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There’s something sacred about Christmas morning.
Gethin wakes early before either Jonathan or Steph, and stumbles into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Outside, everything is perfectly still, the silence absolute. The streets are empty, fresh-fallen snow blanketing the city, unmarred by footprints or tyre tracks. It’s a stark contrast to the days leading up to Christmas, days that have seen the city bustling and full of life, as people travel to be with loved ones or run last-minute errands. But by the time Christmas morning arrives, everyone’s exactly where they’re meant to be.
For Gethin, that means Soho, with Jonathan and any other so-called orphans of the storm. It means mismatched Christmas ornaments strung haphazardly around the flat, it means choosing Dead or Alive over anything remotely resembling a carol. It means Jonathan’s rather creative interpretation of Christmas lunch, and it means more hot toddies than what’s probably wise.
(What it doesn’t mean is Plygain or wassail or his mum’s Christmas roast. It doesn’t mean watching his niece’s face light up as she unwraps her gifts, or the entire family cramming into living room for a game of charades—but Gethin can’t bear to think about that, not today.)
Gethin’s tea is cold by the time Jonathan finds him in the kitchen. Before Gethin can breathe a word, Jonathan’s snaking an arm around his waist and burying his face in Gethin’s shoulder, their bodies slotting together. Jonathan’s still sleep-warm, smelling of toothpaste and last night’s weed, and Gethin lets his body melt against Jonathan’s, revelling in his touch.
“Merry Christmas,” Jonathan mumbles into Gethin’s shoulder.
Gethin’s hand finds Jonathan’s where it’s wrapped around his waist and he covers it with his own, running his fingers over the ridges of Jonathan’s knuckles. His voice sounds only a little strained when he says, “Merry Christmas.”
“Been up long?”
Gethin huffs out a breath. Jonathan can always tell when he’s ruminating, when he’s lost in his own head. Most of the time, Jonathan’s the one to pull him back out. Gethin’s side of the bed must be long cold by now and the kettle’s no longer steaming, so any attempt at denial would be pointless. “A while,” Gethin concedes.
Jonathan hums, tightening his arms around Gethin’s waist. Jonathan knows how difficult today is for him, especially with their trip to Wales looming and all those long-forgotten memories resurfacing. For someone so literate, Jonathan has always favoured touch when conveying emotions, and this is his way of saying, I love you, I’m here for you without so much as uttering a word. Gethin’s eyes fall closed, and for a long moment, he just lets himself be held, relaxing into Jonathan’s embrace, the ache in his chest easing with every passing second.
“Alright,” Gethin says, his voice breaking just a little. “Let me put the kettle on.”
“Hold on.” Jonathan draws Gethin back in the very second he tries to pull away, and when he does, they end up face to face, their lips almost touching. This close, it’s easy for Jonathan to bridge that final gap, to press his lips to Gethin’s. Gethin parts his lips, natural as breathing, as Jonathan deepens the kiss. This is nothing like last night—both of them a little drunk, fervent kisses and barely-stifled groans, all too conscious of Steph sleeping in the next room. No, this is something softer, more tender. This is affection in its purest form, the slick slide of their tongues as Jonathan kisses Gethin slowly, soundly.
Gethin’s hands find their way to Jonathan’s jaw, cradling his face. He runs his hands along the underside of Jonathan’s jaw, his fingers catching on day-old stubble, until Jonathan pulls away abruptly.
“Are you palpating my lymph nodes?” Jonathan’s voice is barely a murmur against Gethin’s lips, and Gethin inhales sharply, caught off-guard by the question.
Gethin—Gethin does this. Sometimes when Jonathan’s asleep, barely moving, Gethin will place a hand on his chest to make sure he’s still breathing, will burrow in close enough to feel Jonathan’s breath on his neck before drifting off himself. Other times, he’ll place a hand to Jonathan’s forehead under the guise of running his fingers though his hair, just to check if he has a fever. All these little touches, these reassurances—Jonathan would hate it if he knew. Guilt curdles in Gethin’s stomach, a sickly feeling, and he’s already formulating his defence when Jonathan says:
“Because I can think of something else you could palpate.”
His tone is sly, his eyebrow raised in insinuation, and Gethin is all too grateful for the out. He forces a smile, but it’s thin. They rarely talk about this, but Gethin has spent the last two years preparing himself for—for the possibility that—
“Hey,” Jonathan says, his tone softening. He takes Gethin’s hands in his own and peels them away from his face, then he presses a kiss to the back of one hand, and then the other. Satisfied, he guides Gethin’s right hand to his chest, right over the apex of his heart, where it beats slow and steady beneath Gethin’s palm.
“I’m here,” Jonathan murmurs. Gethin’s eyes prickle, his throat closing up, and he can only nod as Jonathan says, “I’m right here.”
Gethin’s still blinking back tears when Jonathan kisses him again, one hand resting on Gethin’s nape while the other holds Gethin’s hand to his chest. In between kisses, he repeats the words like a pact, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
Any second now, the moment will pass. Steph will wake and there will be presents to unwrap, merriment to be had. Later, Jonathan will retreat to the kitchen and spend half the day concocting an elaborate feast, and after that, they’ll load up the van for Wales. But for now, Gethin rests his forehead against Jonathan’s, the two of them sharing the same breath as Jonathan’s heart beats on, steady and unwavering, and it’s as sacred a Christmas morning as Gethin has ever known.