#imsorrydidijuststutter

“I am a guest. I’m very much a guest. They’re going to think I’m ungrateful.  And rude. The worst guest.”

“They’re not.”

“I should have baked a pie,” said Chris. “I’m pretty good at baking pies.  You like my pies.”

Darren nodded. “I do like your pies, but there are going to be plenty of pies here already.”

“Can we stop at the store?”

“We’re already in the driveway.”

“Can we go back?  I can grab a bottle of wine.  I mean, you’ll have to buy it, but I can pay you back for it.  Anything to not be empty handed.  Why didn’t I think to bring a bottle of wine?” Chris rubbed his damp palms against his thighs.  This might have been a grand mistake.

“Probably because you can’t take it on a plane,” said Darren, infuriatingly reasonably.

“I could have packed it in my checked bag.”

“We didn’t check any bags.” Darren finally turned the key in the ignition and the car shuddered to stillness. The sudden quiet rang in Chris’ ears, followed by the heavy thud of his own beating heart.

“Can we please go back to the store?”

“We could.  But that would mean my parents watching us backing out of the driveway after sitting here for five minutes.”

Chris glanced at the house; he couldn’t see anyone lurking in the windows, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. “They’re watching us?”

“Of course they are. We’ve been sitting here for five minutes. They’re probably all waiting.”

“Fuck.”

“Not for the next couple of days.  Saddle up and get out of car.”

***

It wasn’t that Chris had actively been avoiding meeting Darren’s parents.  It just hadn’t happened yet.  Well, it had. Sort of.  It had happened extremely briefly and in a situation Chris wouldn’t have at all described as “meeting the parents.”  A quick hug on a red carpet at a movie premiere when he could hardly hear a word wasn’t the same as showing up to the family home.

They both had busy lives (and growing busier) and San Francisco was just far enough away from Los Angeles that it wasn’t as if they could pop over for a friendly, meet-the-boyfriend-brunch.  Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Criss had been in town a number of times since he and Darren had started doing whatever it was they were doing, but Chris just happened to be otherwise occupied those times. So he hadn’t avoided them; not exactly.

But now they were unavoidable, real and present. Now, Darren’s rented car was sitting in the driveway of a surprisingly large and well-landscaped house, and Darren’s parents were inevitable.  It shouldn’t be a surprise, Chris thought as he unfurled himself from the sedan. Darren’s family was wealthy, he knew this.  Of course they had a big house on a hill in an affluent neighborhood in a rich city.  They were going to take one look at Chris and turn him out on the doorstep.

“Are you coming or do I have to drag you?”  Darren stood a few feet away, overnight bag over his shoulder, fondness in his eyes.

“No, I’m coming.”

“Cause my dad really hates to be kept waiting.”

Chris quickened his steps until he heard Darren laugh.  “You’re an asshole.”

Darren nodded.  “Yes.”

Chris’ heart beat heavily in his throat as they climbed the steps to the door; he wiped his damp palms on his thighs.  The air felt too warm; too warm for December and too warm for the moment.

He’d never met someone’s parents before; never been in a relationship where it even came up.  But Darren had started talking about his parents from almost the very beginning.  Chris had seen pictures of them, had overheard Darren on the phone with his mom a number of times.  Once, a few months before the hug on the red carpet, Darren had held the phone out towards Chris, a clear offer for him to take it and say hello to Mrs. Criss.  Chris had never before tripped over his own heels trying to back away in such haste.  He hadn’t realized, hadn’t even considered until that moment, that Darren had told his parents about them, whatever it was they were.  But obviously he had, and continued to. Obviously, Mr. and Mrs. Criss knew enough about him - about them - to invite him to Christmas at their place.  It was distinctly terrifying.

Darren still had a key to the house, but didn’t need it. The door was unlocked.

“And like I said, it’s just going to be my parents. My brother is in New York with his girlfriend and my grandparents didn’t feel like traveling that far this year. So it’s just the four of us. It’ll be easy.”

A cascade of aromas hit Chris the moment the door swung open, every holiday with his own family coming to mind.  Roasting meat, a melange of sides, the heat of a stove that’s been on all day.  What followed was the sound - the unmistakable cacophony of people intimately comfortable with each other talking over each other. There was, most assuredly, more than just two people in the house.

Chris felt sweat break out on his forehead. He gripped the strap of his overnight bag tightly.

“Uhm-“ Darren began, only to be interrupted by a young man appearing quite suddenly in the foyer of the house.

“Baby brother!” He greeted, all smiles with a beer in his hand.

“You’ve never once called me that,” responded Darren, dryly.

“First time for everything.  Speaking of…”

Chris gulped audibly as attention turned to him. “Hi.”

“You must be the boyfriend,” said the person who Chris was quite sure was Darren’s brother. Chris knew a little about him, from his own internet searching and Darren’s stories, but they’d never officially met.

“I’m Chris.” He stuck his hand out to shake.

“Chuck. The brother.”  He didn’t look at all like Darren

“Nice to meet you,” Chris said, assuming he sounded as awkward as he felt.  Somewhere in the house other people were still talking and soft Christmas music filtered through the jumble of conversations.  He wanted to flee.

“I thought you were in New York.” Darren asked, guiding Chris into the house and shutting the door. He helped Chris out of his coat and hung it on one of the already crowded coat hooks on the wall in the entryway.

Chuck shrugged, but the gleam in his eyes and the upturn of his mouth belied his nonchalance. “I’m here.”

Darren glanced down the main hallway, as though seeking out the filtering voices. “And everyone else?”

“Also here.  Some of them, anyway.”

“But I thought-“

“Chuck, is that Darren?  Finally?” Called a loud, deep voice from somewhere in the house.

“Yes!” Chuck answered and dread filled Chris’ stomach. Any chance of escaping slipped away from him completely.

Darren looked apologetically at Chris and mouthed: “Sorry.”

“Merry Christmas,” Chuck said cheerfully, clearly enjoying every uncomfortable moment.  “Eggnog?”

***

Chris’ heart beat painfully hard as they walked into the kitchen.  Darren’s hand discrete on the small of his back wasn’t comforting the way it should have been.  All Chris could think was how obvious that hand would be to anyone who saw them, as though his mere presence at a family Christmas wasn’t obvious enough.  As though the very reason for coming to Christmas dinner in the first place wasn’t obvious, at least to Darren’s parents.

Darren’s mother was a tiny thing in a long-sleeved dress and heels, a glass of wine in one hand. Her face broke open into the most joyous, open-hearted expression Chris had ever seen when she laid eyes on Darren.

A flurry of hugs and kisses followed. Darren’s father, a slightly taller (though not by much) man with white hair and a toothy grin, was a bit more reserved in his greetings, though not by much. He wore a suit jacket with a bow tie and squeezed Darren heartily, as though it had been years since they last saw each other.

Chris loitered a few paces back, eager to stay out of the way and, perhaps, to go completely unnoticed. It did not work.

Mrs. Criss stepped back from Darren and turned her considerable attention to Chris. “Are you going to introduce us to your friend or just let him stand there all night?”

Chris gulped at “friend” and glanced at Darren.  Mrs. Criss’ tone was teasing, but her eyes were inquisitive.

“Mom, you remember Chris,” Darren gestured inelegantly. “My boyfriend.”

Chris gulped harder at that and felt his cheeks flush an embarrassing shade of red. It wasn’t a word he liked; it wasn’t a word they used. But there wasn’t a word for “the guy I’m mad about even though I don’t know what we’re doing or where this is going but he makes me feel like it’s worth trying.”  It was just easier to say boyfriend.

Chris fought to not visibly square his shoulders as he stepped towards Darren’s mother. “Pleased to see you again, ma’am.”

“Darren’s been talking about you. We’re so glad we’ll be able to spend some real time together.” She looked like she wanted to give him a hug but settled on a handshake.

Darren’s father, surprisingly, had no such reservation. He clapped Chris heartily on the back; he smelled like expensive aftershave. “So glad you could make it. Lucky for you more of the family is here. Get it all done at once.”

Chris didn’t feel lucky at all.

“Yeah, about that,” Darren chimed in. “I thought no one else was going to be here.”

“Hoped, you mean,” Chuck threw out from across the kitchen, grinning as he did.

“Your grandparents decided to make a whole holiday out of it,” Mrs. Criss said, as though they hadn’t all just ruined Christmas for Chris. “Now, what can I get you boys to drink?”

“Oh, uhm. Whatever’s handy;” Chris demurred.

“Are you even old enough to drink?” Asked Chuck. Chris wasn’t, but Mrs. Criss poured him a glass of red wine anyway.

“Son?” Mr. Criss lifted a mostly empty glass of Scotch from the counter and shook it in Darren’s direction.

Darren nodded and finally left Chris’ side to reach into a cabinet for a bottle. He moved with deep familiarity around the kitchen, and it struck Chris then that Darren had spent years in this home, growing up, molding the person he’d become. This was a home to him far more than his shitty apartment in Los Angeles was, and probably would ever be.

“Chuck,” Mrs Criss said. “Take these out there.” She gestured to a few trays of hors d'oeuvres.  The platters were silver, Chris was sure, decorated with real sprigs of holly.

Chuck rolled his eyes fondly and did as he was told.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Mr. Criss said. “Hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

Chris shook his head. “Oh no, I eat meat.” A few cabinets away, Chris heard Darren snort and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to turn and glare at him. The kitchen was suddenly very warm and his heart beat very loudly.

“Darren says you’re a chef?” He asked, to say something.

“I cook,” Mr. Criss demurred, shrugging in a way so reminiscent of Darren it hurt.

“He’s modest,” Darren chimed in, handing his father a fresh Scotch.

“Not exactly a family trait,” Chris said, not quite under his breath.  Darren bumped his shoulder and smiled, warm and relaxed. Chris’ nerves about meeting the parents didn’t seem to affect him at all. Though Chris was hard pressed to remember a time when Darren seemed truly stressed; perhaps he simply hid it better.  Chris wondered what Darren might be like if he ever took him home to Clovis.

“We wish you could have come for Christmas Eve,” said Mrs. Criss, taking a few things out of the fridge. “But we know how busy your show keeps you.”

They had been busy, but not with the show.  In exchange for coming to San Francisco on Christmas, Darren had promised them a few days to themselves in some ski lodge where they didn’t plan on skiing at all.

“Christmas Eve is basically Christmas Part One,” Darren sort of explained.

“Ah.”  Somewhere in the house It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas began playing.

“We basically just do this, but earlier in the day.  It’s a brunch thing. There’s an egg casserole dish and a lot of champagne. It’s not as weird as it sounds.”

“It sounds delicious.”

“Hey, losers. Stop hiding in here,” Chuck reappeared in the kitchen, now without the trays he’d left with. “They’re asking for you, out in the living room.  Cheeks to pinch.  Life choices to judge and pick apart.  It’s your turn; get out there.”

Darren rolled his eyes.  “Come on,” he touched Chris’ elbow. “This’ll be fun.”

***

Chris would not have agreed it was fun.  Darren introduced him to his mother’s parents; a small, smiling couple who were very friendly and who perhaps did not quite get who Chris was.  Mr. Criss’ sister and her husband were there as well, having left their grown children to their own devices that year. It was very apparent that the aunt understood perfectly well who Chris was.

“Probably a good thing my cousins aren’t here,” Darren whispered in his ear at one point. “There are a lot of them.”

Chris didn’t have the big family Darren seemed to, but he didn’t think he missed out on anything. Even this smaller gathering seemed like a like to deal with. Keeping up with conversations. People talking over each other. The looming presence of fragile egos and feelings just waiting to be hurt. He was fine with the family he had.

But still, Chris liked watching Darren with his family, more uninhibited in a group of people than Chris had really seen him before.  He laughed loudly and openly, eyes crinkling and hands expressive as he spoke.  Darren was wearing a nice shirt, pressed slacks, and a tie with reindeer on it.  He looked very fine indeed, with his hair a little messy and glasses perched on his nose, even if Chris still thought it strange to dress up for a family gathering. He looked the part of the doting son, the successful second generation.

Chris eventually retreated to a quieter corner of the living room, happy to keep observing the family while nibbling on what were actually quite excellent hors d'oeuvres.

He didn’t notice Chuck disappearing from the circle until he reappeared quite suddenly, and quite closely.

“You didn’t turn him gay, you know.”

Chris choked on a deviled egg. “What?” He squawked, loud enough that Aunt Criss glanced over at him.

Chuck took a sip of his beer and spoke lowly.  “You’re not the first guy he’s been with. So, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“About what?”

“You know, that mom and dad are going to blame you for gaying up their first born son.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” Chris countered, soundly petulantly defensive even to his own ears.

Chuck, infuriatingly, smirked. “Weren’t you?”

Chris opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He could feel the blush spreading down to his chest at the insinuation.  Darren didn’t talk about it - his labels, his definitions - and Chris didn’t ask.  Darren took him on a date, out to dinner and a show, and Chris just assumed.  He didn’t ask what his parents knew, or didn’t know, or what they thought of the whole situation.  He didn’t ask about Darren’s history, who came before him, who didn’t. Darren approached him and he said yes. It was as simple as that.

But of course Chris worried.  Of course he wondered if he was a phase that would end.  If Darren would come to his senses about who he was, about who Chris was, and let it go, let him go.  Chris worried about it the moment Darren asked him to come home for Christmas, and he worried about it in the weeks leading up and the entire trip to the front door.  And he worried about it standing next to Chuck, looking across the room at the man who’d occupied so many of his thoughts and daydreams in the last year.  Of course he wondered if it was only just a dream.

“Have you met him yet?” Chuck asked.

“Who?”

“The college boyfriend.” He said it like it was obvious.

Annoyance finally broke through the embarrassment. “You know, Darren’s said a lot about you, but he never said you were an asshole.”  Chris struggled to keep his voice to a low whisper.  He didn’t need the family overhearing any of this.

“Hey, just looking out for my little brother.”

Chris believed him. He knew what it was like, the fierce need to protect someone.  But still, he didn’t much care for the interrogation.

Across the room, Darren looked up from his conversation with his aunt and caught his eye.  Darren smiled, but it was a question, probably at the concern furrowing Chris’ brow.  He got up from the sofa and made his way over to them.

“You guys talking about me?” He asked, looking carefully at Chris.

The silence that followed said enough.

“Leave him alone, Charles,” Darren warned, equal parts serious and teasing.

Chuck lifted his hands.  “Just doing a brother’s work.”

Darren touched Chris’ elbow.  “If he’s fucking with you, just punch him.  Or tell mom.”

“Hey,” Chuck protested.

Chris shook his head. “It’s fine. We were just...coming to an understanding.”

“About me?”

“Not everything is about you.” Chris wanted to touch the side of Darren’s pouting mouth, but didn’t.

Darren looked like he wanted to say more, but Mr. Criss’ voice sounded through the house, calling them all to dinner.

***

The Criss’ had an honest-to-god dining room, with a long, heavy wooden table and a china cabinet Chris was surprised to see still standing after two boys lived in the house.  Chris felt useless, as the table was already set, the centerpiece already arranged, and the food was already en route to the table, brought out by Chuck and Darren.

To Chris’ relief, he was sat between Mr. Criss, who took his place at the end of the table, and Darren, sitting on his other side.  He was only disheartened that Mrs. Criss was at the far end of the table opposite her husband, but he wasn’t going to complain.  He supposed if things went the way he wanted them to, he’d have Christmases aplenty to get to know her better.

“This looks wonderful, Charles,” Aunt Criss complimented as they all settled down.

Chris has expected a turkey, perhaps because that’s often what his own family ended up with for Christmas. Or maybe he really expected something completely unexpected. But instead Mr. Criss has done a good old fashioned roast, steaming and fragrant with herbs, and surrounded by sides of potatoes, grilled asparagus, and honey roasted apples.

“Oh, thank you,” Chris said as his plate was taken away and handed over to be filled.

“Dad used to be very particular about plating,” Darren explained softly. “He’d keep everyone out of the dining room while he plated everything to within an inch of its life before letting us back in for the grand reveal. He’s mellowed. Now, he just serves everyone at the table.  It’s faster this way.”

Chris wasn’t going to complain. It saved him any potential embarrassment of dropping food on the pristine table cloth.

Conversation wilted as everyone dug into their food. Chris was relieved to see that everyone ate with an appetite; he hadn’t managed to choke down breakfast that morning and his stomach was nearly rumbling.  Next to him, Darren refilled his wine glass and stole a few spears of asparagus off his plate.

Grandmother Criss delicately patted her mouth with her napkin. “So, how did you meet? I don’t believe you said earlier.”

The inevitable question came later than Chris had anticipated, but it still caught him off guard.   “Oh, uhm.”

“Work,” Darren chimed in. “The TV show I’m doing. Chris was on it before I started. We met there.”

It was such an easy way of explaining something so rife with complication.

“And your characters are dating. On the TV show.” Grandmother Criss asked.  She wore pearls and a bright red sweater and had the same smile as her daughter.

“Yes.”

Uncle Criss looked down the table at them. “And you’re, you know, together. Actually.”

“Yes.”

Together felt like a good way to frame it, as good as any.  Better than dating, better than boyfriends. Both of those terms begged something they didn’t have, something they didn’t have time for. Or the freedom for.

“Isn’t that funny,” said Aunt Criss.

Under the table, Darren squeezed his knee.  “Well, you know, we get to see each other all the time,” he said. “Get to spend all day together sometimes.”

Chris’ chest tightened. Somehow he hadn’t quite considered it like that. Through the show and their filming schedules he was given the luxury of immersing himself in Darren, from the very beginning. No awkward waiting between almost-dates for a call or a text that may or may not come. Darren was there in the morning at call time all the way until they wrapped. Hours spent on set talking and listening, getting to be near each other with the protection of the crew around. Chris didn’t have to think of any excuse to sit with Darren between set ups. He was supposed to. They were working together, acting together. And if sometimes Darren followed him home after wrapping for the day, well, that was part of it too.

“It works,” Chris added, putting his hand on top of Darren’s, out of sight but wholly present.  “For us.”

Darren grinned, toothy and unashamed, and the conversation turned elsewhere.

***

After dinner, Chris refused to let Mrs. and Mr. Criss clean up the table by themselves.

“You really should join the others,” Mrs. Criss said as Chris stacked plates to carry to the kitchen.  “We take care of this every year.”

“My mother would never forgive me if I didn’t help. You cooked, I can at least help clean up.”

Her smile was a homecoming.

Darren had disappeared into the study room with an apologetic look over his shoulder, herded by his aunt and uncle towards the piano Chris was quite sure awaited.  He wasn’t wrong.  From just down the hall, Chris heard the opening notes of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas ring out, softly struck on a finely tuned piano.

“We can hardly pull him away from that thing,” commented Mrs. Criss, fondness warm in her voice.

“I think perhaps we regret ever putting him down in front of one,” Mr. Criss added.

“Well, I don’t think he’d have made a very good banker,” Chris mused and then blushed under the curious look Mr. Criss gave him.

“No, I don’t think so either.”

Mrs. Criss loaded the last few dishes that would fit into the dishwasher and got it running.  “We’ll get the rest later. Would you start the coffee pot? It’s all ready to go. I’m going to see what everyone wants before we get dessert out.”

Chris nearly groaned at the thought of more food.  There were at least two tinfoil-covered pies on the counter and an overloaded tray of cookies. He didn’t even want to think about what else might be hiding in the refrigerator.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Criss said as he walked over to the coffee pot and flipped it on. “You’ve got time to digest before the next round.  Darren has a whole canon to get through, and that’s before Chuck joins in.”

In the study, a jazzier rendition of O Christmas Tree began and Chris imagined Darren bent over the keys of the piano, bobbing his head and twisting his shoulders to the music.  Warmth tightened in his stomach and made it hard to breathe for a moment.

“Bourbon?” Mr. Criss offered, pulling a bottle out of the cabinet and tipping it towards him.

Chris shook his head. “Oh, no, than you. Don’t much care for it actually. Tried it just the once. That was enough.”

Mr. Criss smiled. “I don’t either, but people keeping giving it to me and I keep drinking it.” He offered Chris instead a refill of wine.

Chris thought he could very happily spend the next dozen holidays trading stories and quips with Darren’s father.

“Maybe you can join Darren on the piano this time around? Do a little Christmas duet, you know, for his mom.”

Chris nearly blanched. “Oh, I--”

“Whenever he calls, he goes on about you.”

The thought of Darren talking to his parents about him, about them, was something he’d have to revisit later he wasn’t panicking about this.  “I couldn’t.”

“You sing for a living, yes?”

“Well, yes, but. In a closed off studio where no one can see you. And it’s not live.” The tour had been something of a nightmare for him. He’d strongly considered medicating just to get through it, but instead found a different, better source of strength and comfort in Darren.

“So you’re shy.”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess I am.”  It was that, and more.  The intimacy of a small room, nowhere to hide.

“Must be difficult in your line of work.”

Chris shrugged. “You get through it.”

Mr. Criss took a sip of bourbon. “Yes, you do.”

***

Darren was indeed seated at the piano, with his tie undone and his cheeks flushed from the warmth in the room and the drinks he’d had.  Chuck was leaning against a wall while their grandparents sat together on a loveseat, shoulder to shoulder.  Mrs. Criss was chatting quietly with the aunt and uncle while Darren played away.  Garlands were hung on the walls, poinsettias placed on end tables.  Cinnamon scented candles burned.

A tumbler of whiskey sat on the top of the piano, ice melting slowly, and Chris put his wine glass down next to it.

Darren looked up when Chris approached and his face broke open in a bright, toothy grin.  “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Sit with me.”

There was enough room on the piano bench for two, but it was a squeeze.  Chris felt acutely every inch of Darren’s thigh against his leg, the press of his shoulder, the heat of him through their clothes.

“You gonna sing a song with me?” Darren asks, leaning more against him.  His hands were splayed across the keys, easy, relaxed; veins crisscrossing the backs of his hands and nails blunt, buffed.

“Maybe.”

The opening notes of It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year tinkled through the room.

“A classic,” Chris murmured. He was painfully aware of the glances directed his way from Darren’s family members, and tried to ignore them.  “Not the most fun to sing.”

“What about this?” Darren moved into Silent Night , soft and plaintive.

“Bit more in my range,” Chris said and Darren laughed.

“Maybe this?”

Chris’ heart squeezed when a familiar song began to play, jazzy notes ringing across his skin, through his veins.  “It’s not that cold outside,” he said.  “Not here.”

“It’s the only duet I know,” mused Darren, briefly leaning his cheek against Chris’ shoulder.  His hair brushed softly against Chris’ cheek.

“That’s a lie.”

“But baby it’s cold outside.”

The urge to join Darren in the song bubbled up in Chris’ belly.  “To be fair, this evening has been quite nice.”

“Is this our song?” Darren asked, continuing to play on the piano.

“We don’t have a song,” Chris answered.

“We should have one.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m warm .”

“But...baby it’s cold outside.”

Darren laughed, loud and long.

***

Chris woke before Darren, buried under the blankets in Darren’s old bedroom, his old bed.  He’d been somewhat surprised when Darren had pulled him upstairs and not to a guest room, but he wasn’t going to protest, especially when the evening had gone so well.

A bit of light peeked through the drapes, just enough he could see some of the books on the shelves, the faded art on the walls, the old knick-knacks that Darren’s parents had left in his room.  Maybe later he’d snoop around a bit, seek out something just embarrassing enough from Darren’s childhood he could save for a rainy day.

Chris stretched a little.  Next to him, Darren was a solid, comforting weight. The house was quiet and the bed was warm, but he pulled himself away and tip-toed downstairs.

Mrs. Criss was also already awake, standing in the kitchen and sipping from a steaming mug while looking out of the window.

“Any snow?” Chris asked.

Mrs. Criss turned slightly and smiled at him.  “No, no white Christmas this year.”

“Never is at my parents’ place either.  Never snows at all.”

“Darren will have to take you skiing one day.”

Chris didn’t bother saying mentioning the ski lodge they’d be driving too next, or even that he’d never been skiing at all.  He probably looked like someone who’d never been on the steep side of a mountain.  The mere thought that Darren’s mother saw more to his future with Darren said enough.

“I was just getting breakfast started.  It’ll be a bit, though.  The boys all tend to sleep in after Christmas.” Mrs. Criss pulled a few things out of the fridge, a carton of eggs and what Chris was sure was a ham.

“Can I help?”

“Oh no, that’s all right, but thank you. I quite like the quiet after the storm, if you understand me.  Would you like some coffee?”

“Actually, I think I might go back upstairs.  If that’s okay.”

Mrs. Criss smiled gently. “Of course it is. Breakfast should be ready in an hour or so.”

Chris turned to leave, vaguely unsettled by not knowing why, when Mrs. Criss’ soft voice pulled him back.

“Chris?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I really am glad you joined us for Christmas. I know it can’t have been easy - giving up the holiday with your own family - but it meant a lot to Darren.  And to us.  I mean that.”

Chris swallowed hard past the tightness in his throat. “I had a great time.”

Mrs. Criss nodded.  “Go back to bed. I’ll come get you both when breakfast is ready.”

Back upstairs, Darren was still asleep, tucked under the blankets.  Chris looked at him for a moment - the curls messy on his forehead, the red patch on his cheek from being pressed into the pillow - and felt more at ease in his life than he had since the tour.  Maybe longer.  He took a deep, centering breath.

Darren grumbled as Chris slid back into bed, half rolling over as Chris tugged the blankets up around them. “B’fast time?”

“Not yet, but soon.”

“M’rry Chris’mas.”  Darren pressed dry lips against his neck; his breath was warm, arm heavy as he slung it across Chris’ waist.