8. John, Gordon, Matthew and Elijah – Frost
Butterflies-verse.
There's frost on the window. It's inching across the glass, tiny tendrils of silver creeping from the corner. Gordon sighs and shifts in the plush armchair, then closes his eyes as he inhales the spicy scent of mulled wine. The mug is soothing in his hands, the warm porcelain smooth against his fingertips.
They're somewhere in the wilds of Donegal – Gordon can't even say the place name, never mind point it out on a map. Driving rain kept them inside all day and led to a crackling fire in the hearth. Gordon sips his wine and opens his eyes again. Life has never been so good.
Burning turf, it seemed, was a familiar scent. Not something he had actually smelled before – rather, a smell that reminded him of something. Or rather, someone.
Matthew is the embodiment of burning turf. He's the fuel to Gordon's fire. He's the succour Gordon craved after a long day. He's the comfort, the reward, the homeliness that makes the aches and pains and stresses of the job worthwhile.
Catching his eye from across the room, Matthew lifts his own mug in a toast. He's right next to the hearthstone, the bottoms of his bare feet stuck out to the flames. No wonder he was a firefighter before IR, Gordon thinks. He's a complete pyromaniac!
Then Matthew jerks his head to the side, wanting Gordon to look at something. Gordon acquiesces and as soon as he sees it, he cannot help but grin.
John and Elijah are curled together on the couch like two sleeping cats, their fair heads resting against one another. Hands and fingers are entwined with layer upon layer of clothing. They're silent and rosy-cheeked from the fire. Those two aren't pyros, Gordon thinks. They're the opposite!
And he knows he's right. John and Elijah. Elijah and John. They're the water to Gordon and Matthew's fire, the moon to their sun, the starry sky to their glimmering ocean. While John and Elijah would be taking in a museum, Gordon and Matthew would be jumping off the roof. Two pairs of brothers and yet so much difference.
Chuckling softly, Gordon turns his attention back to the fire and the figure in front of it. Then he glances away again, taking in the new sight through the curling tendrils of steam from his mug.
There's frost on the window, coating the glass with silver. But on the inside, there's love – and it's enough to drive out any cold.