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“What do you mean the highway is closed?” Neuvillette asks, staring at the young woman behind the front desk.
Sigewinne gives him an apologetic sort of smile. “It’s the snow,” she says, gesturing toward the windows framing the bed and breakfast’s front door.
It’s not that Neuvillette is unaware of the snow. Everyone in Poisson has been extremely aware of the impending snowstorm, the oncoming snowmageddon, for the past three days. But he wrapped up his work early today specifically so he could get out of the small town before the storm hit. Apparently, he didn’t wrap up his work soon enough.
“The snow wasn’t supposed to start for another—” He checks his phone and finally—finally—sees the emergency alert notification. Winter storm warning for Poisson and the surrounding county, lasting for the next six hours, shelter in place. With a heavy sigh, Neuvillette runs a hand through his hair. “I suppose it doesn’t matter when the snow was going to start.”
Sigewinne’s apologetic smile turns sympathetic. “You’re not the only one stuck,” she says, as if that makes it better. It doesn’t. “You’re from the city, right?” When he nods, she continues, “There’s only one plow in town, and the snow is heavy, so you should be prepared to spend at least two days here.”
Two days isn’t a tragedy, but she mistakes his silence for horror.
“I know, I know,” she says, lifting both hands. “It sucks to be away from family, especially since tomorrow’s Christmas Eve and we definitely won’t be out by then.” He doesn’t have any family, immediate or extended, so that’s not actually his concern. He’d be spending Christmas Eve at the firm—working, as is his wont—if not for the snow. “But, some good news!” She beams. “Mr. Callas is letting everyone stay, free of charge, until we can dig out.”
Neuvillette exhales and offers her a tentative smile in return. “That’s good news indeed. How very kind-hearted of him.”
“Tis the season,” she replies.
The lights flicker once. Twice.
They stare at each other, their smiles fixed on their faces, and a sense of doom washes over Neuvillette. Then the power goes out.
Twenty minutes later, there’s a fire burning in the cozy living room’s fireplace. The place feels a bit claustrophobic, the room heavily bedecked as it is with wreaths and garlands, no inch of wall left undecorated. Dancing light illuminates the faces of the B&B’s concerned guests—Neuvillette among them. He’s been so busy for the past few days that he only vaguely recognizes the other guests, seeing them over their shared breakfasts, but even then, he hadn’t paid them much attention. He’d come to Poisson to execute a will on behalf of a very wealthy client, not make friends. Not that he’s particularly good at making friends. Friendship is often predicated on small talk, and he possesses no skill at small talk. Or any other kind of talk that doesn’t pertain to his job. He has long considered himself far too awkward for such things, preferring his own company and that of his coworkers when he must have company at all.
Callas, the B&B’s owner, stands to the side of the fireplace. His daughter and her wife—whose names Neuvillette has unfortunately forgotten—hover nearby, each of them holding a basket of mismatched candles.
Clearing his throat, Callas lifts his hands. “Alright,” he says, quieting the guests. “Here’s what we know: the power’s out all over town—” Nervous murmurs from the two elderly couples. “—and there’s no current estimate for when it’s going to come back up.” Those nervous murmurs turn distressed. Another guest, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man who, Neuvillette will admit to himself, is far too handsome with his salt-and-pepper hair, looks merely contemplative. “You’ll have noticed,” Callas continues, “that most rooms at the Spina have a fireplace. We’re going to get those lit immediately and pair those of you with fireplaces with those of you who don’t have them.”
The two couples immediately claim each other, which leaves Neuvillette with… “Wriothesley and Neuvillette,” Callas says, offering Neuvillette an apologetic sort of smile. Neuvillette inclines his head. “Hopefully it’s just for the night.” The way he speaks suggests to Neuvillette that this really isn’t the sort of problem that will be fixed in one night.
“We’ll manage just fine,” Wriothesley says, and his expression is warm as he extends a hand to Neuvillette. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but.” He shrugs with the most handsome, lopsided grin Neuvillette has ever seen.
That handsome lopsided grin being irrelevant, Neuvillette takes his hand—large, warm, rough—and squeezes it. “Likewise.”
Callas gestures to his daughter and her wife. “Navia and Clorinde have candles for you to take so you can get around at night, but the fireplaces will provide plenty of light. In a spot of good news in all this mess, the stovetop burners are gas.”
Sigewinne rocks forward on the balls of her feet. “Which means dinner tonight is pancakes, bacon, and made-to-order omelets,” she says, beaming.
“So,” Callas says, “let’s get everyone loaded up with wood for their fireplaces and candles. If I can have volunteers to haul in wood?”
“I’ll go,” Wriothesley says to Neuvillette. “You grab the candles, yeah?”
Neuvillette nods. “I’m in 2C.”
“Then I’ll be up with some wood in just a minute.” Wriothesley flashes him another of those too handsome, too charming smiles, and Neuvillette offers a weaker one of his own. This is, he tells himself, a terrible inconvenience, but perhaps it will be less so if spent in the presence of a man his own age who is, admittedly, incredibly attractive.
Neuvillette admits Wriothesley to 2C, holding the door for him and his armful of firewood. There’s just enough remaining daylight for them to see, and together they open the flue, pile a few logs on the hearth, and use the newspaper Callas provided—along with a lighter—to get their fire going.
“Do you mind if I bring some things in here?” Wriothesley asks as the flames blaze, emanating a steady warmth.
Neuvillette shakes his head. “No, of course not. Would you like help?”
“I got it,” Wriothesley says. “But thanks.” With another of those handsome grins, he ducks out of the room, leaving Neuvillette to survey the space and wonder how he’s going to survive the night.
The room is spacious enough, with a small sitting area in front of the fireplace that hosts an armchair and a loveseat that is certainly too small to stretch out on. The only other place for Wriothesley to sleep is the floor. How awkward this is. Neuvillette rakes a hand through his hair, standing before the fireplace and trying to figure out if there’s a better solution. The bed is large enough for two, but he has no desire to share with a stranger—even a handsome one—though perhaps politeness dictates that he should offer. He isn’t quite as tall as Wriothesley. Perhaps, instead, he should volunteer to take the loveseat.
He’s still debating when Wriothesley returns with a small pile of neatly folded clothes. “More bad news,” he says as he enters, and Neuvillette sighs.
“What is it?”
“Ran into Callas in the hall, and he said they only have two twin-sized air mattresses.” Wriothesley puts his neat little pile of clothes, topped with a bag of toiletries, down on the armchair’s seat. “I told him I’d be good on the floor.”
Neuvillette speaks much without thinking. “I am happy to offer up the bed and take the loveseat instead.”
Wriothesley barks out a laugh. “Yeah? You wanna cram yourself onto that sofa and wake up with aches in places you didn’t know existed?” His eyes sparkle, and his tone is light.
Frowning, Neuvillette says, “It’s the polite thing to do, is it not?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Wriothesley says, softening. “I learned a long time ago how to sleep in pretty much any situation. Could probably sleep standing up with one eye open if I had to. The floor won’t bother me.” He gestures toward the fireplace. “And I get to be closer to the fire if it burns down. I stay warmer and can keep it maintained through the night.”
Neuvillette surveys the space in front of the fireplace. “Perhaps,” he says, “we might lay the cushions from the sofa and the chair on the floor so that you have at least a small mattress.”
“Now, that? That’s an inspired idea.” Wriothesley pauses, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking for all the world like he’s woefully out of place. “Look, I know this is awkward as hell—” It is, and Neuvillette supposes this is a polite way to acknowledge that truth. “—so maybe we can spend some time getting to know each other before dinner?”
With a quiet chuckle, Neuvillette eases onto the loveseat. “You might not enjoy that,” he says. “I have been told on numerous occasions that I am difficult to talk to.” He touches a hand to his chest. “And I am a lawyer.”
That earns a laugh from Wriothesley, who moves his things from the armchair to the coffee table before plunking himself onto the chair’s seat. “So, what, people don’t like talking to you because you’re good at asking questions?”
Neuvillette hesitates. “I am, I think, perhaps too direct.”
“That was nothing but equivocation,” Wriothesley drawls, which earns him another of Neuvillette’s chuckles. How odd. He hasn’t laughed so frequently with someone in many years.
“So it was. What do you do, then?”
Slouching in his chair, Wriothesley grins. “Ah, the cross examination begins.” Neuvillette groans, and Wriothesley’s grin grows wider. “Okay, okay, no bad lawyer jokes. I’m in construction. We’re building a warehouse out here, and I’m the supervisor for the job. Come down on Monday, stay the week, drive back home on Friday.”
“And where is home?” Neuvillette asks.
“The city.” Wriothesley makes a vague gesture in the city’s general direction. “Too far to commute every day. You?”
“The same,” Neuvillette says. “I’m in the Vasari Passage.”
Wriothesley’s eyes widen. “Fancy. Fleuve Cendre.” Not the best part of the city, but certainly not the worst either. Still, a far cry from the sweeping blue roofs of the Passage. “My sister wants me to move, but I have eighteen hundred square feet for fifteen hundred a month, and I’d be insane to lose that.”
Neuvillette’s eyes widen. “You would be.” He tips his head to the side. “You have siblings?”
“A bunch,” Wriothesley replies with a dry chuckle. He scratches his cheek. “I, uh, was in and out of foster care and group homes when I was a kid. Shuffled around a lot by the system.” He shrugs. “A number of us—my foster siblings and I—got pretty close, so we keep in contact. Two sisters, three brothers, and an army of nieces and nephews.”
“Then you’re unmarried?” Neuvillette asks, but he already knows the answer to this. Wriothesley wears no ring, and there are no tan lines on his finger.
Wriothesley laughs at that. “You really are direct, huh?”
Heat floods Neuvillette’s face. “I—”
“No, no, don’t worry.” Wriothesley waves him off. “I’m not. The only one who isn’t. Amelie keeps telling me I’ll die alone if I don’t figure my life out, but it’s not like thirty-two is that old.” He says it defensively.
“Well.” Neuvillette clears his throat. “I am five years older than you and similarly unattached.”
Wriothesley’s lips curl. “Glad to know I’m not the only single person in this godforsaken town at Christmas.”
That earns a laugh from Neuvillette. “Had you also noticed? Everyone here seems to be a couple.”
Wriothesley leans forward, his grin growing. “It’s like a movie set up. We’re the only two single people in the whole town.”
“They’ll conspire to have us dating by the time we’re dug out of all the snow,” Neuvillette drawls—and then he catches himself. “That is—forgive me. I didn’t mean to assume.”
“Well, your assumption was right on the money.” Wriothesley chuckles. “Hope that doesn’t make it weird to share a room tonight.”
Not weird, but certainly… something. Neuvillette’s hands feel suddenly clammy, and he licks his lips. He isn’t put off, of course. How could he be when he shares Wriothesley’s inclinations? When he finds Wriothesley so attractive? But then that is the unfortunate problem. He does find Wriothesley attractive, and his continued proximity is something like stressful. “Not at all,” he says, trying to sound as neutral as possible. “You are not alone in your preferences.”
“Well.” Wriothesley sits back in his chair, resting an ankle over his knee. His grin turns playful with a sardonic sort of edge to it. “Then we’re safe. It’s not like anyone will be making a Hallmark movie about a pair of guys getting together for Christmas.”
Neuvillette can’t help himself. He bursts out laughing, pressing the curve of his knuckles to his mouth. “That,” he agrees, “would be far too progressive.”
“Can’t have that.”
“The horror of it all.” They share amused smiles, and Neuvillette relaxes. His own attraction to Wriothesley be damned, this could be a much more awkward situation than it is. “Ah, I… I hope this isn’t presumptuous, but should your phone die before the power comes back, I have an external battery pack that you’re welcome to use.” Wriothesley tips his head to the side, clearly confused. “Should you wish to call your siblings on Christmas.”
Some kind of tension goes out of Wriothesley at that, a full-bodied softening that reaches the very corners of his eyes and the curve of his lips. “I appreciate that, actually. I, uh, am notoriously bad at charging my phone.” He fishes it out of his pocket, taps the screen, and turns it so Neuvillette can see the battery.
Which is at fifteen percent.
Neuvillette stares at it and then him. “Respectfully, Wriothesley, given that we are newly acquainted, but how do you live your life like this?”
Laughing, Wriothesley leans back, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Look, I studied engineering, I know how these electronics work. It’s much better to let the battery run down than constantly charge it. But, downside, I get myself into situations like this.” He scratches his chin. “Thank you, though. I’ll take you up on that.” He tips his head to the side. “What about you, huh? Family?”
Neuvillette shakes his head. “My father died while I was in law school, and my mother passed a few years ago.”
A grimace pulls across Wriothesley’s face. “Sorry.”
“No, don’t be.” Neuvillette smooths his hands across his knees. “This will be a pleasant change of pace for me, being trapped here.” It will certainly be less lonely than working on Christmas Eve at the firm. “Provided we don’t run out of food and turn to cannibalism, I’m quite looking forward to the next two days.”
Wriothesley barks out a little laugh. “Cannibalism?”
“It has happened historically,” Neuvillette says, which earns him another laugh.
“Yeah, to parties stranded in isolated places.” But Wriothesley is still grinning. “If it gets that bad, I’ll defend you to the last.”
Neuvillette arches his brows. “How romantic. Are you sure we’re not trapped in a Hallmark Christmas movie after all?”
Another laugh from Wriothesley. “You know something?”
“Hm?”
“Whoever said you’re difficult to talk to was full of shit.”
Dinner by candlelight in the bed and breakfast’s dining room is a surprisingly lively affair. The elderly couples introduce themselves to Neuvillette—Alain and Celeste are locals, and Edric and Aelfwyn from Mondstadt—and to Wriothesley, and they fall into a surprisingly easy conversation (one Wriothesley carries) about their reasons for being in Poisson. Alain and Celeste heard about Fontaine’s so-called best Christmas town from one of their daughters and decided to spend the holidays here, on vacation. Edric and Aelfwyn, who have no children, have made a point of traveling every year for Christmas since they retired, wanting to see holiday traditions from across Teyvat.
Once all the omelets are cooked, Navia, Clorinde, Callas, and Sigewinne join them at the long table, and though the meal is hardly traditional, it is warm and inviting and altogether delicious. By the time they rise from the table an hour and a half later, Neuvillette is almost comfortable with these strangers—and more comfortable for the efforts Wriothesley makes to ease the conversation around him. When he’s quiet for too long, Wriothesley asks him questions to draw him back into the flow of things. When questions from the others stump him, Wriothesley volunteers possible answers—often jokes—that provide Neuvillette with direction. It is a better conversation than he’s had in years about something other than work.
Aelfwyn suggests they play charades in the cozy living room, where the fireplace provides a gentle illumination and plenty of warmth. Sigewinne whips up a quick batch of mulled wine, which Neuvillette knows he’ll need to make it through this ordeal.
“I am terrible at games like this,” he whispers to Wriothesley, who volunteered to be his teammate before process of elimination could force him into the role. That was kind of him.
Wriothesley ducks his head. “Everyone’s terrible at charades. Just go for easy stuff. Pop culture references, brand names.”
Neuvillette grimaces. “I admit that I am not wholly attuned to popular culture.”
With a full-bodied laugh, Wriothesley propels Neuvillette into a chair. “Then we’ll lose,” he says with tremendous good cheer. They do, in fact, lose, but they have a great time of it, struggling valiantly against the other teams—Navia pairs up with her father, Clorinde with Sigewinne, and the couples split along gender lines, Aelfwyn with Celeste and Edric with Alain. Clorinde and Sigewinne eventually win, when they’re all too tipsy to count point well anyway. After, Callas finds two decks of playing cards in a drawer, and, keeping their teams, they play several rounds of poker—and Neuvillette wins almost all of them.
“You must be cheating,” Callas says at one point, bewildered when he’s lost most of the marbles they’re using for bets.
Neuvillette allows himself a small smile. “I assure you, I am not.”
Later, when everyone retires to their shared rooms, when he shuts the door behind himself and Wriothesley, Wriothesley asks, “How did you manage to fleece them all so well?”
Neuvillette crosses the bedroom to the dresser where he’s placed his pajamas—a long shirt and, thankfully, a pair of soft flannel pants. “It’s part of my job to know when someone is lying to me.”
“You figured out their tells that fast?”
“Most of them. Navia and Sigewinne can’t bluff at all, Callas thinks he’s too good at it and overplays his hands. Celeste was the hardest to read, but mothers often are. They’re used to being lied to by their children and so can often read others quite well.” Neuvillette inclines his head toward the adjoined bathroom, holding his pajamas and a little candle to provide light. “Do you mind if I shower?”
It’s too dark to make out Wriothesley’s expression clearly, but something flashes across his face, the shadows somehow darkening over his features, before he shrugs. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll change while you’re in there.”
Neuvillette’s breath catches, which is silly, really, but he can’t help himself. There’s something strangely decadent about the idea of Wriothesley—who is, he reminds himself, a relative stranger—undressing in his room while he’s in the shower that has a not inconsiderable amount of appeal. “Of course,” he says, mouth dry, and he hurries into the bathroom.
With just the one candle, it’s difficult to see, but he makes do, washing quickly in the cold water. When he finishes his shower, he takes his time drying off and climbing into his sleeping clothes, suddenly worried he showered too quickly, worried that Wriothesley might still be changing, that he’ll walk out to Wriothesley half-dressed and—
Neuvillette pinches the bridge of his nose. How stupid. They’re both grown adults, and if Wriothesley isn’t ready for him to emerge from the bathroom, he’ll say something. Still, Neuvillette cracks the bathroom door before emerging. “Wriothesley?”
“I’m decent,” Wriothesley replies.
Emerging from the bathroom, Neuvillette finds Wriothesley on the floor in front of the fireplace, shirtless, and, well. It’s not as if Neuvillette has never seen well-muscled men before, but Wriothesley takes his breath away. Firelight plays across his chest, accenting the peaks and valleys of his muscles, casting him in burnished reds and golds, making him look like some antediluvian god.
“It’s a little hot with the fire,” Wriothesley says, leaning onto one hand to gesture to himself. “But if you mind…”
Neuvillette shakes his head. “I don’t. And it is. Hot.” Oh, god, he sounds like a fool. “In here.” He clears his throat. “Fireplaces are very effective.”
“So they are.” Wriothesley’s lips quirk in obvious amusement.
Neuvillette hesitates and then says, “Are you sure you don’t mind the floor?”
Planting his hand back on the ground, Wriothesley nods. “Doesn’t bother me at all. I’ll be more comfortable here than on the loveseat. And I appreciate the willingness to double up.”
“Of course,” Neuvillette says, perfunctory. He crosses the room with his lone candle, though the fireplace is light enough, and blows it out as he climbs into the bed. Wriothesley’s presence in his room is a physical weight, impossible to ignore. Easing onto his back, he stares at the ceiling, wondering how he’s possibly going to sleep. “Good night, then,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as awkward as he feels.
“Good night,” comes Wriothesley’s reply. “I’d offer to turn off the light, but…” He laughs from the floor.
“That would be rather difficult.” Neuvillette’s lips curl. “And I imagine we’d both prefer to stay warm.”
“You’d imagine right.”
Neuvillette rolls onto his side, staring at the curtained window. Wriothesley’s breathing quiets and evens, and Neuvillette is fairly sure he’s asleep already. Another hour passes before Neuvillette finally falls into a deep and heavy sleep of his own, plagued by dreams of mistletoe and a handsome stranger who looks quite a bit like Wriothesley.
Waking up to Wriothesley in his room is a strange thing—especially because Neuvillette doesn’t wake until the shower runs. He takes the opportunity to dress, trying not to think about Wriothesley in his bathroom, in his shower, showering. Water dripping down his sculpted chest, clinging to his naked—no. No, no, no. Absolutely not. He’ll probably need to spend Christmas Eve in this same room with Wriothesley, for he holds no belief that the power will be restored so quickly, and he cannot let this burgeoning attraction get the better of him.
He’s just finished making the bed when Wriothesley emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed, which is not disappointing.
“Breakfast?” Neuvillette suggests.
“Breakfast,” Wriothesley agrees.
Sigewinne has prepared pan-fried toast slathered in jam and a pair of vegetable frittatas for everyone, apologizing profusely that it’s eggs again, but Neuvillette is quite content with what’s presented to him. Wriothesley, too, assures her it’s fine.
“Unless the power comes back on, dinner will have to be simple tonight,” she says as everyone eats. She says it like she’s not quite sure what to make.
Wriothesley leans toward her. “Do you have enough for a tomato soup?” he asks, and she perks up at that. He gestures to himself with his toast. “From a big family. Soup’s easy and filling, yeah? Could do grilled cheese sandwiches, too. All easily done on stovetop.”
“It’s a good idea, but I’m not sure I have a recipe,” she admits.
He grins that oh-so-charming grin, and Neuvillette has to look away. Handsome, smart, likely handy, and he cooks, too. Beneath all that charm, he must certainly have a flaw. Maybe he’s a serial killer. Except Neuvillette knows Wriothesley lacks that particular disposition.
“I’ve got a good recipe trapped up here.” Wriothesley taps the side of his head. “Takes a while to make—has to simmer for a bit—but if you trust me in your kitchen, I can do it this afternoon.”
Sigewinne beams. “And Monsieur Neuvillette can be your sous chef,” she declares.
Neuvillette practically jumps out of his chair. “Me?” he asks, bewildered.
She’s grinning—almost as much as one of the elderly couples—and he realizes, to his mortification, that his interest in Wriothesley has not gone unnoticed. “I’ll need to make the grilled cheese, so someone else will have to help Wriothesley with the soup.”
Though he doesn’t see why these things can’t be done separately, he feels too backed into a corner to say no to her. So, he inclines his head. “Very well, then,” he says, turning back to the remains of his frittata.
Wriothesley, who is of course sitting next to him, nudges him with his elbow. “It’ll be fun. I’m no taskmaster, I promise.”
Neuvillette has half a mind to flee to his room, lock the door, and crawl under the bed, but that won’t do him any favors. “Of course,” he says instead, ignoring the very, very knowing look Navia sends his way. How terrifying and embarrassing to be so known by these people who are still mostly strangers. But no one makes fun of him, and so he takes it as a win.
As breakfast wraps, Callas comes into the dining room, red-cheeked from the cold outdoors. At least with all the fires burning, the bed and breakfast has remained quite warm. “Was out with the neighbors,” he says, easing into a chair at the table. “Folks have seen utilities workers repairing powerlines, but best estimates for power are tomorrow morning.” Groans from most of the table. “Poisson’s plow is working on the main roads, but the snow is heavy and thick, so it’s slow going,” he continues. “A few of the neighbors are banding together to plow a path between the houses, but the snow’s too much for us. Two people already broke their snowblowers trying to clear their driveways.”
“We’re trapped for now, then,” Navia says. She claps her hands together, brightening. “We’ll have to find things to do! There are old board games in the basement. I can dig those out.”
“And plenty of books,” Clorinde says—which is true. The living rooms on the first floor are lined with bookshelves.
A smile creeps across the elderly Aelfwyn’s face. “Perhaps we could do some dramatic readings of the worst of the lot. Lampoon them in real time.”
Neuvillette would much rather find a decent book from the mix and read alone in his room since working is out of the question—he can only access firm data on a VPN, and without power, he’s without internet, and thus unable to connect—but he suspects retreating won’t be possible.
Then Wriothesley clears his throat. “Neuvillette, you said you have a battery for phones? Mine died overnight, and I’d like to call my sisters and let them know I’m alive. Can you get that for me?”
And just like that, he’s rescued. “I would be delighted,” he says, rising.
“Do join us when you’ve finished,” Celeste says, and then she turns to her husband, shooing him after Navia and Clorinde to help bring up board games from the basement as Neuvillette, well, flees.
“Thank you,” Neuvillette says when they make it to his room.
Wriothesley gives him a slow smile in response. “You looked like you were going to crawl out of your skin.”
How strange a thing for someone to read him so easily, but he finds he doesn’t mind. “I admit I’m not accustomed to spending so much time with strangers.”
“It’s an acquired talent,” Wriothesley agrees as they step into the room and shut the door behind them. “Growing up with lots of siblings means I know how to manage people.” He laughs dryly. “But I still prefer books and my own company.”
“Oh?” Neuvillette crosses the room to his suitcase, opening it to fish out the battery inside. “That surprises me. You strike me as an extrovert.”
“Nah.” Wriothesley follows after him, leaning against the nearby wall with his arms crossed. “I can fake it, but I usually prefer the quiet.”
Neuvillette finds the battery and rises, offering it to Wriothesley. “You and I are quite similar, then,” he says, offering the other man a lopsided smile of his own. “I’ll leave you in peace to make your calls.”
Taking the battery, Wriothesley waves him off. “You can stay. You look like you need time to prepare yourself for being social, and these aren’t going to be wildly personal calls. I don’t mind the company.”
A hot flush warms Neuvillette’s cheeks, because that sounds more like I don’t mind your company. “Then I will remain.”
Wriothesley drifts away from him, plugging his phone into the battery. “If you weren’t here,” he says. “What would you be doing today?”
Ah, what a terrible question. “Working,” Neuvillette admits. “I have not celebrated Christmas since my mother’s passing, so while I am not overly fond of spending my time with others, there is something to be said for the company for once.” He allows himself a small smile. “Even if we are simply making the best of a terrible situation.”
“Could be a hell of a lot worse,” Wriothesley agrees. He checks his phone before looking up at Neuvillette again. “You think you can tolerate some board games?”
Neuvillette cants his head to the side, amused. “Certainly.”
“Then I want to play on your team if we’re playing teams-based games. After last night, I’m terrified of the idea of playing against you.”
Genuine laughter bubbles out of Neuvillette. “I’m flattered.”
Wriothesley’s phone charges quickly enough for him to make his calls, and Neuvillette does his best to be busy with other things—his own phone is running low, but only his firm has contacted him with an email to say they’re closed for the next two days due to the weather. Even if he was home, he’d be by himself. At least here he has more pleasant environs. He glances at Wriothesley who, in the middle of his own conversation with one sister, grins back, and Neuvillette quickly looks away.
By mutual, unspoken agreement, they waste another half hour chatting with each other once Wriothesley’s calls are finished. Only then, when it is well into midday, do they return to the living room, where they find Navia, Clorinde, Alain, and Celeste engaged in a heated game of Clue. Within five minutes of quiet observation, Neuvillette is certain he knows who the murderer is, and he whispers the answer into Wriothesley’s ear.
“If you’re right,” Wriothesley murmurs back, “I owe you a drink when we get back to the city.”
Neuvillette goes warm and soft, and he cannot help the curl of his lips. “Then I shall have to suffer your company.”
In the end, Neuvillette is proven correct, and he is quite proud of himself. Edric chooses that moment to suggest teams to play Monopoly, since that will take up a considerable amount of their time, and Wriothesley immediately chooses Neuvillette as his partner, which makes Neuvillette warmer and softer—he still remembers the days of being picked last for most things. As they begin to play, Neuvillette realizes quickly how shrewd Wriothesley is, too, how keenly he sees the strategies available to them, and they are able to, with their combined skill and luck, conquer the board after nearly three hours of play. They break for lunch in the middle, and the conversation is surprisingly easy and congenial, with Wriothesley often making the back and forth even easier for Neuvillette, navigating around his awkwardness with an expert precision. They do win, in the end, bankrupting the other players, who take their losses with good spirit and laughter.
Come early evening, once the game has wrapped, Wriothesley invites Neuvillette into the kitchen with him, and they wander from topic to topic under Sigewinne’s supervision, though her presence is marginal. She sits at the kitchen table with a book, letting them know where ingredients, pots, pans, and other tools are, largely leaving them to their own devices as they cook up Wriothesley’s tomato soup.
Neuvillette finds himself laughing easily and often in Wriothesley’s company, and Wriothesley makes him feel surprisingly comfortable. He barely knows his way around a kitchen, but Wriothesley’s instruction is simple and direct, and he’s quick to correct errors in a way that is kind and helpful. He never loses his patience, never raises his voice. They work together in relative harmony, creating something together, and the process is fun. Neuvillette, for the first time in many years, finds himself having fun with another human being.
As they finish with the soup, Sigewinne begins the grilled cheese sandwiches and Wriothesley and Neuvillette become her assistants. They laugh with each other when Neuvillette manages to smear butter on his nose, and he flushes when Wriothesley thumbs it away. The world seems to narrow down to just the two of them, and Neuvillette’s heart pounds in a rapid rhythm. He’s never felt like this before. Has never been so excited by the proximity of another person. That excitement doesn’t diminish as they serve dinner, as they eat it, as they sit side by side and steal whispered snatches conversation with each other. If he were alone in this bed and breakfast with Wriothesley, Neuvillette would be thrilled, and he can’t remember the last time he wanted to be alone with someone. Never, perhaps.
Well after they’ve cleaned up dinner, as the elderly couples and Navia and Clorinde do a dramatic reading of The Taming of the Shrew, trading the myriad roles between themselves, with Wriothesley sitting beside him and hooting and hollering at the actors, he realizes he doesn’t hate this—and that’s because he’s with Wriothesley. Wriothesley makes this all bearable, his presence a steadying rock at Neuvillette’s side. As before, he buffers the worst of any attention that comes Neuvillette’s way, taking the brunt of all conversations out of Neuvillette’s hands, and Neuvillette is ever so grateful for it. When he grows too tense, the noise in the room getting to him, Wriothesley asks if Neuvillette will come with him to grab a drink, saying someone needs to hold a candle for him so he can see. They return to a quieter room, the play finished, and the group takes to recounting stories of Christmases past, of presents given and received, of meals gone awry, of friends and family. The quieter atmosphere is one Neuvillette enjoys, especially with Wriothesley seated beside him, his arm across the back of the couch. Neuvillette imagines leaning back and Wriothesley’s hand slipping over the back of his neck, massaging, and is horribly embarrassed by the brief fantasy, but if he turns red, no one notices in the heavy shadows cast by the flickering flames in the fireplace.
He likes this, he realizes. Likes the company, the quiet camaraderie, the comfort of another person—of Wriothesley—so close to him, and he doesn’t quite know what to do about it. All his life, he’s focused on his studies and then his career; he’s rarely taken time to cultivate a personal life. Personal relationships have always fallen by the wayside, and he doesn’t know how to foster one. Especially now that he thinks he might want one.
Edric and Aelfwyn are the first to beg off for the evening, followed soon after by Alain and Celeste. Callas yawns and excuses him thirty minutes after that, and Navia and Clorinde not five minutes later, leaving Neuvillette and Wriothesley with a yawning Sigewinne. She finishes the cup of mulled wine in her hands and, stretching, bids them goodnight, telling them to leave their own glasses on the table, that she’ll get to them when she wakes up in the morning. At last, Neuvillette and Wriothesley are alone, and Neuvillette doesn’t know what to do with this, either.
“Did you notice?” Wriothesley asks.
Frowning, Neuvillette cants his head to the side. “Notice what?”
Wriothesley gestures toward the stairwell, visible from the living room. “Someone put mistletoe above the stairs.”
Neuvillette makes a soft sound of surprise, and then a strangled little noise at the back of his throat. “Well,” he says. “Well, I wouldn’t—that is, we don’t—no one’s here, and so—” He breaks off, awkward, silent, unsure what to say. On the opposite side of the couch, Wriothesley’s studying him, his expression one of mild but unobtrusive interest. “No one would hold us to it,” he says at last.
“No,” Wriothesley agrees, drawing out the word. “But also. No one’s here.”
Quite suddenly, Neuvillette’s heart is pounding and his palms are sweaty and he’s not entirely sure why either is happening—nor is he entirely sure what Wriothesley is offering. “I—” He swallows. “That is…”
Wriothesley’s expression falters. “Hey, if I’ve misread the situation, that’s okay.”
“Misread?” Neuvillette asks, just before everything comes together. “Oh. Oh, you mean you—the mistletoe—you—” He presses a hand to his face and groans. “I have said before that people find me difficult to talk to,” he says.
Low laughter fills the air. “Right now, maybe a little, but you’re flustered, and we’re both being cagey. So, let me be direct with you, monsieur.” Wriothesley wraps gentle fingers around Neuvillette’s wrist and draws his hand from his face. “I’d like to walk up those stairs with you, pretend to notice that mistletoe for the first time, and kiss you.”
Neuvillette stares at Wriothesley, breath catching. His heart does something both exhilarating and uncomfortable in his chest, his stomach twists, and he finds his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth. No one’s wanted to kiss him for years—or, rather, no one has so directly expressed their interest in kissing him—and so he hasn’t kissed anyone since college. But here’s the most handsome man he’s ever met offering him at least one kiss beneath the mistletoe. They barely know each other. Neuvillette isn’t in the habit of being rashly intimate with anyone, never mind strangers, but he finds he doesn’t care. He’d be a fool to turn Wriothesley down.
“Then perhaps we should head up,” Neuvillette says.
An easy smile pulls across Wriothesley’s mouth. “Perhaps we should.” He rises and offers Neuvillette his hand. Neuvillette takes it, allowing Wriothesley to pull him up, to pull him into Wriothesley’s own body. One of his hands alights on Wriothesley’s chest, and they stand there for a moment, gazing at each other, until Neuvillette’s embarrassment gets the better of him and he looks away with an awkward clearing of his throat.
Wriothesley squeezes his hand, light and fleeting, and releases him only to adjust the grate on the fireplace to keep flames and embers in as the fire burns down. Then he’s taking Neuvillette’s hand again, and Neuvillette’s heart is pounding and his thoughts are racing and they’re walking toward the stairs and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Doesn’t know if he should say something to cut the growing tension—doesn’t even know if the tension is a good thing or not—doesn’t know if he should apologize and call all this off, but he’s nothing if not honest, and he wants this. Wants a Christmas kiss.
They reach the stairs, and Wriothesley urges him onto the second step. That puts Neuvillette slightly above Wriothesley, who tips back his head and grins. “Monsieur,” he says.
“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette replies, breathless already.
Wriothesley slides his free hand over Neuvillette’s cheek, steps forward, and brushes their lips together. It’s a gentle meeting, a fleeting caress of soft skin against soft skin. Wriothesley’s palm is rough, calloused, but not unpleasantly so, and his mouth is warm against Neuvillette’s.
Neuvillette’s chest tightens. His stomach twists. But now these sensations are strangely pleasant, a burgeoning anticipation as his eyes flutter shut and he sinks closer to Wriothesley’s body. Heat suffuses him, a tingling warmth that spreads from his lips to the tips of his fingers and down into his toes, which curl over the edge of the stairs. The weight of Wriothesley’s free hand settles on Neuvillette’s hip, urging him closer still. Against his cheek, Wriothesley applies a gentle pressure, canting Neuvillette’s head to the side, and then he’s taking Neuvillette’s mouth in a kiss that is sultry and indulgent, decadent and inviting. A soft sound catches in Neuvillette’s throat, one Wriothesley answers with a quiet groan. His fingers clench on Neuvillette’s hip, and Neuvillette, quite suddenly, wants to know what Wriothesley’s hands feel like tight around his waist as they move together, skin on skin.
Intense sexual desire is a foreign thing to him, and he lurches back, gasping, his hands curling around Wriothesley’s shoulders because while he needs a minute, he doesn’t want to go far.
“Bad?” Wriothesley asks, opening those beautiful blue eyes and looking up at him with so much concern and hesitation.
“No,” Neuvillette breathes. “No, quite the opposite, and I… I am not…” He licks his lips. “Casual intimacy has never come easily to me, and I don’t want to…” He struggles for words.
Wriothesley’s lopsided grin returns. “We don’t have to do anything else, you know. I’m not one for rolling into bed with people on the first date, either.” His thumb brushes along Neuvillette’s cheekbone, pulling sparking tingles like effervescence across Neuvillette’s skin. Rather than undermining Wriothesley’s words, the gesture reassures Neuvillette. Soothes him.
“Can we simply sit and talk?” Neuvillette asks.
Wriothesley’s grin grows wider. “I’d like that,” he says.
By the following afternoon, the snow is clear enough for everyone to escape the B&B. Neuvillette is the first packed and out the door, desperate to escape to his more comfortable, more solitary home. He bids farewell to Callas, his family, Sigewinne, and the others, including Wriothesley—though their parting is more private and involves a goodbye kiss in Neuvillette’s room.
Wriothesley carries Neuvillette’s suitcase for him as they pick their way through the shoveled snow to Neuvillette’s car. “I know you’re itching to escape,” Wriothesley says as he loads Neuvillette’s suitcase into the truck, “and that you don’t need any oversight from me, but drive carefully, alright? The roads will still be slick.”
“I will,” Neuvillette promises from beside the car as it warms up.
They regard each other for a long, awkward moment, and Neuvillette isn’t sure if he should offer his hand one final time or perhaps embrace Wriothesley, but he is a creature of habit and ultimately maintains his distance.
“You have my number,” Wriothesley says.
“I do.”
“Good.” Wriothesley nods, almost absently, tucking his hands into his pants pockets. He isn’t wearing a jacket. They shouldn’t linger, but Neuvillette doesn’t entirely want to go. “Remember. I still owe you that drink.”
Neuvillette inclines his head. “So you do,” he agrees. “Thank you, Wriothesley, for making this experience far more pleasant than it otherwise would have been. I will be in touch.”
“I look forward to it. See you, Neuvillette.”
“Goodbye, Wriothesley.” Neuvillette ducks into his car as Wriothesley jogs back to the front steps. There, Wriothesley lingers in the doorway, waving, and Neuvillette waves back just once before wrapping his hands around the steering wheel, maneuvering carefully out of the slushy driveway, and turning his car onto the road toward the highway.
Three weeks later, Neuvillette locks his laptop in his desk and rises from his chair at exactly five o’clock. He shrugs into his coat, wraps a scarf around his neck, and steps out of his corner office. From her own desk, Sedene looks up, clearly startled by his presence.
“Monsieur,” she says.
“It’s five,” he says gently. “Go home, Sedene.”
She stares at him. He is a creature of habit, and his habit is to work long, long hours. Her habit is, in turn, to work many of those hours as well. She is fairly compensated for her loyalties, yes, but there is more to life than work. “You never leave early,” she finally replies.
His lips quirk. “A… friend? Yes. A friend owes me a drink, and we have decided I will collect this evening.”
For a moment, her eyes go wide. Then her expression is politely neutral, a mask for the excitement he noticed flash across her face. “I hope you enjoy yourself, monsieur.”
“I plan to. See you tomorrow, Sedene.” He makes his way to the elevators, takes one down to the highly polished lobby, and steps onto a street bustling with evening commuters.
A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair peels away from the nearby wall, approaching with a grin on his face. “Hey, Neuvillette,” Wriothesley says.