I'm gonna use my other MC OCs for this, because it seemed more fitting.
His glasses fogged up every time he sipped the warmed wine, the spices tickling his nose as he gazed over the brim of the mug.
The night was quiet and cold, a stark contrast to what had been happening mere moments ago; Aroon toppling over a stack of research books and Chris unfortunately taking the brunt of the tower. The ender-turned-human had gotten a good clunk in the back of his head, and was out like a fizzled light, while the predatory alien was left to pick up the books, grumbling and directed under the watchful but firm eyes of Miffy.
Desmond had escaped the noise with a mug of spiced wine, kept hot by Contre's experimentation with her crucible, and he took another sip from it, feeling the heat slip down his throat and spread out from his stomach. It was nice, he decided, to take a break from deciphering lore and just sit on the roof, watching the moon bask the lands in a silvery breath.
The wind stirred, picking up the edges of his cloak and brushing his hair away from face. There was a creak as the trapdoor opened, revealing the mug enchanter with her own wine. She carefully crawled over to where he was sitting, gripping the mug with taunt fingers, before sliding herself unceremoniously near the curly haired man.
"Misiczek, Des."
"Good evening to you. What about the trio?"
Contre let out a long sigh, her unbound, red hair fluttering in the night breeze while the crystalized ender on her face sparked softly. "They've all fallen asleep, keeping Chris company."
He took a sip, savoring the burning sweetness on his tongue. "Are the books all picked up?" The alchemist simply took a long drink from her concoction, shaking her head no. "Like I said, they fell asleep."
Desmond turned to look at her curiously, his lenses reflecting the moon's light. "On the floor...?"
"What kind of friend do you take me for! Zievien. Basor." She turns away, muttering foreign words under her breath, clouding in the chilly air. The man just breaks into a smile and turns back to his own mug to study the steam rising off of it.
Suddenly Contre's pressed up against him, wrapping part of his cloak over her shoulders. "Zievien. It is cold," she states, solemnly taking another drink, her ender stained arm brushing his side, making him squirm a little from the light contact.
"Aroon would be jealous, us sitting up here, not working and just drinking." He pauses, and looks up. "The stars are marvelous, no?"
The alchemist barely tilts her head. "I suppose. They are not as good as the ones at home."
They're both silent for a while, Desmond tempted to shift a little in the middle of the uncomfortable silence, pondering what to say in response, but she breaks it before he does. "They were beautiful. Perhaps a difference in the composure of the atmosphere, but they shimmered like tiny pearls. A long time ago, they called them the tears of the goddess, tears shed by the ocean for the sister whom she was separated from."
"What happened to the sisters?"
Contre shrugs, her face hidden by the curtain of hair. "That part of the legend is not well known. The people were persecuted for being foreigners to the land I lived in. And they decided to escape the lands. No one knows what happened to them."
He notes quietly that her fingers were clutched around the mug, shaking slightly, so he pulls her closer and kisses the top of her hair. "I'm sure they'll be okay. They're survivors, after all." The alchemist is silent, and just rests herself against him, finishing the remains of her drink.
They sit there, Des sipping his wine as Contre stares out over the roof, watching perhaps the moon's rays glimmer on the lake's surface, and glint off the waxen leaves of trees. He can hear her breathe with solemn whistles of air, taking in the chilled taste of night while he gulps the last of the spice, the flavor lingering on his tongue.
"It is late," she murmurs, "we should go back."
"Mmm. Can't you just cast something and keep us warm up here? I like the stars."
She turns to glare at him. "Spells do not work like that." The wine's warmth had blossomed in her face, and she staggers a little when she stands up. "Let us rest."
Desmond quickly stands up and takes her by the arm, and the two make their way into the dimly lit house, warm and secure. He clambers down first, then turns to make sure the alchemist won't fall off the ladder.
"Zievien, Desmond, I am fine." She hands him the mugs, and gets down without any incident, then looks up for a moment through the hatch.
"I suppose," she mumbles, "the stars here are rather alright as well."
