semper-ama:

@fabtrek asked me to write Zach quoting Whitman at Chris to get him in the ~mood, so I am doing that, very slowly and against my better judgment, since I have so much else going on. But also how could I say no to poetry porn? (I know this is not porny, but trust me, it’s foreplay.) (Also @thatmysticbafflingwonder this might be relevant to your interests too.)

—

“Poor baby,” Zach says, giving Chris’s hand a squeeze. Chris must look about as miserable as he feels. “We’re almost home. Hang in there.”

“Don’t patronize me, Zachary,” Chris mutters. The words muffled by his scarf and scattered by the wind, but Zach must hear them, because he chortles. It is a fond, familiar sound that would warm Chris significantly if he wasn’t fighting the elements. Too many elements. More elements than a California transplant should have to withstand.

“You do look captivating like this though.” Zach withdraws his hand from Chris’s pocket and swipes a thumb across his chafed cheek. “I would swear your eyes are bluer.”

Chris rolls the eyes in question, even as he fails to fight a smile. “If you think I’m going to brave the winter hellscape more often just because you flatter me, you’re very mistaken.”

That gives Zach pause for a moment, but only a moment. His expression turns contemplative, and the sight makes anticipation crackle through Chris’s chest. It will be good, whatever is coming next. Zach only gets that look before good things happen.

“Thee for my recitative,” Zach says, looking pleased with himself. “Thee in the driving storm, even as now—the snow—the winter-day declining.”

Chris can’t bite back his delighted bark of laughter. The frigid air makes even his teeth feel cold, but for a moment he can almost ignore it. “Whitman. Nice.”