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The last time the group had stayed at an inn—longer than a handful of nights, anyway—had been months ago. The very night Torbek and Frost crossed that first invisible line, stepping out of the easy safety of “co-workers,” of acquaintances who walked side by side, and into something closer. Friends. Real friends.
It feels almost fitting, Torbek thinks now, that they’ve found themselves in another inn for a longer rest after taking yet another step together. Not a battlefield, not the wilderness, not the hush of a borrowed tent, but something softer. Something domestic. The walls are warm with firelight, the air heavy with the smells of roasting meat and wet wool drying by the hearth. People laugh downstairs–and fight, it was an inn after all, but that wasn’t important. Doors open and close. It’s the kind of place you don’t notice passing through; until you’re sharing it with someone who makes you want to stay.
And isn’t that a nice thought?
Frost liked him. Torbek still rolls the truth around in his mind like a stone he’s not sure he deserves to hold. Frost liked him, more than the close friendship Torbek had once convinced himself was all he’d ever get. Liked liked him. Liked him enough to speak it aloud, enough to ask if they could call what they had something real, something official.
Togetherness.
Torbek can’t help the way his chest aches at the word. For so long, he had thought that kind of thing wasn’t meant for him. He had lied about it when pressed, of course—made up names, faces, invented romances in far-fetched tales, just to fit in. To make himself seem more than he was. It was easier to let people think he was a clumsy lover to someone far away, or to think of him as pathetic, rather than admit it at all. Rather to admit no one had ever wanted him like that. Because in his heart, Torbek believed that only in a fantasy could anyone look at him and want what he had to offer.
But Frost did.
Frost looked at him with those golden glowing and steady eyes and saw through every foolish defense, every bumbling cover-up. Frost reached across the line Torbek never thought he’d cross and said what Torbek never thought he’d hear. That he wanted him. That he wanted this. That the dream wasn’t only in Torbek’s head.
And maybe, Torbek thinks as he sits in the quiet glow of the inn, that’s the nicest part of all.
Come to me.
Frost’s voice cuts into his mind, low and sweet, Torbek almost fumbles the glass in his hand. The rum inside—untouched save for a sip—slops against the rim before settling again. Around him, the fire crackles, the others still laughing and rambling, their words little more than slurred nonsense now. It all fades the moment Frost calls.
Normally, by this point, he’d be several pints down. The heat of alcohol was a comfort he seldom refused: a soft blur to make the night easier, to sand down the edges of memory, to hush the dreams that never came kind. He’d take the morning’s ache if it meant a quieter dark.
But not tonight.
He glances sideways just in time to catch Frost moving past the hearth’s glow, firelight catching in the pale edges of his fur before shadow swallows him whole. Near silent, Frost climbs the stairs, tail flicking once in a wordless gesture before disappearing into the darkened hall above. Torbek’s glass is still nearly full. Truth be told, he hasn’t done much drinking at all these last few weeks.
The things a proper support system can do for a person, hmm?
His mouth quirks faintly, but the thought sticks, warm and heavy in his chest. What he and Frost have—it’s new, ungainly, awkward as a newborn fawn on wet ground. But there’s a pull in it, steady and undeniable. A need, not to prove himself—Frost would never ask that of him, never need it—but to show him, in whatever clumsy ways he could, what it meant that someone like Frost had chosen him. That someone like Frost stayed.
The fire crackles, chatter rising and falling around the hearth as Torbek rises, drawn along the thin thread tugging him upstairs. No one notices. Of course they don’t. Years of slipping between shadows taught him how not to be seen—whether he wanted it or not. It’s a skill he doesn’t boast of often, but one he knows Frost shares, in his own sharp-edged way. Different scars, same silence. Maybe that’s why they fit together so well.
At the landing, Torbek pauses, gaze dipping back toward the common room. The firelight washes across their companions, turning their faces soft and golden, glasses abandoned and meals half-finished. He does like them—loud, messy, warm. He wouldn’t trade them, because he knows now that they wouldn’t trade him. But they aren’t Frost. None of them ever hold him the way Frost does, even when Frost is only sitting across the fire.
The stairs creak underfoot, but softly. He tests each step, ears flicking at the sound, until the hall above stretches dark and quiet. At the far end, Frost slips into one of the rooms, the door sighing open, tail vanishing just before the latch clicks.
Torbek swallows, stomach buzzing in a way he can’t quite name. He thinks about how Frost looked by the firelight, face half-shadowed, eyes catching like gems in the glow. He’d wanted to stare longer, like he always does, but held himself back. It’s a bit harder when the others are around. But now—now he’ll get to look his fill.
Excitement flares sharp in his chest, tangled with nerves. His thoughts stray to things he isn’t ready for, things he wants but knows are too far ahead: a kiss, a lingering touch, something bolder, something more. He reins himself in, cheeks warming at the thought. They’re new. Fragile. Just beginning. Frost had chosen him, him, and Torbek isn’t about to ruin that by rushing where they aren’t ready to go.
No—tonight, it will be enough to share a room. To share warmth. To hold each other, awkward and clumsy, and know that the thread pulling him isn’t just his imagination anymore.
To know that there is something, someone, waiting at all.
He pushes the door open slowly, ears flicking at the soft creak. The room smells faintly of woodsmoke and clean linen, the fire from below just barely seeping through the floorboards. Frost stands by the bed, already half-turned toward him, his expression calm in the lamplight. His ears angle forward, eyes gentle. He seems surprised, but gratified at his presence.
“That was fast.” Frost comments, almost teasing, a low rumble in his chest.
Torbek flusters, ears flicking back. “You aaaaaaasked,” he complains, voice pitching higher than he intends. His hands fidget, thumb tugging at the edge of his sleeve as though he can smooth his nerves out through the fabric.
Frost turns to him fully, and though he had glowed in the firelight below, he’s so much softer in the lamplight here. The shadows catch against the curve of his jaw, the glimmer of his eyes. “I thought you would have taken a little longer with the others, if I am to be honest. You seemed immersed.”
Torbek shakes his head quickly, almost frantically, and steps inside, closing the door with too much care. “Noooo. Torbek was… Torbek was distraaaaacted.” His ears twitch forward, then fold back, ashamed at the honesty. He chews the inside of his cheek, then blurts, quieter, “Didn’t waaaaaaant to waste time down theeeeeere when Frost was up heeeeere.”
Something flickers in Frost’s expression—surprise, maybe, but it softens almost immediately into something warmer, something that makes Torbek’s chest ache. Frost’s tail gives a slow sweep, pleased. “I see,” he says at last, voice gentler. “I am glad, then.”
Torbek’s shoulders slump with relief, and the smallest smile tugs at his mouth, lopsided and awkward. He still hovers near the door though, shifting his weight, not quite sure how to move closer. Not quite sure what comes next.
The tabaxi sits on the lip of the bed, and tilts his head, watching him with that unreadable calm of his, before patting the edge of the bed once. “Come here.”
Torbek brightens instantly, stumbling over his own feet as he crosses the room, ears burning. He pauses at the edge of the bed, heart hammering in his chest. Frost sits calmly, tail draped lazily over the edge, ears flicking now and then, his presence both grounding and disarmingly captivating.
Frost raises an eyebrow, and Torbek’s blush deepens, spreading warmth across his cheeks and up toward his ears. He swallows, shifting from foot to foot, unsure how to close the small distance between them.
Finally, Torbek edges onto the bed, leaving just enough space between them to breathe. His tail flicks nervously, a rhythm that matches the rapid beating of his heart. He glances at Frost, taking in the slow blink, the tilt of his head, the faint lift of a brow. Each small gesture reassures him that it’s safe to be here, even if he doesn’t entirely know how to act.
Torbek rests his hands on his knees for a moment, gripping the fabric of his pants to steady himself. He studies Frost—the lamplight catching his fur in warm tones, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the quiet patience in his gaze. Torbek’s own chest aches, a tangle of nerves and longing, and he realizes he’s been holding his breath all this time.
Frost lets out a soft sigh, leaning forward suddenly, catching Torbek in a gentle tug. He pulls them both to lie down on the mattress, tail brushing against Torbek’s side. “You’re being silly,” he murmurs, a faint chitter vibrating in his throat. “You’ve done this before.”
Torbek stiffens slightly, blinking up at him. “Yes, b-but… you weren’t respoooonding then!” His voice wavers, nervous and insistent. “This is diiiiiffereeeeeent.”
Frost tilts his head, eyes soft. “Is it really?” His tail sweeps lightly across Torbek’s side. “You’re still holding me.”
Torbek’s ears flick, a little embarrassed, a little relieved. He exhales, sinking slightly against Frost’s side, letting himself be held. For all the awkwardness and newness of it, there’s a comfort in the closeness. A quiet promise in the simple act of staying near each other.
He inhales a shaky breath, letting it out slowly. Afraid to disturb a moment he knows he can’t. His arms tighten around Frost, and Frost's arms tighten around him: hands pressed just beneath the canister, and Torbek realises, putting enough pressure to relieve the weight of gravity pressed against them. It's so incredibly caring that Torbek thinks he might cry, not that he's surprised–because it's Frost–but its—a lot.
Frost blinks at him, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. Half a question, half not. Torbek shifts closer, burying his nose in the thick fur of Frost’s neck. He inhales the faint scent of smoke and earth, of warmth and home, feeling the steady rise and fall of the smaller cat’s chest beneath his cheek. Frost responds by rubbing his face against Torbek’s head before settling his chin on the top of it.
He swallows against the lump in his throat, heart thudding, tail flicking in a delight that he reigns in as much as he can bother trying.