#valid?

Woah.

(you really said to come at you with the prompts, idk if you should have done that 😂)

92. “You make me happy.”

It's a freezing, snowy night in the absolute arse-end of winter, just a few days from the Fete, and out there in all the villages of weary, war-torn Ravka, little children are nonetheless praying for Ded Moroz to bring them presents just like he once did. Fedyor stands at the window, watching the heavy snow beat down on the gilded domes of the Little Palace and the distant crookbacked roofs of Os Alta. Even here, he can feel the chill, as the place is old and draughty and even possessing your own personal army of Durasts cannot quite patch all the cracks. He's glad to be inside.

Fedyor remains where he is for a moment longer, then turns away and kneels to stoke the fire, throwing on a few extra logs and jabbing it with the poker. Then he crosses the floor, pushes aside the heavy red bed curtains, and whisks the book on the great deeds of some dead man from Chernast directly out of his husband's grasp. "Pay attention to me, Vanya," he orders. "Or I'm putting my cold feet on you."

Ivan looks at him with an expression of mild horror. "You wouldn't."

"Would I?" Fedyor lunges, which is entirely a feint so he can stick his cold hands down Ivan's back instead, and the roar which he lets out will practically bring the oprichniki running in fear that the general's right-hand man has been scurrilously murdered in his bedchamber. Fedyor hisses at him to shut up, Ivan nips at him, Fedyor keeps his freezing paws glued to the hard, warm muscles of Ivan's torso until feeling starts to return, and Ivan's furious thrashing has subsided into a sort of resigned flopping. "Mmm," Fedyor says. "That's better."

"You are the worst, Fedya."

"That's too bad." Fedyor kisses him. "Because you make me happy."