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Waving, Lewis watched as his father - the last to leave - drove away into the dark, blustery night. Trees creaked, leaning with the wind and shedding loose leaves and branches onto the inch or two of snow covering the ground. Closing the door against the cold winter’s air he was instantly enveloped in the much warmer, cosier atmosphere of home. In the lingering scents of cooked meats, roasted vegetables and minced pies.
“That was…”
Chaos. Manic. But the good kind. The kind that made you question your sanity, but also look forward eagerly to doing it again. And he had the right man to help organise it all. Bono stood in the hallway with hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, leaning against the wall and trying to look as unaffected as he could muster. Eyebrow raised in question - hope? Nervousness? - his face held a tinge of pink, no doubt from stubbornly wearing his Christmas jumper all day. One with a sequinned Santa and reindeer, that Lewis had mocked him for most of the day but secretly liked.
“Perfect.” Lewis slid his arms around Bono’s waist, pulling him close for a quick kiss.
“Perfect?”
Lewis laughed. “Ok, crazy and busy and a little loud but,” he took Bono’s hand, leading them into the living room. “It was Christmas, and it was family. So yeah, it was perfect.”
Discarded scraps of wrapping paper poked out from underneath the sofa. The coffee table’s plates of post-dinner nibbles were almost empty, just a few crisps and mini sausage rolls left. The fire continued to burn bright and hot, not that the house needed much heat, having played host to Lewis’ extended family the entire day. Trinkets from crackers pulled at dinner were dotted around the hearth and floor; six grown adults playing a miniature ring toss game in the middle of his living room floor hadn’t been on Lewis’ bingo card for the day, but the competition had been fierce, with plenty of laughter along the way.
Bono sat on the edge of the sofa, taking his glasses off to seemingly clean them with great meticulousness. Lewis knew better. They had been around each other long enough for Lewis to spot a tell.
“Hey,” he sat next to Bono, a gentle arm around his shoulder, “what’s up?”
A soft sigh - another familiar sign. This one a replacement for the “nothing” response Lewis had received for a long time before helping Bono work out that habit, an almost-reflex action to avoid opening up, appearing even remotely vulnerable.
“Just glad it went well. You know, first one and all.”
Lewis smiled, squeezing Bono’s shoulder. It was the first time they’d hosted Christmas together, in what was now their house.
When Lewis had brought up the idea several weeks ago, Bono had been hesitant. “It’s a lot of work,” he said, setting the book he was reading into his lap. Lewis watched from his side of the bed as Bono stumbled through paper-thin excuses, adjusting and readjusting the duvet before he finally got to his real concern. “I mean, it’s a lot of pressure. To get it right. To make sure everyone has a good day, and that …” Lewis took his hand, interlinking their fingers. “They like you, Bono. I promise.” A quick kiss to the back of Bono’s hand, fingers squeezing his. “And if we set fire to something and it turns out a complete disaster, at least there’ll be a good story to tell.” Lewis smiled at Bono, who huffed a resigned laugh. “I’d prefer it if nothing went on fire.”
“Couldn’t have gone better.”
He allowed Bono a moment or two to explore his expression, to check Lewis wasn’t issuing platitudes just to keep him happy, or to mask some social disaster he hadn’t been aware of. Lewis meant every word of it.
Nodding, Bono replaced his glasses, and thanked Lewis with a pat on the knee and a shy smile.
“That can wait a bit,” he said as Lewis moved to begin stacking the abandoned plates and bowls from the table.
“It’s fine,” Lewis replied, as the pile perched on his arm became taller and less steady. “I’m just putting it in the kitchen out of the way.”
The aforementioned kitchen was more of a disaster than the rest of the house, Lewis was reminded when he tried to find a temporary home for his haul. Both the sink and dishwasher were full; plates, cutlery and a wide selection of glassware were lined up next to both in anticipation of free space. Trays of leftovers sat to one side, his relatives having been encouraged to take as much as they could - was it even Christmas if you didn’t eat the same food three days in a row? His mother had offered to help wash dishes (“we have a dishwasher, it’s fine, Mum”) and take the trash out (“Mum it’s snowing, don’t be silly!”) but Lewis had insisted that his guests were not doing any of the dirty work. Bono had backed him up, tactically steering his mother out of the kitchen to show her the newly decorated bedroom.
As he began sorting the rubbish for the bin - retrieving extra bags from the cupboard under the sink - his phone buzzed in his pocket. And a few times more. A quick check revealed a thank you message from Nicholas, with multiple photos attached.
A selfie of the two of them lounging on the sofa, Lewis’ arm around his younger brother.
One of ‘uncle Lewis’ being schooled at the latest board game acquisition. He’d like to say he was letting the kids win, but they smashed it fair and square.
A selection of photos from the dinner table, and posed shots next to the Christmas tree.
The final image, sent separately and with a heart below showed Lewis and Bono sitting on the floor next to each other, in front of the fire. They were laughing, sharing a joke of some sort that he couldn’t quite remember at that moment. Possibly during a game of Pictionary, or maybe it was when his niece - frustrated at losing another cracker-pull - had stolen a paper hat from Nicholas’ head and ran away. It didn’t matter. What struck him now was how genuinely happy and content he - and if he risked thinking it, they - looked. A soft smile appeared as he typed out a reply.
As he finished the small amount of tidying he could do, the tune of Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas filtered through from the living room, remnants of a playlist that had barely been audible above the merriment throughout the day. Making his way back to clear the rest of the debris, he found Bono still in the same spot on the sofa. Only now he appeared to be fast asleep, lips parted slightly. Twinkling lights from the tree reflected from the sequins on his over-the-top jumper, his chest rising and falling slowly. It was far from the first time Lewis had seen him like this, yet it still made his heart swell, just a little.
Deciding Bono was right, and that the chores could wait, he switched off the overhead lights, leaving the room illuminated solely by the tiny ones on the tree and the flames from the fire. Careful not to disturb him, Lewis sat next to Bono, gently easing his glasses off. Bono didn’t stir. He lifted the blanket from the back of the sofa - a Christmas present for the two of them from his mother - and, curling in to rest his head on Bono’s shoulder, draped it over the two of them.
Smiling as the song neared its end - through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow - and pleasant fatigue finally catching up to him, Lewis hoped there would be many more like this one. Because it really had been perfect.