There's always a sort of mysterious feeling that settles with the snow. Not in the sense of chills that tingle deep in the bones, no. It's more how the familiar somehow becomes unfamiliar, how memory laden paths can easily lose their softness to overwhelming white. On such cold-caked paths of newness, there something stirs. It's something ethereal, something otherworldly, something...magical. But in due time.
Of course, Arthur had always found snow to be something of a hinderance. Snow. Ice. Heck, even just the beginning of fall was tedious. The herbs he had easily stocked during the spring were always, always, killed by frost. No, there was nothing Arthur liked about the winter. Unfortunately his cottage had been built from the draftiest parts of a hollowed oak tree. He didn't like how frigid fingers of cold would creep under the heavy door of his home. He didn't like the silence that came with the receded animals; only death should ever be this quiet. He didn't like that his...lover, would try to change his negative predisposition on the matter. Though it wasn't the first (and definitely wouldn't be the last) time Alfred F. Jones tried to 'domesticize' him. At least that's what Arthur liked to call it. Though he supposed Alfred just couldn't help it. There was a certain wildness to Arthur, a foreignness that intrigued almost as much as it frightened. But it wasn't the wildness most were familiar with. It wasn't like a hawk, with its terror dipped talons and see-all gaze. It wasn't like a horse, with equally endless spirit and fury. What lay in Arthur was an eye grabbing newness. Newness that could break and burn and beat. Of course that made it all the more valuable to have. Time and time again, Alfred would come to him asking for more wildness and more danger. He'd ask Arthur to come with him, saying that Arthur could belong. While his love certainly did belong among the humans, Arthur was what many would call an abomination. In less extreme terms, he had always been an outcast. Maybe even a hermit. Besides, there was nothing he could do to hide what stirred beneath his surface, and he felt no need to change a past that he cared little about.
Ever since his birth, the villagers knew something was off. Little Arthur Kirkland, with eyes green like a snake, but sharp like a raven. Little Arthur Kirkland, face rounded like a doll's, but skin pallid like a corpse. Little Arthur Kirkland, with the body of a human, but the blood of a witch. Of course, precautious people have a certain knack for labeling and preparing for these sort of things. Before he could even talk, the villagers had stockpiled weapons against him, a toddler no less! They told their children, their children's children, and any town willing to listen. And then they waited for dear, sweet little Arthur to make a mistake.
Arthur, naive as he was, thought that a war was coming to his home. He knew from what he recalled of his mother- before she was sent off to sea by the village -that there was something otherworldly about him. Luckily enough, she had left him journals and notes on how to control whatever power he had. Ignoring his father's warnings, wanting to prove that he could be of use despite his strangeness, Arthur dabbled in spells.
He liked how healing spells felt like a swim in warm honey, but hated the way the air seemed to stick to everything afterwards. Hexing was fun, but the after effect always smelled of burning skunk cabbage (a ghastly smell). White magic felt like layers of mint on his skin, an unwelcomed burn. And then he tried black magic. Now that was something else. It sizzled and whispered to the stale air. Whenever Arthur called, it would leap from him like a stallion, tearing into the skin of silence, making it bleed the aura and power magic usually held. Power, power, power.
Of course, there were days when black magic would turn on him like the wild beast it was. Sometimes Arthur's fingers would burn from taming it. He could even remember when his little pink nail-beds darkened from soot and magical essence. At one point, Arthur strained himself so much that his veins were blackened from yanking out the magic time and time again. But he liked it. So he never stopped.
It was foolish of him to think they'd understand his intentions. Arthur had only wanted to show that he could defend the village now, that they never needed to fear anything ever again. All it took was a small explosion of dark flames from his magic to alarm the humans. And that was how he discovered it was never a forest they were preparing to fight. It had always been him. When those he had thought were friends, family almost, surrounded him with pitchforks and fire, Arthur panicked and whispered for the only thing he could trust. He would soon regret not thinking of a precise spell that day; all Arthur had wanted at the time was to fly far away. The magic answered and whisked him away in a flurry of feathers to the empty center of a forest.
Arthur remembered how cold it had been there in the morning snow. He remembered how he sat there for hours, unable to believe what had happened. He remembered how he couldn't stop shaking in his thin nightshirt (he hadn't had the time to change). It was not until Arthur glanced at a some ice that he noticed something different about himself. Multiple wheat-colored feathers were firmly imbedded into his neck, contrasting to the rapidly darkening soft blue of his frostbitten skin. Arthur stilled when he didn't find any wings attached to his back, but only a little. He tried for hours to rip them out: the frill around his neck, the few feathers around the back of his head, and the small feathers ones that clung to his shoulders. But when one was gone another just took its place. He felt so helpless, so alone. When Arthur calmed down enough after his panic, he cried, knowing the truth about his mother's 'holiday' to the sea and knowing what would happen to his father. He never cried again.
What had he been thinking about before his nostalgia trip? Yes, yes the snow. The snow was cruel. Arthur hated the snow. Half his clothes were light shirts and the rest were cloaks! Not to mention his hands. Cold weather always made his hands act up. They were tender from years of abuse from his magic, but at least it was manageable in spring. He actually needed gloves in winter. Gloves! The disgrace! That reminded him, he should put on gloves.
Arthur scolded himself out loud for a few minutes on how he wasted so much time on useless memories. He pushed himself out of his bed-though it was more a nest of quilts on a hammock- to the cold wood floor. Pausing first to fluff the spot where feathers and hair melted together, he set off to look for gloves to stop the aching in his fingers. He checked by the round window, the only window, swearing that he had set it there before. It wasn't there.
Maybe by the? No. If only his cottage wasn't so cluttered. It was small, having only a cooking/brewing area, a table to eat at, and a bed that was somewhat tucked into the wall, but he had so much stuff! There were the hanging and hidden jars holding his wilting herbs; Arthur always tripped over those. Miscellaneous pots and cauldrons filled the dining area, a few upturned ones even served as his stools. The kitchen? To put it lightly, it still needed some love after his botched attempt at cooking with magic. But most of all, sparkly, dangly, glittering knick knacks were strewn everywhere. Some hung from the ceiling because they caught the sun just right and worked as a natural morning alarm. A few seemingly endless bracelets tumbled from the small table (with the cauldron chairs) onto the floor. Arthur just honestly liked shiny things, developing a bad habit of finding and pocketing them. He never wore any of it really, he just liked how they looked. Perhaps that too was from the spell. Speaking of pretty things…
"Alfred, I'm not ready to head out yet," Arthur called. Not that Alfred would wait outside anyway. He bustled inside, stomping off the white from his shoes and leaving them with his heavy winter coat by the door. Then he bolted to the kitchen.
"Artie it's so cold! Did you go out yet? No, wait, don't do that. It's really really cold," Alfred stammered as he practically collapsed by the fire-lit stove, thankful for its warmth.
Arthur smiled at the exaggerated antics. Feigning a hurt voice he said, "How rude, I haven't seen you in weeks love, and the first thing you embrace is my stove." Silence. Draping an arm across his eyes, Arthur moaned, "What a life, for my first and only lover to choose kitchenware over me! What a cruel fate! Woe is me! The end is neigh!" He would have continued if Alfred hadn't run over to press half frozen kisses onto his face.
"You know" -kiss- "I love" -kiss- "you" -kiss- "but" -kiss, kiss- "I'm freezing!" Arthur indulged him, pretending to still be deeply wounded by his preference of cast iron as opposed to warm flesh. He wasn't able to enjoy the moment for long. As quickly as he ran over, Alfred skittered back to, and almost fell face first on top of, the radiating stove. Apparently hints were lost on the clueless. Arthur sighed, already feeling the kisses evaporate from his skin. He made a show of walking and diving under the covers of his bed, feeling his feathers puff up from irritation. Under the blankets, a cold sensation startled him, making the feathers near his neck ruffle excitedly. Arthur was more than disappointed to find the cause to be his missing gloves and not an oven-detached Alfred. Honestly, fuck the snow.
Alfred must have noticed his boyfriend's pouting, eventually padding over to and snuggling with Arthur in the hammock. Starved for attention, Arthur melted into the embrace, happy for the added heat. Alfred pressed his face into some of Arthur's soft shoulder fluff and inhaled deeply. It smelled of pine, cinnamon, and a dash of magic. Alfred buried his face deeper until he almost sneezed. Luckily he'd been through enough snuggle sessions to know when to stop. To Arthur's embarrassment, the feathers that coated his neck puffed up in response. He forced them to lay flat, pushing them down with his hand, but after a few seconds of Alfred's nuzzling, they just flew back up. Arthur sighed and let the troublesome feathers be.
For a while the only sound was the soft crinkling of burning wood from the stove and twinkling from a few disturbed trinkets. Arthur had to admit, he enjoyed moments like this. Him and Alfred just sitting together, pretending like a world didn't exist outside their arms. Well, not a world Arthur wanted to take part in anyway. Sadly it didn't last. Alfred was starting to get fidgety. He would be playing with the blankets for one moment then switch to gently petting Arthur's feathers the next.
"Alfred," Arthur began, "You seem anxious. Is there something you wanted to do?" Alfred practically glowed with excitement.
"Actually, yea Art. I was wondering if you, ya know, wanted to do anything festive? Maybe build a snowman or somethin?"
"You mean you want to go outside?" Arthur asked. He stared at Alfred, his brows furrowed in confusion.
Alfred faltered under Arthur's stare. "Uh yea…" he mumbled.
"I thought you said it was too cold."
An urgency seemed to spark from Alfred. "But who doesn't go outside when it's Christmas! I know you don't really celebrate it, but you've been cooped"-Arthur's feathers ruffled irritably- "er, holed up in here like all forever! Don't you wanna do go outside a little?"
Arthur huffed. "No, no I would rather not." Crossing his arms, Arthur hoped he made it clear that he wouldn't be moving an inch for the rest of the evening. In his pouting fit, Arthur felt a lack of warmth, a lack of Alfred. From of the corner of his eye he could see just how dejected Alfred looked. His lip was even quivering the way children did when they were upset. Arthur was a sucker for those. Alfred did walk all the way there to just to see him. "Fine," Arthur relented, the guilt getting to him. "But only one snowman."
Alfred immediately beamed at him and scrambled to get out of bed, almost throwing them both to the floor. He apologised with a quick kiss to Arthur's cheek and rushed to throw on his coat and boots. Arthur opted for a green cloak that had been laying in a pile on the floor. He really needed to tidy up.
"Are you sure you'll be warm enough in that Artie?" Alfred asked, worried that his boyfriend would turn into an icicle.
Arthur looked down at his clothes: the usual thin shirt, loose pants, plain boots, and the cloak he picked out. "Besides my gloves," -he paused to grab them from the blankets- "I think I'll be just fine Alfred."
Alfred shrugged. "If you say so."
Arthur hesitated for a moment when it came time to nudge open the door. He was about to be assaulted with icy winds he had avoided so well. He heard Alfred ask a question, probably about his choice in clothing, and assured him he was fine. Slowly, slow enough for the hinges to squeal, Arthur let in the cold. He could feel as warmth drained from his skin and fell under the floorboards. His feathers pressed down and against his neck, trying to save what little warmth hadn't dripped away. The wind felt like an icy whip that danced and lacerated anything that lived. It didn't seem to bother Alfred though.
Alfred seemed to have bloomed at the sight of snow, the first burst of cold giving his eyes a glorious shine. As Alfred sprinted past him to a clearing a few feet away, Arthur stood and watched from the doorway. He couldn't help but think that Alfred was made for this weather. Those blue, blue eyes were beautifully preserved slices of winter, intense like the frozen waters but as soft as freshly fallen snow. Yet they always held the warmth of a soft spring day. In a way, it was magical.
"Artie!" Alfred hollered before flopping backwards on the snow. "Come make a snow angel with me!"
Arthur suppressed a chuckle-well, more like covered his mouth with his hand-as he watched Alfred flap his arms and legs. "You're going to get colder like that Alfred," he scolded, but not without a smile.
"But it's fuuun," Alfred laughed. "C'mon, don't be so stuffy."
"Stuffy?" he asked, in an amused voice. Arthur's eyes glinted with mischief. He ran out from his spot, not caring about the cold for once shouting, "I'll show you stuffy!" With just a little bit of magic and an abrupt hand gesture, all the snow from the branches above Alfred fell on his face. The action surprised him, but the competitive glimmer on his face told Arthur he hadn't been hurt. With a face that was flushed from cold and joy, Alfred took a scoop of snow from the ground.
"It's on bird boy!" he shouted, hurling a snowball at Arthur. It hit him directly in the face. Alfred whooped in victory, which was short lived. All it took was a wave of Arthur's hand for several dozen perfect snowballs to float in the air around them.
With a slight smirk he said, "You have two options. You can either surrender or face my magic." He let the dangling snowballs slowly inch forward. It would have been more threatening if they weren't, well, snowballs. "What'll it be love?" Arthur asked a honey dappled voice. Alfred seemed to be assessing his options: get pelted or give up the snowball fight of a lifetime. Just as it looked like he was about to submit, Alfred grabbed the closest hanging snowball and threw it at Arthur. Hitting him square in the chest, it caught him off guard and gave Alfred the perfect chance to run away. "I choose freedom!" he yelled between bits of laughter. The look of astonishment on Arthur's face was just too hilarious to not laugh at.
Arthur pursued, letting the snowballs crumble back onto the ground. His cloak created a bit of drag, but not enough to interfere. He caught up to Alfred with ease (probably because of his lighter clothing) and tackled him to the ground. Arthur laid his face on Alfred's chest, hearing his heart flutter with each breath. "Do you surrender now?" he asked between pants. Geez, he really needed to get out more.
Alfred rolled his eyes. "You win this round Art. But you won't be so lucky next time."
"Oh?" he chuckled, looking up a tad from his spot on Alfred.
"I've been told I'm a master strategist."
"By who, your mother?"
Alfred pouted and shoved some snow down Arthur's shirt. Arthur made an ungodly screech and squirmed off Alfred to get the ice out.
"Foul play!" Arthur yelled, hopping up and down from the sudden cold. He realised his mistake too late. Alfred exploded into fits of laughter, half from the sound Arthur made and half from Arthur's wording.
"Get it? 'Cause you have…" Alfred tried to quiet the remaining giggles. Arthur glared, almost daring him to finish the sentence. "Nevermind," Alfred said with an annoyingly sweet grin. "Anyways, we have snowmen to build." Gathering himself and patting off the dustings of white, Alfred starting packing snow.
"Here, let me," Arthur offered. Before Alfred could object, an invisible force swirled the snow until two perfect snowmen stood side by side. Arthur allowed himself a small smile as he stepped back to admire his work. Alfred seemed a little upset for not taking part in creating the snowmen, but he looked more relieved to not have to deal with the tedious procedure. Making himself useful, Alfred gathered some sticks and a few stones to decorate the snowmen with. He shuffled back to Arthur to appreciate the bare snowmen while carrying a small mound of materials. Inspiration seemed to strike as Alfred quickly broke a few twigs and arranged them on a snowman's face.
"Look Arthur! He has your eyebrows!" It did indeed, the three rows of twigs mimicking the brows on Arthur's face.
"Very funny Alfred," Arthur replied. He had to admit though, it was pretty ingenious. Not that he'd ever tell Alfred that.
Together they added a few more details, such as stones for eyes, mouths, and noses. When it came time to add the finishing touch, Alfred insisted that they arranged the stick arms to look like the snowmen were holding hands.
"They'd be sad!" was Alfred's justification.
"You're sad," was Arthur's retort as he helped Alfred.
"I'm never sad when I'm around you Artie."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Let's get back inside, the cold is making you sappier than you already are." As Arthur turned to head back, he felt a slight tug from his cloak. Alfred was gripping one of the edges gently, his face looking urgent.
"You know I love you right?" Alfred asked. Arthur felt warmth trickling back up to his face while a few of his feathers fluffed up. He swore that no matter how many times he heard those words, they always made him feel so, so warm. Arthur felt the magic in him sizzle and spark just under the surface, reminding him what separated him from the humans. It was peculiar that Alfred never felt threatened. In fact, their entire relationship seemed to casually gloss over how Arthur was a potential danger. But no matter how many times Arthur used his magic, no matter how strange he was, Alfred only seemed to love him all the more.
"Y-yes. Of course I know that. I love you too Alfred."
Hand in hand, they walked back to Arthur's cottage to snuggle in the hammock again. As Alfred cooed over how pretty Arthur's feathers looked against the snow and whispered to him promises of the future, he couldn't help but like the cold for the first time in a long while. Perhaps he had found a place to belong after all.