"Did you just sayyou gays want a beer?" asked Clayton, laughing.
"I most certainly did not!" said Luke, laughing in return. He popped a bit of crisp turkey skin into his mouth and smacked his lips. "They're in the fridge. I bought some fancy kinds and some regular ones."
"Oh, because gays only drink fancy beer?" asked Clayton.
"Hell, no," said Luke. He pointed to himself with a vigorous finger. "I like the fancy kind and the wife likes Bud. So go figure."
"You want a beer?" asked Clayton, bending his head to ask the question softly in Kyle's ear.
"Not now," said Kyle, gently in return. "Later, maybe."
The movement and bustle continued as preparations were made, with the smell of melting butter on top of mashed potatoes wafting in the air, the burnt sugar scent of toasted marshmallows on top of mashed sweet potatoes with pecans, their edges baked and darkened.
Sarah came up behind Luke and swooped her arms about his waist, though her hands were dusted with flour from the homemade rolls and his cloth apron was speckled with grease. Neither of them cared, and the intimacy of the gesture was so sweet, so caring, that Clayton's eyes prickled. He tried to stiffen his jaw as Shawn came up to them and joined the hug, tilting his head back so that his silver blond hair trailed across his shoulders. Then Shawn whirled away, hands in the air, like he was going to jump across the room, and indeed he did, a blissful smile on his face.
"Look at me, Uncle Clayton, I'm a cowboy, I'm a mountain man!"
"You are, you are," said Clayton, putting as much energy as he could into his voice to stave off the feeling that he was going to start bawling at any moment.
This was the first real Christmas he'd had since his parents had died, the first he'd shared with his sister since the ex had shoved him out of the house, the first family he felt he couldreally be a part of, where he was welcome, where Kyle was welcome. Kyle, who looked up at him now with those wide blue eyes. Clayton could see that something was filling Kyle up from the inside, where those empty spots he'd talked about were getting smaller and smaller.
On tiptoe, Kyle rose up to land a small kiss on the corner of Clayton's mouth, a soft, warm gesture, then sank back down into the circle of Clayton's arms, turning to watch the bustle in the kitchen once more. They were on the edges of the activity, but they were part of it, part of the warm circle of food, and of the laughter. Where the house around them from roof to walls to floor was expanding with joy and the expectation of many more Christmases to come. And birthdays, and holidays, and lazy Sunday afternoons spent watching football. All with this same kind of feeling, of having found that place he'd not known he'd been searching for, that Kyle had been searching for. And all because of a Christmas knife that had been stolen.
This was love. This was love.
He was home.
The End
