Work Text:
December in Bangkok was a confusing affair for kids.
The storybooks and the cartoons depicted snow, frost on windowpanes, and freezing cold weather. But outside the glass windows of their home in the outskirts of the city, the sun was blazing with a specific, humid intensity that made the pavement shimmer. Inside, the air conditioning was humming continuously, keeping the house at a crisp twenty degrees throughout the day.
The Caskey-Sangngern household was undeniably festive this time. There were Christmas lights strung along the eaves of their house that Gawin hanged there exactly three weeks ago, standing on a ladder and sweating through his shirt while Joss stood below and directed him with the calm authority of a man who had absolutely no intention of getting on the ladder himself. A Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner of the living room, glowing with gold and green decorations. Scattered among them are mismatched ornaments collected over the years, gifted by friends or souvenirs from overseas trips, the most special being a handmade wool penguin and grizzly bear wearing Santa hats.
The television was on, playing some cartoon nobody was watching anymore. Poon and Barcode cross-legged on the rug, stickers and art paper scattered around them, practically vibrating with restlessness as five-year-olds who had been told tomorrow was Christmas day and were now incapable of keeping still.
"It’s not sticking," Barcode observed quietly. He held a piece of tape against the living room wall with the solemnity of a surgeon.
"You have to push it hard! Like this!" Poon, his older brother by exactly four minutes, slammed his palm against the concrete. The paper snowflake—a lopsided, jagged thing they had cut out earlier—crumpled slightly but stayed put. "See?"
Barcode followed his instructions without another word.
They were fraternal twins through and through. Between the two boys, Poon was the whirlwind of kinetic energy, his dark hair already sticking up in three different directions despite having been combed thirty minutes ago. Barcode was the more cautious one, round brown eyes observant and thoughtful, the kind of kid who reminded adults where they put their keys. Where Poon ran, Barcode walked. Where Poon shouted, Barcode whispered. It had been that way since they were born.
"Pops said we have to make the house look like North Pole," Poon declared, grabbing another snowflake. "Or Santa won’t find us."
"Santa will come anyway," Barcode said, peeling another strip of tape. "He has GPS. Dada said."
"GPS doesn’t work all the time," Poon countered, though he wasn't entirely sure what that meant in the context of flying sleighs. He looked away from their artwork, casting a slow, searching look around the living room as though he'd misplaced something important.
"Where’s Dada?"
Barcode gestured toward the end of the hallway. "In the Cave."
The Cave was Gawin’s home music studio. Joss had called it that first, too fitting for the space Gawin built for himself where he’d disappear to work on music for hours on end, engulfed in the treated acoustic panels he'd justified to Joss by calling them "an investment". It occupied what had technically been a spare bedroom on the first floor, but Gawin had quietly furnished it into something that looked like the love child of a mini professional studio and a cluttered office—shelves with notebooks, vinyl records, too many guitar pedals, and an inexplicable collection of small succulents in one corner that they miraculously kept alive. The door was solid wood. Soundproofed on Gawin's request. Joss had raised an eyebrow and Gawin had said it was for focus and Joss had said uh-huh and Gawin had been honest, it was for focus, mostly.
"I’m gonna show Dada the snowflakes," Poon announced, beginning to stand up from his place on the floor.
Joss— Pops—had left an hour ago. He said he had to go to the market to get "very important ingredients" for Christmas dinner, leaving them with clear instructions to be good and watch cartoons. But the cartoons were over, the snowflakes were up, and Poon was so bored.
"Dada said he’s working," Barcode warned, sitting back on his heels. "We can’t go in if we don’t really really need him, remember?"
Poon raised an eyebrow at him. “Is the sign green?”
The kids knew the Cave’s purpose. It was a place where Dada did his job. It was a place with big speakers, colorful buttons, very expensive instruments and guitars they were absolutely not allowed to touch ever, except when Dada would teach them guitar. It also had another rule: when the sign hanging on the door was red, it meant Do Not Enter. Today, the sign was a welcoming green. Barcode was sure because he saw it earlier.
“It’s green,” Barcode confirmed.
"That means he’s just listening to songs," Poon argued with total confidence. "Let’s go, Barcode."
Barcode hesitated, looking at the TV for a second. He liked rules. But he also liked the studio because it smelled like coffee and flowers and wood, like a forest that smells really good. At the same time, he also missed Dada.
"Okay. But be quiet."
The twins moved down the hallway with the coordinated stealth of children who believed themselves to be invisible, tiny feet in matching socks softly padding against the floor (Poon’s had little dinosaurs, while Barcode’s had colorful cars). Poon reached the Cave first. The door that was usually closed shut was cracked by a few centimeters, leaving a gap just big enough for the little ones to peer through.
"I see red," Poon whispered, pushing on the door slightly.
"Red?" Barcode squeezed in next to him.
Inside the studio, the familiar landscape of audio interface and monitors was there. Gawin was there, too. He was leaning against the edge of his desk, wearing an old basketball jersey and comfortable gray sweatpants.
But he wasn't alone.
Standing between Gawin’s knees was a massive, hulking figure dressed entirely in red velvet with white fur trim. A giant white beard obscured half the face, while thick rimmed glasses and a floppy red hat covered the rest.
"It’s him," Poon gasped, the breath seizing in his lungs. "It’s Santa."
Barcode’s eyes went wide. "He’s early. It’s not night."
"Why is he in the Cave?"
They watched, frozen in a mixture of awe and terror. Santa Claus was in their house. In the daytime. Talking to their Dada.
Santa was speaking in a low voice, something the boys couldn't quite catch, and Dada was laughing like when Pops would say a funny joke.
Poon's hand found Barcode's arm. His grip tightened.
Because then, something unthinkable happened. Gawin reached out, grabbing the white fur of Santa’s coat, and pulled the enormous red man closer. Santa didn't stop him; in fact, Santa’s hands came up to rest on Gawin’s waist.
"Dada is fighting him," Poon hissed, his fists clenching.
"No," Barcode whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Look."
Gawin wasn't fighting. He was tilting his head back. Santa leaned down. And then, right there, surrounded by millions of baht of music equipment, Dada kissed Santa Claus.
It wasn't a quick kiss on the cheek like they gave their grandma and grandpa. It was a movie kiss. The kind Pops gave Dada in the kitchen when they thought nobody’s looking. It was completely, definitively, unmistakably a kiss, and Dada's hand came up to Santa’s face, and that was—
Barcode pulled Poon back from the door. They stared at each other in the hallway with identical expressions of five-year-old devastation.
Poon let out a strangled squeak.
"Run," Barcode mouthed and yanked his twin backward.
They scrambled back down the hallway then up the stairs, feet slipping on the polished wood, not stopping until they safely reached their room.
⋆꙳•❅*🐻🎄🐧*❆•꙳⋆
The twins held an emergency meeting in the children’s tent set up in one corner of their shared bedroom.
"Dada is on the Naughty List," Poon declared, his face flushed red. He was breathing hard, clutching a pillow to his chest. "He kissed Santa! You can't kiss Santa!"
Barcode was sitting with his knees pulled up to his chin, staring at the floor. His little brow was furrowed in deep, existential worry. He looked, at this moment, more like Gawin than he usually did. "Pops is going to be sad."
"Pops is the best," Poon said, tears welling up in his eyes, his lips pushed out in a pout. "Why does Dada like Santa? Because he has presents?"
"Pops always gives him presents too." Barcode suggested logically. "Maybe Santa used evil magic. I’m sure he put a spell on Dada."
"We have to tell Pops to fight Santa," Poon said, standing up and out the tepee, his adventurer spirit kicking into overdrive. "We have to save our family, Barcode."
"Pops can't fight Santa," Barcode reasoned. "Santa is magic. And big."
"Pops works out in the gym!" Poon argued. "And Pops can lift heavy water bottles!"
Barcode chewed on his lip. The image of their Dada kissing the man in the red suit was burned into his mind. It felt wrong. It made his tummy hurt. In their house, the rules were simple: no jumping on the bed, eat your vegetables, and Dada and Pops loved each other more than anything.
This was a violation of the Rules.
"We need to wait for Pops," Barcode decided. "When Pops comes home, we tell him everything."
"Okay," Poon sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "If Santa comes out here, I’m gonna kick him. I promise."
⋆꙳•❅*🐻🎄🐧*❆•꙳⋆
Inside the soundproof studio, the atmosphere was significantly less traumatic and significantly more humid.
“I cannot believe you actually did it.”
Gawin was trying to keep the laughter out of his voice and mostly failing. The person inside the Santa Claus costume was approximately the size and shape of his husband, which he had realized within about four seconds of the door opening, but there had been a moment, a stupid split-second, where the full ensemble had actually worked. The suit was good. Whoever made it or wherever Joss found it had not skimped: the velvet was soft and the padding was substantial and the belt buckle caught the lights with a nice shine. The beard and wig built into the hat was thick silver-white synthetic that moved well. The glasses were round and slightly tinted.
Joss had not told him he was getting it today. He'd appeared from the back door of the studio (the glass one that opened onto the small garden strip along the side of the house) like a giant in red felt and said, "Ho ho ho," in a voice pitched about half an octave lower than his own, and Gawin had startled so hard he'd almost fallen off his chair.
Joss stepped away a little and reached up, removing the hat—and with it, the wig, the glasses, and the beard—gasping for air. "Jesus Christ, how do people survive in these things? I feel like I’m being boiled in a bag."
Gawin laughed, reaching out to help him unbutton the front collar of the suit. He looked at his husband with a mixture of amusement and genuine affection. The whole facade had lifted away to reveal his actual face: damp at the temples, his hair pressed flat and slightly sweaty, his cheeks flushed a deep warm pink from whatever climate the inside of this suit had. He looked ridiculous. He also looked incredibly handsome.
"You’re gonna overheat in this thing," Gawin scolded, swatting Joss’ arm through the thick fabric. Joss barely felt anything.
"I was a Santa mascot for Bella, I don't remember it being this hot," He complained while fanning himself with the end of the hat, remembering the days when he used to do this for his close friends’ kids until they no longer believed in Father Christmas. "Well it’s a different kind of costume, but whatever—do I look convincing? Be honest."
Gawin tilted his head, scanning the outfit. Maybe. But from what he saw earlier, even with the glasses and beard, Joss' downturned eyes are still recognizably his. "From afar? Yes. Up close? You look like Joss in a Santa costume."
Well, he was. But Joss still eyed him in disbelief. "C’mon, I know it’s better than that.”
"How much did this cost?" Gawin asked instead, pressing his fingers against Joss' midsection, trying to feel his actual waist. The suit added size to his lean proportions in a believable way.
"Don't worry about it."
"Joss."
"It's fine, I know people." Joss shrugged, then changed the subject. "Imagine the boys’ faces when they see me."
"They're going to see through it in thirty seconds."
"The’re five," Joss crossed his arms, or at least tried to; the coat made it awkward, and he ended up just resting his hands on his sides, which made him look like a department store Santa taking a break. "Kids believe anything. They see the suit, the beard, and boom—I’m Santa Claus."
"Our sons are smarter than that, you know?"
“Do you know what Poon told me last week? He said dogs can talk like humans if you ask nicely. Said he heard it from the neighbor’s kid. He still believes it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I watched him try to talk to a stray dog yesterday. He got so sad when it didn’t talk back."
Okay. Maybe that’s different.
“How about Barcode, huh? Kid notices everything. How much do you wanna bet—"
“Gawin, babe,” Joss held Gawin’s shoulders firmly. "Trust my acting skills a little. I’m really sure they’ll believe this."
Gawin looked at him for a few. Then, helplessly: "Come here."
Joss stepped forward, and Gawin pulled him in and kissed him like he did earlier—just once, brief, fond, the kind of kiss that didn't mean anything beyond the acknowledgment that this man standing in his studio dressed as Santa Claus was the most ridiculous and earnest person he'd ever loved.
"God, this is so dumb," Gawin said against his mouth, this time without the beard in the way. “But really, really cute.”
Joss beamed at him, dimples and all. "The heatstroke’s worth it if I get to see them freak out."
"It’s like thirty degrees outside, why didn't you change in here?"
"I wanted to surprise you too."
Gawin pressed his lips together against a smile. He reached out and pushed Joss' damp hair back from his forehead, a gesture too ordinary for the absurdity of the situation. "You’re crazy."
"You love it." Joss dropped the hat-wig accessory on the desk, and plucked at the front of the coat, trying to create airflow. It wasn’t enough, so he unzipped the coat all the way down, revealing a glimpse of glistening tan skin under a white tank top. He took a deep breath. "Anyways, it’s gonna be fun. I'm going to come in tomorrow, and they're going to fucking lose their minds, and I’ll make this the best Christmas ever."
"And when they figure out it's you?"
"That's a future problem." He picked up the hat, tried to fan himself with it again until he realized he could actually put an end to his own misery. "Should I get changed?"
"I'll walk you out."
"Stay. Work." Joss was already moving toward the door where he came from, bypassing the main hallway entirely.
Gawin leaned against the desk again, watching him go—the slightly absurd silhouette of his husband in the red suit, holding the hat under his arm like a man who'd just finished a very demanding shift.
"Babe."
"Hm?"
"You're the best."
Joss paused at the door. He turned around for a second. There was a beat of quiet, and then his shoulders relaxed like they’d been tense for hours.
"Thanks," he said, like he meant it, which he did, which Gawin loved. Then, a final reminder to Gawin, “Lock the door. Make sure they don’t see me."
He slipped out into the humid afternoon air, unaware that his cover had already been blown, and that a resistance movement was now forming in his living room.
⋆꙳•❅*🐻🎄🐧*❆•꙳⋆
Joss came in through the front door about thirty minutes later. He was dressed in his regular clothes now—white linen shirt, dark trousers, Birkenstocks—having stashed the Santa suit in the trunk of his car parked down the street (a tactical error he would realize later, but for now, he was "returning from the market").
"I’m back!" he called out cheerfully. Usually, this was the moment where he would be attacked by four legs and loud screaming. Today, there was unusual silence.
Joss frowned. “Poon? Barcode?”
He walked into the living room. The TV was still on. Poon and Barcode were standing side-by-side in front of the sofa, looking like a less creepy, more somber version of the twins from The Shining. Their arms were crossed. Poon was sniffing like he had been crying; Barcode looked like he was about to deliver him a court order.
Joss set the bags down slowly, confused. "...Hey, what’s wrong? Where’s Dada?"
At first, none of them said anything. They just looked at each other’s eyes as if having a conversation entirely through twin-telepathy. Barcode nodded towards his brother as if to encourage him to speak out.
“Pops…” Poon began. His voice had a wobble in it that Joss recognized, which preceded either very loud crying or very dramatic accusations. "Dada is bad."
Joss blinked. "Why? Did Dada tease you?"
"No," Barcode said, his voice quiet and serious. He looked at Joss like someone who had recently learned something terrible about human nature. "We saw."
"Saw what, kid?" Joss crouched down so he was eye-level with his children. "Come here, talk to Pops."
That did it. Suddenly, Poon burst into tears. He threw himself at Joss, burying his face in the crook of his father’s neck. Some words became unintelligible between the hiccups. "Dada…kissed…i-in the Cave!"
“What?”
Dada. The cave. Kiss.
Joss' brain took a solid three seconds to process the information. Then with a cold and immediate certainty:
Oh.
Oh no.
"Santa!" Poon wailed. "Dada kissed Santa! On the mouth! Like he kiss YOU!"
Joss turned to Barcode. The child seemed like he was holding back his own tears, looking at Joss with profound pity. "We looked inside the cave. Dada is hugging Santa. And kissing." Barcode explained. "Is Dada going to leave us and go to North Pole? But he said he hates cold places…"
A laugh bubbled up in Joss' throat, but he bit it down immediately. He took one measured breath. Then another. This was a Code Red parenting emergency. They didn't think it was a costume; they thought their father was having an affair with a mythical holiday figure.
"Oh, bud," Joss said, pulling Barcode into the hug so he was holding both of them. "No, no, of course not."
A sound came from the hallway just in time. Door opening and closing. Footsteps. And then Gawin appeared in the living room, fresh from the Cave, a half-drunk glass of water in his hand, doing the completely ordinary thing of rejoining his family at the end of an afternoon work session.
He read the room instantly. His husband crouched on the floor, two crying children in his arms. His steps turned slow and careful. "Hey babe...what's—"
"Dada, you traitor!" Poon shouted, pulling away from Joss to shoot death glares at Gawin.
The accused was taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"They saw you in the studio with 'Santa'." Joss said, looking up at Gawin. His eyes were twinkling with suppressed mirth, but his mouth was set in a serious line.
"Okay," Gawin said.
"They think you’re cheating on me with him,” Joss clarified further.
Something moved through Gawin’s face—confusion, then the precise moment of realization, then a very swift effort at regaining his composure after almost choking on his own spit. Joss looked back at him with an expression that said yes and also do not laugh.
"You kissed him," said Poon, still in tears. "We saw it."
"Why’d you do it, Dada? You're married to Pops. That’s bad," Barcode added. There was real reproach in his voice—the reproach of a child who had put his trust in the fundamental stability of his family unit and watched it fall apart.
Gawin opened his mouth. Closed it. He had, in his career, written critically acclaimed music and performed in front of live audiences and given interviews to journalists who were actively trying to trip him up. But he was completely, thoroughly stumped by two five-year-olds pressing him about his alleged infidelity.
Gawin set his glass down on the sideboard and walked over, dropping to his knees beside Joss. "Dada can explain."
Poon turned his head away. "I don't want to talk to you. Go away to North Pole."
"Okay, okay, that’s enough, Poon. Timeout," Joss said, his voice firm but gentle. He took a reassuring glance at Gawin, then at the two kids. “Listen to me first. Dada isn't in love with Santa or anything."
"Santa is a mistress. We saw the kiss," Barcode insisted. Evidence was evidence.
Joss fought another laugh. Mistress, really? He wondered where his son even got that word; probably from all the prime time Thai dramas their grandma would watch whenever the kids stayed with her sometimes.
"I understand," Joss replied. "But do you know why Dada kissed Santa?"
The boys shook their heads.
"Because…” A second of hesitation. Nevermind. “Because Santa is me."
Silence descended on the living room for a solid minute. Gawin seemed surprised at his admittance, but Joss had to act fast. Right now it’s better to tell the truth, or at least half of it, than let their children think their parents’ marriage is crumbling.
"No, you’re lying," Poon said. "Santa is big and has a beard. You’re Pops."
"I was wearing a costume, like we do on Halloween," Joss explained. "I wanted to surprise you. I put on the red suit and the beard then I went to the cave to show Dada. And Dada kissed me because—well… because I'm Pops."
"Where’s the costume?" Barcode asked.
"It's in the car."
Poon demanded, "Show us."
"Right," Joss said, standing. He glanced at Gawin, who just shrugged at him. "Alright. Give me a minute."
Joss jogged out the front door. And then he was back in a flash, the full ensemble bundled under his arm, carrying the hat-wig-beard assembly separately in his other hand.
He held it up. "See?"
He set the coat and pants on the sofa. Poon and Barcode approached it slowly, with the forensic intensity of detectives approaching evidence. They reached out and examined the suit, touching the sleeve, pinching the velvet.
Meanwhile, Joss put on the head part of the costume to prove it. The transformation was instant. Poon’s jaw dropped.
"Ho, ho, ho," Joss even attempted the voice, though he felt ridiculous doing it during a family crisis.
"It’s really Pops!" Poon gasped. He ran forward and threw his arms around Joss without warning, a hug that made the man stumble back a step, and jumped up to yank on the beard.
"Ow! Fake beard, real chin!" Joss yelped, pulling the hat off completely.
Barcode went to Gawin, less dramatically but with the same feeling, burying his face briefly in Gawin's side. He let out a long breath, the tension visibly leaving his small body. "So Dada wasn't kissing Santa?"
Gawin ran his hand over Barcode's dark hair. His eyes were on Joss across from him.
"No," Gawin said, simply. "I kissed Pops. I only kiss Pops. And you guys. That’s it.”
Joss agreed. "It’s me this whole time. Nobody was cheating on anybody."
But just when they thought it was over, the second landmine came in the form of Poon’s furrowed eyebrows. The child stared suspiciously at the beard in Joss' hand, then at Gawin.
"But why did you dress up like Santa?” he asked, “Santa’s not coming?"
Then Barcode decided to add fuel to the fire. “Dada said zombies are not real because it’s just a costume. So Santa is not real too?”
Gawin and Joss froze in place.
"Well..." Joss trailed off, helplessly this time.
"No, Santa’s real!” Gawin said. “Pops wore a costume because, uhh… because he’s an intern for Santa Claus."
Joss pivoted immediately. "Right. An internship. Which is—yes, Pops is Santa's intern, that's a real thing."
“What’s that?” the twins asked at the same time.
Gawin nodded at him, gesturing with his hand for him to keep going.
Think fast, think fast.
"Um, the thing is, Santa is very old," Joss began carefully. "Right? You know that."
Cautious nods.
"And because he's old, he can't go to every house like this anymore. He needs help. So he hires—" Joss paused, and in real time, right there on the living room floor, invented the rest of this "—Santa interns to help him give gifts. Dads, mostly. And I was hired this year as an intern, which is a very serious job, and the costume is our work uniform. The rule is we have to look like Santa."
Barcode narrowed his eyes, but Joss can tell there’s wonder forming in it. "So you help Santa give gifts?"
"Exactly," Joss nodded. "That’s what we do."
"Pops is so cool!" Poon giggled. Barcode thought about it for a moment. Maybe that’s why Pops always had presents for him and Poon and Dada.
Gawin added, “But it’s a secret, okay? Don’t ask too many questions, or else Pops is gonna get fired.” He kept his expression entirely serious, which was the hardest he'd ever worked. “That means no gifts for you guys.”
The two children did a zipping motion over their lips. Gawin sent a wink over to his husband, making Joss smile and shake his head slightly.
"You guys are silly," Barcode mumbled, but he was smiling now, still clinging onto his Dada. "I was scared."
"I know, baby," Gawin said, rubbing his back. "I'm sorry we scared you. We should've closed the door all the way."
"Yeah, doors should be closed all the time," Poon said like he’s citing a rule. He picked up the Santa hat and put it on. It swallowed his entire head. "Can I be a intern too?"
"Maybe when you're taller, kid," Joss laughed, ruffling the boy's hair through the fabric. "Now, who wants to help us cook? So we can give some food to the North Pole."
"Me!" Poon exclaimed, discarding the hat on the floor. Barcode let go of Gawin instantly.
As the boys raced toward the kitchen, arguing about who got to be the “chef”, Joss and Gawin plopped down on the sofa and remained there for a moment. It felt like they just had the longest, most mentally-taxing interrogation of their lives.
“Oh my God,” Joss laughed softly into his hands.
Gawin pat him on back. "Nice save, Pops." He leaned over and kissed Joss once on the shoulder. "You okay? That was a lot of running around."
"I'm fine," Joss smiled at him. "But next year? We hire a guy. I'm officially retired from the Santa business."
⋆꙳•❅*🐻🎄🐧*❆•꙳⋆
The rest of the evening went surprisingly smoothly. The "Santa Intern" story seemed to satisfy the twins’ logic. In fact, the idea that their Pops was on the payroll of the North Pole became a never-ending topic of conversation.
They had dinner, which was a fusion of steak and Dada’s famous bolognese because apparently tonight was very special. Gawin had made the recipe since before they got married, a Sunday project that had become a Tuesday project that had become a whenever-it-was-needed project, the smell of it filling the whole house by the time the table was set.
The boys ate with the enthusiasm of two children who had experienced genuine emotional turmoil that day and had emerged from it hungry.
"Are we leaving cookies for Santa?" Poon asked, mid-slurp of the pasta.
"Of course," Joss said.
"The real Santa," Barcode clarified.
"The real guy," Gawin confirmed, turning to exchange a microscopic look with Joss.
"Do the elves pick them up?" Poon asked.
"They do," Joss said. "Santa's very busy on Christmas Eve. And I told you he can’t go places anymore. He sends the elves to collect the cookies."
"To the north pole?"
"That's where Santa lives."
"We should give him good ones," Barcode said, with the seriousness of a professional negotiator. "Not the hard ones. He's old. He probably has teeth problems."
Joss covered his mouth with his fist.
"Smart," Gawin said, gravely. "Very thoughtful of you, Barcode."
After dinner they arranged butter cookies on a plate and poured a glass of milk to go with it. They left them on the coffee table with a small note that Poon wrote in capital letters—SANTA WE PICKED SOFT ONES YOUR WELCOME—and then it was teeth-brushing and the complex negotiation of pajamas and one chapter of a story Gawin read in the way that made their breathing slow and their eyes get heavy.
He was good at that. Keeping the calmness of it.
Joss listened from the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at nothing in particular. He could hear Gawin's voice—low, unhurried, doing the different voices for the different characters without any self-consciousness—and the occasional small sound from inside the room that meant one of them was still awake and interested. Then quiet. Then nothing.
⋆꙳•❅*🐻🎄🐧*❆•꙳⋆
Joss went back to the kitchen to clean up.
When he first moved in with Gawin in their first apartment, he felt the need to get better at doing chores because he had the sense that Gawin hated when people didn’t clean up after themselves. Joss hated washing dishes, but he found it relaxing now. He hated taking out the trash, but now he did it once or twice a week without having to be asked. He'd never said this to Gawin until two years into living together, who had said that’s so you but never quite used the information to his own advantage. Chores had always been ‘give and take’; I cook, you clean, and vice versa. That’s just how most things worked in their household, and as he realized, how things worked in their relationship.
He was halfway through washing the sauce pot when he felt arms wrap around his waist from behind—solid, familiar, Gawin pressing in close and resting his chin on Joss' shoulder, not saying anything, just there.
"Hey," Joss said.
"Hey." A pause. "They're out."
"Both of them?"
"Barcode was fighting it. He lost."
Joss smiled at the pot. He kept scrubbing.
Gawin was quiet for a moment—one that particularly meant he was choosing words, which was different from his absent quiet, which was different again from his working quiet. Joss had a whole taxonomy of Gawin's silences. He'd been collecting them for years.
"You did well today," Gawin said. “Especially that whole Santa thing.”
“Only me? The ‘Santa intern’ was your idea.” Then a bit more quietly, like he was afraid the kids might still hear— “I almost admitted he’s not real.”
“Okay, I’ll take some credit.” Gawin's arms tightened fractionally. "But I mean the whole thing. The story. The fact that you were gonna suffer in that costume so they'd have a good Christmas morning. That’s dedication."
Joss shrugged one shoulder—the one that meant it's nothing though it was never nothing.
"Our kids are growing up so fast,” he said. "It’s only a matter of time before they stop believing things like that, you know. I wanted them to have this one."
Gawin turned his head, lips against Joss' cheek. Joss felt the warmth of it, the gravity of being held by someone who’d been doing so for almost a decade and still had good things to say about it.
"Again, you're a great dad," Gawin said.
Joss let himself feel that. He didn't deflect it, didn't redirect it, just held onto it and let it settle. He’d only been a father for five years; he still has a lifetime to go. But hearing his husband say those words out loud reminded him that maybe, surely, he’d been doing a good job so far.
"Thanks," he said, same as before, same meaning, same weight. “And so are you. I hope you know that.”
Gawin hummed quietly against his hair.
There was a moment of silence. Just the two of them, basked in the downlights and each other’s warmth.
Then suddenly,
"You should put the costume on again."
Joss stopped washing. He set the sponge down on the edge of the sink. "I'm sorry?"
"The costume."
"Why?"
"Hear me out—"
"I'm not hearing you out." Joss turned in his arms—or started to, and then Gawin's mouth found his neck, which was an unfair tactical choice—"Do you have a thing for Santa Claus? Is that what this is? Should I be concerned—"
"Not Santa," Gawin said, against his pulse point, entirely unbothered. "When you took it off for a bit. You were just—" his hands moved, stilling at Joss' waist "—the tank top. Your hair. You were sweating."
"It felt fucking nasty."
"But you looked—"
"Do not say 'hot', I swear to God—"
"Pretty good," Gawin said, pulling back just enough to look at him, which was somehow worse than the neck situation because Joss could see him being completely sincere. "I'm just saying."
Joss searched Gawin’s face for something. The kitchen was quiet around them—the hum of the refrigerator, the faint settling sounds of the house, two children heavily asleep upstairs with soft breaths and clear consciences. Gawin was watching him with that expression he'd had since the beginning, something that meant I'm not trying to win anything, I'm just here with you.
Or perhaps win some, because then Gawin grinned and started tracing the line of Joss' waistband with his finger, eyes looking at him through his lashes, challenging. "Just the pants and glasses? Keep the glasses on."
"You're joking."
"Not really."
As if to prove it, Gawin leaned in to kiss him square on the lips. Joss let himself get lost in it briefly, feeling Gawin’s tongue slowly start to brush against his as their mouths moved in sync, a soft invitation that sent a familiar sharp tug to his gut—just until Gawin pulled away suddenly and left him dazed and trying to chase it.
"Can I ask Santa’s intern for help now?" Gawin asked.
“So weird,” Joss scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. He was absolutely, definitely going to do it.
"If they wake up," he said, "it's your turn to explain."
Gawin's expression shifted, just enough. "Obviously."
Joss kissed him again—quick, clean, a period at the end of a sentence—then rushed out of the kitchen toward the Cave where the costume rested for now, the house hotter than it was, the Christmas lights still blinking amber and gold through the window.
He was already thinking about his lines.