I loved writing this. I rarely ever write fluff, but I figured that with the holidays being here, there was no better time to write some. Happy Holidays, everyone!

I own nothing. Lyrics are "Winter Song" by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson.

prompt: 41. and it is beautiful

soundtrack: for the shimmer of highways – the echelon effect

.all is bright

/

i'll be your harvester of light

and send it out tonight

so we can start again

/

Gilbert is sitting before the fireplace, crumpled up like something skinny and pretty in a big white blanket, when Oz happens to find him. Bleary-eyed and sleepy, Gilbert's outline is, for a moment, little more than a lit-up blur of lines and shapes that don't quite fit together, instead blending into each other and reminding Oz of some mad watercolor painting, all orange and amber and gold from the flickering flames of the hearth. But once Oz's vision clears with a firm rub of his eyes, he can see with relieving clarity that Gilbert is in fact Gilbert, and that he's dipped in a warm well of sleep as he burrows deep down into the blanket cocooning him from the bitter chill of the den.

It's endearing, to say the least. Like this, Gilbert almost looks like a kid again, just overstretched and lanky instead of quaint and bony like he'd been years ago. At this thought, Oz smiles to himself and pads on into the room, his footfalls muted and soft what with his socks slipping along the hard floorboards. Gilbert lifts his head, blinking and looking around for a moment before catching sight of Oz and sitting up a bit straighter. His hair is messy and clinging to his cheek from having rested it on the couch cushion behind him, and Oz chuckles beneath his breath at how Gilbert opens his mouth to speak, only to splutter when he realizes a lock of hair is stuck to his mouth, brushing it away with his hand. The movement of his arm is heavy and slow; he's just as sleepy as Oz, by the looks of it.

"Hey," Gilbert says after a moment, his voice soft and hoarse from disuse.

Oz watches the shadow of a flame flit over Gilbert's face. His smile doesn't falter. "Hey."

Gilbert clears his throat and thumps at his chest with his fist, turning his head to cough quietly. "Sorry," he murmurs, "it's so drafty in here."

"Why are you sitting on the floor where it's cold?" Oz shuffles closer to him and extends a hand. "It's much warmer in your room. Let's go there instead."

Gilbert seems grateful for Oz's helping hand, what with how his eyes shine for a soft moment of what reminds Oz of someone "seeing the light", or however that figure of speech works. Gilbert holds the blanket around his shoulders with one hand and accepts Oz's with the other as he makes his wobbly ascent to his feet. Once he's straightened completely, it strikes Oz with a little bite of a reminder at just how much taller Gilbert is than him, how much larger and warmer his hand is within his own. It's lovely and alarming and baffling all at the same time, even in just that brief moment when Gilbert sighs out a little laugh and murmurs something about needing thicker socks, his feet are cold, and are your feet cold, Oz? Always so concerned; always so mindful. Oz regards his question with a shake of his head as he prods at Gilbert's arm to coax him to open up the blanket, to which Gilbert immediately allays and welcomes him into the shroud of wool, already warm from his body heat. It makes for quite the awkward journey out of the den and down the hall, and they nearly trip over each other's feet at least three times. Gilbert slips on the edge of the blanket dragging on the floor and stumbles into the wall, and Oz laughs when the man's cheeks flush rose-pink, his arm linking around Gilbert's waist to keep them both from tumbling to the floor.

Thankfully, the door to the bedroom is ajar, so Gilbert nudges it open with his foot with leads them inside. In the darkness, the shadows bend and flit about the walls like indigo dancers, the snowy twilight breathing through the glass of the windows and touching everything with a pale silver-white. All is silent and soft, the moment suspended in a surreal sort of grip that makes Oz's breath catch, thrown by the solitude of the night and yet the closeness of Gilbert huddled under the blanket with him as they stand in the doorway side-to-side, shoulder-to-arm. Oz can feel Gilbert's eyes on him – gentle, thoughtful, unassuming and yet strangely bare as they're stripped of the sadness that has weighed down the man's gaze for far too long.

Something in the air speaks of change. There's a sense of rebirth blooming all around them, tangible enough to reach out and touch. It makes Oz shiver and lean against Gilbert's side with a small, bewildered laugh puffed out into the soft cotton of the other's shirt. "Sleepy," he mumbles for no reason at all, in spite of his fatigue having suddenly been knocked out of him and replaced with a languid sort of warmth, something trembling and untouched but unafraid.

For once, this feeling is unafraid. It's incredible.

"Here," Gilbert murmurs on a decisive exhale as he turns to face Oz and gathers him into his arms. Oz immediately hikes his legs up around the man's waist and drapes his arms around his neck, far too content with being picked up and carried to the bed to even consider putting up a teasing word of protest. He lets his cheek rest on Gilbert's shoulder, where he can smell the afterglow of tobacco, tired linens covering warm skin, and the sweet whiff of coffee with sugar and cream. Before today, Oz had only ever seen Gilbert take the stuff black and bitter, never indulging himself with richer things that wouldn't make him cringe sourly upon the first sip. There's something quite charming about that one-time indulgence, something rather lovely, although Oz doesn't think he has the right word for it just yet. He'll learn soon enough, though. He has faith in that.

Ever entangled in their blanket womb, they fall onto the bed with an unceremonious floof upon the mattress, Oz tucked underneath the lean wall of Gilbert's body and enveloped in heat. He clings to him like a dewdrop to a petal as he sighs into Gilbert's neck, eyes fluttering shut, and murmurs, "It's nice like this. Everything, I mean."

And Oz has absolutely no actual idea of what that means, but Gilbert seems to understand well enough. His breath is hot against Oz's collarbone as he nuzzles his forehead into the boy's neck like something young and wanting, the gesture honest enough to make Oz's stomach flip for whatever reason. "Everything," Gilbert mirrors on a breathy whisper. His shoulders rise on a long inhale before settling again on the releasing exhale. "That's a good word for it…"

Oz's smile is a pale little lift against Gilbert's ear. He smells even more rich up close like this, deep and dark but with that soft lilt that reminds Oz of just how little Gilbert truly has changed. The differences are there, of course, mapped out in the blueprint of the man's bones and muscles and the stark, sweeping angles of him, but Oz doubts Gilbert will ever stray from that softness, that sweet shadow of boyhood that will forever cradle him in its dark hands. There's something stunning about that, Oz thinks, and his hesitation is a second shorter than it once was when he snuggles closer and curls his fingers into the inky fall of Gilbert's hair. He feels Gilbert shiver when his fingertips graze along his ears, the pad of his thumb stroking over the cool gold bridging the curve of cartilage. Gilbert in turn lets his hands shakily fall on the dip of Oz's waist, tremulous but firm all at once. Only Gilbert could pull off a contradiction like that. Oz welcomes it, with half a second's less hesitation this time, and breathes in, breathes out.

To touch, to feel like this – it's all quite grand and curious, strange in its own way, but Oz allows it to feel strange, accepting the crooked beauty of everything they are in this moment. After all, they're quite the odd entanglement, a vision of limbs that don't align and a timeline stretching ten years between them; but they breathe together, every inhale and exhale coordinating with the other, and that makes up for every chink thrown into the loop that had once threatened to unravel them.

Oz's palms fan out over Gilbert's shoulder blades, feeling him lean and strong above him, all finely strung chords muscle and sinew. He's becoming sleepy again, wrapped as he is in wool and Gilbert's radiating body heat. After a beat, Gilbert lifts his head and wriggles down a bit to settle his lips under Oz's chin. "They're lighting candles in the city tonight," he whispers. "Every house will have a candle lit in the window. You can see them from out in the streets…"

Oz tilts his head to the side, closing his eyes with a smile. "Will we light some tonight?"

There's a pause. Gilbert drops his head onto Oz's chest, his cheek resting over the boy's heart. "I was thinking we could light more, actually," he says quietly. "Two in each window." He pauses again, draws a breath, and then expels it with, "One more candle for…for Elliot."

Neither seems to move for a long, long time, save for the tiny movement of Oz opening his eyes and gazing down at Gilbert. A shadow shifts and dissipates over the man's dark head, leaving silver in its wake. All is silent, and warm.

Then, with a little shiver that Gilbert calms with a squeeze of Oz's waist, Oz says, "One more for Elliot. I like that, Gil…"

"Do you?"

"I do."

Gilbert gasps out a little laugh into Oz's chest. Oz thinks he might be crying, just a tiny bit. That's okay. Gilbert sniffs quickly and lets out another breathless laugh. "I-I…yes. We'll do that, then…"

Oz's smile is a shaky one, but nevertheless genuine as he closes his eyes again and rests a hand atop Gilbert's hair. It feels soft to the touch, and Oz lets a stray curl slip between his fingers like a black silk ribbon. Gilbert squeezes him tighter and rolls over so that they're on their sides, facing each other, never breaking contact as Oz's leg slings over the other's narrow hip to better cling to him. The blanket drags with them and shields them from the shadows, from the cold, from the past.

Despite the darkness, all is bright.