#ficsmas

Steve smiles up at you, his hands kneading the soft globes of your ass as he pulls you down to straddle his face. "Hold still," he mumbles, his breath hot against your sensitive folds. "I promise it'll feel good. Just relax and enjoy it, okay?"

You bite your lip, still feeling a blush spread across your cheeks at the sheer depravity of the position. But as your boyfriend's tongue flicks out to tease your folds and taste you, you can't help but gasp, your back arching as sparks of pleasure shoot up your spine. His fingers dig into the soft, plushy flesh of your thighs to spread your legs further apart and open you up so he can taste more of you. You moan at the feeling of his long tongue flattening against your pussy.

"There you go, baby," Steve groans against you, his voice muffled. His hands spread your thighs further as he tilts his head to get the best angle on your cunt, sucking soft and slow on your ripe pussy. He ensures his tongue goes all the way along your slit up to your clit so no part of you is untouched, head shaking slightly so you get that extra friction you need.

You whimper, your hands gripping the headboard for balance, but your hips are already shaking from how good it feels. "Stevie...Steve, wait..." You squirm, thighs clenching around his head, but he doesn't let you go. If anything, he pulls you lower, deeper onto his mouth. His tongue drags in lazy circles, and every now and then he hums, and it's clear he's enjoying it too much. "Don't run from me. You're doin’ so good. Just let me...fuck, just let me taste you."

You make a noise that's embarrassed and needy at the same time, and try to lift yourself off him, overwhelmed by how intense it is. But Steve groans and digs his fingers into your thighs to keep you there.

Your hips descend so your pussy's in his mouth yet again. He breathes hotly against you, feeling your slick dribble down his chin. Steve's tongue probes your hole once more, stroking deep and firm inside while he swirls it inside and drinks up your juices.

You try to hold back the moans slipping out of your mouth, but they break through anyway, soft and whiny, little gasps. Steve drags his tongue up one more time and groans, voice hoarse and adoring. "You're so cute when you get all shy. But you're good, aren't you? Y'gotta help mmm me out too, princess..."

You try to stay lifted, barely hovering and hands clenching in the headboard, but your body's not listening anymore, not when his tongue is sliding through your fold like that and going in and out of your hole on a whim.

He stops talking, too busy keeping his mouth sealed to you, licking deep and dragging the flat of his tongue all the way up and then swirling tight circles over your pussy lips until your legs go weak again. "Steve, mmhn…"

Your breath stutters out of you in little gasps every time he groans underneath you, and he won't stop, not even for air. His hands stay firm on the undersides of your thighs, thumbs pressed in like he's trying to anchor you down, spreading you wider for him even as you twitch and try to lift off again.

Steve's grip tightens, and he hauls you down suddenly so your face is in his lap and your ass is raised in the air. His nose nudges against the tender space just under your clit, and his tongue dips in again, messier this time, hungrier. Your head falls forward, hair falling into your face as you rock forward on instinct.

You whine, high-pitched, helpless, and your hips start to tremble as you grind down just a little, finally letting yourself fall into it. Steve's tongue flattens, firm and hot and so slick, and he catches your clit just right, causing your volume to increase even further.

You hesitate, breath hitching, face burning as you glance down and plant your hands on his thighs, his cock nudging your cheek. He's already hard from tasting you, flushed and leaking, tip resting heavy against his face, twitching each time you breathe hotly on him.

He doesn't answer. Steve groans lowly and wraps his arms tight around your thighs again, pulling you down onto his mouth without any patience. His face disappears between your legs and he sucks on your pussy, gathering your folds into his mouth and licking sloppily at your insides. "Fuck... Steve, it's inside, oh fuuuuck,"

You fall forward with a loud whimper, bracing yourself on his thighs, your cheek smushed on his cock, lips pressed to the shaft. He moans beneath you, tongue stroking messily into your folds more, slick and loud.

You shift, blinking hard, and your eyes flick down to where he's throbbing against his stomach, his thighs tense beneath your hands. You swallow, hand creeping out to brush lightly down his length. He jerks beneath you immediately, hips stuttering up, a muffled groan ripping from his chest that vibrates straight through your core.

You do it again, shyer this time, fingers wrapping around the base, giving the smallest squeeze. "Fuck... fuck fuck," He curses against you, slapping your ass a little to get you to keep it up.

Steve's mouth clamps around your clit, sucking hard to punish you for teasing. You cry out, your hips rocking forward and plump thighs twitching around his head, but he doesn't let go.

He drags his tongue up again, slow and heavy, and you almost sob, fingers tightening around him as your face sinks closer to his lap. Your lips brush the tip before you even mean to. He's hot and flushed against your mouth, the taste already sweet and salty where he's already leaking for you. 

You moan without thinking. The sound is small and high-pitched and so needy and he laughs, continuing to eat your hole nastily. Your juices and his saliva pool on his chin, leaving a mess. He does his best to drink up all he can.

He keeps breathing through his nose, tongue working like he's in a trance. Every time you flick your tongue over the head of his cock, he moans against you, mouth sucking harder, tongue dragging in deeper strokes.

You can barely focus with the way he's devouring you, but you want to help and give him something back, so you take him in just a little more, wrapping your lips around him, still shy, still soft. He's big, heavy on your tongue, twitching with every tiny movement you make. "Mm… mmf, you're so pretty down here…" He drawls against you, head lolling a little bit. He has no idea why he didn't suggest this sooner. He gets to taste your sweet cunt while you suck him off? Win win.

He runs his tongue up your pussy, angling your ass up so he can lick up up up… past your pussy, and you choke on his cock in disbelief and cry out loudly when his tongue laves over your little asshole, making garbling sounds around his fat cock.

He chuckles, moaning at your responsiveness and going back to your pussy. His mouth is messy and loud and fast, his tongue working like he's trying to shove it inside you and taste you from the source.

Steve's nose is pressed tight against your clit, tongue lapping hard and fast between your folds, while your head bobs as you struggle to take in his thick length. You use your hands to compensate for the bit you can't choke down, twisting and pumping while your tongue curves over his fat tip before you swallow up his shaft. 

The tip of Steve's tongue pushes into your entrance, probing deep with slow, greedy strokes like he wants to fuck you with it. You sob out a breath, thighs locking tight around his head without meaning to. You can feel every slick movement of his mouth now, every filthy noise. He laps in and out, groaning deep in his chest, the vibrations sending shivers all through you. You clench around nothing, desperate and aching, your whole body tilted forward now, barely able to hold yourself up.

He's practically fucking you with his mouth now, tongue plunging in and out, fast and eager. He drags his tongue out, then flattens it wide over your clit again, slurping you into his mouth while your hips trying to squirm away on instinct, but he won't let you. Steve wraps his arms around your thighs tighter, locking you down, forcing you to grind against his face with every shake of your body.

You take him into your mouth, slow but deep, tongue sliding along the underside, wrapping your hand around the base to steady him as you suck him in, your head going up and down as you slurp his cock and drool around the base. He twitches immediately and his cock throbs in a way that signals how close he is.

Your legs start to tremble harder and your body starts to jolt forward, riding his face without thinking, whimpering his name against his cock. You start deepthroating as much of his huge cock as you can, hollowing your cheeks to suck him snugly. 

With a sharp jerk of his hips and a strained, muffled moan, his cock twitches hard, and Steve cums all over himself from how warm and wet your mouth is and at your taste, thrusting a little into your mouth so you have to swallow as much of him as you can. You hastily drink up as much as you can, even though some dribbles down your chin and splatters against his lower half. He moans loud, and your eyes roll when he pokes his tongue against your gummy inner walls.

Then, your orgasm hits you with full force, violent and fast, your whole body seizing up as you cry out and grind down on his face like you're trying to suffocate him. He groans against you, tongue working through every second of it, drinking you down. "Mmh, yeah, cum on my fuckin' face, baby, c'mon… lemme taste it,"

You're still shaking when he finally pulls back, mouth red and chin soaked, and he’s breathing hard and labored. Hair a mess, eyes dark. He presses one last open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, slow and filthy. His nose nudges against your skin, and his lips part again, tongue lazily licking the inside of your leg like he's addicted. His voice is low and wrecked when he speaks. He’s still panting, voice hoarse and wanting.

"We've got to do this again soon, baby."

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You were late. The lecture on Kierkegaard’s concept of anxiety had already begun. The only open seat was next to a guy with a familiar slouch and a head of dark, unruly curls, furiously scribbling notes as if he were arguing with the professor on the page. You slid in, whispered an apology. He didn’t look up, just gave a curt nod. But ten minutes later, when you asked to borrow a pen, he finally glanced over.

His eyes, a sharp, intelligent grey—scanned your face, and you saw the exact moment his philosopher’s observation switched from academic to personal. He didn’t see a frazzled classmate. He saw the slight delay in your blinks, the distant, soft focus of your gaze. His brows drew together, not in judgment, but in clinical curiosity. Then he saw it: the faint, tell-tale rim of red lining your lower lashes.

He handed you the pen. “Rough morning?” he murmured, his voice low.

“Something like that,” you whispered back, a flush of shame warming your cheeks.

After class, as you both spilled into the bright, cold New York afternoon, he fell into step beside you. “For the record,” he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of a coat that had seen better days, “self-medicating with cannabinoids to cope with existential dread is a time-honored tradition, but it does rather blunt one’s ability to grapple with Kierkegaard’s leap.”

You stopped walking, mortification freezing you in place. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to professional misanthropes and former gifted-and-troubled youth.” He offered a small, crooked smile that softened the sharp lines of his face. “Which, regrettably, I am both. I’m Angus, by the way.”

That was it. You confessed it was a one-time, stress-induced mistake during finals, and he, to your surprise, didn’t lecture. He just said, “The world is a lot. Sometimes the escape hatch is tempting. The trick is not to get lost in the crawl space.”

A friendship built slowly, over bad library coffee and arguments about Camus versus Sartre that felt more vital than any of your actual coursework. He was different from the brittle, defensive boy from the stories he sometimes told about Barton. Softer around the edges, the anger tempered into a wry, observant melancholy. He called you “bright eyes,” a gentle tease about that first day that became an endearment. You learned the map of his face—the way his nose crinkled when he was thinking, how his curls fell over his forehead when he was tired, the rare, true smile that transformed him completely.

The liking crept in quietly, a warmth in your chest, a flutter in your stomach when his hand would brush yours passing a book.

So when his email arrived in mid-December, it felt both startling and inevitable.

Bright Eyes,

Boston in December is a special kind of bleak. All my mother’s festive cheer feels like a hostile corporate takeover. The thought of another silent, tense “celebration” in my childhood home (or worse, her husband’s) is more than I can currently bear. I find myself craving… something else. Something real. You once mentioned your hometown has a diner with pie that could induce a religious experience. Any chance the offer of asylum still stands? I promise not to philosophize at your family. Much.

- A

You wrote back within the hour.

Angus,

Asylum granted. Pack warm. The pie is even better than I promised. My family’s loud, they ask too many questions, and my dad will probably try to get you to help him fix the garage door. They’re going to love you.

Your hometown wasn't a picture-postcard place. It was a small, midwestern river town where the streets were lined with old oaks and the lights were strung with a haphazard, genuine warmth. The air smelled of woodsmoke and cold, not salt and old money.

He stepped off the bus looking like a displaced poet, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, curls escaping from under a wool beanie. When he saw you waiting on the platform, that real smile broke through, the one that still made your stomach flip.

“You came,” you said, stupidly.

“You promised me pie,” he said, his grey eyes warm. “And a reprieve from existential holiday dread. A compelling offer.” You hugged him, and he returned, giddy and a heart so warm. “Come inside, it’s freezing out there.”

Introducing him to your family was like watching a wild, elegant bird cautiously enter a lively aviary. Your mom hugged him immediately, calling him “honey.” Your dad shook his hand firmly and, true to prediction, within two hours had him holding a flashlight under the stubborn garage door opener, listening patiently to a monologue about rusted springs. Your younger sister asked him if he thought New York was overrated.

“It’s… densely populated,” he replied, with perfect seriousness, and she declared him cool.

The fluff was in the quiet moments in between the cheerful chaos.

It was in your childhood kitchen, him leaning against the counter while you made hot chocolate, his sleeve brushing your arm as he stole a marshmallow. “Domesticity looks good on you, Tully,” you teased.

“It’s a foreign country,” he said, watching your hands. “But the natives are surprisingly kind.”

It was walking through the snowy town square at night, the colored lights reflecting in his eyes. He told you about his first semester, how strange it was to be around people who didn’t know his Barton reputation, who just saw a smart guy with messy hair. You told him about the relief of being home, where your worth wasn’t measured by an organic chemistry grade.

It was Christmas Eve, after your family had gone to bed, leaving the living room lit only by the twinkling tree. You were both on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, listening to an old jazz record your dad loved.

“This is… nice,” Angus said, the word sounding profound in his mouth. “Uncomplicated.”

“Is it?” you asked softly, looking at the way the tree lights danced in his curls.

He turned his head to look at you. His face was so close. You could see the faint freckles across his nose, the soft curve of his lips. The air between you shifted, grew thick and sweet as the honey your mom put in her tea.

“You know,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’ve been trying to figure out what it was about you that first day. Beyond the, ah, extracurricular coping. I think it was that even in a daze, you looked like you were seeing something no one else could. Something kinder.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. “And what do you see now?”

He didn’t answer with words. He leaned in, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. His lips met yours, and it was nothing like the sharp, cynical kisses you might have imagined for Angus Tully. It was soft. It was sweet. It tasted of peppermint cocoa and home and a hesitant, overwhelming hope. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “I see you,” he whispered. “Bright eyes. I see you.”

The warm breeze hits my face. I’ve lived up north all my life, I’ve never had a Christmas with no snow. It’s wierd to me now that I don’t have to shovel before I leave for work, or heat my house up before going to bed.

It’s never occurred to me that people live this way. Hot Christmas mornings, no hot chocolate to warm you up after a snowball fight, and most importantly there aren’t any snowmen.

John and I are still getting used to Utah. I think I liked New Jersey more, but I think I could get used to this.

“Hey y/n! Come down here please!” John calls for me from downstairs in the kitchen. I almost feel his excitement from upstairs in our room.

For your information, John and I have been dating for two years and six months. I can tell you what John is thinking about, or if he is mad/sad. He’s a pretty easy going guy. Not too difficult, not too easy, not too middle. He’s just right.

My footsteps get louder as I run down the stairs to meet the 6”2 man. He, of course he has his grey beanie on. I’m guessing he didn’t take care of his curls. John turns around from the kitchen island, his toothless smile glimmers from the overhead lights.

“Aw how cute!” I giggle, running up to John’s chest.

John has this cute white pj set in his hands, they have green Christmas trees printed on them, and have the words, “ho ho ho” on them. I take them and set them to the side. He must have matching ones in the room for later. I peak over at our small-empty room we call our living room. We haven’t lived in this home for a while, but it’s starting to feel lived in. Lots of memories-just not a lot of life. Even our Christmas tree is dead.

The small fake tree is shinning a warm yellow light, illuminating the darkened room. Only a few presents are visible under the tree, our kitchen is filled with Christmas decor, and secret unwrapped gifts for eachother.

Good thing our home is pretty empty, because John and I are hosting the team Christmas party. John bought alcohol, and ingredients to make eggnog, I baked a few delicious treats and made some homemade gift bags for everyone. I made sure the WAGs had personal hygiene products and my favorite picture of the women all together.

John helped me finish decorating the house, and we waited for the team to all make an appearance. The first couple ti show up were Sean Durzi and his girlfriend Sadie. They brought in a fresh apple pie and their gifts.

“I know you said no additional snacks, but I’m sure the other guys are bringing their favorite holiday food.” Sean walks over to me, he hugs me hard. He twirls me away from John. My back now facing my boyfriend and Durzi’s face is probably making a weird grin-trying to make John jealous.

John pulls Sean off of me, and holds me in his arms. John has rather large biceps, in fact they make me feral.

I hold onto John’s arm, “hey baby? Can we play some music. It’s too quiet in here for a party.” I look up at John and John kisses my forehead.

“Sure.” And he leaves me alone with Sadie and Sean. Within a few minutes we hear music flood the house.

The house has built in speakers, they run through almost every room, and we can even isolate the sounds. John played a classic Mariah Carey tune, and I greet the new incoming guests.

~

My cookies were a hit. Many people took them, and lots of people took John’s eggnog. Unfortunately, more people took Durzi’s apple pie.

The party is coming to a chill relaxing night. People are sharing stories, the ladies are getting to know eachother. The boys are being stupid and discussing crazy plays they’ve seen in their career.

Sadie mentioned Sean needing pre-game cuddles because he has bad anxiety, “yeah. His anxiety is super bad. Sometimes I have to calm him down by driving him to the rink, and if it gets worse I have to hold him down. I also have to cuddle him to bed for his pre-game naps.”

All of the girls giggle and stare at Sean. Honestly, I can’t see him the same. He just looks like a big cuddle bear now. Almost gives me the idea of cuddling John right now.

We exchange our Secret Santa gifts.

I had Sean. Sean had Keller, Keller had Nick abd Nick had John. John had Maverick, and Maverick had me.

I got a super cute camera and a bag of candy. Really affordable and practical. What a sweet kid Mav is.

~

John is getting pretty tipsy off of his alcohol he bought earlier. I told him I want to go to bed soon, and he needs to “kick them out” and John immediately kissed my cheek and grabbed the pj set he suprised me with. I ran to the bathroom to change into them. They feel so soft and comfortable. I come out to the living room expecting everyone to be there on the couch.

No one was there.

It’s not just an idea now, it’s a desire to cuddle my cuddle bear.

All of the cars were backing out of the driveway. Our porch light was off. The door was locked. Music off.

The only person in the living room was John. He’s wearing matching pajamas to my set. Cute!!

“Hey baby.” He walks up to me. Rapidly he pulls me close. We dance to no music. Just the sound of love. He laughs as he pulls me in for a kiss.

I stick my tounge in his mouth. As a joke I tickle the spot his tooth is supposed to be. Unfortunately he pulled away and slapped my ass. He walks to the kitchen to clean up. Watching him put the food and desserts away makes me feel so maternal.

“Johnny?” I sat down on the blue velvety couch. “I love you.” I smiled, not just sitting on the couch now, but laying on my back. I cover my face with my hands in embarrassment.

*It’s not that big of a deal. We’ve been together for a while. It doesn’t matter. -I tell myself.*

“I love you back.” He drunkly answered. He smiled and sucked on his teeth. I see him trying push his lips together, pursing them forward- alsmot like he’s puckering up. He stops smiling, making it seem like he’s not getting butterflies.

I sit up and walk over to him. My pj shorts ride up my ass. I forgot to mention I don’t have anything on underneath.

I hug John from behind as he wiped the kitchen counter off. The house looks like it did from before.

Clean, empty, lifeless…. bland.

John walks to the trash. Throwing away the wipe he used, he waddles over to the sink, at a pace for me to follow behind him as I am still wrapped around him.

I kiss his back- because that’s as far as I can reach. He shakes his shoulders out as he gets tense. My hands trail lower, making a path to his cock. But I pass it. John washes his hands, and he starts to make a little noises, like he’s anticipating that I turn him around and starts sucking on him.

I don’t.

I get up from my position, and walk away. John runs after me, turning the lights off and double checking the door is locked. “Y/n!” He calls after me. I make my way up the stairs to our bedroom.

I flip the blanket over on our bed, and jump into it, “come lay with me.” I slap John’s side of the bed. John’s matching pajama pants flail all over the place while he makes and effort to jump over my legs.

My back is pressed up against our headboard, John’s head is laying in my lap. A pillow in his arms. He just wants to warm up. I play ‘Home Alone’ on the TV we have on our dresser. The room is dark. The house is empty. The only source of light that floods our room is the TV.

John’s beanie falls off. My lap catching his warm hat, I throw it over to his nightstand. He rubs his hands on my knee. He aligns to my sitting position. “I love you more.” He kissed my lap, he crawls to my chest as my back slides down the headboard. I lay horizontally across the bed. My feet hanging on my side of the bed and mh head at John’s side. Stretching across the bed too js my sweet boy. John crawls up to my chest, facing me.

My boobs fall out of the small pajama tank top. John forces his face into my chest, my boob as his weird pillow. I play with his hair. And he falls asleep first. His soft skin as precious lips melt in my hands. I kiss him and whisper how much i appreciate him.

“Goodnight my love. I love you to the moon and back.” I whisper while I turn the TV off. John rolls in closer to me. The blanket on John more than it is on me. For some reason I’m okay with that for tonight.

The final "hurrah" of the Boston trip was a dinner at a stuffy restaurant with linen tablecloths so stiff they could have stood to attention. It was meant to be celebratory, a reunion with Mary after two long, strange days, a final toast before the gloom of Barton reabsorbed you. Instead, the atmosphere at the table was a thick, funereal quiet, broken only by the clink of heavy silverware and the waitress’s over-bright inquiries.

Mary hadn't arrived yet. You and Angus sat side-by-side, islands of exhaustion and private turmoil in the polished sea of the dining room. The ghost of everything that had happened; the bookshop, the jealousy, the gift, the raw, ugly scene with his father that none of you would ever mention—hung between you like a pall. Mr. Hunham, who had somehow become the closest thing you had to a guardian, attempted a few stilted conversational forays about the architectural significance of the wainscoting, but they died, unanswered, in the air. You weren't in the mood. Angus looked hollowed out, all the sharp edges of his cynicism worn down to something bruised and terribly quiet. He just stared at the condensation on his water glass.

The silence stretched, thin and taut, until it was Angus who finally broke it. His voice was low, not much more than a scrape of sound, but in the hushed room, it was as clear as a bell.

“He used to be fine,” he began, his eyes fixed on the weave of the tablecloth as if reading a tragic history there. “Better than fine.” He swallowed, the movement visible in his throat. Then he looked up, not at you, not at Hunham, but at some middle distance where the past was playing out. “He was my dad.”

He took a slow breath, steeling himself to lay the painful facts bare. “Then, about four years ago, he just… started to slip. Acting strange. Erratic. Forgetful. Saying all this weird shit.” His fingers traced the rim of his glass. “My mom took him to a bunch of doctors. They put him on medication.” A bitter, almost imperceptible twist of his lips. “But that just made it worse. He got more confused. And then… he got angry. And then he got… physical.”

Angus said the word like it was a foreign, poisonous thing. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The finality in his tone painted the whole, horrifying picture.

“And that was the last straw. They put him away. And then she divorced him. Without him even realizing it.” His gaze finally dropped back to the table, heavy with a shame that wasn’t his to carry. “That’s why she wants a whole new life.” He let out a shaky exhale. “And it’s easy to just… stash me away in a boarding school. Like half of us there are just stashed away.”

He finally looked at you then, his eyes glassy with unshed tears he’d never let fall. The raw, unvarnished truth of him was almost too much to bear. “And I get it,” he whispered, the confession tearing out of him. “She never has to look at me. Because maybe… when she looks at me, she sees him.”

You held his hand under the table the whole time, a silent anchor in the storm of his confession. Your fingers were laced tightly with his, a tether to the present, because you had no words that could possibly be enough.

Hunham shook his head, a slow, deliberate motion of denial. “No, no, no, no,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “That can’t be true. She… you’re her son.”

“Maybe she’s right,” Angus murmured, echoing the headshake with a defeated one of his own. “I can’t keep it together. I lie, I steal, I piss people off. I only have one real friend, and even then, I was a piece of shit to him. I’ll probably get kicked out of Barton, too. And when I do, it’ll be my own fault. Get sent to Fork Union, and maybe to you-know-where after that. And nobody will care.”

Except you would. The thought slammed into you with the force of a physical blow. You would care. You would lose someone else for a second, horrible time. The sheer, desolate future he painted brought a hot, immediate sting of tears to your eyes, but you blinked them back fiercely. This wasn’t about you. Your grip on his hand tightened.

“And the funny thing is…” Angus trailed off, staring into the middle distance as if watching the ghost of his own future. “I wanted to see him so bad this whole time. But I also… didn’t. You know? Because I’m afraid that’s what’s gonna happen to me one day.”

“Angus,” Hunham said, and his voice had shed its usual bark, becoming something lower, more weathered, a sound meant to soothe. “Listen. You’re not your father.”

“How do you know?”

“Because no one is their own father,” Hunham stated, as if it were the most fundamental law of physics. “I’m not my dad, no matter how hard he tried to beat that idea into me. The girl you’re sitting next to isn’t…” His eyes began to drift, looking past you both into the gallery of his own regrets. He gathered himself, leaning forward slightly. “I find the world a bitter and complicated place, and it seems to feel the same way about me. I think we all have this in common.” He fixed Angus with a look that was stripped of all judgment. “Don’t get me wrong, you have your challenges. You’re erratic and belligerent and a gigantic pain in the balls. But you’re not me, and you’re not your father. You’re your own…” He scoffed lightly, rewording. “Man. No. You’re just a kid. You’re just beginning. And you’re smart. You’ve got time to turn things around.”

You and Angus stared at him, utterly transfixed. In the candlelight of the stuffy restaurant, Paul Hunham was no longer just a miserable teacher; he was a priest delivering the only honest sermon of his life, and you were both his solitary, rapt congregation.

He went on, his voice gaining a strange, rough conviction. “Sure, the Greeks had the idea that the steps you take to avoid your fate are the very steps that lead to it. But that’s just a literary conceit. A good story.” He held Angus’s gaze, unwavering. “In real life, your history does not have to dictate your destiny.” His eyes, full of a hard-worn wisdom, shifted then, landing on you.

“And I hope you know this, too,” he continued, his gaze settling on you with a directness that made the candlelight seem suddenly brighter. “This isn’t just some club for miserable boys. The world is a bitter and complicated place for anyone who bothers to look at it clearly. Your history does not have to dictate your destiny, either.”

“Noted,” you said softly, offering Hunham a small, grateful smile. Your hand in Angus’s never faltered, a steady, warm pressure under the table. If anything, you held on a little tighter.

He returned your smile, “Oh, there’s Mary.” his eyes fell behind you.

Mary's arrival was a gentle, welcome disruption. The table stood for her, a small, formal gesture that felt right. There were hugs, quiet greetings, and the palpable sense of a fractured circle being made whole again. The meal that followed was easier, lighter, the conversation flowing around the shared, unspoken understanding of the difficult days behind them.

The promise of cherries jubilee for dessert was a bright spot, a final bit of festive magic to end the trip. That hope was politely but firmly extinguished by the waitress, citing your minority. Even Hunham's attempt to circumvent the rule was swiftly denied. Undeterred, the group opted for a defiantly makeshift solution: ordering ice cream and cherries to-go, then attempting to assemble their own version on the cold Boston sidewalk. It was a glorious, sticky failure, a mess of melting cream and canned fruit that tasted infinitely better than any proper dessert could have.

Laughter, real and unburdened, finally broke through the lingering gloom. They returned to the car not as a grim teacher and his troubled charges, but as a peculiar, makeshift family, their spirits unexpectedly mended by shared disappointment and a shared, silly rebellion. They drove back toward the hotel not in silence, but in a comfortable quiet, the taste of stolen sweetness and the warmth of hard-won connection lingering on the long road back.

                                                          ----

You returned to the frozen, sleeping campus on December 28th. The world outside Barton’s gates was gearing up for New Year's Eve, but inside, time felt suspended. Two long, empty weeks stretched before the spring semester would crank the machinery of school back to life. There was nothing to do, and everything to avoid.

So, the five of you—the reluctant cohort now solidified, with Danny choosing more often than not to abandon his TV and join the odd congregation—settled into the rhythm of the holdover. You made the most of the barren stretch, not with grand plans, but with the quiet, stubborn insistence that you would not simply disappear into the silence.

“Man, I sure do wish we had some noisemakers,” Mary mused, nestled comfortably between you and Angus on the common room’s worn sofa. She stared wistfully at the crackling fire as if it might conjure a party horn.

“I’ve got one.” Angus’s voice was flat. He reached into his back pocket and produced a crumpled, brightly colored paper noisemaker with the bored efficiency of a magician performing a tired trick.

Danny, slumped in a threadbare armchair beside you, huffed. “Where the hell did you get that?”

“I don’t know,” Angus shrugged, examining the noisemaker as if it had materialized there. “Found it.”

Found it, you thought, hiding a smile. That was the official story for anything acquired during your recent “reconnaissance missions” through the school’s service tunnels, or during a quiet, mutual-breaking-and-entering session into the locked-up dormitories to simply… look around.

Mr. Hunham, presiding in his usual chair, reached over and plucked the noisemaker from Angus’s fingers with a sigh. “Well, you’re not deploying that in here. The structural integrity of this building is tenuous enough without you introducing sonic disturbances.”

“You know,” you said, leaning forward to catch his eye, a teasing glint in your own. “You weren’t so uptight about structural integrity in Boston.” You then swiveled your head toward Danny, adopting an official tone. “As the head janitor—”

“—I’m the only janitor,” he corrected, giving you a light, good-natured elbow to the ribs.

“Where do you stand on indoor fireworks?” you pressed, undeterred.

Danny didn’t miss a beat. “About as far away as I can get.”

Mary gave a sage nod, patting Angus’s knee as if consoling him for the confiscation. “Very wise.”

The countdown on the flickering TV began, its digital numbers pulsing in the dim room. Almost as one, you all rose to your feet—a small, ragged circle in the middle of the silent, sleeping school.

You found yourself shoulder-to-shoulder with Angus, the sleeve of his sweater brushing against yours. In the shuffling closeness, your hands drifted, the backs of your fingers meeting for a fleeting, electric moment before parting. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Now, you thought. After the countdown. You’d say it then. You’d give him the book that had been a secret weight in your bag for days, a promise waiting for its moment.

But before you could steady your resolve, his arm slid around your waist. It wasn’t a hesitant gesture; it was sure, almost casual, his hand settling firmly against your side. You jerked your head to look at him, startled. His gaze was fixed on the television, his profile calm, undeterred, as if this point of contact was the most normal thing in the world. As if, in this suspended moment between years, such an anchor was not just allowed, but necessary.

The three adults’ voices rose around you, a chorus of grinning anticipation. “Five… Four… Three…”

Your own voice joined theirs, slightly breathless. “Two… One…”

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

The shout filled the common room, raw and joyful, echoing off the high ceilings. Confetti from the noisemaker that never was seemed to hang in the air. In the burst of noise, Angus’s arm around you didn’t loosen. It held fast, a silent, solid claim in the roaring new beginning.

“Children.”

You and Angus turned your heads in unison at Hunham’s summons. He stood by the fireplace, holding the confiscated noisemaker aloft between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a rare artifact. His expression was one of solemn, bureaucratic consideration.

“Would you like to light this sucker off in the kitchen,” he intoned gravely, “or outside?”

A grin broke across Angus’s face, wide and genuine, transforming his features. “Considering it’s approximately minus ten degrees outside…”

“The kitchen it is,” Mr. Hunham concluded with a definitive nod, as if granting a major diplomatic concession.

“What?!” The synchronized gasp of outrage came from both Danny and Mary, their faces pictures of mock-horror and genuine alarm.

A giggle burst from your lips, the sound bright and unstoppable in the warm room. The sheer, delightful absurdity of it; Paul Hunham, master of rules and dampeners of joy, presiding over the sanctioned creation of a minor, indoor riot, it was too perfect. The new year, it seemed, had ushered in a new world.

Once the noisemaker was primed and spitting furious sparks, Angus drew his arm back and launched it like a major league pitcher, sending it skittering down the length of the empty kitchen to detonate with a muffled POP-CRACKLE against the far wall. You saw the flare of light, a brief, violent sun against the stainless steel, and then a second of pure, concussive sound that punched the air from the room before dissolving into a high, thin ringing in your ears.

As the silence in your head gradually filled back in, it was replaced by three distinct layers of sound. The first was laughter—uncontrollable, gasping, tear-streaked laughter from everyone around you, a chorus of pure, unadulterated joy that bounced off the tile. The second was Mary’s voice, weaving through the hilarity, half-scolding, half-delighted: “You’re all mad! Look at the soot! Absolute hooligans!” The third was the faint, tinny echo of Auld Lang Syne still drifting from the television in the other room, a ghost of tradition haunting their wonderful, silly chaos.

You’d always thought nostalgia was a backward-looking emotion, something you’d feel as an adult, aching for a sweeter, simpler past. You never imagined you could feel it all at once, in the present tense, as the moment was happening. This was the memory being made, and you were already aching with the knowledge of its fleeting perfection. The day had been joyful, but this particular heartbeat of time,the ringing ears, the shared, breathless laughter, the soot on the wall—struck a profound and strangely melancholic chord deep within you. It was happiness, sharpened by the bittersweet awareness that it couldn’t, and wouldn’t, last.

“Angus, I need to talk to you.”

You’d saved him for last. After the hugs, the shared, breathless laughter, after everyone had drifted into the common room in a contented, post-chaos daze, you’d caught his sleeve and pulled him aside, into the quiet, shadowed hallway just beyond the kitchen’s glow.

He looked at you, his expression still soft from the laughing, but a flicker of that familiar, watchful caution returning to his eyes. “Okay. You’re being weirdly serious.”

“I am being serious.” Your heart was a frantic bird against your ribs. You reached into your bag, your fingers closing around the familiar, worn cover. You took a deep breath, pulled it out, and thrust it toward him. “Here. This is for you. I got it in Boston. At Brattle’s.”

He looked down at the olive-green copy of The Sirens of Titan in his hands as if you’d just handed him a live fish. His brow furrowed in genuine shock. “You… what? Why?”

“Because,” you started, and then the words just started tumbling out, a nervous, rambling flood you couldn’t stop. “Because when you gave me that book, it was… it was the best thing. And I saw this, and I just thought of you immediately. Not the cynical you, but the real you. The one under all the… the tuff. And I’ve been carrying it around since Boston because I didn’t know when to give it to you, and now it’s New Year’s and everything’s almost over and I just… I don’t want it to be over.”

You were breathless, clutching the strap of your bag like a lifeline. “This whole break has been the weirdest, most unexpected Christmas of my life. And it’s also been the best. Because you were here. Because of this.” You gestured vaguely between you, at the quiet hallway, at the memory of the kitchen explosion. “And in the restaurant, when you said nobody would care… you were so wrong, Angus. I would care. It would break me if you got sent away. Do you get that? You’re not just some… some inconvenient person stashed at Barton to me. You’re…”

You fumbled, the enormity of the feeling choking you. “You’re the most infuriating, brilliant, stupidly beautiful person I’ve ever met, and I think I’m…”

He didn’t let you finish. He moved suddenly, cutting off your ramble not with words, but by closing the small space between you. One hand, still holding the Vonnegut, another came up to cradle the side of your face. His eyes searched yours for half a second—a silent question, a shared terror, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t like the kiss you had always read about in romance books. That had been a collision of tension and surprise. This was deliberate. Certain. Softer, but with a depth that made your knees feel weak. It was an answer, and a confession of its own. When he finally pulled back, just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, you were both breathing shakily.

“You talk too much,” he whispered, his voice rough. A tear, just one, had tracked a clean line through the faint soot smudged on his cheek from the noisemaker. “You’re a gigantic pain. And you give better gifts than I do.”

Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, and in the quiet dark of the hallway, with the distant sounds of their laughter as your only witness, it felt less like an ending and more like the very first, real beginning.

“Happy New Year’s, Tully,” you whispered against his lips when you finally parted, the words feather-soft and full of a wonder you didn’t try to hide.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he pulled you into him, the worn paperback still clasped in one hand pressed gently against your back. It was a full, encompassing hug, one that buried your face in the wool of his sweater and his in the curve of your neck. He held on tightly, as if the floor might give way. You could feel the steady, solid thump of his heart against yours, a rhythm slowly calming from its frantic beat. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his nose brushing your skin, and you knew he was breathing you in, memorizing the scent of snow, old books, and this specific, shared moment.

You closed your eyes, letting the world narrow to this: the warmth of him, the faint, clean smell of his soap, the slight tremor in his arms that spoke of emotions too big for either of you to name yet. You cherished it—the quiet, the solidity of him, the undeniable rightness. It was a shelter. It was a promise.