“Flurries,” you point with a soapy hand out the misted window over the sink. “I think it’s snowing.”
Marc doesn’t even look up, his eyes focused on the puzzle on the coffee table in front of him. “It’s not cold enough for it to stick,” he grumbles.
You roll your eyes and grab a tea towel to wipe your hands on. “So sorry it’s not a blizzard, Spector.”
“I’ll take you to Chicago in January and see how excited you are about the snow then.”
You huff out a laugh and cross the room to sit next to him on the couch, plucking up a puzzle piece to slot near the bottom of the picture. “I didn’t even say I was excited. I was just mentioning it.”
“Just mentioning it means you’re excited,” he says, leaning his chin into your shoulder.
You wrinkle your nose and pick up another piece, quickly locating its location along the border before you turn and kiss his nose. “You’re insufferable, Marc Spector.”
“And you’re better at this fuckin’ puzzle than me,” he grouses, watching you fit another piece into place.
You laugh and tuck yourself closer to him, the weight of his chin on your shoulder a welcome one. “It’s because you don’t have a strategy,” you say. “You do the borders first to get started and then move inwards,” you instruct.
“That’s not a challenge.”
“Are you trying to be challenged by a puzzle?”
Marc doesn’t answer, picking up a piece and searching briefly for its place. You like the slow way he does it, it’s relaxing and good, his hand hovering, fingers twirling the piece. Which, you notice, is not a border piece.
He snaps it down and you frown, “I don’t think that’s where that goes.”
“It is for now.”
You don’t bother trying to hide your smile, glad to see him doing something slow and peaceful and constructive for once.
The snow reminds you of something you’d been meaning to ask him, as the holiday season approached and how you’d celebrate, if he, or Jake or Steven, wanted to do anything at all.
You’ve never been big on the holidays. And so, usually, you just take the opportunity to bake and give gifts to the people you care about most. But this year is different, this year you have the system to consider.
You nudge your nose into Marc’s cheek as he incorrectly places another puzzle piece, and you’re sure he’s just doing it to irritate you now. “So, speaking of the snow,” you venture. “The holidays are coming up soon. Did you want to celebrate?”
Marc doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the puzzle. “Thanksgiving? Weird to do it here isn’t it?” He turns suddenly and glances into one of the mirrors propped against the wall. He’s quiet for a moment, head tilting to the side, before he turns to you. “Steven’s okay with it but he’s going to complain anyway. Jake wants pie.”
You are not talking about Thanksgiving, and you’re certain Marc knows it. You suspect too that Steven and Jake are reminding him of that. “Okay,” you agree because you’re sure he’s avoiding the topic and you don’t want to push it at the moment. “We can do Thanksgiving if you want.”
You pause, waiting to see if Marc might mention any other holidays but he remains silent. So you kiss Marc on the cheek and promise to figure something out for Thanksgiving. “Any other holidays you’d like to celebrate?”
He hums, “Don’t think there are any other holidays in November this year.”
“Sure,” you answer. “Thanksgiving dinner it is.”
He grips your hand back when you lay it on his shoulder, squeezing tight. “Thank you, baby,” he smiles, tipping his forehead briefly against yours.
~
Thanksgiving comes and goes (with a roast chicken instead of turkey and Marc’s favorite sides from childhood, and pie for Jake), and you decide to string up soft yellow fairy lights around the flat in anticipation of the holiday season.
You figure they’re neutral enough, and they make the place even cozier than it already is and ward away the dark of winter, which you count as a win. It might be an idea to keep them up all year. There have been no further mentions of any holidays, and you aren’t sure how to bring it up again, not sure if you were crossing a boundary or inserting yourself where you don’t belong.
When Steven comes home and sees the lights he grins and points. “Decorating already, are we?”
You bite your lip. “For the holidays, yeah,” you prompt, hoping Steven might mention it where Marc hadn’t.
He nods, still grinning at you, and presses a kiss to your cheek.
But he doesn’t say anything either, and you wonder if it hasn’t occurred to him, or if he was following Marc’s lead in not talking about it.
~
Later that evening, you do a quick google search, to find the exact date that Hanukkah began. You find that you have a little under three weeks to decide how to approach them about it.
You know the system has a complicated relationship with their Judaism, that much you can tell at least.
They don’t talk about it and if they practice in any way, they certainly don’t do it in front of you. Marc’s deliberate avoidance of talking about the holiday season only compounds that fact.
But you know it’s important to them, an important part of their identity, even if they don’t say it.
The Magen David they wear around their neck never comes off. You’ve never seen any of them without it, the one article of clothing that was common to all three of them, even back when Steven hadn’t known about Marc.
You’ve never asked them about it. Because it seems like a closely guarded thing, something kept close to their heart, connected to home and the past in a way you can’t begin to guess at. And Marc’s relationship to his past and his homelife isn’t exactly a good one. You’re not sure that bringing it up won’t hurt him in some way you won’t be able to repair.
So, you’ve never asked. You’d figured that they’d bring it up to you, when and if they wanted to talk about it.
You sigh, listening to Jake puttering around the kitchen, singing in Spanish lowly as he makes a sandwich.
Maybe you shouldn’t say anything about it. Maybe you were assigning undue importance to it, maybe they felt no connection at all to being Jewish and the necklace was just a connection to their past.
Maybe you should just continue as you have every year. But it feels rude, it feels wrong, to just bake and buy gifts and not say anything at all.
You commit yourself instead to learning about Hanukkah.
Just in case.
~
You get caught the week before Hanukkah begins.
Much of your free time recently had been spent googling Hanukkah, the traditions and history, what foods were popular and whether there are any special ingredients you might need to find.
You’re on one of the more helpful websites you’ve found, rereading the story of Hanukkah when -
“What are you doing?”
You snap your laptop closed as you sit bolt upright and turn. Marc could be so fucking quiet sometimes. He’s peering over your shoulder, an apple with a bite taken out of it in his hand.
When you don’t immediately say anything, he raises a brow at you.
“Nothing,” you say quickly.
“Liar,” he deadpans, circling the sofa to plop down next to you, taking another bite of the apple as he slings one arm over the back of the couch. “You were reading about Hanukkah,” he says, crunching as he chews.
He doesn’t ask why, just tilts his head.
You sigh and lean forward to set your laptop on the coffee table. “I was,” you admit, dragging a hand down your face. “The holidays are coming up and I wanted to be prepared.”
“For what?”
You don’t look at him, tugging at a loose thread in the blanket over your lap. “For Hanukkah. In case you wanted to celebrate.” Marc doesn’t reply and you don’t dare meet his eyes, though you can feel his gaze against the side of your face. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to and I didn’t know how to bring it up. I tried but you just kept talking about Thanksgiving.”
When he still doesn’t say anything, confirming your worst fears that bringing it up would make him shut you out, you barrel nervously on. “I wasn’t trying to pry. You don’t really talk about being Jewish and I know that’s probably for a reason. I just…didn’t want you to feel like I was ignoring it.” You flutter your hands in front of you, “I didn’t grow up with any religion so I don’t have traditions I follow. I’m not pushed about what we do for the holidays. I just…didn’t want to do something wrong. And I didn’t know if it would remind you of your family-,”
His hand drops from the back of the sofa to your shoulder, fingers working into the tense muscle. “I’m not upset,” he says, weirdly gentle about it. “It’s okay.”
“Okay,” you glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you sure?”
He nods, taking a final bite of the apple before he tosses the core across the room where it sinks into the bin.
You cautiously move closer to him, fitting yourself beneath his arm. Marc tucks you closer, sliding his fingers over the curve of your shoulder, dark eyes on you. “So…would you like to celebrate?”
“How do you usually celebrate this time of year?” He deflects, tilting his chin down to meet your gaze head on.
You shrug. “Like a vaguely Christmassy kind of way I guess? Y’know, like, the capitalist secular commercial version of it. I buy everyone gifts and decorate a mini tree. I usually do a lot of seasonal baking.”
Marc nods, like he’s mulling it over, and stays quiet for a long time.
He stays silent for so long that you start to doze off as you wait for his reply, curled against the heat of him lulling you to sleep. His hand slides idly back and forth over your shoulder, brow furrowed in thought.
“We haven’t…celebrated in a long time.”
You blink groggily, turning your head up against his shoulder to watch his face. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Okay. That’s okay,” you slide your hand across his belly to take his other hand. “Do you want to celebrate this year?”
It takes lots of questions to get things out of Marc sometimes, delicate prodding and patience were the name of the game, so he doesn’t get lost in his head, so he doesn’t go non-verbal and spiral to some place you can’t reach.
“I’m not sure I deserve to.”
Your heart constricts and you feel just a bit out of your depth. You know virtually nothing about Judaism, besides what you’ve been able to read on the internet over the last few weeks. It’s impossible to tell what he’s really struggling with - his faith, his family, the abuse in his past? “Why?” You ask, sliding your fingers along the vein in his arm, depressing your thumb against the inside of his elbow. You feel the steady pulse of his heart under your hand.
“Serving Khonshu,” his voice is low and dry. “Coming back from the dead. More than once now. Everything else. All - all the shit I’ve done.” He glances down at you, “My mother, my brother…my family. Everything.”
You reach for his hand again and squeeze it tight. “I wish I could be more reassuring on that front but since I’m just now learning about Hanukkah you can imagine how little I know.” His mouth twitches at that, a badly repressed smile twisting the corners of his lips. You slide your hand down his arm and pat his fingers, some tension going out of both of you. “All I can say is that no matter what, I’m glad you’re here with me. However you made it here, whatever you had to do to survive. I’m glad you made it here.”
Marc’s expression is carefully frozen, a look you can read lodged in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, holding your gaze for much longer than he normally would, searching for something you can’t begin to guess at. “Yeah, well,” he clears his throat, glancing away, “you’re the one thing I’ve done right.”
Heat crawls over your skin, the lingering touch of his stare and the intensity of his words make your skin prickle.
You open your mouth to respond when he continues, your words dying in your throat. His jaw ticks, like it always does when he’s pushing himself to talk about something he’d rather bottle inside and never look at again. “Look, we aren’t…I’m not religious,” he says and you nod, squeezing his hand. “Not for a long time, not after everything. But I am Jewish. We are. It’d be nice to…to try again.”
You nod again. “Okay. Yes,” you agree, tracing the lines on his palm, soothing the tension that’s seeped into his voice again.
“I could tell you the stories though,” he says suddenly, eyes latching onto yours. “I remember the stories. So you don’t have to google. I can just tell you what you wanna know.”
You try not to let the surprise show on your face, and you can tell Marc is trying not to look like he’s eager to tell you. And so you both end up with slightly constipated expressions. “I would like that, if you want to share with me,” you breathe.
He nods and looks away, his arm tightening around you carefully. “Marc,” you say, just so he’ll look at you again, just so he won’t go get lost in his own head, like you know he’s fighting not to. “How do Steven and Jake feel about celebrating? Do they remember much?”
The system’s memories were a fickle thing, overlapped and crisscrossed, with huge holes in other places. “Steven, yes. Jake, no not really.” He’s silent for a moment, eyes sliding to the mirror against the wall. He gives a sudden, dramatic roll of his eyes. “Fine, fuck,” he gripes before looking back to you. “Jake says he remembers.” And then, grumbling, “Claims to remember more than me.”
You giggle and pat Marc against his belly. “Okay, good that’s settled then. You didn’t answer me though, do you want to celebrate?”
Marc hesitates. “Can I get a raincheck on that?”
“Sure,” you say. “We have time. Y’know, you can pick what you want to do and what you don’t. We don’t have to do every tradition or-,” You cut yourself off and he doesn’t answer so you continue, still a bit nervous you were fucking everything up. “We can mix and match with the stuff I usually do. I want to do my usual baking stuff. I still want to get you guys presents.”
Marc kisses the side of your head, “Of course you do,” he murmurs. “That sounds like a good enough plan for now.”
“Okay,” you nod. “We have time. We can figure it out.”
He’s silent for a moment, head tilting to the side. “Steven is anxious that you want a Christmas tree.”
An unexpected laugh bursts out of you, and you bury your head in Marc’s shoulder. “I am totally fine without a tree in the flat.”
“Baby,” And you can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s smiling. “I think Steven kinda wants a fucking tree. Like a Hanukkah bush.”
“Hanukkah bush?” You laugh again and nod toward the mirror. “Okay. Anything. We can do whatever. I have a little mini tree that might work.”
Marc smiles at you when you turn back to him, leaning in to press your nose to his briefly. His eyes track you carefully, expression fading when you pull back.
“It was never the same, after my brother died,” he says abruptly. “My dad tried but it was just-,” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Different. Can’t remember the last time it didn’t hurt.”
You squeeze his fingers gently, smoothing your thumb over the back of his hand before you cup his cheeks. “I don’t want it to hurt,” you tilt his head down, palms on either side of his face. “What we do is up to you. It’s completely up to you and the boys, okay?”
He nods and pulls your hands away from his face, eyes on your hands where they curl back around his. You watch him, watch the soft, sweet brown that his eyes have melted down into - something curiously rounded about him in that moment, his face soft and open.
Of course, with Marc, moments like those are fleeting.
Marc’s brow goes hard suddenly, his gaze jerking up to meet yours, pressing a palm to your jaw to tilt your face fully toward his. “Were you just not going to do anything this year? If we didn’t bring it up?”
You shrug, a little helpless about it. “I’m not good at this. I would have eventually, I just didn’t want to -,”
“You won’t. Don’t - fuck, don’t cut yourself short ‘cause of us. ‘Cause of our shit. Not ever.” He leans in so you can’t look away from him. “You wouldn’t have hurt our feelings.”
“Okay,” you whisper, patting his fingers. “I won’t.”
Marc’s gaze doesn’t waver from yours, his expression calculating and alert. His voice is wooden, carefully controlled when he says, “So, should I tell you the story of Hanukkah?”
And even though you’ve read the story more times than you can count, you say, “Yes.”
The hard facade of his face breaks, and he smiles at you. “Good.”
~
“Cariño.”
You don’t turn from the counter where you’re carefully dripping honey into your cup of tea. “Jake,” you answer. You’ve just gotten done baking cookies, some shaped like menorahs and others like Stars of David, with the shapes you usually baked, trees and snowmen and snowflakes thrown in.
“Don’t listen to Marc.” His footsteps are loud as he approaches, a vibrating, irritated energy preceding him.
You start to turn but Jake is suddenly next to you, turning you and pushing you back into the counter. Heat radiates off his skin, burning hot against yours. “Don’t listen to Marc,” he repeats, his head tilting close to yours.
“Well, okay,” you say, trying not to feel crowded and overwhelmed. Jake is always just a little bit intense, but especially when he’s latched onto something he sees as an issue. “But about what, Jake? Marc says a lot of questionable things to me.”
Jake makes a frustrated sound, “About Hanukkah.” He tilts his forehead into yours, eyes boring into yours, “Me and Steven want to celebrate. Marc has to.”
You smile, and lean in to kiss the downward tilt of his mouth. “Jake, honey, seriousness doesn’t suit you,” you say against his lips.
He doesn’t budge. “We are celebrating.”
“You and Steven can celebrate. We can celebrate, me and you and Steven. Marc doesn’t have to if he doesn't want to,” you say gently. “He has complicated feelings about it. I think he feels really disconnected from that part of himself. But you can celebrate. Okay?”
Jake’s shoulders loosen a bit with your words. Jake has never gotten to celebrate, not a birthday, not a holiday. He’s been weirdly packed in about it, and you’re surprised this little outburst has taken this long to occur. “He should though, corazón,” he says, oddly gentle.
“It’s his choice, Jake,” you answer, cupping his cheek in your palm. “We can’t make him. It’s up to him.”
Jake grumbles something under his breath, irritated but satisfied for the moment that he wouldn’t spend another season on the outskirts and in the dark. “You’ll talk to him? He doesn’t listen to us.”
“He’ll come around,” you sweep your fingers over his jaw and Jake leans into your hand. “He’ll celebrate with us, just wait. If nothing else, he’ll help me cook.”
Jake kisses the center of your palm. “You’re probably right about that.”
You smile and reach around him for the plate of cookies. “Look what I made.”
“Saw that, mi amor,” he says quietly.
~
“What about here, dear heart?”
You turn to where Steven stands, hovering almost nervously near the kitchen window. You purse your lips, “It’s safer there, I think, but it’s up to you.” Steven had suggested one of the other windows to prop the menorah in, but you’d had concerns with the amount of books and paper available to go up in flames.
“But…what do you think?”
You turn to him and eye the nervous shape of his hands. “Baby,” you coo. “It’s perfect. Come here and help me with this-,”
“Oh, not a chance. If there’s any way we’ll get Marc to celebrate with us, it’s helping you with the food.”
You wipe your hands on a tea towel and circle your arms around Steven’s shoulders where he’s fiddling with a box of tapered candles, shades of alternating blue and white. “I think we have everything ready, huh?” You lean your head against his and close your eyes when his head tips back against yours.
“Pretty sure, yeah,” he mumbles, still fiddling with the candles. “Jake wants to light the first candle tonight.”
You kiss Steven’s cheek, “Okay. Is that okay?”
“‘Course. Got no problem with that. Just worried about Marc. Don’t want him to-,”
“You and Jake are both so-,”
“We’re just worried,” Steven interrupts. “He’s not talking to us. We don’t want him to be alone.”
You kiss his cheek again, “He’ll be fine. He’s not alone. You know how Marc is. He just needs a bit of time.” Steven nods, his spine softening when you press yourself against his back, hands anxiously fiddling with the matches now.
“He’ll come ‘round anyways. For you.”
“And you,” you remind him. “He loves you and Jake. He just has complicated feelings about everything. It reminds him of home, you know how that is for him.”
Steven doesn’t answer, and you hate to see him so melancholy. “Look,” you pull away and tug him around, taking the matches from his hands. “I found these cute little decorations at the shops a couple days ago and I haven’t gotten to show them to you yet.”
Steven smiles, fits his hand inside yours. “‘Course, love, please show me.”
The Hanukkah bush, or holiday tree, depending on which of the three you asked, is already decked out in white and blue lights, mini menorahs and dreidels and silver baubles, with a Magen David near the top of the tree.
You show Steven the box of blue globes you’d found, and try not to grin at his obvious excitement, but when he kisses you it becomes a little hard to ignore. “How am I doing?” You ask against his lips. “For my first Hanukkah?”
“Bloody well, I’d say,” he says, carefully opening the box of baubles. “Brilliant. As always, love.”
You glance back at the window, the unlit menorah, and the sun's position in the sky beyond before Steven is nudging his shoulder into yours and handing you an ornament to place on the tree.
You smile at him, and he beams back at you.
~
Something deep inside you is satisfied by how eager they are to share this part of themselves with you, even if Marc has been mostly silent and walled off since you talked about celebrating.
You hope he comes around.
At the very least to eat with you.
Jake is waiting for you at the window, candles readied, as the sun finally sinks below the line of the earth. The light in the flat is a low glow, and Jake’s normally intense expression is softened.
You touch the small of his back, passing your hand slowly up and down his spine.
He’s trying not to look excited, and you nudge him gently. “It’s okay to be happy, Jake Lockley.”
A bit of pink creeps into his cheeks and he doesn’t answer you immediately. You stand together in the low golden light until it’s fully dark outside. Only then does Jake strike the match without warning, the flame glowing orange as he touches it to the shamash.
You place the first candle in the menorah and wait for Jake to light it, but he reaches for you instead.
“What?”
“C’mere, mi vida, we gotta light it together.”
You hesitate. “Sure?”
“Yeah. Quit worryin’ about everything,” he says, fitting himself behind you, cupping your fingers with his around the helper candle. “You aren’t doin’ anything wrong.”
For a moment, it’s silent, and neither of you move. You know that this is the moment he’s meant to recite three blessings - which you aren’t sure if he’s planning to. So, you wait for him to guide your tangled hands, fingers warm in Jake’s grip, his body snug and comforting behind yours.
The change is subtle, but you feel it, the lax posture of Jake’s chest against your back going a bit stiff. And you’ll never be sure, but you think it’s Marc’s voice that recites the blessings in Hebrew.
You wonder if Jake plotted this, if he even knew the blessings, if he knew Marc would front to say them.
As soon as the words are out, his spine softens again and Jake’s voice is back in your ear, “And now,” he nudges his nose against your temple. “We light the first candle.” His hand guides yours to the candle, holding the flame there until it catches.
Together, you light the first candle and stick the shamash in the center of the menorah. It happens again, Marc behind you instead of Jake, slowly saying the prayer he must remember from childhood.
And when his voice ceases, it’s Steven there with you, grinning wide and happy. “Jake’s so bloody pleased, love.”
“Me too,” you say, pulling him in close to you, rubbing a hand over his shoulders. “Me too.”
~
“Why don’t you open a present?” You ask, cracking an egg over the grated potatoes in the mixing bowl in front of you, in what you hope will eventually turn into latkes.
Steven is hovering beside you, nervous, because Marc still hasn’t deigned to speak to either him or Jake. “Are you sure?”
“Yes! Yours are wrapped in blue.”
“Eight presents for each night for each of us,” he comments. “You’re too good to us, dear heart.”
You smile and kiss him, kissing away the powdered sugar on his upper lip from the sufganiyot he’d eaten earlier. “I think it’s the other way around really. Thank you for sharing all this with me.”
His eyes melt, and he tucks you close. “Thank you for poking Marc about it. He’s right hard headed when he wants to be.”
“You all are,” you correct. “Nearly ripped my head off when I suggested reorganizing the bookshelves.”
“Well - they - I can find them all! I know where every book is!” He protests and you giggle.
“Go open a present,” you say, giving him a little shove with your hip. “Any of them are fine.”
Steven goes, evaluating each wrapped parcel before he chooses one and unwraps it at the kitchen table.
Of course, Steven has picked the one book shaped gift to unwrap - gasping at the title of the rare book. “From the bookshop a few weeks ago! I went back and they didn’t have it. And you were the one that got it! Sneaky minx, you.”
You smile, “I told you good things come to those who wait.” He’d been so upset it wasn't there when he went back for it, you’d nearly given it to him when he’d come back from the shop empty handed. But this - this is far better. You watch him eagerly flip through the book before you turn back to the bowl.
The soft sound of pages being turned fills the flat and you can’t help but grin to yourself, satisfied. You’re happy. They make you happy, this makes you happy.
You hum to yourself, mixing the eggs into the potato. You’re distracted by the peacefulness of the evening, the low burning candles guttering in the window, the shush of pages being turned.
So, you jump when Marc’s voice suddenly sounds by your ear. “You need flour.”
“Marc!” You scold.
“And baking powder. Makes it crispier.”
You huff out a breath. “Would you be a dear and get it for me then, baby?” You ask, only slightly sarcastically.
“Since you asked so nicely,” he deadpans, moving to the cabinet that stored baking items.
When he comes back, he doesn’t say anything to you, adding the flour and baking powder himself, measuring in salt and pepper with his heart. He doesn’t look at you. “You got the onion in here?”
“Onion?” You ask, frowning into the bowl.
“Yeah, we need an onion,” he informs you, voice even, still not looking at you.
His back is stiff, like he’s worried you’re going to comment on his sudden appearance and he’s begging you not to. “Got it,” you nod, turning to rummaging around for one and holding it up for his inspection of the size.
He nods. “Shoulda been grated with the potato, but you can do it now and squeeze the moisture out and it’ll probably be fine.”
“Sorry,” you say, starting on your new task, “I must have missed it when I was reading the recipe.”
“I should have been helping you with it,” he acknowledges lowly.
You smile, dumping the grated and squeezed onion into the mixture. “S’okay. You’re here now.” You don’t mention you know he was there earlier too, co-conscious and then fronting to say the blessings.
You watch him fold the mixture together before he pauses, squinting over at you. “We should divide this in half.”
“Why?”
“So we can do some with cheese. Or spices.”
“Okay. Half it then.”
Marc seems pleased, poorly hiding the twitch of his lips. “Okay. Gimme another bowl.”
You do as you’re told, and then start measuring out the oil you’ll need to fry the latkes into a pan on the stove. When the oil is hot enough and Marc is carefully dropping the mixture into the pan, he says, “This is nice.” His voice is a bit gruff, grating around the edges. “We should go to that menorah lighting tomorrow. The one in Trafalgar Square.”
“You want to?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Why not?”
You grin, watching the oil pop in the pan. “Maybe you could go to the synagogue too.”
He grumbles something under his breath that you don’t catch before he speaks up. “Jake wants to.”
“Jake can go.”
“He wants you to go with him.”
“I’ll go with him, if he wants.”
Marc’s head jerks up, eyes meeting yours. “You will?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
But he seems surprised that you would, that you'd put effort into something so important to him, to them. He searches your eyes for a moment, raven gaze deep and dark. Then, “Would you go with me?” He sounds so hopeful, it almost breaks your heart.
“Yes. Steven too,” you confirm.
Marc nods, and glances away from you to expertly turn over one of the latkes. “Okay. Cool.”
You don’t comment, hiding another grin, kissing the side of his head instead as you move away. “I - we - wrapped yours in silver,” he says to your back. “If you wanna look.”
Something about it makes your throat close, a lump lodging there that you can’t quite swallow away.
Maybe it because he's shared something important with you. And you're not sure you'll ever be able to express what it means that he's opened up to you a bit, that he's let you into this part of himself, that he wants to share this with you, and reconnect to something that should be positive and good and warm.
You turn back to him and yank him into a hug, pressing your fingers up his spine until you can cup the back of his neck. He looks startled before you kiss him.
But he kisses you back, and he doesn’t ask why when you whisper, “Thank you.”