#dpss

Warmth. That was the first thing Dan felt when he woke up. But not the good kind of warmth that makes you feel satisfied and happy, like you’re safe and protected from everything. No, this was a suffocating warmth, like he was being wrapped in a blanket that was too thick, making you feel like you can’t escape.

Funnily enough, the reason to him feeling too hot was the same reason other people felt the good kind of warmth: the presence of another person next to him in the bed.

He couldn’t remember her name (the fact that he felt like taking home a girl with him instead of a guy might be an indicator of how much alcohol he had consumed the previous night), only that she wasn’t too hard to convince to go with him, and that she fell asleep right afterwards. She was currently lying with her head on Dan’s chest, breathing slow and humming barely audible. It was a happy, up-tempo melody that was repeated over and over again. Presumably her Soulmate Tune.

Only it sounded nothing like Dan’s Tune.

Dan lived in a world where everybody had a simple melody in their head, one they’ve been singing ever since they were old enough to be able to sing. These short pieces of music were called Soulmate Tunes. Some people had a very up-tempo song (like the girl lying next to him), others had a calm, relaxing one (Dan was one of those people). Nobody could quite remember when they first heard their melody, it had just always been there.

These melodies served only one purpose; to find your soulmate, the one person who you would be compatible with in every way, the one person who was meant for you.

You see, the melodies in people’s head were never a standalone piece. There was somebody out there whose melody would be a perfect match for yours, either following or preceding it. Together, they formed a melody that (like his mom explained it to Dan once when he was 9) “just feels right. You get this deep-rooted feeling to start singing along, the combination of the two melodies sounds like coming home, like happiness. You just know when you hear it.”

The fact that Dan woke up next to somebody who’s melody didn’t match his, wasn’t new to him at all. He was a 25-year-old man, he had needs. And as long as he hadn’t find his soulmate, he would just go out sometimes and pick up somebody willing to come home with him and help him with those needs. Simple as that.

Or at least, that’s what Dan liked to tell himself.

In reality, Dan hated the fact that he still hadn’t find his soulmate.

He hated how empty and alone he felt when his parents began singing their tune together. He hated how happy his best friend, PJ, would seem when he heard his girlfriend singing their tune. He hated how even his 16-year old cousin had already find his soulmate.

Sometimes, he wouldn’t even believe there was somebody out there for him. It rarely happened, but it wasn’t unheard of that somebody just never found their soulmate. Or maybe his soulmate had died.

(It was usually when his mind started to contemplate those ideas that he would go out and take someone home with him. He just needed to feel loved for a while).

The girl he took home yesterday - was it Lisa? or Luna? he couldn’t remember- had apparently disappeared while Dan was lost in thoughts, hadn’t left her number (they never do), so he decided to just get out of bed and go take a shower.

Dan’s apartment was –if we’re being honest- pretty crap, barely worth the name ‘apartment’. It had one bedroom, a bathroom and an area that served both as a kitchen and a lounge, and all of those rooms combined were the size of what some people considered just one room. The walls were dirty, the floors creaked everywhere, the heating was broken more often than not, and there was a weird smell that Dan tried (but not quite managed) to cover up using scented candles.

But hey, it was home to Dan. And with his job as a store clerk, he was barely able to afford this place, let alone anything better.

*****

After he had dinner (cheap microwave dinner, he wasn’t in the mood to do any proper cooking) he left to go down to the shop he worked at. It was one of those 24 hours a day shops, and having no life whatsoever, Dan usually requested to be put on the night shift, since it paid better.  It also had the extra benefit of being quieter with very few customers, so he could just read a book all night long.

That was exactly what Dan was doing when he heard the bell that hang above the door chime at about half past 11. He watched as a man walked in, smiling shyly at Dan before grabbing a basket and disappearing behind one of the shelfs.

Dan had to admit, he was used to people who were less attractive entering the store. The guy seemed a few years older that Dan, presumably in his late twenties. He had black hair that was swept in a fringe across his forehead. His skin was pale (he most likely didn’t see the sun all too often) and his bright blue eyes were framed by black glasses. Add black skinny jeans and a blue button-up shirt and you could say that Dan would have already walked up to him and started chatting him up, were he not at work.  

Instead, Dan settled on watching him going down the aisles until he made his way to the check-out.

“Good evening sir, were you able to find everything?” Dan asked him while ringing up his purchases (a deepfreeze pizza and a bottle of Ribena).

“Y-yes, no problems finding anything, thank you.” The guy spoke softly and shyly.

“Ok, that will be £4,48 please” The guy didn’t really seem up for conversation, so Dan decided to just leave him be, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

He watched as the man reached into his pocket, only to start looking a bit panicked as he reached into his other pockets.  Dan heard him swearing under his breath before noticeably starting to get a bit upset.

“Uhm… it seems as though I’ve left my wallet at home. I’m so so sorry.” He said, seemingly starting to have trouble breathing.

“That’s not a problem at all, how about you just go get your wallet and come back? I’ll keep your purchases here while you’re gone. OK?” Dan proposed, trying to calm the man down a bit.

“Yeah… I’ll go do that…” The man noticeably had trouble breathing now, and when he tried to walk out of the store, he had to hold on to the counter, seemingly not able to stand on his feet anymore. He had also started to tremble.

“Sir, is everything alright?” Dan asked, already knowing that it wasn’t. He walked around the counter towards the man, and helped him stay upright.

“I won’t let you walk around like this, how about you go sit in the back for a bit until you’re feeling alright again? My name is Dan by the way.”

“Yeah… Ok… Thanks... I’m Phil.” the guy managed to say between heavy breaths, seemingly not able to argue in any way.

*****

Dan had no idea what to do, but he knew that the man was in no condition to walk around like that. While guiding him towards the small kitchen in the back, he managed to tell his co-worker to take over the check-out for him while he stayed with Phil until he felt better.

By the time they made it into the back, Phil’s breathing difficulties seemed to have gotten a bit less bad, even though the trembling hadn’t gotten any better. Dan let him sit on a chair and pulled up another one to sit next to him. He had read somewhere that you could help people with a panic attack (which he assumed Phil was having) by letting them breath in and out with you, so that’s exactly what Dan did.

“Just focus on my breathing, you’re doing great. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. And out. That’s good, keep going.”

After a while, Phil had calmed down enough so that his breathing was almost normal again and he had stopped shaking. He looked up at Dan and smiled gratefully.

“Thank you very much, and I’m sorry for freaking out like that. I was feeling a bit on edge the entire day already, and me forgetting my wallet was just too much for me to handle today.” Phil’s voice sounded a bit raspy and rough, but still quite pleasant to Dan’s ears.

“No problem at all, you don’t need to apologise. Would you like something to drink? I can get you a glass of water?” Phil nodded at his request, and Dan went to grab him something.

That’s when he heard it. A soft, calm string of notes that was repeated over and over again. A beautiful humming that stirred something deep inside Dan’s chest.

It made him think of the apple cake that he and his mom used to make when he was still a boy, the smell filling up the entire house. It reminded him of when he used to take the family dog for a walk in the woods nearby their house when the trees were emptying their branches, colouring the ground different shades of red and yellow and brown. It reminded him of late-night conversations with his friends in high school on the patio of whoever was hosting the party they were currently at, a faint smell of cigarettes making it a tad more difficult for him to breathe.

It filled him with warmth, the good kind of warmth. It made his chest feel like it wasn’t big enough anymore to contain his fluttering heart, it made him feel like he was about to ascend into the air, being weightless and without any worries.

It made him feel like he was at home.

It took him a minute to fully realise why he was feeling like this, but when he did, it all made perfect sense to him.

Phil was humming his Soulmate Tune. And it matched Dan’s Tune.

He was pulled away from his train of thoughts when he felt cold water streaming onto his hand. He was still filling up the glass, which was starting to overflow. Quickly, he turned off the water and emptied the glass a bit so he could carry it to Phil without making it spill everywhere.

Was Phil really his soulmate? Could he possibly be lucky enough to have this beautiful man be his perfect match? Dan was a bit skeptical, so he decided to not tell Phil just yet. Maybe he was just getting desperate enough to be imagining everything.

“Is that your Soulmate Tune you’re singing?” Dan asked innocently while handing Phil the glass.

“Yes, it is. I usually sing it to myself when I’m feeling distressed. It always manages co calm me down.” Phil spoke with a soft smile on his face.

Dan felt a bit defeated. The only reason it would be able to calm him down is that he had already found his soulmate and it made him think of them. Of course, it was too good to be true.

“Does your soulmate usually help you through these attacks?” Dan decided to not show his disappointment, and just keep talking to Phil for a bit. It wasn’t like he wanted to go back to work anyway.

Phil giggled a bit. “I haven’t exactly found my soulmate yet, to be honest. But just the thought of there being somebody out there who is perfect for me in every way is usually enough to comfort me. They have helped me through so much already, even without me having ever met them. The fact that they exist is enough for now. And you know, good things come to those who wait.”

This made Dan feel a lot more confident about how he was feeling. Phil seemed to be a perfect balance for Dan, who tended to overthink everything. The idea of Phil being his soulmate didn’t seem that impossible to him anymore.

And when Phil continued to hum his Tune, Dan, in a sudden burst of confidence, decided to sing his own Tune right after it. Very softly at first, afraid it might not be Phil after all, but when he saw the way Phil’s face lit up, he started singing with more and more confidence.

It wasn’t until he felt Phil embrace him in a warm hug, that he realised he was crying. He just felt so happy that the universe had blessed him with the man currently holding him in his arms.

They both just held on to each other until Dan had stopped crying. Phil brushed Dan’s fringe away from his eyes and wiped away a stray tear that was still making its way down his cheek, before starting to caress his cheek.

“I knew that patience would be rewarded” Phil said with a smile on his face, and that’s when Dan knew for sure.

It was him. Dan had finally found his Soulmate.

And what an amazing soulmate it was.

The link to the original post is over here.

Daddy’s eyes twinkle in the firelight, glossy and warm like the mug of hot chocolate cradled in her lap.

It’s her very first Christmas. Mother had left with only so much as a brush of icy lips against Regina’s cheek, and Daddy had seized the opportunity to sneak Regina down to the village, bundled up in layers upon layers of clothing (You cannot get a cold, Regina. Your mother would know what we’ve done.), her heart skipping and her stomach tingling in joyful anticipation.

Regina’s first Christmas is a single day spent at town square. It’s cool air against her face and small flames dancing in her eyes. It’s the flavorful sweetness of caramel-coated apples on her tongue and a small, hand-crafted ornament sitting in her palm. It’s shaky fingers placing it onto the perfect branch and an unexpected squeal of laughter when she lets it go and it swings happily, surrounded by a thousand more of its kind.

She is thirteen and Christmas is a magical day spent in the cold winter winds. It’s father’s crinkling eyes and a mug of hot cocoa in her lap when they return to an empty estate. It’s an apple pendant in a box, and father’s thick fingers closing it around her neck. A reminder of this day.

 She’s eighteen, a new bride and a lonely queen trapped in a castle that oozes Christmas from every pore. But there’s no magic in the coiffed trees and the lavish meals, and she suddenly longs for the emptiness of her childhood home.

 There is no escaping the endless halls of fake festivity, especially not with Snow stuck to her side like sticky remnants of candies that are stuck to the girl’s pudgy fingers.

Regina endures in silence safe for the occasional hum to demonstrate investment in the princess’s tales.

She is Leopold’s Queen, and Christmas is a day full of mindless chatter and sickening amounts of food. It’s Snow’s wide-eyed joy and her own quiet suffering as the King puts a heavy arm around her and squeezes her side in a promise of a sleepless night to come.

Rage is blinding in the years following Leopold’s death. Her heart is heavy with hatred and her mind is spinning with thoughts of mindless torture and revenge.

Christmas is meaningless in the bottomless pit of dark magic and ferocious anger, and it doesn’t occur to her at all until she destroys another village, but finds the burnt remnants of a decorated pine tree amidst the ashen bodies of her victims. And for a moment, she thinks of father’s glowing eyes and a wooden ornament dangling from the perfect branch.

The thought is fleeting and gone as fast as it occurred, swallowed by the twisting vortex of darkness in her mind.

Christmas in Storybrooke is an endless repetition of the same mindless songs and the same amateurish play of the biblical Christmas tale, directed by none other than Mary Margaret Blanchard and starring the same cursed children in the same roles every year.

Regina knows that the woodcutter’s son will stutter. She knows that his insipid teacher will come and comfort him after he runs from the stage teary eyed. She knows that she’ll watch on and feel nothing but the gaping hollowness in her heart.

A void you will never be able to fill echoes in her mind, the warning creeping up on her with the same punctuality every year as the boys sudden stutter ten minutes into the play.

She goes home and makes herself a hot chocolate (spiked ever since the 5th year of watching little boys run off stages in embarrassment) and takes a moment to stare into the swirling liquid in her cup. The warm sloshing is a soothing balm, if only for a moment.

She takes a sip and closes her eyes, sighing and waiting for the day to pass.

Christmas with a child is everything she’s ever wanted.

Henry is a giddy mess all December, tugging at her hand with his pudgy fingers, dragging his mother across the road and up to everything shiny and loud.

“Look, Mommy,” he calls as he presses his little face up to the display window of the little toy store, enraptured with the miniature train that goes around and around in circles through a tiny winter wonderland of now-dusted plastic trees. “Can I have it?”

It’s not for sale. That’s what the former fairy running the store tells Regina when she comes back the next day to make her purchase. For a moment, Regina is furious, and echo of that old coiling rage of days long past. She makes her way to Henry’s school in long, angry strides and scowls at the entrance as she waits.

Henry comes out the doors as a mass of tiny preschooler wrapped in way too many layers of clothing. A marshmallow of scarf and coat. He runs up to her, beaming, exposing the gap of his first missing front tooth.

“Miss Blanchard said I could be Joseph in the play!”

And for the first time, the little boy doesn’t run off the stage ten minutes in, because its not the woodcutter’s son. It’s Henry, and his nervous whisper at the start. It’s his bright, second-grader smile as he bows to an audience of various townsfolk after the show, radiating pride, and Regina finds herself with a matching expression and just the faintest shine of tears in her eyes.

Three years later, and Regina is back to staring into a lonely cup of hot cocoa.

Her house is silent, empty safe for herself.

Her own son won’t be home for Christmas.

He’s with his other mother, the woman who birthed him and who might not have broken her curse (yet), but who’s already exceptional at taking what is hers and leaving her with the hollowness of countless Christmases spent alone. Her rage keeps her company, just enough to stifle the urge to do something embarrassing like shed some tears.

She swallows a mouthful of hot chocolate and hopes it also takes away the lump in her throat.

Swallow. Slosh. Stare.

Knuckles turn white on fingers curled around the white handle of a painted porcelain mug.

“Best Mommy”. The letters are a bittersweet reminder of what has been taken from her.

Regina shakes her head, tries to shake the tugging in her sternum.

On Christmas morning, she finds a small box on the front porch, haphazardly wrapped by the messy hands of a ten-year-old.

It’s a wooden ornament; an echo of Christmases spent picking the perfect tree and decorating it with a special new ornament every year. It’s the foggy memory at town square a lifetime ago.  

“Merry Christmas, Mom” a scribbled line on the tag says, and Regina allows herself to cry, if just for a little bit.

Regina stares, stares at the oversized pine tree in the middle of the palace gardens, at the fake cheer emitted by Snow and her (their?) following.

“We need to set a good example. We can’t let the world go by because we’re grieving,” Snow tells her as she comes to sit on the log beside Regina’s stiff form.

Watch me, Regina thinks. But she doesn’t say anything aloud. Instead she sits. She sits and glares at the twinkling fairy dusted ornaments sitting on the branches of a tree that shouldn’t look this festive… this bright. Because her baby is gone, and he’s taken all the light in her life with him.

 “That’s an awfully angry expression to aim at an innocent tree.”

She jumps in her seat, then straightens, sits up taller to hide the sudden embarrassment at being caught unaware.

It’s the thief. Of course.

“Keep this going and you’ll find yourself at the end of it.”

It’s supposed to be a low growl but comes out pathetically flat. She turns away from him, continues to stare at the twinkling in the tree instead. She can feel him approach, feels the log shift as he sits down on the space Snow occupied just a couple of minutes before.

One nagging nuisance for another.

She expects him to speak, but to her surprise, he stays silent. It’s a good silence, a strangely comfortable silence.

He sits with her for a while, watching darkness fall and the twinkling fairy lights in the trees turn brighter as dawn creeps in.

She’ll never admit it, but its strangely comfortable.

 She sits in the same spot the very next day, watching the children scamper around the tree with their hand carved ornaments (in various degrees of ugliness, as kids’ crafts tend to be).

She remembers her 13th Christmas. She remembers the soft weight of her own, gifted ornament in her palm. She remembers a scribbled note of “Merry Christmas, Mom” and blinks as her vision turns blurry.

There’s a soft tug on her skirts, and when she turns she sees a tiny hand grabbing at the side of it. Her eyes travel up a small toddler frame, up a tiny arm and toward a sweet, dimpled face.  

The thief’s son.

She thinks it the same moment she spots him standing behind his child, all soft smile and crinkled eyes.

“Pardon, your majesty, but I believe my son has something for you.”

She turns back to the boy, the child she saved at her very first day back in these despicable lands, the boy who doesn’t look much like her own son at all, but whose toothy grin still pokes at memories of countless of the same kind given by a smaller Henry. Her heart feels suddenly even heavier than it did before.

“Majesty!” he addresses in what is meant to be a formal tone but comes out anything but. The corners of Regina’s mouth twitch against her will.

The boy, Roland, rummages in a satchel by his little waist and pulls out a wooden block that vaguely resembles a misshapen horse. An ornament.

“It’s for you,” he needlessly announces as he holds it out for her to see. “Because you’ve been watching the tree. Now you can come decorate it with us!”

He grins again, white baby teeth and his father’s dimples.

Regina reaches out, hesitantly, and takes the wood from his little hand, turning it around in an effort to have something to do while she gathers herself more than anything else.

“Thank you.”

It comes out flat and void of emotion, and so she clears her throat, lifts her head to meet his twinkling eyes.

“Thank you, Roland.”

She means it.

 Roland insists on dragging her up to the tree and watching her place his gift on a branch, and so she lets him pull at her hand, followed by the boy’s father who seems a little too amused for her liking, showing those disarming dimples he’s passed on to his son.

“Put it on the tree, Regina!” Roland exclaims, all formality forgotten.

She gives a small smile and selects it. The perfect branch. Against her will, she finds her fingers shaking again as she slips it on until it nestles in that beautiful spot between to fairy lights.

Roland squeals in delight and smiles up at her once more before he leaves to play with the other children. His father lingers.

“I can’t begin to imagine your pain,” he says, a useless statement but she can tell its sincere, “I’m sorry your son can’t be with us today. But I imagine he would’ve wanted you to enjoy the holidays at least a little bit.”

He nods toward Roland’s wooden horse in the tree.

“Roland thought this could be Henry’s ornament. All the children get one to put on the tree, he wanted you to have your son represented. That’s why he gave it to you. I do hope he didn’t overstep.”

Regina blinks, shakes her head.

“No,” she says in a voice so low and thick with emotion it’s almost a whisper. “Henry… he would’ve liked this very much.”

She smiles, pained but genuine, and finds him smiling back in that soft way that’s somehow just the right amount of sympathetic. Something stirs within her, a kind of anger at how he and his child dare make her feel anything but miserable when Henry will forever be a world away, and suddenly she wants to lash out again and play their usual game of biting remarks and banter, if only to stop this traitorous spark of happiness.

“In that case,” Robin interrupts her thoughts before she can find the best biting remark to make, “It was my pleasure. And I shall let Roland know the gesture was deeply appreciated.”

He nods as a form of goodbye and gives her one last smile before he leaves towards his son.

Regina turns, looks at the child-crafted piece of wood in the branches, and dares another tiny smile.

And if the thief is watching, Regina decides that so be it.