Sometimes, Tino wondered how humans handled things. Real-life things, things he didn't have to worry about. Like the common cold. Sure, he got sick when his economy was suffering, but dealing with it every year?

However, despite the rarity of his own illnesses, Tino's number had come up. And so, he found himself in bed, balled up in the duvet like some kind of kit in a foxhole, feverish, sneezing, and not a little miserable.

It was the night of the twenty-third of December, 2025.

Santa Claus was sick.

Tino was not a happy camper. In fact, he was content to wallow in his own misery, staring at the fraying patterns in the quilt that Berwald had sewn for him what seemed like a million years ago and feeling like his head was going to explode from sinus pressure. He looked up only when he felt heavy dip in the mattress, and saw a chipped blue mug of tea float into sight.

"Thanks, Su-san," Tino mumbled, grabbing the mug with both hands. The warmth felt nice; he was cold and shivery now, though he knew in a few minutes, an hour, he'd be sweating and hot again. He looked up at his husband, trying to take a breath through his stuffed nose, just barely catching a hint of black liquorice coffee syrup that Berwald must have put in the tea. Berwald stared back, glare very serious.

"Y'r plottin' somethin'," he accused sternly.

Tino blanched.

"I am not!" he said indignantly, hurriedly taking a sip of the tea so as to hide his face from his too-perceptive husband. Perhaps he had been plotting something – but it wasn't even a plot, not really, it was just a little bit of an idea, and not even an idea, just a feeling that he had a job to do and he was really going to do it so –

"T'no, y'r rambling."

Tino stopped his train of thought. "…I was speaking out loud, wasn't I…?" he mumbled.

"Y'p."

The Finn groaned and leaned back against the pillows.

"Y'r not goin' out t'm'rrow nigh'" Berwald said firmly, taking the mug of tea from Tino and placing it on the bedside table.

"Yes I am!" squawked Tino in a very manly and threatening manner. He then fell back against the headboard and began to cough heavily. Berwald's hand fluttered nervously around his face, patting his shoulder and his hair and finally settling against his arm until the Finn could catch his breath again.

"No, y're not," Berwald repeated, turning his glare up to full-bore. Tino glared right back. Then he began to cough again, doubling over and clutching onto Berwald's sleeve. Berwald made a noise of surprise, rubbing circles against Tino's back. Finally, his breathing evened out.

"I win." Berwald said eventually, very clearly. Tino moaned, but nodded, closing his eyes and pulling the covers tighter around himself.

"W-what about Christmas?" Tino whined, letting Berwald smooth his bangs away from his sweat-slicked forehead.

"Had 'n idea…" mumbled Berwald. His gaze flicked from Tino's face to a spot on the wall beside his head. He looked very, very nervous. Which, in turn, made Tino very, very nervous.

"Y'know…P'ter's j'st got 'is driver's license…" the Swede said at last. "'ld 'nough t'drive th'car, 'n the reindeer love 'im…"

"What?" Tino squealed, sitting up straight and ignoring the dizziness that was causing his head to spin ever so slightly. "No, no, there is no way I am letting my son drive the sleigh! It's too dangerous – it's around the world! He has to go to Russia. And France. And, Su-san, have you seen how he drives?"

Berwald shifted nervously on the mattress. "Yeah, b't… see, 'lready told 'im…"

Tino's eyes widened in horror, just as their son burst through the door, beaming.

"Mama, you're going to let me drive the sleigh this year?"

It'd been a long road, but the boy had certainly grown. By now, he looked to be 17 in human years, and could pass as elder when necessary – such as to earn his Finnish and Swedish drivers licenses. His voice had dropped slightly, and he had adamantly and violently shed his old sailor suit years ago. Right now, he was bouncing around in socks and jeans, as well as a thick green sweater that Arthur had knitted for him some time ago. His energy had not diminished with (relative) maturity, either. He was grinning from ear to ear, practically pouncing on his self-proclaimed "mother".

"I promise, I'll be super nice to the reindeer and make sure to muck out their stables when I'm done, and wash the sleigh, and I'll deliver all the presents on time and not get distracted and I'll be back before midnight tomorrow I promisepromisepromise so don't worry about a thing!" he said gleefully.

"Su-saaaan…" Tino whined.

"S'rry."

"You have nothing to worry about, mama! I know I have to get going in a few hours because of the time change and I'll use that time to harness the deer and shine up the sleigh and load the presents –"

"Just… just don't forget to dress warmly, Peter," Tino said, defeated.

"Yay!" the boy yelled, leaping in the air and waving a victorious fist. "This'll be the best Christmas ever, so just focus on getting better!" He kissed his mother, ran out the door, tripped, and landed on his face.

Tino buried his face in his comforter. "He's going to die…" he moaned.

"…prob'bly not…" Berwald offered, rubbing circles into Tino's back again. Unsurprisingly, it did not make him feel better.

"… and don't linger too long in France; he has a Christmas party every year and it involves alcohol and very little clothing – oh, and make sure that you are careful with Eduard's present; its very very… complicated; I'm actually not sure what it is, all I know is he really wants it – watch out for Alfred, or he'll think you're a burglar; I swear, I've been coming every year and he still –"

"Moooom…" Peter whined. "I got it, okay? Can I go now?"

"… oh. Yes. Sorry," Tino cut himself off, biting his lip. He adjusted the red coat that Peter had borrowed from him. It fit him so well, now.

"Mom, seriously. I'm leaving now."

"Not if you keep calling me mom," Tino admonished. "Fine. Go. Be careful."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Peter gave the Finn a thumbs up. "See you on the twenty-fifth."

Tino watched him as he boarded the sleigh, patting the reindeer gently and calling out like he'd been carefully taught. "On Dasher, on Dancer …"

And he'd be lying if he didn't say he wasn't tearing up a bit, even as the reindeer disappeared towards the South Pacific.

"G't 'nside; 'ts snowin' 'n yer still sick," Berwald ordered from his perch on the back porch. He put an arm around Tino and drew him towards the warmth of the kitchen; Tino didn't resist.

"Berwald, I –"

"Shush. Tea. Sit d'wn," the man ordered, pushing a mug into Tino's hands and forcing him to sit on the couch. He put a blanket around the Finn and glared, daring him to argue.

"'N stop w'rrying."

Tino couldn't help but giggle a little, into his tea. "You know, you call me the wife, but you are much more motherly than I am."

"J'st 'xcited."

Tino raised an eyebrow, surprised at the admission. Berwald usually didn't volunteer much by way of emotion. "What do you mean?"

Berwald grunted. Aaaand now he was back to normal. But Tino was curious, now, and he scooted closer to his husband, grabbing his cheeks. "What. Do. You. Mean?"

Even sick, he still had a bit of sniper left in him.

Berwald's eyes widened. "Mm… j'st… n'ver spent Christmas w'ya. S'nice."

"Oh." He'd never thought about it that way. But it was true – Tino had to leave very late on the twenty-third in order to get to the South Pacific, and he never got home until it was almost the twenty-sixth. He hadn't spent a decent Christmas with Berwald since… well, since Berwald made him that sleigh, all those years ago.

Smiling softly, Tino laid his head on his husband's shoulder, taking in the scent of pine and woodshavings and tea. "A real Christmas, just the two of us," he sighed contentedly. "That sounds wonderful."

The smell of cold and the feeling of elation warmed a slow burn inside the two hearts perched on the couch.

"M'rry Chr'stmas, Tino."

"I love you, Berwald."