Aiden and Tristan

Chapter 2: Snowflakes and Man-findings

Chapter 2: Snowflakes and Man-findingsTristan Gardner swore over the damn dog. He didn’t feel like standing outside in the freezing wind, but he didn’t dare to leave him in the cold, either. Not with all this snow. Og might be a damn dog, but he still didn’t want to be without him. He folded his arms across his chest and peered out between the trees. He had to be there somewhere.

The minutes ticked by, and Tristan’s anger was slowly replaced by worry. What if he was stuck? The snow was thick—really thick, where it had been drifting in the wind—and more kept coming down. He didn’t think he’d be able to leave here; the road was probably closed by now. Ploughing it would be useless, and Tom wouldn’t make it into town with the snowplough before he would have to turn around again.

Tristan hoped Tom had helped Jennifer clear the parking lot outside the motorway café. People stopped by on a night like this, especially if there was a power outage. The ones living a little closer to town than he did would make their way there. Everyone benefitted from the café’s emergency backup electrical generators in times like these. Not that the centre of the town had power outages nearly as often as Tristan did, out here on the outskirts, but it was always a comfort for people to know the café would be heated and serving food. It was the town’s gathering point, and Tristan hoped someone would help Jen out. Maybe he should take the snowmobile and head in to give her a hand. But he didn’t want to leave Og in weather like this, when there was no guarantee Tristan would be making it back any time soon.

“Og!” His call was answered by a bark nearby. “Come on, boy.”

The darn dog didn’t come. Tristan sighed, grabbed the yellow snow shovel standing by the door, and started trudging through the snow. Og had better be stuck, or Tristan would strangle the stupid mongrel with his bare hands.

Snowflakes clung to his beard, and as he touched the knitted cap on his head, he realised it was already covered with snow. A walk outside was not what he’d envisioned after his arduous journey into town. He’d only gone in on his snowmobile to make sure he’d have enough dog food at home—he was pretty sure they would be snowbound for days. He’d had a quick chat with Jennifer, and then he’d headed back home. Maybe he should’ve stayed in town.

Jen always worked too hard. Running the motorway café and taking care of Luke all by herself was tough, and Tristan always worried when he couldn’t be there.

“Og!” The dark and the snowflakes made it hard to see. Nothing but snow-covered tree trunks and not a dog to be found.

Another bark came from close by. Tristan squinted into the woods. Og’s bright eyes glowed in the dark. A white-spotted dog was not easy to locate when everything was white-spotted, but now when Tristan knew what he was looking at, he could see that Og was indeed trapped. A dark figure held on to his collar, not that Og appeared to be bothered, judging by the happy thump of his tail against the snow, creating a white cloud around both him and the person on the ground.

Tristan took a careful step closer. His grip on the shovel tightened. What kind of lunatic came into the woods in weather like this?

“Hello?” Tristan stopped a couple of metres away from the body—a man, he saw now—and waited for a response. Only a muffled groan came. f**k!

Tristan dropped the shovel and hurried forward to the man and shook him lightly. “Hey. Come on, wake up.” The eyelids fluttered as the man tried to open his eyes. Tristan touched his forehead—icy cold. The man was almost completely covered in snow and his hair was wet—Tristan assumed his clothes were, too. Without thinking, he reached for the man’s hand, shook loose his fingers from Og’s collar, and started to pull him out of the snow.

He sighed as he took in the trendy jeans and sneakers. Why couldn’t people dress according to the weather? If Og hadn’t found him, he’d have frozen to death—he wouldn’t look so pretty in his designer clothes in a casket.

He hefted the man up in a fireman’s carry and started making his way towards the cabin. It was like carrying an ice block. He guessed he should be pleased about the man being short and small framed. His curly dark hair flopped around his face with each step Tristan took.

They weren’t far from the cabin, but ploughing through the snow with the extra weight of the man and Og running around his legs had Tristan sweating and out of breath in no time at all. He grunted as he sank knee-deep into the snow, mentally cursing the stupid man for walking into his forest.

He couldn’t stay angry, though. He worried about the man being injured. It would be impossible to get an ambulance out here, and Tristan only had a basic knowledge of first aid. First, he needed to get him out of his wet clothes, that much he knew. Hypothermia was no joke.

* * * *

Tristan placed the semiconscious man on one of the kitchen chairs. He seemed to wake up all right, but he still hadn’t said anything. Og was walking in circles, wagging his tail and sniffing the stranger’s shoes. The stupid dog would’ve done a happy dance if an axe murderer showed up in the middle of the night, although hopefully his barks were enough to scare away anyone with ill intent.

Tristan glanced around his cabin, trying to figure out how best to get the man warm and dry before sending him on his way. The wood-burning stove was in the middle of the room and worked as a divider between what Tristan liked to call his living room and his kitchen area—in all honesty it was one rather big room with a kitchenette in the far end. He had always thought his log cabin was big enough—at least for him and Og—but with a stranger sitting at the two-seat table, it seemed confined.

Keeping a watchful eye on his visitor, Tristan pushed the worn sofa closer to the stove. “You can start to undress while I go fetch something dry for you.”

For the first time, those green eyes seemed to realise Tristan was there. Some of the fog in them disappeared, and they widened as the man took in his surroundings.

No point waiting for a response, Tristan threw a few logs in the stove and went upstairs—in reality it was more a ladder than a staircase—to find some clothes for the man. The upper floor consisted of one tiny room, where he had to crawl over the bed to get to the other side. It was impossible to walk around it; the angled ceiling was so low, the only place he could stand without banging his head was in the middle, but it was enough for him. He didn’t need more than a place to sleep.

He ruffled through the pile of clean laundry he kept on a chair in the corner of the bedroom. He didn’t have a closet; he hadn’t seen the need since he moved in here, seven years ago. All his clothes fitted on a chair, so why bother building a wardrobe? It wouldn’t fit in this room anyway.

He found a pair of dark-blue sweatpants and a cotton jumper, a pair of cotton socks and a pair of boot socks to go over them—the guy could keep his own underwear on or freeball. Tristan would not be lending a pair to a complete stranger.

He returned downstairs to find Og with his head resting in the stranger’s lap, gazing into those emerald-green eyes. Tristan shook his head at the dog and addressed the man, who seemed more alert now, although he was still out of it.

“Why haven’t you undressed? You need to get out of those clothes.” If he sounded annoyed it was because he was. He’d been looking forward to a night in front of the TV, sprawled on the sofa with Og. Now he had to take care of an imbecile in designer clothes who thought a stroll in a snowstorm was a splendid idea.

Tristan clenched his jaw and watched the man slowly raise his hands and look around him in confusion. “Come on, get going.”

“Erm…” The man started coughing. “Who are you?”

Tristan wanted to roll his eyes, but he didn’t. “I’m the superhero who saved you from freezing to death in the snow.”

“Oh…” The man’s hands shook as he tried to grip the little metal tag on the zip of his jacket—his too-thin jacket.

Tristan sighed. He wasn’t normally a bastard, but something about this man infuriated him. Without another word, he placed the dry clothes on the kitchen table and started to undress the stranger. He could hear his teeth chattering even though he had his mouth shut. A pang of worry went through Tristan. He had to get him out of his wet clothes and onto the sofa in front of the stove.

Tristan worked quickly; he needed to get something warm inside the man to raise his core temperature. Soup, Tristan thought. He’d bought a three-pack of instant soup a while back—mushroom, if he remembered correctly. Why, he didn’t know. He hated instant soup. It tasted like flour. Perhaps he should cook some broth. He had some root vegetables and venison, but it would take too long. Later, maybe.

The skin on the guy’s hairless chest was so cold it almost hurt Tristan’s hands to touch. He didn’t touch more than necessary, but the buttons in the thin cotton shirt wouldn’t unbutton themselves. What the hell possessed someone to go walking in a blizzard without adequate clothing?

Tristan stretched his back and handed the dry jumper over. “Put that on and take off your jeans. They’re soaked.”

Tristan put the sweatpants on the kitchen table and turned to go find the soup. The stranger wasn’t moving, never mind putting on the jumper or sweatpants. His gaze was glued to his screaming-red hands.

“Hey!” Tristan snapped his fingers, and those green eyes met his. “Put the jumper on.”

The man nodded and raised his arms in an uncoordinated manner. Tristan held in a sigh—it wasn’t the man’s fault he was frozen to the bone…or wait a minute, yes it was! He reached for the jumper anyway and pulled it over the man’s head. The dark locks had dried somewhat, and a few of them bounced as his head slipped through the neck of the jumper.

Tristan tried not to notice the bouncing curls or the green eyes. He had tried not to notice things like that for the last seven years, and he would continue trying not to notice them in the future as well.

In one harsh movement, he yanked the man into a standing position. He unbuttoned the fly, not noticing how the few hairs on his lower abdomen caressed his knuckles as he tackled one button at a time. When the buttons were done, he grabbed the waistband and pulled. The wet fabric clung to the man’s slender hips, bringing the light-blue bikini briefs with them on the way down. Tristan looked away. He did not want to see shrivelled bits. One glance told him that shrivelled as they might be, they were still mighty fine dangling right in front of his eyes.

His mouth watered as a rather inappropriate thought took form in his mind. He cleared his throat and got to his feet so quickly, he almost knocked the man over. “There. Put on the trousers, and I’ll find you something hot to drink.” He didn’t want to see if he was looking back at him, didn’t want to know if he’d noticed how Tristan’s hand shook. Get a grip! The man was one step away from the grave.