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The doorbell is ringing. “I'm home,” a female voice calls as Sebastian steps out of the shower.
He pads into the living room and heads towards his kitchenette, where a ratatouille is slowly cooking.
“You did bring white chocolate and rosé, oh darling,” another female voice purrs, almost inaudible through the paper thin walls.
Sebastian groans. He's used to the neighbour and her girlfriend cooing at each other for entire evenings, but he has the sinking feeling that tonight will be even worse. It's bloody Christmas Eve, after all. Time to revel in the presence of your loved ones and all that jazz. Christ, he hopes that at least the inevitable festive sex will be worth it. Maybe the girlfriend brought that toy again and he'll get to hear his neighbour moan like -
A knock on the door makes him jump slightly. The spatula in his hand stills and he tilts his head, listening intently. No new voice in the other flat, only the sound of the girls' giggling and the jingling of the dishes as they set the table. The knock resounds once more, growing impatient. The spatula falls on the counter and Sebastian is at the door in three quick steps, opening it a crack. Then he pauses.
“What are you doing here?”
“Is that how you welcome your guests?” Jim Moriarty answers with his most perfect rendition of a surprised-and-hurt expression. “I brought rosé.” He's holding up a bottle, an expensive-looking one, and his sudden grin is too wide and full of teeth for it to be a coincidence.
Sebastian says nothing. He's staring. The man looks so out of place in the dim light of the shabby corridor, with his ridiculously luxurious wine bottle and clothes that probably cost more than Sebastian's rent. And yet he's pushing on the door and brushing past a dazed Sebastian to get into the flat, taking off his coat and draping it on the back of a chair like he owns the place.
“You should close the door,” Jim suggests then, already seated on the small couch at the centre of the room, feet propped up on the cheap coffee table. “You know, since your heating system is broken.”
“How do you... Never mind.” Sebastian shakes his head and closes the door, returning to his ratatouille. He can feel Jim's gaze on the back of his neck as he idly stirs the mixture. His mind is racing. He has been working for Moriarty for five months now, he knows the man has weird moods, but this one has to be bloody unique. He steals a glance at him from the corner of his eye: Jim didn't move from his spot on the couch, and he isn't even looking around as any usual visitor would do. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling, his lips stretched in a Cheshire smile. If Sebastian didn't know better, he'd say that Jim did dress up for the occasion, the grey and white suit – even a damn waistcoat, for fuck's sake - a violent contrast to the stained flowery fabric of Sebastian's couch.
“I can't reach the glasses, sweetheart, would you mind passing me a chair?”
The sudden high-pitched exclamation brings a brief frown on Jim's face before he breaks in a self-satisfied smile. Sebastian has started labelling Jim's smiles in his mind long ago – this one being the everything went according to my evil plan, tremble, mere mortals one, for instance. He eyes him warily as he gets up from the couch and makes his way towards Sebastian's cupboards. He doesn't ask how Jim seems to know exactly where he keeps his plates, simply watches him set the table for two.
Neither of them says anything as the smell of ratatouille mixes up with the turkey the girls are cooking next door. Laughter fills the air (not theirs, obviously not), happy domestic background noise, even as the neighbour's cat meows and scratches the girlfriend and there is the distinct sound of a glass falling on the ground.
The meal is served and eaten through idle chatting.
“So, how was your day? It's kind of inhuman, you know, to have you working on Christmas Eve.”
“What can I say? I do love my job, and it's not like people can take a break from dying because it's Christmas.”
Jim's eyebrows shoot up at that and Sebastian barely manages to articulate “forensic pathologist” around a mouthful of ratatouille. He's used to his neighbour's girlfriend weird humour by now, but - “Sorry, that wasn't very funny. I should stop making jokes”- she never fails to apologize for it.
Jim doesn't eat much; Sebastian devours three quarters of the meal and drinks his half of the rosé bottle (“More wine, Molly darling?” and Jim pours him some, even though Sebastian's glass is still more than half-full).
It's a strange game of imitation, but the more Sebastian stares at Jim over his plate, the more sense it makes, somehow, in some dark irrational corner of his mind. Jim doesn't overdo it, any of it. His face stays carefully blank as he raises his fork for yet another bite, taking his cue from the lulls in the girls' conversation. There is no smile on his lips as Molly offers to do the dishes and Sebastian passes him the plates to dry and put away. When the girls start feeding each other bites of chocolate cake, giggling and loudly commenting on the process, they are forced to retreat to the couch for lack of any decent dessert in Sebastian's kitchenette.
Jim settles next to him and doesn't make a sound. It feels strange, having him this close. He's staring at the wall, arms crossed, feet up on that stupid coffee table again. He has removed his shoes, Sebastian realizes suddenly, as he absently tries to make out the shape of each toe through the dark fabric of his socks.
“I'm a bit cold...”
Jim's head snaps up, the intensely focused gaze he's kept all evening suddenly falling on Sebastian. Sebastian raises his hands, absurdly, forgetting about the game for an instant – obviously Jim knows he wasn't the one to speak just now, they're just playing, nothing more – and then Jim's head is touching his shoulder and he's shuffling closer, his hands slip underneath Sebastian's jumper and they're cold indeed, so Sebastian takes them and does his best to warm them.
Maybe he finally understands this particular game, he thinks as the sound of his neighbour's piano fills the room (how she can even afford such a thing is beyond him). Carol of the bells. He can read the few moments Molly distracts her in all the little alterations to the original melody. Jim feels warm against his side and their hands are still intertwined. Jim's fingers aren't cold anymore. Sebastian doesn't let go of them.
“Merry Christmas, love”, Molly says at last, and Jim moves against him. When Sebastian looks down, Jim's chin is digging into his shoulder and he's staring up at him.
“I love you”, Sebastian's neighbour murmurs. “I have loved you for the longest time, you know.”
Sebastian leans forward and Jim is kissing him.
Maybe they're not playing anymore when Sebastian kisses back fiercely and instinctively, more teeth than tongue. He doesn't need a cue from the girls to wrap his arms around Jim's waist and pull him closer, and the soft noise he lets out when Jim's hands fist into the collar of his shirt is all his. Jim is nipping at his lips, viciously, and Sebastian's hands drop to his arse in retaliation, giving it a squeeze. They're shifting positions and Sebastian finds himself hovering over Jim, knee pressing between his legs -
“Ow! Careful with the hair, Molly!”
Jim's hands freeze on his collar and Sebastian pauses, hand halfway to Jim's face, before bursting into laughter.
“We're not doing this at your place ever again,” Jim groans, voice hoarse from lack of talking throughout the evening, and Sebastian is still laughing when he leans forward to kiss him again.
***
Three days later, when Sebastian returns from his morning jog, the third floor of his building has been blown up.
He knows before they tell him that his flat is beyond repair, as well as he knows, somehow, that Jim waited for Molly to be at work and his neighbour at the gym before the bomb went off.
And later in the evening, when he moves what's left of his possessions into Jim's flat, the first thing that catches his eye is the bottle of rosé on a cheap, very familiar-looking coffee table.