fic:Ā have yourself a merry little christmas
robert decided to perform his very own christmas miracle and actually go home to emmerdale for christmas for the first time since he left in a blaze of glory. except, well - dianeās given his room away to chasā stupidly gorgeous son, hasnāt she?
a āthereās only one bedā silliness with a christmas twist, for @ letthebluerain. merry merry christmas emma, i hope you have a wonderful one, and an even better 2019! love, your secret santa.
It was clichƩ, really, but you could feel a difference in the air when you got back up North, Robert decided. There was something crisper, about the air as he stepped out of the taxi, something colder, fresher about it.
Or maybe ā maybe that was the part of him who remembered Emmerdale, and Yorkshire, with a bit more fondness now heād been gone for as long as he had. Robert had left the village at eighteen, and he hadnāt been back since, and mostly by choice.
The first year, it had been because Jack hadnāt wanted him back. Robertās father had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that Robert wasnāt to set foot on the farm that summer. Jack, he hadnāt been overly impressed with Robertās choice of career (āyouāre not going to make a life out of drawing them stupid pictures, Robertā) and a dramatic relationship, and breakup with Max King before Robert had left for university in a blaze of glory had been the final straw.
He could have come back when Jack had died, Robert supposed. He could have, and he nearly had, heād made it right to the edge of the graveyard, watching the funeral from afar, watching Andy weep at his graveside, ever the devoted son, even when Robert wasnāt there. But then, well, heād turned right around, and heād gone right back to Reading, stumbling in the door of his university house gone midnight, his housemates plying him with beer and takeout, the only family he needed, really.
Robert had gotten a call from Diane, an apologetic one, he had to admit, one asking him to come home and spend Christmas with his family, just for once ā after all these years.
Sometimes, Robert didnāt realise how long it had actually been, since heād left. Time flies, when you donāt have to live with your homophobic father who manages to hate you enough that he gets mad that youāve actually upped and gone to university.
But that was beside the point.
The point was the air, and the air felt different, but familiar all at once ā crisp, and fresh, and reminiscent of all those early mornings heād spent out in the fields with his dad, and Andy, keeping the farm ticking over.
Robert couldnāt help but raise an eyebrow at himself as he felt an almost fond tug at his heart, thinking of those summer mornings. Hindsight ā hindsight was clouding his judgement, Robert decided, and making him forget why heād gone to university over two hundred miles away in the first place.
No, he was back for Victoria, because heād missed out on so many years with her already. Itās not as if they didnāt talk, they talked, of course ā they even Skyped, once a week, every two weeks, depending on how busy they both were, and Robert sent her postcards and trinkets from every place he visited, Victoria delighted with her mini-map of Robertās Erasmus sheād gotten by the end of that semester, getting postcards, and bracelets, and German sweets as often as Robertās money would allow it.
But he hadnāt seen her, not in person, not since the morning heād left, a black eye blooming where Jack had smacked him one, upon finding Max in Robertās bed (heād gotten reckless, and angry, and he was eighteen years old with a point to prove, alright?) and a suitcase in hand, determined to never ever come back again.
He almost hadnāt come back this time.
Robert had told Diane no, that he was going to be spending Christmas with friends, as he had done the last two years, his overly kind best mate from halls in first year making a point of bringing Robert back to the perfectly non-descript suburb that heād grown up in, an hour outside London, anonymous, and simple, and everything Robert had craved as a teenager.
Emmerdale had always been suffocating, the kind of place where everyone knew your name, and every other tiny detail of your life. The kind of place where rumours had flown for months around school, after Robert had been seen with a hand down a mystery boys trousers, the kind of place where everyone felt like they were entitled to an opinion on Robertās life, on who he shagged, on where he worked.
Jack never had to deal with that, living in a two up, two down, terraced house, where every house looked the same, where no-one made the effort to talk to each other, not more than a simple hello anyway.
Robert could feel his skin start to crawl, as he looked around the village, remembering all the reasons he left all at the same time.
It wasnāt too late to run, he supposed.
It wouldnāt take an outrageously long time for the taxi to come back, and he could catch the last train down to London. Jack was so stupidly nice heād probably drive in and collect Robert from the station, and before Christmas Eve was over, he could be sitting with a mulled wine in hand, chatting to Jackās grandmother, the elderly lady telling him all sorts of stories about the life she used to have in central London, a life that sounded far more exciting than her neat cardigans and fluffy socks would imply.
And now he definitely couldnāt run.
