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On the first day, Andrey wakes up and thinks that, surely, he must still be asleep. That, or Karen has lost the plot entirely.
Andrey pinches the back of his hand, hisses at the sharp sting, and firmly rules out the first option. Karen has gone insane, then. It has been a long and trying season, Andrey supposes; maybe the stress has gotten to him and is starting to manifest itself in all sorts of weird ways.
It doesn’t really explain how Karen managed to get a bird into their living room without Andrey noticing, though.
He’s stood staring at the thing when Karen comes into the room, yawning loudly. The bird doesn’t startle. In fact, it looks utterly unbothered by the entire situation. It seems to stare at Andrey unblinkingly (do birds blink? Andrey wonders briefly. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen a bird blink before). Andrey thinks that if the bird had eyebrows it’d be raising one at him expectantly.
Andrey doesn’t turn to look at Karen; instead, he stays staring at the bird in its little golden cage, his arms folded against his chest.
“Karen.” Andrey says: not quite a greeting, not really a question either.
“Yes?” Karen replies, and he has the gall to sound nonchalant, like there isn’t a bird in their living room which certainly had not been there when Andrey went up to bed the night before. “Good morning.”
Andrey doesn’t return the pleasantry. Instead, he says again, “Karen.”
“What?” Karen asks, firmly bypassing nonchalant and straying towards genuinely confused. Andrey thinks then that maybe it isn’t Karen who’s gone mad. Maybe it's him, and maybe there is no bird. Maybe he’s seeing things. He decides to test the waters anyway.
“Why is there a bird in our living room?”
“Oh!” Karen exclaims, excited now, like he’s glad Andrey asked. Andrey’s not sure why Karen couldn’t have just brought it up himself to begin with, this glaring elephant in the room. Or bird, he supposes.
“It’s not just a bird,” Karen explains, smiling brightly as Andrey turns to look at him. “It’s a partridge!”
“A partridge.” Andrey repeats. He doesn’t really care what breed the stupid thing is. He sort of just wants it out of his house.
“Yes,” Karen says, like it's obvious, “You know, like in the song.”
Andrey blinks at him. Karen sighs, clears his throat, and breaks out into a rather pitchy rendition of the first couple of lines of the 12 Days of Christmas. Andrey’s unimpressed silence continues, even as the bird - partridge - seems to chirp its approval.
“Thank you for that,” Andrey says, his tone of voice very much betraying that he is not, in fact, thankful in the slightest. “That was lovely. It doesn’t really explain why there is a bird in our house, though?”
Karen levels him a look, like Andrey’s daft for not getting it. Isn’t it obvious?, Karen’s expression seems to say. No, it is not, Andrey’s resultant glower seems to respond.
“It’s the first day of Christmas—” Karen begins.
“—it’s the 26th of December,” Andrey interrupts.
“It is the first day of Christmas,” Karen says again, more determined now, unperturbed by Andrey’s less-than-ideal reaction to the partridge. “And, as your true love, I have taken it upon myself to buy you a gift.”
Andrey looks at Karen for a long moment. He takes in that joyful smile of his, the twinkle in his eyes that details how excited he is about this. Andrey sighs and smiles softly, “Like in the song?”
“Exactly!” Karen enthuses, “Exactly like in the song.”
Andrey rolls his eyes, even as a laugh escapes him. He sees Karen’s smile grow wider at the sight and feels so inexplicably, overwhelmingly fond. “It’s a great idea,” he compliments Karen, who nods like it's obvious. “But what the hell are we going to do with this bird?”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Karen says, ruffling Andrey’s hair for added effect, which elicits a string of protestations from the man. “It’s not staying. I borrowed it.”
Andrey’s in half a mind to turn around, head up the stairs, get back into bed and sleep the day away. He doesn’t though. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself how much he loves Karen, and says, “Right.”
If Karen catches on to the fact that Andrey is quietly losing his mind right now, then he doesn’t mention it. The only thing he says, actually, is, “Wait a second. I need to grab the second part.”
He dashes out of the kitchen just as soon as Andrey blinks, leaving him alone with the bird. Andrey moves closer to it and has to concede that it does have rather lovely plumage. “Where the hell did he get you from?” He asks the bird, as if the bird might well respond with a postcode and house number. It doesn’t — but then the bird doesn’t even really get a chance to talk (if it can), because Karen’s back in the living room again just as soon, pear in hand.
“Here,” he says triumphantly, keeping his hand outstretched until Andrey takes the pear from him. Andrey holds the stem between his thumb and forefinger like the fruit has personally offended him.
“Why have you got me a pear?” Andrey asks with a sigh because it is entirely too early and he is entirely too tired for this.
“Did you not hear the song just then?” Karen asks. “A partridge in a pear tree.”
“Yeah, no, I know,” Andrey nods, “A partridge in a pear tree, totally. Just a pear, though?”
“Well, I couldn’t get a pear tree.”
“See, in usual circumstances, I would completely understand that,” Andrey says, “But since you managed to get a partridge into our living room I would’ve thought getting a pear tree would be child’s play. Comparatively speaking.”
“Do you want a pear tree?” Karen asks, so earnestly and so genuinely that Andrey can’t help but cup his hands around Karen’s face and pull him in for a soft kiss.
“I do not,” Andrey murmurs against Karen’s lips, “But I appreciate the offer, my love .”
“I’m committed to this, you know,” Karen says in between soft kisses. “I’m going to do every single day.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Andrey teases.
Karen just grins in response, determined. He presses one last kiss to Andrey’s lips before fishing his phone out of his pocket. “I should probably get the bird back.” He sighs, like that’s a completely normal sentence that normal people just normally say.
Andrey nods, “Probably.”
He never does find out where Karen borrowed the bird from.
Andrey, at first, has doubts as to how committed Karen is to the bit. Twelve days is a lot, for one, and that’s without mentioning that each day seems trickier than the last in terms of gift-giving. Andrey had never noticed how many of the lyrics were bird related. He really hopes Karen doesn’t pull the bird stunt every day. He thinks it might lose its charm around the third French hen.
Though he sticks with the bird theme, Karen doesn’t buy a real-life turtle dove next. Instead, Andrey wakes up on the second day with two plush doves staring him in the face. They’re sat perched atop his chest, their beady black eyes staring expressionlessly at Andrey. Andrey reaches out to pat one on the head and accidentally sends it toppling off his chest and onto the duvet. It lands with a soft thud as Karen leans over to press a tender kiss to Andrey’s cheek.
“Good morning,” Karen greets, voice still gravelly with sleep. Heat stirs in Andrey’s stomach, even as the last dove standing continues to stare at him.
Andrey quickly averts his gaze, leaning up to press his lips against Karen’s. They have to get up shortly, both of them having publicity duties to see to today, but Andrey takes a second to savour the moment. Karen’s lips are soft but his beard is rough when it scrapes against Andrey’s cheek and Andrey could stay here forever, like this, cuddled up side by side with Karen.
But then Karen pulls back and holds up the little dove plushie that fell. “Two turtle doves,” He says by way of explanation. “I thought we could have one each. That way, if we’re apart, in different countries or in different hotels, we can have a dove with us to remind us of each other.”
Andrey glares at Karen, “I hate you,” he lies.
Karen grins, and knows Andrey means it as a thank you, really.
On the third day, Karen gets creative and takes Andrey out to brunch.
“You like French toast, don’t you?” Karen asks Andrey on their way there. He’s walking on the side of the path closest to the road; he always does, when he’s walking next to Andrey. It’s one of those little things he does that never fails to leave Andrey feeling massively, overwhelmingly loved.
“I like it,” Andrey nods, “I don’t have it often. But it’s quite nice, I like when they sprinkle all the powdered sugar over the top.”
“Of course,” Karen says, voice fond as he nudges Andrey gently with his elbow. “Sweet tooth.”
Andrey sticks his tongue out, eyes twinkling with mirth, “You asked.”
Karen seems to cringe at that, a remorseful expression gracing his features as he wraps an arm around Andrey’s shoulder and pulls him close for a brief, fleeting embrace. “It may have something to do with today’s gift,” Karen begins to explain apologetically, “And the fact that today’s gift is less of a gift and more of an ‘I’m taking you out for brunch and forcing you to order French toast because it’s the only way I can make today’s theme work’.”
Andrey laughs so loudly and so suddenly that it pulls the attention of passers-by. It makes Karen go bright red, adding to the embarrassed look already on his face, which only makes Andrey laugh harder.
“Stop!” Karen whines as Andrey cackles. “This is so much trickier than you’d think.”
“How,” Andrey begins, having to pause for breath in between giggles, “does French toast relate to today’s theme?”
“French hens,” Karen says, throwing his hands in the air as if to gesture to the world how obvious the connection is.
“So the connection is France?” Andrey asks, “That’s it? Couldn’t I have just had any French food, like a croissant or something?”
“No, because French toast is soaked in egg. And hens lay eggs. So, y’know...”
Andrey scrunches his nose up, thinking about it, “That’s such a tenuous link.”
“Yeah, well,” Karen huffs fondly, the smile on his face plain as day as he holds the cafe door open for Andrey, “You give me a better idea for three french hens and I’ll do that next year.”
As Andrey sits down at the table, he’s consumed by mild terror at the thought that Karen might do this all over again next year.
On the fourth day, Karen admits that he struggled with this one, which doesn’t exactly fill Andrey with confidence.
“What’s a calling bird, anyway?” Karen asks as they’re getting ready for the day. Andrey has to concede that point to him because he doesn’t have the slightest clue what a calling bird is, actually.
“What did you get me, then?” Andrey asks as Karen lets out a laugh.
“It’s great,” Karen says with a grin as he moves over to his bedside table, presumably to retrieve the gift from one of its draws. “I’m very clever.”
“Very humble, too,” Andrey quips. “What is it, then?”
Karen comes back over to him and holds out his hand with the palm upturned. In the middle of it sits a little bird charm, brown and spherical like a quail. “It’s for your phone,” Karen starts to explain, but he’s smiling that smile of his that he always does whenever he is about to say something that he thinks is very funny. “It’s a calling bird.”
Andrey bites the inside of his cheek, fighting to maintain an unimpressed expression as Karen breaks out into laughter in front of him. Andrey’s composure lasts all of five seconds before he lets out a loud laugh too, the two of them a giggling mess in the middle of their bedroom.
“Fuck,” Andrey curses in between bouts of laughter, “That’s so stupid.”
He attaches the charm to his phone case, anyway. Later in the day, he realises Karen only gave him one charm. He wonders whether this technically counts as a failure to adhere to the song.
He doesn’t mention it to Karen, though. Hearing him laugh about that stupid bird pun for near on half an hour counts as a win, in Andrey’s eyes.
On the fifth day, Karen slips a little red box with a neatly tied bow across the kitchen table. It stares up at Andrey from beside his bowl of cornflakes. He looks up at Karen and tilts his head to the side curiously.
“Day five,” Karen says, sipping his coffee. He sort of looks like a mother on Christmas day — you know, the smug smile they wear when they know they’ve absolutely nailed gift-giving this year. “It’s a good one. Open it.”
So Andrey does. He gasps softly, the breath ripped from him at the sight of the delicate gold bands glinting in the early morning light.
“Karen,” he says quietly; he trails off, and swallows quickly.
“Five gold rings,” Karen says, voice softer now, smiling that bit brighter as Andrey pulls his gaze away from the box to look back up at his partner.
Andrey blinks once, twice, quick enough to banish any tears threatening to spring to his eyes. He clears his throat, feeling choked up all of a second, so overwhelmed is he with love for Karen. All he can manage as a response is a tremulous whisper, “Karen.”
“Do you like them?” Karen asks, a nervous edge to his voice. Andrey wants to laugh, wants to call the man crazy, because how could he ever dislike a gift from Karen? How could he ever find it in himself to hate something when golden rings are glinting up at him and Karen is sitting across from him at their kitchen table, his smile so tender yet so vulnerable all at once?
Andrey doesn’t say any of this. He’s not sure how he could possibly put it into words. Instead he nods quickly and grins so wide that his cheeks ache. “Yeah, shit,” He says eloquently, an overwhelmed laugh escaping him. “I love them. So, so much.”
He looks back down at the rings, twinkling like stars, symbolic of something yet-to-come (he thinks; he hopes). Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Karen relax; the tension ebbs from the older man’s body and he takes a bite of toast. “You know,” Karen says, mouth half-full, “Apparently they’re not really rings.”
“Huh?” Andrey frowns.
Karen swallows his toast, “The five golden rings in the song,” he says, “It’s not actually about rings. Apparently, it’s actually five ring-necked pheasants.” He shrugs one shoulder, takes another bite of toast, “So, you know. More birds.”
“Fucking hell,” Andrey says, for lack of a better response. The rings continue to glint in the late-December morning light and Andrey figures that perhaps there’s nothing else that needs to be said.
On the sixth day, Andrey realises with a sinking feeling that they’re back to birds again.
(Well, not again, since it turns out it's always been about birds. They’re back to the very blatant references to poultry, at least.)
Karen is up and out of bed before Andrey that morning, off to practise for a couple of hours before the day is in full-swing. Andrey, apparently, has unconsciously taken full advantage of this fact because he wakes up sprawled out in the middle of their bed like a starfish, limbs this way and that.
He stretches out and sits up. Six geese stare back at him.
They’re all fake, thank God, but for a fleeting moment Andrey, in his half-awake state, frets that they might be real. That is until he realises that one has a bowtie and one has a red jacket and another has on a little pair of yellow rain boots. Andrey is genuinely impressed that Karen managed to find six nonidentical plush geese. He’d never realised there was such a market for them.
Hardly taking an eye off of them, he reaches across to his bedside table to grab his phone, immediately calling Karen, practice be damned.
“I’m sorry,” Karen says as soon as he answers the phone, as if he knew exactly what Andrey would be calling about. “But I panicked. I saw six geese a-laying and my first thought was eggs, but we already sort of did that on the third day, and it seemed inhumane to make you eat six omelettes or something so I just.. bought stuffed geese. Sorry.”
“Do you know how much I love you?” Andrey replies after a moment’s hesitation as he lets the anecdote sink in. He’s grinning like an idiot behind his phone, and he almost wishes he’d texted Karen about this instead just so that he’d have permanent, tangible evidence of everything Karen had just said.
“Enough to keep the geese?” Karen chances.
“Enough to keep the geese,” Andrey confirms with a nod that Karen can’t see. “More than that, probably. Anyway, they’re cute.”
“I love the one with the little jacket,” Karen says enthusiastically, and Andrey can practically hear the smile in the other man’s voice, even as someone seemingly yells for Karen to hurry up and put his phone down.
“I love the one with the boots,” Andrey says just as enthusiastically. “We need to name them.”
“We’ll do it tonight,” Karen says, and Andrey is certain he can hear someone wolf-whistle in the background. If only they knew Karen was talking about plush geese right now.
“Perfect,” Andrey snorts, “The boot-goose really strikes me as a Felix.”
Karen laughs, the sound all crackly through Andrey’s phone, though no less beautiful for that fact. “I totally see what you mean. It’s very fashionable”
“I’ll let you get back to practice,” Andrey says, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Karen says, “I’ll see you when I’m home.”
Andrey thinks their goose co-parenting is already off to a strong start.
On the seventh day, Karen takes Andrey to the park.
They go to feed the swans with seeds that Karen picked up the day before. Andrey makes a big show of counting seven swans. There is only eight swans total, and upon noticing this Andrey turns to Karen with a grave expression and says, “You got very lucky. That could’ve been a failure.”
Karen just shakes his head. “No,” he says simply, hands crammed into his coat pockets, leaving the bird-feeding up to Andrey. “If there had only been six swans here then I just would’ve taken you to another park and made you look for one more swan.”
Andrey hums and scatters a handful of seeds into the pond. The swans show no interest but the mallards go absolutely crazy for it. “I think at that point,” Andrey replies contemplatively, “The experience would be less of a Christmas gift and more of a hostage situation.”
Karen tucks his chin under his scarf and shrugs, “Possibly,” he says. “On a more important note, today is the last bird-related day.”
Andrey lets out a cheer. “I thought it would never end!”
“And you’re simply the gift receiver,” Karen says. “Imagine how I feel.”
Andrey decides to be a nice boyfriend and doesn’t point out that Karen’s gift-giving agony is entirely self-inflicted.
Days eight and nine both take place on the evening of day eight, due to last-minute planning and ticket availability.
Karen takes Andrey to see the Nutcracker — nine ladies dancing — and they grab milkshakes — eight maids a-milking — from a fast food joint afterward, still dressed up in their theatre-wear. They’re slightly tipsy and very much in love as they sip on chocolate and banana milkshakes, and though they technically did the activities in the wrong order, Andrey doesn’t care.
On the tenth day, Karen turns to Andrey and says, “I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.”
Andrey smiles devilishly back at Karen, his mouth curling up in a wicked smile like that cartoon of the Grinch. Or Tim Curry in that bit of Home Alone 2 where he looks like the cartoon of the Grinch. “Really?” He says, sounding not at all surprised.
“Ten lords-a-leaping is a tricky one,” Karen says defensively. “C’mon, you’ve got to admit it's hard.”
“No, absolutely,” Andrey agrees, “It’s an awful one. But I’m not the one who decided to do this whole twelve days thing in the first place.”
He means it as a joke, but it seems to sting more than intended. Karen slumps in his chair somewhat, defeated, and the put-out expression on the older man’s face has Andrey swallowing down a lump of guilt. He’s out of his chair quickly, sliding onto Karen’s lap and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I didn’t mean for that to sound rude.”
“No you’re right,” Karen sighs and Andrey feels rotten to the core. “This whole thing has been silly.”
“Hey,” Andrey snaps sternly and apparently a little louder than he meant because Karen jumps slightly. “Sorry,” he apologies quickly, “But seriously. Don’t say that. These past few days have been amazing. It’s some of the most fun I’ve ever had. I’ve loved seeing what you’ve come up with every day.”
“Really?” Karen asks, glancing up at Andrey who nods so quickly and so forcefully that it leaves him dizzy.
“Really,” he promises. “I have loved this. And I love you. Nothing you do is ever too silly.”
Karen smiles at that: a wide, toothy grin that makes everything feel alright again. He pulls Andrey into a tight embrace. “I love you too.”
They share a quiet moment together, content to be in each other’s space, no silence ever too overbearing when they are in one another’s company. Andrey breaks the quiet eventually, levelling Karen a curious look and asking, “So what gift did you end up getting for today?”
Karen grins sheepishly, “You know how you said you love me?”
“Yes,” Andrey says.
“Well,” Karen says, voice strained, “I may have gotten you dance lessons?”
“Absolutely not.”
(Andrey ends up going, once, just to humour Karen.)
(He never goes back.)
On the eleventh day, Andrey goes shopping.
He’s out of the house before Karen’s awake: partly because he doesn’t want his partner to catch onto what he’s doing, and partly because he wants to get to the shops ahead of the swarm of people that will surely descend on it later. It’s Christmas Eve, after all.
Andrey gets there early enough that the shops are barely open; all the staff are bleary-eyed and the sky is still dawn-coloured. The wintery air stings as he pulls his scarf tighter around his neck. He only needs to visit a couple of shops, so he makes a beeline straight for one of the craft and hobby shops. Grabbing everything he needs ends up being a relatively easy task; he thinks that maybe his slightly clueless and lost expression convinced some of the staff to give him a hand because they were all a great help in his quest for craft supplies. He ends up getting home only an hour or so after he left.
When he gets through the front door, Karen’s already pottering about in the kitchen. Andrey pauses for a second, taking it all in: Karen in his pyjamas, Christmas music playing on the radio, the smell of freshly ground coffee. It's domestic bliss. Andrey wonders how he could possibly be happier than he is right now.
And then Karen turns around and says, “Andrey, baby! We’re decorating cookies today!”, and Andrey realises that no matter how happy he is, Karen is somehow always able to make him even happier.
They have breakfast and coffee together first, sharing dreams for the night before and chatting excitedly about the next couple of days ahead, collectively sighing in relief when they broach the topic of how glad they are to not be hosting Christmas day.
“So, cookie decorating,” Karen says once all the breakfast things are tidied away.
“Yes,” Andrey nods, fishing out a sprinkle shaker from the (rather barren) baking section of their kitchen cupboard. “Why cookie decorating?”
“Because,” Karen says triumphantly, as he sets the gingerbread men out on a wooden chopping board, “Eleven pipers piping.” He punctuates the sentence by holding aloft a piping bag.
Andrey grins, childlike and giddy with excitement, “That’s genius.” He says.
“Well,” Karen says, sheepish, because he’s never been one to accept undue praise. “It wasn’t my idea. I saw it on this craft website.”
Andrey rolls his eyes because it's Christmas. It’s the thought that counts, and all that. “Whatever,” he dismisses good-naturedly, “I still think it’s great. My cookies are going to look so much better than yours.”
Karen gasps, affronted. There’s a competitive gleam in his eyes as he picks up the piping bag and wields it like a weapon, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Oh,” Andrey says, smug, because little does Karen know, he’s been watching a lot of that Bake Off show while on the tour. “I am very confident in my abilities.”
By the time they finish decorating the cookies, it looks like an icing-laced bomb has gone off in their kitchen. Andrey murmurs something under his breath about hubris. If Karen hears, he decides not to comment.
On the twelfth day, Andrey awakes with excitement that stems from childhood and which has never really gone away.
He rolls over and peppers kisses all over Karen’s face. “Wake up,” he says, nudging Karen when the kisses don’t seem to wake him up. Karen groans and Andrey nudges him again, a tad harder this time, “It’s Christmas, Karen, wake up.”
The nudges seem to do the job because soon enough Karen is pulling Andrey in for kisses of his own. “Merry Christmas, my love,” Karen murmurs, smiling sleepily at Andrey.
“Merry Christmas,” Andrey whispers back, grasping Karen’s hand gently. “I’m so happy to be spending it with you.”
“As am I,” Karen says, pressing his lips to Andrey’s knuckles, “I am so, so lucky.”
Andrey kisses Karen again, a little more heatedly this time, hoping to make it clear to Karen that, really, Andrey is the lucky one.
It's after an hour of lazy (and then slightly less lazy) kisses that Karen sits bolt upright in bed with a horrified expression. “I forgot!” He exclaims.
“What?” Andrey asks, alarmed.
“The twelfth day! I forgot to get you something for the twelfth day.”
It’s so silly and so ridiculous and so Karen that Andrey bursts into raucous laughter. “How did you forget the last day?” He cries, dumbfounded.
“Because I always planned the day ahead—”
“You always planned only the day before?”
“Yes!” Karen cries defensively, “I only planned - stop laughing! - the day before and I was so busy thinking about Christmas that I completely forgot today is the twelfth day!”
By this point, Andrey is laughing so hard that he has to lie back down again, grabbing his side and howling about how he has a stitch now and how it's all Karen’s fault. Karen just starts hitting him over the head with a cushion, begging Andrey to stop laughing it's not my fault.
It’s only after Andrey calms down (and consoles Karen somewhat) that he realises now would be the perfect time to give Karen his little last-minute extra gift.
“Hold on just a second,” Andrey says, pecking Karen’s lips before getting up and going over to the wardrobe. He fishes around for a few seconds, moving all of the clothes he had piled atop the gift to obscure it in a frenzied panic last night. He comes back over to the bed with the gift held behind his back.
“It’s just a little thing,” Andrey explains, “And very last minute. But I made it for you. It can replace today’s gift, even if it doesn’t really work thematically.”
He doesn’t hesitate any longer, nor does he give Karen any time to ask what it is; he passes it to Karen and sits down, deliberately adverting his gaze so he can neither see the gift nor Karen’s reaction, so nervous is he that Karen might not like it. He’s content, instead, to listen to the rustle of craft paper as Karen turns the pages in the book, the small chuckles Karen lets out as he reads the comments Andrey’s written, the sound of Karen brushing his fingertips over the photos stuck in the scrapbook.
“Oh, babe,” Karen says, voice tight in that way it gets when he’s a little choked up about something. That alone is enough to tell Andrey that the gift was a success; he looks back at Karen, who pounces on him immediately, pressing kisses to Andrey’s lips.
“When did you make this?” Karen asks.
“Last night,” Andrey replies, “When I said I was wrapping gifts.”
“I love it,” Karen says, pulling back to look over the scrapbook with reverence, even despite its hastily put-together nature, “It’s such a nice idea.”
“It’s a little thing,” Andrey shrugs, despite feeling very pleased with himself. “I thought it would be a great way for us to make sure we keep the tradition going.”
“Tradition?” Karen asks with a laugh. “It’s your turn next year, then, yeah?”
“Of course,” Andrey grins. “Didn’t you see the next page?” He asks. He takes the book from Karen and skips past a few pages - day ten, day eleven, day twelve - to get to one that reads 2023: Andrey Attempts the Twelve Days of Christmas. “I’m already thinking of ideas.”
“Yeah?” Karen beams, “And what ideas have you got so far?”
“Well, just one concrete idea so far,” Andrey corrects. “No real-life partridges.”
Karen nods, “Maybe we should make that a rule. No real-life partidges.”
“That’s something I can get behind.”
Karen shakes his head with a laugh, looking over the scrapbook once more, going back over every page, covered in photos from each of the twelve days. “I love you, Andrey,” Karen says softly, meeting Andrey’s eyes. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Karen,” Andrey whispers back, “My true love.”