Chapter Text
The snow outside starts to fall in thick, floaty clumps, dampening the glow of the streetlight; inside, the fire has just been nudged back into another hour or two of life, and Rumi's cheeks are flushed by the warmth of it, by the sheer amount of food and alcohol they've consumed today. And maybe also a little by Celine's question.
“Why do I always have to start this?” Rumi groans, tipping her head back on the couch and jiggling the leg Zoey's cheek rests against in protest.
“Don't, I'm too full, I'm going to pop,” Zoey complains in a long, drawn-out whine, wriggling to get more comfortable on a reindeer-covered pillow on the floor. “This whole thing is your fault, that's why.”
Celine hands Rumi a mug of spiked hot chocolate, a fond hand reaching to straighten the golden crown that has slipped so far down her forehead that it’s almost covering one eye. “It's tradition,” Celine says, depositing another mug in Zoey's hands and sitting on the couch opposite her, where Mira is already waiting to hand her a mug of her own - the one Rumi made in primary school of herself (inexplicably dressed as a Christmas tree), Celine (Santa), and her mother (an angel, which Rumi thinks is slightly on the nose, but she supposes she should forgive her nine year old self).
“This whole thing?” Mira repeats incredulously, around a mouthful of cookie that Zoey iced yesterday. It had to be one of Zoey's - only she ever managed to layer the icing that ridiculously high. “What an incredibly ungrateful way of explaining the events that brought the best Christmas chef in the world into our lives.”
“Thank you, Mira,” Celine says, sipping at her hot chocolate and nudging at her shoulder.
“Excuse me, just Celine? I exist too,” Rumi says, feeling Zoey's hair tickle her leg as she laughs.
“I guess you’re almost as important,” Mira agrees, with that slow, sardonic eyebrow raise of hers that Rumi loves so much. The lights of the Christmas tree are glowing in her hair, the chaotic medley of colourful home-made glass and fabric ornaments glittering behind her, but failing miserably to outshine her. Rumi sticks her tongue out at her, then uses it to lick the top of the whipped cream in front of her. Mira's eyes blink slow, some highly impure thoughts visible within them that make Rumi grin and then immediately remember what happened last year when Zoey took over for her part of this. “I’m only doing this if you give out less details this time,” she says, tugging lightly at Zoey's hair.
“Please,” Celine agrees, making a face. “I love you all dearly, but there are some parts of this story that I do not need to be aware of.”
“I'll just think them really hard instead,” Zoey says.
“Your thoughts are so visible on your face they're like, telepathic. Not even that, Zo.”
“It’s an important part of it! Fine, fine,” she laughs, as Mira throws a candy cane wrapper at her and Celine groans. “I’m gonna write them down for posterity. Don't wanna lose the important details in the sands - or, snows, I guess - of time.”
“You hadn't been sleeping well,” Mira prompts, in a storyteller’s cadence, and Rumi sighs.
“This is the worst tradition. I don't know why you like to hear about that time I lied to you at Christmas,” Rumi says to Celine.
“It brought the best Christmas sous chef into my life,” Celine says, smiling at the little gasp of outrage from Zoey, clinking the lip of her mug with Mira's as Mira grins over the top of it, her lips outlined in chocolate dust.
“What about me?” Zoey says. “Why am I so unloved?”
“You're the best everything all year round, Zo,” Rumi tells her, running her fingers through her hair and hearing her grumble, but getting a little mollified push of her head against her hand.
“When it gets to my bits, I'm gonna put in all the dirty parts just for that, Celine.”
“No, thank you,” Celine says. “I'm sure you have other good qualities, they just aren't related to your presence in my kitchen. Taste tester? Christmas tree decorator? Present giver,” she hits on. Rumi nods, and Mira hums her agreement, because Zoey has an inexplicable ability to find presents that feel special and targeted.
“Fine. One day I'm actually gonna write this down and leave the good bits in, but I'll be good tonight. Rumi was tired and she was working too hard and she was just desperate to be whisked off her feet by two beautiful women…”
“Who's telling this story?” Rumi demands, taking a fortifying sip of hot chocolate, thinking back to their beginning, and starting to tell the story of the first night they met, and what brought them together that first Christmas.
Four years and six months earlier
Rumi had not been sleeping well. The summer had been unpleasantly hot, and the air was trapped in her apartment; the window was open wide, but it looked straight out into another brick building that was radiating almost as much heat as her own, and her bedroom door was propped open with a book, as if that could help with airflow.
It was after eight, it should have cooled down by now, but it felt like Rumi was only getting hotter, trying to edit the email in front of her but having to wipe sweaty hands on her trousers before the trackpad of her laptop would register movement.
She groaned, taking a sip from her water bottle. This was getting her nowhere; she was too tired to write this well. She could try to sleep, but she felt restless - her leg was jiggling under the desk, and she'd been sitting here for… god, over twelve hours, she realised, checking her watch. She gave herself a short social media break, flicking through Instagram stories, lips pursing as she saw the advertisement.
She shouldn't, really.
She really shouldn't.
But it had been a while - someone at work had asked her only the other day when the last time she'd had some fun had been (Rumi was fairly certain it was meant to be a joke and not an attack on her character, but she couldn't be certain).
She shouldn't, probably, but she'd been staring uselessly at this email for at least ten minutes, she wasn't going to be able to sleep until this heat cooled anyway, and Celine was always bothering her about needing to spend more time away from her desk and with people.
Rumi squinted at her phone, at the woman in a bandana who was grinding on someone whose shirt was so sheer it may as well not have tried.
This was maybe not exactly what Celine meant.
But. The digits in the rotating text artfully covering someone else's chest were today’s date, it started in two hours, and that would give her enough time to send this email, get ready, head over there, and only be late enough to (probably) not be too much of a nerd about it.
And most importantly, if she remembered rightly, this club venue was air-conditioned.