Full o'Festive Spirits

by Zakarrie C

  “Yup, so I’m plenty flush. Punters must’ve been feeling festive. So…a bottle of your favourite rum, if you will, please sir.” Gabriel added, foraging in his trench pocket to extract a fiver and a fistful of coins afore dumping them on the counter. “How much do I owe you?” he asked, rooting through the pile to push some pound coins towards Dylan, alongside the note.

  “Thirteen quid…” A sum that seemed to come from many miles away. Dylan had turned to reach for a bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum from the shelf.

  Stone-the-crows…a tippy-toe stretch, too. Christmas had ne’er come so early...and they hadn’t even left the Greek Emporium yet. Thirteen pounds? That didn’t sound enough.

  “Not that I’m complaining…but thirteen quid?” Gabriel queried, when the bottle was placed on the counter before him.

  “Entirely legit—staff discount,” Dylan smirked, uncrumpling the note before deftly swiping the requisite number of coins towards the edge of the counter with a blunt-tipped forefinger.

  “Blimey, I’ve found my favourite shop in all of Londinium, methinks.” Gabriel declared, scooping up the remaining pennies to pop back into his pocket. That had been a done-deal even before the discount, but the (legit) opportunity to acknowledge it aloud was irresistible. A Buy-One-Get-One-Free of serendipity…

  “Thanks, you really didn’t need to. I—” Dylan muttered while doing the beeping business and wrapping the rum up.

  “Shh…I wanted to, so I did. As is my wont. What…?” Gabriel grinned when Dylan’s lips twitched devilishly.

  “Nothing…” he mumbled, despite the fact his swarthy skin flushed a shade so luscious, it put the rosé wine to shame. “Just a thought…I had the other day, s’all.”

  “You can’t say ‘nothing’ and then say ‘it was just a thought I had’…you sadist. You have to tell me now, or it’ll drive me doolally.” The latter made the rascal clamp his lips together to stifle a snort as his brows shot skywards. “Damn cheek, I was plenty sane afore I turned up here. It’s your fault, you’re a bad influence.”

  “Me!? I’m as dreary as fuck. Now I know you’re talking out of your arse,” Dylan grunted.

  Okay… Abridged a bit, that was a corker of a sentence. Accidental, or a coincidence? A lucky dip o’words, skimmed off the top of his head? A spot of fishing? Inadvertent or otherwise? It might well have been none of those, but it sure as sugared almonds wouldn't hurt to scoff the bait. Not if there was the slightest chance o’being reeled in.

  “My arse? Nope. A veritable source of splendour it might be, but it has yet to master the art of speech.” There y’go, you scoundrel. That’s what you’re angling after, methinks. “So, c’mon…fess up. What ‘nothing’ were you pondering?”

  “Nope. Not now, maybe later,” Dylan insisted, flinty glint all present and correct. Undimmed by the mooting of Gabriel’s arse. Better yet, the assurance that there would still be a later, t’boot. “My boss will be down in a minute to take over.”

  “I’ll wrangle it out of you one way or another. Just sayin’.” Gabriel warned with a grin so wide it might prove possible to lick his own earhole. “Okey dokey. The tree ‘n’ me will wait outside, perchance your boss gets sniffy, then I can have a smoke while I wait.” This seemed about Gabriel’s best bet, on accounts of feeling so fizzy he couldn’t be answerable for what he might say. Or do, if he wasn’t paying attention. “Will you bring the rum with you? Or, I might have a mishap on the fandangling front.”

  Gabriel shoved The Snowman into one of the carriers, then turned to tackle the tree. Dylan just chuckled, but whether ’twas in response to the threat, or Gabriel’s efforts to wrangle his firry friend, he knew not. No matter. Dylan had to know what he hoped would happen; the scoundrel didn’t fall off the top of the flippin’ Christmas tree. Not only did he ooze lusty proclivities from every pore; those lips ‘n’ hips sure as sex-on-legs didn’t spend their lives waffling ‘n’ walking. No matter how ‘dreary’ Dylan deemed himself. Quite how he defined that, Gabriel knew not, but he’d be more than happy dissuade Dylan of it. By morn, with a bit o’luck.

  ∞∞∞

  After parking up outside, Gabriel propped tree against the wall and dumped his bags on the floor. He’d crammed the advent calendar a tad haphazardly into the one nearest his foot, atop a tinsel heap, so there it sat, peering at him. Oh bugger, Gabe hadn’t eaten for hours…he was a wee bit peckish. If all went well, then the sustenance of sugary fuel wouldn’t go amiss. Not if those lizardy hips proved half as hectic as Gabriel suspected.

  Oops. Oh dear, it was a bit late to do a lot about it the fact it seemed he’d been poking at a snowy arm, lifted aloft, as if in triumph. ’Twas number 12. Ah well, that was alright then—Gabriel could claim it as his very own, his by virtue o’birthday. A festive theme indeed, and thus, not to be sniffed at. ’Twas a star, a happy portent indeed. Twelfth star to the right and straight on ’til morning. Scoffed.

  Gabriel figured that he might as well have the one above it, or it would be left all on its lonesome in the corner. Number 8. ‘’Tis a bauble. Behave yourself.

  Bummer, if he didn’t stop, he would p’raps have polished off the lot by the time Dylan came out. Now there was a phrase worth savouring, if e’er there was one. Gabriel really should quit now—while he was ahead—what if he opened a flap and got something ominous?

  Fucknows what horrors could be lurking to make him feel sure everything was about to go belly-up, but Gabriel didn’t fancy tempting fate, so he shoved The Snowman back in its bag, and lit a cigarette instead. That would keep his lips out of trouble for five minutes. With a truckload o’luck, they might find themselves indulging in enough mischief to sate even their appetite. If any body could…chances were, it would soon swish Gabriel’s way, waving a bottle o’rum.

  Dreary? I beg to differ, dear sir.

  It’s beginning to look a lot like…a Dylan full o’festive spirits might just herald a very merry Christmas indeedy.

  Chapter Eight

  Dylan

  “Thanks George. See you Thursday…”

  Dylan tugged the shop door open; the one part of his day that could be relied upon to elicit a rush of relief. Tonight? It was practically cause for a coronary. His heart was hammering almost as hard as his cock had been for the last half an hour. Dylan closed his eyes, then dragged in a deep lungful of cold, crisp air…and cigarette smoke.

  “Y’okay, Dylan?”

  Gabriel. Dylan turned towards the voice that seemed, somehow, as familiar as his own. Despite having heard it so few times, other than as an echo of itself, resounding around his head for the last three days. As if, in an effort to fathom its magic. Or, failing that, why—how—the fuck someone he’d met, but once, had managed to move in like a squatter and take up so much bloody space.

  The sane, logical part of his brain had pointed out that this was uncannily akin to inviting someone for dinner, then demanding to know why they’d darkened his doorstep. It still made more sense than; its very melody had been all that remained to reassure Dylan that a man as ephemeral as the wisp of smoke wreathing his way, was real.

  “Yeah, I’m fine…” Dylan sighed. “Just relieved that’s over for another day…”

  “It’s okay…if you want to change your mind. I won’t—”

  “No.” The single syllable cleaved through Gabriel’s words as cleanly as a blade.

  “Okay. Dylan…?”

  “Yeah?” He lifted his head to meet the gaze he'd had to steel himself to face. Dylan had known it would be over, when he did. His brief window of time to back out—obliterated—the moment he found himself floundering in pools of liquid gloss, far too alive to appear matt-black. Darker, deeper than ever out here, beneath the brim of Gabriel’s hat.

  “Whatever you want, or don’t…s’okay. Smoke?” Gabriel delved into his pocket and extracted a packet of cigarettes before proffering it Dylan’s way.

  “Thanks…” he muttered vaguely, tugging one out to shove it between his lips. A lighter fl
ared and Dylan leaned towards its flickering flame. Reflected threefold in those mirror-shine eyes.

  Fuck. ‘Whatever you want…or don’t.’ Gabriel knew. Of course, he knows, dipshit. Had I really supposed that he was, what, oblivious? That Gabriel might imagine, for one minute, that Dylan intended to help him cart all his stuff home, then head off into the night with a cheery wave?

  Gabriel had even bought him some bloody rum. Of course, he knew what Dylan wanted…which was what, exactly? Payment for services rendered? Was Dylan just as guilty as treating him like a rent boy, as the rest of the ‘punters’ who’d apparently felt so festively flush today? Gabriel sure as shit hadn’t minced his words. I made a fair whack…

  Rent boy terminology? Polari? Christ knows, but it didn’t sound far from ‘whack one out’. More to the point, if Gabriel was a rent boy, then he knew damn well what Dylan wanted. His life might depend upon exactly that…let alone his earning potential. If Gabriel misread the men he met, he’d probably get his head kicked in—or worse—if he erred.

  “Gabriel…I-don’t-expect—” Dylan’s first few words tumbled over themselves in a rush, then abruptly halted. How the hell could he utter that?

  It was way beyond insulting. What was he trying to say anyway? Payment in kind? He was so far out of his comfort zone, Dylan didn’t know what the hell he should do, say, or even think. Nor have the faintest idea what was…required of him in such a…scenario. No clear notion of his role, no lines, no mark to stand upon. Reason in itself, to love acting, when Dylan knew how his part played out, what he was supposed to say, and when.

  In this? Dylan couldn’t even guess what was accepted as the norm—regardless of gender—he had no frame of reference, no tried and tested methods to fall back on. A fact that left him flailing in limpid pools of dark light, and murky half-formed thoughts he’d long tried to suppress. For fear of where they might lead him, let alone what the fuck he was supposed to do, when he got there. A decade of prevaricating; snatched from his grasp, as if there had never been a decision to make.

  “Expect? Why would I think that? It feels like Christmas from where I’m standing. Speaking o’which, that’s exactly what we’re doing—standing, chatting—when we could be walking and chatting. So, if you are going my way, then we might as well set off, whate’er you decide along the way.” The latter was accompanied by an impish grin, glinting with secrets in the fairy lights.

  “Okay,” Dylan agreed, relieved by the reprieve, no matter how temporary. “What do you want me to carry? Should we take an end of the tree each, and a bag or…”

  “We’d look like Laurel & Hardy sharing a ladder…” Gabriel snickered “…and probably wind up wrapped around a lamp post. Will you bring the bags ‘n’ rum, if I wrangle the tree? That sound okay?”

  “Sure.” When Dylan bent to gather the carriers, the calendar was protruding above the handles of one, so he tu— “Gabrieel…?”

  Two windows at the top of the calendar were gaping open. They most definitely had not been, when Dylan stared at it, on the counter, not half an hour ago. Numbers eight and twelve had been pillaged. Thank fuck for that. If that moment had been lifted from a classic Christmas movie? The night sky would have exploded in a cascade of stars as a brass band marched down the street. Accompanied by carollers holding lanterns aloft, while warbling ‘Hallelujah’.

  The fairy lights flickered. A Ford Focus swept past the shop. Gabriel’s eyes flared wide as he bit down on his pouty bottom lip. The face of a nipper caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.

  “Um, ’twas a peckish pigeon?” The unabashed blatancy of the lie was as ludicrous as it was…charming. As was the portrait of lash fluttering innocence that clobbered Dylan. A passing pigeon would’ve probably been blown into the road.

  “Y’pillock,” Dylan spluttered. “C’mon, let’s get you home. Your Mum will be worried. It must be way past your bedtime.”

  The beam that illuminated Gabriel’s face could have eclipsed a firework extravaganza, let alone a smattering of stars. He was lethal. He clearly shouldn’t be let out alone. If he was Dylan’s— Hang on, back it up, Devereux. My what…exactly?

  He was walking Gabriel home. Intending to drink rum. Hoping more might ensue. But not that much more. This was…a night apart. Sacrosanct. Entirely other. As fleeting as the festive lights festooning the street. If he was Dylan’s? What the fuck? If he was Dylan’s…then what?

  He’d be afraid to let Gabriel out unaccompanied, for fear of what might happen to him? What the miscreant might take it unto himself to unleash on the unwary? And those who knew him all too well.

  Gabriel was a pile-up waiting to happen. He could, patently, stroll down the centre of the street; quite oblivious to the carnage left in his wake. The crashing cars, careering into shop fronts, desecrating fruit displays as dogs ploughed past ladders, upending window cleaners with precariously balanced buckets. And a pigeon fell from a roof. Far too full to perch properly after polishing off a bloody advent calendar.

  “What are you thinking? You’re smiling to yourself. Ooh, that reminds me; Mr Nothing, just a thought I had t’other day. C’mon, cough up.”

  It was a toss-up which was the lesser of two embarrassments to confess. The scene in Dylan’s head, or the flight of fancy Gabriel had confirmed as fact, not half an hour ago? Offering up one might suffice? With a bit of luck that would distract him from the second.

  “Fuck…well, you said, ‘I wanted to, so I did. As is my wont…’”

  “I know that bit. Stop prevaricating, y’scoundrel.”

  “I’m not! I was merely providing a frame of reference…” Dylan insisted.

  “Oh, pray continue then, m’lord. Punters are getting restive.” Gabriel cocked his head and lifted his hand to ‘touch’ the brim of his hat.

  Dylan was pretty sure he’d used the correct term for the gesture, despite it being a brief clasp between the thumb and forefinger, rather than a ‘touch’. It was a salute of sorts, signifying a show of respect or friendship—but how the hell had Gabriel wound up as a rent boy—if he’d been brought up au fait with hat etiquette? The more Dylan learned about Gabriel, the less he knew. It was most perplexing…and far too intriguing for comfort.

  Oh crap…might discover I don’t find him fascinating, after all…that he’s not the most enchanting person I've ever met? A train of thought fast heading into treacherous territory, best abandoned sharpish. Except, Dylan had, possibly, missed his stop…forget my bloody delusions…get on with my pitiful existence? Sorted? Shit.

  “As I said, it was just a thought…when wondering if you’d ever come back to the shop. If I’d ever see you again.” Dylan shrugged.

  “Did you want to?” Gabriel asked, turning the full force of that gaze on Dylan’s face. It was akin to being skewered by searchlights. Christ. Gabriel was relentless, he didn’t miss a thing. He could probably see around corners.

  “You know I did,” Dylan grunted.

  “Not know. Hoped…” Gabriel amended, before adding, almost as an afterthought, “…but I can hope verry hard. Hard ’nuff to believe at least six impossible things before breakfast. I do try my best to take no notice, but that never ends well…”

  Gabriel had been staring into the middle distance as he spoke, leaving Dylan free to ponder his words while watching him weave his way along the pavement. Hatstand? Perhaps while standing still, because of the sheer spiky length of his frame. But in motion, Gabriel was so fluid, it was more akin to watching a windmill suddenly embark upon a stroll. His flailing limbs seemed to hover ever on the brink of collision, while his hips followed their own tempo. With no rhyme nor reason…and yet, he was melody in motion. Mesmerizing.

  Gabriel was an accident waiting to happen; even without a six-foot spruce crushed beneath his right arm, like an exploding roll of carpet. Yet, he may as well have been oblivious to its existence, despite the fact it bounced off every lamp post, rattled the railings, and crashed into anything that didn’t duck or dodge out of the way
.

  “I finally figured that I’d see you…” Dylan confessed, “…if you wanted me to. Mostly, after deciding you’d do whatever the hell you wished, whatever that was.”

  “So, when I said…I wanted to, so I did. As is my wont. I confirmed that for you?” Gabriel supplied.

  “Yeah…” Dylan nodded, staring at his feet, rather than risk being bludgeoned by eyes that could coax water from concrete.

  “Is that a good thing…or bad?” Gabriel's tone sounded strangely hesitant, as if that mattered, when he’d never seemed to concern himself with consequences enough to care. A suggestion so anomalous that Dylan felt compelled to lift his head, hoping to glean more from Gabriel’s face.

  He’d never met someone with such expressive eyes; a gaze so unguarded, it spilled its secrets every time he spoke. Or didn’t, because Dylan instantly found himself blindsided by a…sort of watchful stillness, brimming with…worry? No. A sort of fearful expectation. Of being kicked. Vulnerability. Fuck.

  “Good.” Dylan stated, hoping it sounded as definitive as it felt. A flicker of hope flared in bottomless black—shamefully akin to the gasp of a guttering flame—when Gabriel had been dealt short. Good had been nowhere near enough; a single guarded word, to protect Dylan from all he might give away. Selfish. As if Gabriel wasn’t worthy of more. “I was glad…” Added, because Dylan was, no matter what it cost him. “I hoped that meant you…danced to the music in your own head. Followed your—” Christ, he almost said heart. Gabriel sure as shit didn’t deserve that insult. “Instincts.”