Chrisker One-Shots

Happy Anniversary

"Happy anniversary."

Bang!

A burst of muticoloured confetti flutters onto Wesker's head like drizzles of icing as he sits on the couch. He exhales sharply, letting strings of paper fly every which way onto the just-vacuumed carpet. It's even made its way into his coffee and he plucks a soggy orange circle out of his mug with a disgusted snort.

"What's all this for then, Chris? You know I just cleaned." He raises his head to meet the eyes of the younger man whose visage grins back at him from above.

Chris is standing directly behind the couch, gripping the still-smouldering party popper. He wraps a playful arm around his partner's head and leans down to give Wesker a peck on the lips, which is begrudgingly reciprocated. "It's your anniversary!"

" My anniversary."

"Yeah! You died today!"

There's a brief moment of silence as Wesker's mind whirs into gear to comprehend what was just said to him; to be fair, he hasn't had his coffee yet, which has already been ruined. He lets out a nasal "hrm" as he finishes processing the thought, tapping his fingers idly on the ceramic of his "#1 Guy" mug (it was a joke gift from Chris, but he is loathe to admit it delivers a smooth sipping experience).

"Oh, right. You make such a big ordeal out of it every year, how could I have forgotten?" Wesker remarks dryly, resting his chin on Chris's fuzzy forearm.

"Aw cmahn, you love it! I know you do."

"You know," Wesker wriggles free from Chris's arm and trundles into the kitchen — their kitchen — to discard his coffee and refill, "I'm not sure you DID hit me with those rocket-propelled grenades. After all," He mocks rapping his knuckles on his gelled hair, "how would I still have this?"

"Your hardhat? I mean, they did have to sorta piece you together, and you were pretty fucked up on account of all the lava and shrapnel. I dunno the logistics of it or whatever. They did a fantastic job, by the way. I still wonder how you managed to regrow that ass of yours, not to mention the ba-"

"The marvels of modern science," Wesker cuts him off. He returns to the couch where the other man has made himself comfortable in the nest of paper debris. Chris pats the cushion next to him, sending a puff of colour flying in the air. Wesker declines, instead switching positions and towering over Chris's head with a threateningly steamy mug of coffee.

Wesker once was a man hellbent on world domination, but that's all in the past. Now he finds himself subjected to a life of simple comforts and surprisingly blissful uneventfulness, living with a man who loves him and tolerated by acquaintances who no longer wish him dead. And though he still turns his nose at the tacky Christmas cards and miserable neighbour-sent casseroles, deep down in his once-charred heart he knows he would not trade it for the world.

"So. My anniversary, hm? Do I get presents?"

"Other than the joy and thrill of being alive and breathing, and knowing that you're not human goop? Of course you get presents! Here, gimme a sec—" Chris hops up from his lounging position, his ruffled head of hair mere inches from bouncing into Wesker's elbow, nearly avoiding a disastrously caffeinated spill. He hurriedly jogs into the adjoining room and emerges with a glossy sizable gift bag; gingerly placing it on the coffee table, he gestures at the older man to have a seat. Wesker obliges and walks around to the front of the couch, sweeping confetti off the leather upholstery before seating himself. Chris follows suit and bounces ungracefully into his seat, scooting close and resting his hands on his own knees. His fingers drum in anticipation.

He's met with a pained glance of resignation as Wesker reaches in with his free hand and rummages around in the bag. His hand emerges, and out comes a pair of socks with a cartoonish graphic of a bearded man dressed in red and white. Even knowing Chris's penchant for bad jokes, he can't help but roll his eyes.

" Jesus socks, Chris? Really?"

"What, you Catholic or something? You gonna tattle on me to the Pope? I thought it was funny."

"These will never see the light of day, let alone make it to the sock drawer." Despite his words, the corner of Wesker's mouth twitches upward as he tosses the socks, which land on the coffee table with a blasphemous thump . He continues his excavation.

From the blue paper bag comes a litany of "laugh-a-minute" offerings: a bent wire-cleaner angel halo that ends up jauntily tilted on Chris's head, a miniature lava lamp ("the one I got you last year broke, remember?"), and at the bottom of the bag...

A Hawaiian shirt. Wesker sniffs with disdain.

"This is the wrong size, Chris. You've got a wider build, and these sleeves won't fit around your bulk —"

"It's for you!"

"It's off-theme. Where's the receipt?" Wesker grimaces as he re-folds the offending article and hands it to Chris, who pushes it back into his hands with a laugh.

"Ahaha wh-wait, aha, hold on a minute, look inside the pocket."

Wesker holds his expression of sour contempt as he obediently slips a hand into the starchy cotton breast pocket. Fingers bump into something sharp and angular, and he retrieves and inspects his findings.

His face softens as two glossy tickets catch the light.

"I thought," Chris says quietly, leaning in, "I thought we could use the vacation. We've both been so busy with work, and I know you're not the biggest fan of camping, or our fishing trips—"

" — your fishing trips —"

"— so I thought you and me, we could just have a week to ourselves."

Wesker looks down as his thumb rubs against the cardstock. He can feel something catch in his throat, but he hastily clears it with a sip of coffee.

"And the dogs...?"

"Jill's gonna pick 'em up before we leave. Don't worry," Chris interrupts as Wesker opens his mouth to protest, "She already knows the game plan, I planned this out with her months in advance — don't give me that look, I'm more than capable of planning a vacation trip without you! That's why I dropped the kiddos off at the groomer's this morning. Can't let 'em stink up Aunt Jill's car." He snatches the tickets out of Wesker's hand and rises from the couch to saunter to the kitchen.

"Do they even send plane tickets through the mail anymore?" Wesker remarks, idly watching Chris's backside as the younger man ponders at his selection of fridge magnets.

"No, but this seemed cooler than forwarding the email to you, so I had 'em custom-printed," Chris says, eventually settling on a magnet depicting a winking trout, pinning the tickets to the refrigerator door.

Wesker scoffs into his coffee mug.

"I guess I should start packing."