it’s snowing!”
He couldn’t help but smile, hearing that excitement. “You’ve seen snow, John. In Addison, remember?"
The other man coughed. “Well, I didn’t have the time to stop and take it all in back then. I do now.” And before anything else could be said, John quickly changed the subject, guiding his hand up and over the window until - “Right here. This is where the snowflakes like to stick. Can you feel them?”
Arthur flexed his finger, hand still held so gently in another’s. “Yes,” he said, “I do.” A moment, paused. And then - “It’s fucking freezing, John!”
They both started cracking up, loud and bright, leaning on each other there by the window before both of Arthur’s hands were enveloped by John’s. Long curly hair trailed down his neck as John wrapped himself around him, hanging like a limpet.
“How are you still cold? You’re wearing a sweater,” John huffed. He rolled his eyes.
“And yet my fingers and my toes aren't. If I get frostbite it will be your fault, mark my words.”
“Frosbite? Arthur, go sit by the fire!” And somehow in no time at all he’s nearly falling asleep next to a comforting warmth that lulls and lies like a lullaby. He hums when John sits next to him a time later, their sides together and then a quilt tucked around his body nice and neat.
“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, head falling to John’s shoulder.
“If it’s ridiculous to care for your well being, Arthur, so be it.” John dryly tells him, running a hand through thick brown hair that has a few new grey hairs this year. His voice softens, “So be it.”
Arthur finally gives in and closes his eyes. And if he can’t bring himself to acknowledge that care out loud, at least he can lean into it. “...describe it to me.”
When John speaks, it’s as easy as listening to a painting come together, as interpreting colors and sensations and emotion. It’s a light turned on, a candle that he follows, a door being opened. It’s home.
“Outside the sky is dim and cloudy but the rest of the world is washed in white as far as the eye can see; you would be forgiven if you mistook the glare for the sun. Snowflakes drift down and float aimlessly over quiet streets and still cars. One or two people walk in long coats buttoned up to their chins, boots leaving tracks that are quickly swept away… The leaves have shed their autumn colors for drab browns and greys and yet they somehow seem to compliment the way that winter transforms everything else into something you hold your breath for.”
Arthur can picture it all so easily, and never has the world been more lovely than through John’s eyes. He never wants to stop listening, to stop hearing how John discovers and learns and changes yet stays the same.
“The cold makes your cheeks turn red, did you know?” When Arthur smiles, John puts his thumb to one of his dimples.
“I’m too pale. Hot or cold, I flush something awful. What about you?” He sleepily reaches up and John guides his hand to a cheek before he pokes the poor man’s eye out. John feels warm under his hand, and he sighs with contentment.
“I do, not nearly as bad as you. But it’s usually just my ears.”
Arthur hummed as John leaned into his hand, twisting around to curl into the whole of his body, head to chest. A chaste kiss was pressed to his brow, and he closed his eyes to hide even though it hardly made a difference. Sometimes the way that John loved him made him afraid simply for the fear that he was taking too much.
“Did you drink the rest of the eggnog?” He asked, fingers tapping.
“Did you?”
Neither of them could remember but they were also too lazy to bother untangling themselves to check. He turned his face towards the window, eyes narrowing.
“Arthur?”
He brightened as he turned back, soft lines around his eyes crinkling when he smiled. “John, I hear caroling. Listen.”
They quickly wrapped themselves up, John tying a scarf around Arthur’s neck as Arthur hurried to get his boots on - and then they were standing outside their front door as they listened to what seemed like the whole neighborhood starting to sing songs of forgiveness and love and joy. There were even people handing out blankets to the homeless. It felt a little unbelievable - every time - for Arthur. For John, who was experiencing it for the first time…
“Arthur… what? What is - ?” Overwhelmed and awed and so confused, John could do nothing except to watch as the whole world seemed to come alive.
Their hands brushed. Arthur tipped his head up, closed his eyes and said, “Listen.”
So they did. As people praised a god neither of them believed in and held mass with nothing but the community they’d been raised in, two outsiders silently witnessed it all. It didn’t feel lonely; it felt peaceful.
Maybe a small part of Arthur, still bitter and lashing out over years of alienation from his parents’ religion - one he’d long left behind - scabbed over. Maybe one of those wounds eased just a little.
And when Silent Night started up, he didn’t shut his ears to the memories of singing along in church with them.
Arthur started quietly humming along. After a moment, John joined in.
The piano notes rang out in his head, but for once… he let himself lay his hand over the keys and play.