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Caspar had been away two months now. Two months of waking up to a bed that was too large in a bedroom that was too cold in a house that was too quiet. Two months without the oddly soothing ritual of picking up Caspar’s socks off the floor while he washed off from a day’s work in his workshop, without the familiar feeling of Caspar dropping a kiss to the back of his neck while Linhardt cooked breakfast. It was a long, boring, exhausting two months.
Linhardt was thoroughly sick of it.
Oh, there were letters – pages upon pages stuffed into envelopes too small to contain them, scrawled in Caspar’s messy handwriting with the ink smudged. Like Caspar hadn’t been able to make his hand keep up with his brain as he tried to get down his thoughts. For anyone else, they would have been impossible to read, but Linhardt had grown used to that sort of thing. He’d grown used to all of Caspar’s little quirks. Ten years of marriage and twice that many of friendship would do that to a person.
But the letters could only do so much. They couldn’t hold him or kiss him or warm his bed. They couldn’t replace the way Caspar would nuzzle against his neck, all stubble and giggles, or the way he’d wrap his arms around Linhardt’s middle and comment on how much softer it had gotten compared to his school days. As much as he treasured them, letters from his husband were no substitute for his husband himself.
Linhardt sighed. Marriage had made him so sentimental. Not to mention needy.
Their shared house was a small, comfortable getaway tucked away on a hill just around the bend from a town where most everyone knew them by name now. In the afternoons the sun hit the face of the hill just right for him to nap in its warmth, curled up in the hammock Caspar had hung between two birch trees outside their kitchen window. Wherever Linhardt let his hand rest, his fingers brushed some surface that Caspar had crafted or sanded or carved himself over the years. It was a house they had built together, in more ways than one. It didn’t feel right, living here alone, no matter how nice the quiet had been at first.
He was even starting to miss the way Caspar kicked him in his sleep. He’d never imagined that happening, and yet here he was.
He pulled his shawl tighter around himself to keep off a bit of a chill as he made his way into town, a basket of fresh eggs from their chickens tucked under one arm. Caspar was usually the one who collected them in the mornings, but Linhardt couldn’t very well neglect the task while he was away. The last thing he wanted was a coop full of rotten eggs and angry chickens to deal with. But without Caspar eating at least four of them every morning, he found himself with more than he knew what to do with.
So, into town he went, and he made his way to the butcher’s and strode inside with a sigh.
“Linhardt,” Matilda greeted him with a smile as she meticulously cleaned the cleaver in her hand with a (blessedly unstained) rag. “You’re up early today. It’s rare to see you wandering into town before noon.”
“Ha ha,” he fired back. “I come bearing gifts and this is the thanks I get? Sass?”
“Gifts, huh?” She watched as he pulled the blanket off his basket. “The girls are keeping busy, are they?”
“As ever.” He rested the basket on her counter, perusing the cured meats displayed near the window. The smoke-cured ham had always been one of Caspar’s favorites. Linhardt would need to get some before he got back, and knowing Caspar’s appetite he would probably need a fair bit. “I suppose I was hoping you’d be willing to part with a couple of pheasant thighs in exchange. I’m planning on trying a few new soup recipes now that the weather is getting cold again.”
“Something to welcome Caspar home?” Matilda asked, already busy studying the eggs. “I’d sure be happy coming home after a long journey to soup on the fire and a lover in my bed.”
“Do you have the pheasant meat or not?”
“Sure, sure,” she laughed. “I have a fresh one in the back. Just need to finish plucking-“
“Please don’t tell me what it is you plan to do to it,” Linhardt said, forcing back a wave of queasiness. “I’ll just come back when it’s neatly wrapped up and I can pretend it…grew on a tree or something.”
“Pheasants growing on trees would put me out of a job.” Matilda flashed him a smile.
Linhardt sighed. “And yet it would do my constitution a world of good.”
“How long until Caspar’s back?”
“At least another two weeks,” he relented, and his disappointment must have shown on his face, because Matilda’s lips turned downward.
“He’s going to miss your birthday?” Linhardt kept his eyes on the counter. “It’s what…three days away, right?”
“Nothing to be done for it.”
“Come see me on the day,” she insisted. “I’ll have a steak waiting for you.”
Linhardt managed a little smile. “Afraid I’ve given up red meat nowadays. But I’ll happily take an IOU – Caspar would probably be over the moon coming home to a juicy steak even more than a steaming bowl of soup. If you feed him like that, he may even leave me for you.”
Matilda threw her head back and laughed. “As if he’d ever.”
Thanks to their hard-working chickens, Linhardt made it back home with two plump pheasant thighs and a fresh-baked loaf of bread in his basket, and a couple of sweet oranges in his pocket for good measure. Not a bad way to start the day, even if he was in desperate need of a nap after all that walking. But something else caught his eye first – an envelope sitting in their mailbox.
He grabbed it, left the bread and meat and oranges on the counter and sat down at their kitchen table to rip it open. Inside was a letter – shorter than his usual ones, but written in the same excited, looping scrawl that Linhardt has come to cherish.
Dear Lin –
Sorry it took me so long to write you again, and sorry this one is shorter than usual. I don’t want you to think I’m neglecting you when your birthday is coming up. Thirty-six years old! Wow, you’re practically an old man now, huh?
I can’t stand the idea of not being there with you for it this year, Linny. It’s driving me up a wall thinking about it. I had such a good streak going! Hadn’t missed a single one in almost twenty years now! Hell, even during the war I made a point to at least write. And I told myself after all those years apart that I’d never let another one of your birthdays pass without actually being there to celebrate with you in person. I don’t like breaking promises, Lin. Especially not to myself.
But I’m not letting your birthday go by unmarked, don’t you worry. I have a plan. Came up with it before I left for Dagda. You trust me, right Linny? You didn’t actually think your amazing husband would let you down, right? I’m not going to let something as silly as a little distance keep me from celebrating your birthday right.
Go to the usual place at sunset on your birthday, okay? Even if it’s raining or snowing, you have to make sure you go. I arranged for a surprise gift for you, but you have to go there to get it. It’s part of the charm. Just trust me on this. Don’t fall asleep and forget! I know you love your birthday naps, but trust me – it’ll be worth it!
Shamir and Leonie both send their love. Well, Shamir didn’t say that, but she sends it anyway. Don’t tell her I said that. At least not until I’m out of range of her bow again.
I love you, Lin. See you soon.
Yours
Caspar
Linhardt read it about three times over, squinting behind his reading glasses before taking them off again and letting them dangle on their old, tarnished chain around his neck. A surprise gift? Something organized all the way from Dagda? What the hell was Caspar doing? What had he planned?
He sincerely hoped it didn’t snow, because he had no plans to go against what Caspar had said in the letter, but standing out in the cold for whatever surprise Caspar had gotten ready for him didn’t sound like the best way to celebrate thirty-six years of life.
Luckily for him, it didn’t rain or snow. His birthday was a clear, crisp day marked by a slight breeze that shook more golden leaves off the trees outside their home and onto their roof. The sun was just starting to dip toward the horizon when Linhardt set out on the path toward the familiar place that he knew Caspar had been thinking of.
The usual place…
It was a bridge stretching over a slow-moving stream tucked back in the woods near their home. Old stone worn smooth and dark by years and years of foot traffic across it, and a perfect view of the sunset through a gap in the trees…
They’d made a tradition of coming here, just the two of them. Their birthdays, their anniversary, when they needed a quiet place to sit and talk after a hard day, this place was always waiting for them. It was their spot, Caspar had always said. A place where they could come and forget the world for a bit, where they could lay out a picnic or watch the sunset while drinking hot cocoa or just sit in silence until Linhardt inevitably fell asleep on Caspar’s shoulder.
Linhardt stopped on the bridge, feeling…melancholy. It didn’t feel right, being here alone. But Caspar had promised some kind of surprise, and far be it from him to turn that down, even if nothing could live up to-
“Heya Linny.”
He whirled around on one heel almost quickly enough to slip and fall onto his ass on the slick stone. And there he was, standing at the end of the bridge with a grin on his face and stubble covering his cheeks.
His best friend.
His husband.
His...everything.
“C’mere already!” Caspar insisted, arms spread out in front of him. And Linhardt couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t do anything except press his palms over his mouth and burst into tears.
Caspar’s smile faltered. “L-Lin? Are you okay?” He was striding forward to meet him, arms encircling him. “Aw, Lin…oh man, I didn’t mean to make you cry. I wanted to surprise you, that’s all! C’mon, you didn’t really think I would miss your birthday, did you?”
“You’re here,” Linhardt managed to force out, hands shaking as he finally wrapped his own around Caspar’s middle. He smelled like sweat – his and his horse’s – but he didn’t care. His fingers dug into the material of Caspar’s coat, holding on as tight as he could. “You came back…you were in Dagda – how did you-“
“I wrote you from the road,” Caspar chuckled, smoothing down Linhardt’s hair. “I couldn’t stand the thought of not being here, and Leonie would have skinned me alive if I’d tried to stay and miss your birthday anyway.” Linhardt managed a laugh. “I missed you…” Caspar’s nose pressed against the crown of Linhardt’s head. “Goddess, Lin, I missed you so damn much…”
Linhardt couldn’t manage a reply. He hummed against Caspar’s chest, content to just stand here, holding him, breathing in his familiar scent and savoring the texture of his coat under his fingertips.
Caspar laughed against Linhardt’s hair. “Bet the house has been quiet without me around, huh?”
“Yes,” Linhardt said, whacking his arm. "It’s not natural.”
“I thought you’d enjoy a little quiet.”
“I enjoy you,” he insisted, wiping his eyes. “After being married to you for so long, it just didn’t feel right. The house was too…big. The bed was too big. Everything was too big for me without you.”
Caspar’s eyes sparked. “Aw, Linhardt…” He squeezed Linhardt’s hands tight, thumbs stroking against his knuckles. “I kinda felt the same way. I mean, Dagda was pretty different than our place anyway, but I could barely wrap my head around how much I missed you. I couldn’t even really pay attention to anything else. I mean, it was beautiful, but…all I wanted was to be back here with you, on this bridge, watching this sunset…” His hand cupped Linhardt’s jaw, his palm rough and calloused and so, so gentle against his skin. “Guess Dagda felt pretty big without you too.”
Linhardt smiled as he pressed his cheek against Caspar’s open palm. “If you’d told me you were coming back I would have made you a hot dinner. As it stands, all we have in the house right now is some stale bread and more eggs than I know what to do with.”
“Cooking for me on your birthday? C’mon, Lin. Give me some credit. I came prepared.” He flashed a crooked smile. “We’re stopping by the bakery on our way home, and I’m buying you your favorite sweet buns. And then we’re going to go home and eat them, and…well…” He leaned in a bit closer, dropping his voice low as if there was anyone around who could hear them. “…we can make up for lost time.”
“I like the sound of that,” Linhardt said, pressing a kiss to the center of Caspar’s chest. And for a moment – one perfect little moment – the world felt like it was exactly the right size.
Sweet buns, soft blankets, a crackling fire. What had seemed like the beginnings of a depressingly disappointing birthday when he’d woken up that morning was now shaping up to be one of the best Linhardt had ever had. It was a quiet affair, as it always was. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.
“Go on,” Caspar urged him with a wide grin. “Open it, Lin.”
“I was getting to that,” Linhardt said, offering a sleepy smile of his own as he leaned in to press a kiss to the tip of Caspar’s nose.
They were tangled up in a pile of blankets, tucked in together in a makeshift nest by the fire on their living room floor. Pillows and clothing littered the ground around them in a messy pile, and it was perfect. Just like Caspar’s lips falling against Linhardt’s shoulder like they lived there was perfect. Linhardt let out a little hum as Caspar’s mouth trailed up the side of his neck.
“If you keep doing that I’ll never get this thing open.”
“Mm…sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Linhardt turned, their noses brushing until he could see Caspar’s eyes gleaming in the firelight. He smiled a sleepy little smile, eyes tracing over all the marks trailing down Caspar’s neck and chest. “Whatever’s in here, there’s no way it’s anywhere near as wonderful as your mouth.”
“Huh…so I didn’t have to waste time wrapping it then?” Caspar countered with a grin.
Linhardt whacked him on the shoulder, slipping his fingers under a fold in the paper. “You’re incorrigible.” Caspar just laughed as he stretched out on the floor beside Linhardt, staring up at him from where he rested on his belly on a sea of blankets. He watched as Linhardt peeled back the paper, opened the box inside, and gasped.
“You like it?” he mumbled.
“Caspar…this…”
“I thought it would bring out your eyes. Do you want some help putting it on?”
Linhardt ran his fingers along the length of the chain – polished silver and studded with glittering verdant green stones. And near its end, where it would connect to the earpiece of his glasses, was a pendant in the shape of the Crest of Cethleann.
Caspar was already reaching for the case holding Linhardt’s glasses, resting on the table by the sofa. He carefully pulled them out and disconnected the old chain, replacing it with the new one and gingerly placing the glasses on the bridge of Linhardt’s nose. He looped the chain over Linhardt’s ears, tucking his hair back to get a good look and smiling. “There you are,” he said with a warm smile. “See me better now?”
Linhardt hummed in acknowledgment, pressing a hand under the curve of Caspar’s jaw. “It’s wonderful,” he said. “The second best thing you’ve given me today.”
“First was the orgasm, right?”
A pillow came sailing down onto Caspar’s head a moment later, making him cry out with a peal of laughter. He retaliated quickly, hands against Linhardt’s ribs and lips against his neck as Caspar pressed him down against the pillows again.
Their laughter echoed through the house, warm as the crackling fire and at least ten times as bright.