Work Text:
"Happy Christmas," I wrapped it up and sent it
With a note saying, "I love you," I meant it
Now I know what a fool I've been
But if you kissed me now, I know you'd fool me again
- Wham! (Last Christmas)
⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆
It was too early for anyone to be awake, let alone banging on Roy’s front door like they were trying to punch their way into the house.
The sky outside was still that bruised blue, the kind that made the streetlamps look too bright, too artificial. Roy blinked blearily at the ceiling for a moment, trying to decide if he’d dreamt the noise.
Then came another round of knocking.
Hard. Rhythmic. Familiar in a way that made his stomach clench.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Roy muttered, dragging himself out of bed. His knees cracked. His back twinged. The cold air slapped him awake as he stomped down the stairs.
Whoever was at the door kept going, no patience, no hesitation, like they trusted the fact Roy would eventually answer. Or like they didn’t care if he didn’t.
Roy swung the door open with enough force he expected whoever it was to flinch.
Jamie Tartt did not flinch.
He stood there on the doorstep at seven in the bloody morning, breath fogging in front of him, cheeks red from the cold. His hair was flattened on one side like he’d slept wrong. He was holding a plastic grocery bag from the corner shop, the bottom slightly damp from the slush on the pavement.
“Hi,” Jamie said, voice a little too thin and a little too bright, like he’d practised it on the walk over and it still wasn’t sitting right in his mouth.
Roy just stared.
Jamie tightened his grip on the bag. He swallowed. The bravado slipped the tiniest bit.
“Didn’t wanna spend Christmas alone.”
The words hit different. Small and bare, nothing like the easy swagger Jamie usually wrapped himself in. He looked… not fragile, exactly. Jamie was many things, loud, dramatic, annoyingly persistent, but fragile had never been one of them.
But right now?
Right now he looked like someone who’d run out of places to go.
Roy stepped aside before he could think too hard about it.
“Get in,” he said, gruff enough to hide the way his voice wanted to soften.
Jamie exhaled, relief flickering across his face so quickly Roy nearly missed it. He stepped inside, tracking cold air and the faint smell of snow with him.
Roy shut the door. The house fell into that early-morning quiet again, the kind that felt heavier with someone else in it.
Jamie hovered in the hallway, shifting his weight like he was waiting for instructions. He held up the shopping bag between two fingers.
“Uh… brought breakfast,” he said, like this explained everything.
Roy raised an eyebrow. “From the fucking corner shop?”
Jamie nodded earnestly, as if that confirmed the quality of the meal.
Roy took the bag. It crinkled loudly in the stillness. Inside were:
a chocolate orange, two selection boxes, a packet of mince pies that had seen better days, and a bottle of cheap Prosecco that looked like it regretted existing.
Jamie hovered beside him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he wasn’t sure whether to stay still or run a marathon. His hand kept drifting toward the inside of his jacket pocket, just for a second, before he caught himself and let it fall back to his side.
Roy noticed the fidgeting but didn’t comment. He’d learned that sometimes Jamie carried his nerves physically, in restless hands and jittery breaths. It didn’t need a name.
Instead he just said, “I'm putting the kettle on,” and walked toward the kitchen.
Jamie followed, shoulders rounded just enough to give him away.
The house wasn’t built for guests. It was all quiet corners and half-finished chores, a mismatched stack of mugs in the sink and the leftovers of a life lived behind the scenes. But Jamie moved through it like he already knew the layout, toeing off his trainers by the radiator, rubbing his hands together as he looked around like he’d been here a hundred times.
Roy flicked the switch on the kettle. The hum filled the silence.
Jamie watched the steam drift.
“I woke up and it was just…” He trailed off, brow pinching. “Too quiet.”
Roy didn’t turn around. “It’s Christmas. S'posed to be quiet.”
“Not that kind,” Jamie said softly. “The wrong kind.”
Something in Roy’s chest tugged. Annoying. Inconvenient. Familiar.
He handed Jamie a mug. Their fingers brushed, a small, accidental thing that neither of them acknowledged.
Jamie lifted the mug to his face, letting the warmth sink into his palms. His shoulders dropped a fraction.
“This is better,” he murmured.
Roy looked at him then. Really looked.
Jamie standing in his kitchen on Christmas morning. Hair a mess. Eyes tired. Steam curling around his face. A cheap grocery bag on the counter like a peace offering. A card hidden at the bottom like a secret.
And Roy realised something, uncomfortable and warm and entirely too obvious:
He didn’t mind this. Didn’t mind Jamie showing up like the world had tilted him in this direction. Didn’t mind the quiet being filled, just a little.
Jamie met his eyes and offered a small smile. Not his usual bright one. Something smaller. More honest.
“Hope it’s alright I came,” he said.
Roy grunted. “If it wasn’t, you’d already be outside.”
Jamie’s smile pulled wider, softer at the edges.
And just like that, the day shifted around them.
The kettle clicked off.
The house warmed by degrees.
And the quiet wasn’t the wrong kind anymore.
⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆
Roy didn’t think inviting Jamie into the living room would feel like anything.
It was the natural next step, wasn’t it? Tea made. Breakfast-that-wasn’t-breakfast sitting on the counter. Two people needing somewhere to sit that wasn’t the drafty kitchen.
But the moment he stepped aside and let Jamie wander in, something in the air shifted, subtle, but enough to make Roy’s pulse tick higher.
The living room was dim, still holding onto the quiet blue of the early morning. The Christmas tree in the corner glowed faintly, the cheap fairy lights flickering like they weren’t sure if they’d survive the season. Jamie stopped in front of it, head tilted, like he was taking in the entire space for the first time.
“This is nice,” he said, and he meant it. Jamie always meant it when he didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise.
Roy grunted and shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s a fucking tree.”
Jamie laughed, soft and warm. The kind that curled around the room and made everything feel a bit less cold.
“Still nice.”
He moved toward the sofa with the loose confidence of someone who had no idea he was committing small crimes against Roy’s blood pressure. He flopped down like he belonged there, pulling the slightly-worn Christmas blanket into his lap without asking.
Roy followed more carefully, because someone had to maintain a sense of order around here, and sat on the opposite end. A reasonable distance. A professional distance.
Jamie looked at that distance. Then at Roy.
Then at the massive sofa that could fit three people comfortably.
He shuffled closer.
Not enough to raise an eyebrow on purpose.
Just enough that Roy felt the cushion dip.
“The blanket’s short,” Jamie said, doing a truly terrible job of pretending it wasn’t an excuse. “S'like... barely long enough for one person.”
“It’s plenty long,” Roy muttered.
Jamie made a show of tugging at the edge. “Nah. Really small, this one.”
Roy didn’t comment when Jamie moved again.
Or when the blanket draped half across Roy’s thigh.
Or when Jamie’s knee knocked lightly into his.
Jamie settled deeper into the sofa, taking a long sip of tea, shoulders relaxing like he’d been carrying tension for days.
“So,” he said, brightening. “Movie?”
“No.”
Jamie already had the remote in hand. “Brilliant.”
Roy sighed, knowing resistance would only drag out the inevitable.
Jamie navigated the menu with the ease of someone who had clearly been on his telly before. Roy didn’t want to think too much about that.
“Muppet Christmas Carol,” Jamie announced, like it was obvious.
Roy groaned. “Fuck’s sake. Out of all the—”
“Nope,” Jamie cut in. “This is the best one.”
“It’s a puppet film.”
“It’s cinema, Roy.”
Roy was halfway through rolling his eyes when Jamie hit play, and the opening music filled the room, warm, nostalgic and annoyingly cheerful in a way Roy would never admit he didn’t mind. Jamie brightened instantly, sinking an inch deeper into the sofa, into the blanket, into Roy’s orbit. He looked younger somehow, softened by the glow of the Christmas lights and the warmth of the tea still lingering in his hands. There was something so open about him in moments like this, unguarded in a way that made Roy’s chest feel tight.
Within five minutes, Jamie was quoting lines under his breath.
Within ten, he was laughing too loudly at jokes he clearly knew by heart.
By fifteen minutes in, Roy found his eyes drifting away from the screen entirely, watching the way Jamie’s hair curled at the ends, the soft crease that formed beside his eyes when he laughed, the way his whole face lit up at the stupidest, simplest moments. He didn’t mean to watch him, didn’t intend to, but somehow it felt impossible not to.
Jamie nudged him with an elbow at one point, pointing at the screen with the kind of excited energy that suggested he’d never seen the film before, despite the fact he could probably quote every line. Roy didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate the warmth pressed against his side, the blanket tugged a little further across his lap, or the way Jamie seemed determined to include him in every moment of the film, as though Roy genuinely needed running commentary to survive it.
Their shoulders brushed halfway through the first act, a small, natural shift that neither of them commented on. Jamie didn’t move away or apologise or make a joke of it; he simply stayed where he was, warm and steady beside Roy. And Roy didn’t move either. He let the contact settle, let the quiet room fold around them like a soft boundary against the cold outside. The glow from the tree flickered across the walls, making the whole place feel smaller, warmer, like the two of them had stepped into a pocket of time that didn’t belong to anyone else.
Jamie chuckled at something on the screen and leaned just slightly more into Roy, the contact subtle but unmistakable. Roy kept his eyes forward, but he wasn’t seeing any of it. His mind drifted, not thinking about the film at all. Instead, he found himself thinking about how natural this felt, how natural Jamie felt, here in his house, shoulder to shoulder with him, fitting into the space beside him like it had always been waiting for him.
And for the first time, Roy realised he wasn’t sure he wanted the moment to end.
⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆
Somewhere between Scrooge meeting the Ghost of Christmas Present and the Muppets launching into another aggressively cheerful number, Jamie’s running commentary began to taper off.
At first, Roy didn’t notice. He was too busy pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself. Too busy trying, and failing, not to glance over every time Jamie laughed, or nudged him, or said his name in that soft, careless way that always landed too close to Roy’s heart.
But the shift was gradual. Jamie’s voice, normally bright and relentless, lowered by degrees, full lines becoming half-muttered ones, then little huffs of amusement, then something smaller. Softer. Just breathing.
Roy finally glanced over.
Jamie had sunk lower into the sofa, blanket pulled practically to his ears. His eyes blinked slow as treacle, hair falling across his forehead in a way he normally would’ve fussed with. But he didn’t. His whole face had gone unguarded, the edges smoothed out by exhaustion. He looked… young. Tired. Safe.
“Don’t fall asleep,” Roy muttered. It came out automatic, not actually meant to stop anything.
Jamie didn’t answer. Didn’t even seem to hear him.
His head drooped once, sharply. Then again. A tiny noise caught in his throat, half protest, half surrender. He tried to straighten, tried to keep his eyes open for the sake of pride or stubbornness… and failed completely.
His head tipped sideways.
And landed on Roy’s shoulder.
Roy stopped breathing.
Not figuratively, not in the poetic sense. He actually stopped breathing. His entire body went rigid, spine locking up like someone had snapped a cold shock straight down it. It felt like the sofa dropped an inch beneath him, the moment so unexpected, so unthinkably gentle, that his brain struggled to catch up with the reality of Jamie Tartt asleep on him.
Jamie. On him.
Warm. Heavy. Trusting.
Roy didn’t know where to put any of those feelings.
Jamie didn’t stir after the initial contact. Didn’t tense or pull away or mumble an apology. He simply stayed there, settling fully, his cheek resting against the line of Roy’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if he’d done it before. As if he didn’t even think he needed permission.
Roy stared straight ahead, not seeing a single frame of the film. The screen’s colours blurred, the sound flattening into background noise. Everything in him tuned instead to Jamie, his weight, his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his breath. The faint brush of hair against Roy’s jaw. All of it so soft, so impossibly intimate, Roy felt something crack open quietly inside him.
Jamie made a tiny, sleepy noise, almost a hum, barely there.
“…s’nice,” he murmured, words muffled, warm with sleep.
Roy’s heart tripped over itself. Stopped. Started again too hard.
He didn’t mean to reply. Didn’t plan to. The response rose unbidden, slipping out in a voice he barely recognised as his own.
“Yeah,” Roy whispered, the word almost carried away by the quiet of the room. “...It is.”
Jamie didn’t react. Didn’t wake. Didn’t need to.
And Roy sat there, motionless, terrified to shift even a millimetre in case he broke the spell, acutely aware that something enormous had just happened—quietly, gently, without fanfare.
Jamie had fallen asleep on him.
And Roy wasn’t sure his life was going to be the same after that.
The room felt different after that. Softer. Quieter. Like everything had exhaled at once.
Jamie’s weight against him was warm and steady, grounding Roy in a way he hadn’t anticipated. His shoulder slotted naturally beneath Jamie’s head, as if it had been made for it, and Jamie’s slow, even breaths brushed faintly against Roy’s collarbone. Roy had always thought of himself as someone good at wanting nothing, or at least at pretending he didn’t want things he couldn’t have, but something inside him eased open in the quiet, slow and inevitable as a thaw.
He wanted this. Not the film or the blanket or the mug of tea cooling on the table. Not even the morning itself. He wanted Jamie, here, like this, warm and trusting, asleep against him as though Roy was someone safe to lean on. It settled into him with a weight he didn’t know how to fight, a truth shaped gently but unmistakably around his ribs.
Roy swallowed hard, afraid that even that small movement might disturb the moment. He stayed completely still, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to let the thought form too clearly in his mind in case acknowledging it made it too real. The room was quiet except for the soft flicker of the tree lights and the faint hum of the heating, and for the first time all morning, Roy felt the day moving around them instead of through them.
He didn’t want the moment to end. More than that, he didn’t want this to be a one-off, a strange, soft accident that melted with the snow outside. The realisation settled warm and heavy in his chest: he wanted Jamie. Not just today. Not just this unexpected closeness. He wanted him in a way that was frightening in its certainty, in its simplicity, in how easily it seemed to fit.
And that honest, undeniable wanting scared him more than anything had in a very long time.
⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆
Jamie woke like someone surfacing too quickly from deep water, a sharp inhale, fingers twitching, his eyes blinking up at the ceiling in slow, confused sweeps, as if he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. Roy felt the shift before he saw it, the subtle lift of Jamie’s weight from his shoulder, the loss of warmth that left the faint chill of air in its place. It was enough to knock something loose in his chest.
Then Jamie jolted upright, mortified.
“Oh—shit—sorry, I didn’t— I must’ve—” His hand went straight to his hair, flattening it uselessly, as if fixing it might somehow erase the fact he had been asleep against Roy for the better part of half an hour.
Roy stayed still. Far too still. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to move, it was that he was afraid doing so would crack whatever delicate thing had formed between them while Jamie slept.
Jamie blinked around the room, disoriented, his gaze jumping from Roy to the fallen blanket to the television, which had quietly rolled into the credits. His voice, when it arrived, was soft and rough-edged from sleep.
“Didn’t mean t’fall asleep on you,” he murmured. “Shouldn’t’ve— I mean, I didn’t mean to—”
He began to shift away, just an inch, just enough to create distance, and Roy’s hand moved without permission from his brain.
His fingers brushed Jamie’s forearm. A light touch. Barely anything.
But enough.
Jamie stilled instantly, not startled in any frightened way, but in that quiet, breath-held way of someone unused to being told, wordlessly, to stay. Roy felt the moment settle between them like fresh snow: quiet, soft, impossible to ignore.
He exhaled, slow and steady, grounding himself before he spoke.
“S’alright,” he said. His voice was rough because every feeling in him was too big for smoothness, but the intention behind it was gentle. “You were tired.”
Jamie’s shoulders loosened, the tension melting out of him as if a cold wind had finally eased. He sank back into the sofa, not quite touching Roy again, but close enough that the warmth between them crept back in. The glow from the Christmas tree lights flickered across his face, catching in the soft edges of his features freshly softened by sleep.
He looked at Roy then, really looked. Heavy-lidded, soft-eyed, still wearing the last traces of that unguarded expression he’d had while he slept.
“Thanks for…” He paused, thumb tracing the blanket in a small, uncertain arc. “…y’know. Letting me be here.”
The words were quiet, but they hit Roy with the force of something much larger, striking straight through him. Jamie said it like Roy had done him some enormous kindness, like opening the door had been a lifeline rather than the simplest thing in the world.
Roy held his gaze, even as instinct pushed him to look away. He didn’t. He couldn’t.
“Stay for dinner,” he said, gruff and certain and more honest than he meant to be.
The corners of Jamie’s mouth lifted, softly, involuntarily, like he couldn’t help it. And Roy felt that smile like warmth spreading through him, steady and bright and terrifyingly welcoming.
“Yeah?” Jamie asked, hope flickering in his eyes like the fairy lights on the tree.
Roy nodded, pretending the movement didn’t feel like stepping off some invisible ledge.
“Yeah,” he said. “Stay.”
Jamie beamed.
It was too bright for the dim room, too warm for the cold outside, too much for Roy’s heart to handle without something inside him rearranging itself.
Jamie’s smile lingered even after he settled back into the sofa, edging closer in that unthinking, instinctive way he had, like warmth seeking warmth. Roy kept his eyes on the television for a moment longer than necessary, pretending he was giving the movie all his attention when really he was trying to steady something in his chest. Jamie’s knee brushed his, a light, natural press of contact that didn’t ask for anything but still demanded to be felt. It changed the air between them, turning the familiar room into something smaller, more intimate, as if the space had shifted to fit the shape of them sitting there together.
Roy made himself breathe. It was ridiculous, how much effort it took. This wasn’t new. Jamie had been in his house before, had sprawled across his sofa, had thrown himself into Roy’s space like it was where he belonged. But today, after the door at dawn, the sleep-heavy murmur, the way Jamie had looked at him when he woke, it felt different. Like stepping into a warmth Roy hadn’t realised he’d been missing until Jamie brought it with him.
He didn’t look over, but he felt Jamie settle, lingering just a breath closer than before. A steady presence at his side. A weight that felt neither accidental nor intrusive. Something that made Roy feel grounded and unsteady at the same time.
And for the first time that morning, a thought nudged its way forward, quiet and certain:
This mattered.
Jamie mattered.
And denying that was becoming impossible.
⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆
The kitchen had warmed by the time they wandered in, a gentle heat drifting from the oven and the lingering steam of the kettle. Roy rolled up his sleeves with the quiet determination of a man who knew that if he didn’t take control, their Christmas dinner would end up being whatever dubious items that were at the bottom of the bag Jamie brought with him. Jamie followed behind him with the bright energy of someone who desperately wanted to help and absolutely should not.
“I can cook,” Jamie announced, grabbing the nearest apron. It was floral. He put it on like it was a heroic gesture.
Roy didn’t even look up from the fridge. “You can’t cook.”
“Yes I can,” Jamie insisted, already picking up a knife like it was a prop from a different universe.
“Put that down,” Roy said automatically. “Last time you tried to help in the kitchen, you set off my smoke alarm.”
Jamie huffed. “That pan was faulty.”
“You microwaved a fork.”
Jamie considered this, then sighed. “Yeah, okay, fair. But I can still help.”
Roy handed him a bowl of carrots. “Wash these.”
Jamie looked offended by the simplicity, but did it anyway, sort of. Water sprayed across the sink, the counter, Roy’s sleeve, and the floor. When Jamie presented the bowl again, half the carrots were somehow still bone-dry. Roy rewashed them without a word because commenting felt pointless…and because Jamie was humming under his breath like he was genuinely proud of himself.
Five minutes later, Jamie tried to season the potatoes and managed to get salt into the butter dish instead. He attempted to stir something Roy wasn’t done chopping. He turned the pepper grinder sideways for reasons unknown to science.
Roy exhaled through his nose, long-suffering.
“Right,” he said. “Enough. You’re done. Off you go.”
Jamie blinked at him. “You’re kicking me out of the kitchen?”
“I’m relocating you,” Roy corrected, nudging him gently toward the counter. “Sit there. Don’t touch anything sharp or hot or edible.”
Jamie hopped onto the counter like it was exactly what he wanted. The apron bunched awkwardly around his hips. He swung his legs, heels tapping lightly against the cupboard door, and grinned at Roy as if he’d just been promoted.
“So what d’you want me to do?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Roy muttered, chopping onions.
Jamie ignored that completely. “I’ll entertain you, then.”
Roy didn’t ask what that meant. He didn’t have to. Jamie talked enough for three people, commenting on every ingredient, on the way Roy chopped things (“Very aggressive, that”), on the steam rising from the pan (“Looks like a little cloud!”), on the smell of rosemary (“Posh Christmas vibes, innit?”). Sometimes he drifted into little stories, training mishaps, things Phoebe had said, memories from last year’s disastrous Manchester Christmas, that he told with warm, unthinking fondness.
Roy tried to stay focused on cooking, but he could feel the attention on him, soft, private, different from Jamie’s usual loud charm. Every so often Jamie would fall quiet, watching him with a small, contented smile like this, Roy, sleeves rolled, cooking dinner, was something worth staying still for.
“You’re staring,” Roy said without turning around.
“Yeah,” Jamie answered easily. “It’s nice.”
Roy’s throat tightened unexpectedly. He flipped something in the pan because it gave him an excuse not to answer. Jamie swung his legs again, letting the heels tap rhythmically against the cupboard, a quiet background percussion to the sizzling pan and the faint music still drifting in from the living room.
Eventually, Jamie leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Y’know,” he said softly, “this feels like Christmas.”
Roy stirred the pan, pretending the heat of the stove was why his face had warmed.
“It’s chaotic,” he said.
Jamie smiled, gentle and certain. “Still feels like Christmas.”
The kitchen smelled like butter and herbs and something settling warm beneath Roy’s ribs. Jamie’s presence filled the space without crowding it, like he belonged there, apron crooked, hair still mussed from sleep, watching Roy with a quiet fondness that stretched between them and made the whole room feel smaller, closer, safer.
It hit Roy then, quiet but unmistakable, that this felt like a household. Like something they’d done before. Something they could do again. Something that could become a habit, if he let it.
The thought lodged deep and warm in his chest.
He didn’t look at Jamie when he answered, voice low.
“Yeah,” Roy said. “It does.”
⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆
Lunch faded slowly into the afternoon, the kitchen still holding onto its warmth long after they’d left it behind. The house felt calmer now, lights dimmed, the tree glowing quietly in the corner, the snow outside falling in a way that made the world look smaller and safer than usual. They sank onto the sofa again, full and content, wrapped in the kind of comfortable silence that only came after shared laughter and good food.
Jamie hadn’t stopped fidgeting.
At first, Roy didn’t pay much attention. Jamie fidgeted the way some people breathed, constantly, habitually, without thinking. But this was different. His fingers kept drifting to the pocket of his jacket, brushing over something inside, then pulling back like touching it burned.
After the fourth time, Roy couldn’t ignore it anymore.
He turned his head slightly, watching Jamie out of the corner of his eye. “You’re restless as hell. What’ve you got in that pocket?”
Jamie froze in the act of pretending he wasn’t doing anything. His hand hovered guiltily over the fabric before he tucked it behind a cushion like that would erase the last ten minutes.
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Just—stuff.”
Roy lifted an eyebrow. “Right. Because that sounded believable.”
Jamie’s gaze darted anywhere except at Roy. The ceiling. The tree. The floor. His own knees. Anywhere but the steady look Roy was giving him.
“Jamie,” Roy said quietly.
That did it.
Jamie let out a slow breath, shoulders sinking as if he’d been holding something up for far too long. He reached into his pocket, fingers trembling just a little, and pulled out a folded Christmas card. It wasn’t much, cheap paper, edges bent, the colours a bit faded from being handled too many times.
He didn’t look at Roy when he offered it over. “Just… don’t make it weird.”
Roy took it gently, careful in a way he didn’t usually have to be. The room seemed to fade into the background as he opened it, the soft rustle of paper sounding loud in the quiet.
Inside was Jamie’s handwriting, messy, and painfully earnest.
Thanks for letting me be someone you put up with.
The sentence had been scribbled out, ink pressed hard enough to dent the card. Beneath it, smaller:
Merry Christmas, Roy.
Roy felt the breath leave his lungs.
Not like a punch. More like something settling, something he’d been ignoring finally demanding to be felt. He held the card a little tighter without meaning to, thumb drifting over the crossed-out line. The words weren’t just honest; they were vulnerable in a way Jamie rarely allowed himself to be on purpose.
Jamie shifted beside him, nerves prickling into the air.
“I wasn’t gonna give it to you,” he said, voice quiet. “It was stupid. I wrote it last night and then it felt… I dunno. Too much. Or not enough. Or just—” He swallowed. “Didn’t want to make things weird.”
Roy still hadn’t spoken, and Jamie jumped into the silence, panicked.
“You can just forget it. Seriously. Just pretend I didn’t—”
“Jamie,” Roy said, soft but firm.
Jamie finally looked at him.
The look on Roy’s face wasn’t pity. Wasn’t amusement. Wasn’t discomfort.
It was… careful. A gentleness Jamie wasn’t used to seeing directed at him.
Roy held the card in both hands, as if giving it the kind of attention Jamie had been terrified to offer it.
“This isn’t stupid,” Roy said quietly. “Not even a little bit.”
Jamie’s breath hitched.
Something loosened in his expression, not relief exactly, not hope yet, but something on the edge of both. Something that made the room feel warmer, the lights softer, the snow outside slower.
Roy didn’t push. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand explanations Jamie wasn’t ready to voice.
He simply held the card like it mattered.
And it did.
Jamie’s shoulders eased, just barely. His knee bumped Roy’s again, tentative, like checking the ground between them wasn’t about to give way.
The shift wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic.
But it changed the shape of the space between them, undeniably.
A small truth laid bare, waiting for the moment they were brave enough to name it.
⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆
The moment with the card lingered in the air long after Roy set it gently on the coffee table. Jamie kept darting glances at it like it might start glowing or catch fire, his knee bouncing with tension he clearly didn’t know what to do with. Roy didn’t say anything about it, didn’t joke, didn’t prod, he just sat there beside Jamie, calm in a way that wasn’t helping Jamie’s nerves at all.
After a minute, Roy pushed himself to his feet and nodded toward the window. “Snow’s stopped,” he said. “Come on.”
Jamie hesitated, still slightly shell-shocked, but Roy was already heading for the door. He followed because not following Roy was something he’d never been particularly good at, and maybe he needed the cold air anyway. Maybe they both did.
Outside, the world looked like it had been paused just for them. A fresh layer of snow softened everything, the cars, the hedges, the rooftops, muting the sharp edges of the street until it all felt almost unreal. Christmas lights twinkled faintly from the windows they passed, warm yellow and soft red and the occasional blinking blue that made Jamie grin under his breath. The air was crisp, cold enough to feel alive in his lungs but gentle enough that it didn’t sting.
They walked without a plan, letting the road decide their direction. The snow underfoot made a satisfying crunch with every step, the sound somehow louder in the hush of the afternoon. Someone down the street had lit a fire; the faint scent of woodsmoke drifted on the air, warm and nostalgic in a way Jamie couldn’t name.
Jamie kept sneaking glances at Roy.
Not constant, just little, quick flickers of his eyes, checking and checking again, like the answer to a question he hadn’t asked might appear on Roy’s face if he caught him at the right moment. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was hoping for. Some sign that giving Roy the card hadn’t been stupid. Some proof he hadn’t said too much. Some small reflection of the feeling sitting warm and hopeful in his chest.
Roy walked with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, head tipped slightly down as if watching the snow ahead of them. He didn’t look tense, but he wasn’t exactly giving anything away either. Still, every few minutes, when he thought Jamie wasn’t paying attention, he’d look sideways. Not a quick glance. A lingering one. The kind that stayed long enough to be felt even after Roy looked away again.
Those glances warmed the back of Jamie’s neck more than the scarf he’d forgotten to bring.
The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It had intention, though. Like the air itself was waiting to see what they’d do next. A thin thread stretched between them, humming with something that wasn’t quite said but very much present.
Jamie scuffed at the snow with the toe of his boot, kicking a loose chunk of ice down the pavement. The piece skidded ahead of them, scattering into small crystals. He laughed quietly, breath fogging in the air.
They passed a house where kids’ laughter echoed faintly from the garden, the kind of aiming-too-high snowman laughter, and Jamie’s steps faltered for half a second at the sound. Roy didn’t say anything, but his pace slowed just enough for Jamie to catch up again. The gesture was subtle, unspoken, and somehow warmer than if Roy had reached for his arm outright.
Fairy lights hung from a balcony to their right, swaying gently in the winter breeze. Jamie tilted his head back to look at them, taking in the soft glow they cast across the snow. “Kinda nice, innit?” he murmured.
Roy made a quiet sound, agreement, maybe, before saying, “Feels peaceful.”
Jamie smiled at the ground. “Yeah. S’nice.”
They walked a little farther, the sky above them turning the faintest shade of pink as the light began its slow slide toward evening. A Christmas wreath hung from a door ahead, bright red ribbon fluttering, and someone farther down the road was playing faint holiday music, muffled by walls and distance, but undeniably festive. The whole neighbourhood felt wrapped in a warm, calm kind of magic, the sort that only seemed to appear on Christmas afternoons, when everything slowed and softened.
Jamie shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, breath floating steadily in front of him. “Wasn’t expectin’ today to feel like this,” he said quietly, mostly to himself.
Roy glanced over at him again, longer this time, steady in a way that made Jamie’s chest warm, and for a moment, Jamie let himself believe that whatever this thing was between them, Roy might be feeling it too.
He didn’t see the ice.
One second he was walking normally, and the next his foot shot forward with a sharp, helpless skid. His balance vanished out from under him, the world tilting fast. He barely had time to gasp, let alone brace for impact.
But Roy’s hand closed around his arm before he could fall.
It was instinctive, quick, the kind of catch that suggested Roy didn’t need to think about it. He just moved. Jamie clutched at Roy’s coat out of reflex, breath stumbling in his chest as Roy steadied them both with a controlled, grounding pull.
For a moment, they stood closer than either of them had planned. Jamie’s heart thudded against his ribs; Roy’s breath fogged the air between them. Snowflakes drifted lazily down, settling in Jamie’s hair and catching on Roy’s shoulders. The world felt muted, wrapped in that soft Christmas hush again.
Roy’s grip didn’t drop right away. It loosened, but his hand stayed on Jamie’s arm, warm even through the layers of fabric. Jamie could feel it. Could feel everything.
“Thanks,” Jamie said quietly, lifting his eyes to Roy’s.
Roy didn’t speak. His gaze flicked over Jamie’s face, searching, thoughtful in a way that made Jamie feel rooted to the spot. Not nervous, exactly. Just… seen. Completely.
Jamie swallowed, voice soft and a little unsteady. “Didn’t mean t’make it weird.”
Still nothing from Roy. Not immediately. His jaw worked, a tiny shift; something held tight there, something he seemed to be trying to get a grip on before he let it out into the cold air between them. His fingers brushed once against Jamie’s coat sleeve before finally easing away, slow enough that Jamie felt the loss of warmth the moment it happened.
They didn’t step back at first.
The snow drifted around them in slow, lazy flakes, catching on their coats and eyelashes, gathering in little clumps at the edges of their boots. The cold brushed their cheeks, but neither of them seemed to feel it. Not with how close they were standing. Not with how the moment seemed to settle between them.
Jamie felt Roy’s hand slip away at last, but not abruptly. More like a slow exhale. Like Roy was giving him space only because he had to, not because he wanted the distance.
Jamie’s pulse eased. Not completely, but enough that he could breathe again.
Roy shifted first, clearing his throat lightly and glancing down the street. “Come on,” he said, voice low, calmer than before. “You’ll freeze your arse off out here.”
Jamie huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You too.”
They fell into step again, a touch closer than before, not touching, but near enough that Jamie could feel the warmth of Roy beside him, steady and grounding. The silence between them changed as they walked, no longer tentative but something quieter, something warmer. It wasn’t stretched thin anymore. It held.
Jamie kicked at a patch of soft snow, feeling the ease returning to his shoulders. Roy’s hands stayed tucked in his coat pockets, but his gaze flicked sideways more often now, softer each time Jamie caught it.
Whatever that moment had been, the slip, the catch, the closeness, it hadn’t broken anything.
If anything, it had settled something.
By the time Roy’s house came back into view, the tension between them had thinned into something gentler. Something that felt like understanding. Like the start of a truth they weren’t quite ready to speak, but both knew was there.
And when Jamie followed Roy up the front steps again, warmth spilling out as the door opened, it didn’t feel like stepping back into a house.
It felt like stepping forward into whatever came next.
⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆
The house felt different when they stepped back inside. Warmer, somehow, not just from the heating, but from the contrast of the cold air still clinging to their coats and the soft glow of the living room lamps. Snow melted on their shoulders, dampening the fabric. The quiet settled around them again, but it wasn’t the same quiet as that morning. This one hummed, faint and steady, like something waiting.
Jamie shed his coat slowly, fingers fumbling a little with the zipper. Roy hung it beside his own on the hook behind the door. They didn’t speak as they moved back into the living room, their steps echoing softly over the floorboards.
Roy made tea, because it was something to do with his hands. Jamie stood by the sofa, holding himself in that way he did when he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to sit or whether he was supposed to say something first. When Roy handed him the mug, Jamie wrapped both hands around it and let the heat soak into his skin.
He stared into the steam.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room glowed with the soft pulse of the tree lights, their colours reflected in the window where snow drifted past in slow, silent flakes. Everything felt still — the kind of stillness that held its breath, waiting.
Jamie traced the rim of his mug with one finger, head bowed. When he finally spoke, his voice gentled into the quiet.
“That card… it wasn’t just a Christmas thing.”
Roy’s attention snapped to him. Jamie kept staring into the steam rising from his cup, like it could shield him from whatever he was about to admit.
“I wrote more,” Jamie murmured. “A lot more. But then it felt stupid, or too much, or like it wasn’t… I dunno. Like I wasn’t allowed to feel that way.”
Roy’s chest tightened.
Jamie’s next breath came shaky, small.
“I didn’t want to do today on my own. Not when the person I wanted to spend it with was you.”
The words were warm and fragile, like something Jamie had held in his hands for too long and was finally offering up.
Roy moved before thinking, drawn forward as if the space between them had become a living thing. He stopped only when he was close enough that Jamie couldn’t avoid looking at him.
“Hey,” Roy murmured. “Look at me.”
Jamie did. Slowly. Carefully. And Roy felt that look all the way down to his ribs.
Roy’s voice softened, the kind of soft he used sparingly, the kind that cost him something.
“You think I’d want Christmas with anyone else?”
Jamie blinked, startled, like that idea had never once occurred to him.
Roy took the mug gently from Jamie’s hands and set it aside, giving Jamie nowhere to look but at him.
“You showing up this morning…” Roy shook his head, breath unsteady. “It didn’t ruin my day. It made it.”
Jamie swallowed hard.
Roy continued, his voice growing rough with honesty, but warm under it — so warm Jamie felt it more than heard it.
“I’ve had a lot of Christmases on my own,” Roy said. “Didn’t think I’d get one that actually felt like the day’s supposed to feel.”
Jamie’s eyes shone a little, and Roy didn’t look away.
“But today did,” Roy said. “Because you were here.”
Jamie’s breath caught, a soft, helpless sound that made Roy’s heart squeeze.
Roy stepped closer, until their knees brushed.
“And if I’m being honest…” He exhaled, as though pushing the words out gently. “I want more days like this with you. Not just today. Not just because it’s Christmas.”
Jamie stared at him, wide-eyed, hopeful, undone in the most open way Roy had ever seen.
“Yeah?” Jamie whispered.
Roy nodded, the movement slow, deliberate.
Jamie didn’t move all at once. He leaned in slowly, like the moment was something precious he didn’t want to risk rushing. His hand lifted again, hovering in the air before it finally, finally settled over Roy’s heart, a light touch through the fabric, warm and trembling in a way that made Roy’s breath falter.
Roy reached up, steadying him without pulling, his fingers sliding to Jamie’s waist with a tenderness he didn’t even try to hide anymore. Jamie inhaled sharply at the contact, eyes flicking up to Roy’s like he needed one last confirmation.
Roy gave it in a quiet murmur, not a word, just a soft exhale that said yes.
Jamie stepped even closer, their bodies lining up in a way that felt unbelievably natural. He tilted his forehead to Roy’s, and Roy met him halfway, the touch light and warm and more intimate than any kiss could ever hope to be. Jamie’s breath brushed against Roy’s mouth. Roy’s fingers tightened at Jamie’s waist without meaning to.
For a long, suspended heartbeat, they just stayed there, sharing air, sharing warmth, sharing the knowledge that this was the moment everything was about to change.
Then Jamie moved.
Not with hesitation this time, but with certainty, like he was giving Roy time to pull away even as he leaned in. Roy didn’t. Couldn’t.
Their lips met in a soft, warm, impossibly careful press.
It wasn’t rushed or messy or frantic. It was gentle. Earnest. The kind of kiss that came from months of held-back wanting, released in a single exhale. Jamie’s hand slid higher, flattening against Roy’s chest, fingertips curling into the fabric as if anchoring himself.
Roy answered the kiss with a slow tilt of his head, deepening it by a breath, by a shift, nothing urgent, but everything certain. Jamie made a quiet sound in the back of his throat, something small and surprised and full of relief, and Roy felt it go straight through him.
Jamie kissed like he meant it.
Like he’d thought about this.
Like he’d wanted it for longer than he’d dared admit.
Their mouths moved together in a slow, searching rhythm, soft at first, then fuller, warmer, like the moment was unfolding around them with each breath shared between them. Jamie tasted faintly of tea and something sweet Roy couldn’t place, and Roy found himself leaning in, wanting more of it, more of him, more of the warmth that seemed to bloom from the point where their lips met.
When they finally pulled apart, it wasn’t far. Just enough to breathe. Their foreheads brushed again, noses nudging gently, the warmth of their breaths mixing in the small space between them.
Jamie whispered, voice breathless against Roy’s lips,
“…wow.”
Roy huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah. Me too.”
And without overthinking it, Roy leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, like the first one had been permission and this one was the promise.
⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆
Jamie didn’t pull far after the second kiss, barely an inch, just enough to breathe. His nose brushed Roy’s cheek, soft and unhurried. Roy could feel the smile forming before he saw it, a small, helpless curve that warmed the air between them.
Jamie’s fingers stayed curled in Roy’s shirt, not gripping, just resting there like he didn’t quite know how to let go yet. Roy’s hand traced a slow line along Jamie’s waist, a gentle, grounding touch. It was instinctive and careful and so full of affection that Jamie’s breath caught again, softer this time, like he wasn’t bracing anymore, like he was settling.
Their foreheads touched. Their breaths mingled, warm against the cold air drifting from the window. The world outside narrowed to snowflakes and Christmas lights and the quiet sound of two people finally letting themselves want something.
Jamie opened his eyes first, blinking up at Roy through that faint post-kiss daze.
“Didn’t think you’d want that,” he whispered.
Roy’s thumb brushed his jaw, a small, reverent touch he’d swallowed down earlier but didn’t fight now.
“I’ve wanted that for a long fucking time,” he said.
Jamie’s smile broke wider, but softer. Almost shy.
He sagged into Roy then — not collapsing, just leaning, giving Roy his weight in a way that felt like trust. Like rest. Roy guided him gently back onto the sofa, the two of them sinking into the cushions as if the room itself had softened around them.
Jamie stayed close. Close enough that Roy could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the warmth of him, the quiet hum of contentment. It didn’t take long before Jamie’s eyes began to flutter, sleepy in that way they always got when he felt safe and full and warm.
Roy watched it happen, just like he had earlier that day, the slow blink, the soft sigh, the subtle shift as Jamie’s body relaxed against him.
But this time, Roy didn’t freeze.
This time, he moved.
He lifted his arm and let Jamie settle into the space against his chest, guiding him gently until Jamie fit there like he’d always belonged. Jamie made a small sound, not quite a word, more a soft hum of approval, and burrowed a little closer.
Roy’s hand rose almost without thought, fingers threading lightly through Jamie’s hair, brushing the soft curls back from his forehead. He’d wanted to do that earlier, had held himself still like touching would break something fragile.
Now he touched like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Jamie’s breathing deepened, slow and even, sleep pulling him under with the same quiet trust he’d shown that morning. Roy held him, warm under the blanket they’d dragged up earlier, the Christmas lights blinking lazily across the room.
He looked down at Jamie, at the peaceful curve of his mouth, the faint crease still lingering at the corner of his eye, and something in his chest loosened completely.
Jamie looked safe.
Jamie looked content.
Jamie looked like he was exactly where he wanted to be.
Roy dipped his head, pressed the softest kiss to Jamie’s hair, letting his lips rest there for a moment, soaking in the warmth of him, the weight, the steadiness, the miracle of it all.
And in the quiet glow of Christmas afternoon, Roy whispered, “Next year,” he murmured, brushing another slow, instinctive kiss to Jamie’s temple, “you’re waking up here.”
Jamie, half-asleep, made a tiny, sleepy sound of agreement, a little hum that squeezed Roy’s heart painfully tight.
Roy pulled the blanket higher around them, held Jamie a little closer, and watched the snow fall through the window.
For the first time in years, Christmas didn’t feel lonely.
It felt like the start of something.