mart

Normally, he would not take it off. He would not remove his beloved scarf for just anyone. It feels like something that holds him together—a big bandage—keeps him sane as well as warm—but for Antonio, it is a sacrifice he is prepared to make, knowing that its warmth would spread and be shared.

So Ivan stands. He folds over the corner of his page to mark it, slips his book into a pocket (yes, his coat pockets are that big!) and walks towards the other. With each step, he unravels more and more of his scarf from around his neck, and then gently hands it over to Antonio without any hesitation or reservation.

He trusts the other; Antonio is gentle, too.

“Thanks,” the Spaniard says with a smile that could mend almost anyone, before he turns and wraps it carefully around his snowman’s neck. He plays around with it for a moment, styling and draping it with decision, before he stands back, assesses, and then returns to Ivan: “What do you think?”

“He’s cute,” Ivan supposes. “I think he might need some eyes, though. Or a face in general.”

Antonio tuts, but his smile remains. “I’m getting there! I’ve got the rocks, and even some sticks for the arms!” he declares, gesturing to his small pile. “D’you wanna help me finish him? You can have your scarf back afterwards to warm you back up!”

Ivan is already bent over, picking up some of the stones, but he feels he has to point out, “My scarf will be a bit snowy,” which means it will be cold. He won’t put it back on immediately, even if he misses wearing it already.

“Ah.” Antonio pauses, chews on a lip, and then apologises to him. He feels bad. He didn’t even think! 

But, “It’s fine,” Ivan assures him without qualm. It was his choice to surrender it, after all. And besides: “We can’t let your snowman friend go without.”

They stand up straight and look at each other. There is a moderate distance between them, but not an impossible one; Antonio is able to bridge it, in fact, as he stands on his tiptoes, grabs Ivan’s shoulders, and gives him a soft peck on the cheek. 

To Antonio, it is natural—it is just something he does, before he steps back down and carries on, returning to his snowman so he can start shoving the sticks into its body. But to Ivan, it is like his scarf. It is something that warms him, something that heals him, something that helps him be happy—to feel more like… Ivan.

It takes a few seconds for that feeling to settle again, and for Ivan to return to the present moment. The tiny rocks seem to rematerialise in his hand, and, seeing that Antonio is working away, he duly joins in the effort. 

Together, they complete the snowman in a matter of minutes, Antonio directing how each stone should be placed in order to achieve the ‘perfect smile’ (though, if he is honest, Ivan knows no pile of snow could ever replicate the perfect smile as he knows it). Once it is done, they stand back. Antonio hurries again to amend the way Ivan’s scarf lays. Then he returns to Ivan’s side and says, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Ivan replies. “You did most of the work.”

“But you helped,” Antonio reminds him, “and, most importantly, you gave him your scarf.”

“I gave you my scarf. The snowman is just lucky.”

The other hums, and his eyes return to the creature they have made. “Not just him,” Antonio mumbles—a thought Ivan only just hears—before he is suddenly pulling his own hat from his head, and placing it atop their masterpiece. “There,” he says, standing back once more. “Now we can both be cold for a bit.”

Ivan smiles. His arm falls around Antonio’s shoulders, and Antonio in turn leans against him. “I do not think the cold will not be a problem,” he muses, however. Not so long as the two of them are together.

The three of them are amongst a small group of volunteers (or ‘elves’ as it had been put) to help decorate ahead of the annual holiday get-together. This year, it has become Francis’ undertaking, but as if he was going to get up a ladder and decorate the Christmas tree himself! Gilbert has a list of strict instructions (which he’s mostly ignored so far) and as he approaches the top, he’s glad he’s nearly finished. 

But of course, being all the way up a ladder while decorating what was apparently a ten foot tall tree is ‘alarming’. Gilbert’s been dealing with Mikkel’s disguised worry for the last twenty minutes, but now that Antonio is now also here, he just knows it’ll worsen. Darn old men and their weak, weak knees! Not everyone is a liability!

As predicted, nevertheless—

“Do you want me to hold the ladder?” Antonio offers as well, hands on hips as he watches on from below. “Or maybe one of us should go up there instead…?”

Gilbert waves him off, and continues titivating the silvery tinsel. “I’m almost done,” he says by way of reassuring him, the worry-wart. 

“I’m gonna leave you to it,” Mikkel surrenders with a gentle sigh. “Reckon I’ll be more use elsewhere.”

“Yep!” Gilbert agrees, eyes still glued to his work. 

He hears some mumbling from below—Antonio and Mikkel exchanging some quiet words and a laugh about something, he notes—before one person’s footsteps pad away, and the room falls silent once more. 

The silence only lasts so long, though.

“I’m looking forward to tonight,” Antonio muses. A quick glance down reveals that he’s looking around the room, at the tall ceilings, the chandelier, the snow-adorned garlands… “Something about Fran’s parties are always so magical, don’t you think?”

Gilbert hums along to appease him. He isn’t sure if ‘magical’ is the word. But he will admit he enjoys these nights, the festivities, the friends, the laughter… That’s what the holidays have come to mean: spending time with the important people in his life while they can.

But then Gilbert finds himself, after a moment, looking down once more. Below him, Antonio is eyeing some of the decorations already on the tree—glass baubles, ceramic birds, hand-painted globes—and a small smile seems to have appeared on his face, eyes wide like a child in a sweet shop.

Antonio is an even bigger fan of the holidays. For the same reasons, at heart. But there’s a part of him that also just loves the lights, the ornaments, the wreaths—every little detail. And even if he maintains his traditions in January, Antonio has not shied away from Christmas Day celebrations either in recent years. Gilbert likes seeing him enjoy himself in that respect. There was a short period where his presence was… Well…

It’s good to see him. 

“Oh my gosh, I f—”

“FUCK—!”

“GILBERT!”

It happens so fast. There’s a wobble, then more wobbling, and then only falling.

It feels funny. A leg slips briefly between rungs—a misplaced foot is the root of his problems—and he feels himself fall backwards, light, helpless, fast. He braces himself in that single second to hit the ground—maybe even the ladder—to hit his head, or hurt his back, or land on a shoulder. Sustaining an injury is far from ideal, especially since these days he’s not quite so well-equipped to heal, but if he—

He does not hit the ground, but something just a little bit softer. Something that has arms that try to catch him, and something that inevitably falls down beneath his weight.

So much for not falling!

But that fall has repercussions, now, on more people than just himself. 

With a groan, Gilbert tries to move and get up. Antonio, however, who is beneath him and sprawled across the floor, asks him, strained and quiet, to stay put.

Gilbert worries. His arse hurts, as does his shin. He’s glad to see the ladder went towards the tree and that Francis’ baubles survived the ordeal, but…

“Are you okay?” he asks Antonio, who still holds him, arms wrapped around Gilbert’s torso. 

“Eh…” His breathing is a bit heavy, yet bated. “I thought I told you not to fall…”

“Yeah, well,” Gilbert scoffs, “you made me jump!”

“And you’re welcome for saving your neck!”

With that, Gilbert carefully pries himself from the other’s grasp and slowly sits up. Antonio softly groans, and decides to stay lying down; the other perches next to him, his own heart still racing a bit, and they look at each other.

The worry is certainly mutual.

“You okay?” Gilbert asks again, another layer to his question implied in the way his face morphs. 

“Sore,” Antonio says. “Gimme a minute. I’ll— I’ll be fine.”

“Idiot.”

“Well.” His smile returned, albeit somewhat mischievous. “After that, I guess you could say you—”

“Don’t.”

“—fell for me?”

“Ugh.”

“The heck happened to you two? I heard a scream!”

Gilbert rolls his head to the side and finds Mikkel, reemerged at just the right time, and in a dramatic display of surrender, he riffs a slew of curses and joins Antonio on the floor properly. 

Paying no mind to Mikkel’s presence, then, Antonio seeks out Gilbert’s hand and holds it gently in his own. It is warm. It is kind, in spite of what has just occurred between them. And Antonio looks at him with such warmth, too, and Gilbert looks back, and the other smiles once again, and Gilbert warms and buzzes and breathes and—

“No more ladders for you, Gil.”

“If you say so, Toni.”

And with that, their laughter only resumes.

Round 1 - Seychelles vs Belgium - Winner: Belgium

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