Work Text:
It's a late fall evening–and with how brisk it is, you might consider this early winter, rather–but the forge and the company are keeping the chill away.
Olric had requested help in the forge due to a last minute order March would be doing solo otherwise, as Olric had prior engagements. Now that you and March are on good terms, you felt no reservations answering the ad.
It's been a long day of you and March bantering back and forth between anvil strikes and fire stoking. The warmth the fire gives off is nothing compared to the warmth ignited in your core, burning hotter with every smile and laugh you elicit from March.
You both take a break to drink water and catch your breaths–you especially because the sight of March's rippling muscles are stealing your oxygen.
“Almost there,” he says, turning and looking at the massive pile of iron ingots stacked up. He takes a few gulps of water from his jar, and you watch his Adam's apple bob.
You tear your eyes away and walk over to place the newest ingot on the pile, then head back to the anvil, standing by March to observe your work. “We make a good team.”
He grunts and nods once before taking another swig of water. “Uh. Thanks for helping me, Solstice. I would've been late on this order without someone's help.” He glances at you.
You beam. “Happy to help.”
He looks away quickly and sips his water again before putting his flask away. “Let's get back to it.”
“Just a minute longer,” you say, trying not to whine.
He rolls his eyes, but he doesn't seem annoyed. “Hmph. Fine.”
You stand together in comfortable silence, March's eyes trained straight ahead while yours look for constellations between sparse clouds.
You nudge him gently, both your arms damp with sweat. “Do you ever look at the stars?”
He does, then. “Sometimes. Not until more recently.”
“What changed?”
He shrugs, then turns back to the anvil.
You cock your head towards him. You wish you were confident enough to lay it on his shoulder. “Oh, c'mon, March.”
He looks into your pleading eyes, searching them.
Then, he rips his gaze away. “Don't stand too close,” March says, voice rough. “I'm trying to work.” He picks up his hammer and raises his arms to strike, effectively making you take a step away.
You try to hide your frown as you walk around the anvil and return to striking hot iron between March's strikes.
After another hour of steady work, you guys finish with a high five, more enthusiasm on your side of it. You sit on the steps that surround the anvil and lean back on the next one up as March disappears inside for what you think is more water before he comes out with two bottles of beer.
You wrinkle your nose as he hands one to you. “You know I don't like beer.”
He smirks as he sits down next to you. “Well I already opened it, so you better drink it.”
You throw him a soft glare before taking a swig–and immediately grimace at the bitter taste.
March laughs, already loosened up with one sip. “You gotta have a beer after a hard day's work,” he insists.
“I prefer a mixed drink,” you say, but take another sip anyway—for March, not for you.
“Atta girl,” he says, clapping your shoulder and squeezing it before letting go. “Beer is an acquired taste.”
Your shoulder tingles, the warmth from his hand lingering and snaking its way to your chest. “If I have to acquire a taste to like it, that means it's not good in the first place.”
“You have to learn how to appreciate the flavors.”
You just shake your head.
He looks up at the sky, and exhales like he just took a drag on a cigarette.
After a few moments of silence, March breaks it.
“You wanna know what changed?”
It takes you a moment to register what he's talking about. “What?”
“You. You spouting all your nerdy space facts at the bar. Used to look up and not see the stupid shapes everyone raves about, but then you came along and now I can pick some of them out.”
“I'm surprised you listened. Or remembered, you lightweight.” You nudge him with your shoulder.
“I'm not always drunk at the Inn, you know,” he says. He nudges you back.
“I know, I'm just teasing. But it hasn't been until recently that you haven't hated my guts, so I just didn't think you cared enough to listen to my nerdy ramblings.”
“I told you already, Sol,” he says, voice soft, “I never hated you.”
Your stomach fills with butterflies made of embers and ashes. “You didn't tell me that. You said you didn't, but not that you never.”
He shrugs, looking away. You swear his face is flushed more than it was while he was exerting himself by the oven. “Oh. Well, I never did. I was always jealous, always distrusting, but I didn't hate you.” He laughs, and runs his fingers through his damp locks. You wish you could do the same.
“I tried really hard to, you know,” he continues. “But you're so nice. You're hard to hate, even for me.”
You take a rather large gulp of beer and just manage not to gag. “I'm glad you weren't successful,” you say. “I'm glad you're my friend.” You go to nudge him again, but you stay, leaning against his side, heart racing.
He turns to bury his nose in your hair, and then pulls back to say, “You're sweaty.”
You flush deeply. “You are too, you know.”
“Don't get all defensive, I'm just teasing,” he says, and returns to your hair. “You still smell nice, somehow,” he mumbles. “How do you sweat all day and still smell like flowers or some shit?”
“I bathe religiously,” you say. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck. He smells like burning wood, and sweat, though you find that you don't mind the latter.
“Do you normally cuddle with your friends?” March asks, voice gravelly.
“I can stop,” you say, starting to pull away.
“No.” He yanks you back, a little too hard, and you tumble sideways, landing half in his lap.
“Shit, sorry,” he says, laughing.
You're laughing too, even though your beer spilled all over your hand and thigh. “If you wanted me in your lap, why didn't you just say so?”
“Shut up,” he mutters, burying his face in your neck. “This okay?” His lips brush against your skin, his breath blowing out in hot puffs, making you shiver.
“Yeah,” you whisper, because you don't trust your voice to leave your throat any louder.
He tugs on one of the straps of your overalls. “What if you came closer? Would that be okay?”
“How close?”
He yanks you again, twice, and then you're straddling one of his legs. He's still hiding his face, and you swear you feel his hands trembling against you.
“This close?”
You wrap your arms around him, relishing in his taut back muscles in your hold. “Yeah. This is okay.”
His arms slide around your waist, holding you to him like you're a lifeline. You've only dreamt of his arms around you like this, and now that it's a reality, you feel like you might combust in his burning hold.
“You okay?” you ask, knowing full well you aren't.
He nods fervently.
You're reminded of how self-indulgent you wanted to be earlier, and you bury a hand in his hair. He shudders, arms tightening around you.
Unfortunately, the magic of the moment doesn't last much longer, because there are footsteps in the distance that make you both stiffen, and upon realizing they're getting closer, you throw yourself off of March, elbow and knee colliding with the stone steps and beer toppling over. You hiss as you right yourself, just as Olric comes into view from the darkness of The Narrows.
Olric’s oblivious to your previous predicament, despite March’s face colored bright red down to his neck, and you feeling like there's a neon sign blinking on and off, saying “I was sitting in your brother’s lap!”
He's gushing about how much you guys got done and how great of a job you did, then March practically runs inside without so much as a goodbye.
Olric’s brow furrows. “Are you guys fighting again?”
“Definitely not,” you say, then think that's probably a weird thing to say. “I think we’re both just tired. Night, Olric.” You turn on your heel without waiting for him to respond.
“Good night, Solstice! Thanks again for helping out!” he calls after you.
—
Despite the insane amount of work you've been doing for the past few days and how tired that's made you, you haven't been able to sleep.
You've been craving March’s arms around you, and when you finally do manage to get sleep, he invades your dreams and leaves you waking up with an aching black hole in your chest.
The minor interactions you've had in passing have made you feel like you're strangers again—he's not rude to you, but he's short, because he's busy too.
Only you make an effort to stop and chat, even in the middle of deliveries and expeditions.
You're on your way to the mines when you find him talking with Ryis in front of the anvil steps. You try not to think about the other night.
“Hey, Solstice,” Ryis says with a wave.
“Hey, Ryis. Hey, March.”
“Hey,” March says, looking everywhere but you.
“Going mining?” Ryis asks, glancing at March out of the corner of his eye.
“Yep,” you say. “Looking for artifacts for Eiland.”
“Good luck,” Ryis says. “Be safe.”
“Thanks, bye!” You pause mid-step. “Bye, March.”
“Bye.”
But he still won't look at you, and it hurts.
—
The wind is howling when you exit the mines, blowing in malicious-looking clouds. You curse under your breath and hobble as quickly as you can toward town. Your ankle is screaming out in pain with every step, and you hope the stalagmite only gave you a sprain.
You reach March and Olric's just as it starts to pour down rain. You try the door, find it's unlocked, and rush in, slamming the door closed behind you.
March is hunched over his desk, but he jolts and turns around. “Solstice,” he says. Then, his eyes scan your battered and bruising body, coated with dirt and maybe blood.
“Is it okay if I wait out the storm here?” you ask, wincing as your ankle throbs.
“Duh,” he says. “What's wrong with you?”
You drop your pack of stuff—full of nothing good enough to worry about breaking—and toe off your boots, grimacing and hissing.
“You're hurt,” March says, brow furrowed.
“Spiky dude got my foot,” you say. “Could've been worse. They're sharp.”
The color threatens to drain from March's face, presumably at the thought of you getting stabbed to death. He stands, heading over to you. “You look like…you need a bath.”
You nod.
“I'll draw you one and get you some clothes,” he says. “Go sit at my desk.”
“Thanks.” You take one step forward and cry out as a particularly painful stab shoots through your ankle and up toward your calf.
So March picks you up, ignoring your yelp and protesting, and walks you to the chair, setting you down gently.
“Don't move.” He walks away before you can grumble about him picking you up, or be otherwise snarky.
You hear the water start, and March walks back and forth across the shop, gathering things. You busy yourself with looking at his latest blueprints of a sword. You smile, thinking about how talented and brilliant he is while you wait.
Soon, the bath is ready, and March carries you in there too. He sets you down gently, and the rush of heat in the already steamy room is almost too much.
“Can you handle getting in?”
You flush. “Not like you can help me.”
His cheeks turn beet red. “Right.” He clears his throat. “I'll uh. Be in the other room. If you need anything.” He hurries out.
You strip off your dirt-covered clothing, wincing at your swollen and bruising ankle. You're able to undress and wash by yourself, then exit the bath, dry, and dress without incident.
March's sweatpants threaten to slide from your waist and his t-shirt is especially loose in the arms, but they're both soft and smell like firewood and soap.
Finally, you hobble out of the bathroom, holding your dirty clothes in your arms.
March stands from his desk, taking your clothes and dropping them by the door near your boots and bag. “They'll be fine there until morning,” he says.
“Morning?” you ask. “Am I staying?”
He blushes. “I mean—I just—I figured—”
“I can stay,” you say. “I don't know when this storm will be over anyway.” On cue, thunder rumbles angrily.
“Okay,” he says, nodding once. “I'll uh. Put clean sheets on my bed.”
“I don't want to take your bed,” you say.
“Hush,” he says, disappearing into his room.
“Where are you going to sleep?” you call after him.
“Doesn't matter!”
“It does!”
He doesn't respond.
—
After making his bed, March gently places you on it, and pulls the covers over you.
“March, I really don't want to kick you out of your bed,” you say. “You won't get any sleep on the floor or in your chair.”
“I'll be fine.” He turns away to go find some spare blankets for himself.
Before you can even think about it, your hand shoots out of the blankets and grabs at him, catching his wrist. He starts, turning back to you, eyes wide and cheeks red.
Your face must match his, because you're just as shocked at your actions. But you remember how hard it's been to sleep alone lately, and you're brave enough to tug him and whisper, “Stay.”
His entire face nearly glows with his blush. “S-Sol…”
“Y-you don't have to,” you say quickly. “I don't want to make you uncomfortable.” You release his wrist. “Sorry.”
He stares, jaw working. Then, wordlessly, he turns, and walks to his dresser. He takes out some clothes, and walks out of his room.
Your heart sinks to your gut where guilt churns, knowing now you really won't be able to sleep. You wrestle with the idea of just making your way back home since you've clearly overstepped boundaries when he walks back in, dressed in long shorts and a sleeveless shirt.
He closes the door behind him, deposits his day clothes, and then steps over to you.
You peer up at him curiously.
“Well?” he says. “Scoot over.”
Your heart takes off, and you scoot. It's a small bed, so March barely has any room to lay down. You're both on your sides, faces inches away from each other.
“I'm on the edge,” he grumbles.
“Scoot closer, then.”
He hesitates, but does, your bodies pressed together.
“You're so stiff,” you say.
“Excuse me, I'm in bed with a pretty girl.”
Your heart takes off in a sprint. “You think I'm pretty?”
If it's even possible for him to grow more tense, he does. “Well, duh, I'm not an idiot.”
“Thank you.”
He rolls his eyes, clenching his jaw.
“Relax, March,” you coax, placing your hand on his arm. You wonder if him being uptight is the reason he's been so short with you.
“I can't,” he mumbles. “Pretty girl, remember?”
You trace your fingers along the curvature of his bicep, running down and back up, to his shoulder, then along his back, snaking under his shirt, relishing his muscular build.
He shudders, breath hitching as his eyes flutter closed. His long eyelashes rest against his freckled cheeks, and you want to bridge the small gap and count them with your kisses.
March grumbles, shuffling under your hand–and you realize you stopped stroking his back in your distracted state.
You giggle, resuming. “You like that?”
“Shut up,” he mutters, peeking through half-lidded eyes.
“I can stop,” you tease.
He grabs onto your back, then, arm encircling your waist. “Don't.”
“So demanding,” you say with a smirk.
“Please,” he grits out.
You hum, and settle into his hold, shifting so your face can nuzzle into his neck.
After a while, you move from his back, and he whines in protest–but your hands go to the nape of his neck, and he shivers and nuzzles into the top of your head as your fingers comb through his red locks.
Your mind has been racing with the idea of kissing him, but with how comfortable you are, even your loud, embarrassing thoughts can't continue in your fatigue.
“Sol?” March asks, breaking through the slumber that's gently pulling you into full unconsciousness.
“Hm?”
A pause.
“Never mind,” he says. “Go to sleep.”
You're too tired to press, so you just nod. “Good night, March.”
“Night.”
—
The next morning at the clinic, Valen rubs a salve on your ankle–deemed only badly sprained–and then wraps it. March stands off to the side, arms folded as he watches.
You go to pay, and Valen shakes her head. “March paid.”
You turn to look at him incredulously. “March, you didn't have to do that.”
“I wouldn't have done it if I didn't want to, idiot,” he says, smiling to show you he doesn't mean the insult. “Let's get you home.”
With the wrap and the salve, walking is easier, and March doesn't have to carry you all the way to the farm–he just supports your weight.
“I have so much to do,” you groan. “My animals need fed, my crops need watered–”
“Hayden took care of it,” March says.
“How did he know?”
March looks away. “I woke up way earlier than you today.”
You can’t fight the large smile that breaks across your face even if you wanted to. “Thank you, March.” The affectionate that you have for him bubbles up in your chest, threatening to spill out.
“Don't mention it. Seriously, I have a reputation to uphold.”
“I like this softer side of you,” you admit.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles.
“Seriously,” you say. “The whole grumpy thing is cute, but I think cuddly March is cuter.”
He flushes. “I'm not cute. I'll accept ‘hot.’”
“That too,” you say, and he flushes darker and grumbles unintelligibly.
You laugh. “You're especially cute when you're embarrassed.”
“Stop,” he pleads. “I'm not cute when I'm a bumbling idiot about my emotions.”
“You're not an idiot. It's a little weird at first, but once you get used to it, it'll be natural.” You smirk.
He hums thoughtfully.
You get to your door, and March removes his arm from you and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. “Remember what Valen said. Don't overdo it.”
You salute.
He snorts. “Nerd. Okay. I'm off.”
“Thank you again, March,” you say, then you grab his arm and pull him close–pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek.
You feel the blood begin to boil under his skin.
But as you pull away, you find him leaning–and he returns the cheek kiss with his own, intense and brief on your cheek bone, almost on your temple.
As he yanks back, he won't look at you. “You're welcome. Bye.” He turns and hurries down the path in the direction of town.
You giggle. “Bye,” you call after him.
He holds up a hand as a stiff wave, not turning around, leaving you warm with the fire he stoked in your core.
—
By Friday, your ankle feels much better. You still have work to catch up on, but you make it to the Inn around 8.
“March, your girlfriend’s here,” Ryis teases as you enter.
March twists in his seat, almost falling off of the stool.
“Solstice!” he yells. “There you are.”
You laugh, hurrying over. “I didn't know you were waiting for me.”
“I’ve missed you,” March slurs, yanking you in for a hug. He buries his face in your neck. “You don't smell like me anymore,” he laments.
You laugh to try to calm your nerves. “I will if you keep hanging onto me like this.”
“Good,” he says, but removes himself from your neck. He keeps an arm around you. “Hemlock!” he calls. “Get Solstice her stupid fruity drink.”
Hemlock looks at you questioningly, and you nod. “Please.”
He's quick to get you your usual, and you take a large drink. You need to be a little loosened up to keep up with drunk March.
“Sol,” March whines.
“March,” you whine back mockingly.
“I haven't been getting any fuckin’ sleep,” he says. “You should hurt your ankle more often.”
You shush him, flushing under the confused gaze of Ryis and the knowing look of Juniper.
You lean in and say quietly, “We can talk about that in private.”
“Oh shit,” March laughs. “They're gonna think we slept together slept together.”
You facepalm. “How many has he had?” you ask Ryis.
“Enough,” he answers, trying not to laugh.
“I need enough,” you say, and take another large drink.
“I'm sorry, Solstice, don't be mad at me,” March whines.
“I'm not mad at you,” you say, brow furrowed in confusion.
“Good, ‘cause I don't like it when you're mad at me.”
“I've only been mad at you like, twice.”
“You're not mad at me right now?”
“No? Why would I be mad?”
“I haven't seen you since Monday,” he says.
“I've been resting my ankle and then catching up on work,” you say. “Hayden could only do so much.”
“Oh,” he says.
“Plus I didn't know if you wanted to see me. You get weird after affection.”
“I always wanna see you, Sol,” he says.
“I wish you acted like you did sober,” comes out, even though you don't intend for it to.
“You haven't given me a chance,” he says. “You just assumed.”
“That's fair,” you say. “I'm sorry.”
“I've been a huge dick for months. Dunno if I can really blame you.” He shrugs.
“You're being less of one,” you say. “I should have given you the benefit of the doubt.”
“S'okay,” he says, pulling you closer. “You're here now.”
You two stay like that throughout the night, as you drink and chatter with the other townsfolk. No one comments on it, but you are getting looks–that is, until the trio of kids come downstairs.
“Solstice and March sitting in a tree,” Dell sings.
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” Maple joins in, while Luc stands there looking embarrassed.
“You heard ‘em,” March says, and dives for your face. You squeal and are able to cover your face with your hands before March plants a kiss on your mouth–and instead kisses the tops of your hands.
“Oooooh,” the girls sing in unison.
You peek out your hands, face aflame. “March.”
He grins like a Cheshire cat. “Solstice.”
“Kids, quit teasing March and Solstice,” Reina says, shooing them off, then glances apologetically at you.
“Try that again when you're sober,” you say, removing your hands from your face.
“Fine,” he says, holding the word out as a whine.
—
You end up walking March home in place of Olric, even though you're sure March is mostly sobered up.
March didn't fight leaving for once, and you're pretty sure you know why—your stomach churns with nerves at the idea.
You get to the door of the shop. “Here you go,” you say. “Home sweet home.”
He furrows his brow. “You're not gonna stay?”
You swallow. “You didn't ask.”
His hands find your waist and pull you closer. “Stay,” his voice rumbles. “Please.”
How could you say no to that?
You borrow some of his sleep clothes again and climb into bed next to him. He immediately clings to you, and you giggle, wrapping your arms around him.
“Final-fuckin’-ly,” he says through an exhale, relaxing in your arms.
“You could've asked to come over, you know,” you say.
“I didn't wanna bother you.”
“You don't bother me,” you say, then press a kiss to his cheek. “Promise.”
“Kiss me again,” March says, voice husky, eyes dark.
Your stomach fills with moths, fluttering around your kindling core, at the request. You kiss closer to his nose.
“Again.”
You kiss the bridge of his nose.
“Again.”
You kiss his jaw, and he inhales sharply. You keep kissing him, then, trailing along his jaw and to his chin.
“If you don't kiss me I'm gonna fuckin’ explode,” he says.
“I've been kissing you,” you tease, trying to play off your nervousness.
“Fuckin'--”
He tilts his head down and captures your lips with his, intense and deep and messy. You grab him by his hair and pull him in at a different angle, aligning your lips to slot better together. He groans into your mouth, his fingers diving under your shirt and gripping your waist for dear life.
You wonder if he'll leave bruises. A part of you hopes he does.
You separate after a while, panting.
“Should've kissed you sooner. Should've kissed you instead of being a jerk.” He dives back in, and you tilt your head away.
“Hold on, I still need to breathe,” you say, so he goes for your neck.
“March,” you gasp. “If we don't stop now, I think we'll go farther than I want.”
He instantly pulls away. “What's the farthest you want?”
“Just making out,” you say, blushing, feeling stupid all the sudden. “I'm sorry if that's not what you want, I just want to wait until I'm married before I do…that.”
March furrows his brow. “Don't apologize for having boundaries, the fuck? I'm not going any further than you want.”
You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, March.”
He inches closer. “Just tell me if I do anything you don't want me to.”
You nod, and he presses a gentle kiss to your lips that melts you. As much as you liked his rough, fervent kisses and touches, you find that his gentleness is more overwhelming, sending sharp yet pleasant stabs through your stomach.
He kisses you late into the night, until both your lips are bruised and swollen and your chests heave to intake oxygen. You break away and soak in each other's warmth.
Your eyes are heavy as you comb your fingers through his hair, and you're pretty sure the sensation knocks him out.
But then he says, his voice full of sleep: “Sol?”
“March?”
“‘m not drunk anymore.”
Your brow furrows in confusion. “I know that.”
He shushes you. “Tryin’ to tell you somethin’.”
“Tell me what?”
He takes a deep breath. For several quick beats of your heart, there's nothing but March's elevated breathing.
Then, finally: “I think I like you. A lot.”
You laugh. “You think?”
“Shut up,” he grumbles. “Tryin’ to talk about my feelings and–”
“I like you too, March. A lot.”
“Good,” he mumbles. “You’ll be my girl, then?”
“Absolutely,” you say.
He kisses you, and you feel a rare smile on his lips. You deepen the kiss, and you have the privilege to taste his smile until the sun begins to rise–before you both finally succumb to sleep.