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Foolish’s hands are sweating. He wipes them roughly against his thighs, and then quickly checks to see if they’ve left stains – no, thank god. His heart beats a bruising rhythm against his ribcage, and he reaches up to rub against the place he’s sure will soon be black and blue – calm down, he thinks desperately, sucking in a long, deep breath – but it’s no use, and, of course it isn’t. When has Foolish ever been able to calm down on demand?
Casting one last look down at himself, Foolish curses internally. Why had he decided to wear this? He’d wanted to make a good first impression on the kid, and kids love stuff like this, so surely it’s not a bad decision, right? But – god, what if Vegetta thinks it’s weird? Is this a more formal thing, and Foolish just didn’t pick up on it? Should he have brought out his best shirt, tucked it in, made sure everything was neat and proper?
He doesn’t even remember if he ironed the damn jumper.
Doesn’t matter – too late now. He’s here, standing in front of the front door like a weirdo; has been for the past few minutes, trying desperately to muster up the courage to reach up and knock. Alright, after three, Foolish thinks, bracing himself. One, two –
The door opens.
Foolish freezes, hand hovering in the air where he’d finally been ready to knock.
“Foolish!” Vegetta says, a little breathlessly, and a tight knot that Foolish hadn’t realised had been festering in his throat loosens all at once. He looks a little flushed, hair just slightly out of place, and Foolish thinks he can see a piece of tinsel within the black strands. There’s a purple apron tied around his middle, an oven glove hanging off the hand not holding the doorknob, but behind the purple material, Foolish thinks he can see –
“Are we wearing the same jumper?”
Vegetta’s eyes flick down to Foolish’s own jumper, and then he laughs, a short burst of amusement. “Santa Jaws,” he reads, taking in the way a large, roaring shark wearing a Christmas hat adorns both their chests. “I thought you would think it’s funny.”
Foolish laughs breathlessly, shaking his head. And to think he’d been so nervous about it. “I do find it funny,” he says, watching as Vegetta’s smile grows – and then something very small and very fast comes barrelling around the corner and smacks straight into Vegetta’s legs.
“Ay – ¡Leonarda, cuidado!”
“Ow,” says the little one, looking to be around eight years old, rubbing their nose in a disgruntled sort of way. “Pa, por qué estás aqu–”
They catch sight of Foolish and cut themselves off immediately, eyes widening. Giving what he hopes is a friendly wave, Foolish grins – but the kid seems to close in on themselves, tucking themselves behind Vegetta’s leg and peeking out with one large, cautious eye.
“Ah,” Foolish mutters sheepishly. “I think I scared them.”
Vegetta shakes his head, dismissively, but Foolish sees the way his hand comes down to rest protectively atop his child’s head, seemingly without thought; instinctively. “Don’t worry, Leo is just shy.”
He turns his attention to the kid. “Look, this is Foolish, I told you about him,” he reassures them, voice taking on a higher, gentler tone, and Foolish can’t help the way his expression softens. He offers a cheerful “that’s me!” but the kid stays silent, clutching at the material of Vegetta’s trousers, still mostly hidden behind him.
Vegetta looks up, apologetic. “Ah – she will get used to you soon,” he assures Foolish. Foolish nods, hoping he isn’t lying.
“This looks delicious,” Foolish exclaims, smiling gratefully and feeling warm as Vegetta pulls out his chair for him. On the table there are a whole host of dishes: meats, cheeses, bowls of soup, fish, crispy-looking loaves of bread – Foolish’s mouth waters as he takes it all in. Next to him, at the head of the table, Vegetta sits, with Leo beside him so that her and Foolish are opposite each other, and Foolish throws her another reassuring smile, hoping to communicate that he’s a non-threat – it must be a lot for her, meeting her father’s long-time boyfriend, right? – but she simply averts her eyes. Foolish doesn’t think she necessarily dislikes him; just seems very, very shy – and that’s okay, he decides. He won’t force it. She can come around to him at her own pace.
“Soup, Foolish?” Vegetta asks, and Foolish jolts out of his thoughts, welcoming the ladle of soup into his bowl gratefully. It turns out to be delicious, and Foolish expresses as such, humming an enthusiastic “mmm!” and watching as Vegetta nudges Leo with a meaningful look. She doesn’t make eye contact, but a tiny, pleased smile forms on her mouth.
Foolish slowly catches up. “Is this your recipe, Leo?” He asks, making sure to let some impressed disbelief seep into his tone. Leo flushes at the attention, but then –
“I helped Pa make it,” she mumbles, barely audible, and Foolish feels as if his heart has exploded into a little ball of confetti, kickstarting an ecstatic celebration within his chest. Trying his best not to show it too much, he makes eye contact with Vegetta, who is also smiling in a forcibly subdued sort of way, as if trying not to draw too much attention to how pleased he is at Leo’s short, but undeniably there, sentence.
“Well,” Foolish begins, theatrically astonished. “This might just be the best soup I’ve ever tasted. Have you ever thought about becoming a chef?”
There’s a tiny little huff of breath from Leo, which might have been a laugh. She shakes her head, but she’s still smiling, and it makes Foolish grin, giving up on holding it back.
“Or – or!” He says suddenly, snapping his fingers as if coming up with some grand idea. “You could curl up really small and sit on top of your Pa’s head under a chef hat like in Ratatouille, and then you’d control all his movements to make the best soup in the world, and everyone would come to your house and be like ‘is this where the famous Leonarda lives?’ and you’d be like ‘yes, that’s me, would you like to try my soup? It costs three hundred euros –’”
“Three hundred euros?” Leo snorts, seemingly unintentionally from the way she curls back into herself immediately afterwards, shyness that had momentarily disappeared dampening the edges of her form once again – but Foolish ploughs on, grabbing her small offering with two hands and running with it.
“No – not three hundred, you’re right, that’s ridiculous,” he says. “It should cost one thousand!”
And then – Leo laughs, high and squeaky, and Foolish can’t help but hear her father in it as her cheeks turn rosy and she kicks her legs in delight beneath the table. Now that she’s smiling, really smiling, he can see that her two front teeth are missing, and the sight of her shining eyes and wide, delighted smile is so adorable that Foolish has to take a breath for a moment, feeling strangely light and warm. Involuntarily, his eyes flick to the man beside him – and Vegetta is looking at Leo with wonder in his eyes: something like surprise and disbelief and elation all at once throwing sparkling lights across his expression. Then he turns, too, and meets Foolish’s eyes, and Foolish gets to watch in real time how his eyes transition from one film reel to another; melt from the softly adoring, parental love of a father to the bone deep, all-consuming love of a partner. It’s then that some deep, hidden puzzle piece slots into place within Foolish, and he feels a sense of rightness he never has before. Vegetta’s hand finds his beneath the table, and Leo’s foot kicks his shin as she laughs, and she doesn’t shy away. None of them do.
“Merry Christmas, Foolish,” Vegetta says, and it feels like he’s saying I love you.
“Merry Christmas, Vegetta,” Foolish says back. I love you too.
“Merry Christmas!” Leo cheers, throwing her hands in the air, and Foolish thinks that maybe, one day, he could reflect the way Vegetta visibly softens at the sound of her voice, love clear in every corner of his expression.
Merry Christmas, Foolish thinks to himself as he tucks in again, haggling the price of Leo’s future soup business between mouthfuls just to make her laugh again, so hard she hiccups and Vegetta makes her take deep breaths and drink her water – but he’s smiling, and she’s stopping between sips to giggle, and Foolish is making faces at her across the table only to stop when Vegetta turns to look at him, making Leo laugh even harder – and it feels like this is what it’s all been leading up to, every decision that Foolish had ever made, right here on this table filled with Christmas food and unapologetic, unrestrained joy.
It feels like home.