Chapter 33: Everything is everything, and everything is beautiful

"What are you wearing?" Ian heard the other man breathe into the phone as soon as he picked up.

"Oh, Jesus. Hold on. Let me move into another room that my entire family isn't in."

Across Ian's abuelita's living room, his evil twin spied the blush tinging his cheeks and winked at him with a lascivious grin. Ian rolled his eyes and sneaked into the office at the back of the house where no one else had any reason to be, unless they were doing a late night load of laundry. Ian stumbled over a folded up corner of the Oriental rug with a quiet oof, the mostly deep navy fibers having blended in with the hard oak floors in the darkness, and settled on the old leather sofa surrounded by cedar bookshelves crammed full of dusty tomes. His favorite were the colorful, gold-embellished vintage cloth and leather bound collector's editions— some fiction and poetry but most nonfiction and historical in nature, many dating back to the 19th century— the prizes of his father's collection when they all had once lived in the house together. He used to love to open the large manuscripts on his lap and breathe in the musty, yellowed pages and dream of far-off times and places. He had inherited the nerdy, bookworm gene from somewhere, after all.

Near the single, large window, was a heavy, antique desk with the old brass lamp with green glass shade, it's positioning creating a small nest of space Ian had once lined with spare pillows. It was his favorite hiding place as a child, where he had read the heavy hardback selections of Shakespeare and George Eliot, Charles Dickens and the Bronte sisters among others and discovered his first love in fiction. He eyed the tiny, rarely-lit fireplace but decided against lighting it and instead, leaned back deeply into the worn sofa, the weathered upholstery and frame creaking and groaning beneath his weight.

"Now where were we?"

"You were about to have some hot phone sex with a stranger."

Ian coughed to cover up a laugh, throwing up a foot onto the matching Moroccan pouf footstool. "How does that work? I already know it's you."

"Just pretend you have the wrong number," ordered the other man with an impatient rustle of fabric as he settled against rumpled sheets in the darkened bedroom.

"But you called me…."

"Jesus Christ, Ian. Aren't you a writer? Have some imagination!" Ian's hoarse laughter echoed down the line, and Will scowled. "Oh, you're putting me on. Asshole."

"But we're not supposed to know each other. How will I know what you like? I'll probably slip up and call you by your real name or something and completely ruin the fantasy right in the middle of everything." Ian's unrepentant grin was audible from all one-hundred miles away.

"Oh my god, you know what, just forget it. You're impossible. Is this just a way to stall because you're too embarrassed to admit that you're a phone sex virgin and you don't want to humiliate yourself?"

Ian slid sideways on the couch, pulling an old, dilapidated throw pillow under his head. "Hey, I'm more experienced than you could ever dream, pal."

"Pal?"

"Shut up. I've had plenty of experience with phone sex. Half of my relationship with Christian was long distance."

"Are you seriously bringing up the old guy with the new guy, while the new guy is trying his damnedest to seduce you? You are a terrible boyfriend...erm..."

The silence crackled between them in the aftermath of that slip up. Ian half expected to hear the silence of a disconnected call next. Ian knew he should tap into his self-preservation instincts and keep his mouth shut but he could not help himself. Self-preservation never really had a place where Will was concerned.

"Is that what we are?" Ian knew how he felt and what he wanted, and his heart fluttered with the knowledge that Will could be in the same place.

They were being so careful with their declarations and promises in a way that seemed to belie their actions as of late, as if each was waiting for the other's permission to define what they were to each other now. But how did you put a single, mere name to the man who was your best friend and lover as well as your soon-to-be ex-husband?

Will blew out a breath. "You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?" he said after a while, voice containing far less censure than he probably meant. He sounded shy, and Ian found that adorable and said as much. "Shut the fuck up, Ian."

"Will's got a boyfriend," Ian teased in a sing-song voice.

"It sounds stupid when you say it like that. I don't think anyone over thirty should have a boyfriend. They need to come up with an adult alternative."

"Partner?"

"Too corporate. That makes it sound like we're cops or lawyers at the same firm."

"Lover?"

"Ugh! Gross. Don't disgust me." Ian laughed. "Fuck buddies? Friends with benefits?"

Now it was Ian's turn to wrinkle his nose. "Far too impersonal, and you know it. Mistress?"

"Fuck you, Ian. I am not your mistress! If anything, you're mine."

Ian grinned up at the play of light and shadow across the textured ceiling of the small, quiet room in the back of the historic house. "Oh, whatever. You would love for me to treat you like a mistress. Bring you chocolates and champagne with strawberries. Take you to a nice hotel where they leave mints on your pillow and fold the towels to look like swans. Dirty you up on those high thread count sheets and order room service in bed and steal the little shampoo bottles from the bathroom. Buy you red satin lingerie to wear just for me..."

Will burst out laughing. "Well, when you put it like that..."

Ian made a contemplative noise. "Why is there no male version of that? Mistress? I can't decide if that's sexist toward men or women."

Will sighed loudly. "Okay, I am done with this conversation. And my boner is gone. Happy now?"

"Oh, come on, Will. You could be my Julia Roberts, I could be your Richard Gere, make all your dreams come true..."

"Mm, now you're talkin'," Will grinned. "No, wait, did you just call me a prostitute?"

Ian giggled, chest swelling with fine feeling no orgasm could have given him right then. He could have his man's body any time but he was after his heart. "Hey, what time is it?"

"Um…." Will pulled his phone away from his face until the screen lit up with the time. "Almost midnight. Why?"

"Almost Christmas Eve. We really should get some sleep. I know my nephews are awake at six-fucking-thirty even on the weekends, and we both have big days tomorrow. Because I'm single and childless and therefore disposable, I get to sleep on the pullout in the living room. Yay," Ian intoned.

Will chuckled. "I'll keep your bed warm for you."

"You're in my bed?" Ian asked with surprise, having assumed Will would use Ian's absence as an excuse to sleep in his own bed for a change.

"It still smells like you. But it's not quite the same without you or Lola's snoring." There was a not-uncomfortable pause accompanying that confession. "Merry Christmas, Ian. "I…." I miss you. I miss your arms around me, and it's only been a day.

"You, too. I…I wish…." I wish you were here. I want to show you off to my family. And I know it's crazy to drive four hours round trip just for a goodnight kiss, but would you come if I asked? "I wish it were already Christmas. Goodnight, Will."

"Goodnight, Ian."

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The house was an explosion of frenetic activity and the cacophonic sounds of equal, unsettling joy— a habitual occurrence whenever the Alavarez-Carlisle clan congregated under one roof.

Ian had fallen asleep on the office couch the previous evening, and his thirty-something year old back was not thanking him for such negligence. He grumbled and sighed as he plopped down on a stool around the massive kitchen island that served as a breakfast table, already laden with a spread of fresh fruit, eggs, an assortment of breads, and carafes full of coffee and milk and orange juice.

Esme plonked down a large mug full of café de olla in front of him followed by a plate of molletes- a toasted bolillo bread roll smeared with refried beans and melted cheese and topped with fresh pico de gallo- and grinned annoyingly until Ian acknowledged her irritating presence.

Ian groaned in gratitude. "Bless you, my child."

"Abuelita made it."

Ian lifted his heavy head just long enough to mumble, "Gracias, Mamita," in his grandmother's vague direction.

"De nada, corazón," Mama Rosa smiled while she smothered her great-grandson's face with an oven mitt, guiding him away from the hot open oven as she kicked the door closed with her foot.

"The chilaquiles are almost done," Mercedes shouted, followed by screeching chairs and a stampede of footsteps making their way into the large, open kitchen.

Mercedes and Esme lifted the two rambunctious boys onto the heavy, high stools, pushing them in close to the countertop until they were practically squished and hoping to hold them in place long enough to finish their breakfast.

Having noticed he was sandwiched in by his four and six year-old grandsons, Ian's father, James, discreetly turned down his hearing aids, and Mercedes tapped her husband's shoulder and made the ASL sign for more? before filling his cup. James doctored his coffee to his preferences and replaced his fresh cup with Mercedes's long-cold one without her notice. He smiled privately to himself as he adjusted his glasses and directed his attention down to the book he was reading on his ereader, pretending he did not see August and Byron feeding bits of cheese, bread, and eggs to Lola, who lay dutifully beneath their swinging feet.

The German Shepherd had likely slept sandwiched between the two boys in their bed as she usually did when they slept over, always a softy for the little ones, who happily indulged her need to herd her humans to safety and give life-saving kisses to any exposed flesh she could reach. And where there were little kids, there were frequent snacks, which they were more than willing to share. She had learned well.

"So you disappeared to the back of the house without telling anyone goodnight last night," Esme continued, now that her sons were sitting in one spot for the moment.

"Thank you for the narration, Esme. Do you have a point?" Ian took a careful sip of the hot coffee with cinnamon and a dash of piloncillo. It was perfect, and he was instantly in a better mood.

"I don't know," shrugged Esme, pouring orange juice into two small plastic cups before mixing some milk into her own coffee. "You come slouching in here wearing last night's wrinkled ensemble…." She let her accusations and assumptions hang in the air.

Ian harrumphed grouchily and took a large bite of his mollettes, hoping he could get out of this conversation through sheer obstinance and gluttony. Mercedes spooned out a large portion of chilaquiles onto Ian's half-filled plate, pressing a kiss to his hair and making some staple comment about him being too skinny, which Ian was pretty sure she would insist upon even if he was overweight. Ian smiled at her gratefully with a full mouth and reached for the avocado slices.

"I'm just saying," Esme continued, undeterred as she wiped mole sauce from August's chin. "Someone had a late night last night. By himself. All alone. With only his phone and extremities for company."

Ian scowled darkly as he chewed.

"Ian, were you looking at porn on the family computer last night?" accused Mercedes. "Do you know how much it cost to fix all those viruses while you were in school?"

Ian groaned into his hands while Esme cackled.

"Why do you think I bought you and Dad the Mac?" added Esme.

"You know your dad and I don't know how to use that thing," argued Mercedes.

"Speak for yourself, dear," James grumbled softly.

"Mind your business, mi amor." Mercedes retorted loudly. Invoking her husband's name in conversation in his presence was not an invitation to join said conversation, after all. Especially if he was going to disagree with her.

"What's porn?" asked Byron with his mouth full, causing James and Mama Rosa to chuckle.

"You'll find out when you're older," answered Mercedes. "Now finish your breakfast so that we can go see Santa!"

"SANTA!" Byron and August cheered, digging into their breakfast with renewed vigor.

When the doorbell sounded some moments later, Ian nearly tripped over his own feet trying to scurry to the door. "I'll get it," he yelled over his shoulder as he practically ran out of the kitchen.

When Ian opened the door, the last thing he expected to see was a somewhat terrified and hopeful-looking Will standing on his grandmother's doorstep, freshly-shaven and bright-eyed and fucking gorgeous. The clear blue skies had nothing on Will's eyes just then, and Ian, honest to God, had to suppress the urge to dramatically clutch at his chest like some swooning damsel. God, this fucking man.

"I...um...I believe I owe you a goodnight kiss," Will huffed an unsteady laugh, face flushing and gaze dropping as he bit his lip against burgeoning embarrassment. "It sounded so much smoother in my head. Oh god, I shouldn't have come, should I? Shit," he continued in the wake of Ian's open-mouthed silence.

Ian could only shake his head and reach for Will, reeling him in to press his mouth to Will's. "I can't believe you," he murmured against the other man's lips and hummed happily as Will captured his mouth again.

"God, it's only been one day, but I...fuck...I…," Will panted between their kisses, clutching tightly at Ian's waist, fingertips nudging and seeking out soft, bare skin beneath Ian's abused flannel shirt.

"I know," Ian breathed in enthusiastic agreement with the unvoiced sentiment, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, clutching Will's sweater in both fists until the woven threads threatened to snap.

"Uncle Ian, what are you DOING?"

Ian broke the kiss with a laugh as he felt little hands tapping him incessantly on the ass, beggin for their share of attention.

"Who is it?" yelled Mercedes from deep inside the house.

"It's Uncle Ian's boyfriend," shouted Byron from behind Ian's leg.

"Boyfriend? No, Mama, no sé quién es. Unless…." There was the loud scrape of chair legs and quick footsteps, before Ian was unceremoniously shoved aside and Will was yanked against an ample bosom. "Oh my god, Will! Mi querido!" She pounded him soundly on the back, rocking him none too gently from side to side.

"It's good to see you, too, Mama," Will weezed.

"Vamos! I made you breakfast. Ian, close the door. We're not trying to heat the whole neighborhood."

"You didn't even know he was coming," Ian grumbled in token protest but he was smiling far too widely to be believed.

"Mira, Mama. El marido de Ian. ¿lo recuerdas?" Mercedes introduced Will to Mama Rosa.

Ian and Will shared a caught-out look over their heads. It was then Will remembered the large bouquet of red flowers— roses, carnations, and dahlias— and greenery he held in his hand. "For the lady of the house," he said, holding it in front of him like a shield.

"¿Oíste eso, Mama? Will brought you flowers! ¡Qué encantador!"

Mercedes presented Will to the rest of the breakfast table as if she had produced the man all on her own as a present to the household, and he was summarily passed around for hugs and practically force-fed by three generations of Mexican women, like some prized goat in need of fattening.

The two men moved instinctively towards each other once more as if seeking refuge in one another. They linked hands briefly beneath the shelter of the tabletop as soon as they took their seats and resolutely ignored Esme, who was sitting across from them, her face full of theatrical, mocking ridicule.

They had a moment's reprieve as everyone got busy with the business of eating. As the platters of food were passed around, James tried to shield his coffee and plate from the flailing limbs of August, who insisted on kneeling in his seat, practically climbing on the table to reach the bread basket. There was a bit of a clamor when August knocked over his orange juice with his elbow, tipping over half the cup's contents into his Papa's plate.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, 'Gus-Gus. How many times do I have to tell you to ask people to pass it instead of climbing all over the table?" groused Esme as everyone moved to clear the mess.

Esme mopped up the spill while Ian scraped the ruined food into the garbage. Mercedes refilled her husband's fresh cup, and Mama Rosa moved to retrieve a clean plate for her son-in-law.

"Sit and eat. We'll get it," urged Will patting Mercedes's shoulder and placing a gentle hand on Mama Rosa's arm, leading her back to her seat. "You cooked for us. The least we can do is let you enjoy it while it's hot."

"Bless you, mijo," Mercedes smiled, enamoured, as she sat back down.

"Kiss ass," Ian teased fondly as he handed over the plate in his hand.

Will and Ian placed the fresh place setting in front of James, who nodded his thanks, with a squeeze to Ian's shoulder and a pat to Will's hand.

You're welcome, Will signed. More bread? Or eggs? he asked in ASL, trying to remember what the older man had had on his plate, silently grateful he could recall at least those signs.

With a pleasantly surprised tilt to his brow, James signed back, Yes, please. Thank you.

All talk and activity seemed to come to a screeching halt then.

"I didn't know you could sign," said Esme.

"Um, Ian started teaching me in college." It had been that last summer in college during James's convalescence. "Bought me some books and everything when I told him I wanted to learn."

At the time, Will had imagined having conversations in ASL with the eldest Carlisle on future visits. Speech had been difficult for James back then, but the man had retained full movement on at least one side, while physical therapy slowly helped him regain control of his other side.

James Ian Carlisle had been born deaf in one ear. As a young man, when Esme and Ian has been barely out of diapers, he had been in a car accident that severely reduced his hearing in his other ear. With the use of hearing aids and his family speaking English clearly with their lips unencumbered in his line of sight, James adjusted to his new life relatively quickly.

A gifted linguist, James had learned to read fluently in Spanish, French, and Italian with some conversational Arabic, German, and Vietnamese. He had begun filling his personal library with multilingual texts back in college while earning degrees in social work and Spanish. It had made him a nearly indispensable member of his profession within an exceedingly diverse community, which perpetually struggled to keep up with the ever growing need for public servants, who provided a lifeline between a complex legal system and the multilingual immigrants they served.

It was while he was fulfilling some of his clinical hours in a group home for foster kids that he met his future wife, Mercedes, an ESL and special education teacher, who came to tutor the high schoolers there and helped them fill out applications for academic scholarships and financial aid. He had courted the beautiful woman with love letters laden with excerpts of Spanish poetry from Borges to Lorca to Neruda.

Although he understood his wife's native language well, the rapid-fire Spanglish his family favored at home often left James feeling frustrated and isolated from his own children. Learning to sign as a family had been a way to bring the family together and share responsibility in helping their father adjust to his new normal, while allowing James to feel included, respected, and most importantly, normal. James was not broken and in need of fixing. He was merely different than he had been. It had the added benefit of giving James, first, a new language with which to serve his community and later, an easier way to communicate in the grueling months of recovery after his stroke.

Even now, the family reserved most of their signing for those quiet mornings at home when their father had yet to put in his hearing aids or when they were out in a noisy place in public or for including their father in exclusively-Spanish conversations, which were harder for James to lip-read and which typically only happened when Mama Rosa was around because, even after all these years in the United States, she still liked to pretend she did not speak English.

"I didn't know you remembered," said Ian.

Will shrugged, feeling unaccountably shy to have the prolonged attention of the entire table on him at once. "One of my employees is deaf. It's given me someone to practice with."

"You must come to La Gran Posada with us tonight," urged Mercedes, sensing the man's discomfort and changing the subject.

"Oh, um, I don't...I mean, I wouldn't want to intrude." Will hedged.

"No seas tonto. All my boys together, and on what may be Mama's last Christmas!"

Mercedes had been invoking the power of Mama's Last Christmas for the last ten or so years with the same kind of conviction as calling on the name of the Virgin Mary herself, at least when she was feeling particularly shameless and guilt-trippy. It was as obvious as it was effective, and Will just nodded dumbly as Mama Rosa patted his work-roughened hand with her tiny soft, wrinkled one while heaping more food onto his already full plate, as if Will was in danger of running away at any moment and in need of a good stuffing to weigh him down.

Poor bastard never had a chance.

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From outside, one could hear the pitiful, wailing sounds of two little boys being torturously shoved into nice winter clothing fit to share Polaroid space with Santa Claus, which would most likely serve as next year's Christmas card.

"My feet hurt," August whined, as he clenched his toes as Esme knelt, huffing and red-faced, trying to shove the shiny dress shoes on the four-year old's feet.

"I can't breathe!" Byron wailed, tugging at the collar of his button-down under his green reindeer sweater. "And my sweater is itchy!"

"Oh, hush," ordered Mercedes, unbuttoning the top button with one hand while trying to smooth down his fly-always with a wet comb in the other.

While out in the garden, the sole haven of privacy at that moment...

"Oh my god, Clarke was right. We are a couple of exhibitionist freaks," Will gasped as Ian helped Will's trembling fingers open Will's jeans enough to wrap his hand around his dick. "Not that I'm complaining, but when was the last time we had sex without threat of an audience?"

The silky flesh felt hot and heavy in Ian's hand as he gripped him. Ian wanted to taste him, drop to his knees in the damp grass and wrap his lips around the succulent head of Will's pretty cock. He let Will fuck into his hand instead, unable to pull away as Will poured the sweetest moans into his mouth. Ian drank them up like he had never thirsted for anything more. Will's moans grew more urgent, and Ian could not resist the temptation to look down and catch a glimpse of Will's cock erupting, spurting come over Ian's hand and the cold, hard ground.

Ian groaned helplessly at the sight and before he could even think about it, he was dropping to his knees and taking Will's still hard cock into his mouth, moaning at the taste, capturing some of the sweet-salty come against his tongue. And then he was shoving his own hand into his pants, freeing himself just enough to tug on it furiously. It was barely a minute before Ian was whining whorishly around the cock stretching his lips as he came noisily, huffing hard breaths through his nose and spilling out onto the grass between Will's feet.

"It's entirely your fault," Ian belatedly retorted, pressing breathless, smiling kisses to Will's lips as they put themselves back together. "You can't just show up on my doorstep, unannounced, on Christmas Eve and proceed to make my entire family fall in love with you over a single breakfast. And not expect me to do anything about it. I won't have it."

Once they all had finally dressed and piled themselves into two vehicles, Esme turned to look at the two men squished together in the seat behind her, like a couple of guilty, overgrown kids, and lifted an incredulous brow at the faint, dirt patches on the knees of Ian's pants and what must have been their matching goofy, sated expressions with a, "Really? You're both ridiculous."

"Hush," Mama Rosa censured her granddaughter quietly with a little, teasing smile and wink toward the two men. "Amor y celos, hermanos mellizos."

"I am not jealous!" huffed Esme, while Ian giggled.

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The blustery temperatures of the month had waned into an almost balmy 65 degrees by that evening. Dressed in light sweaters, Ian held Will's free hand in his, a lit candle in the other as they followed the hundreds' years old, colonial tradition, La Gran Posada, which managed to be both alarmingly crowded and surprisingly civil.

Led by Joseph and a pregnant Mary riding a burro and accompanied by children dressed as angels in gossamer robes of silver and gold with white feathered wings, thousands followed in a candlelit procession on foot for the mile journey from Milam Park to the cathedral steps, creating its own companionable river of warm light along the River Walk, which had been transformed into a dreamy Christmas landscape awash in bright, bold colors and hundreds of thousands of twinkle lights. Mariachi bands could be heard playing familiar, beloved songs along the stone banks of the city's river, which carried small red ferry boats full of tourists to their destinations among countless dozens of hotels and shops and restaurants.

In honor of tradition, Byron and August, as the children of their family, were carrying two large, red poinsettias looking a little worse for wear as they endured the two little boys' jostling and sword practice, until a few choice words from Mama Rosa put a stop to their shenanigans with two guilty sets of wide eyes and sincere murmurs of "lo siento, Mama Rosa."

On Will's other arm, he had tucked Mama Rosa's small hand into the warm bend of his elbow, his dark dress coat draped around her narrow shoulders. The wizened matriarch had been instantly charmed by the younger, blue-eyed man, inciting jokes from Esme and Mercedes, who at times that afternoon, mercilessly teased Ian about having some serious competition for his husband's affections.

In response, Will had kissed the soft, thin skin of Mama Rosa's caramelo brown cheek, christening her Bonita, and reduced the older woman to blushing, girlish giggles, much to her family's thorough, delighted surprise.

Will felt his mouth drop open as he took in the massive, ornate stone-carved edifice of the early 18th century cathedral with colorful stained glass windows, audacious stations of the cross, and impressive, if incongruent, French Gothic-style 19th century additions.

San Fernando Cathedral, one of the oldest cathedrals in the country and the city's very first, stood at the heart of the city's cultural and historic center and had once served as the focal point from which all other distances in the city were measured.

Boasting a visit from His Holiness, the Pope, San Fernando was a legacy of the first fifteen families from the Canary Islands, who were among the United States' first settlers, and was originally named in honor of Nuestra Señora de la Candelaria, the Black Madonna, patron saint of the Canary Islands. San Fernando later added a second patroness, Our Lady of Guadalupe, the patroness of Mexico, and to this day, their likenesses stood watch within the cathedral— protectors over thousands of new immigrants, who often found their first welcome and safety within the cathedral's walls.

The main plaza was filled to bursting with bodies and candle light as the priest led the inflated congregation in prayer and traditional carols in Spanish, Latin, and English, before sending the crowd forth to finish their festivities and traditions in the warmth of their own homes.

The garish lights and capitalist trappings surrounding them on three sides seemed shockingly incongruous with this grand showing of somber devotion. But somehow, though he was not a believer, Will found it beautiful in its own way and felt, for a moment at least, swept up in the awe and wonder and subdued joy surrounding him. When the cadence of a thousand voices filled up the square in a haunting harmony, singing, "Veni, veni Emmanuel; Captivum solve Israel, Qui gemit in exilio, Privatus Dei Filio"— Will felt the goosebumps explode across his skin and he even found himself joining in, imagining those who could find hope in a place like this, shrouded in the mystery and magic of ancient rituals, some made esoteric by centuries.

No, he did not believe but he found himself empathizing with those whose sacred devotion compelled them to construct such lyrics and harmonies. Perhaps religion was not all bad, not always, he thought. If only all faith could be contained within the humble beauty of song and prayer rather than the death and destruction it too often wrought.

And for perhaps the first time, Will felt no jealousy toward Ian in the presence of such casual wonder, joy, and familial love. Nor did he let himself wallow in feelings of deprivation and being undeserving. He felt grateful that somehow, for tonight, all of this also belonged to him.

Ian had looked at Will then, his eyes never seeming to stray from the other man for very long, and leaned over to kiss his cheek, whispering in his ear, "This is way better than a comic book."

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As the Alvarez-Carlisle family prepared to return home for a late dinner, Esme intercepted Ian and Will, pointing toward a black Escalade waiting across the street.

"Change of plans, bro-bro. Don't ask me how I did it. Just say thank you."

"Uh, I don't know what I'm thanking you for just yet, but thanks."

"Mama says she'll see you and Lover Boy at breakfast tomorrow. And you better be well-rested and less horny. I may have added that last part." Esme kissed her brother on the cheek before pulling Will into a hug, as well. "Honestly, it's just as much for selfish reasons. I don't want to be relegated to that fucking pull out. Merry Christmas, losers!"

"Merry Christmas," they echoed with baffled cheer.

"Should I be worried?" Will asked Ian when they were out of earshot.

"I guess we'll find out," Ian shrugged, opening the car door for Will before climbing inside after him. "Merry Christmas, sir."

"Merry Christmas, gentlemen," returned their driver as he turned down the instrumental Christmas music on the radio to a more tolerable volume and turned up the heat.

"I hope you know where we're going because we don't," said Ian, jovially.

The smiling man turned to give them a friendly wink. "I do. Just relax, sirs. We'll be there in no time."

Ian leaned back against the buttery leather seat with a soft sigh, once again taking Will's hand in his as he had done all evening. They watched the crowds and lights pass by from their more private, comfortable vantage point behind the well-insulated, tinted glass.

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A/N: *Amor y celos, hermanos mellizos: Love and jealousy, (fraternal) twin siblings.

Mama Rosa is using a Spanish proverb about how love and jealousy come hand in hand. The original saying uses the word gemelos rather than mellizos, which means identical twin siblings. By altering the quote and using it (somewhat) out of context, Mama Rosa is being quite clever, in my opinion, by teasing Esme about being jealous of Ian and Will's relationship while making reference to Ian and Esme being fraternal twins. In my imagination, Mama Rosa is a badass chica who lives life her own way and is also a master troll.

So how did Will do? Is this Will fulfilling his promises to Ian that he's sticking around this time? Was he a good boy? He is accepting belly rub and treats.

But will it last?

*Chapter title from "Stay High" by Brittany Howard