Once they’d agreed on the proper date, decorating the tree had been fun. More fun than Cornell had expected anyway. He’d never been a huge fan of the holidays, not even when his parents had still been alive. But Rhys felt differently about it, and they’d taken that whole Sunday and even a part of Monday to pick decorations to put up, including some Rhys had made as a kid. Those had made Cornell laugh, even if it had reminded him of their age difference.
Yes, going through Jonas’s Christmas decorations had been painful at times, and Cornell and Rhys had both shed tears, but it had also been healing. Cornell was learning to appreciate the process of grieving more and more. As Rhys had told him months ago, it wasn’t linear. It was ups and downs, three steps forward and two back.
But it was also comforting to go through it together. He never felt alone in his pain and grief, even if at times he struggled with sharing memories with Rhys. Especially the more intimate ones. Fact was that he’d slept with both father and son, and that resulted in some awkward moments…like when he’d awoken from an intense dream and had accidentally called Rhys Jonas.
That one had hurt, he could tell, and there had been little he could do about it. But Rhys, being so much wiser in that respect, had opened up about it and had forced them to talk it through. It had been the right call, and Cornell kept admiring his tendency to face problems head on. They’d survived that one as well, and Cornell had to admit their relationship was only growing stronger.
He looked at the tree again as he rolled up the cord of the vacuum cleaner. It really had turned out pretty, hadn’t it? There was something to be said for real trees. They smelled amazing, that above all.
“Put on some Christmas music,” Rhys called out from the kitchen, where smells indicated he was cooking something delicious. Grilled chicken from the oven, if Cornell remembered correctly.
He smiled as he put away the vacuum cleaner, then took position against the kitchen door to watch Rhys cook. “You’re really all in on the holiday spirit, aren’t you?”
“What’s not to love? I mean, presents, staying inside, delicious food, all the lights and decorations… And Christmas music.”
The latter was said with enough emphasis that Cornell laughed. “Alexa, play Christmas music,” he said.
“Playing Christmas music, from Amazon music,” Alexa dutifully announced, and the first notes of Do They Know It’s Christmas sounded.
“There’s a classic,” he remarked. There was no need to mention he could remember when it was a hit, right? It had probably been before Rhys had even been born yet, and he was so not going there.
“It is, though the lyrics make me cringe every time. You know, the whole nothing ever grows, no rain or rivers flow thing. Aside from the fact that Africa is a continent that’s as diverse as North and South America, which makes it crazy to treat it as one in a song, it actually does snow there. Mount Kilimanjaro has snow. And Africa has plenty of rivers, including the Nile, which is the longest river in the world, if I’m not mistaken, and also some gorgeous lakes, like Lake Victoria.”
Cornell closed his mouth, which had dropped open a little at Rhys’s diatribe. “You obviously have strong opinions about this.”
Rhys looked a little sheepish. “Sorry. I did a project on it in school, comparing it to the lyrics of We Are The World.”
Cornell chuckled. “That one certainly wins when it comes to empty platitudes.”
Rhys shrugged. “I liked it better, actually, but that may also have been because some of the greatest talents of the eighties were assembled in that room.”
“As opposed to Do They Know It’s Christmas? That had Bono, Bob Geldof, Simon Le Bon, and George Michael, to name but a few.”
“Sure, but no women. At least, not in the leading vocals. Guess they were only good enough to sing in the choir.”
“Mister politically correct. You’re such a product of your generation,” Cornell said, and dammit, he’d gone there after all. “You’re looking at the eighties through your millennial glasses.”
Rhys finished the potato au gratin casserole he’d been preparing and put it in the oven. “We have twenty minutes,” he said. “And I know exactly what I want to do in that time.”
“Hopefully not keep arguing about the lyrics of Christmas songs. Though we’ve moved on to War is Over, so that’s certainly one you can wax poetic about.”
“Nah, I have something much better in mind,” Rhys said as he stalked toward Cornell.
A shiver danced down Cornell’s spine. He knew that look, that hunger in Rhys’s eyes. “Do you now, Daddy?”
“Mmm, I love it when you call me that.” Rhys’s breath was hot on the skin of Cornell’s neck.
“I love calling you that…Daddy.”
Rhys nipped his ear lobe, making him break out in goose bumps. “Did you happen to notice I put some more Christmas decorations up?”
Cornell, whose mind had already shut down with Rhys slowly grinding against him and that hot mouth on his neck, had no idea what he was talking about. Why were they talking about decorations when clearly, they had better things to do? Twenty minutes was enough to have a lot of fun.
Rhys wrapped his hand around Cornell’s package, and oh boy, that got his attention fast. “I asked you a question, boy.”
His Daddy’s voice had dropped to that low range, that timbre that made Cornell want to kneel for him. “Yes, Daddy. I… I didn’t notice.”
“Look up.”
Cornell didn’t need the increased pressure on his junk to obey. It took him a second or two to figure it out. “Mistletoe. You hung mistletoe.”
“Mmm, very good. But this is special mistletoe. We’re not just gonna kiss, although kissing you is still one of my favorite pastimes, sweetheart. No, whoever spots first that we’re underneath it gets to pick a sexual favor from the other.”
“A s-sexual favor?” Cornell’s brain was slow to catch on. “Like what?”
Rhys leaned back, grinning at him. “If I have to explain the concept of sexual favors to you, we have a much bigger problem than your bah humbug attitude toward Christmas.”
“Says the man who dissed one of the greatest Christmas songs of all time,” Cornell fired back, his brain finally rebooting. Thinking was much easier when Rhys wasn’t distracting him with his mouth and teeth and body. With his whole being.
“We’ll continue your lack of taste in music another time. Right now, I get to pick a sexual favor.”
“What? How is that fair when you never explained the rules to me beforehand?” Cornell protested.
The gleam in Rhys’s eyes was devilish. “Sweetheart, I’m your Daddy. I make the rules around here.”
Cornell opened his mouth, then thought of his last punishment when Rhys had milked those seven orgasms for all they’d been worth, and closed it again. “Yes, Daddy.”