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They don’t get gifts. They haven’t in years.
The bond between the two of them is enough, tickling, tingling, thrumming. Every day they wake up, breathing magic into their lungs, absorbing it into their bloodstream. Some days it’s like fire, washing through them in electric tides, licking white hot, almost scalding but not quite. Others days can be warm, still full of simmering heat that’s built up under the surface, cozy and addicting to the touch. It fights off the cold of winter, the chill of peppered snowflakes, and whistling of storming winds. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.
But Jon…
Jon doesn’t have a bond connecting him to the richness of their magic.
Last year he showed up on the Eve with presents for the two of them, and Damian was dumbfounded for the first time in his life. He stayed up all night baking six batches of different cookies to give to Jon the next day. Now he’s had a whole year to think about a real present and he’s still flickering with agitation at his own indecisiveness.
“What about a sweater?” Tim asks, fingers scratching lazy shapes on Damian’s chest. He shifted forms earlier, wanting to spend the full moon tucked in Damian’s side, wanting to feel their skin buzzing from even the slightest brush of contact. “You can put a protection ward on it.”
“Another?” He can hear the sigh in Damian’s voice. “I’ve already drawn sigils on the soles of his shoes, that would be too much. And knitting...”
He doesn’t have to finish; Tim knows, and even if he didn’t, the rush of a sullen tide feeds into the bond. He pushes back something small, a tight concentrated wisp of warmth. Damian crooks a tweak of a smile at him.
“We need other ideas.”
There is something, serious and fragile, that even with how close they are, Tim can’t be sure how Damian would react. But that tiny ripple of a hopeful thought is enough for Damian to feel.
“You have an idea?” With Tim’s hesitation, Damian smooths a hand across his back, encouraging, “Pray tell.”
“You could make him a ring.”
Damian stills, body tensing, going so silent that Tim feels the fringes of ice cracking along their bond. Damian is vulnerable, which makes Tim vulnerable, and it’s enough to make him want to crawl out of the bed and hide in his other form. But that would mean backing down, and Tim really wants this. So he stays in his skin, pressing a kiss onto Damian’s shoulder, poking through the rivulets of ice across their bond.
“Just something to think about.”
Damian breathes, melting the ice with a warm exhale. But there’s still a chill, and his hand shakes when he resumes tracing along Tim’s spine.
— — —
“This is serious,” Damian says.
Tim doesn’t need a moment to realize what Damian’s talking about. He could feel the tepid bubbling of brittle courage leak along their bond before Damian even spoke. He nods, hiding a smile behind his teacup as he brings it to his lips to take a sip.
Needing another confirmation, Damian asks again, for the fifth time, “Are you sure?”
Across their bond, Tim uncaps the feelings he had sealed away and let’s them swash between the two of them. Damian’s jaw tightens, hand gripping the edge of the wooden table, eyes squeezing shut at the tidal wave of what-ifs and could haves.
Tim sets the cup down, drags a finger along the ceramic rim, whispers, “He’s seen me like this. He carried me across the field.”
(There’s a quick frantic swoosh of fear across their bond. The murky memory of the summer hurricane. All the powerful charges of lighting and ear splitting claps of thunder, jumbling and disjointing their magic. Dropping onto Jon’s porch, so exhausted and bruised and scared. Not being able to stop the way his body shivers, shifting into his skin. And Jon, the human with no magic nor fantastical blood, knows something is wrong, uncomfortably tilted off its center. He scoops Tim into his arms, walks across the field to Damian’s cottage. Through six acres of wailing winds and deadly downpours, then through another six acres of lurid lighting and tearing thunder.
They make it to the gate in one piece, soaked and shuddering, but alive.)
“We’ve known him for three years,” Tim adds, pulling them out of the memory, holding his hand out for Damian to take. It’s weird, being in this form and not touching in one way or another. “He loves us.”
Damian nods assuredly, meets the distance between the two of them. He knows, deep down, in all the fibers of his being. “And we…”
Tim mimics the nod, brushes his fingers in light tickling swipes across Damian’s palm and the underside of his wrist. He pushes steady waves of warmth across their bond. “Yes,” he affirms, “we love him.”
— — —
On the Eve, Jon comes over, dressed in soft clothes and holding two boxes. They’re wrapped in brown paper with twine. One is fastened with a branch of holly looped through the bow. The other has a large crisp red poinsettia petal tucked behind the knot. He leaves them on the table near the foyer, not worrying about the candles catching. This is Damian’s home, everything is warded with spells and sigils. Nothing burns unless Damian wants it to.
Jon’s cheeks are rosy red from the cold, skin spotted with goosebumps, so sneaks into the kitchen, finding Damian on his toes pulling tea cups from a high shelf.
“Hey, D,” he says, stepping behind the witch, wrapping his arms around Damian’s waist, tucking his chilly nose into Damian’s neck.
Damian doesn’t flinch, too used to these antics. But he ducks out from under Jon’s hold, tilting his head towards the den. “Go sit with Tim, I’ll bring some chocolate in.”
Normally, on any other day, the moment he senses Jon’s arrival near the perimeter of his land, he would begin readying a drink. But Damian’s nervously procrastinating. The gift they crafted for Jon is a big deal, and he had avoided thinking about it until this morning. After his breakfast tea, when he was finally awake, anxiety rattled inside his skull. Tim did his best to calm him, washing rivelts of reassurance and calmness through their bond. It had taken some of the edge off, but Damian’s mind still swam with doubts. Were they too bold to assume Jon would want this sort of thing? What happened if Jon rejected the gift? Rejected them?
“Sure you don’t need help?” Jon asks, because he’s sweet and kind and filled to the brim with perfect farmboy manners.
“Yes,” Damian says, avoiding Jon’s eyes. “Tim’s been waiting for you.”
Without looking, he knows Jon’s face splits into a blinding grin.
— — —
When Damian joins them, Jon’s lounging on the couch, attention fully mesmerized with Tim laying lazy and lanky across him. It’s rare for Jon to see Tim in this form, only catching him twice before, so Damian can only assume the dazzling honor he must be feeling. Maybe though, soon, Damian will be able to feel it.
He sets their mugs of cocoa on the end table. Tim had spent all morning decorating the den. There’s garland along the mantle; red, white, and green candles of all shapes flickering soft light about the room; mistletoe hangs above the door frame; holly and paperwhites are tastefully placed atop the mantle, windowsill, and tables.
“The room is lovely,” he praises, reaching over to run his fingers through Tim’s hair before settling on the end of the couch. Jon tucks his toes under Damian’s thighs, and Damian’s chest tightens, nerves spiking. He doesn’t want to mess this up.
“I agree,” Jon says, nuzzling the top of Tim’s head. Tim visibly melts further onto him, lets kindles of flustering pride and dazzling content flow across the bond to Damian. It softens his frazzled nerves, just enough so he can breathe.
Damian really doesn’t want to mess this up.
— — —
Taking his time, Jon unwraps the paper box with care. The gesture is thoughtful, but the anticipation makes Damian buzz. Tim sends him a look, then softens his eyes and grabs his hand, giving him a placating smile.
Damian closes his eyes. Breathes. Tim squeezes his hand, washes smooth confidence and whimsical longing towards Damian. Tim’s incandescently excited. They’re so close to adding new magic, new love into their lives.
He counts to eight before Jon says, “Oh.”
Snapping his eyes open, Damian is ready to start a long apology, but finally looking at Jon makes him pause. A soft red blush trickles down Jon’s cheeks to his neck. He looks breathtaking in the candle light, hair messy, eyes sparkling, and it makes Damian’s heart tighten. They love him so much.
“It’s gorgeous,” Jon says.
It is. A wide gold band, with twisted vines of rich green leaves etched into the metal. There’s a fragment of emerald centered into the band, the vines twisting around it like a nest.
“Does it do anything?” Jon asks with a cheeky grin, eyes crinkling around the corners. “It’s from you two, I’m sure there’s some magic ward on it or something.”
While Damian collects his thoughts, Tim squeezes his hand again, explains, “It is magic. It’s made from our bond. When you wear it, you’ll be able to feel us and we’ll be able to feel you.”
Before Jon can respond, Damian rushedly adds, “We’re not sure how powerful it is, but think of it as an extension of our bond. It’s meant to include you. If you want, that is.”
Jon sucks in a shaky breath, staring intently at the ring, twirling it in his fingers, running the pad of his thumb across the surface to feel the etchings. In the glowing light, Damian can make out a glossy welling of tears. He wants to say something, to explain, to reassure Jon that he has a choice. But he knows he can’t, Jon needs to process this. The moment rests on him. It’s his turn to make a move in reply.
Eventually, Jon glances up, eyelashes fluttering, lip bitten between his teeth. He slides the ring on his finger, leans forward, cups Tim’s cheeks in his hands, and kisses Tim for the first time.