xX... Well here's the fourth little ficlet! Some SERIOUS fluff going down! Enjoy, mon amis! ...xX
It was sorta a Christmas tradition. Kinda sorta.
You know how it goes.
Every Christmas my whole neighborhood would dress up in drippy Dickensian costume and parade about in the streets singing and talking in loud booming voices and drinking too much and everyone would throw parties and open up their homes for everyone else and, basically, it was just another excuse for the adults to get smashed and for the kids to stuff themselves silly and for one and all to have a jolly good ole time.
That and the dressing up. That was always fun.
Back when I was little, back before I started going away for school and back before the rumors started to spread about me, back before all that- I would spend my Yuletide Festivus (as it was so aptly titled) with my neighbor Ben and my sister Cammie. About an hour before we had planned to meet Ben in the square which all of our homes surrounded, Cammie and I would scramble through the little house we (sometimes begrudgingly) shared with our parents, getting ready. Cammie would try on the same three appropriately Dickensian dresses she tried on each year and would make a huge fuss about choosing one (even though she always chose the same one). I, on the other hand, would trot over to the compact little steamer machine and I would steam my little shirt and little trousers and little vest etc etc. It was the only time I was allowed to use the steamer and, god how I exploited it.
I would take my time getting dressed. Taking precious care to make sure every detail, down to the replica pocket watch I would keep in my overwrought overcoat, was perfect. Something about my outfit had to be PERFECT.
Then, if I was sufficiently sure I wouldn't be disturbed, I would steal away into mum's closet and try on her heels and dresses and lipstick, all while I waited for my clothes to be ready. It was my little indulgence, and just a small clue of what was to come.
Anyway, enough lousy foreshadowing (which you're obviously not interested in).
Once Cammie and I were dressed to the 9s, we'd bid "adieu" to the parental units and, Cammie putting on her bonnet and I grabbing my walking stick, we'd push open the front door. The wind would whip us strongly in the face, not that we minded (for we knew we had more than our fair share of eggnog awaiting us). We'd stroll leisurely down the stairs, across the street and into the small square.
There we'd meet up with Ben. He was a tall boy with rosy cheeks and chestnut hair that stuck out every which way. He always came dressed as Scrooge, his outfit topped off with a ridiculous beard. We'd all say "allo" and "cheerio" and whatnot to each other. Then Ben would give the report on what was being served at his house, and Cammie would fill us in on the scouting she'd done in our kitchen. From there, we'd make a quick visual sweep of the other 5 or so houses that had major parties where we could dine and wine unnoticed. We obviously had to map out our route.
All in all, the Yuletide Festivus was a jolly good time to be had by all and Cammie, Ben and I enjoyed our perfect little Christmasy existence for a while.
And then I got my letter. My parents had been expecting it, they explained to me. I was unsure what this all meant. They instructed me not to tell my friends, even Ben. The next day I was over at Ben's house for a snack and our favorite game of "pretend to die" in which we would make up ridiculously complicated methods of dying and the other would have to act them out to the best of his ability.
Somewhere between the "flaming arrow to the heart makes you run into a large hornets nest" and the "drink arsenic then jump into a lake only to throw it up then you swallow it back down and choke to death on your own vomit" I kissed him. I was 11. He was 11. His mouth tasted like cookies and milk and, I imagine, mine did as well. I was wearing a faint trace of my mothers lipstick and when our lips parted I had transferred some of it to his. I smiled at him sideways. He looked back at me.
"What was that?"
"I unno. What do you think it was?"
"I unno."
He rubbed his head, his brownish hair going this way and that (as usual).
"Right then. Where were we?"
I proceeded to mime choking on my own vomit.
The next day I went to London to buy my school supplies. I stayed with my aunt there until school started.
It's probably all for the best.
You know, the whole "awkward" thing with Ben probably wouldn'tve been fun. Especially since, when I returned home for my first holiday, Ben had (apparently) spread it around that I was a poof and I was greeted with a nice long walloping from the local boys while I came home from the grocery one snowy day on my first Christmas break.
But that's all old news.
Gradually, I stopped coming home for Christmas holiday.
And when I did, I kept to myself. I rarely left the house.
And I certainly didn't participate in the Yuletide Festivus.
Until one night.
As I washed my face, my best friend Dean strolled in. He started to brush his teeth.
If only I had high tailed it out of there, if only I hadn't given a shit how his day was, if only I hadn't been too busy wondering if he'd had much dental work done, if only I hadn't lingered Dean might've never brought it up.
"Member that Yuletide thing you was tellin me bout?" he says, mouth full with toothpaste.
I nod. Apprehensively.
He spits.
He rinses.
"I don't mean to, like, you know, throw myself on you but my parents are going to Crete for the holiday and, because it's a muggle holiday and all, I'd end up missing start of term if I went with them. I don't know about you, but I certainly don't fancy hanging bout here for the holiday so... what I'm getting at is... Right... Like... you know, could I hang with you?"
There was a pause as he scratched his back and as I ran my wet fingers through my hair.
"I... dunno..."
"We don't even have to do that whole "yuletide" shit. I was just bringing it up as a conversation starter. I know it's really not cool to invite yourself places but, seriously, you're clueless sometimes and I wasn't in the mood to beat about the fucking bush."
He adjusts his shirt.
Funny how, at times like these, it's the minute detail I tend to focus on.
His shirt is a plaid button down.
Green and red.
Christmasy.
It was purposefully.
Leave it to Dean to plan everything down to his wardrobe when he wants something from me.
Typ-EE-cal!
I sigh.
"I have to ask my parents."
He nods.
"Cool."
"Yeah... Cool..."
It's not.
The last thing I want is for a) Dean to have to meet my crazy family and b) Dean to have to realize what a total loser I am back at home.
But I, being the good boy that I am, ask my folks and they're all about the "woo woo Seamus-has-friends-let's-support-him" tactic.
I relay the message to Dean who just lets out a slightly horrific cry which wakes up poor Ron Weasley who'd been innocently trying to sleep.
"Where's the canon?"
So that is how we came to this.
Dean. Me.
A trunk by our respective sides.
Standing in front of my house.
The taxi cab long paid and departed.
"Should we, like, go in?"
I snap out of it and nod. Exhaling.
"Yeah. Right. Let's do it."
"Is this awkward? Fuck. I'm sorry man," he stutters.
"No no no! Really! It's cool."
He doesn't totally by this but he does proceed to heave his trunk up the stairs.
I see a curtain rustle in the house next to ours and I swear I can see an eye staring at me.
I blink.
It's gone.
"Up you go! Little fucker..." My trunk begins the journey up the stairs.
When Dean is safely in the guest room unpacking his things, I corner Cammie on the way pack from the kitchen with a pudding in her hand.
"What ever happened to Ben?" I say.
She looks up from licking the top.
"You mean the kid we used to Festivus with?" she asks. Swallowing some chocolate/vanilla swirl.
"No the other Ben I could possibly be talking about"
"No need to be snarky."
"Well?"
"He's fine."
"Oh great. That's swell. Real helpful, Cammie."
"I don't really know. I don't see him very often. He's never at the cinema, at least."
"Right. But he... he still lives next door?"
Yeah. Course. Do you think anyone ever does anything exciting in this stupid town?"
"Course. What was I thinking?"
"You obviously weren't!" She smiles, tapping me on the forehead with the sticky lid, and she exits stage right. The little vixen.
Shaking my head, I go up to Dean's room and knock on the frame.
"Shall I show you 'round?"
"Sure."
Ten minutes later.
"And that's about it."
We've covered the park, the grocery (famous site of my beating), the cinema, the shops, and the one museum we have.
We sit on the stoop.
Doing nothing.
Chewing the fat, one might say if one was from Georgia or thereabouts.
(But we're not, so not fat gets chewed).
We skip rocks from the stoop.
It's more like throwing pebbles off the top step and into the street,
but "skip rocks from the stoop" sounds much more fun.
"Seamus?"
I look up. Dean looks up.
He's wearing a pair of jeans and a I can see the tails of his shirt, poking out from beneath his lumpy sweater. His hair still sticks in every direction. It's still chestnut colored. Though he's much taller than he was at 11.
"Yeah?" I say stupidly, me being the master of "smooth" and all.
"You don't remember me?" He asks. Looking a tad disappointed, shoving his hands into his pockets.
He's wearing a hat too, I forgot to mention it. One of those silly hats that fit snugly around you and they have the two little tassel/bally type things that flop around by your chin. By no means is this "cool". Not even in our provincial little town.
"Ben?" I say, as if it could be anyone else. I stand up.
"Yeah!"
"Course I remember you! You told everyone that I was a flamer when we were 11!"
He stops and looks around,
"No, no mate. That wasn't me! That was Roman Dowage!"
No. Fucking. Way.
All these years I've been harboring this grudge for NOTHING!? I almost faint.
"Well there goes years of hate..." I say stupidly.
Dean gives a small cough. The kind he gives when he wants you to compliment him.
"Oh!" I say, looking down, "And this is my mate from school- Dean. Dean Ben. Ben Dean. La la la, you're friends!"
They shake hands.
"Sit down?" I ask.
Ben complies.
"Roman tried to get me to tell everyone that you'd kissed me," Ben said. I just blushed.
"Fucker."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Who's Roman? Dean asks, totally butting in.
"Who ISN'T Roman?" I say, in a failed attempt to be witty. Key word: Failed.
"I haven't seen you in a while," Ben says. Putting it lightly, 'a while' is code for '5 years'.
"Yeah it's been a long time. Good to see you though," I say.
"We've established that, I think,"
"Yeah. We have." I laugh.
My bedroom.
The sun is gone from the sky.
Dean climbs in my bed.
"So, that kid... Ben?"
"Yeah. That's his name."
"Sounds like you kissed him."
"When I was 11. What do you care, you like girls."
"Fair enough."
I climb in with him.
It's one of those totally platonic buddy-buddy things we're so fond of and that make us so "quirky".
I drape Dean's strong forearm over me and we lay in silence for a while. I stare at my room. It's embarrassing. Blue rocket ship wallpaper, a small twin bed in one corner. Way too many actions figures and toys littler the floor and shelves and dresser. My school things flung haphazardly.
"Happy Almost Christmas" Dean says after a while of silence.
"I'm glad you invited yourself to my house for the holiday" I say.
We sit in silence again.
"Anything you wanna tell me? You know... GUY related?"
Drop anymore hints, Dean, and people'll think you're double crossing Waldo!
"Nice lad."
"What was up with the hat, though?"
"I know, right?!"
If this were a drippy comedy, imagine the camera's slow zoom out as we continue to laugh and joke about poor Ben's lack of fashion.
But it's not. So, in actuality, after about ten more seconds of that there was a nice long awkward silence. Dean said he had to go call his girlfriend and off he went.
I turned off my light and went to sleep.
The next morning is the day of the Yuletide Festivus.
I wake up at around 3.30am because I'm a freak like that and I descend the stairs to the kitchen for a glass of water. A window in our kitchen conveniently looks into Ben's kitchen, though I've never really seen it because one of us always has our curtains shut. But not at 3.30am. I fill my glass with water when I notice Ben, in his ridiculous jammies, getting a glass of water on his side of the world. I knock on the glass. He looks up and waves, smiling. I point to the outside, he nods and, seconds later, we're shivering on the stoop.
"Morning." I say.
"Same to you."
"How's that water?"
"Wet."
"That's good. You wanna come in and, like, you know, stop freezing?"
"Sure."
I put a kettle on.
He sits at the kitchen table and fidgets.
I pour the tea.
I distribute the tea.
We sip.
"Sucks that we've... fallen out of touch and stuff," He says. rubbing his hands together for warmth.
"Well I kinda thought you told the whole world I was a poof and then I kinda got beating up so I wasn't running to your side, dear." I say. Putting in a dollop of honey.
"Right. Sorry. This town's a dick, anyway."
"You going to the Yuletide Festivus?" I ask, not really wanting to dissect the state of the town.
"Course. Always go. The whole fucking square goes. I don't know what I'd do with my Christmas Eve!" He says sarcastically.
We sit in contented silence, sipping our tea.
"So Dean..." Ben says.
"Yeah. Good guy."
"You're not like..." He doesn't really want to say it.
"Well I am, but he's not." I say quickly.
"Oh. Right. I see." he says quicker.
Something tells me he doesn't. But that's ok.
The sun rises.
Not all at once, but over the whole conversation. That would be just weird if it popped up.
"You should probably go." I say.
He nods.
"See you at the Festivus?" he says, getting up.
"Seems like it."
"Thanks for the tea."
He leaves.
I contemplate kissing him again.
I decide not to.
(for now).
As I stand in the shower, I take a moment to reflect upon how RANDOM this holiday has been.
It all seems a bit...
Well. I dunno.
Dean and I spend a happy day drinking lots of warm sweet drinks and doing lots of long essays. We sprawl out on the floor of my bedroom and write with large flourishes and giggle when we spill some on our parchment.
It's all good fun, obviously.
I finish a particularly brutal Potions essay.
I lay down to rest.
Dean rests with me.
We rest quietly and it's times like these when I'm thankful for such a great best friend. Someone who likes me for who I am and someone who can appreciate nice silences.
"It's going to be awkward." He says (what i've been thinking) after a while.
"No it's not. I won't let it."
"You shouldn't worry. I'll hang with Cammie."
"Don't be stupid. You forced yourself upon my family and I am going to make sure you get forced upon us!"
"I don't even LIKE Festivus's he says."
And the cogs start turning.
Four hours later.
Ben, Dean and I sit in a car. Dean drives placidly.
"Fuck the Festivus!" Ben says after a long silence.
Dean giggles. Laughs. Whatever's more masculine.
"Fuck it all!" He cries.
"Fuck fuck fuck!" I shout.
Ben rolls down his window,
"FUUUUUCK!"
We all follow suit.
A collective "FUCK" rings throughout the countryside.
We arrive.
THe water is still and serene and it's deathly cold. We pile out and sit on the rocks. Our little group. When Ben turns away Dean makes a little fire. Ben busts out the beer and we all just lean back and hang for a while. Admiring the sunset and the huddling towards the fire.
Dean goes off to take a leak.
"I'm not, you know." Ben says.
I flip a bottle cap.
"I figured."
"You figured?"
"Well I'd hoped, if you WERE, that you'dve made a move by now."
"I see."
"I guess you and I peaked at age 11..." I sigh.
"It's not often you'll get to say that."
I kiss him. Just to make sure. His lips are cold.
I pull away.
"Well that was nice. But only because I haven't gotten any in a long while." He says. I can't figure out whether or whether not to be insulted.
Regardless, we somehow manage to return home.
The evening, pleasant but quiet.
Dean and I lay together in my bed.
"Nothing happened." He says, incredulously.
"He's not."
"Oh."
"It complicates matters."
"A tad."
"Did you notice how I went to take a leak? Give you time to kissy kissy? Aren't I considerate?"
"Yes Dean. You're very considerate."
There is a pause.
I feel like I should be crying. Only, I'm not.
It's ok.
It's not like every guy I meet who's attractive is gay.
That would just be random.
And a little creepy how the whole world was gay.
Whatever.
What fuckin Ever.
Dean and I just lay together in my bed, as un sexual as that can possibly be.
"It's Christmas!" He whispers, his breath smelling of Stella Artois.
"Sure is." I say, and snuggle down, my head buried safely against his chest.
My head rises with every inhale and falls with his every exhale.
And we fall asleep.
Dreaming of Christmas and a world where everyone is attractive and totally into us.
xX... REVIEW PLEASE! HOLLA! ...xX