Decisions, elven senses, and the laziest, mushiest morning after.
Morning skitters by, quick and startling like a snake in the grass.
The air changes taste and density, the skylight going from the rich darkness of night to the washed-out, lingering dimness of winter morning. Íþróttaálfurinn, who usually vaults lightning-quick over the threshold of consciousness, comes awake in starts and sputters, limbs heavy with a strange, unfamiliar lethargy.
More than once his eyes have come open, but just half-way, reality blurring into whispers of dreams. First, vast fields of mallow and lavender, spreading in the pink summer dawn under his eyelids, tall rows of cypresses filling his nostrils in the haze of half-sleep. He squeezes the warm bundle in his arms and drifts deeper, humming with relief.
Next, he dreams of a black cat. It naps in a sunbeam, dark fur shimmering with each slow inhale in the soft golden light that dapples the wooden windowsill. Íþróttaálfurinn extends a hand to stroke it, and the hand is not his, worn and wrinkled and achingly familiar. The stray opens its transparent grey eyes that see right through him, and it seems to smile, just a little, a hint of mockery behind its white whiskers. Grandmother, just like him, must have loved her strays.
Then, he tosses on his side, the physical weight lifted off him traded for a heavy feeling that spreads in its place. He shifts uncomfortably in that disturbing lightness, the subconscious awareness of absence, refusing to come awake and face it, not now, not yet.
The cat bolts off the windowsill and the dream darkens, the summer fields eaten by a mist as dense as smoke. He runs in circles through the dark tunnels, chasing that unfathomable sense of loss, the setting sun glistening in its black fur.
Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes feel glued shut.
When he rubs his face with his forearm, he feels the dampness on his eyelashes, like grass in the morning dew. The energy that bubbles up in him is nothing but the other kind, the jitter and restlessness pulling him awake in harsh, jerking motions. How can he be restless when barely awake, he wonders? And yet he is, and his empty hands curl helpless with a memory of hold―but the bad dream was real, and he is gone―
"Sheesh, a moment, you impatient―hey!" a voice says gruffly, and Íþróttaálfurinn shoots up with a startle when a shock of scalding ceramic touches his raised hand.
He looks up, confused, and meets grey eyes, ruffled hair, and raised eyebrows.
"Glanni," he croaks, after a long processing pause, voice hoarse from that strange and stuttering sleep. His feet are cold, he realizes: at some point he must have flung the covers away.
"Hey," his nemesis greets, eyeing him cautiously.
What an incongruous sight, Glanni Glæpur in the morning. Real and present in the dimness of day. Íþróttaálfurinn stares up at him, mute and awed and slowly blinking awake, for a long, long moment. Deep in his marrow, the jitteriness ebbs away like a tide receding.
"Make up your damn mind, elf, you want this or not?"
Finally, he notices the mug being handed to him―and for a moment he's certain Glanni's figure is backlit by the orange glow of a streetlamp instead of the pale grey of the skylight. He takes the mug, mechanically.
"… huh?" he only manages.
"She says you drink this," Glanni says, brows furrowed. "But don't ask me what the hell is in there, it smells like wet grass and I want nothing to do with it."
It sounds like an explanation, but for the life of him Íþróttaálfurinn cannot process how. He glances down at the steaming cup of plain herbal tea.
"Who says…?"
"Gran. Siggi's gran. Has insomnia, is surprisingly blasé about harbouring criminals, almost poisoned you that one time and told me three times about it… ring any bells?"
"Uh," is, again, all he can articulate. "You went downstairs… to get me tea?"
Glanni's nose scrunches up between disgust and derision. "Psh, no. I wanted coffee, obviously. For myself." He hastily lifts the mug in his other hand, spilling a few drops down the side of it. Very casually, he licks them away. "I asked you if you wanted anything and you grunted, so here you are. Also, she had asked me if I could look at her oven and kettle yesterday, so I did."
Íþróttaálfurinn just blinks, letting the ceramic warm up his empty palms. He stares into the greenish liquid, clouded thoughts escaping him like the bits of leaf scattered in the infusion. He looks back up, quite unable to stop looking at him, marvelling at his presence, not after waking up already mourning his absence. Then, a worrying thought starts to take vague form.
He asks, "How… how long have you been up?"
Glanni shifts, taking a deliberately long sip. "A while."
"But did you sleep at all?"
Another long, evasive sip. "Sorta."
"Glanni."
"I'm a light sleeper, alright? I'll take what I can get. Be grateful I left you to your weird dreams."
Oh. Íþróttaálfurinn bites his lip, bowing his head in apology. "I see. I kept you awake."
Glanni regards him with an inscrutable look, head tilted to the side. "Why, does it matter?"
Íþróttaálfurinn can't think of anything to say. Under his darting eyes, the man grows hesitant, smile dimming, hand holding his mug lowering, like he's debating something with himself. He's trying to work out what the problem is, the elf grasps.
"Well," Glanni starts after proper rumination. "What is it, it's not like we were supposed to wake up together and all that, right?"
Íþróttaálfurinn hesitates. It's too early in the morning, and his sleep cycle is too far gone for his face not to betray him.
"Of… course not," he pushes out, and his nemesis' eyebrows rise so high they brush his short fringe.
The awkward pause that follows, the elf fills with picking up the blankets one-handed. Glanni clears his throat.
"Hey, uh, know what?" he starts, plucking the untouched mug from his hand before he can spill it, and setting it down next to the couch along with his own. Very quietly, meeting his eye only with a darting glance, he says, "I was… it's still early and I was kinda hoping to get back into bed for a spell, actually, yeah."
A shock runs through Íþróttaálfurinn's body. "Of course!" He makes to spring up. "Let me―I'll give you back your couch, and―"
"No―! Stay, I meant―oh fuck it," Glanni stammers, giving up on verbal communication and unceremoniously dropping seated on the elf's stomach. "There, stay where you are."
"W―but you said…" Íþróttaálfurinn starts, frozen in confusion. "… oh."
"Yeah," Glanni says, both palms on his face. "You won't even let me try to be smooth, will you."
"I didn't want to assume―"
"Shut it."
The elf shuts it. This position really isn't much of a strain, anyway. He only has to shift slightly so that Glanni's sit bones don't stab him through the gut, then it's fine, almost comfortable. The flexing of his abs is enough to make the other bounce, tearing from him a weird nasal guffaw.
Glanni clears his throat. "You… really wanted us to wake up together."
A brief fantasy of gentle hands and sleep-dazed grey smothers the instinctive no I didn't that crowds behind Íþróttaálfurinn's teeth.
Shifting slowly, folding himself inch by inch, Glanni lies down on his side. His head comes to rest beside the elf's at an angle that masterfully prevents eye contact. His legs dangle off the couch. Íþróttaálfurinn, almost incredulous, gently nudges his shoulder off his windpipe.
"You're here," he says, and it doesn't matter if it makes little sense.
"I am," Glanni replies, matter-of-fact, as though he himself were surprised.
"But I've asked so much of you already." He swallows emptily in the pause that follows.
"It's not like that."
"How is it, then?"
"It would just―be new, you know? Too new." He lifts on one elbow to pull the covers over them. Settling back down, he wiggles a bit, pressing into Íþróttaálfurinn's chest like it's an uncomfortable new mattress. "I've never… I don't think I've ever woken up with someone―you know, without first…"
"No, me either."
"A first for everything, I guess," Glanni says with a nervous chuckle. Then, he sighs. "Íþró, I'll never remember how to do all these things. It's never gonna come natural. You'll have to remind me every damn time."
"It's fine. Doesn't have to be a chore," Íþróttaálfurinn whispers back. He lifts an arm, hovering light. "May I?"
His answer comes in a quick nod, almost furtive. Carefully, he wraps the arm around Glanni's waist, settling easy, squeezing light. The man lets out a breath, shallow and a little shaky.
"You sure you don't want the couch to yourself?"
"What for?"
"To try and sleep some more."
Glanni shrugs. Time ticks by, slow, too comfortable to disturb.
"Told you, doesn't really work. Like this, at least I can rest." His hand brushes slow over the elf's chest. "I can just… listen, and it's sort of calming. I guess."
Mornings aren't usually like this, for Íþróttaálfurinn. He's not the type to linger, to laze about without reason. But he also doesn't usually have a warm lapful of worst enemy draped across him, confessing that listening to his heartbeat eases his elusive rest.
"Oh," he murmurs, touched. In a moment, he grows eager to follow with a confession of his own. "I dreamt you had left."
When Glanni heaves a sigh, chest pushing into the elf's as it fills with air.
"I… don't think it was a dream," he admits, and Íþróttaálfurinn struggles not to tighten his hold. "I got up, and you sorta woke up but not really, and I thought I should go… and you caught me by the sleeve."
Íþróttaálfurinn swallows. He murmurs an apology. "What made you stay?"
"You let go when I pulled."
With his free hand, Íþróttaálfurinn tucks the covers around them, careful not to bump the fresh gauze on the man's upper back. After a while, Glanni relaxes against him, not completely, like an afterthought.
"You're good at this," he grumbles.
"Not really. I never get it when you try to be smooth." A large hand lifts and presses the side of his face away, a gestural shut it, making him snort.
"But you are good," Glanni says, in a different tone, more distant and pained. "You have seen so much, and yet you're still―" he halts, swallows. "I can't even do these simple things. You're so good, and I'll ruin you."
The hand makes to leave his face, but Íþróttaálfurinn lifts his own and presses it. Denying that the man is made of ruin would be lying, he knows. Yet, he knows deep in himself that if this feeling climbed to the surface fighting his morals tooth and nail and emerged victorious, there must be a reason.
"Listen," he says, letting his hand brush down Glanni's arm until he can cup the side of his face. He tells him again everything he blurted out under the cover of darkness. It feels different now, stronger and calm and certain, like sap hardening to amber, bright and translucent in the cold light of morning. This, he says, is too solid to be easily ruined.
"Anything I need," Glanni echoes, like he's unaware that he's speaking. "I don't know what I need. And I don't know what you need, either."
"That's fine. When you know, I'll know. For me, it's enough that you didn't leave."
"I just wasn't sure anymore." He moves, and when Íþróttaálfurinn looks down he meets the pleading look in his eyes. "And you―you want me to stay, right?"
"Yes," he says simply.
"Okay," Glanni breathes. "Okay."
"I… you know, like last night?" he tries. "And like now? Can it… be just like that? Without… work in the way and―all the rest, too. You know, just for now. Like an agreement."
Glanni's right hand still lies in his, a loose twining of fingers, an idle tracing of patterns and half-formed letters. The man's head, close enough to his mouth that he could just arch his neck to kiss the two black whorls of hair that adorn it, rests easy on his chest. It's the sweetest weight that's ever been placed upon him.
"Of course," Íþróttaálfurinn says. "Anything."
Glanni shakes his head, and the elf's lips itch to smooth down his frown. He has a few creases on his face, from the folds of Íþróttaálfurinn's shirt.
"Can it really be so simple?" he asks, and somehow, the elf gets the feeling that he's really asking, can it really be good? "I told you, I'm a bad p―"
"It's fine. You're fine. You're a good pick."
"See if you still believe that in a year."
"Give me the year, first."
Glanni lifts his head, meeting his eye. The anxious knit of his brows eases, eyes gleaming with a spark of challenge. And, just like that, shots in the future don't feel so scary anymore.
"Hm," he says, smirking. "I think I will."
"This place could use a bit of work. Gonna be a cold one, they say," Glanni is saying.
He talks about the season like it's out to personally inconvenience him; he talks about the attic like he plans to be there a while. The light is growing paler, the dimness slowly giving into daylight, washing out the colours around them.
"But we have to start somewhere, the two of us, I suppose," Glanni says, and the warmth spreads inside Íþróttaálfurinn like a long, perfect draught of hot soup.
The house's old boards groan around them, creaking against the winter chill, and a marrow-deep feeling of oneness runs through Íþróttaálfurinn like a current, skin tingling with warmth, making him shiver.
He breathes, "I'd be delighted."
Something in his voice, just like out on the bench the previous night, makes a blush blossom from Glanni's ears down to his entire face.
"Uh," he stammers, looking away. "It's true, then. You really have gone soft."
The elf lets out a snort. "To be quite honest with you," he says, stroking one bright red cheekbone with his thumb, "I believe I've been soft this entire time."
At the edge of his consciousness, something hinges. It's quick to topple over, when Glanni leans over him and brushes his lips against his, warm and dry like fresh linen. His hand lingers, cupping the man's jaw, as though he wanted to hold the twinkling light in his eyes.
Deep inside him, something cracks open, a sharp, intimate awareness of where. He feels connections to everything around him sprout and spread free, as though his back weren't pressed into a couch but directly into the soil, growing roots down to the molten core. The certainty is absolute, the world has become a treasure map, and he awoke lounging on the big bright X. It is a vast, ancestral, cosmic feeling, and he emerges on the other side of it breathless and reeling.
"Hey," Glanni calls, "what's happening? You gonna stroke out on me?"
Íþróttaálfurinn, barely able to speak over how full his chest feels, hurries to hold him there when he makes to get off him. He cups the man's face with both hands and he doesn't have any other words.
"Thank you," he breathes.
There must be something strange in his eyes, because Glanni urgently mirrors the gesture.
"What's gotten into you?" he asks, pressing intently on his cheeks.
He wants to explain it, he realizes, but he cannot. He draws their foreheads to touch. "Shhh," he murmurs. "Listen. Just listen."
The world is turning under them, and he can feel it, creaking and groaning like an old house. Everything moves, and he's lying down in this perfect place, his place, the place where he belongs. Not alone, never alone again. Part of the land and yet freer than ever, at the centre of everything, and the centre of himself.
They listen.
"Basically, you know where you are… in relation to other things," Glanni articulates slowly.
Íþróttaálfurinn who had never thought he would have to explain this particular sense―let alone the lack of it―to a non-elf, hopes his attempt at explanation made at least a shred of sense.
"So, is it like… when birds migrate and can find places again, or when turtles swim back to the shore they hatched on…?" Glanni mimics little scurrying steps with two fingers. "Only you didn't have a shore before… and this became your shore right now?"
Íþróttaálfurinn can't help a smile, stretching slow. "I have found my shore," he repeats, nodding, elated. And he thinks, how ironic, how it started with his heart breaking from loneliness, washed up on that black shore.
"I'm dating a baby turtle," Glanni laments, hands and eyes to the sky. "How… now I need to know how the fuck did you find your way around until now, missing an entire damn sense."
"Compass."
Glanni smacks his forehead.
Christmas Day settles, slow and undisturbed, around them. Quietly, they talk of the day to come; between shy and roundabout, Glanni asks him how long he is staying, wordlessly laying claim on him until he has to return to duty. Íþróttaálfurinn wants to treasure the tiny elated laugh that escapes him when he tells him they still have a full day and then some.
"I wonder what the kids are doing now," Íþróttaálfurinn asks, after some more time has ticked by, spent savouring those little flutters of excitement.
"They're doing the presents thing from last night, obviously?" Glanni sneers. "If they aren't already on the hunt."
"On the hunt?" He blinks. "Do they do treasure hunts at Christmas, too?"
"If your head is the treasure, sure."
Íþróttaálfurinn nearly gasps. "Oh f―that's right. I've been such an ass last night. I have to make it up to them someh―"
Then, with a surprisingly sharp noise that makes both of them jolt, a snowball splatters clear on the skylight.
"Speak of the tiniest little squad of devils," Glanni says. "Here to go Spanish Inquisition on you."
As if summoned, a chorus of high-pitched voices calls Íþróttaálfurinn's name from outside. Glanni, somehow, manages to bow while lying down.
Barely holding back the laughter, Íþróttaálfurinn takes him by the arms. "Come out with me, please."
"Sure, I'll be coming along." A wide, mischievous grin stretches on Glanni's lips. He rolls off him to stand, pointing dramatically. "Wouldn't want to miss seeing you get torn to shreds. You're on your own, nemesis, and nothing can save you now."
The elf rolls his eyes. "You're so supportive." He accepts the offered hand and springs upright. "Between the two of us, I'm undoubtedly the one who lucked out."
"Undoubtedly."
The evil grin, if possible, grows even wider.
"Well, then," Glanni drawls, arms open, sounding elated. "Merry fucking Christmas to you, elf."
Íþróttaálfurinn returns the grin, though he has the feeling his own is more like a dopey smile and completely devoid of mischief.
"Merry Christmas to you, Glæpur."
Notes: Aaaaand done!
This... took a lot longer than expected.
This story came with me through an international move, started in a rickety one-room student housing apt and finished at the local library cause my new rickety apt doesn't have internet yet.
Dedicated to Rox, new old friend and Fairy Godmother from Hell of this story. The idea for a sequel was just a seedling and it probably would never have exploded to this size without her support ;;
Despite the subject matter, writing this was healing and at times fun. I wish I hadn't got stuck right at the end, but hey, imperfect is better than unfinished, rite?