by Zakarrie C
Flap 3 sat pretty much where the Snowman’s right nipple would be, if he’d had a little pebble placed just so. The bloomin’ calendar seemed as partial to a spot of sadism as the scoundrel who’d sold it to him. As was promptly proved, by the bell Gabriel found lurking behind the no-nipple. Ding-a-ling-dong merrily, oh my…
Blimey, that book was an affront to the eyeballs. Fifty Shades Of Greige was a far more befitting title. ’Twas as erotic as cold porridge. Oh my? Who the fuck thinks that upon being eye-to-eye with a cock for the first time?
If Gabriel had an inner goddess, said strumpet would’ve gone from happy dancing in a hula skirt on the third, to spending the fifth slumped in a funk o’frustrated, wondering who the fuck decided it would be a fine plan to prove such a pointless point in the first place.
The day in between: numero 4, dawned with shiver of anticipation and a fervent fumble, slap-bang atop the Snowman’s right thigh. Much chunkier than the one emblazoned upon the back of his eyelids; haunting ‘n’ taunting him from the other side of a counter…far, far, away from Gabe’s twitching fingertips. His heart did a pitter-pat as he licked his chocolate candy-cane, afore scoffing it whole…but the day itself? Soon chewed him up and spat him out, with aplomb. It pissed down for starters, which meant that Gabriel couldn’t even go busking, to earn a few pennies with which to while away the evening at the pub. Nor, have any reason to pop to the shop on his way home.
Day 5 dawned so dank ‘n’ dreary that not even the splendours of strumming ‘Silent Night’ and scoffing a snowflake did a fat lot to lift Gabe’s mood above ‘a mite grumpy’. Two days of mooning over flinty-eyed sexpots with glinty grins had depleted his stash o’ festive spirit to that of February.
’Twas the poinsettia wot finished Gabriel off.
He woke up feeling a bit better, because the morn was clear ‘n’ crisp and evened the odds of a decent day’s busking bounty. As did the fact that he’d nailed ‘Silent Night’. Could par-um-pa-pum-pum with pizzazz, bemoan ‘Last Christmas’, and croak ‘Fairytale of New York’ with all the flair of the totally wasted, welded to a barstool.
Door 6. Left thigh—which felt ominous even before Gabriel opened it—lurking about on the other leg, adding insult to injury. He squinted at it suspiciously, which was a bit bloody daft, because what the bejeezus could be bad ’nuff to sour such a sweet ‘n’ scrumptious start to the day?
Spiky Bastard. That went sailing out of the window. Alongside Gabe’s inner goddess and renewed flickerings of festive spirit; which o’course meant he didn’t even have a spoonful of sugar to make his misery go down.
After that, Gabriel figured he might as well scoff the lot. Why put himself through all this palaver, when no one knew whether, or not, he’d polished off the lot? ’Twas all Flinty’s fault, Gabriel decided. It didn’t matter a jot that he’d promised himself he wouldn’t peep before he went into the shop. He vowed that every year…and couldn’t, in all honesty, recall ever having any flaps left lingering on Christmas Eve. Thus, he was hard pressed to muster a reason why he might bother abiding by it now, if berry-lips had not unleashed:
‘Have you ever had a window left to open on the twenty-fourth?’ The scoundrel had been a damn sight more scathing than that too: ‘Bet you don’t last three days.’
Three days? That was…today, was it not? Ha. Gabe had done it. Three windows, anyhoo. Right. There had to be some sort of payoff for all the purgatory he’d endured. Three days. Done. So, put that in your Santa hat ‘n’ snort it, oh, lofty of nose and lush of tush. Gabriel would show him where he could shove his sniffy proclamations. Sorted.
’Twas with a much lighter heart and spring in his step, that Gabriel filled a bowl with Coco Pops to mollify his much-miffed palette. While scoffing these, he determined that heading back to Wood Green tube station to strum some festive tunes for a few hours would be an excellent plan indeed. It would then be but a hop, skip ‘n’ jump, to the Greek Emporium. A fact he knew all too well, having walked damn near all the way home by the time the next bus had trundled by.
Gabe’s barmy brain furthermore decreed that; if he did everything exactly as he had on Saturday, nothing would go amiss. A notion so puddled that he didn’t even believe it himself; being more than a mite prone to mishaps, whether he stepped on the cracks in the pavement, or not. But why tempt fate, when said fickle mistress held all the cards?
It was a bit bonkers, bowing to superstition, when doing so wouldn’t ensure that Flinty would even be at work today. He might only work weekends or, had simply been doing a friend a favour…or…or…Pft. It was pointless or-ing and ah-ing. He would be there. Or he wouldn’t. Despite all such mental machinations, bone deep instinct insisted that it had to be today. Three days. It was the only significant date Gabriel could cite—except Christmas Eve—to make Mr Snarky eat his words.
His chances of lasting until the twenty-fourth, without scoffing the lot, were akin to that of not being bedazzled by blue whenever he had a wank. Still…keeping his mitts off the Snowman’s flaps would be a breeze in comparison to resisting the allure of a saunter to a certain shop for a luscious browse-about.
Chapter Four
Dylan
By the time Tuesday rolled around, Dylan was even more pissed off than he’d been on the day of the missed audition…and the disconcerting encounter with an eight-year-old rent boy, moonlighting as a hatstand.
That pretty much summed up the impression his customer had left in his wake when he’d clattered out of the shop, clutching his Snowman calendar as if all the wonders of the universe were secreted therein. Dylan had watched, grinning despite himself, when Hatboy instantly stopped to scan the picture. The beam that had flashed across his face—dappled with festive colours, courtesy of the fairy lights in the window—when he’d held the first chocolate aloft was exactly that of a nipper on Christmas morning. Sheer joy, as unconstrained as it was unselfconscious, upon beholding such treasure.
Much to Dylan’s mortification, he’d found himself longing to know what the hell it was. A fact so frustrating that he’d snorted in self-disgust and stomped off to make a cuppa. When he’d idly glanced over his shoulder before heading into the store room, Hatboy had gone. That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t. Far too often over the next few days Dylan found himself recalling that seraphic smile and trying to remember the last time he’d witnessed such pure, perfect happiness over something so trifling. No…it was far more than that; Dylan couldn’t, for the life of him, recollect ever seeing an adult express such utter, uninhibited pleasure, for no reason other than they felt it. An expression so natural and unaffected, Hatboy could scarce have appeared more naked, even if he had been. A thought that had no sooner reared its ugly head than an excruciatingly similar situation ensued elsewhere. F’fucksakes. Dylan clearly needed a shag.
The necessity of this found him pub-bound on Monday night, hoping he might happen upon some festive spirits. Until he got there, got hammered, and inexplicably turned down the offer that—quite literally—landed in his lap. Alongside arms like tentacles that wound around his neck and a tongue far too intent on slithering into his ear. Dylan only response had been a sudden desire for the loo. As opposed to springing from his seat to proclaim, ‘unhand me woman’. In his own defence, he had been rather inebriated.
Dylan had a dim memory of making her acquaintance on a previous occasion, but couldn’t summon when, or where. She was very pretty; tousled to perfection and poured into a slinky slip of a dress so short, it was a glimpse of lace-topped stocking waiting to happen.
Dylan had sat, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet…hoping that something, anything, might bestir itself. Soon. It didn’t. Perhaps he’d been too bladdered…too tired…too bored. Too busy wishing he was elsewhere. With a very different pair of limbs wrapped around his neck. Arms, Dylan clarified. To himself. Arms? Because that made it so much better? Clearly. Or might have, had it been true.
Half an hour later, Dylan had been back
in his flat. Alone. Staring at the godawful wallpaper, when he could have been well on the way to a festive frolic with Miss Stocking-tops. Worse still, he’d been drunk enough that denying all knowledge of why he was not, had proved impossible.
Dylan had spent two days wondering how many windows remained unopened on a Snowman advent calendar. While not wondering how those kiss-bitten lips would feel. It might have been preferable if that had been while imagining them wrapped around his cock. Not least, because Dylan had never clapped eyes on a pout more suited to purpose. It had, after all been responsible for his rent boy suspicions. But no. Dylan longed to touch them, to know their texture beneath his fingertips. To press upon them—as if to test an inner tube is airtight, f'fucksakes? He was clearly going insane. He wanted to feel them crushed beneath his own.
Dylan didn’t want Her, because he wanted Him. Fuck. Far worse than that; Dylan craved him in a way that was far too ignoble to admit. Even to himself. While drunk. Unless he just had. Sort of. In which case, it was a bit bloody pointless pretending that he didn’t ache for the sort of sex he would never dream of unleashing upon a woman. Perhaps that was the point. Or the problem. Or the answer to a question he’d never asked himself—not who he might want—that was quite clear. What he wanted.
Okay…so what was he supposed to do about it? He’d met a random customer in the shop. Someone who had never clattered through the door before. Not while Dylan was working a shift, that much was certain. So, he either had to wait until Hatboy returned—which he might never do—or find him. Somehow. He’d obviously been on foot, but more to the point, had the air of someone homeward bound, popping in to make a last purchase, rather than heading into town for a night of revelry. So, unless Hatboy had caught a bus after leaving the shop, chances were; he didn’t live too far afield.
Someone must have seen him around, or even know him. He could, in no way, shape or form, be described as inconspicuous. Quite how Dylan intended to ask, without arousing suspicion, he had no idea. Reason—a rapidly diminishing commodity—suggested that a guilty conscience was responsible for this. It was only suspect because he knew damn well why he wanted to know. Who the hell else was going to assume that Dylan wanted to shag him into next Christmas?
Oh Christ. That was way too much information to own, even while somewhat inebriated. How Dylan had intended slip that fact past himself was anyone’s guess. It was too new, too soon, to fathom, let alone turn up at the pub and announce that he’d had a recent epiphany and by the way lads, I think I might swing both ways. A statement that would alter the way Dylan was perceived so intrinsically, he’d never be able to claw it back. He’d sure as shit never felt this way before—and might never again—which made every instinct cringe from tossing that particular gem onto the table, mid-pint.
No. It was too…fragile to expose it to the ears or eyes of anyone else. Not only the realization itself, everything. The crackle of static that had flared…fucknows where. In the air? Between them? Across his skin…the counter? Dylan could still see liquid longing reflected in those bottomless eyes, whenever he closed his own. Still feel the dark need, coiled deep in the pit of his guts…waiting. For such a brief encounter with a stranger, its impact was staggering. Nothing short of ludicrous. Dylan felt as if he’d been hit by a sledgehammer…and it had been, what? Ten minutes, at most? So? It took less than that to die. Or, crash a car…get run over…commit murder.
‘Blimey, you must be fun on a date. You’ve just segued from scoffing chocs to murder in one sentence. With relish, I might add…’
What was the point in pondering all this, when Hatboy had made his feelings abundantly clear on the prospect of spending time with Dylan? It was a bit presumptuous to imagine that he’d been given so much as a second thought. Surely, Hatboy would have found a reason to call in—even on the off chance—had he hoped to see Dylan again? Why the fuck would he want to? He’d been insulted left right and centre. Aloud. Inwardly, deemed a rent boy. He may not have uttered that, but he’d sure as hell thought it with enough volume to have factored it in, while pondering whether Hatboy was, at least, bisexual.
Dylan’s ignorance had decreed that it was impossible to imagine Hatboy not doing whatever—or whoever—the fuck he fancied. Whenever the whim struck. That was a lorry-load of assumptions to make about someone Dylan had ‘known’ for ten minutes…But. Dylan had known people for five years and never seen them so vividly. It was incomprehensible. But it was.
∞∞∞
Dylan awoke on Tuesday morning with a god-awful hangover as hideous as his reflection in the mirror. A dead-ringer for a snaggle-haired zombie, albeit less healthy. He really should eat better…and drink less. Smoke less. Sleep more. Wash his hair. Shave. Then he might not look a well-worn forty-four, rather than twenty-four. Is it any wonder He hasn't returned? It's what, the…sixth today? Hatboy had bought the calendar on the third. Three days ago. Are there any doors left to open—at all—let alone number six?
Dylan did make some sort of effort to spruce himself up, despite there being bugger-all he could do about the beauty-sleep (or lack of both). After attending to his long overdue ablutions, he ate two bananas, drank a cup of tea, and smoked five cigarettes. Dylan would rather have had ten. That counted for something…didn’t it?
Work was…work. As tedious as a wet weekend in Clacton. When the clock finally crept towards sixish, Dylan damn near jumped out of his skin every time the bloody bell jangled. His guts writhed with a noxious brew of anticipation, anxiety…and a sort of fearful dread. That he came. That he didn’t.
By seven o’clock, this had subsided somewhat—sunk like a stone—with a dull thud of disappointment. Dylan sat, slumped on his stool, glaring at the crack in the plaster that scurried across the ceiling. Half-hoping it caved in. By eight, he was so hacked off, he wished he’d brought a pick axe with him, to speed things up a bit. Two more hours to endure.
Nine o’bloody clock. At last. Always the best and worst hour of all. Worst, because it was the slowest. Best was a bit of a no-brainer, but in the interim? It heralded the last excruciating circuit of five-past…ten-past…
Dylan was jolted from this countdown of humdrum by the godawful bell when the door was flung open with a crash. What the—? Filling the entrance was…a six-foot fir tree. Wearing a hat. Above which protruded what looked a helluva lot like antennae, but were perhaps, the tuning pegs of a guitar.
“Sorry…I can’t leave it outside, someone might snaffle it…” the tree huffed. “Oof. Fuck, ’tis a tight fit…”
Christ. Even if Dylan had not recognized the very melody of that voice…it had to be. Who else would be having a fight with a fucking Christmas tree in the doorway? The tree wasn’t even half of it—his guitar was slung across his back and a carrier bag was suspended from each knobbly wrist—bulging with fucknows what and trailing tails of tinsel.
“Oh, hiya…” A hat, face, and that beam bobbed to one side of the uppermost branches. “’Tis you. I didn’t thin—I thought I might’ve mis-no matter. Blimey, I’m pricked t’fuck.”
“I…” If there was an answer to that, Dylan clearly wasn’t about to rustle it up, any time soon.
“Oops, sorry,” he cackled. “That sounded better in my head. Y’okay?”
“I’m…fine. S’okay, I-it sounded…fine. I mean, I know what you mean. I—” Shutthefuckup, Devereux.
“I come bearing tidings of temperance in the face of festive temptation— Oh, hang on…sit yourself there for a mo…” The last remark appeared to be addressed to the tree, rather than Dylan, so he didn’t. Sit.
After propping the somewhat battered spruce against the chiller cabinet, Hatboy started rustling around in one of the carriers. From which, he finally produced a somewhat tattered—but far too recognizable for Dylan’s mental welfare—Snowman calendar.
“Voilà!” This was announced with a flourish while slapping it on the counter. “There y’go, look. Ha. Betcha don’t last three days, my arse,” he grinned.
; Chapter Five
Gabriel
So much for doing everything the same as on Saturday, to ensure nothing goes amiss. Pfft.
After tipping the contents of his hat o’plenty pennies into his trench pocket, Gabriel decided to pop to the pub for a pint, to becalm the butterflies bashing themselves senseless in his belly. He could scarce wait to get to the Greek Emporium but the dread—crouched in his guts like a cockroach—was gearing up for the self-pity party ’twas hosting. To drink to his dipshit delusions. It had to be today. If he wasn’t there, it would feel as if fate had decreed it was not to be.
All o’this meant that Gabe was so aflutter with nervy energy, he felt like a cat on hot bricks. A fact that suggested it might be a splendid plan to partake of a festive tipple beforehand. So, off he went.
Gabriel had just secured himself a pint and parked his bum, when his mate Dave turned up, bought them both a drink, and slid onto the opposite bench. After about an hour of banter ‘n’ boozing, Dave’s lips were loose ’nuff to confess to being in the dog house. A misfortune that had occurred when he saw fit to purchase a six-foot Christmas tree. On the very same day his wife and mum-in-law-unto-herself had sallied forth to a fancy schmancy garden centre. To cut a long ‘n’ torturous tale a smidge shorter…Gabriel accompanied Dave home to relieve him of the surplus spruce and decorations, now deemed unpardonable by his missus. Having abruptly become a tree terrorist with an embargo on tinsel ‘n’ tat, and a penchant for tasteful gold ‘n’ cream trimmings.
Thus, it was that, a very lot later than intended, Gabriel found himself carting a couple of carriers of too-cheery decorations, a six-foot spruce, a pocketful o’ pennies, and a guitar down Green Lanes. For what was going to be a very long walk home indeed. He could have caught the tube, but that was a hazard waiting to happen. The Piccadilly line did not deign to stop at Camden, which meant wrestling the tree to King’s Cross, wrangling it down an escalator, then changing tubes to head back out on the Northern Line. The number twenty-nine bus went the right way, but Gabe didn’t fancy his chances of securing a seat for his firry friend, too. The upshot of all this was; instead of a half an hour journey on the bus, he was in for a ninety-minute walk. Toting tree, tinsel and guitar.
