Chapter Text
Daniel Molloy strides into his home’s bustling, chaotic kitchen (as if it could be otherwise when belonging to two creatives and four children ranging from toddler to teen) like the luckiest man on Earth… which he must be when one considers his life so far has been a series of colossally dumb, zero-self-preservation, rash decisions somehow working out way better than he deserves. Do drugs in college and stupidly volunteer for dangerous assignments? Gain a reputation as a tough, fearless journalist. On a dare, risk said reputation to submit a manuscript for a queer erotica novel thinly disguised as historical fiction? Find yourself with a cult-hit series (two bestsellers, #3 in the works, thank you very much) earning enough to fund this house and a very, very comfortable lifestyle. Bring up divorce to the mother of your beautiful children because you can’t live another day in the closet? See her react with a sigh of relief, the confession that she’s been looking for a good excuse to dump your dumb ass anyway and the agreement (in exchange for the right number of zeroes on the alimony checks, of course) on an amiable separation and you getting primary custody of your daughters while she goes off on her grand adventure. And, of course, his most stunning, spectacular, concerned-relatives-trying-to-get-you-committed mistake of all: hearing that young Slavic voice matter-of-factly state, “Professor? My student visa’s about to expire, so I am going to need you to marry me.” and simply shrugging, “Sure thing, Boss” - well, that one’s currently at the breakfast table doling out chocolate-chip pancakes.
Molloy dutifully gives hugs and kisses cheeks, greeting their wildly mixed brood (“Morning, Lenore; Katie; Sybelle; Benji”) before briefly pressing his lips to those of a flame-haired angel, who finally judges him, and finds him wanting pancakes. He hustles the children along: they are to spend their first day of vacation with their “cousins”, giving their fathers some much-needed time to… He frowns. His husband clears breakfast away with efficiency, with a song even, but the Russian words falling from his lips give Daniel pause.
Pesenka korotkaya kak zhizn’ sama
Gdye-to v dorogye uslyshannaya…
He gets no chance to investigate properly before the time comes to load all the progeny into their “uncles’” car with final instructions. Softly, the writer makes his way back upstairs; pauses in the doorway to observe. Even now, Armand takes his breath away: some unholy being made from the treasures of the Evil Empire which spawned him - skin like virgin Siberian snow, curls the color of red fox fur, eyes of pure Baltic amber painted by the hand of Vrubel and set within the delicately mournful features of a Rublyev angel… Having once escaped a country which would doubtless have crushed him one way or another, Armand rarely sings Russian songs, but now he has segued the tune into his own translation:
Little song as fleeting as life itself,
Heard on the road to Infinity
It has simple words fit to pierce the self,
It has simple words fit to pierce the self,
It has simple words fit to pierce the self,
And a melody approaching Divinity…
Daniel Molloy had known he was in trouble the moment this bizarre little elf with the looks of sweet 15 and the soul of long-suffering 500 had glided into his class: this imp would be the death of him, he felt sure, and surer still that he would welcome such a death with open arms…
Woken all at once by the dawn’s command
Not fit for delay or deceiving us
Like a brand-new hope best received firsthand,
Like a brand-new hope best received firsthand,
Like a brand-new hope best received firsthand,
It’s the gift that Nature has given us…
How everyone had banged the teakettle the moment their whirlwind romance and impending nuptials inevitably came to light! A green-card marriage, some screamed: that cynical, gold-digging little whore using his wiles to make a fool out of a besotted old man, probably rob him blind and maybe speed along “till Death do us part” into the bargain… Disgusting, others shrieked in righteous indignation - how dare that dirty old man take advantage of a poor, vulnerable, desperate boy young enough to be his son, and a student to boot, like that… Alas for the critics - nothing about the arrangement being actually illegal in any way - there was no stopping it, so Daniel and Armand cheerfully ignored the histrionics, tied the knot and proceeded on their unhinged, merry way, living their lives exactly as they saw fit.
From each door and window, across the grass
Over the yards stretching yearningly,
All shall pass which was meant to pass,
All shall pass which was meant to pass,
All shall pass which was meant to pass,
It alone will linger eternally…
None of the all-around dire predictions came to pass. The couple stayed together, harmony reigning over both bank account and bedroom. If Daniel’s professional reputation took a hit due to the scandal, it mattered far less now that he mostly made his money as a “romance” writer. Armand took his name and took to his new lifestyle like a duck to water, instantly falling in love with Lenore and Katie, whom he eventually won over so much that they now call him Papa, and with parenthood itself - hence their fostering and subsequent adoption of Sybelle and Benjamin; became a fairly successful painter, which does not stop him from running the Molloy household with the same quietly terrifying efficiency he applies to most of his endeavours. And, if he did indeed harbour plans to shuffle his much older spouse off the mortal coil somehow, he certainly was taking his sweet time about it; besides (as Daniel had, for perhaps the thousandth time, dizzily thought last night as he writhed with his wrists bound and Armand’s merciless thrusts inside him) - what a way to go, 100% worth it!
Little song as fleeting as life itself,
Heard on the road to Infinity
It has simple words fit to pierce the self,
It has simple words fit to pierce the self,
It has simple words fit to pierce the self,
And a melody approaching Divinity…
The melody flows, seemingly in time to the small hands’ practiced, economic motions as they press a batch of cookies into Hanukkah-suitable shapes, but the crease between Daniel’s eyebrows deepens: generally reckless he may be, but his man singing Okudzhava first thing in the morning… that’s one red flag even he doesn’t dare ignore. He steps up to wrap protective arms around the slender form from behind.
“Andryusha” he opens with a kiss to the shell of his loved one’s little ear. No one may use Armand’s original, accursed surname and live to tell the tale, but, in their private moments, this familiar, caressing form of the original Russian “Andrei” falls under spousal privilege, “Shto s toboy?” [What’s with you? - concerned]
“Nothing, Beloved,” Armand leans back into the touch, swaying his hips and baring his long, vulnerable throat for kisses. Obviously lying, but Molloy takes no offense: his strange darling just needs to get opened up another way before he can open up with words. Taking the hint, he peppers the pale skin with kisses while his strong fingers slide inside the younger man’s robe (sure enough, his only garment) to unceremoniously tease the nipples already stiffening at the touch. In response, Armand pushes his pert ass back into the hard evidence of his husband’s growing arousal.
“You just keep working on those cookies, babe,” Daniel hums into the sandalwood-scented curls as he yanks the robe’s sash, making the garment fall to the ground around their feet, “while I take you from behind right here and right now, does that sound good?” A slightly calloused hand slips down an elegant back, past the cute sacral dimples.
The redhead grinds harder. “Yes, Danny… Have me, fuck me right over this counter, I want you to…” the voice dips lower. The older man’s fingertips trace the crack of Armand’s ass; sure enough, they soon feel the familiar jeweled handle of their favorite butt plug and tug on it playfully.
“Well, someone prepared,” he teases, fucking the toy in and out of the tight entrance.
“Always… prepared… Beloved,” Armand stutters, gripping the counter with floured fingers.
“My sweet little Boy Scout,” Daniel praises, mentally saving that image as one to explore later, during one of their role-play nights. For now… He hastily sheds his own robe and, while wrapping his hand lovingly around his husband’s erection, just manages to reach the olive oil… Yes, that’s some expensive lube, and the “extra virgin” part’s a bit cringe, but, if the alternative runs the risk of causing Armand pain, he’ll improvise however he must. With a toss of ginger curls, his lover bends over into a more suitable position; Daniel slowly, slowly pulls out the slick plug, letting it drop onto the discarded robes; coats his own thick cock in oil; lines up, and pushes in.
Their coupling starts off sensuously, punctuated with slightly awkward-angled kisses, Armand’s bilingual sighs of pleasure and Daniel’s somewhat slurred praises of his spouse’s beauty, his sweetness; then, becomes a passionate, hungry fucking: Armand’s tightness clenching around every thrust, Daniel’s grip on a slender hip, his other fist sliding down and up, from pretty reddish curls to leaking tip. Before too long, a pleading cry of, “Danny, Danny, in me, please, make me come…” brings a groan of, “Yes, Boss” and, virtually on command, the rush of climax; the younger man falls over the edge moments later, into a caressing hand.
They manage essential clean-up (plug back in place until it’s time to shower) and pull their robes back on so that the cookies (including the last few, for some reason misshapen, ones) can make it into the oven. ‘Well,” Molloy now prompts in his journalist tone, “ready to tell me now what’s got you down today?”
“Afraid you’ll think I’m being silly,” amber eyes look down toward the floor with the admission.
“Hey, none of that,” the journalist lightly spins his spouse around to face him. “If it bothers you, it matters to me.”
Armand bites his plump bottom lip adorably as he gathers his thoughts. “It’s this season: all the lights, the decorations, the… the Christmas trees. Now, neither of us can lay claim to any of it,” he hastens, as if fearing reproval, “we have agreed to raise the children only in your faith, and I hold to that - easily, since I have none of my own… that’s not how it worked where I grew up. No, what we had this time of year,” the beautiful feature soften and the oversized eyes seem to glow with some inner light, “was New Year’s. Biggest, best holiday of the year… Staying up late; the party; the costumes and presents for us children - oh, not much - maybe a few candies, a book, a small toy - but so magical, especially the ones Dyed Moroz and Snegurochka brought while you slept, and, above all,” a soft sigh, “the Yolka, the little fir tree all dressed up in such little finery as we could manage… the most beautiful thing I’d see all year, and, well, seeing all our friends’ and neighbours’ gorgeous, decked-out trees, just…”
Daniel tilts his husband’s doll-like chin upwards, kisses his pale forehead. “It made you miss that from your childhood, huh?”
The fiery head nods. “Understand, Beloved, I miss nothing else from that place, that time… except for that, that New Year’s feeling. Just this.”
The fine lines already forming on Daniel’s face from years of joy and sorrow and experience kiss at the corners of his eyes with a smile. He never tires of showing his Armand that he’s do anything for him - cross continents, forsake the sunlight, trade away his soul… so, if this is what it takes to make his little gremlin happy… “OK, baby boy,” he grins, “Let’s get a tree! And, since we all agreed to do the Ugly Sweater Party that night anyway, we should combine our Hanukkah with New Year’s…” The radiant smile which answers him would be reward enough for anyone. “Now, c’mon, Andryusha,” he urges, “come join me in the shower and tell me what we’ll need for our,” Molloy tastes the unfamiliar word on his tongue, “Yolka.”