Work Text:
You end up by the lake. It’s too cold to sit by the water—the breeze cuts your cheeks and the damp air soaks to your bones, but the shimmery surface reflects the stars, and it’s quiet out here.
It’s a little dramatic, really. The way your heart aches. Nobody ever said that homesick hurt like this, probably because it shouldn’t.
You can’t help it. Even though Christmas time in the Valley is picturesque. It’s like a story book in the town square, with the snow and the lights and the wreathes. It should, if anything, feel novel and exciting and breathtaking. In a way, it does. Like a hallmark movie. But in more ways, it feels wrong.
There’s no peppermint hot cocoa from the diner on eighth. There’s no tree in the park with the big, glittering star. There’s no decorated hotel with the roaring fireplace that you couldn’t ever justify staying at.
And there’s no driving to look at Christmas lights, either.
And by all accounts, it’s dumb to be upset over. You’ve kept trying to bully yourself out of the slump, convince yourself that you’re being a mopey, whiny baby. You live in a snow globe, for crying out loud. Try telling anyone around it doesn’t feel like Christmas, and they’d laugh at you. Even the light posts are wrapped in garland.
You throw a rock into the water, and the splash upsets the clean, sparkling surface. It looks a little like the lights zipping past that you used to make a point to see every year, and you brush futilely at the tears running down your cheeks.
“It’s a little late to be throwing shit,” Sebastian’s voice comes out of nowhere, and you jump, hiding your face and scrubbing away the tears. Out of everyone, he’s the least likely to get it. Even if he is your closest friend.
Sebastian isn’t sentimental. Not like this.
“I don’t give a fuck if you sit out here while I smoke, but if you’re gonna be causing a damn scene you’ll have to find somewhere else.”
Despite the cold, harsh honesty in his tone, he drops down next to you. For the first time, you wish he would go away. He doesn’t need to see you like this—not worked up, and crying, and over something so stupid at that.
“Since when do you smoke at two in the morning,” you say, hope that it doesn’t sound odd and flat and like it’s trying to hard to cover the warble in your voice.
“About the same time,” he strikes the wheel, and the flame of his lighter catches, “that you started sitting and brooding at two in the morning.”
“I’m not brooding,” you say, too quick, and Sebastian huffs a laugh.
There’s a pause, a draw, an exhale, “then what else do you call staring at the lake and crying?”
You turn to look at him, only to find that he’s staring out at the water. He doesn’t look fucked up about it, but he’s not letting you off the hook, either.
“You noticed that?”
A single, slight dip of his head. “Yeah. So are you going to talk about it, or are we just staring?”
You chew your lip, twist your boot in the snow. “It’s stupid.”
“But it’s making you upset,” he says, shrugging, “so that isn’t relevant, I don’t think. You don’t have to talk about it.”
The out hangs in front of you, close enough to snatch out of the air. You want to, mostly, because you don’t want him to laugh at you. But you also really don’t, because something about the whole thing feels so suffocatingly lonely you don’t think you can let it be.
“I miss home,” you say, and your voice warbles, cracks, but you keep the tears back. His eyes fall on you, the change only enough to show you he’s listening.
Your breath is shaky, but you keep on. You tell him. Between the sighs, and the sniffs, you fill him in on the cocoa, and the park, and the tree, and the hotel, and the lights. Every detail that feels so idiotic, so petty and childish.
You’re left feeling empty after, embarrassed and wrung out. The weight of it has been dragging you down, but without it you feel flat, and your cheeks are hot thinking about how ridiculous you sound. Crying over Christmas lights.
“Yeah, that’s pretty stupid,” Sebastian says, and you turn to gape at him indignantly only to find that he’s grinning. Your mouth presses into a firm line, and you give his shoulder an irritable shove.
“You’re a fucking dick,” you mutter, and he tilts his head back and laughs. Despite it all, you feel the sound carrying away some of your trouble.
“But you came to me for advice anyway, so whose fault is it?” He ducks his head to hide the fact that he’s still chuckling, takes another drag.
Finally you sigh, crack a grin. Don’t take the bait of saying he asked you, because you can tell he’s setting up a whole argument.
Both of you hold the silence, and the tension begins to unwind in your shoulders. “Seriously, it’s not stupid. That was your home, like, your entire life. There doesn’t have to be a rhyme or reason to it. You miss it. That doesn’t have to mean you want to go back, or that you don’t appreciate what you have.”
You nod. “I miss it.”
Sebastian nods again, and you sit in companionable quiet until he finishes his cigarette, putting out the butt in the snow.
“You oughta get home, farmer. It’s late.”
You shrug, and he stands and offers you a hand up, and something flutters in your chest when you take it. “Not too busy these days,” you say with a shrug, “I can get away with sleeping in.”
“So you’re telling me that you don’t have full, jam packed days of farming in the dead of winter?”
You smile bitterly, follow him towards the path. “Probably why I feel so weird lately. Nothing to do with my days.”
There’s no pomp and circumstance to your parting. Sebastian pats your shoulder, says he’ll be seeing you, and retreats inside. You feel better until about two steps home, when the loneliness crashes into you all over again.
—
The sun is draining out of your living room. You’ve spent all day on the couch, watching Christmas movies and trying to make yourself feel better. And it does—to an extent. It holds off the bleeding, covers the wound well enough.
But the dip of the daytime is staring to drag your mood with it. The dark has been getting you lately, too. An extra edge of discomfort.
You’re so busy wishing for things to be different—for you to be different—you don’t even hear the rumble of the engine until it’s directly outside your house, grumbling so close it might as well be on the front porch.
You frown, throw on your overcoat, and swing the door open. The wind catches it, causing it to bang against the side of the house, pried loose from your grip with no effort at all.
Sebastian doesn’t startle at the sound, using his boot to force out the kickstand and tucking his helmet under his arm.
You feel the sudden urge to cover up, to comb frantically at your hair and hide your face. A hot blush crawls up your cheeks, but you smile anyway.
Sebastian finally makes eye contact, even and unyielding, and his eyes flicker up and down you for one electrifying second. “You should probably bundle up,” he says, “It’s going to be cold.”
He doesn’t allow any further information. When you ask why, for what, all he does is shrug, pop open the under-seat compartment on his bike, and dig out the spare helmet.
You don’t ask again. Nod, shut the door, and get ready as quickly as is humanly possible. Make sure to bundle up, follow his lead—thick jacket, gloves, sturdy snow-boots, wool scarf. You even pack your earmuffs, though with the helmet you’re not sure you’ll need them.
A giddy, hopeful excitement plucks at your heart. Hope for something that’s probably not the case anyway. He’s just taking you for a random drive, because you’re lonely, because you’re homesick.
And still, you swallow down waves of joy because you think maybe it’s more than a random drive.
“That was quick,” Sebastian’s only a fourth of the way through his cigarette when you’re thundering out the door, fingers clumsy on your keys to lock up behind you, “you didn’t have to rush, you weren’t expecting me.”
All you do is shake your head, try your best to even your breathing so you don’t seem like your heart is pounding from exertion.
“I’m good. Didn’t want you to wait im the cold.”
Sebastian shrugs, gestures vaguely with his cigarette as if to say he was going to be out here either way, and you shrug in response. Now that you’re dressed, you try again, carefully.
“So,” you’re delicate in the way you try to form the word, “do I get to know where we’re going?”
Finally, a sly grin creeps up Sebastian’s face. “If you haven’t figured it out already, you will soon enough.”
—
Despite the snow and the whipping wind, you aren’t that cold on the bike. Sebastian’s warm against your chest, and the engine is exuding some amount of heat, and you did a good job dressing warm.
As you get closer and closer to the city, you continue to shove down the hope. It’s not until he turns, is on the street you know so well, that you allow it all to come roaring back up.
“You’ll have to direct me a little,” he says, and you’re not sure if it’s coincidence or if it’s because you squeezed him giddily, “I don’t know where it is exactly.”
And so you do. You direct him until you’re in the lot you know isn’t paid, and even after the bike is stable and the stand is out, you stay wobbly in your seat.
Sebastian stands first, swings his leg over the front of the bike like he does it all the time, and when you don’t move he holds out his hand.
“Come on,” he says, and now your heart is pounding for a different reason, “we’ll need to be quick if we don’t want to be out all night.”
Even through the gloves, your skin sparks when you take the offer up, and when for a moment too long he doesn’t let you go.
The diner is how you remember. Nearly empty, quiet and surprisingly clean. It even smells the same—coffee and bacon.
You find yourself tearing up when you slide into the seat. It’s hard to talk.
“So I hear this place has good hot cocoa,” Sebastian says, breaks the too long silence easily.
Your laugh is watery, but you’re able to even yourself out regardless. “It’s pretty good,” you say, and the words warble, too, “I think that’s what I’m going to get, anyway.”
Sebastian’s eyes are sparkling, and you’re gripped by the sudden urge to boost yourself across the table and kiss him. It’s not an urge you’ve never had—not by a long shot—but it’s the first time it’s been so strong, so demanding. “Imagine you didn’t order the hot chocolate, after all this.”
You laugh, and he laughs, and you both order the cocoa. Even though he swears he doesn’t like sweets ninety percent of the time.
It tastes like home. Probably just some powdered stuff and peppermint syrup, regular whipped cream. You’re sure you could recreate it, if you put your mind to it, but it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be from this mug, or in this place. It would taste the same, but it would never be the same.
“I’ll give it to you,” Sebastian says, “it’s pretty good cocoa.”
The warmth in your chest isn’t from the heater. It isn’t from the drink. You know what it’s from, but you pretend you don’t, anyway.
The drinks end too quick, and it’s a bitter edge to the sweet aftertaste. Sebastian drums his fingers on the table as you wait on the check—one, he insisted—and avoids eye contact.
It’s not until after he’s paid, and you shift because you aren’t sure if you’re going to leave yet, that he finally looks at you. “So another thing I heard is that there are some really nice Christmas lights to look at, and there’s some park? Apparently?”
You can’t help yourself. When you get up from the table, you launch yourself into his chest, tackling him and holding him tight, tight.
He makes a noise, not completely discontented, and pets you with an awkward laugh. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is,” you say, squished against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat—how quick it is beneath your cheek. Before you can read into it you’re prying yourself off, forcing the self control back into the drivers seat. Even if you can’t wipe the stupid grin off your face. Even if you can’t ignore the blush that’s crept up Sebastian’s cheeks.
“Okay, okay,” you say, and the excitement has you bouncing on your toes, “let’s go then!”
—
Driving past the lights on a motorcycle is different than in a car. It’s no faster, in reality, but it feels faster because of the exposure.
But by that token, it also feels more tangible. The wind whips at the exposed strips of your flesh, and Sebastian is solid against your chest, and the lights sparkle and wink as you whiz past the houses on your favorite strip.
And Sebastian—for his first time cruising lights—is doing a bang up navigational job. Speeding up down the strips of barren houses, slowing down past the best displays: he has the pacing down pat. It’s one of those things with him, the ability to read a situation and adapt to it seamlessly. Like it’s as easy as breathing. Like it’s nothing to him, even when it’s everything to you.
You, on the other hand, are a little clumsy when it comes to directing to the park. You have to double back once, because you’re used to driving and not riding, but you get there eventually, and Sebastian only teases you a little over the sound of the wind and the cars.
He doesn’t say anything about the earmuffs when you take off the helmet and put them on instead, but he makes a face like he really wants to say something anyway. If you weren’t about to sob from gratitude, you’d needle him about it, but tonight you let it slide.
“So,” he says, hands in his pockets as you begin to meander along the path, “is this—like—I hope I wasn’t too presumptuous. I should have asked if you were busy, or—“
You stopping in your tracks is enough to kill the anxious words on his tongue. The worry in the set of his brow doesn’t fade when you blink at him owlishly, and finally you shake your head. “I…would never have thought that,” you say, and go back to walking because the cold is worse still. “This is the nicest—I was wondering why you would even go to all this trouble for me, anyway.”
It’s Sebastian’s turn to look dumbfounded. He stares at you a long time, blinks, and shakes his head. Finally, he seems to find the words he wants, and speaks so carefully it hurts.
“There are so many problems,” he’s quiet, “that I can’t do shit about. Things that the people I care about go through and I just have to sit there and nod and say I’m sorry, that sucks, I hope you feel better. But this? Fuck, this is something I can actually help with. And it’s not even trouble, because I’m here too, and I’m having a good time, and I like doing things for people. Especially—yeah. So anyway, I’m glad that I could do this. I’m glad I could help.”
You stop in front of the tree, and it’s too much. The way Sebastian is looking at you so softly, and the emotions of it all, and the fact that you’re pretty sure you’re head over heels in love with him if you weren’t already—it’s too much.
“Sebastian,” you say, and your voice cracks, because you don’t know how to say it, “Sebastian.”
You don’t say it. You’re not good with words, anyway. The only thing you can do is stand on your tip toes and pull his mouth to yours, because you want so badly. You’re aching.
He doesn’t hesitate like you expected. Doesn’t freeze or buffer or lag. His hands slide over your shoulders like you do this all the time, and his mouth moves back against yours, and you’re fairly sure you’re being liquified. Everything is exploding in your chest, expounding, amplifying, and you don’t think you can let go of him again until you know he’s yours.
When you finally draw for breath, you keep your forehead pressed to his, afraid that the distance and the cold air might shatter everything. You want to say it, to tell him that you love him, that you have the whole time.
But it’s too big. Too scary. Too soon. So you say the next best thing.
“I want you.”
Sebastian’s eyes are dark, mischievous, and your heart is in your throat because you can’t let yourself hope yet. “I heard there’s this hotel,” he says, and it’s all he needs to say before you’re kissing him again.
—
The hotel hardly registers. You barely remember how to speak, where it is, anything. You don’t care about the fireplace, or the rooms, or all the things that you were so curious about once upon a time.
All you care about is that the moment the door shuts behind you you’re kissing Sebastian, nudging as close as you can and sharing your heat.
You didn’t realize how cold it was, how cold you were without him before. Now it’s all you can do to keep from shivering, pressing all of your body against all of his body and leeching every inch of warmth and electricity you can get.
His hands are everywhere, over your shoulders, at the small of your back, on the tops of your hips and hooked into your belt loops. Grabbing and feeling and searching for ways to be closer, closer.
You flinch—from the cold, from the surprise, from nerves—when his fingers find their way under the hem of your sweater.
“Sorry,” his voice is ragged, and when he backs away from you this time he makes it a point to keep a distance. “Is this okay? I—we don’t—“
You hold him, hands on his cheeks, and wish for all the world he wouldn’t look at you with doubt. As if you wouldn’t want him. As if you would be at all unsure.
“I want,” you say, and make sure you’re touching foreheads, just like the first time you said it, “you. I want whatever you want.”
Your sweater goes first. Then his hoodie. And then it’s a tangle of fabric, hands, desires. The cold is less and less pervasive in the thickening air, and you register briefly, vaguely, that the mattress is as soft as you thought it would be.
You find that Sebastian is somewhat of a doorknob confessionist. Mincing words as he kisses down your body, painting the maybes and the uhs and the I thinks into your skin until he reaches the waistline of your panties, and noses against the fabric.
“I’ve wanted you,” he says, pulling them aside and sighing reverently, “since the day I fucking met you.”
It’s the most articulate, most definite he’s been since you got here, and he follows it with the nuclear option. Licks and sucks and worships your aching clit so you can’t chase the thought down, so your thoughts scatter like the sands and all you can keep track of is how quickly he’s drawing the coil in your stomach taught.
Between the wanting, and the needing, and the expertise of Sebastian’s mouth and—shit, his fingers—your body is bowing in what feels like no time at all. It could be hours or minutes that he’s down there, taking his time and playing you like you’re his stupid synthesizer. What does you in is when he looks up at you, and you can see just how glassy, how blown out with pleasure his eyes are. How he’s looking at you like you really are everything he’s wanted.
You’re whining. Greedy, needy hands finding their way into his hair and beginning to try and pull him to you, to kiss you again, to feel your bodies tangle together, to make him feel as good as he makes you feel.
The slick of your arousal smears against your cheeks, fresh on his skin, and your whole body shudders. Your legs hook up, around his hips, begging him to please, please take. Take more, take all of you, have you and hold you and keep you as long as he can stand.
Sebastian isn’t as selfish as you are. He hesitates, makes you stop and breathe, asks if you’re sure you want this. If it’s all really okay. Another out, if you want it, because he cares about you.
Your heart cracks. Because he’s so good to you, and so tender, and because he gives. He gives so much.
You only feel a little bad about your own insatiable desire. Later you can feel truly guilty, but right now you give in, indulge, and enjoy the hedonism.
“Please,” you say, desperate, “please.”
The first rock of his hips is a bruise. There’s a tenderness, an ache, an undercut of something sweet. The kind of lazy pain that you know will stretch and yawn into pleasure sooner rather than later.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, strangled, and you know he means it even though he sounds anything but. Even though he’s shifting, the edges of his own need seeping out in the cracks.
By the time he inches forwards, bottoms out, you find you were right. Your thighs slide against his sides, and his arms flex where they’re caged around you, and in the moment you both make sure you’re really okay for more you think you might combust.
Sebastian only moves when you lock your calves around his back, but your hips upwards for more, god, more. His head drops forward, trying to hide from you as he groans and starts maybe too slow for either one of you.
“Feel,” he gasps for air, and you tighten around him. He makes a sound like you’ve gut-punched him, stutters and picks up the pace against his own will, “so fucking good. Shit.”
And coming from him, you almost laugh. Because you know he’s the one who feels good. Know because your toes are curling and you’re pawing at him helplessly already. Because you’re fairly sure if he keeps fucking you like this you’ll come again.
It’s harder for you to form words. Every thrust forces the air out of your lungs, and all you’ve been able to manage as he delivers you are unintelligible noises.
Not that he minds. Because of course he doesn’t.
“Ah,” his voice cracks, and you think you’re never going to hear something more beautiful in your life, “I’m—ah, please come? I want to feel you so bad, but I’m not—hah—please.”
Nobody’s ever asked you to do anything easier. Two, three, four tight circles of his finger against your clit has you tipping over again. The world goes sideways, and as you ride the high you catch stray ends of his praise. Of him telling you how good it feels, how good he feels, how he’s going to come, how he wants you, he wants you, oh shit, he wants you—all until he stills, stiff and shivering, and comes for you, too.
It’s hard to keep your eyes open. Even as you focus on evening your heart rate, and detangling your sticky limbs to clean yourselves up you think you might fall asleep, heavy, satisfied.
And it takes forever. It shouldn’t, because all you do is wipe yourself down, find your underwear, and drink the water Sebastian forces on you. But you’re sluggish, tired and heart full, so you give yourself a break for taking so long.
You’re almost asleep by the time you hit the bed. Don’t have the will power to keep yourself from crawling in close and worming your way in against Sebastian’s chest. He laughs, rolls his eyes, but still readjusts for you.
It feels right. It feels like everything is as it should be. You can see the snow out the window, and to you, it looks like Christmas. Finally.
“Thank you,” you whisper, and you’ll tell him the rest tomorrow. All the rest. “Thank you.”