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Warm and comforting.
Was the atmosphere in the living room, once the excitement of the day had drifted away through the corridors. Once the noise softened beneath blankets and wrapped itself in the silent veil of night.
Gentle and soothing.
Was the crackling of flames in the fireplace, barely illuminating the carpet, but enough to warm the sofa and the one taking a moment’s rest there.
Hypnotising.
His pale eye lingered on the rolling waves of fire, on this dance of that primal element which, unlike water, had always managed to earn his favor.
He lost his gaze in shades of red and gold, his eyelids gradually closing. The warmth of the blanket draped across his legs lulled him further into sleep, while the soft cushion beneath his hands, where he had placed the book he was reading, seemed to whisper an invitation to lay his head down.
And so the world slipped away. The dreamer fell in the arms of Morpheus, without even realizing it.
Warm and reassuring.
The furnace had somehow moved closer. His nightwear, a simple embroidered cotton set, clung to his skin with a heat as hot as a hot water bottle.
Faced with this strange but not unpleasant sensation, he opened his eyes again.
Darkness greeted him at first. Then, after a few moments of adjustment to the distant glow of the fireplace, it transformed into an emerald-green fabric he recognised all too well. The back of the sofa.
The sight, combined with the realization that he was lying down, told him he had fallen asleep and stretched out at some point.
Though... Had he done so himself?
Or did the two arms wrapped around his waist have something to do with it?
That was where the warmth came from. From those hands, whose owner he didn't even need to look at to identify.
From that body pressed against his back, whose shape, weight, and scent he knew by heart after all these years.
From that breath, which fell in a steady rhythm against the nape of his neck, occasionally letting out a soft snore.
From the thumbs resting together, aligning the two Link Rings engraved with a warming pentacle. Activated against the hollow of his stomach, the spell's heat spread all the way down to his spine.
He didn’t even know if their owner had eaten today, or had been able to sleep properly these last days. Their current position, snuggled up together, suggested otherwise.
Years ago, they had often curled up together like this in one of their Academy's tiny beds.
Especially when they needed comfort. Needed someone.
He had never dared ask for it aloud. He’d always just settled for more lingering glances whenever they parted ways at the crossroads of the dormitory halls.
But even without a word, Olly had always understood.
The way they held each other, right here, told the story of two exhausted men.
One worn down by relentless work.
The other one by simply existing.
His heart beat a little harder against his ribs. His eyes stung, but no tears came.
Suddenly, he felt far too hot. Good–it allowed the roots covering his shoulders to crackle uncomfortably as they retreated beneath his skin.
A sigh swept through the panic rising inside him for no reason. The lack of rest and constant vigilance were slowly grinding his bones to dust.
Which would win first, the Silverwood in his body, or his anxiety? One curse for another.
A lifetime of worry, or a handful of fleeting seconds of peace before his inevitable end?
His eyelids squeezed shut. The obsessive thoughts, even if uncomfortable, kept the threat at bay, but only encouraged the knot of anxiety nestled against those warm thumbs. May his partner's skillful magic dissolve it in a couple of seconds.
He regained his composure, banishing all thoughts from his mind. He focused on his body from head to toe.
Everything was fine. Peaceful enough for life to continue as normal. Stressful enough to keep the curse restrained.
Questions remained, guilt lingered, vengeance still boiled, but a sense of balance persisted.
His hand rested on his asleep friend's. He buried his head deeper into the soft pillow, his hair brushing against strands of dark-colored locks.
He refused to spoil the few moments they had alone together. Even less so those rarer moments, born from that adult companionship sprinkled with childish intimacy.
Tension finally eased. His friend’s forehead, slumped with exhaustion, rested against the nape of his neck. It burned at the touch.
Olruggio of the Torch had certainly earned his nickname.
Warm and welcoming.
Was the sky's kindest, most radiant star, illuminating his life.