Kyle dropped his head and rubbed his cheek, seeming upset about something. But when he lifted his head, he was laughing.
"I forgot to make the Rice Krispies treats to leave out for him," said Kyle, his lovely mouth smiling.
"We can leave him some eggnog and rum," said Clayton, meaning to soothe Kyle. "We'll leave a little glass for him. You'll see, it'll be great."
"But then Santa will be driving while intoxicated," said Kyle, his eyes wide as though he were aghast at the prospect, though when he laughed at their little game of make-believe, Clayton joined in.
"He's got some heft to him," said Clayton. "I think he can take it."
With some ceremony, they left a small glass, the last in the carton of eggnog, and Kyle doctored it with a healthy swig of rum. Then Clayton absently followed Kyle around while he turned off the lights and checked the stove. Lastly, they went to the front door and opened it to welcome Christmas in.
The snow had stopped coming down, and though there was cloud cover, a low, grey sheet in the sky, it was easy to see in the stillness of the near-darkness that the blizzard was over. Even if the sun stayed behind the clouds the next day, it was going to be a white Christmas. The plows could start scraping the roads, and within a day or so he'd be headed to Sarah's. As to what might become of this little interlude between him and a guy who'd purchased stolen goods, he didn't know. But he might want to find out. No,definitely, he wanted to find out.
CHAPTER 10
In the morning, gold and blue light was pouring through the open doorway to the guest room, though Clayton usually slept with his bedroom door closed, even in his own apartment. Here though, with the good smells on the warm air, it seemed better to leave it open, and so he had.
He remembered standing there in the darkness the night before, listening to the sounds of Kyle in the bedroom just down the short hall, scuffles of feet, the slight, muffled bang of a closet door being slid closed. All the sounds of human occupation, all the normal sounds of someone nearby. Clayton had been overcome with the awareness that he'd not had company in the night in several forever-long years, even if that company was separated from him by a bedroom wall.
Now that it was daylight, there were more sounds of human occupation, the dull thud of a fridge being closed, the clink of china on a wooden tabletop. The clatter of silverware. The low bubble of hot coffee in an old-fashioned coffeepot on the stove. And from somewhere, Clayton still couldn't figure out where, came the low, pleasant sounds of instrumental Christmas music.
He got up, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, and saw his newly washed clothes folded and laid on the dresser.
"Damn him," said Clayton without any heat. It was like Kyle to go that extra mile, and Clayton swore to himself that he'd figure out a way to be as generous, as kind as that.
He took a quick shower, shaved, brushed his teeth, even, and dressed in his clean clothes, enjoying the smell of whatever detergent Kyle had used on his flannel shirt and jeans. Then, barefoot, he padded out to the kitchen to find Kyle at the table, his elbows propped up, sipping slowly from a thick china mug of coffee.
"Good morning," said Clayton.
"Merry Christmas,” said Kyle, nodding, as if he was showing Clayton how it was done.
"Merry Christmas," said Clayton, because he was a fast learner.
Kyle tipped his head and smiled at Clayton with his lovely, generous mouth.
The small blossom of warmth that had begun with that first serving of brandy-laced coffee when he'd come out of the blizzard expanded inside of him, pushing something good, something full of hope, all through the empty parts of him. He'd not known, or at the very least had forgotten, that Christmas could be like this.
He was silent for a moment as Kyle lifted the coffeepot from the brass trivet and poured Clayton some coffee in a thick, white china mug, which Clayton would forevermore associate with Christmas. He sat down and doctored it with cream and sugar, and stirred it around and around, the clink of the spoon against the sides of the mug a thin, silver sound.
He looked up to see Kyle watching him. Kyle had both hands curled around his mug and had lifted it to rest against his chin, as if enjoying the warmth of it against his face.
"What's the plan for the day?" asked Clayton, knowing he'd totally enjoy whatever it was that Kyle had planned.
"Well, we can have breakfast first and then open presents, or vice versa."
Clayton contemplated this as he took a large, comforting swallow of good, hot coffee.
"I still don't like the idea of you giving me presents, when I have nothing for you," said Clayton, finally.
"Hey, now," said Kyle, and he snapped his mouth shut over what he'd been about to say. "You know how this works," he said firmly. "You're the guest and I'm the host. I'm only giving you the presents I'd bought for Brent and Richard, anyway. I told you."
"But what—how am I—" Clayton sputtered to a stop, not knowing how to continue. What would a good Christmas guest do in this situation?
Gently, he laid his hand on Kyle's forearm, and for a moment let it rest there. Kyle's eyes were wide, but he didn't pull away.
"What can I give you?" asked Clayton. "I need to giveyousomething."
It was what he needed to do, and he was very glad when Kyle didn't put him off yet again, but instead put down his coffee mug and, still holding it cupped in his two hands on the tabletop, contemplated Clayton's request.
