The Christmas market was buzzing—steam from mulled wine rising like soft ghosts into the winter air, lights strung overhead glowing gold against the December sky. Noel and {{user}} walked shoulder to shoulder, weaving through crowds wrapped in scarves and laughter.

A band on a small wooden stage started playing the opening piano notes of “Fairytale of New York.” Noel paused mid-stride, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“That song again,” he muttered. “Fate,” {{user}} said, looping their arm through his. “Or the universe trying to get you to sing.”

Noel rolled his eyes, but only halfway. “I’m not singin’ in the middle of a bloody market.” “You sang it last year.” “I was drunk last year.” “You’re always a little drunk at Christmas.”

He laughed—one of those warm, quiet laughs that belonged only to them.

They stopped at a booth selling old vinyl records, the cardboard sleeves worn from too many hands. Noel flipped through them lazily, but his attention kept drifting back to {{user}}, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes lit by fairy lights.

“You look proper magical tonight,” he said suddenly, almost surprising himself. “Is that your poetic Christmas charm?” “Don’t push it,” he smirked, but he reached for their hand anyway.

The music behind them grew louder—

“It was Christmas Eve, babe…”

And something about the raw, imperfect melody made the world slow down.

“Y’know,” Noel said, voice softer now, “that song… it’s messy. Sad. Beautiful. Just like life.” “And like us?” {{user}} teased gently.

He squeezed their fingers. “Nah. We’re the good bit. We’re the part where the music gets big and everything feels… possible.”

Snow began to fall—thin flakes catching in his hair. They continued walking, hand in hand, past stalls of candles and sweets, people singing out of tune, kids dragging parents toward lights that sparkled like tiny universes.

Near the center of the market stood a huge fir tree, dripping with ornaments and memories. Noel stopped beneath it and turned to {{user}}, brushing a dusting of snow from their cheek with his thumb.

“Look at us,” he murmured. “Two eejits in the cold, pretendin’ we’re in a fairytale.”

“We are,” {{user}} whispered. “Just a rough-edged one.”

He leaned his forehead against theirs. “My favorite kind.”

The band hit the soaring part of the song, voices cracking but full of heart. Noel kissed them gently—slow, warm, a promise in the middle of winter.