The snow falls like a solemn whisper, settling onto the roof of the old ski lodge quiet and restrained. Small flakes dance in the twilight sun, and kiss the faces of travelers gently before settling in their brows. For now, there is only a light dusting on the ground, but up on the mountain, the trees look as if they had been spun white by silkworms. Only the occasional bare evergreen stands verdant against the backdrop, and even then the color seems to be a fading jade.
Inside, the innkeeper's husband throws a log into the churning fire, sending embers spiraling up into the chimney to meet the ice above. An elderly man sits by the fireplace reading a newspaper from three years ago, and a young woman scribbles something into a notebook. They have been the only guests for a week.
The husband returns to his post behind the counter, taking a sip of a now tepid tea. He sighs and twists at his wedding band, the skin underneath raw and irritated, asking himself what he had been thinking to stay in his hometown all these years.
He desperately wants to take a break, to call his spouse and have her work the counter, but she's not there. She's never there. For all intents and purposes, she is the innkeeper's wife. The lodge with the chipped paint and vermillion neon sign has never really been hers.
Outside the snow starts to fall faster, the gentle kiss now a more bruising one. A bus pulls into the lodge's driveway, two potent beams of golden light showering the dark brown facade. The vehicle groans and rumbles its way to the door, before letting out a sigh and all but collapsing at the entrance.
The doors swing open and out walks a man with a black briefcase and uneven stubble. He stumbles a bit, boots sliding on a patch of hidden ice, but he regains his footing and walks toward the entrance. The snow adorns his head like a crown of ice before melting into his golden hair, leaving it damp and flat.
His hand grasps the door handle, veins bulging slightly, and pulls it open, ushering himself inside. The elderly man takes no notice and continues to digest the economic report, somewhat considering taking outdated finance advice. The young woman continues drawing, charcoal staining her fingers as black as the walls of the fireplace.
But the innkeeper's husband catches the smell of tobacco, and smoke, and old cologne. The scent is intoxicating, like seeing the world in black and white. He raises his head, black hair dangling somewhat in his eyes. The man he was expecting to see is not the one in front of him.
"Can I help you?"
The blond man seems taken aback, as if he had been asked something taboo or personal. He drops his briefcase by his feet and runs a hand through his slick hair, beads of cold water falling to the floor.
"I'd like a room for a couple nights."
The other man quirks an eyebrow. "Just one?"
"Yes, it's just me."
"Well, alright. What size room do you want?"
"Just put me in the most expensive one you've got." The blonde man cracks a smile, teeth a stark contrast to his rose colored lips. It's the type of smile that is dizzying. Not because of how earnest or charming it is, or the thought of how those teeth would feel grazing over his neck, but because of how much it reminds the innkeeper's husband of the snow: pure white, utterly beautiful, and so entirely cold.
He sucks in a breath and nods. "Alright, can I have a name for the room? And would you like to pay now or when you check out?"
He doesn't answer and throws a chrome credit card onto the desk without a care, and the concierge just stares at it as it clatters. It's an entirely rude gesture, one that catches the attention of the other guests. They stare at the stranger, just now noticing the man with the fitted suit and perfect hair. The older man shakes his head, the woman just stares.
The innkeeper's husband picks it up and reserves the room, taking extra care to look at the name on the card. As he slides it back, the man's fingers graze his, and he feels as if he has been plunged into a frozen black lake.
"I hope you have a wonderful stay, Mr. Pendragon." He musters a smile, but it falters under the scrutiny of the man across from him. The blond's eyes are incomprehensible, some hidden emotion buried underneath the carribean blue.
"How about you call me Arthur instead?"
"Certainly, Arthur." A beat passes. "I'm Merlin."
Arthur's lips quirk upward and offers his hand. Merlin stares at it for a bit, at his wide fingers and the dusting of blonde hair that disappears under his oxford shirt. What is this man after? Why is he here? Merlin's head aches with indecision. It seemed silly to think so hard about something so insignificant, but even he knew that even the smallest things could hold great importance. A second more passes, it feels like a lifetime.
Cautiously, he outstretches his own hand, wrapping his slender fingers around Arthur's palm. His hand feels somehow both soft and calloused, and Merlin is able to think for a solid millisecond. And then Arthur's fingers tighten around his hand, and suddenly he can't, because his thumb his rubbing at the back of his hand and the contact is jarring.
Arthur's grip is tight, and Merlin's mouth goes dry. There's the heat, too. His hand is burning up and he can swear that Arthur can feel his pulse racing and oh god, what must he be thinking He knows his ears must be burning up because this is the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to him. A handshake feels like the most sensual thing he's experienced in years.
He can't bring himself to look up, but somehow he does, and Arthur seems somewhat amused. His grip seems to get just a little tighter, as if he's trying to see how much the innkeeper can take. It's a test that Merlin wasn't ever expecting to take, but he presses his fingernails into Arthur's wrist, leaving crescent moon indents. The businessman seems even more amused by that.
But then his hand is gone, and the heat is gone too. Merlin finds himself rubbing his hand nervously. Why had a handshake felt like eternity?
Arthur, the bastard, is grinning like a child on christmas, his serious demeanour from before gone for an instance. They make no attempt to speak, both simply focused on the other for a bit. Merlin stares at the man's neck, admiring that almost archetypical golden American tan and jutting jawline. Arthur is staring at the concierge's fidgeting hands, both amused and confused by the man's nervousness.
Then he tilts his head slightly and looks directly into Merlin's eyes.
"Show me to my room?"
Merlin is just about to say yes to this man, whether or not he's coming onto him. But, hell, he's definitely coming onto me. His lips part, tongue lifting to pronounce that one syllable word when he looks down to his hands and sees his wedding band.
Fuck.
"It's the last one on the right, third floor."
Arthur's face drops, and so does Merlin's heart.