FIC: Through the Lens of Love (Hugo/Lorcan - 6820 - G)

[mini_fest_mod]

Title: Through the Lens of Love
Author/Artist: ???
Pairing(s): Hugo Weasley/Lorcan Scamander
Prompt: Their first Christmas together
Word Count/Art Medium: 6820
Rating: G
Contains (Highlight to view): *A spoiler code is provided but if your story does not have spoilers you don't have to use this code.* No Warnings, Some Mild Language
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you to my brilliant beta, motherofmercury! You were a true gem!
Summary: Lorcan and Hugo celebrate their first Christmas together. Twice.


READ IT ON AO3

The door flew open. The frame rattled and the hinges trembled. Lorcan stared at his saviour and breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

Hugo stood in the doorway, windswept and holding a jar of cranberry sauce. There was a faintly golden glow about him, highlighting the freckles on his cheeks, but that could have just been Lorcan’s overly-relieved, rose-tinted view.

“Your saviour is here,” Hugo said, flashing a grin.

Even though he’d just thought those words, they sent a ripple of irritation through Lorcan.

“Yes, yes, thank you very much, but you can only come in if you’re going to help.” Before the wrong answer could slip through Hugo’s lips, Lorcan ushered him through the door and relieved him of the cranberry sauce.

“I’m actually supposed to be getting back to see…” Hugo began, but he trailed off when Lorcan wrestled his coat off him. It was very difficult; he hadn’t seen Hugo in a few months, and it seemed as though he’d filled out in a few places. Particularly the biceps.

Clearing his throat, Lorcan threw the coat over the back of his low sofa - dyed a cosy cream for the occasion - and hurried to the kitchen.

“Set the table, please,” Lorcan called over his shoulder.

“One ‘please’ isn’t a substitute for actual manners!”

The kitchen was a hive of activity. The parsnips were disguising themselves amongst the potatoes; acting friendly. A nut-roast was roasting in a bed of baby mushrooms and garlic. Corks popped and unpopped while Lorcan scurried through an arch of prosecco bottles, supplied to him by Angelina Johnson. Amidst the warm, gentle chaos, a camera floated in the air, propelled by spells in all manner of shapes and sizes.

It had taken the better part of two hours to set everything up, and that was with the help of magic. By now, Lorcan was sweaty, exhausted, and flustered beyond belief, and he knew it was only going to get worse.

He set the cranberry sauce on the side and wiped his brow. Then followed an intense six minutes of arrangement, wherein the jar of cranberry sauce grew incredibly agitated as it was shifted and tilted. Lorcan muttered under his breath while he worked, hyper-aware of the click and puff of the camera as it hovered over his shoulder.

“Lorcan?”

Lorcan’s hand slipped, disturbing an artfully-styled plume of carrot peelings. He whipped around to send a searing glare at Hugo, whose head popped around the doorframe in time to catch his wrath.

“What?” Lorcan snapped.

Hugo raised a brow at the scene, but said nothing. “You’ve got these weird pockets with faces on, but I don't know what to do with them. The ‘helpful label’ must have come off.”

The helpful labels were admittedly a bit of an insult to anyone with intelligence, of which Hugo had plenty. But Lorcan was anxious, and the last two months of his life had been spent organising this project, and he wasn’t leaving anything to chance. If he had to label every fork in this Country just to make sure the right ones ended up in the right photograph, then so be it, no matter who he insulted.

“The faces are Nutcracker dolls, and the pockets are cutlery holders. Cutlery holders in the shape of Nutcrackers. It’s really not that difficult, you have to—”

But Hugo held up a hand. “Please, don't add to that. I think I can figure out the rest on my own.”

“Feel free to prove yourself right.”

The dismissal was clear, but Hugo still eyed him for a few moments before shrugging. He waltzed from the room, leaving Lorcan in a whirlpool of chopping and steam and the click of the camera in his red, tired face.

Hugo’s arse took a long time to disappear down the polished, sparkling hallway.

That, right there, was the source of his oncoming frustration. Not the arse in particular, but the person it belonged to. Lorcan sighed. The arse didn't help. He moved to slump against the counter before he caught himself and went rigid instead, eyeing the arrangement of peelers and colourful vegetables on the surface. He didn't want to mess anything up. He couldn’t afford to mess anything up.

Which made it all the more nerve-wracking that a portion of this evening hinged on Hugo, though he wasn’t to know that yet.

“Nutcrackers are in position!”

Lorcan swore and whirled around, adjusting the jar of cranberry sauce one more time. When it looked as perfect as he could make it, he slid his wand from beneath his sleeve and jabbed it in a pinched, pointed movement. The camera stopped clicking. It floated towards Lorcan and perched on his narrow shoulder like a proud bird, swaying as he strode out of the kitchen.

Number Thirty-Two, where Lorcan lived, was a two-storey building on an unassuming street in Basingstoke. Mother always looked faintly charmed by the regimented white houses and their neat, square lawns. She called them little soldiers, and brought him a Coldstream Guard made from felt every time she visited.

Rooms filled the space quite well. None of it was wasted on extra corridors or pokey little cupboards. Lorcan had spent the better part of a week rearranging the house magically when he moved in, ready to suit his every need, and now the entire place looked like it had soared straight from a Christmas catalogue. It was as unpleasantly unnerving as it was satisfying.

The main hallway was spick and span. Lorcan paused to twitch a picture frame back into place, no doubt disturbed by Hugo’s heavy-footed movements; the boy was like a human hurricane. Fine lengths of ruby-red twine adorned every picture, threaded with pinecones and glistening berries. Real ones, preserved with magic.

He cast one last satisfied look at the welcome mat, which boasted a crisp red and green greeting, before bustling into the dining room, where he came to a horrified stop in the doorway, every muscle in his body bunching up.

“Good, eh?” Hugo said, gesturing at the table.

Good was not quite the right word for it. The right word for it was ‘chaotic’ or ‘abysmal.’ The right word for it was rather elusive, actually, because Lorcan was struggling to find anything that wasn’t wrong with the scene.

“You didn't glance at my directions once,” Lorcan said. “If you had, you would have noticed that this room was supposed to be toy-themed. The Nutcracker Soldiers on the mantle, the toy train centerpiece, the teddy bear cushions… did none of this spark the tiniest bit of realisation in that big, food-obsessed brain of yours?”

“All the forks are in the right place, and the wine glasses have those stupid crackers to the right of them, so I don't see what the fuss is about.”

“The fuss,” repeated Lorcan, narrowing his eyes at his smirking companion. “You don't see the fuss. Of course not. Honestly, why I am surprised? Of course you don't, why did I think for one minute that you might actually be helpful when I asked you—”

“You asked me for cranberry sauce,” Hugo interrupted, strolling closer. “Nothing else. You’re lucky I decided to add to the ambience.”

“The ambience?” Lorcan threw his hands up in the air, where flakes were falling gently from the charmed ceiling. It melted when it touched the floor, or the table, but it built up everywhere else, forming soft mounds of sparkling powder. “There’s fucking snow everywhere!”

It was beautiful magic, and utterly breathtaking, and entirely fucking inappropriate.

“All you said was bring a jar of cranberry sauce, didn't even say please, and yet I found that list of directions in the boxes you lined up all over the place, so clearly you were planning on getting me to help.” Hugo put his hands in the pockets of his low-slung jeans, and shrugged. “Don't get all prissy with me when you’re the one who’s not being honest here.”

It was most likely his imagination, but Lorcan thought he detected a sullen undertone to the words. Lorcan stepped back and breathed deeply through his nose. They had a strange history, the pair of them—if one counted a series of sexual encounters that ended in one of them leaving in the morning before the other as strange.

“I can’t afford to fuck this up,” Lorcan snapped.

Hugo didn't roll his eyes. To his credit, nothing much changed about his expression; he was very good at hiding what he was feeling behind cheekiness and cheerful grins.

“Alright,” Hugo said. “I just thought snow might be a nice touch. Christmassy, you know?”

The camera wobbled on his shoulder, the lens clicking in a questioning manner. Lorcan’s chest twisted slightly. Hugo’s expression was still cheerful, but something in it made him feel bad for snapping.

“There’s—I have a plan for the entire house. Four rooms, four collections of photographs. One of them…” Lorcan cleared his throat. “One of them could benefit from some snow.”

Hugo stayed silent. Then he ducked his head and grinned at the ground. “Reckon I can manage that, your Excellency.”

A susurrus utterance rushed across the room. The snowflakes stilled in the air, turning to mist between one breath and the next. Little mountains of snow became nothing more than vapour.

Lorcan glanced around the dining room. His breath was caught in his throat, but he managed to mutter, “Impressive.”

It was impressive. Wandless magic was imperative when cooking, which Hugo had made his career out of. He was a pastry chef in a professional kitchen, skilled in the crafting of deserts and an excellent time-keeper. Still, just because he was trained in it, didn’t make it any less awe-inspiring.

The cheeky grin was back. “You think so? There’s plenty more where that came from. I can do quite a lot when my hands are busy.”

“Yes, well, that’s enough of that,” Lorcan said quickly, ducking around the table to adjust a few things. “We still have work to do.”

But there wasn’t much to adjust, and soon they were onto the next room. Lorcan flitted around putting things in their place and straightening what needed to be straightened. Hugo proved himself to be actually helpful, though the comments he made were decidedly not so.

“Listening to you is like listening to James when he’s run out of Pepper-Up Potion. Slower, but no smarter.”

“Hey,” Hugo said mildly. “James doesn’t need Pepper-Up Potion to be that hyper. He was born like that.”

“Aggravating?”

“Energetic.”

As someone who used to live with Lysander, Lorcan could confidently say that those were the same thing.

“Is that all of it?” Hugo asked, surveying the bedroom. Lorcan ran his hands over the soft grey bedspread, patterned with snowflakes, and nodded once. He stepped back, glancing around sharply, and then summoned a bag from the peg near the front door. It rushed down the hallway, up the stairs, and landed in his hands.

“The reason I didn’t ask you for help with trivial things earlier is because I was saving my favour for now,” Lorcan said. “I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask.”

He bit his lip. That was more than he wanted to share, but Hugo was staring at him curiously and there was no other option but to carry on.

Lorcan opened the bag and then pushed it into Hugo’s hands. While he peered inside, rather blank-faced, Lorcan forced himself not to bounce with impatience.

“Your favour is… a change in my fashion taste?”

“No. I need you to model for me.”

Hugo jerked his head up, mouth falling open.

“Model with me, actually.” Lorcan refused to fidget. “It’s for the magazine. They hired me for their Christmas spread, which is—”

“A risk, yeah, you said. They had nothing nice to say about your last piece of work, and they left bad reviews via word of mouth, and this is damage control. It’s to restore your reputation as one of Britain’s finest Wizarding photographers. You have to supply the photos for a three-page spread in the magazine, or your boss won’t have you back anymore.” Then, when Lorcan simply gaped at him, Hugo added, “I do read your letters, you know, even if you don’t read mine.”

“I read your letters!”

“Yeah, sure.” Hugo frowned down at the bag. “Why’d you need me for this again?”

Lorcan narrowed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “The scenes will look too artificial on their own. I need people in them, but I don’t trust anyone not to mess it up. I would have asked Teddy and James, but Teddy likes to stay out of the limelight, and James is at Quidditch Camp all week.”

“What about Al and Scorpius?” Hugo said, ticking names off on his fingers. “Frank and Ella. Hell, I’m sure Lysander’s got some bloke that he could bring along if you’re that desperate.”

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

“Say what?”

“That I trust you not to mess this up, and to help me.” Lorcan steeled his spine. “And I wanted it to be you.”

Hugo grinned. “That’s all you had to say.”

“For Merlin’s sake!”

“We’re gonna look so good in these photos.”

“Stop grinning like a fool and just put the clothes on. I don’t want your ripped jeans anywhere near my camera.” Lorcan whipped around and faced the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hurry up.”

Hugo made a sound from behind him, low and amused. “You don’t have to turn around. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Lorcan’s arms and jaw dropped. He spluttered for a solid ten seconds, before snapping, “Then you’ll understand that I don’t need to see it again. Honestly, maybe I should have asked Lysander, he would have taken any excuse to pose—”

The soft sound of fabric hitting the floor cut Lorcan off abruptly. Hugo chuckled, but didn’t respond. There were more rustling sounds, and Lorcan stood there with his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, unable to speak.

“There. You can turn around now.”

Lorcan braced himself for a mess of upturned collars and undone buttons, but he was pleasantly surprised. Very pleasantly surprised. Hugo had picked the charcoal shirt and a pair of slacks out first, tucking it in and tying it all neatly together with a pair of reindeer antlers.

Lorcan snorted. He reached over and tweaked the antlers, the bells at the felted tips jingling merrily.

“Idiot,” Lorcan said. “You’re not allowed to take those off now.” He paused, considering. “Albus, in a photoshoot?”

Hugo laughed brightly. “Yeah, I realised after I suggested it. You’d have to wrap him in steel tinsel just to get him in the house, and then it’d look more like some kind of BDSM Christmas special you’d find in witches magazines.”

“Twelve Stocking Stuffers Guaranteed to Jingle Your Man’s Bells This Christmas.”

“Please, tell me you made that up on the spot.”

“No,” Lorcan said pleasantly. “You’ll have to live with the not knowing.”

Hugo stuck out his bottom lip, following him out of the room. “I’m honestly not sure which is worse.”

*

Since he moved into his own house, Lorcan preferred to spend Christmas alone. He had it down to a fine art. Christmas Eve was a night of honey-roasted gammon, cheese and crackers, and fine wines by the open fire. He wore pyjamas all day and Floo-called his mother, and he went to sleep feeling warm and content. The next day was a whirlwind of presents and food, since Lysander could never be kept away for long, but the rest of the holiday was a peaceful, quiet affair.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Lorcan said irritably, standing stiffly in the circle of Hugo’s arms.

“Like you’d rather be lying in a grave somewhere.” Hugo quirked his mouth in a wry smile. “Come to think of it, you’d probably look more comfortable there. Want me to escort you?”

“That sounds like a very vague death threat, you know.”

Spending Christmas alone was fine and dandy, but unfortunately it didn't do a thing to prepare Lorcan for the reality of sharing it with someone. Granted, it wasn’t quite Christmas yet, but it sure as hell felt like it.

The camera flashed in Lorcan’s periphery. It was dancing about the kitchen like a bird of prey, capturing every possible angle as various swathes of magical light washed over them. He glared at it over Hugo’s shoulder, where his hand rested gingerly against the brushed cotton of his shirt.

Hugo tried to adjust his stance, to no avail. “Here, just be casual.”

“This is me being casual.” Reluctantly, Lorcan let himself be moved a few inches to the right. “Perfectly casual, see?”

“You look like you’ve been Petrified standing up, idiot,” Hugo said, rolling his eyes. “Will you let me help?”

Lorcan didn't say yes or no. He didn't get a chance. Before he could open his mouth, Hugo was moving, sliding his hands around Lorcan’s waist to rest comfortably on the small of his back. The tips of their toes collided gently. Still, Lorcan didn't say anything. He wasn’t sure that he could. It was intimate, the weight and feeling of fingers pressed reassuringly against the tender arch of his spine.

“Relax.” Hugo smiled down at him, his voice warm. “It’s not like we haven’t been this close before.”

Memories flashed through his mind. Heated snatches of moments spent together in a bed, against a wall, wherever they could grab a few minutes alone. It didn't happen as often as Lorcan might have liked, but he had enough moments archived in his mind to keep him going for a good, long while.

“This is different,” Lorcan insisted, fidgeting. He didn't know what to do with his hands; they skated along Hugo’s shoulders and then back again, to the very edge of his broad frame.

“It is different,” Hugo said. He was so close, so warm, and he smelled ridiculously good. “Just enjoy it. Try and relax. Your pictures will look better if you’re not so stiff. Pretend it’s… pretend you’re spending Christmas with a loved one, a friend. Someone you want to be with.”

Lorcan scowled and wriggled closer, pinching the back of Hugo’s neck until he yelped and tried to escape.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Don't say stupid things. You’re the smart one, remember? You always say that Rosie is book-smart, and you’re the socially smart one, so act like it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The camera darted closer and snapped a shot as Lorcan rolled his eyes.

“You know what it means,” he said, leaning into Hugo’s arms. They had started moving without him realising, turning in safe little circles: a slow, thoughtless waltz. “It means, stop acting like I don't want you here. I do. I asked you to come here, didn't I?”

Hugo made a thoughtful noise, and then his eyes flashed with mischief.

“What are you—” Lorcan began, but he was cut off by his own strangled yelp when Hugo lifted him into the air.

Lorcan swore and held on while Hugo spun him around, gripping him tightly by the waist and hoisting him around like a sack of flour. Hugo laughed freely, lowering him and lifting him again, never quite letting him touch the ground. They waltzed messily around the kitchen; Lorcan complained and clung to Hugo, but he was stifling laughter. Then the laughter spilled out of him, filling the kitchen with a cacophony of fond, joyous noise. Carrot peelings tumbled onto the floor at some point, and his shirt grew all rumpled, but somehow, Lorcan managed not to care.

“Okay, stop, stop, or I’ll be sick on you! Trust me, that’s not a picture you want.”

Lorcan’s toes skimmed the floor with one last wild spin, before he found himself stumbling back to his feet. Hugo held him close, staring at him with flushed cheeks and a wide smile. Lorcan found himself frozen, unable to catch his breath. There was something infinitely gentle in Hugo’s expression. It was hard to look at, but just as hard to look away from.

The camera flashed.

They drew apart with a jolt. Lorcan brushed down his shirt and smoothed his hair, while Hugo checked the camera. His face was still all flushed, his collar creased where Lorcan had gripped it.

“I think that’s enough for the kitchen shots,” Lorcan decided, casting one last look at the kitchen, in all it’s warm, busy glory. “Grab a glass of prosecco, will you? I think I’m going to need it.”

*

The photos did not need developing the old-fashioned way. A simple spell sent them soaring out of the confines of the camera, plastered on glossy paper. Lorcan orchestrated the event with little fanfare, lining the photos up on a festive red string that swept across his living room wall.

A fire crackled in the grate. The cushions were a mess from the earlier photograph attempts, but the house still smelled of cinnamon and pine. And yet despite the cosy aura, it felt incomplete without Hugo lounging somewhere, or creeping up behind him to poke his side and tell him to taste this piece of pudding. Lorcan spelled the lights on the tree to glow a little softer, and strode forward to examine the pictures.

There were pictures from every room, with all sorts of things happening in them. There was some of Hugo tripping over a string of tinsel, Lorcan laughing at him in the background. One picture caught them both sharing a gingerbread man. A collection of sillier photos made him blush: he had clearly fallen asleep at some point, and Hugo had snapped several selfies of them both; Hugo winking and pulling faces, while Lorcan snored, mouth open wide. He banished those to a box in the bedroom, where he’d scowl and blush over them later.

Some photos were unusable. Bad lighting, the wrong angles, or the presence of a blur in the bottom corner. Lorcan threw those aside and studied the rest, tapping his wand against his bottom lip. He had chosen to leave it as long as possible, to take the pictures as close to Christmas as he could - the twentieth, to give the magazine enough time to make a decision - so that they would feel authentic, genuine.

“Too cold,” had been the response from his last publication. “You have technical skill and a keen eye, but you lack expression. Emotion. The eye isn’t always drawn to clean lines and a flat landscape. Find something that shows warmth for our holiday spread, or find somewhere else to work.”

It wasn’t the harshest critique he had ever received, but it was one that had seemed impossible to solve. Warmth was hard to capture. Lorcan wasn’t a messy person, and feelings were the epitome of mess.

There was one picture on the string that drew his eye. Most of the kitchen pictures were a little blurry, a little unfocused, but there was one that seemed workable. It showed their profiles, cast in warm light as they danced around the kitchen. Hugo was grinning, bending down slightly as he pretended to dip Lorcan. Lorcan’s gaze was soft, angled up at him. Their feet were tangled together.

It might not translate well with Motion Spells, said the practical part of his brain. But the messier portion of him, the side he liked to pretend was non-existent, murmured about warmth and feelings.

Sighing, Lorcan waved his wand. The pictures stacked themselves neatly on his coffee table. The dancing photograph sat on top. He covered them in a protective film of magic, ready to post, and rushed off to bed.

*

Lorcan was a very neat creature.

It was often suggested that he hadn’t been born by the usual methods. Some said he was carved from wood, and others said that he must have been a fairy, for only fairies could write in such orderly lines. In his fifth year, a friendly surge of debates had taken place in the Ravenclaw Common Room, each one arguing for or against various explanations for Lorcan’s existence. The most fanciful of these was the proposal that he fell from a tree as a baby, cupped in the hollow of an acorn shell.

Ridiculous, of course. Such things were messy and less than sensible.

But it had planted a seed of doubt, and the doubt lingered even years later. As he pondered the situation with Hugo, the doubt bloomed and blossomed. Lorcan let it grow until Boxing Day came, and by then it became too much to deal with. It forced him to ask his father a question at dinner.

“Carved you out of driftwood, that’s the truth,” Rolf said, winking around a mouthful of chewed-up silverskin onions. “I found a huge slab of the stuff on the beach, washed up on some rocks full of crabs and mussels—did you know your mother stepped on a mussel once, and it turned her foot green for a day? Must have been a moss-guist in disguise. Anyway, I digress…”

The Scamander family digressed often. It was a huge part of why Lorcan despised family dinners; having an intelligent conversation was part of the main course, but having an intelligent conversation where everyone tripped over each other’s sentences or started rambling about the uncertain existence of bees was completely off the menu.

Lysander, through a mouthful of mashed swede and gravy, said, “Think you popped out of the sea, to be honest. Explains why you’re always so clean.”

“We’re twins,” Lorcan scoffed, “and you’re always filthy.”

Lysander’s grin was far too bright and cheerful for someone with a bit of beetroot in his teeth.

Dinner had turned out to be a disaster of a place to ask simple, important questions, so he decided to broach it with his mother instead. The next day he read three chapters of his latest novel, bothered Lysander about his latest girlfriend, and then slipped into the conservatory at the back of house, where Luna liked to perform her hobbies. The walls were bedecked with glittering seashells, and a barre for ballet ran the length of one wall. Music tumbled from an enchanted violin, soothing his rattled nerves as he approached her.

“I wasn’t made from driftwood,” Lorcan stated.

Luna slashed a vibrant ribbon of red across the canvas with an old brush. The bristles were bent back from the force of her heavy-handed expression. Lorcan surveyed the canvas, mottled with black and red, and said, “That seems like a bad omen.”

“Oh, I doubt it.” Luna smiled at him gently, beckoning him closer with one smeared hand. “But if it was—well, you wouldn’t like to be called bad for being what you were, would you? I think they prefer to be called just omens.”

Digressing. It was becoming a problem.

Beneath the gaze of the sun through the glass roof, his mother was bathed in a golden hue, and her ethereal smile had seemed warmer than ever.

“It must be bothering you.” Luna tilted her head. “You never ask a question if it’s pointless.”

“Because there’s no such thing as a pointless question.”

Luna chuckled. “I suppose that’s true. But no, you weren’t carved from driftwood.” Her eyes sparkled brightly. “I remember precisely how you were made.”

“Mother.”

With a laugh that warmed him to his soul, Luna laid a hand on his chin and lifted it, smiling at him. “Paint with me. It needs a little neatness, don't you think? You can’t have it all one way, or the result is less than pleasing, don't you think?”

*

Two knocks, followed by a quick triple knock at the end signalled an arrival at the door. Lorcan broke free from his anxious stupor, throwing the magazine aside and stuffing it under a cushion for good measure. He heard whispering as he approached the door, and waved his wand. An oval appeared in the doorway, the wood vanishing from view, granting him a look at his idiot brother standing outside.

Lysander alone would have been bad enough, but he hadn’t come alone, and that was somehow worse.

Hugo was with him. He didn't look as bright and put-together as usual; there was flour on his jumper, and one of his shoes were untied. He was gripping a box very tightly in his hands, but not as tightly as Lysander was gripping his wrist. Like Lysander was keeping him in place.

The whispering grew suddenly fierce as Lysander tugged Hugo closer, raising his hand to knock again.

“Oh please,” Lysander scoffed abruptly. “Like he doesn’t already know we’re here. Oi, Lorcan! Have you done your creepy spying spell yet? Yoo-hoo! It’s your favourite twin and your favourite lover!”

Embarrassment crept in. Lorcan cancelled the spell with a twitch of his wand and pocketed it, moving to unlock the door while Hugo’s frown grew confused and agitated.

“Stop yelling, what are you talking ab—Lorcan. You’re here. Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You’re home,” Hugo said, growing more and more agitated.

“I’m home.” Lorcan lifted an eyebrow. “Home, where I live. Imagine that. Am I supposed to be somewhere else?”

“I sure as hell hope not, it took me half an hour just to get him here.” Lysander, ever the tactful, reeled Hugo in like a madly-fighting fish and flung him through the door. “You both saw that magazine and freaked out, and I know that because I saw it too, and now neither of you will answer my letters. I don't like being ignored. Fix this, and then get back to me, ‘kay?”

Lorcan gaped at him over the top of Hugo’s head. He’d caught him instinctively as he was hurled over the doorstep, but he was beginning to regret it. Hugo was sort-of slumped against his chest, completely frozen, and he could feel the panicked thump of his heartbeat.

“Lysander,” Lorcan hissed, but that was as far as he got.

Lysander shook his head, muttering, “You’re far too good together, both of you, for me to let you be all miserable apart,” and then he twisted on his heel and Disapparated. Lorcan blinked at the empty garden path. His neighbour, Mr Wilson, shot him an odd look as he passed, so Lorcan gritted his teeth in a pleasant enough smile before dragging Hugo inside.

The door slammed shut. Hugo brushed off his jumper, sprinkling flour on the welcome mat. Both of them looked down at the mess, blank-faced.

“Uh,” Hugo said.

“Leave it,” Lorcan muttered, though his hand twitched for the dustpan and brush. “Coffee? I’ve got cocoa, even though it’s a drink for children in my opinion, or I've still got some prosecco left, if you want some.”

“There were like, thirty bottles bouncing around your kitchen a few days ago. I’d be worried if there weren’t any left.”

Lorcan shrugged, summoning a bottle from the kitchen. “They went flat pretty quickly. I forgot to cancel the spell, and all the corks kept popping out overnight.”

“We are Wizards, you know.”

“Yes, but we’re not all adverse in culinary witchcraft.”

The bottle lead them into the living room, where Lorcan had taken up root for the last two days. The magazine article had come out on Christmas Eve, though Lorcan had purposely avoided looking until the day after Boxing Day. What he’d seen had stumped him. Stumped him enough that only a heavy helping of mince pies and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein had let him keep his head.

“I was planning on coming to see you anyway, but Lysander intervened before I could,” Hugo said, shifting his weight in the middle of the room. He was still holding that box, ignoring the glass of prosecco that floated near his shoulder. “Uh, how’ve you been?”

“Small talk?” Lorcan lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

Hugo made a face. “I’m allowed to ask stuff like that. It doesn’t have to be all ‘it’s a nutcracker, Hugo, you absolute pillock.’ We can talk about normal things.”

“That felt pretty normal for us.”

Hugo clearly agreed, though he didn't seem inclined to admit it. He held the box closer to his chest and opened his mouth like he wanted to speak. But the words remained in his throat, unspoken.

Impatient by nature, Lorcan tapped his fingers on his arm and snapped, “Will you at least sit down?”

“Someone’s got a knot in his wand,” Hugo said, but he did stop looking so pathetic, so that was a plus. “Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?”

“Lysander dragged you here, otherwise I’m sure you wouldn’t be, no matter what you just said.”

The thought hurt, that he might have driven Hugo away just by being horribly obvious. The pictures in the magazine were far from subtle, though it had only really hit him just how obvious it was when he saw them in print for the first time.

But Hugo just tipped his head to the side and said, “What?”

“You clearly saw the magazine. The photographs. It was obvious, wasn’t it? How I feel, I mean.” Lorcan fiddled with his glass, unwilling to cloud his head with the bright, spritzy drink, but unwilling to put it down either. “It was painted all over my face.”

The entire stack of photos had been worked into the magazine. Some were still shots, like a Muggle photograph, but the majority of them danced and laughed about the page. Pictures of them both eating and drinking, smiling at each other with so much weight it was a surprise when the pages didn't sag. His hand on Hugo’s hip or his wrist, and he hadn’t noticed at the time, but everything he felt was clearly there.

“And how do you feel?” Hugo’s shoulders sunk, not in defeat, but in surprise and relief. “I know what I saw, but I was busy worrying about my face, to be honest, which is why I didn't want to see you yet. What… what do you think you gave away?”

For a moment, Lorcan simply peered at him. Hugo was rarely flustered like this. Rarely openly concerned about what someone else might think of him.

“You read my letters,” Lorcan said. “My boss told me to give him photos that would capture warmth. I told you that you were the only one I wanted to ask for help with this.”

Minutes seemed to pass while Hugo stood there, staring. Eventually, he said, “That’s… Oh.”

“You know, I’m surprised,” Lorcan said, because he was pretty sure he understood why Hugo had shut down. “Of all the scenarios I pictured, I never imagined one where you were the one freaking out.”

Hugo let out a laugh, heading for the sofa. He dropped down amongst the cushions and grimaced, putting the box carefully in his lap while he ran his hands through his messy hair.

“You’re not the only one with doubts, Lorcan.”

Somehow, out of everything Hugo could possibly have said, that was what calmed Lorcan down. His shoulders fell, and he breathed a shaky sigh of relief as he joined Hugo, sitting on the coffee table opposite him. He didn't want empty reassurances. No part of this would work if they just jumped blindly into something they weren’t ready for. As much as he wanted it, he didn't want to be the only one thinking realistically about it.

“What sort of doubts?” Lorcan asked.

Hugo looked up at him. His gaze was thoughtful, but beyond that, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“Hugo?” Lorcan prompted quietly.

“Whether we’re too similar,” Hugo said, with a little wry smile. “We’re the same brand of neurotic, just at different times, for different reasons. You’ve seen me during peak, with the patisserie. I worry about whether we’ll get sick of each other, if it will last, if it might be more stress than it’s worth. I worry about whether it’ll ruin what we already have, because that’s - what we have is good, and I don't want to lose it. I worry about whether… whether I’m too annoying or messy, if I might be more stress than I’m worth.”

Suddenly, Lorcan couldn’t bear to hear anymore of this. He leaned in, raised a hand, and planted it firmly over Hugo’s mouth, smiling when he felt his mouth continue moving soundlessly against his palm.

“I read your letters,” Lorcan said. “It’s not one-way, Hugo. I have doubts, but I see all the good stuff too. The possibilities.”

Hugo swallowed.

“Spend Christmas with me,” Lorcan murmured. “I know it’s technically over, but the bit between now and New Year’s still counts, in my opinion.”

Hugo’s eyes went wide and shocked. Then his gaze softened, and Lorcan felt him smile right before he lowered his hand. A thread of anxiety wrapped around his heart at having laid himself bare, but the thread grew loose in the face of such tenderness.

“You give gifts at Christmas, right?” Hugo cleared his throat. “Here. We should start it off with a bang.”

“You just want to win,” Lorcan complained, taking the box with jittery hands while Hugo muttered about it not being a competition. He undid the tape carefully, easing the lid off.

His breath caught. Hugo’s smile grew nervous, but didn't fade. Lorcan reached inside the box, past the layers of pale blue tissue paper, and withdrew a photo frame. The frame was made of oak and shone like it was freshly polished, but all of his attention fled to the image nestled inside.

“You fell asleep,” Hugo explained. “On the sofa. I was just being an idiot at first, as I’m sure you saw, but I checked the camera afterwards, and this one was my favourite. I saved it before you could banish it to your box of shame in the bedroom.”

“You’ve looked in there?”

“You should keep more of your selfies around. You’re kinda cute, in the right light.”

Lorcan scowled, still holding the photograph gently. The image was illuminated with a haze of soft light from the Christmas tree. A blanket was tucked over Lorcan’s feet, and his head was pillowed on Hugo’s chest, his arm wrapped over Hugo’s stomach. He looked relaxed, peaceful, and Hugo was gazing down at him, unbearably affectionate.

Loving, almost.

Hugo leaned in. The movement was so slight that Lorcan almost didn't notice it, but then Hugo leaned out again, and he noticed that for sure.

“Were you going to kiss me?” Lorcan asked.

“Maybe.”

“Oh.”

Hugo winced. “Is that… is that not what this was leading up to?”

Lorcan couldn’t help but laugh. This was what he meant when he said he didn't like mess. He wanted things to be simple and clean-cut, easy to read, and this situation— could be. If they just stopped fucking around.

“It was, but you chickened out.” Lorcan shrugged. “So apparently we weren’t on the same page. A shame, truly, but I suppose I can do a second Christmas alone, or I can find someone else to kiss under the mistletoe.”

“Fuck that,” was Hugo’s cheerful proclamation, before he darted forward and kissed Lorcan over the photograph. He made a soft noise into Hugo’s mouth and kissed back, his pulse racing. They were kissing, not because of a hook-up, but because they were going to do this. Lorcan released his iron-clad grip on the photograph and held on to Hugo tightly, stuttering out a breath when Hugo thumbed down his throat, kissing him noisily and messily. Messily, and yet Lorcan didn't mind.

“Oh,” Hugo said, drawing back. His face was flushed, his hair even more rumpled than usual. “Happy Christmas to me.”

Lorcan blinked, and then snorted. He planted one hand on Hugo’s chest and pushed him away; he bounced on the sofa, grinning like a fool, and caught Lorcan’s hand before it could escape. He pressed a kiss there, to his fingers, and then released him with a softer smile.

“So, what do you think?”

Lorcan pretended to consider it. “As gifts go, it wasn’t terrible.”

Hugo laughed lightly. “Thanks. I meant about us. We are on the same page, aren’t we? You want to do Christmas, and then…”

For once, Lorcan didn't have a plan beyond ‘be together.’ He didn't know what that entailed, but it didn't seem necessary to know. He placed the photo frame back in the box, and set it aside, flicking his wand. The Christmas Tree was still assembled, and the lights flickered to life. A plate of gingerbread zoomed in from the kitchen, and the fire burst to life, making Hugo jump.

“I don't know,” Lorcan said, sliding off the coffee table until he was sitting beside Hugo on the sofa. He tangled one hand in Hugo’s hair and drew him in for a long, chaste kiss. “But I think this is a good start, don't you?”