#stormgrowler

“Ow, fuck! Again with this! This shit is impossi-… Sorry.”

“No, no. What were you saying, Mister Bó?”

“… I didn't… Sorry, boss.”

“That’s what I thought. Get back to it. Not a single holly bunch on that wreath should be out of place when you’re done.”

“Yes, boss.”

Narani’s and Gillian’s voices rang through the front of the Menphina’s Bosom bar as, precariously perched on Crooked Tower’s shoulders, the Viera attempted to mount a large wreath, decorated with baubles and ribbon, above the door. Snow swept in with the wind, carrying a chill past Maxi and Saniyah who were busying about the upstairs bar. It didn’t seem to bother them much; the two just seemed to be enjoying each other’s company.

The spirit of the Starlight season was alive and well within the halls of Menphina’s Bosom. Holly and ornament-studded wreaths began to appear overnight, tying their evergreen arms around banisters and doorways in a warm embrace. The journey down the hardwood stairs and into the main bar only served to add to the festive atmosphere: white beeswax candles flickered warmly in the windowsills and peppermint hung like a pleasant fog in the air. Reese'a had sprawled himself out onto the lid of the piano, Starlight cards and envelopes awaiting the signature of the purple-clad family man; conspicuously, these papers sat atop what was, undoubtedly, paperwork that required Narani’s keen eye. E'mirrin and Hard Rock busied about the Starlight tree, hanging small, enchanted lights – perhaps made by Reese'a himself – and strands of golden beads upon a captured conifer standing tall within the bar. The remaining Stig sibling, E'beren, sat at the bar, his eyes half glazed over as he idly swirled the almost empty low-ball glass of whiskey in his hand. Despite it being his second drink of the day, he seemed no more invested in holiday shenanigans than he had been sober.

“Ah, Master Stig, may I be of asking you for help?” Like a child who had found himself in a pickle, the tall blonde tuft of Iro’s hair popped up from behind the counter. His brows were drawn together in clear concern.

Slowly, E'beren turned around to peer over the bar at him, an eyebrow raised in an unspoken response. Iro had been sitting on the floor behind the bar – as he seemed prone to do – surrounded by papers of what appeared to be chicken-scratch writing. A mug of hot cocoa, undoubtedly touched with some coffee liquor – judging from the flush on his cheeks that was not his orange paint – sat beside him. “… I cannot read these,” Iro admitted quietly, “They are recipes of new drinks Miss Vir and Mistress Bayaqud would like tested before the starlit holiday, but… I am requiring of some help.” The man looked positively lost, curled up cross-legged and shoeless; when Narani wasn’t looking, more often than not, Iro’s shoes seemed to vanish. Part of being an acrobat was all the explanation he would give.

“Are you so drunk off your ass that you can’t read?”

“… Master Stig, this is not my first-most language.” Iro’s words are rather frank.

“… Oh.” E'beren’s face dropped in color, “Well, uh… Bring ‘em around the bar. Let’s see what we can do.”

In as neat a stack as he could manage – though some upside down – Iro gathered the recipes and moved around to the end of the bar, where E'beren met him. Together, the two began to pour over the papers and it seemed as though they were getting work done, despite their individually tipsy states – before E'mirrin looked over and let out a loud chirp of laughter.

“Do you two see what’s above you?” The delight in her voice was unmistakable. In sync with each other, the two men threw their gaze to the ceiling. Though it took Iro a few moments to recognize the bundle of blooms and greens above his head, E'beren recognized it immediately, and nearly smacked himself into the wall as he jumped backward.

“Mistletoe…?” Iro mumbled, then looked worried once more, “But I have… No shoes to give…”

“… Shoes?” E'mirrin echoed, looking from Reese'a, who had turned eye to the situation, to Iro once again, “You… You don’t give him your shoe. You kiss whoever you’re under the mistletoe with, or it’s bad luck in the new turn.”

Surprised, Iro turned to look at E'beren, who was staring up at him half dumbstruck and, but his own design, cornered against a wall. With a shrug, Iro closed his eyes and leaned down – only to suddenly have a cold metal hand in his face.

“No.”

“But I must,” came the muffled reply.

“Nuh-uh, you weird, horny bastard.”

“But it will be bad luck.”

“Yeah, Beren, it’ll be bad luck!” E'mirrin jeered. E'beren’s unpatched eye turned to his sister’s face to glare daggers at her. Reese'a had returned his gaze to his work, fully intending to let the children sort this out themselves, and Hard Rock hadn’t turned an eye to any of this nonsense.

Perhaps it was the whiskey now steeping his system or the unrelenting glimmer in his sister’s eye, but slowly, his arm was lowered. “… If you try anything funny, I’m gonna make you regret it.”

Iro did not offer a word of agreement before moving further in. He lifted a hand to tip E'beren’s chin upwards to his own, likely to the other man’s surprise, before placing a warm, gentle kiss upon his lips.

Iro lingered for a moment before straightening up, hands on his hips, and victory gleaming in his eyes. “Now we shall be of having the best of luck!” He declared.

“… Yeah, sure.” E'beren sounded tired. E'mirrin returned to decorating the tree in abject delight.

Softly, Reese'a began to hum, then sing.