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Christmas is quiet. Slippered feet padding down stairs. The murmur of hymns on the radio at breakfast. A muted trudge to the church through the grey, slushy remnants of last night’s sleet. Boots, coat, scarf, gloves, hat. Wrap up, Linus, I don't need you catching a cold. The hum of reverent words and ceremony; ancient meanings floating just out of reach in the cool, stale air. The rustle and whisper of restless bodies shifting against unforgiving wood.
Back home for dinner: a modest, no-frills affair. Anything more is frivolous when it’s just the two of us, Linus. Humility is a virtue, and don’t you touch that until we’ve said grace. The Queen wishes everyone a very Merry Christmas. Peace on Earth and good will toward men, God bless you all.
Later, by torchlight in the safety of his room, Linus loses himself in Narnia; exploring a snowy forest with his laughing companions. The first, gilt-edged ache of don’t you wish you were here settles behind his ribs, thirty years before he builds the question a home in his life.
Every day is quiet. Linus watches the rain sheeting down outside, and is inordinately glad he has nowhere to go today. It has been a long time since Christmas morning involved worship of anything more than a cup of tea and the extravagance of toasted crumpets for breakfast. Linus is well used to his mother’s disapproving sniff as he puts on a record, breaking the silence of the house. The fact that she’s been dead for nearly a decade hasn’t softened her disdain.
“Little bitty pretty one,” he sings with Frankie Lymon as he fills the kettle. “Come on and talk to me.” Calliope, creature of evil and part time hot water bottle, claws his ankles until he hobbles back to the armchair to provide her with a lap to nap in. “One day you're going to get a cup of tea tipped over your head and it won't be my fault, you menace.” She swipes his biscuit onto the floor in retaliation.
“Now I know it’s just the two of us, but we’re having a treat seeing as it’s Christmas.” It’s a turkey crown, so small that he isn’t entirely convinced it’s not a chicken in disguise, but it still feels like a luxury. Frivolous . Calliope is too busy scoffing to pass comment.
In the corner, the Queen talks about hope and faith, and the joy of spending time with family. Linus flicks the television off and scratches Calliope behind the ears. The ache sits snugly between his heart and lungs, familiar as the furniture and as easy to ignore until he trips over the corner of it.
The rain is still pitter-pattering against the windows as Linus gets ready for bed. It’s early yet, but he has rather run out of things to do with the day. No matter, tomorrow will return the familiarity of routine. He always seems to end up working the holiday shifts, but it isn’t as though Calliope will be upset at his absence.
Christmas is quiet, but that won't last long. Linus stubbornly refuses to open his eyes, determined to make the most of every possible second warm in bed, with a sleeping Arthur wrapped around him.
From down the corridor there is the sound of a door being wrenched open and a frantic patter of small feet, no doubt on the way to rouse their neighbours. As the commotion increases in volume and proximity, Arthur groans and stirs at his side. Linus acquiesces to wakefulness a little less grudgingly when there are sleepy kisses being pressed against his cheek.
With glorious inevitability the chaos reaches their door in a flurry of knocking, followed almost immediately by six children trying to squeeze into the room at once. Lucy and Talia make a headlong dash for the window, tripping over each other to fling open the curtains, while the others land like a flight of cannonballs on the bed.
A chorus of “Look! Look! Come on, look outside!” fills the room. Once he has extracted himself, with difficulty, from under the mound of children, Linus makes his way to the window to discover it's snowing! And proper snow too. Not the disappointing slush of his childhood. Not the driving rain of the city. A blizzard of honest to goodness, fat white flakes swirling out of the darkness.
“Hold on.” A small thought winks into existence in the back of his mind. “I could have sworn the forecast said it was going to be too warm for snow?”
A sigh floats up from the vicinity of his right elbow. “Yes. And then you did that grown-up ‘I'm not sad’ sad face—”
Lucy is promptly drowned out by everyone else trying to jump into the story at once.
“—just like you did when we were talking about the treasure hunt we did the year Chauncey came to stay—”
“—AND when I asked what your favourite ever Christmas was—”
“—and THEN Arthur said to Zoe that it wasn't your fault you were grumpy because your old Christmases were sad and had no magic…”
Linus’s eyebrows shoot up as he looks at Arthur, who appears to be making a valiant attempt to blend in with the headboard. “Is that so?”
“Anyway!” Lucy chimes back in, saving Arthur from further scrutiny (for now). “We had a meeting, and we decided you need to have a proper Christmas. Step one: Snowpocalypse!”
He stares up at Linus, clearly bursting with pride and just a hint of defiance; daring him to comment on the reckless application of magic. Linus, surprising nobody but himself, bursts into happy tears.
After an even more chaotic than normal breakfast, six over-excited children and two almost-as-excited adults bundle up to play in the snow.
“Wrap up, my dears,” Linus calls over the clamour, as he fusses the ends of Phee’s scarf into her coat. “Let’s not catch any colds today!” He catches Arthur watching him, positively radiating fondness, and promptly ducks his head before anyone notices him welling up again.
Lucy’s snowpocalypse has blanketed the island in white as far as the eye can see. Everything is crisp and glittering in the pale morning sunshine, and the air is filled with delighted shrieks and the crunch crunch of booted feet in fresh snow. Arthur and Linus manage thirty seconds of standing in the doorway enjoying the sight of the children’s unbridled joy before an impressive volley of snowballs are launched directly at them. Arthur shakes snow from his hair, laughing wild and free, and joins the fray. Linus hurries to follow, scooping up handfuls as he goes.
A proper Christmas for nine people also turns out to involve quite a staggering amount of food. Zoe arrives just as they are making their way inside, rosy-cheeked and soaked to the skin, and sweeps the children off to get warmed up while Linus and Arthur make a start on preparing enough vegetables to feed a small army. Elbow to elbow at the kitchen counter, trading jokes and kisses as they work, Linus is utterly humbled by the sheer depth of love he feels for this beautiful man and the family he knows with stunning clarity that he wants to call his own.
“Are you crying again?!” Arthur asks with gentle amusement, gathering him up into an embrace.
“Mfghdsjkfsfhf,” Linus mumbles into Arthur’s chest.
“Oh gross, they’re being soppy again!” Talia says, announcing the arrival of the cavalry. “Now where are the big knives, I want to help!”
In the living room, the Queen broadcasts her best wishes to the nation, unheard by anyone except the sleek black cat curled up in front of the fireplace.
Once the children have gone to bed, a soft blanket of peace settles over the house again. They move around in content mostly-silence; straightening furniture, rounding up toys, and ferrying a veritable mountain of abandoned crockery back to the kitchen. It is the height of the domestic mundane, the task of a million weary parents, and everything Linus never knew he was missing.
As he gathers up handfuls of wrapping paper, Linus realises he hasn’t heard from his mother all day. He wonders whether she has found it in herself to be happy for him, or whether the sheer chaos of the day has finally stunned her into silence. He sends her up a quick Merry Christmas anyway.
Arthur sidles up behind him, snaking his arms around Linus’s waist. Linus lets himself relax into the warmth of Arthur’s chest, swaying as Buddy Holly sings about the love that'll surely come his way.
“Stay again tonight?” Arthur asks.
“Yes.” Linus replies, heart so full of love that there is no room for an ache. “Always.”