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The soup hall was cold. Not as cold as it had been at its worst, three years ago when the blizzard had come through and the church hadn’t been able to buy enough fuel, and Oscar had twisted his ankle trying to carry in the extra boxes of used coats to hand out to patrons after they’d completely run out of stock. Not nearly there. But still cold.
Oscar wore a thick Cossack jacket over his shirt, trying his best to keep warm in the relentless New York winters that he had never quite adjusted to. Still, the fingers on his hand protested the temperature, stiff in their hold on the cardboard box he balanced. The old candles inside shifted precariously as he moved the box toward the next row of empty tables in the soup hall.
He had only made it through about half the room so far. Seeing how far he had left for just this step of the day’s job made his veins curl. He had always taken enjoyment in decorating the soup hall for the winter holidays by himself, more than glad to dedicate an afternoon to his congregation and neighbors, making the free meals more than a perfunctory service, making them something welcoming in the way any house was at this time of the year, strung in colors and lights that made the winter feel as warm as summer. Decorating the hall was a task Oscar loved to take upon himself. It had always been pleasant, always easy— until this year.
With one less hand, Oscar felt as though he were bumbling through what should have been an easy task, struggling to give his flock what they deserved because now, his best wasn’t enough (and perhaps it never had been).
This year, decorating the hall would take far, far longer for a result that Oscar could only hope would be worthy for his congregation. That is, if he did it all without help.
A light, brash voice shouted behind his back: “Is this high enough, Mr. Oscar?”
Oscar turned around. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he saw a young girl reaching as high as she possibly could, tottering on the toes of her shiny black Mary Janes. She pushed a paper snowflake made by one of the children from Sunday classes up against the wall, hardly able to keep a hold of it with her short fingers. Sandy blonde curls fell over her eyes, no matter how hard she puffed to blow them out of her face.
“Not quite, Miss Faroe,” Oscar smiled as he set down the box of candles and walked over. “We’ll need these just a bit higher.” Of course, by a ‘bit,’ he meant the next three feet above her head.
Faroe brought her arms down and held the snowflake in front of her face. She glanced up at the wall, then back to the snowflake. “Oh.” She frowned at the paper as if it had offended her. “Hmph.”
She spun to look at Oscar. “Could you lift me up high enough?”
“Oh- uh, well…” Oscar glanced around, unsure of how to answer. Should he say yes? Did he have the right to assume allowance rather than expect restriction? He could not answer for himself, he felt too small and weak to make the choice. Yet here was a little girl staring up at him wanting help, waiting for him to make that choice, waiting for him to have the answer, waiting and waiting and waiting for him to guide her.
A flutter of movement caught the corner of his eye. He glanced over and nearly sighed in relief as he saw his momentary savior— Arthur was on the other side of the dining space, strands of paper decorations in hand. A frown was on his face as he stared sightlessly down at the strands, trying to detangle them without tearing them with too much force— though the tension under his knuckles and across the lines of bone on the backs of his hands hinted at that exact force bubbling up, frustration spinning tight and quick in him as always while he buried his thoughts into his self.
Perfect, Oscar thought. That meant Oscar could bother him with reason, an intention to guide Arthur away from frustration and to happier thoughts, rather than just forcing Arthur to help Oscar with what he was too hesitant to do himself.
“Arthur!”
The other man shot his head up at Oscar’s call, eyes searching for the location of Oscar and Faroe. “Hm?” he hummed. “Yes?”
“Would you come help Miss Faroe with her decorations? I’m sure she would appreciate her father helping her. A team effort, you know.”
“Oh! Of course.” Arthur shook off the paper strands from his arms. He made his way over, maneuvering around the tables, to their side. “Here, darling.”
He held out his arms, Faroe stepped right into them, and he hoisted her up. “Direct me where to go, boss, this is your project to organize.”
The grin that stretched across Faroe’s face could have put her father’s own prideful smirks to shame. She lifted her chin and threw her arms above her head, still clutching the paper snowflake. “Up!” she demanded.
And Arthur, of course, followed her command.
With Faroe at the lead, and Arthur at her beck and call, they worked together to hang up the paper snowflakes, moving around the soup hall from wall-to-wall. Though Arthur slowed a bit in his ability to stoop and lift the girl, Faroe used that ever-burning fire of energy to push them both on without a pause. Her eyes sparked with determination and growing pride as she told her father exactly how high to lift her and how far to space the snowflakes, until the entire room was brightened by the white of dozens of homemade decorations despite the growing shadows as evening settled into its navy black. As they worked, Oscar also moved through the room, placing the rest of the candles and stringing small garlands of ribbon and holly around their bases. He moved much slower than the pair of over-zealous Lesters, but he appreciated the pace, with its chance to watch the pair of sharp grins and unruly curls joke and talk and laugh.
By the time they’d all reached the end of their designated decorations, some cool-hot, soft-sharp feeling had lodged in Oscar’s chest. Best not to think about it.
Oscar set the now-empty box down, glancing toward the darkened windows. “Best we stop for the day,” he said. “It’s late. We don’t want to keep Noel and John waiting on you two.”
Arthur set Faroe down. “Us three, you mean.”
“Hm?”
“You’re coming to dinner tonight.” He let out a groan as he stretched his back, strained from holding the ever-growing Faroe for so long.
Oscar balked. “Am I?”
“Of course,” Arthur replied, completely certain, as if simply stating the natural order of the universe.
Faroe gasped, her eyes going wide. “Like a sleepover!”
The Holy Spirit itself couldn’t have calmed the screech of Oscar’s mind. “I, uh-”
“Darling, we don’t need to pressure the poor man into anything,” Arthur chided. “Except for coming to dinner. That part is nonnegotiable.” He turned to Oscar, gaze tilted downward. “A-although, if you would like to, I, ah, I- I wouldn’t mind. If you stayed the night, that is.”
A violent flush slashed its way across Arthur’s face. Oscar’s heart fluttered, and he tried to smother it like the candle wicks at the end of Mass— not the time for self-centered wishes, not Oscar’s to presume to hold and cherish. How could he know that Arthur’s blush was for him, and him alone? (how, though, could he not wish the same?)
He tried to hide the quiver of his heart from the sound of his voice as stumbled out his words. “I- well, I wouldn’t want to intrude upon your house. It’s not my place to force myself anywhere. And- and I should probably attend to my duties here at the church, make sure that everything is intact and in order to continue serving for the morning…”
It was, of course, the middle of the week— Oscar wouldn’t need to start preparations for anything until evening for the soup dinner. But he had never been strong enough to resist falling upon an easy out.
Arthur’s shoulders dropped. His smile stayed, but that sharp twist at the corner that often showed was missing. “Ah, yes, o-of course. I didn’t mean to presume.” He fidgeted with his tie. “You will at least come to dinner, though, I hope?”
“I…”
Two pairs of eyes, one deep brown and one earthy green, looked toward him with a hopeful spark in the dim. Two souls so very desperate for confirmation, and one soul so very desperate to be needed toward which they turned.
Oscar knew the answer buried deep beneath denial, and he knew it would never stop scraping his heart until he brought it to the surface. He dug out desire and opened his mouth. “I will.”
Faroe grinned wider than the Red Sea. “Sleepover!” she cried in triumph.
“Still not a sleepover, darling,” Arthur chided, but he himself could not hide the smile spread across his own face. His eyes softened as they looked at Oscar. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
“Of course,” Oscar murmured, because it was that obvious, because no matter how much he resisted temptation, he knew that he would always fall for that sharp grin, those messy curls, those gold and brown eyes that could not see but could pierce Oscar’s heart through like a butterfly to a pinboard, caught and ready to lay down his life for this man.
“Come on, let’s go!” Faroe grabbed her father’s hand and tugged him toward the door so hard that Oscar feared the man might lose the limb.
“Yes, alright, fine,” Arthur chuckled, dragged along by her lead. Oscar smiled and followed after them.
After making sure that Faroe had put on her coat before rushing out, locking the church and soup hall doors, and starting off down the street, Faroe skipped forward a few steps, forcing Oscar and Arthur to try to keep pace as she steered them on.
“Faroe, darling, stay close,” Arthur called ahead. “I swear,” he muttered to Oscar, “she is going to drive me mad some day with all of her energy. It just never stops with her.”
Oscar hummed. “Yes, well, I wonder where she gets it from.”
Arthur swatted the hand not holding his walking stick in Oscar’s direction. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, lifting his chin as he spoke. “I am a perfectly well-mannered man.”
“The amount of times I’ve had to drive you home from a case with a bloody nose or black eye says otherwise.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“No?”
Arthur scoffed. “No, of course not. My daughter doesn’t see me fighting ruffians in back alleys, and therefore she could not have learned any such behavior from me. She knows only the best of manners.”
“Ah, of course,” Oscar drawled. “Then I should only blame John or Noel for being a bad influence?”
“Yes.”
Oscar chuckled, and Arthur finally cracked and smiled.
“Honestly, though, you should see the absolute bullshit that those two get up to. Yesterday, I got up earlier than usual and found out that John had been eating cheese with raw onions whole for breakfast. It took me arguing with him for forty minutes to get him to stop, and Noel the absolute bastard tried to encourage him. They’re a menace to my peace of mind.”
“They likely say the same about you, you know.”
The look on Arthur’s face melted fond, turning toward constant affection for two distant men. “Yes, I am sure they do.” He elbowed Oscar. “You are certainly the best role model of us four for her.”
“O-oh.” Oscar blinked. “I didn’t… I wouldn’t necessarily jump to think so.”
“I’m serious! She could learn a lot from you—” Arthur glanced toward Oscar— “if you spent more time around her.”
Oscar hummed noncommittally. Maybe he could get around this if he-
“Oscar.”
Nevermind. He sighed. “I appreciate your optimism, Arthur, I really do. But I believe you're forgetting that she barely knows me. You can't rely on me to be some- some model in her life.”
“But you could be,” Arthur protested. “You should be. You're already a part of me and John and Noel’s lives, I'd love for you to be a bigger part of hers.”
Up ahead, Faroe kicked a drift of snow, then frowned at the white covering her shoe. Oscar smiled, though it was bittersweet as he mulled over Arthur’s words, at the weight of their offer. “I’m not sure how much I quite… h-how much she views me as a friend, or just a stranger.”
“She’s warming up to you,” Arthur said. “Just- give her some time to adjust. It’s a big change, but she’ll get there. She’ll see you as a part of her life soon.”
Soon. A week, a month. Years. Perhaps never.
Well, he had eternity to make amends, he supposed. By the end of then, Oscar guessed he would probably have made a decent enough impression on Faroe to earn favor.
The rest of their walk to the apartment passed quietly, Faroe tramping ahead with her tongue stuck out almost the entire time to catch all of the snow before it landed, she said, oblivious to the actual rate of success in her efforts. Arthur smiled at each comment or giggle she made, a sharp curl under his mustache that brought light to unfocused brown eyes. And with each smile he made, Oscar felt his heart melt to honey under an invisible summer sun.
By the time they had reached Arthur’s apartment, Faroe had apparently eaten enough of the snow to cool her fire, as she groaned about walking up all the stairs and asked Arthur to carry her. He did, though he asked Oscar to help guide him by the elbow so that they didn’t all go tumbling down in their combined lack of coordination. Oscar gladly agreed. They didn’t need anyone losing a limb or breaking a bone for the- well, who knows how many-eth time.
Thankfully, they made it to the door more or less intact.
Arthur set Faroe down, pulled out his key, unlocked the door, and led them into the apartment that four people Oscar loved so much called home.
The warmth of the apartment immediately overtook Oscar, quickly followed by the smell of something cooking on the stovetop and something else just pulled from the oven. As they walked through the door, Oscar glanced toward the kitchen. Standing in front of the stove was Noel, shirt collar unbuttoned down to his chest and sleeves rolled to the elbow as he stirred whatever was in the pot. To his side and leaning against the counters was John, in the middle of their conversation. The kitchen must have been the subject of some baking-related war, as flour smeared over half the counters and was dusted across his shirt. Oscar was sure he could see specks of it still caught in John’s hair.
Noel and John stood close, shoulders brushing as they chatted. When they heard the door open, they both turned in sync, eyes on alert for some danger. Their expressions quickly melted to something soft, a pinhole-sight into the minds that sat behind layers of cautious performance, built up with each hardship that anyone besides the five inside this apartment could only guess at.
John’s eyes locked onto Faroe and Arthur like he might pin them by his side with sight alone. Oscar wondered if, through pure stubbornness, maybe he would, in fact, find a way to do so one day.
Arthur helped Faroe out of her coat before he did the same.
“Evenin’ boys!” Noel called, flashing that cinnamon-sharp smile.
Faroe frowned and set her hands on her hips, glaring at him.
“And lady, of course,” he added with a grin. “I simply saved the best of the bunch for last, duckling.”
She fought to keep glaring at him— for only a second, though, before she grinned back. “You better, Uncle Noel.”
“C’mon, you know I told ya just ‘Noel’ is fine. No need for the stuffy junk.”
Faroe opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off as Arthur placed a hand on her head and narrowed his eyes toward Noel. “And I told her that she needs to be polite, Uncle Noel. So she should use proper names, even if someone keeps trying to undermine me.”
“Da-aaad,” Faroe whined, sticking her bottom lip out.
“Yeah, kid,” Noel said, taking on the same tone as he pouted at Arthur. “Ya take all the fun out of things.”
“I’m just trying to guarantee you grow up polite and aware of things, duckling,” Arthur said to Faroe. “Now,” he patted her shoulder, “go take your shoes off and get ready for dinner.”
Pout persisting, Faroe stomped her way down the hall and into one of the bedrooms.
Arthur quickly moved into the kitchen, drifting toward John like a lost planet finding its way back into orbit. John found Arthur just as easy, wrapping his arms around the smaller man, lifting him up and spinning them around, and placing him onto the cabinet. He leaned in, and Arthur, grinning, met him for a soft, slow kiss.
Oscar shifted by the door. He had been over to their apartment before, but often with the pretense of helping with some detective case, and always with the goal of heading out well before the evening settled in, and all the softer emotions it came with. Evenings were for Arthur, Noel, John, and Faroe to settle around the radio with smiles and stories, and for Oscar to settle into the couch with a bottle in hand.
He was unsure what to do beyond slowly take his jacket off as the other three men moved into their routine.
Arthur hummed as he pulled back from the kiss. “What’s for dinner?” he asked. “It smells wonderful.”
“Glad you think so, because it ain’t anything special, doll,” Noel said, stirring what was in the pot. “Got some simple beef stew and bread that John made earlier.”
“Noel made apple pie, too,” John added.
“Oh, Faroe will love that,” Arthur chuckled. “It’ll be a miracle if we can get her to eat supper before tearing into dessert.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it, kid. You’ve got reinforcements tonight,” Noel said, finally glancing over at Oscar. “She won’t be able to stop ya if you’ve got Oscar on our side. He’s our strongest soldier in the fight.”
Oscar flushed, suddenly the center of attention while he was still trying to figure out what to do with his body in this space. “I- I wouldn’t say that, necessarily.”
John glanced in Oscar’s direction at the sound of his voice, but didn’t say anything. He only leaned his head down to rest on Arthur’s chest.
Arthur wrapped his arms around John and rested his chin on John’s curls. “Noel, you’ve got to talk some sense into this man,” he said. “He’s been saying these kinds of things all afternoon.”
“That so?”
“It’s only speaking honestly,” Oscar muttered. “I’m not very good at all of… this.” He waved his hand in the vague direction of- well, everything in the apartment.
Noel rolled his eyes. “Oh, bullshit.”
“Language,” Arthur chided.
“You’re one to talk,” John muttered into Arthur’s chest. The comment earned him a smack to the back of his head, which then earned Arthur a low growl, though through it all, neither of them found it in themselves to part their embrace.
“Boys,” Noel warned. “Look, Oscar, bud—” he turned around, then seemed to suddenly realize for the first time that Oscar was still standing in front of the door, shifting on his feet. “Okay, first of all, get in here.” He waved Oscar toward the kitchen.
Physically hesitant, yet secretly eager, Oscar slowly made his way toward the trio. He eyed John as he did, half-expecting to find a pair of yellow eyes glaring at him and a set of claws around his throat if he took one wrong step. Despite the flash of farmhouse floors and skittering claws in his mind, nothing happened in the real world. Oscar stepped into the kitchen, carefully maneuvering to lean against the table, opposite of the others lined along the counters.
Noel turned around and crossed his arms. “Right, so second: ain’t no guest of mine going to feel bad in my apartment, especially when that guest is part of my people. My ma raised me better than that.”
Oscar squirmed. He didn’t want to make them feel bad because he couldn’t stop his own worries. He tried to protest “I’m not-”
“And third,” Noel cut in, raising a finger. “You are one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, and that’s including these two assholes—” he waved toward John and Arthur, who huffed in response— “and all the other fellas I gotta corral down at the station. You’re braver and kinder than almost any man I know, and way more capable of handling your shit than I think even you realize. You’re more than enough to be good at this stuff, you’re fucking amazing at it.”
“You think the three of us would pick you to be at our side if we didn’t trust you?” Arthur asked. “If we didn’t care about you? You’ve helped us- saved us, a thousand times over. It’s what you do, what you’re good at.”
“You know that I- that’s what I’d say about you,” Oscar said softly, unsure how to hold the words of the men before him and the words in his own mouth without fear— not fear of sharp barbs, nor fear of hot fangs sinking cold poison deep into his veins. But fear of something soft, the fear that came with holding a newborn bird, terrified of its delicacy, its music, its gentleness cradled in a hand that he could not trust to refrain from crushing bones with a hammer, from swinging hatchets in farmhouse shadows, from breaking and tearing and hurting, hurting, hurting.
Arthur seemed to know what to do with the fear. He caught the softness of Oscar’s voice and mirrored it as he spoke. “You trust us?”
There really was no choice the truth: “Of course. Always.”
“Then trust us when we say we love you.”
And Oscar swore he could have died before he ever figured out how to survive this new blade of softness shoved deep in his chest, cradled and kissed by the men before him, wanting nothing more than to cup the blood and cover the wound with their hands.
Thankfully, he was saved from giving a response by the patter of small feet running into the room. Faroe walked in, now without her coat or Mary Janes, clutching a handful of various dolls and toys, as though she’d decided to bring the entire toy box to accompany her. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.
Somehow, Arthur, Noel, and John seemed to know how to quickly transition from inhaling the thick air of their conversation to exhaling an air of levity for their daughter. Noel moved to grab bowls from the overhead cabinet, Arthur extracted himself from John’s arms and hopped down from the counter, and John went to help Noel serve up the food.
Arthur moved toward Faroe. “Stew, darling,” he said, pulling a chair out for her.
“And dessert?” she asked.
Arthur glared in John’s direction, as if to silently say Don’t you dare say a single word yet. “Well, dessert is for after dinner, Faroe. We don’t need to worry about that until we’ve finished our food and-”
John leaned over Arthur’s head to see Faroe, opened his mouth, and before Arthur could turn all the way around to smack him, quickly rushed out “Dessert is apple pie.”
Arthur grabbed John by the tie and yanked him down to lean in close. “You motherfucker,” he hissed, but the damage was already done.
Faroe’s eyes lit up. She dropped her assortment of toys and rushed to the table. “Apple pie!” she shouted.
“And dinner first,” Arthur called over his shoulder. “We have to-”
“Apple pie!”
John extracted himself from Arthur’s grip with a smirk. “You heard the boss, friend.” He lifted Faroe up and plopped her into the chair. “Apple pie it is!”
“Seems you’re outnumbered after all, kid,” Noel said in faux-dismay, patting Arthur on the shoulder. He turned to Faroe. “Don’t think you have much of a chance of fighting anymore.”
Faroe snatched up her silverware and grinned up at John, who smiled back.
Arthur turned to Oscar with a pleading expression.
He glanced to Faroe staring wide-eyed in a silent plea, to John mimicking her, to Noel who was doing a horrible job of hiding his smirk behind an imitation of seriousness, then back to Faroe, her expression insistently unchanged. It was all up to him. “Well, Arthur,” Oscar said, drawing out his words slow and careful, so each one was clear and heard, “I do believe apples are part of a healthy diet, and there is nothing wrong with putting an apple or two into one’s dinner, even if they come in the form of a pie.”
“You cannot argue with that,” John said, turning his chin up at Arthur. “Apple pie for dinner!”
“Yeah!” Faroe shouted, raising her fork-clutching fist.
Arthur groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “You lot are insufferable.”
“Cheer up, kid,” Noel said, grabbing the pie dish and setting it on the table. “You fought valiantly, despite inevitable crushing defeat. Be proud of yourself where ya can. You’ll win some day— and in the meantime, might as well enjoy some pie.”
He started cutting slices as Faroe eagerly leaned in to watch. Arthur shook his head and muttered under his breath, but still, he sat down at the table with the rest of them and gave in, though he crossed his arms over his chest in a petty pout. Oscar smiled, and joined the table at his side.
Noel slid a small plate toward Faroe, topped with a piece of apple pie so fresh that they could feel the warmth still radiating off of it. “Bon appetit,” he said. “Dig in, duckling.”
And ‘dig in’ she did.
Dinner still managed to happen, to Arthur’s satisfaction, despite dessert upstaging it. They finished their pie, then ate the stew and bread, appreciating its warmth and the hearty weight that settled over their veins with each bite. Faroe slyly asked for another slice after finishing her bowl of stew, but even Noel and John remained firm and told her ‘no.’ The resulting pout didn’t last long, interrupted as Arthur, Noel, and Oscar started cleaning up the kitchen.
“Faroe?” Arthur said, “Would you like to go take a bath and go to bed?”
Quickly, she uncrossed her arms and lit up. “A bubble bath?”
Arthur blinked. “Ah- sure?”
“Well, of course it will be a bubble bath,” John stepped in. “It is the superior form of bathing, after all.”
“Yeah!” Faroe grinned. “Super form bath!”
John nodded sagely. “Exactly what I said.”
At his approval, Faroe turned and skipped off down the hall. John shook his head in amusement and started to follow, but Arthur quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him in for a quick kiss. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For doing this.”
“Always,” John said back, voice low and so earnest that it made Oscar’s own heart twist. “You know I always will.”
“I know.” With another parting kiss, Arthur released him and John walked after Faroe.
Arthur listened to him leave, fidgeting with his sleeve as the sound of running water began to filter out from the bathroom door.
Oscar set his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “You can trust him.”
“I… yeah- yes, I know,” Arthur muttered, but didn’t move.
“You can. We can.” He waited, watched as Arthur stood listening, eyes distant, mind somewhere years back. Oscar squeezed his shoulder again, and suddenly every sense seemed to realign in the here and now. Arthur shook his head, took a deep breath, and nodded.
“Right,” he whispered. “Right. Come on.” He turned toward the kitchen. Oscar followed.
Between the two of them and Noel, they made quick work of washing the dishes and putting away the leftovers, as well as cleaning up the mess of flour across the countertops. When they finished, Arthur grabbed four mugs and Noel made them hot chocolate. He poured out the four drinks, then grabbed a bottle of schnapps from the cabinet and poured it into two of the mugs. He turned to Oscar. “Want some?”
Briefly, Oscar felt a tug to the warmth he knew the drink would bring. It would be a sharp kind of heat, something quick and penetrating. But before he answered, he stopped and felt the way the room’s air currently settled around him, already warm, already settling his muscles and allowing him to breathe in ways that no other building in all of New York City had ever done. He shook his head. “Thank you, but no.”
Noel shrugged. “Alright,” he said, and simply corked the bottle and put it away. He handed one of the unspiked mugs to Oscar, then the other to Arthur.
“Don’t forget John’s marshmallows,” Arthur said. “Otherwise he’ll throw a holy fit.”
“John can get his own damn marshmallows,” Noel replied with an eyeroll. “I’m not his maid, he can use his body now that he’s got one.” He grabbed the other two drinks— one for him, one for John— and headed to the living room, turned on the radio, and sat in an armchair.
Arthur and Oscar followed. Arthur sat down on the couch without skipping a beat, but Oscar lingered for a moment. The sole armchair was occupied by Noel, and the only single seat option besides it was the chair at Noel’s desk, which Oscar didn’t want to disturb. That meant that the only seat left was the cushion just next to Arthur.
Heart pounding, Oscar sat down. His thigh brushed against Arthur’s, and rather than move away, Arthur moved his knee closer. Oscar tightened his grip on the mug to calm his nerves. He was fine. It was all fine.
Idly, they chatted as they waited. At one point, Noel brought up a case they had just finished, which launched Arthur into a snapping rant about the client’s frustrating attitude that neither Noel nor Oscar could seem to interrupt. The two of them simply allowed him to burn through words and energy, waving his arms wildly enough that Oscar was afraid the cocoa inside would spill all over them and the floor. Still, Oscar could not stop the smile plastered on his face as he listened, and neither could Noel, both of them grinning and chuckling as Arthur ran on.
Arthur eventually wound himself down into a calmer state, and the three of them settled into a comfortable quiet, energy spent until all that was left was a content drowsiness. The silence perched over the room like dew on the meadows, and the music from the radio drifted up into the air with it, twirling the sounds around in a dance that jumped and leaped and spun to the twisting tempo of each song. Outside the glass door to the balcony, the sounds of the city passed by: tires over stone, feet over concrete, snow and the breeze of winter nights over street after street, enveloping all of New York’s inhabitants into a shared dream.
Oscar slowly sipped his cocoa, savoring the sugar-heat over his teeth and tongue. The memory of stew and apple pie still lingered there, and the flavors mixed. It was nice. He often didn’t make food with this much care at his own place; it wasn’t that he didn’t have the skill or ability to do so, it was more that he often didn’t feel the need to put forth the effort when it was only for him. No use in wasting energy on himself with no one else around to share it. Here, though, the entire night— the food, the drinks, the music and the company— had all been made for other people to enjoy, had all been carefully crafted for someone else to come along and appreciate it, to care for it, to love it.
Quietly, something in Oscar itched to give forth that effort. To find a chance to share something with more than his own hand. He cradled the hope that maybe he would find it.
“I really do mean it.”
Oscar glanced up, broken from his thoughts. Noel sat in the armchair, one hand loosely holding a cigarette the other swirling his mug as he stared at Oscar, topaz brown eyes full of seriousness and earnesty earned only through years of reconstructing the truth of everything.
Oscar fidgeted with his mug. “Hm?”
“What I said earlier. I mean it,” Noel repeated. “You’re a brave man, a strong man. I’m glad to have you in our lives.”
Arthur shifted so he could turn in Oscar’s direction. “We all are,” he added. His eyes shone in that strange half-alive, half-ghost way that they had had since the first moment he cornered Oscar in the church hall. Something Oscar yearned to one day hold, something he swore he’d already placed into the back of his rib and carried with every step. “We appreciate you being here for us. With us. It means the world.”
“I…” God, what could he say that could ever convey the feeling in his chest? That burn like a candle touched by so many flames, gold and orange and red all pressed close to its wick and lighting it up brighter than it had ever even known it could shine, hotter than it had ever imagined it could burn, reaching for the flames and praying that as it dissolved from wax to ghost, its smoke might catch fire and join the lights it chased until they all lit the same star.
He flexed his fingers, yearned to dig them into his palm. There was tension, tight, in his muscles. But he caught the gold and brown of Arthur’s eyes again, and something wormed its way between the tension, forcing it to thin. He swallowed. “I appreciate being here with you, too. I appreciate you being here for me.”
“Then you’ll stay?” Arthur’s voice was hopeful, so light and beautiful and aimed at Oscar, spoken for Oscar. Noel stared at him with the same hope.
The tension was back. It never seemed to leave for long. Stupid, stubborn animal that wouldn’t abandon the place where it knew it could keep eating Oscar’s worries until he was torn to nothing. “I don’t know,” he murmured.
Noel and Arthur didn’t argue, but something in that hope of theirs flickered, like embers struggling to survive their final moments, just to be stomped by a boot to dust and shadow. Oscar barely just stopped himself from screaming.
“Okay,” Arthur whispered. “That’s okay.”
They settled back into silence, but it was tainted, water turned not to wine, but to bile, stuck in the back of Oscar’s throat and burning. Minutes passed, spent fighting not to choke on it.
Then a door down the hall creaked open, and feet creaked over the floor— except, instead of moving further away toward Faroe’s room, they shifted closer. Oscar glanced up.
John returned at the entryway to the living room, Faroe slowly following behind him, now in a white nightgown with yellow dots, clutching a long stuffed duck. John leaned against the doorway as Faroe trudged forward.
Arthur perked up at the sound of her footsteps. “Duckling?” he asked.
She only yawned in response.
He set his mug on the coffee table and stood, walked over, and started as if to pick her up, but John grabbed him by the waist and pulled him to his side. Arthur spluttered in indignation. “Shouldn’t she be in bed?”
“Shh,” John said. He ran a hand through Arthur’s curls, which seemed to calm him down. “She wanted to come out here for something.”
Arthur huffed quietly, but otherwise didn’t argue anymore, calmed by perhaps the one person who could always tame the man. He relaxed into John’s touch and listened. Neither Noel nor Oscar seemed to know what to do, either, and stayed quiet as Faroe padded forward.
She walked slowly, eyes drooping in an obvious battle with herself to keep them open, arms tight around the stuffed duck whose webbed feet dragged just above Faroe’s own feet. Blearily, she made her way through the living room, nearing closer and closer to the couch, not stopping until she reached the cushions. Without waiting a moment, Faroe crawled up and promptly flopped down deadweight, throwing her tired body onto the couch—
and right on Oscar’s lap.
He was sure he stopped breathing in his full-body freeze. Every muscle held still, terrified of moving too much, terrified of disrupting the young girl’s rest, terrified of becoming too much and intruding where he was not meant to be. She was practically already asleep, and Oscar dared not break her peace.
Eyes wide and heart pounding loud as Jericho, Oscar glanced up, absolutely petrified of what the fathers of Faroe would say about his trespass. Oscar was sure he would find resentment, fury, maybe worse. Oh, God, don’t let him find hate in those golden eyes, don’t let him see the disappointment that was sure to arise, don’t let him see-
…fondness?
And John… John smiling? His lips were curled upward, eyes glowing with unabashed adoration as he watched Faroe settle further into Oscar’s lap. Still smiling, John turned to Arthur and leaned down to whisper in his ear, murmuring a muffled painting of the scene. He shone, pure spirit, not an ounce of ire or condemnation. It seemed impossible. And yet.
Mysteries upon mysteries woven into the men before Oscar, ghosts and spirits and fates that he could not see nor comprehend— but he could feel them. He could feel the way they had poured gold into Noel, John, and Arthur, the whisper of unrelenting power that echoed from the past into their bones.
And here it was, all of it, settled down into three soft smiles all aimed toward him. Oscar glanced from John to Arthur to Noel and back, and his heart nearly burst from the mixture of hot-cold emotions fighting within.
Arthur pulled away from John, and— to Oscar’s equal excitement and horror— walked over to the couch, sat down directly next to Oscar, and promptly leaned to rest his head on Oscar’s shoulder.
Perhaps this is purgatory, Oscar thought. Perhaps this is every trial that I have ever failed, and I must suffer through them again despite knowing that I do not possess the strength to pass them this time around. His heart pounded hot and cold. It fluttered in the giddy delight of Arthur’s touch, his sharp cheek and soft curls draped over the fabric of Oscar’s shirt; it fluttered in the arctic anxiety that Arthur would bite and tear with his touch (or maybe, just maybe, sink only soft things into Oscar's skin with his touch, place pity or drape kind comfort).
Oscar felt his body immediately lean into that coupling of delight and danger. “Arthur…”
“Oscar…” Arthur repeated Oscar’s tone, overly serious, before nuzzling closer. He brought one hand up to wrap around Oscar’s arm, and moved the other hand to rest over Faroe’s hair. He sighed in content. “Told you she’d warm up to you,” he murmured.
He couldn’t stop the chuckle that rose. “Yes, I suppose you did.” Still worried, he licked his lips. “Are you… okay with this?”
Arthur snorted, a half-incredulous, half-fond sound. “Are you serious?”
“I, uh- yes?”
A sigh. A press even closer to Oscar’s side. “Oscar,” Arthur said, “I want you to be here for her. I want you to be just as much of a father to her as any of us are. This— you, her, all of us being here together— this is everything I want. Of course I’m fucking okay with it.”
He turned so that his lips pressed close to the side of Oscar’s neck. Oscar swallowed, and he was sure the other man could feel, if the gentle smile that spread across his skin was anything to judge by.
“I love you, Oscar,” Arthur whispered. “I want you to be with my family, to be my family.”
It was like a dream, every kind and pretty thing Oscar had ever wanted to hear but did not believe. He tilted his head so that it leaned closer to Arthur, his cheek and lips brushing Arthur’s curls. “I do, too,” he confessed, voice trembling under the weight of the truth, the weight of a million wishes and hopes about this very moment compounded into this one second of time. “I want to be that.”
“Then be that. Don’t just wish for it.”
“How?”
Arthur shifted, closer, closer, a planet and moon in orbit. His lips rested against Oscar’s ear as he murmured. “Stay tonight?”
Oscar shivered. “I…”
“Please? For me. For Faroe.”
His words were quiet against Oscar’s skin, soft and gentle, yet filled with a depth of warmth, like streetlamps on December nights, like candles in evening Mass. Like a warm apartment on a winter night, full of kind souls who had taken Oscar in, had fed him, and, now, had held him. Like the exact thing that Oscar wanted more than anything, made with care and offered for him and for more than him, offered for a whole family here in this room.
It all still felt like a dream, like it should be far away, but it wasn’t. It was here, and Oscar could feel it in the weight of Faroe on his lap, the warmth of food and drink in his blood, the brush of Arthur against him. Despite it all, despite all his fear and worry and surety in the inevitability of loneliness and cold and shadow— it was here. And Oscar was here with it. And Arthur, and Faroe, and John, and Noel— all of them— were here, together, with this moment and each other.
It was here, and upon the realization, there was only one answer that could form on Oscar’s tongue: “Yes.”
Saying the word felt like pulling every ounce of tension and fear from his body at once. He relaxed as though his body knew it belonged here, and maybe it did, as the rest of the room seemed to calm just the same. Noel leaned further into his chair, puffing at his cigarette around a soft smile. John’s shoulders loosened, and his steps were light as he moved to sit in front of Noel on the floor, legs stretched out comfortably.
Arthur grinned wide, a tangible happiness against Oscar’s skin. He pressed a kiss to Oscar’s cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Oscar flushed, but for once, didn’t turn or duck his head to try and hide it. He leaned his forehead against Arthur’s, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, a silent acknowledgment, a gentle promise. Neither said a word, and neither needed to. Everything was heard all the same.
After a minute, they shifted, Arthur moving to lean his head down on Oscar’s shoulder again. Oscar opened his eyes.
Across from them, John had taken the fourth mug of hot chocolate from Noel, resting his head upon Noel’s thigh as one arm came up to wrap around the rest of the leg and the other hand held the mug. Noel brought a hand down to run through John’s curls, and the touch pulled a low purring hum from John’s chest, mixing with the croon of the radio and the slowing rumble of crowds outside.
The silence was once again natural, perfectly attuned to some unseen, unspoken thread through every body in the room. Faroe snored lightly underneath Oscar and Arthur, and the four still-awake men in the room slowly sipped their cocoa, feeling the lull of rest wrap around them as night did the same.
It was all strange. Not what Oscar had ever known, nothing that he was used to, nothing he quite knew how to navigate. Still, it was real. It was here, and perhaps that was all it needed to be for now. They had time enough to learn.
As he finished his cocoa, watching the men before him and his own self slip into rest in each other’s arms, he couldn’t stop from smiling quietly to himself.
If this is what a family felt like, Oscar thought, here with a backwards meal in the kitchen and a smile in the living room, with a song on the radio and a hum in the air, with touches and murmurs and a soft glowing warmth in the chest— well, then, he could get used to this.