The Ski Patrol – Part 2: Whiteout

"Yes," said Luca. "To both. In that order."

Tomas kissed him by the stove with the soup bubbling behind them, gentle and a little clumsy, like a man who had not done it in a long while. Luca laughed softly into his mouth and pulled him closer by the scarf. When they broke apart, snow was hammering the hut windows and the radio crackled that all lifts were closed until morning.

"We're stuck," Luca said happily.

"We are stuck." Tomas took his hand. "There is one bunk with a good mattress. I have been saving it. For no one, until now."

"Are you sure?"

"I have never been so sure of anything." His eyes were warm. "Are you?"

"Completely."

The bunk room was small and wood-panelled, lit by a single yellow lamp, with a heavy wool blanket and the wind howling at the eaves. They undressed each other slowly, laughing at frozen zips and thick socks, careful with cold fingers. Tomas's hands were warm at last, his mouth gentle on Luca's neck, his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone. Luca pulled him down and the blanket wrapped over both of them. Outside the blizzard roared. Inside there was warmth, breath, the creak of the bunk and nothing else in the world.

Afterwards they lay tangled and sleepy while Tomas traced circles on Luca's back. "I have worked here nine years," he said. "I did not know how quiet it was until now."

"Quiet?"

"Before. The mountain was quiet. Now it is full."

Luca's heart turned over. "Tomas Berger, that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me on a ski patrol."

"I practised on the lift."

At dawn the storm had blown itself out. The Dolomites glowed pink and gold under a flawless sky, every slope fresh and clean. They stepped outside together, skis over their shoulders.

"Partners?" said Tomas.

"Partners," said Luca. "Slowest person on the mountain sets the pace."

"Then we will be here all day," said Tomas, smiling at last.

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