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Revnash Sidetracks




A stand-alone ficlet from more "modern times". Thoughts of an immigrant from sunny Dorelion in chilly Revnash.

- Written in December 2004. Rated MA.


Second Thoughts

I won't look out of the window as I shuffle around the kitchen, but can't help seeing it anyway.

The air is thick with huge, fluffy flakes swirling now this way, now that. If I was still outside they'd be all over my face and inside my mouth and windpipe, melting there. It's been a while since I came back in but I've only just stopped shivering. My fingers are still cold though not numb anymore, my toes freezing even inside two pairs of woolen socks.

The oven is blazing happily, chock full of firewood, its black iron door burning hot. Must be careful not to accidentally touch it.

I hate this weather. I can't understand how anyone can want to live here. If only I'd realized...

The summer was so nice, although of course different, not like back home. And the fall, too, those colors and crisp mornings, before it got dark and dirty and rainy. That's when everyone started looking forward to winter, and I let myself be fooled, because it sure was tempting to believe it'd be as great as they all said.

Oh, it's beautiful all right. Much lighter, too, with all the snow. But I never understood just how goddamn cold it would get. I mean, yeah, they said 'cold', but who could've imagined this?

Everybody acted like little kids, so enthusiastic about the first snow, although don't they see it every year? Now there's loads of it and it's soiled by all the smoke and soot and the dirt from horses' hooves and carriage wheels and people's shoes. Only in the parks it's still properly white, and outside the city, so they say. Though why would I go out of the city to see some more snow, when there's enough of it right outside the window?

I turn my back to it. To think that I had a nice job back home, a job I liked and was good at... no, better not think. That was before – before I went out of my mind. Now? No way I can find anything before I learn more of the language. Not easy, but I'm making progress. I was to the baker's and the butcher's and the greengrocer's today and got all I needed at the first try. Well, almost.

As I was trudging back, I couldn't help wondering once again at all those ruddy-faced people who were smiling and looking like they actually enjoyed this blizzard – even the dozens of men shoveling the sidewalks, sweat running down their faces. And the huge, hairy-legged horses that haul the plows up and down the streets were snorting and tossing their heads and stomping their feet, eyes shining. Goddamn masochists, men and beasts alike.

Shoveling would be work where language skills aren't that crucial, but I don't need a mirror to remember why I won't even ask. They'd take one look at me – a supposedly adult man barely the size of a very skinny local youngster – and laugh themselves silly. Besides, I'd probably freeze to death within minutes, anyway.

So I'm just being useless and getting bored out of my mind. At least I can cook some... but did I think that this'd be an adventure? That it'd be exciting to live up here in the north? How stupid can you get?

Damn this cold! A few weeks back I could still walk outside for hours and look at the city, the parks, handsome houses, people. A few weeks back I still thought those pangs of longing would go away. Now I keep dreaming of moonlit sandy beaches and the sea, and of leisurely crowds on the Beach Boulevard, until I'm so homesick I could cry. Instead there's just that goddamn wind howling and blowing all that fucking snow around, and...

... surely that wasn't the door yet?

Stomping. Rustling. "Anybody home?"

It was.

He's at the kitchen door, flakes still clinging to black hair, cheeks red from cold. He cracks me a wide grin, steps closer, hugs me. His jaw is rough and cold and wet from molten snow, and so are the lips nibbling my ear. "How's my favorite blond been today?"

"Bored. You're early, though, dinner's nowhere near ready!"

"Good." He's hard as a rock – no, not just the thing rubbing into my belly. He's a big man with broad shoulders, tight muscle that shifts and bulges under my palms. Cold hands plunge inside my loose jumper and dip under the trouser waistband, and he laughs at my squeak. "Mmmm... missed you."

"Is that why you're early?" My breathing is getting short, I love it when he comes home this horny. His fingers, fuck but they're cold. Especially on my dick.

He hums, clamps his lips on my neck and sucks hard, and I bury my fingers in that rough, moist hair. It smells of winter and snow, and I close my eyes and remember the beach and the heat and the nights back home. Wind wails against the window panes, makes them rattle, and I peer at the swirling darkness. He chuckles. "How about I ravish you for starters?"

Well, to be honest, my job wasn't that glamorous... and soon I'll speak enough of the language to go job-hunting again. Maybe slightly exotic looks and a funny accent could even be considered an asset somewhere?

I tease his nipples through the shirt, he moans under his breath. Smiles down at me. He's so hard, and so am I. Never met anyone quite like him, someone to sweep me so totally off my feet.

"Not here, though."

I back towards the living room, he follows with a feral smile until my legs hit the armchair and I lose my balance. He dives underneath my jumper and then lips are already trailing down my chest. His tongue dips into my navel and I laugh aloud.

Fuck, just let it snow, what do I care? Others have moved up here and survived it, and so will I.

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