It was one thing for someone like him to exist beneath the drudgery of a job he did not always care for, but it was another to think of someone like Kyle doing that. He seemed to look at the world in a different way, with hope and a sense of expectation. Someone must have told him, repeatedly, that becoming a craftsman of leather was not a solid occupation, that it was fraught with uncertainty, and that he'd be better off just doing what he was doing.
He could hardly bear to think of how Kyle might react to such a negative reaction to his dream. Such a cold response would make those blue eyes sad, and that quirky mouth of his frown. Someone like Kyle should be lifted up, should be supported, just like he'd lifted Clayton out of the snow and supported him into the house. Someone like Kyle deserved the best.
Clayton reached for his coffee mug, not because he wanted more to drink, but because he needed to do something with his hands as he watched Kyle at the counter, busy at his task, humming under his breath. He had a straight back beneath his t-shirt, and was slender through the hips, and in the warmth of his own house, he was sock-footed. One of his socks had a small hole near the heel, and as well run as everything else about the place was, it must be that Kyle had not yet noticed.
The urge to get up and tell Kyle about it was strong. Even stronger was the urge to go down the hall to Kyle's bedroom to rummage through the sock drawer and bring him a new pair. Even better, he should have a pair of Christmas slippers, done in leather, and beaded along the top. If Clayton had had the time, he would have gotten Ricky on the phone and told him what he wanted.Paid for it with his credit card, which he almost never used, and then raced up to Dickinson to fetch them for Christmas morning.
Only it was already Christmas morning, too late for a flurry of activity that, truth be told, Clayton had no idea how it would be received. What would he tell Kyle about the impulse inside of him, how could he explain the directions his mind was going? They'd only just met, and the words would come out in starts and stops and make no sense whatsoever. He could barely get his own mind around it and it'd been so long since he'd been with anyone himself, it'd be like a bad game of Scrabble that he didn't have enough letters for.
Kyle covered the bowl of pancake batter and left it on the counter. When he turned to Clayton, his russet hair was sticking a bit to his forehead, and there was flour on his nose. He was as cute as a button and sweet as a long draw of mountain air on a summer morning.
"Ready to open presents?" asked Kyle. His eyes were bright blue and open and so full of that kind of joy that Clayton envied.
"Yes," said Clayton, barely managing that. He coughed and stood up and ran his fingers through his hair, which made Kyle laugh, so he knew it was practically standing straight up. "I'm ready, for sure."
They went into the living room, and in the sunshine that made the silver tinsel sparkle, Kyle gestured that Clayton was to sit at the foot of the tree. He went over and brought the two Christmas stockings down from the mantel and sat cross-legged next to Clayton.
"The other one is for Brent and Richard," said Kyle, handing one of the stockings to Clayton. "If they ever come out. If they don't, I'll mail it to them."
Clayton knew that while he felt bad about Brent and Richard not being able to make it, he suddenly didn't feelthatbad. For, after all, he had this moment to share with Kyle, all to himself.
Together, they unloaded the goodies from the stockings. Clayton laughed under his breath, feeling like a little kid to be so pleased with gold foil-wrapped chocolate coins, and silver foil-wrapped cones of chocolate, a new toothbrush, a small packet of gum, a rolled book of puzzles, and another rolled book ofPoor Richards Almanacand, last but not least, in the toe of the stocking, a small, sweet-smelling nectarine.
"Look what I got," said Kyle, excited like a kid. "I got a puzzle book, too!"
Clayton was about to shake his head at such a foolish statement, for it had been Kyle who had loaded the stockings either the night before or early in the morning before Clayton had woken up. There was no way he did not know what was in those stockings, and yet—Clayton stopped himself.
"Mine's got a green cover," said Clayton, holding his puzzle book out. "Yours has got a blue cover, and I like blue. Can we trade?"
The sparkle of joy in Kyle's eyes as they traded made Clayton glad that he had gone along with Kyle's small game, the one where they pretended they were ten-year-old boys. Where the innocence of Christmas had not yet been sucked out of them by bills and rent and leaking pipes and bad news on the internet. Here, in this moment, Christmas was good and sweet and full of loving impulses and happy reactions.
They sat at the foot of the tree and sucked on their chocolate candies for a bit, and ate sections of nectarine after that, until Clayton's mouth was bursting with sweet flavors, and the air was scented with citrus. Then, at last, Kyle handed Clayton two packages, brightly wrapped in blue and green, with red velvet ribbon and bows.
"Now, remember," said Kyle. "You gave me your story, andthat was your Christmas present to me, so no objections. These are for you."
Obediently, Clayton opened the first gift, which turned out to be a very nice bottle of some kind of red wine. At least he assumed it was a nice bottle, as the label was in French, and it looked like there was a real cork seal rather than a screw top.
"This looks like it'll drink well," said Clayton, nodding. He'd heard that expression on a cooking show once, so he used it as though he'd saved it just for this moment.
Kyle tipped back his head and laughed out loud, knowing, somehow, that Clayton had no real experience with expensive wine. It wasn't a mean laugh, however, and Kyle smiled and patted Clayton's shoulder, and pointed at the other present.
"I think you'll like this one," said Kyle. "Go on, open it."
Clayton unwrapped the long narrow box and found beneath a layer of white tissue a finely knitted red wool scarf. The ends of the scarf, as he lifted it out of the box, had fringes of narrow braid, long and soft beneath his fingers as he ran his hands over the scarf. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and closed his eyes.
"It's handmade," Clayton heard Kyle say. "A local woman does them for her Etsy shop, and so I got her to knit a red one for me."
Without saying anything, keeping his eyes closed, Clayton nodded, his chin tucked into the folds of the scarf. Of course it was handmade,of course. That was the best kind of gift, and Clayton knew he'd wear it every time it got cold. He also knew that he'd never forget how he felt at this moment, sitting in front of a Christmas tree on Christmas morning, drinking in the silence, the peaceful feel of Kyle at his side.
The trouble was, he'd never wear the scarf without thinking of Kyle, and the warmth of his house, the smell of good things being made in the kitchen, the comfort of the presence of another human being, the idea of getting newsocks and beaded leather slippers and bringing them to Kyle, and having Kyle say, in that sweet way of his,Thank you for thinking of me.
"Do you like it?" asked Kyle.
There was worry in that voice. Clayton opened his eyes, nodding.
"Yes," he said, making sure that Kyle knew he meant it. "Yes, I love it. Iloveit."
"Good," said Kyle. "Is it time for pancakes now?"
