hey y'all!

I'm SO SORRY! I totally planned to post this before Christmas!

Still! I totally finished the chapter! Who's excited for a ton of fluff? I am!

(Don't worry, we're right back on the grind in the next chapter)

thanks a million to everyone who reviewed! those make my day!

peace out!

—XANDER—

The Grand Plan to Incriminate Xan was a go.

Xander wasn't sure exactly when he and Max had started calling it that. But it was a phenomenal name, and even though Ian said it was silly, he seemed fond of it all the same.

A new lock—one impossible to pick, since it required a passcode—had been installed on Xander's door, along with the sign with the fake mustache. He didn't want anyone to get in and see the updated conspiracy wall.

The wall was now less of an attempt to solve the case and more of an attempt to prevent anyone else from solving the case. All clues now led back to Xander—at least, the ones he, Max, and Ian had come up with. Ian must have been right about Avery assuming the keyword to the circle cipher was an unscrambling puzzle, rather than a long keyword with no opportunity for repeated letters—Avery couldn't even look at Xander anymore. Which saddened him, naturally, but it was better than her knowing the truth.

Or maybe Avery's refusal to interact with him was about the clue under the vase. Xander wasn't sure what had compelled him to comply with Grayson's text, but for one clarifying moment, everything made sense. He and his brother had the same goal: to prevent Avery from learning the identity of the killer. Grayson didn't want her to find that clue. Neither did Xander.

So he'd swiped the vase off the table, watched it shatter into a thousand unrecognizable glittering shards. He'd plunged his hands into the knife-sharp mess, cut them a few times, but came up with the little scrap of paper that could, like every other clue in this game, change everything.

Xander had burned it, once Avery was gone. He'd read it as quickly as he could, memorized it, thrown it in the flames to curl up into ashes and glowing strands. He didn't think he'd ever forget the words on it.

What of the rose? O! scarlet sign

Which lovers' hope adorns,

But warning heed! For darkened blood

Is drawn by fairest thorns.

He'd memorized it so quickly that it scared him. Ever since it had become clear that Xander possessed a photographic memory—at the age of four, to be precise—Nash had told him to hide it from the old man, worried that Tobias Hawthorne would exploit it in some way. After his grandfather passed away, Xander had simply never told anyone. But it certainly came in handy in this game, and he'd jotted down the words to the clue and stuck the note on the conspiracy wall, along with a shard of glass and a single rose petal in a Ziploc bag.

Xander had made sure to leave his fingerprints on the evidence, not wanting anyone to mistake it for someone else's criminal activity. Apart from the shard and the petal, though, he had disposed of the rest of the evidence—not in the trash can, which could easily be emptied. He felt awful about it, but he'd dumped the shattered glass and the roses off the highest cliff at Vantage into the roaring sea.

He was trying not to think about the case too much today. Christmas Eve wasn't a time to worry.

What he really should be worrying about, if anything, was the wrapping and distribution of all the presents he'd bought for everyone. He hoped Ian would appreciate the wine he'd purchased, and that Grayson's tiny glass violin wouldn't break in the chaos of Christmas morning.

But most of all, Xander hoped that Max wouldn't react badly when he gave her the ring.

Not an engagement ring—they were eighteen and nineteen, for heaven's sake—but a promise ring. He knew they weren't ready yet, but if Xander Hawthorne was going to marry anyone, it would have to be Maxine the Magnificent.

She'd been his partner since the beginning of this case, willing to help him throw himself under the bus to save everyone else. When he was afraid, he ran to her, and she to him, and all they both knew was comfort and safety.

He was hers and she was his and Xander knew that if he didn't say it now, he never would. Soon, he'd be arrested and convicted of the murder of Tobias Hawthorne, and if he had any say in this at all, then Max wouldn't be going down with him. He'd go to prison alone.

So it was now or never.

Xander took the silver band out of its little box and studied it, running his fingers over the intertwined strands of metal. The ring twisted to form an infinity sign, and on the inside was carved an inscription:

O Love that will not let me go.

They were words to a nineteenth-century poem, one that consisted simply of two limericks. Tobias Hawthorne had forced Xander to memorize it, and unlike any other poem he'd recited, Xander…hadn't hated that one. Add that to the fact that O Love's musical setting was Max's favorite song, and Xander knew that it had to be on her ring.

The horrible thing was, he thought as he placed the ring back into its box, she was going to have to let him go.

And he was going to treasure every moment of the short time they had left together. Xander was going to make this count.

Because even if Max had to forsake him, he—and his love—would never let her go.

He would run after her forever.

—GRAYSON—

Grayson stared at the opal ring in the black velvet case, trying desperately to dispel his overexcited thoughts.

"No," he growled out loud. "She is not ready. You are not ready. Just because everything is going to fall apart any day now does not mean that you are going to make her a promise that you can't keep."

And yet—why had he brought the ring if he wasn't going to…

…well, for lack of a euphemism, propose?

Yes, Grayson had loved Avery for nearly two years. But they had been—again, for lack of a euphemism—together for barely a month. Not nearly enough time to truly expose each other's strengths and weaknesses. Not enough to reveal the secrets between them.

The part of his brain that dared to hope protested.

You already know her strengths, her weaknesses. How she can be brash and impersonal and terrifying. How, at the same time, she is a saint, an angel, and she will not give you up for anything. Whatever her faults, whatever your faults, she loves you. And you love her.

Hope had never worked for him, Grayson thought bitterly. He'd hoped the truth would never come out—now half the world was watching. He'd hoped to win Emily's heart, and she had died. He'd hoped for Eve, and she'd turned on him.

Why should hope for Avery be any different?

Grayson snapped the box shut and went to his window, which was misted with the cold. He pressed his forehead against the chilled glass, letting it drive such frivolous thoughts out of his head.

He would give Avery the necklace of created sapphires he'd bought. That was a better idea, one that would not be seen as overstepping his station. Young men bought their girlfriends necklaces all the time, wasn't that true? It meant nothing, only shyly confessed affection.

No rings. Not yet.

Grayson stared down at the snowy hillside, at Nash and Libby, who walked the grounds. Libby's arm was around Nash's waist, her hand resting lightly on his hip, and his arm was around her shoulders. As Grayson watched, Libby turned her head up toward Nash's face and whispered something into his ear, and Nash laughed, the sound audible even from here.

He wanted that—the kind of soft, easy love that his brother had. The kind of love that required no secrets and no mysteries to solve. Just pure, unbridled affection and hope for the future.

Why couldn't Grayson have that?

He wrapped the necklace he'd bought for Avery—relatively inexpensive, made of simple, lab-grown white jewels and spun silver. Grayson wrapped it all in plain ivory paper, tying it with a ribbon of the same shade. Contrary to popular belief, his wrapping jobs, more often than not, turned out horrendous. This one, at least, was fairly presentable.

The snow began to fall more heavily outside as the evening deepened, filling the corners of the window with sparkling white. Grayson's phone was starting to vibrate with texts, so when the clock struck six p.m., he went downstairs to place Avery's gift under the tree and join whatever festivities his brothers and Ian had cooked up.

White lights twinkled at Grayson from the banisters as he descended the grand staircase, trying futilely to hide the white box in the folds of his sweatshirt. He gave up about halfway down and simply carried the box over to Vantage's massive Christmas tree, placing it under a soft green bough.

"Gray!" chirped a voice, and Grayson nearly had a heart attack as Xander stuck his head out of the tree. "Hi! Whatcha doin'?"

Grayson lifted his hand from his heart and smoothed his hair down. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Oh!" Xander pushed slightly farther out of the branches. "I'm trying to rewire the lights so they change colors and stuff. I like the white lights, but I want to put on some kind of show with them. I'm making it so they can do this really cool fadeout effect."

He ducked back into the tree. "Everyone's setting up for dinner. Ian asked me to send y'all into the kitchen so he can get the food on the table."

"What kind of food?" Grayson asked.

"Pizza! At least, I'm pretty sure that's what it is."

Grayson sighed. "The least healthy food I can possibly imagine, then."

A loud bang sounded from inside the tree. "Relax, Gray, a couple slices won't hurt you! We should get in there; they're almost ready."

Xander extricated himself from the tree, and Grayson reached out to delicately remove the snowflake-shaped ornament caught in his brother's hair. He placed it back on the tree and followed Xander into the dining room.

"Where have you been?" Jameson asked, setting a bottle of wine on the table. "Ian's been yelling for you for an hour, Gray."

"I find that difficult to believe," Grayson said, retrieving a stack of gold-trimmed plates from the counter and setting them on the placemats that already graced the mahogany tabletop. "Would I not have heard him?"

"Not if you were exploring your 'mind palace.'" Jameson put finger quotes around the last two words. "You never hear anyone when you're in there."

"Surely I deserve time alone with my thoughts," Grayson protested as he began to dole out a bundle of napkins.

"The point is you've been spending too much of your time alone," Jameson told him. "And, actually, I need a few minutes of it. Would you come out in the hall for a second?" At Grayson's glance at the clock, he added, "We've got time."

Apprehensive, Grayson followed his brother back out into the hall. Jameson took him farther than that, though, pulling Grayson by his sleeve into the shadows under the grand staircase.

"Out with it," said Grayson when Jameson had stood silently for several seconds. "You're upset about something. If you're going to hit me, just get it over with."

"I'm not going to hit you." Jameson's voice was surprisingly gentle. "I just…I wanted to say sorry."

Grayson blinked. "Sorry? For what?"

"For the day we found the Davenport cipher. I—I was angry. I needed someone to blame. And I guess—when I realized Avery wanted you, when she told me not to hurt you, I…messed up. I really did, Gray. I shouldn't have said those things to you."

"You had every right to," Grayson said quietly. "The evidence pointed to me. Your accusations were not unfounded."

"I didn't mean the accusations," Jameson mumbled. "I meant when I—when I called you my half-brother. I didn't mean that. Maybe it's true biologically, but I don't care. You're my brother, Gray, and you always will be."

Something hot was burning in Grayson's eyes, a lump in his throat choking back all the words he wanted to say. So he settled for stepping forward and wrapping his arms around his little brother, pressing his cheek against Jameson's and choking out, "It's alright, Jamie. Really."

Jameson buried his face in Grayson's shoulder, and for once Grayson was content to stand there for as long as he had to, simply being a big brother to the kid that needed him.

When Jameson finally pulled back, Grayson murmured, "I'm sorry too. For…for wanting Avery to be with me. I didn't want to take her from you. Well—I suppose I did, but…I didn't want to hurt you with it."

"Hey." Jameson put his hand on Grayson's shoulder. "It's okay. I get it. But all that matters to us as Hawthornes is that she's happy. I'll miss her, but she deserves—you both deserve to be happy."

"Not at your expense."

"I'll be okay, Gray. I promise. Don't worry about it."

Grayson glanced down. "Okay. How's, um, your—your wound?" He gestured at Jameson's side, suddenly feeling guilty that he hadn't even thought to ask about the injury since before they'd left for Vantage.

"Oh, that?" Jameson pulled up his shirt shamelessly, running a finger over the closed gash between his ribs. "It's been getting better for a while now. Probably leave a scar, but it's not a big deal."

He let his shirt fall and seized Grayson's sleeve again, tugging him back toward the dining room. "Come on, let's head back. They're all waiting for us."

Grayson followed him, and when they sat down at the table and joined hands to say grace, Avery on one side of him and Jameson on the other, he wondered if this—this feeling of warmth and security and the humility to apologize—was what it felt like for someone to care.

The rest of Christmas Eve was chaotic, to say the least.

Jameson and Ian, more alike than either of them would admit, had snuck entirely too much champagne into the after-dinner party. The most entertaining effect of this was not the fact that everyone became shamefully drunk—it was what they did while they were shamefully drunk.

After one—one—glass of champagne and two cans of Dr. Pepper, Xander leaped up on the table and began to recite chapter two of the book of Luke. He yanked the tablecloth out from under the plates and tied it around his shoulders in an attempt to mimic an angel, spreading the pristine white "wings" as he recounted the Christmas story—badly.

"And the angel said unto them," said Xander dramatically, "fear not! For behold, we have donuts!"

Avery lost it, which Grayson had never seen her do before. She looked beautiful, even with her cheeks flushed and her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. He wondered dimly if he looked similar. How many glasses of champagne had he had?

Ian climbed onto the table beside Xander, raised his glass, and proposed a toast to himself, as the host. For whatever reason, Grayson joined in, even though toasting Ian seemed silly. But, then again, everything seemed silly at the moment.

Like the show that Nash had cued up on one of the 70-inch TVs in the living room, which Grayson couldn't make sense of. Several screaming men ran around with guns and balloons on the screen, the bright colors blurring together. Nash and Xander were screaming for the blue team's victory, but Grayson thought the red team might be better. He couldn't fathom why.

Like the haphazard game of Monopoly they played on the underside of the mysteriously-flipped-over table in the dining room. Was it Monopoly? It could have been. Or perhaps it was that new game that they'd recently gotten at Hawthorne House, the one with maps and monsters. Grayson thought it was Monopoly, because he admittedly became very upset over losing all of his money. Did he really cry in the corner over this? He wasn't sure.

Like the stolen kisses with Avery under the mistletoe—and the kisses that Jameson attempted to steal as well, obviously not understanding who Grayson was in his present (very drunk) state. Grayson only laughed and pushed his brother away.

Like Max and Libby waxing poetic about their respective Hawthornes, fighting over who was in possession of the better man. Nash and Xander were happy to back their girls up, ripping their shirts off and flexing, though nobody ever reached a consensus—likely because Jameson was unhelpfully chanting "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

It was all silly, and it was stupid, and Grayson was vaguely aware of the fact that this was not how a Hawthorne behaved. And yet, tonight, he didn't care. The old man was gone. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"Go to bed, ye hooligans!" Ian slurred in the thickest Scottish accent Grayson had ever heard. The clock had just struck one in the morning, and Grayson wondered why they should stop now; there was still a whole bottle of champagne left, and besides, he would do whatever it took to win back his Monopoly money. There was one of his five-hundred-dollar bills, bright orange and stuck to the ceiling. Surely that merited staying up longer. Surely.

"We really should go to bed." Avery was clutching the counter so hard that Grayson was certain she would fall over if she let go. He wondered if he should help her up the stairs, but the world was tilting strangely every time he turned his head.

Even so, he took Avery's hand when she stretched it out, and together they stumbled out of the kitchen and into the darkness below the grand staircase. Avery stood up on her tiptoes, kissing what she probably meant to be Grayson's mouth but missing so that she got more of his chin. He attempted the same feat and was far off the mark, pressing his lips to the skin left of her nose.

"Sorry," he mumbled, grinning far too widely. "I'm quite drunk."

"Think I got you beat," Avery said, and this time she did manage to press her lips against his. Grayson leaned into the kiss, cupping a hand gently around the back of Avery's head as she seized the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him in, holding him flush against her in the darkness.

"I love you, Grayson Davenport Hawthorne," she whispered, breathing the words into his lungs.

"A horrible decision, really," Grayson murmured. "But I love you back."

"Took you long enough," Avery said, and just as the whole world went fuzzy, she placed a hand between his shoulder blades and dipped him so far that Grayson was amazed she didn't simply drop him to the marble floor. But even drunk, she was strong, and so he placed his hands gently against her cheekbones and let her hold him there, suspended by nothing but champagne and sparkling snow and Avery, until everything faded away.

Grayson woke up on the floor.

For a moment, he wondered if he'd been sleepwalking, but then the headache pounded into his temples, and he remembered.

His cheeks burned instantly as he sat up, struggling to remember everything that had transpired last night. He'd gotten drunk, obviously. Grayson vaguely remembered the kiss under the grand staircase—presumably why he was here instead of in his bed—and perhaps a bit of Xander standing on the table.

He rubbed his temples, trying to dispel the pain. Stupid, Gray. You're not supposed to lose control like that.

Grayson raked his fingers through his hair, combing it back from his face. In a futile attempt to seem more dignified, he staggered to his feet and promptly ran into the wall. Biting back a curse, he leaned against the cool flat whiteness, closing his eyes and trying to get his bearings. He would not fall over.

The overwhelming dizziness began to dissipate after a few minutes, but Grayson found that he didn't want to open his eyes. The light—even the soft cloudy light coming through the arched windows—was too bright. Every little sound was a firework going off inside his skull.

Until Avery whispered his name, and her voice felt like cotton and silk.

"Hey," he said hoarsely, then choked back the informal greeting. "Are you alright?"

"No."

Grayson opened his eyes, wincing at the light as he blinked at Avery's stirring form on the floor. Perhaps he should help her up. That was a gentlemanly thing to do, and since he did not feel in the least like a gentleman at the moment, it seemed a reasonable course of action.

He managed to remove one hand from the wall and reached it out toward Avery, who took it and pulled herself up—then stumbled into Grayson, grabbing his shoulders for support. He couldn't help but laugh, and after a moment, she did too.

"I'm sorry," Avery sighed, though the hint of a smile still graced her lips. "I'm not usually that stupid."

Grayson tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I assure you, I remember nothing."

"Nothing?" Avery asked, her eyes twinkling. "Not even this?"

She kissed him gently, chastely, and Grayson smiled as she pulled back, tracing a finger along her jawline. "Oh, I remember that."

"I knew you would." Avery slipped her hand into his. "Shall we?"

"We certainly shall."

Avery led Grayson into the living room, where everyone except for Xander and Max was seated. Jameson and Ian had identical looks of displeasure—and potentially slight illness—on their faces, and Nash was fast asleep in Libby's arms.

"There's two of you," Ian growled. "Took you long enough."

Grayson couldn't find the energy to reply. He curled onto the couch opposite the one Ian was sitting on, pulling one of the fluffier blankets over his bare feet, which were chilled to the bone from the marble floor. Avery sat down next to him, laying her head on Grayson's shoulder and closing her eyes.

They all sat there like that for at least another half hour, until Max and Xander came downstairs, both giggling as though they were still drunk—which they easily could have been.

"What're y'all waiting for?" Xander asked, a little hastily, even for him, as he began tossing packages to their recipients. "Let's do presents!"

Grayson promptly scanned both his brother and Max, eyes narrowing as he realized the difference. Both of them now wore a thin silver band on the ring finger of their left hands—though Max's twisted into an infinity sign and Xander's looked almost braided. Not engaged, then; Max's ring would have had a stone and Xander wouldn't have been wearing one.

What had they promised each other with those rings?

When Grayson was hit in the head by a (thankfully fairly light) package, he filed the question away for later and took to organizing his presents into a sort of wall. He suspected that the one that had hit him was from Nash, considering the excellent wrapping job and that did not conceal the fact that it contained a cowboy hat.

Xander was all in favor of a free-for-all, but Ian insisted that they proceed in some sort of orderly manner, and so they took turns, going around the circle. Everyone seemed to have filled the bags with an immense amount of tissue paper—it was flying everywhere, particularly when Xander opened his gifts.

Grayson saved his gift from Avery—a silvery, glittery-snowflake-studded box—for last. He opened it to discover a hooded tartan shawl in varying shades of gray with silver threads woven throughout, just like the one he'd worn their first week at Vantage, that night on the cliff in the rain. Unlike the first one, though, when he slipped it on, it fit him perfectly.

"Thank you," he murmured, daring to press a kiss to Avery's temple. "It's beautiful."

"Just like you," Avery said, already untying the bow of the little white box in her lap.

She lifted out the necklace—a simple thing, really; the pendant was only half an inch across and surrounded by a thin silver filigree with tiny gleaming stones set into it, much less extravagant than what Hawthornes were used to. Still, it shone brilliantly in the white light from the Christmas tree as Avery unhooked the chain and clasped it around her neck.

"It's beautiful," she whispered. Grayson knew a cue when he saw one.

"Just like you," he said as she lay her head on his shoulder again.

Just like you.