#I’ve got my entire household singing the crumble song

[jammjams]

actually I’m obsessed with Lorraine Bowen, and I do believe she is a musical genius.

[earlgreytea68]

This post got me thinking about Pete and religion.

Fall Out Boy lyrics are full of Christian religious imagery. You kind of get the impression that Pete was raised in a household where he was just casually surrounded by all of this STUFF, that he absorbed and turned over in his lyrics. I mean, “Knock once for the Father, twice for the Son, three times for the Holy Ghost”... (West Coast Smoker).

He’s preoccupied by Heaven as an exclusive party. The idea shows up again and again. The Black Cards (I *love* the Black Cards stuff, I need to devote a whole thing to Black Cards at some point) have an entire song called “A Club Called Heaven.” On “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Fame,” “Heaven’s got a gate full of metal detectors.” On “Thriller,” he shows up with his plus one to the afterlife.

But Pete’s not entirely sure he’s getting into that party. In fact, usually Pete puts himself in Hell: He might be dancing in a club called Heaven, but he knows the doorman in Hell personally. The road to his house is paved with good intentions in Hum Hallelujah (which is, of course, traditionally what the road to Hell is paved with); “we’re just Hell’s neighbors” in America’s Suitehearts (if we’re not in Hell, we’re right next door, and that could be Heaven but I don’t think so). To get on St. Peter’s list, you need to lower your standards, says Rat-a-Tat. This is what Pete Wentz lyrics do, a simple sentence like that is LOADED with meaning. Because after all, his name is Peter, and it could be Peter Wentz’s list he’s referring to there, and it could also be the list to get into Heaven, and it could be that getting on Peter Wentz’s list doesn’t actually take that much (lower your standards, I’m never getting any better than this) and it could be that it’s St. Peter at the gates of Heaven who needs to lower *his* standards (again: I’m never getting any better than this).

(My absolute favorite Heaven/Hell lyric, though, is when Pete throws in Purgatory, that place in Catholicism where you go to do penance for your sins before you’re let into Heaven: On w.a.m.s. Pete writes, “My head’s in Heaven, my soles are in Hell, let’s meet in the Purgatory of my hips.” The glorious beauty of the sex innuendo being the *purgatory*: what you have to get yourself through to get to actual Heaven. ugh, Pete Wentz kills me sometimes with the way he uses words.)

He left his conscience pressed between the pages of the Bible in the drawer, but what did it ever do for him? So asks XO, and the gorgeously ambiguous phrasing of those lines KILLS ME. What’s the antecedent to the “it”? His conscience, sure, that’s what he’s thrown carelessly in the drawer. WITH THE BIBLE. Which could also be the “it”: What did that whole faith thing ever get me anyway?

But he wants it *so badly.* My second favorite lyric from Hum Hallelujah (a song that is nothing but excellent lyrics is “I love you in the same way there’s a chapel in a hospital.” There is SO MUCH packed into that line. SO, SO MUCH. And one of the things in there is the ambiguous irresistibility of faith: Sure, maybe the chapel is a last-ditch effort when nothing else works, or maybe that chapel is the ONLY thing that works and the only thing that matters in the whole place. I love you like that, like I don’t know if you’re all I’ve got left or you’re the only thing that matters, and I don’t know which it is but wow, either way, it would be great if you gave me a sign. Ugh that liiiiiine. “Have you ever wanted to disappear and join a monastery?” asks 20 Dollar Nose Bleed.

“I will never believe in anything again,” says (Coffee’s for Closers), but who really believes that? The temptation of belief creeps up in between the proclamation (”kick drum beating in my chest again,” “preach electric to a microphone stand”), undercutting it in the same way that its over-repetition in the song starts to ring hollow (Pete doth protest too much). The comfort that religious people get from their faith in God, Pete wants that. But he can’t get there. He’s always hedging his bets (“in case God doesn’t show” --Thnks fr th Mmrs). He’s always doubtful of God’s good intentions if He is there (”when the world ends, will God go down with it?” --What a Catch, Donnie).

So he tries to find substitutes for this faith he doesn’t have. “My words are my faith,” says Hum Hallelujah, but then, immediately afterward, “To hell with our good name,” so that’s how much actual trust he thinks you should place in that. “We’re a bull and your ears are a china shop.” Look at what a mess my words can make in there if you let them in; that’s what faith does to you, buddy. His gospel is the gospel of giving up (Arms Race). “Follow the disorganized religion of my head,” says West Coast Smoker. “I can work a miracle,” boasts Uma Thurman. “I’m the holy water you have been without,” says Fourth of July.

But he’s not really what he wants to believe in. “We’re saints just swimming in our sins,” Twin Skeleton’s reminds everyone. “If we pray to the Lord,” goes the outro on w.a.m.s., “does he sing on a stage?” Maybe rock and roll is what he should be believing in? “I’m the last damn kid still kicking who still believes,” claims Save Rock and Roll. “I will defend the faith, going down swinging.”

All of which brings us to MANIA. Religion, faith, belief is ALL OVER MANIA. In fact, the entire album is constructed as a journey toward finding the thing you believe in, the thing you have faith in, and finally settling in to cling tight to it. The first song on the album, Stay Frosty, Royal Milk Tea, is struggling with loss of things to believe in: “All my childhood heroes have fallen off or died.” (Champion later has the same theme: “I’m young enough to still believe, but young enough not to know what to believe in.” The most explicit Pete has ever been about his journey toward faith.) But then, in the second song, Last of the Real Ones, the lyrics have found someone to revolve around, someone to be with forever: “the ultra-kind of love,” that ultimate faith. But it’s not quite there yet. There’s doubt in there. “Tell me I’m the only one even if it’s not true.” “There’s been a million before me.” The bridge is expert Fall-Out-Boy song ambiguity. “I’m done with having dreams, the thing that I believe / you drain the fear from me.” Is that “I believe that you drain the fear from me”? Or is that “I’m done with the thing that I believe”? The song’s phrasing lets it be both at once, both a proclamation of faith and a proclamation of doubt, all at the same time.

But things get better. We eventually get to “Church.” An entire song where the religious imagery is pitched toward love (or blowjobs, like, same thing, maybe, for Pete Wentz). “If YOU were church, I’d get on my knees, confess my love, I’d know where to be, my sanctuary, you’re holy to me,” is the refrain of the whole song. It can’t get any clearer than that. Pete Wentz has found what he wants to believe in, and it’s the YOU (whoever that might be ahem just saying that in “Sunshine Riptide,” the she says “I love you ‘til I don’t,” while the You is the “truest feeling yet”). The other enduring theme in MANIA is fakeness and pretend: fake tears, fake friends, people you’re pretending with and around. That theme shows up in Church, too: “I’ve got a few more fake friends and it’s getting hard to know what’s real.” But in Church the proclamation of faith is in the chorus, which means that no matter how anxious Pete gets himself in the lyrics, he resolves back to the central belief: I’ve got you, I know where I should be. YOU’RE what’s real, right here, forget everyone else. 

AND THEN we get Heaven’s Gate. Which revisits Pete’s favorite idea that Heaven is a party he’s going to have to try to crash. But here the song is all about how he’s no longer aimlessly looking for something to believe in; he’s found it: “I’m a missile that’s guided to you.” Maybe he’s gotten it wrong, that he’s chosen the You as his thing to believe in, that the only thing he wants is Your love, but if he’s gotten it wrong, he’s got faith the You is going to get it right and give him the boost he needs into Heaven. “Honey, please come through” and take me along with Your awesomeness, because I’ve decided it’s You I’m going to follow, Your dreams I’m going to make come true, and I’m not going to try to detox from You anymore, I’m just going to go all-in on this whole thing, and in the end, if I don’t make it on the list, will You slip me a wristband?

The album closes out with Young and Menace, with “I’ve lived so much life I think that God is gonna have to kill me twice,” which is such a beautiful bookend to “I read about the afterlife but I never really lived” in Saturday, like, ugh, that always kills me, look how far Pete Wentz has come, and then finally into Bishop’s Knife Trick: “I’m yours, ‘til the earth starts to crumble and the heavens roll away.”

Let’s go back to the places that we never should have left.

Idk, maybe you could read this as: Pete Wentz finally found something to believe in, and it ended up being the person who hasn’t left his side in 20 years, the person he’s never had to pretend with, the person who’s been there through all the fake friends, the person who’s golden and amazing and DEFINITELY going to get it right when Pete doesn’t. I mean, maybe you could read it this way.

[exploring-in-space]

Summary: Robert, an aspiring journalist, lands an interview with England’s budding band, Armour. Aaron is the band’s guitarist and songwriter, and the attraction between them is immediate. A one night stand quickly becomes something more, and leads to a tumultuous relationship throughout the years.

Tags: Alternate universe, drug use, overdose, make ups and break ups, angst with a happy ending

For @some-mad-lunge, truly one of the most talented authors in this fandom. I took the alternate universe and angst with a happy ending tropes and ran with this. This ended up being longer than I had anticipated, but I really hope you enjoy this! xxx 

Thank you @robronengagementgiftexchange for organizing!

Robert hates his job with a burning passion. He dreams of reporting news that truly matters. When he first stepped foot at uni, bright-eyed and full of hope, he knew what kind of news he wanted to report, news worth risking your life for. 

His mother, Sarah, was one of the hardest hitting journalists of her time - following the story where it took her. That passion eventually led to her downfall when she got trapped in a crumbling building. But the story had to be told and she pushed past every person and barrier to tell it. Robert used to wonder why her passion for journalism meant more to her than her own life. But then he would remember the evenings when she would tuck him in and tell stories of her life as a news breaking journalist. Robert had always worshipped the ground she walked on and hearing her stories made him want nothing more than to follow her footsteps.

Robert’s career was first buoyed by both being the son of Sarah and his own merit. He started writing for his university’s newspaper and had a job offer for a local paper upon graduating. Things were progressing smoothly and predictably for Robert up until he got hired by White News. White News is one of the newest but leading news publications across the country. Robert got hired to do fact checking and minor researching with the promise of moving on to ground coverage. He was headquartered in London, moving on up in the journalism world, hoping he was making his mother proud.

But Robert, being the man he was, couldn’t help himself when he met Chrissie. He wined and dined her, slept with her, fell in love with her, proposed to her, and cheated on her by a year's end. Lawrence repaid that kindness by sticking Robert in the music section of the news - the section of news Robert had the least passion or knowledge about.

It’s why Robert’s at some divey nightclub in the west end watching England’s hottest new band, Armor. Not the most creative name, if Robert was honest, but they have gotten big in the past couple of months and have slated to be a household name soon. Robert did his due diligence in listening to their music and reading about the members - there’s four of them: a singer, Adam, guitarist, Aaron, bassist, Ellis, and drummer, Matty.

Adam commands the room with high energy, knows exactly how to work a crowd. The way he steps into the crowd and everyone clammors to hold onto him as he sings a song atop everyone is something Robert had never seen before. As impressive as Adam is with his energy, Robert’s eyes are on Aaron, who looks like he would rather be anywhere but on that stage.

Watching him is the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

The crowd goes completely mad when they perform their last song. Armour is kind enough not to make them work hard for the encore. They’re walking back onto the stage shortly after all the screaming and perform three more songs. Matty tosses his drumsticks into the crowd when they play their final song and Robert has to smile at the way the crowd goes crazy. 

Everyone seems to filter out of the club pretty quickly after the end of the show. A couple of people putter around for a bit, and Robert jumps off his barstool to meet the band in the backroom.

Security recognize Robert’s badge and let him through with no fuss. He knocks at the door, and is striding into the back room before Ellis can register who it is knocking.

"Nice show, boys," Robert says when he comes into the 

"You Sugden?" Adam asks, eyeing Robert up and down. 

Robert lifts his press badge and dangles it up and down for a few seconds with a confident smirk, “Mind if I ask you a coupla questions?”

Robert is old-school and brings a recorder and flips it on as he interviews each member individually. He likes to break them up in his interviews because he feels he gets to suss out the dynamics of the bands that way. At the end of each interview, he asks each of them to give him a quick summary of the band in five words or less.

As he interviews each member, they flit about the room for a bit before leaving. Aaron is the last one, and Robert did that on purpose. He had been watching Aaron out the corner of his eye the entire time he’d been in the room. Aaron fidgeted a lot throughout the time, picked at his skin, got up and paced for a bit. It was like he couldn’t sit still while Robert spoke to the others.

When it’s finally Aaron’s turn, Robert goes and sits down next to Aaron, who had folded his legs underneath him on a battered couch. 

“And you? Want to give me a summary of the band in five words or less?” Robert asks, giving him his most winning smile. 

Up close, Robert notes the way bits of Aaron’s hair is curled, most likely from sweating when he was on stage. Something about that thought makes Robert swallow. Aaron is studying Robert’s face for a bit, and the intensity in his gaze makes everything else around them seem to disappear. At this moment, only he and Aaron matter. Eventually, Aaron breaks the spell by giving a half disinterested shrug.

“Nah, I’m sure your arrogant ass will think of something,” Aaron’s voice is soft and enticing. 

“Oh, so you’ve noticed my ass?” Robert can’t help but flirting, it’s hard not to when in the presence of such a fit bloke.

“Smooth. Teach you that in journalism school?”

“Only once I graduated,” Robert is quick to say back. Aaron just rolls his eyes, but in an indulgent way.

“What do you want from me that you didn’t get from everybody else?” Aaron asks.

“You’re the songwriter, right? Why don’t we talk about the composition of your songs?” Robert suggests and he can’t help but feel smug about the way Aaron’s eyebrows shoot up. The silver lining to Robert’s jobs is that growing up, Robert learned to play the piano. He understands classical music and music theory and tries to keep his articles related to the fundamentals of music theory and how bands incorporate it. It’s made him surprisingly popular for someone who hates their job.

They speak music theory for a bit, and Aaron gets really animated and excited as he breaks down some of his favorite songs. It’s more than Robert thought he would get out from the closed off guitarist. But it’s thrilling, and Robert knows he needs to spend more time with Aaron.

“What do you say to going out sometime?” Robert dares to ask, once the interview finds its natural end. It’s just the two of them left in the room and he can’t resist asking Aaron out. He grins and waves his recorder in Aaron’s face, “I’ll even leave my recorder at home.”

“Ask out all the band members you interview, do you?” Aaron asks, chewing on his lip trying to hide the smile that’s fighting onto his face.

“Only the grumpy fit ones.”

Aaron doesn’t so much as roll his eyes as he looks past Robert’s shoulder for a moment before looking at Robert, “You’ve got cheek.”

“My finest quality,” Robert declares confidently. He takes a step closer into Aaron’s space and can smell the faint smell of sweat and clean laundry. “So?”

Aaron shakes his head, but finally allows the fighting smile to dance on his face, “Sure, let’s go.”

“What, right now?”

“Think you’ll fall asleep, old man?” Aaron’s quips are just as quick as Robert’s.

Robert takes a moment to deliberately check Aaron out. Running his eyes up and down, before he’s smirking, “As if.”

There’s not much open when they finally leave the night club. There’s a chip stand where a lot of people who had been out drinking are lining up in front of. It’s good enough for the pair of them to queue as well and get some of their own. Aaron gets some with curry sauce but Robert is boring and simply gets ketchup with his.

They walk down the streets, talking about each other and eating their chips. Robert tells Aaron about how he got into this field despite not loving it. Aaron tells Robert how he wrote his first song when he was fifteen but it wasn’t until he met Adam that he got to compose more songs that were meaningful. But he tells Robert of his fears that they’re riding a fad wave and people will forget them soon enough.

“Sometimes, it feels a little like everything we’ve done has been by accident. And one day, everyone is going to know it. That we’re not good,” Aaron confesses softly, munching on one of his chips.

Imposter syndrome. Robert is familiar with it more than he cares to admit, especially given who his mother was. He doesn’t want to say it, in case he’s off the mark or offends Aaron.

“Well for what it’s worth, I think you’re good. And I’ve been to hundreds of concerts to interview bands,” Robert tries to encourage with a soft smile. It seems to work - Aaron smiles back and steps closer to Robert.

“You know how to make a fella feel special,” Aaron says, swaying in place. Robert can’t help but mimic his movement.  “You don’t strike me as a person who loves good music, especially rock ‘n roll music.”

“Oh yeah? And what do I strike you as?” Robert prompts.

“Like someone who would get his heart broken from rock ‘n roll,” Aaron says and there’s something piercing and intimate that Robert didn’t think he could feel, especially by someone who barely knows him. But Aaron doesn’t give Robert a chance to say anything back, already moving onto another topic.

“I think I have some beer at my place, if ya fancy something to chase those chips,” Aaron quirks a quick smile, and that soul searing moment evaporates when Robert understands what Aaron is implying.

“Yeah? Might have to take you up on that,” Robert says, but neither one of them are any delusions that they’re going to go back to Aaron’s for beers. Aaron proves that when he pulls Robert into a heated kiss. They kiss in the middle of the sidewalk, oblivious to anything around them. 

Aaron is pulling Robert by the hand, and tugging him towards his flat, which is ‘just a few blocks away’. They probably would’ve gotten there quicker, but they keep stopping to kiss or grope each other like they’re some kind of teenagers.

By the time they get to Aaron’s flat, Robert is delirious with want. Yet he still takes a moment to take in Aaron’s flat. It’s a loft - there’s a spiral staircase that leads up to the bedroom. The loft is painted in cool dark colors and it feels so impersonal to the person Robert has spent a few hours with.

“Interesting choice of decorations,” Robert remarks calmly despite how wired up he feels.

“Did you come here to critique my decor, or did you come here to fuck?” Aaron asks with a huff. 

“Can’t a bloke do both?”

“You’re lucky you’re fit, I would’ve chucked you out a long time ago,” Aaron says with an indulgent smile. Robert has a response on the tip of his tongue, but Aaron doesn’t let him say it because he gives Robert a toe curling kiss. 

They’re shucking clothes as they kiss and try to get up to Aaron’s bedroom. The bedroom isn’t enclosed - the staircase leads them straight into the bedroom loft. Robert lands on his back and Aaron follows, giving frantic kisses that miss Robert’s lips most of the time, but neither seem to care.

Afterward, Aaron is rolling off of Robert and they lay next to each other and they just silently try to catch their breaths. Robert is thinking about how they should probably clean up, but he’s also thinking he needs at least one more performance. Just as Robert is fantasizing about what they can get up to next, Aaron rolls to face Robert and grabs his arm.

“Those things I told you earlier, that’s off the record,” Aaron says rather urgently.

“Of course it is,” Robert says back, slightly offended. He lightens the mood by leaning in and kissing Aaron deeply, “I’ll even leave out the part of what a good shag you are.”

“Fuck off,” Aaron laughs, curling into Robert.

“Give me a few minutes,” Robert murmurs, flipping Aaron on his back and this time climbing atop him.

*

Robert wakes with a slight start in the middle of the night. Aaron’s not in bed next to him when he wakes, making Robert panic for a bit. He wonders if this was Aaron’s way of kicking him out. There’s noise coming from downstairs, piquing Robert’s curiosity.

He goes down the spiral stairs and finds that it’s Aaron who is making the noise. He’s sitting on his couch, holding an acoustic guitar. He’s still shirtless from earlier, but he threw on some pants. As he strums the guitar strings, his eyes are closed and he rocks his head backward and forward, trying to find the right note.

He feels like he’s intruding on something intimate, which is absurd given what they were up to only a few hours earlier. But Robert stands back, just watching as Aaron has his eyes closed, trying to find the right chord on the guitar. He hums a couple of times and then bends over to write something down.

Robert must have made a noise, or Aaron might have just felt him standing at the foot of the stairs. But he opens his eyes, and when he spies Robert, he smiles and beckons Robert to come.

“Come here,” Aaron says softly with a smile. The smile feels tacky and it doesn’t reach his eyes, but Robert comes over without a word.

“What are you doing?” Robert asks when he reaches Aaron. Aaron’s got half scrawled music notes on a notepad, some crossed out, others are circled. There’s a large stain of liquid on the bottom corner, making some of the other written notes bleed together. 

“Mapping the stars,” Aaron mumbles, and this should have been an indication then that there was something amiss with Aaron. Instead, Robert brings a hand up and trails a finger down Aaron’s spine. Aaron leans into Robert’s touch and continues to strum out chords and notes that only make sense in Aaron’s head.

“Come on, let’s go back to bed, spaceboy,” Robert coaxes gently, curling his fingers around Aaron’s left wrist - the arm that holds the neck of the guitar. Eventually, Aaron relents and they go back up the stairs, kissing and laughing against each other. It’s the most meaningful one night stand Robert’s ever had and he’s not sure what to make of it all.

The next morning, Robert wakes to a cup of coffee streaming in front of his face, Aaron’s eyes are bright and alert despite Robert feeling like death.

“What if I prefer a brew like a proper Englishman?” Robert asks, taking the coffee and inhaling it. It’s not the best roast he’s smelled before, but beggars can’t be choosers, he’s gasping for caffeine. 

“You’re not a proper anything,” Aaron teases, settling himself back into bed next to Robert. They cuddle against each other as Robert takes sips of the coffee. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Aaron to kick him out. But strangely, it never happens. 

After Robert finishes his cup, they trade coffee-laced kisses as they tumble and fumble against each other. The morning is spent as hedonistically as possible, and Aaron is the most gracious host, as he wraps his mouth around Robert and he’s writhing and shouting Aaron’s name. It’s the only name he ever wants to say. 

They are both slow to end this morning, but eventually Robert’s stomach starts to growl quite loudly, causing Aaron to laugh into Robert’s stomach, “Let’s get some food in you.”

Aaron is pathetic at cooking, Robert learns. His idea of ‘food’ is just some toast and another cup of coffee. Robert’s stomach is growling too much to be picky on the menu so he helps himself to the toast and slathers the jam that Aaron put out. Aaron doesn’t really eat - he picks at the toast and takes a few bites, but his hunger is nothing compared to Robert’s. 

Robert reluctantly starts to get ready after finishing his toast. He drags his heels getting the rest of his clothes on and even when he walks to Aaron’s front door. Aaron watches on with an amused smile the entire time. Robert realizes he’s being mad, if he wants to see Aaron again, then dammit, he’s going to see him again.

“When can I see you again?” Robert asks, turning around to face Aaron instead of leaving. 

“Who says I want to see ya again?” Aaron asks with a teasing smile, but before Robert can be too disappointed, Aaron pulls him into a kiss. “You know where I live.”

Robert smiles and can’t help but steal another kiss. Which leads to another and another, until Aaron is dragging Robert back upstairs.

Eventually, Robert leaves with Aaron’s phone number, a top notch orgasm, and a spring in his step. He gets home and with a flash of creativity he’s not felt in months, Robert writes the article about the band. 

*

Robert learns about Aaron’s drug use by accident. They had been texting each other constantly, flirting, talking about what they were up to, the article which everyone in the band loved. Finally, after a week of not seeing each other, they agree to meet up at Aaron’s flat. Robert had been banging on about his cooking abilities and Aaron had finally had enough and challenged him to cook him something that would impress him.

The front door is ajar when Robert gets to the flat. He thinks it’s probably just Aaron being courteous, since Robert arrives carrying brown paper groceries bags for tonight’s dinner. Robert doesn’t think when he waltzes into the flat and sees Aaron knocking back a pill.

“Headache?” Robert asks stupidly, setting his bags down. But the way Aaron scrambles to put the container away clues him in that something a little more sinister is at play. “Aaron?”

“It’s nothing. Just- ah...some, you know...speed,” Aaron says after opening and closing his mouth a few times. The blase way he speaks makes Robert feel like he’s in some delusion, where talking about drugs is just so cavalier. 

“Amphetamine?” Robert is floored by Aaron. He feels stupid and naive.

“Don’t be so surprised. It’s rock ‘n roll, innit?” Aaron’s flippancy makes something turn unpleasantly in his stomach. 

Robert thinks about what Aaron had told him the first night they met, about how rock and roll would break his heart.

“Hang on, have you been on these the whole time I’ve known ya?” Robert demands. When Aaron gives a brief shrug, the pieces start slotting together. Robert doesn’t know too much about amphetamine, but some of the strange behavior Robert hadn’t thought much of start to make sense. The fact Aaron was up in the middle of the night and energetic in the morning, why he didn’t eat much breakfast.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Aaron bluntly asks, crossing his arms, almost defensively.

Robert tells himself it probably should be a problem. But...despite the fact drugs may have contributed to their time together, Robert really likes Aaron. He doesn’t want to cut this off and spend time wondering what could have been. Plus, it’s not like Robert doesn’t have his own self-destructive behavior.

“No, not a problem. Can I ask you questions about it, though?” Robert, ever the journalist, can’t help but ask. Aaron seems to deflate, as if he had been expecting Robert to cut his losses and leave. He hangs his head and breath in and out for a moment before looking up at Robert and giving a minute nod. 

Robert decides to play it cool by starting to cook their dinner as he asks his questions. That way it feels less like an interrogation and more like two people still trying to get to know each other.

“How long have you been on them?” Robert asks as he chops some bell peppers.

“Since I ran away from home.” The statement surprises Robert, but instead of opening that can of worms, he just nods and starts to season the cut vegetables.

“Why do you do it?”

“It helps clears me brain. Sometimes, all this shit clogs it up and I just...need to focus. Write music and think of nothing else.”

It’s the imposter syndrome rearing its head again. Insecurities and doubt are no stranger to Robert and he can feel them radiating out of Aaron. It’s most likely the stuff Aaron wants to clear.

“Also, it doesn’t hurt when I’m up on stage performing,” Aaron adds, breaking Robert’s thoughts.

“Does anyone else in the band do it?”

“No, but they know I do,” Aaron says, gulping slighting. As if this was the admission that would break Robert and end this conversation. It doesn’t. But it does annoy Robert. He’s come to be protective of Aaron and knowing his bandmates don’t do anything to stop Aaron enrages Robert.

“I don’t do it often. I’m-I’m not an addict,” Aaron declares, and it’s filled with a defensive tone. 

“Okay,” Robert just shrugs and tosses the bell peppers into an oiled pan to sear them.

“Okay?” Aaron repeats, his voicing growing louder over the sizzling vegetables.

“I’m not your keeper, Aaron. Your answers work for me. I want to continue this, if you want,” Robert tries to act blase, not like his heart is hammering in his chest.

“Yeah, I do,” Aaron answers softly and they exchange tentative smiles. It doesn’t take Robert much longer to finish up their dinner and they sit at Aaron’s table laughing and swapping stories about inane things that happened during the week they hadn’t seen each other. As if they hadn’t been speaking to each other constantly throughout the week.

Robert thinks the discussion of Aaron’s drug usage is over for the evening. That is, until later in the evening, Aaron looks at Robert with such urgency. 

“People don’t stay with me, when they find out,” Aaron tells Robert after they finish putting the dishes away and they’re settled on Aaron’s couch. Aaron has his head in Robert’s lap when he makes his confession.

“Well don’t worry,” Robert threads his fingers in Aaron’s hair, “You’re going to be stuck with me for awhile.”

Maybe it's too soon to say something like that when they've only known each other a week. Maybe it's dumb to say something like that when Aaron has a minor drug problem. But the way Aaron just smiles and closes his eyes after Robert's declaration, makes Robert hope that maybe Aaron feels the same as him. 

Robert doesn’t want to think such stupid thoughts, but he thinks he could probably fall in love with Aaron.

*

Okay.

So Robert is an optimist. At least when it comes to his and Aaron’s budding relationship. He tells himself that the occasional drug use isn’t going to ruin their relationship. Because Aaron is right: he doesn’t use very often. He had been coming down from a leg of concerts and needed to withdraw in a way that wouldn’t hurt him. Since then, Aaron doesn’t use it very often and they start to spend more and more time together. It starts to feel, for the first time ever, that Robert was meant to be in a relationship. He’s much too much of a romantic and poet, and can’t help but start to refer to their relationship as the raining romantic spring. Aaron laughs in his face when Robert tells him of the nickname, calling him a soft lad but the smile on his face is a dead giveaway.

Mornings when Aaron is clean, Robert puts his piano talents to use as he plays piano chords on Aaron’s back and Aaron tries to guess the chord by humming it. Then they’ll talk late into the morning until it’s time to eat. Aaron is like a vacuum whenever he’s clean, the way he cleans food up. And Robert won’t lie, he prefers this version of Aaron than when he tosses back a few pills.

The times when there’s substance pumping in Aaron’s blood, he’s still soft and loving to Robert but there’s an urgency to everything. Quick fucks, quick kisses, quick everything. When Aaron’s high, Robert just wants to shake Aaron and tell him he doesn’t need that garbage. He’s talented enough without it.

Aaron rarely does indulge in the drugs. Tells Robert he only uses it when he’s inspired to write music and he wants to get it all out of his head before it escapes him. Robert is helpless to do anything about it, but it feels like enabling Aaron.

Unfortunately, as the spring starts to blossom into summer, it starts to feel less like an occasional drug use and more of a growing problem. Their soft mornings of playing the chord guessing game starts to happen less and less. Robert watches and feels more helpless than ever before, it makes his fingers itch for a pen so he can try to get his thoughts out of his head and onto paper.

He learns from Adam, Matty and Ellis that they’ve tried many times to get Aaron to stop, but no one has ever been able to convince Aaron to get off the pills. 

Rainy romantic spring only lasts a few weeks more before Robert can’t stand idly anymore.

“You don’t need this junk!” Robert shouts, throwing the capsules at the wall. Aaron is high and he quickly jumps up to start picking up the mess. It’s more because he always needs to occupy his hands when he’s high than him being an addict, but Robert can’t help but twist the knife by taunting Aaron, “Look at ya! You’re pathetic, can’t afford to lose a single pill. It’s pathetic!”

“I’m not addicted!” Aaron shouts back. “If you can’t handle my creativity, then maybe you need to clear out. I’m not going to compromise who I am for a good fuck.”

The words feel like a slap to the face. They’ve never put words to their relationship but Robert has always fellt it more than the pair of them fucking. He thought Aaron felt the same.

“Look,” Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, “We’re going back on tour next month. Maybe we should give ourselves a break and revisit us when I get back.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Aaron. If you want to end this, just say it. I’m not going to be some pathetic groupie holding out on hope you’ll give me attention,” Robert grabs his keys and storms out of Aaron’s flat.

He buys himself cheap bourbon that night, ignores the multiple texts from Aaron and passes out listening to Armour’s music.

*

Rainy spring dries out and the next period of Robert’s life is a hot and lonely summer. He ends up being a groupie from afar, despite what he had told Aaron. He reads about every concert they perform, and the reviews from other journalists. He tells himself it’s just research in case he has to write a follow-up article. 

His article about Armour is his most popular by far. The personable aspect he added was different than his other ones and it even gets Vic calling him and shouting at him.

“You met Armour?” She shrieks down the phone, making Robert pull his phone away from his ear. “And you didn’t tell me!”

“I’ve met a lot of bands,” Robert tries to play it off like it doesn’t matter. Even though his heart is racing and he misses Aaron more than he’ll ever admit.

“I don’t care about other bands. I want to know more about Armour! Everyone in the band is so fit. What are they like?” Vic’s voice sounds dreamy.

“I think they’re a bunch of prats. You’re best not meeting any of them,” Robert says and he knows he’s being unfair. It’s not like they sit idly by while watching Aaron do drugs. But he can’t help but feel bitter that they get to enjoy their fame and money while Aaron destroys himself. 

His conversation with Vic doesn’t last much longer, her disappointment palpable after Robert’s bitter comment.

Robert watches an interview Armour has with some local news station later in the week - he only has access to the station because he’s doing research, okay? - and Robert stews in his resentment as he sees Aaron’s pupils are dilated and he’s shaking his leg up and down. Someone could chalk it up to nerves, but Robert knows Aaron.

He hates that despite their break up, it’s not enough to convince Aaron to stop. Robert shuts the tv off before he does something stupid like call him.

*

Summer continues to be a hot and lonely season and fall comes blowing in sooner than Robert would’ve liked. Armour’s summer tour comes to an end, and Robert turns his phone off for a week, trying not to be tempted. 

He dives head first in his articles, writing them in a fervor he had never felt like doing before. He hasn’t had any interview gigs lately, but he writes reviews on albums and peppers in his commentary of music theory in it. These articles start to become more and more popular, and even Lawrence remarks on Robert’s newfound drive and success.

“Good work, Sugden,” Lawrence frowns as he says it, as if he was not expecting himself to compliment Robert of all people. Robert wants nothing more than to gloat in Lawrence’s face but decides to take the higher road and just nod.

Robert eventually breaks and turns his phone on one evening, but he places it face down and goes to sleep so he doesn’t look at any of the notifications that he might have missed whilst it was turned off.

Of course, it’s tonight of all nights that his phone wakes him in the middle of the night. He squints his eyes and sees that it’s Aaron who’s calling at ungodly hours. 

“Robert,” Aaron’s voice is slurred and faraway. It wakes Robert up instantly.

“Where are you?” Robert starts pulling on a shirt and panicking, thinking there’s probably something so very wrong.

“Outside your flat, let me in,” Aaron gruffly says and hangs up. The initial panic that lined Robert’s blood turns to annoyance as he stalks out his room and flings the front door open.

Aaron...is nothing short of a mess. His eyes are lit up and glazed over, and there’s bags under his eyes. 

“Fuck, Aaron. When was the last time you slept?” Robert exclaims, pulling Aaron through his door.

“Dunno, a week ago?” Aaron guesses. His voice sounds distant and it worries Robert. He leaves Aaron to get some water and prays that it’s enough to get that shit out of his system. 

Aaron had moved to one of Robert’s windows when he gets back.

“I still want to map the stars,” Aaron gazes out the window, squinting at the light polluted London sky. As if he even has a chance of seeing stars. 

Robert touches his back softly, and Aaron turns around to bury his head into Robert's shoulder. 

“Oh yeah? And why is that?” Robert decides to humor Aaron, despite it all. He hands the glass of water to Aaron and Aaron takes a couple of sips of it. It’s a small victory.

“So I can give them to you,” Aaron mumbles into the cup. Robert pauses, heart clenching in the most painful way. 

“I only want them when you’re clean,” Robert tells Aaron firmly.

“I’ve just...missed you so much. I won’t...I won’t choose the drugs over you again,” Aaron promises and maybe he’s daft, but Robert actually believes him.

*

It lasts for about two weeks, Aaron being a perfect charming boyfriend (they defined their relationship the morning after Aaron’s unannounced visit). But of course, despite Aaron’s reassurance, the fact of the matter is, he’s addicted to the amphetamine, and he slowly crawls back to it.

The self-destruction relationship becomes a toxic pattern. They fight. They break up. Aaron promises he won’t put the drugs above Robert. They make up. Aaron starts back into his addiction.

The issue of their break ups is always Aaron’s consumption of drugs. He’s started to dabble a little in coke and Robert wants to shake Aaron until he’s silly. Aaron never seems to understand what the problem is. Complains that it’s his life and he can do whatever the fuck he wants.

Robert knows he should cut his losses and just leave Aaron for good. Even Vic, when she first found out they were dating was ecstatic, has started to resent the holding pattern Aaron has put Robert in with his refusal to quit. 

He starts to forget what Aaron is like without poison in his blood. He doesn’t remember those soft mornings when they played music together. Everything starts to feel like ash in Robert’s mouth, but he just can’t stop. He loves Aaron.

Two years into this madness of breaking up and going straight back into each other’s arms, they have the ugliest fight. It’s the anniversary of Sarah’s passing and Aaron doesn’t show up to her grave despite telling Robert he’d be there. When Robert finds him, he’s in his flat, half-passed out and watching Top Gear.

Robert starts shouting and Aaron shouts back and it’s all downhill from there. There is not one constructive thing about their fight - they yell for the sake of yelling and Robert storms out of Aaron’s flat, believing he will never see Aaron again.

And he doesn’t.

For two weeks, Aaron doesn’t ring him and Robert feels relieved that maybe he’s finally out of this cycle. But the part of him that loves Aaron also worries that something bad may have happened to Aaron.

Robert gets his answer on a chilly evening, when some unknown number is calling him.

“Robert Sugden?” An unfamiliar voice asks as soon as Robert answers.

“This is he.”

“We have you down as Aaron Dingle’s emergency contact. We’ve brought him in for a suspected cocaine overdose,” The man’s voice continues, but it’s just white noise. The thing Robert feared the most has come to fruition and he’s glued to his seat. The man tells Robert which hospital Aaron’s at, but he can’t find the motivation to get up and go.

It’s Robert’s fault. He let Aaron’s addiction get worse and worse and did nothing to even try to help. They both have been so selfish, but Robert is the worst. Aaron has a problem and Robert just made it about himself without even trying to understand Aaron’s addiction.

He gets up and he’s filled with so much anger at himself and he throws an old mug to the wall, ceramic shattering everywhere as he shouts. He falls to the ground and he can’t help but start crying. Cries for Aaron, whose stomach is probably getting pumped at this moment. Cries for himself, all the heartbreak he’s felt for almost three years that they’ve known each other. He cries for a good while before he realizes how foolish he’s being. He has to get to the hospital now.

Robert hadn’t realized how much time he wasted feeling numb, but it’s well into three am and there’s no traffic to stop him from getting there in record time.

The nurse’s station directs him to Aaron’s room, and he’s not surprised to see security standing outside the door. Most likely to stave the blood sucking paparazzi. They nod at each other but Robert can feel some sort of judgement from the security guard when he goes into Aaron’s room.

There’s beeping noise from the ekg, but it’s steady and regular. Aaron is actually awake when Robert comes in. When he notices Robert, he sits up straighter in the bed.

“I’m so happy you’re alive,” Robert breathes out when he reaches the edge of the bed.

Aaron briefly smiles before frowning, “Dunno know why I’m even here. It wasn’t any more than I had before.”

The dismissive way he says makes Robert’s blood boil, “You could have died tonight and you don’t know why you’re here? You’re going to kill yourself one of these days. Is that what you want?” Robert exclaims. “Don’t you care about your life? Your bandmates?...Us?” Robert dares to curl his hand around Aaron’s hand.

“No one is asking you to stick around. This is your chance to run a mile,” Aaron whispers and it breaks Robert’s heart all over again.

“What makes you think I’d want to?”

Aaron looks away, pulling his arm out of Robert’s loose grip. “Where were ya before you got here?”

The question hangs in the air uncomfortably, almost as if Aaron knew of Robert’s reluctance to come here. Robert moves between his feet a bit, and tries to figure out what Aaron is getting out, “Does it matter? I’m here now.”

Aaron still doesn’t look at Robert, his face flushing as he adamantly stares at the blank wall. Suddenly, Robert realizes what Aaron was trying to imply, “Aaron...I wasn’t with anyone. I was working.”

“At four am?” Aaron scoffs.

“Isn’t that how you and I met?” Robert tries to remind himself the paranoia is just a side effect to Aaron’s detox, but he still can’t help but feel hurt that Aaron doesn’t trust him. He’s been nothing but loyal to Aaron these three years.

Aaron doesn’t say anything, just shifts in the bed miserably and they sit in tense silence afterwards. Robert thinks of their rainy romantic spring, when silences were comfortable and there was trust between them. 

“I miss you, Aaron,” Robert ventures to say. He feels like he might be skating on thin ice, but decides to say, “I guess you were right. Rock and roll broke my heart.”

Aaron closes his eyes and of course tears fall out when he does that. “I was going to map the stars for you.”

Robert’s heart aches in a way he had never felt before. It feels as if his heart is literally breaking right now. Aaron has his hands crossed over his stomach and Robert aches to touch him again. He feels like there’s a million miles between them right now and it hurts Robert. It hurts that Aaron thinks this is the end.

“Why can’t you still?” Robert whispers, and it feels like he’s at his most vulnerable asking this. “Why can’t you get better and map them?”

“I never wanted this...to hurt ya,” Aaron says brokenly. “I’m sorry I ruined your mum’s anniversary.”

“You didn’t,” Robert is quick to reassure, placing his hand atop Aaron’s, despite their fight. “I just want you to get better.”

“I want to get better, too,” Aaron whispers, and it’s the first time he’s ever voiced it. They’re both crying and smiling, perhaps the most joy they’ve felt around each other in months. Somehow, maybe because Aaron is quasi-famous, no one comes to kick Robert out of the room. 

They spend the night cuddling and crying against each other, Robert keeping vigil by Aaron’s bed as he falls asleep. And in the morning, a nurse comes to take Aaron. Robert probably smells rank and his morning breath even worse, but he doesn’t care as he pulls Aaron into a tight hug and they sway against each other for a while. 

Eventually the nurse clears her throat and she begins to usher Aaron out of the room. 

To healing, finally.

*

A year and a half after Aaron goes into rehab, Robert publishes a Pulitzer winning article about the reality of family members who have someone who suffers from a drug addiction. Robert uses his own personal experiences but never names Aaron by name, even though most of the media know who he’s talking about, despite all the precautions they tried, the media of course learns of Aaron’s stint at rehab. But Robert doesn’t just write about his own experiences, he also also interviews other people who have been in the same position as him.

He’d like to think Sarah is absolutely proud of him for finally carving his name in the literary world.

Aaron and Armour release their most highly anticipated album ever, Milky Way. The album elevates the band into near stardom as everyone goes crazy for the songs and especially the lyrics. They’re nominated for a BRIT music award and Aaron invites Robert. 

They don’t win, but Robert holds Aaron’s hand the entire time and his heart sings more than he could have ever imagined. Aaron has been clean for a year, after six months in rehab, and he’s not looked back once. If possible, their love for each other grows stronger and Robert starts looking into buying engagement rings.

Robert never would have thought in a million years that going into an interview he would meet the love of his life. There had been bumps along the way, but watching Aaron grow out of the shackles of his drug abuse was almost worth it.

There’s glitz and performers and everyone is looking at the stage, but Robert just watches Aaron. So grateful that he’s alive and they’re here. He could watch Aaron for the rest of his life.

“What?” Aaron whispers as some artist is thanking people.

“Nothing. I just love you,” Robert says, squeezing Aaron’s hand. 

Aaron rolls his eyes but actually leans his head on Robert’s shoulder, “I love you too.”

“Good, now shut up. Taylor Swift is about to perform,” Robert teases and sneaks a quick kiss to Aaron’s temple.

The rings he had finally decided to buy sit comfortably in Robert’s pocket. He’ll ask Aaron tonight, after they go home and it’s just the two of them. Because when it’s just the pair of them, they’re unstoppable. 

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 11 - A Broken Bard

In the comments there were a lot of requests to finally let them talk. They talk. Also, there’s a bath scene. Yay?

The bath scene was inspired by @spielzeugkaiser‘s art here, who kindly gave me their permission to use it. It ends very differently, though. Going forward there will be more scenes like this, that you might recognise but as we’re telling two different stories, they won’t overlap completely.

I hope this is what you guys had in mind for them talking :)

Thanks as always to @persony-pepper for betaing this fic.

Summary: There is something deeply wrong about Lettenhove Hall that Geralt notices very belatedly: the complete lack of music. He confronts Jaskier about it.

Read on AO3

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There was something deeply unsettling about Lettenhove Hall and Geralt couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. It was odd, if he was honest. He normally spent his winters in the crumbling ruin of Kaer Morhen. Lettenhove Hall was a golden palace in comparison. It wasn’t as big, of course, but instead it was what Jaskier surely would describe as ‘cozy’. It was warm and dry, filled with the hustle and bustle that came with a well-kept household.

Still, there was something off. Distressingly so. It wasn’t just that the staff shot him knowing glances whenever he and Jaskier were in the same room. It wasn’t just that Jaskier had grown cold again after that morning of almost-normalcy, or even that the Viscount was planning something.

Geralt knew that he was. His not-friend might have many virtues, but subtlety was not one of them. Or patience. Every day the Viscount rode out into the forest for some reason or another. And he was always whispering to Ciri, both of them bouncing on the balls of their feet as they were conspiring. As if he wouldn’t notice. Still, he let them. They were allowed to have fun.

But that wasn’t what unnerved him. Geralt was certain that it was something else entirely, something important that was missing. Something important that he was missing. If only he could remember what it was.

Realisation dawned on him one morning, about one week after his return from the hunt. Ciri was already up, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet when he told her that they could start training in earnest again. She yelped gleefully and hugged him tightly before rushing down the stairs of the tower.

A small smirk spread on his face when he heard her quietly singing the chorus of Toss a Coin to Your Witcher — he had taught her when she had begged him to. It wasn’t the same as learning it from Jaskier himself, of course. Geralt’s voice was rough and untrained and he had needed a few tries before he didn’t stumble over the words anymore. But it warmed his heart, really, to hear her do something as mundane as singing a plain tune. It was one of the simple joys of life that she’d been deprived of for the last months.

They reached the end of the stairs and Ciri reached the end of her song. “Give a hug to your witcher,” she sang loudly and launched herself at him. Geralt chuckled softly and let her cling to him while he shouldered open the door. “O valley of plenty! O valley of plent- oh.”

Everyone in the courtyard stopped dead in their tracks and stared at them in bewilderment. A pitchfork clattered to the floor, a stableboy nearly let go of not-Roach’s reins and Marta dropped the pile of clean laundry she was carrying.

“Geralt,” Ciri asked, the vinegar scent of her fear spiking, “what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed quietly and lowered her to the ground. He looked around for an answer, but whoever met his gaze quickly hurried away. Even Wiktor silently shook his head and went back inside.

In the end, it was only Marta who was left, still fussing over the laundry. He strode over to her and crouched down to help. “I’m sorry,” he said honestly. He was relieved that she didn’t flinch from his touch. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It- it’s alright,” she stammered. “It was nice to hear music again. Even if it was so short.”

Geralt frowned. “There is no music in Lettenhove?” he asked stupidly. That didn’t make any sense. It was Jaskier’s castle, of course there would be music of all kinds- Only that there wasn’t. “Shit.” It hit him like a club over his head. “There is no music in Lettenhove.” No music. None at all. Jaskier didn’t sing, didn’t play the lute, didn’t even hum. The closest thing to music he’d witnessed so far were the nervous rhythms tapped out whenever Jaskier’s mind started racing — he could tell when that was happening by now. But no music. Not even work songs from the washerwomen and cooks.

“Are you alright?” Marta asked worriedly.

“Wh-why not?” was all Geralt managed to stammer.

The servant glanced around as if she was waiting for something horrible to happen. Then she leaned in closely: “His lordship has forbidden it,” she whispered. “He’s terribly… passionate whenever he hears someone singin’.”

He nodded. Jaskier was passionate about a lot of things. Somehow, he doubted that it was a good thing in this case. “We won’t do it again,” he promised. Just for good measure he added once more: “I’m sorry.”

He got up and walked back over to Ciri who stared at him with bulging eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m an idiot,” he growled.

“Why now?” He shot her a mean glance that had battle-hardened warriors pee their pants before. His child surprise just cackled gleefully.

Luckily, he was spared the embarrassment of an answer as the doors to the East Wing burst open. His hopeful mood sank when a sharp voice cut through the air: “Witcher!”

He turned slowly. “My lord.”

“Jaskier!” Ciri shouted and ran over to him. “Have you come to watch us again?”

The Viscount smiled sadly. “Not quite. I heard you s-” He hesitated and the despicable scent of onions flared up. “I heard you.”

“Did you like it?” she asked eagerly. “I changed the lyrics, did you hear?”

“I did,” he answered and his voice trembled. Geralt felt a pang of guilt. “Who taught you that tune?”

“I did,” Geralt answered before Ciri could. The surprise surprise flashed over his face, mingled with amusement, sadness and hurt. “Is that the only reason why you’ve come? My lord?”

“Not at all,” the Viscount straightened his back. Geralt watched with astonishment as the stony mask of his Lord’s Face settled over his features again. He’d never get used to that. “I have come to whisk my dear cousin away. Should she be interested in receiving a very demonstrative lesson on a border dispute.”

Geralt frowned. “Do you think that’s safe?"

Jaskier snorted and waved his hand. "Of course, it’s safe!”

“I’ve heard that one before.” He crossed his arms defiantly. He trusted Jaskier with his life. The Viscount wasn’t stupid — he was about as far from stupid as they got — but in sixteen long years the bard had never displayed so much as an ounce of self-preservation. Geralt had the scars to prove it. “I remember hearing that before we got arrested in Oxenfurt, spring 1251, because four months earlier you had thought it a great idea to publish a smear poem about the Headmaster of the Academy under your name. Or that time we were visiting an old friend of yours and we were thrown out because you had slept with his mother, his father’s mistress, and his twin brothers. Or your innumerable shortcuts that inevitably ended us up fighting some kind of monster, or guards, or both at once. You’ll forgive me if I do not trust your judgement completely.”

“Now, that was three examples, Geralt-”

The witcher growled menacingly. ‘Fucking bardlet.’

“Right!” He sighed exaggeratedly. “How many guards do I have to bring along for you to allow her to go?”

“None,” Geralt answered simply. “Only me.”

“No,” he said decidedly. “I want to talk the man’s ear off, witcher, not start a war. If I show up with you at my back, I could skip the parlay altogether and just throw my gauntlet at his feet.”

He frowned deeply. “My answer’s still no.”

“Your answer?” Jaskier laughed hoarsely. “What gave you the impression that I was asking your permission?”

Ciri cleared her throat awkwardly, completely forgotten by the two men. “I, uh- I’d rather not go if Geralt thinks it’s unwise.”

He had a hard time to keep the triumphant grin off his face and judging by the strain in Jaskier’s voice he was struggling just as much to keep his emotions in check: “Fine.” He turned to Geralt. “Will I be able to convince you if I outline the whole dispute to you?”

“Maybe.”

“Good. Come then.” To Ciri he said: “Why don’t you go look what Janka and Józia are up to, hm?” The girl nodded eagerly and left skipping over to the North Wing, where the Pankratz sisters were to be found at most times.

He himself followed Jaskier up to his study once again. As soon as the door shut behind them the Viscount walked over to where a map was smoothed out on a side table. “So, this is what we’re dealing with…,” he began talking immediately.

The Viscount de Lettenhove talked about the tensions between his viscounty and the neighbouring barony of Dergetten that were on the rise again since his father’s death. He also continued to include the various disputes over the last five generations — the previous Baron of Dergetten had apparently relieved Jaskier’s grandfather Julian of his left hand while his great-great-grandfather, the first Viscount Pankratz, had killed the heir of his neighbour in his time.

“Though, I have to admit I am incredibly thankful to good old grandpapa Albert for that violent streak of his. That is what convinced the Count of Hangfelt to entrust us with this lovely castle for safekeeping. Be glad that his descendents haven’t regretted their decision yet.”

All in all, Jaskier insisted, it was just a conversation. He would bring guards because the Baron would, too, but he claimed that they were friends.

“That’s just the kind of thing province nobles do for fun,” he closed his lecture with a roll of his eyes. “Not that I approve, of course. But I promise you it will be a most educational experience for dear Cousin Fiona. I learned to talk myself out of, what is it father used to call it? Ah, yes, ‘aggressive negotiations’. I learned to talk myself out of 'aggressive negotiations’ first, before I learned to talk myself out of almost-castrations.”

Geralt frowned. “Ciri won’t have to do either.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up. “Sure,” he drawled, “and how exactly did you arrive at the conclusion that your child surprise would lead a chaste life?”

“Hmm.”

He grinned triumphantly. “So, witcher. Are you satisfied?”

“Hmm,” he said again, glancing around. His gaze settled on the sword at Jaskier’s hip. “If anything happens, you will use that to protect Ciri with your life,” he growled. “Don’t care if you can wield it or not, but you will. Do you understand, bard?”

“Viscount, but yes,” his voice was solemn all of the sudden, “I understand. I mean, she would probably do a better job of protecting me by now but it won’t come to that. Never. I swear.”

Geralt took a deep breath. He didn’t like letting Ciri go with Jaskier. It wasn’t like when he left, that was him out there in the danger. Now however… He wouldn’t even be able to do anything if something happened. That was nothing short of torture. Still… “Alright,” he conceded. “How long until you’re back?”

“The border’s not far from here. Used to be, but, well, that’s another story. Two hours of riding, three maybe, then we’ll spend the same time insulting each other very politely — I’m sure we’ll lose at least half an hour because Ciri wants to join in, she likes that. And then we’ll ride back. We’ll have to see, maybe she’d like to see one of my other villages, then we’ll take longer. We’re also going to stop and eat at one point. So, sundown. At the very latest.”

“Alright,” he said again. “Fine. Have… have fun, my lord.”

“I guess we will.”

He shrugged and turned back to the door. After a moment of silence Jaskier added: “Geralt, wait-” They both hesitated. In the end, it was Jaskier who spoke first: “We have to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Fighting over Ciri. Especially when she can see us.”

He frowned in confusion. In Kaer Morhen the other witchers had never had any qualms about fighting before the apprentices’ eyes. Even in the literal sense. “Hmm.”

“It’s just-” Jaskier sighed. “It’s not good. Trust me on this one, Geralt, please. I know that we… We’re not alright right now. And we probably won’t be for a long time. But that’s our problem. It shouldn’t affect Ciri. Alright?”

“Alright,” he answered quietly, his heart beating so fast it could almost pass as human. “But will we be?”

“Will we be what, witcher?”

“Alright.”

He sighed heavily. “I don’t know,” he answered with a quivering voice. “Not if we don’t work for it. Not if we don’t-” He bit down on his lip. “All in due time,” was what he said. What Geralt would have given to know what Jaskier was not saying.

“Hmm. Sundown you said?”

“I did.”

“I’ll wait for you. Good luck, my lord.” He left before Jaskier had a chance to answer.

He didn’t even wait for Ciri and Jaskier to leave before throwing himself into work. He changed into his stable clothes and headed downstairs but even before he could enter the stables, Wiktor stepped out, Pegasus’ reins in hand.

“Here,” the stablemaster said, “take him for a good long ride. Takes your mind off other things.”

“Hmm.” Geralt didn’t protest for fear of his voice abandoning him. He just swung into the saddle and was gone when Ciri and Jaskier came to fetch Dancer and Dreamer.

Wiktor was right. He didn’t have much of a choice besides concentrating on the young horse below him, still wild and eager to run free without a rider. And yet, he found his mind wandering. To Ciri, of course, and Jaskier off to their parlay.

But also back to just Jaskier, who didn’t sing anymore. He cursed himself silently and loudly for not noticing before. That was the kind of thing one spotted immediately when reuniting with a friend after a long time of separation. But they weren’t friends anymore. And Geralt reckoned he hadn’t been a good friend before.

He didn’t return until after lunch, both him and Pegasus drenched in sweat despite the freezing temperatures. He gave the yearling’s reins over to a stable hand, and went on to grab Jaskier’s old wooden sword.

He was about to head out the gates again when he heard rapid steps on the stairs. “Oi!” Marin shouted. “Oi, Geralt, wait!”

The witcher grunted annoyed but waited nonetheless. “What?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“What for?”

“To spar,” the Captain of the Guard raised his own wooden sword, “or to blow some steam off. Both, if you like to.” He smiled kindly. “You look like you could need it.”

“Hmm.” He wasn’t really in the mood for company. But he didn’t want to argue either. He didn’t want to talk at all, if he was honest.

“Come on,” Marin bumped shoulders with him. “I promise you I’ll put up more of a fight than a tree.”

“Fine,” he caved. Side by side they headed out into the woods. Marin was chatting amicably and Geralt answered with the occasional grunt. It was… easy. Almost too easy. When the sparring started, the teasing started, too. That felt even easier. To respond to the barbed comments with jabs of his own. He could almost pretend- He knew he shouldn’t, but he could.

It also felt good to train in earnest, not just thrash a lifeless tree. Marin didn’t compare to sparring with Lambert or Eskel, of course, but it was better than nothing.

It was the late afternoon when they trudged back up the hill to the castle, and Marin finally managed to get a laugh out of Geralt. Later he couldn’t remember what it had been about, but for a short moment he wasn’t worried. He was almost happy, in fact.

“Ah,” Marin sighed contentedly, “and here I thought you didn’t feel emotion after all.”

“Hmm.”

“So, it’s untrue? That rumour, I mean.”

“It is.” His skin crawled uncomfortably but luckily he was spared another question when a guard called down from the walls: “Oi, witcher! Where’ve you been? His lordship and his cousin got back an hour ago.”

His heart sped up and he cocked his head. “And?”

“Both hale and hearty. His lordship’s in his study, I believe; and Lady Fiona ran to Lady Józefa’s drawing room. She’s very excited ‘bout something.”

Geralt nodded and tried not to seem too thrilled, forcing himself to slow his step. “Thanks.”

Marin’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. “Go on,” he said and gently pried the wooden sword out of Geralt’s grasp. “We’ll talk another time.”

He looked at him surprised for a moment. Only when the Captain of the Guard nodded once more in encouragement he pounced. He didn’t even try to hide his hurry as he sprinted over to the North Wing and up the stairs.

“Where is she?” he asked as he burst into the drawing room only to find it empty except for Józefa.

“Good evening to you, too, Geralt,” she said very calmly, not even looking up from where she was weaving an enormous tapestry. “Where is who, if I might ask?”

“C- Your cousin. Fiona.”

She turned around to him. “You can call her Cirilla to my face. I know.”

Geralt frowned. “Fuck,” he cursed and turned on his heel. 'Tonight, it’ll be bard’s head on a platter.’

“Ah, ah, ah. Before you go and gut my brother, he had nothing to do with it. She told me all by herself.”

“Fuck,” he said again. ‘She should know better than be that stupid.’

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Anyways,” she sighed and turned back to her work, “your child surprise — Geralt, could you at least face my direction while I am talking to you? That would be very appreciated, thank you very much.” He ground his teeth and turned back towards her. “Well, where was I? Ah yes, Cirilla. She was here. Wanted to come and look at the tapestry and tell me about her day. She was very enthusiastic. Apparently, she rendered the Baron of Dergetten speechless and dear Julek nearly fell off his horse because he was laughing too hard. Also, she’s very cross at his lordship for sending her away for half an hour while staying back to discuss something in private. You missed her by… hm, ten minutes maybe, I’d wager. She was rather tired.”

“Hmm.” That was a lot of information. He was still eyeing the tapestry while trying to decide what to do now when Józefa spoke again: “Come and look if you like,” she said with an inviting smile.

“I’d rather not, my lady,” he grumbled. He should go and look after Ciri.

That made her laugh. “Don’t be shy. And don’t pretend you don’t want to look.”

His eyes flitted to the door. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, he guessed. And Ciri had talked a lot about the tapestry since he got back. It would be nice to know what she was talking about for once. “Fine,” Geralt relented and stepped closer.

He had seen his fair share of finished tapestries but never observed the process. For rugs, yes, but not this kind of art. He had imagined it to work much like the common rug and while the loom looked much the same, Geralt gaped. “There’s a painting,” he noted. “And a mirror.”

“Why, of course,” Józefa seemed genuinely confused. “How else would you make a tapestry?”

He shrugged and looked at the painting instead. All five Pankratz siblings were depicted, the four sisters standing around Jaskier in his high seat. As far as he could tell, it was very accurate, especially given that it couldn’t be a portrait. 'She really knows her siblings’ faces well.’ He didn’t pay too much attention to the three siblings he already knew, but stepped closer to observe the other two.

He didn’t even know their names, he realised with shock, but he would’ve guessed that they were Jaskier’s sisters regardless. Just like Janina, too, they could have been twins. Quadruplets. Whatever. The same soft brown hair, the same round face, the same piercing blue eyes. Of course, there were differences, too, subtle enough, but still there. Jaskier would point them out in a heartbeat, wrapped in pretty words. All Geralt noticed was that they were beautiful like their brother.

“Oh,” Józefa said, “you have never seen the process!”

He frowned, the increasing accuracy with which the Pankratz siblings saw through him made his skin crawl. “Those are buttercups,” he said instead and pointed at the painting. The five people were all holding bouquets in many different colours, Jaskier’s the same as his namesake.

“Ah, yes.” Józefa smiled fondly. “Mother gave him that silly name. Jaskier, I mean. I thought I should honour that. Beautiful and poisonous.”

“And the other ones?” The Józefa in the portrait was holding primroses, and Janina daisies. The other two held red clover and lilies of the valley respectively.

“From our mother, too. Stokrotka and Koniczyna for Janina and Jolanta, the most common of flowers. Konwalia for Justyna, poisonous as well. And primroses for me, the one that was spoiled the most.”

“Hm,” Geralt made. “The sense of humour runs in the family.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t.” She made a disgusted face. “You see, dear Janka-” The doors burst open. “Ah, speak of the devil…”

“Don’t we have endured enough in the past month, Józia?” Janina Pankratz flared. “Is a witcher in our home not enough punishment for whatever crimes we might have committed? This is getting ridiculous!”

Józefa sighed while Geralt did his best not to growl. “What did he do now?”

“He’s locked himself into his rooms, like the spoiled brat he is. He’s sulking, for whatever reason, but I tell you it’s his fault! I offered to go to the parlay, I know Daniel well enough, but did he listen? No! Wanted to do it all by himself like a big boy and what did it get him? He ruined it, somehow, I’m sure of it. Worse than this damned cousin he brought here; she’s listening at least when an adult is speaking. I remember why I was glad to have him off at Oxenfurt or Melitele knows where. Oh, what I would give for the possibility of him ending up dead in a ditch at every moon’s turn! I tell you, Józia, I’d put him over my knee, if I could!”

Geralt couldn’t keep quiet anymore: “You shall not,” he growled. “You won’t harm one hair on his head.”

Janina whirled around, noticing him behind the painting for the first time. “You!” she pointed at him.

“Me,” he confirmed.

“You stay out of this,” she bristled. “Besides, it’s beyond time that you learn your place in this house, you-”

“Janina,” Józefa said quietly. To his surprise the eldest Pankratz sister shut up.

“Fine,” she sneered. “I’ll come back when our drawing room is clean again.” With that she was gone, slamming the door loud enough to make Geralt’s ears ring.

Once he had recovered, he asked: “Why does your sister hate witchers so much?”

“Janina?” Józefa sat down behind the loom again. “Has nobody told you? Our mother died twenty-four years ago. She was killed by a monster; I don’t even remember what kind.”

That was a common enough story. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Julian and Janina are the only two with real memories of her anyways. I was two years old when she died and I can’t even remember her face. Though, well the witcher thing… Father hired one to get her back. Don’t ask which school or anything, all tales about The Incident have been banned from Lettenhove years ago. Not even Julek dares break the silence. Not even now, after-” She sighed and took a moment, blinking at the ceiling. There were tears in her eyes, though she did not smell of onion grief.

“You don’t have to,” he offered nonetheless.

“No, I want to,” she insisted. “You deserve to know. He couldn’t bring her back, of course, she had already been dead. The witcher only returned with her corpse. Janina has hated your kind ever since.” She sighed. “Julek on the other hand… why, you became his heroes.” She smiled at him. “I’m glad that he became such good friends with you. And that he got to travel the Continent with you, it has always been his dream. I believe you have made him the happiest man alive.”

Geralt swallowed hard. “I… did nothing to warrant your praise, my lady. I made him very sad, actually.”

“Is that why I barely recognise him anymore?”

“Hmm. I fear so.”

“Then fix it, witcher. We have all heard his songs and in those you are a hero. And Julian might be a lot of things — a debaucher, a nitwit, and a self-important swaggerer who impossibly inflates all of his tales. But he is no liar. Not when it’s truly important.”

He had the feeling he was missing something. “So?”

She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “So, live up to your reputation and save him. He is withering like this."

Geralt ground his teeth. "I’m trying,” he grunted. “I just don’t know how.”

“You’re a smart man. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” She picked up the thread again. “You could start by trying to coax him out of his rooms.”

“Your sister said he’s locked himself in.”

She looked at him as if he was exceptionally stupid. “Well, then get creative! I’d be very surprised — and disappointed — if those doors don’t open for you. And now off you go, I want to hear the gossip.”

Geralt wasn’t really sure what made his legs move. First out of the Drawing Room, then down the stairs and up again, until he stood before Jaskier’s room. 'I wanted to look after Ciri,’ he reminded himself, but this was oddly more important. He also suspected that he’d never find the courage again if he bolted now.

And so, Geralt of Rivia meekly knocked on the Viscount de Lettenhove’s rooms. “My lord?” he asked.

No answer. He shouldn’t be surprised. He almost turned around again to go check on Ciri first, but then Jaskier’s faint voice beckoned him inside an empty bedroom.

“Uh-” Geralt said, confused.

“Over here,” he answered and Geralt quickly strode over to another door he hadn’t noticed during his previous visit. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the bathtub Jaskier was soaking in.

“My lord?” he asked hesitantly.

“Come in,” the Viscount commanded.

“Maybe I shouldn’t-”

“Just close the door, Geralt,” he sighed tiredly and raised a golden goblet to his lips. The smell of alcohol permeating from it was entirely too strong for it to just be wine.

“Alright,” he answered quietly and did as he was told. Jaskier drank again and he could feel worry creeping up his spine. “Are you drunk?”

“Not enough,” the Viscount answered and took another deep gulp.

Unsure what else to do, Geralt sat down on the side of the tub and asked: “Your parlay didn’t go well, then? Your, uh- your sister said that Ciri said it did.”

“Which one?”

“Take a guess.”

“Janka still won’t talk to you, huh? I’ll see to that.” He swirled the liquor around in his cup. Before Geralt couldn’t take the silence anymore, Jaskier thankfully continued: “It was… alright, all things considered. Hoped it would be better. Feared it could go worse.” He looked straight at Geralt. “There’s no going back now, witcher. The stage is set. Now we just have to play our parts.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

Jaskier sighed and dropped back against the tub. It did nothing to quell Geralt’s worry, but at least it served to empty out most of the goblet. “All you need to know is that it went well enough. Though I suspect-” He halted.

“What do you suspect?”

“No, let’s not talk of that. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“You know that I’m here if you want to talk.”

He snorted a laugh. “Those words don’t suit you, witcher. Whenever I hear them from your mouth, I can’t shake the feeling that you’re mocking me.”

'I’m not,’ he wanted to say. But his words failed him as so often.

Jaskier sighed and pushed himself upright again. “Now, what did you come for?” He glanced into his cup and frowned when he found it empty. Carelessly he tossed it away.

Geralt averted his gaze. “I’m not sure if now’s the time…”

“My witcher,” he said coldly.

“My lord?”

“Talk,” the Viscount ordered without turning to face him.

And so, he did: “You did not ask me for details about my hunt.”

“I did not,” he confirmed.

“You’re-” He wet his lip with his tongue. He knew that no matter how he posed that next question, there would be trouble. “You’re not writing a song.”

Jaskier’s jaw clenched immediately. “I am not. I was under the impression you didn’t like them.”

“And I was under the impression you wrote them regardless,” he shot back without thinking.

The Viscount’s expression grew cold. “So what? Is your ego so inflated you think you’re owed songs now?”

“I do not, my lord. I was also under the impression you wrote them because it is your passion,” he said calmly. “I did not mean to offend you.”

There was no answer at that.

“You’re not singing, either,” Geralt continued cautiously. “Your hands are soft and your lute is nowhere to be found. You tell Ciri stories but never sing for her.”

“Get to the point, witcher,” Jaskier ground out.

Geralt steeled himself and asked with as much courage as he could muster: “Why is there no music in Lettenhove Hall, my lord?”

Jaskier whipped around to him, water sloshing over the rim of the tub and drenching Geralt’s breeches. He wanted to stand his ground but there were tears in Jaskier’s eyes, the scent of anger and sadness wafting off him. He stood and swayed, coughing at the foul odour. “Because I despise it, witcher. I hate every tune I ever wrote, every line I ever composed. I cannot stand it anymore. Just thinking of it makes me sick!”

Geralt retreated farther as a thick cloud of onion grief hit him. “Is it my fault?” he asked agonised and immediately cursed himself for it.

The tears flowed freely now, Jaskier choking on his sobs instead of answering. 'Foolish witcher,’ he chided himself, 'of course it’s your fault.’

He regained his balance and avoided Jaskier’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “I am so sorry. If I could-”

“No.” Jaskier sniffled. “Not for that.”

'For what then?’ he wanted to ask but didn’t. 'Coward.’ Three times he reached out only for his hand to fall back to his side again. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I think you’ve done quite enough.” Geralt didn’t even dare to breathe. Spicy pepper flared up. “Go away, witcher.” When he hesitated for just one moment, Jaskier shouted: “Now!”

Geralt was too craven to do anything but obey.

A/N: And now you can come yell at me in the notes.

[jiminfinity]

bring on the sunshine

Read Chapter 1 | Read Chapter 2 | Read full story on ao3

A short christmas drabble is up!!!!

Read the rest on AO3!! Please leave kudos and comments if you wanna!

Summary: With the help of their five-year-old “matchmaker” Taehyung, Yoongi and Jimin stumble into each other’s lives. Cue the awkward, messy pining and dating adventures with a noisy kid in their way.

The Min household doesn’t do much for Christmas.

The only decoration in sight is a cut-out of a Christmas tree that Taehyung had coloured in pink back when he was...two? It’s pasted haphazardly on the closed front door of their apartment, signs of wear and tear evident in the way the sides of the tree are curling inwards.

Besides that, there are no Christmas lights, no Christmas tree, no Christmas stockings. Taehyung’s present is there waiting for him at the feet of his bed. The heater is turned up high and the curtains are drawn. When the father-and-son wake up, nothing is out of the ordinary other than the fact that Taehyung gets marshmallows in his hot chocolate and gets to choose what movie he wants to watch that day.

It’s not that Yoongi has some animosity towards Christmas or anything. He’s not avoiding it due to some past childhood trauma. It’s just simply that his family never had the tradition of celebrating this festivity, and thus it’s never occurred to him that Christmas should be a special day, especially not when he’s not religious.

Taehyung’s happy to receive his present (a build-your-own-telescope set) and it’s just what he wanted. He’s happy to spend the entire day sprawled on his father’s lap as they watch Ponyo for the tenth thousand time. He’s happy watching the way his strawberry marshmallows dissolve into his cup of hot chocolate and how the steam smells instantly of pink goodness.

Yoongi’s happy to have a day of absolutely nothing to do. He’s happy that it’s nice and toasty in his apartment and that they’re not facing the harsh winter out there. He’s happy that Taehyung’s satisfied with his gift.

In the Min household, they’re content with the simple things. Christmas is just another day.

But not for Jimin.

Jimin loves Christmas.

Christmas is absolutely not just another day . It is the day of the year, probably the most important holiday in his opinion.

Imagine his utter shock when he enters the apartment breezily, red Santa hat perched daintily on his head, patterned Christmas socks pulled up to his thighs and presents tucked under his armpits, only to find Yoongi and Taehyung just....there.

“Merry Christmas!” dies on Jimin’s lips as he glances around the apartment. Where are the lights? The tree? That movie they’re watching isn’t even a Christmas classic!

“Mr Park!” Taehyung yells heartily as he gives Jimin his usual run-and-tackle embrace.

“Hello, Tae,” Jimin smiles a little blankly, bopping Taehyung’s nose half-heartedly after dropping the presents and scooping him into his arms.

Yoongi saunters over to Jimin, pressing a lazy kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek. “Morning, sunshine.” He taps the end of Jimin’s hat. The bell jingles melodiously. “This is cute. You’re cute.”

“Did you forget?” Jimin whispers, pulling a scandalised expression.

“Forget what?” Yoongi replies, shooting a quizzical glance back as he scratches the back of his head.

“Christmas!” Jimin widens his eyes exasperatedly, voice a little more raised this time.

“Oh.” Yoongi shrugs. “No, I didn’t. I know today’s Christmas but..so what?”

“So what ?” Jimin’s mouth falls open. He’s looking at Yoongi like he doesn’t recognise him anymore. Yoongi’s a little frightened.

“Daddy got me a present!” Taehyung offers sweetly. “And we pasted my Christmas tree on the door last night!”

“That’s nice,” Jimin immediately relaxes his face as he kisses the top of Taehyung’s head. “And I did see the tree you coloured. It’s beautiful.”

Taehyung giggles.

“We don’t really celebrate Christmas…” Yoongi reasons, biting his lip unsurely.

“What?” Jimin’s eyes snap up to Yoongi’s.

Yoongi shrugs once more. “I don’t know...it was just never a big deal to us, I guess?”

“B-but…” Jimin looks a little lost. He puts Taehyung down gently and shuffles to the window, drawing open the curtains. Sunlight floods into the apartment. “How can you be missing out on this?”

Taehyung practically flings himself onto the window, nose and cheeks pressed against the cold surface as his eyes turn round in delight. “Wow!” he breathes. “It’s snow! So much snow!"

Jimin ruffles Taehyung’s hair endearingly. “It’s the magic of Christmas, Tae-ah.”

“It is?” Taehyung grins with awe at Jimin. “I didn’t know Christmas was magical.”

Jimin frowns slightly. “No. This won’t do.” He folds his arms. Clicks his tongue. Nods. “Okay boys, dress up. We’re going out.”

“In this weather?” Yoongi sputters. “It’s so c-c-cold!” Just thinking about it makes Yoongi shiver.

“Poor kid over here has never experienced the magic of Christmas, I can’t just leave it be.”

“But—” Yoongi tries pouting.

“Not working on me,” Jimin shakes his head resolutely. “Also, grumpy people don’t get presents.”

He picks up a larger package from the floor. “Taehyungieeeee,” he sing-songs. “You’ve been a good kid right?”

“Uh-huh!” Taehyung nods frantically, practically salivating at the sight of the massive box. “I’ve been very very good. I promise! ”

“I know you have,” Jimin smiles. “Merry Christmas! Here you go!”

“Thank you!” Taehyung squeals, tearing apart the wrapping paper in a flash.

Upon seeing the gift, Taehyung exclaims, “Oh! My! Gosh!” His hands fly up to his cheeks. “How did you know I wanted a dragon pet?”

“Christmas magic, remember?” Jimin winks, beaming at the way Taehyung lit up.

Taehyung hugs the huge stuffed toy close to his heart. “I love it I love it I love it I love it! I’m going to name it Magic and I’m going to love it and never let it go.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Jimin smiles genuinely.

After a beat, Taehyung quips, “Does Daddy get a present?” Of course, he wouldn’t forget his daddy.

“I don’t know, Taehyung. Has daddy been a good boy?” Jimin asks in a teasing tone. “He doesn’t seem very excited to go out with Mr Park right now, though.”

“It’s cold,” Yoongi mutters sadly.

Just then, arms wrap around Yoongi tightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here to keep you warm,” Jimin tucks his chin on Yoongi’s shoulder and kisses the nape of his neck softly. He pulls away, keeping Yoongi at arm’s length. “It’ll be fun, I promise!”

Maybe it’s the way Jimin’s eyes are twinkling. Maybe it’s the way that subtle kiss made Yoongi blush. Maybe it’s Christmas magic. Whatever it is, it’s working. Yoongi’s resolve crumbles.

“Fine,” he rolls his eyes good-naturedly, a smile rising to his lips.

“Yay!” Jimin and Taehyung cheer simultaneously.

He could never say no to Jimin anyway.

Barely an hour later, Yoongi regrets everything.

His heart is beating wildly and wet snow is falling into his jacket and he’s tired.

“Time out!” Yoongi waves his arms in surrender as he clutches onto his chest, catching his breath.

Jimin and Taehyung emerge from their snow fort, hooting triumphantly as they dance around celebratorily.

“The enemy has been defeated! Christmas forces have prevailed! It is truly the magic of Christmas!” Jimin announces into the air.

“Enemy feeted ! Christmas forces prewailed ! Truly the magic of Christmas!” Taehyung echoes clumsily after Jimin, chuckling at Yoongi’s red face and red nose.

“Yes, sure, gang up against the old man. That’s the spirit of Christmas!” Yoongi says bitingly, eyes rolled skyward with sarcasm. “I knew Christmas was a bad idea.”

“Oh come on, you Grinch,” Jimin nudges Yoongi with an adorable grin gracing his features. An expression Yoongi cannot resist. “It’s just fun and games.”

“I’m going to die of frostbite,” Yoongi pants dramatically.

“Don’t be silly,” Jimin giggles as he lovingly brushes off the snow from Yoongi’s garments. “Look at Taehyung. Aren’t you glad he’s having so much fun?”

Yoongi glances over Jimin’s shoulder, only to find Taehyung spreading his hands and arms across the canvas of white snow, animatedly attempting to make his very first snow angel. He looks so happy, even with his cheeks all rosy from the cold.

“Maybe I should have done this earlier,” Yoongi muses, eyes still fixated on his beautiful son.

“It’s not too late,” Jimin corrects. Something warm presses against Yoongi’s cheeks. “Better?”

“Why are your hands so warm?” Yoongi can’t help but sigh, leaning unconsciously towards the touch.

“Because I’m your sunshine,” Jimin jokes.

“You truly are,” Yoongi breathes, eyes fluttering closed as he soaks in this moment.

They stay like that for a little while more, bodies subtly pressed against each other as Yoongi pulls Jimin close, Jimin’s mittened hands reaching up to cup Yoongi’s face. It’s perfect.

“My lips are cold.”

“Are they now?” Jimin cocks an eyebrow surreptitiously, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“You said you would keep me warm, right?” Yoongi opens up his eyes and puffs out his cheeks.

“Taehyung’s here, we can’t,” Jimin hits Yoongi’s chest playfully.

Yoongi licks his lips. “He’s not looking, hurry.”

“Fine,” Jimin relents, cheeks tinted with the prettiest pink. “Since you’ve been good today.”

They meet halfway, smiling through the kiss. It tastes of Jimin’s cocoa-butter lip gloss and marshmallows. Even with Yoongi’s cracked lips and the squishy feeling of snow in his socks and many layers of clothes between them, it feels wonderful.

Flashes of white catch Yoongi’s eyes and he breaks apart before Jimin’s satisfied, resulting in the smaller boy chasing after his lips.

“Wait, look.” Yoongi prompts, using two fingers to nudge Jimin’s chin upwards. “It’s snowing.”

Jimin’s eyes brighten up as he gasps. “It really is! Taehyung! It’s snowing!”

“Wow!” Taehyung exclaims, raising his arms in the air as he sits up. He hasn’t seen anything like that before, eyes gleaming in curiosity as he observes the way the snow descends down, glittering under the sunlight like fairy dust. Like magic.

“Wow!” he exclaims again, a little dazed as he stands up to spin around and around and around, his carefree laughter bouncing off everywhere.

“It tasth likth sthrawberthy!” Taehyung blabbers with his tongue stuck out.

“Does it now?” Jimin laughs.

“It must be Christmas magic.” Yoongi thinks out loud, his arm reaching out to pull Jimin close by the waist as he beams at his lover.

Jimin gazes back up, the look on his face brighter than all the Christmas lights on the streets combined. “It must be a Christmas miracle.”