The fire is burning low, the room warm and the lamp still on. Glad to see the backup generator is still functioning, I walk upstairs to change out of my sweaty clothes and into something dry and warm. It’s not until I’m back downstairs and considering putting another log on the fire that it hits me.
Oliver doesn’t have a generator. Oliver doesn’t have a functioning fireplace. Oliver has a heating unit that stops more often than it starts, even if we didn’t have a power outage.
“Shit,” I mumble, abandoning the fire and grabbing my phone instead.
There aren’t any texts from Oliver, but that doesn’t mean much. He might not say anything, no matter how cold and miserable he gets. When I try to call him, it rings straight through to voicemail. I try again, unsure whether his phone is dead or just on Do Not Disturb. Voicemail again.
Tucking my cell into the pocket of my sweatpants, I bank the fire. I’ll take the truck and go check on him. It’s possible the electricity will turn back on soon, and with it the heat. ButOliver’s heating unit is spotty enough to worry me, and this is a hell of a lot bigger a storm than we’d been anticipating. I won’t be able to sleep or relax or do anything unless I know he’s fine, and it won’t take long to check on him.
I’m grateful for my commitment to clearing the entire driveway at 1:00 a.m. when I climb into my truck. Now that I’m not shoveling, I’m aware of how cold it really is. The drive down the road, short as it is on a normal day, takes long enough for me to really start to worry. Does Oliver have a thermal blanket for emergencies? He’s got winter gear, that much I know, but there’s a difference in being prepared to work a lobster boat in the cold and being prepared to bunker down without heat during a blizzard.
The bright setting on my headlights doesn’t seem bright at all, and I nearly miss the turnoff for Oliver’s. The snow blows directly at the windshield, nearly obliterating all visibility. I press gingerly on the gas, not wanting to lose my forward momentum and get stuck, but also not wanting to run myself right into his house.
When I pull to a stop in front of the garage door, none of the motion lights I helped him install turn on. The power is definitely still out, then. Luckily, it seems like Oliver shoveled recently. That, or he’s getting less snowfall than I am, barely half a mile down the road.
Feeling bad for the possibility of scaring him again, I knock on his front door. When there isn’t an answer, I try the handle and find it locked. I’m glad, but also a bit disappointed. An open door would have made this welfare check a lot easier. I knock again, louder, nearly pounding on the door the way a firefighter might. I don’t want to break a window, but I will.
No lights turn on inside, and only the click of the dead bolt sliding free alerts me to Oliver’s presence on the other side of the door. The relief is immediate, but it’s not until the door opens and I see his face that it feels physical. It’s a head rush and the stomach-swooping-heart-in-your-throat feeling of missing a step when you’re walking down stairs. I hadn’t even realized I was that worried.
“Oli,” I greet him, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my jacket to make sure I keep them to myself. For a moment, I wanted to hug him.
“Nils, holy cow, what are you doing out? It’s freezing. And snowing! Didn’t you notice?” He laughs at his own joke, stepping backward into the dark house as though to give me room to walk in. His silvery-blond hair is sticking out the top of the blanket he’s got wrapped around himself, cheeks pink in his otherwise pale face. He glows like a ghost.
“You-you-you oka-a-ay?” I ask, unsure whether it’s the cold to blame or the stutter for the way that question comes out. I can’t see much of him, wrapped up in that blanket like he is, but I can see it’s not thermal. He’s probably still cold.
“Yeah, fine, do you want to come in? Where were you? You shouldn’t be out in this.”
I huff a laugh at the admonishment, breath fogging between us. The inside will be darker than out here, no matter what the visibility is in the snow. Instead of walking in, I tip my head toward my truck idling in the drive.
“Come over to mine,” I tell him, willing him to read between the lines and understand that I have both a backup generator and a fire, willing him to not need it spelled out why he can’t stay here and should come stay with me.
Something of that must come through my expression. His eyes widen, and he shuffles back and forth in his blanket burrito, probably chilled from the wind through the open door. Taking a gloved hand from my pocket, I beckon him. Let’s go.
“Okay, yeah, that’s fine. Good. Safety in numbers,” he babbles. I’m happy he’s not cold enough for his tongue to have frozen. “I’ll just grab?—”
“You-you-you can wear mine.” I hate to interrupt him—lord knows I hate people who fucking interrupt—but the snow is still falling, it’s cold as hell, and I left the fire banked at home. I want to get him inside and check to make sure all his fingers and toes are intact. I want to give myself a few moments of silence to calm down enough not to stutter in front of him.
“Okay,” he agrees, leaving the door hanging wide open as he walks to the hall closet and grabs his winter jacket and boots.
Phone in hand—dead, he tells me—and door locked behind us, we climb into my truck. Oliver makes a relieved sound once the doors are closed, rubbing his gloved hands together and holding them in front of the vents. I’d left the engine running and heat on while we spoke on the porch, so the cab is pretty toasty. I angle the vents on my side toward him as well.
He’s quiet on the drive back to my place, occasionally humming but mostly silent as he leans forward in his seat and squints through the windshield like he’s helping me navigate. The soft glow of the living room lamp is still visible when I park as close to the house as I’m able. On first glance, the fire appears to have remained in the fireplace as well, given the lack of smoke. Hopefully, it’ll be nice and warm inside.
The moment Oliver steps inside and I close the door behind us, a strange awareness prickles at me. It’s the middle of thenight, and he’s in my house. The lights are low and intimate, the fire suddenly seeming like a romantic overture instead of a safety tool. When he sheds his jacket, I can see clearly the cozy sweats that were hiding underneath the blanket at his place, can see the flush of red on his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes, the thin green strap visible when he fiddles with the neck of his sweater, so similar to the hint of black I saw the other evening.
I point him toward the couch, wanting him to sit by the fire, and walk to the kitchen to make something warm to drink. I should ask him if he wants to try and sleep.Ishould want to sleep. But instead, I go through the motions of making hot chocolate in the near dark, less concerned with getting rest than I am with spending one-on-one time with Oliver. It feels a little ridiculous, me going over to rescue him from a little bit of snow. He was fine. But he’ll also clearly be better off here, so hot chocolate in front of the fire it is. The electric kettle clicks off, and I reach for my favorite mug, silently mouthing common words in case I need to say any of them out loud.
Oliver isn’t seated on the couch when I re-enter the living room, but cross-legged in front of the fireplace. His blanket is still wrapped around him but pooled around his hips and legs. His eyes are on the flames, and the light washes over him, turning him from silver to gold. I almost drop the mugs.
There’s no noise beyond the crackle of the fire. No humming or singing coming from my rarely silent companion. When I step further into the room, he breaks eye contact with the fire, looking over at me and smiling. I smile back, trying not to think about what an ambiance like this usually precedes. He’s probably warm enough not to need me to stretch out on top of him naked. I’m being ridiculous.
“Thanks. Cute mug,” Oliver compliments when I give him my favorite one, hand-painted with different-colored chickens.
I sit down next to him, trying not to stare at his face. He looks nice, all sleep rumpled and flushed from the fire. He’s in my living room in the middle of the night. I take a sip of hot chocolate, hoping that a minor burn will set my head back on straight.
“Oh my gosh, the chickens.” Oliver gasps, looking up from the mug to me before his eyes settle on the doorway that leads to the kitchen. I shake my head. The chickens are fine. He adds, “Maybe we should bring them inside.”
I laugh, leaning back on one hand and stretching my legs so my socked feet are closer to the fire.
