Work Text:
on christmas eve, andrew minyard and neil josten have an appointment.
andrew pulls on one of neil’s sweaters and shoves his feet into the boots sitting next to the door. neil walks up to do the same and finds a cat sitting in one of his own. andrew gingerly removes sir fat cat mccatterson from neil’s winter shoes and goes to place the sleeping bastard on the back of their couch. after neil says his goodbyes and places a customary kiss to king fluffkins’ forehead, they head out the door of their tiny home in colorado and climb into the maserati.
they make it to downtown denver and park on a side street before stepping into a small shop—one that hardly has a door. inside, soft yellow lights and countless pieces of art brighten what would (and should) be a dingy hole-in-the-wall. neil takes andrew’s hand and waves to the artist they had a consultation with a few weeks back.
andrew is up first.
he folds the band covering his left forearm down just a bit and places the arm, palm up, onto a padded extension of the chair he’s reclining in. he hopes what comes next won’t make him itch.
neil holds his hand throughout it all.
it does not take long, just an hour, because it’s simple. the constant jabstabpokepinch makes him jolt, at first, but after a while, the low ache turns into a dull buzz, and andrew is reminded of why he wanted to do this in the first place.
the artist wraps andrew’s ink up when it is finished and andrew pulls his sleeve down over it. they want to see their new tattoos at the same time.
together.
neil hands the artist something that feels so far away from where he is now, and an outline is produced to make sure that no ridge is marred. neil would know if there was a mistake.
his tattoo is in the same place as andrew’s on the opposite forearm, just below the crook of his elbow. he closes his eyes and feels the ghost of each dip at his fingertips as they are etched into his skin. the soft burn of the needle feels nothing like sharp edges or blistering metal, and for that, he is thankful.
they uncover their pieces together, and upon seeing neil’s, andrew’s lip quirks up in a hint of a smile.
when they get home, andrew takes off his armbands and slips into his warmest pajamas. neil steeps tea for himself and makes hot chocolate for andrew. they lounge on the couch together, neil between andrew’s legs, his back pressed to andrew’s torso, head resting on andrew’s chest. sir is curled up in neil’s lap and king is huddled up between andrew’s side and the cushions.
they watch the jim carrey version of the grinch together as they admire the "gifts" they have gotten one another for the year.
“why did you want that, of all the things you could have gotten?” andrew asks. his voice is like honey, and neil is a bee.
“you.” it is that simple, now.
neil, who once lived without letting his feet linger in any step, no longer has qualms about keeping people close to his heart. andrew. wymack. the rest of the foxes. he stays where he is on his own.
andrew, who once lived with blades pressed into and against his skin, no longer carries those crutches with him. he stands on his own, and if he falters, he has people to lean on. neil. aaron. nicky. renee. bee.
andrew now has a black knife with a delicate yellow handle forever coloring his skin. neil has a key.
neil runs a finger over the smooth circle of the ring that hangs from a chain around his neck. another promise.
permanence no longer feels deadly.
it feels like salvation.
a knife. a key. tools. protectors. reminders.
andrew no longer needs a knife to understand that it is okay to feel.
neil no longer needs a key to understand that he does not have to run.
they are safe. they are home.
neil hung a piece of mistletoe above the couch earlier that day.
andrew kisses him.
he is warmer and sweeter than the cocoa.