This Christmas by J. M. Snyder Read online

  Instead he takes his gallon of ice cream and large spoon into the living room. Kicks off his shoes, plops down on the couch, clicks on the TV. Flips through the channels until he finds something that isn't a holiday special, something boring, one of those educational shows about medical practices in ancient Egypt or yet another look at the Titanic. Dives into the ice cream then, and stares at the TV with a mindless, unseeing glare to numb the pain coursing through him.

  Merry fucking Christmas to me.

  Ned was seventeen when he met Jake. He was a stock associate at Roses, a local discount department store where Ned worked as a cashier part-time after school. On Ned's first day at work, Jake came through his line pushing a loaded hand truck for a customer, and he stared at Ned silently with those pale green eyes of his as if trying to figure him out. Freckles dotted his body, so heavy in places that they made the skin look dark. Smattered across his nose and cheeks, up and down both arms, across his back ... he had freckles between his ass cheeks even, and in the tender skin below his balls, as Ned discovered. A fine dusting of light red hair covered his body like peach fuzz. The hair on his head was kept short, an auburn Brillo pad, while the bush at his crotch grew like wildfire. The first time Ned saw that fiery patch of kinked hair, he couldn't keep his fingers from plunging into it.

  On his way back from the parking lot, Jake rattled the now-empty hand truck as he came up the checkout aisle behind Ned's counter. At the register he stopped and leaned against Ned, his chest fitting easily alongside Ned's back. One sneaky hand curved between Ned's buttocks, goosing him. In a low, sexy voice, he murmured, "Page me when you go on break."

  Ned can still feel the heat from Jake's mouth on his ear. It burns like the kisses he remembers, the touches that have seared themselves into his skin. That first night in the break room, Jake stretched out across the folding chairs to lay his head in Ned's lap. A playful poke at Ned's crotch, a sexy leer at the hardness he found there, a quick kiss when their time was up. Next thing Ned knew, Jake was driving him home after work, one hand on the steering wheel and the other easing up Ned's thigh. Before the week was through, they were inseparable.

  Jake was Ned's age but went to a different school -- they only saw each other at work. Every two weeks when a new schedule was posted, Ned checked his hours against Jake's to make sure they were both down for the same shifts. On those rare occasions when Jake had off, Ned languished at his register, counting down the minutes until he could clock out and meet Jake in the parking lot for a ride home.

  Things grew serious between them way too fast. Ned realizes that now but at the time, he was so wrapped up in Jake, he could see nothing else. There was nothing else.

  Just Jake.

  That year, Christmas Eve fell two months to the day after they first met. Jake wasn't scheduled to work, but he showed up a half hour before Roses closed and hung around Ned's register until the end of his shift. "I have something for you," he purred between customers. "Have you been a good boy this year?"

  With a laugh, Ned teased, "I'll show you how good."

  On the ride home to Ned's house, Jake pulled into a deserted parking lot, empty except for a few last dying Christmas trees propped up in one lonely corner. As the engine died with a noisy rattle in the quiet evening, Ned turned to find Jake staring at him hungrily. "What's this?" Ned wanted to know.

  "This," Jake said, slowly unzipping Ned's jacket, "is your Christmas gift. Our gift, to each other. If you know what I mean."

  Ned's stomach clenched in anticipation and in the front of his jeans, his dick grew two sizes, straining to be unwrapped. A silly grin split his face. For all their flirtatious banter, Ned was nervous. Jake was his first, in every way, and tonight Jake's slight smile and steady gaze promised something more than quick blowjobs or hands thrust beneath clothing to pet along soft skin. Jake clambered into the back seat and in his eagerness to follow, Ned tripped over the parking brake. With a laugh, he fell back against the seat while Jake hurried to stop the car from rolling. Sheepishly, Ned started, "Sorry ... "

  The rest of his words dried up at the lustful sheen in Jake's eyes. There was no further discussion -- no further thought, on Ned's part at least, his mind stopped working the moment Jake's mouth covered his. The rest of the evening was lost in a blur of cold air and warm hands, wet fingers slipping into tight places, and finally a sharp sting that pierced through Ned's mind with a sweet pain to fill him up inside. Jake's arms around him, holding him close. In him, finally, finally. His voice a whisper in Ned's ear, his lips damp, his breath hot. "Please," over and over again, punctuated by guttural grunts with each hard thrust. "Ned," he sighed, and "God," and again, "Ned, yes, oh yes, please yes." But the sense of fullness, of being whole, ended the moment Jake slid free.

  Later Jake kissed away the discomfort that furrowed Ned's brow, and he kissed him again in the driveway to Ned's house. "I think we just started our own holiday tradition," he joked, running a hand through Ned's crazed hair to smooth it down. "Merry Christmas, babe. Call me tomorrow?"

  No words of love, but Ned always assumed they were implied. In the kisses, the sex, Jake's eyes, his smile. Ned thought he didn't need to hear them spoken out loud.

  These memories of Christmases long, long ago come to Ned in dreams. Each year rolls over him like the incoming tide, washing away a little more of his resolve, until his soul is bared to the elements. Wind whistles through him, cutting across his skin as it buffets his storm-torn heart. Fighting against the tide of memories, he drifts towards wakefulness but a lingering chill follows him back to reality.

  He wakes with a start, surprised to find that he's fallen asleep on the sofa. The half-empty carton once full of ice cream now leaks a brown, soupy mess into his lap. Quickly he sits up, sets the ice cream aside, and starts to brush ineffectively at the damp spots staining the front of his jeans. With detached amusement, he realizes that it looks like he's come in his sleep. There's a hollow ache deep in his groin, sympathy pains, a lingering Ghost from Christmas Past that tugs at his balls and almost makes him wish he'd let Jake visit. At least then he wouldn't be dozing in front of the TV --

  But the television is off, and the clock on the VCR blinks 12:00 with a stupid stutter. Now Ned notices the wind outside -- what he'd thought was a dream is real, shrieking around the edges of the house like a banshee seeking entry. He takes the melting ice cream into the kitchen and leaves it in the sink as he peers out the window. The still night is filled with a soughing, almost metallic sound that Ned doesn't recognize.

  Then in the glow of a distant streetlight, he sees icy rain falling like straight pins to the ground. Rain that would slice through coats and skin to needle its way inside, each drop stinging as it hit. With a faint smugness, Ned's pleased he was right -- it is too cold to snow. So we get rain on Christmas. Lovely. Why don't any of those damn holiday songs sing about that? "I'm Dreaming of a Soggy Christmas." Ned thinks he should sell this stuff. He can't be the only Scrooge out there.

  The power must have gone out or flickered. Maybe that's what woke him up. Glaring out the window, Ned hopes the storm or whatever it is passes quickly, and the power stays on. He won't think about sitting in the dark without electricity, without heat ... it's too depressing.

  His gaze shifts to the darkened window of Bobby's townhouse. What's he up to by himself on this rainy Christmas night? Already asleep? Or maybe also standing in the kitchen with the lights out, looking out into the night? Looking this way? At Ned?

  Despite the darkness, Ned suddenly feels exposed and he takes a step back, away from the window. Bobby's a nice guy who needed a ride home, that's all there is between them. So Ned used to crush on him years ago. So he invited Ned to dinner. So what? Bobby has food he doesn't want to waste and they're the only two people left on campus. There's nothing up his sleeve, no hidden agenda here, nothing to get hopeful about.

  And after Jake? Ned is not getting his hopes up about another man again.

  Retreating to the living room, Ned t
urns the lights down low and stretches out on the couch, remote in hand. There's still nothing good on the TV -- it's as if all the stations programmed a night's worth of cheesy Christmas films and sent their employees home to spend the holiday with their families. Briefly Ned thinks of his mother, visiting her sister in New York. She asked Ned to join her, but he heard the relief in her voice when he said no. Their relationship is strained at best, thanks to Jake. She never liked that boy, she told Ned often enough, thought he was a bad influence because he swore and smoked. Once she learned they were having sex, she refused to let him in her house. Ned hasn't yet told her they broke up just because he doesn't want to hear her gloat.

  In the semi-darkness, Ned flips through the channels and finally settles for an old rerun of M*A*S*H. Something humorous that won't make him think. He covers himself with the afghan off the back of the couch, trying not to remember this time last year when he and Jake cuddled beneath this very same blanket for warmth. Naked ... Jake has a gorgeous body, freckled and firm. Ned used to draw imaginary lines with his finger, connecting the dots, creating intricate designs along Jake's arms and legs and belly.

  Last year, he never imagined he'd find himself alone this Christmas.

  Stop thinking about him. Ned snuggles under the blanket, one hand straying to the throbbing ache between his legs. No. Don't. You're not that pitiful yet, don't do it. But his fingers find his zipper, ease it out of the way, slip into the fly of his jeans and stroke his slight erection. His eyes close against the shudder of desire that washes over him, and for the briefest second he can almost believe he isn't by himself here, it's not his hand strumming his own dick, it's not. He pops the button on his jeans as his hand eases into his briefs, fingers encircling his thick length.

  A few quick thrusts is all it takes.

  He continues to massage his balls, his cock, the tender spot between his legs that trembles at his own touch. But each time he blinks, his eyes take longer and longer to open. His hand fists around his cock once, twice, then his fingers unclench and fall away. Despite the noise from the television, the light overhead, the storm raging outside, Ned nestles into his makeshift bed and drops back to sleep.

  His dreaming mind conjures up an image of a townhouse similar to his -- cinder block walls blatant proof of campus housing, utilitarian furniture in unattractive shades of green, an overall worn out look that speaks to dozens of different students throughout the years. But the living room he finds himself in is not his own, and the little differences in such a familiar setting disorient him. There are no dirty clothes strewn about the floor, no leftover food containers stacked on the coffee table. Instead, a row of holiday cards parade across the top of the television, and in one corner a short, four foot tall Christmas tree blinks contentedly to itself, lights winking like promises. A handful of presents lie scattered under the tree. Just seeing them fills Ned with the same excitement he felt as a little boy, eight years old and eager to open his gifts. In his dream, he drifts towards the tree without moving, zooming in on the presents and their little festive tags, looking for his own name ...

  Behind him someone coughs, a startling sound, so close. He whirls around to see Bobby coming in from the kitchen, a steaming mug of something warm in one hand. So this is his place, Ned thinks. The thought flickers across his dream state like a scrolling marquee and is gone. It makes sense, really. Bobby's the last person Ned spoke with, other than Jake. Why not dream of whatever kind of Christmas he's celebrating? It has to be better than Ned's lonely evening.

  Only ... it isn't, is it?

  Bobby's alone, too.

  Carefully he sets the mug down on the table as he sinks to the sofa. Ned catches a glimpse of some dark swirling liquid -- hot chocolate? Coffee? Bobby stretches his legs out to prop his feet beside the mug, then reaches for a paperback lying open on the seat beside him. With one hand on the book, he leans against the cushions, not yet ready to read. Instead he stares at Ned, right at him, looking through him as if he isn't even there. Which I'm not, Ned reminds himself, this is just a dream ... but it's still unnerving. He opens his mouth to say something, just to see if Bobby responds, but nothing comes out. He can feel the words stuck in his throat, silencing him. He can't speak.

  Bobby's gaze doesn't waver. He stares at a spot in the middle of Ned's chest, where his heart beats, and there's a look of such longing on his face, such loneliness, that Ned wants to reach out for him but he can't. He wants to say something to comfort the guy, tell him it's not as bad as he thinks --

  Isn't it? Why tell Bobby that shit when it's nothing more than a lie to make him feel better? Ned shakes his head. No one's bothered to comfort him.

  But he wants to see those eyes light up with laughter, see that crooked grin again, feel ... Oh God, no, don't go there, you don't need another guy, you don't need anyone else, not after the shit Jake pulled -- do you want to go through that all over again? Feel your heart crushed in your chest? Feel your love rooted out and plucked from your soul like nothing more than a common weed?

  Feel strong arms around his body again, feel another's kisses on his brow, hands in his hair and along his skin. Feel Bobby above him, on him, in him, so deep inside that he doesn't know where he ends and Bobby begins.

  Does he want to feel that? Yes. Oh God yes. Santa, if you're listening and it's not too late, strike out my previous wish. Give me him instead, what do you say? Help a guy out.

  Then he remembers that he's not here. This isn't real. It doesn't exist outside his mind, a scene brought to life by his own pitiful desire. Nothing more than a vivid dream after humping the couch. Bobby's probably on the phone right now, laughing with friends or family. He's not sitting on the sofa like an abandoned doll, staring at Ned, through Ned at his Christmas tree, dark thoughts swirling behind his black-hole eyes. Just to prove it to himself, Ned steps aside, out of Bobby's line of vision.

  Those eyes shift, following him.

  Only for a moment, nothing more, then Bobby blinks and focuses back on the tree again, a look of consternation crossing his face as if he's not sure why he ever looked away. Me, Ned thinks. You were looking at me. You know I'm here, wherever here is, and somehow you see me. Maybe because he wants to? Maybe he's -- the thought is staggering, but maybe Bobby's dreamed him into being and not the other way around?

  When Ned wakes again, it is to a darkness so complete, so black, that he has to blink to assure himself his eyes are open. Even the numbers on the VCR's clock have gone out, extinguished like a candle in the wind. There is nothing to see and nothing to hear except the distant storm. Ice strikes the windows like sand. Common everyday sounds that Ned normally never notices -- the whirr of the fridge, the heat when it clicks on, the almost subconscious hum of electricity -- they've all disappeared. When Ned shifts on the couch, he feels cold air seep into the warm pockets of body heat trapped beneath the blanket. No power, no heat ... a silent night.

  A sudden, heavy knock at the kitchen door kicks his heart into a rapid beat. Ned throws back the blanket, trips over the coffee table when he stands, and falls flat on his face before he can take a step. "Shit!" he curses, pushing himself up off the floor. The knock comes again, a pounding really, someone laying into the door like a gossip full of bad news. Raising his voice, he calls out, "Hold up!" As he stumbles through the kitchen, heading for the door, he realizes it has to be Bobby.

  It is.

  "What the hell are you doing out in this mess?" Ned asks when he opens the door and finds Bobby on his stoop, stomping his feet to keep warm. Behind him, icy rain falls in sheets Ned hears but can't see -- the world out there has ceased to exist. No street lights on now to light the sidewalks, no stars above to shine down, no moon even. Ned can't stare into that endless night for too long. It's like going blind.

  Bobby shoulders his way into the kitchen to announce, "The power's out."

  "No shit," Ned grumbles as he slams the door on the storm. "It's nasty out there."

  They stand so close together, Ned can f
eel the chill from being outside radiate off Bobby's coat. Remembering his dream, he wants to wrap his arms around Bobby's shoulders, hold him tight, warm him up, but he doesn't know how to do that without it becoming awkward so he just stands there, hands fisted at his sides, and stares into the darkness in front of him. Bobby's ragged breath fills the world, each puff faint and cool on Ned's cheek. Hoping to put some distance between them, Ned takes a step back and knocks into the kitchen table. His coat falls to the floor with a solid thump. His voice sounds gruff when he asks, "What are you doing here? My power's out, too."

  "Do you have candles?" Bobby wants to know.

  Ned shakes his head. Then, remembering Bobby can't see him, he adds, "No. There's a flashlight maybe, somewhere. I think."

  The rustle of material tells him Bobby's digging through the jackets of his coat, then a small, thin cone of light illuminates the space between them. They're close again, Bobby must've moved towards him in the dark, and there's that lopsided grin that makes Ned's heart hurt to see. "I just have this one," Bobby tells him, "but I have a ton of candles over at my place. Four in the advent wreath, some scented ones on top of the TV, a box of tea lights my mom sent me to burn potpourri."

  And you're telling me this because...? Flippant, Ned jokes, "You didn't happen to bring over any to share, did you?"

  "I wanted to see if you'd come back with me."

  Ned watches the way the flashlight's beam flickers in Bobby's eyes and doesn't quite believe he's heard correctly. "You came to get me? In this?"

  When Bobby shrugs, light dances around the kitchen. "I tried calling you," he admits. "I guess you have a cordless phone that doesn't work when the power's out? Because it just rings and rings."

  "It's unplugged," Ned murmurs. Bobby came out in this weather for him. Him. He doesn't know what to think about that.