Birch 05: The Only Place

The walls were thin. Splintered wood with strange faces made from knots and whorls teetered above them. The wind seeped between the planks; the wind streamed through the knotholes. All four walls were close, angling this way and that, capped with an equally rough timber and shingled roof. The severely angled line of the buckling ceiling was broken by more knots; muted pinpricks of starlight could be seen through them.

The door didn't fit into its housing. It required a firm hand, rattling the thin walls with a sound jarring whenever used, be it opening or closing. The draft from the narrow hall spilled in under the door, billowing to rest, heavy and cold, against the floor.

One dirty window scarred the outer wall, singed with candle soot and dust and whatever all had combined to create the dull grey mass that caked the outside. The wind chilled by past-midnight air snaked past the warping sash, wafting in with force enough to impel the limp curtains to a bit of movement.

The plank floor had once been solid, earth packed between the boards to make the whole a single, sound plane. The earth had long since curled up and fallen away, the boards losing plumb as they pulled tighter and tighter into long, drying cups. The uneven planks caught toes and tripped heels, snagged socks and scraped boots; slants of light poked up from below, casting shadows and throwing small pools of weak amber here and about.

There was a single bed. It was ropes and a dowdy mattress filled with days old straw, prickly and thin. The straw wasn't yet musty but it no longer smelled sweet. There was no pillow. The ropes creaked and the whole bed groaned towards its center, tugged by the weight of its occupants, no longer sturdy enough to stand straight and true in resistance of the burden.

A dark lump rested on the floor, propped against the wall opposite the bed - everything was less than an arm's length away. Their gear was an orderly pile, singular items not discernable in this half-light.

No lamp, just a candle stump melted onto a shallow lead plate. There was no stove and winter had been here for a very long time, settled in and unwilling to let go. The atmosphere inside was just as cold as out, the only saving grace the break from the wind. No washbasin. The water would have frozen and cracked the porcelain anyway. No dresser or mirror or desk or chair. Just the four cattywhumpus walls, the naked truss timbers and the sharply eaved roof precariously perched atop it all.

It was the only place they had to stay.

Vin shifted and Ezra tightened his arms. Vin's hand slid slowly along his back then dragged further down, cupping around his thigh, thumb stroking absently the curve of his ass, bringing him even closer. They were burrowed together, bedrolls and the few blankets found mouldering here swaddled around them in a suffocated cocoon.

Vin sighed and Ezra sighed in answer.

There had been a shock from the cold and a breathless scuffle to get into bed, but they had warmed themselves quickly enough.

The tiny room and the thin walls and the draft and wind and winter had fallen away.

Now they were tucked together, dried sweat and spunk a welcome, tightening bond.

Ezra was finally drifting to sleep; Vin had been out for over an hour.

A warm breath fluttered against Ezra's neck then lips pressed an instinctive kiss to his pulse. He smiled and kissed Vin back, a delicate feather over the hardness of bone that shadowed the cradle of one of his love's perfect blue eyes.

The wind had whipped harder for a sustained time, making the room cool that much more. The cold had produced a shiver from Vin and a needy shift, bringing them impossibly closer.

They were drawn up together in the single bed, arms and legs a tangle, faces bent close to share the warmed air inside their blankets. It didn't take long in the open out there for one's fingers to become bloodless and icy, noses numb in their tips.

Ezra could feel the sting of the cold at his forehead and through his hair, oppressive and waiting. He knew if he craned his neck and puffed he would see his breath and the hairs in his nose would stiffen and crackle. He gingerly eased his hand through the blankets and pushed up from inside, maneuvering the layers until they flopped over the tops of their heads once more.

Vin smiled in sleep; Ezra could feel it against his skin.

Come morning - far too early morning - Vin would wake him. Vin would complain of cold, of needing a boost of heat. Ezra would complain of the hour. Neither would complain about Vin's methodology of generating the spike of warmth being claimed was so desperately needed nor Ezra's suggestion they wait braving the bracing cold another several hours until the sun had time to at least steal a bit of chill from the room.

The thin walls protested as the cold wind raged. The door rattled when the draft tugged it. The roof creaked and a high-pitched whistling started to sound as the air pierced the cracks around the window.

Vin shivered and Ezra held him tighter, both burrowing closer and closer to the heat created between their flesh.

It was the only place they had to stay.

There was nowhere else Ezra would prefer to be.

End