Happy Holidays, writingpickle!
Back to the first part
Pat-a-Pan, [NC-17] WARNING: explicit m/m activity, bestiality overtones - borrowing writingpickle's amazing HP/Cookleta universe, final year
David feels miserable and alone in Hufflepuff in the run up to December. The final year has been hard and frightening, and so many difficult things have happened. There are Dementors and dark ones abroad, there have been deaths, and even Hogwarts itself isn't safe.
David's terrified for his friends, for Harry, who's left the school on his quest to seek out the Dark Lord, for Hagrid, for everyone that has a part to play in the coming conflict. He kind of hopes he doesn't have a role, although sometimes he wonders if he hopes he does, if it means he can take a step to protect those he loves. Ah, he doesn't know what he hopes; all he knows is he wants everyone to be safe.
Staying safe means staying indoors, of course, within the spellbound confines of the school. The grounds aren't secure, especially at night. Things have happened on the school grounds, at night.
And David is nothing if not careful, so, he takes care to stay inside, although he feels a restless ache tonight, to stand under the night sky, to sing to the moon, and feel the music spells of this Yuletide season sing back into his skin.
He stares wistfully out of the window, at the light cast by the moon on the frozen path leading into the gardens. How he wishes - wait, what-?
There's a figure on the path, in Hufflepuff yellow and black, making its way quickly into the gardens.
The moon haloes the figure's bright head, and David has no trouble recognizing his best friend, somehow out of the school against orders, and hurrying purposefully into the night.
A tremendous jolt of adrenaline runs through him: shock and fear and concern for Cook all at once, over-riding any paralysis. David acts on pure instinct, grabbing his own cloak and flinging it around his uniform, shoving his stockinged feet into boots, snatching up his wand. He whispers an unlocking spell at the window, and levioso - he's out into the night, in pursuit.
The night air is so cold it takes his breath away. It sings little snatches of wintersong, moonsong, Yulesong, to David as he drifts through it to the snowy, pebbled path below.
He's shivering, should have grabbed a thicker jumper, gloves - David puts personal discomfort aside to squint ahead in the moonlight. Cook's taller figure isn't visible any more; he's disappeared into the gardens without a trace.
Can't get rid of me so easily, David thinks, fiercely. His body's shivering, from the flight and cold, but most of all, from determination. He raises his wand and whispers insequere - and Cook's trail lights up silver under the stars.
Cook's in trouble, he's out here in the night, all alone - David's determined to follow him, if he can, to protect him, if he can.
The trees make music above him, as he hurries after Cook's trail into the gardens, and then he's in the thick forest, the path narrowing to a little track. After ten minutes or so there's no track at all, and the branches and trunks and bare twigs catch in David's cloak and hinder his passage. The snow on the ground is so much thicker here, further away from the protective circle of Hogwarts' walls.
The thick canopy of branches and evergreen firs overhead obscures the moon's light, blocks out the pure moonsong, sings a different, darker tune, wordless and deep, like the heartrock of the forest.
David casts Lumos in order to see beyond peeling silver bark and hard ground and shadows, and the spell sheds light on the peculiar shapes of rocks and trees around him, a welcome relief from the darkness.
David's breath comes in huge gusty plumes in the frigid air. He fights to stay on Cook's trail, but it's difficult, he's tired now, the way forward is obstructed, the snow on the ground now nearly up to his ankles.
On the plus side, the thicker snow makes it easier to see Cook's path - apart from the silver spell of insequere , David can see Cook's bootprints, bigger than his, dark in the snow; he can see quite clearly where Cook has trodden in the thick slush, where he's leaped over a fallen log, making a deep indentation on the other side - David picks up the pace. Cook can't be too far ahead - the prints in the snow show Cook's slowed down, too, and then -
- David pulls to a dead halt, at the sight of a pair of worn, school-issue boots, size 13s, one and then another, left among the firs. And a yellow and black Hufflepuff cloak.
David falls to his knees, touches the cloak with shaking fingers. It's still warm, from Cook's body heat.
He's shivering so hard that it takes a while to notice that the silver trail doesn't end - it stretches into the distance.
And then, the horror slowly stealing over him, from his vantage point closer to the ground, he sees: hoof prints, in the snow.
Oh, no. Someone... something had come along, had snatched Cook off his feet, had taken him -
- for a second David can't breathe, he wants to throw up, he wants to scream his lungs out - his friend, his best friend, captured somehow -
- David rubs his freezing hands over his face, desperately. No, he can't cry, or puke; he can't let Cook down. He’d wanted to play a part in the coming conflict, wanted to try to protect the people he loves - he's a magician, he has a wand he knows how to use, he needs to get ready with a counter-jinx, with everything he's learned in Defense Against the Dark Arts class -
- David climbs grimly to his feet, shivering with effort, but his wand's steady, and there is a slow, furious fire in the pit of his stomach. Whatever it is, that's taken Cook? Is going to have to reckon with him.
Insequere, he says, firmly, and he feels the crackle of his magic blast through his veins.
And, in the distance ahead, there's a light, and, and a wild, dark, pulling song.
Cook.
David wants to break into a run, sobbing, panic-stricken, searching, until he finds his friend, safe and sound. Instead, he makes himself advance carefully. His boots tread lightly across the snow, buoyed up by the magic in his body, towards the music.
Guillô, prends ton tambourin
Toi, prends ta flûte, Robin
Yule magic, David thinks to himself, the strange, vast song shivering in his soul.
Up ahead, the light's getting brighter - he must be approaching a break in the trees, a clearing, or something.
Abruptly, David stumbles free of the fir trunks and bare branches, and he's at the edge of the clearing, clutching at the tree bark, the moonlight pouring down suddenly, dazzling him. In the center of the clearing, in the new snow, he can make out a small tree stump; a huge rock or boulder -
- no, it's moving; it's not a rock at all, it’s a figure -
- oh God, it's singing -
Au son de ces instruments
Tu-re-lu-re-lu, pat-a-pat-a-pan
David can't breathe. He feels as if the moon is being pulled down, by the powerful Yule magic. In the center of the clearing, a figure that looks human, from the waist up. From the waist down -
- From the waist down, powerful biped legs, joints that aren't knees, aren't even human, a pointed, muscular tail. Equine legs covered in bristly auburn hair, that end in hard, cloven hooves.
It's this creature that's made the hoofmarks in the snow, this creature that's singing, human head thrown back, wild and clear and unutterably sweet.
A voice which David would recognize anywhere, even here, under the white moon, under the blaze of magic.
Cook's voice.
Au son de ces instruments
Je dirai Noël, gaiement
The silver trail ends here, in the clearing.
This is Cook. Transformed.
David must still be holding his breath, because there are dark spots swimming in front of his eyes, interspersed with bright flashes, like sunspots.
God and man became today
More in tune than fife and drum
They had pipes on which to play
Tu-re-lu-re-lu, pat-a-pat-a-pan
He catches glimpses of his friend's familiar, loved face, the scruff of beard he'd started to grow last year framing his chin, the messy, glorious hair he'd last seen from his window - only minutes ago? hours? But David's never seen Cook naked from the waist up like this, the rest of him so strange, so foreign - the broad shoulders, the thick, powerful chest with its mat of auburn hair, the strong, bare arms - David stares at his friend and can't believe his eyes, how Cook is suddenly, unutterably beautiful.
Finally Cook's song comes to an end, and he turns around, and David realises that Cook isn't just naked from the waist up.
David's a city boy, never been much around hooved animals; he's never seen a horse's reproductive organs, or a goat's. He doesn't know whether the heavy, engorged penis jutting from the tufts of hair is uncommonly large for such a creature, but it looks inhuman and dangerous, half-covered in thick foreskin. Its blunt, round head is purple and swollen, and pointed straight at him.
He feels the rush of blood to his face, the air leave his body - he was holding his breath - and there's an overwhelming smell, wild and earthy and pungent, rolling off the creature, half-man, half-goat, filling his lungs, his entire being.
David doesn't realize that his knees have given way until he feels the wetness of the cold ground under his palms. He feels wetness on his face, too; his eyes are streaming from the smell, he's overcome, on his knees in the snow.
"David. David."
He finally looks up, belatedly wiping his eyes. Cloven hooves, auburn flanks. The scent of the creature's arousal, filling the clearing.
And then there's the gentle voice he hears every day. Echoing with power, but still the voice he recognizes. "Are you all right? Please talk to me."
The creature - Cook - puts out his hands, his human hands, and David concentrates on them, doesn't look anywhere else; strong, square fingers, hair on the backs of the hands standing on end, dirt under the nails.
Cook's touch is so hot David gasps, and he lifts David to his feet as if David's weightless. David looks up into endless green eyes, clings to them, like Cook's gaze is a lifeline.
"David, why are you here?"
Have Cook's eyes always been this deep, with pupils that are long dark slits? "Followed you," says David, finally, his voice sounding thick and foreign to him, in the charged night. "I saw you from my window. Then, there were hoofprints, and I, I thought..."
His throat closes and he can't finish the sentence: he thought something had taken his friend, and clearly, something had.
Cook's elongated gaze is quiet, almost hypnotic. "The prints are mine, in this form."
And there's that impossible thing, the creature, holding him upright, with fingers that sear his flesh. "I don't understand. How...?"
"Not sure myself, to be honest." Cook shrugs, and for an instant almost looks like his old self. "I was mucking around, casting the Transfiguration spell, for the millionth time. Never worked before, you know, but today I felt ... I felt called to the woods, felt this inner creature. Could be because it's Yule, or something, I don’t know, but then Transfiguration made me into this self, this anti-Patronus, so I could sing this song."
His eyes flash, gold and green, and David sees the sharp horns in his forehead. All at once he looks like nothing human, like the ancient god of the forest, Pan the Satyr. David can't look at his face any more. The musky odor is overpowering, surrounding him, making him shiver with something other than the cold.
"Your hands are freezing," Cook murmurs, his voice strange and dark. "You shouldn't have left the school compound to come find me."
"I was worried about you," David whispers, looking away, looking at anything else in the clearing that isn't the creature: dark-pupilled eyes, bare, powerful body, the uncovered sex.
"You shouldn't have worried. I was meant to be this, I think, tonight."
David swallows. The scent is making him seriously light-headed. For a second he thinks he might fall again, or throw up.
Cook's hands, inhumanly strong, holding him up and filling him with fire.
"David." Cook's voice is very soft, all of a sudden, hesitant. "Am I...am I really that hideous? That you can't look at me, suddenly?"
Cook sounds so vulnerable, so unsure - David looks up, in concern, and meets the dark, dilated gaze. And he's lost.
"No," David murmurs, hardly aware of what he's saying. "You're beautiful, Cook. You're so beautiful, it scares me so much."
"God," Cook says, quietly. His big hands, human hands, slide from David's, up his arms, to grip his shoulders and draw him imperceptibly closer. David feels Cook's grasp, like a slow lick of fire, through his clothes. "David - if you could only see yourself. I, I want - God, you don't know -"
David's shivering, and Cook's shivering, too, with restraint. His red mouth is very close, suddenly. The thick smell curls off his body, surrounds them both, makes no secret of the god's desires.
"I do know," breathes David; he doesn't know how he knows, but he does - every fibre of his body is full of the scent, of the magic that's binding Cook to this creature.
He tilts his head back, instinctively, and the god's mouth descends and captures his, in a kiss that sears itself into his mortal bones.
Frantic, panting, his body shuddering with want - there's nothing David can do except hold on, blindly, as Cook kisses him and lifts him off his feet, pushes him up against the boulder in the center of the clearing.
The magic crashes into him, the fire tearing little inarticulate cries from his throat. He's trying to free himself from his clothes when Cook pulls his mouth away, makes an impatient gesture, and there's a ripping sound, then - they're skin against skin, like a simmering bonfire, and the creature's huge, leaking penis is hot and hard and impossibly wet against his thigh.
David is, of course, not a complete innocent. He's touched himself all this and last year, sometimes several times a night, even. He’s tried not to think of Cook when he does so - it's not something he wants to admit to himself.
But there's no control here, in the arms of the god.
Cook's mouth claims his again. David can't breathe, the sensation of lips and tongue and teeth overwhelming him, the smell of the creature's skin, his own panting breath, mingling with the music pounding in his ears.
Again, the sensation of weightlessness: the creature moves down to tongue his throat, to lift him up, like a doll - he can't do anything but cling to its neck, as his legs slide apart, up and around the thick body, as directed, and something's stretching him, at his entrance, slick and massive and pushing.
He feels the hardness of the boulder scrape against his bare back, the winter night around him, but pain and cold don't touch him. Everywhere along his skin, uncovered and open to the elements, is fire.
Inside him, a pounding want, music and magic, the unsheathed need of the god which consumes him, overtakes him.
David's head falls back, and he's impaled against the stone like a Yule sacrifice.
His world's sideways on its axis, the moon's smashed down in pieces around them. He's groaning and wet and bloody, and filled to the hilt with the god.
Rutting, thrashing, teeth and impossible strength - nothing is elegant, or pretty; the music all jagged edges, the darkest kind of magic. This is Pan, the primal creature, overcome by the need to copulate, to take, to ravish, soft flesh and blood and mewling sounds - oh, God -
- someone's howling, the creature, David himself, a conflagration of blood and magic, and the irresistible pleasure overtakes him so quickly he can't, there's white fire, and blindness, and fierce, shaking bliss -
... and then, there's nothing at all.
David becomes gradually aware of someone calling his name. Gently, lovingly, over and over.
Very slowly, he opens his eyes.
Green eyes, huge elongated pupils. Horns framing the flushed, ardent face. His best friend, and at the same time, the Pan-creature, the god.
It's Cook, though, who goes slack with relief. "Thank God, David. You were out for so long, I was so afraid..."
David takes belated stock of his surroundings. He seems to be lying down, in Cook's arms, his body across Cook's lap. He's covered with his school cloak, but underneath, his skin is bare as he remembers.
His voice seems to be working, after a fashion. "Um, I think I'm okay."
Cook's lap is so warm. His arms hold David close, shielding him from the cold with his magic. His hands frame David's face gently.
"David, if I'd hurt you, if the creature hurt you, I don’t think I could bear it."
"No," says David, fiercely, shifting in Cook's lap to sit up, to touch Cook's face, in his turn. "I'm fine. You didn’t hurt me, you’d never."
David doesn't know what he can say to reassure his friend, but the strange, dilated eyes go a little red and wet. There's the smell in the cold air, the last thrilling notes of the rutting sex magic.
"It's good you feel that way, ‘cause I'm not sure how long I'll stay like this."
David frowns. "Did you try to cast Untransfiguration?"
"Yes, I still have my wand. It's not working. And it’s making me crazy, inside, I'm like, the creature feels like it's on fire all the time, it's hard to think or breathe. It hears music, it wants to sing under the moonlight. And it wants -" Cook breaks off, flushes scarlet. "It keeps wanting -"
David feels a stirring under his thighs, is conscious of the dirt, the blood, the stickiness of their mingled fluids, across his bare skin, under the cloak. He can recognize the humming in his veins, now, the first sounds of music.
He can smell it starting again.
Cook has turned away from him, one hand coming up to cover his face.
David leans over, put his arms around Cook’s neck, trying to comfort him. "Maybe it'll fade with the moonlight, or after Yule is over."
Cook’s voice is muffled. "You might be right, or I might transform back again every night till then. Like this thing has made me a temporary Animagus, or something. Oh God, I’m going out of my mind.”
“Hey,” says David, softly. “It's okay. We'll sort this out together. The headmaster…”
“The headmaster will see me in Azkaban, for the things I want to do to you,” Cook says, miserably, and, this is unbearable - David grabs Cook’s hand, pulls it away from his face.
“Look at me,” David tells him, steadily. “I want those things too. Cook, they're going to have to lock me up with you.”
“You're just saying that, because this, this thing wants you to want it,” Cook murmurs, and David reaches out to hold on to his chin, meets Cook’s dilated gaze squarely.
“This thing is part of you, Cook, you need to know that. I think it's the key to Untransfiguration. Somehow, this is part of you, this, and the music and Yule, and…and me,” and Cook’s mouth goes rigid and still.
At last, he says, “I, I’ve always wanted you, David. But I never wanted you to know that.”
“Well, this was one way of showing me,” says David, smiling tentatively, and, as Cook smiles as well, he says, quickly, so he won’t lose his nerve, “I love you. And I want you to know that, now.”
He’s watching Cook’s face, so he sees the gold-green eyes fill, slowly, and sees the elongated pupils finally widen. A huge shudder racks through Cook, and then another, and the Untransfiguration shakes him like a leaf.
When it’s done, when the god’s gone, there’s just a boy in the snow, crying his eyes out, from a desire so long denied.
“I want you to know that, too,” Cook says, finally, and David hears the high, white Yule song, moon and fir trees and hard snow beneath, the song of both their hearts.
*
what child is this?/riu riu chiu - borrowing writingpickle's god!universe
everything's new, in this new world. david knows this is why the colors are muted: everything here is a pale shadow of heaven.
occasionally, he misses his family, and paradise - misses his natural place between the silvery presence of virginal ramiele with her huntress' bow, the fiery gold of danny and the bright diadem on his brow, the angels kary and clare, and the rest of the heavenly host.
but there are no humans in the realm of paradise, and there's certainly no cook, whose brow is unclouded as any god's, whose wit shoots straighter than any goddess' arrow, and whose laugh - whose laugh, david thinks, might be sweeter than all the pleasures of heaven itself.
and it's the Christmas season, and the whole of L.A. is lit up in neon and bright colors and twinkling lights like multi-hued fireflies which he's never seen in all the realm, and for the first time david feels at home - as if the colors of this strange world are finally as bright as those of his heavenly abode.
he treads the brilliantly-lit world today, not in sandaled feet, but in boots, to protect his toes from the winter sidewalks. he wears a coat and a wooly sweater that makes his sensitive skin itch, and thick jeans on his legs, and gloves on his hands, but his fingers are still cold.
david is too fascinated by the neon and the twinkling and the Christmas parade that sails past to notice that, after a couple of hours, with the sun setting on he horizon and the night chilling the air, his lips are kind of turning blue.
but cook notices, and david kind of starts when cook mutters something under his breath, pulls off his gloves, pulls off david’s own gloves, and wraps david’s freezing hands in his big, warm ones.
standing in the evening under the Christmas lights, david blinks up at cook’s face, suddenly smiling and warm and very near to his.
feels the warm puff of breath, warm lips, suddenly, pressed close to his for a heartbeat, before cook pulls away again.
“not so cold now?” cook murmurs. he doesn’t let go of david’s hands.
who is he? the child of the evening, the beloved son of the gods? he doesn't know, any more. he feels different, filled with fire, his hands in cook's, as if, in this season of birth, he too is newly born.
*
Ave Maria[PG] - borrowing jehane18's All I Really Need future!verse.
The Latin rings the rafters of the old Blue Springs church. It'll be Christmas Eve for exactly thirty more minutes, and the midnight mass is in full swing.
Archuleta holds tightly to Cook's hand as they both sing with the choir: Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. He lets their joined voices wash over him like light.
Cook's mouth is curled up on one end - Arch knows he's grinning at Arch's flawless High Latin accent, which Arch had perfected for his 2009 Christmas album. Arch rolls his eyes at Cook - his new husband can be such a snob, on occasion.
"What's the matter?" Cook mutters out of the side of his mouth to Arch. "I practiced till I could pronounce this right!" Smart-ass, too, as it happens; he’d be insufferable, if he wasn’t this handsome.
After the hymn is sung, they settle back into their anonymous pew in the back of the church to listen to Pastor Mike's homily. The voice of the young Foraker family priest resounds with strength as he retells the old, beloved story about the Christ child in the manger, and the joy and salvation that was born this day, thousands of years ago.
This talk of children puts Archuleta in mind of his own child, his Jamie, also born on this very day, Christmas Eve five years ago. Jamie and Belle are spending the birthday and holiday season this year with Belle's new in-laws in Deer Valley. It's the bittersweet note in his otherwise seamless joy this season, that he can't be with his son this year.
The new Vskype hologram chats had allowed him to watch the emotions color Jamie's little face as he'd regaled his father earlier today, with precocious five-year-old tales of cake and sledding, enabled him to reach out to a three-dimensional image of Jamie's little hand. But technology isn't a substitute for the small, trusting fingers that fit so perfectly between his, and a pre-schooler-sized space in his heart.
Arch knows he and Belle hadn't been able to overcome their fundamental problems, although they'd tried to treat each other kindly. But nobody could regret a marriage that had brought Jamie into the world. His son's the best thing that ever happened to him, in this life.
Archuleta snags this rogue thought as it slides through his brain, and looks slightly guiltily at the man at his side. Okay, make that two best things.
Ah, there's no need for guilt - he knows Cook's aware of how much Arch loves him, how grateful he is that they'd finally made their way back to each other, and joined their lives to each other’s, at last.
Arch squeezes Cook's hand, Cook's long calloused fingers fitting as perfectly between his as Jamie's had. There's gold on Cook's ring finger, which he'd put there but is still becoming more familiar with, the metal as warm as Cook's skin.
Cook squeezes back. His profile is aquiline and perfect. He's sitting with his head to one side, listening to the message; there's a light in his thoughtful green eyes. It's something that Archuleta gives thanks for every day, that Cook has managed to find his way back to God as well.
The desire strikes him as they kneel to pray, like a bolt from the night sky.
Cook turns from his folded hands to glance at Arch; he can’t have mistaken the shiver that had run through Arch as he kneels beside him. Arch can't hold his gaze for long. He isn't sure what Cook sees before he turns away, but Cook raises his eyebrows and continues to look at him speculatively. Archuleta looks straight ahead and tries not to let his face show how his world has suddenly shifted on its axis.
The Nunc Dimittis and recessional hymn finishes, and as people are standing to leave, Cook tugs Archuleta into his lap. Arch is concentrating on putting his coat on, and squawks and nearly overbalances.
"Okay, look, you just had an epiphany, or something like that, You need to share it with me, this instant."
"Put on your coat, Cook."
"Not until you tell me," and Cook cups his face gently, his green eyes very calm, full of love, waiting.
Archuleta swallows; he's still shaken by this revelation, and incapable of denying Cook anything.
"I want another child," he whispers softly.
Cook looks at him for a long time. His mouth tightens, in the way that means he's trying not to cry. "Are you sure?" he asks.
"Yes. I'd like to give Jamie a sibling." He reaches over and touches Cook's cheek. "And, you know, I'd like for you to have a biological child."
And he sees her so clearly - with Cook's green eyes, his auburn hair, the laughter and sweetness and intensity of his musician's soul.
Cook's eyes are slowly filling. He squeezes them shut: maybe he sees her, as well, hardly dares hope she might be meant for them.
"We need to think this through, David, but I... I think I'd like that too," he whispers, finally, and Arch draws him close, rests his forehead against his.
Arch whispers back, "This should feel right to you, before we do anything. But it feels right to me."
Cook turns his face into Archuleta's shoulder; he can't speak. They sit in the emptying sanctuary for a long time.
"We should go," Arch says, eventually. "Pastor Mike will want to close up soon. And your mom might send out a search party for us, in this snow."
"Okay," says Cook, rubbing his face, allowing Arch to pull him into his thick coat. "Up bright and early tomorrow, presents and eggnog, et cetera."
"Something like that," Archuleta grins, and they leave the sanctuary hand in hand.
Outside, the snow's falling, people hurrying home to their warm hearths, to wake the next day to gifts and turkey, families and love. Faintly, there’s the sound of church bells ringing in the distance, the remnants of the choir's Latin cadences still shimmering in the night.
For unto us this day is born a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.
Pausing on the threshold of the church, Archuleta feels God's love surround them, holding them in an everlasting embrace.
The snowfall frames Cook's bare head in frost; turns his eyelashes to silver. Archuleta knows that Cook will be as beautiful as this, when they're both grey, and full of years and time.
Cook leans in to kiss him, lips warm despite the biting chill. "Thank you, babe," he murmurs softly. "I think this is the best present you could've given me."
Auburn hair, green eyes - she'd be theirs soon, if their prayers were answered.
"It'll be a gift for both of us," Archuleta murmurs back, and holds on tight.
*
Melodies of Christmas, [R], for implied sexual activity - set in the _etc universe; various
David wakes to a perfect Christmas morning. The winter sky's an eggshell blue. Faintly, in the distance, he can hear church bells, and the sound of singing.
Beside him in their bed, his boyfriend rolls over and says, "Mpfgz."
David looks fondly at Cook's sleeping face. They'd got back in late last night; it'd be a nice Christmas present, to let him sleep in. Although - and he grins to himself - it might be an even nicer present to wake Cook up with a nice, seasonal Christmas song.
David starts to sing, softly, in his breathy upper register, against Cook's temple.
There's something in the melodies
That the Christmas season brings
Cook's eyelashes flutter, his hands twitch.
David moves lower, modulating his song; murmurs lyrics into the hollow of Cook's throat, soft harmonising against his shoulder, and Cook's smiling, drifting awake.
He sings down the eloquent keys of Cook's sternum. He hums, resting his cheek against the thick plane of Cook's belly. Then, still lower, and with more intent, he slides into his lower register, into the chorus, and Cook's eyes snap open and his hands catch in the sheets, suddenly and fully alert.
Quite soon after, Cook joins David in song, shakily and wordlessly. They trade the melodic line and harmony - push and pull, call and response - and when they reach the climax of the song, David's voice dark, coaxing, Cook surrenders, on the edge, then, letting go.
Afterwards, Cook insists on taking over the lead, and David's content to follow. Cook's song is much more direct and to the point, it doesn't take the gentle, teasing meanderings that David's did. He heads right for the glory notes, and it isn't long before David throws his head back in the high C Cook always wrings from him, and comes hard and fast to the finish, in Cook's arms.
After their duet, the boys are famished. David makes pancakes, Cook scrambles eggs, and they sit under their tree and feed themselves and each other.
It wouldn't be Christmas morning without presents, and eventually Cook lets David get down to serious opening. There's quite a pile under the tree to get through. They open the practical gifts from their parents, sweet and silly gifts from their fans, the gag gifts from their siblings and friends.
Cook grins when he opens a box and the rubber chicken's inside, wearing his ugly reindeer scarf and a new and equally hideous muffler. "Neal is so dead."
David is neatly saving paper for re-wrapping. "Look, these fans from the Philippines gave me an amazing collage!"
"That's nice. My fans gave me a ficus. Not sure why there's a stapler attached to it, and one of our old guitar picks." Cook stares at the card. "Says they're mods of some locked site. Kinky."
"A plant is kinky? People sent you handcuffs last year!" David carefully unwraps at a Pooh bear in a Guitar Hero t-shirt, with tiny blown kisses along its collar, and a huge yellow duck with a nameplate that says QUACK.
"This year, too," says Cook, with a sigh, sweeping a pile of metal cuffs aside, tagged with julia! and melody! and sexybondagegirlsetcetera. "Open my present, Arch. Here."
David opens the small box, holds the cross up to the light. The diamonds flash with meaning, heralding another time, when their love might be more difficult, and more complex.
"I love it, Cook. Help me put it on, okay? Oh gosh, and you got me a flute, too!"
"For you to get your Pan on, when you feel it. Or maybe that's me." Cook grins, wickedly, and David hits him on the arm.
"Open mine," says David, and Cook unwraps a vellum-bound first edition of Neruda's Cien Sonetos de Amor.
David reads to Cook in Spanish, Quítame el pan, si quieres, quítame el aire, pero no me quites tu risa, his melodious voice making a song of the poem, though he has to stop when Cook's eyes get red.
"This is amazing, babe. You now need to give me Spanish lessons, so I can read these back to you," says Cook, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
At last, the presents are all opened, and there's a pile of wrapping paper a mile high on the floor for Dublin to fight over. They have plans for Christmas lunch, but for some reason, they're kind of distracted, kissing each other under the lights of their tree.
"This is the absolute best Christmas ever," Cook says, "and I'm counting that time when I was fifteen and I got cornered under mistletoe by the blonde twins from down the road. Hey, it was meant to be flattering!" he protests, as David smacks him in earnest. "I mean it, David. Thanks to you, I'm in love with Christmas."
"May it last throughout the year," sings David, mischievously.
"Yeah, and all our lives long," murmurs Cook, and David doesn't know how the moment suddenly became this serious, but Cook's eyes are red again.
And in his heart, David knows, whatever may have happened on those other frozen worlds, to other Davids, other Cooks, all those different Christmases in those different times, there's going to be a happily ever after, for them, in this one.
merry Christmas, one and all ! = the end