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Charon sat alone by the old, decorated fireplace, nursing a tumbler of whiskey. He wasn’t fond of alcohol, but Mr O’Connor had pushed the glass into his hand, and then clinked it with his own before downing the double in one. A cheers for the holiday season, it was Christmas eve after all, though he wasn’t feeling particularly festive. Mr O’Connor had retired for the night though, and Charon hadn’t touched his drink since the polite sip he’d taken initially.
The room was dark in the corners, the shadows growing as the fire slowly burned lower and lower with the tick of the clock. Thomas was still there, playing something melancholy but soulful in the depths of the room, so Charon supposed he wasn’t truly alone after all. He’d read his father’s most recent letter again, contemplating his reply as he stared into the flickering yellow and orange, transfixed by the way the points of the flames danced and moved, intertwining and separating quickly, coyly, abruptly, like forbidden lovers.
A box sat on the side table next to his chair, it was small, a simple silver in colour with a red and green ribbon wrapped around the outside and tied into a neat bow on the top of the box. It was a gift for Thomas for Christmas. He had given the cellist Christmas day off to spend with his family, a kindness he regretted slightly, knowing that Thomas’ music – not to mention his company in general - would have helped to fill the void of his own family not being with him for the holiday season. But then what kind of man would he be to deprive someone else of their family just because he could not be with his own?
Not a man he wanted to be.
Thomas finished another song as the church bells down the street chimed signalling that it was midnight, and Christmas had finally arrived. Charon sighed, already feeling the loneliness creeping in.
He was too lost in his thoughts, and the flames, that he didn’t hear the light footsteps approaching, and it wasn’t until Thomas was standing directly next to his chair, and speaking his name that Charon was drawn back to reality.
“Charon?” Thomas queried softly, “Are you alright?”
Charon blinked a few times, and then finally put the tumbler down on the side table, and readjusted his glasses higher on his nose.
“Yes,” he nodded, turning his head to look at the cellist.
Thomas was lanky, and all angles, softened by the fact that he was young, and hadn’t lost his baby face yet – a rather adorable look - but Charon speculated that he would become quite handsome with age.
“Yes,” he repeated, coming back to himself fully, “I was just thinking about my family, but alas, it is past midnight, and I promised you today as your own, so I won’t burden you with my thoughts tonight.”
“I don’t mind,” Thomas told him sincerely.
“But I do,” Charon insisted, taking the gift box from the table and standing up, feeling the heat of the fireplace wash over his skin as he stood closer to it. “I want you to enjoy what I cannot this Christmas, however, before you go, I have something for you…”
Thomas stepped around the chair to join Charon in front of the fireplace as Charon offered him the box in his hands, surprise, gratitude, and affection making his eyes shine in the glowing light.
“T-thank you,” he stammered, accepting the gift, and beginning to open it.
“I admit, I was uncertain what to get you, but I wanted to show my appreciation. I hope that my choice is appropriate, and favourable.”
Charon watched eagerly as Thomas pulled the ribbon off and carefully opened the box, revealing a plain black bowtie made of the finest silk, giving it a beautiful shiny finish that glinted in the fire light.
Thomas’ eyes flicked up to Charon, mouth slightly open, and Charon waited anxiously for the verdict.
“Oh, Charon, it’s beautiful!” the cellist gasped, gaze returning to the box, trailing a finger lightly over the delicate material.
“Oh good,” Charon sighed in relief, “I am very happy that you like it. I know that you already have a similar-”
He was cut off, and then stunned into silence by soft, warm lips brushing against his own.
Immediately blushing a deep red, Thomas stepped back out of Charon’s space, eyes wide with shock at what he’d done, “Sorry! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! The-the mistletoe,” his eyes shifted to the festive décor on the mantel, and back again, “and, then you gave me…and…and-”
It was Charon’s turn to cut him off, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him back into another kiss. It took Thomas a moment to realise what was happening and respond, but once he did, their lips moved with passion, and a hint of hunger.
Eventually they had to part for oxygen, the sound of their rapid breathing joining the crackle of the fire in breaking the silence of the otherwise quiet room. Charon licked his lips subconsciously as he fixed his glasses, staring at a bright red, shyly smiling Thomas.
“I’ll look forward to your return on the twenty sixth,” Charon told him, smiling back, feeling brighter than he had minutes ago.
Thomas ducked his head in acknowledgement, “Me too,” he replied with a further uptick of his lips, “thank you again for my gift.”
“And for mine,” he uttered, as he brushed a thumb over Thomas’ soft cheek, staring into his eyes, still smiling contentedly.
That made Thomas chuckle, sweet and shy, and Charon very nearly kissed him again, but if he did he might not have let him go that night.
Finding strength, he sent the cellist home, and himself to bed. He fell asleep that evening with a smile on his lips, his heart fuller, and feeling a little less alone.