TW: Domestic violence and death
1977
The day had been mild for Christmas.
He and his sister had woken up early to unwrap their presents, and spent the morning cutting out Christmas biscuits. The whole family had gone to the local zoo, and Daddy had made a joke that he didn't quite understand and Mummy blushed to â "not in front of the children, love". They'd had a modest but filling Christmas dinner, and now they'd settled down for the evening. Porter was playing with his little action figurine and Dana was reading her new book, while on the little television jittered a rerun of an unremarkable Christmas flick from a few years ago that no one was paying attention to.
"You've been a good dad today, Barty", Mummy hummed, as she took an empty bottle off of Daddy's armrest. The motionless man answered with a short grunt. "...if only you could be like this on all the other days of the year", she muttered under her breath as she struggled to make the bottle fit in the bin bag.
"What did you say, woman?"
"Nothing", her voice stumbled a bit.
"Fetch me another one of that, will you?"
"We're out."
"What happened to that Jameson I left the other night?"
"What do you think I lit that Christmas pudding with?"
"What?" His father turned his head for the first time since he'd sat down.
"I... used it to light the Christmas pudding."
That was when all hell broke loose.
"You stupid fucking cow," a plate clattered on the floor, "you useless, harebrainedâ"
"Please, love, notâ"
"What, not in front of the children?"
As the clamour muffled away into the room, Porter grasped his figurine until his fingernails turned white. He studied every single crease and imperfection of the cheap paint coat that was already starting to peel off as he crawled up on the floor and tried to fall asleep.
Mummy had black eyes on Boxing Day morning. Dana had to help her with a tin opener because some of her fingers hurt too much to bend. Daddy was passed out on the bed.
His mother was gone by Easter. Dana gave him a sketchpad and coloured pencils so that they could could take her body out while he looked away. The man, who took her life even before she was dead, was passed out on the bed.
Present
"...and that is my jolly little Dickensian Solstice story that you so desperately asked for â Do you think I should contact Hallmark regarding filming rights? â and why I have refused for so long to partake in the... revelries that William arranges for the occasion."
Porter slowly poured out two glasses of ruby-red wine. He traced his lover's face lit by the flickering candellight, as if it were a delicate piece of art that anything more than a gentle gaze could destroy.
"But this year, I have someone worth celebrating it with."
As he was about to lift his glass for a toast, his Treasure snatched him by the collar of his shirt and brought his forehead against theirs. They coaxed the wineglass out of his deft fingers and took a sip out of it. Porter felt the passion in his mortal lover's eyes piercing through his.
"Taste it from my lips."
"Your wish is my command. â To your health, Treasure."
As their lips met, the human's tongue grazed against his fang, drawing droplets of blood. The vampire savoured the warm, sanguine concoction, letting the intoxication run through every inch of his body. It was a while before their rushed breaths regained composure.
"Feeling bold, aren't we?"
"Just wanted to give you a foretaste of tonight."
"Be careful, Treasure, you don't want to bite any more than you can chew."
Porter playfully kissed the nape of Treasure's neck before he rested his head on their shoulder to whisper into their ear.
"How about we go on a little excursion after the dinner? The vapid, mindnumbing glee of a commercialised holiday awaits us, and when it all gets too dull, we could always find more fun in the woods."
