Archive of Our Own ^beta

PRESENT TIME

Baz

I feel my phone vibrate against my thigh, and reach inside my pocket to take it out. William. 

On a week night?

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dad. Are you busy right now?”

“I’m cooking dinner, but I can talk. Is anything the matter?”

I turn the stove down to the lowest setting and step away. I turn off the extractor hood; the aspiration sound is unbearable, even more so if I’m trying to speak over it.

“I wanted to talk to you about Christmas.”

“Yes…?”

It’s October. Christmas isn’t even something I have begun to think about. Every year, I seem to think about it later and later. 

“Do you have anything planned yet?”

“Nothing at all. Why? It’s not my year.”

“There’s no ‘your year’,” William answers with a sigh.

There is, although unofficially. Will doesn’t like to think of it this way, but I know he’s mindful of who he spends Christmas with. Sweet boy.

“Anyway… Daisy and I were thinking we could host Christmas this year, now that we are living in a house that allows us to have people over. She’s very excited about this idea, and I have to say that I am too. I want it to be special for April. She’s old enough to enjoy it now.”

I smile at the mention of April. “Will, obviously I would love to share this moment with you, and I’m very glad that you thought of asking me, but… I think I might not be the most appropriate person.”

“Yes, about that…” William begins, three words followed by a few long seconds of silence. My shoulders tense. He clears his throat. “... I’ve invited Dad too. I’d like for both of you to be there.”

Oh. 

Relief washes over me, briefly. At least, Will and his father haven’t fought.

This is better. It’s… dreadful, horrific, stomach-turning, a nightmare scenario… but not as difficult to think about as there being any sort of trouble between them. 

“Is your father okay with that?”

“I… haven’t brought it up yet. I wanted to know if you were coming first.”

“I understand. I think you can understand that I cannot promise I will be there until I know that he’s fine with it.”

“I’ll ask him. And if that’s alright, I’ll set up a meeting for you guys. I’d rather the first time you saw each other wasn’t my Chrismtas party.”

A meeting? Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.

“Can you clarify what you’re suggesting?”

“I think it’d be good if you saw each other before the party. One on one. Discuss whatever you need to to avoid drama on Christmas.”

I can’t help but chuckle. Jesus, the audacity of that boy. 

“You want Simon and I to spend time together? One on one?”

“Please, at least consider it. I’m sure you can see that meeting beforehand is the best way to ensure that everything goes smoothly on Christmas.”

…

And so three weeks later, I find myself going down Brompton Road to meet Simon. According to Will, he comes to London for his Christmas shopping every year. Surely the result of his grandmother’s and my mother’s combined efforts to make him shop at Harrods, as they do.

He agreed to meet me for coffee before he begins his hunt for presents. Two o’clock, William told me. I haven’t spoken to Simon directly. I still have his phone number, but it does not seem right to use it. 

I make my way to the Coffee Bar and find a table. I’m expecting Simon to run a little bit late, and I’m always a little early. I order a latte, but don’t start drinking it before Simon arrives. He does shortly after my cup has been placed in front of me, in any case.

He looks exactly as I remember him, except with a few more lines on his face and a few more grey strands in his hair. He’s dressed in clothes that were likely already in his closet when he shared it with me; worn jeans, a cable-knit jumper and a leather jacket. Still no coat. Perhaps at eighty years old, he will still be wearing leather jackets.

He doesn’t smile when he notices me, but I can tell the exact moment when he sees me regardless. His eyes become more focused, his step less hesitant. 

I stand up to greet him, extending my hand out. How symbolic. (Will he take it? For Will’s sake, I hope so.)

He shakes my hand. “Hello,” he says, without looking at my face.

“Hello, Simon. Thank you for meeting me.”

“Well, it’s important to Will.”

“Yes. It is.”

His mouth remains completely closed. That was to be expected. 

I’ve been thinking about what I would say to him ever since I had that phone call with Will, and yet…

I take a sip of my coffee. Tea would have been a better option. Coffee doesn’t seem to flow as easily down my throat. 

The beverage is not the issue.

I clear my throat. Which doesn’t change anything. 

“Is there anything in particular you would like to discuss?”

“Ideally, I don’t want to discuss anything with you at all,” Simon answers, coldly. 

And here I thought that our handshake meant he would be slightly cordial.

“Simon, please. Let’s not waste our time.”

“This whole thing is a waste of my time,” he says, shifting in his seat. He’s leaning back far too much, it’s graceless even for him. “I was just planning on not talking to you at Christmas. That helps us avoid drama just as well.”

“I’m sure Will would be delighted to watch us completely ignore each other all night.”

Perhaps it’s a bit too early into the conversation to be sarcastic. 

“It’s still better than us fighting.”

“I don’t want to fight with you. We won’t fight if you don’t start it.”

“That’s just like you, blaming me for everything.”

I take a breath, trying to gather my thoughts instead of snapping back whatever biting remark comes to my mind. 

After this, I hope William will see the true measure of my love for him.

“Simon, all…”

“Oh my God, stop saying my name in every sentence.”

“I’m not doing that, but regardless; all I’m saying is that I have no intention of ruining Will’s party. If it matters to him that we are both present for Christmas, I think we should both make an effort to be on our best behaviour for him. So go on, let out all those bitchy remarks you’re clearly eager to make so that you don’t make them in front of our son.”

“My son.”

Cold washes over me like a violent wave. I look away. 

25 YEARS EARLIER

Simon

“I have a son. You should know that. And like, not in a ‘I only see him once every couple of weeks’ kind of way. I have custody of him, so if this is going to go anywhere, he’s going to have to be part of your life, eventually.”

Always a fun thing to say on first dates. Probably the reason why I have had so many first dates and zero second ones.

It’s worse with the blokes, or so I’ve noticed. Women tend to find it charming. I guess they like the idea of a man who’s not completely useless as a father. I don’t think men like the idea of a man who’s a father. Not when he’s their age, anyway.

“Okay. That’s good to know. What’s his name?” Basil answers, and there’s genuine interest in his voice.

Ok, so at least he’s not being weird. Doesn’t mean he’s not going to ghost me after this date, but it’s better than the people who have… striking reactions, as though I was telling them that I murdered people. 

“Will.”

“And how old is he?”

“Three.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. I think that’s my favourite age for young children. They’re really little humans you can chat with by three years old, but they’re still not fully demonic.”

I chuckle. “Demonic?”

He nods, very seriously. “That starts at around age five, when they lose a bit of their cute-factor and you see them for the monsters they truly are. At least that was the case for my siblings.”

“How many siblings do you have?” I ask, my smile still on my face. 

“Four. We have a substantial age gap, so I remember them all as babies and toddlers. I sort of wish they’d stop growing up then. My brother is six, that’s how I can tell you that they’re evil creatures after they turn five.”

That is a big age gap. Jesus. That could be his kid.

“Has your brother done anything to earn that title? I’m curious. Prepare me for the horrors my son will put me through soon enough.”

PRESENT TIME

Baz

“Your son, yes. If it pleases you to point it out. Any other such comment, or can we perhaps have a mature conversation?”

“It’s really irritating when you act all high and mighty like that, you know? Like you’re so much better than me for not being angry. This,” he gestures vaguely between us. “is easy for you. You’re the one who left. It’s always easier being in that position.”

“Is that what you want to do, then? Argue about our divorce?”

“What I want is to be done with this,” he answers with a sigh. “I don’t know what we need to ‘discuss’ to make Christmas go smoothly. Again, I feel like the only way that can be achieved is if we don’t talk.”

“Why do you think that?”

He glares at me. Isn’t it obvious?, I think that’s what that look means.

“Because I don’t trust myself to be nice when talking to you.”

“Clearly.”

He rolls his eyes. This conversation is increasingly harder to bear. 

“Oh, shut up.”

“No, I think I’m allowed to be a little irritated. You’ve been nothing but rude to me ever since you arrived. I understand that you have reasons to resent me, but I don’t think that warrants such childish behaviour.”

“And I think I’m allowed to be a little rude to someone like you. I can make an effort for Will and spend Christmas with you, but that’s the most I can do. I don’t want to play at being friends.”

“I don’t think that’s what Will wants either. He knows we aren’t friends.” At that, Simon snorts, which I pretend I didn’t hear. “From my understanding, he doesn’t want us to ruin the mood. Or embarrass us in front of Daisy’s parents. Which is why we’re supposed to settle our issues now. So again, if there’s anything you want to say, say it now.”

To my surprise, he remains silent. I know he has things he wants to say. Probably many things. And I probably deserve to hear most of them. He probably deserved a chance to say them sooner.

And yet, he’s not even saying them now.

I startle when he suddenly stands from his chair. He shoves his hands inside the pockets of his jacket, and shakes his head.

“Maybe some other time. I’ll reach out when I’m ready,” he mumbles, before rushing away from my table.

Well.

That went better than I anticipated.

23 YEARS EARLIER

Baz

Finally, I can have some rest. After a long Zoom call with my supervisor, to discuss what I’ve been working on, I am giving myself four full days without touching my thesis. Today, tomorrow, and the weekend. Back at it on Monday. 

The very last thing I need to do today is go down to the corner shop to buy sustenance for those four days of hedonistic rest: food I can pop in the microwave or the oven so that I don't even have to bother going downstairs to pick up a delivery order, the bar of chocolate that has been my reward for achieving anything academically since I shared one with Niall after we left the last exam of our A-Levels, and most importantly, a pack of cigarettes because the past few days have been so stressful that I burned through all my stock; and I do stock up when I know I'm going to inflict psychological damage on myself —force myself to work on my thesis without any distraction to make some goddamn progress.

After that, I can change into my pyjamas, lie down, and do nothing.

What a fucking dream. A well-deserved break, if I do say so myself. 

Simon says so too. I have been accused of being too buried in my books and notes lately. You haven’t come to my flat in two weeks!

Simon. His name flashes on my phone screen. 

Uh? He hates calling.

“Hello?” I say, hesitant.

“Hey babe, I’m so sorry to ask you this, but do you think you could go pick Will up? The school called me, he’s sick, he needs to be home but I can’t leave work right now, and I know this is super inconvenient, but I didn’t know who else to call and…” 

… And guess I'm not resting today.

“And nothing. It’s fine,” I say in a gentle voice. “Of course I can go pick him up, but are you sure they’re going to let me take him?”

“I warned his teacher that my partner would be coming, not me.”

“Hm. Okay, then. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you. Really, that means a lot.”

“It’s nothing. See you later, then?”

“Yeah. Thanks again. Love you.”

“I love you too.”

He hangs up. Very fast. I don’t think his boss likes him using his phone at work; I’m surprised he was even able to take a call from Will’s school.

… Which is thirty-minutes away from my flat, if the Tube is running smoothly. I need to get moving. God knows what ‘sick’ means to his teacher. 

I change into clothes that are slightly more decent than what I wear around the house, put on shoes and a coat, and I’m on my way. Thankfully, the Tube is running smoothly today. Miracles happen. 

There’s a bell to ring to get inside Will’s school. An altered, slightly robotic feminine voice asks me what I’m here for. “I’m coming to pick up one of the pupils. William Salisbury, he’s in Year 1. His teacher called because he’s sick.”

A buzz, and the sound of the door unlocking. I push it. I quickly notice the person who was likely talking to me through the intercom. She invites me to come and write down my name, the date and time, and the reason for my entering the school. I sign at the end of the line, put the pen down, and the woman gestures to her left. 

“Your son will be waiting in his classroom, on your right at the end of the corridor.”

Your son. God, how dreadful it is to think that I look like someone who could reasonably be a parent to a five-year-old. I’m much too young for this. Nevermind that Simon is my age and he is a parent to a five-year-old.

“Thank you very much,” I answer with a nod. 

I walk down the corridor, following the instructions I was given. I can spot Will’s coat on a child-height hanger. It’s bright red with yellow and orange dots. His dad wants him to be easily spotted from afar. It makes watching him when they go to the park easier.

I knock on the classroom door, and a few seconds later, a middle-aged woman opens it. I don’t miss the frown on her face when she lays her eyes on me.

“Hello, I am here to pick up William Salisbury.”

Her frown deepens. “I have never seen you at drop off or pick up,” she answers, which, I suppose, is a fair concern. Would be a fair concern if Simon hadn’t told her he wasn’t coming himself…

“William’s father is usually in charge of this, but as he could not make himself available on such short notice, he asked me to come in his stead. I believe he told you so on the phone.”

“He said his wife would come.”

I straighten up. So that’s the issue… I let out a breath, hoping it doesn’t sound like a sigh.

“I believe the term he used was ‘partner’, which would be me.” Or at least I hope he said partner… He told me he said partner. We have some talking to do if he referred to me as his wife… “I’m sure William can attest that he knows me.”

The line on her forehead hasn’t left as she steps back inside the classroom to ask Will to come up to her. Hearing her talk to one of them makes the high-pitched chatter of the children grow quieter.

Will appears on the doorway. “Baz?” His voice is much softer than usual, a little whiny. His cheeks are red and his eyes glossy. I’m sure his forehead is burning hot.

“Hey buddy,” I say, holding a hand out for him. He steps forward to take it. “Your teacher said you were sick?”

“I threw up.”

“Oh, goodness. Are you feeling any better now?” He shakes his head. Poor kid. I look up at the teacher. “Thank you for calling.”

“Take him home. He needs rest. It would probably be safer if he did not come tomorrow.”

“I agree. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye Mrs Benson,” Will says, with a little wave. How sweet.

We leave the school, Will walking silently by my side. I choose to have us take a cab back to my place; I’m not putting this little guy through public transportation. 

“Baz, what are we waiting for?”

“A taxi, darling. We are going to go to my place, okay?”

“Why not home?”

“I can’t take you home, I don’t have the keys.”

“Oh… Why?”

“Because it’s your home, not mine.”

“Auntie Penny has the keys and it’s not her home.”

I was thinking that perhaps being sick would make him less chatty than usual. I was wrong. 

“How do you know that your Aunt Penny has the keys to your house?”

“‘Cause dad calls her when he forgets them.”

I can’t help but chuckle. That sounds like Simon.

“Oh, that’s us,” I say when our cab arrives. I help Will in and give the driver my address. Will is silent the whole way. He’s fascinated by the traffic. According to Simon, it’s a real blessing. He’s never impatient when they go on car rides, even long ones, because he so loves looking out of the window. 

I use the drive to my flat as an opportunity to inform Simon that Will is with me and to text my mother.

Mum

How do I take care of a child who has a fever and has thrown up?

Hello, darling. You put them to bed so they can rest with a container of some sort in case they become sick again

Why are you looking after a child, exactly?

He’s Simon’s son

Simon, your boyfriend?

Yes, mum. I don’t know another Simon

Is he not here to help you care for his son?

He’s at work. He couldn’t get off

Oh, that is unfortunate

How old is the child again?

Five

Goodness, he’s little. How lovely. Is this the first time you look after him?

Alone, yes. I mean, Simon has left him with me for a few minutes here and there to make dinner and the like, but he was still in the same house as us. It’s the first time I’m in charge of Will without his dad being around at all

That must be intimidating

I was petrified the first time I was alone with you, and you were older than five, and not sick

You were scared?

Of course, darling. Your father was trusting me with you. It was a big responsibility

I struggle to imagine you being scared about any aspect of looking after a child. You’re so good at it

That is nice of you to say

About the child’s sickness, I forgot to say: make sure to keep him hydrated. You have to make him drink, but be mindful of not giving him too much water at once. I would also advise against feeding him anything until his father is with you

Okay, thank you. Anything else?

No, that’s all 

Okay. Thanks

You’re welcome. Text me again if you need any more advice

I will. Bye!

Goodbye, honey

Baz

Will is excited to press the button for the lift himself. I don’t know if he has used lifts very often in his life, and even if he has, most things are exciting to him. He’s such a jolly child. 

When we reach my flat, I sit on the floor to help him out of his shoes. Laces are difficult for him. In the meantime, he unzips his coat, and holds it awkwardly in his hand until I can put it on the rack, and mine with it. 

He doesn’t immediately follow me when I walk to the living room. This is a new environment, it might be intimidating for him –though I didn’t think William could be intimidated by anything. I motion at him to come with me, and only then does he leave the entryway. I take him to the couch, and make him stand in front of me. “Are you wearing a t-shirt under your uniform?”

He nods. Good. 

“Okay, we’ll get you out of these clothes so you can be more comfortable, then. I think you should lie down and rest, would you rather be in a bed or stay on the sofa?”

“Bed. Dad’s back always hurts when he sleeps on the sofa when Auntie Penny comes to visit.”

“That is a very valid point. I wouldn’t recommend the sofa either. Come here,” I say, holding his arm to tub him closer. 

I undo the tiny buttons of his shirt, slide it down his arms, then I help him out of his trousers. He puts his hand down on my knee for balance when he lifts one foot after the other. I ask if he wants to keep his socks on, and as an answer, he pulls them off. I stand back up and lead him to my bedroom. I have a guest room, but the sheets haven’t been changed in ages. (To think that I used to make fun of Daphne for changing unused bedsheets when we had guests over, simply because they had been on the bed for too long.)

On the way, I show him where the bathroom is, and leave the door open, in case he needs to go.

“Your bed is so big,” Will says as he climbs on it. He lies in the middle of it and spreads his little arms and legs. “I can’t even touch the sides!”

“I’m a little taller than you, that’s why I need a bigger bed. Do you want me to close the curtains?”

He nods. “Yes, please. You don’t have a TV in your room?”

“No.”

His father does. I find it irritating –televisions don’t belong in bedrooms. If we move in together one day, I have a feeling that this is going to be the cause of an argument. 

“But I wanted to watch Bluey.” 

“How about you take a nap instead?”

Obviously, he pouts. No child has ever been excited about a nap. I would kill to have nap-time everyday.

“Naps are boring.” He crosses his arms on his chest. 

I pull on one corner of my blanket so that Will can crawl under it. He does, but not without continuing to show me his discontentment with a frown.

“They’re also good for little boys who are sick. You’ll be better faster if you rest. You don’t want to be sick all weekend, do you?”

He shakes his head. “No!”

“Then resting is your best option.”

He makes a face, but doesn’t fight it when I lay the covers over him. I don’t tuck him in, because I’ve seen Simon put him to bed a handful of times and I’ve noticed that he doesn’t. 

“I’ll bring you some water. You don’t have to drink it right now, but you have to drink it all before your dad comes to get you, okay?

“When is he coming?”

“As soon as he’s off work.”

“Okay. I want him,” he adds in a small, whiny voice.

“I know, he’ll be there soon, don’t worry.”

I leave him for a minute to get a glass of water from the kitchen, and something for him to throw up in, just in case. I would rather my bedsheets and flooring remained vomit-free. Ideally.

When I come back, I find Will sitting down, waiting for me, so I hand him the glass and put a large mixing bowl down on the floor right by the bed. I don’t ever cook anyway, this thing has been in my kitchen, untouched, since I moved in. 

He drinks about half of his water, then puts it down on my bedside table. It’s a tight fit, there’s a cup on there I didn’t take to the kitchen last night. I move the cup –and my pile of books– to my desk. I notice that the little light on my laptop charger is green, so I unplug it and take the laptop with me.

“Baz?”

“Yes?” 

“Can you stay with me?”

Oh. 

“Your bed is so big. It’s scary.”

He didn’t seem very scared when he was climbing on it… I put my laptop back down. 

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” William says, as he wriggles until he’s lying down on one side of the bed. He’s buried up to his nose under the blanket. 

I go lie down with him, on top of the covers. Will turns to face me. He’s curled up into a ball, which makes me smile. Simon sleeps like that too. When he sleeps alone, anyway. On the occasions we have shared a bed, he seemed to prefer being all over me.

“How are you feeling?”

“Weird.”

“Do you still feel like throwing up?”

“I don’t know. My tummy hurts.”

“Okay, well, if you feel sick, the bucket is right there, or you can go to the bathroom.”

He nods, then he rubs his cheek against the pillow, as he tries to find the right position. He tosses and turns for a moment, but nothing seems to please him. I wonder if he’s uncomfortable because his sickness, or if he simply has trouble falling asleep.

He turns to face me once again, but he has moved so much that he is a lot closer than he was previously. I can feel his bent knees very near my stomach. 

“Can I touch your hair?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Can I touch your hair? Dad says I have to ask people before I touch them.”

“Sure, you can. Thank you for asking.” 

Before I’m even done speaking, his little fingers have made their way into my hair. He doesn’t have much hair of his own to play with, after all, while I have a lot of it. Luckily for him, it’s down today.

Just a few minutes later, I don’t feel anything anymore. He’s fallen asleep.

PRESENT TIME

Baz

As previously agreed upon, Will calls me that night to hear about my meeting with his father. I go to my office to take his call.

“Hello. So. How did things go?” he asks, unceremoniously.

“Hello William. He made a point to note that you were his son and not ours…” I hear Will suck in a breath. “...and he left before we could actually talk about anything, so I’d say it’s an overall failure.”

“I’m very sorry he said that.”

“It’s not technically untrue,” I answer, ignoring the tightness in my throat. 

“It’s absolutely untrue. You’re my father regardless of what dad thinks of it. That isn’t his to decide.”

A small smile grows at the corner of my lips. I stop pacing. “You’re a sweet boy, dear.” 

There’s a silence. Feelings are always a little awkward.

“Your father and I will meet again when he feels more prepared for it.”

“How long do you think it’s going to take him?”

“I don’t know.”

On the other end of the line, Will sighs. I imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose, something that I do too. 

“Did you guys really not have time to talk about anything?”

“Not really, no. We both expressed that we were aware of your wish for us to act correctly at your Christmas party, but that is all.”

“Well, at least you know that… But… So… You didn’t discuss either of you two’s… personal situation?”

The hesitation in his voice makes me frown. 

I don’t ask questions about Simon. That’s a rule I’ve given myself ever since the first time I saw Will after moving out of our house. Any information I may have acquired about Simon’s life throughout the year is something that Will has mentioned unprompted, simply because he was talking about his life and his father is, obviously, a big part of it.

I don’t even ask questions like ‘Does he ask you about me?.'

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’ve mentioned Harry to dad in the past. I said he was your friend, but… I don’t think he believed me, so if you bring him up… unless you explain your situation, dad’s probably going to get the wrong idea.

I would not blame him. Most people get the wrong idea. I’ve stopped fighting it. Our ‘situation’, as simple as it appears to me, seems to be unthinkable to others. It’s easier to have everyone assume he’s my partner than to explain that he is not.

“Okay. I’m not sure why Harry would come up, but I will try to clarify our ‘situation’, as you call it, if it does.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“Is there anything else you think I should say when I have a chance to speak to your father?”

“No. That’s really the main thing. Anyway, I’ve got to go, it’s almost bath time. You guys are still coming over on Sunday, right?”

“Yes, of course,” I answer, though that wasn’t a real question. Still, he continues to ask and make sure we’re coming, as if lunch with him and his family on Sunday were something out of the ordinary and not a monthly routine. “We’ll bring dessert.”

As always.

“Lovely. Bye.”

“Goodbye, Will.”

Exiting my office, I find Harry in the next room, sitting in his armchair. It’s an old, ratty thing, and in much poorer condition than my chair, but he won’t change it. He took it from his parents’ house when he and his sister sold it and they had to split the furniture between themselves. Sentimental man.

He’s wearing his headphones, and he’s looking at the rain pouring out the window, so I’m assuming he’s listening to an audiobook.

I walk up to my own armchair, my nice, comfortable, not falling to bits armchair. I cross my legs and join my hands over my stomach, leaning back. For the first time since I woke up this morning, the tension between my shoulders eases slightly.

Harry presses a button on his headphones to pause his book, and he removes the headphones from one of his ears.

“How was your meeting?”

“It could have been worse. You can go on reading, I just wanted to sit with you.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod, so he puts his headphones back in place and presses play. He gives me a smile before turning to look at the rain again. I listen to it falling, the soft patter on the window, the cars and buses outside, the breaths Harry takes –wheezy, his nose has been blocked for a couple of days–, the little throaty sounds I make whenever the silence feels too silent. It’s getting late, one of us should probably worry about dinner.

I reach out and place my wrist on the armrest of Harry’s chair. Mindlessly, he takes my hand. I close my eyes. Now the tension is truly gone.

22 YEARS EARLIER

Simon

Penny pulls one of the chairs away from the table, only to find a pile of sweaters and cardigans, with a bunch of other items on top —a pack of cigarettes, gum, a stick of lipbalm, some random paper Baz printed out.

“Ah, sorry,” I say, quickly walking around to pick everything up. “That's Baz’s. He's decided that this chair was the perfect spot to put all his junk.”

“He’s here a lot,” she says, like a statement. It’s not a statement.

“We’re sort of trying it out. Living together, I mean. He’s slept here for almost a whole week.”

I drop his clothes on the sofa. Problem for later. 

Penny hums as I join her at the table. “How has that been like?”

“Fine, I guess,” I say with a shrug.

“Can you give me any more details? How are you liking having someone around? How is Will taking it?”

“Will’s fine with it too. He likes Baz. They play checkers together.”

“I didn’t even know you owned a checkerboard.”

“I got it from Gran. It’s ancient.”

“Is your boyfriend going to move in with you?”

I take a long breath. I don’t like it when Penny questions me like that and she knows it. She doesn’t stop doing it, though. She feels like she’s owed every detail about my life because we’re best friend. Unfortunately, I agree with her. I just never really enjoy the process of actually talking about my life. It all sounds so boring next to what Penny does. She’s better at this adult thing than I am. 

I did everything right; the kid, the marriage, but not at the right time, and not with the right person. I thought I was so ahead of everyone else and now I’ve fallen behind. Oh, the irony.

“We’re considering it, yeah, though I might move to his place rather than have him move here. It’s nicer. Bigger.”

There’s a spare bedroom that Will could use which doesn’t share a wall with Baz’s bedroom. 

“And there is a toilet separate from the bathroom. Real fancy.”

“He has a separate toilet in a London apartment? Are you dating a multi-millionaire?”

I laugh. “Eh, who knows. He’s loaded for sure. Seriously Penny, you should see his flat.”

“I will, if you live there.”

PRESENT TIME

Baz

April has decided that she shall sit next to me today, which deeply pained William. He loves to have his little girl close by.

I say sit next to me very liberally. She’s sitting on my lap. I know that Daisy doesn’t approve of this, she wishes April would learn to sit on her chair, but I think she’s letting it go just this once. It’s Sunday, after all, and isn’t it a well-known fact that grandparents spoil children more than their parents? I wouldn’t be who I am today if my grandparents hadn’t shown me the sometimes over-the-top love they did when I was a child.

It makes eating a little more challenging, but I have mastered the art of bringing a fork to my mouth with a wriggling child on my lap. She’s her father’s daughter in many ways.

“Do you think Fiona would mind if I took some furniture from Pitch Manor?” Will asks.

“Shouldn’t you ask me if I mind first?” I answer, playfully.

“Aw, dad, do you care if I take furniture from the house you’re not using in the middle of nowhere?”

“I use it, mind you. But yes, you can go. Is there any piece of furniture in particular you’re thinking of taking with you?”

I don’t care too much about Pitch Manor being intact, William is right, I don’t –really– go there, but there are a few things I’d like to keep where they are. Pieces of furniture that give life to the room they are in, that I spent hours and hours sitting on or around when I was young. 

Besides, I think I know what Will is interested. I’d like to check if I’m right…

“I think the armchair in the blue lounge would fit in well in here,” he answers, gesturing at the living-room area. They only have a couch in front of their TV so far, it is true that they could use an armchair. Will had to sit on a chair from the dining table when we were in the living room for lack of enough room on the couch.

I knew it. He loves that chair. 

“Oh, yes, I agree. It would go nicely with your wallpaper.”

The wallpaper surprised me, I must say. I thought that went out of fashion before I was of house-buying age, but Daisy was very excited to acquire some. It’s a very beautiful and intricate floral design, certainly a copy of William Morris’s work. It gives a lot of character to the room. 

“When are you thinking of going?”

“Whenever you’re free on the weekend. I don’t have anything planned in the coming weeks.”

“Okay. Well, as it happens, I don’t think I have anything planned either…” I glance at Harry for confirmation as I say this. We often find ourselves invited to dinner with friends, and I never know about it. Everyone reaches out to him. He nods. “So we could go next Sunday?”

“Yes, let’s do that.” 

“Perfect.”

Before any of us can start another conversation, the doorbell rings. Both Will and Daisy frown, and April perks up. She’d have jumped down my lap if my arm wasn’t firmly holding her in place.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Harry asks. He cannot stand awkward moments of silence.

Daisy shakes her hand as he stands up. “No.”

The rest of us sit, waiting, even April, though that is only because all her efforts won’t make me move my arm. Daisy comes back to the dining area a few seconds later, her gaze fleeting. “It’s for you, Will.”

“Well, who is it?”

“Your father.”

22 YEARS EARLIER

Baz

“William Salisbury, you wash that hand before touching the dough!” Simon exclaims, playfully tapping Will’s fingers with the end of the whisk he’s not using.

Will lets out a loud sigh to really show his discontentment, then he tries to wriggle down from the counter. He insisted on sitting on the counter. He’s too small to really help if he’s down on the floor.

I stand in front of him, keeping him right where he is. I’m not keen on going to the hospital today. I open my arms up for him. “Come on, I’ll help you down.”

He closes his arms tightly around my neck, which is both very cute and not very practical. He’s small, but not that small. I was hoping he’d use my help to get on the floor, but clearly, he has other plans, so I carry him to the sink so that he may wash his hands. 

He dries them on his pyjamas before I have a chance to grab a clean tea towel. Dear God. “William, your shirt…”

“I don’t like when my hands are wet.” He makes a face. “Dad, can I make the gingerbread people now?”

“Yes.”

I bring William back to his spot next to Simon on the counter. When I put him down, though, he keeps one of his hands on me as his other hand picks at the dough. He pops some of it into his mouth, careful not to touch his lips –God forbid he has to wash his hands again. 

“Will, I thought you wanted to help, not eat the dough?” Simon says, chuckling.

“We have to taste the dough before we make the biscuits to know if it’s good, silly.”

“Hm. Okay, good argument. So how is it, then?”

“It’s yummy. Baz, do you wanna taste?” He tugs on my sleeve where he’s holding me.

“No thank you. I can’t eat raw dough.”

He tilts his head to the side and frowns. “Why?”

“A little raw dough never killed anyone,” Simon adds. Simon who has scooped some of said dough with a spoon. 

“When I was little, I liked watching my grandmother bake, and I often tasted what she was making like you do when you help dad in the kitchen, until one day I ate too much dough and it really upset my stomach. It made me so sick that I couldn’t even eat the biscuits we had made!

Will gasps, like this is the most shocking thing he’s heard in his life. He presses his hand to his mouth. “You couldn’t eat biscuits?”

“I couldn’t. That’s very sad, isn’t it?”

He nods very vigorously.

“Right. So that is why now I’m careful with raw dough.”

“That makes sense. Did you bake with your mum and dad too or just your grandma? My grandma doesn’t bake or cook or anything, Helen does it for her and grandpa and I’m not allowed in the kitchen with Helen, so I only do it with dad. And you, now,” Will adds, as he leans his head against my shoulder, half-hugging me. I tilt my head so that my cheek touches him for a second.

“When I was little, it was only with my grandma.” 

I feel a light touch on my elbow. Simon. He strokes my arm soothingly.

“But you said that your banana bread is your mum’s recipe, so do you bake with your mum and dad now?” Will asks, laughter in his voice. Jesus, the things kids remember. I said that one time, and I thought he was too busy stuffing his mouth to hear anything I was saying. I guess he remembers things he’s interested in. He is definitely interested in my banana bread. “You’re so big, that’s silly!”

“Hey, what does that mean? Don’t you want to still bake with me when you’re big?” Simon answers, pretending to be offended. He rests his fists on his hips, which makes Will giggle.

I glance at him, grateful. I’m not too keen on talking about my family situation with Will. He’s so innocent and gleeful. ‘I didn’t have a mum to bake with as a child because she died when I was little’ isn’t necessarily something I ever want to tell him. 

He can’t hear that. Nevermind that I had to live it at his age.

He knows his father’s story. That’s more than enough for a little kid.

“I’ll bake with my kids when I’m big!”

“Right… But right now you’re still little so you’re baking with me.”

“And Baz!” 

I’m surprised he doesn’t argue about his dad calling him little. He’s been doing that a lot.

Simon smiles. “Yes, and Baz.” He hands Will a person-shaped cookie cutter. “Are you ready to make the gingerbread people now? We need to hurry up if we want them to be good to bring to Auntie Penny and Uncle Shepard tonight.”

“There’s three of us, I’m sure we can manage,” I say, as I step back so that Will can turn to face the dough that Simon has evenly spread. He’s now sitting on his heels on the counter. I’m not sure that is the best position to be in for this, but if we moved to the table, he’d have to kneel on a chair, and the table would get in the way of him reaching the dough even then. It’s not much better. 

We all start cutting shapes into the dough. Simon has five of those cutters. He has a whole box of cookie cutters, actually. Will loves the fun shapes, and Simon loves anything that excites Will.

Our gingerbread people are all nicely lined up on a tray, ready to go into the oven –the preheated oven, because Simon actually preheats the oven, something I’ve never done once in my life– but Will doesn’t seem satisfied with them. He’s looking down at the tray with a frown.

“What is it, darling? They’re perfect!” I say, laying a hand between his collarbones.

“I wanna make them better. But I don’t want you to see. You two,” he adds, pointing at his father and then at me.

“We have to see. Someone has got to put them in the oven, and it can’t be you, mate.”

Will pouts. “Okay, then you can see, but not Baz.”

“Eh, guess that means you’re getting kicked out of the kitchen,” Simon tells me, with a little laugh. “Bye, babe.”

He waves at me, a little mockingly. Obviously, Will decides to do the same. I’m getting bullied in my own flat. “Bye, babe.”

I tickle Will’s side. “Hey, it’s not babe to you, little rascal.”

“Babe. Babe, babe, babe, babe, babe.”

His voice gets progressively higher as he giggles, until he’s laughing so much he can’t even breathe. That’s when I take my hands off his side.

“Don’t behead our gingerbread people!” I exclaim on my way out.

…

Will goes back to his bedroom as soon he’s finished. He’s building a pirate spaceship –whatever that means– with his Legos. Very busy and serious work, that he was kind enough to interrupt to bake with us. 

As for Simon, he joins me on the couch. There is an indescribable look on his face, something definitely emotional, likely positive, but not anything I’ve seen before. I lay my hand on his thigh. “So, what did he do to them?”

“You’ll see.”

“He didn’t behead them, did he?”

“Why do you want him to have beheaded them?” he answers, and his voice is weirdly choked up. I frown.

“Simon, seriously, what did he do to those gingerbread people?”

“You will see. Jesus. I have enough with one impatient child in this house.” 

…

It takes everything in me not to go to the kitchen to look inside the oven. Will wants it to be a surprise, and obviously, Simon does too since he’s not telling me –he knows I could have faked surprise to make Will happy; I did so when he told me about the day out to the amusement park that I had planned out for us three.

But I jump off the couch as soon as I hear the oven beeping. Simon calls Will to tell him the biscuits are done, and he runs into the living room a few seconds later. He takes my hand to pull me to the kitchen with him, a grin splitting his face. “Baz, come look!” 

Such a sweet kid.

I’m just as impatient as he is. Simon’s reaction after leaving the kitchen was puzzling, to say the least. 

Simon makes sure to go in before us so he can take the tray out of the oven. He puts it down on the counter, and…

Oh.

On the bottom left corner of the tray, three gingerbread people are much closer than all the others. Two medium-sized ones, and one small one. It looks like they’re holding hands, and there’s a long, vaguely straight line of dough coming down from the hand of one of the medium characters. 

“It’s us, look!” Will exclaims, though I’m not sure he can see the cookies much. “Do you like it?”

PRESENT TIME

Baz

My eyes meet Will’s. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“Did you invite him?” I ask, warily. 

“No. No, I swear I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that,” Will answers as he stands up. His voice is slightly higher than usual, which tells me that he is being truthful. It goes down when he’s lying. That’s the only way I have ever been able to identify it. 

…

Will

I hurry to the front door. Dad is waiting patiently by it, his coat and shoes still on like he’s not planning on staying. But he wouldn’t have driven two hours if he didn’t intend on staying…

“Hi, dad. What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Will. Is Baz here? I know you usually have lunch with him on the first Sunday of the month.”

A piece of information that I have shared over and over and over again to avoid… this. A surprise visit when dad is already there.

“Yes, he’s here. Why?”

“Do you think I could talk to him?”

“It’s not me you should ask, but why do you want to talk to him now?”

“You want us to have a chat before Christmas, don’t you? There’s only a few weeks left, and I’m going to be busy during most of those. Now was the most appropriate.”

“The most appropriate time, really? At my house, when dad doesn’t even know about it?” I answer, cocking my eyebrow.

“You look like him when you do that,” dad says, clicking his tongue. If you listen to him, I’ve gotten all my mannerisms from Baz. “Let me go talk to him, Will, please.”

I shrug. “I mean, now that you’re here, you might as well.”

I step aside, no longer blocking his way to the living room. My father quickly takes off his shoes and coat before heading for the dining table. I follow him closely, watching his destination and not himself. Dad is perfectly composed when he sees him –he did have a few seconds to brace himself, after all–, but he is not the person I’m looking at most attentively. No, my eyes are on Harry.

This is really something I wished to avoid. I didn’t invite him for Christmas for a reason, and that reason has nothing to do with my feelings about him. He’s a nice man. I would have liked to have him there if it didn’t increase the risk of starting a war between my fathers under Christmas lights and colourful garlands.

He doesn’t look away when my father looks at him. That’s brave. If I were him I’d want to run and hide. (I’ve met one of Daisy’s exes, it was not an enjoyable experience at all.)

Daddy stares at Harry for a few, dreadful, uncomfortable seconds, before turning his gaze to dad. “Baz. Can we talk?”

Dad crosses his arms on his chest. I’m not entirely sure whether this is aggressive or defensive. 

“Yes,” I answer before he can. “You guys should go and talk. In another room.”

…

Baz

This really is a lovely house. Will and Daisy have an office now. It’s at the end of a corridor, a part of the house that remains somewhat quiet when April partakes in her –usually loud– activities in the living room. The distance also has the added benefit of saving us from being heard by our –my, I don’t think Simon was invited at all– hosts. 

I look at Simon expectantly. “So? What did you want to talk about?”

“Was that your partner?”

“It’s awfully rude to refer to someone as ‘that’.”

“Is he your partner?” Simon asks, irritated.

“Not in the way you mean it. We aren’t in a relationship. Why do you care?”

“Why’s he invited to my son’s house for lunch if he’s not your partner.”

“Will happens to like Harry. That is his name, by the way. It’s usually considered polite to refer to people using their names.”

“Oh, damn you and your politeness. You’re only so prissy about it when you’re uncomfortable.”

“Well, I would argue that this is a rather uncomfortable situation. I was enjoying a nice lunch with my family when my ex-husband chimed in out of nowhere to talk to me.”

“We have to talk before Christmas, don’t we? I came here so we could talk. What are you complaining about?”

“Hm, the absence of a warning, perhaps?” I answer, making my voice sound as sarcastic as possible, which makes him take a deep breath. He never did like that tone.

“I wasn’t sure I’d have the guts to come if I warned you about it, but I am ready to talk now and Christmas is coming up, so I didn’t want to risk chickening out.”

I tuck my hands inside my pocket to stop them from showing any sign of nervousness, and I gaze right at Simon. The pure blue of his eyes still pulls at my heartstrings in a way that is far too tender for the state of our relationship –or lack thereof. It’s a terrible shame Will has his mother’s eyes, when so much of his appearance comes from his father, something that becomes more striking every year. Such a beautiful feature deserved to be passed on.

“I am listening.”

“I want you to hold back from making any of your comments on Christmas,” he says. I’m not sure that starting with something that he considers I do wrong was the best way to go about this conversation, but what else was I expecting? He’s not said one thing to me without putting some kind of blame on me in ten years.

“What comments are you referring to?” I answer, candidly. 

He doesn’t like that.

“Well, that, for example. Don’t act stupider than you are. You know what I meant and you’re just being a dick about it for the sake of it.”

“If I may, I would appreciate it if you did not insult me. On Christmas and in general.”

Simon rolls his eyes. 

“Okay. I’ll try. Would be a lot easier if you didn’t act like a dick, though.”

“Are we twelve? I’m sure you can handle a passive-aggressive remark or two without resorting to insults. Besides, I wouldn’t have to be passive-aggressive if you weren’t so blatantly aggressive.”

“And we’ve reached the part of the conversation where you blame me for everything!”

I snort. Playing the victim has been his favourite thing to do since the divorce. It’s frankly aggravating. “Right, because you have never been known to blame me for anything, ever.”

I can see him opening his mouth to say something, but he promptly closes it and steps back. He lowers his head and breathes for a few seconds, before suddenly looking up at me again.

“Let’s talk about something else before we start arguing. I also wanted to apologise for something I said to you, when we met at Harrod’s.”

“What is it?” I ask, hoping that it is what I’m thinking about. He said a lot of unpleasant things to me, but only one that I feel requires an apology. Everything else I can tolerate as the venomous words of a man who has been hurt.

Suddenly, all his confidence is gone. His shoulders are lower than a few seconds ago, and his gaze fleeting. I can’t imagine this level of shame would be caused by anything but the words I am thinking about.

“I shouldn’t have corrected you when you called Will our son. It was mean, and quite frankly, not something I even genuinely believe. You… You’re his dad. I apologise for claiming otherwise.”

I nod. A weight seems to have lifted from my shoulders.

“Thank you. I appreciate your apology.”

21 YEARS EARLIER

Baz

School pick up has quickly become my thing after Simon and Will moved into my apartment. Simon’s workplace is much further from Will’s school now, and I’m always free around the time William finishes school for the day. It’s more practical.

His teacher was a little weirded out by it at first –I don’t think she likes that Will’s father’s partner is another man…– but thankfully, she stopped looking at me like my sole presence was an insult to her personally after a couple of weeks. Simon is thinking of enrolling Will to another school because he can’t stand the idea of Will evolving in that kind of environment, and this is the second teacher Will has who feels a certain way about our queerness, but trying to find a school in central London that is going to take a new student in the middle of the year is mission impossible. 

Besides, if you don’t take the teachers into account, people at school haven’t been that weird about me. The other parents I see at pick up have even been very nice; perhaps a bit nicer than they are to Simon, in fact. I’m posh like them, he isn’t. And the kids don’t care at all. 

I hear a little voice shouting in the distance. “Will, your dad’s over there!” Flora. She’s Will’s ‘bestest friend in the whole world’. Right now, she’s pointing at me. I’m not waiting for Will in the same spot as usual, he must have been looking for me.

I wave at him, now that I have spotted him too. He gives Flora a hug goodbye –their everyday ritual, it’s adorable– and then he’s running to me. 

“Don’t run on wet pavement!” I’ve told him a million times and he never listens. I’m considering telling him that slipping and falling is how I damaged my leg. 

I have a plan to continually lie to him about how I came to need a cane in order to scare him into listening to me, so that when I tell him the truth for that same purpose, he thinks I’m still lying. I would very much like for him not to know the real reason. What kind of an example would I be for a child if he knew I drove under the influence?

He slows down a little, thank God. The child does listen to me sometimes. (He listens to me a lot of the time, in fact. More often than he listens to his father. It drives Simon crazy.)

“Hi, Will. How was your day?”

And just like that, he starts telling me everything remarkable –or not– that he did that day. Often, he’s not done when we reach home, but today must have been rather uneventful. He only had one incident to report –one of his classmates, Gregory, took the red ball he wanted to throw with his friends at playtime, which is obviously a tragic event for a seven-year-old– as well as his usual tangent on the school lunch –never as good as what dad makes at home, and they force him to eat veggies he doesn’t like, poor kid. No silly argument with Flora, or Layla, or James, or any of his other friends. No super difficult test. No funny thing one of his classmates did.

Or maybe he stopped talking because he saw that we were approaching the coffee shop, and he didn’t want me to be so engrossed in our conversation that I wouldn’t stop there…

This is our tradition. Every Friday, after school, I take him to this coffee shop on the way home so that we may have a treat together, and I buy something to go for Simon to have when we watch a series after dinner. A nice way to ease into the weekend.

He bobs his head excitedly when we come into the shop, which makes me smile. How could I forget that part of my week?

We go up to the counter, and I order a latte and a piece of brownie for myself. Their brownie is the best dessert I have tasted in my life –though Simon cannot, under any circumstance, know that; it’s not my fault he never puts enough chocolate in chocolate pastries!

As for Will, he’s looking at the display with much focus. The desserts never change, but somehow, he never knows which one he wants. His cravings vary depending on the day, I guess. Thankfully, the person working behind the counter is patient, and there is no one waiting behind us, so he can take a few seconds to make his pick.

He turns to me. “Dad, can I have a blueberry muffin with my hot chocolate, please?”

My eyes grow wide. I don’t respond for a second. I can’t. What did he just- Why-

Maybe he’s tired, it slipped out, like how kids sometimes call their teachers ‘mum’.

“May I?” Will says, hesitantly, which snaps me out of my thoughts. I need to pay for our order.

“Yes, sure. Please add a blueberry muffin and a hot chocolate to that,” I say to the employee. My voice sounds a little distant to me.

She announces the total, I pay, and she tells me that she’ll bring this to us in a minute. Will is already halfway up the stairs when she says this. His favourite thing about this place is that they have an upstairs area. He likes looking out the window from up there, sitting on the nice sofa they have in a corner of the room. 

I follow him, my mind reeling. I need to stop thinking. This was likely nothing.

But there was a time when you called Daphne ‘mum’ for the first time too. And it wasn’t nothing.

But I’m not Daphne. And Will isn’t me. My therapist would probably think it’s unhealthy to project my relationship with Daphne onto Will. It’s fine if I’m not his Daphne, even though I would really like to be. (It’s okay to want it, right?)

When he sits down, I notice that he’s swinging his legs, his hands tucked between his knees. Discomfort. My feeling is confirmed when I sit in front of him and his gaze doesn’t meet mine. Will always looks people in the eyes. It can be unsettling at times.

“Is something the matter?” I ask, in my gentlest voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry about?”

He lifts his shoulders and lowers his head, as if he were trying to hide.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles.

“You must know what you’re apologising for. You can talk to me, Will.”

He remains silent for a moment. For so long, in fact, that the barista arrives with our drinks and food before he has said anything. We both thank her, and when she leaves, Will uncharacteristically does not throw himself on his muffin. 

“Darling, please, if there is anything on your mind I would like for you to tell me.”

More long seconds of silence. He worries his lip, and then… “I called you ‘dad’. I’m sorry.”

“Why do you feel like this is something you should apologise for?”

He wriggles on his seat. I understand him. Discussions about feelings can be so… difficult. Especially when you’re so little that all your feelings feel very big.

“You looked weird. I’m sorry.”

“Will, please stop apologising. You have done nothing wrong.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“What did I just say?”

His lips twitch, almost in a smile. He looks up at me, furtively.

“I apologise if I reacted ‘weirdly’ when you called me ‘dad’. I was surprised. I didn’t know if you meant to say it.”

He doesn’t say anything, though I think he knows that was a question. He’s a perceptive child. So I ask the question. Directly. “Did you mean to say it?”

“Yes. You do everything like my dad and you’re kind to me and everyone thinks you’re my dad anyway, but I can call you Baz. I just wanted to try saying ‘dad’.”

You’re kind to me. I don’t know if anyone has ever said that to me. My throat feels tight, just like when that word that sparked our chat came out of his mouth. My sweet, darling Will.

“How did you feel about it? Was it weird for you?”

He shakes his head, and oh, how full my heart is right now. “I liked it. I think.” There’s still that hint of hesitancy in his voice, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to feel what he feels. 

“I liked it too,” I say, and I watch as relief washes over him. He frees his hands from between his legs and looks up at me with those big, adorable brown eyes. “It made me very happy to hear you call me that.”

“So… can I call you ‘dad’ now?”

“I think I need to talk about it with your father first. If he’s okay with it, then yes, you can. I would be honoured to have you call me ‘dad’, William.”

His eyes fill with tears, and it threatens to make mine burn. I hear more than I see him hop off the sofa to come and hug me tightly.

I hug him back, kissing the top of his head.

“I love you, dad.”

“I love you too, darling.”

And if I shed a tear in that moment, it got lost in his unruly curls.

PRESENT TIME

Simon

“I know you don’t technically owe me details or whatever, but I’d like it if I could know what you’ve been up to since… you know. Will never told me anything and I… I can’t stomach thinking about sitting at a table with you on Christmas and having a stranger in front of me.”

I used to know everything about you. From your biggest dreams in life to the specific bag of crisp you liked best from the corner shop near our place.

“What exactly do you want to know?” There’s a wariness in his voice. I know he thinks that I’m asking about his ‘not-partner’ again. (Which I kind of am, to be fair. But that’s not all I want to know.)

“What you’re doing with your life. If you still work at UCL, if you still live in your flat. If you published any more books. How your leg is these days.” I take a breath. His gaze is sharp on me, it feels like he can see right through me. “Who exactly that Harry-person is to you if he’s not your partner. If there’s anything significant I should know about your life since we... That kind of stuff.”

He nods, but remains silent for a few seconds. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. One corner of his lips is slightly downturned, I’m sure that if his hands weren’t in his pockets, I’d see him rub his index finger and his thumb.

“I’m still working at UCL. I now live in a townhouse closer to the university. I’ve not done any fiction writing in the past decade, but I’m still writing academic works. My leg is as it always has been. Harry is a very dear friend of mine, whom I live with for reasons that do not concern you. He is an important enough part of my life to have met Will, which is why he comes with me when I visit. There is nothing you need to know about my life. Satisfied?”

“One last thing: do you have to be so goddamn cold when you talk to me?”

He rolls his eyes with a loud sigh. “Jesus, Simon.”

“I’m being serious! Would it kill you to talk to me normally?”

“I’m so sorry if my tone isn’t to your liking. I thought I didn’t have to play a part around you, but I suppose that was only true when we were married.”

“Oh, no, you don’t get to say that, that’s unfair. This is playing a part. I know how you sound when you’re being yourself and that is not it. You’re acting cold on purpose.”

“I wonder why.”

“Stop that!”

“This is uncomfortable for me too, alright? I don’t… I’m not particularly keen on being made to converse with you about my private life, but I want to be agreeable. You asked your questions, and I answered them. Don’t ask me to pretend to be happy about it.”

“Those weren’t private questions. That’s the kind of stuff you tell people after five minutes of small talk at our age.”

“This isn’t small talk, though. This is my ex-husband questioning me. If I had told you Harry was my lover, I’m certain you would not have reacted like any person I may meet at an event would react if I told them I have a partner.”

“Maybe not. I don’t care if you’re fucking him.”

“Then why did you ask? And don’t say fucking like that, it’s gross.”

“Don’t be such a prude. You could be fucking him.”

“I’m not. Are you fucking anyone?” he snaps back, with much emphasis on the word ‘fucking’. 

“After two unsuccessful marriages, I decided maybe relationships weren’t for me,” I answer, bitterly.

There used to be a someone-shaped hole in my heart, that I was desperate to fill. I don’t notice it as much nowadays, but sometimes, that longing still grows in me. When I go to the shops and I see a couple of people my age arguing about their grocery list. When the table I set to have Penny and Shep over is uneven; two plates on one side, only one on the other. When I come home at the end of a long, hard day at work, and all I find is… nothing; silence and emptiness.

When I’m standing in front of the man I used to wake up next to every morning.

“I wouldn’t call your marriages unsuccessful.”

“Two divorces. That’s pretty unsuccessful.”

He frowns deeply. His lips twitch like they used to when I said something hurtful. Have I?

“I don’t know anything about your relationship with your first spouse, but you had Will with her. That’s a success. And you and I had some terrifically good years. Our marriage isn’t unsuccessful because it ended,” he says, his voice slow, but not so cold anymore. I think I preferred when he sounded cold. There’s a hint of pain in the softness of his words that makes me feel more sympathy than I want to towards him.

“If it was successful it wouldn’t have ended.”

“If it was unsuccessful, we wouldn’t have spent fifteen years of our lives together.”

Fifteen years. Thanks for the reminder. Fifteen years down the drain. Fifteen years I’ll never relive or get back. Fifteen years I sometimes wish I could forget. Fifteen years that, for better or for worse, I will never forget.

I hold my hands up in surrender. Can this be over already? “Look, I guess we just have different perspectives on this. No point in arguing.”

“No, I want to argue,” he says, which is the most ridiculous sentence I’ve ever heard a person say in my entire life. Of course Baz Pitch would say that. “Your perspective upsets me. I don’t want you to think back on everything we’ve experienced together and write it off as ‘unsuccessful’.”

“You can’t control how I think. And besides, why does it even matter to you how I think about our marriage? You can’t care that much about a relationship that you ended.”

“I didn’t end our relationship because it wasn’t important to me, though. I did it because I no longer felt valued by you. My needs weren’t being met and I didn’t want to accept that out of love for you, and that was because of you. The Baz you met when we were twenty-four would have let you walk all over him for crumbs of love and attention, but the person I grew to be by your side, being loved by you, could not tolerate that.”

“So what? I should have treated you like crap throughout our relationship for a chance to have you stay, that’s what you’re saying?”

“No. I’m saying that you changed me, deeply and for the better, and that this had an unfortunate effect on our relationship when you started treating me like crap.”

My eyes grow wide and I nearly step back from the impact of those words. 

I shake my head. “I didn’t treat you like crap. That’s not… you can’t say that.”

“You didn’t treat me well either,” he answers in a whisper. 

He looks away, and I want to… I want to… To reach out, take his hand, give him a hug.

I can’t do that anymore. You don’t touch strangers.

He hugs himself instead, seeking that comfort I wish I could give him, even now, even after ten years, even when he’s telling me those awful things. 

“For a very long time, being with you was like waking up with a smile on my face after having a dream of everything I’ve ever wanted and not losing that smile. But at the end, all I wanted was to close my eyes to chase the dream a little longer. I couldn’t live like that. I know that I hurt you too when I left, but I was hurting a little bit everyday, and that isn’t how I wanted to spend the rest of my days. What you should have done is listen when I told you I was displeased with certain aspects of our relationship. You didn’t.”

…

Baz

Simon’s shoulder slump forward. He wipes his hand across his nose and sniffles. He’s not close enough for me to see if there are any tears in his eyes

Quietly, he walks past me and towards the door. He opens it, but lingers in the room for a few seconds longer than he needs to. I get a whiff of his cologne, and my eyes shut immediately. God, that smell.

“I guess we have nothing more to say,” he murmurs before closing the door behind himself.

20 YEARS EARLIER

Baz

“Do you think we’ll ever run out of conversation?”

I look down at Simon. His arms are crossed on the kitchen table, his head resting on top of them. There are a few curls covering his forehead and eyes, he hasn’t had a haircut in a long time, and the yellow-ish ceiling light gives a sickly, jaundiced look to his face. 

I lean back on, and feel the edge of the window cutting into my back.  I crane my neck, blow out some smoke then quickly step forward into the kitchen.

“What do you mean?”

It’s too late for this. We both should be in bed, but Simon really should be. He has to be at work an hour earlier than usual tomorrow. That’s why I find myself in the kitchen in the first place. I wanted to make him a sweet treat to eat on the way. He does love my chocolate-chip cookies. 

Unfortunately, my noble endeavour of being a kind fairy that magically makes food appears on the kitchen table for my lover has thoroughly failed due to said lover’s inability to sleep without me besides him. At least that’s what he claimed when he came into the kitchen and sleepily wrapped his arms around me as my hands were full of cookie dough, before he even asked me what I was doing. ‘Come back to bed, I need you.’

I did not go to bed. Neither did he. Surely the table is much less comfortable to half-sleep on, but he seems to like that option better regardless.

“I was just thinking, like, we’ve been together for five years and yet it never feels like I have nothing to say to you. I wonder if I’ll start feeling that way, with time.”

“We will always have mundane things to talk about. We spent ten minutes talking about a cat you saw in the street just today, love. I think we’ll be fine,” I say, amusement in my voice. 

Simon, on the other hand, is taking this very seriously. It’s kind of cute. “I hope so. Can you imagine if we simply… stopped chatting.”

I cross my arms. It's chilly here with the wind blowing behind me, but Simon will murder me if I close the window while I'm smoking.

At least, the view's not so bad from here. I can see the bend of Simon’s shoulder, the muscles in his arms, a hint of stomach coming up from his pants, his legs twisted in a really fascinating way under his chair.

“Do you know if your parents still have things to say to each other?” Simon continues. He has lifted his head to look at me better.

“Of course they do. Stop freaking out, love, we’re not going to stop chatting.”

Suddenly, he stands up. He walks up to me and slots his body in the space between my leg. I can’t say I wasn’t hoping for that. He slides his hands up my sides, and they feel warm even through the fabric. Warmer than the oven next to me.

I push my hand further away. He really shouldn't be getting all up in my space like that when I have a flaming object between my fingers.

He brings his face close to mine. I can feel his breath on my chin.

He kisses me. Slowly and softly and full of love. I like talking. I like when he uses his tongue in that way too.

“You taste bad," he tells me, making a face.

I roll my eyes.

"If you'd let me finish my cigarette and brush my teeth before throwing yourself at me, I might have tasted better."

"You're hard to resist," he answers, winking at me, which makes me roll my eyes again. He brings one hand to my shoulder and strokes it softly, as if he were trying to even out a wrinkle in the fabric. Then, I feel him trace the outline of one of the tiny sheep on my shirt."I thought about you this morning when Jessy came in. She was wearing these socks that have sheep on them. So fun.”

“I love fun socks.”

I quickly turn my head to take a drag on my cigarette. All done.

I crush what's left of it at the bottom of my empty tea cup. Simon hates it when I do that, but he doesn't remark on it. Better than throwing it out the window, in any case.

“I know you do. That’s why I thought about you.”

“And you didn’t think of texting me?”

“Wanted to tell you. Are you getting my point that I like chatting with you or not?”

I laugh. “Where is this coming from?”

Simon flushes, and kisses my neck to hide it. He keeps his face there, his lips tickling my skin as he speaks. “Oh my God, Baz, can’t a man be a little obsessed with his boyfriend anymore?”

“Of course you can. I mean, how couldn’t you be?” I add, in my most pretentious voice. He rolls his eyes tenderly; oh so tenderly.

He's still looking at me with those eyes.

“Fuck, Baz. You’re ruining it.”

My mood changes in an instant. My smug smirk disappears from my face and I frown.

“What do you mean?”

“I… I didn’t want to do it like that, but…”

He steps away from me, and it feels like my spine has turned into a metal rod. What is wrong with him?

He drops to his knees. 

No. Not his knees. One knee. 

Oh God. 

“Babe. Baz,” he says, and his voice sounds breathless, like he just ran the entire length of the city. “I really want to spend the rest of my life talking about boring things with you.”

“Simon…” I don’t recognise my own voice. 

“And… And I know we’re in our pyjamas in the kitchen, and I don’t even have your ring and it’s so stupid to ask you here and now but I just… I… I feel so incredibly in love with you right now, I don’t think I can hold it for one more second. Will you marry me?” 

I nod all while he’s speaking and when he’s done, I finally, finally say “Yes.”He’s been holding his words back for a long time. So have I. “Yes, yes, yes, I’ll marry you.”

He’s half-crying half-laughing as he stands back up. I think I hear him say “Thank you” before he presses his lips against mine, more fiercely than ever. I push my hand into his hair, lay my other hand on his neck. Both of his arms are around me, pushing my chest against his, so impossibly close. I don’t know if the wetness of my face is due to his tears or mine. I don’t care.

He sniffles when he pulls back. “God, I feel so dumb. You deserved so much better than that proposal.”

“No. No, it’s perfect.”

“I’m in my pants right now. You’re wearing mismatched pyjamas. I don’t have your goddamn ring with me.” When he said this a few seconds ago, it was cute, romantic. Right now he sounds hysterical. 

I cup his face as softly as I can.

“I don’t have your ring with me either.”

I see the exact moments my words make their way to his brain. His big blue eyes stare at me intensely.

“What are you saying?”

“Great minds think alike, is what I’m saying.” I peck his cheek, then I whisper into his ear. “I’ve been keeping the ring with my ties.”

“Thank God I didn’t think of trying bondage recently.”

I burst out laughing. So hard I think I might have spat on him a little. Jesus.

“What are you talking about?”

He shakes his head. “No fucking clue. I feel like I’m high.”

And he kisses me again. Sloppy and messy and full of happiness.

PRESENT TIME

Simon

I close the oven and check that it’s at the right temperature. Now this has to cook for at least forty minutes.

I go and wash my hands one last time. Finally, dinner is done. All Will and Daisy will have to do tonight is plate everything up in their nice dishes, and for now, they have time to get themselves ready. Another perk of having Grandpa around. I can look after April while they shower and put on the pretty outfits that I’m sure they’ve been planning for a long time –those too are both very much into fashion.

I turn to Will, who is wrapping up as well. He’s loading the dishwasher.

“What time did you say the other guests were arriving again?” 

“Five.”

“Will that be enough time for you two to be ready?” 

He glances at the clock. Half-past three. “Hopefully. Daisy washed her hair last night though so I don’t think she’ll be in the shower for too long. Should be okay.”

“Okay. Is there anything you want me to do in the meantime? Besides making sure April doesn’t go in the kitchen?”

“No, nothing, thank you.”

“Okay.”

I wait for him to be done to exit the kitchen. 

“Do you think we’ll have enough food?”

I pat his shoulder. What a ridiculous question –it’s always on my mind when I host a party, too. “We’ll have too much food, and you’ll have leftovers until New Year’s Eve. That is how Christmas dinners always go.”

“I can’t wait to make April taste the leftover sandwich,” he tells me with a knowing smile.

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“She might love it more than the actual dinner. I know I did when I was little!”

I know he did. He was always very excited to make a decadent sandwich from the delicious foods we’d eaten the night before, foods, that weren’t exactly what we had in our fridge on a regular day. Baz was positively horrified the first time he saw Will pour copious amounts of gravy over a slice of bread.

My smile fades a little.

Is there a reason why holidays make memories resurface?

I’m snapped out of my thoughts by April’s sudden arrival. 

“Daddy, daddy, daddy look at my dress!” She stops running in front of Will and spins, showing how her dress follows her movement.

“Oh wow, you’re beautiful! Did you pick it or did mummy pick it for you?”

“I picked it!”

“Well, you made a very good choice.” He lifts her easily and kisses her pink, plump cheek. “Now daddy has to go get ready too. Will you be a good girl and not make any trouble for grandpa?”

She nods. “Yes! I play hippos with grandpa,” April says, as she tries to wriggles her way out of her father’s arms. He puts her down, and she immediately runs to the other side of the room.

I look at Will with interrogative eyes. “What’s hippos?”

“Oh, it’s this game Daisy’s mum got her. She’s obsessed with it. You move a hippos’ head to catch little balls. It’s loud and messy so obviously she’s obsessed with it.”

“Ah, yes. Obviously. Well, I’ll enjoy hippos. You go make yourself look nice. I want my cute family picture to put on the wall!”

20 YEARS EARLIER

Baz

Every year, I celebrate Christmas with my family. But this year, I have decided to celebrate it with my family. It was difficult on Daphne; she loves having all of us gathered at home for this one special day, but of course, she understands. I do think she would have been harder to convince if I didn’t have a ring on my finger. It wouldn’t have been acceptable to miss Christmas to spend it with my boyfriend.

Not going to Oxford was strange for me too, but I don’t regret it. My Christmas is much quieter than it would have been otherwise, even with an 8-year-old in the house, and this is a chance to create our own traditions; mine, Simon’s and Will’s. The two of them obviously already have their own; one in particular that I absolutely adore: Simon made up this sort of reverse advent calendar, where everyday of December leading up to Christmas, he writes a little note for Will, folds it, and puts it in a box. Will isn’t allowed to open any of the notes until the morning of the 25th, when his dad gifts him the box.

I think I have a box too, this year. Simon isn’t particularly sneaky, but I am pretending not to know about it. I’ll see if there’s a box of folded coloured strips of paper under the tree for me tomorrow…

We have agreed that Simon was to put his presents under the tree after I did. He gets frustrated everytime he gives me a gift because half the fun for me is trying to guess what it is based on the shape and size, and hearing my guesses makes him anxious, so I’m not allowed to see the packages before tomorrow morning. That was, I can’t theorise about my presents before bed and effectively ruin his night –and he calls me dramatic!

In return, I make him go to another room while I set up my own gifts. Three for Simon, just like we said –and I had to really bargain to even be able to get him three things. A more… substantial number for Will, because I wasn’t given any limits. I tried not to ‘do too much’, but Will loves so many things! Why would I choose between all his interests to make one or two gifts when I have a million ideas! Besides, lots of presents will look better under the tree. I’m nothing if not an aesthete.

 He comes out when I tell him he can, with a present already in his hands.

“I thought I was to be banished to the bathroom while you put your presents under the tree?” I say, glancing at him with a smirk.

“This is our gift for Will. You have to put your name on it.”

I haven’t done that on my presents. It didn’t cross my mind. Besides, I’m sure Will knows how father’s handwriting well enough to tell is isn’t his hand that formed the letters on my presents.

Simon hands me a sharpie and the box covered in festive wrapping paper. That is another thing that will differentiate our presents under the tree. I used a more sober wrapping paper, a rich, satiny red thing, and I added bows whenever I could. I love ribbon. Besides, it helps to attach name tags.

Obviously, Simon doesn’t use name tags. He writes directly on the wrapping paper like a heathen. If we take a picture in front of our tree tomorrow morning –and I hope we will– the presents are going to look awfully mismatched.

I lower myself back onto the ground and put the present down. Better to write on a flat surface. I open the pen and look at Simon’s scrawled ‘Dad’ at the top of the box. He made sure to write it in between little christmas trees and not on top of them.

I add a ‘fancy and’, hoping Simon will comment on it –he does– and then I hesitate. From Dad & Baz? Will hasn’t called me Baz in ages… 

Oh, whatever. He’s hardly going to look at that anyway. The interesting stuff is under the wrapping paper.

From Dad & Dad. I add a little heart because I’m soft and ridiculous like that.

PRESENT TIME

Simon

“Will, I wanted to say…”

“Yes?”

“I know that I have reacted… poorly when you told me that you were inviting your father today, but I’m glad you did.”

As much as it pains me to think about him, I am so incredibly grateful and happy that Baz stayed in Will’s life after our relationship ended. The fear that he might not kept me awake at night as much as the hurt I was feeling when he told me he wanted a divorce. 

Will already had one parent who left. He didn’t deserve to lose Baz too. God, I can’t imagine how difficult it would have been for him. Baz is much more his parent than Agatha ever was, and today is proof of that. He’s invited, she’s not. I’m not sure she will even show up for his wedding, and I’m not sure that Will wants her too. 

“You are?”

“He’s family. It’s important to spend Christmas with your family.”

“Yes. That’s what I think too. Maybe… Maybe if it goes well this year, you guys and Daisy’s parents could come again for Christmas next year?

I hum. “Sure. If that’s what you prefer.”

Sure. I may have said that too quickly…

A yearly rendez-vous with Baz, at our son’s house. I’m not sure that I want that…

20 YEARS EARLIER

Baz

I wake up with the sound of whispers in my ear. “Dad. Dad, wake up. It’s morning.”

I open my eyes with difficulty. I do not even want to look at the clock. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, because Will’s face is only inches away from mine, all bright smile and sparkling eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I hear Simon say, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I asked him to let you sleep.”

“It’s present time!” Will shouts, as he bounces on the bed. It’s a little annoying. I’m exactly where I want to be right now. “Come on, come on, come on, let’s go!”

“Uh, uh, uh. I want my hug before you drag me out of bed,” I answer, opening up my arms.

And so he throws himself on top of me, cutting my breath. I don’t know if he realises that he’s heavier than he was a few years ago. I wrap my arms around him loosely, stroking his back in a way that I hope might calm him down a little. He, on the other hand, is holding my neck tightly, and very briefly.

He rolls out of the bed, his bare feet making a soft thump when they hit the wooden floor. “Okay, let’s go now.”

Next to me, Simon laughs. I turn to hug him too as the sound of Will’s feet grows more distant. 

I scoot a little closer to him, entangling our legs, and I kiss him languidly. Christmas day isn’t ideal for someone who enjoys slow mornings…

I feel Simon’s hand slide up my back under my shirt, so very warm. “Merry Christmas, babe.”

“Merry Christmas.”

PRESENT TIME

Simon

I’ll admit, this isn’t as awkward as I thought it might be. So far, anyway. Baz and I have both been too busy getting to know Claire and Josh –Daisy’s parents– to acknowledge one another much.

Unfortunately, after some time, Claire and Josh are also keen on getting to know their child’s partner’s parents. That’s when things get… uncomfortable.

We, thankfully, don’t have to disclose that we are divorced as this is something Will has told them ages ago, but their questions about our lives make me feel uneasy. Most of the time, when they ask Baz something, I don’t know what he’s going to answer, which feels like a pile of rocks falling on my stomach all the same time.

I think that every time I know what he’s going to say feels worse. I almost answer for him at one point. I bite my tongue and stay silent for a few minutes afterwards, fidgeting.

Doing my speaking is a lot easier. I can stop thinking about Baz a few goddamn minutes while I do small talk with Daisy’s parents. There’s not much to say about me anyway. My life’s not nearly as good to get people talking as Baz’s; I haven’t travelled to a million countries like he has, I don’t have degrees to flaunt like he does. I have my catering business and that’s interesting too, but not in the same way. 

In spite of everything, though, it feels good to be here, and to share this moment with everyone. April is overjoyed about Christmas, practically bouncing on her chair whenever someone mentions Santa, and it fills my heart with warmth to watch Will and his daughter. It’s a strange sort of feeling. When he was in uni, and even when he got his first job, he was still a kid in my eyes. A tall kid with adult responsibilities, but still a kid. Now he’s a proper adult. 

And yet, he still calls daddy when his dishwasher acts up or he has to fix his car. (I hope he never stops needing me.)

It's time for him to go put April to bed. Well, for him and Daisy. I'm sure that on a normal day, they don't do it together, but this is a special night. They excuse themselves, though seeing April's sleepy little body curled up in her mother's arms is enough for all of us to understand why they're leaving.

Claire uses this opportunity to go to the bathroom, and Josh to go smoke, which leaves Baz and I alone at the table. Which is weird.

"You're not going to have a cigarette too?" I ask.

"I quit smoking."

I stare at him, eyes wide. "You did? I thought you'd rather kill yourself than give up smoking."

He said that to me, verbatim, a million times througout our relationship. Let me have one vice. This is how I get through the day. I might have to start doing coke if I quit smoking.

"Well, I nearly killed myself smoking, so. I thought the wise thing was to stop," he answers, his voice distant.

"What?"

He waves at me, dismissively. "Forget I said anything. I didn't mean to."

"Wh- Baz, you're being weird. Why did you say that?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

Unfortunately, at this moment, Claire comes back and I have to drop it.

What the fuck did he mean?

…

Baz

The rest of the night is slow and calm. Will and Daisy are visibly more relaxed, the pressure to provide a wonderful Christmas dinner —which they did— while looking after an over-excited toddler now all gone.

Stress only returns to their faces when it's time to clear the table. To Daisy's face, specifically. Will is still at the table with us, engrossed in his conversation with Josh. They're discussing some movie that Will loves and Josh hates.

For the second time, Daisy taps Will's shoulder as she collects a few plates from the table, a silent request to assist her. Just like the first time, he doesn't react. Maybe he's too engrossed in his conversation…

I notice that my teeth are clenched, and make an effort to relax my jaw.

"William?"

He looks at me. "Yes?"

"I think Daisy wants you to help."

"Oh. Oh, yes, just a minute."

And a minute turns into two, and three, and suddenly the other person has done all the work.

"No. Now. She's not your maid."

Will looks at me, a confused look in his eyes.

Daisy shakes her head. "It's fine. Just get up and help me take these dishes to the kitchen, Will."

William obeys. I stand up too. I never am very comfortable watching people clean up while I sit there without contributing. Claire joins us, and Josh and Simon make a collective effort to regroup all the cutlery in one place, all the glasses in one place, etc, so that it's easier for us to bring everything to the kitchen. Daisy then stays there, loading the dishwasher as we go.

We're much faster than if Daisy and William —or simply Daisy— had done it alone, so soon, Simon, Claire, Josh and I are all heading to our cars to take out the presents we've brought. The pile of coloured-boxes that Simon is balancing in his arms makes me smile. Mr-I-Don't-Want-Presents has always been keen on giving tons to others.

I wonder, briefly, stupidly, if one of those presents is for me.

I'm probably the last person on earth he wants to gift something to.

Claire and Josh wish everyone a good night, then head for the guest room upstairs. Tiredness has quickly caught up to them. Will, Daisy and Simon look exhausted too, and to be frank, I am as well, but I know I will not be able to sleep just yet.

Will and Daisy aren't puzzled when they see that I'm not taking my coat off, they've slept over at my house enough time to know about my nightly routine, so they simply wish us a good night and follow Daisy's parents upstairs, but Simon is. He's standing a few feet away from me, and the Christmas lights shining behind him, a little blurry due to the distance between the tree and Simon himself, make him look like something out of a dream —or a cliché Christmas romcom.

"Aren't you going to bed?"

"I'm going on a walk."

"A walk? Baz, it's two in the morning?"

"You go to sleep, then. I'm going on a walk."

"I'm coming with you."

"No you're not."

"Yes, I am. It'd be very irresponsible to let anyone walk alone at night on Christmas. Do you know how many people are drunk out of their minds on Christmas? It's dangerous out there."

"Yes, Simon. I do know that," I answer, coldly, and only then does he seem to realise what he's said.

He comes up to me in a few, quick strides. When he puts his hand on my arm, I let him —I really should not. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… But… I mean… You didn't hurt anyone when you… I mean not anyone but yourself, but… Ugh. Whatever. Let me come with you. Please."

I sigh. "Fine. It's not like I can stop you."

"Thanks."

He rushes to put his shoes and coat back on, and then we head out.

I'm not sure what he's pretending to be worried about. It's empty out here. If we were in London, I might understand his concern, but Will chose a small town to settle down in.

"I go on walks because it helps me fall asleep," I say in a soft voice, if only to break the silence. "I started doing it when I stopped smoking."

"What does it have to do with smoking?"

"I found that what was most difficult about quitting was all the habits I had built around smoking, specifically having a cigarette at night before going to sleep. One way to make the process a little less painful was to find a way to replace those habits. I knew that what I liked about my 'before bed' cigarette was that it helped me relax and clear my mind. I tried a few different things, but walking is what clears my mind the most. So. I walk before bed."

Simon hums. "That sounds like a good habit to have. Better than smoking for sure. God, I can't believe you quit. I spent fifteen years trying to get you to do that."

…

Simon

I wonder how he tastes like now, without the ever-present, lingering taste of tobacco in his mouth.

(No. Don't think about that.)

…

Baz

"I wasn't going to stop until I actually had to," I answer, vaguely.

I know I won't be able to stay vague about this, that he's going to pester me about it until he knows absolutely everything, but I can at least try not to reveal my medical history within the first five minutes of one of the only somewhat cordial conversations we've had in a decade.

"Why did you have to?"

"For health reasons. It appears that smoking as much as I did, for as long as I did, isn't particularly good for you."

I watch him nod, and for a split second, I think that maybe, we will leave it at that. I saw that my health was declining and decided to take action even though I was in no life-threatening situation, simply because I care about myself. No other reason.

"What kind of health reasons? Did you… Get sick or something?"

I don't answer immediately. I don't even answer quickly, which is an admission in and of itself. Every second that passes between the end of Simon's sentence and my reply worsens the scenarios he's making up in his head right now, as evidenced by his deepening frown.

"You could say that, yes."

"Baz," he says. I can tell he wants his voice to sound firm, but it's slightly shaky with worry. Good God.

"I had lung cancer."

There. I said it. At least, I said in the dark, staring at the pavement, not under the bright, unforgiving light of my living room, like when I told Will.

"Wh— What? Are you okay now?"

"Yes."

"Fuck. Fuck, you really… How do I not know that!"

"You had no reason to know… I was diagnosed years after we divorced."

"Oh my God, who cares! We were divorced but you were still a big part of my son's life, you could have let me know! He could have told me!"

"I specifically asked him not to. I didn't want you to know."

It was unfair on Will, I can admit that. I know that he might have needed his father's support at the time; it couldn't be easy knowing his other father had cancer, but I couldn't let it happen. I know Simon. He would have tried to get in contact with me instantly. I couldn't have handled it. We had only spoken to each other when we signed our divorce papers and on the few occassions that events in Will's life forced us to interact then, and it had never been pleasant. I wanted it to remain that way. Speaking to a version of Simon who might worry about me would have been too dangerous a slope.

"Why?"

"You weren't my husband anymore, Simon. It wasn't your problem."

"You'll always be my problem! Fuck, Baz, ring or no ring, I care about you. I didn't stop lo— giving a shit about you just because you left me!"

My heart sinks, and I have to stop walking or I might throw up. My hand clenches around my cane painfully. The cold outside adds to the freezing feeling spreading through my chest.

I heard that.

The pitiful sound he makes when I don't say anything tells me that he knows I heard that.

God fucking damnit.

"That's exactly why I didn't want to tell you. You would have cared, and you would have worried about me, and I felt that it wasn't fair to either of us."

"Oh, don't pretend you care about being fair. It wasn't fair either when you dumped me on a random day without giving me a chance to better myself, but you didn't seem to mind that."

"I gave you so many chances, Simon," I whisper, so low that he might not hear it. I would prefer it if he didn't…

"You didn't! You told me you wanted a divorce and then you were gone! I don't call that giving chances!"

Suddenly, I turn around to look at him. Right in the eyes, for the first time today. They look so dull in the dark. The pallid glow of the moon never did him justice; he's someone who was made to be bathed in sunlight.

"I kept telling you what I wanted from you," I say, slowly, to keep my voice steady. "You ignored me when I asked you to put your mess away because you 'would do it later', and you never did. I was tired too, and yet I had to clean up after you. All the fucking time. There were always dirty dishes to wash in the sink, or your socks that you threw just outside the laundry basket to pick up. You stopped showing me your love in small ways; you didn't get me surprise gifts on your way back from work, didn't even try to make ordinary days specials like I knew you could, like you once had. It felt like the only times you thought about me were on my birthday or our anniversary. You declined so many of my invitations to go out because 'we've been together for so long, what do we need to go to the restaurant together for?'. There was no care in that. For fuck's sake, Simon, at the end of our relationship, you asked me what was for dinner before even kissing me when you came home from work. That wasn't right, and that wasn't our love."

I watch his shoulders drop a little more with every word I say, and his eyes fill with a guilt so intense it's almost impossible to stomach.

And yet, I can't stop throwing blame at him. All the reproach I've help back for ten fucking years.

"Even the sex wasn't right anymore, and that was the easiest thing to get right! But it felt like a chore, like something we did on schedule, and it was another time when I didn't feel as valued by you as I thought I should be, and I expressed that to you too. I tried to bring some passion back into our relationship and it didn't work. None of what I did worked because I was the only one making efforts. You should have wanted to change your behaviour because it was weighing on me before I told you I wanted a divorce. You didn't. You only cared about 'bettering yourself' when the threat of losing me was looming. That was not care, that was a response to a situation you feared. I wanted to be with someone who cared, or no one at all."

…

Simon

So you ended our marriage over dirty dishes, 'what are we having for dinner?', and boring sex?

I'm too stunned to speak those words. Thank God I am. They're the last thing I need to say in that moment, and the first thing that came to my mind as a reaction to his words.

Fuck.

"I never— I didn't realise," I admit, bashful.

"No. You didn't realise. That was the issue. That's what made me leave."

It's hard to breathe.

Finally I have the answer I've been seeking all these years. The plain and simple truth about why he left, not something vague like 'I didn't feel loved like I deserved anymore.'

Maybe I didn't actually want to know, because now my mind is filling with memories of times when Baz asked for something insignificant and I didn't do it because it felt insignificant. Who cares if take out the garbage bag one day or the next? Who cares if don't immediately wash the cup for my morning coffee after using it? Who cares if I'd rather sit, nice and cozy, in front of the TV than get dressed and sit in chair in some restaurant?

Baz. Baz did.

Hesitantly, I step closer to him. I reach out, very slowly to give him time to say no or to move his arm. He doesn't.

So I take his hand.

And I startle. "Jesus, you're freezing. We should go back to Will's." That's not what I wanted to say. In that moment, though, this feels more important.

His hand slips out of my hold. "You're right."

We walk back silently. I think we both need a moment to sit with our feelings —me more than him, sure, but still.

At the house, after taking off his shoes and coat —and rubbing his hands to warm them up— he walks up to the Christmas tree. He takes a small present from underneath it. Something wrapped in fancy, monochrome wrapping paper, with a gorgeous bow and a nametag.

My pulse quickens when he hands it to me.

"It's the 25th already after all. Merry Christmas, Simon."

"You got me a present?" I ask, dumbfounded.

He nods. "It's not much. Open it."

I do. My ex-husband got me a Christmas present. Of course I want to know what it is.

I tear the paper as delicately as I can —it feels criminal ruining Baz's lovely present-wrapping work— to reveal a box of tea.

"Oh my God."

"I know you find that tea too stupidly expensive to buy it yourself, so I thought it'd make a nice gift," Baz says, his voice far too…

Gentle.

Tears burn my eyes, and I immediately feel silly for it. I'm not going to cry over some tea.

But it's not just some tea. It's a kind of tea that tastes like heaven, genuinely the best thing I've ever drunk in my entire life. Baz received it as a gift once, and I loved it so much that I drunk most of it. When I tried to go out and buy more, though, I saw how obscenely priced it was and changed my mind. Even for a treat, I just couldn't spend that kind of money on tea.

And Baz remembered that. He remembered both the tea, and that I refuse to get it for myself.

He remembered that ten years after taking off his wedding ring.

"Thank you. That's a very good gift, you were right. I have one for you too, do you want it now?"

"Um… Yes, I suppose."

I go get it for him, while still clutching my tea.

"Here. Merry Christmas, Baz."

"Thanks."

I watch him as he opens the gift. I hope I didn't miss the mark. He was easy to shop for when we were together, but people change.

He brushes the cover of the notebook with the tip of his fingers, probably feeling the material.

"It's good quality stuff. Same brand you used to buy."

Way too expensive for a notebook, by the way.

"The pattern made me think of…"

I stop.

I hear Baz swallow. Now the movement of his fingers feels more purposeful on the cover. He's tracing the pattern.

"My bedsheets," he murmurs, finishing my sentence for me. Fuck. "Those I had in uni."

Those he had when we met. When he invited me to his place at the beginning of our relationship. When he invited me to his place the first time we…

I shouldn't have said anything about the stupid pattern.

"I didn't want to get you a plain one that's too—" Impersonal. "—boring. I thought this kind of pattern was a safe choice."

"It's lovely, Simon, I love it. Thank you. I never have enough notebooks." He gives me a smile.

"I know," I answer, smiling back.

We look at each other. For a few seconds longer than we really need to.

I clear my throat. "Do you wanna try that tea?"

"Oh, you'll let me have some? How generous of you," he answers, teasingly.

I tilt my head towards the kitchen, silently urging him to follow me. I look at the time on the oven. 3:07. I don't think either of us is going to sleep much tonight.

I fill up the kettle and start it, while carefully taking out two cups from the cabinet over the sink. Baz has closed the door behind himself, which should hopefully muffle some of the noise we make.

Thankfully, Will made me rummage through his kitchen earlier looking for a specific knife, so I know where the tea infusers are. They have two, luckily. Baz and I only ever had one at home. It wasn't practical at all.

I bring our cups to the kitchen table, where Baz is sitting, watching me absentmindedly. He watches me much more attentively when I take a first sip of my too-hot tea. My tongue is on fire but the taste is there, oh so delectable. I let out a pleased sigh, and Baz smiles.

We let our cups of tea cool down a little bit.

"Baz, I meant to say—"

I pause. He hums.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For how I was with you. At the end. And for not realising."

"It was a long time ago."

"Time isn't an apology. I'm sorry that I didn't treat you well."

He nods. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you exactly why I was leaving."

I nod too. We glance at each other to solidify our acknowledgment of the apology we have been given, and it feels…

Light.

"Was anyone there for you?" I ask, while my eyes are still staring into his. "When you were sick? Your siblings, your parents… anyone?"

The atmosphere in the room instantly grow heavier. I just had to go and ruin it.

Who knows when I'll next see him. I can't leave anything unsaid. Can't have any more regrets than I already do.

I watch his shoulders stiffen.

"There was. It wasn't my family, though. I didn't tell them I had cancer."

"You didn't tell them?"

"It would have unnecessarily worried them. There was nothing they could do about it anyway. When I received the diagnosis, I told myself that I would only let them know after I was healed or when I would be on the verge of dying. That's what I did."

"You're insane."

"Mordelia was furious. I don't think she has truly forgiven me for hiding that from her yet. But it was for the better. I couldn't have handled their worry. It was hard enough letting Will know."

…

Baz

I was very aware of the possibility that this might kill me. My doctor tried to be encouraging, but he also wanted me to stay realistic about the risks I was facing. Taking that into account, I knew I couldn't keep my disease from William. He had to prepare himself for that possibility as well.

I regretted telling him many times, most of all when I was finally cancer-free, but I know that if I hadn't been so lucky, if the outcome had been different, I wouldn't have wanted him to learn his father was dead without any previous warning.

"So… you only had Will?"

"I had Harry too," I answer, carefully. I watch for Simon's reaction, but nothing comes. No hint of irritation or spark of innapropriate jealousy. "That is actually how I met him. We were being treated at the same hospital. We became friends and we supported each other."

I didn't want to tell my family and friends. He didn't have a family to tell, and his friends slowly vanished as his health deteriorated. We both desperately needed someone to go through this with. The pain, the fear, the exhaustion, the anger, the hope, the disappointment… it's all too much to bear on your own. We understood that. Anyone who wasn't living it couldn't have.

"I'm glad that you had him," Simon says, and the strangest part is that he sounds sincere.

"I'm glad too. And I'm glad I could be there for him too."

Could be, like I have stopped, like it's over. Like Harry got as lucky as I did.

Discomfort claws at my throat. I try to drink to ease the sensation, but even tea is difficult to get down.

"Do you have someone like that in your life?"

"I told you I gave up on relationships," Simon answers, a bit sourly.

"That's not what I meant. I'm not talking about a romantic partner, I'm asking if… you would have a Harry. If you were in the situation I was in when I met him."

"I have Penny. She's always been my person. Stuck with me through everything. But other than her… Well. You know me. I'm a lone wolf."

"It's nice that you're still friends with her."

"Thank God I am. I genuinely don't know if I could ever live without Penny. But then again, I didn't think I could ever live without you. So."

"We tend to be more resilient than we think we are. Most difficult things that have happened to me in my life are things I once thought I couldn't survive, and I'm still here. The same thing is true for you."

"Wow, the conversation got deep all of a sudden."

I chuckle. "Yes, because everything else we've talked about tonight was so shallow."

"I miss talking about shallow things with you."

The only answer I give him is a smile. Anything else would be… dangerous.

A few more minutes pass as we finish our tea, which is not quite warm enough to be enjoyable anymore. We wash our cups. I think Simon was about to leave his in the sink, but he picked it up immediately.

Simon stops by the sofa. "So… That's me," he says, patting the top of it. "I'll see you in the morning, I guess."

"You're sleeping… here?"

"Not enough beds for everyone. Josh and Claire got the one in the guest room because they can share it. I volunteered to have the sofa so you could have the mattress in the office. Your leg, you know. The sofa wouldn't have been ideal."

"I sat on their sofa plenty of times. It's not ideal for anyone to sleep on. Come with me."

"What?"

"Don't make a scene. Come on," I insist, turning away. "I'm not going to let you sleep on the couch."

…

Will

Daisy emerges from the living room, a confused look on her face.

"Where's your father?"

"What?"

"Simon. There's no one on the couch."

I shrug. "He often wakes up early. Maybe he went for a walk?"

Distantly, I hear April rushing down the stairs. It's like she's had kilos of sugar injected directly into her veins, and it's not even eight in the morning. But well, Christmas only happens once a year.

"Gonna wake up Grandpa Baz now!"

...

Baz

I wake up to the sound of screeching, and the uncomfortable sensation of my body bouncing on the mattress against my will. As I slowly open my eyes, my vision progressively becoming less blurry, I see the cause of both inconveniences: my granddaughter, who has made her way into my bed.

Instinctively, I open my arms up for her.

"Good morning, April. Can grandpa have a hug?"

She jumps into my arms —outch— and therefore stops blocking my view with her messy head of light-brown curls.

Fuck.

For a few, blissful seconds, it hadn't registered to me that I had—

Invited Simon to sleep in my bed.

It's impossible to ignore now as I see him sitting next to me, looking down at April and I tenderly. Oh, my aching heart.

"Hey," he mouthes. "Merry Christmas."

I smile, and I think it's far too sweet considering the person that smile is for, and I don't think I care.

"Merry Christmas," I mouth back.

I hear someone clearing their throat. My neck has never turned so fast.

There, standing in the doorway, is Will. He's gazing upon Simon and I with a look of sheer and utter disappointment.

"April, love, I think mummy is calling you. You should go see her."

During the few excrutiating seconds that it takes April to leave, I try to think of ways to exit this situation that don't require a miracle —I find none.

I feel the same burning embarrassment as when Daphne caught me with a boy in my bedroom when I was fifteen. Except that this is a million times more mortifying because the person who caught me is not my mother but my son, and I'm not fifteen but nearly fifty.

And the boy isn't just a boy, he's my ex-husband.

"I'm not going to ask. I'm not!" William says, raising the palms of his hands as his eyes sweep us one last time. He steps back out of the room. "Actually, I'm going to pretend I didn't see anything. No funny business on Christmas, I told you guys. We're keeping whatever this is for Boxing Day."

…I think I might go back to London today.