North Pole Bureaucracy

Epilogue

By Raletha

The silver twilight of the winter day had surrendered to the velvet embrace of night. Neither Trowa nor Quatre had moved far enough from their fireside sprawl to turn on a lamp. The fire burned low, lighting the recent lovers in its amber tremors.

Quatre was the first to break the current drowsy silence. "You've been lonely, haven't you?"

Trowa stirred and nodded against Quatre's chest. "Since I left home--it's so different here."

"I've seen you around. I mean, I've noticed you before."

"Have you?" Trowa tried to recall when in his daily routines he would have been near Quatre, but he kept mostly to himself--spending his work hours at the stables, and his off hours in his small apartment on the ground floor of the workers' barracks.

"Yeah, I like to have my lunch in the upstairs ballroom. It's quiet there, and I can see the stables from the windows. I like to watch the reindeer. You're very good with them." Quatre laughed softly and wound a finger in Trowa's hair. "I discovered I liked to watch you more."

The knowledge that Quatre had noticed him before today, even found him attractive, eased a background tension Trowa had been harbouring. He wished that he could offer a similar confession, but he wasn't wholly sure what reasons lay beneath his recent behaviour. He didn't know if they were simple or complicated.

Quatre continued in the wake of Trowa's silence. "And, before the weather got so cold and you got so busy, I liked to open a window and listen to you play your flute."

Trowa pressed a thoughtful kiss to Quatre's skin before he replied. "The flute's not that good," he said, "it's just an old tin one I found." He'd been saving to buy a proper, silver flute to replace it but remained far enough from that goal that it was but an idle wish.

Quatre's hand wandered between his shoulder blades, slowing to rub fingertips along either side of his spine. "Well, I think you play it beautifully."

"Thank you." Trowa smiled, and he hoped fervently that his reasons were complicated. It would be nice--more than nice, really--to have someone close here. But given their different roles, different backgrounds, could he indulge such a hope?

"What are you doing tomorrow night, Trowa?"

"It's Christmas Eve," Trowa reminded him. Being a Claus, Quatre must have a prior engagement.

"I know. What are you doing? Do you have plans?"

"Not really--I was going to enjoy the day off with a book or something."

"I hate my family's Christmas Eve dinners. I haven't gone since I was old enough to get away with it--Father's not there to keep the peace."

The mere thought of the numerous toddler-aged nieces and nephews made Trowa cringe. "Sounds bad."

"Oh, it is. So I was wondering, would you like to come for dinner?"

"With your family?" He wanted to be sure before he agreed to anything.

"No, goodness no." Quatre laughed. "Ugh. Just you and I sharing a quiet, civil dinner at my place?"

It didn't require much consideration. Trowa slipped a hand between their bodies, low enough to emphasize his response. "As long as it's not too civil..."

So the following evening, Trowa enjoyed a lovely, intimate dinner with Quatre, after which they had a decidedly uncivil dessert right on the dining room table--followed by an encore in Quatre's enormous bathtub, since they discovered that steamed Christmas pudding with brandy sauce can be nearly as messy as eggnog.

Afterward, Quatre politely invited him to stay the night, but, preferring to take things slowly, Trowa opted to return to his own modest apartment. He was after all, a very patient elf. He dreamt of Quatre all night.

And then much to his surprise, Christmas morning came and Trowa found a parcel by his hearth (for he hadn't bothered to put up a Christmas tree only for himself). It was a rectangular package of moderate size, wrapped in shiny gold and green paisley paper with a sprig of holly tied in the middle of a berrberry-red satin ribbon.

He set it on his kitchen table while he made coffee, eyeing it suspiciously from time to time. His apartment was small enough he should have heard any intruder--gift bearing or not.

Eventually he gave in to curiosity and opened the gift. It was a silver flute.

So the following evening, Trowa enjoyed a lovely, intimate dinner with Quatre, after which they had a decidedly uncivil dessert right on the dining room table—followed by an encore in Quatre's enormous bathtub, since they discovered that steamed Christmas pudding with brandy sauce can be nearly as messy as eggnog.

Afterward, Quatre politely invited him to stay the night, but, preferring to take things slowly, Trowa opted to return to his own modest apartment. He was after all, a very patient elf. He dreamt of Quatre all night.

And then much to his surprise, Christmas morning came and Trowa found a parcel by his hearth (for he hadn't bothered to put up a Christmas tree only for himself). It was a rectangular package of moderate size, wrapped in shiny gold and green paisley paper with a sprig of holly tied in the middle of a cranberry-red satin ribbon.

He set it on his kitchen table while he made coffee, eyeing it suspiciously from time to time. His apartment was small enough he should have heard any intruder—gift bearing or not.

Eventually he gave in to curiosity and opened the gift. It was a silver flute.

the end