The last parent, bundled in a coat that looked three sizes too big, finally wrangled their kid out the double doors. The heavy glass swung shut with a sigh of hydraulics, cutting off the sound of slushy footsteps and leaving behind a hollow, humming silence.
Art watched them go, a faint smile touching his lips before he turned back to the wreckage of the community hall. It was a mess, but a good one. Paper snowflakes, some crisp and geometric, others looking like they’d lost a fight, clung to the condensation on the windows. A single, defiant piece of silver tinsel was snagged in the rough coir of the doormat. The air was thick with the ghosts of the party.
Across the room, Tom was stacking the dregs of the plastic cups. His movements were steady, precise, almost surgical. Each cup made a soft *thump* as he placed it on the growing tower. Art leaned against a folding table, just watching him. Tom’s dark hair was still damp from the snow he hadn’t bothered to shake off, curling a little at his nape. Under the flat, unforgiving fluorescent lights, the line of his neck and the tension in his shoulders were stark. He was focused on the task with an intensity that seemed… misplaced. Like he was defusing a bomb, not cleaning up after a kids’ craft event.
He stacked the last cup, then just stood there for a second, his shoulders hunching in. A brace. The silence in the room wasn't empty; it was heavy, full of unspoken things. It was broken only by the ancient heater in the corner, which gave a low, metallic groan like it was about to give up for good.
“You get a weird kick out of this, don’t you?” Art’s voice was low, but it cut through the quiet easily.
Tom flinched. It was a small, full-body jerk, like he’d been zapped. He turned slowly, not quite looking at Art, his eyes fixing on a point somewhere over Art’s shoulder. “A kick out of… what?” His voice was rough, gravelly, like he hadn’t used it in a while.
“This,” Art said, gesturing with his head to the whole room. The glitter-bombed tables, the half-eaten cookies, the smell of fresh Christmas cookies. “The whole ‘Winter Warmth’ thing. You seem… I don’t know. Like you actually belong in all this chaos.”
Art pushed off the table. One step. Then another. He wasn’t rushing, but every movement felt deliberate, shrinking the space between them. The air in front of Tom seemed to get thicker, harder to breathe. His heart did a stupid, painful lurch against his ribs. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white against the cheap plastic. He could feel Art’s body heat from here.
Tom managed a scoff, a short, sharp sound with no humor in it. “Belong? I’m just… good at organizing shit. And staying out of the way.” He risked a glance, a split-second of eye contact. It was a mistake. Art’s stare was a physical force, steady and direct, and it made a hot flush creep up Tom’s neck. He hated it. Hated how easily Art could peel him open without saying a word. He stared down at the scuffed toe of his sneaker.
“It’s more than that. I saw you with that little kid, the one who kept trying to eat the glitter glue. You didn’t get pissed. You just… distracted him. And you got the old lady to try the gingerbread. That’s, like, a miracle.” He stopped a few feet away, picking up a stray red ribbon from the floor and winding it around his finger. Tom’s eyes snagged on the motion. Art had long, capable hands, the knuckles slightly calloused. The simple, idle gesture felt intensely private. Tom’s breath hitched.
“It’s just… work,” Tom mumbled, his own hands balling into fists at his sides. “Someone has to do it.” He was hyper-aware of everything now—the space between them, the clean, sharp scent of pine and cold air clinging to Art’s sweater, the way his own hoodie suddenly felt too thin.
“So, you hate Christmas, then?” Art asked. His tone was still light, but there was a genuine question underneath. The ribbon tightened around his finger.
“It’s not about ‘liking’ or ‘hating’ it,” Tom bit out, the words sharper than he intended. He forced himself to look up, aiming for Art’s chin. “It’s… complicated. It’s not all fucking carol singing and hot chocolate for everyone, you know?”
Art’s expression didn't falter. He just nodded slowly. “No. I know it’s not.” He took the last step, closing the remaining distance. Tom froze, his whole body tense. He could feel the warmth rolling off Art’s chest, a solid, living heat that was a world away from the damp chill that always seemed to live under Tom’s own skin.
“For me,” Art said, his voice dropping into a lower, more serious register, “it was always loud. My family’s huge. Fucking chaotic. My mom cooks enough to feed an army, my dad pulls out his guitar and butchers every song he knows, and my little cousins are wild.” He let out a soft, genuine chuckle. “It was a lot. But it was… a lot of love, you know? Like a big, warm, noisy blanket.”
Tom swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. The picture Art painted was so vivid it hurt. He could almost feel the press of bodies, hear the overlapping voices, smell the food. It sounded… suffocating. “Sounds… like a lot,” he managed, the words barely a whisper.
“It is,” Art agreed, his eyes going a little distant, lost in the memory. “But the good kind. The kind that makes you feel like you belong, no matter what. No matter who you are.” His gaze snapped back to Tom, sharp and focused again. “That’s what it is for me. Belonging.”
*Belonging.* The word hit Tom like a stone. He remembered last Christmas. His mom’s brittle cheerfulness. His dad’s heavy silence, a disapproval so thick you could taste it. The careful, empty conversation that skirted around anything real, anything about *him*. The feeling of being a ghost at his own family’s table.
“Not everyone has that,” Tom said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the hum of the heater. He started picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth. “For some people, it’s just… a reminder.”
Art’s hand came out of nowhere. It hovered for a split second before gently, firmly, covering Tom’s.
The contact was an electric shock.
The urge to just turn his hand over, to lace their fingers together and hold on, was so strong it made him dizzy.
“A reminder of what?” Art’s thumb began to stroke the back of Tom’s hand, a slow, rhythmic motion that sent a tremor through Tom’s entire body. His gaze was locked on their joined hands—the way Art’s skin was a shade darker, his fingers stronger, enveloping his own.
Tom squeezed his eyes shut for a second. The weight of Art’s hand felt like an anchor. “Of… what you don’t have,” he finally whispered, the words raw and strained. “Of the empty chairs. The silences that are too damn loud. The way people look at you. Like you’re a… a problem to be solved. Or a mistake.” The familiar burn started behind his eyes. *Shit. Not here. Not in front of him.*
Art’s grip tightened, not painfully, but with a firm reassurance. “Tom.” His voice was different now. Deeper. Laced with a fierce, protective anger that startled Tom. “You are not a mistake. And you’re not an inconvenience.” He used his free hand to nudge Tom’s chin up, forcing their eyes to meet. Art’s were dark, intense, burning with something that made Tom’s stomach bottom out. “No one should ever make you feel like that. Especially not at Christmas.”
It was too much. The unwavering kindness, the solid weight of his hand, the intensity in his eyes—Tom’s defenses just… shattered. A single, hot tear escaped and traced a path down his cold cheek. He sniffled, mortified, and tried to wrench his hand back.
Art held on. “Hey,” he whispered, letting go of Tom’s chin only to cup his cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear. The skin of his thumb was slightly rough, and the warmth was a shock all over again. “It’s okay. Whatever it is.”
“My… family,” Tom stammered, the words spilling out, broken and ugly. “They don’t… get it. Or they pretend not to. About… me.” The shame was a burning heat in his face. “Christmas is just… it’s a performance. It’s easier to just… not go.”
Art’s expression was solid empathy. He didn’t say ‘I’m sorry.’ He didn’t say anything pitiful. He just took his hand from Tom’s cheek and laced their fingers together. This time, Tom didn’t just let it happen; his own fingers curled, gripping back. “You don’t have to hide with me, Tom,” Art said, his voice a low promise. “And you don’t have to hide from Christmas. Not if it’s about belonging.”
He glanced around the empty hall, then back at Tom, a sudden, mischievous light in his eyes. “My family’s Christmas is an absolute circus. It’s loud, my mom gets drunk and sings off-key, and my cousins will probably draw mustaches on you in your sleep. But they’re good people. They would love you.”
Tom just stared, his eyes wide. “You’re… asking me to your family’s Christmas?” The idea was terrifying. And exhilarating. And completely impossible. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
Art squeezed his hand. “Only if you want. No pressure. Seriously. But if you’re looking for a different kind of Christmas… a place where you don’t have to perform… then yeah. The door’s open.” He grinned, a flash of white in the dim light. “Plus, my mom makes this god-awful fruitcake every year, and it’s tradition to sneak a piece into the trash when she’s not looking. You could be my accomplice.”
A choked, hysterical laugh escaped Tom’s lips. It was a thin, watery sound, but it was real. “Fruitcake accomplice?” He shook his head, a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the heater. It was Art. It was this absurd, kind, overwhelming boy.
“Damn right,” Art confirmed, his smile softening as he looked at Tom. He gently untangled their fingers, and for a second, Tom felt the loss like a physical blow. But then Art reached for the worn, dark blue scarf around Tom’s neck. His fingers brushed against Tom’s jaw as he adjusted it, pulling the soft wool up higher, tucking it in snugly. The gesture was so simple, so practical, but it felt more intimate than a kiss.
Tom stopped breathing. Art was so close he could see the faint flecks of gold in his dark eyes. The air was filled with the scent of him, clean and earthy, and the lingering warmth of his touch was a brand on Tom’s skin.
Art’s eyes held his for a long moment, then he stepped back, giving Tom room to breathe. He turned to grab his own coat from the back of a chair. A gust of wind rattled the glass doors, and Tom watched the snow swirling in the yellow glow of the streetlights outside. The invitation hung between them, a terrifying, beautiful thing. Stepping into that light, into the warmth of Art’s chaotic, loving family, meant tearing down walls he’d spent years building.
It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, with the wind at his back and a voice he was just starting to trust telling him it was okay to jump.