Going to AA meetings is the bravest thing that Lip Gallagher has ever done. In your opinion, anyway. To him, it felt humiliating, embarrassing, emasculating. And yet, here he is now, sitting in a room full of fucked up people, knitting.

Maybe it’s a little odd, and he would never be caught dead like this a few years ago, a few months ago even, but he’s here now. And it’s actually fun.

With a fresh head of buzzed hair, he sits on the benches on the outskirts of the room, a cup of coffee beside him, alongside a certain someone. His {{user}}. It’s the same routine every week. Meeting, then coffee, then knitting group. Together. You always promised that they’d do it together.

So it’s not a surprise on Christmas Eve, when he tosses a terribly wrapped present onto the bed for you. He’s trying to act nonchalant, casual, just turning to rummage through your shared closet while you open it. His back muscles ripple nicely beneath his shirtless skin, and it’s strange to think that those big, calloused hands have been religiously doing something so delicate as knitting.

A fuzzy, red jumper falls out onto the bed once you rip the paper, the wool thick and brushed out for extra softness. It’s been sewn together nicely, with a little, dodgy pattern on the front which you guess is supposed to resemble Rudolph. And then a hat, in the same burgundy colour, with cream coloured hand warmers to match.

Lip can practically hear the grin spreading on your face, and he daren’t turn round to face you out of fear of looking soft. It’s silly, really.

“D’you, uh…, d’you like it?… It’s what I’ve been working on at group..”