#iceandbone

The scent of sharp, citrus cologne wafted through the apartment and hung heavy in the air wherever you went. As you padded across the living room to the front entrance, you considered pinching the bridge of your nose to ward off the beginning pangs of a migraine caused by the pungent fragrance, calling out to Mario as you did so, “is it necessary to pour the entire bottle of cologne on yourself?”

“No,” he shot back at you assuredly, his voice deep and gravelly. “Just half.” You heard the bottle release another spritz and internally groaned as another knock sounded against the door.

Electing to ignore your juvenile boyfriend, you swung open the front door and beamed at the two men standing on the other side. Šime and Dejan were both waiting patiently in the hallway, donning their brightest smiles and ugliest Christmas (or non-denominational) sweaters – as per the request of your invitations. “Welcome, you two! We’re glad you could make it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Dejan promised, a wry grin planted upon his unusually handsome profile. “Free booze and domaćica? Pfft.”

“And Mario wouldn’t let us,” Šime added.

You nodded cheerily – remembering how Mario had awkwardly (perhaps even shyly?) suggested the holiday party, and threatened to sucker-punch those who wouldn’t attend. You stepped aside so they could enter, “let me take your coats. Mario, come and be social, Dejo and Šime are here and they brought a gift!”

As you eyed the shiny bag, equipped with a bright red bow, dangling in Dejan’s fingers, Mario waltzed across the wooden floorboards and greeted his teammates with friendly shoves and their usual ‘locker room’ talk. “What is this, a super bowl party? Get over here,” Šime joked, pulling Mario into a warm yet cursory embrace. “You wouldn’t believe how many liquor stores were closed today–”

Mario snorted, “On a Sunday? Go figure–.”

“We drove around for half an hour before Dejan remembered he had something in the fridge. So, enjoy.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” you commented whole-heartedly, “I’ll go put this to chill in the kitchen. Make yourself comfortable, there’s eggnog in the living room and Dejan, would you be a doll and set up the radio for us?”

“Is the eggnog spiked?”

“Yes. And there’s wine, beer, and drinks in the portable fridge on the balcony!”

“Count me in.” He flicked his thumb over his shoulder and gestured for Šime to follow. Once they were out of ear shot, you heard Mario’s familiar footfalls behind you on your way to the kitchen.

You glanced behind you, watching as Mario folded his arms across his muscular figure and leaned against the granite island. There was something dark and slightly humorous in his eyes that unnerved you. “What?” You snapped.

“What, what?” His dark brows rose into his hairline, feigning innocence.

“You know what. Why are you giving me that look?” If you glanced quickly, you might’ve mistaken it for his bedroom look; but this, this was far more dangerous.

He simply smirked. Yes, this was uncharted territory. “You just gave Dejan and Šime full range of our alcohol and sent them to ‘fix’ the radio. Grave mistake, sweetheart. Get ready for your ears to bleed.”

You considered his words for a moment before you moved aside to set the wine Dejan brought in a chilled container. Mario had a point, even if it irked you to admit it. After a beat of silence passed, you released a girlish chime of laughter and leaned your hip against the countertop. It was only a matter of time before Croatian pop music began to rattle the walls, or worse, they would find the Ariana Grande album you stowed away for Mario’s nieces for Christmas. All in all, you only hoped whatever they played wasn’t pornographic. “What have I done?”

Mario shrugged as he fixed the last remaining buttons on his navy blue dress-shirt. “Only time will tell, but, I should probably rein them in.”

Your brow furrowed for a moment as you watched him meticulously slip a button through a linen hole. “Wait a minute – where’s your ugly Christmas sweater? I laid it out on the bed for you.”

“I saw it,” he admitted curtly. “But I didn’t like it.”

“So? It’s an  ‘Ugly Christmas – or non-denominational – Sweater Party’! You can’t wear a button up.” Although you had to admit, he looked particularly sharp in it. The dress shirt hugged his athletic physique perfectly, and accentuated his broad shoulders. “Who cares if you look ridiculous in it? We all look ridiculous.”

He rose a cautionary brow. Mario obviously did not want to be lumped together with people who looked ‘ridiculous’ by choice. “I didn’t have any shoes to correspond with it.”

You rolled your eyes incredulously and held up a hand,  “Come on. We’re getting you into that sweater if it’s the last thing I do.”

Mario whined your name as you moved to sweep past him, darting a hand out to grasp you by your arm. He tugged you closer, close enough that the scent of his cologne was again nauseating, but you yielded and softened against him, throwing your arms around his neck and granting his rosy-lips a quick peck. “You’ll look cute, I promise.”

“I don’t want to look cute,” He pouted.

You traced your fingertip along the edge of his mouth. It tickled him, and he curled his lip under his teeth. His cheeks were slightly red from the cold, and his gelled hair was wind-tossed. You were completely enamored by him. “That’s hard to believe when you look so adorable pouting. Please, for me?” His gaze shifted, and if it were possible you noticed the edge within him lessen; like a lion backing away from its prey, he audibly exhaled and silently agreed. As his amber-brown eyes sought yours, the doorbell rang and you sighed; the moment had ended sooner than it began. “Change. I’ll answer the door.”

Calling out a brief, ‘I’m coming!’, you pried open the door – smiling as you saw Luka and Domagoj outside. “Hi, you guys! Welcome. I love the sweater, Domo!”

“Thanks, [your name],” Domo grinned, running a hand through your hair and disheveling your straightened locks beyond repair.

Before you could utter a word of protest, Luka leaned forward and pecked both of your cheeks, smiling warmly toward you. “Thank you for having us. Don’t tell Mario, but Ivan had to take a rain-check. We brought gifts, though!”

“Oh, wonderful.” You attempted to fix the tangled mess that was your hair, but to little avail. “We’ll bring these to the kitchen. Might I ask, which Ivan…? Peri?”

“Raketa,” Luka explained.

“May he rest in peace,” you laughed.

“And I brought this for you from Casa de Domo,” Domo interrupted, pushing a punch bowl covered in plastic wrap into your arms. You struggled beneath the weight of the bowl before Mario suddenly came to your rescue and lifted it from your arms.  “Made from scratch.”

“Thank you, honey,” you mumbled to Mario, to which he responded with a brisk grunt. “And thank you Domo.” Seeking to find the right words to thank him, you sputtered, “what–what is it, by chance? It smells…”

“Foul,” Mario muttered. To his credit, Domo hadn’t heard him.

“Strong,” you supplied instead.

Domo’s fair brows knitted over his eyes, as if the answer were obvious and the mysterious liquid within did not utterly appall you. “It’s a Fireball cinnamon roll cocktail. With a very special, secret ingredient.”

“Jesus Ch…” Mario cursed underneath his breath, until you reached out and pinched the back of his arm, causing his nose to screw up in distaste.

“Thank you, Domo, again. We really appreciate it. We’ll just put this in the fridge. Dejan and Šime are in the living room, supposedly setting up the music, and there’s drinks, snacks and my special eggnog somewhere.”

“Special?” Luka’s brow rose into his hairline.

“More alcohol than is safe to consume,” Mario supplied. “Straight from her grandmother’s recipe book.”

“Wonderful. We’ll make ourselves useful in the living room. Can I help you with anything?”

“Absolutely not!” You cried. “Our treat. Go, our house is yours and we want you to make yourself comfortable.”

Mario whistled and pointed at Domo, “not too comfortable. This isn’t the pig-stye you call bedroom.”

“It’s not that messy, asshole. And your mom didn’t seem to mind it last time she was there,” he added, flicking Mario the bird.

Once Luka and Domo had turned on their heel, you crooked your finger at Mario, indicating for him to follow you back into the kitchen before he could leap at Domo. “Can you go five minutes without being rude to our guests?”

“Rude? This–this is an abomination to alcohol. Why would anyone mix sweetness and spice?”

“It obviously meant a lot to him to have made it from scratch.” You peeled back the plastic wrap, expecting it to bubble like a cauldron, and gave the mixture a quick sniff. You immediately jumped backward, as if you’d been burned, and clamped your eyes shut as they began to water. “Oh, my God.”

“What?” Mario’s brows pulled together out of concern. He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a gentle squeeze, “what is it?”

“I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes. Literally.”

“Liar. It can’t be that bad.”

“You try it.”

Mario dipped a finger into the mysterious brew and sampled it. You watched as a smirk toyed upon your lips as he belched and coughed, sputtering as he set the punch bowl down. You knew it had to be bad; Mario had a higher tolerance for alcohol than most. “Holy shit. What is the secret ingredient, poison?”

You glanced at each other, both your eyes on the verge of watering and throats nearly burning, before busting out into laughter. You moved toward him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders again, smiling crookedly. “Can we even throw it out? Are we terrible hosts if we don’t serve it?”

“I think we’d be terrible hosts if we did serve it, and possibly accomplices to the crime,” He replied level-headedly. “Look, we’ll say you accidentally tripped and spilled it. Unless Domo wants to lick it off the floor, he’ll know it was a harmless accident.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You countered, “Why do I have to be the one that spills it? He’s your friend.”

“Because,” He murmured, running a hand through your hair, “you’re the clumsy one.” He squinted an eye, head canting to the side as he gestured to your hair, “by the way, what happened here?”

“Domo.” His name was more than enough explanation and Mario released a quiet, ‘aaah.’

Mario said gently, “I think it looks pretty. C’mon, let’s find that ugly sweater that I definitely didn’t toss down the trash chute. We’ll match.”

As you reached on your tiptoes to graze your mouth against his, a thought sprang to you, the citrus of his cologne invading your senses pleasantly – sweetness and spice. “You. You’re what happens when you mix sweetness and spice. You’re like a cinnamon roll, Mario.”

“A cinnamon roll? You’re comparing me to Domo’s abomination of a cocktail?”

You nodded. “I’m being serious!”

“As am I.”

“You’re like… those candies. You know, first they’re sour; then they’re sweet.”

A sly grin rounded the corners of his lips. “They’re only sweet when you suck on them, [your name].”

You rolled your eyes and whacked him playfully on the chest using a hand towel. “Gross. Shut up. And go, for the love of God, change! I’m going to be the good hostess and entertain our guests.”

Mario raked a hand through his hair and turned toward the exit, “Fine, but don’t blame me when Dejan suggests playing strip poker and no one is there to stop him.”

“Maybe I don’t want to stop him.”

You winked as he turned back around to shoot you a deadly glare.

Yes – this Holiday party would be one to remember, and it had only just begun.