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Christmas Day arrives quietly.
Henry and Alex sit cross-legged on their bedroom floor, Alex’s bedside lamp twisted overhead to illuminate the half-built dollhouse between them and the instructions Henry holds open. The dollhouse parts are laid out neatly in a semi-circle, already carefully stickered with wall art and windows.
“Slip i into h and a,” Henry whispers to his husband, watching Alex push his glasses up his nose and fiddle with the next floor.
“There’s no stairs from the first floor to the second floor,” Alex grumbles as he slots it into place, finishing the second level. “This is such an oversight.”
“It’s a dollhouse, darling,” Henry repeats patiently. “They won’t care.”
“I care.”
“You’ll survive,” Henry says, patting his leg reassuringly. “Now pop the roof on.”
Five minutes later, Henry peeks through their bedroom door to check that the coast is clear. The hallway is dark and silent, and all three of their children’s doors are shut firmly. “Alright,” he murmurs to his husband. “Let’s go.”
They tiptoe down the hall, stepping carefully over the creaky floorboard outside of Walker’s room and reaching the stairs. Henry edges down sideways, illuminating Alex’s path with his phone light and watching his husband’s feet to ensure he doesn’t trip.
The bottom level of their home is dimly lit by fairy lights. They’re strung across windowsills and coiled around their Christmas tree, throwing red, green, blue and yellow reflections over the furniture. The tree is tall - taller even than Henry - and topped with a plastic golden star that almost brushes their roof. The tree is also overburdened by tinsel, thanks to a stubborn six-year-old with a penchant for maximalism and her overenthusiastic eight-year-old sister with a love for pink decorations.
“Wait-” Henry whispers, throwing his arm out to stop Alex in his tracks. There’s a thin strand of white tinsel strung across the entryway to their sitting room, calf height with both ends tied around clunky trucks belonging to their three-year-old. If he hadn’t been looking carefully, he most certainly would have walked right through it and caused a ruckus.
Alex readjusts the dollhouse in his arms and squints through the darkness. Henry reaches out and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, smiling fondly as Alex scowls. “Calida.”
“She did say she was going to catch Santa Claus this year,” Henry points out.
“She’s cheeky.”
“I wonder where she gets that from.”
Alex concedes the point with a tiny huff. Of all their children, Calida is the most mischievous and stubborn. The two are as thick as thieves, but for when they disagree (which isn’t often, thank goodness). Watching his husband argue with their six-year-old daughter brings Henry a great deal of amusement that he has to try very hard to hide. They have to present a united front, after all.
It’s tough to present a united front when he agrees with said six-year-old, though.
Most recently they had squabbled over a trampoline, which Alex staunchly opposed out of concern for their safety. Calida’s talking points had centred around it’s fun and I want to do a flip. Personally, Henry thought a trampoline was alright, provided there was parental supervision and the appropriate amount of caution exercised.
It had taken weeks for Henry to gently dismantle Alex’s concerns and bring him around to the idea. They’d get a safety net, and cover the springs with protective pads. It would be safe and controlled, as long as one of them was there at all times. Alex can’t bubble-wrap their children, as much as he would like to. The possibility of bruises and scraped elbows and knees could never be entirely circumvented.
After much debate between the two of them, Alex had relented. A small trampoline now sits tucked into the space between their garage and the back fence, hidden from their children. It’s Henry’s job to slip out tomorrow morning during breakfast to pull it out. Neither wanted to brave the backyard and the horrors (toads) it might hold at midnight. Besides, Henry wouldn’t be missed at breakfast for a few moments - he's still earning back Callie’s trust after his last unsupervised attempt at waffle-making. She refuses anything but toast and cereal from him right now.
Henry moves the trucks to the side, and the two quietly tiptoe over the threshold. The plush red carpet muffles their footsteps as Alex sets down the dollhouse and Henry picks up the glass of milk left out for Santa.
“Should Santa eat all the cookies?” Alex whispers.
“Santa should save one for his husband,” Henry whispers back between sips of lukewarm milk.
“We could’ve just put it down the sink,” Alex points out as he stores the cookies in the pocket on the front of his pyjama shirt.
“I take my Santa duties very seriously,” he throws back, carefully placing the now empty glass down. He tilts his head and listens closely for any sounds, but all he can hear is the rustle of the wind through the trees outside and Alex’s soft breathing.
“Does that mean you’re eating the carrots too?”
Henry turns toward where Alex is nodding and tries not to groan. Bel had very carefully placed carrots on the windowsill of their lounge’s main window so that Santa’s reindeer could easily reach them. “I said Santa duties, not reindeer duties.” He carefully picks his way across the room, over the spill of presents under the tree and around Walker’s toy car.
The inside of their fridge is full to the brim with pre-prepared ingredients for tomorrow’s family lunch and desserts Henry and Bel had dedicated the weekend to making. Smiling to himself, he places the carrots back into the vegetable drawer as quietly as possible and closes the fridge door with a small click.
“Baby.” Henry turns as Alex’s hand presses against the metal exterior, confining him.
His brown eyes are big and soft behind his glasses. There are a few streaks of grey in the curls over his ears and stubble lines the smooth planes of his face. Then Henry notices the quirked lips and the raised hand, a fake mistletoe pinched between Alex’s forefinger and thumb. Christ, Henry is so in love with his husband he almost staggers under the enormity of the feeling.
“Alex,” he whisper-laughs, leaning forward and accepting the gentle kiss Alex steps on his tiptoes to give him. “I love you,” he says when his husband pulls back.
“I love you, Mr Claremont-Diaz-Fox.”
Henry grins as the name washes over him. Claremont-Diaz-Fox.Their names entwined, just like their lives, forever. “Come on, Santa Claus,” he murmurs, taking Alex’s hand. “We should try to get some sleep.”
“How am I supposed to get any sleep,” Alex says, “When all I can think about is come on Santa Claus, minus the comma.”
“You,” Henry says fondly, “are incorrigible.”
—
The sun has just begun its ascent over the horizon when their bedroom door is thrown open by three excitable children.
Henry blinks blearily, sleep in his eyes, as their shouts ricochet around their room. “What time is it?” he barely finishes asking before he has a lapful of Bel.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy,” his daughter shouts, her curly hair wild around her face. “It’s up, up, up, up, up time, daddy. Up time!” as she trills, Walker clambers up the middle of the bed, tiny face determined as he dodges limbs in his pursuit of his dads.
“Papi,” Calida whines on the other side of the bed, all pink candy-cane patterned pyjamas and missing front teeth as she climbs onto Alex. “Santa came and you’re still in bed. How are you still in bed?” she grabs Alex’s glasses off the bedside table and opens them up, “Please, Papi. Pretty please. Please, please, please, please, please! It’s SANTA TIME!”
“Swee-” Alex yawns, “Sweetheart. I’m up. I’m up.” He pushes himself up into a sitting position. “Alright, glass-” he grimaces as Calida shoves them onto his face, grazing the corner of his eye on her first attempt.
“Ooops,” she giggles. “All ready.”
“Hello, my little love,” Henry says as their tiny three-year-old plops down into the small gap between his and Alex's pillows. Walker giggles, launching himself onto Henry’s chest and splaying across him, soft and warm. Alex reaches over to pat Walker’s back and smooth down his hair as Calida begins to talk a million miles a minute about seeing Auntie June and Auntie Nora in the afternoon, and what toys she hopes are waiting for her under the tree.
“Daddy,” Walker says happily into Henry’s neck.
“Walkerrrrr, it’s up time!” Bel says, slipping off the bed and holding out her arms. “Walks!”
Henry grimaces as Walker clambers over him, kneeing him in the solar plexus as his older sister scoops him up into scrawny arms. “Are you alright holding him, little love?”
“He’s not heavy,” Bel promises, hiking Walker on her hip. Walker blinks his long eyelashes and bites the end of his thumb.
“Santa?” he asks.
“SANTA!” Calida shouts, and Henry oofs as she too throws herself on him and winds her arms around his neck. “Daddy!”
“Callie!” he says in the same tone as she immediately rolls off him.
Their three children pull at their blanket, impatient and ready to begin their day. Henry glances across at Alex, and the love that swims in the depths of his misty eyes. Henry feels much the same, unbridled joy filling his heart to bursting point.
“Alright, come on, you lot,” Alex announces, getting up with a dramatic flourish. “Let’s see what Santa got you this year.”
There’s a shout of jubilation and then their three children are making a run for the door, their little feet pitter-pattering across the landing. As their children make their way down the hall, Alex turns and extends his hand.
Henry takes it and pulls himself out of bed, twining his fingers with Alex’s and smiling happily at the love of his life. “Merry Christmas, love.”
Alex grins back. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”