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The sky was overcast, painted with gray and white watercolors, as the cold settled over the streets of Pygmyshire. A light breeze brushed against everyone’s skin as they scurried about like madmen, rushing through stalls and shops to secure the last few gifts before Christmas arrived.
Among these people was Arthur, wearing his usual green jacket. He wandered through the streets of his town, juggling bags and gift-wrapped packages of all shapes and sizes. Despite his best efforts to be agile (which he likely wasn’t), he had already narrowly avoided dropping everything on a couple of unsuspecting passersby two or three times.
He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up wandering the streets on Christmas Eve, hopelessly late for dinner. That morning—yes, that morning—he had simply woken up beside his husband, only to realize it was already Christmas Eve.
One good thing had come of it, though: he had finally finished buying all the gifts he hadn’t yet chosen. But this wasn’t necessarily a good thing for anyone who knew Arthur—each year, his gifts were as strange as they were... original, if they could even be called that.
As he headed toward Belle’s house, his thoughts were far from the road or where he was stepping. Though hit by the cold, his mind refused to focus on details like that.
Christmas had always been his favorite holiday, even though it had become more complicated to celebrate now. It was no longer just about spending time with Aristotle, as it had been since they’d met; he also had to spend it with Belle. Leaving her—wife or not, even if only a cover story—alone at home wasn’t exactly polite.
Still, there was one silver lining: Aristotle and Belle got along fairly well, at least for now. In the beginning, the tension had been unbearable, but now things were manageable. Aristotle had even offered to help look after Billie, Arthur and Belle’s daughter, in case of emergencies. Belle had kindly declined—not because she didn’t trust him, but because she found amusement in seeing her husband completely exhausted after hours of Billie’s relentless crying.
Lost in thought, Arthur realized he had finally reached his destination—Belle’s house. And yet, he still didn’t know why he kept calling it “Belle’s house,” ignoring the fact that it was technically his home too. Nor did he know why he had refused to take a copy of the keys.
With a deep sigh, he decided to knock. Two precise, deliberate raps on the door. One hand knocked, while the other held onto the precarious tower of packages he’d accumulated. If no one answered, he was certain he’d end up like a mint popsicle covered in snow.
Luckily, the door opened quickly, revealing, to his surprise, Aristotle. He was wearing a muted blue scarf with slightly lighter vertical stripes.
"Finally, you're here!" Aristotle exclaimed, visibly happy to see his husband, a smile lighting up his face.
"It's nice to see you too, love, but if you’d let me in, I’d be even happier,” Arthur joked, though it was a very serious request—his mountain of packages was about to topple onto him.
Realizing he was blocking the doorway, Aristotle quickly stepped aside, closing the door behind Arthur as he stepped in.
The house was warm and calm, filled with the sweet aroma of sugar and freshly baked cookies. The fireplace in the living room crackled softly, its heat enveloping the room and its occupants.
Next to the two leather sofas in the living room sat the usual holiday crew: Jack, Belle, and Aristotle. Meanwhile, Billie lay in a cradle they’d moved next to the couch, at least until she fell asleep.
Arthur placed his bags and packages on the floor and, without greeting Jack or Belle, went straight to his daughter. He picked her up with a tenderness that was uniquely his.
“Merry Christmas Eve to you too, Arthur!” Jack called out playfully, making Belle smile as she chatted with her friends about a topic Arthur was clearly uninterested in—at least for now, as his full attention was on his daughter.
"Considerate as always," Belle remarked, sipping from a glass of something only she knew the contents of. She was seated on one of the sofas, exuding her usual charm.
Belle was a beautiful woman, kind-hearted and always attentive to her loved ones and anyone in need. Arthur had never denied that she was a good person. He simply had never felt anything romantic toward her, despite how much simpler that might have made things.
In the end, he was glad he’d never felt anything for Belle. The one thing he knew for certain was that he loved Aristotle—only him—and no one else could make him feel the way Aristotle did. That was more than enough for him.
Gently, he laid Billie back in the cradle, as if handling a delicate porcelain doll he was determined not to break. He always went to great lengths to ensure nothing of the sort ever happened.
“Now that I’m momentarily free from my fatherly duties, I can join whatever conversation you’re having,” Arthur announced, settling on the sofa next to Aristotle. Seeing him there, Aristotle instinctively moved closer, as if he couldn’t bear to lose him—an impossibility, but the sentiment was endearing nonetheless.
"Actually, we were just talking about you—and your grand entrance last Christmas!" Jack said.
“You mean you were talking about it,” Aristotle countered, flashing a half-smile. “Belle and I were just begging you to stop. You’ve teased him about it at least four times tonight.”
Last Christmas had certainly been... unique, thanks to Arthur and his passion for whiskey. He had shown up with two crates of various liquors. By dinnertime, everyone—except Aristotle, who had refused to drink—was drunk. Aristotle had been left to babysit three drunken idiots cracking jokes all evening.
Before Arthur could unleash one of his usual jokes, the sound of the oven timer interrupted him.
“Let’s do rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets the food,” Belle suggested, clearly unwilling to leave her beloved leather sofa.
But the contest was unnecessary. Jack quickly volunteered, saying, “Aristotle and I will go. You two practice being the fake lovebirds.”
With that, he headed toward the kitchen, followed by Aristotle, who still refused to take off his scarf for some reason.
For a few minutes, silence reigned in the living room. Then Belle broke it with a wry comment.
“Do you think Jack will ever stop joking about us?”
“Oh, so you’re still hoping?” Arthur retorted sarcastically, his tone dripping with irony.
Jack adored his friends, but he had a knack for pushing their limits with unwanted humor. Whether making dumb jokes or poking fun at complex situations, he was simply Jack, born to embarrass his friends—even if his intentions were always good.
Before Belle could reply, Jack and Aristotle returned with steaming cookies drizzled with caramel and chocolate. By now, it was practically tradition to feast on cookies on Christmas Eve and save the real indulgence for Christmas Day.
“We really should stop eating just cookies,” Aristotle remarked as he set down the bowls of treats on the wooden coffee table in front of the sofas.
“Are you saying my cookies aren’t good, Aristotle?” Belle asked, feigning offense as she placed a hand dramatically over her heart, a playful pout on her face.
Aristotle chuckled, grabbing a cookie for himself and sitting down carefully—unlike Jack, who flopped onto the sofa beside Belle with a handful of cookies.
Everyone began chatting, losing themselves in lively conversations. Time seemed to fly by as they laughed and shared stories, relishing the warmth of each other’s company.
Arthur finally leaned back on the sofa, relaxing as Aristotle sat close, casting him occasional glances filled with affection. Little Billie slept peacefully in her cradle, while the fireplace crackled, spreading warmth throughout the house.
Belle raised a glass of wine in a toast, her radiant smile lighting up the room.
“To this strange but beautiful friendship!” she declared, her sincerity bringing smiles to everyone’s faces.
“To us!” Jack added, holding up half a cookie instead of his empty glass.
The night unfolded with laughter, stories, and endless banter. As midnight struck, the room filled with hugs and heartfelt wishes, a warmth far greater than that of the crackling fire.
They bid each other goodnight, unaware that one of them wouldn’t be around much longer.