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[tragic_mask]

They are outside the Blue Owl Bar. It's mid-morning, so there are cars rushing [so to speak] by, and people walking, biking, or rollerblading down the sidewalk nearby.

"Well, here we are,"  she says brightly, ponytail ruffled by a light breeze.

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[mechanicalswans]

If she doesn't object, she is getting kissed.

"It's hard to warm someone up from across the room, after all," he murmurs. "And we don't have a fireplace..."

[tragic_mask]

And, naturally, she doesn't.

"Exactly," she replies.

[mechanicalswans]

"Or even candles," he murmurs, and steals another kiss. "I like having fire around; it enhances the mood..."

[tragic_mask]

"I'm somehow not surprised to hear you say that," she smiles.

[mechanicalswans]

"...well, it does," he says with a smile. "You live in the frozen north, and outdoors everything is pale blue or grey, and still--very still. Indoors, there is warm light, and heat, and the movement of the flames. So much more alive."

[tragic_mask]

"I see your point," she says, and nestles herself closer to his warmth.

[mechanicalswans]

"In that house in the suburbs, when we retire, we're going to have a fireplace," he says, nibbling lazily along her jawline. "Maybe more than one."

[tragic_mask]

"Mm. Naturally," she says, tilting her head up unconsciously.

[mechanicalswans]

"And," he continues, both speaking and nibbling, "a fire in the backyard. More untamed, more natural, than one indoors..."

[tragic_mask]

"I see you've got the blueprints half-planned already," she says, grinning at him.

[mechanicalswans]

"...well, there are settings that have always appealed to me," he says with a smile, "but really you're the only important part. Anywhere would be fine, as long as it's with you."

[tragic_mask]

"That's terribly romantic of you," she says, with an arched brow.

[mechanicalswans]

"...although if you said you really wanted to live in the middle of the desert I would try to talk you out of it," he admits, and kisses her again.

[tragic_mask]

"I'm not that fond of the warm," she says, patting his arm. "More like the tropical type, with coconuts and warm, white sand."

[mechanicalswans]

"Tropical, I don't mind," he says. "As warm as you like, as long as it's on the water. The sea, a lake, a river, anything like that."

[tragic_mask]

"Then I think we'll be all right."

[mechanicalswans]

"Better than all right, I would say," he murmurs. "We'll just need to save up to buy a nice place on the beach someday."

[tragic_mask]

"Scrounge for years," she says sagely, "Until we can retire by the sea."

[mechanicalswans]

"Rent a hut, at first," he suggests. "Spend our days combing the beach for interesting things to turn into sculptures to sell to tourists, and our evenings entertaining those tourists with songs and stories at some local pub."

[tragic_mask]

"Live off the land," she adds. "Or just the kindness of strangers. Either is equally romantic."

[mechanicalswans]

"I can fish," he says. "We would never lack for food. And we would have no stress at all--it would be beautiful."

[tragic_mask]

She contemplates it, silently, tracing patterns on his chest.

Then: "I feel like, really, my stressed self would always be sneaking back in. After all, there's only so long I can pretend not to be... what I am. A long weekend is probably just about the right length for that."

[mechanicalswans]

"You'd be surprised how long you can distract yourself," he says quietly. "It takes a certain amount of compartmentalization, but it can be done. Then again, it's a bit of a specialty of mine..."

[tragic_mask]

"Why?" she inquires.

[mechanicalswans]

"Why do I do it?" he asks. "It makes things easier. More pleasant. Better than exploring all the harsh realities of a situation. Selectively accepting certain things and refusing to see others--isn't that what being in love is?"