Chapter Text
I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.
Derek woke up slowly. When he'd suggested ending the night with When Harry Met Sally, he hadn't mentioned that it was a New Year's Eve tradition for him and his sister. He didn't need to open his eyes to know that they still had one final scene and Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald crooning through the credits before the movie was truly over. He and Jessie would always get a little teary eyed at this point; it's chill, though, he can appreciate the poetic appeal of the Grand Gesture. And the champagne never hurt.
This year, though, Jessie couldn't take off work and it didn't make sense for her to fly in from Seattle for one day. His parents had invited him to their New Year's Eve gala, but Derek hated the thought of dressing up, putting on a camera-ready smile, and not unwinding with Jessie at the end of the night.
So this year, instead of yelling at Billy Crystal with Jessie, he was curled up on the floor of the Haus. They'd abandoned the couch in favor of a pile of blankets, pillows, and cushions on the floor. Well, he, Dex, and Chowder had, anyway. Ransom and Holster were curled around each other in the armchair in a way that defied the laws of physics. There was something interesting in the way they seemed to melt into each other. Maybe there was a poem there; Derek made a mental note to work on that later.
The laws of gravity were decidedly more in play on the blanket pile. Sleepy Chowder trended more towards an octopus than a shark, so Derek had a snoring goalie draped across his torso. Dex, meanwhile, was wrapped around a pillow next to them, dressed in what looked to be the softest sweater Derek had ever seen. Derek missed Jessie, but he wouldn't argue with starting a new year surrounded by his best friends, content and weighed down with the comforting warmth of snuggles and blankets.
It only took three months.
Twelve years and three months.
Sniffling to his left interrupted Derek's contemplation of the nature of platonic love, soulmates, and bro culture. He turned to look at Dex, who apparently wasn't asleep.
“Don't fuckin’ say a word, Nurse.”
“Chill, Poindexter, I wouldn't dream of it.” Derek smirked and stretched his arm out to create an open space. Dex wiggled his way over, abandoning his pillow, and curled into Derek’s side. Dex’s sweater grazed Derek's side where his shirt had rucked up, confirming that it was, in fact, the softest sweater ever.
By the time the credits rolled, Chowder was still snoring (seriously, if he hadn't heard tales of Farmer's ability to sleep anywhere and everywhere, he'd be worried for her). Ransom and Holster shifted into yet another cat-like position that shouldn't be comfortable, but actually looked perfect. Dex had stopped sniffling and Derek gave his shoulders a quick squeeze; in response, Dex simply buried his face in Derek's neck and curled closer to his side.
It wasn't his traditional New Year's Eve, but Derek could work with this.