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The snow had fallen in thick, gentle sheets that morning, layering the entire town in white silence. Pine trees glittered with frost, rooftops drooped under the weight of snow, and the breath of bundled-up townsfolk plumed into the air like smoke from a hundred tiny chimneys. It was the night of the Winter Festival, the biggest event in their small northern town, and everyone was gathered at the edge of the lake where the snow had been packed down to make room for dancing, feasting, and eventually—the bonfire.
Brian thrived in it.
He laughed with his head tipped back, cheeks pink from the cold and a little wine. His arm slung easily over shoulders, his voice loud and teasing as he cracked jokes with locals like he’d lived there forever. His charm was contagious, and he wore it like a second coat.
Dexter, by contrast, lingered near the edge of it all, still and quiet. His gloved hands were buried in the pockets of his parka, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd, not out of suspicion—just... instinct. His lips barely moved, even when someone greeted him with a cheerful “Hey, Dex!” He nodded once, politely, and looked away.
But Brian didn’t let him stay in the background for long.
“There you are,” Brian said, appearing in front of him with a grin that showed teeth. “You look like you’re part of the scenery, just standing there like that.”
Dexter blinked slowly. “I’m fine here.”
“You’re freezing there,” Brian said, grabbing Dexter’s gloved hand and tugging him into the open. “Come dance with me. One song.”
“No.”
“Yes,” Brian countered immediately, dragging him out anyway. “One. And you can glare at me the whole time if it helps.”
People clapped along to the music—something folksy and old—and Brian pulled Dexter close, one hand warm on his waist, the other holding his gloved hand up just enough to move with the rhythm. Dexter was stiff at first, his steps awkward, and he didn’t look Brian in the eye.
But Brian smiled, gentle this time. “There you go. You’re dancing.”
“This is embarrassing,” Dexter muttered.
“I like it when you’re embarrassed,” Brian whispered low into his ear. “It means you’re alive.”
The song didn’t last long. But Brian didn’t let go until it was over.
Later, after hours of laughter, dancing, and food warmed over open fires, the town began to settle into a slower rhythm. People gathered around the giant bonfire, wrapped in coats and blankets, some drinking mulled cider or hot chocolate. The orange glow lit up the snow around them, and sparks rose lazily into the night sky.
Dexter sat at the edge of the gathering, hands still in his coat pockets, eyes watching the flames like they might whisper secrets. He didn’t look up when Brian dropped beside him, but he did let out a quiet breath when Brian pressed their shoulders together.
“You cold?” Brian asked softly.
Dexter nodded. Just once.
Brian pulled out a thick wool blanket from behind him—one he’d snagged earlier—and without asking, wrapped it around both of them, pulling Dexter close under the cover. Their thighs touched. Their shoulders. Their arms.
Dexter stiffened again, his eyes darting to the nearby faces around them.
“They’re not looking,” Brian murmured. “But even if they were…”
His lips brushed the shell of Dexter’s ear, his voice dropping into a velvet-soft whisper.
“I had fun today. You know that? It was nice. Dancing with you.”
He let the sentence breathe. “Sitting here with you right now feels even better.”
Dexter didn’t speak, but he didn’t move away either. His breathing had shifted—barely—but Brian felt it.
Brian smiled, voice a teasing hum.
“You’re so warm under that ice you wear. If I wasn’t careful, I’d think you actually like me.”
Dexter exhaled, quiet but audible.
Brian leaned in again, lips barely brushing skin. “I think you do.”
He waited. No answer.
But Dexter’s hand shifted under the blanket. His fingers found Brian’s thigh and rested there, still and deliberate.
Brian’s smile grew slow and satisfied.
The fire cracked behind them, still blazing, but the festival had begun to fade.
People stood, stretching and yawning, brushing snow from coats. Children were carried half-asleep. Couples wandered off into the woods or back to their cabins, muffled laughter following them. The once-booming music had quieted into soft background hums—now just memories clinging to the cold.
Brian and Dexter didn’t move at first.
Still curled together under the shared blanket, Dexter stared into the flames, his expression unreadable—except for the subtle way his body leaned into Brian’s. When Brian stood, he kept the blanket around them both, tugging Dexter up with him.
“Come on,” he murmured into Dexter’s ear, voice low and warm. “Let’s go home.”
Dexter nodded, letting Brian guide them along the snowy trail. They moved slowly, the shared blanket awkward but intimate, their shoulders pressed together the whole way. It was quiet—just the crunch of snow beneath their boots, their breath fogging between them, and the soft whisper of winter all around.
Their house came into view. A little cabin tucked behind pine trees, light glowing faintly through the curtains.
They stopped just before the door.
The full moon hung low and round above them, casting everything in silver light. The snow glittered. The trees stood silent. And the cold bit just enough to make the heat between their bodies feel impossible to ignore.
Brian turned toward Dexter. The blanket shifted, tightened.
“You’re still blushing,” he said softly, a smile touching his lips. “You know that?”
Dexter didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up, met Brian’s, then lingered.
Brian reached up and brushed a gloved thumb along the curve of Dexter’s cheek. “Don’t look at me like that unless you mean it.”
Dexter didn’t speak—but he leaned in.
And then they were kissing.
Not rushed. Not rough. Just a slow slide of mouths, pressed together under the blanket, their bodies close enough to feel every shift and breath. The kind of kiss that had waited years to happen. It started quiet—tentative, testing—but it deepened quickly, the way thirst deepens when it's finally quenched.
Brian’s hands cupped Dexter’s face. Dexter gripped Brian’s coat.
When Brian licked softly into his mouth, Dexter let him.
And when Dexter’s fingers curled into Brian’s waist, Brian made a low sound against his lips—a pleased, breathy thing—and pushed him gently back toward the door.
They didn’t speak as they stumbled inside.
The door clicked shut behind them, the cold shut out in a rush.
Inside, the warmth wrapped around them, but neither cared anymore. Their boots thudded off one by one. Gloves dropped to the floor. The blanket slipped, forgotten, pooling near the hearth like a discarded thought.
Brian pressed Dexter against the wooden wall beside the door, kissing him deeper now—hotter—his fingers slipping under Dexter’s layers of clothing, lifting his shirt just enough to feel bare skin. Dexter shvered, not from cold, but from contact.
Brian smiled into the kiss. “Still warm under all that ice.”
Dexter exhaled sharply, his voice low and barely-there. “Shut up.”
Brian groaned softly. “God, There he is.”
He kissed him harder, deeper, until they couldn’t pretend it was anything but need — not just attraction but the kind of hunger born from being known. Understood. The rare, rare thing they'd found in each other.
Dexter didn’t talk. He grabbed Brian instead—pulling him toward the couch, pushing him down with surprising force. Brian laughed breathlessly, sprawled beneath him, his eyes burning now.
“Don’t stop.”
Dexter didn’t.
Clothes fell in pieces. Slow, deliberate. Dexter peeled Brian out of his layers like he was unwrapping something forbidden. Brian’s teasing stopped being words and started being gasps.
Skin touched skin.
They moved with a rhythm that wasn’t rushed but wasn’t gentle either—it was real. Hungry. Built from years of repression, from running, from never letting themselves feel anything for long.
Brian whispered his name — “Dex…” — again and again, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Dexter stayed quiet. But the way he touched, the way he moved — it spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.
The couch creaked beneath them, old wood and soft cushions shifting as bodies tangled. Brian lay sprawled, shirtless, flushed with cold and rising heat. His chest rose and fell with quick, hungry breaths, eyes locked on Dexter, who hovered above him with dark, unreadable intensity.
Dexter’s hands roamed, slow but sure — calloused fingers brushing along Brian’s chest, tracing every line, every scar, like he was studying something sacred.
“Don’t look at me like I’m delicate,” Brian murmured, voice husky.
Dexter didn’t answer. His fingers curled into Brian’s hip and pulled, dragging their bodies closer, pressing heat to heat. Brian gasped, his legs parting instinctively, wrapping around Dexter’s waist.
“No hesitation tonight, huh?” Brian whispered. His voice was teasing, but low, soft—like he was trying not to break the moment. “I like it.”
Dexter leaned down, mouth brushing along Brian’s jaw, then lower—throat, collarbone, the soft skin just under his chest. Lips parted, hot breath dragging over chilled skin. When Dexter bit lightly into Brian’s shoulder, the sound Brian made was somewhere between a moan and a laugh —startled, breathless, pleased.
Brian's hands tangled in Dexter’s hair, his fingers curling, tugging gently. “You're so quiet, even now. But I can feel you. Every damn inch of you.”
Dexter pressed their hips together hard, grinding slow. Brian let out a sharp sound, breath hitching, legs tightening around him. Their clothes were half-off, tangled at their ankles, shirts pulled over heads and tossed aside—but it wasn’t fast. It was drawn out. Desperate in a quiet, careful way. The kind of desperation that didn’t want to miss a second.
“You know…” Brian whispered between kisses, “you could’ve said something back there at the fire. Something sweet. Romantic.”
Dexter kissed him—bruising, intense—and that was the answer.
Brian’s laugh died into a groan.
The stretch of their bodies, the heat building between their thighs, the rhythm of motion—it all blurred. The cold outside didn’t matter. The years of silence, loneliness, walls—they were melting now under every movement, every shared breath.
Dexter lined them up and pushed in slow, watching every twitch of Brian’s face, the way his lashes fluttered, the sharp gasp that escaped his mouth. Brian pulled him down, teeth catching Dexter’s lower lip.
“Fuck,” he whispered, hips lifting, taking him in fully. “You feel so — finally.”
They moved together like a conversation they’d never dared have. Dexter didn’t speak, but every thrust, every shift of his body, said everything he’d buried for years. Brian’s hands didn’t stop moving—gripping shoulders, stroking his back, tracing his spine, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.
“You’re not alone anymore,” Brian whispered, lips to his ear. “You never were. You had me. Always me.”
Dexter’s hands clutched at him—hard. Tight.
Their bodies rocked together, faster now, harder. The soft thud of the couch against the floor, the creak of wood, the rhythm of skin meeting skin—it filled the cabin, drowned out the wind outside. Brian was panting, swearing, head thrown back, exposed and glowing in the firelight.
Dexter kissed down his chest, bit into his side, left a mark just above his hip. Brian arched into it, gasping.
It wasn’t rough just for the sake of it—it was need. The kind that builds in silence, that festers in loneliness, and explodes when someone finally touches you like they see everything.
And Dexter saw him.
Saw the dark, broken, twisted pieces Brian had always carried. Saw himself reflected in them.
When they came — Brian first, with a gasp and his name on his lips; Dexter just after, biting into Brian’s shoulder to muffle the noise — it wasn’t just release.
It was a breaking.
A surrender.
A belonging.
Later, they lay tangled on the couch. Naked, blanketed in heat and each other’s scent. The firelight painted them in amber and gold, flickering gently across bare skin and sweat-slicked hair.
Dexter didn’t speak.
Brian didn’t press him to.
He just slid a hand along Dexter’s spine, slow, comforting. His voice was quiet now—soft in a way he rarely let himself be.
“I think we’re finally home.”
Dexter closed his eyes.
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting long shadows across the cabin floor.
Brian lay stretched out on the couch, still warm and loose-limbed, a satisfied smirk playing faintly on his lips. His fingers traced lazy shapes across Dexter’s bare shoulder, slow circles that said stay, don’t think, don’t drift away yet.
But Dexter was already halfway gone—in his head, eyes open, staring at nothing.
His body was close, but his mind had crept outside into the cold, into the spaces between eyes that watched and whispers that traveled. The warmth of Brian’s touch couldn’t stop the knot tightening in his stomach.
“Brian,” Dexter said finally, voice flat and quiet.
Brian blinked. It wasn’t often Dexter initiated speech. Not like this.
He tilted his head toward him, brushing a knuckle down his jaw. “Hm?”
Dexter’s face didn’t shift. No emotion, no visible anxiety—but it was in the pause. In the way his throat worked around the next words.
“What if they notice?”
Brian raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
“The town,” Dexter said, still watching the ceiling, tone even. “The people. What if they see something between us?”
Brian was quiet for a moment.
Then, gently, “You mean besides the fact that we’re brothers?”
Dexter didn’t answer right away. He swallowed. “We told them we were.”
“And we are," Brian said with a faint, amused smile. “That’s not the part they’d be surprised by.”
Dexter turned his head slowly to meet Brian’s gaze. His eyes were sharp, searching. “They’ll know.”
Brian shrugged one bare shoulder under the blanket. “They might.”
Dexter didn’t move, but something about his body grew tighter—like a coiled spring.
Brian studied him a moment longer before his smile softened, voice lowering. “You’re worried about what they’ll think.”
“I’m not like you,” Dexter replied simply.
“No,” Brian agreed. “You’re quieter. Slower. You don’t like being seen.”
Dexter’s jaw flexed.
“But you didn’t stop me tonight,” Brian added, leaning in closer. “You could’ve. You’ve stopped me before.”
Dexter’s eyes flicked away.
Brian’s fingers slipped under his chin, guiding his gaze back. “You didn’t because you wanted it. Us. Whether they see it or not.”
“I don’t want questions,” Dexter said.
“Then we won’t answer them.” Brian leaned in until their noses brushed. “We’re brothers. Close ones. Reclusive. Maybe a little strange. So what? Let them wonder.”
Dexter was silent again, but his breathing had shifted—slower now. Not calm, but… grounding.
Brian kissed the corner of his mouth.
Then his jaw.
Then down his throat.
“You don’t have to be afraid. You’ve got me. Always have.”
Dexter closed his eyes. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.
But when Brian pulled him in closer, wrapping the blanket tighter around both of them, Dexter rested his head against his shoulder—and stayed there.