Two for the Aisle

November: Instructions (10 Months, 25 Days)

Topher trotted out to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, the sleeves of his borrowed flannel shirt tugged down over his hands in deference to the cold November wind. The weather had been pleasant in the wake of the hurricane, and Mother Nature seemed to now be remembering it was approaching winter, turning the thermostat down appropriately. Hell, they’d had to turn the heat on in the house, and Topher vividly remembered parts of his childhood with some of his cousins when the stench of a long unused furnace kicked on for the first time. Matt had breathed deeply with a contented sigh, then rolled over and promptly gone back to sleep, tucked along Topher’s spine.

Hopefully it would be about December before the snow started to fly.

He flipped through the mail on his way to the front porch. Bill, bill, magazine for Matt, magazine for Delia, junk – oh. Shit.

Made from the same heavy cardstock the Baincroft invitations had come on was an envelope bearing only the Stanton family crest in the return address spot, postmarked in Minnesota. If that wasn’t enough of a hint, the fact it was address to Cordelia, Barnaby, and Matthew was about as subtle as a flung hammer between the eyes. Which, again, was about as subtle as Tate ever got.

Shouldering his way through the front door, he kicked it closed with his foot and headed for the kitchen. He needed another cup of coffee, though it was the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, if he was going to be able to deal with this.

Topher poured what was left in the coffee pot in Matt’s oversized Rock-Paper-Scissor-Lizard-Spock mug, settled himself on the turret seat, and stretched his legs out along the cushions. He leaned back against the window frame, shoulders wedged comfortably, and balanced he mug between the glass and his thigh. The rest of the mail went behind him, and he focused on the envelope weighted with more than just heavy paper.

He slid his finger under the seal, destroying the clean edge of the top in a way he knew drove Matt nuts. Whatever was inside didn’t want to come easily, and he pried it from the envelope with a smothered growl and flipped it over.

Cordelia, Barnaby, Matthew & Beau,

Your presence has been requested at the estate of Tate and Danielle Stanton

Thursday, November 23, 2012 at 2:30 pm for Thanksgiving Dinner

Formal dress required. Please RSVP by November 8 via email

THStanton@stantonfinancial.com

Well, fuck him sideways with a spork.

He and Matt hadn’t explicitly talked about where they were spending the holiday – and had debated, for all of two seconds, having dinner for the family in their own house – and Topher had assumed they would follow the pattern of the past four years and go to Rochester. Daniel and Victoria were always happy to see and feed them. Winchester Thanksgivings were also a whole hell of a lot more relaxed than what the holiday in Minnesota was promising.

Formal dinner. With the rest of his extended family.

Topher’s head thunked against the window as he thought over the wider complications. This would most likely be the first time he and Matt were in the same room with Austin since the Baincroft Gala over the summer. Matt’s temper had cooled slightly in deference to Austin’s treatment of his brother’s sexuality, though he wouldn’t put it past him to knock a Stanton on his ass for being a douchebag.

Also, if Austin had gotten an invitation, Topher would put bet a good chunk of money on the sure thing being Hunter had gotten one as well. If Hunter went – and he would, no one was stupid enough to ignore an almost direct order from the Great Mugwump – it would be the first time Hunter was in the same state as his parents and brother since his coming out. Which, now that he thought about it, Topher hadn’t heard much about from Hunter during their last Skype session.