Chapter Text
The house was still when they stepped inside.
Osora shut the door quietly behind them, the lock clicking into place with a soft finality that echoed faintly through the foyer. Warm light spilled from recessed fixtures along the ceiling, illuminating polished floors and carefully curated holiday décor—gold ornaments, white garlands, everything understated and expensive in a way that never tried too hard.
Arias paused just inside, duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
Every time he came here, it hit him again.
The space.
The quiet.
The way nothing felt cramped or improvised.
No piles of shoes by the door. No coats layered over one another because the hooks had run out. No constant background noise of someone always moving, always talking. The house didn’t press in the way his did—it simply existed, calm and self-contained.
“Still empty, huh?” he said softly, like he didn’t want to disturb the air.
Osora nodded, shrugging out of their coat and hanging it neatly on the hook by the door. “Dad texted earlier. Dinner ran late, and the roads are really icy right now, so I think he's staying at a hotel. Celia’s still watching movies with Cat—she’ll probably spend the night there.”
Arias hummed thoughtfully. “So we have the mansion to ourselves?”
Osora shot him a look. “It’s not a mansion. If it were, I would’ve made my dad put in a basketball court.”
He snorted, toeing off his boots. “You live in a gated community, baby. Your house feels like a museum. I’m always scared I’m gonna break something.”
They laughed. “If you do, just blame it on me. I still hold the record for most things broken in this house.”
They headed upstairs together, footsteps soft against carpeted steps. The hallway lights glowed low and warm, casting long shadows. Osora’s room was at the end—door already cracked open, lamplight spilling out.
The moment they stepped inside, Arias visibly relaxed.
Osora’s room was different from the rest of the house—less pristine, less curated. Lived-in. Pillows sat slightly askew on the bed, books stacked unevenly on the nightstand. Posters of athletes lined one wall; vinyl records of their favorite artists leaned carefully against another. It felt personal in a way the rest of the house never quite did.
It smelled like Osora, too—expensive soap and eucalyptus, softened by a faint trace of vanilla.
Arias dropped his duffle at the foot of the bed with a quiet thud and rolled his shoulders, tension finally slipping free. “Okay,” he said, exhaling. “If I’m spending the night here, I have to shower. I smell like cookies, children, and hot glue.”
Osora snickered. “Go ahead. Take your time, I showered earlier.”
He blinked. “You did?”
“Yeah. Figured I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Alright,” he said, already unzipping the bag.
He rummaged through the duffle, pulling out a clean white T-shirt, boxers—and then something green.
Osora leaned against the bed, watching idly… until they actually registered what he was holding.
“…Arias,” they said slowly.
He glanced up from where he was digging for his socks. “What?”
They pointed. “Those are adorable.”
He looked down at the pajama bottoms in his hands. Bright green. Covered in little cartoon reindeer wearing scarves.
“Oh,” he said flatly. Then rolled his eyes. “I am allowed to be festive on Christmas Eve, ’Sora.”
Osora burst out laughing, hand flying to their mouth. “I didn’t say you weren’t! I just—wow. You in Christmas pajama pants? That’s so cute, Ari.”
He held them up defensively. “My dad buys everyone one pair of dumb pajamas every year. This is tradition.”
Osora wiped at their eyes as they moved to sit in their desk chair, still smiling. “Okay, okay. Fair. They’re cute.”
He smirked. “You jealous?”
They tilted their head, considering. “Maybe. Should I wear Christmas pajamas too?”
Arias froze. Slowly, he turned to stare at them.
“…You have Christmas pajamas?”
Osora scoffed. “Hell no.”
His eyes widened in realization. “You’re telling me your sister owns Christmas pajamas?”
“I usually respect her personal property, so I wouldn’t steal her clothes. But…” Osora said solemnly.
Arias raised an eyebrow, smiling. “But?”
“She totally stole a pair of jeans from me last week to look more edgy, so her closet is fair game right now,” Osora said as they stood from the desk, a mischievous glint in their eyes.
They gave Arias one last smirk. “I’ll be right back.” Then they slipped out of the room, heading down the hall to their sister’s room.
Arias shook his head fondly as they left, then grabbed his towel and headed into the bathroom. A moment later, the shower started, steam curling under the door.
By the time Osora returned, victorious, they were holding a pair of red pajama bottoms patterned with snowflakes and tiny Santas.
“Borrowing,” they muttered to themselves. “Temporarily.”
Fifteen minutes later, Arias emerged from the bathroom with damp hair and relaxed shoulders, tugging on his reindeer pants as he walked.
He stopped short when he saw Osora.
Oh.
They were lying on their bed, scrolling on their phone, now wearing the stolen pajama bottoms and a black wifebeater—tight, comfortable, and showing off their arm muscles, which Arias definitely appreciated.
Arias grinned. “Yeah. This is happening.”
Osora raised a brow. “You approve?”
“Strongly.” He stepped closer, brushing a kiss into their hair. “C’mon. Let’s go be useless downstairs.”
They padded down together, lights dimmed low, the house quieter than ever. In the kitchen, they made hot cocoa—Arias insisting on real milk and cocoa powder, Osora teasing him but letting him take over.
They curled up on the couch with steaming mugs filled with marshmallows and whipped cream, a cheesy Christmas movie playing softly. Arias tugged Osora into his side without asking, arm wrapping around them, hand slipping just under the hem of their tank top to rub soothing circles into their skin.
Osora settled easily, head against his chest.
Outside, snow drifted past the windows in slow silence.
Inside, everything felt warm.
Time slipped by without either of them noticing.
The movie ended somewhere between empty mugs and Arias absently running his fingers through their fluffy hair. The credits rolled, soft music filling the room, and neither of them moved to turn it off right away.
Osora glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s getting late.”
Arias hummed, resting his head on theirs, inhaling the scent of their shampoo. “Mm. But I’m not tired yet.”
Osora threw off the blanket. “Me neither.”
They looked at each other for a beat—then Osora’s mouth curved into a familiar, mischievous smile.
“We could bake,” they suggested.
Arias’s eyes opened fully. “Bake?”
“Gingerbread cookies,” Osora said. “We have the stuff. Celia went through a baking phase like four days ago.”
He sat up immediately, knowing Osora too well. “You’re challenging me?”
“I’m just suggesting an activity,” they said innocently.
“You know I’m really good at this, right?”
Osora shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”
That did it.
They were back in the kitchen minutes later, pajama-clad and energized despite the late hour. Osora pulled out an old recipe from the pantry, but Arias hardly looked at it. He checked the measurements, but otherwise seemed to know the steps by heart.
Osora watched him with a fond smile. “You’ve done this before.”
“Many times,” he said. “My little siblings love gingerbread, and decorating gives them something to do, so it’s a win-win.”
“Uh-huh,” Osora said as they reached for the dough.
He lightly smacked their hand. “Don’t touch anything yet.”
Osora crossed their arms and pouted. “Bossy.”
They worked side by side, Arias dumping out the dough onto the counter and handing Osora the rolling pin to smooth it out. Flour dusted the counter—and eventually Osora’s nose. Arias noticed immediately, trying not to laugh.
“…You’ve got flour on your face, baby.”
Osora blinked and tried to wipe their nose with their forearm, hands still covered in flour. “I do not.”
He leaned in to wipe away what they missed with his thumb, but it only left a faint streak instead. “You definitely did.”
“Wow,” they said dryly. “So helpful.”
Osora booped Arias’s nose with their flour-covered finger, and soon they matched.
They cut out gingerbread men, trees, and stars—Osora’s shapes slightly uneven, Arias’s annoyingly perfect.
“How come yours are so symmetrical?” Osora demanded.
“Because I’m not severely lacking in artistic talent like you are?” he replied.
They snorted. “You’re mean.”
While the cookies baked, they leaned against the counter, waiting impatiently, the kitchen filling with warm spice and sugar. Arias stole a kiss against Osora’s temple; Osora nudged his hip with theirs.
When it came time to decorate, Osora piped icing with determination. Arias went all out—details, patterns, tiny smiles.
“You’re trying too hard,” Osora accused.
“Aren't you the one who challenged me to a competition?” he asked. “Yours look… distressed.”
“They’re just… expressive?”
“Sure, let’s go with that.”
They flicked icing at him. He retaliated immediately.
Laughter echoed through the kitchen until finally the last cookie was set aside and the counters were wiped clean.
They washed dishes together, shoulder to shoulder, comfortable in the silence that followed. When everything was done, the clock had crept well past midnight.
Osora yawned softly.
Arias noticed. “Okay,” he said gently. “I think we earned sleep.”
They headed upstairs again, lights dimmed, the house wrapped in deep quiet now. Osora’s room welcomed them back—warm, familiar, softly lit.
Outside, snow continued to fall.
Inside, the night waited for them.
Osora shut the door to their room behind them quietly, the click of the latch sealing the rest of the house away.
The room felt different now—dimmer, warmer, the lamplight casting soft shadows along the walls. The snow outside reflected faint light through the window, turning everything pale and unreal.
Arias didn’t speak at first.
He just stepped closer.
Osora felt it before they fully registered it—the shift in the air, the way Arias’s focus narrowed until it was just them. His hands slid easily to their waist, familiar and confident, thumbs brushing the hem of their top.
They tilted their head up instinctively.
Arias kissed them.
It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and deep and full—the kind of kiss built on years of knowing exactly how the other person breathed, where they leaned, how they softened. Osora melted into it without thinking, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.
They tasted sugar and cocoa as they kissed.
The backs of their thighs brushed the edge of the bed, Arias crowding their space gently, kisses deepening, lingering, his hands warm and grounding against their sides.
Osora’s heartbeat picked up. Heat pooled low and familiar—welcomed, wanted. They smiled into the kiss, breath hitching just a little as Arias pushed them back onto the bed.
Arias followed, and Osora leaned in to kiss him again—slow, hungry, passionate. His hands found their thighs. Fabric shifted. The world narrowed.
Snow fell quietly outside.
And everything else didn’t matter, not when Arias was holding them.