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Halfway between the frosted A&E doors that swing inwards and the front desk, Liam skids to a stop.
“I forgot the stockings.”
Ahead of him, Dr. Geyer lifts the duffel by its worn straps, “No, you didn’t. I checked everything.”
Liam pulls a crooked smile, “Right.” He double-steps to catch up, clutching a white plastic bag with an array of red-white-green garland to his chest.
They’re striding through the hospital, past sparsely occupied rows of chairs. It’s not surprising at all, that the hospital’s not teeming with life, or those on the edge of it. Since the repairs got underway, most Beacon Hills residents on the far side of the bridge make the journey to Crown Memorial instead. It’s three floors of narrow hallways and only one MRI machine, but over the last year they’ve recorded a significantly lower incidence of homicide and have managed to retain most of their staff. With the opportunity cost of that thirty-five minute drive being possible death, even those on the near side of the bridge make the journey. Not to mention their cafeteria isn’t indefinitely under construction.
Dr Geyer slows his gait and flips his pager, frowning at the message before pocketing it. He rounds the corner just before Liam and sighs. “We might have to get this done faster than planned.”
“Dad,” Liam calls out, “I can get everything ready. You can go.”
He stops at the door to the consulting room behind the nurses’ station on the first floor. The one that none of the doctors ever use but all the nurses stack broken chairs, rusty wheelchairs and the like in. He fishes out the key, “You sure?”
Liam tugs the duffel from his hand and smirks, “Been doing this for five years. I think I got it.”
Without entering, Dr Geyer leans in and flips the switch and Liam winces at the buzz of electricity as the bulbs flash then dim to evenly flood the space with a yellow glow. He’s learned to block out most of the low-frequency dissonance his ears naturally pick up, but there are some frequencies that they’ve become attuned to— the ones that lance through him and trigger a spate of panic, flashes of gold and the unsheathing of claws.
His Dad doesn’t notice.
Liam makes a wall of his body anyway— hunches his broad-shouldered shape under his red hoodie to hide the trigger-response. He drops the bags to the floor, careful to keep his fingers out of view, and wastes no time piling Christmas decor and random red and green bits onto the table.
At the door, Dr Geyer checks his pager again. “We only got two other volunteers this year. You can show them the ropes.”
With a series of impatient nods, back still to the door, Liam assures him, “Go, Dad. I’ll get everything done.”
For five years this has been Liam’s one purposeful act of charity. Sure, clawing and slashing his way out of death’s jaws to protect his friends might count as a selfless act, but this one precedes the bite. And the only danger present is usually some kid who gets over-excited and yanks the lights from a tree, or trips over themselves trying to get to the lobby to admire the decor. He can’t tell college recruiters about that time he jumped on a horse to save his town, but he can wax poetic about his zeal for community development and how he plays one of Santa’s hardworking elves every Christmas Eve so the kids can get drunk on twinkling lights and the old people can clutch their pearls about some hanging mistletoe.
“You on your own this year?” Nurse Allen pries, a statement pretending to be a question, with one hand on her hip and the other on the edge of the door.
Her scrubs always seem to come with matching accessories; the bands of her watch, hair tie on her wrist and sometimes Liam catches a glimpse of matching stripes on her shoes. Today she’s wearing pink.
Liam shrugs easily, his body safely out of its fight-or-flight state.
“We have a few hands,” he says. “Not sure when they’re coming in but I don’t think I need them anyway.”
“Yeah, pretty scanty, huh?”
“Yeah,” Liam agrees then squeaks out a rushed, “but I’ll still do all the floors. It’s tradition.”
Nurse Allen raises her brows as if to say good luck.
Liam's desperately hoping he won’t need it.
Forty minutes in and all the decor is separated. The table is stacked with pieces of garland, strings of lights, a couple Santa hats, stockings, and some ornaments— gold and green and blue. In Year Three, after the abject disaster of Year Two and all three of them getting home at 4am instead of minutes past 12, his Mom developed a system and it hasn’t failed him yet. Everything is separated into groups based on the floors. All the brightest pieces for the children’s ward, and he’s never going to admit it, but he saves the newest pieces for the fourth floor, because that’s where most of the people who get no visitors stay.
He stuffs the second floor decor into the duffel and slams the door behind him. The elevator dings, Liam steps forward and bumps into a hard chest. His retreat is swift, one hand coming up to placate the victim, but the apology dies on his tongue, wide eyes bulging even more as he takes in Theo Raeken’s sour grimace.
“What are you doing here?”
Theo’s eyes rove over the rest of him, landing on the duffel in his hand. “Seriously asking myself the same thing.”
When the elevator doors start to slide closed Theo puts his body between them— his chest almost level with Liam’s— the tight, dark grey shirt like a second skin over his torso. “You coming in?”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” Liam slinks to his side.
Before Liam even gets out on the second floor, a nurse rushes in between them, pager beeping with the discordant emergency tone; fingers fly straight to the panel and she presses like her life depends on it, and Liam knows that within these walls it might as well. Pronouns layer until all nuance is lost. She becomes I becomes We. Liam thinks of his Dad and swallows around the lump in his throat, narrowly avoiding bumping into Theo as his brain catches up to his feet.
A lifetime ago Liam might have outright panicked, cavern of disquiet in his chest. He thinks he wouldn’t now. But he’s watching the elevator doors close and he finds himself hoping no one else has to get on after them. In all these years of lobby-dwelling, he hasn’t got used to the unique meld of sounds and smells of the hospital. Or maybe he has, and this is him not having got used to the hospital since that night on the roof. That night in the morgue. That night in the elevator. Every time he’s here the memories resurrect before him, each step a calling to a different beast; people move around him like ghosts, shadows cling to the walls—
Theo’s footsteps are heavy behind him.
Liam stops suddenly. This time they collide. “Are you lost?”
“That would be concerning considering the amount of time I’ve spent this past year exploring the place.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Theo gestures between them, “Obviously following you. One of the nurses told me you might be on the first floor.”
“Did something—”
“No,” Theo cuts him off, “nothing’s going on.”
Then he grumbles, “Deaton’s got it out for me.”
“Deaton?”
“Long story. What exactly am I supposed to do here?”
Liam is annoyed, filling up on impatience. “Are you sick?”
“No,” Theo growls as Liam drops the duffel by the tree and lays the strings of lights by his feet, scuffed sneakers over thin ankle socks. Theo’s voice is grating, scratchy in the worst way. Another pager goes off. “I’m here to help you. Aren’t you the head of the hospital cheer committee or something?”
Liam straightens and snarks back, “It’s not a cheer committee, we’re spreading Christmas cheer. There’s a difference.”
“Whatever. Gimme the stupid hat.”
Liam follows his eyes to the Santa hat hanging on a piece of green garland. He balls his fists and shoves the hat at Theo’s chest. “Fix your fucking attitude while you’re at it.”
A nurse strolls by and sing-songs, “Language, Liam.”
Theo smirks. Liam exhales heavily through his nostrils and bends to get started on his first tree.
There’s a single moment of peace.
Tinsel necklace and string-of-lights scarf. Liam is in his element. He transfers all the hand-picked accessories to the Christmas tree; the star at the top bows heavy and swings against a blue ornament, its new weight too much for its place atop the old thing. Maybe next year he’ll start a fundraiser for a better tree if his college essays are a bust.
Maybe if he plays actual Santa that’ll get him a gap year offer.
It would be so easy to lose himself in this: keep his hands moving, heels forming an angle as he rounds the tree to fiddle and finger each ornament to get them just so. It’s Christmas. But Theo Raeken has a mouth like a run-down motor and suddenly he’s an interior design expert and the tree Liam’s working on is either too big and floppy or not adequately dressed with the pieces Liam’s picked out. If his Mom were here she’d probably tell him to play nice, or ignore the racket, but Liam’s just about had it with Theo and his backseat decorating.
With a scrunched nose and bared gums he spits, “You do it, then.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got it covered.”
“Didn’t you come here to help? Maybe if you’d shut up and do something we’d get it done faster.”
Theo scowls right back. “God, you’re just…” But he snatches the string of lights from Liam.
Brushes past him like he’s trying to piss Liam off.
Liam has two revelations while leaning against the chalky wall on the far end of the lobby watching Theo work on the third floor:
#1: Theo Raeken is a pain in the ass.
This is not news, but Liam’s never had to work with the guy on a relatively mundane task before. Liam’s used to high-stakes, die [for me] or don’t, run [with me] or don’t, save yourself [or I will]. There’s been no room for quiet observations, contemplation. He’s never seen Theo press a thumb into his hip with his head at an angle, eyes assessing assessing assessing, has never seen him spend five minutes draping tinsel only to replace them with a bundle of red, gold-laced ribbon Liam told him wasn’t theirs to use. Has never seen him roll an ornament between two fingers and hold it up to the light like a human gloss-meter. And he’s never seen Theo look like he just did, eyes the most vulnerable part of him, slanting at Liam as if for approval. Liam can’t help the way he goes slightly slack-jawed at that, unused to everything Theo’s thrown at him in the last twenty minutes, but especially the way he’s chewing on his lip in anticipation of the verdict.
#2: Liam’s loath to admit it, but Theo might actually be good at this.
So Liam tells him he’s not bad, that everything looks nice, and he joins him.
Because it’s Christmas. And the other volunteer hasn’t shown up. And the hospital halls are still shadow-tinged and there’s a weeks-old ache in his chest the size of a match flame and he’s trying to stamp it out with purpose. And because on the way over he snapped at his Dad and he’s been clawing at his palms for weeks, but the lights on the tree are distracting and— the shape of Theo, whole and dense, a solid enough reminder that he’s still awake.
It feels like they spend more time bickering about the placement of the lights and where to hang fake mistletoe ( that’s not appropriate, did you just rip the— stop using your teeth you fucking asshole, actually it looked better with the red piece over there) than actually doing any of it. Liam ends up passing everything to Theo, who somewhat expertly gets Christmas on all the walls, doors and trees at Beacon Memorial before the nurses change shifts.
“There,” he breathes when the final stocking is taped to the wall adjacent the vending machine in the fourth floor lobby, uncharacteristic in how pleased he sounds. “You can stop moaning about the height now.”
Liam’s annoyance is only tempered by how good everything looks as he takes in Theo’s work. “Whatever. ‘S not like I cared that much.”
Theo raises a brow and meets Liam’s glare with a sharp smirk, “Really. That’s too low, Theo. Who can see that, Theo? Why would you put it there, Theo?”
“I don’t sound like that!”
Theo gets close, chuckles low, “True. You sound way more whiny than I could ever pull off.”
“Fuck you.”
“Liam…”
Theo laughs, full and loud— gets even more disapproving eyes on them. Liam flashes an apologetic smile in the same breath that he stamps on Theo’s entire foot.
Nurse Park glowers over his glasses, clipboard tightly gripped. “Would you two mind taking it downstairs?”
It’s bright and near-blinding, the way Theo’s teeth shine behind curled lips. Almost believably apologetic. He slings an arm over Liam’s shoulders and nods to Nurse Park, “Sorry about that. He gets grumpy after dark.”
Theo’s arm is heavy and warm around him, a solid weight that surprises Liam enough that his brain lapses and he forgets to shove him off until they’re at the elevator door and the opening ding startles him.
“Get off me.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and drags his feet to the far side of the elevator.
It’s only when they’ve made it back into the room on the first floor and Theo’s trying to shift a table with his feet that they realise they left the duffel.
Theo crosses his arms and makes a seat of the table’s scratched, wooden surface, “You’re the one in charge.”
Liam stomps away, throws a disgruntled dick over his shoulder just before leaving to retrieve the stuff they left upstairs.
When Liam comes back the door is closed, and Theo’s inside because he can smell him, can hear the faintest shuffle of sneakers over dusty tiles, so he knocks.
Liam doesn’t know what to do with any of this; his face, his hands, his voice when it goes high-pitched at the sight of Theo and a pristine room. If he swiped a finger over the table it might come away sparkling.
In the next moment, Theo kicks a huge bag of all the little abandoned pieces of the hospital at his feet. He’s sitting on a chair that doesn't even rock when he leans back. It stays in place. Absolutely fucking stable.
“What’d you—”
“Get rid of that. I don’t work here.”
Liam’s stunned, doesn’t even drop the duffel, makes a beeline for the door and tosses Theo’s huge bag of garbage by one of the bins outside.
In the room again, Theo’s back is turned.
“Did you make all the decorations in here, Dunbar?”
Liam doesn’t blame him because every piece of confetti in the world seemed to be littered on the floor of the storage room. But it’s all clean now. The table and the floor and the fucking chair’s fixed. He was only chatting with Nurse Park— in his poor attempt at making peace before his Dad and eventually his Mom and Melissa heard about his use of foul language in earshot of the kids— for about fifteen minutes.
Everything’s clean.
If Theo could hear his heartbeat, shit— maybe he can, there’s no way Liam would live this down. There’s a part of him always keen to be sharp enough to bruise when they’re not dragging each other around trying to stay alive, because if Theo’s not absolving himself of guilt by playing some twisted version of a knight-in-shining-armour then Liam has no reason to feel safe. Has no reason to feel grounded around him. So he snipes at him, like he did earlier, scowls in disagreement, like he has all evening, and Theo never has qualms about doing the same. But here he is, and here Liam is. Neither of them is running. And yet he feels safe. Grounded.
Theo turns and hands Liam a mug of hot chocolate. Grunts here despite the obvious act of charity.
There’s a question hanging heavy over them, Liam squints at the mug but doesn’t voice it. Instead, he gets an eye roll and an irritated huff from Theo, who grabs the duffel, fingers brush over his, skin warm and rough, and presses the warm cup to Liam’s other hand. Liam can smell the milk and sugar, and the notes of cinnamon that Doctor Devi could write home about.
As clarity dawns, that they would write home about it because it’s theirs, Liam’s mouth takes an odd shape, somewhere between an impressed oblique line and a disapproving curve. Doctor Devi’s chocolate mix is carefully hidden behind bags of the cheap stuff in the staff kitchen. There’s no way they offered this to Theo.
“Don’t make this weird.”
For some reason Liam heeds the warning, shakes his head and makes nothing of the gesture, except his fingers melt a little, and some of his insides too, at the warmth in the mug, and the three tiny marshmallows that bob in the melting foam. He mumbles out a soft yet earnest thanks and sips the entire thing standing.
Liam Dunbar is the most annoying person Theo has ever had the displeasure of working with.
This is not news.
But he’s having a moment of reprieve from his whining and Liam’s head is warm and heavy on Theo’s shoulder, so his thoughts float around the subject. Sue him. His hair tickles the curve of Theo’s neck. The low sounds of his sleep-soft breaths are soothing in a way he wishes was unsettling. If he were a different person he could fall asleep right here.
The first floor lobby doesn’t have a tree; according to the Beacon Memorial Cheer President it’s a hazard. Theo’s pretty sure Liam’s clueless about why there’s no tree to decorate down here, but Theo didn’t feel like being contrarian while he rambled through stifled yawns. He’s not even sure Liam realised he’d started leaning into him, settling on his shoulder until he finally drifted off.
If he’s being honest, Theo doesn’t really care about any of it.
Liam’s going to startle himself awake soon and scowl as if Theo’d coaxed his head to the crook of his neck and shoulder, and storm off until the next time he needs a ride or ends up stuck with him on a mission.
Except he doesn’t.
There’s a man in a purple shirt who keeps wrinkling his nose at the sight of Liam asleep on Theo’s shoulder, who they’d been exchanging raised eyebrows over. They only whispered about it once, when the man had headed to the bathroom.
“He sounds fucking loaded. Who books a hotel for twenty days?”
Theo shrugs, feigning disinterest.
“Did you hear him ask for a room for the dog ? Who does that?” Liam’s hands punctuate every sentence. “Unless he’s allergic. But then why travel with the dog? And did you hear him drop that ‘first class’ shit with that other person?”
Theo’s ears perk up to the boots’ clacking, and elbows Liam. But he keeps going, about flights and dogs and fancy hotels and there’s no way purple shirt doesn't know they’re talking shit about him now. So when the man looks over, wrinkled nose and all, Theo stares right back, lets Liam talk until he runs out of steam.
They’re waiting on Nurse Allen, Liam had said. For the keys to the room. Apparently he hadn’t thought to take them from his father. But he defended his father forgetting too, by insisting he shouldn’t have them anyway.
He knows Melissa would kill me if I lost them.
So now Liam’s head is slipping from his shoulder because they’re waiting for a key and he doesn’t wake up like Theo’s anticipating. So of course he angles his body, torso rising to ease Liam’s slide to his lap, a hand by his head to make it that much easier, so Liam doesn’t hurt himself or something. Then he keeps steady, not wanting to jostle him, out of respect if he’s being honest, because he’s been here for four hours and Liam’s probably been here for nine, so he must be tired. But when Liam snuffles again, nestles into Theo’s lap with a hand on his thigh, the thing rising in his throat tastes more like fear, the kind that comes unbidden, a trigger-response to anything that feels like comfort. Theo stays steady. Liam’s head is soft against his belly, hard against his thigh, his hand curls just under his cheek, face smushed and breaths slow. It’s almost 11pm.
Theo knows David Geyer. Had to, for reasons he’d rather not voice, but Liam knows; and maybe everyone else in the pack does too. He’d made it clear how far he was willing to go back then. To get what he wanted.
So while purple shirt is on the phone again— Liam’s gonna love the update about his wife — Theo stiffens a little when David Geyer’s feet fall heavy past the nurses’ station and stop a few meters from him, from them.
“Oh,” he says by way of greeting, even though he must have seen Liam’s head from the elevator. Must have seen Theo’s hand carding through sun-burnt, disheveled hair.
(Gun to his head he hadn’t realised he’d started. Gun to his head he hadn’t wanted to stop.)
Theo’s breath stalls.
“Oh,” David Geyer says again. “You must be Theo.”
David Geyer shouldn’t know Theo.
“Hi, uh, yes. Sorry, Liam’s sleeping.”
The man laughs, like caramel, sweet and hot, “I can see that.”
Theo feels the skin of his face scorch.
“Dr. Deaton said you wanted to help out this year. Good on you. It’ll look great on your college apps.”
Theo smiles, or tries to anyway, it’s kind of hard when your fingers are pressed to the scalp of the son of the man talking about college when you’re all of eighteen and you haven’t even graduated high school.
He keeps talking, even though Theo’s hand hasn’t moved.
Theo lies about his interest in UCLA, mentions how he’s working at the clinic since Scott’s gone. He even name-drops Corey, sings praises of his influence on Theo’s interest in living on campus, says they’ve thought about rooming together if Mason gets into MIT.
He looks impressed, and Theo feels oddly pleased with himself, wants all of it to be true so David Geyer will continue sporting that exact wide-eyed look of awe Liam does when Theo talks out of his ass. Because that’s what you do when you’ve lived your life needing to impress everyone you meet even though they have no fucking clue who you're supposed to be.
He checks his pager while Theo goes on about Mason— who would probably punch him in the fucking mouth if he could hear him talk about how they hang out sometimes at school. How he saw him last week—
“Sorry, I got another emergency. Tell Liam to text me when he’s up, alright? But make sure he knows I’m still on call.” His voice softens, “And that we might be here all night.”
“I could… I could take him home.”
David Geyer is halfway across the floor and he stops. Theo gets this sickly feeling, like he's been caught. Like the man’s figured out Theo’s been lying and he’s going to scream at him to leave.
“He seems pretty out of it. And he’s not the most reliable with directions when he’s… if he’s been… sometimes his head gets fuzzy afterwards.”
Theo feels like he’s missing something, just stares until David Geyer finally sums it all up with, “You might get lost.”
“Oh. No, I remember where he… I think I know where his house is.”
The pager beeps again and he shouts from the elevator door, “Fine! Tell him I’ll be home in the morning! Thank you, Theo!”
Theo feels giddy. And sick.
Purple shirt gets into it with someone a few minutes past eleven and Theo thinks that would wake Liam up, but it doesn’t. Liam sleeps with his mouth slightly parted.
He hasn’t been staring. But he witnesses every tiny shift of his shoulder and he sees more than hears when Liam’s breath hitches and his dull nails scratch against the rough fabric of his jeans.
Time slows, and suddenly Liam’s face is upturned and Theo’s not staring, but he sees: the tight set of his jaw and the furrow of his brows, the minute, blink-and-you-miss, frantic quiver of the line of his body over Theo’s thigh. And the sound that wrenches from Liam’s throat spears him, sends Theo’s heart hammering as he reaches out instinctively, like he has— would— always will— while they fight to keep each other wound-free, whole. He inches unsure fingers to Liam’s face and drags the ridged tip of his thumb over the skin between his brows.
Then his heart lurches, Liam’s eyes rip open, predator-gilded. Theo sucks in a breath, claws tear into the soft flesh of his thumb. The blood from Theo’s palm drips like molten metal to Liam’s lip.
Liam looks feral. His grip tightens, and he’s searching, Theo thinks— recognises — for familiarity. So Theo stays steady, tries not to breathe. Lets himself bleed as Liam’s heart slows down, his claws stop sinking , his eyes stay focused on the ones looking back at him.
“Liam—” Theo stops himself, reins in the urge to ask if he’s okay.
They stay silent until they’re both dull-nailed, dull-toothed, hearts thumping out at a normal enough rate.
Liam swipes the blood off his mouth with the back of his palm, wipes the blood on his palm onto the hip of his jeans, all while Theo’s staring down at him.
“Are you—” his mouth betrays, but Liam saves him from strangling out the rest of the words.
“Sorry about…” he doesn’t say what but Theo thinks he should be the one apologising anyway, not Liam.
(He doesn’t apologise.)
“Everyone left…” Liam says, head still in his lap.
“Some of them,” is the level response, desperate to sound normal. “The guy’s on the phone outside.” Theo stays steady, stuck, really. Because there’s a head in his lap and blood drying on his wrist and the first floor lobby doesn’t have a Christmas tree. Liam keeps staring up at him. Maybe he’s stuck, too, desperate to sound normal, to talk their way around all of it. So Theo stretches his hearing, adds, “Checking on his dog. His wife went on vacation without him and his mother’s here but she asked the nurses not to let him see her.”
Liam lifts a brow. Theo shrugs.
“Not like I’m using the information against him.”
“Still. Eavesdropping’s rude.”
“Yeah,” he says, noncommittal. Like they didn’t make an enemy of the guy while Liam babbled on about his spending habits. Glass houses. Normal human flaw. “You ready to go?”
“You’re leaving?”
“Figured I should. You’re tired. And Deaton’s favour didn’t include doing double duty.”
“What’s that about, by the way…” Liam peels himself off Theo and it’s like he draws all the warmth from Theo’s body with him, leaving only phantom pressure and a widening gash, a chest laceration like wanting. He slows his heart. Wipes blood on his jeans. His favourite pair.
“I told you. Long story.”
“So.” Liam looks down the hall, then at his shoes. “You got plans tomorrow?”
“Besides sleeping this night off?" He scrubs the edge of his palm against his chin and the low scruff there, which he’d taken great care to shave evenly in the afternoon, "Can’t say I do.”
“Christmas and no plans?”
“It’s not a universal holiday.”
“It kind of is?”
“Never was for me.”
Liam slants a scowl at him, and it’s the most normal thing that’s happened between them in hours, so Theo takes it in, smirks like he normally would, sharp and teasing. Liam rolls his eyes, and Theo’s not staring, never stares, but he knows somehow, that it’s more gratitude than annoyance behind the gesture.
“I gotta text my dad. I’m not sure if he’s done or if he’s still on call or what.”
Theo stands, avoids eye contact and shoves hands into his pockets. “Already told him I’d take you home. Let’s go.”
“You talked to my dad?”
Theo walks off. “That a crime?”
Liam takes double steps to catch up. “For you? Definitely.”
Liam’s annoying by nature, and Theo’s trying to think of all the reasons he shouldn’t find it endearing.
“Volume’s this one,” Theo reaches over when he realises Liam’s fiddling with the wrong knob.
The second verse of Last Christmas filters from the speakers and Liam hums along to the lines, before singing out the chorus.
“Your taste in music sucks.”
Liam glares. “This isn’t my taste in music, asshole. It’s just christmassy. Universal. Which means if you don’t like it you’re probably a grinch.”
“I think your worldview is terribly myopic and you should consider addressing that before you go insulting someone who might punch you in the face for it.”
“Is that a threat?”
“If you keep it up, it might be.”
Liam flips him off.
Theo’s not sure why it happens, one minute they’re on the way to Liam’s house (he’s done this countless times, it should be muscle memory by now) and the next he’s on a road he’s only taken a handful of times, and Liam hadn’t said anything but when Theo registers the mistake his scent must spike because Liam looks out the window while humming along to the radio.
Theo slows down and parks the truck at the mouth of the parking lot of the animal clinic, and it’s then that Liam finally pipes up, “Is this a shortcut? Because my house is about a mile that way.” But he doesn’t sound annoyed, or overly concerned.
“Sorry, I must’ve...” he doesn’t want to say spaced out, can’t say that when he’s been entrusted with getting Liam home, but he did. Liam’s voice filled the space between them and Theo took the route he’s been taking for three weeks and ended up here.
“It’s cool. It’s pretty spooky out here…” he trails off, neck stretched to peer out the windshield. “You think Deaton’s inside?”
Theo knows, without having to listen keenly, that he isn’t. But Liam shouldn’t know that so he shrugs, “Might be. Who knows what he gets up to in his free time.”
Maybe he’s spaced out again, because the next thing Liam says, head still angled over the dashboard, towards the night sky, is, “Hey I’m… I’m not ready to go home yet.”
Silence settles between them. Theo’s hands are on the wheel.
“What d’you wanna do?”
Liam shrugs, “I dunno I guess… we could just stay out here…”
“In the parking lot?”
“It’s stupid, whatever.”
Maybe he should say something but no words come until Liam sinks into the seat and fiddles with the string of his red hoodie.
Theo looks around and then back at Liam. “C’mere.” He doesn’t wait, slams the door and hops to the hood of his truck.
Liam follows.
It’s awkward.
Liam lumbers to the front of the truck, but he stays grounded.
“Plans tomorrow?” Theo throws out, arms straight and palms flat beside him.
“Just Christmas dinner, my dad’s supposed to be off but who knows.”
“Not a happy time in the Dunbar household? Or is it Geyer household? Dunbar-Geyer?"
Liam laughs, “My mom’s name is Lewis . She’s never changed it."
Theo’s eyebrows hike and Liam looks delighted at the reaction.
"We thought about, I dunno, changing or smushing or whatever but in the end it doesn’t matter, you know?” He hefts himself to the hood. “I’d rather just be Liam Dunbar for the rest of my life. Way easier that way."
Liam wrings hands over parted knees and he smells like paper that’s curling from smoke.
“Anyway, it’s happy, it’s just. He’s always working on holidays. But he has to, you know? He has to help. People get into all kinds of shit during Christmas. And sometimes it’s not their fault. For some people it’s… like heart attacks and cancer…”
“That why you spend Christmas Eve at the hospital?”
“Kind of… one year he had to go in and I just begged him to take me. He said he couldn’t but my mom took me anyway and we stayed in the lobby and he would hug us every time he came out. I never realised how busy he was… how much people depended on him. And, it’s super fucking stupid but I never knew people could… die… during Christmas…”
Theo hums again. Thinks about how Liam probably learned that lesson around the same time other kids were still leaving out milk and cookies. Around the same time Theo bought into the myth of his own ascension.
Liam clears his throat, but his voice breaks anyway. “You could… come if you want… for dinner.”
Theo blinks over at him. Liam isn’t staring. Doesn’t notice Theo staring. Their postures are mirrored. Except for the staring.
“I mean my mom wouldn’t mind, and you already met my dad.”
Theo is careful to keep his heartbeat slow, his scent masked. He reclines against the hood and rests his head on the windshield, raises one leg to bend at the knee. Then he’s looking up at the night sky, at the dotting of stars at the edges of the wintry clouds, and says belatedly, “Christmas with the Lewis-Dunbar-Geyers sounds like a swell time but. Got plans.”
Liam is still leaning on his palms. He swivels to stare down at Theo. “With who? You said—”
Theo smirks, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Liam rolls his eyes and lowers himself, shoulders flat against the glass. Arms clasped over his abdomen.
The insects in Beacon Hills haven’t left like everyone else, and as they lie there on the hood of the blue truck, a chorus of critters sing away into the night. It’s probably after 12 now.
“Liam.”
“Yeah.”
Theo turns his head to face him, and he’s not sure why it happens but he’s staring. Liam’s staring. “Thanks.”
Liam’s voice is strained. “For what?”
“Would you believe me if I said I’m not sure?”
Theo doesn’t know why it happens.
Liam leans forward.
Theo stays steady.
Their lips meet and all his senses dull, then every nerve is on fire under the slide of Liam’s soft lips. His stomach flutters, like a cliche, a thousand butterflies anxious to bore their way out of him. Torn between flying up past his throat and making a home of him. His eyes fall shut. Liam presses more firmly and Theo presses back.
Theo tries to stay steady, manages only a semblance of coherent thought: shit shit shit but his skin tingles where Liam’s fingers trace the edge of his face. His hand slides down Theo’s nape and he loses it, whines into Liam’s mouth embarrassingly long. Theo bites Liam’s lip and that gets him a hand on the bare skin of his shoulder, the same hand that snakes around to pull him closer. The air around them is much cooler when they separate, barely, lips making skin-thin contact on each exhale, but their breaths are warm and wet. He doesn’t know why it’s happening but he doesn’t want it to stop. He peppers kisses from Liam’s mouth to his ear and then down the line of his neck. He licks at his throat and nips the skin there. Liam’s hands are warm. Theo makes his way to his collar bone. He sinks his tongue into the dip there again and again. Liam’s hands still. Halting their exploration of Theo’s fever-hot skin. Theo’s eyes flutter open and he peers into blue eyes shadowed by the night. They’re both panting softly.
Theo brings a hand to Liam’s face. Sure fingers sliding over scorching skin, until he rests his palm and then thumbs Liam’s brow, blue eyes half-lidded and lips parted as his breath slows.
Liam keeps staring.
“Merry Christmas.”
Liam huffs a short laugh.
Theo kisses him again.