Yule
...
Tuesday 25th December
It's snowing again.
Big, thick, fluffy snowflakes are drifting in the freezing night air, swirling a lazy, hypnotising dance in the warm glow of amber light. Watching as they tumble into range of the streetlamp outside the big windows, blazing a pure, brilliant white against the depths of the night sky – a washed-out inky city blue instead of a deeper, more picturesque rural black – Grace finds herself falling into a kind of trance, mind ensnared by the path they travel, by the tiny flares of light that glisten off their surfaces.
They even look cold, she thinks, shivering involuntarily as an inexplicable rush of half-thoughts and haunting, chilly memories wash over her, make her skin prickle. It happens without warning, and without any cause she can find, leaving her chilled and faintly disturbed, her quiet, peaceful evening suddenly marred by a bleak speck of… something.
Someone just walked over my grave…
The saying flits through her mind as her mother stirs, trembling at the slightest noise, at the crackling shift of a burning log in the fireplace, the yawning stretch of the sleepy cat in her father's otherwise empty chair. The dog's tail thumping the floor as she dreams... Little Grace, reading a book, pauses to watch as she outright shakes at anything that offers even a hint of resemblance to a fateful knock at the door, her shoulders tense, eyes widening with uncontrolled, overwhelming fear. There's a noise from outside, and the sound of heavy boots; the air in the room seems to freeze, and then there it is, the dull, heavy knock of a fist on wood…
It's a tiny flash of an old, old memory, gone almost as soon as it arrives, but it still leaves an invisible mark on her, a sensation of something unpleasant, an unwanted intrusion.
Behind her and beneath her, his body tangled with hers amongst the sofa cushions, Boyd reacts instinctively, despite the fact that she has said nothing, done nothing to indicate her sudden distress. He is half asleep, but still the strong, heavy arm that's draped comfortably around her waist moves, palm rubbing up and down her arm, the motion more soothing than warming. Tender fingers comb slowly through her hair, teasing strands away from her face, the pad of his thumb massaging gently against the tension in her neck.
He shifts just a little, and then warm lips brush across her temple, a lazy, sleepy caress that's calming and reassuring, and wonderful all at the same time. Making a conscious effort to relax, she sinks further into the steady heat of him, closing her eyes momentarily as his hands continue to move, skimming over her waist to slide beneath the hem of her sweater, the skin-to-skin contact grounding her back in the moment, in the comfort of her reality.
The strength of him, hidden behind the tenderness he employs in his drowsy, languorous exploration, is incredibly reassuring. Head resting against his chest, she listens to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, letting it soothe away the lingering traces of her unease. Her body calms and her thoughts settle, begin to roam, and Grace finds herself contemplating just how well they fit together, how naturally they read each other, respond to each other.
They spar and spark and bounce off one another at work, yet it works. They argue – bitterly and bloodily sometimes – yet it works. The foundations, set and moulded over many years now, are solid, unbreakable.
At home they are easy, effortless, mostly. There are squabbles and differences, emotions that get the better of them, and rows that break out over trivial, insignificant matters, but in the grand scheme of things, those are nothing.
Nothing, because they love and respect. They share, and they work together and somehow they muddle through. There are so many things Grace finds in him, that she shares with him. Companionship, common interests. Laughter and humour. Words, hours of conversation – some of it raw and in-depth, some of it meaningless and trivial, but all of it powerful, binding. Silence, too, that means just as much. Empathy and comfort. Honesty, security. Desire, passion. Love.
An ease and freedom to be exactly who they are, as they are. No artifice, no pretending. Just everything they are, separate, and together.
And somehow it all works.
They just… fit. Like two halves of a whole, they complement and complete, and, absolutely seamlessly, they fit together.
It's that simple.
Flames flickering in the hearth catch and hold her gaze, but the heat emanating from the fire is nothing compared to the blissful comfort of his arms. Nothing.
The moment of clarity is as stark as is the contrast between the snowflakes and the fire, the cold and the warmth.
The lazy day, and the easy, intimate celebration that they have quietly shared wanders through her mind, her memory picking out tiny moments, things that linger with her. His arms snug around her waist as they stared out of the window together, watching a robin move from one snowy fence post to another. The smile on his face and in his eyes as they shared breakfast in bed. Their laughter, mingling together as they decorated the tree.
It's so obvious, so clear and apparent.
Taking his hands in hers, she lifts them slightly, studies the lines and the veins, the bone structure, the scars – the evidence of life. His fingers flex, and he slides them through hers, tying them together.
Holding on.
"Marry me?" she asks, her voice soft yet clear.