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Christmas fic: The match-seller
*looks guilty*
I'm afraid I've done it again... After last year's Christmas Carol, I've slaughtered another classic as a result of my VigBean obsession..
Forgive me?
Title: The match-seller
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moldava
Pairing: SB/VM
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: they're not mine, regretfully
Archive: Rugbytackling; Green Opals
Notes: based on Hans Christian Andersen's story "The match-seller", with apologies to the poor man; beta by my lovelymilochka; perfect icon by wizzicons
Warning: having tissues at hand is suggested, but all ends well *g*
It was terribly cold and nearly dark, it was last evening before Christmas Day.
The wind was howling, sweeping down the streets like a hungry wolf on a wild, desperate hunt, and the snow was falling thick and fast.
Under the cold, darkening sky a man, his blond head bare just like his feet, roamed through the streets, trailing a blanket in the thin, soft layer of new snow and stopping now and then to stare at the patterns the threadbare fabric had made in the white surface that gleamed palely in the lamplight.
The man would often move off the track made by other passers-by and set his naked feet in the pristine snow, just to admire his own tracks, not seeming to notice that his feet were becoming blue and numb with the cold.
Bundled in an old apron someone had left by a garbage bin, he carried the boxes of matches he relied on for his living, and he had a lone box clutched in his hand as well.
That day no one had bought his matches, nor had anyone stopped to spare him a small coin. He never asked for charity... The other ones who wandered the streets like him would mock him for this, said he was too proud, but he was not. He just didn’t want to bank on other people’s guilt, didn’t want the easy coin that would assuage their conscience and send them home feeling virtuous. They could keep their coins as far as he was concerned, but when the rare one happened along who would stop and talk to him, he would smile up with sunny blue eyes and feel warm inside, warmer than the cup of weak coffee he could get with a coin in one of the cheap shops could ever make him feel.
But this had not been one of the good days...
They’d all been walking quickly, eager to get off the streets, eager to be home, to a place that was warm and dry and full of light and love. No matches sold today, no coins, no words for him...
Shivering with cold and hunger, he crept along. The snowflakes fell on his ash-blond hair but he seemed to barely notice them, though now and then his tongue would dart out to capture a snowflake and his whole face would light up with amused wonder when he did it.
He reached one of the parts of the city that he knew was actually lived in, no offices here, just apartment houses and small neighbourhood shops that were closed by now.. Bad for his kind of business but...
Homes...
He shaped the word in his mind as if hugging it like a long-lost friend, a friend from his past, but he didn’t dare shape it with his cold-numbed lips.
The streets felt different here... Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose and gingerbread, for it was Christmas Eve—yes, he remembered that, and he remembered what it felt like to be inside one of those homes on a night like this...
Reaching a corner between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other and formed a sort of nook, he sank down and huddled out of the wind and snow. He’d drawn his bare feet under him, but he couldn’t keep off the cold and he really didn’t know where else he could go. He couldn’t face the crowded noise and collective feel of self-pity of a shelter tonight, no, not tonight of all nights... better to be alone, even if it meant being cold and hungry..
But his hands felt almost frozen by now... Hey, he thought, maybe a burning match would warm them up a bit if his cold-numbed fingers could manage to get it out of the little box and strike it against the wall...
Fumbling a bit, he drew one out. It made a loud noise as he scratched it against he wall, then it sputtered and caught fire, giving off a dancing light, a bit like a little candle, as he held his hand over it, letting its warmth seep into the icy flesh.
He blinked, dazzled by the sudden brightness, and suddenly the little flame seemed to expand and its light became like a window, opening onto a room where two men were decorating a Christmas tree.
Viggo recognized himself in one of the two, but the other was a stranger, a tall blond stranger with a beautiful face and sparkling green eyes.
He watched avidly as the two men moved around the tree, smiling and talking and brushing against each other as if they couldn't bear to stay apart. He couldn't hear them but he could see that there was love between them, as well as friendship.
In the vision, the blond man reached out his hand to touch Viggo's cheek and, instinctively, Viggo leaned closer to the flame, wanting.. needing to feel that touch. But it was not destined for him, it was for that other Viggo, the one standing by the Christmas tree, the one who rubbed his cheek against the blond man's hand and kissed its palm.
Viggo sighed and the match went out, his cold-numbed fingers barely feeling the burn.
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if to see again the scene that had just vanished from sight. When he opened them again the evening seemed even darker and the wind felt more piercingly cold.
Without even realizing it, he searched the box and took out another match, scratching it with badly shaking fingers against the wall as he prayed that he would see them again, that other himself that looked so happy and warm and loved and that lovely man whose green eyes were filled with kindness and fire.
Oh yes, they were still there... It was darker in the room now, just the lights on the Christmas tree and the firelight. The two men had made a nest of pillows on the rug in front of the fire and were lying in it, wrapped around each other, whispering and laughing softly as their hands wandered under their clothes and lighted other fires. Viggo watched as the blond man licked his lip, his green eyes locked with those of the Viggo who was smiling at him with desire painted all over his face. As the blond man’s mouth descended slowly, the match went out and Viggo whimpered, a sound filled with pain and loneliness.
He hid his face in his numbed hands for a moment, then again opened the matchbox.
There was only one match left in the box, he lighted it with trembling fingers while his teeth worried his bottom lip, as if to keep it from quivering.
The light shone soft and intimate this time, as if reluctant to intrude on the scene it revealed. He saw himself lying on a bed, naked and fast asleep. A thick quilt had been kicked carelessly to the foot of the bed, but he knew he was not cold, he could not be cold, not with the way the blond man was spooned protectively against his back, an arm curled tightly around his waist even in sleep, as if he couldn’t let go of him, not even while sleeping.
A little thrill ran through Viggo's shivering body, and somehow he knew that the two men had just made love, and that they were now sleeping, sated and exhausted and warmed by the love they had for each other, safe in the knowledge that the morning would find them in each other's arms. He could read it plainly in the wavering light of the little flame, in the way their bodies touched, in the little dreamy smile that still curled their lips.
But the light was too brief and the match burned out right as Viggo leaned forward, trying to get closer, wanting to catch the warm scent of love and sex.
He huddled against the bare wall and looked around...
The snow was falling thicker now, curtaining him from the rest of the world. It was beginning to form a layer on his clothes, on his limbs, and he shivered, feeling the cold dampness of it creeping into his bones, making him want to curl down on the cold, white blanket and just let go, close his eyes and forget about everything. He couldn't fight it anymore... He was too tired and cold and hungry...
He wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his cheek on them, letting the snowflakes get trapped in his lashes and mix with the moisture he was finding it hard to hold back.
It could have been a minute later, it could have been longer, when a gloved hand shook his shoulder, gently but urgently, pulling him back from the empty space into which he'd been drifting and refusing to let him go. A second hand touched his face, ungloved and blissfully warm, sweeping the snow away and curling warm and protective around his icy cheek.
It took a lot of effort to come back. Viggo tried to resist the pull but the stranger wouldn't give up and eventually Viggo sighed softly and tried to open his eyes, batting his eyelashes to rid them of the snowflakes encrusting them.
The stranger was just a dark shape at first, a woolen cap and a thick scarf hiding his face. But then the hands unwrapped the scarf and used one of its ends to mop Viggo's face and hair before wrapping his head in it and tucking it around his neck.
"You mustn't stay here, it will be the death of you. Come, I'll take you home with me..."
The man had a beautiful voice, warm and thick and grainy like country honey, Viggo thought bemusedly, still uncertain whether this was real or an hallucination brought on by hypothermia, but the hands shaking him and dusting the snow off him felt very real. He blinked again and was finally able to open his eyes. Immediately he sought the stranger's face and when he caught sight of it his breath whistled sharply in his throat.
It was the man he had seen in the flame of the three matches, the blond man with the kind green eyes. They were filled with concern now, but they were the same ones that had looked at him sparkling with love and mirth.
"Home..." Viggo whispered back, hesitantly, as if the word was something he'd forgotten the meaning of.
"Yes, home.." the man repeated patiently. "I'll take care of you.."
"Home..." Viggo's lips curled around the word in a smile, the way one smiles when meeting a friend he hasn't seen in a very long while. The hand that all the while had been gripping tightly in its palm the empty box of the magical matches unfurled, and let it drop into the snow. He had no need of it now, not anymore. The man from the vision had come for him and everything would be all right now.
It would all come true, he would be home.
I'm afraid I've done it again... After last year's Christmas Carol, I've slaughtered another classic as a result of my VigBean obsession..
Forgive me?
Title: The match-seller
Author:
moldavaPairing: SB/VM
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: they're not mine, regretfully
Archive: Rugbytackling; Green Opals
Notes: based on Hans Christian Andersen's story "The match-seller", with apologies to the poor man; beta by my lovely
milochka; perfect icon by wizziconsWarning: having tissues at hand is suggested, but all ends well *g*
It was terribly cold and nearly dark, it was last evening before Christmas Day.
The wind was howling, sweeping down the streets like a hungry wolf on a wild, desperate hunt, and the snow was falling thick and fast.
Under the cold, darkening sky a man, his blond head bare just like his feet, roamed through the streets, trailing a blanket in the thin, soft layer of new snow and stopping now and then to stare at the patterns the threadbare fabric had made in the white surface that gleamed palely in the lamplight.
The man would often move off the track made by other passers-by and set his naked feet in the pristine snow, just to admire his own tracks, not seeming to notice that his feet were becoming blue and numb with the cold.
Bundled in an old apron someone had left by a garbage bin, he carried the boxes of matches he relied on for his living, and he had a lone box clutched in his hand as well.
That day no one had bought his matches, nor had anyone stopped to spare him a small coin. He never asked for charity... The other ones who wandered the streets like him would mock him for this, said he was too proud, but he was not. He just didn’t want to bank on other people’s guilt, didn’t want the easy coin that would assuage their conscience and send them home feeling virtuous. They could keep their coins as far as he was concerned, but when the rare one happened along who would stop and talk to him, he would smile up with sunny blue eyes and feel warm inside, warmer than the cup of weak coffee he could get with a coin in one of the cheap shops could ever make him feel.
But this had not been one of the good days...
They’d all been walking quickly, eager to get off the streets, eager to be home, to a place that was warm and dry and full of light and love. No matches sold today, no coins, no words for him...
Shivering with cold and hunger, he crept along. The snowflakes fell on his ash-blond hair but he seemed to barely notice them, though now and then his tongue would dart out to capture a snowflake and his whole face would light up with amused wonder when he did it.
He reached one of the parts of the city that he knew was actually lived in, no offices here, just apartment houses and small neighbourhood shops that were closed by now.. Bad for his kind of business but...
Homes...
He shaped the word in his mind as if hugging it like a long-lost friend, a friend from his past, but he didn’t dare shape it with his cold-numbed lips.
The streets felt different here... Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose and gingerbread, for it was Christmas Eve—yes, he remembered that, and he remembered what it felt like to be inside one of those homes on a night like this...
Reaching a corner between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other and formed a sort of nook, he sank down and huddled out of the wind and snow. He’d drawn his bare feet under him, but he couldn’t keep off the cold and he really didn’t know where else he could go. He couldn’t face the crowded noise and collective feel of self-pity of a shelter tonight, no, not tonight of all nights... better to be alone, even if it meant being cold and hungry..
But his hands felt almost frozen by now... Hey, he thought, maybe a burning match would warm them up a bit if his cold-numbed fingers could manage to get it out of the little box and strike it against the wall...
Fumbling a bit, he drew one out. It made a loud noise as he scratched it against he wall, then it sputtered and caught fire, giving off a dancing light, a bit like a little candle, as he held his hand over it, letting its warmth seep into the icy flesh.
He blinked, dazzled by the sudden brightness, and suddenly the little flame seemed to expand and its light became like a window, opening onto a room where two men were decorating a Christmas tree.
Viggo recognized himself in one of the two, but the other was a stranger, a tall blond stranger with a beautiful face and sparkling green eyes.
He watched avidly as the two men moved around the tree, smiling and talking and brushing against each other as if they couldn't bear to stay apart. He couldn't hear them but he could see that there was love between them, as well as friendship.
In the vision, the blond man reached out his hand to touch Viggo's cheek and, instinctively, Viggo leaned closer to the flame, wanting.. needing to feel that touch. But it was not destined for him, it was for that other Viggo, the one standing by the Christmas tree, the one who rubbed his cheek against the blond man's hand and kissed its palm.
Viggo sighed and the match went out, his cold-numbed fingers barely feeling the burn.
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if to see again the scene that had just vanished from sight. When he opened them again the evening seemed even darker and the wind felt more piercingly cold.
Without even realizing it, he searched the box and took out another match, scratching it with badly shaking fingers against the wall as he prayed that he would see them again, that other himself that looked so happy and warm and loved and that lovely man whose green eyes were filled with kindness and fire.
Oh yes, they were still there... It was darker in the room now, just the lights on the Christmas tree and the firelight. The two men had made a nest of pillows on the rug in front of the fire and were lying in it, wrapped around each other, whispering and laughing softly as their hands wandered under their clothes and lighted other fires. Viggo watched as the blond man licked his lip, his green eyes locked with those of the Viggo who was smiling at him with desire painted all over his face. As the blond man’s mouth descended slowly, the match went out and Viggo whimpered, a sound filled with pain and loneliness.
He hid his face in his numbed hands for a moment, then again opened the matchbox.
There was only one match left in the box, he lighted it with trembling fingers while his teeth worried his bottom lip, as if to keep it from quivering.
The light shone soft and intimate this time, as if reluctant to intrude on the scene it revealed. He saw himself lying on a bed, naked and fast asleep. A thick quilt had been kicked carelessly to the foot of the bed, but he knew he was not cold, he could not be cold, not with the way the blond man was spooned protectively against his back, an arm curled tightly around his waist even in sleep, as if he couldn’t let go of him, not even while sleeping.
A little thrill ran through Viggo's shivering body, and somehow he knew that the two men had just made love, and that they were now sleeping, sated and exhausted and warmed by the love they had for each other, safe in the knowledge that the morning would find them in each other's arms. He could read it plainly in the wavering light of the little flame, in the way their bodies touched, in the little dreamy smile that still curled their lips.
But the light was too brief and the match burned out right as Viggo leaned forward, trying to get closer, wanting to catch the warm scent of love and sex.
He huddled against the bare wall and looked around...
The snow was falling thicker now, curtaining him from the rest of the world. It was beginning to form a layer on his clothes, on his limbs, and he shivered, feeling the cold dampness of it creeping into his bones, making him want to curl down on the cold, white blanket and just let go, close his eyes and forget about everything. He couldn't fight it anymore... He was too tired and cold and hungry...
He wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his cheek on them, letting the snowflakes get trapped in his lashes and mix with the moisture he was finding it hard to hold back.
It could have been a minute later, it could have been longer, when a gloved hand shook his shoulder, gently but urgently, pulling him back from the empty space into which he'd been drifting and refusing to let him go. A second hand touched his face, ungloved and blissfully warm, sweeping the snow away and curling warm and protective around his icy cheek.
It took a lot of effort to come back. Viggo tried to resist the pull but the stranger wouldn't give up and eventually Viggo sighed softly and tried to open his eyes, batting his eyelashes to rid them of the snowflakes encrusting them.
The stranger was just a dark shape at first, a woolen cap and a thick scarf hiding his face. But then the hands unwrapped the scarf and used one of its ends to mop Viggo's face and hair before wrapping his head in it and tucking it around his neck.
"You mustn't stay here, it will be the death of you. Come, I'll take you home with me..."
The man had a beautiful voice, warm and thick and grainy like country honey, Viggo thought bemusedly, still uncertain whether this was real or an hallucination brought on by hypothermia, but the hands shaking him and dusting the snow off him felt very real. He blinked again and was finally able to open his eyes. Immediately he sought the stranger's face and when he caught sight of it his breath whistled sharply in his throat.
It was the man he had seen in the flame of the three matches, the blond man with the kind green eyes. They were filled with concern now, but they were the same ones that had looked at him sparkling with love and mirth.
"Home..." Viggo whispered back, hesitantly, as if the word was something he'd forgotten the meaning of.
"Yes, home.." the man repeated patiently. "I'll take care of you.."
"Home..." Viggo's lips curled around the word in a smile, the way one smiles when meeting a friend he hasn't seen in a very long while. The hand that all the while had been gripping tightly in its palm the empty box of the magical matches unfurled, and let it drop into the snow. He had no need of it now, not anymore. The man from the vision had come for him and everything would be all right now.
It would all come true, he would be home.