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It’s not that he doesn’t want to see his parents. It’s not that he wouldn’t enjoy spending Christmas Day with them like he remembers blissfully doing every year when he was a child – far from it. It’s that he is entirely at a loss for what to do about the unproblematic problem of David Posner. Unproblematic, of course, because Don would never in a million years consider David an issue to be solved or a spanner in the works. He is endlessly grateful for the man’s presence in his life and bed and poky little flat in East London, and wouldn’t for all the world wish that things were any other way. A problem, on the other hand, because of certain more delicate, practical matters.
It’s a brisk November morning when the shrill ring of the landline startles Don out of his chair at the kitchen table, leaving David blinking dazedly over his steaming mug of tea, still bleary-eyed and fluffy-haired with sleep. Don shuffles over and picks up the phone, porridge abandoned.
‘Don Scripps speaking.’
‘Don!’ the familiar voice is distant down the crackling line, but unmistakable nonetheless. Don meets David’s questioning gaze with a grin.
‘Hiya, Mum.’
‘It’s so lovely to hear your voice, love,’ comes the voice, fond and then accusing. ‘You never call me.’
‘I don’t have to. You call me every other day.’
‘Oh, hush,’ she huffs, and Don is vaguely aware of David draining the last of his tea and slipping out of the kitchen, presumably towards the shower. ‘I was just calling to ask if you’re coming home for Christmas this year, and I’m rather hoping you’ll say yes because your brother doesn’t want to pay the air fare back from the States, the cheap bastard, and Lizzie’s staying with her boyfriend’s family, and Bethan-’
‘Er. Well, David and I were planning on just spending it in the flat-’
‘Oh, bring him along! I’ll put him up in the spare room. Unless…’ there’s a sudden frown in her voice, and Don’s heart skips a beat with a misplaced, paranoid concern that she’s going to ask something uncomfortably personal about sleeping arrangements, ‘unless that would make him uncomfortable? I know his family don’t celebrate Christmas…’
‘No, no,’ Don replies in hurried relief, ‘he loves Christmas, actually-’
‘Then it’s settled!’ his mother replies happily, and Don inwardly kicks himself. ‘Bring some mince pies or something, won’t you? I don’t want to run out of food.’
‘I’m certain you’ll have more than enough,’ Don comments drily; in all of his twenty-five years, Julie Scripps has never once been known to under-prepare for a family gathering.
‘Alright, you cheeky sod. Tell David we’ll be happy to have him and that your dear mother insists you both get your lazy behinds up here to fill her dreadfully empty nest.’
Don rolls his eyes to the heavens. ‘Fine.’
He goes through the necessary formalities and answers his mother’s usual questions: yes, work is going well; no, he doesn’t have a girlfriend yet, not since you last asked; no, he hasn’t seen the latest instalment of that TV programme with the charming young man who used to teach at Cutlers. They say their goodbyes mere minutes before David reappears in the kitchen wearing Don’s dressing gown, flushed and fresh-faced from the shower and towelling his messy hair dry in the way he knows makes Don’s heart flutter in his chest and sends heat to the tips of his ears.
Don tries not to watch. ‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’ David asks innocently, coming to lean against the counter beside his partner. ‘How’s your mum?’
‘Well. I, er… might have accidentally got us invited round for Christmas.’
‘Really?’ David’s face is a picture of pure delight. ‘That’d be wonderful!’
‘You want to?’
‘Of course I want to! I’ve never had a proper Christmas before.’
‘What do you call last year?’ Don demands, unable to help but feel slightly insulted as he recalls the fond memories of David red-faced and giggling over his glass of wine and a turkey that had cost more than their presents to each other combined. ‘And the year before that? You’ve had two Christmases with me!’
‘You know what I mean,’ David waves an airy hand. ‘A family Christmas. With dad jokes and posh tipples and canapés. Not that I don’t very much enjoy getting drunk on cava and shagging on the rug-’
‘Not as much as you enjoy canapés, apparently,’ Don grumbles darkly, and David offers him a fond grin and a teasing nudge in the ribs with his bony elbow.
‘Don. I love our Christmases together. It’d just be nice to spend one with your family. Your dad’s a much better cook than you, in all fairness.’
Don sighs. ‘It would be nice, I suppose. There’s just the issue of…’ He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to find the words, but David seems to understand without needing to hear them.
‘Is that what you’re worried about?’ he asks gently. Don doesn’t reply. ‘Are you going to tell them?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. I think I need to.’
‘You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready to do.’
‘It’s probably time, love,’ Don sighs heavily. ‘It’s been almost three years, and…’
‘Okay.’ David’s hand is on his bicep, grounding, calming, his eyes bright with understanding and reassurance and a hint of firm determination. His hair drips languidly on the linoleum floor. ‘Okay.’
*
Weeks of frantic writing and unattainable deadlines slip past unnoticed before Christmas Eve barges rudely and abruptly into Don’s plane of existence with all the characteristic arrogance of an eighteen-year-old Dakin and, before he knows it, Don is cramming underpants into his and David’s shared suitcase ready to load up the car for their trip to Sheffield. He wheels it into the hall and deposits it unceremoniously next to where David is carefully stacking presents, mince pies, and several bottles of red wine.
It’s all planned: David will be dropped off at his parents’ house to catch up with them and wish them a happy Hanukkah, while Don continues to the Scripps household with their haul in tow and the news of his recently discovered bisexuality – the particular word for it having been discovered even more recently, and with no small amount of relief – on his nervously bitten lips.
‘Have you seen my hat?’ David asks.
‘I put it with your coat-’ David opens his mouth to speak again, and Don cuts him off, ‘-along with your scarf and gloves.
David stands and plants his hands on his hips, flashing Don a grin. ‘And they say love is dead. Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
‘Don,’ David huffs reproachfully, ‘you’re about to spend Christmas with your loving parents and your gorgeous, perfect boyfriend. You could at least try for a smile.’
Don gives him a pained look. ‘Surely you can sympathise?’
‘I haven’t even told my parents, Don.’
‘Well, don’t,’ Don mutters. ‘It’s not worth the anxiety.’
‘This coming from the man who accuses me of being melodramatic every other day,’ David raises an amused eyebrow and takes a step towards Don to straighten his tie. ‘Just relax. They love you. I love you.’
‘D’you think you’ll ever tell yours?’ Don asks, and David visibly blanches.
‘Not likely. They’re uncomfortable enough with the idea of me celebrating Christmas. I don’t think my father’s weak heart could take me telling him I enjoy sucking cock on the regular.’
‘Maybe if you didn’t put it in quite so many words…’
‘What would you prefer? “Manning the backdoor”? “Taking it from behind”?’
‘Well, now you mention it…’
David grins and gives him a light slap on said behind. ‘Cheeky shit. See, you wouldn’t have any of these problems if you were still dating women.’
‘I wouldn’t trade it,’ Don shrugs, and David fails spectacularly at feigning nonchalance, a bashful smile blooming on his face.
‘Come on, we should get going. Got the car keys?’
‘Yep.’ Don plants a brief peck on his lips before he slips away. ‘And I love you, too, by the way.’
‘I know,’ David calls over his shoulder, and Don shakes his head fondly as he disappears out the front door ahead of him.
Luggage stacked carefully in the boot and David giddy with excitement in the passenger seat, Don cranks their second-hand car to life and coaxes it off the curb and down the road under the oppressively cloudy sky.
It’s not the first time that Don’s thought of David as adding the colour to his otherwise rather drab life. He is the bunches of flowers that show up on the surfaces in their flat from time-to-time when he feels the need to ‘brighten the place up’; he is a vision in garishly orange pyjama bottoms, delivering cutting criticism to awful TV talk show hosts in the sarcastic way that makes Don snort with laughter. Today, he colours the grey expanse of motorway up to Sheffield with his warming vibrato, singing along to the songs on the radio and peppering the comfortable silences with witty observations and whatever else comes to mind.
It’s been two years and nine months to the day since he’d first placed a cold hand on Don’s cheek outside his College in Oxford, kissing him softly under the lamplight and turning his whole world golden.
‘What are you thinking about?’ David asks at one point, and Don smiles with ease.
‘You.’
David rolls his eyes and tries to pretend he’s not grinning. ‘Sap.’
‘I’m lamenting the lack of sex on the rug we’ll be able to have this year, as per tradition.’
‘Never say never,’ David shrugs as the opening notes of Driving Home for Christmas begin to warble through the car radio, and he leans forward to turn up the volume to an almost offensive level, making Don grin as David sings loudly along:
‘I’m driving home for Christmas
Oh, I can’t wait to see those faces…’
The journey is a relatively painless one, and Don watches the buildings become greyer and the greenery more sparse as they drive further north, the landscape gradually morphing into one more familiar until they reach the hallowed homeland itself. David purses his lips slightly in distaste as they wind through the streets of Sheffield. He always does.
When Don pulls over outside David’s parents’ house and switches off the car engine and the radio along with it, the silence is almost deafening. He takes a deep breath and makes a valiant attempt at flashing David an unsteady but reassuring smile before looking despondently down into his lap, cold fingers of panic threatening to overwhelm him as his mind grapples with the knowledge that this is where they part. He can feel David watching him carefully.
‘Don? Remember how we said that breathing is a fundamentally good thing?’
David exhales an amused huff, unaware that he’d been holding his breath in the first place. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m doing my best.’
A crease of worry crinkles at David’s brow, and he reaches across the clutch to take hold of Don’s hand, his skin warm and comforting and his fingers calloused from years of holding a pen.
‘It’s okay. They’ve never shown any inclination towards closed-mindedness. Your mum still goes to socialist rallies, pickets and all. They threw a bloody party when Thatcher went, for God’s sake…’
‘I know,’ Don nods mechanically. ‘I know they won’t have a problem with it. I hope not, at least. But I’m still scared, somehow.’ He looks at David helplessly. ‘How pathetic is that?’
‘Not pathetic at all,’ David shakes his head firmly. A moment of comfortable silence settles before he speaks again. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s okay to not be ready. It doesn’t make you… ashamed, or weak, or…’
‘I know.’
David bites his lip worriedly.
‘It’ll be okay.’
‘I know.’
‘I can be there, if you need me.’
‘I know,’ Don repeats, and smiles softly at his partner. ‘Thank you, love. Thanks for… all this. I think… I should let them come to terms with it before you arrive-’
‘Of course,’ David nods hurriedly; they’ve been through this. ‘Of course, that’s fine, I just wanted you to know all you have to do is ask-’
‘Thank you. I’ll be okay.’
‘I know.’ David smiles, and Don feels his own lips curve upwards slightly in response. He squeezes David’s hand tightly.
‘Thank you,’ he says again.
‘Anytime. Come on, then, I’ve got an appointment with a huge stack of latkes.’ David gives Don’s hand one last squeeze and leans into his space to kiss him on the forehead. ‘You’re going to be fine.’
‘Bring me back some latkes?’
David scoffs. ‘Keep dreaming.’
David climbs gracelessly out of the car and Don follows suit, circling around to the side closer to the house so he can stand with his hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets while David trudges down the path to ring the bell. After a moment of silence that seems to last half a decade, the surgically clean, white door opens to reveal a familiarly tiny, bird-like woman with dark hair pulled tightly back into a clip and an expression of approval on her thin face. Mrs Posner pulls her son into a tight hug.
‘Hello, Mother,’ David’s voice is muffled against her hair; he towers over her now, his recent growth spurt having finally bestowed upon him the dual gifts of several more inches and a glimmer of self-esteem.
‘Hello, my love. Are you well?’
‘Very.’
Don watches the exchange, the intimacy of their shared words and smiles, with the awkward discomfort of an unintentional intruder. Mrs Posner looks up at Don after a moment, and raises a hand in polite greeting.
‘Good to see you, Donald,’ she calls.
‘You too, Mrs Posner. How have you been?’
‘Can’t complain, dear. Happy Christmas to you.’
‘And a happy Hanukkah to you.’ Don meets David’s eye with deliberate mildness, the latter’s arm still comfortably at his mother’s back, and a silent moment passes between them, a low thrum of meaning invisible to the onlooking eye. ‘See you later, David.’
‘See you.’
David flashes one last smile in Don’s direction before allowing his mother to usher him inside, his slightly tensed shoulders betraying a hint of anxiety that Don is well equipped to notice and recognise in his partner. Don slumps back into the driver’s seat of the car and pulls the door closed behind him, pausing for just a moment before he glances back at the closing door of the Posner household, takes a steadying breath, and turns the key in the ignition.
It takes all of ten minutes to navigate from David’s old house to Don’s, a route that has been branded into his mind by years of cycling during his schooldays: to David’s to pick him up for school or just to hang out with him in his bedroom while they studied; back home at ten o’clock after watching sci-fi films late into the evening under Mrs Posner’s tatty old blanket; to and fro, via the church, via the school, via Dakin’s, or meeting David in the middle for a directionless bike ride or a skulk around the back streets during the hazy summer days in between school and university when there was little else to keep them occupied. It feels like a lifetime ago; it feels like yesterday.
Don has to grip the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands for several minutes after he pulls to a stop outside his parents’ house, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he tries to calm his breathing. In the end, it’s the thoughts of David that calm him enough to force himself out of his seat and towards the door, arms full of presents and suitcase in tow.
His mother is accompanied by a comfortable fuzz of warm air and a soft glow like candlelight from inside the house when she throws open the door, and Don can’t help the smile that plasters itself across his face. There’s a pair of novelty antlers nestled in her hair, and she’s wearing an alarmingly ugly glittery, brown jumper.
‘Don!’ she throws out her arms and envelops him in a tight hug, pressing her cheek against his own and squashing the presents in his arms. ‘Oh, love. It’s so good to have you home! You look more like your father every time I see you.’
‘It’s only been a few months since I last visited,’ Don grins with amusement, and she rolls her eyes. There are one or two new creases around them now, a handful more strands of grey running through her mousy hair than there had been when he’d first left home, but she seems to look even more beautiful for it.
‘Let me have my motherly moment, you cheeky git. Come inside, I’ll stick the kettle on.’ She’s already pushing him gently but firmly through the hallway and into the familiarly quaint kitchen with the blindingly yellow walls as she fusses and natters. ‘Leave all that on the side, there, love, and I’ll take it upstairs in a mo. Want a biscuit with your tea?’
‘Do you even need to ask?’ Don grins, seating himself at the kitchen table as his mother bustles around, flicking the kettle on and readying mugs. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Gone out to get the goose fat. I completely forgot about it, can you believe? I’ve sent him off to do battle with the general Yorkshire public in Asda.’
Don winces. ‘What did he do to deserve that?’
‘He told me my jumper makes me look like a sparkly turd,’ Julie replies flatly, and Don lets out a half-hearted snort of laughter.
She peers at him with almost imperceptibly narrowed eyes.
‘You alright, love? You look a bit peaky.’
Don swallows thickly and inclines his head in an awkward, jerky movement. ‘There’s just… something I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Oh? It’s not David, is it?’
‘What?’ Don’s eyes widen a fraction before he notices the crease of worry at his mother’s brow and realises what she means. ‘No, no. He’s doing well, actually.’
David’s mental state has been relatively stable for the past year, considering its rapid decline during his time at Oxford and several years beyond. Five years of crippling depression and three suicide attempts later, he had finally been prescribed medication that made things a little easier to manage, and Don had been there through all of it, accepting the alternating roles of therapist, lover and distraction with unfaltering support. Julie presses a mug of tea into Don’s hands, and he takes a grateful sip as she sits in the chair across the table from him.
‘That’s a relief,’ she smiles softly, and Don nods.
‘Yes. It’s, erm… him that I wanted to talk about, though. Things have… well, taken a turn. For the better. Um. Shouldn’t we wait for Dad?’ he finishes weakly.
His mum raises a delicate eyebrow. ‘Donald Scripps, if you think I’m going to let you introduce a topic of conversation with that much drama and then leave me hanging-’
‘Alright, alright. Well. David and I have sort of become… more than friends.’
There’s a beat of silence. Julie blinks.
‘What? You mean…?’
‘Yes.’
‘But…’ she’s frowning, uncomprehending, and Don realises suddenly that he’s holding his breath again. ‘But what about Alice?’
‘We broke up ages ago, Mum,’ Don explains patiently, the mention of his ex-girlfriend from Oxford not surprising him in the slightest.
‘But... but you loved her!’
‘Yes. And now I love David.’
‘What about grandchildren?’
‘You do know you’ve got three other kids, don’t you?’
There’s another stunned silence.
‘How long?’
‘Er,’ Don finds he can’t quite meet her eye. ‘About three years.’
His mother lets out an agonised, indignant gasp. ‘Three years?!’
‘I didn’t know how to tell you!’ Don protests.
‘You could have tried!’
‘I’m telling you now!’
‘I just don’t understand, love. I mean, with David I sort of guessed, but…’
‘Mum,’ Don places a hand over his mother’s, resting on the table, and she looks up at him with wide eyes, ‘I know it’s difficult to understand. But I’m happy. And I’m with someone I love, who loves me. It doesn’t matter to me that it happens to be him. And… and it might take some time to get used to. That’s okay. You can… you can ask anything you want, say anything you want.’
Julie looks down into her lap and frowns for a moment.
‘I’ve already made up the spare room.’
Don can’t help but huff out a laugh, because of course that’s what his mother is most anxious about. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mum. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Don,’ she admonishes, regaining some of her usual firmness. ‘If your brother brought home a girl to stay for Christmas I wouldn’t make them sleep in separate rooms, would I? We don’t do favouritism in this house, you know that.’ Julie places her other hand atop Don’s, entangling their fingers together and sandwiching his hand tightly between her own. She smiles slightly, her expression full of care and a slight edge of concern. ‘Oh, Don. Your father and I will always love you, no matter what. I can’t pretend I understand, but… I’ll do my best.’
Don swallows past the lump in his throat, and returns her smile with relief.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
The sound of the front door opening cuts through the moment of comfortable companionship, and Julie gives her son’s hand one last fond squeeze, her eyes suspiciously bright, before standing.
‘Don!’ his father’s beam lightens the kitchen as he enters, arms outstretched, and pats Don heartily on the back. ‘How are you, son? Your goose fat, ma’am.’ He gracefully holds out the jar to Julie, who snatches it to her chest and glares.
‘Do you take it back?’
‘I do,’ he plants a kiss on her forehead, and she softens perceptibly. ‘I am forever humbled by the beauty, wit, and dress sense of my wonderful wife, who in no way looks, in any shape or form, like a sparkly turd.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Julie sniffs, but her lips are pursed against an inadvertent smile. ‘I’m going to sort out the rooms.’
‘I thought you’d already done that,’ John calls after his wife, and shakes his head as he takes her vacated seat opposite his son. ‘That woman never rests.’
‘And she’ll never let you tell her to,’ Don grins in amusement and his father returns it, glasses slightly fogged from the cold and scarf still wrapped around his neck.
‘How right you are.’
‘Dad?’ Don asks tentatively. ‘Can I... talk to you? I’ve just spoken to Mum, and, well…’
‘Of course you can, lad,’ he raises his wiry eyebrows, and his receding hairline follows. ‘Is something wrong? Look, whatever it is…’
‘David and I are a couple.’
Don has just about had enough of stunned silences. He has to remind himself, for the third time since the day began, to breathe.
‘A couple, couple?’ John clarifies.
‘Yes.’
To Don’s surprise, his father laughs in what he recognises as dazed relief.
‘Well, Jesus, Don, I thought you were dying! Give an old man a break, won’t you?’
‘Dad, you’re forty-eight.’
‘Alright, smart-arse. Is that it?’ He laughs again. ‘For Christ’s sake, lad, we all went to a boys’ school. Don’t you think I had friends who-’
‘Okay, enough,’ Don interrupts hastily, an involuntary reaction to the sudden concern that he’s going to hear something about his father’s past that he really doesn’t want to. John Scripps looks at him oddly.
‘-Who liked the lads. Your generation acts like you invented it, and all.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Anyway, I know you’re a responsible adult, but I feel like I should make sure, as your father, with all this AIDS panic flying around-‘
‘Alright, that’s more than enough,’ Don feels his face heat up. ‘It’s… it’s all… under control.’
‘Okay. Well. Good.’ His dad clears his throat awkwardly. ‘We like David, your mum and me. He’s a good lad.’
‘I know,’ Don smiles slightly, nervous heart still thumping in his chest. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by the realisation that he can breathe again, that his parents now both know and don’t mind. The weight that has been pressing down on his shoulders has lifted, his chest airy and light, his head vaguely dizzy with relief. Thank God.
The afternoon flies inexplicably by after that: Don consumes an unbelievable volume of tea and makes hours of small talk with his parents whilst polishing glasses and cutlery and carefully hanging up his and David’s shirts in the wardrobe of the former’s childhood bedroom. The walls are still painted a pale blue colour, as they always have been; the carpet is still stained under the desk, the aftermath of an exploded and copiously leaking ink pen during sixth form; his books remain carefully arranged by author on the shelves his father had put together and varnished when he was nine.
He returns to the kitchen to find his father cheerfully soaking the turkey, humming along to the Christmas music playing softly on the radio, and steadfastly refusing any kind of help.
‘Put your feet up, lad,’ he orders Don as he waves him away, and Don joins his mother once again at the kitchen table, where she’s painting her nails an acrid-smelling red colour.
When the doorbell rings soon after five o’clock, Don’s chair screeches against the kitchen tiles as he stands so abruptly that he almost knocks over his wine glass as it rests on the table in front of him.
‘That’ll be David,’ he informs his parents unnecessarily, careering out of the room and down the hall to open the door.
David’s face is flushed pink with cold, his nose red and his eyes bright and sparkling with delight when they meet Don’s own. His bobble hat is pulled down wonkily over his hair, gloved hands clutching a pot of poinsettias, and the expression on his face is so earnest, so hopeful, that Don doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite so beautiful.
David flings his free arm around Don’s shoulders and envelops him in the smell of cold air and chamomile tea, the plastic wrap around the plants rustling as it presses against his chest.
‘Was it okay? Did it go alright?’
Don wraps his arms tight around David and holds him close, chuckling softly with wonder at just how lucky he seems to be.
‘Yes. Yes, it’s okay. It’s good. It’s all good.’
David pulls back just enough to look him in the face, eyes crinkling with happiness and love.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ he whispers, and Don feels all the breath leave him and his throat tighten in a sudden exhale of overwhelming emotion, and then David’s lips are on his, cold from the December air but soft and tingling and sweet with warm breath and the taste of home.
When David pulls away, he wipes his eyes surreptitiously with the back of his hand. ‘You’d better not have squashed my poinsettias.’
‘That sounds painful,’ Don remarks mildly, stepping back to allow David to shuffle past him into the hallway, scuffing his shoes on the mat and shivering a little from the cold. ‘Where did they come from, then?’
‘Stopped at the offie on the way. I wanted to make a good impression on your mother.’
Don takes the plant pot from David, raising his eyebrows in a bemused manner as his partner shucks off his coat and shoes. ‘“Impression”? David, love, they’ve known you for years.’
David gives Don an exasperated look and snatches the pot back. ‘Not as your boyfriend.’
‘David!’ Don’s mother bustles down the hall, arms outstretched and face bright, and embraces David warmly, kissing his cheek.
‘Hi, Mrs Scripps,’ David flushes a little with pleased relief and pushes the poinsettias awkwardly into her hands. ‘Thought these might brighten up the kitchen.’
‘Oh, bless your heart. As if it won’t be bright enough already with you boys in it.’ Don’s mum smiles fondly, stepping away to hold him by the upper arms and look him up and down. ‘You’re looking well, my love. Is he feeding you?’
‘I’m not his mother,’ Don rolls his eyes.
‘Too right,’ David grins cheekily, ‘it’s more often my job to feed him.’
‘Somehow I’m not surprised.’ Julie and David share a conspiratorial grin, and Don huffs and complains half-heartedly until his mother finally releases David’s forearms and gives him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Come on, love, come and sit down. You need a drink.’
Julie guides David down the hall, with Don bringing up the rear, and into the warm glow of the kitchen, where John has started on the vegetables and is singing quietly along to We Wish You a Merry Christmas. He turns to grin at David as they enter.
‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite vegetable fanatic!’ he nods in greeting and beckons him over. ‘Come here, lad, and let me show you this feast I’m putting on.’
David obligingly comes to stand at his shoulder, not missing the opportunity to flash Don an abashed smile as he does so. News of the allotment David had started a couple of years ago had been of great excitement to Don’s father, as well as an extremely important topic between them whenever they conversed.
Julie rolls her eyes as she ladles mulled wine out of the saucepan and into a glass, her husband launching into a detailed description of exactly how he’s going to prepare each type of vegetable.
‘Let the boy breathe,’ she chastises, handing David the glass of wine and placing a hand on his shoulder to guide him into a chair; he takes the glass gratefully and allows himself to be ushered.
‘Thank you, Mrs Scripps.’
Don’s mother looks at him with amused incredulity. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to call me “Julie”? I’ve known you since you were this high, running around my garden naked-’
‘Oh, he still does that,’ Don supplies teasingly, and David smacks him.
‘We don’t even have a garden, you twat. Sorry, Mrs… Julie.’
‘Oh, this one’s got a mouth worse than that,’ John winks, and drops a kiss on the top of his wife’s head.
‘You, my love, will be sleeping in the garden at this rate,’ she grumbles.
Don’s eyes meet David’s, sparkling with mirth, over the top of his wine glass, as the music changes to Feliz Navidad, and John sways as he hums along to the parsnips he’s peeling, turning around and flinging some bits of peel across the kitchen. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at his wife, grinning and swinging his hips as she snorts with laughter at him.
‘You silly prat.’
‘Come on, Julie,’ he holds out a hand towards her and she shakes her head fondly at it. ‘Remember all those dance lessons in ’79? I’m useless without my partner.’
‘Come on, Mum!’ Don cheers, and David woops and hollers beside him.
Julie finally succumbs with a grin and stands tall and proud facing him, chin raised with an elegance that makes her look like the beautiful young woman from Don’s childhood that he still remembers her to be. She grabs hold of her skirt and swishes it around her as she takes a couple of slow, deliberate steps towards him, David wolf-whistling as she takes her husband by the hand. He breaks into a beam and places a hand on her waist, and they grin at each other as they fall into a clumsy cha cha cha, laughing and stepping on each other’s toes.
‘Take note, boys!’ John’s smile is so bright it’s infectious, his mischievously twinkling eyes lit up like they hold the very sun within them. ‘What we oldies lack in athleticism, we make up for in pure and natural talent.’
Julie shrieks with laughter as he dips her low, and Don looks over at David beside him to see enraptured joy shining across his flushed face, sparkling with contentedness. As if feeling Don’s eyes on him, he turns and beams at him warmly, and Don feels his heart swell with love. He reaches over and takes David’s hand, warm and firm in his own, and squeezes tight, watching his parents laugh and dance around the kitchen with a warmth blooming in his chest that he hopes will never leave.
It’s late by the time they make it upstairs and collapse in Don’s bed, giddy with mulled wine and happiness, and Don wouldn’t have it any other way.
*
The delicate rays of sunlight through the soft, blue curtains stir Don lazily from sleep mid-morning, and he wakes to David curled around him, an arm flung comfortingly across his chest. David’s breathing is even and deep, his blond lashes fluttering softly on his peaceful face, and Don presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.
David snuffles and stirs, the hand that rests on Don’s chest tightening to grip a fistful of pyjama, eyes scrunching shut confusedly as they meet the offensive rays of light; he opens them after a moment and peers blearily up at Don.
‘Mornin’,’ he mumbles, and Don smiles.
‘Morning. Sleep well?’
‘Mm.’ David stretches languidly and nestles his face into the side of Don’s neck, and Don encircles David with his arm so he can hold him close. ‘Hey, Don?’
‘Yes?’
‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas, love.’ Don shifts slightly to give David the room he needs to lift his head and kiss his partner softly and chastely, warm lips against his own in a way that makes the hairs on Don’s arms stand on end. David pulls away and smiles.
‘Toss you for the shower?’ he suggests, and Don snorts.
‘You’re on.’ He reaches for the pair of jeans he had left crumpled on the floor the previous night, too sleepy to bother hanging them up before slithering into his pyjamas and curling up under the covers, and rummages in the pockets for change; he locates a penny and pulls it out.
‘Heads,’ David says decisively, and Don flips it.
‘You win.’
‘Ha!’ David smiles smugly, and kisses Don’s ear. ‘You can never go wrong with a little head. Speaking of which…’
‘Give over,’ Don grins. ‘You haven’t been good enough this year.’
‘Oh, come on. We all know Santa doesn’t mind a little naughtiness.’
‘Later,’ Don promises, and David waggles his eyebrows as he kicks off the duvet and heaves himself out of bed, grabbing his towel and padding off towards the bathroom.
Don gives himself a few minutes more in his blanket cocoon before he eases himself into his slippers and ambles downstairs in search of tea for them both. His mother is leaning against the kitchen counter when he enters, wearing a dusky pink dressing gown with a glass of prosecco in one hand.
‘Morning, love!’ she cries, and lurches forwards to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek.
‘Morning, Mum. Starting early, I see.’
‘It’s Christmas, you cheeky mare. Don,’ she suddenly takes his hand and squeezes tightly, looking him deeply in the eyes, ‘I am so happy that we’re all spending Christmas together as a family.’
‘Me too,’ Don raises his eyebrows in surprise and bemusement, but she shakes her head emphatically.
‘No. I’m so very happy that you’re happy. That you have someone who loves you and makes you… well. Happy. He’s happy, and you’re happy, so I’m happy.’
‘Oh,’ Don flushes a little, abashed and touched and a little taken aback by such a heartfelt display of affection taking place before breakfast. ‘Well. Thanks, Mum.’
Julie pats his head a little heavily before leaving her son standing bemusedly in the kitchen.
Christmas Day is a whirlwind of food, drink and festivities. Don’s father does a spectacular job of the Christmas dinner, and the four of them pull crackers and exchange presents over the table, Don and David’s joint gifts to Mr and Mrs Scripps beautifully wrapped by the latter: a collection of exotically flavoured gins for Julie, and a flat-pack bird box for John, who is, predictably, extremely excited at the prospect of putting it together later on. To Don’s surprise and delight, his parents gift him with an electric keyboard, so that he can continue to play despite not owning a piano, something that he has greatly missed. David gets a little teary over his gift of several old records, found in various charity shops across Sheffield and bought under Don’s advice and supervision, and sporting some of David’s favourite musical numbers. Don explains to his parents that his and David’s presents to each other have been vetoed in favour of them saving up for a holiday in the New Year, and deflects talk of Thatcher before his mother can get too angry. David politely accepts every offering of food pointed in his general direction, and groans at the jokes in the crackers. His face, flushed pink with excitement and the warmth of red wine under his gold paper hat, is something that Don thinks he will remember forever. He falls asleep on David’s shoulder during the Queen’s Speech, before waking up and blearily accepting his mother’s challenge of a game of Battleships. It’s a wonderfully lazy afternoon, which John snores loudly through, and Julie and David get a good way through a jigsaw puzzle while Don quietly plays chunks of songs he knows on the keyboard and David hums softly along, until John is roused from sleep and joins in, loudly and off-key.
By the time Don’s parents have bid him and David goodnight and disappeared off to bed, Don has been drifting in and out of sleep in front of the television for over an hour. He groggily takes the collection of empty glasses from the living room into the kitchen, to stack carefully in the sink so they can be dealt with in the morning. David’s sock-clad footsteps on the tiles behind him are near-silent, and Don smiles softly as his partner’s arms gently wrap themselves around him from behind, and a kiss tickles the back of his neck.
‘How was your first “real” Christmas?’ he murmurs. ‘Did it live up to expectations?’
‘And more.’ David presses another kiss to Don’s neck, and Don turns in his arms so he can face him. ‘Thank you for making me part of your family.’
‘You great sap. You always have been.’
Don’s lips find David’s, and his mouth is warm and sweet and tastes like wine and chocolates and him, familiar and safe like they’ve known each other forever and a day. Don cups David’s cheek gently, and feels him shiver.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ David whispers, and they do.