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In the back of his mind John had had some inclination to go back to Oadby for Christmas. He hasn’t been home in a little while now, becoming a little too used to the way his mum’s voice sounds over the phone, but the months had fallen away and between one call and the next his mum had decided to go on holiday to Paris with her new boyfriend. Julia was even less help, wanting to take the kids to see their paternal grandparents, and then Freddie had rented out a house and Brian was buying everyone plane tickets and somehow, inevitably, they had all wound up in Montreux.
He says inevitably because sometimes he feels like they spend more time here than not. It’s nothing to be mad about; the summers are glorious, captured in their own bubble of time, of golden sunrises and morning swims in Lac Leman, and the winters are as picturesque as a fairy tale or a scene within a snow globe. He ruminates on it as he looks out the windows of the house toward the lake, snow flurries drifting by and a glass of eggnog making his fingertips numb.
“John!” Freddie yells from the kitchen. “Can you get the door?”
He starts. “Who’s coming?”
“Fuck if I know. It’s probably Phoebe with the firewood.”
He sidesteps the obvious joke about men bringing Freddie their wood in favor of heading toward the door, pausing halfway there to peer into the kitchen when he smells smoke. “Is everything alright in here?”
“I don’t know,” Freddie replies serenely, pulling something decidedly charred and unrecognizable out of the oven. “I have no…no frame of reference for these things, dear. It’s anyone’s guess.”
“That doesn’t look edible, Fred,” John says plainly, feeling like he’s losing his mind.
Freddie shrugs. “You sort it out, then,” he says, though he doesn’t sound bothered. “I’ll go and help Phoebe with his wood.”
John snorts, side stepping him and rolling up his sleeves to attempt to salvage Freddie’s sad attempt at what appears to be biscuits. It’s only once he’s standing before the sink that he notices the mistletoe hanging from the windowsill; scoffing, he plucks it down.
“Bad luck to take it down, you know,” Roger says from the direction of the other doorway.
John smiles to himself, but he doesn’t turn around as he sets the bundle of leaves down on the windowsill and begins scraping the charred biscuits into the sink. “Bad luck to have it near food,” he replies. “It’s toxic, you know.”
“I don’t think our luck in the kitchen can get much worse.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“Hey, you’re the one getting char under your nails, not me.”
He raises his eyebrows, turning to look at Roger over his shoulder and biting down a laugh when he lays eyes on the christmas bauble patterned blazer he has on. It’s truly an eyesore, glittery and horribly kitsch, but Roger’s posture is as confident as if he were modeling Prada.
“Was it you, then?” he asks Roger, shaking sooty water off his hands.
Roger’s eyebrows go up innocently. “Hm?”
“The mistletoe.”
“What, you mean was it I who put it up?”
“Well it didn’t just appear there!” he laughs. “I’ve been finding it all over the place. It’s getting to be excessive.”
“Ba humbug,” Roger mocks, lowering his voice and holding his arms away from his body like a troll.
“There was one in the shower, Rog.”
“And did you kiss anyone in the shower, John?”
“No, Roger, I did not,” he says dryly. “I did invite someone into the shower, but they happened to be dead asleep at the time.”
“Poor sap,” Roger pouts, pacing closer. “They really missed out, huh?”
John laughs. “You tell me,” he says, turning away to continue scraping at the charred pan. It’s no use; the mess isn’t going anywhere. He pushes the stopper into the sink, letting it fill with hot, soapy water and dropping the pan under the surface.
He can feel Roger hovering over his shoulder, but he doesn’t look at him. It gets under Roger’s skin, he’s learning. Queen’s entourage is a close-knit family, and this newly budding thing between he and Roger isn’t news to anyone--he’s pretty sure Phoebe knew about it even before he himself did--but still, the giddy excitement of it feels too fragile at this stage for them to share it so overtly with the world. It’s better to keep it behind closed doors, at least for now.
As much of a hassle as it is to keep things behind closed doors, he’d be a fool to forget that Roger has never backed down from a challenge. He should have known that his boyfriend would thrill over the risk of being caught, stealing kisses and testing boundaries at every turn. John would be lying if he said he doesn’t love the way Roger gets restless and hyper-focused when he’s not allowed to touch, growing more tightly wound by the minute until the moment they’re finally alone again and he has John’s attention in full.
That’s why he keeps his eyes on the charred mess of the pan as it disappears beneath the foam, even as he senses more than sees Roger shifting restlessly on his feet as he leans against the counter by John’s side.
“You should leave that,” Roger murmurs. “It’s not coming off anytime soon.”
“Are you volunteering to do it?” John asks him, still not looking at him as he fights off a smile.
“Me? No! I’m all dressed up. I can’t get this jumper wet.”
“That jumper’s horrible.”
“You should take it off me.”
John lets out a surprised snort, ducking his head as he snickers.
Roger leans a little closer, and when John looks at him it’s to see his eyes sparkling. “Come on,” he goads, a laugh in his voice. “No reason for you to be working away in a kitchen.”
“We’re about to have a party.”
“About to, but we still have time.”
“For what exactly?” John giggles.
Roger shrugs theatrically, eyes wide, and then looks up pointedly. John follows his gaze to the mistletoe hanging up above the window, and when he glances down at where he’d put the bunch earlier he sees the spot is empty.
“A Christmas miracle,” he deadpans. “It rehung itself.”
“‘Tis the season,” Roger replies dryly. “You know, I hear not kissing under it is bad luck.”
John turns to him finally, watching as Roger’s face brightens, his blue eyes immediately drifting to John’s lips. “Is that so?” John asks him softly.
Roger nods. “Horrible.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
“No, we shouldn’t risk it.”
John hums, smiling slightly at the way Roger’s breath catches when he brushes their noses together, and then he presses their lips together.
Roger responds instantly, tugging him closer with a hand on John’s hip until John is pressing him into the edge of the sink. His hair is just long enough that John can tug it gently as he guides Roger where he wants him, and the feeling of it has Roger letting off a cut-off sound into his mouth. He lets himself fall into him, taking in nothing but the softness of his mouth and the warmth of his body against John’s own, his fingers sliding along the back of John’s waistband before just dipping beneath it to rub at the small of his back. John leans forward, using his height to his advantage for once as he crowds Roger backward until he’s bending over ever so slightly and clinging to John even harder because of it. Roger lets out another noise, arching up toward him, and--
Brian yelps behind them. “In the kitchen? Really?”
“Mistletoe,” Roger blurts as he breaks away, his mouth red and his eyes glassy. “Bad luck not to kiss under mistletoe.”
John steps away from him quickly, clearing his throat and studiously avoiding turning his pelvis away from the sink.
Brian raises his eyebrows at them, a smug smile on his lips. “Right,” he says slowly. “Well, I think you more than honored that tradition. Can I come in to get a beer, or will I have to kiss someone too?”
“Beer is outside,” John replies, carefully not thinking about how hot his cheeks feel. “We put it in the snow.”
“Please do not kiss either one of us,” Roger adds.
“I don’t plan to,” Brian laughs, wandering off.
John lets out a slow breath, then a giddy laugh. He looks at Roger, then the pan in the sink, then at Roger again.
Roger, for his part, is grinning at John with all the brightness of the sun. His hair is in all sorts of disarray, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright, and it’s enough to make his breath catch. It’s more than he ever could have dreamt of having, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever take it for granted. He can’t imagine how he ever would when Roger’s affection feels like such a gift every day. To be here in such a beautiful place, on top of the world from talent and success and with his favorite people by his side is enough to make his head spin; he doesn’t understand, sometimes, how he got lucky enough to have Roger too. Sometimes it feels like he’ll never be able to wrap his head around everything that’s been granted to him.
He knows Roger already knows it. It’s written all over his face, and that’s why he doesn’t tell him.
“Your jacket got wet,” John says to him instead, poking at the soap foam on the bottom of the hem with a smile.
Roger gives him a shit-eating grin. “Well, now you have to take it off of me, don’t you?”