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Diarmuid was woken by the sound of soft scraping. He opened his eyes, blinked, then wondered if he was truly awake or simply dreaming. All he could see was darkness, thick and close. Was it still night?
Diarmuid tried to look around. No, he determined after a moment, not still night; and not dreaming either. He'd just burrowed so deep into the blankets that they were nearly over his head. He pushed them back, peeking into the dim of the space beyond.
Besides a little root cellar tucked beneath wooden boards on the far side, the daub-walled house that Diarmuid now called home had only one room. On the far wall, above the heavy kitchen table, points of dim gray light shone through the cracks of the window shutter. The air was chilly. It was not enough that Diarmuid could see his breath, but he felt it on his ears and the tip of his nose and he soon huddled back down under the blankets. At this rate, he and David would need to start sleeping not just with their woolen socks, but their cloaks and hoods and mittens as well.
Heavy frost and snow had come the last two days, the first of the year. It was still snowing when they'd gone to sleep the night before. David had worked diligently through the autumn to ensure the roof and walls of their home were sound, but the cold could not be kept out entirely, and they'd moved their bed as close to the hearth as possible.
Diarmuid yawned and reached through the blankets. It had almost become instinctive now, this searching for David. His husband was a big man, with what seemed to be a bonfire blazing through him in all seasons. His warmth was a welcome comfort as the weather grew colder, and Diarmuid usually ended up huddled close to him as they slept.
This morning, his hand came back empty. He reached further, startled, but his fingers only found the far edge of the mattress. There was nothing else except the indent of a sleeping body, still slightly warm. Diarmuid called sleepily into the dark.
“David?”
“I'm here.”
The gruff reply came from behind him. Diarmuid rolled over, trying to keep the covers as close as possible.
There was David, crouched in front of the hearth and stirring the dying fire back to life. He was already dressed, much to Diarmuid's surprise, with his hood pushed back and his heavy cloak wrapped over all.
“I hoped I wouldn't wake you,” David said as he laid a last log in the old coals. He set his stick against the mantle and came to the bedside.
Diarmuid stifled another yawn. “Where are you going?” It seemed too early even for them to start their day. Perhaps something had happened during the night?
“I just want to check the barn. Make sure everything's alright.”
That summer, David and their neighbor Mael had added on to the little structure that housed David's team of oxen. It made permanent room for the chickens Diarmuid's father had given them for a marriage present, as well as the small flock of goats David had acquired since.
Diarmuid had fretted about the animals freezing as it got colder; the house wasn't large enough for much more than themselves and the chickens. Adding one goat would have been disastrous, to say nothing of a half-dozen.
“I'll bring some more wood in too,” David said. “And more water.”
“I can help,” Diarmuid protested. It came out less forcefully than he intended. The bed was terribly empty without David, but it was warmer than the inside of the house, and warmer still than outside.
David smiled kindly. “I don't want you to help this morning. I want you to stay right here under the blankets. Nice and warm.” He bent and kissed Diarmuid's forehead, then his lips when Diarmuid leaned up to meet him.
“Alright. But don't be too long. It's lonely here without you.”
David chuckled. “I won't, I promise.” With that, he pulled on his hood and the thick, felted mittens Diarmuid had made for him, then slipped out into the gray light.
As soon as the door closed, Diarmuid pulled back beneath the blankets to avoid its draft. He curled up tight, listening to the whistle of the wind outside and the soft crackle of the fire as it grew.
I really should get up, he thought after a while. Start something for our breakfast. He'd made lentil porridge the last few days, with dried herbs and salt and bits of apple. Eggs had slowed with the onset of colder weather, but perhaps they would be lucky and have one or two today. Diarmuid's stomach growled at the thought of it. Still, he simply couldn't find it in himself to leave coziness for the cold.
It was amusing, really. In the warmer months he usually was the one awake before dawn, hoping to get an early start to their chores, while David held him tight and kissed him and urged him to stay wrapped in his arms just a little longer. It was very hard to resist. Often, Diarmuid didn't. It seemed he wouldn't today, either.
The fire was burning full and bright, and Diarmuid had fallen into a doze by the time David returned in another gust of cold wind. He added an armful of wood to the stack at the hearth and set the full water bucket beside the table. His cloak, hood and boots went back to their places by the door.
“I need to cut your hair again,” Diarmuid mused from his nest of blankets. “And your beard.” They'd been so busy with winter preparations that he simply hadn't found time. Watching David clear the unruly mess out of his eyes after pulling off the hood brought to mind a large dog trying to shake itself of water.
“I think they're better like this for the winter.” David replied. “They help cut the wind.”
They also make you look like a wild beast.
If it had been a warmer morning, Diarmuid might have spoken the thought aloud and let their gentle sparring continue. Just now, though, he was content to stay buried and have David come back to him as he had promised. He was rather impatient, in fact, and grew even more so when David paused at the fire to rub his hands close to the flames.
“Come here.”
“Let me get my hands warm.”
“I'll warm them up for you. Just come here. Please?”
David sighed and shook his head. He was smiling though as he padded to the other side of the bed, pulled off his tunic and climbed in.
Diarmuid quickly wrapped the blankets back over them. When they were settled, he took David's hands and pulled them close, covering them with his own smaller ones as best he could.
“I wasn't gone so long, was I?” David asked, still clearly amused.
“You were gone long enough. I was about to come and look for you. Was everything alright? Gods, you are freezing…”
Diarmuid leaned in and breathed over David's hands, rubbing at scarred palms and fingers toughened by years of plowing. All the while, he gave quiet admonishment about how mittens only worked if you actually kept them on.
David let him. How far he'd come in a year. Mael often joked good-naturedly that he'd been softened like a wolf into a lap-dog; a distant, rough thing now content to lie quietly and be fussed over. David would never have complained, of course. It had taken getting used to, but he'd found it was rather nice to have someone as lovely and kind as Diarmuid fuss over him.
“Everything was fine. Most of the goats were asleep. I broke some ice off the trough but that was all. The chickens were burrowed in the straw.”
“I knew you'd build a good home for them,” said Diarmuid. He leaned in and kissed David's cheek. “Oh! Your face is freezing too.”
David grinned. “You should have let me stay by the fire a little longer.”
Diarmuid made a dismissive noise. “You think I can't warm my own husband up again?”
He let go of David's hands and began to kiss his face instead. He kissed his lips, then his reddened cheeks, then the rosy tip of his nose. He kissed over his eyes when David shut them against the barrage. He blew warm breath against his ears and rubbed each gently in turn.
Eventually, David's arms wrapped around him and pulled him close. “I think you can perfectly well,” he murmured, burying his face in Diarmuid's neck.
Diarmuid shivered and giggled softly as David's beard brushed him under the chin. No longer able to reach his husband's face, he settled for wrapping his arms around his neck, one hand resting between David's broad shoulders while the other reached up to stroke his hair. He breathed deeply, taking in the familiar scent of woodsmoke and sweat and earth.
To think that something so simple could bring such comfort with it. There must have been countless men in the world who would have smelled this way, with broad shoulders and strong arms and scarred hands as well, but Diarmuid couldn't imagine wishing to be beside any of them more than David.
David, for his own part, seemed content with him as well. At least, he seemed to have been lulled into being so. The longer Diarmuid stroked his hair, the more he relaxed against him, the more his breathing slowed. If it had been evening he might have already fallen asleep.
Diarmuid closed his eyes. He would have loved nothing more than to fall asleep now himself. Forget the world as it existed outside the confines of the bed and the covers and David's arms. Forget that soon he would need to leave them all, as he must every day, and go about his work.
The track of time grew hazy as Diarmuid drifted, lulled by the peaceful calm as David had been by his touch. He only became aware how fully they were pressed together when David let out a rumbled sigh and shifted against him. Hands found the edges of his tunic. They slipped beneath it, gentle but purposeful, one sliding over the smooth plane of his back and the other moving lower.
Diarmuid gasped and his grip on David's hair tightened. “W-wait.”
David went still immediately. He didn't pull away altogether, but his lower hand retreated as he waited for whatever might be wrong.
“No?” He asked quietly when he received no reply.
Diarmuid hesitated. “I…I don't know if I want to move right now.”
The thought of David holding him, his body surrounding him, moving against him, warming them both thoroughly, was wonderful. It was so comfortable here already, though, he hated the thought of letting the cold in, even for something so enjoyable as what David seemed to have in mind.
David made a soft sound of understanding. “Well,” he ventured, absently stroking Diarmuid's back, “you wouldn't necessarily need to move…”
Diarmuid had no doubt of that. David was just as good with his hands as anything else.
“I know,” he said. He pulled back so they were face-to-face again. “I think I just want to hold onto you.” He kissed the corner of David's mouth, rested a hand on his cheek. “Is that alright?”
Even after a year, the two of them working alongside each other, confiding, sharing trust, Diarmuid never felt more nervous than in moments like this. He didn't know why. He knew he had no reason to be.
David's dark eyes softened. He turned wordlessly and kissed Diarmuid's palm, reaching to take his hand and squeeze it.
“Of course.”
Thank you, said Diarmuid. It did not come out as words, but as a smile, and a tender kiss pressed to David's lips, and a slim arm resting across his chest as David lay back and pulled him close at his side, their hands still entwined.
Diarmuid curled against him like a contented cat. He could think of nothing more that would have made the moment better. He was warm, wrapped in his husband's arms, safe inside solid walls with a roof over his head and a steady fire in the hearth. He was loved and free to love in return, to cherish one who cherished him. Even the richest man in the world could not have been so happy as he was here and now, he was sure of it.