Chapter Text
II
Moonbroch. noun.
1. a hazy halo of cloud around the moon at night that presages an approaching storm (Old Scots)
Neil Josten understood exhaustion.
He knew bone-deep weariness after a hundred nights of half-sleep.
He knew the physical fatigue of months on the run.
He knew the emotional void left behind after having hopes smashed and losses taken.
Between a childhood spent fleeing his father and the years of homelessness, shuffling from one family member to another, Neil was no stranger to the numbness that followed in the wake of adrenalin, the hollow tiredness that washed around his body and threatened to pull him below the waves. Treading water, despite it all, was second nature. Everything was about survival, sacrifice. Pushing through the aches and pains to live another day.
Nothing, however, had prepared him for working in retail. Let alone Black Friday and the surrounding nightmare of impatient shoppers all vying for a better deal than he could afford to offer.
This was another level of debilitation. His legs ached from standing. His back felt twisted. His eyes scratched with every blink. His every nerve seemed to tremble as he crawled out of bed, becoming heavier and heavier with each step. He didn’t even have energy for a run and he always had energy for a run, the same way other people kept space for dessert.
He was just so tired.
Which was why it was such a travesty that today, of all days, his coffee machine decided to die a death, snarling and sputtering into oblivion and without a drop of delicious energy nectar in sight. Neil watched the machine smoking before him and considered cursing, only to realise he didn’t even have it in him to do that.
Letting out a groan, the closest thing to words that would form in his mouth, he looked at the travel clock perched above the oven. Münsters would be open by now, he realised, Nicky always started early. There was hope.
Pulling on the same clothes from the day before - light turtleneck, jeans that’d seen better days, his favourite cardigan with holes for his thumbs - well, he knew he looked rumpled but everything was soft and cosy and easily picked up off the floor.
Would it be so bad if I just crawled back to bed? He wondered, padding downstairs to the darkened shop. Does the world need me today?
In his head he could imagine Kevin calling him a melodramatic asshole and couldn’t bring himself to care. It was barely dawn outside. He wanted coffee. He really wished he wasn’t awake.
Bracing for the cold, he wished he’d grabbed a scarf and hat but decided it was too late to go back now, instead pushing out into the morning and the absolutely freezing half-light of Foxdon in December.
The town was sleepy, cradled by the mountains as its inhabitants slowly started to stir. The sky was darkest winter blue, the kind of indigo that reminded Neil of deep seas, with threads of pink and orange beginning to soften the edges. Dawn was only stirring, just starting to bleach away the moon with its cheshire cat smile and the pinpoint stars in the sky. It was so clear - the air, the sky - Neil found himself pausing, looking up along the highstreet, breathing in deeply so that the cold hit his lungs and burned there. As he walked, the memory of mist curled around chimney pots and slatted roofs, the shadow of a cat skittered between frost covered cars, the quiet hushed his footsteps as if the morning wasn’t ready for sound yet.
It was pretty here. The mountains made everything so fresh, so crisp. If Neil was honest, he’d admit that loved being able to run places like Boone and Hickory, adored his hikes through Plateau and Grandfather Mountain, climbing up and up until the world lay before him, observed but unknowing, so far removed from him and his life. Things didn’t seem so claustrophobic when the world was quiet and the day just beginning. Mornings like this, Neil would even say he liked the little town, that maybe he’d visit after he left in the spring.
But the wind was cold today, desperate to prickle through his clothes. He needed coffee. Pretty towns and moribund thoughts could wait until he was properly caffeinated.
Münsters’ Bakery was the corner store on the high street. It was more modern than some of the other shops: huge front windows either side of the door giving a clear view inside where the breads and cakes lined the back walls. The aesthetic was industrial - all natural wood countertops and dark metal seating - but it was softened by faux firs in greens and browns. It was tasteful, welcoming, neutral. And then you noticed the art. Across the walls were photos in black and white, all of beautiful men making beautiful couples - some were lewd and evocative, others more heartfelt. Nicky once explained that he’d started collecting queer historical photographs after finding one of two sailors from the 1850s.
“It’s just beautiful, isn’t it?” He’d gushed to Neil. “All these people tell us that we’re not right, that we’re wrong. But love is love, no matter the genders involved, no matter the century.”
From there, Nicky had begged Neil to tell him about his own sexual preferences, “You play for our team right? You’re not a hetero with a face like that.”
Neil had all but fled, flushed and stammering out his excuses. But Nicky continued to ask, pointing out cute single men and women whenever Neil visited the bakery and always laughing when Neil insisted that he didn’t know, he didn’t really swing, he didn’t really see people like that. He really hoped that today was too early for Nicky to start the interrogation. He wasn’t sure he would cope.
Reaching Münsters, Neil noticed the windows were already decorated with snowflakes and snowballs and that a slightly terrifying winter elf perched on the frame board. He felt the strain of his own worries beginning to squeeze in his chest again, pushed them away. He couldn’t have a panic attack before coffee. He’d pass out. Then he saw what was written on the sign: Gonna lie under the tree so my family remember I’m a gift. It startled a sharp laugh and found himself pushing inside with a small smile on his face.
No one was at the counter, so Neil lent over the counter so he could peer through the crack in the doors to the kitchen. There was definitely someone back there. He called out, “Hey, Nicky. Any chance of a coffee black as my soul?”
Except as soon as the figure through the door stood, Neil knew it wasn’t Nicky. They were broader, shorter, with shoulders like Atlas and hair so pale it could be snow.
“First time I’ve been mistaken for my cousin, I’ll give you that,” Andrew said, coming through the doors. His mouth twitched when Neil took a step back, caught himself and stepped forwards again. “Black as your soul?”
Neil tried to form words. He really did. What came out was, “Wursnucky?”
“You want to try that again in English?”
“Where’s… where’s Nicky? Are you working here now?”
“Nicky’s away for December, off to Germany to see Erik’s family for the holidays. I offered to look after Münsters for them.” Andrew tipped his head, one brow cocking. “That reaction almost suggests you’re not happy to see me.”
“No! I mean. Yes. I. Well, I mean, sure, right?” Neil didn’t know what to say. “I’m glad you’re here.”
His heart was doing that thing again, the fluttery dive and swoop.
“I am too,” said Andrew. But why was he looking at Neil like that as he said it? He was so… so…
Neil’s brain blanked. All he could repeat was, “Coffee?”
He didn’t say please. He knew better from their previous conversations. That didn’t stop him raising large blue and begging eyes. “I could really, really use some of that magical bean juice, Andrew.”
He didn’t miss how Andrew’s ears turned pink, nor the way his gold eyes seemed to burn. “Get out of my face. I’ll bring it over.”
Backing away to his favourite table in the window, Neil decided he had never felt so grateful in his life to sit down and wait. He rubbed his hands together, shaking out the chill before easing back into the blankets of his seat.
The bakery was comfortably warm and full of the scents of fresh baking. It always made him think of Europe, the places he travelled both as a child and an emancipated teen. He’d spent six months exploring Germany, another four in Austria and Switzerland before heading through to France and Italy where he chased the sun and avoided the cold as much as possible. He’d visited museums in Berlin, hiked through the Black Forest, swum in Lake Geneva, learnt to drink in Bruge. He’d sailed the coast of France, from Marseille to Beaulieu, crossed to Bonafacio in Corsica and taken odd jobs that carried him from Sardinia to Sicily. Then a call came through from Stuart - regretful, sad, unsurprised - and Neil had known at once that Mary was dead. They’d expected the news for years. But none of them expected this: The Curious Fox, her new life as a bookseller, her new home in the mountains. It was funny to think how Foxdon was now the place where Neil had stayed the longest since he was seven. Almost a whole year. And it was all because of her.
Banging and a hushed expletive jerked Neil back into the present. “Andrew? You ok?”
“Yes,” Andrew said, biting out the word. “One coffee. On its way.”
Neil’s mouth twitched. He wondered if Andrew actually knew how to use the coffee machine. Had Nicky given him any time to learn anything before jetting off to Germany?
“Ah ha!”
That was a good sign. Neil pointedly didn’t look over to the barista station, kept himself looking out into the street where the sun was finally spilling along the sidewalks and making the frost shimmer and glitter like fool’s gold. If he could see Andrew’s less than composed reflection in the glass, that was a coincidence. He totally wasn’t watching the other man wrestling with the machine like it was beast from below. He definitely wasn’t hiding a snicker in his shoulder, mouth curved into a grin despite his exhaustion.
“I’m glad you’re finding this amusing,” Andrew said, finally appearing eight minutes later with a large mug of something that definitely wasn’t black coffee. His face was a little pink. His mouth was a fierce line. “Here.”
Neil’s eyes widened. “Andrew,” he began. “Is this… meant to look like this?”
“It’s a leaf,” Andrew said.
“It’s a penis,” replied Neil.
“It’s not a penis.”
“It is. You’ve drawn a penis on my latte.” Neil found a giggle bubbling in his throat. “Not even Nicky’s drawn a penis on my latte.”
“At least call it a dick,” said Andrew. “We’re not in middle school.”
Neil kept laughing. Small chuckles bursting from him despite every attempt to stop. “This definitely isn’t black coffee.”
“It’s a white mocha with an extra shot. You look tired,” Andrew said. He looked a bit put out. “Plus I decided the sugar might hide the burnt bean flavour.”
“Oh god,” Neil said. “You have no idea what you’re doing either.”
“Absolutely none. I’ve never worked in a café in my life.”
“Yet here you are, using whatever holiday you have to fill in for your cousin?” Not for the first time, Neil wondered what Andrew actually did for a living. He never seemed to answer to anyone, never took work calls or mentioned a job. Perhaps he’s rich, Neil mused. And just very generous and bored and that’s why he’s helping Nicky out.
“I think I’ve made a dreadful mistake.”
“I think you need some help.”
Andrew plopped himself into the seat opposite Neil. “Renee’s in as backup tomorrow, but she has the day off because of Thanksgiving.”
Neil sipped at his coffee, grimaced at the overwhelming sweetness mixed with what could only be described as charcoal. “I can… I can help you with the machines? I’ve worked in a bunch of cafés before in London and France. Can’t say I’m great but… maybe I can show you how not to burn the beans?”
Andrew’s eyes widened. He looked younger, like this, surprised and thoughtful. “I’d appreciate that, but don’t you have a shop to run?”
Shrugging, Neil rolled his eyes. “I’m not doing a very good job anyway. I’m sure no one will be surprised if it’s not open this morning,” he admitted, rolling his mug between his hands but not daring to take another sip. “Especially not after the disaster of the weekend.”
“I did hear things were particularly chaotic over at the Curious Fox on Friday.”
“Some lady with a little dog thought the stack of new stock was a pile of free books. Reader: they were not.”
“Reader: you are learning how to talk like the bookish.”
“Don’t insult me,” Neil said. “And now Kevin has all these Christmas plans. Keeps going on and on about traditions and stuff. I mean did you know that there are eight reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh? Eight, Andrew. And Kevin wants us to make tiny paper sculptures of all of them to dangle from the ceiling. Then he has us scheduled to make twelve ‘festive’ dioramas out of books. That’s stock sacrifices to the art and crafts gods, if ever I’ve seen it…” Neil offered a wan smile. “Really, you’d be doing me a favour keeping me here, saving me from death by a thousand inevitable paper cuts.”
Andrew’s lips did that thing, the quirk that wasn’t quite a smile but filled Neil with such a sense of victory. “When you put it like that,” he said. “How can I say no?”
“You can’t really. Well, you can. Of course. You can always say no to me,” Neil says, brain filling in with a hundred ways he’d really like Andrew not to say no. “I don’t want to impose.”
Andrew’s expression might almost be affectionate. Or it could be murderous. It was hard to tell.
“Drink up,” he said. “And teach me how to use the demon machine.”
“I think we’d better make me a new drink,” said Neil. “Come on, we can use it as a test run.”
***
The morning passed too quickly. The decaffeinated arrived and Neil guided Andrew through the motions of making coffee until he was comfortable with each step of the process. His own tiredness was long gone, devoured by the copious espressos he’d shotted during the first hour of being behind the barista bar. It helped that Andrew kept whispering snarky comments about the clientele in his ear and that his cheeks hurt from smiling so much more than he was used to.
At one point, Kevin came in, looking annoyed and a bit worried until he spotted Neil. He left with the keys to the Curious Fox, having apparently forgotten to bring his own, and with a perfectly made double chocolate mocha topped by whipped cream and marshmallows in his hand - on the house - which really meant Neil paid for it later whilst Andrew raised a stupidly perfect eyebrow in mock judgement.
It was, if Neil was honest, probably the best morning he’d had since moving into the apartments above the bookshop. Münsters was popular and the people demanding, but moving around Andrew felt like second nature. Their conversation was wry and constant. He felt content, even if more than one customer did remark on the fact that Neil hadn’t yet put lights up and it was making the street look gloomy.
“Ah yes, the lights,” Neil kept saying, waving off the question over and over with a different excuse each time. “We had to replace some. We’re getting some new ones. We’re putting them up next week. We’re trying something new this year.”
Andrew nudged his hip as they both moved to fulfil the rather large order from Melissa who ran the hairdresser’s next door.
“You know, if you want help putting lights up, I can come over this afternoon.”
Neil felt a little frisson of warmth below his skin at the offer but then ducked his head away. “I don’t have any yet. I tried to buy some yesterday but those Christmas shops are overwhelming.”
“Where did you go?”
“The Grotto,” Neil said, feeling miserable just remembering it. “I honestly didn’t know where to start or where to look or… I’ve been doing some reading, Kevin’s orders, on Christmas and stuff but all I’ve realised is how little I actually know. Do I need a wreath? Garlands? Do we want lights in the garlands? Should it be thematically coloured in red and gold or silver and green? Do I just like deck it out in rainbows? Shouldn’t I be inclusive? Include stuff like a Kwanzaa kinara? Or a Menorah?”
“You’re overthinking this.”
“Am I? It seems like everyone else sees Christmas as second nature. They have traditions and expectations.” Neil moved his mug under the steamer, carefully drawing a leaf into the coffee froth.
“You know Christmas isn’t that hard. Traditions… you just pick the ones you like.”
“Like what? Andrew, I’ve never done this before. I’ve never…”
“You’ve never celebrated before.”
“No.” Neil felt his cheeks burning. He didn’t know why he felt this sudden rush of shame and confusion but he did. He’d felt it when he just wanted to buy lights but couldn’t work out which ones were right. He felt it when Kevin laid out all his careful plans for book sculptures and paper reindeer. He felt it now: the prickling, skin-crawling ache of embarrassment. “I keep trying to work out what people want but there’s just so much.”
Andrew glanced at him, carrying a tray over to the pick up counter. “But it’s not about them - order’s up for Melissa, yes, the ones marked D are decaf, what else would ‘D’ mean in this context? - Neil, don’t look so confused.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It's not about them,” Andrew repeated. “You get to decide what traditions to follow. Sure, a lot of people like trees and candles and fairy lights, but if that’s not your thing. Don’t do it.”
“You make it sounds so simple.”
“It is. You have boundaries, Neil. Respect them. Tell me, what do you actually want to do?”
Neil sighed and bustled off to deliver a walnut macchiato to table nine.
“I think I’d like to start with some lights. Just white ones. You know, nothing fancy.”
Nodding, Andrew said, “I’ll be there at four thirty then.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I’ve already said I’ll help. Don’t fight me on this.”
And Neil was too tired to fight. Help from Andrew sounded really good right about now.
***
He lingered in Münsters for another hour or so before heading back down the road to the bookshop. Kevin was at the till, massacring what looked like a dictionary, trying to turn it into a miniature nativity scene. It wasn’t looking good.
Telling Kevin to take a break, to go get lunch, he promised to see if he could work out a better way to make the manger and the donkey - as the origami tips clearly weren’t working. Ten seconds of staring at the strangely folded paper and Neil could safely say he had no better ideas except to start again and to use papier maché instead.
The bell chimed after a few minutes and Neil was glad of the reprieve until he saw who graced his doorway. Sleek suit, overly shined shoes, too much cologne. Riko Moriyama was a study in clichés, trying to look mercenary and succeeding in looking like an overdressed ass.
“Darling Nathaniel,” he began, flashing a smile that was all teeth. “Thought I’d pop in whilst I was in the neighbourhood.”
“You live two blocks away, you’re always in the neighbourhood. And my name is Neil.”
“And I don’t visit nearly often enough, do I.”
It wasn’t a question. Riko surveyed the scene, the half destroyed book in front of Neil and the empty shop. For a moment, Neil’s whole body vibrated with the urge to run, flee, escape. But unless he wanted to burst through a window or scramble through to the back fire exit, Riko was in front of the only door and Neil was trapped inside with him.
Neil squared his shoulders and pushed back off the stool. He could at least stand. “What do you want, Riko?”
“Only to see if you’d considered what I offered before? I can take this place off your hands, like that.” He snapped his fingers. It didn’t really work as he was wearing cheap leather gloves that sort of squeaked.
He scowled at the failure and dropped his hand.
“I haven’t really thought about it, actually,” Neil said, keeping his tone airy. As much as he wanted to sell the Curious Fox when the year was over, there wasn’t a chance in any universe of him selling it to the Moriyamas. Even if he didn’t know about their dubious business practices, courtesy of a partnership they’d once done on some property with his father in Baltimore, Riko was enough of a deterrent to stop him from agreeing to anything that might be offered.
“Really, now?” said Riko, but his shark’s smile was faltering. “Are you really saying that you’re not just barely keeping this place going?”
“Actually, no,” Neil lied. “We had a bit of a bumper year for Black Friday and look forward to an equally booming Christmas.”
Riko paused. “Yes, I can see you’re very festive in here. What are you doing? Murdering books instead of selling them now?”
“Well, my father did teach me plenty about cutting things open.” Neil flashed his own teeth as he raised the scalpel, dancing it between his fingers. “I think you had better go, it’s nearly time for the afternoon rush.”
This time Riko actually sneered, his whole face becoming ugly. “The rush. Like you had on Friday.”
“Just like that.”
“Think about my offer, will you,” Riko said, placing a cheesy black fedora on his far too shiny hair. “It won’t stand forever.”
“Toodles for now.” Neil pointed him out with the hand still holding the blade.
Riko left the way he came, so quick it was almost without warning. He stepped from pavement to the back of a sleek Mercedes that sped away down the road. Neil’s fingers clenched tighter, trembling slightly. He didn’t let go until the car was out of sight. What a jerk.
Neil scrubbed his hands through his hair, shivering and feeling the morning’s exhaustion crashing back on him. He closed his eyes. Counted to ten in French, then twenty in German. He was just starting on Japanese when Kevin came crashing through the door.
“Was that Riko Moriyama?” he asked, pushing right up into Neil’s space.
“Fuck, Kevin, what?”
“Riko Moriyama? Was that him? Here?” Kevin’s eyes were bright and sharp, mouth twisting. “What were you doing talking to him?”
“I wasn’t talking to him, he was talking to me.”
“Don’t trust a thing that comes out of his mouth,” Kevin said. “I went to school with him. He…” His eyes dropped, fingers rubbing absently at his hand. The one with the scars.
Neil felt a little part of him harden. He knew gestures like that. Understood them.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “He was an asshole.”
Kevin sucked in a breath. Fine tremors made his body shake. Whatever Riko had done in the past, Kevin still struggled with it. He had to realise though that Neil would never give this store, that his mother had loved and which Kevin was so dedicated to, to someone like Riko. Whatever Riko’s plans were, Neil had no desire to enable them in anyway. Not before. Not now. Not ever.
Neil reached out to touch his wrist. “I wouldn’t take a life vest from him if I was drowning, Kev. He’s not getting the store.”
“Right,” Kevin said. “Right. So.”
“So?”
“So I was thinking about the book sculptures and…”
Sagging back into his stool, Neil gave into Kevin’s Christmas planning. He glanced outside, where the afternoon was growing short. Andrew couldn’t arrive and save him fast enough.