Archive of Our Own ^beta

The end of year rush never really affected Jean’s department. Printers, binders, and sales usually got the stick of it with demands for more copies in time for Christmas, but in editing, the deadlines were pretty steady year-round with one or two exceptions.

That’s why Jean could lean back in his chair and leisurely scroll through the document with little more than a tut every few lines.

It did not explain why Marco Bodt and Sasha Braus thought it appropriate to mull around his office, chatting inanely and laughing too loudly when they should be on some lower level (Floor 3) since Jean was pretty sure they were part of the binders (he knew they were).

Whatever. It wasn’t Jean’s problem if they were messing up a deadline. But he sure as hell wouldn’t encourage them by joining in on the conversation or even acknowledging them. They were attention seekers, everyone knew that; like misbehaving children who did whatever got them the most looks or laughs.

Jean wouldn’t indulge them. He was good at ignoring idiots after all, what with sharing department with Eren.

“Heya, Jean.” His eyes snapped up to meet Marco’s, brown and squinted with a smile. He was always smiling. Always happy.

Jean frowned.

Before he could voice his sharp retort, his gaze slipped from Marco’s face and noticed the rest of him.

“Jesus, Marco.”

“Oh shush,” he replied instantly, the tiniest of frowns pulling at his brow, and large hands coming to rest on his hips defiantly. “I waited ‘til the first of December, specifically for you. It’s perfectly reasonable attire.”

“For work?” Jean sneered, cocking an eyebrow and biting back scathing questions as to why Marco would bother with consideration in this very specific situation and not any other time.

“If Connie can wear slogan t-shirts, I can wear a tasteful, reindeer knit.”

Jean opened his mouth, only for Sasha to butt in from Bertholdt’s desk to his left.

“I think you look cute in it, Marco.”

“Of course he looks cute in it,” Jean dismissed with a frown, looking over at her. “It’s Marco and knitwear. But that doesn’t excuse-”

“Thanks, Sasha,” Marco said over his shoulder as he walked closer to Jean, twisting down and mumbling a teasing “grumpy” whilst pinching softly at his ribs as he passed him.

Jean belatedly swatted the air where Marco’s hand had been and then rubbed at his side like he’d been hurt, heat high on his cheeks, and refusing to swivel round to watch him leave.

His hand stilled, holding where he could feel the ghost of Marco’s light touch.

He hated him.

***

There had been tensions between Jean and the binding department since the office party of 2013, at which Jean had been badgered into telling them his favourite Christmas song, and Marco had laughed in his face when he’d said Shakin’ Stevens, the rest of them chortling alongside him.

It was a shame, because the previous 4 months of Marco’s first year had been a pleasant and unexpected distraction from the hell of office life, with his frequent popping in and sitting on Jean’s desk, making conversation with pretty smiles and shy glances. But even at the green age of 23, Jean should have known better.

(Jean couldn’t remember ever being bright-eyed and bushy tailed, but looking and thinking back, it was almost frightening how young he seemed. What was even more worrying was the aged knowledge that at some point in the future, he’ll look back on the here and now and think precisely the same thing. God help future him.)

His budding crush was snipped at the root, and he hadn’t even bothered with an excuse as he’d walked away from that jovial group, continuing to drink and cast wary looks at the binding team all night and following two years. Jean wanted nothing more to do with them or ever-so-social Marco, and he wanted nothing to do with the stupid holidays. He most definitely didn’t want some awful combination of the two.

But, as already established, office life was hellish, and of course such a thing was unavoidable every goddamn year.

“Alright,” Levi stood up from his desk, his short stature silhouetted by the windows behind him, but making him no less commanding, or his weary demeanour less visible; department heads always seemed to be under stress, no matter what time of year. Jean didn’t envy them. “Raise your hand if you don’t have a deadline this week.”

Jean lifted his arm, one eye still reading through his file.

“Keep it raised if you’re on your final draft.” He cast a quick look around the room to see only a couple of other people with their hand still in the air before he stupidly looked to Levi in curiosity. Their eyes met. “Kirschtein.” Damnit. “I want you to take this,” he threw a USB stick across the room, aiming it perfectly for Jean’s desk but leaving him scrabbling and fumbling as he tried to catch it before it hit anything hard. “And this,” he raised a thick file before slapping it down on his own desk. “To the binders, and see if Hanji’s gotten anything from sales yet.”

Before Jean could even move from his desk, Levi sat down and continued to type furiously, once again blocking the rest of the office out, Jean included.

He daren’t speak a word against Levi, but that didn’t mean his thoughts didn’t grumble and curse about having to go to Floor 3 and why the hell did he have to throw the USB if I’ve got to come to his desk anyway, the stupid, old, piece of-

He snatched the file up and made his way to elevators, breathing deeply and preparing himself for the onslaught.

There was a surprising lack of running around, and everyone seemed calmly occupied with their work, the Three Stooges included, leaving Jean’s pathway to Hanji clear and undisturbed.

It was too jarring for him to feel any sense of relief or joy about that.

The sharp sound of whistling caught his attention, tuneful and jaunty, the faintest recognition tugging at Jean’s chest and stopping him in his tracks. He looked around, noticing no one else seemed bothered by the noise and spotting Sasha humming her own tune quietly nearby.

This was not the look of an office under pressure.

And somehow, that was infuriating.

As Jean started again, he caught the stretch of green and white patterns over broad shoulders in his peripheral, and knew instantly it was Marco. Sure enough, soft black hair appeared as he stood up straight, his hands moving deftly over his work station in practised motions Jean couldn’t figure out from this distance. What he could work out was that he was wearing yet another festive jumper, and when he looked to the side, his lips were pursed, short, high bursts of song passing through them.

Of course it’d Marco.

Jean turned away and continued on to Hanji, dropping off both items off with a pleasant exchange, and unsurprisingly returning empty handed.

His walk out of the office was unfortunately less simple.

“Jean!” Sasha called, bouncing to his side before he could react, Connie appearing behind her a moment later. “You off for lunch now?”

He looked at his watch without missing a step.

“Yep.”

“Cool,” she continued unfazed. “We wanted to talk to you.”

“Sorry, I said I’d eat with Armi-”

A hand on his arm halted and turned him to face Sasha’s cheeky face and Connie’s sheepish – or maybe suspicious? – smile.

“It won’t take long.” He assured, but Jean already felt on edge.

“We know we’re organised the office party for a couple weeks time, but we kinda wanted to do something more. Y’know, drinks, dinner, maybe a party or two? Just like a gathering for us young’uns without the bosses lurking in the corner. You in?”

No. “Look, Sash-”

“Aw, c’mon Jean. It’s just something on the weekends, and a load of guys from editing have already-”

“I’m shopping this weekend, so-”

“Next week then.” Connie quickly added.

“I can’t-”

“Then at least come to the party!” Connie snapped. Jean looked at him with surprise, but he looked away with a frustrated frown. Before Jean could ask, Sasha stepped in.

“C’mon Jean. I know we don’t hang out much anymore, but we used to have fun ,right? And Marco’s already bailed on us; apparently busy every weekend ‘til Christmas – we’re beginning to feel unloved!”

“Though,” Connie jumped back into the conversation. “We think he’s skipping ‘cause he’s got a date this year. Which we can forgive, ‘cause he’s been the single, supportive friend since, like, we’ve known him.”

Jean nodded politely, though thought that if the ever talkative Marco wasn’t being upfront about what his plans were, then it was more likely he was working elsewhere, or at least looking for another job. Frankly, Jean was surprised he’d stayed in this job as long as he had. Rumour had it Marco had tried his hand at almost everything; working in restaurants whilst in school, volunteering during his gap year, doing theatre work at uni; he’d even been in the police force before joining here.

He was flighty.

And still happily whistling in the corner.

“So you’ll definitely come? To the party?” Sasha asked, continuing just before Jean can decline. “There’ll be tonnes of booze, and food; all on the boss’s tab. You don’t even have to stay the whole time; just show your face, yeah?”

It was all beginning to sound a bit desperate and uncomfortable, so Jean nodded with a sigh, and reassured himself that he wouldn’t actually have to spend all that much time with binding department on the night.

He’d definitely be asking Armin whether he was going first though.

“Good man.” Connie said with a smile and a hearty slap to the back, Sasha offering up a beaming ‘cool’ before they both disappeared back to their stations with happy chatter, and finally allowing Jean to make his way out.

His eyes automatically went back to the source of whistling, Marco busy in his work and somehow managing to still look liking he was smiling as the titled his head in time with his vaguely familiar tune.

For the rest of the day, disjointed snippets of a song Jean couldn’t grasp repeated over and over in his head, grating him like nails on a chalkboard.

***

For someone who despised the rush and noise of the city on a good day, Jean actually didn’t mind Christmas shopping.

He hated it as a kid, being dragged from crowded shop to crowded shop by his mother, looking for gifts for relatives he only heard of once a year, and being yanked away from the toy displays, any and all talk of them and whiny wishes ignored as he was pushed into a supermarket and told to ‘either find the greenest cabbage, or stay out of the way’.

Without his mother and a child’s injustice, blissfully left to his own devices, Jean rather liked looking at the shops at Christmas.

He could do without the shoving, the rude demands of customers, and the near constant high pitched squealing of tantrums, but there was a sense of nostalgia, a warm fondness knowing that everyone was preparing for the same thing, that at this time of year, the city’s loud and insufferable selfishness was most likely on behalf of someone else.

It was much easier to find happiness in it when he was on the outskirts, able to leave and come back at any time he pleased, no children and no time constraint to his short check-list.

Presents for his parents, Armin, Bertholdt, and Mikasa, a token gift for Eren, and something for his office to share.

And maybe a box or two of mince pies for himself.

Very simple.

The first weekend of December brought the first flurry of snow, and for the first time in a long while, Jean walked down the bustling street with a smile on his face, watching the tiny, spaced, specks of white drift down and flow with biting wind, his nose and cheeks already tingling red with the cold, and his ears ringing from slightly grating noise of children’s excitement.

The mall was less heart-warming; wide walkways a pulsing mass of bodies and noise, but the grand decorations and overhead crooning of Michael Bublé kept him in the Christmassy mood, and he ventured into the depths sharp elbows and bellowing voices with a deep breath.

His parents’ were the most important and easiest to find, and if he splashed out a little more on his mother than he budgeted for after seeing a woman fret over the different models of Lego whilst bickering over the aisle with her brat of a son, well. She needn’t know he was getting sentimental in his old age.

Armin and Bertholdt were simple enough, though Jean took his time in entering the packed stores, perusing the nearby windows as he waited for the swell to die down a little.

Mikasa was more complicated. Always was. He wanted to get her something nice, something she deserved, but he also didn’t want any misunderstandings about him still harbouring that mortifying crush. Not that she would notice – she never did – or read anything into it, but Eren was a shit stirrer and would definitely take a teasing shot at Jean given half the chance.

So Jean wasn’t going to give him a target.

He walked slowly toward the centre of the mall, checking each window he passed, wondering if things like pretty bath products – things he was sure Mikasa would enjoy but never think to get herself – were either too intimate a suggestion or too generically ‘for girls’ for him to give.

The gigantic Christmas tree in the very centre of the mall stopped him in his place and thoughts, towering over people and floors, and every inch decorated with lights and tinsel and baubles bigger than Jean’s head.

Maybe a break would do him some good.

He walked over, careful to keep out of dashing people’s way, and trying not to look like an overexcited child as he took in the sheer size of the thing. It was beautiful. Clearly a lot of care and thought went into the decorating, more than Jean thought people could be bothered with these days, and it smelt wonderful; earthy and wet and Christmas.

He wished he could afford a real tree in his apartment every year, but he had to make do with the second-hand, artificial thing he’d stuck by the window last night. It still looked pretty good though; Jean was an artist with lomenta.

The sudden sharpness of crying caught his attention, and only then did Jean notice long, winding, line to the side of the tree. Parents were huddled over their restless children, all standing in a ridiculous queue like sardines packed in a tin; Jean couldn’t even see where the end was.

He couldn’t see the start either to be fair, but he could guess.

There were quite a few onlookers – mostly men waiting outside shops – some with relief and pity on their faces, others with a look of deep dread of what was to come. But there were a lot of smiles too, most directed at the same place, and Jean started navigating his way around the giant tree and mass of people, eyes frequently trying to catch sight of what everyone was looking at.

And there it was. Santa’s Grotto. A little wooden hut that was convincingly decorated to look like a snowy house, with sweet statues and fake snow spread across the floor; it was a pretty good display.

Jean couldn’t see the man himself - though he caught flashes of green that suggested elves were on stand-by - but he did notice a pretty little shop just behind the grotto with unusual fabric and sparkling decorations filling its windows, and continued to walk around the roped off area.

The nearer he got to Santa, the more he noticed the bewildered looks of adults passing by with their excited, babbling children.

Something was up, and Jean was nothing if not cautious.

He didn’t know what to keep an eye out for, assuming that if something dangerous or theft was going on, they would’ve been warning others, so he simply cast quick glancea about himself and kept a tighter hold on his bags as he pushed through mini crowd after mini crowd.

He finally made it to the shop, even smaller and prettier up close, but though the area outside was practically clear with everyone getting sucked into the grotto, the little store was still full and he didn’t fancy trying to fight his way in just yet, instead settling for joining to group of people waiting to the side and watching the festivities in the centre.

He hadn’t realised how close he’d gotten whilst walking round, focused solely on his destination and his possessions, and as he leant against the glossy white wall, he finally caught sight of Santa in all his red and white glory.

Jean couldn’t see much past the first few people in the queue, but it was easy to see those children were besotted with man sitting in front of them, silent and open-mouthed with awe and excitement.

Jean smiled.

He was a pretty good Santa. The elves and their half-hearted costumes could’ve been better, but the man himself seemed to make up for it. At least they got an actual old man; Jean’s experiences as a child were less authentic, just middle aged men with a beer gut and some wig poorly strapped to their face. But this guy looked like it might be his profession, with rosy, chubby cheeks, and a thick, wiry, white bread that trailed down to meet his round belly.

The guy must get teased all year round, but he seemed to smile so genuinely at the children he lifted onto his knee that Jean wondered if maybe he’d always wanted to do this.

He was just glancing to check the state of his little shop when he caught the expression on the woman’s face as she and her exuberant son were escorted out of the grotto’s roped ring. She looked confused. Her wrinkled brow furrowed and teeth sinking into her lip, she glanced back at the old man once, twice, but never slowing her stride.

Jean forgot about the shop.

This close to the queue, it was hard to discern anything out of the noise, but Jean was near enough to catch a sentence or two if the child was particularly excited. The next little girl seemed shy, or not, Jean thought, as she bounded up Santa’s small platform and stood still in front of him, her hands clasped behind her back politely.

She only spoke after the old man said hello, and Jean had to strain his ears to hear anything at all. At first he thought he just couldn’t hear her clearly enough, but he soon realised that constants and vowels were flowing from her mouth in patterns Jean couldn’t comprehend, so foreign to him he couldn’t even guess at where the language was from.

That explained the reservation amidst all the excitement then.

Her mother, presumably, was quickly striding up to the two, but before she could say a thing, the old man smiled and said something that made the girl’s face light up. His large hands quickly whisked her up and placed her on his knee, her giggling a bubbling concoction of excitement and relief as they quietly spoke of the things she wished for with matching smiles.

Jean saw the surprise on both the mother’s and nearby elf’s face.

Well. Isn’t that some Miracle on 34^th Street shit.

The little girl didn’t seem to want to leave, but with some coaxing from her mother and the elves – and some hearty words from Santa – she skipped off the platform, and rattled off strings upon strings of unrecognisable words to her smiling mother, looking the happiest Jean had ever seen someone.

Once they passed, he looked back to the grotto, intrigued about what might happen next, only to catch the old man’s drifting eye. He seemed to do a double take, watching the small dispute at the front of queue before suddenly looking back. Uneasiness instantly gripped Jean, wondering if he’d done something wrong or had been string too long, too rudely, even though the old man was surrounded by several gazing crowds.

Before Jean could look away or bolt into the nearest shop, the man smiled at him and gave him a little wave. Jean automatically looked to the people around him, thinking maybe he was standing with the man’s family or something, but when he saw no recognition on their faces, he turned back and was greeted with a laughing smile and another wave.

Jean didn’t know what to do other than slowly lift his hand and give a weak wave of his own, but that seemed to be all the old man wanted as he nodded with a wide grin and greeted his next hopeful child.

Jean’s hand fell limp again, and when he caught a group leaving the little shop he’d wanted to go in, he dashed to the door and disappeared amongst fine fabrics and rich incense; blush tinting his cheeks with embarrassment and… what? Christmas cheer?

***

The snow started to fall steadily the next week, and it wasn’t so joyous when there were trains and busses to catch, or when the sidewalk became too slippery to run to the office.

It put some people in a foul mood.

Others, it hadn’t dampened in the slightest. Naturally.

“So, as you would’ve seen in the group email, Sash and I have organised some drinks this weekend.” Connie shouted from one of the cafeteria tables, grinning like an idiot completely unaware of the trouble he’d be in if one of the seniors walked in.

He coughed pointedly into his hand to get the guy in front of him to either stop gawping at Connie and move his tray along, or get out of the damn line. He shuffled forward, and Jean slid his tray along, frowning at the options and trying to block Connie’s nonsense out.

He’s successful. Until someone else popped up beside him.

“Hey,” Jean ignored Marco too, picking up an orange juice, reading the back, and replacing it for a water. “Don’t usually see you here; tempted by the festive offerings?”

He scoffed. “Not likely. Just didn’t have time to make lunch.”

“Oh.” It fell quiet between them then, Connie’s voice filtering between them a little, but no distinct words, at least for Jean. He didn’t want a conversation, never did with Marco, but that hadn’t stopped him before. Maybe it was easier for him to pick up on that when Jean could keep his back angled towards him.

Jean was just getting twitchy with the silence and stilled line, when Marco spoke up again. “It’s actually pretty good, y’know. The food here.” He clarified, picking up something Jean doesn’t try to look at. “I never seem to have enough time to make my own these days.”

Jean grunted, but didn’t offer anything else as he picked up a salad.

That didn’t deter Marco though. “Salad? Is that all you’re having?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t you want to try something from the menu? I had some of the apple and cinnamon crumble yesterday; it was amazing.”

“Nope.”

“Nope?” Marco questioned, and Jean worried that maybe ‘nope’ wasn’t a grammatically response, but can’t for the life of him remember just how Marco phrased the things he said, so he remains silent. “Um. Do you not like cinnamon, or…?”

“I don’t like getting fat.” Jean replied, knocking his tray against the idiot’s in front to get him to take a hint.

“Fat?” Marco laughed, and Jean needed the line to be moving. “You think you’ll get fat from a serving of crumble?”

“I was a chubby kid,” Jean found himself mumbling. “Festive weight sticks to me like glue.”

“So?”

“So?” Jean parroted with a sneer.

“Everyone puts weight on at Christmas. It’s half the fun isn’t it?” When Jean didn’t reply, Marco continued. “I love Christmas food. I probably have a mince pie everyday for a month.”

“Me too,” Jean replied distractedly, sighing as the guy in front finally stops for good. “That’s why I don’t need to add to my woes with crappy crumble.”

He only realised what he said when Marco laughed, and he turned to him the first time. There were creases by his eyes and freckles disappearing into the dimples of his grin. “Well, I think you’d look just as good with some softness to ya.”

“More of me to love?” He said sarcastically as the line shifted ever so slightly. When Marco didn’t respond, he looked back to find warm, brown eyes and a familiar smile from years ago. Marco shrugged softly, the corners of his lips twitching.

It took an unfortunate amount of effort for Jean to turn around and keep up with the suddenly moving line.

Cheering distracted him further, and he looked to find Connie still on the table, Sasha now by his side, listing off all the drinks they were going to be offering. He thought to read Connie’s slogan of the day for the first time in months, and rolled his eyes at the ‘I’m out of bed and dressed, what more do you want?’.

“He looks like a damn 14 year old.” He commented unthinkingly, half forgetting Marco was there.

“I would’ve thought you’d appreciate and relate to the sentiment.” He teased, and Jean only casts him a quick look before greeting the cashier.

“I don’t need to have my sentiments written across my body.” He grumbled as he handed over his card.

“It may not be on your t-shirt Jean, but it’s written all over your face.”

He caught Marco’s sly smile as he took his card back, huffing a “dork” as he picked up his tray and moved to a table as far away from Connie’s disruptions as possible.

***

“Mom,” Jean said as soon as he picked up the phone. “How many times do I have to tell you not to ring me before work? I don’t have ti-”

“I know sweetie, but it’s urgent.”

Jean sighed, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder as he picked the knife back up and started cutting up the tomato. “What.”

“Well, you remember Noel, right? Your cousin? Auntie Clarissa-”

“Yes, Mom. I know Noel.” I also know what cousin means, he added testily to himself. He knew it wasn’t urgent.

“Well, Clarissa is having some trouble with him, and after the divorce she’s been working flat out and never has any free time, and it’s so much worse around Christmas time, you know that don’t you sweetie?”

“Mom,” he interrupted, placing the tomato slices carefully on the lettuce bed. “What do you want?”

“I knew she shouldn’t have married that man. I said at the time, Jean, I said ‘Clarissa, that man might be good for right now, but a man like that doesn-”

“Mom!” Jean struggled to keep the phone balanced as he bent to open the fridge. “What do you want?”

“Well, the thing is, she’s at the end of her tether, and that poor boy is having a difficult enough time as it is, and she doesn’t have time to take him to see Father Christmas this year, so I said that we could, but you know what your father’s like, and I can’t drive in this weather-”

“No.” He replied instantly, slamming the door shut and slicing the cold chicken breast thinly.

“Jean Kirschtein, I did not raise you to be so rude to your own family.”

“The kid’s a brat, Mom. He hasn’t changed the slightest since the divorce, which was at least two years ago, by the way.”

“That doesn’t mean your Aunt Clarissa doesn’t have those same burdens, Jean. Some problems can’t just be waited out. When you get older, you’ll-”

“Mom,” he groaned, placing the knife down and bracing himself, taking deep breaths. “I’m not taking Noel anywhere. I’ll see him on Christmas Eve with everyone else, and no sooner.”

“So just because he talks back a bit, that he can be a little naughty, you say he should miss out on seeing Father Christmas?”

Well that’s kind of how that works, Jean thought, snarky with her disapproving tone. “I’m saying the brat can go see Santa with his other brat friends. We don’t have to get involved.”

“Please, Jean. He’s ten. He needs to know his family is around and cares, even about these little things.”

“He won’t want me, Mom.” He assured as he ripped up more lettuce. “He’s never liked me, and I’m pretty sure if he does want to see Santa, he’s not going to want to see him with me. He’ll play up, you know he will.”

“Oh, he just looks up to you Jean. He wants you to see him as the same age, it-”

“Even if that were true – which we both know it isn’t – that’s precisely my point. If I take him he to see Santa, he’s going to kick up a fuss about not being a kid, and then he’ll upset the other children-”

“Jean, I don’t ask you for much.” Jean quieted at the seriousness of her tone, but couldn’t help but think she asks him for stuff all the time. “Please, just take him to see Father Christmas this weekend. I’ll pay for the fare and whatever else you do-”

“Mom, you don’t have to do that-”

“But please, just take him. If not for his sake or your poor aunt’s, then mine. It’ll only take an hour. Surely you could do that.”

Jean took the phone and held it against his jumper, letting out along, frustrated groan – pained, almost – before bringing it back to his shoulder and replying solemnly.

“Fine.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” There was a pause. For the length at which his mother could talk, it was never a good sign. “I’ve heard there’s this wonderful Father Christmas in the mall nearby you-”

“No fucking way.”

“Language, Jean!”

“I saw the queue for that thing last weekend; there’s no way.”

“You’ve already done your Christmas shopping?” She asked, completely throwing Jean off and dousing his fire.

“Er, well, yeah. There’s a couple thing-”

“Oh sweetie, who would’ve thought my Jean would grow up to be so organised. You’re the perfect example for Noel-”

“Mom,”

“And if the queue was that long, he must be good, so you and Noel can go there first-”

“I’m not doing it, Mom!”

“Jean Kirschtein!”

By the time he’d gotten his mother to hang up – after getting everything she wanted, yet again – he barely hand enough time to change his shoes and open his advent calendar, throwing the chocolate in with his hastily finished sandwich for lunch.

It was not a good way to start his day.

***

And is day did not improve.

Christmas may not have changed Jean’s work schedule much, but it also didn’t change the habits of his authors, and a rapidly approaching deadline and a late submission of the latest draft meant Jean was stuck at his desk for lunch, taking much longer than the assigned hour to eat his sandwich between hastily corrected sentences and highlighted paragraphs for deletion.

Apparently, thing weren’t so busy on Floor 3 – Jean was beginning to wonder if they ever were – since Sasha had once again been traipsing around his office, talking to god knows who about god knows what. She was mostly ignorable, until Jean took a moment to appreciate his chocolate was in the shape of a present before popping it in his mouth, and then she popped up beside him.

He should have expected that.

“Was that chocolate?”

“Yep.” He replied, not taking his eyes off the screen and making a note about the word order.

“Where’d you get it?”

“My advent calendar.”

“Aren’t you too old to have an advent calendar?” That caught his attention, the voice deep and gruff and most certainly not Sasha. He looked up to see she’d drawn attention to him; Eren leaning much closer to his desk than he appreciated, and Reiner sitting on Bertholdt’s, continuing with a sceptical frown. “Especially a chocolate one.”

“Yeah,” Eren butted in, Jean’s head snapping back to his smirking face. “It’s kinda creepy at this age.”

“Creepy?” Jean asked, with his own dubious tone that never failed to wind Eren up. Before another word could be said, Levi strode in silently, his bad mood palpable and physically moving people into their proper seats.

Jean turned back to his work, scowling at the screen and ignoring Sasha’s hasty ‘see ya’.

***

Friday couldn’t have come soon enough, until Jean remembered about taking Noel the next day, and then suddenly he was trapped in the awful place between the stifling office and the torture of a preteen brat in a crowded shopping mall.

The fact Levi wasn’t in was meant to be the silver lining, but apparently his absence was a free for all to each lunch in their office, being louder and messier than Jean’s frayed nerves could stand at that moment.

And of course Eren and Connie were the best of friends and that thought it perfectly reasonable to holler at each other from opposite sides of the room.

He didn’t need this.

Not after the week he’d had.

And he definitely didn’t need that merry whistling getting stuck in his head again.

He knew that song, he knew it. He must not have heard it in a long time, because the irritation it brought had a sense of nostalgia, an unclear memory. He didn’t need this now.

As if by his command, the whistling stopped, but a quick glance up told him Eren was waving over to the door, calling Marco’s name a moment later, and Jean tuned back out, snippets of Christmas lists and karaoke choices seeping through his wall of concentration occasionally.

“I don’t trust people who don’t have chocolate advent calendars,” Jean jumped, his chair unintentionally turning to face Marco who’d somehow snuck up to him on his own wheeled seat. “It suggests to me of a fear of joy, a lack of soul.” He teased with a smile, casually leaning one elbow on Jean’s desk, looking more comfortable than Jean thought he had any right to be. He stared at the offending elbow. “Mine was a sleigh this morning.”

“Congratulations.” Jean deadpanned, briefly meeting Marco’s eyes with an unimpressed look, before facing his computer again, the thought, ‘mine was star’ running through his head all the while.

“Got a lot of work?” Marco asked, unnecessarily in Jean’s mind.

“You clearly don’t.” He grumbled. “I’m surprised you guys haven’t been fired yet.”

“Excuse you, we run a very tight ship, thank you very much.” Marco replied in joking offense. “We’ve not got a lot to do this year,” he added a little seriously. “Well, not as much as usual anyway. People just don’t buy that many physical books; haven’t had as many reorders this year.”

Jean nodded, not feeling the same sense of wrathful injustice Armin would about that, but still sorry to hear about the constant decline of sales.

Marco didn’t sound upset about it, “Besides, every office gets lax around this time; you can’t blame anyone for having as much fun as they can.”

“I can if it affects my work.”

Marco laughed, a gentle poke to Jean’s shoulder forcing his attention back on him. “Grumpy,” he stated with a knowing smile, and Jean wanted to roll his eyes, to stick his tongue, to poke back, but turned back to his file and tried to concentrate on the pace of the scene.

He couldn’t.

Marco didn’t say anything else, simply listening to the conversations going on around them and assuming Jean was either busy working or doing the same.

He wasn’t.

He didn’t hear a word anyone said, couldn’t read a word on his screen. In all honestly, Jean wasn’t sure what he was doing, other than being aware. Aware of Marco’s knees being a foot away from Jean’s thigh, aware of the odd huffed breath as he was amused by other people, aware that this was the longest they’d been around each other and not said anything.

Jean didn’t like it.

But that wasn’t to say he liked talking with Marco either.

And the silence was broken before Jean was ready.

“What about you, Jean?” Marco asked like they’re both part of a larger conversation. “Are you the Mariah or Eartha type?”

Jean looked at him for a good long moment before deciding.

“What?”

Marco smiled patiently, “Is your Christmas list materialistic, or are you hoping for someone special, someone in particular?”

Jean continued to stare.

Marco sighed, his posture dropping a little. “I’m asking what you want for Christmas.”

Oh! Jean thought, but easily replied, “Some peace and quiet would be nice.”

Marco’s lips quirked, full flesh stretched a little thinner than usual. “Is that a sweeping statement, a tough guy front, or a thinly veiled hint?”

“Hey, Jean!” Armin called from behind him.

“Take your pick.” He said to Marco, before swivelling in his chair and asking Armin what he wanted.

Marco was gone when he turned back around.

Jean didn’t care.

***

The mall was busier than the week before, and would be busier still with every day. It’s why Jean had chosen to go the first week of December. He dreaded to think what the shops would be like closer to Christmas, because this was hell enough. In fact he was certain this was hell.

“I’m not a fucking kid.”

“Language, Noel.” Jean snapped, angry with the brat, angry with the woman in front judging him, angry that he was old enough to be angry at kids for swearing, and angry at his mother most of all.

“I’m not a kid. How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want to do this? It’s stupid. Who the hell still believes in Santa?”

“I’m warning you,” Jean hissed, dropping into a crouch and shoving whatever the equivalent of a GameBoy was these days out of Noel’s face to meet his familiar eyes. “You say that again – any of that; the swearing, the Santa stuff – and I will take this away and make sure your mom doesn’t give it back to you until after Christmas.”

“Pfft,” he scoffed, ripping the game from under Jean’s hand and un-pausing it. “Like she’d stick with that.”

“Fine.” Jean stated, pushing the game back down again. “I’ll make sure my mom doesn’t give it back to you until after Christmas.”

Noel scowled back, and it really said something about Jean’s day that this stalemate was a victory.

And a short lived one at that.

“I’m not a kid!” He shouted as Jean stood back up.

“I know, I heard you the other 50 times. It doesn’t stop you being 10 though, does it?”

“10 year olds don’t believe in this crap!”

Before either of them knew it, Jean had snatched the game out of Noel’s hands, and pointed it at him threateningly.

“Enough. There are children here who want to be here, and you won’t ruin this for them.”

“Then why can’t we leave-”

“Because your mom wanted to do something nice for you, and I promised them we’d go.”

“So? Just tell them we did it, and let’s do something else.”

Jean wanted to. He dearly wanted to. They’d been stuck queuing for an hour already, and all the children were getting restless around them, the adults not far behind with looks of sheer hatred in their deadened eyes. Jean wanted out, but Noel didn’t think twice about what he said to Aunt Clarissa, and Jean knew Noel wouldn’t provide back up with his own mother either, so it was a no go.

Plus...

“We can’t. My mom knows when I’m lying and I don’t need that hassle.”

There was a suspicious lack of retort, so Jean looked down at his cousin to find him gazing up at him with disgust.

“You’re such a mommy’s boy.” He sneered, crossing his arms and facing the front defiantly.

Jean pulled a face at him.

He looked around, basking in the relief from his own half-pint companion if no-one else’s, admiring the tree once again, and getting a closer look at the grotto decorations. There were plenty of kids running around the area, better behaved and trusted to expend their excited energy nearby.

Jean knocked his hip against Noel’s arm.

“Look, there are loads of 10 year olds.”

Noel frowned at him, and slowly dragged his eyes over to where Jean had gestured in a way that said Jean was a severe idiot. It was reaffirmed with his mocking tone.

“They’re 6. 7 at most.”

Jean looked back and honestly couldn’t verify that. Kids were kids. They were all short and had high voices. It was impossible for him to tell them apart when they were no longer had reigns and didn’t yet have spots.

“That’d only make them three years younger than you; is it that really much of a difference?”

He did that slow look again.

“Would you want to hang out with someone 3 years younger than you?”

Jean was going to instantly reply yes, but then thought back to how young he seemed at 23, that 22 and 21 years olds were fresh from college and still so eager to drink and party, drink and party, and decided not to reply at all.

“They’re definitely 10.” He said instead, pointing to a group of older boys ahead sharing colourful cards between them.

He watched Noel frown. “Then they’re idiots.”

“Y’know,” Jean sighed. “It wouldn’t hurt to play along, to stay being a kid.” Noel scoffed. “I’m serious; you’ve got it good right now. I’d give anything to be 10 again.”

“You’re such an old man.” He groaned.

“I thought I was a mommy’s boy?” Jean teased. “You can’t be a mommy’s boy and an old man.”

“Well, you’d think.” Noel retorted, and Jean couldn’t help laughing. The kid was a little shit, but he had a sharp wit, and Jean would be the biggest hypocrite for scolding that.

Instead, he gently hit him on the head with the games console and offered it back when the boy turned around, rubbing his head with a scowl. He looked from Jean to the console and back, before reaching for it. He grasped only air as Jean flicked the game just out of reach.

“Consider that your only warning.” He told him, holding eye contact for a moment longer before offering it again with a loose grip.

There was peace at last.

***

To be fair, Jean was sure the kid held out for as long as he could, but by the time they’d made it near the front, his smart mouth was running off again, dropping f-bombs left and right – Jean couldn’t tell if they accidental or purposefully intended to rile him up – and his 3DS thing was nestled firmly in Jean’s back pocket.

In a show of uncharacteristic consideration however, Noel hadn’t said another bad word about Santa.

He did not want to go up though.

“This is the worst thing I’ve ever been made to do. You can’t seriously make me go up there.”

“Noel,” Jean growled, massaging the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been through this. All the kids here believe in Santa, so they’re not going to judge you. If they don’t, they’re still here being forced to do the very same thing you are; still won’t judge you.” He opened his eyes again, and continued to watch the child in front play on the same 3DS thing Noel had been; it was pretty cool actually, now that Jean was able to look at a screen. He wished they’d had them around when he was a kid.

“But it’s embarrassing!” His cousin hissed.

“Noel,” he groaned, so tired of this conversation.

“And it’s weird! He could be a paedo-” Jean’s hand slapped over his tiny mouth, and crouched down in his space.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” He threatened, removing his hand slowly.

They continued to have a hushed argument, Jean aware of the looks they were getting from the elves and some of the parents, although most seemed to have an understanding look.

Then they were next in line.

“Fine! If it’s not creepy or embarrassing, why don’t you do it?!”

“‘Cause I’m not a kid!” Jean was losing it; he was losing it fast.

“Neither am I!”

“Noel,” his voice broke with the strain of holding his anger back, and he tried to take a deep breath before continuing, which just gave Noel another opening.

“I’m serious! If you want me to do it, you have to do it first!”

“I’m not allowed! This is-”

“That’s alright,” A deep voice interrupted, and the cousins froze mid argument, slowly turning as one to look at the empty space before them and Santa sitting on the small platform with a patient smile. “Surely there’s something you want for Christmas too, Jean?”

He heard Noel gasp beside him, and felt scolded and creeped out all at once. He saw Noel turn to him from the corner of his eye, so looked down and saw his wide eyes and open mouth. There was a flicker of something – doubt, maybe? – that told Jean his cousin wasn’t necessarily finding this as creepy as Jean was, so he took the sort of olive branch, swallowed nervously, and stepped forward.

“Uh,” he started smartly, catching the unsure looks of the elves. “I-it’s fine. This is for kids, so…”

“But adults want things too, don’t they? They deserve happiness just as much.”

Jean gulped; no matter how kindly the old man smiled, this felt an awful lot like standing in front of the principle waiting to be told off with words of disappointment and the overuse of his name like he’d forget who he was it wasn’t repeated with heavy words every other line.

He glanced back at Noel, saw him looking for guidance in Jean, and stepped forward with a shaky ok.

But Christ, this was embarrassing. He really wasn’t a kid; the whole mall would be watching a damn 25 year old go up to Santa, probably laugh there asses off.

He looked back at Noel’s wide eyes and took each step of the platform one at a time, even though he could make all three with barely a stretch.

“Noel?” Jean looked up at the old to his cousin, and back again. “Would you like to come closer? See what your big cousin wants?”

Jean stared until the old man met his eyes. He never stopped smiling. His big, round cheeks pulled his beard up, the whiskers thin but plenty, and his eyes were an unnerving vibrant blue, not the least bit clouded with age the way Jean expected.

It took a moment, but Noel did move forward, his legs looking like lead and an elf’s guiding hand at his back. Jean watched him carefully, freaking out a little himself, but for all the shock and surprise, Jean could still see that oh so familiar stubbornness in his hazel eyes, and as Santa asked Jean what he wanted, Noel spoke up.

“Y-you have to sit on his lap. If, if I have to, you do.” Jean could throttle him, he really could. But he noticed Noel’s eyes continuing to dart to the old man, fixating, like he was trying to work something out and not just being a little shit trying to wind Jean up.

“Noel,” Jean still said, catching the boy’s attention. “I can’t. I’m too big.”

He frowned.

“Then I don’t want to-”

“That’s alright,” Santa said quickly, calmly, trying to prevent anymore disturbances for the others. “You don’t have to, no one does. You can just stand by me and talk. But,” the old man looked back at Jean with a placating smile. “Jean can sit on my knee too, if he wants. It’s perfectly fine.”

“I’m an adult,” he stated helpfully. “I’ll break your leg.”

A deep chuckle jiggled his belly, “Jean, do you know how many presents I have to carrying in one night? I’m much stronger than I look.”

Jean sort of felt the need to remind the guy he wasn’t actually Santa, but couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than cast a wary glance back at Noel. He was already watching Jean, something almost pleading in his eyes, and Jean wondered if his mother had cursed him with her words earlier in the week, because it sure looked like Noel was looking up to him now, almost waiting for the approval of him sitting on Santa’s lap by sitting there himself.

He heaved a deep sigh.

The things he did for that woman.

He cleared his throat a couple of times, took the few steps separating them, paused and mourned the loss of his dignity, and very carefully, very uncomfortably, perched on the old man’s knee.

What the hell was happening to his life?

The man shifted with a light chuckle, Jean instantly worried his was hurting him, but a large hand on his shoulder made him stay in place. “Honestly, it’s fine Jean. Besides,” he continued in a whisper, leaning in close enough for Jean to see the aging texture of his skin. “I’ve had that many children sit on my leg today, it’s already dead.”

Jean smiled back, strained though it was, and tried not to look too uncomfortable for the children watching.

“So Jean,” he said. “What would you like for Christmas?”

“Uh,” what did he want? He hadn’t really thought about it, which was sad in itself, because when he was a kid he had lists as long as his arms. But now, he couldn’t think of a single thing. Suddenly, he was very aware of all the eyes on him, as eager as he was for this to be over. “Um, nothing?”

“Nothing?” Santa said very theatrically, and he must have seen genuine panic in Jean’s eyes, because he toned it down and kept the conversation just loud enough for Noel to hear. “Well,” he started rubbing at his beard in thought, and it was so obviously acting, but there was something… “If I remember correctly, you got a phone last year, didn’t you? A Samsung?”

Jean could feel his jaw dropping. He didn’t know if the gasp was his or Noel’s.

“Yes. So you won’t want one of those… ah, maybe one of those game consoles? A 3D one? They look like fun, don’t they? They’re not just for children you know.”

Jean felt very weird. Freaked out, but also… kind of… awed?

“Remind me, Jean, what do you like?”

“M-music.” Jean said, stunned, his eyes tracing the old man’s face wildly. “I like music. But I’m… a bit bored of the stuff I’ve got. Listened to it too much.”

“So new music then? You’d like that for Christmas?”

Jean nodded dumbly.

“Excellent. I’ll do my best for you, Jean. Have a wonderful Christmas.”

Jean stumbled to his feet, recognising his cue to leave but still too struck to do more than offer an unsure ‘you too’, and trip down the stairs, meeting Noel’s equally shocked expression.

“Noel?” Santa called, and suddenly the boy was up there like a shot, Jean reeling as he tried to keep up with what was going on. He caught the dream-like smile of an elf in his efforts.

“Are you really real?” He heard Noel whisper, and though he could still hear the doubt, the defiance, he was standing in front of the old man with a too still body and too wide eyes to be anything but reverent.

“Of course I am,” he chuckled.

“Do you,” Noel started, backing up and hoping on the guy’s leg without thinking. Jean heard Santa’s pained grunt, even if it bypassed Noel completely. “Do you know everything then?”

“Not everything,” he answered, humoured. “I keep lists, as you know, and I try to remember who’s on the naughty list and who’s on the nice list. I have a name for every face, but when I only see you once a year, it can be difficult to recognise people sometimes,” he laughed, making Noel smile too. “And if you send me a Christmas list, I try to remember what it is you want most. Otherwise, I ask you here, when you come see me. It’s not easy trying to remember for everyone, but I try.”

“Wow.” Jean smiled at his cousin’s face, looking his age for once.

“But Noel,” Santa started seriously. “I’m afraid right now, you’re on the naughty list.”

The boy didn’t look as surprised as Jean felt, but his face did fall.

“Is that because I didn’t believe in you?”

“Of course not,” Santa assured with a smile. “It doesn’t matter if you believe in me or not, though it would be nice.” He rubbed Noel’s hair affectionately. “It’s because you’ve not been listening to your family, playing up and acting out, not listening to what they say to you. You need to be a good boy, Noel.”

“If,” Noel said after some pause. “If I start being good now, will I get presents from you next year?”

Santa laughed softly and gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Noel, dear boy, if you’re good now, you be on the Nice list this year.” His head lifted to look at the old man. “It’s not that hard to be on that list, you know,” he said with a smile. “You just have to be kind.”

Jean watched on as Noel nodded hastily, his young eyes filling with water and never straying from the man’s face.

“Now, what would you like for Christmas?”

“I’d-I’d like some more games, and a-a skateboard, and,” he paused, wiping his eyes as he frowned at the floor. “My mom would really like one of those foot-spa thingys, you know, the big tubs of water with bubbles and stuff?”

“I know.”

“Would, would you be able to get her that, even though she’s not a kid?”

Santa smiled warmly, and helped wipe a stray tear from Noel’s face. “Of course. She deserves it, doesn’t she?” Noel nodded with a shaky smile. “I’ll do my very best Noel.”

They left after that, Noel still a little shaken but buzzing with excitement all the same, taking Jean’s hand without having to be told and talking to him like an actual person.

Jean was still dealing with the shock himself, and when he glanced back as they left the rope ring, Santa offered him that same smile and small wave he had last week, and Jean returned it just as unsurely.

The grotto’s events stayed with him the rest of the day, long after Aunt Clarissa had called in grateful tears, and through the night after he’d texted his mother about getting Clarissa a foot-spa specifically from Santa.

In fact, they stayed with him the entire week.

***

Before Jean realised it, the 18^th was upon him, and so was the office party.

The first part of the week was spent half killing himself trying to meet his deadline – which he did, thankfully, with very little help from the author he might add – and asking himself just what he did want for Christmas, and what the hell was wrong with him for not knowing. The last couple of days were a sleep filled haze, with emails galore, panicked calls from his aunt about Noel’s lost GameBoy thing and a subsequent promise to yet again go to the mall despite all the promises he made himself, and finally coming to conclusion that he’d quite like a cat for Christmas (and life, of course) because he could admit to himself – if no one else - he got a bit lonely sometimes.

Somehow, he didn’t see himself asking his mother for one though.

The office was in great cheer, the standards of those without deadlines slipping further into decay and mischief, and once Wednesday came, Jean could laugh along with the others, finally feeling the festive cheer that had been lingering around him since that first weekend take full force and ready him for the promised merriment of Friday night.

And wasn’t it just promised, with Connie and Sasha seemingly popping in everyone’s office every half-hour to remind them about it and check they could still come.

He’d seen Marco a few times too, as usual, always ready with a smile and light conversation. Jean didn’t indulge much more than he usually did, though he’d perhaps been a tad more welcoming in his zombie-like, deadline state, and found it harder to close him off when some awful, youthful part of him kept saying he wanted him, he wanted him for Christmas.

He’d pushed all thoughts of freckled smiles, gentle hands, and sweet laughter aside in the lead up to the party, not eager for a repeat, and mostly over it all anyway.

All he needed was a good drink, and fancy food on the company’s bill.

What he got was a swanky hotel event room done up like a frat-house at Christmas.

Why he was surprised when Connie and Sasha were in charge, he didn’t know. Why he didn’t expect precisely this when they told everyone to come to the 4 star hotel dressed in their favourite Christmas jumper, was an embarrassing oversight.

He briefly wondered what the staff thought when they saw all the tacky decorations and huge paper garlands, their best room swathed in multi-coloured fairy lights and sprigs of mistletoe hanging too frequently.

Personally, Jean loved it. It felt homely and relaxed with the pretty base of an up class room, but still, he wondered if the bosses were questioning their decision as they walked around in what might awe or distaste.

It was a fine line, in Jean’s experience.

He spent the night mostly in his department’s company, sharing a dance or two with Armin and Mikasa long after dinner had finished and all that was left were small tables, the special jukebox, and the all important bar.

Occasionally people from other departments would come up and they’d mingle for a bit, Connie and Sasha – both so very, very drunk – included, Marco too popped over for a brief moment or two, but otherwise stayed hidden amongst the crowd. Jean told himself that he didn’t care, that no news was good news when it came to the binding department.

And it was a good night. Jean hadn’t laughed this much in months, hadn’t relaxed this much in years, but he swore if one more person put Mariah Carey on, he was going to drown someone the eggnog punch that’d been typically avoided all night.

It wasn’t until Jean was talking quietly with Bertholdt that Marco caught his eye, his wild grin reaching him from across the room. There was a pause, a lock of eyes before Marco moved on with a skip, and Jean was left trying to figure out what Bert had just said.

Before he’d entirely caught up, a familiar tune of synthetic bells set him back again.

‘Snow is falling, all around me.’

Jean looked towards the jukebox as a few people cheered drunkenly as they danced and several people groaned, and found Marco leaning against it, smiling at him with the kind of glee you find in mischievous children.

“You alright, Jean?” He tore his away and up, up further still when he remembered it was Bertholdt he was talking to, and nodded blearily.

“Yeah,” he assured at Bert’s concerned look. “Just, gonna stand to the side a bit, getting a bit of a headache. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” He quickly replied, but before he could offer to come with him, Jean moved, feeling bad about cutting off the conversation like that. He glanced behind him to apologise, but found Bert had happily started talking to Reiner anyway, so instead made his way to one of the large bay windows, it’s every edge a sting of colourful lights, and rested his forearms against the bench, looking out into the dark and catching the odd snowflake fall past the glass.

The chorus had just finished when Marco slid up next to him, knocking his shoulder with his.

“Don’t you want to dance?”

Jean didn’t reply.

“Y’know,” Marco started after a long pause. “I was so surprised when you said this was your favourite song; I wouldn’t have guessed that in a million years.” Jean finally looked at him with a frown, and Marco smiled back. “You come across a little Scrooge-like, y’know? I was expecting The Pogues, or maybe one of the older songs, the classier ones, at a push. But this?” He laughed with a general point above them.

“What’s wrong with ‘this’?” Jean snapped.

“It’s cheesy!” Marco instantly laughed. “It’s so cheesy, Jean, and dated, and I’ve never meant someone who actually liked it.”

“Fuck you.” He mumbled, looking back outside only to find their reflections, his bitter face and Marco still looking at him with such ease.

“I love this song.” Jean scoffed. “Of course I do. I love everything to do with Christmas, and you know what Jean Kirschtein, you do too.” Marco finished with a poke, a little harder than usual, making Jean sway to side and urging him look back at Marco. “You come across all moody and judgmental of my jumpers, but you love Christmas. And you can fool the whole world if you want to Jean Kirschtein, but I know you love mince pies, and have a chocolate advent calendar, you like the snow, and probably like looking at all the shop displays and you smile at excited children, and I bet your house is decorated to within an inch of its life with a real Christmas tree, you own an awesome Christmas jumper, and you love Shakin’ Stevens. You love Christmas, and we both know it.”

The next song is halfway through when Jean finds something to say.

“How drunk are you?”

“Two glasses. I’ve got a lot going on tomorrow.”

“Me too, apparently.” Jean mumbled before Marco continued.

“I’m just very relaxed and, well,” he shrugged lightly, biting one corner of his lip and his pretty eyes steady on Jean’s. “Giddy, I guess.” There’s an inferred meaning there that Jean was simultaneous finding hard to grasp and felt like he already knew.

He couldn’t look away.

“I have an artificial tree, actually.” He eventually offered. “I wish it were real.”

“Ah. But the real question is, do you have multi-coloured lights, or a classy, single-coloured look?”

He scoffed with both dismissal and humour, and couldn’t help grinning as Marco laughed beside him. “The lights are my favourite part.” Jean said once he faced outside again, watching Marco calm down from the safer distance of a reflection.

“Mine too.” He whispered in his ear as he knocked their shoulders together again. “It’s really pretty in here, isn’t it?”

“Mhm.” Jean agreed, turning his face to Marco again, letting his eyes linger wherever they pleased once more. Marco was always beautiful, always welcoming in ways Jean became uncomfortable with, but the dim, rainbowed lights bouncing off his smooth skin made him even softer, lovelier than ever. His cheeks were rosy, positively red where the little pink ;lights caught him, hiding the familiar freckles and making the ones on his strong jaw more noticeable. His usually neat hair was fluffed up invitingly by hands and most likely dancing, and his jumper was a pattern of snowflakes and penguins.

Jean had always, always, liked Marco, never more so than now.

“Shall we?” Marco asked softly, pointing towards the ceiling with shy smile, and Jean looked up to see mistletoe. He rolled his eyes before looking back to Marco with a smile, sliding closer, and brushing the tip of his nose along Marco’s before slowly leaning in further, Marco meeting him halfway, and just capturing Jean’s bottom lip between his own.

It was soft and sweet, and Jean couldn’t help pressing in just that little firmer, making the kiss last precious seconds longer before they sighed quietly, and eased apart, apparently shut eyes fluttering open, Marco’s were a deeper brown in the dim light, catching every twinkle and reflecting back all the pinks and blues and yellows surrounding them. And happy. Jean didn’t need to look at his mouth to know he was smiling, never did, but his eyes trailed down anyway, catching Marco sucking his bottom lip into a bite, miniscule twitches of movement telling him Marco’s tongue was running over the plump flesh, maybe from nerves, may be teasing, maybe trying to catch the taste of Jean’s lips.

He swallowed hard, and turned back to the window, his own tongue darting out to sweep across his lips before raising his drink and taking a large sip.

“Not to ruin the moment or anything,” Marco whispered sometime later, after several minutes of pleasant silence between them and shoulders pressed together. “But should I be prepared for the cold shoulder later, or are we… good, like this? ‘Cause I feel like I’ve misread the signs before so…”

“Signs?” Jean turned back to Marco with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah. Back when I first started here, I thought maybe we were, y’know, flirting a bit, and into each other, but then you kind of didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Oh.” Jean frowned down into his glass instead, swirling the last drop round and around the flat bottom. “Yeah, no. I liked you. I just… well, you…” Jean took a deep breath. “I guess I was the one who misread things.”

“I had wondered.” Marco said, not unkindly, and with the now familiar motion of pressing their sides together. “Just so we’re clear, I like you a lot. I always have.”

Jean nodded, and went to raise his glass to take sip when he remembered it was empty, instead making it to look like he just wanted to watch that last drop more clearly.

He was almost certain he didn’t fool Marco.

“I don’t have the best experiences of these things,” he offered, looking Marco in the eye as he added, “And I’m stubborn.”

Marco laughed.

“Yeah, I know.” He put his chin on his palm and raised his other fingers to trace over Jean’s rolling wrist. “You can also be a bit childish. I just happen think these things endearing of you.”

“God.” Jean groaned, looking away from Marco‘s cheesy smile and cheesier lines.

“I do!” He laughed. “I don’t think you realise how cute you are sometimes.”

Jean swatted his hand away in retaliation, but kept his body pressed close, enjoying the warmth and calm.

Until Marco broke it again.

“So…”

“Yes, Marco,” he sighed, exasperated. “I like you.”

“Do you maybe wanna, date, sometime?”

Jean looked at him with surprise, nodding his head before thinking to add, “Yeah. I don’t have much time before I go home for Christmas, but when I come back…?”

Marco eagerly nodded at the suggestion, watching him carefully as he leaned in to place a quick kiss to his forehead.

They stayed in that little lit up corner of theirs for the rest of the night, sharing a glass of mulled wine, and Marco leaning his head on Jean’s shoulder as he hummed that jaunty little tune he usually whistled.

***

The next day was about as much fun Jean expected it to be. Even after waiting until the very end of opening hours, the sidewalks were packed, and the mall was a mass of shouting and banging and shoving. The last weekend before Christmas was no time to making unneeded trips into shopping areas, but here Jean was, third week running despite having done everything he needed to the very first weekend.

He wanted to blame this all on his brat of cousin, but he supposed technically it was his fault he’d lost the games consol, since it was in his back pocket last time either of them remembered. Didn’t excuse being exposed to this though; he’d have bruises on his ribs for weeks.

A little girl crashed into his hip, knocking the breath out of him but apparently not noticing a thing as she rabbited on about Santa Claus being real and remembering what she wanted and knowing her name, and as her father apologised to him as they passed, Jean felt a twist in his gut.

He’d been in her place just last week – with less excitement and more confusion – and was heading back there now, thankful that at least this Santa, real or not – and wasn’t that just stupid, that at 25, Jean even needed to include ‘real’ in the first place – didn’t have an ironic humour and take a kid’s expensive toy back. It wasn’t hard to figure out just when it’d slipped from Jean’s pocket, and Clarissa had spoken to an elf who promised they’d keep it safe for pick up today.

Jean hoped for their sake they still had it.

As he strode up to the giant Christmas tree once more, Jean took a deep breath and headed across the disturbingly empty queuing area, catching the attention of an exhausted elf as got closer to the grotto.

Frankly, Jean felt weird. He didn’t believe in Santa. He didn’t. But he also didn’t know how that old man knew the things he did about him and Noel. And it had lit a very, very small flame of doubt in Jean.

The grotto hadn’t been closed long, so he’d probably meet that old guy again today and he’d be just that, a guy, with no children to act in front and no surprise or wonder about him. And that was cool; maybe then Jean would get some answers to the questions that had been niggling at him all week, questions that hadn’t crossed his mind in 15 years. It was good.

It just made him feel weird.

“Hey,” he greeted as he stopped in front of the elf. “My name’s Jean? My aunt, Clarissa, called about leaving a 3DS here last week.”

“Oh, yeah.” She replied, a tired smile managing to lift her lips. “I remember you; you’re the guy who had to sit on Santa’s lap.”

“Great,” Jean’s face fell from its polite expression. “I’m so glad people are remembering that.”

“Well, it’s not something that happens every day. Or at all, to be honest.” She said with a tired laugh, skipping up the little steps with practised ease. “C’mon, we’ve kept it in the back for you.”

Jean followed her up, checking behind him to make sure no kids were watching in case they were about to spoil some of the magic for them, but he couldn’t see anyone, and the lady in front didn’t seem all that bothered, so he just hurried in behind her and close the door quickly.

“How’s it going Chris Cringle?” She called into a little side room as Jean took in the space there were in now, some kind of break room by the looks of it, with a table and chairs, and even a little kitchenette.

“Slowly as ever.” Was the humoured reply, as the elf gesture Jean to follow her past the kitchenette to a little storage cupboard only she could fit into. He waited aside, politely ignoring her whispered curses as she rummaged, until she popped back out and held the device out triumphantly.

He smiled, taking it from her and about to say his thanks, when a sharp whistling came from the side room in short, familiar bursts.

There was no way.

Without even thinking to ask, Jean flew across to the open doorway, hanging onto the frame as he came to a sudden stop, wide eyes focused entirely on Marco as he carefully pealed something away from his face in front of a brightly lit mirror.

He glanced at Jean from the corner of his eye, his whistling coming to an abrupt stop, and they stayed frozen, staring at each other for a long, long time.

Marco snapped out of it first.

“Jean?” He asked suddenly, as if he hadn’t been staring at him for a full minute. “Wh-what are you doing here?” He started moving his hand around hurriedly, putting certain things out of sight, but seeming to forget the fleshy mess hanging from his jaw was the biggest give away. He looked back a Jean with a wince, blush rising to his already reddened cheeks, before turning back to the mirror to continuing pealing with care.

Jean couldn’t believe it.

“You’re Santa.”

“Um,” He couldn’t remember having heard Marco stutter before, but he was in no state to take it in now. “Yeah? I’m really sorry, Jean, I know you probably a lot of questions, but I need to take this all off in one go-”

“You’re Santa.”

“Jean-”

“Oh my God, I sat on your knee.” A burst of laughter fought through Marco’s lips as Jean stumbled into the room and fell into a spare chair. “Christ, you are a perv.”

“Hey!” Marco glared at him briefly before getting back to work. “I didn’t do that because I liked you, I did it because that’s exactly what Santa would do. I would’ve offered the same thing to anyone.”

There was a pause.

“Is that meant to make me feel better?”

“I don’t know if that’s something you can legitimately get jealous over.” Marco replied, his voice straining as he titled his back.

“This is so fucking weird.” Jean mumbled, Marco grunting in agreement as he continued to pull the material from his neck. Jean watched, trying to take it all in and think things over. It didn’t help much. “So, obviously you’d know my name, and I guess you’d hear about my phone at some point, but I’ve never spoken about Noel… have you been stalking me?”

“No!” He frowned at Jean again, wincing as the movement pulled at the mask wrong. “Please Jean, just let me get this off-”

“Actually Marco, I kind of need to know the answer to that right now.”

“Of course I haven’t been stalking you!”

“Um?” They both turned to the doorway to see the elf now dressed in a puffer coat and jeans, looking between them worriedly, but clearly desperate to go home. “Everything… ok?”

“Fine.” They answered simultaneously, and she stared at them for a long moment before speaking again.

“Right. I’m… going to head off, then. If you’re sure you don’t need me.”

“Thanks Tammy, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gave them another long look before finally leaving, and Jean instantly turned back to Marco, looking in his eyes pointedly.

Marco sighed.

“You and Noel were having an argument right in front of me, it wasn’t difficult to pick out his name and see that he was playing up. And I knew you didn’t any siblings, but the both of you are obviously related; cousins was a pretty easy guess.” There was a pause as Jean thought it over. “I may have eavesdropped a little when you were talking about the phone with Armin back in January.” He mumbled a tad guiltily. When he caught Jean’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “You sounded excited, I wanted to know why.”

Jean softened immediately, contenting himself with just watching for a moment. It didn’t last long when more and more questions kept coming to him. He opened his mouth to ask, but before a noise could be made, he was reprimanded.

“Jean-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll wait.”

They sat quietly for a minute, Marco surprisingly breaking the silence.

“Are you busy this evening?”

Jean gave him an odd look before replying sarcastically, “I think I can make time for this.”

“Well, how would you feel about going on an awkward, impromptu first date?”

“A date?”

“Yeah. You know they’ve got those horse drawn sleighs in the park? Well, I’ve got a free pass – a small perk of the job – and I was thinking we could go for a ride, maybe talk about it then? But it’s pretty romantic too, so…”

Jean sighed. “I’ve gotta tell ya Marco, I’m feeling more and more like I’m trapped inside a rom-com.”

“We don’t have to,” he said with a laugh. “Just a thought.”

“Ok.” Jean agreed after a while.

“Cool. I’ve got a while ‘til I’ve finished up here, so do you wanna grab a coffee or something to eat, and meet me in the park in 20?”

“I can do that.” Jean got up, returning Marco’s distracted smile, and making it to the doorway before something occurred to him. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet, but-”

“Want me to grab you something?”

Marco smiled at him gratefully, suddenly looking exhausted. “That’d be great, thanks.”

Jean meant to leave right away, but he found himself rooted to the spot, watching as Marco pealed the last piece of latex away. He looked over at Jean with concern. “I didn’t recognise you at all.” He whispered, frowning as his eyes traced over cheeks and eyes and freckles and lines, the things he knew so well.

“You weren’t meant to.” Marco grinned, but it softened when Jean’s frown didn’t lighten up. “It’s a compliment. Honestly.”

Jean met his eyes and nodded, finally making his way out.

***

“So, this is both novel and lame.” Jean commented as Marco climbed into the sleigh.

“And incredibly Christmassy, so you’ll love it.” He teased, holding out his free hand to help Jean in as he tried to balance both his coffee and carton of noodles.

“You been on one of these things before?” Jean asked as the handler pulled a fluffy white blanket over their knees. “Jesus, I’m really going on a date with Santa.”

“Nope,” Marco laughed, settling down into the seat and wasting no time in tucking into his hot food. “First time for both us.”

“So a free ride and take-away from a noodle bar; it’s good to know we’re both cheap dates.”

Marco laughed as the guy climbed up front and urged the horses on, Marco and Jean instantly reaching for each other at the sudden jolt.

They sat huddled in silence for a while, eating their food and taking in the scenery of pretty white lights strung across trees, their glow bouncing off the various layers of snow covering every surface of the park. It was romantic and Christmassy, and Jean was never going to admit how hard his heart was beating in that moment.

“When I was in college, I did a lot of theatre work.”

Jean turned to Marco in surprise, not expecting him to start with something like that.

“It was never something I wanted to go into properly, but it was fun and I was good at it. Really good at it, actually.” He admitted with sheepish rub at the tip his nose.

“I can see that.” Jean smiled, and Marco stopped moving altogether for a moment, before he grinned with rosy cheeks. It occurred to Jean that that was probably to first compliment he’d given Marco in at least two years, and cursed his stupidity for the umpteenth in the last 24 hours.

“That’s actually how I ended up getting that job; a kind of ‘a-friend-of-a-friend’ situation. One of the organisers for the mall wanted something a bit special for their Santa to bring more people in, and someone I used to work with suggested me. I didn’t actually go out looking for a Santa job, believe it or not, but I actually really enjoyed that first day, getting to see how happy the children were. The pays not bad either.” He added with a cheeky smile.

“I didn’t really start with a plan,” he continued. “I figured I’d just sit there, ask what they want, tell them to be good, and send them on their way. But on that first day, there was this kid. He was running around, his mother screaming his name across the ring, and when he finally got to the front, he couldn’t take his eyes off this poster hanging by the escalators; it was for a dog or a Furby or something, I can’t remember now.

“But without even trying, I knew the three things the real Santa Claus would know, and so I just called him up by his name, told him I’d got his letter, but that he couldn’t get his Furby unless he’d behave better from his mom, and you should have seen the absolute belief on his face, Jean. Complete wonder.”

Marco eyes were looking into a memory, his smile so fond for a stranger that Jean could do nothing but smile at him in turn.

“His mom gave me this weird smile, utterly grateful, but completely baffled as to how I knew about what he wanted. And I realised that it wasn’t just the kids I was giving belief to, I was planting a seed of doubt in their parent’s and guardian’s minds, that tiniest, briefest ‘what if’, and that’s wonderful, isn’t it?

“We all know Santa isn’t real, despite how whole-heartedly we believed it as kids. We know where the presents come from because we have to buy them, we know none of the story can be real, so the wonder and magic – the most exciting part when you’re a kid – is taken out of Christmas when you stop believing. And it’s not like Christmas stops being fun or wonderful, it just… lacks that sense of belief, y’know? But I think deep down everyone wants to believe in things like that, in magic, in flying reindeer, and gift giving, merry old men. We just can’t when there’s nothing to question the facts, to make us wonder.

“I know it’s stupid,” he said with a smile, glancing at Jean. “But even as an adult, now and then I’d catch one of the faux-documentaries about Santa, or those silly news reports tracking his sleigh on Christmas Eve, and I’d just think to myself for a moment, ‘what if’. What if Santa was real, and using this much power to make all the right time zones? What if that one present no one could remember buying wasn’t just forgetfulness?

“And it is silly, to think about the ‘what if’s, but at the same time, they’re freeing, and fun, and…”

“Wonderful.”Jean whispered.

“Wonderful.” He agreed. “And there’s so little of that when you’re an adult, that type freedom. So I thought, ‘I want to give people that. I want to keep these children believing, and when they’re older and buying presents themselves, I want them to think back to that one time they saw Santa and he knew their name, remembered what was on their list, and never know how; to think for just a moment, ‘what if that was real?’. And if I get their parents to think like that now too, then that’s even better.”

Marco smiled at Jean once he finished, but quickly burst into nervous giggles, his hand coming up to rub at his neck self-conscious.

“That was silly, wasn’t it? I just rattled off a load of nonsense-”

“Not at all.” Jean smiled, reaching his hand out and slipping his fingers through Marco’s under the warm blanket. “I think it’s sweet, and… well, I want to say wonderful, but I’ve already used that in the last 10 minutes, so-”

Marco laughed and snuggled closer, his thumb stoking slowly over the back of Jean’s hand.

“You’re a pretty incredible guy, Marco.” He said quietly, carefully watching all the little nervous twitches Marco made when he was being complimented.

“Not really. Just a little idealistic, I suppose.”

Jean was more inclined to call it romantic, but he didn’t say anything, happy to sit pressed together in silence, watching the lights pass and listening to the hushed drag of snow, until curiosity got the better of him again.

“How did you know?”

“Hmm?”

“I saw so many people come away from the grotto bewildered, and heard all these children talking about you; not all of them could have been as noisy us and that first kid were.”

“Oh, well, I trained to be in the police for long time; I learnt to read body language, how to trail someone and focus on one person’s voice in particular. I couldn’t do it for everyone, obviously, but it was easy for me to focus on the conversations of the next people in line, easy to see where children’s eyes kept darting to; people really don’t know how much information they give away when they’re not paying attention.”

“That’s kind of cool,” Jean said, though he couldn’t help but wonder why Marco left the force after so much work. It wasn’t a conversation for now, if ever, and instead, he leant back to stare up at Marco’s face, whispering, “I doubted, for a moment.”

Marco grinned at him, wide and wild, and beautiful. “I know.”

They talked for a little longer, light and quiet conversation until Marco shuffled down and rested his head Jean’s shoulder again, his hand playing with Jean’s long fingers idly as he hummed his song again.

Jean just closed his eyes and buried his nose in Marco’s thick hair, trying to recall where the nostalgia was pulling from and pick the words from the tip of a tongue buried under memories.

When they finally came, he couldn’t help laughing in relief and affection, pressing a fierce kiss to the top of Marco’s head, and muttering a quiet ‘dork’ into his hair.

Wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas.