Sweater Weather

「Fakir/Ahiru」

The frigid, bitter wind cuts through his thick winter jacket, despite the upturned collar, and he shivers, burying his chin deeper in the fabric of his scarf.

Quickening his pace, he hurries up the treacherously icy steps and pulls out his keys. His fingers shake so hard it takes him three tries to get the key in the slot, and he shoves his body against the door.

The aroma of perfume greets him, delicious and enticing. Rose-tinted warmth hits him in a great wall, seeping into his hair and thawing his frozen fingers. Any tension in his muscles ebbs like a tide, and he crosses into the threshold, closing the door quietly.

Before he continues onward, he toes off his shoes, places them on the shoe rack, lining up the toes with the wall and tucking the laces inside. His tingling fingers untie the scarf and draped it across the coat rack; he shrugs off his jacket and rests it in the crook of his arm.

The collar of his shirt digs into his neck as he proceeds down the hallway. The soft petals of perfume permeates the air he breathes as he unbuttons his shirt, shivering at the changes in temperature.

"Oh, there you are," laughs that familiar voice as the body presses against his side for a split second, all warmth and unruly hair, and the sudden addition of weight knocks him off balance.

When he lands, there's a loud squawk and a flurry of flailing limbs. Once they settle, he hears the heavy drumming of his heartbeat in his ears, and the smell of her—fresh, crisp; she's obviously been outside, playing in the snow—sooths his raw nerves.

"Um," she murmurs against his neck, her lips touching the skin, and a shiver branches across him. Her hair tickles his cheek, but he ignores it and shifted, pressing her more tightly against him. Her frozen fingers touch him under his shirt, where his stomach was, and it makes him sigh.

"Are you okay?"

She peers up at him with star-lit eyes. Roses dust her cheeks. Something sinful and succulent dances in the whites of her smile.

"Yes," he manages quietly, letting his hand cup her cheek, ignoring her endless chattering. He pulls in a deep petal-flavored breath, all too aware of the heat of her, the way her knee is digging into his leg painfully, and she shifts. Her elbow is in his side now. It's hard to breathe with her so close.

Her lips fall open. A gust of her breath brushes his chin.

"Fakir? Is something wrong? Are you okay? Are you running a fever?" she asks.

"Ahiru?" he whispers, wrapping his free arm around her waist to pull her closer, flush, like when they danced for the circus and all eyes were on them, and she'd felt so soft and inviting against him.

She blinks her ocean doe eyes at him.

"Shut up," he begs and closes his eyes when he tilts his head up at the weirdest angle to kiss her. Her mouth is soft and dry, and she's in mid-vowel so her mouth is open, and a shock goes through him when he feels her teeth and then her tongue against his.

He jerks away, his face searing. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, realizing what he's done and how she hasn't consented, and he places both hands on her hips to help her off him because she's still laying on him, and she feels warm to the touch, despite her cold fingers, which are now hot, and creeping up his sides.

"I wanna show you something," she says, pulling away, and he's cold, shivering on the floor because her warmth has left him, and then she's grabbing at his hands, trying to pull him to his feet. Her lip pouts out, and he finds it very easy to get to his feet suddenly, motivated by the sight of her pout.

She doesn't even wait to put on shoes or something warmer than her high-waisted rubber-duck-yellow shorts. Faster than he's ever seen her, she darts away, down the hallway, to the backdoor, calling to him the entire time. "Come on!" she yells.

She flings the door open and skips outside.

He follows her quickly and steps onto the back porch.

"Over here!"

Looking at the trail of tiny footprints, he finds her standing before the massive trees that shield the town's eyes from his cottage. He can't help the tight little scowl at the sight of her standing there, bouncing up and down like a little kid on Christmas, wearing nothing but those tight little shorts and thigh-highs that make her legs look miles long and accent the strong calves from years of dancing, and she's grinning at him like an idiot.

"Look, it's a winter wonderland."

She turns to him, snow flakes clinging to her lashes, sticking to her hair, her lips parted in a beaming smile.

He crosses the lawn and grabs her thighs, hoisting her up into his arms. He's shaking, not because he's cold, but because her mouth is on his, and his hands are touching the bare skin of her back, warm despite the slush on her sweater, and she's saying something against his teeth.

"I love this type of weather," she declares, pulling away so she can speak, "because we can kiss and stay warm."

"Sweater weather," he affirms, pressing his nose against the pulse of her throat, feeling her quack in his arms, pressing against him.

"Wanna know what?" she murmurs, running her hands through his hair.

"Hm?" He doesn't look up from the snow landscape.

She squirms, flexing her legs against the sharp bones of his hips. "We should go inside, because I was cooking soup, and I'm pretty sure it's burning!" She jumps down and runs all the way.

He shakes his head and heads inside after her.