Quiet Traditions

by LabNotesAndFiction

Summary:

It’s Agatha and Rio’s first Christmas in their shared home.

Agatha decorates without planning to, string lights chosen carefully, a small fake tree, warmth added gently to a space that already feels like theirs. When Rio comes home, she’s surprised, not overwhelmed, just quietly taken aback by something she’s never really done before.

Agatha wakes to an empty side of the bed.

Not cold, Rio’s warmth still lingers in the sheets, but unmistakably vacant. One pillow is indented, the blankets pulled back with the quiet efficiency of someone who left early, careful not to wake her.

Agatha blinks up at the ceiling, the pale winter light filtering through the curtains. It takes her a moment to remember where she is in the week.

Right.
Rio had an early start today.

Practice, errands, something vaguely logistical that Agatha had nodded along to while half-asleep, already filing the information away under later. She stretches, rolling onto Rio’s side of the bed, pressing her cheek briefly into the pillow still warm with her.

“Miss you already,” she murmurs to no one.

She pads into the kitchen barefoot, tugging one of Rio’s sweaters over her head without thinking. It hangs a little too long on her arms, smells faintly of detergent and something that is distinctly Rio, familiar and grounding.

The apartment is quiet in that soft winter way, the city muted outside. The kettle goes on. The coffee maker hums. Agatha fixes the filter automatically, smiling to herself at the habit of it.

This is their life now.

Shared mornings.
Shared routines.
Shared absences that come with the certainty of return.

She leans against the counter with her mug, steam curling up toward her face, and lets herself simply exist.

Her gaze drifts down the hallway.

The closet door is slightly ajar, revealing the corner of a cardboard box shoved toward the back beneath coats and extra blankets. The label, written in her own looping handwriting, stares back at her:

HOLIDAY.

Agatha frowns faintly.

She hadn’t thought about it since she moved in. The box had been packed hastily, along with everything else, and then forgotten, like something she’d assume she’d get to eventually.

Christmas.

Their first one here.

Not just together, but here. In this apartment. With shared shelves and shared keys and shared space that already feels like it knows them.

Agatha’s chest tightens with something warm and unexpected.

She hadn’t woken up intending to decorate. There’s no checklist forming in her head, no internal announcement. Just a quiet tug beneath her ribs, instinctive, insistent.

She sets her mug down.

“Okay,” she murmurs to herself.

The box is heavier than she remembers. She drags it out of the closet, cardboard scraping softly across the floor, and kneels in front of it. The tape peels away with a sound that feels oddly nostalgic.

Inside: a coil of warm white lights, carefully wound. A strand of faux greenery. A handful of ornaments wrapped in tissue paper.

Agatha lifts one ornament free: a small glass star, chipped slightly at one point.

Her thumb brushes over the imperfection automatically.

She smiles.

She doesn’t think about whether Rio will like it.
Doesn’t plan explanations.
Doesn’t worry about doing too much.

She just… starts.

She puts music on first, something instrumental, soft enough to fade into the background. The apartment fills with sound that doesn’t intrude, only hums.

The lights go up in the window, carefully spaced, no flashing, no harsh glare. Agatha steps back, squints, adjusts them again. She drapes the greenery over the bookshelf next, weaving the lights through it slowly, deliberately.

She takes her time.

Not because she’s trying to make it perfect, but because she’s enjoying herself in a way that surprises her.

She hums under her breath without realizing it.

The apartment changes in increments. The corners soften. The light becomes kinder. Nothing is crowded. Nothing overwhelms.

Agatha pauses, hands resting on her hips, and looks around.

Something in her chest swells, a tight, tender ache she recognizes only vaguely.

She realizes, suddenly, what she’s doing.

She isn’t decorating because it’s Christmas.

She’s decorating because she wants Rio to come home and feel… held.

Not startled.
Not pressured.
Not expected to perform joy.

Just… welcomed.

Agatha swallows.

She moves more carefully after that.

She places a small ceramic star on the windowsill. Sets candles on the table but doesn’t light them. Leaves space, always space. The apartment still looks like them. Still familiar. Still safe.

This isn’t about tradition.
It’s about care.

When she finally steps back, the apartment looks subtly different, warmer, softer and gently glowing.

Agatha exhales, slow and steady.

She hadn’t planned any of this.

She hadn’t needed to.

She glances toward the door, imagining Rio’s key turning in the lock later, and smiles softly to herself.

It’s our first Christmas here, she thinks.

And without quite realizing when it happened, Agatha has already begun to make it something they share.

---

Rio unlocks the apartment door the same way she always does.

Keys in the bowl. Shoes off by the wall. Bag hooked on the chair.

Her body moves on autopilot, muscle memory guiding her through the threshold between outside and inside, between noise and quiet. Her shoulders loosen the moment the door clicks shut behind her.

Home.

She exhales, slow, measured and then stops.

Something is… different.

Not wrong.
Not alarming.

Just altered enough that her brain hesitates, pauses mid-process like it’s been handed an unexpected variable.

The light is warmer.

Not brighter, just softer. It pools instead of glaring, settles into corners instead of bouncing sharply off surfaces. The apartment looks like it’s being lit from the inside out.

Rio stands very still, one hand still resting on the doorframe.

Her gaze moves carefully.

The window first, a faint glow tracing the edges of the glass. Then the bookshelf. Greenery where there wasn’t greenery before, threaded with warm lights so subtle they almost look like reflections.

Her pulse ticks up, confused.

She steps further inside.

The apartment smells faintly different too, not strong, not intrusive. Pine, maybe. Something clean and gentle underneath it.

Her brain starts running inventory.

Lights: warm, steady, not blinking.
Decorations: minimal. No clutter added.
Sound: soft music, instrumental, low enough that it doesn’t demand attention.

Nothing is overwhelming.

Nothing is wrong.

And yet—

Rio’s chest tightens unexpectedly.

She moves slowly through the living room, fingers brushing the back of the couch as she passes, grounding herself in the familiar texture. Her eyes keep flicking to the changes, the bookshelf, the windowsill, the table where candles sit unlit, carefully spaced.

Someone has done this with intention.

Her heart gives a small, strange lurch.

“Agatha?” she calls, voice quiet, careful.

Agatha appears from the far end of the room, a strand of lights looped loosely around her wrist, kneeling near the TV stand. She looks up, eyes warm, hair slightly messy, one of Rio’s sweaters hanging off her frame like it belongs there.

“Oh— hey, baby,” she says easily. “You’re home early.”

Rio doesn’t answer right away.

She watches Agatha for a second, the way she moves, relaxed, comfortable, like she belongs here. Like she built this space with her hands and then forgot she’d done it.

Rio swallows.

“…what’s this?” she asks finally.

Agatha’s smile flickers, just slightly. “Christmas,” she says, soft but casual. “Decorations. I can stop if it’s—”

“No,” Rio says immediately.

The word comes out sharper than she intended. She reins it in, breathes.

“No,” she repeats, gentler. “I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

She steps closer, drawn despite herself, and reaches out to touch the garland draped across the shelf. The leaves are cool under her fingers, plastic but convincing. The lights woven through them are warm, not hot, not sharp.

Her shoulders ease a fraction.

“I’ve never… done this,” Rio admits, voice low.

Agatha stills, watching her carefully now.

“Yeah?” she asks.

Rio nods. “My family didn’t really decorate. And after…” She trails off, not needing to explain. “It never seemed necessary.”

She doesn’t say lonely.
She doesn’t say empty.

But the words hang there anyway.

Agatha steps closer, not crowding her, just enough that their shoulders almost touch.

“We don’t have to,” she says quietly. “If you don’t want to.”

Rio shakes her head again, slower this time.

“No. I do.” She searches for the right words. “I just didn’t know it could… feel like this.”

Agatha’s expression softens, something tender and careful blooming in her eyes.

Rio looks around the apartment again.

It still looks like them.
Still recognizably home.

But now it feels… held.

Like someone has wrapped the space itself in a blanket.

Her chest tightens, emotion rising unexpectedly sharp.

“You did this while I was gone,” Rio says, more to herself than to Agatha.

Agatha nods. “I didn’t really plan it. I just started.”

Rio huffs a soft breath. Of course she did.

She turns back to the bookshelf, adjusting one of the ornaments without thinking, nudging it half an inch to the left until it feels right.

Agatha watches her, silent.

“I like it,” Rio says finally. “A lot.”

Agatha’s relief is immediate, visible.

“Yeah?”

Rio nods. “It makes the apartment feel… warmer.”

Agatha smiles. “It is warmer.”

Rio glances at her, catching the fondness there, and something inside her chest loosens completely.

She steps closer, resting her forehead briefly against Agatha’s shoulder, not quite a hug, just contact. Familiar. Safe.

“Thank you,” Rio murmurs.

Agatha’s hand comes up instinctively, resting between Rio’s shoulder blades.

“For what?”

“For bringing this here,” Rio says. “For… thinking of me.”

Agatha exhales, slow and full.

“Always.”

They stand there together for a moment, the apartment glowing around them, the quiet stretching comfortably between their bodies.

Rio has the sudden, startling realization that this—

This is what people mean when they talk about traditions.

Not obligation.
Not noise.
Not expectation.

Just someone loving you enough to make space feel like it’s holding you.

Rio leans in, presses a kiss to Agatha’s shoulder.

“Merry Christmas,” she says softly.

Agatha laughs under her breath, warmth blooming in her voice.

“It’s not even December 25th yet.”

Rio smiles, small, genuine.

“It feels like it already started.”

And for the first time, Christmas doesn’t feel like something she’s observing from the outside.

It feels like something she’s inside of.

With Agatha.

At home.

---

Agatha doesn’t bring out the tree right away.

She makes tea first.

Lets Rio take off her jacket.

Lets the apartment settle again after the small emotional shift of realizing something new has been added to their shared space.

They sit on opposite ends of the couch for a moment, not because of distance, but because neither of them wants to rush the feeling that’s blooming between them. The lights glow gently around the room, not demanding attention, just being there.

Rio keeps glancing at the corner near the window.

Agatha notices.

She waits until Rio’s shoulders have fully relaxed, until the faint tension between her brows has eased, until she’s leaning back instead of holding herself forward like she’s bracing for something.

Then Agatha stands.

“Okay,” she says lightly. “There is… one more thing.”

Rio looks up.
Not alarmed.
Just curious.

Agatha retrieves the box from the hall closet, a smaller one this time and sets it down carefully on the floor near the window.

Rio watches, eyes following every movement.

“That’s…?” she asks.

“The tree,” Agatha says. Then, immediately, “It’s small. And fake. And we don’t have to use it if—”

Rio interrupts her gently.

“I want to see.”

Agatha smiles.

She kneels and opens the box slowly, deliberately. The scent of artificial pine drifts out, faint but recognizable. Not sharp. Not overwhelming.

The tree is compact, tabletop-sized, really, with soft, flexible branches that don’t scratch or catch. Agatha lifts it out and sets it upright, adjusting the stand until it’s steady.

Rio leans forward slightly, interest overcoming hesitation.

“It’s… not big,” Rio observes.

Agatha laughs softly.

“I know you.”

That earns her a small, surprised smile.

She plugs in the lights.

They don’t flash.
They don’t blink.

They bloom, warm and steady, like a held breath finally released.

Rio inhales sharply.

It’s subtle, barely there, but Agatha sees it. The way Rio’s chest rises and falls. The way her fingers curl briefly into her sleeves.

“Too much?” Agatha asks immediately.

Rio shakes her head. “No. Just… new.”

She stands and steps closer, stopping a careful distance away, eyes tracing the lines of the tree. She reaches out slowly, fingers brushing the edge of a branch.

Soft.

She relaxes another fraction.

Agatha opens the smaller box of ornaments and sets it beside the tree. She doesn’t hand anything to Rio yet. She just opens the lid and lets Rio look.

Inside: mismatched pieces wrapped in tissue paper. Some delicate, some ridiculous. Nothing too shiny. Nothing that makes noise.

Rio kneels beside her.

“Are these… all from you?” she asks.

“Some,” Agatha says. “Some from friends. Some I just… acquired.”

Rio picks up a wooden ornament, simple, unpainted, smooth to the touch. She turns it over in her hands, feeling the grain.

“This one,” she says quietly. “I like this one.”

Agatha nods. “Then it’s yours to place.”

Rio blinks. “There are rules, right?”

Agatha laughs, gentle and warm.

“Only that you get to decide.”

Rio frowns faintly, processing this.

She considers the tree carefully, stepping back, then forward again. She lifts the ornament, holds it at different heights, testing.

Agatha stays quiet.

She watches Rio approach the act with the same careful precision she brings to everything else, not out of anxiety, but out of respect. Like the tree itself deserves consideration.

Rio finally hooks the ornament onto a branch slightly left of center.

She steps back.

Tilts her head.

Adjusts it half an inch.

Agatha smiles so softly it almost hurts.

They continue like that, slow, unhurried. Agatha hands Rio ornaments one by one, explaining them only if Rio asks.

“This one’s from Jen.”
“This one’s older than it looks.”
“This one’s stupid, but I love it.”

Rio listens, absorbing each story like it matters.

She places each ornament with intention.

When they’re done, the tree isn’t full.

It doesn’t need to be.

It’s balanced.
Thoughtful.
Enough.

Rio sits back on her heels and looks at it for a long moment.

“…I like this,” she says.

Agatha sits beside her, their shoulders brushing.

“I like you liking it.”

Rio glances at her, something warm and uncertain flickering in her eyes.

“Do people usually do this every year?” she asks.

“Some do,” Agatha says. “Some don’t. Some change it. Some make it loud and messy. Some keep it small.”

Rio hums thoughtfully.

“We could…” She hesitates. “…do it again next year.”

Agatha’s chest tightens in the best possible way.

“I’d really like that,” she says.

Rio nods, satisfied with that answer.

They sit there together for a while, lights glowing softly, the tree reflecting faintly in the window glass.

It doesn’t feel like decoration.

It feels like intention.

Like the beginning of something gentle and chosen.

Agatha reaches out and intertwines their fingers, squeezing once.

Rio squeezes back.

And the tree, small, fake, imperfect, stands quietly beside them, already holding the shape of something that will last.

They don’t get up right away.

The tree is finished—or finished enough—and the apartment feels settled around it, like the space itself has accepted the change without protest. The lights glow softly, reflected faintly in the window glass, in the dark surface of the TV, in the small framed photos that line the shelf.

Agatha sits on the floor with her legs folded beneath her, one hand resting loosely on her knee. Rio remains beside her, posture relaxed now, shoulders no longer held tight with vigilance.

It strikes Agatha, suddenly, how rare this stillness is.

Not silence, there’s music, faint and instrumental, drifting through the room, but stillness. The absence of urgency. The lack of a next step demanding attention.

She leans back onto her hands and exhales.

Rio follows her gaze, eyes returning again to the tree.

“I didn’t know you could make it this… quiet,” Rio says eventually.

Agatha turns her head. “Christmas?”

Rio nods. “Everything I’ve ever seen about it was loud. Bright. A lot.” She hesitates. “This feels… different.”

Agatha smiles softly. “I think people forget it doesn’t have to be one thing.”

Rio hums, thoughtful.

She reaches out, gently adjusts one of the ornaments again—barely a shift, but deliberate. The motion is careful, reverent, like she’s learning the boundaries of something new and fragile.

Agatha watches her hands.

She loves Rio’s hands. Loves the way they move through the world, precise, intentional, always aware of consequence. She loves how those same hands now linger, unhurried, on something that doesn’t require performance or perfection.

“This,” Rio says slowly, “feels like something you stay with.”

Agatha’s chest warms.

“That’s the best kind,” she says.

They sit in companionable quiet for a while longer. Agatha lets it stretch. Lets the moment breathe. There’s no need to fill it with explanation or reassurance.

Eventually, Rio shifts, pulling her legs in closer.

“Is this,” she asks carefully, “something you usually do with… expectations?”

Agatha blinks. “What kind?”

“Like,” Rio gestures vaguely, “it has to be done a certain way. Or at a certain time.”

Agatha considers this honestly.

“Some people do,” she says. “But I don’t think traditions only work if they’re rigid. I think the good ones change with who you’re sharing them with.”

Rio’s mouth curves into a small, contemplative smile.

“So… this is ours?”

Agatha’s breath catches.

“If you want it to be,” she says gently.

Rio nods once. Firm. Decided.

“I do.”

Agatha reaches for her mug, long since gone lukewarm and takes a sip anyway. She sets it aside, then stretches out fully on the rug, head resting against the couch cushion.

She pats the space beside her.

Rio hesitates only a second before joining her, lying on her side, facing Agatha. They’re close enough that their knees touch, that Agatha can feel the warmth radiating from her.

They lie there, eyes drifting from each other to the ceiling to the tree.

The apartment hums softly around them.

“What did Christmas look like for you?” Rio asks after a while.

Agatha exhales, slow and nostalgic.

“Messy,” she says with a smile. “Too many people. Too much food. A lot of noise. But also… warmth. People showing up even when it was inconvenient. Even when it was hard.”

Rio listens intently.

“It wasn’t always perfect,” Agatha adds. “But it was… intentional.”

Rio nods. “I like intentional.”

Agatha reaches out and traces a slow, absent line along Rio’s sleeve.

“I like that we get to decide what that means.”

Rio turns her head slightly, eyes catching Agatha’s.

“We don’t have to repeat things we didn’t like,” she says, more statement than question.

“Nope.”

“And we don’t have to perform anything for anyone else.”

“Nope.”

Rio exhales, relief visible in the softening of her jaw.

They lie there for a while longer, until the music shifts to something even quieter.

Eventually, Rio speaks again.

“Could we,” she says, tentative but hopeful, “do something small every year?”

Agatha’s heart squeezes.

“Like what?”

Rio thinks. “Not necessarily decorating. Just… being here. Together. Doing something that marks the time.”

Agatha smiles. “I’d love that.”

Rio nods, satisfied.

She reaches for Agatha’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

“Thank you,” she says again, softer this time.

“For… making space.”

Agatha squeezes her hand.

“Thank you for stepping into it.”

The lights continue to glow. The tree stands quietly in the corner, small, fake, perfect in its own way.

Nothing else needs to be added.

This is enough.

And somewhere in the quiet, without ceremony or announcement, a tradition begins, not because it’s expected, but because it feels like home.

They don’t announce the end of the evening.

It simply… arrives.

The music fades into something even quieter, barely there. The tea mugs are empty, forgotten on the floor where they were set down. Outside, the sky darkens slowly, the window turning reflective until the apartment begins to mirror itself back at them, warm lights, familiar shapes, two figures stretched comfortably into the space.

Agatha is the first to notice the shift.

Not in time, exactly, but in weight. The way the day settles deeper into the apartment. The way the quiet becomes thicker, softer, like a blanket drawn higher.

She shifts where she’s lying on the rug, stretching her legs, feeling the pleasant pull in her muscles. Rio remains close, propped on one elbow now, watching the lights on the tree as if they’re doing something subtle and important she doesn’t want to miss.

“They’re still okay?” Agatha asks gently.

Rio hums, eyes never leaving the tree.

“Yeah. They’re… good.”

Agatha smiles.

She reaches for the remote and dims the overhead lights, leaving only the tree, the window lights, and a small lamp in the corner. The apartment responds instantly, shadows softening, edges blurring into warmth.

Rio exhales, slow and satisfied.

Agatha watches the way Rio’s body reacts to it, not dramatic, not exaggerated. Just the gradual lowering of her shoulders. The unclenching of her jaw. The quiet permission her body gives itself to stay.

This is the part Agatha loves most.

Not the decorations.
Not the tree.
But this moment, when Rio stops bracing.

“Come here,” Agatha murmurs.

Rio doesn’t hesitate.

She shifts closer, curling naturally into Agatha’s side, head resting against her shoulder. Agatha wraps an arm around her, pulling her in fully now, feeling the solid warmth of her body, the familiar weight that grounds her as much as it soothes Rio.

They fit together easily.

They always have.

Rio’s fingers trace absent patterns along Agatha’s forearm—slow, repetitive, soothing in a way that feels half-conscious. Agatha lets her, breathing evenly, letting the rhythm set the pace of the moment.

The apartment feels… complete.

Agatha hadn’t realized how often she’d lived in spaces that went dark too early. Apartments where the lights were turned off because it felt wasteful to keep them on. Rooms that went quiet not because they were peaceful, but because there was nothing else to do in them.

This is different.

Here, the lights stay on because they want them on.

Rio shifts slightly. “I think… this is my favorite part.”

Agatha tilts her head. “Of Christmas?”

Rio shakes her head, pressing closer. “Of this.”

Agatha’s chest tightens, the good kind of ache blooming there.

“The being here?” she asks softly.

Rio nods. “The staying.”

Agatha presses a kiss into Rio’s hair, slow and unhurried.

“We’re very good at staying,” she says.

Rio smiles faintly, eyes still fixed on the glow of the room. “I didn’t know you could make a place feel like this without… doing anything.”

Agatha chuckles quietly. “I did a lot of things.”

Rio shakes her head. “No. I mean, without making it feel like a performance. Or a test. Or something I could fail.”

Agatha stills just slightly.

She tightens her arm around Rio.

“This was never a test,” she says, firm but gentle. “And you could never fail just by being here.”

Rio swallows, fingers tightening for a brief moment before relaxing again.

“I’ve lived in places where I felt like I was borrowing the space,” she admits quietly. “Like I had to be careful not to leave a mark.”

Agatha’s heart aches softly.

“You live here,” she says. “You’re allowed to leave marks.”

Rio lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh.

“I think… I already have.”

Agatha smiles.

They sit like that for a long time. Long enough that the world outside feels distant. Long enough that the tree becomes just another steady presence, no longer something to be observed, just something that is.

Eventually, Rio shifts again, sitting up slightly.

“Next year,” she says, tentative but certain, “I want to help more.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow, amused. “You did help.”

“I want to plan something,” Rio clarifies. “Even if it’s small.”

Agatha nods, serious now. “I’d love that.”

Rio considers this, then adds, “And I want to keep it… like this.”

Agatha follows her gaze around the apartment, the lights, the warmth, the quiet.

“Soft?” she suggests.

Rio nods. “Soft.”

Agatha leans in and kisses her, slow and gentle, nothing rushed or hungry about it. Just affection, familiar and grounding.

When they part, Rio rests her forehead against Agatha’s.

“Merry Christmas,” she says quietly.

Agatha smiles.

“Merry Christmas, baby.”

They don’t move when the night deepens.

They don’t turn off the lights.

They let the apartment stay lit, windows glowing gently against the dark, tree steady in its corner, the space holding the evidence of two people choosing each other in a hundred quiet ways.

And for the first time, Christmas doesn’t feel like a season.

It feels like a home.

With the lights on.

Notes:

There’s no right way to celebrate anything, only the way that fits the people sharing the space.

Thank you for reading

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 41 of A Match Made in Tetris Hell