It's quiet. Almost unbearably so. Neither have been wrestling for awhile now, and the anxiety and the yearning for it all leads them here, sometimes, when neither can sleep. Kickboxing isn't Velveteen Black's first choice for stress relief, but there's always a gleam in Aleister Black's eye as he watches him maneuver around the various instruments in this pseudo gym that takes up a room in Dream's home now. He glides, and he attacks with confidence, and it reminds Aleister time and again why they're here, why he's always been intrigued by the man who always seems so difficult to contain, to figure out.

Dream breathes in and out slowly and Aleister looks over at him. They're staring impassively at the tall bag that they've been taking turns kicking for months now and he clears his throat. "Your turn or mine?" he asks and Dream blinks slowly, glancing at him just long enough to catch his eye.

"Think it was yours," he says smoothly, waving him on with an impatient hand.

Aleister makes a faint huffing sound before slinking forward with the grace and precision of a cat about to leap on unsuspecting prey and Dream holds his breath until that first kick lands, rattling the bag. Again, and again, and again- Aleister's face twists up in anger as he gives in to his base nature, each strike landing almost perfectly, and god, it is something feral to watch him, all of these smooth, simple movements that end up so impactful. Dream wonders, as another hard shudder rattles through the bag from Aleister's legs, how long it'll be until they need to replace this thing.

After another few minutes, Aleister pauses, grips the towel Dream holds out to him and wipes his face down. "Your turn," he says, voice raspy and a little twitchy, as if he's still coming back to himself from that focused, intense high.

Dream merely hums in response before taking his space. His kicks aren't as well-timed or as fluid, but they make up for what they lack with the pure power and rage behind them. When he is focused, when he's not letting his emotions get the best of him, he's a pretty diligent fighter. Unfortunately, he's also a very visceral man, regularly ruled by his anger and his disgust and petty issues that Aleister bears but rolls his eyes through too often to count. Today happens to be a focused day, and it goes well, his kicks dig into the bag almost as much as Aleister's did, and he breathes evenly and deep until he's done, sweat pooling along the panes of his chest, dripping down his throat. He stands still for a few moments before casting a glance over at Aleister, who seems content to sit on the floor and watch him, legs crossed as simply as breathing. "Are you done?" he asks when nothing happens and Aleister snorts.

"I suppose I am. Come here."

Dream rankles at being commanded, but it is Aleister, so he allows it, sometimes. Walking over to him, he stands at his side and looks out of the window, watching as Florida's idea of winter ticks by, warmth leeching into the room through the glass. He sighs and thinks about wintertime as a child, with snow taller than he was and coats that sometimes could never feel warm enough no matter what he did, and-

His thoughts are derailed when Aleister takes his hand between his own and strokes, watching him with careful, grey eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Dream finally sighs, sitting down next to him. "Just remembering my childhood, I guess."

Aleister nods, with a small, vague smile, and Dream wonders what he's remembering, when he nudges him. "Patrick." There's a vague insistence in his tone and Dream truly has no idea what he's looking at him like that for, but then his smile turns softer, his eyes flickering overhead, and Dream instinctively follows them, up- up- ...

"Oh," he whispers, spotting it. "Is that...?" He stands, dragging Aleister with him, and they examine the small, purple plant hanging overhead. "Purple mistletoe?"

"Purple mistletoe," Aleister confirms with a smile. "Cat friendly, but I suppose it'll do for traditional pur-" His words die away as Dream takes advantage of their hands still wrapped together, tugs him close and examines his face for a long, quiet moment, before leaning in and pressing a soft, slow, sweet kiss to his lips.

They've been together for long enough, through the ups and downs of a standard wrestling career- back injuries, and leg issues, title wins and devastating losses, not to mention just day to day minutiae- that this is nothing new, tender kisses around holidays reaffirming themselves, and sometimes desperate handholding in the dark to keep one or both of them tethered to this reality they find themselves in. So kisses, Aleister thinks, are something to be expected, nothing really special, but the damned thing is they are, Dream always treating them like something mystical, his fingers curling around Aleister's face, drifting over his facial hair, stroking his jaw line, over his cheek bones. He always takes his time, as if relearning Aleister's lips every time, and Aleister often aches for more when he slowly slips away.

But he doesn't do that tonight, something about the traditional flower hanging over them in his signature color leaves him pressed into Aleister for far longer than expected, his eyes fluttering softly as he presses his significant other closer, hands warm and possessive against Aleister's spine. "Dream," he sighs out, and Dream deepens the kiss, his touch shifting, warming every inch of Aleister as he glides around, claiming every inch of Aleister that he comes in contact with. He tastes like chocolate and cream, and Aleister chases the warmth with a hunger he's never really felt before "Enjoy infamy, Velveteen Dream" slipped from his lips all of those years ago.

If infamy resides here, in their quiet mock-up gym, lost between the pleasant tangle of their hands, drifting between the languid press of their lips, Aleister thinks it almost suitable that, after all of this, that one line shapes and defines them over and over again, and will more than likely continue to do so for decades to come. "Merry Christmas, Velveteen Dream," he says in a timbre so similar to the words he'd spoken to him all of those years ago.

This time, however, Dream responds, a slow smirk crossing his face. "Same to you, Aleister Black." They examine each other for only a brief moment before the lure of the mistletoe overhead calls to them once more and they pick up where they'd left off.