` ` Gifts ` `

"You didn't have to stay up, you know."

The soft creak of the easy-chair behind him is all the indication that he needs that Azazel is not listening to him.

"I wanted to."

The room around them is dark, save for the very soft glow of a small lamp from the coffee table. The smaller man, Machiavelli, stands up straight from where he had been bent over beside the couch, squished between the small space between it and the green thistles of their tree. It's a tiny corner they had to shove the festive decoration in- but it is the only place it could fit in this small house. No matter how large a house is, apparently it will always struggle to fit a tree in it, Vel is learning.

His eyes turn to the lamp's light, easing over the patch of darkness settled into the chair beside it- to the red eye that watches him, stubborn as usual. It's difficult to not be fond of it.

Still, Machiavelli says, "You're gonna hate yourself in the morning."

"So will you."

Vel sighs, rolling his eyes lightly.

"I'm used to this. You, on the other hand-" He reaches Azazel's side and gives it a solid poke, eliciting a small yelp. "Are not, and absolutely need your sleep."

Azazel just frowns in reply. "I'm not a baby."

"Stop needing to be put to bed like one then."

Ah- that gets a little more of an attitude out of him. The way Azazel's brows furrow is familiar: Vel is very accustomed to the way the man looks in anger.

"I'm not."

It's bait Machiavelli would usually take- anything to get a reaction out of Azazel- but, well... He was kind of busy right now. Not that that's stopped him before of course, but this is kind of very important, so... He holds off for now. Bless his self restraint- he resists the urge to rub at his nose at the thought.

Besides, he has a kid sleeping in the other room, and he would really not like to suffer whatever wrath she might bring by being woken late in the night.

So, for now, he lets that slide. It's noticeable too- Azazel knows Machiavelli always raises his hackles to anything, so the obvious ignorance of that has him stiffening a bit- then forcefully biting back any more remarks. He didn't come here to fight, anyways.

They are getting better at this. Slowly...

At this point, Machiavelli assumes he's finished the last of the preparations for tonight: every present is wrapped up and tossed (gently) under the tree. It would probably be dumb to call it a 'tradition' since he is almost one-hundred percent sure everyone does this- but slapping that word onto it makes him feel slightly less last-minute and scrambled. Small mercies, right?

Now, he stands back and glances at the tree they've set up, glistening with cheap ornaments and bright wrapping paper covering the small boxes beneath.

Machiavelli breathes out a sigh. He finished, at... an hour past midnight? If the clock over there is right. A small flame of pride alights in him at that- more presents, but only the same amount of time as usual: he's getting faster at this!

Behind him, Azazel raises an eyebrow at the way Machiavelli looks genuinely proud of himself, amusement gleaming in his eye. As the brunette steps over, he leans a bit forward in the recliner, saying, "You're done?"

"Yep." He pops the p. "And in record time, I might add."

"It's, like, 1 am."

"Mmhm. Record time." Machiavelli reiterates- sending a small amused sound through Azazel. "I kinda figured it would take a few more hours- I usually don't have this much stuff to wrap."

He pauses. Azazel catches the way the brunette glances back at the sight of all the gifts- an absentminded tug at his hair, a thoughtful look in his eye... before it's shoved away, ignored.

"Charlie's gonna shit herself." He says instead as he comes to stand in front of Azazel. The bigger man looks up curiously, before shifting to house the brunette as Machiavelli sits lightly on the arm of the chair, no care to the way it makes the whole thing tip a bit sideways. "It's kinda why I wait to wrap everything too- she never leaves anything I put under the tree alone."

That seems pretty in character... It isn't hard to imagine her sneaking out into the living room late, picking up boxes and shaking them when Vel is not around. Huh- actually...

"That sounds about right." Azazel says. "Is that why you stay up?"

"Hm?"

"To keep Charlie from opening everything after you're done."

That gets a more amused smile out of Machiavelli. He snorts, shaking his head in a fond motion. "Pft- Yeah, actually. I don't trust her not to do it, not after the last time."

"Last time?"

Machiavelli settles a bit more into the chair's arm, visibly slapping on his 'storytelling' smile.

"She was 6 years old if I remember right. We had actually gotten Christmas shopping done early that year for once and we had wanted to wrap everything and put it under the tree before that morning. It just looks nicer like that, you know? Pe-" A pause. "She always liked the aesthetic of it, anyways."

It wasn't something they did very often at all, not unless they lucked out that year in terms of deals. Typically, if they hid everything until the morning Charlie would open them, it always made it look like there were more presents than there actually were. It was a good trick- they utilized it every year.

Azazel didn't need to know that, though.

"Charlie got it in her head that she didn't want to wait, though. Probably something someone at school convinced her into doing- she was pretty good about listening to us otherwise. Luckily, she wasn't as good at being sneaky as she is now."

He leans forward, grinning a bit more as his hands begin to move, like he was physically ripping open the wrapping paper himself. "We got up in the middle of the night and found her breaking into the bigger one. God, you should've seen her face Azzy-"

He clasps his hands together then, putting on an exaggerated pout meant to mirror Charlie's that has a smile tugging at the corners of Azazel's lips. "She had the guiltiest look ever- burst into tears and everything over it, she was so upset. We were mad at her, yeah, but it's hard to stay mad when she looked that pitiful, you know?"

He laughs then, before finally relaxing, waving his hand away in a 'forget about it' gesture. "Ah- don't tell her I said all that though, she'll kill me. Don't want to make her look 'uncool'."

It is hard, not letting himself get wrapped up in the easy smile and soft snickers Machiavelli wears- Azazel feels himself sharing it. Something does nag at him though...

"Why do you still wait out here, though?"

Machiavelli raises an eyebrow.

"I mean," Azazel continues, "if she was that guilty about it, then..."

The brunette makes a little 'ahh' motion.

"Well..." That answer is more complicated. He shifts a bit, a sudden awkwardness to his tongue. "She's... y'know."

A beat passes.

"She's different, now."

...He didn't really need to say more than that.

Azazel simply eases him a little closer. Machiavelli slips down from the arm into the rest of the chair- and a bit more into Azazel's lap. Silicone and plastic aren't ideal to sit on, sure, but Machiavelli never really seemed to complain- he just shimmies until he reaches where prosthetic met flesh, settling up onto that.

Which, of course, brings him right up against Azazel.

He didn't completely relax just yet though. He pauses, hand resting on the chair arm, fingers tapping a tune into the fabric.

Contemplative.

A moment later, he hums, "You sure you wanna stay up?"

Azazel just sighs. Machiavelli never hushes, does he?

"I'm sure." His voice is gruff, lips already tugging back into a frown. "I wouldn't be out here otherwise."

"I dunno, you do seem to like this recliner too much..."

The frown deepens- something that at least puts a smile back on Machiavelli's face. "I do not."

"Oh?" Bullseye. A perfect subject change. "You're saying you don't like it, then?"

"What-?" Azazel's eyes widen. "No-"

"No? Damn," Machiavelli dramatically leans back, crossing his arms in a way that would ordinarily get him whacked by Isaiah- but Azazel is far easier to tease. "And after we all put so much work into getting you it, too."

Azazel is sputtering now, "No, I- Vel-"

"No, no! I get it! You don't like your gift, that's fine- I'll just give it to Charlie then, or, hell, maybe even Chessy, she'd appreciate it more."

Oh, his face is priceless: Azazel is full-on pouting now, a look that has something in Machiavelli's chest twitching, guilt warring with the heat that always kicks up when he sees Azazel being cute. With a softer sigh, he scoots forward again, leaning in closer to Azazel's space.

His hand finds Azazel's cheek, giving the rougher skin a small rub while Azazel looks up at him with that kicked puppy look he has mastered entirely on instinct. How he still looks the same as he did all those years ago, Vel will never understand.

"I like it." Azazel murmurs. Poor guy- Machiavelli has some sense of mercy. Or maybe Azazel is just the only one that tugs that out of him.

"I know." As if in apology, he leans down to plant his lips against the larger man's cheek, enjoying the roughness of the skin beneath. "I'm just messing with you, Azzy."

Azazel still has that turn to his lip though. Kicked puppy indeed... Machiavelli can hardly stand him when he's like that. Big eyes, worried brow, his lips drooped beautifully- he is even closing in on himself a little in the way that makes his bangs flitter more into his face, strands of hair trying to hide his other eye.

How can he not rile Azazel up, when he is rewarded with this?

His gloved hand brushes back the stray hairs, tucking larger chunks of it behind his ear. Vel can only spend one more moment staring before he truly cannot resist it any longer- his lips finally meet chapped ones, pressing even more into the lap beneath his knees, into the soft frame of his Azazel.

Azazel was always such a mix of different sensations: dried skin and cracked lips, to the easy give of a softer torso from deposits of fat and muscle, back to the scratch of stubble Machiavelli feels against his own chin. Even his hands enjoy exploring each side of the borders between flesh and silicone, brushing back and forth, back and forth, skin and plastic.

For now though, he soaks in only Azazel's taste, nicotine heavy on his tongue. They have time. They have so much time.

When Vel pulls back, he is met with the loveliest of blushes, red staining the ashen skin beneath him. It is so hard not to melt at the sight- and he isn't entirely sure he hasn't.

"Sorry." The apology is meaningless, broken by how Machiavelli's lips tilt upward. "I can't help it. You look too cute when you do that."

Azazel's case is not at all helped by the way his face flushes a bit more at that.

"I..." He's stuttering, shy. "I-"

"There- my point exactly." Machiavelli chuckles. "You're too fun to rile up, Azzy."

The only reply he gets is Azazel's helpless sigh as he dips his head, fully hiding in his unruly bangs in a motion that makes Vel laugh even more. Now that Machiavelli has started, it is impossible to stop- he lifts Azazel's chin, horribly amused by how heated the skin is and how Azazel shakes his head in retaliation.

"Alright, alright, I'll give you a break- but can I at least see your face?"

"No." Comes Azazel's tiny voice.

Adorable. "Aw- c'mon, please?"

"You're an ass." He grumbles out.

"See- this isn't helping. You're just making it worse."