Arslan had fought in wars—real ones. He had faced international arms deals, unfathomable logistics, and once dismantled a missile with nothing but a wrench and sarcasm. But nothing, nothing, prepared him for Matthew in holiday mode.
He had been back less than 24 hours. They'd already broken the office chair (twice), bent his desk, and possibly voided the gym's fire insurance. And now, while Arslan lay there like a demolished Greek monument wondering if the human pelvis was meant to be so flexible, Matty was pacing around his shoebox of a bedroom fully naked except for glittery socks, talking faster than Google Translate on espresso.
> "So ANYWAY, I told my cousin Dermot if he brings that pineapple-coconut trifle again, I will physically throw him into the Irish Sea—like literally, Arslan, he thinks coconut is exotic. Coconut!! Can you believe that?! And then my aunt—oh my god, she asked if you're Turkish again and I was like no, Aunty Maureen, he's like if NATO had a baby with an ice sculpture—"
Arslan blinked slowly.
He was 90% sure Matthew had just said something about Christmas cousins, coconuts, and a possible violent incident involving dessert. He didn't ask. He wouldn't ask. He just pulled on his joggers with the mild tremor of a man re-learning how gravity worked.
Matty reappeared for the 8th time. Fully dressed now. Again. This time in a festive crop top that said "Jingle My Bells" and pants so tight Arslan was genuinely concerned about his circulation.
> "Okay babe, sooo I may have told my entire family you're coming for Christmas. As my future husband. Not legally! Just, you know, emotionally."
Arslan: "…"
> "Also—minor thing—I might've sent them that one gym pic of you lifting the squat rack shirtless. My granny has it printed and framed. But she's chill about it!"
Arslan didn't respond. He was meditating. Or dissociating. Maybe both. Somewhere in his brain, the words coconut and husband were trying to merge.
Matty spun around with jazz hands.
> "You're gonna love it! My cousin's gay too—he'll try to flirt but don't worry, I already threatened him with a plastic spoon."
Arslan simply nodded.
He had faced dictators.
Now he would face Christmas with Matty.
And somehow, this felt more dangerous.
The door opened. A child screamed.
A dog barked. Or was it a child that sounded like a dog?
A roast fell.
Someone shouted, "Who brought the stripper?"
Arslan had lived through multiple coups.
But this? This was white Irish Christmas™.
And it was already spiraling.
Matthew, who had decided that the perfect outfit for this family introduction was a sheer mesh crop top with "NAUGHTY" bedazzled across the front and glittery red suspenders clipped to suspiciously tight trousers, bounced inside with all the deranged energy of a reindeer on cocaine.
> "HELLOOOO FAMILY OF FERTILITY AND QUESTIONABLE FINANCIAL DECISIONS! I've brought you my Christmas miracle!"
He gestured like a magician on drugs.
Arslan stood behind him. Black suit. Stoic expression. Aura of danger.
The room went silent.
Even the toddler stopped chewing on the radiator.
And then—
> "OH MY GOD HE'S FIT AS F—" "Is he a model?" "Does he speak English?" "I knew Matthew was sleeping with the Taliban—"
Someone dropped a tray of pigs in blankets.
An elderly woman was fanning herself aggressively with a bingo card.
Matthew's mom, halfway through sipping wine, just gave a long, deep sigh of maternal acceptance of her chaotic gay son's eternal chaos.
Arslan blinked twice. He'd been shot at. This was worse.
> "Everyone," Matthew chirped, already climbing onto a chair like a gay prophet about to deliver the gospel, "This is Arslan. He's my gym trainer. My boyfriend. My current spiritual advisor. My daddy. My—"
> "Matthew." "Yes, Daddy?" "...That's enough."
The crowd gasped.
Someone whispered "Daddy confirmed."
One of the cousins fainted.
Arslan was quickly handed a baby, a whiskey, and a plate of potatoes—all by different people at the same time. Someone tried to take his measurements for a wedding suit. A drunk uncle began asking about "what kind of car a man like him drives," while another tried to sell him a used microwave.
Matthew just giggled and looped his arm through Arslan's, whispering:
> "You're not allowed to leave till January 2nd. They already planned the games. And yes, there will be karaoke."
Arslan didn't flinch.
He just took a sip of the whiskey, looked around at this hormonal hurricane of a family, and muttered to himself in Urdu,
> "Mujhe toh pehle bata dete ke yeh mental asylum hai."
(You could've warned me it was a mental asylum.)
Matthew, somehow understanding the vibe, leaned in and whispered:
> "Happy holidays, babe. Welcome to hell."
And outside, it started snowing.
Because even the weather knew it was time for maximum chaos.
Arslan, who once fought off a militia raid with a tire iron and sheer presence, was now… sitting cross-legged on a bean bag. In an undershirt. In a room that smelled like mashed potatoes, Play-Doh, and generational trauma.
There were children everywhere. Crawling, yelling, chewing on wires.
One kid licked the wall. Another was trying to cut Matthew's pants with safety scissors.
Matthew was unfazed. Matthew was thriving. Matthew was currently doing cartwheels with a pink Santa hat on, yelling "SLAYYYY BELLS, BITCHES."
Arslan?
Arslan was done.
His black suit—a gift from an old general in Lahore—was now a war casualty. First, a toddler spilled cranberry juice on it. Then a teenage cousin tried it on, flexed into a mirror, and tore the shoulder seam.
And the final blow? A surprise tackle from a rogue five-year-old mid hallway chase. The suit died with honor. RIP.
Now, wearing borrowed cotton shorts that smelled vaguely of artificial lemon and despair, and an undershirt that belonged to someone's ex (he could tell), Arslan watched as dinner was finally announced.
He had never seen a table so crowded in his life.
The food was steaming. The room was buzzing.
Someone played "All I Want For Christmas Is You" for the 9th time.
> Arslan, composed but visibly flickering like a dying Wi-Fi router, whispered a quiet "Ya Ali madad"…
And for good measure—crossed himself.
Sunni, Shia, Christian, Jedi—tonight, he was all of it.
Matthew bounced over, dropping a kiss to his temple like they were in a romcom and not inside a Live Leak video titled "Irish Family Dinner—EXTENDED CUT."
> "You okay, babe?" "This room has 3 grandmothers and 2 babies named Aiden. I saw someone snort gravy." "Yeah, but look at that pie. Totally worth it."
Someone passed Arslan a plate. It had what appeared to be turkey, six types of carbs, and something neon green that blinked once. He didn't ask questions. He was too far gone for logic.
The worst part?
They were staying overnight.
The mattress was inflatable. The bathroom was a war zone.
The kids had Nerf guns.
But Matthew?
Matthew was already curled up next to him later, whispering,
> "I love you, y'know. You're like… the only reason I didn't commit crimes this year."
Arslan blinked.
"…How many crimes did you commit?"
Matthew winked. "Let's just say Christmas came early. And so did I."
And outside, once again… it started snowing.
Or maybe the roof was leaking again.
Didn't matter.
There was no escape.
At that point, Christmas had transcended religion. It wasn't about Jesus, or Santa, or even Mariah Carey anymore — it was about survival, and Arslan had just won the whole damn thing.
---
When he walked out of that bedroom — shirtless, glowing, and carrying Matthew like a glass of spilled red wine — time stopped.
The aunts gasped.
The uncles choked on their tea.
The children were ushered out with iPads and trauma.
Matthew's mom turned beetroot red.
And his dad? His dad gave Arslan a hearty back slap like he was handing him a pub inheritance — except his palm hit a lat so solid it made a thud and he visibly winced. Pride... and pain.
---
Matthew? Still talking.
Eyes glossy.
Necklace glowing like it was USB-connected to his soul.
Mumbling phrases like:
> "I'm not religious but I believe in resurrection now."
> "Was that round 6 or 7? I need a scoreboard."
---
The aunts, meanwhile, had started asking pointed questions to their own husbands:
> "So Arslan can clean, cook, organize a household of 20, speak Mandarin, lift sofas with his feet, AND satisfy our nephew to the point he forgot his own name—what exactly do you bring to the table, Gary?"
> "No, genuinely, Steve. What do you do?"
---
Dinner was a mess.
No one could make eye contact.
Matthew was physically glowing — he looked like he'd been blessed by 7 archangels and a demon with good taste.
Arslan? Calm. Polite. Ate like a Greek god who'd gotten bored of Olympus.
---
And as the evening finally wound down — people yawning, cleaning up, pretending they weren't scarred — Matthew's gran, bless her, pulled Arslan aside and said:
> "We've never had a Muslim at Christmas before, dear."
> "Well," Arslan said, without missing a beat,
"Now you've had the whole damn miracle."
She fainted on the spot.
Matthew clapped.
And Matthew's dad whispered,
> "God bless the boy."
---
Conclusion?
Arslan didn't just survive white British Christmas —
he dominated it, rebranded it, and made it his bitch.
All while fasting from pork.
Legend.
[08/07, 4:41 am] Arslan Toto: Matty's phone was hot. Like—boiling. The battery percentage had dipped below sea level, his thumb had developed a permanent scroll cramp, and the algorithm? Oh, it knew. TikTok had gone from funny cat videos to a 24/7 emotional TED Talk featuring guilt, regret, and "he was the one and I ruined it" energy.
And somehow… it hit.
---
He wasn't even a girl.
He wasn't even dumped.
HE HAD ARSLAN.
Like physically had him. Locked. Caged. Branded by princess carries and international cleanup domination.
And yet... after 12 hours and 200 TikToks...
> "Wait… AM I the problem?"
---
There was that girl crying in her car.
Another one whispering into her makeup bag.
One full-blown hysterical eating hot chips while describing how she "lost him because I wanted to heal alone."
And each one stabbed a little deeper into Matty's soul.
> "I do be blaming Arslan sometimes…"
"Do I even bring anything to the table except chaos, tears, and that one reverse squat trick??"
"...Did I gaslight the man into building a gym empire and emotionally adopt my entire extended family?"
---
By 4 a.m., Matthew had completely friendzoned himself.
Fully spiraled.
Lying dramatically across the bed, half naked, hair a mess, dramatic lighting from the phone screen casting shadows like he was in a Lana Del Rey video.
And he whispered:
> "He's the table. He's the chairs. He's the whole IKEA showroom and I'm just the 3 missing screws and an Allen key that doesn't fit anything."
---
Cue: ✨"What Was I Made For?" by Billie Eilish✨
Matthew opened Notes app.
Typed:
> "Letter to Arslan, just in case he ever realises he can do better…"
And then cried over his own draft like a Victorian widow.
---
Meanwhile, Arslan, in the other room, was casually watching a video on quantum mechanics and meat prep, sipping tea like nothing was wrong, completely unaware that TikTok had convinced Matthew he was about to lose the love of his life to some imaginary karmic justice that didn't even apply.
---
And you know what?
That's the power of the algorithm.
Not just to steal your time…
But to make even the most extra, adored, feral little twink in Kent wonder if he should've just shut up and cooked that man a pie.
Spoiler:
Arslan still made him breakfast.
Because the only thing he believed in less than TikTok's "accountability culture"…
...was Matthew actually knowing when he was wrong.