#oc december

March stared daggers into the back of Mistria’s newest farmer as she talked to his brother, making her typical rounds through the village to gather errands before disappearing to do gods know what in the narrows to fulfill them.

She was quiet. Reserved. Aloof. She seemed like she wouldn’t be as generous as she is. 

Her icy blue eyes could slice diamonds, her lacking expressions were jarring, and her mild rasp gave her soft voice an edge that didn’t match its words. 

Her smile, when it graced her lips, was as bright as the sun reflecting off of snow; and the dimples it formed on her almost-sickly pale skin were footprints, leaving dents in the substance after a heavy flurry. 

She was everything March wasn’t. For starters, her name was December. 

Fucking December… seriously? 

She was the winter to his spring. He ran warm, she ran cold. He was kinda tall, she was kinda short. He was uptight and easily agitated while she was outwardly calm and sometimes a little goofy, even under his blunt scrutiny. 

He was jealous of her innate smithing abilities while she didn’t even enjoy working at the forge all that much; and where March saw competition, she sought comradery. 

All of that bothered him. She knew as much. He made sure everyone knew, their only hint that he’s maybe (definitely) hamming it up being how affectionate he gets towards her during his drunken Friday nights at the inn. It had been nearly a year since she moved in, so there was no fooling anyone anymore… drunken words are sober thoughts, and all that. But that wouldn’t stop him.

As December turned from Olric and made her way towards the redhead, he pretended like he didn’t notice her. Like his heart didn’t feel palpable in his chest, and his palms didn’t feel clammy beneath the leather that protected him from the scorching metal he handled.

She silently watched him for a few moments. He was unsure if she was looking for conversation or simply observing his techniques, but either way, it pissed him off a little. 

“Is it just me,” he led her on, “or are you getting more skilled…” 

His gaze met hers, which swam with something he couldn’t put his finger on. Curiosity? Hopefulness? Why was she so hard to read? 

“…at breathing down my neck while I’m working?” he finished with a glare. 

December’s mouth twitched and her dark grey brows furrowed slightly, but she otherwise didn’t react. As she took a few steps closer, she dug through her backpack, eventually pulling out a bar of chocolate.

She held the snack up between them. March kept his agitated expression plastered on her grasp. He couldn’t help but notice that, despite having delicate fingers and neatly shaped cuticles, her hands looked rough and calloused, with some dirt speckled beneath her nails. 

He had the urge to hold them, massage them until they were less sore, help her groom them so that she would have one less thing to worry about—

Wait. What?

When March didn’t take the bar outright, December explained, “Olric told me once that you have a sweet tooth. So do I,” she shrugged, “so I thought maybe we could share it.”

…Huh.

March ripped his stare from December’s hand and scanned her face, his own warming up when he noticed how intently she was watching him. He chewed the inside of his cheek in an effort to ground himself.

Rather than thanking her — like he knew he should — he ran his mouth. “Are you trying to butter me up with food I like?”

She raised a brow, retracted her arm, and spun on the heel of her boots. “Guess you don’t want this, then.” 

It almost sounded like she was teasing him.

Why did that excite him?

“Wait,” he said, wrapping a hand around the farmer’s wrist. 

She looked at him over her shoulder, and he could’ve sworn there was a mischievous glint in her eye. She was winding him up on purpose. 

“U-um,” he stuttered at the realization, “Fine. I need a break anyway.”

The corner of December’s lips that he could see curled up ever so slightly while she looked at their joined skin, wordless. It took a moment for March to snap out of his trance and let go. 

With the chocolate still in its wrapper, she snapped it in half, tore it open, and took the top piece before handing March the contained rest of it. Then, he watched her as she made her way to the wall nearby. She slid her bag from her shoulders before leaning against the stone, tilting her head to the sky, presumably to watch the clouds rolling overhead. 

“Not even gonna give me the first half?” he complained, joining her.

He didn’t actually care. He didn’t know why he was being combative.

He never really did.

December broke off a square and popped it into her mouth, nudging March with her elbow. “Figured you wouldn’t want your grubby hands touching it.”

He took off his gloves and tossed them aside, then shimmied the treat closer to its foil opening. “Grubby?” 

She nodded. “I know damn well they’re sweaty.”

Feeling a little self conscious, March scanned his free hand while he took a bite directly out of the candy bar with the other. He let the chocolate melt on his tongue, enjoying both that and how the late autumn breeze felt on his skin while he opened and closed his fist.

…She wasn’t wrong. 

“Whatever,” he muttered, wiping his palm on his apron. December breathed a laugh out of her nose. “At least my nails aren’t gross.”

She leaned in to get a better look, as if to confirm if his words were true. When her coconut-scented shampoo wafted to him from her blindingly white hair, he couldn’t deny how his stomach fluttered.

With a small “Hm,” she leaned back against the stone, proceeding to study her own hands before nodding. “I should start wearing gloves while I farm.” 

March’s mouth moved before his brain could stop him. “I might have a spare pair, if you want them.” What? “I-I mean, they might not fit, though.” They definitely wouldn’t. They’d be huge on her. He knew this because she’s literally worn them at the forge. “And they’re thick.” No shit, Sherlock, they have to be.

She politely shook her head, but smiled to herself. As his chest swelled with pride, he realized that he really liked making her smile. 

He didn’t know how to feel about that. He angrily stuffed the last bit of chocolate into his mouth.

“You already gave me a hoe, I don’t want you to supply all of my stuff.”

“You better be putting it to good use.”

“Of course I am,” she scoffed. “It’s nice. It feels weightless.”

“Obviously.” Tilting his chin up and smirking, March bragged, “I’m the greatest blacksmith in Aldaria after all.” He punctuated the claim with a wink.

December looked away, the tips of her ears rosy, if March wasn’t mistaken. Hm. “Bold words.”

“I’ll have you know that I—“

“Yeah, yeah, trophies and medals and et cetera.”

“And what do you have?” he prodded.

“I have my own awards…” she pouted as she slipped the last square of chocolate between her lips. “Just not the same kind.”

“And you never will.”

“Can’t we just get along?” 

“Can’t you stop bugging me every day?”

“Some things are simply unknowable.”

March laughed. December grinned up at him, visibly proud to have gotten a reaction, and the blacksmith quickly turned away, covering his reddening face with his fist. The foil crumpled within it became a stress toy for a beat before he tossed it into the nearby trash bin.

“I have work to do,” he grunted, sliding his gloves back on. “Scram.”

December put on a low and gruff voice in a poor attempt to mimic March’s, “Thank you for the chocolate, December. That was fun, December.”

He stopped himself from laughing this time, but being turned away from her view, he at least let himself smile. “Goodbye.”

“Smell you later.”

“S-smell..?” March whispered to himself. 

He gave his pits a quick sniff. It’s a given that he wouldn’t smell like roses, working such a physical profession, but he had no more of a musk than usual.

“I don’t—“ he started to defend himself. When he turned around, December was already gone. “Damn it.”

__

March was wrapping up for the day as December made her way back down the road. Her hair, which had been down before, was now tied in a high and messy ponytail; her jacket laid securely around her waist, revealing a high-necked, sleeveless, navy blue top; and her arms and cheeks were littered with dirt and cuts that were just begging to get infected.

March sighed. 

He guessed he’d have to do something to help. 

Not like he wanted to, or anything. 

It was for her, not him. 

Not that he cared. 

Whatever. 

“The fuck happened to you?” he prompted when she was within earshot.

She dumped her jacket and noticeably heavier bag near the wall they’d leaned on earlier, trudged up the steps to the forge, and made a beeline for the spare apron and gloves March kept near the furnace. 

She looked exhausted.

“Monsters,” December answered simply, untangling the straps and beginning to lift the apparel over her head. 

No way in hell he was letting her forge now. With all those injuries and the dark circles under her eyes, she would surely just hurt herself even m—

…She would mess something up. 

She would… break something? 

Burn his… apron? 

Something...

Ugh.

March stomped over to the farmer and wrapped his hands around her forearms, pulling them up and towards him before taking back his apron. 

“Nuh-uh.” She stared at him plainly, her hands still frozen mid-air. “You look awful.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, you— not like—“ he stopped himself with a grunt, lest he accidentally admit how pretty she looked despite her disheveled appearance. “Come on.” He took one of December’s hands in his and ushered her into the smithy. 

She went along without question, allowing March to only hope that she was content with this. He sat her down at the stool beside his blueprint-riddled desk; disappeared into another room, reappearing with a first-aid kit; kneeled down in front of her; and got started right away, opting to not explain himself. 

December winced a little at the pain of antiseptic on a gash near her wrist. March told her to hold still. She stuck her tongue out at him, and he wondered what it tasted like, and that thought startled him. He immediately averted his gaze so that he wouldn’t be so tempted to try and find out.

December didn’t say a word while March tended to her wounds, which he was thankful for. She probably already noticed how gently he was treating her. How his everlasting scowl was more so focused than peeved this time. And he knew he’d drive himself mad wondering all the possible ways she could have been perceiving him, so he did his best not to linger on it. 

He settled into a simple rhythm of blotting antiseptic with a cotton ball, applying ointment to the deeper cuts, and bandaging, before scanning for the next area to treat. He didn’t even think twice before standing between December’s legs, cupping her face in his non-dominant hand to care for a wound just above her eyebrow. 

He only noticed how intimate it was when he felt her face burning up beneath his touch. If he hadn’t seen the starstruck look in her usually blank eyes, or the pinkness to her washed-out skin, he would have just assumed she overworked herself into a fever and scolded her accordingly.

March’s eyes widened slightly while his cheeks quickly began to rival his hair. He parted his lips as if to say something, but nothing came out. Seeing December so flustered just flustered him right back… what should he even say at a time like this?

A wave of relief washed over him when she averted her gaze. He took the opportunity to get back to the task at hand — the sooner he could get her the hell out, the sooner he would be able to relish in the feeling of knowing that he didn’t do something stupid that would change the trajectory of their dynamic forever.

At the sound of her voice, though, his hand stilled again. “Um,” December started. There was a pause before she went on, “Thanks for doing this.”

A silent moment lingered between them while March tried to figure out an answer. His gaze rested on her eyelids; whether it was shyness or discomfort keeping her from looking back up at him, he couldn’t say. 

The normal thing to do would be to tell her that it’s no problem at all. That it felt right. That he wanted her to be safe. Whatever pleasantries people would typically say in response to a “thank you.”

Instead, he did what he does best. “Well… just think of this as repayment for the snack.” 

Damn it, March.

In spite of her medic being a dick, December still smiled to herself. March’s heart stuttered at the feeling of her skin dimpling beneath his palm in turn. He’d always kind of wondered what that would feel like…

Without thinking, he let his thumb lazily swipe at it while he patted her cut with the dry side of the cotton; and when she melted into his touch like ores over the hot coals of his furnace, he began to wonder if it was worth it to keep up his charade of distrust and malcontent towards her. 

All he wanted to do was tell her he wanted to do this for her. That he cared about her, that he was tired of pretending for others and himself that he felt any other way. That he wanted to kiss her over and over until she smiled so much that her dimples were permanently carved into her cheeks.

With the Spring Festival on its way, most of Mistria’s residents could be seen scrambling around in search of Breath of Spring flowers.

Those who often spent their time indoors such as the innkeepers and store owners often took to foraging, to keep things laxed while still giving it a fair chance. Ryis and Landen engaged in their typical work, finding flowers amongst the bushy leaves of the trees and bushes they chopped. The Dragonguard would lift rocks (which meant Luc often, to his excitement, found some new bug friends in the process), scoop up sea shells to peek into, and even clamor into the shallow ends of the river in hopes of finding some stray petals flowing through the water. 

December went on with her days as usual, finding plenty of flowers passively, just as she had done her first year in Mistria. March, on the other hand, would nonchalantly keep an eye on the areas near his workstation by day, and head into the narrows or mines to hit them out of some rocks by night. He wanted to win – his ego was on the line, after all – but there was no way in hell he’d allow the others to see it.

Olric once told the farmer that the only thing his brother hated more than birthdays themselves was being ignored on his birthday, especially with the event that took place immediately after. He couldn’t stand feeling overshadowed by the town’s “made up holiday,” as he had brutally dubbed it. That said, when March’s birthday came this year, December wanted to find that fine line for celebrating him where he would feel loved and important, but he wouldn’t get overwhelmed either.

So, she approached the grumpy birthday boy on her way to the mines with two mochas in hand, some sandwiches in her backpack – two to share with March now, and a third for later, when she’d need an extra boost – and a small gift, which was nestled safely under her arm and wrapped in red cloth.

“Goooood morning,” December grinned as she approached the anvil. 

She thought the cheery sing-song tone in her voice would annoy March a considerable but safe amount, so she was surprised to see how calm his face fell when he looked up at her. 

He couldn’t place his finger on why he was so relieved to see her. It wasn’t like his birthday was different from any other day, he lied to himself before wondering why this felt different.

Well, it was his first birthday in a long time with a partner. Maybe that was doing something to him.

He sighed, “Hey,” wiping the sweat from his forehead and placing his hammer down. 

The wall December tended to rest her things against had become the couple’s designated break spot too. When the farmer visited the forge, both in the far past and as they grew closer, they’d oftentimes find themselves leaning or sitting against the stone while they chatted and replenished their energy. Today was no different. Once they were in place, March took both coffees from December’s grasp so she could set down her bag. 

“Thanks,” she said, taking her own mocha back before handing March the present, “aaand happy birthday.” He glared at her. “What?” “Did Olric put you up to this?” “Why the hell would I need Olric to tell me to give you a birthday present?”

March’s eyes narrowed further, but he didn’t make any further accusations, instead taking a sip from his coffee. “Well, thanks.”

“‘Course.” December held out her hand to take March’s drink again so that he could open it.

Taking a quick note at the fabric, which matched his hair almost perfectly, he wondered if December had done that on purpose or not. 

She did. She specifically asked Louis if he could fold a piece into the dress she purchased a few weeks prior. 

March’s eyes widened as he unwrapped from said fabric the most perfect gold ore he’d ever seen. It was shinier than even the highest quality ingots he’d casted, it looked dense, and gods, he couldn’t wait to work with it. He almost didn’t even want to, it was so beautiful. The chunks of perfect ore in the museum — which he’d already been impressed by, and admittedly was even more so upon hearing who their donor was — couldn’t compare. 

March always had a bit of a natural flush to his complexion, but there was something about how it seemed to stand out more when he grinned this time that made December’s heart skip. He wasn’t necessarily blushing, but his face looked brighter. And while March pored over the metal in his hand, December observed the liveliness in his smile, making his dark eyes shine like onyx in the sunlight. The way his teeth ran a little yellowed — probably from all that coffee and chocolate consumption — and slightly crooked between his smooth lips. The softer look of his bare arms while he let himself relax his muscles, which he rarely did around people. The angle and shape of his perfectly groomed, thick eyebrows, sitting above his equally thick eyelashes…

March looked up, meeting December’s blatant stare with a beaming grin. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen him look so sincerely, wholeheartedly happy without alcohol in his system, or a laugh blossoming from his throat. He didn’t even tease her for ogling. 

“How do you even find these?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, “I guess I have an eye for it.”

March rolled his eyes. “Or you’re just lucky to be good at everything.”

“Jealousy makes you look silly.”

“Well, you always look silly.”

December stuck out her tongue at him. March wanted so badly to shove it away with a kiss, but with Errol and Eiland walking past and waving their greetings to the two, he didn’t want to risk any more gossip being thrown around. 

So he glared at them. Eiland remained blissfully unaware and continued to ramble, fiddling with the Breath of Spring fashionably tucked behind his ear for safe keeping; meanwhile, the old curator silently wondered what he’d done to deserve the harsh glance. He knew March was a grump, but jeez, he thought to himself. He frowned while nodding along, still listening to Eiland as they disappeared into the narrows.

March went on, his eyes back on the ore in his hands, “Well…” he directed his sight to December’s again, “thanks.”

“Mhm,” she passively welcomed him as she placed the March’s coffee back in his free hand and bent down to dig through her backpack. She then pulled out a sandwich wrapped in parchment paper and placed it atop his cup. With a more formal tone akin to Adeline and Eiland’s, she added, “And your humble birthday breakfast, my liege.”

March moved to place his gift down on the anvil, and then took his seat in the grass, saying, “Your liege, huh?” 

December nodded, joining him. March’s face looked pink, but smug. “What?”

“I can get used to that.”

The farmer rolled her eyes, then playfully nudged him, “Well don’t.”

__

Once March finished up his work for the day, he decided to set out for the mines. December would probably still be there, but he knew she usually kept to the lower levels now that she had upgraded tools. If he went shallow, he wouldn’t risk running into her.

Or so he thought.

The first thing he saw when stepping off of the wooden, makeshift elevator was December’s pale eyes, wide and confused while she hit the finishing blow on a rock in her path. His expression was no different.

As she opened her mouth to question his presence, a small, slimy creature launched itself onto her cheek. “Eugh!” she expressed her disgust. 

Those guys were never very strong to begin with, but they didn’t hurt her much at all now that she was used to their stronger brethren in the tide caverns and onward. If she was going to be hit by anyone, she’d rather it be them — but she’d never get used to their cold, sticky, and almost slug-like texture. She ripped her assailant off of her face and flung it into a nearby chasm, promptly wiping her gloved hand on her pants.

“What,” she breathed, shifting her headphones to her neck and pausing her mp3, “the fuck are you doing here?”

March’s brain scrambled for a moment, before he deflected, tilting his chin up and narrowing his eyes, “I could ask you the same.”

December matched his posture, placing the hand on her hip for added effect. “I figured I’d search some of the safer floors for more flowers before heading out.” She took a few steps forward to meet him, then egged him on as she pieced together that he was probably doing more or less the same, “Your turn, pretty boy.” 

March flustered a little at the name she gave him and the tone in which she spoke. It wasn’t intentionally sexy, but he wouldn’t have known any better until she told him directly. His eyes widened from their accusatory squint to their normal shape on their own volition as he muttered, “P-pretty boy?” December nodded curtly, blind to her partner’s inner turmoil. 

The blacksmith took a second to just breathe. He couldn't go and get all riled up over something so simple, what with them being several dozen feet underground…

Or could he?

Imagery of December’s soft touch and supple skin standing out in contrast to the rough walls and caverns of the mines came and went through him in a flash.

He mentally scolded himself and shook his thoughts away. December wondered what the sudden movement was for, but didn’t question it. 

Next, March realized he wouldn’t be too embarrassed if she knew why he was down here. Knowing her, she was probably just excited for the competition. Realistically, they both were.

So, March decided, if she’s going to (accidentally) use words to try to distract and destroy him, why shouldn’t he do the same? He resumed his glare and rolled his neck and shoulders, before removing his pickaxe from its spot on his backpack. 

Then, he lilted, “We both know why I’m here,” tilting his head slightly down and her chin up to level their gazes. “So be a good little angel and get out of my w—“

A tiny monster almost identical to the one that had collided with December’s cheek just moments ago did the same to March. His eyes rolled shut and chewed his bottom lip while he otherwise froze in place, wondering, why do these things even exist?

He was positively malding.

December bit her own lip, failing to suppress her laughter as her shoulders and chest shook, shaky breaths coming out of her nose. She had to admit to herself that his plan almost worked. 

Almost.

While March removed that thing from his profile, December walked past, patting him on the shoulder. “Nice try,” she teased, before moving onto the next vein of copper she spotted.

March tossed the creature into the same chasm December had banished her own to before meeting up with her. He lightly bumped her hip with his to scoot her over and started to pick at the same ore.

“Nuh-uh,” the farmer laughed incredulously, “Go find your own rocks to hit.” 

March’s answer was all too nonchalant. “I want this one.”

December cursed under her breath. “Brat…”

She hip bumped him in return before getting back to work, accepting that she couldn’t budge him. Given the strength of their tools, it only took a few more hits each for the mineral, as well as some softer chunks nearby, to crumble. 

Lo and behold, a Breath of Spring appeared atop the rubble. 

The pair froze. For a short few beats, the only sounds to be heard were the soft chirping and pitter-pattering of cave bugs, the faint squelches and clacks and puffs of noxious air from the monsters that lurked below, and the occasional drips of the stalactites around them, their breaths firmly bated while they waited to see who would make the first move.

It didn’t take long for March to grow impatient, though. “…Mine.” 

As he reached for it, December practically tackled him. “No!” she exclaimed, using her last ounce of energy to shove her body into March’s line of sight and jumping forward, abandoning her pickaxe in favor of clinging to him like a feral koala.

“For fuck’s sake—” He stumbled in an attempt to keep upright, wrapping his arms around her and placing a palm to the back of her head for protection, in case they fell. “Are you stupid?!” he asked once they were stable.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” December didn’t budge. “Are you gonna move?”

“Will you take that flower if I do?”

“Obviously.”

“Then no.”

March sighed. She was light enough, he thought. He could work with this. “Hold on tight,” he warned, his smile sly while he crouched down and reached for the prize.

“No!” December jerked her head to peek behind her, her ponytail whipping around March and lightly slapping his opposite eye, to which he thought with a wink, ouch. “Wait—”

To her dismay, the flower was already in March’s hand.

“Too late, pretty girl,” he whispered into her ear. He pressed his lips just below it with a lingering peck for added measure.

Inhaling deeply, swallowing hard, and squeezing March harder, December understood why he reacted the way he had to her own words earlier. 

She slowly turned towards him, her hair tickling his shoulder as it drifted back to its rightful space behind her. He was already looking at her, so their noses were nearly touching when March noticed how his partner’s pupils had engulfed the blue of her eyes in a veil of black, like a whale lurking beneath an arctic ocean’s surface; and as his resolve began to weaken, and the urge to kiss her everywhere he could possibly reach strengthened, he wondered if they really needed these flowers.

“That’s not fair,” December grumbled. 

“What’s not fair is that you’re still attached to me.”

Without a sliver of remorse in sight, she plainly commented, “Hm. What a shame.” She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, and then his jaw, before trailing a few more down his neck, purring, “Give me the flower, March, please.”

He held his breath, contemplating the entirety of his life leading up to this point; and with a strain in his voice that hadn’t gone unnoticed by his parasite, he boldly refused, “Never in a million years.”

__

The blacksmith’s resilience paid off. The next morning, the results came through as follows:

Celine in first place, obviously,

March in second,

The following weekend, Celine and December found themself inspecting Merri’s haunted attic furniture set with tilted heads and curious eyes.

“How does she make those spiderwebs so realistic?” Celine wondered.

“Real spiders,” her friend joked in turn.

“Ew, what?!”

“‘Ew?’ You don’t want little guys living in your dresser?”

“Why would I want insects in my dresser?” She furrowed her brow, “What if they‘re an invasive species and kill all my plants?”

December, who was a recent bug enjoyer thanks to her quests for Luc as of late, held back the intense urge to correct her — spiders are arachnids, thank you — instead responding, ”I can appreciate that you’re more worried about your plants than your clothes.”

The florist shrugged, “I’ll just pawn the critters off to Luc as I find them on me throughout the day.”

Josephine and Hemlock, who were arm-in-arm and browsing the same set just a few steps away, interjected in unison. “Please don’t.”

December giggled while Celine pouted, “Too many bugs?”

“Too many spiders,” the bartender corrected. 

Josephine nodded, then shuddered, “Those things get speedy.”

“I would be too if I had eight legs,” Celine reasoned.

Upon passing close by and hearing talk of things with eight legs, Luc rushed over to rattle off some spider facts, which the four adults gladly listened to. While the little guy’s bug hyperfixation could be annoying for his parents physically, they all admired his dedication to entomology.

As the conversation died off, with three-fifths of the inn-running family parting ways, December and Celine found their way to Olric, March and Merri on the other side of the stall. March had been singing high praise about Merri’s craftsmanship, so Olric politely broke off to hang out with the women. He wasn’t involved in the conversation anyway — he’d already showered Merri in plenty of compliments about her furniture this week.

Their conversation took a turn into one about rocks, as they usually tended to with Olric. When Celine cooed over how adorable the really round rock in the museum was, the conversation shifted into how seriously square the nearby stone on display had been.

As the trio slowed down, deciding if they should visit Darcy or Vera first, December brought up to Olric that she decided she would dye her hair. Like he’d reminded her, it’s not permanent. What was the worst that could happen?

He and Celine beamed, practically shoving December in Vera’s direction. “Get in there, tiger!” the gentle giant told her, a hearty pat on the back sending her stumbling an extra few inches forward.

March, who had just arrived from his chat with Merri, looked on as December cautiously approached the hairdresser. He couldn’t imagine her with anything other than long, white hair. He also couldn’t help but wonder what she was planning to do with it.

Meanwhile, as Olric suggested, December requested to Vera that she take the reins, only asking that she wouldn’t cut her hair more than an inch or so. She often just trimmed it herself, and was pretty particular about it. 

Now, Vera was just as interested in Mistria’s gossip as anyone else. She was only human, and she could never simply brush off her clients’ tales about the town’s happenings. That said, she’d heard all the talk about December and March, she’d seen them glued to each other’s sides some weeks, and she’d watched as the grouchy blacksmith finally found someone to soften him up a bit — even if only slightly.

While she didn’t want to disappoint a clearly nervous customer with a full mane of bright red to match her “boyfriend’s,” no matter how badly she was itching to go nuts on such a perfectly blank canvas, she did think a nod to him could be fun. So, after a quick trim, Vera got to work on creating a small ombré that shifted her hair from its natural ivory down into a light blonde, which then faded into a coppery red-orange, and finished off with a dark brown. The dye was only on the bottom handful of inches of her mane, and then the lower inch or so of her bangs.

December wasn’t allowed to look until it was completed, and when she finally did, she thought it was a little strange, but very cute nonetheless. It was subtle enough to not make her feel overdone, and unique enough to give her some extra flair. She noted to herself, too, how downright impressive Vera’s precision with the dye on her fringe was.

“How’d you come up with this?” she asked, fiddling with a few strands.

“You’ve been hanging out with your new beau so much,” the hairdresser smiled, “so I made you into a little forge-toasted marshmallow!” She punctuated her words with a wink.

…Oh.

That answer turned December’s cheeks crimson while she barked a nervous laugh into her palm. March, Olric and Celine — who had been watching the full process save for a short break to grab drinks and snacks from the next stall over — were embarrassed, delighted, and positively tickled respectively. 

Dell had been walking past as the explanation went on, returning from a bathroom break at the General Store. She slowed down to be nosy, as one tended to in this small town. Upon hearing the news, she gasped and giggled and ran to alert the rest of the Dragonguard — and by proxy of her volume, several others nearby — who all responded in a similar fashion. 

Juniper’s hearty laugh could be heard from the chair December sat in. Elsie was already taking notes for a future romance novel she’d write. Jo and Hemlock — who’d been secretly rooting for the farmer and the blacksmith to get together for months — shared a laugh at such a public display of affection.

Just like that, the pair had become the talk of the town once again.

December’s laughs died into something more airy as she inspected and played with her ends. Vera kept her hair straight, but curled the bottom inch or so into some spiky swoops and styled it half-up into a messy bun to showcase the dye. It was soft, fun to look at, and the bottom portion was perfect for fiddling with at a time like this, which was exactly what December did.

“So? How are we feeling?”

“I—” she paused, smiling and letting out one last flustered breath, “I love it, actually.”

Vera’s smile at her answer could have lit up the whole town square. Nearby, Olric and Celine both nudged March from either side, and March… 

Well.

At first, he felt sheepish, a little guilty that December was put under more social pressure — in a subtle way — to be “his.”

But, as much as this did put more of a target on her head for teasing, she liked it. Loved it, even.

Why did that make him proud? Why was he suddenly so hung up on her being showcased as “his,” all over some silly hair dye? Why was the whole idea of “burning” the local “snow angel” so rewarding to him?

He wondered, too, why did it really arouse him? 

“—looks great!” 

March was ripped from his thoughts by Olric loudly complimenting the woman in question. Despite still being rosy, December had a hard time containing her smile. She wasn’t sure if it was more nervousness about the concept, or happiness about the change in her appearance fueling it at this point, but the distinction made no difference to March, who basked in her curved lips and bright eyes and currently-present dimples and “toasted” hair like it was the last few things he’d ever have the pleasure to see.

“Y-yeah!” he agreed. 

December and Celine were taken aback by his enthusiasm for a moment, but the farmer was glad nonetheless. She had no idea how he’d take this. At least it seemed like he was a fan. 

“Well,” Olric started, “I should get a trim before someone else swoops in there. I’ll see you guys around!”

He gave the three villagers a fist bump each before parting. Just as that interaction closed, Celine was summoned by Dell, thus breaking off from the remaining pair with a wave.

“Sorry” was the first word out of December’s mouth once they were alone. 

March furrowed his brows. “What?”

“I didn’t ask Vera to do this,” she clarified, once again playing with the newly colored ends of her hair, “I let her choose.”

March was quiet. From an outside perspective, he appeared pensive. December was unsure of what to make of it. 

“I…” March could hardly contain himself at this point, and shook his head, “Fuck. I love it.” He practically growled his words. The farmer’s eyes widened, her stomach fluttering. “Come here,” he ordered, taking her hand.

“Where are we going?”

“My house.”

“Oh.” While they passed by the fountain, she asked, “Why?”

March mumbled under his breath, “Can’t do this shit anymore.”

Whoa. What?

December paled.

Wordless while she wondered what he meant by that, she feared that he was going to cut things off with her over some hair dye that he’d literally just complimented. That this was it, that her heart was about to be shattered by March before she could even call him her boyfriend, man, partner, whatever. That she’d have to go back to Vera and ask her to help her chop the dyed portions of her hair off, in turn saving her from thinking about the blacksmith every time she saw her own reflection.

In reality, he just really wanted to fuck her. 

They still hadn’t had sex. They could have. They’d wanted to several times. They were very vocal about that fact, which led to some flirty, funny shenanigans in its own right. At this point, they were holding back purely out of spite for the people — mainly Juniper, of course — who insisted they’d already crossed that road. It was all for the bit.

So the farmer’s worries were quelled a short moment later, right as they stepped into the smithy. March practically slammed the door behind them, pinning December to it with his lips while he scooped her up by her thighs. 

She was too stunned to question it, gladly squeezing March’s hips between her legs to better support herself and wrapping an arm around his neck, her other hand resting against his cheek.

March had his own question instead. “How are you feeling?”

Assuming that he wasn’t just trying to exchange pleasantries at a time like this, December answered with her health for the day in mind. She sighed against his lips, “Not great.” He stole another kiss before she asked, “Why?”

March answered her inquiry with another, pressing his forehead to hers, “How does that stuff work when it comes to sex?”

December’s eyes widened. “Hypothetically, or..?”

“No.” His answer was instant, his eyes now boring into hers. “No, I want to know for right now.” 

The farmer’s body was burning up. Her eyes trailed down to his lips again while she opened her mouth, trying to form words that wouldn’t come out. Her excitement temporarily rendered her speechless, but quickly turned into anxiousness.

Ever since one of the first times December had taken care of herself after her accident, she’d been afraid for this time to come; to have to admit to someone that she would be, in plenty of people’s eyes, almost useless beyond this point in intimacy. Sure, she could walk and run and lift and pull and do whatever else she needed to from day to day, but those things could get hard, and sex would be no different. If anything, she knew it would be worse, given how foreign and strenuous the movements were. 

How often did she really need to straddle or sit on something, while repeatedly squatting and/or bouncing?

The answer was never. Literally never. 

And December knew how cruel people could be. How harshly women were judged overall — even in a society so sensitive towards gender equality, like Aldaria’s — never failed to transfer to their abilities in bed. If anything, the latter was several times worse, given how entitled so many people could feel with intimacy. The absolute last thing she needed was a harsh opinion to dampen her already low self-esteem when it came to this; and while she felt she was probably safe with March, she couldn’t know for sure how he would react until this very moment. 

“U-um,” she hesitated, “I can’t really do much.”

Luckily, the redhead had no quarrels to make. He would still want to be with her even if sex wasn’t an option at all. March’s grip tightened on December’s thighs, and he leaned in as if to kiss her again, but faked her out. 

Instead, he murmured, “So you’ll be my pillow princess then?”

She felt her soul leave her body as she breathed, shaky and quietly, “Holy shit.”

He smirked, proud of the effect he had on her. “Come on, December, focus,” March softly demanded when she didn’t answer his question.

Whatever was left of her corporal form was gone forever, she feared. She nodded almost desperately, her heart threatening to thump out of her chest. In turn, March had never felt cockier in his life, other than maybe whenever he received and bragged about his copious blacksmithing awards. 

He prodded, “You’d want that?” After another nod, he searched for more explicit consent, “Say it.”

She was quiet for a moment before she complied.“I want it,” with her eyes plastered on March’s mouth, yearning for him to kiss her again.

He was having none of that. “Hey,” he leaned down slightly to catch her eyes. “Look at me while you say it.” His tone coated December in goosebumps. When she brought her gaze up to meet his, he doubled down, “Tell me you want it.”

This didn’t even feel real to her. “I want it.”