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rose hates most holidays, but christmas is time for family, whatever that means, ectobiologically. they’ve got each other, for once, and they’re cozy enough in the lalonde estate, nestled into the adirondacks, with enough fuel and liquor to keep them warm til march, at least.
they would really be perfect, could really be perfect, their strange nuclear unit. and it wasn’t that they were imperfect, just lonely. just didn’t fit right all the time. but when they did it was apparent they’d been carved from the same matter, the same particles crashing together.
it’s christmas eve and it’s not all that important, dave calls it a petty bourgeois holiday and roxy laughs, chokes a bit on her gin martini, you’re pretty funny kid, she sputters out, wiping at her mouth.
dirk shuffles in from the cold, we’re all snowed in, he says, it’s already up the back steps and it’s not gonna stop anytime soon. roxy takes an almost dainty sip from her glass and remarks that she always loved a white christmas. dave smirks and he makes a snide jab, internalized racism, he says, and roxy rolls her eyes and tickles him, makes him chug the rest of his spiked eggnog before she’ll let go of him. rose just smirks and continues knitting, pretends to not notice dirk leaning on the back of her chair, lovingly ignores him when he begins to rub her shoulders, his fingers just starting to warm up.
it could be strange, stuffy, all of them together -- pre and post scratch memories tend to get a little fuzzy, everyone’s got guardian issues of some type, and between brother-fathers’ scrapping and fisticuffs on rooftops and sister-mothers’ impaling each other on wordy gambits, no one has a memory of a happy holiday. it’s simply not their style, in any iteration.
so when roxy winks, spin the bottle anyone, rose puts her knitting aside and retouches her lipstick; dirk grins and starts taking his shirt off; dave simply drawls i thought you’d never ask and even puts his shades on the mantle.
roxy spins first -- roxy always spins first, mama’s house mama’s rules -- bottle twirling in a sickening sort of way, and the tip ends up pointing at dave. he curses loudly because the rum and eggnog is getting to him, and she says come over here and kiss your mama with that mouth, which makes everyone laugh, makes rose shift forward, i always wanted to see an oedipal complex in person. dave gestures rudely at her, already dipping roxy back in a suave kiss, and shes linking her arms around his neck, somehow still not spilling her martini even though she’s sucking on his tongue. dave splays a hand out and feels around for the bottle, giving it a spin once his fingers find it. then dirk’s sliding in behind him, leaving kisses on dave’s shoulders, sucking roxy’s fingers into his mouth, her martini’s starting to dribble a bit down dave’s shirt, sorry, darlin’ she whispers against his neck as dirk pulls him back by the hair for a kiss.
rose knows she hasn’t been forgotten but that soon the game will be. still she gives the bottle a twirl and does as it commands, positioning herself almost gracefully behind roxy, pulling the bottom of her shirt until roxy raises her arms for its removal, then runs her fingertips along the curve of roxy’s stomach. roxy whimpers something about her being a tease -- you know you fucking love it -- and dirk pulls dave’s shirt over his head -- good thing you took your glasses off, babe -- and there’s skin everywhere, contact everywhere, it’s getting too warm to not touch each other. don’t be scared to use your nails, sugar -- yes, mother -- oh that’s kinky –- maybe i should call you daddy. rose wraps a hand around dave’s neck and he whimpers, sorry sis, and she kisses him, more teeth than tongue, and roxy sinks her nails into dirk’s stomach in anticipation.
they’re an undulating mass, something fantastical, composed wholly of too-bony elbows and whispers, held together with smears of black lipstick. they’re all equal parts selfish and doting, rose and dave giggle now, kiss with twin mouths, holding dirk by wrists and ankles while roxy hovers over him, gasping as he tongues her, moans against her clit when those twin mouths meet at his cock.
and there are plenty of dark places for fingers and tongues and anything else, dirk’s three fingers -- fuck -- knuckle-deep in dave, roxy’s whole fist inside rose -- please -- and dirk inside her mouth -- yes -- and when they come, staggered, shuddering, there’s stickiness everywhere, bittersweet between thighs and inside mouths.
the mountains are closing in on every side of them and the snow is covering their tracks. four lonely kids wake up curled around each other, covered in teeth marks. roxy makes coffee in an ancient percolator, serenely surveying her makeshift family, still dozing in a messy pile. rose has her arms protectively around dave and dirk both and there’s a bruise forming under her left eye. there aren’t any presents under the tree. roxy watches the snow drift and waits.