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“Regular kruidnoten or chocolate kruidnoten?” Robbe asks Zoë as he holds up two bags, shaking them lightly.
She purses her lips and moves her gaze from one bag to the other. “Or both?” she proposes, lips curling into a small smile.
Robbe doesn’t need convincing and throws both bags in their shopping cart, where they land on top of some fruit-shaped marzipan and alphabet biscuits. At least they didn’t break any of the chocolate letters.
“If we buy any more, we’ll be eating this stuff until Christmas,” Zoë says. “Let’s go pay.”
Pushing the cart in the direction of the check-out, Robbe raises his eyebrows. “You’re saying that when Senne literally finished a bag of alphabet biscuits and half a chocolate letter just last night.”
Zoë laughs. “Because he was very drunk. He said it was his worst hangover ever, so I’ve got a feeling he’ll hold off on the alcohol until at least New Year’s.”
“You think?” Robbe looks at her as she loads their groceries onto the conveyor belt.
One of her shoulders lifts in half a shrug. “A girl can hope.”
***
When Robbe unlocks the front door, they’re greeted with the smell of hot chocolate and the sound of soft laughter coming from the living room.
Zoë smiles at him, eyes sparkling with warmth, and Robbe knows he probably has the same dopey look on his face. He’s grateful to have found a place that feels so much like home, where he’s got people that have become a second family rather than friends.
And Sander.
He’s got Sander, too, and he can’t quite believe it still, but there’s a hickey hidden just below the collar of his shirt that proves it.
While Zoë arranges the candy into bowls in the kitchen, he makes his way to the living room, and stops in the door, leaning against the frame with a fond smile on his face. Sander and Senne are sitting on either end of the sofa, Milan’s head in Sander’s lap while his feet are pushed under Senne’s thighs. He looks perfectly at ease, nestled between his flatmates’ boyfriends, and Robbe can’t help but laugh, making them all look up.
“Enjoying yourself, Milan?” he asks.
Milan closes his eyes and lets out a content sigh. “Never been better. Too bad you came back, I was just starting to convince these two of the benefits of polyamory.”
From his position, he doesn’t notice Sander and Senne sharing a look, nodding at the unspoken question between them, before they both push Milan off the sofa. He flails dramatically, landing on the soft carpet with barely more than a thud, but shrieking as if he hit concrete.
“Respect the elderly!” he screams, right as Zoë walks in.
She doesn’t even acknowledge Milan’s antics, too used to his dramatic tendencies, and just shakes her head as she puts the candy on the table. Senne reaches his arms out to grab her by the waist and pulls her down on top of him, and she lets him, pecking his cheek as she settles in against his chest.
Sander steps over Milan, who’s still sulking on the ground, and crosses the room to kiss Robbe, lips lingering just slightly too long to be completely innocent. Robbe can feel heat flare up low in his stomach, and he knows Sander knows what he does to him, because he’s looking at him so smugly. Robbe pinches his hip in silent retaliation and lets himself fall on the other sofa, Sander dropping down next to him, their sides pressed together.
After one last, long-suffering sigh, Milan hoists himself up and takes Sander’s spot on the sofa. “Right, let’s get this party started!” He grabs a present from the pile stacked against the coffee table leg, reading out the name tag: “Zoë, this is for you.” He hands over the package with a grin. “Very professional wrapping.”
Robbe suppresses the urge to kick out his leg at him, because Zoë is supposed to guess who the giver is, but he can’t stop a soft “hey!” from escaping his lips.
Sander muffles his laugh in his hair and presses a kiss to the top of his head, and the slight envy in Milan’s eyes pleases Robbe more than he’d admit. He sticks his tongue out, too, for good measure.
“Ohh,” Zoë says, surprise evident in her voice. She’s holding up the book Robbe bought her, a collection of poems by Nikita Gill. He’d come across some of her writing when he was browsing Zoë’s Pinterest boards for inspiration, and it seemed like a good gift for the girl who loves nothing more than cosying up on the sofa with a book and a good cup of tea on these cold winter nights.
Zoë flicks through the pages, eyes flitting over the sentences. “This is really nice. Thank you, Robbe.” She smiles, and he smiles back.
“You’re welcome.”
“How did you know it was Robbe?” Senne asks.
“Milan doesn’t go into bookstores, like, ever. You gave me a poetry book for my birthday, and I don’t think you’d recycle your own gift idea. And I think Sander has better wrapping skills.”
“Hey!” Robbe says again. What’s with his flatmates criticising his wrapping?
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry in the slightest.
“Next!” Milan exclaims, throwing a package to Robbe.
Truth to be told, it is wrapped more neatly, no dented corners or weird tape lines. It’s even got a ribbon, though the bow is a bit lop-sided. Probably not Zoë’s doing, then.
“Wait, there’s another one. Catch!”
A second gift lands in Robbe’s lap, nearly hitting a critical area, if it weren’t for the lightness of it. He glares at Milan, who shrugs innocently.
Robbe decides to open the second gift first, curious as to what could be this light and soft, and he’s pleased to discover a burnt orange beanie inside the paper. It’s soft to the touch, like hugging a cloud, and he bites of the tag to try it on.
“I love that!” Zoë says, Milan nodding in agreement next to her.
“Your boyfriend will have to keep an eye on you if you go out onto the street looking like that,” he adds, which prompts Sander to kiss Robbe’s temple, whispering “all mine” in his ear.
The second gift is flat and, strange enough, almost lighter than the beanie. When he opens it, a thin wooden door sign is revealed, the words do not disturb etched into the surface. There is a note, too, which reads: “in case you need to get some privacy around here”.
Blood rushes to Robbe’s cheeks and he feels Sander’s quiet giggle more than he hears it.
“Considerate,” Sander says.
Robbe hums noncommittedly and studies his flatmates. He knows Sander got Milan when they drew names, so that’s one person off the list.
Robbe is pretty sure Milan wouldn’t get him the sign, because he doesn’t even know the concept of privacy. It could have been Zoë, but there’s a gift in the unopened pile that is wrapped with so much care it must’ve come from her.
That leaves… “Senne?”
Senne nods.
“Thanks,” Robbe says.
“No problem.”
“Hey, babe, in case you don’t know what to get me for Christmas,” Zoë tells Senne, “that beanie would be a good choice.”
He snorts. “Noted.” Throwing a look at Robbe, he adds: “If Robbe’s beanie goes missing, we’ll know where to look.”
Zoë elbows him in the stomach and he catches her wrist in his hand, trapping her against his chest and placing a kiss behind her ear.
It seems almost too intimate to look at, and Robbe wonders if this is what Sander and he are like, too. Poor Milan.
“I hope one of those gifts is a boyfriend for me,” Milan sighs exasperatedly, and they all laugh.
“Who knows?” Robbe says, handing him his gift.
“It’s a gift card for Grindr premium,” Sander jokes, which earns him another round of laughter.
Milan quickly and efficiently tears the paper of his present and holds up the tote bag by its corners, eyes scanning the print.
It’s a plain tote bag that Sander picked up at his go-to craft store and that he spray-painted so it’s dotted with multi-coloured paint splashes. In the middle, thick black letters spell proud, providing a sharp contrast with the playful background.
Even if Robbe hadn’t seen Sander work on it in the evenings, he would’ve still recognised his boyfriend’s signature explosive style in a heartbeat.
“What the fuck, Sander,” Milan says on an exhale. “This is so nice.” He passes the tote bag on to Zoë, who’s been making grabby hands at it, and stands up to give Sander a hug. “Thank you,” he says softly, sounding like it’s about more than just the present.
“You’re welcome,” Sander says, smile in his voice.
Milan ruffles Robbe’s hair as he lets go of Sander and sits back down, lifting the biggest box and giving it to Senne, along with the smallest item.
The small gift turns out to be a phone case with Milan’s face on it, and Senne just stares at him blankly for a good ten seconds while Milan tries to keep a straight face.
“You’re such a shithead,” Senne tells him eventually, and Milan opens his mouth in fake shock.
“Excuse me? This is art just as much as Sander’s tote bag is!”
“Yours is ugly art,” Senne retaliates.
“Modern art!” Milan states.
Zoë laughs and pats his knee. “It’s okay, Milan, the greatest artists were all misunderstood during their lives. Think of Van Gogh!”
“You guys just aren’t ready to see my talent,” Milan huffs, but he can’t hide the twinkle in his eyes.
Senne rolls his eyes one last time for good measure and unwraps his second gift. He looks at it in confusion for a second, before he reads the product name and belts out a laugh. “You did not get me toilet golf!”
Milan meets Senne’s outstretched hand in a high five, nodding enthusiastically. “Isn’t this the best gift ever?”
“Definitely,” Senne agrees.
Zoë raises her eyebrows at him. “Okay then. Good to know,” she teases, poking a finger in his cheek.
Senne shoots her an apologetic grin.
“As if Senne needed an excuse to hog the toilet any longer,” Robbe complains, but he’s smiling, too. There is no way there won’t be an intense toilet golf competition in their household from now on.
“Right, right, last one,” Milan calls before Senne can react to Robbe’s statement. “For Sander, obviously.”
To nobody’s surprise, Sander’s gift contains art supplies: a black paper sketch pad and a set of coloured pencils. They come in a fancy-looking box – nothing compared to the cheap supermarket pencils Robbe remembers from his childhood.
“The lady at the store said you’re supposed to wet the pencils,” Zoë explains, “and then when you draw with them, the colour is super vibrant, even on black paper.”
“Nice,” Sander says with a big grin. “Thank you, Zoë.”
Robbe can feel Sander’s energy shift, his fingers twitching where they’re resting high on his thigh, and he knows he isn’t going to come to bed with him that night.
“You’re welcome.”
Milan claps his hands together. “Remember when I said you were not allowed to buy gifts for anyone except the name you drew, and remember when I said going over budget was absolutely off limits?”
They all nod. Milan had been very adamant about the rules, and they’d accepted them without putting up a fight.
“I broke my own rules,” Milan confessed, pulling out another gift from behind the sofa.
Zoë hits him straight on the head with a pillow and Robbe boos him, because they need to keep up appearances, otherwise Milan might start thinking they like him or something.
“Children,” Milan chastises them, tone nothing but fond. He tears the paper of his own present and turns the box so they can all see the print.
“Monopoly Antwerp,” Senne reads.
There is a moment of silence as the words sink in, and then they’re all yelling over each other, bragging about their negotiation skills and threats to steal from the bank and promises of ruining one another.
The chaos doesn’t die down for the rest of the night.
Robbe goes bankrupt not even half an hour into the game, but Sander proposes an acquisition (“a business wedding, if you will”) and puts Robbe’s hat pawn on top of his own dog pawn.
Milan ends up in jail pretty much every other round and declares it a complot.
Senne ends up winning and Zoë teases him about his parents’ capitalist tendencies being passed down to him.
***
It’s past midnight when Robbe finally drops down onto his bed, Sander joining him straight after.
“Hey, what’s that in your shoe?” he asks, though something in his voice tells Robbe it’s not actually a question.
Robbe pushes himself up and crosses his legs underneath him, trying to rub the tiredness out of his eyes to locate his shoes. They’re lying exactly where he kicked them off earlier, except there is a rolled-up paper sticking out of one of them.
He squints. He didn’t put anything in his shoe, and he can’t remember seeing Sander sneak out of the living room to do it himself.
“What is it?” Robbe asks, reaching his arm out in an attempt to grab the paper without actually having to get up. His fingertips brush over the tip of his shoe, but he can’t quite reach the paper, and lets out an annoyed grunt.
He can basically hear Sander rolling his eyes at him, and then his boyfriend is leaning over his body and grabbing the paper, whacking Robbe on the head with it.
“Idiot,” he murmurs. It sounds an awful lot like “I love you”, and Robbe can’t not kiss him.
When he opens up the paper, he’s met with another drawing of himself, similar to the first one. This time, however, it’s drawn in thick black charcoal rather than pencil, Robbe’s curls fading into a Chernobyl-like explosion. His eyes are the only coloured part, warm honey-brown irises looking straight at him, a golden shimmer in each of them.
Underneath the drawing, Sander has scribbled some words:
93 percent stardust
with souls made of flames
He stares at the words for a long time.
His chest feels too small for his heart, like he could explode with how much he loves this boy, how much he is in love with this boy.
“Fuck. Sander.”
He doesn’t add anything, because there are no words to describe how incredibly talented Sander is, how much he captures in just a few lines.
Robbe presses their lips together, nips at Sander’s bottom lip with his teeth and licks into his mouth, tries to melt their minds and souls together so Sander knows what he means to him.
“I didn’t get you anything,” Robbe breathes into his hair eventually.
Sander doesn’t reply for a long time, too busy kissing his way up Robbe’s neck. When he reaches his mouth, he hovers over him so their lips are only millimeters apart, and whispers: “You’ve already given me everything.”