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Martin never wants to see a clove again in his entire life, which is unfortunate considering he still has two more oranges to stab them through. Just maybe, putting the entirety of his Christmas preparations off until the impromptu night before wasn’t exactly the best idea but. Well. Here he is, trying to cram as much holiday cheer into one night as he possibly can and make up for several barely-celebrated Christmases while he’s at it.
So he’s stuck like this indefinitely, standing at the counter for an indefinite amount of time, thumb raw from pushing on the four-pointed ends of the cloves to embed the sharp bit into where he’s grated the top layer of skin off the orange in a pattern. It was kind of satisfying, at first, but the satisfaction of driving in the point was quickly numbed by the top of the clove driving into his finger. Over and Over. He’s starting to feel sympathetic for the orange.
Given the circumstances, Martin nearly jumps for joy when he hears the tell-tale creak of Michael’s door at his side, the familiar tingle of static buzzing up his neck; of course he’s always happy to see them, but he’s extra relieved for an excuse to pause his stabbing. And, well, if he’d kinda-sorta wanted them to be here for the holiday but hadn’t managed to actually verbalize that in any way, shape, or form, that certainly helps.
They approach him wordlessly, leaning down to rest their chin on his shoulder with an odd cricking noise, wrapping their arms around his waist, and Martin sighs, relaxing.
“Hello, Martin. What has that orange done for such… violent retribution?” They murmur, nodding down to where he’s impaling another spike into it, and he chuckles.
“Nothing, I’m just making a pommander. It, um, smells nice, and my aunt used to bring us a few every Christmas when I was little. It doesn’t really feel like Christmas unless the whole house smells like, well, this.” The sharp burst of the cloves against the sweeter tang of the orange surrounds him with memories of his earliest Christmases, when it still felt something like he knows it’s supposed to; before his mother started shutting her family out bit by bit and entirely disconnected from his father’s sister, the aunt who’d brought the pomanders and most of the light and laughter. He remembers homes full of people, and decorations, and light. When all of that faded, when it was just him and his mother, it was less… festive. Just her old nativity set and a tree he decorated all by himself and solemn, stuffy services in the church nearest their flat, if she felt well enough to go.
He’s pulled from his thoughts by Michael plucking the orange out of his hand along with the bag of cloves, wiping away the frown that he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into. They carefully inspect his (lightly dented) thumb with a squint of concern. “Let me help, you’re hurting yourself,” they demand, sounding so serious that he can’t help but smile.
“Michael, it’s just a little pointy, that’s all.”
“I’ve been described the same way, myself; I believe that means we’re more evenly matched, hmm?”
“You and the cloves?” He rolls his eyes, trying to hide just how fond he is of their antics. “Fine, knock yourself out, I’m going to start on decorating the tree.” They rub one finger over the end of his thumb, the slight pain there replaced by a tingling sensation before dissipating, and nod, looking satisfied. Even if he’s still not used to it, it doesn’t hurt to let them do things for every once in awhile, especially since he can tell himself it’s just for their sake.
He puts on some Christmas music, watching them scratch little paths through the remaining oranges with one jagged claw, bits of rind twirling off quickly. Then Martin gives them a second glance, because in the half second he was turned away, they’ve gone from their normal (“normal”) attire to THE most hideous Christmas sweater he’s ever seen. It’s divided into stripes of neon-bright colors, greens and pinks and blues and purples and yellows instead of the classic red and green, all bleeding into each other and with each holding a different pattern, from reindeer with antlers that twist into each other to clashing plaid gifts to a santa so poorly shown that he looks like he’s in pain. They’ve even got a set of antlers perched on their swirling hair, with what looks like real ornaments hanging from them, though the reflections in their shiny surfaces don’t look quite right.
“Oh my god, did you just have that on hand?” He laughs, impressed by their dedication.
“What, you mean this? I just… ‘threw it together,’ I suppose,” they fib, twirling one of the ornaments a little faster than it should go around a warped finger. “It’s festive, is it not?”
“Come on, you already know it is. Fine, fine, just give me a second—” He ducks into his bedroom, digging through the wardrobe until he finds what he’s looking for: his own christmas sweater, deep red yarn interrupted by a green Christmas tree with fuzzy circles for ornaments. Martin tugs it over his head as he wanders back into the open part of his flat, already full of the smell of the pomanders. Michael’s antlers have a string of glowing lights on them now, and he rolls his eyes.
Tugging the old box of Christmas things out of the closet takes long enough that his monster’s finished with the orange-poking by the time he’s done, though they’ve got the advantage of bigger, sharper, less-stabbable hands. The fruits are wrapped in small, spiraling patterns of cloves, dancing slightly if he looks at them too long, but he’s spent so much time with them that it doesn’t even make him dizzy.
“Thanks! Now we just let them dry and they can last for the rest of winter, if we want. Um, I was planning to decorate the tree next, would you…?”
“I would love to help decorate, Martin. I may stay after that, too. If you would like me to.”
“Of course, you don’t have to ask. You know you’re always welcome, love.” He pushes an ornament into their hang, and they smile, turning to find a place for it on the least-scraggly but still-pretty-scraggly tree he could find at the last minute.
Slowly but surely their tree ( their tree!) comes together beneath the rolling of Christmas songs. With Michael at his side, Martin enjoys the simple work of unwrapping each ornament—mostly just the colorful baubles but a few shaped like santas or animals or occasionally food—from the old newspaper and hooking it onto the perfect place on the tree, ducking down to cover the base of it or passing them up to Michael to hang in the places he can’t reach properly. Their hands brush as they pass ornaments back and forth, he feels them lean against his back to reach over him, and occasionally he’ll reach up and give them a quick, static-filled kiss as they pass each other, just because he can. They move around each other so easily as they work, more naturally than Martin ever imagined he’d manage without being alone, but Michael is there with him and for all their strangeness and complexity, everything between them is simple.
That early darkness which consumes so much of winter settles fully into the pitch-black of night, but with the room lit only by a few lamps and the warm, colorful glow of the lights wrapped through the tree, it feels cozy instead of claustrophobic. Everything is bathed in their soft brilliance and the smell of Christmas and the fuzzy joy he feels just from having Michael at his side.
Every once in awhile, his progress in decorating is stopped because he ends up just a little bit lost watching them, warmth flooding his chest when he catches them squinting in focus to find the perfect spot, or the way the hazy glow casts over their angular features, reveals the dancing color behind the green of their eyes, or the way they hold all his cheap, old ornaments in their jagged hands so gently, like the most precious things in the world. It seems like no matter how much time passes, they’ll always make him feel like this: so overwhelmed with love that it’s a physical pressure in his chest, like his heart is trying to escape and he can’t help but let it bleed out of him and into everything he does.
The best part is, from the way they smile at him, eyes gentle and hair curling up at the ends, he knows they feel just the same.
After what feels like no time at all now that he’s spending it with them, the tree before them is decorated, heavy with ornaments and covered in rainbow lights, and they move onto the rest of the room. He turns away from arranging some tinsel across the window and finds Michael lifting his stocking out of the bucket.
“Oh, um, ignore that it’s a little ugly, I’m not great at sewing or anything,” he rushes out, scratching at the back of his neck. He’d wanted to use his old stocking, the one he grew up with, but having his deadname hanging over the mantle kind of ruins the festive mood. His best compromise was sewing a bit of scrap fabric over it and then spelling his name over it in messy, cut out green letters. But he really wasn’t lying about not being great at sewing, and, well.
Michael runs a finger under where the “i” is pulling up at the edges, bits of string sticking up all over the place and the stitches uneven, and he winces a little.
But they just look up at him, expression careful. “Would you want me to… alter it? I can smooth out the edges, if you'd like. But only if you'd like.”
Martin blinks. For all the ways they bend the world around them (often just out of excitement more than purpose) like clay, it hadn’t even occurred to him that Michael could fix something so simple as a few stitches, and he nods.
They place a palm over the left edge of the patch, shifting it slowly across the surface, eyes glowing the slightest bit in concentration and the wallpaper behind them swirling. Even as Martin has to brace himself against the wall as the air around him shimmers and twists, he’s equally impressed and touched that they’re putting so much effort into such a simple thing. When he’s able to look again, they’re offering him the stocking, leaning down to carefully watch his reaction.
Where before it had been raised and obvious, now the patch is gone entirely—with only his name remaining, the letters (the right letters) stitched elegantly directly into the fabric in the same old-timey style as the rest of the stocking, though maybe curved a bit more at the ends. It looks like there was never anything else there at all.
“I can take it back, if you’d like,” Michael assures, just a bit of uncertainty under their lilting tone, and that’s the part that really gets him. Maybe it’s something simple, but they care what he wants and want to give it to him. That they ask. That they wouldn’t be offended even if he said yes, take it back.
“No, Michael, this is great! It looks perfect, and now I don’t have to worry about it falling off. Thank you. Thank you.” It feels more like it’s really his now, without the bumpy sewing reminding him of what’s underneath. Now there’s no underneath at all, just him.
They give a buzzing sigh of relief, turning into a chuckle as he reaches up, looping his hands around the slightly-too-long back of their neck, gently pulling them down into a soft kiss. He feels giddy with their presence, the feeling of their lips against his, the light rumble of their purring whirring up from somewhere deep inside of them.
When Martin pulls back, it’s to find a sprig of mistletoe hanging between them, swinging from Michael’s stupid fake antlers.
“Really? Isn’t this a bit much?”
“Maybe. Maybe… I just want an excuse to kiss you more, hmm?” They beam at him, knowing full well they’ve won, and obviously they’re right. He’s fallen for it completely. He’s already fallen head-over-heels for them, so it’s just the logical next step.
So he says, “Like you need an excuse.” And kisses them again, just for good measure (not to prove them right).
When Martin does pull back, he doesn’t go far, just resting his head on Michael’s shoulder and the slightly-shifting material of their sweater. Through his half-lidded eyes, the lights and their reflection blur, becoming tiny, colorful stars littered through the dim room as they hold each other. They nuzzle their cheek against the top of his head, squeezing him tighter and purring up a storm. If he closes his eyes, it’s easy to imagine that there’s a mountain lion in the flat with him. A mountain lion wearing tinsel and ornaments, but still.
“I have not celebrated like this for a very long time,” Michael murmurs against him eventually, voice hushed; it’s for him and him alone, and he’s not far. “Michael grew up enwrapped in Catholicism, did I ever tell you that?”
Martin blinks. “Oh. I don’t think so. That’s… not what I expected?” He tries, somewhat successfully, to keep the general ‘yikes’ out of his voice, given how little he knows, but Michael hadn’t sounded enthusiastic. But in a way, it kind of makes sense, from the bits and pieces he’s heard about Michael Shelley from, well, Michael .
It’s always a bit weird for Martin to piece the two of them together in his mind: the creature he knows and loves now, the man who his Michael derides, who did not die but was unmade, who echoes throughout them. It reminds him of two different fabrics, cut into different shapes, stitched poorly together in the pattern of a person when one was cut too small for the pattern and the other far too large—but if it’s weird for Martin, he can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to (not, and yet) be Michael. He can’t imagine it feeling good. He holds them tighter.
“Mm. It did not hold him long, but its hands never left him. The winter holy days were… an ordeal I am glad to be free of. Far too persistent.” They sigh, but then smile at him with genuine warmth, gesturing to the cheap decorations around them. “But not this. This is simple in the most delightful way. And I have you.”
“You do, always. This has been a better Christmas for me, too.” He gives them one final squeeze and then pulls back, clapping his hands together, hoping to keep them from drifting too far into less pleasant thoughts. “And it’s not over yet! Well, technically it hasn’t started yet, but, I mean we’re not even done preparing. You know what I mean.” They shake their head fondly at him, following him back into his small kitchen eagerly.
“What lies in store next for us then, dearest Martin?”
He busies himself with getting out the milk and sugar and vanilla, piling them together on the counter with the recipe he needs pulled up on his phone, checking again and again to make sure he’s got it right. “Well, I didn’t really have time to do anything fun for Christmas dinner, so for dessert I thought I—we, we could make rabanada. Or, um, Brazilian french toast. It's usually eaten on Christmas Eve and I’ve never made it before so… we’ll, er, see how this goes.” They hum curiously behind him and he passes them the baguette he let get stale to be sliced (Michael’s pretty good at this bit) while he lines a baking sheet with paper towels. Then, while Michael splits the slices between two larger, prepared trays, he mixes the milk, vanilla extract, and sugar, double-checking that he has the right amounts again so he doesn’t ruin it.
Carefully, Martin drizzles the milk mixture over the bread, setting the empty bowl down on the counter with a clink and shaking the excess drips off of his hands. Really, he’s equal parts nervous and excited. Maybe 75% to 25% actually. Whatever, it’s fine.
Next he heats up the oil in a skillet over the stove while Michael beats the eggs with their hands, which he cannot possibly imagine feeling anything other than super gross. They don’t seem to mind, grinning down at his scrunched expression.
Finally, when the bread’s soaked long enough, he dunks a piece into the egg, coating it (and cringing because now he’s the one with raw egg on his hands, and yep, he was right: not pleasant) and tossing it into the oil. Immediately, even as he hurries to get more slices coated and in, the smell of sweet, cooking things fills the kitchen, with just a bit of the pomander still reaching through, and it makes his mouth water.
Without him having to ask, Michael handles flipping the slices and taking them out after a couple of minutes, when both sides are a nice, golden brown, again with just their bare hands in the burning oil. They go right into the pan with the paper towels while Martin replaces them. Then, after a bit, they take turns rolling them through a mixture of powdered sugar and cinnamon. He rushes back and forth, trying to keep an eye on the sizzling pan while getting each slice properly covered with egg, and then powdered later down the line, cursing maybe a little too loud when two burn on one side and another topples to the floor.
Michael scoops the fallen slice up before he can worry, tossing it through a there-and-gone-again door, and a second later he watches through the window as it falls on top of the bird feeder hung outside the flat opposite him . “Martin.You seem… uneasy. Nervous. I believe we’re doing a fine job, are we not?”
He sighs, almost pulling his hands down his face in exasperation before realizing they’re all eggy, instead turning to add one of the few remaining bits of bread to the oil and flipping another. “We are, or well, I think we are? I just. I care a lot about getting this right, I guess? It’s. I’ve mentioned before that my family’s Brazillian, which is why I chose this for dessert. We just didn’t really do any of this stuff when I was a kid, like not just food but anything. Even though this is something that I should know how to do, or I would’ve at least seen family make it or something, I don’t know any of it.” It’s somehow hard to explain how he feels. It’s both the simplest fact in the world that he’s disconnected from a culture that he wishes he’d grown up with, and how it means that, even though he’s glad to be doing this now, he feels awkward and fledgling and amateur and like he shouldn’t feel that way at all. “I’m just worried about getting it wrong.”
He feels a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Michael plucks the last of the cooked bread from the skillet and lets the oil soak off. “And if you do? If you get it wrong?”
“Well—”
“You can always try again. We have more Christmases ahead of us, after all. Though these don’t look like mistakes to me.” They offer him the plate of finished, sugar-dunked rabanada, and Martin takes a deep, calming breath, though it also helps that they smell great. Even if it doesn’t quell his nervousness entirely, if this still feels maybe unhelpfully important to him, they’re right. If they’ve turned out bad, he can try again. He’s just doing his best.
They have not turned out bad after all, Martin decides as he crunches into one. Even without a topping like honey or syrup, the rabanada are delicious, nice and crispy on the outside and sort of custardy and sweeter on the inside, warm and tasty and distinctly not tasting of failure even a little. Sure, he lost some to burning and falling (which the squirrels across the way seem to be enjoying, at least) and some could be cooked a bit more evenly, but they’re good
Even more than just being a huge relief, the warm, powdery dessert, shared so much with Michael even if they’re not physically eating anything, really makes it feel like Christmas even if it’s new. He’s already excited to make it again next year, for it to become a tradition, and to maybe add more things if he can. There’s so much joy in the certainty that, no matter what, he’ll be able to spend another Christmas with Michael, all his usual anxieties melted beneath the light and their hand around his.
When Martin wakes, it’s with Michael’s head on his chest and their hair in his face and a warm coziness all around him. He closes his eyes again, relishing in the thought of rolling over and going back to sleep in that comfort. The second after, it promptly registers that it’s Christmas morning. Knocking Michael up with him, he jolts up, excited because it’s Christmas and it really feels like it, too. Maybe for the first time in a long time.
He apologizes to Michael (not that they were even sleeping anyways, but still), but it’s hard to be convincing when he’s already out of bed and stepping out into the main part of his flat. Sure, maybe he filled his own stocking with chocolate and knows that the presents under the tree are just the ones from Tim, Sasha, and Jon he saved from their holiday party a few weeks ago, and maybe it’ll never again feel like the few real Christmases he had as a kid before things went sideways, but. With the lights off and nothing but the shine of the tree in the dark, stepping out into that soft brightness after making it a holiday himself and with the creature he loves, he thinks that’s okay. Martin can make his own Christmases now.
And, it seems, that creature he loves still manages to take him by surprise. There is a present under the tree that he didn’t put there, a small, rectangular shape wrapped in shimmering lined paper. It’s changing colors, that much is apparent, but he can’t actually say when one color stops and another begins or even any shifts in between. Maybe it should’ve occurred to him that Michael would get him something (he did, of course get something for them) but it really only just dawned on Martin yesterday that the holiday was there at all, so.
“Open it, if you’d like,” Michael gestures to the present with an oversized claw, their satisfied grin curling up too wide and far at the edges, and how can he say no to that?
“You didn’t have to,” is all Martin can manage, gently pulling at the precious, static-tinged bow like the whole thing will disappear if he’s not careful.
“Yes, I did.”
Martin’s reply vanishes when he sees the book. The cover is a simple navy crossed with gold lines to form a diamond, the cover rough with age against his fingertips as he carefully lifts it to check the spine. No fucking way. It reads Duino Elegies, and if Martin’s right, it’s an original of a poetry collection with only 100 copies in this binding out there. Again: no fucking way.
“No fucking way,” says Martin, because he can’t manage anything else. He just jabs the book at Michael accusatory, and their smile widens even further.
“Yes fucking way, my dear Martin.” They do sound pleased with themselves, but he can tell that they’re even more pleased with his reaction, watching him stand and pace around, clutching the book to his chest.
“You—where— how? What?” Martin’s looked at pictures of this book online for extended amounts of time before, even knowing (or thinking, apparently!) that there’s no way he could ever have it, just to look at it. And it’s in his hands.
“I can’t give away all my secrets, you know.”
Martin takes several deep breaths. Martin drinks a glass of water. Martin paces around some more. He can’t even open it, he’s so excited.
“Well, literally the one and only bad thing about this gift is that it makes my present for you look bad,” he sighs when he’s finally pretended to collect himself, pushing them his smaller, less-prettily wrapped box. Michael glares at him, their hair fluffing up slightly. “C’mon, I can’t beat that.”
They just hmph at him, tearing through both the paper and the cardboard around their gift in half a second. Inside is a pair of gloves, knitted from thick rainbow yarn, with a spiral of the colors set on the back of each one. They’d look horrifically messed up on any normal person, too long and wide all over and jagged at the ends and just far too big, but Michael is hardly a person at all, much less normal.
“I know it’s a little bit silly and there’s a few mistakes, but um. I saw you couldn’t wear normal gloves most of the time. So I thought these might fit a little bit better. I’m sorry I didn’t get you something—oh.” Martin stops his apologizing when he sees Michael covering their face with one hand. The whole everything behind them sort of blurs and jumps all at once, a dazzle of lights, their hair flutters around them, and his nose promptly starts bleeding.
“You really like them that much?” It’s hard to deny it from the waves of warped feeling physically rolling into him off of Michael, the air shimmering like it does over pavement on a scorching day, but still. He uses some discarded tissue paper to dab at his nose and keep blood from getting everywhere, hopefully. They peak at him over their hand, eyes swirling.
“Of course. Of course. How could I not? You made them for me. You made them for me because you saw that I needed them.” Michael points a talon at the book cradled in his lap. “The only value this holds for me is in you, Martin. Otherwise it is nothing but paper. But you made these.”
He blinks, still startled by the fact that they really like the gloves after they got him something so incredible (though he suspects that they might feel the same way, now) but mostly overjoyed that he could make Michael so happy. Letting himself be a little proud, he pulls them in for a tight hug. When they come apart, Michael’s already got their gloves on.
“They fit perfectly. Merry Christmas, Martin.”
“Merry Christmas, Michael. Now could you please take off those antlers?”