Stuffed With Love

Chapter 1 - Hearth Without a Flame

Aidan’s boots sank deep into the snow with each labored step, the white powder swallowing his legs nearly to the knee. His breath puffed out in crystalline clouds as he adjusted the leather satchel on his shoulder. The Northern Expanse stretched before him, a silent kingdom of pines and frost that remembered him of true home even when he spent most of his year far away.
Most people thought Santa worked only in December, appearing magically on Christmas Eve to deliver presents before vanishing until the next holiday season. They didn't understand that the real magic happened year-round. Aidan had spent the past months traversing countries and continents, bringing joy in a thousand small ways to those who needed it most.
His eyes fixed on the distant shape of the cabin. His childhood homes. The place where he had lived his happiest years and finally came to see everything change for the worst.
"You'll love it at the Geneva Academy," some unknown distant relation had told him, all crisp vowels and manufactured enthusiasm as she'd packed his small suitcase days after the unfathomable had happened. "The finest education in Europe. Languages, arts, diplomacy, they'll teach you everything a young man needs to know."
What she hadn't said was how the polished marble halls would echo with his footsteps at night when he couldn't sleep, wondering where Jack was. Whether Jack was safe. If Jack hated him for leaving.
Roughly twenty years had passed since their parents' death, an accident on a mountain road somewhere in the Carpathians while doing the work Aidan did now that had left the two boys orphaned. He had been twelve then, Jack eleven. Old enough to understand what they'd lost, but too young to fight the relatives who'd changed their lives according to their plans and without consideration of their wishes.
"The boy has potential," they'd whispered, as if Aidan couldn't hear them through the half-open door of his room. "Look at those features, that bearing. He could go far with the right guidance."
And of Jack, bigger, quieter, more shadow than sunshine, they'd said only, "The aunt will take him. It's for the best."
Aidan paused to catch his breath; his gloved hand braced against the rough bark of a pine. He'd learned five languages since then. Had dined with diplomats and danced at royal balls. Yet here, knee-deep in snow with his fashionable coat flecked with ice crystals, he felt most at home.
Each year, he returned for Christmas, drawn by his inner compass, each year hoping something would change. That somehow, his yearning for making things right with Jack could finally become reality. But each year, the distance between him and his adoptive brother seemed to grow despite every of his efforts to bridge it. Aiden sighed, but at the same time he felt hope. This year had to be different.
The wind picked up, sending a shower of snow from the branches above. Aidan ducked his head, golden hair briefly whitened by the miniature blizzard. When he looked up again, the cabin was closer, its two stone chimneys exhaling columns of smoke into the twilight sky speaking of warmth and home. Of Jack.
Aidan squared his shoulders. He'd faced down board rooms full of skeptical executives to secure funding for the many different causes of the Santa project’s foundations and charities. Yet nothing made his heart race quite like the prospect of facing his adoptive brother's hostile eyes and careful silence when all he wanted was to be close to him.
Aidan swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and quickened his pace. Inside those walls was the only person who remembered how Aidan used to chase fireflies in summer, how he'd cried when their dog died, how he'd feared the dark until Jack had taught him to recognize the stars through their bedroom window.
Aidan knocked though the door was most probably unlocked, snow-laden pines standing like silent sentinels as he waited for a response. None came. He tried again, knuckles rapping more firmly against the weathered wood, and felt rather than heard movement inside.
Just as he raised his hand to knock a third time, the door swung inward with a familiar creak.
"So, you are back then," Jack looked unchanged. His massive shoulders and chest covered by a flannel shirt; the wavy black hair tucked back in a long braid.
Aidan hesitated, then stepped inside, stamping snow from his boots on the threshold.
"I will always be back. You know that," Aidan answered, his voice carrying through the ample space of the ante-room.
Jack didn’t reply to that. Instead, he proceeded to the generous living room that also held a huge wooden table where he sat down. As if to distract himself, Jack directed his full concentration on the small wooden figurine he was carving with a pocket knife. The movement of his hands precise and delicate.
"It's good to see you," Aidan said, forcing brightness into his tone as he moved toward the fire to warm his hands. "It became far easier to travel here with the small airport just on the other side of the mist." The mist guarded the Northern Expanse against discovery, giving them peace.
Jack's knife continued its rhythmic scraping against wood. "I wouldn’t know, would I?"
"You could try one day," Aidan wondered how their conversations tended to hit difficult ground faster and faster with the years. "The world outside is not a bad place. Not all of it at least."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the soft sound of Jack's knife against wood. „Right." Aidan tapped his fingers against the mug, searching for neutral ground. "The cabin looks good. Did you replace the east window? It was drafty last year."
Jack set down his knife with deliberate care. "Why are you here, Aidan?"
"It's Christmas." Aidan spread his hands. "Where else would I be?"
"Paris? Tokyo? Wherever important people go to drink champagne and talk about how important they are?"
The jab stung, not because it was true but because it revealed how little Jack understood of his life. The charity work, the foundations, the careful network of helpers who made the Santa project possible, it wasn't about importance. It was about purpose.
"I was in Florence last month," Aidan said quietly. "Before that, Sydney. There was a children's hospital that needed…"
"Spare me." Jack picked up his knife again, the figurine taking shape beneath his skilled hands. "It was always obvious you are the good guy. No elaboration necessary."
Outside, snow began to fall more heavily, tiny flakes catching the golden light from the windows as they drifted past. "I missed you," Aidan said simply. He wanted to say more. So much more. But there were no words, none he could allow himself to phrase anyway.
Jack's hands stilled momentarily before resuming their work. The silence that followed wasn't quite acceptance, but it wasn't outright rejection either. Aidan counted it as progress.
He watched his brother work, admiring the way Jack could coax form from formless wood, beauty from roughness. The figurine was taking the shape of what looked like a squirrel, its features delicate and alert. When they were boys, Jack had made similar carvings for him, little woodland creatures that Aidan had arranged on his windowsill, treasures he'd been forced to leave behind when he was shoved off to Geneva.
After several minutes, Jack set down his knife and leaned back in his chair. He studied Aidan with narrowed eyes, taking in the tailored clothes, the manicured hands, the neat cut of his golden hair.
"You smell like..." Jack's nostrils flared slightly. "Cinnamon and perfume. Too happy."
The unexpected observation caught Aidan off-guard. His hand instinctively went to his collar, as if he could detect the lingering scent of Emma's baking or the floral notes of her perfume that had likely transferred to his clothes when they'd embraced goodbye.
"I, ah…" Aidan fumbled for words, suddenly conscious of the letter in his satchel, the plans he hadn't yet revealed. I've faced dragons of bureaucracy, Aidan thought, but telling my brother about Emma? Terrifying.
Later, and despite Jack’s hostile behavior, his adoptive brother had cooked a stew and they sat down together for dinner. Aidan served himself and for a while, the only sounds were the clink of spoons against bowls and the occasional crackle from the fireplace.
Aidan tore a piece of bread, noting how fresh it was. Jack must have baked it that morning, perhaps in anticipation of his arrival despite his apparent indifference.
"It's good," he offered, gesturing with his spoon. "Thank you."
Jack shrugged one massive shoulder; eyes fixed on his meal.
Aidan took a deep breath. He'd rehearsed this conversation during the entire journey north, practicing different approaches while staring out aircraft windows at snow-covered landscapes. None of his carefully prepared speeches seemed right now, faced with Jack's stony silence.
"Jack," he finally began, setting down his spoon with deliberate care. "I wanted to talk to you about something."
His brother didn't look up, but his hand stilled momentarily over his bowl.
"We’re not staying alone this year," Aidan continued, each word measured and cautious. "I've... invited someone to join us. For Christmas."
Now Jack did look up, his dark eyes suddenly sharp and attentive. Aidan swallowed hard against the dryness in his throat.
"A visitor," he clarified. "She's, well, she's special to me. I think you'll like her. Her name is Emma."
Jack's spoon clattered against his bowl; the sound startlingly loud in the quiet room. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, storm clouds gathering in their depths. "Emma," Jack repeated, the name sounding foreign and unwelcome on his lips.
"She's a children’s book author," Aidan rushed to explain, words tumbling out faster now. "Writes wonderful stories about magical forests and creatures who find their way home. She's warm and kind and…"
"You're bringing a stranger here, a woman?" Jack's voice was low, a rumble of distant thunder. "To our home?"
Aidan's heart sank at the deliberate emphasis on "our", the possessive that still included him despite everything, but now felt like an accusation rather than a connection. "I met her on a charity event," he said quietly. "And I want her to be part of…"
Without a word, Jack stood, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. The sudden movement sent his bowl sliding a half-inch across the table, stew sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He looked down at Aidan, his expression unreadable except for the small frown between his brows.
For a moment, Aidan thought his brother might speak, might yell or curse or demand explanations. Instead, Jack turned and strode to the door, yanked it open with enough force to rattle the hinges, and stepped out into the snowy night, leaving the door ajar behind him.
Cold air rushed into the cabin, carrying with it delicate snowflakes that spiraled and danced in the warm currents from the fire. They melted almost instantly upon landing on the wooden floor, tiny deaths that left small dark spots like tears on the aged boards.