Chapter Text
Mogens had chalked up the stiff breeze that heralded Jesper Johanssen’s arrival to the impending change of the seasons. He’d grunted in displeasure, slouching even further into his seat at the window of the boathouse. It’d be warmer below the deck of his boat, but as the only ferryman to Smeerensburg, he was technically under the purview of the Royal Delivery Service, and last time an inspector had come ‘round they’d given Mogens an ass chewing to rival the bite of Jack Frost for ‘abandoning his post’.
“Wouldn’t have to abandon my post, if those royal pains in my rear would put their money where their mouth is,” Mogens grumbled. The boathouse was in such a state of disrepair that it hardly kept out wild animals, let alone the cold. Public works just didn’t reach this far north. Anyone wearing the royal kingdom’s blues had better things to be doing than trudge through the snow just to improve other peoples’ living conditions.
The thought arrived as just such a one came trudging through the snow to harangue Mogens. Even at a glance, he didn't resemble the postman who normally did deliveries on this route. The ferryman snorted. Poor bastard must’ve been lost. He waved the man lazily away with directions to the nearest town – where the man was probably actually trying to go. “You’re welcome,” he drawled, settling back in to maybe catch a few winks.
“I’m not lost.”
“Trust me,” Mogens sighed without looking up, “you are.”
Mogens was already drifting when the man spoke up again – maybe Mogens’ instructions hadn’t been clear enough. Had he said something about the boat? He tipped his hat up to get a better look at the man. “Whassat?” he asked, voice slurred with sleep.
“New postman. Smeerensburg,” the man clarified testily. Mogens stared as the man talked around his point slowly as if addressing a particularly slow child. It was something of a marvel that this scrawny guy had the energy to be gesturing so emphatically in the cold he clearly wasn’t used to. Must be pretty pent-up, this one.
In an instant, Mogens sized the man up: spoiled, ornery, and not an ounce of fat on his bones. He wouldn’t last a week.
Mogens grinned and straightened up, dropping his feet from where they were propped up on the windowsill. “Y’don’t say? Well, beggin’ yer pardon, Mister Postman!” he said, affecting an ostentatiously welcoming tone. He leaned over the windowsill right into the man’s face, whose expression contorted like he’d smelled something foul. Ah. That’d be breakfast. “I’ll get right on that, now won’t I?”
Hazing uninitiated postmen was already Mogen’s favorite pastime. But this one had earned a little extra TLC for being such a brat.
He could hardly wait.
An unseasonably temperate wind carried them across the channel into Smeerensburg’s bay. The new postman bitched and moaned about the cold for the entire trip, and Mogens took enormous pleasure in teasing him relentlessly. Privately, though, Mogens fretted over the weather. The waters were strangely calm, and it put him ill at ease.
Was a warm front coming in? Would Smeerensburg receive a freak tropical storm to tear down all the houses just before winter? Mogens might be getting a few extra customers fleeing to the mainland, if that were the case.
Another gentle breeze blew by, kissing Mogens with snowflakes, and a chill ran down his spine at the thought of what it might portend. The postman flinched violently.
“Is the weather always like this?” the postman despaired.
“Eh, we’re having a bit of a heat wave,” Mogens said.
It was only partly exaggeration.
“Why do you always do this?” Alva asks.
“Whassat?” Mogens says around the lip of his beer mug.
She sweeps around the table and sits across him with her own mug in hand. “Antagonize the new postmen.”
“What, and you don’t?” Mogens challenges, taking a long draught of his beer and raising his eyebrows at her.
Alva scoffs. “No,” she says, though her brow furrows and she rethinks her response. “Maybe. Only because they’re a nuisance, because you don’t bother telling them anything!”
“And them not knowing anything is a nuisance to you, how?” Mogens asks, throwing back his beer with a few gulps and waving to the barman to bring him another. “Maybe I’m just keepin’ your teacher’s senses arrowhead sharp! Who else would you have to teach, if I did all the work for you?”
Alva rolls her eyes.
“‘Sides,” Mogens goes on. “I have so few joys in life, Miss Alva! Give me this, at least!” He grins rakishly as the barman sets down a new mug and takes away the old, and Mogens flips the old-timer a filthy penny. “You know I’m not much of a teacher, m’self, anyway. I prefer to let the young ones figure things out on their own. Builds character, don'tcha know?”
Alva sips her beer and stares into the drab, gray distance. "That man certainly needs it," she agrees ruefully.
"See? I'm performing a public service! Really, people should be thanking me for going above and beyond my station."
The wind tickles the back of his neck, and Mogens shivers, tugging his collar closer around his ears. "Hey, isn't this breeze out of season?"
Alva stares at Mogens with unimpressed, half-lidded eyes.
"Ah, nevermind," he says, brushing the feeling off. "My sailor's instincts aren't what they used to be."
"Hm," Alva says absently. They drink their beer in companionable silence and eventually go their separate ways.
Mogens tries to ignore the strangely gentle wind that follows him all the way back to the boathouse.
The new postman will be settling into his cold, uninhabitable, broken down hovel right about now, and Mogens smiles vindictively as he warms his hands by the light of his own roaring hearth. The Smeerensburg boathouse isn't much better than the one on the mainland, but Mogens does his best to keep the place in relatively good repair, since he sleeps in it and all. It’s got a wood stove and a fireplace, and enough quilts that the bitter cold usually minds its damn business outside. Small as it is, that just means it takes less firewood to keep the place warm. It suits Mogens just fine.
Outside, the wind roars and buffets the walls with droves of snow, and he has to laugh at himself for worrying about the temperate breeze he’d been feeling all day. He could always trust Smeerensburg to be cold and miserable, if nothing else.
Mogens considers turning in for the night so he can get an early start – the postman won’t antagonize himself, after all. Or maybe he will, Mogens thinks with a quiet chuckle. If he was sent here, odds are high he did something pretty bad to anger the higher-ups from the Royal Postal Service. Maybe he’ll be tormenting himself as he shivers in his glorified chicken coop of a post office, wondering why he did whatever stupid thing that consigned him to this frozen Hell.
The mental image starts to make Mogens pity the man, just a little. He snorts. If he’s starting to feel sorry for a guy that pathetic, he must be getting tired after all. He rises from his threadbare armchair with a groan, stretching his arms upward until his spine cracks. Scratching his chin, he idly searches around in the low light for the fireplace’s curfew to cover it up for the evening. Tempting as it is to keep the hearth roaring while he sleeps, he’d rather not tempt the embers into catching his carpet on fire. Besides, the wood stove will keep him plenty warm.
When he finally catches the glint of the curfew’s copper surface, a loud banging interrupts Mogen’s train of thought. He blinks, straightening up and grabbing his crowbar instead.
The Ellingboes and Krums may have grudgingly acknowledged Mogens and Alva’s declarations of neutrality – Mogens was their only means of importing goods from the mainland, and Alva was the only fishmonger who would sell to either family without batting an eye – but that didn’t mean they fully accepted it. Ellingboes still targeted Mogens on occasion for his dark hair, and the Krums targeted Alva for her reddish blond. Young ones, usually, who either didn’t know how indispensable these neutral parties were to the community, or who wanted to prove their mettle to their families by playing target practice on relatively low-risk targets.
Mogens shifts his grip on the crowbar and makes his way to the door. It’s strange that anyone would come all the way down to the docks in the snow at night, but strange doesn’t cover half the things that happen on this miserable island. And it isn’t the first time his delightful neighbors have come to harass him at odd hours.
The banging comes again – and looking to catch his unwelcome visitor unawares, Mogens throws the door open, lifting the crowbar over his head, and –
And the postman stumbles into Mogen’s boathouse with the force of his own knocking. He collapses to the floor, shivering and whimpering like a fawn.
Mogens lowers his arm and shuts the door.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls. “Haven’t even been on the job for a day, and you’re already throwing in the towel? I think that might just be a new record! Congratulations, Postman.” He crouches down to be at eye-level with the man. “Unfortunately, the ferry doesn’t run in inclement weather conditions, or at night. So sorry, but you’ll have to come back in the morning.”
The postman opens his mouth, but his teeth are chattering so badly that Mogens can’t make out the words. He sighs and heaves himself to his feet, dragging the postman over to the hearth so he can thaw his quivering blue lips.
“W-Warm,” is all the quaking man manages.
“I know it’s drafty, but don’t you have a fireplace in that shack of yours?” Mogens says, crossing his arms.
“N-No firewood…” says the shivering pile of limbs on Mogen’s floor.
Oh, right. The locals looted the place between postmen, like they always did. And it probably didn’t help that Mogens had taken the door off its rusting, failing hinges…
Ah, damn. Now he feels responsible . Mogens musses up his hair and goes to toss some more wood on the wood stove. When he returns, he takes away the postman’s wet hat, cloak and scarf and hangs them up to dry. The man looks even scrawnier without the articles of his station to make him look a little wider and taller. Mogens throws a quilt over those narrow shoulders so he doesn't have to watch his narrow arms quiver like violin strings.
Then he settles back in his armchair to wait for the man to become coherent.
“So you came all the way to the docks,” Mogens says when the man’s shivers have mostly subsided, “in the snow, at night... in the hopes that I’d have a warm fire for you to sit by.”
The man looks up, eyes red-rimmed and nose and cheeks red from the cold. He sniffs, and Mogens tells himself the man is not on the verge of tears. His eyes are probably just watery from walking into the wind.
“And it didn’t occur to you that I might sleep in the boathouse on the mainland?” Mogens sweeps an arm in a wide, lazy gesture, as if inviting the man to use his head.
“D-Didn’t get that far,” the man says, sniffling again. “I think my brain is frozen.”
Mogens snorts, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think that’s the least of the problems with your brain.” And when he looks up, it’s like Mogens is an oracle, because the man’s hands are hovering right over the roaring flames. “Hey, hey!” Mogens sinks to the floor and tugs the man toward him.
The postman yelps. “What–”
“You tryin’ to burn yourself?” Mogens grabs the postman’s wrists to inspect his fingers. They’re tinged with blue from the cold, and Mogens can’t tell if he’s burned them. “Smeerensburg doesn’t have a doctor, y’know. It’s a pain to get medicine, too – so if you get sick or hurt, you’re on your own.”
Just hours ago Mogens was mocking this man, wishing him well in the broken-down hovel he’d be forced to live in until the Royal Postal Service recalled him. So why is he acting like he cares if the man dies of exposure or idiocy?
“I can’t feel my fingers,” the postman complains, like that justifies him almost catching his sleeve on fire and burning the boathouse down.
“And why didn’t you bring gloves?” Mogens chides.
“... Don’t have any.”
Mogens groans long-sufferingly and scrubs a hand down his face. Is this guy helpless, or what? With his hands now free, the postman tugs Mogens’ quilt tighter around his shoulders and sniffs in unfairly fitting punctuation to the thought.
Resigned, Mogens splays his legs out and rearranges the postman until he’s sitting with his back to Mogens’ gut. “Might as well get comfy,” he says in explanation to the postman’s questioning noise. “Take your boots off, too. I don’t imagine your toes are in any better shape than your fingers.”
The postman, remarkably, does as Mogens says without any wise-cracking – or he tries to, at least. His shaking fingers slip on his wet boots, struggling to muster the grip strength to remove them. Mogens swats his hands away and manhandles the postman’s leg so it’s crossed over his thigh. He removes the man’s boot and wet sock with ease, tossing them in the general direction of the hearth and gesturing for the other foot. The postman obliges silently, and the second boot and sock go the way of the first.
His toes are even bluer than his fingertips, and Mogens tsks. “Did you seriously bring cotton socks on assignment to Smeerensburg?”
“As opposed to?” the postman sniffs. It sounds like he wants to ask the question dryly, but his currently pathetic circumstances are taking the wind right out of his sarcastic sails.
“Uh, wool, for starters,” Mogens says. “Man, your last boss must’ve really hated you to not at least tell you what to expect.” It’s Mogens’ understanding that regional-appropriate attire is actually issued to postmen on assignments markedly different from their previous ones. But to have no preparation at all? It was kind of cruel, wasn’t it? Were the higher-ups trying to kill this guy?
The postman deflates, folding into himself. “... Yeah,” he says quietly.
Sensing a sore spot, Mogens quickly eases off the subject. He’s not opposed to a little mean-spirited ribbing – but since the guy will probably be here for a minute, Mogens is kind of on the hook if he starts crying, and he really doesn’t want to deal with that. “Ah, well. You’re here now, so there’s nothing for it. Here – gimme your hands.”
Those pale, shaking piano fingers emerge from the quilt’s protective shell, and Mogens wraps his hands around them. The postman’s toes curl, his legs twitching as he hisses, “Ah – that’s hot!”
“That’s the idea,” says Mogens.
“It stings, ” the man complains.
“Them’s the breaks, city boy. If you want to plunge your hands back into the fire, be my guest.”
The man grumbles and squirms, but eventually he settles down and endures the ache of warming his frozen fingers from frostbite-imminent temperatures.
“Weird time to ask,” Mogens says, “but I don’t think I ever got your name.”
“... It’s Jesper.”
Mogens snorts. “Jesper? Sounds like ‘jester’. Is that why you’re such a clown?”
Jesper makes a scandalized sound. “Oh yeah? What’s your name?”
“Like I’m gonna tell you now.”
Jesper huffs. “You know, that is very rude–”
“And you’re so polite?” Mogens interrupts, tugging on Jesper’s leg and wrapping his hand around one of his feet.
“Agh!” Jesper yelps. “You’re hot. ”
“Well, this is all a bit sudden, but I have to admit I’m flattered…”
“I didn’t mean it like that. ” Jesper scoffs, his face coloring – even as he pulls up his remaining leg to press his other foot into the one Mogens is holding, in a bid to get him to warm both of them at once. Mogens snickers and relinquishes Jesper’s hands, now much closer to room temperature, and seizes both his feet instead.
Mogens expects Jesper will stretch his hands back out toward the fire, or maybe tuck them under his arms – but they land on Mogens’ thighs, rubbing up and down on the fabric of his pants in an attempt to generate warmth through friction.
The unfamiliar contact sparks his nerve endings to life, sending warm, tingling sensation straight to the base of his spine.
Mogens idly rubs the life back into Jesper's feet as he wonders what to do about that.
The simple answer is that he doesn't have to do anything. He's past the age where his sexual appetite still feels like a biological imperative. And Jesper is obviously too thoughtless, or at least too distracted from the cold, to consider that what he's doing with his hands might be having an effect on Mogens. Odds are pretty good Mogens won't even have to explain his predicament.
Then Jesper tightens his grip on Mogens' thighs, and Mogens sucks in a breath. "Hey, go easy on the goods, wouldja?"
Jesper recoils as if burned. "Sorry," he murmurs.
Mogens chuckles. "Ah, no worries. Your hands still cold?"
"Kind of…"
"Huh. Here – turn around."
Jesper shuffles around until he's facing Mogens, his back toward the fireplace. The firelight lines his silhouette, shining through his ears and tossing highlights on his pretty blond hair.
Mogens lifts the hem of his own sweater to expose his stomach. He pats his belly fat. "Put your feet here."
"What?! That's stupid," Jesper protests.
"I mean, if you don't want to warm your feet up, it's no skin off my nose…"
Jesper makes a bunch of unhappy, indignant little sounds – but he nevertheless scoots closer, draping his thighs over Mogens' and planting his feet on the sides of Mogens' stomach.
They both hiss in response to the sudden change in temperature. Jesper's feet are like ice against Mogens' sensitive sides. He thought Jesper would put his feet on the front of his stomach, which wasn't as sensitive, so he could keep his distance. But it seems neither propriety nor resentment will prevent the shivering postman from seeking Mogens’ warmth.
"I-Is that okay?" Jesper asks, wincing at the stinging he's no doubt feeling in his toes.
"Yeah. Just caught me by surprise." Mogens lowers his sweater and rubs Jesper's cold feet through the fabric, eliciting a shiver from the other man. "Better now?"
"Yeah," Jesper sighs, rubbing his hands together.
Mogens takes Jesper's hands in his own again, pressing those shaking fingers between his broad, warm palms.
Jesper groans, curling even further into Mogens. "How are you so warm?" he wonders.
"Well, sailors are a bit like whales, see?" Mogens says. "Lots of blubber to keep us insulated out there on the cold, unforgiving sea."
Jesper snorts inelegantly and rolls his eyes.
Mogens’ hands are starting to lose their warmth – not to the point that it's uncomfortable, but he can't warm Jesper like this. He cups Jesper's hands and pulls them to his lips, where he breathes hot air into them.
"Eugh," Jesper says, lips curling with disgust even as he shivers in ostensible pleasure at the warmth freely offered. "Your breath smells like beer and fish."
"Oh? That's strange. I could've sworn I had roses and baby's breath for dinner..." Despite his complaints, Jesper only turns further toward Mogens, like a flower toward the sun. Mogens breathes into his cupped palms again, and Jesper shudders, collapsing against Mogens' gut and finally relaxing. "It's Mogens, by the way."
"Huh? Wha?" Jesper murmurs into Mogens' sweater.
"You, Jesper. Me, Mogens," Mogens says slowly. Jesper glares up at him. "Connecting the dots yet?"
"I hate you," Jesper grumbles.
"I know," Mogens says lightly. He pulls Jesper's hands up to his shoulders and settles them on the back of his neck, wincing at the cold touch – but he figures Jesper's hands will get warmer this way. With his hands free, Mogens readjusts the quilt around Jesper and wraps his arms around his back.
This has the only slightly unforeseen consequence of bringing Jesper's face a hair's breadth from Mogens'.
Jesper's fingers twitch. Along with his sense of touch, his mental faculties seem to be gradually returning as well. Jesper blinks a few times and quietly clears his throat. "Uh, not that I don't appreciate it," Jesper says, his breath ghosting over Mogens' lips, "but this is kinda close, isn't it…?"
"Oh, sure," Mogens says, grinning when Jesper grimaces at his foul breath. "You wanna warm up, though, don't you?" His hands span almost the full width of Jesper's narrow back, and he makes use of this fact by rubbing up and down to coax warmth into him through the quilt.
Jesper shivers and huddles closer. "Obviously," he scoffs.
"Somethin' you'll learn real quick up here," Mogens says, lowering his voice in deference to their proximity, "is that propriety doesn't actually keep you warm at night." Mogens lifts his hands and spreads his arms out. "If you'd prefer another arrangement, I'm wide open to suggestions."
Jesper tightens his grip on Mogens. "... No, this is fine," he grumbles, and only stops pouting when Mogens' hands return. Jesper glances away, but it's impossible to avoid Mogens' eyes when they're this close. Mogens smiles winningly down at him. Jesper huffs, and scowls like he's working up to say something difficult. "I... Thanks, Mogens."
"Aw, that's sweet," Mogens says, giving Jesper a squeeze, "but don't mistake me – I'm acting purely out of self-interest."
"What?" Jesper says, looking alarmed.
If Mogens had a penny every time the man said that…
"Of course!" Mogens goes on. "Can't give you a hard time on the job if you keel over before you've started! And corpses are terrible company for boat rides, let me tell you. Tons of paperwork, too…"
"I'm touched," Jesper says flatly, but he also looks a mite less alarmed, settling back down and wiggling closer.
Mogens sighs dramatically. "I know. Must be getting sentimental in my old age."
They sit like that for a long while, basking in the glow of the fire and sharing their body heat. The wind howls outside, and Jesper clings even closer in response to the screams of the bitter cold. Mogens tightens his grip reflexively, and Jesper sighs, burying his nose in the crook of Mogens' neck.
Eventually, though, Mogens' back starts to protest from sitting on the floor for so long. "Oof," he mutters. "All right, up and at 'em."
"Hmn?" Jesper says muzzily. "You kickin' me out?" All his layers have been stripped away by the cold and his need for warmth, so the question comes out remarkably vulnerable. It's a stark change from the arrogant, tetchy postman Mogens met that morning.
"Nah," Mogens says, patting him on the back. "Just lookin' for a change in scenery. C’mon.” He tucks his legs underneath himself and rearranges Jesper until his arms are supporting his knees and shoulders. Getting to his feet is a bit of a production, and his back pain flares up as soon as he's upright. It takes him by surprise, and he collapses unexpectedly into the armchair with a hefty 'oof'. Jesper jostles in his arms and makes a small noise of alarm.
"Hey, careful!" Jesper says, and Mogens blinks in bewilderment at the objection that sounds, at first blush, like concern for Mogens' well-being. "This is – this is first class cargo you're dealing with!"
Of course, Mogens thinks with a chuckle. He's concerned for himself. "Really? I don't see 'handle with care' written on the side." Mogens makes a show of craning his head around and turning Jesper this way and that, like he’s trying to find a shipping label.
Jesper squirms in protest until Mogens stops moving him around, and he sniffs with imperious offense. “It’s implied,” he insists.
“Ah, of course,” Mogens says reasonably, nodding along. Then he winks. “I’ll be sure to handle it with care, then.”
Jesper’s face flushes deep red – Mogens guesses he’s not cold anymore, then – and he turns away, eyes darting fitfully around the boathouse in search of something else to focus on. "H-Hey," Jesper says, "the fire's going out."
Mogens tears his gaze away from the tangle of limbs in his lap to see that the fire is, indeed, going out. It'll just be embers soon if he doesn’t stoke it. "Eh, probably for the best. It's getting late. And you've got a big day tomorrow, don'tcha?"
Jesper groans in anguish. Considering how ill-prepared he is to be here, and the difficulties he doesn't even know about which await him tomorrow, Mogens can't say he doesn't sympathize just a little.
"Now, this ain't a bed and breakfast, so I've only got the one bed…"
Jesper stiffens.
"... And I'm afraid I'll be taking that. Unless you wanna join me?"
"The floor is–" Jesper's voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "The uh, the floor is fine. I've had worse! I rough it all the time, in fact!"
Mogens highly doubts that. He's been getting whiffs of the man's aftershave while he was curled up in Mogens' arms, and he hasn't smelled anything that pungent with the smell of money since the last time he was in the city. But he isn't about to force the issue, either. Jesper is an adult, and if he says he's fine with the floor then Mogens will take him at his word. "All right. Get up, then, so I can get you some blankets."
Jesper climbs slowly out of Mogens' lap, as if reluctant to leave his source of warmth.
Mogens rises and nudges Jesper into his vacated seat. "Sit tight."
Mogens gathers up all his spare quilts and throw blankets, his second pillow and, upon a moment's consideration, one of the quilts from his own bed. Jesper will probably need it more than he does.
He sets the lot up by the wood stove, figuring that'll be where Jesper wants to sleep. "There," Mogens says. "Ready to bed down, champ?"
Mogens turns to Jesper, only to find the man has already fallen asleep in the armchair. His mouth is wide open, drool collecting at the corners as he snores quietly.
Huh. Mogens scratches his chin as he contemplates what to do. Not that it changes much – they were about to turn in for the night, anyway.
Mogens lights a candle with the last of the flames in the fireplace; he hangs Jesper's damp socks above the mantle; he douses the fire with the water pitcher and covers the coals with the curfew; and after some thought, Mogens digs out a spare pair of wool socks and tugs them onto Jasper's feet. Then he carries the man to the blanket pile and tucks him in.
"Sweet dreams, Postman," Mogens murmurs, patting the snoring man on the shoulder. "Yer gonna need 'em."
He makes his way over to his own bed and sets the candle down on the nightstand, sinking heavily into the creaking mattress with a sigh. He tugs off his sweater and tosses it on the floor, then throws the covers over his shoulder and rolls over.
The new postman isn’t exactly remarkable, Mogens thinks – except that the man seems particularly ill-suited for work in Smeerensburg. The mailmen they usually get tend to be heavier-set, older and hardier and more experienced than Jesper by a nautical mile. Mogens knows that spite sometimes takes precedence over practicality – Smeerensburg is practically the encyclopedia entry for the phenomenon – so maybe that’s all there is to it?
Jesper pissed off a superior, and this is the consequence of his insubordination.
Ah, well. Mogens isn’t the ruminating sort, and apart from idle curiosity, there’s nothing to be satisfied by mulling over the circumstances of Jesper’s arrival. Especially when he’ll probably be gone in a month, at the very latest – two months, tops.
Mogens blows out the candle and closes his eyes to sleep.
Mogen stirs at some point in the dead of night. The wind has died down to a sharp whistling that skates across the rooftops, and the snow clouds have cleared to allow shafts of starlight in through the windows.
It's by this meager light that Mogens sees Jesper's silhouette standing over his bed. "Bit early for a mail call," he rasps, voice rough with sleep.
"Hey, uh, Mugens–"
"'s Mogens."
"Mogens, Mogens, right, uh…" Jesper clears his throat. "That offer to share the bed still open?"
Mogens sidles away from the edge and lifts up the blankets. "C'mere and find out, Postman."
Jesper frets at the edge of the bed, then shucks off his blue overcoat and slides between the sheets. "Now, I – this isn't, that is… This doesn't mean that I–"
"Save it, Postman," Mogens grumbles, and he tugs the man to his chest. He hisses. "How are you already this cold again?" He rubs Jesper's arms and back to try and coax life back into his ice cold skin.
"Bad circulation, I guess?" Jesper murmurs, shuddering and relaxing into Mogens' touch. He wastes no time tangling his cold spider limbs around Mogens' warm body.
"Well, I'll keep ya nice and warm, city boy."
"Y-Yeah. Thanks."
Mogens settles down to sleep once more, now an armful of soon-to-be-warm body richer. It's been a while since he's shared a bed with anyone, and he'd almost forgotten how nice it feels to have the comforting weight of someone breathing quietly beside him.
Well. Jesper could take a few pointers in the 'quietly' department.
"Hey, Mogens…?"
"This ain't a slumber party, champ," Mogens rumbles. "'m tired. Can it wait 'til sunrise?"
"Uh, right. Sure, yeah. No problem. Um… Good night, then."
"Mhm," Mogens hums, squeezing Jesper tight and burying his nose in the other man's hair.
The wind finally calms as the pair of them drift off to sleep, and a blanket of uncharacteristic stillness settles over Smeerensburg.