AIMÉ

The coming days passed in a strange haze.

On the one hand, it was no different to normal life – Jean-Pierre studied, read books, watched the trashiest historical shows he could find, although he did this with Benedictine, the both of them sitting on top of one another on the couch and laughing at people’s improperly tailored clothes; Colm went out to the allotment and worked in the garden, with George coming around to help every other day; Asmodeus disappeared for long periods of time, or sat very still at the kitchen table, replying to letters.

On the other hand, everything was different.

There was a sense of strange finality in it, and Aimé felt stuck between two places: he liked his solitude, wanted to go and paint, wanted to work, wanted to drown himself in paint and throw himself at a canvas and drink—

Since the party, he hadn’t even drunk wine at dinner, not sure he’d be able to handle his feelings once he had drink to let them out. It used to be that drink was the only thing that would keep them down, and he wondered what that meant, if it meant anything.

Was he better, or worse? Was he more sane, or less?

He was nervous about going to the flat, wasn’t sure if Jean-Pierre would complain, if Colm would, if they’d even comment on it – it was Christmas, was he meant to stick around? Were there rules?

It had never been much of a deal before, and now it felt bigger, but somehow it wasn’t what he imagined Christmas was like in families that actually cared about it, wasn’t the non-stop seasonal cheer that was obviously bullshit, but was still what he’d imagined.

It was eight in the morning on Christmas Eve when Aimé came downstairs – Jean-Pierre had gotten up hours before him, had kissed Aimé when he’d stirred and said he was going to the market, and Aimé was surprised to find he still wasn’t around when he came downstairs. Colm and Bene were gone too, but Asmodeus was in the living room, holding an old-fashioned landline Aimé hadn’t even been aware they had, a rotary thing with shiny chrome plating that had to be at least seventy years old.

Asmodeus was holding the unit by a little crossbar, his fingers curled around it, and had the phone held to his ear.

“I’ll come in the new year, if it won’t be too much trouble,” he was saying, but he nodded to Aimé as he walked by, still not dressed, to pour himself some coffee. There was a pause as Asmodeus listened to the person on the other end of the line, and his lips shifted into an almost imperceptible smile. “You don’t mean to tell me you aren’t looking forward to it? … Of course I think it’s nice. Don’t you? That’s hardly fair, she adores you, and anyway, if the rest of them didn’t like it, they wouldn’t invite you. You’re being self-pitying again – it’s devastatingly attractive. Is it a seduction technique?”

Aimé wasn’t sure what the man on the other end of the phone said, but it was loud enough that Aimé could hear the volume of it from the kitchen, and Asmodeus laughed.

“Forgive me for thinking that perhaps they like you for much the same reasons I do,” said De softly. “Alright, perhaps not all the same reasons. For example, your—” Another rich chuckle. “Yes. I’m really not sure – sometime in late January, I expect. I’m not going to leave until my brothers are back home, and then I’ll stay in Ireland until March or April time, I expect. Yes, it’s a retrospective, but my performance will be live, I can have it recorded for you and put to disc. Goodbye, Hamish.”

“You sit like a woman in an old movie when you’re on the phone like that,” said Aimé, pouring Asmodeus a cup of coffee for himself as he put the phone on the hook and set it aside. “Holding it like that, legs crossed, elbows in your lap, leaning forward. Like Audrey Hepburn or something.”

Asmodeus arched one eyebrow, and looked genuinely flattered when he said, “You really mean it?”

Aimé laughed as he pushed De’s coffee over to him, and Asmodeus picked it up, taking a long sip. Aimé was surprised to find himself laughing – he was tired, even though he’d slept more than enough, and he felt low, glum. He’d been feeling like that all week: not sad, not even his usual depressed, which he was more than familiar with.

He just felt empty, unfulfilled, like everything was muted. That was depression too, he guessed, but it didn’t feel enough like anything to be called something.

“Was that an angel?” asked Aimé.

“No, it was Hamish MacKinnon,” said Asmodeus. “He’s an antiques dealer in Nottingham. His new mentee has invited him to spend Christmas with her family, and he’s pretending he isn’t pleased.”

“Your boyfriend.”

“I don’t have boyfriends,” said Asmodeus.

“Oh, sorry,” said Aimé. He deepened his voice as much as he could and hazarded an English accent to say, “Your… business associate?”

Asmodeus laughed – it wasn’t like the muted, familiar chuckles he’d had talking to the man on the phone, but a joyful, open thing, his eyes shining in the morning light that came in too bright through the kitchen window.

“He’s a friend,” said Asmodeus.

“A boy one?”

“Hamish MacKinnon hasn’t been a boy for some few centuries, and even then, he was never much good at being one,” murmured Asmodeus. “You haven’t been back to your flat in a few days – I wanted to ask if you’d like an escort.”

“An escort?” Aimé repeated.

“I’ve no other commitments today, and I can do my paperwork anywhere,” said Asmodeus. “I thought perhaps you were nervous about being in the flat on your own.”

“Oh,” said Aimé, surprised. Something cold in him warmed up, and he instantly thought of his oils, imagined pulling one of his primed canvases out, putting his brush to cloth, being able to just… paint. “Um. Ye— Yeah, actually, that’d be… You’re sure?”

“Of course,” said Asmodeus. “I thought you might take me up on it – my briefcase is already beside the door. Let me make us some breakfast while you get dressed, and we’ll go over.”

“Thanks,” said Aimé. And then, because it didn’t feel like enough: “Thank you. De. For… Everything.”

Asmodeus inclined his head before he walked past Aimé, setting a carton of eggs aside before he began to pull some vegetables and cheese out of the fridge.

“Can I ask you something?” Aimé asked Asmodeus’ shoulders, which shifted slightly in response before Asmodeus turned to glance at him.

“Always.”

“What’s the retrospective?”

“It’s a celebration of magical ballet,” said Asmodeus, pulling out one of the chopping boards and beginning to cut some spring onions into little pieces. “Starting with its beginnings, some famous dances from both magical and mundane ballets, exploring their intersections. We’re taking over a theatre further south in the county, so there’ll be an exhibition, as well, and for the two weeks it’s running there’ll be smaller shows as well, a few introductory classes for children… I’ll be reprising my Ondine, which is always very popular. Nothing compared to Fonteyn’s work, of course, but whenever I reprise the role I work very closely with a woman named Marty, as I did when first I danced it – she practices hydrokinesis, water manipulation, and with real water, you…”

Aimé hadn’t said anything, but Asmodeus trailed off, looking at his face.

“What?” he asked. “You think I’m bored?”

“No,” said Asmodeus, looking back to chopping vegetables. “I was just thinking of when I first danced Ondine in the sixties. Jean joined the cast for a year, at my behest.”

“He didn’t like it?”

“He hated it,” said Asmodeus softly, smiling distantly. “Hated me, for quite a bit of it, but I asked him to, so he did.”

Aimé leaned on the counter. He wanted to see Asmodeus dance, he realised, see him dance properly – he wanted to see Jean-Pierre dance too, wanted to see the two of them do ballet together. He didn’t consider himself a fan, even having gone with Asmodeus to see some, but he was surprised by how much he wanted to.

Jean-Pierre had a dancer’s body, moved like a dancer, and seeing him dance in the small snippets he had, Aimé thought he was good, but to see him in the shoes, on a stage, doing a real performance? “He’s really that good?”

“Oh, he’s very good,” said Asmodeus. “Jean-Pierre dances with a soul that you can’t train for, and with proper discipline, he makes no technical errors at all. But that’s not why I asked him – it was an angelic production, and I effectively asked him to participate so that other angels and dignitaries would see he wasn’t entirely feral in the aftermath of his assassination.”

“Aren’t ballerinas all feral?” asked Aimé, raising his eyebrows, and Asmodeus opened his mouth, closed it, and then reluctantly nodded his head.

“Many, if not most. But he wasn’t any more so than any of the others,” he said. “The other ballerinos found him charming, although I lost track of who he was exchanging sexual favours with very quickly. I don’t talk very much about ballet in the house – it bores Colm, and Jean likes to dance more than he likes to watch, but he doesn’t like to dance to perform. What he likes about it, I think, is the same thing he likes about boxing or sparring – it’s the strain of it, the exercise.”

“That’s what you meant before, when you said he could be great?” asked Aimé, and Asmodeus nodded his head.

“If he saw it as art, instead of exercise,” said Asmodeus. “But he isn’t an artist, as I’m sure he’s told you stubbornly and with scorn: he is art. And he rather detested being one of a chorus, no matter that critics frequently commented that he was the prettiest among them.”

Aimé sniggered, shaking his head. He hesitated before he asked the next question, couldn’t stop turning it over and over in his head. “De,” he said.

“Yes?”

“My father didn’t call you Asmodeus. Didn’t call you Ashley, either.”

“Asbat Nur-Badr is the name most non-angels know me by,” said Asmodeus. “I’ve used a great many names over the years, but as a dignitary, as a musician, as a dancer, that is the name that stands apart from the rest. It’s one of my oldest, and one of my favourites.”

“And you’re…” Aimé stopped again, drumming his fingers on the counter. “He was scared of you. My dad’s never— I’ve never seen him scared of anything.”

Asmodeus, silent, kept chopping bell peppers.

“You’re an ambassador,” said Aimé. “And a— you’re, it’s a big deal, isn’t it? You reprising a ballet role? And Jean-Pierre’s said about you recording more music, too, about you being… And all the letters you write, too, all that correspondence. That’s what you do all day, you’re…”

“Aimé,” said Asmodeus in a measured, considered tone, putting the knife down and turning to look at him. “Have you ever Googled me?”

“No,” said Aimé.

“No,” said Asmodeus. “I thought perhaps you hadn’t.”

“You’re a big deal,” said Aimé again.

Asmodeus sighed. “Yes,” he said. “If you like.”

“Not just a big deal like, power-wise, but a celebrity. Like, iconic. To everyone, not just angels. For centuries.”

“For millennia,” said Asmodeus, turning back to his chopping board. “If you’d like to split hairs about it.”

“My dad’s right to be scared shitless of you.”

“I would say so, yes.”

“Should I be?”

“Have I given you reason to be?”

“I guess I just thought you were important to angels.”

“No,” said Asmodeus. “I suppose it’s just that angels are all that’s important to me.” He met Aimé’s gaze, and gave him a kind smile. “With notable exceptions, of course.”

Aimé couldn’t think what to say. There was something in him he couldn’t even fathom, with the depth of it – it was gratitude, maybe, but he wasn’t in a fit state to deal with it, to express it the way he wanted to. “Thank you,” said Aimé. It felt almost as hollow as he did.

“Get dressed,” said Asmodeus. “This will be done by the time you come down.”

*     *     *

JEAN-PIERRE

“Aimé,” said Jean-Pierre softly, murmuring in Aimé’s ear, and Aimé grunted, shifting in the bed. Jean-Pierre liked how peaceful Aimé looked asleep in Jean’s bed, liked how deeply he fell into his dreams, as reluctant as he was now to leave them. “Aimé, it’s Christmas. Happy Christmas, Aimé. Don’t you want to see what Père Noël has brought you?”

“Has he brought me a lie-in?” asked Aimé, voice husky with sleep.

“No,” said Jean-Pierre, sitting back where he was straddling Aimé’s lap.

He’d been happy, when he’d come home last night from his apartment – he’d been spattered with paint and smelled of oils and primer, smelled a little of the wine he and Asmodeus had been drinking too, and he had looked so very happy, so satisfied, that as much as a part of Jean-Pierre had felt jealous at Aimé enjoying himself without him, he’d felt like glowing with it.

“Then wha—”

Aimé’s eyes, which had been opening slowly and blearily, shot open as though Jean-Pierre had pulled up his eyelids himself, and he stared, mouth ajar, at the red lace and white fur Jean-Pierre was wearing.

Jean-Pierre, after a few moments, wiggled his hips, so that the bells on the chemise jingled.

“Oh,” said Aimé in dawning comprehension, lips curving into a slow, delighted smile. Its lopsided tilt looked deeply kissable. “Happy Christmas to me,” he said, and buried his face against the silk and lace over Jean-Pierre’s belly.

When they went downstairs an hour and a half later, each of them showered and satisfied, Colm was washing earth off his hands at the kitchen sink, and Asmodeus and Benedictine were sitting on the floor beside the fire, playing backgammon.

“Nollaig shona daoibh,” said Colm brightly.

“Gurab amhlaidh duit,” said Jean-Pierre, and beside him, Aimé moved his mouth for a few moments, and then said, “Joyeux Noël.”

“Jwaye Nwèl,” said Bene.

“I couldn’t do the Irish, you think I can do that?” asked Aimé.

“Yeah,” said Benedictine.

“Jway-uh Noël?” Aimé hazarded, and Bene laughed.

“Close enough,” she said, and Jean-Pierre dropped to sit behind her, wrapping his arms around Benedictine’s waist and laying his chin on her shoulder to watch them play. Asmodeus smiled at the two of them, and Jean-Pierre melted into Benedictine’s back.

“Cereal for breakfast,” said Colm.

“Cereal?” asked Aimé, sounding somewhere between surprised and amused. “Is that a rule?”

“Yep,” said Colm. “Sit, sit down, sit with him.”

Aimé dropped obediently onto the sofa behind Jean-Pierre. “What time is everyone else getting here?”

“At about eleven,” said Asmodeus. “They’re going to bring their big table and a few extra chairs in the van, so we’ll just take ours out and push the sofas back to give everyone space.”

“But we’ll do our presents first,” said Jean-Pierre quickly, and Aimé laughed, nudging him in the back.

Jean-Pierre pressed his chin more into the crook of Benedictine’s neck, his cheek against hers, and felt how warm she was. Bene was grinning, he thought, though he couldn’t entirely tell, but she did reach up to pat the side of his cheek.

It still felt strange, being with Benedictine and not having Benoit beside them too – he thought it every year, and yet it made the sensation no less surreal, the thought that Benoit might be in the very next room, waiting for Jean-Pierre to fix a button on one of his jackets.

Bene squeezed his hand.

“For Jean,” said Colm, passing him a bowl of fruit, and Jean-Pierre leaned back against Aimé’s legs, moving so he was sitting beside Benedictine instead of around her. He turned to watch as Colm put a bowl of chocolate wheat cereal into Aimé’s lap, which Aimé regarded with mild interest.

“This is the special Christmas breakfast?” asked Aimé sceptically.

“Uh huh,” said Colm, dropping down beside him with a bowl in his own lap.

“Without milk?” asked Aimé.

“Uh huh,” said Colm, grinning from ear to ear. “De?”

Standing gracefully from his place kneeling on the floor, Asmodeus reached behind the back of the other sofa and pulled out a bottle of cream liqueur.

Aimé started laughing, and Jean-Pierre couldn’t help his grin watching Aimé and Colm both hold out their bowls for Asmodeus to pour.

*     *     *

AIMÉ

Christmas passed in a strange, warm haze, so much so that it felt like the kind of Christmas he must only have ever had as a child, when he was able to spend time with his grandmother – distant and oddly foreign to him now, like he was experiencing real time through a curtain of a fifteen year gap.

Eating cereal out of Bailey’s instead of milk was something he could never even have thought of, and as nice as it was, what was fun about it was mostly Colm’s enthusiasm, the way he grinned and kept nudging Aimé as they ate. Jean-Pierre and Bene ate out of the same bowl, and Aimé sat back and listened as they talked about nothing in particular, about what they were cooking for lunch, about the cold, about how busy the market had been yesterday.

They had music playing from a record that Asmodeus had brought downstairs, and the whole time, Aimé felt drawn tight as a spring, certain the change in tone, in good cheer, would come at any moment, but it never did.

Colm was delighted at the new accessories they’d gotten for his car; Asmodeus beamed at the enchantment kit; Benedictine, upon opening the new gun Jean-Pierre had gotten for her, grinned and kissed his cheeks. She’d gotten Asmodeus some cigars and Colm a lot of seeds; Colm had gotten her a new pocketknife, and Asmodeus had bought her a selection of new head scarves and hairpieces.

“Here,” said Colm, dropping a box into Aimé’s lap, and Aimé pulled it closer, sliding his fingers over the silk – they all wrapped everything in silk, and Aimé felt bad about his presents for Jean and Bene being wrapped in paper, because apparently Jean-Pierre used all the fabric, and if they didn’t reuse it to rewrap presents, he sewed with it. He’d have to ask, he thought, what fabrics were good to use, how they made it stay in place.

“It’s heavy,” said Aimé.

“Open it,” said Colm, and Aimé pulled back the silk, looking inside the box. He wasn’t used to the handcrafted stuff that the angels liked best – it was wonderful, was nice, but somehow it felt impossibly luxurious as he pulled bundled cloth aside instead of paper, and touched his fingers against cured leather with no tags, no machine stitching, no machine made grips, either. “Work boots,” said Colm. “For when you want to come in the garden with me, stop you wearing those shitty runners.”

Aimé grinned as he pulled the shoes out and then faltered, head tilting slightly to the side as he pulled a glossy page of paper from the bottom of the box, staring at it. It looked like Colm’s cellar grow house, he thought – he recognised the silver off the walls, the pipes, but he was neither looking at cacti or cannabis. Instead, he was looking at two rows that looked empty, and he was wondering what he was missing.”

“This in here on purpose?” asked Aimé.

“I’ll show you how to mod the temperature and the humidity,” said Colm. “With De and Jean’s enchantments, we can make this section really dry, if you need it, more than the rest of the room, change the soil up. I have some vines you can choose from, but we can get whatever you want – you won’t be able to make much, but enough for a few bottles now and then.”

Aimé stared at the photo, uncomprehending, and then looked at Colm’s face, at his easy grin, his raised eyebrows.

“Vines?” he repeated. “Grapes? This is for… for me?”

“Yeah,” said Colm. “I figure if I want you to do more work with me, I give you the right incentive…”

Aimé laughed, the sound kind of wooden to his own ears, because he was too surprised by it, too blown away, and Colm laughed before pulling him into a half-hug.

“Nothing to unwrap from me, I’m afraid,” said Asmodeus as Aimé bent to get Benedictine’s present out from under the tree for her. “But I got you a subscription to three magazines, two for winemaking, magical and mundane, and the other is a magical art magazine. The better for you to read, of course, but I thought you might use them as coffee table books for your waiting room.”

“Thanks,” Aimé said, and he turned to look at Bene as she held out a box for him, wrapped in silk where Aimé’s was wrapped in the crinkling paper, but she didn’t complain. “I, uh, I didn’t know what to get you,” said Aimé. “I didn’t want in on Jean’s gun thing.”

“Well, you don’t like guns, so I didn’t know what to get you either,” replied Benedictine, grinning, and as Aimé loosely unwrapped the silk parcel, she tore into the paper with gusto, which did make him feel a bit better, because she seemed to enjoy it, at least.

Aimé pulled the silk aside, peering at the box, and he wondered for a second if there’d somehow been a mix-up until he looked up and saw that Benedictine had what she was meant to.

“Bath bombs,” said Aimé. “Thanks, Bene.”

Benedictine was laughing, a giggle that made her shoulders shake, eyes glittering. “Same brand and everything,” she said, and pulled him close to her, kissing his cheek. “Thanks, Aimé.”

“Thanks for not getting me a gun,” said Aimé.

“Next year,” said Bene, patting his shoulder, and Aimé handed the excess fabric to Colm to go in the pile, and looked to Jean-Pierre, who was looking expectantly at Aimé with a gift in his lap.

“I thought I already got your gift,” said Aimé as he picked up the box for Jean, and Jean laughed, leaning back where he was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, looking up at him. L’ange had a beautiful, radiant smile on his face, eyes shining with bright blue colour, teeth white, lips pink and plump.

“That was just breakfast,” said Jean-Pierre, and Aimé handed him the parcel he’d wrapped, waiting for Jean-Pierre to unwrap it before he went for the parcel Jean-Pierre had handed him. It was big and flat, felt like it was made of wood – a picture frame?

Jean-Pierre neatly separated the wrapping paper, unfolding it to look inside: there was a fleecy blanket printed with a map of France, with all the regions labelled, and a cushion that Aimé had found, too, with the French tricolour.

“It’s not much,” said Aimé. “But I thought it’d be a nice addition to your nest.”

“I like it,” said Jean-Pierre warmly, stroking his fingers through the soft fleece. “I love it, thank you, it’s very soft. Open yours. Won’t you?”

Aimé pulled the silk apart, and Jean-Pierre reached to take it from him as Aimé uncovered the wood underneath – it wasn’t a picture frame, as it happened, but a large piece of wood that looked to have been hand-carved in a familiar, etched style.

Traditional oil paintings, each the artist’s original. Art by Aimé Deverell, product of Montauban.

The text was carved in a beautiful, easily readable script, but Aimé couldn’t get over the images to the sides of the text, the wine bottle and glass; the paint brush resting on a traditional palette, all of it carved in Jean-Pierre’s delicate cross-hatched style.

Aimé turned it over, and felt his mouth drop open at what he was looking at now: there was no text on this side, but a careful self-portrait of Jean-Pierre’s own wings, each of the feathers individually scratched into the wood, and Aimé stroked his fingers over the surface, feeling the texture of every one of the feathers.

Asmodeus was watching them, hiding his smile behind his hand.

“This is, um, this is… this is gorgeous, ange,” said Aimé softly.

“To put in your studio,” said Jean-Pierre, “wherever it may be. On the wall, no one will see my wings, but you will know they are there. For you.”

“Looks like art to me,” said Aimé, and Aimé watched the shy smile on Jean-Pierre’s face, the pretty shift of it.

“For you,” said Jean-Pierre, and Aimé set the sign carefully aside, opening his arms and inviting Jean-Pierre to fall into his lap, which he eagerly did – after wrapping himself in his new blanket.

Peadar invited himself in when the Giolla Chríosts arrived, although Aimé managed to grab him before he could hop up onto the tables that Jean and Benedictine were laying, and he held the big cat up to his chest, purring like an engine, as they brought the rest of the tables and the presents in from the minivan.

“Are you going to be a good boy if I put you down?” he asked sternly, and Peadar looked at him with big, stupid eyes.

Aimé dropped him, and watched, not surprised, as he attempted to leap onto the kitchen counter, but was deftly intercepted by Asmodeus, who nudged George to sit down and dropped Peadar on top of him.

“Hello, Peadar! Happy Christmas!” said George enthusiastically, and started scratching the thick ruff of Peadar’s neck, taming the beast for a while longer as Peadar submitted himself to the attention.

Aimé laughed, taking the other side of one of the tablecloths from Bedelia and helping her put it on the table they’d brought in with them, smoothing it out as Jean and Bene put the plates and cutlery down.

It was messy – half of them already had cat hair on their nice Christmas clothes, no matter that Peadar hadn’t greeted everyone personally yet; all the tables and chairs were mismatched and at slightly different heights; Aimé noticed Benedictine rushed to hide what looked like an old cigar burn on one of the tablecloths with a plate, and judging by Jean-Pierre’s scowl at her, it was from last year and he hadn’t known about it until now – but here was a sort of order to it, all of them dipping in between each other to put everything into place.

Aimé had never laid a table like this before – even in Montauban, they’d often just pass plates and cutlery between each other, wouldn’t bother with place settings, but this was nice, didn’t feel stuffy or too formal.

“Presents after lunch?” asked Asmodeus.

“No!” said Jean-Pierre before anyone else could say anything, and Aimé didn’t think he’d ever been in such a small room full of so many people laughing: he pulled Jean closer to him by the waist and kissed him on the mouth.

The last of his anxiety about presents faded away as they went through the last of the presents – Bedelia kissed his cheeks, Pádraic hugged him and Jean-Pierre so tightly Aimé felt his ribs creak, and on purpose, Jean-Pierre kept pushing their presents for George back, letting him open his presents from everyone else first.

“Oh, I wonder what it could be,” said Asmodeus sarcastically as Colm put a wrapped hurley in George’s lap, the fabric carefully wound around the shaft of the stick.

“Why, what is it?” asked George, and Aimé grinned as he watched Asmodeus kiss the top of his head, gesturing for him to open it.

Bedelia had gotten Aimé an apron for cooking, and George had gotten him a very twee, very ridiculous stuffed angel with little wings that Aimé was absolutely going to put on display with the sign Jean-Pierre had made for him. Pádraic put his wrapped gift directly into Aimé’s hands, and Aimé glanced at him as he separated the fabric and looked inside, feeling the heavy weight of what was inside.

It was wool, he thought, really heavy wool, in a deep, dark green, with brass buttons and a corded neck and shoulders. He was utterly still for a second, brushing his knuckles over it, amazed at how soft it was, how warm it felt.

“You made this?” he asked.

“It wasn’t dropped down our chimney,” retorted Pádraic, and Aimé huffed out a laugh, scrambling to pull off the jumper he was wearing and pulling on the cardigan instead.

It fit him perfectly, and Aimé already knew that like the leather coat Asmodeus had bought for him in France, he’d be wearing this all the time. He laughed again, sort of awed, as he did up the buttons, huddling in it, and Pádraic smiled at him, his grizzled features warming with it, pear-coloured eyes looking almost gold in the firelight.

“Can I hug you?” Aimé asked.

“Of course,” signed Pádraic, and hugged him again.

Aimé grabbed the box with the shoes he’d commissioned for George as Jean-Pierre got the big box of clothes they’d bought together – Bedelia had already opened her shoes, was sitting and admiring them as Jean-Pierre put the big box onto George’s knees, Peadar having already been dislodged to curl up on Pádraic’s shoulder.

These being the last presents to unwrap, everyone was watching as George, grinning brightly, pushed the fabric aside and pushed back the wooden lid of the crate.

Aimé was looking for it, after hearing Paddy and De talk about it the last day – he saw the almost imperceptible freeze in George’s face, the stiffening of his smiling mouth and his eyes, as he looked at the clothes folded inside.

On the top, a sleek leather jacket, a pair of denim jeans that would come in tight to his hips if not being actually skinny, and a button-up shirt. George, in the moment, was wearing one of Pádraic’s toggled cardigans and a pair of loose, beige trousers that Aimé knew even without seeing the Velcro fastenings were normally marketed to men seventy and older.

“Wow,” he said, and just like that, his face lit up again, looked so real Aimé almost couldn’t believe it, and he glanced to Asmodeus, who met his gaze, and gave a tiny inclination of his head. “This is— this is all amazing…”

“And these, too,” said Aimé before Jean-Pierre could point out the punchline, and George’s fingers undid the silk fastening – Aimé did notice how easily he unwrapped everything with cloth even with his difficulty with his coordination, and he had to wonder if paper would be harder for him – and George didn’t falter this time as he looked at the shoes.

“Oh, they match mine, George,” said Bedelia, but she wasn’t as good at hiding it as George, and there was a slight stiffness in her anxious smile, her hand landing on George’s shoulder and squeezing.

“Yeah,” said George, although the brightness was a little wooden with repetition.  “Yea—”

“To lace them, you just,” said Aimé, and tapped the painted star on one side. The way George’s jaw dropped as he watched the laces tie themselves was incredible, the way his eyes widened, and Jean-Pierre, in perfect rhythm, leaned in on cue.

“The jacket is enchanted,” he said, “to help you with the tight sleeves, you just activate the enchantment on this patch, and the sleeves unzip at the cuffs so you can rezip them, and the front too; these shirts, the jeans, everything else, I have replaced all the fastenings with easier ones, hm? I have a mix of the Velcro and the magnet fastenings, so you can try and tell me what you like best for next time. These are skinny jeans, like mine and Bedelia’s, but see how they come apart at the bottom so they aren’t made skinny until they are on? And here, this t-shirt, you can—”

Both boxes fell aside as George launched himself forward, tackling both Jean-Pierre and Aimé to the ground in a windmill of long, clumsy limbs, going between kissing both of their faces.

“They’re— The clothes, they’re really, they’re, God, um, they’re really—”

“Sexy?” offered Aimé, and George laughed, giggled, and then sat up, rubbed the back of his neck, darkened in the cheeks, and looked excitedly at Bedelia before glancing nervously at Paddy.

Sitting up beside him, Jean-Pierre said to Aimé, “I think he meant to say thank you.”

“Yeah,” agreed Aimé. “Weird that that’s not what he actually—”

“Thank you!” said George loudly, almost urgently, as he hurriedly picked up the clothes that had fallen onto the floor, packing everything back into the box.

Bedelia was wiping her eyes slightly, but she beamed when Jean and Aimé looked at her.

“Hungry, anyone?” asked Colm, and they all got up to sit at the table.

*     *     *

JEAN-PIERRE

They slept in on Saint Stephen’s Day.

Jean-Pierre couldn’t remember last feeling so happy, or feeling so utterly exhausted by it, and it must have been nine or ten o’clock in the morning by the time he shifted in bed, sprawled over Aimé’s middle.

Aimé was sitting up, scrolling on Jean-Pierre’s phone.

“Any messages?” asked Jean-Pierre in a mumble.

“Various pictures of people’s cocks, but nothing that seemed urgent,” said Aimé. “I’m reading Asmodeus’ Wiki entry.”

“Suitably impressed?” asked Jean-Pierre.

“I’ve never seen any of these thousand trophies and awards he seems to have.”

“Oh, I’m sure he has a storage locker for them somewhere,” said Jean-Pierre, sitting up and yawning. “Do you like the portrait of him in the flower garden by Basseporte?”

“I do, although I’ve never imagined him so grey before,” said Aimé, and Jean-Pierre laughed.

“Are Bene and Asmodeus already gone?” he asked, aware of the tightness in his voice, but not bothering to hide it. His hands twitched at his sides as Aimé handed him his phone, because for some reason, he rather did want to go ice skating, perhaps because the idea had been put in his mind.

“I don’t know,” said Aimé. “I think—”

“We’re home!” came a loud call from downstairs, and Jean-Pierre frowned at the shout from Colm’s voice, hearing the door slam.

“Come downstairs!” called Asmodeus after him, and Jean-Pierre frowned, looking askance at Aimé, who shrugged his shoulders, getting up to pull on some trousers.

Jean-Pierre didn’t bother getting dressed himself, just pulled on some pyjamas and his kimono on top, and he trailed sleepily after Aimé down the stairs and into the other room.

Benedictine was sitting back on the sofa, sipping from coffee that Asmodeus was pouring for her, and Jean-Pierre frowned slightly.

“What?” he asked, and then saw the big, white cloud skittering out of the kitchen toward him, and let out a sound of unadulterated joy. “Oh! Oh, oh!”

“Her name is Brigid,” said Asmodeus as she barrelled into Jean-Pierre’s arms, all teeth and jumping paws and thick, white fur, “and she’s a Great Pyrenees. She’s three months old.”

“She’s beautiful!” said Jean-Pierre, catching hold of the puppy’s furry cheeks and cupping them in his hands, laughing as he leaned in and rubbed their noses together. Her fur was thick and gossamer silky under his hands, and she looked almost like a polar bear with her big, black nose and her huge, floppy ears, her great paws.

Brigid’s tail was wagging almost shyly as she shoved her whole body into Jean-Pierre’s chest, and when she nudged past him to go to Aimé, Aimé, to Jean-Pierre’s surprise, hopped up onto the sofa so that she couldn’t reach him.

“Aimé,” said Jean-Pierre. “She’s a puppy.”

“She looks like a fucking bear,” said Aimé. “She’s huge.”

“Well, she’s only a baby, three months old at the most,” said Jean-Pierre. “She’s going to get much bigger than that. Don’t tell me you’re scared of her.”

Aimé gave him a look that Jean-Pierre would have laughed at, if it wasn’t so stupid, and he sufficed himself with making kissing noises at Brigid and pulling her back to him, sitting back on his arse and inviting her to come and sit in his lap, which she did very eagerly.

“She’s for us?” he asked, and Asmodeus nodded, although he glanced at Aimé.

“If she fits in,” said Asmodeus measuredly, and Jean-Pierre scoffed sharply, focusing on Brigid and rubbing her all over, laughing when she wagged her tail and dropped onto her back across his knees.

His cheeks were wet, he was distantly aware, and he rubbed the tears away quickly with the sleeves of his kimono – how long had it been since he’d had a dog? Ten or fifteen years at least, and Bingo and Brutus hadn’t really been their dogs so much as the neighbours’ dogs, but Brigid was lovely, and he ached at the idea of having a dog with them in the house, one that would be able to go out to the allotments with Colm, that would be able to sit with Jean-Pierre even when Asmodeus was gone, when Colm and Aimé were working—

He wouldn’t be on his own, in the house, not anymore.

“Happy?” asked Asmodeus.

Jean-Pierre nodded his head, and laid down on the floor so that Brigid dropped onto her side on the floor, wriggling back so that his body was curled around hers, and he laughed, nuzzling into the top of her head.

*     *     *

AIMÉ

He wanted a cigarette.

It was funny, he hadn’t thought about it in a while, but now, sitting in the cold December air, which was mercifully dry, he wanted a cigarette perhaps more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. He could imagine the spongey thickness of the butt between his fingers, the smell of smoke and tar, the taste, and most of all the rushing relief on that first drag.

He was wrapped in his coat, leaning back against the house wall – Jean-Pierre hadn’t even noticed when he’d gone upstairs to get dressed, let alone that he’d come out here.

The dog was—

He knew it wasn’t that big. It was smaller than a Labrador, after all, only the size of a spaniel or something, he thought, but he didn’t know how big it would get, and he only knew he didn’t like how big it was now, how big its paws were.

Big dogs made him nervous.

He knew it was a puppy, that it didn’t know anything, that it was harmless, and it was cute, it was cute, seeing it climb all over Jean-Pierre, see how much l’ange softened and laughed and relaxed, but he just… couldn’t.

The door clicked as Benedictine and Asmodeus came out.

“You scared of dogs?” asked Bene.

“Not— scared,” muttered Aimé. “I just… I don’t like dogs. I’m not good with them. The big ones freak me out.”

He expected Benedictine to take the piss, but she didn’t, glancing at Asmodeus, her hands in her pockets, before she said, “So come skating with us.”

“Skating?” Aimé repeated. “Iceskating? Isn’t that for angels?”

“Angels and loved ones,” said Asmodeus, coming down from the doorstep. “There’ll be people’s children, partners… We booked out the rink, there’ll be more than enough room for you. Doros will be there, you met him at the Halloween party, not to mention George and Bedelia.”

“Won’t he…?” asked Aimé, gesturing back, and Asmodeus inhaled, thinking about it for a moment.

“Bringing Brigid home today was a strategic choice,” he said. “To distract him from the fact that we were all out for the day and he wasn’t. I don’t know that it makes much of a difference if you’re gone too – and perhaps a few hours to digest it and calm yourself down will help.”

“It’s not like I don’t want him to have a dog,” said Aimé. “I see how happy it makes him, I just…”

“Benoit was scared of cows,” said Bene.

“Cows?” Aimé repeated.

“Cows,” she said. “Bulls, too, but cows. He didn’t like how big they were, how they moved. Couldn’t be in a field with one, even an ox in a plough. They terrified him.”

“Why the fuck are you telling me this?” asked Aimé.

Benedictine shrugged. “Is it helping?”

“Yeah,” said Aimé. “Weirdly, yeah. I don’t know how to ice skate.”

“You think George does?” replied Asmodeus, and as he and Benedictine started walking down the path, Aimé fell into step beside them. “He’s not angry at you. He’s just excited to have a dog.”

“I know,” said Aimé.

Benedictine lit a cigar, and Aimé’s fingers itched in his coat pockets.