Full o'Festive Spirits

by Zakarrie C

  Verily? Forsooth, thus ’twas that verily was promoted to the finest word in all of Christendom…

  Epilogue

  New Year’s Day

  Gabriel

  Gabriel sighed, serene in that hazy halfway world of semi-slumber, and snuggled closer to the warm, sleep-scented body beside him. Hmm…Dylan.

  Burrowing his nose into silken hair, he breathed Dylan in, just as he had every morn he’d woken up wrapped around a sleepy bundle of honeyed skin. They’d scarce spent a night apart since Dylan had helped him cart all his stuff home on Christmas Tree Day. That had been the sixth, which made this the…twenty-third morning. Or thereabouts. Sooo, unless it was the thirty-second of December—which would be the least improbable thing that had happened of late—’twas New Year’s Day.

  Gabriel prised his lids apart, then winced when a shaft of wintery sunlight speared his eyeballs. Cranking his head off the pillow, he peered over Dylan’s rumpled tumble of hair…and there it was. Still. Their tree; tinsel strewn and resplendent, sprinkled with fairy lights, and crowned with a golden star. Gabriel had bought the latter to replace the tatty fairy he’d found squished at the bottom of one of the carrier bags. He’d had enough o’those to last a lifetime.

  Gabriel was convinced he was going to wake up one morn and it would be gone. Poof…evaporated, with nary a needle left in its wake to embed itself in his foot. For all the world as if it had never been there in the first place, and he’d just dreamed the days since the sixth. Or, even if they had been real; he would still waken to find that the tree had vanished without so much as a puff o’smoke. It’s very absence a portent of doom, declaring that’s yer lot, Farrell.

  That wouldn’t be any dafter than the things Gabriel was supposed to believe had transpired since the sixth. All o’those were the too doolally to be true part. Unless, o’course; it was the thirty-second of December, after all. Now that did make sense.

  Gabriel flicked his gaze to the bedside table. Pearl Pengualas. There she sat—all present ‘n’ correct—peering his way with woebegone peepers. Somehow conspiring to pull off pleading, and far too adorable for Gabriel’s own good. The minx. Outnumbered in his own home, by peeps who only had to fix him with glinty gleam and he was done for.

  Pearl had been tossed into his lap like a gift-wrapped petrol bomb trailing corkscrew ribbons, on Christmas morn. Launched his way with an extra-flinty squint through the smoke wafting from Dylan's first-of-the-day cigarette. A staggering fact in itself, as his lordship was most loathe to bestir himself before he’d sated his morning cravings. All of them.

  After parking his lush tush on the floor beside the tree—opposite Gabriel—the scoundrel did his damnedest not to look dang chuffed with himself, as he watched Gabriel poke at the shiny paper and jiggle it a bit. To no avail; it wasn’t squishy and didn’t make a racket, so he couldn’t even guess what the bejeezus it was. The box was too big for a mug, too angular for socks, and too strangely shaped for a set of smellies. Still none the wiser, Gabriel set to work shredding the paper in a feverish flurry, when the fun of not-knowing abruptly got old.

  Then sat, blinking. Speechless. More than a mite breathless t’boot, as Gabe flicked through his memory stash of treasures; back to paradise alley, and the day he’d mentioned—once—what he most wanted for Christmas. Not only that…but Dylan must have paid well over the odds for such a much-sought pressie; unless he bought it off the be-fabled man-with-a-dog, down the pub.

  “You-I…thank you,” Gabriel sort of stammered, too stunned to string a sentence together.

  “S’alright. I’m not caring for the bloody thing though, when you get bored with it,” Dylan smirked.

  “I won’t! I’ll treasure her, you strumpet. I haven’t got fed up of you, have I? Nor will I…” Gabriel promised, popping the (unhatched and still nameless) Pearl on the carpet to crawl over to Dylan. He flicked his glittery gaze down to Gabriel’s hands—loosely clasping his lordship’s kneecaps—then back to Gabe’s face with a wry twerk of eyebrow. Dylan might have twerked two, but the right one was playing hide ‘n’ seek behind his sleep-strewn hair. When Gabriel started to slide his palms oh, so slowly up sinewy thighs in a shiver of soft fuzz, the blue blazed lightsaber bright, despite Dylan’s best efforts to affect a poker face.

  An expression banjaxed by the sharp breath he sucked in when Gabriel brushed his thumbs across ruffled velvet. Swiftly followed by a fulsome gasp when Gabriel flipped the fronts of his robe aside…and swooped on his very favourite festive gift. From the gods.

  “Fuuuck!” ’Twas safe to say that Dylan wasn’t expecting Gabe to decide it was time for breakfast, mid-way through the unwrapping. Better yet, Gabriel didn’t even get to finish his snackeroo, cos he shortly found himself upended and flipped onto his front. Hmm…it seemed that Dylan was far too hungry to endure watching Gabriel fill his face for longer than ooh, about his third mouthful.

  That verily much took care of Christmas morn chez Gabriel & Dylan…

  ∞∞∞

  Christmas luncheon was a proper roast. Decreed by Dylan as a matter of utmost import. A cook-in-its-baggie chicken, with roasties courtesy of Aunt Bessie, and a medley of veggies picked, packed ‘n’ frosted on the same day, by Cap’n Birdseye himself. To be scoffed while watching the Queen do her stuff, shortly before the commencement of the afternoon movie.

  Humph.

  “Pft…it’s a bloomin’ good job I lov—” Gabriel froze, flicking his eyes to the right. Where Dylan was seated beside him on the sofa, clutching a bottle of lager…and blinking a bit. “I—”

  Had Gabriel not seized-up mid-word, then he might have been able to segue straight into ‘Christmas’ or ‘my Pengualas.’ Even finishing it off regardless, with a flippant ‘ya’ and droll eye-roll would’ve been less of a humdinger to drop. But nope. Gabriel just stopped dead, eyes a teensy tad wider than was customary and bit down on his bottom lip. Hard. Perchance any further corkers made a bid for freedom.

  “Have I got to wait until Frozen has finished while you ponder the rest, mayhaps you have a change of heart?” Dylan chuckled.

  “I…didn’t think ’twould go down too well, so soon after lunch?” Gabriel winced.

  “Pillock,” snorted the strumpety one while coshing Gabe with the cushion. Hard.

  “Oww…you’re brutal!”

  “Which is partly why you do, I suspect.” Dylan just grinned. “So, shut up and stop moaning. I thought you were bringing the ice cream?”

  “I forgot it. Slave driver,” Gabriel huffed.

  “I cooked the Christmas Dinner!” Mr Matter-of-most-import protested.

  “I should think so too. I needed fortifying to endure this flippin’ film.”

  “Shut-up-and-fetch-the-ice-cream-I-love-you-too.”

  “Pardon?” Gabriel gaped.

  “You heard me,” Dylan smirked, glinty gaze fixed firmly on the telly.

  “Methinks I went deaf. Or deluded.”

  “No, you didn’t. Look, the film’s starting. Ice. Cream.”

  “Pfft. Chunky Monkey Monster…” Gabriel chuntered, stomping off to the kitchenette to fetch his lordship’s ice cream. His inner goddess (needless to say) didn’t give a figgy pud about Gabe’s huffin’ and puffin’. She was far too busy guzzling a bottle of sherry and waving her knickers in the air to the tune of I-love-you-shut-up-I-looooove-yoooou…

  Frozen proved to be a treat indeedy. The freezer-procured part, at least; Gabriel might’ve missed an itty bit of the movie. Dylan didn’t seem too bothered, although he did moan a mite, but this didn’t seem to have very much to do with the fact Gabe quite forgot the film. Bloomin’ good job too—as it would have been a tad tricky to argue that he was even listening to it—there being a more mellifluous soundtrack elsewhere. Better yet, Dylan didn’t even seem tooo fussed about not getting to scoff a lot of Chunky Monkey either…but did appear to enjoy Gabriel’s portion. Just a smidge. He certainly wore it well.

  That took care of the first half of the movie, and Dyl
an pronounced himself too sticky to sit through the rest. Odd that. A verily hot shower soon took care of the former…although Dylan may have got an itty bit stickier ‘n’ sweatier—’twas not Gabriel’s fault, he started it—before his customary fragrancy was restored.

  Thus, it was teatime. Gabriel still felt full up, here ‘n’ there, but did manage to find a spot o’room for some stollen; almost as irresistible as everything else he’d accommodated that day. After tea, Dylan decided ’twas high time he polished off practically a whole bottle of Captain Morgan’s. Sans straw. By this time, he was artfully arranged in the traditional Christmas evening tableau. Smeared across the sofa in a rather flagrant fashion, bottle clasped in one hand, cig in the other, sporting a blue paper crown perched at a jaunty angle atop his Byronic barnet.

  The verily best Christmas Day in the whole world ever, was rounded off with a slightly squiffy candlelit sing-along. Gabriel sat cross-legged on the floor and strummed through his festive repertoire but bestest of all; Dylan, from his supine state—aptly ’nuff—pulled off a cracking rendition of ‘Fairytale in New York’. Sung in rum-redolent tones that proved as sex-soused as the rest of him. So much so, Dylan didn’t even flinch from crooning this year’s for me and you. Zonk.

  Nevertheless, the words Dylan rasped with particularly festive finesse were scumbag, maggot, and lousy faggot…rounded off with a resounding Happy Christmas your arse… Belted out with such gusto, he undoubtedly considered them self-referential.

  “C’mere…” Dylan slurred, when the song, ’twas sung. This, while attempting to fix Gabriel with a squinty glint through his fringe.

  “Hmm…” Gabe p’raps smirked a mite, having ne’er seen Dylan in such an adorably squiffy state.

  After draining the dregs of his bottle, Dylan let it fall to the floor, and wriggled onto his back in what appeared to be a gilded-gold invite, not-very-well wrapped in a fleece robe. Legs akimbo, right thigh resting against the back of the sofa, like a (verily mucky) pup waiting to have his…tummy tickled. Better yet, his loosely belted robe had slid apart to reveal a honeyed runway (to paradise) down the centre. Delectable.

  At this point in proceedings, Gabriel would’ve been prepared to swear blind that; as all his Christmases had clearly come at once, it sure as snowy yuletides couldn’t get any better.

  Gabriel would have been wrong. Verily, verily wrong indeed…

  Dylan

  Christmas Day

  Dylan felt rather merry—and possibly too full of Christmas spirits—by the time he let the empty bottle of rum drop to the carpet. It would still be there next…year if he’d didn’t pick it up at some point, but it had proved impossible to stay ‘miffy’ about such ‘fripperies’ when being blindsided by obsidian, and his attention swiftly diverted elsewhere. In truth, that occurred more oft than not, no matter what he was doing.

  He could scarce shave without slicing his own ear off. This was Dylan’s own fault, apparently. For leaning over the sink basin, to better see his face in the 7x5” bathroom mirror, while only wearing boxer shorts. In what was, clearly, a practical measure. Dylan had never shaved in his pants while wondering if Gabriel would slink up behind him to start an—oh, so important, it couldn’t have waited—conversation. Never. Nor, had he started shaving twice a day. Very often.

  Dylan couldn’t do a damn thing about the position he woke up in every morning, either. Wrapped in Gabriel, who—by virtue of being excessive in every way—argued that it made more sense to spoon Dylan, rather than vice-versa.

  All of this felt as if he were conducting some masochistic trial by torture upon himself. Fuck knows why, because Dylan had been done for, from that very first night. He wanted Gabriel-and-only-Gabriel, which, by definition, meant he was pretty much living with a man. Was in love with a man. But…being the pertinent word. Dylan couldn’t quite get his head around the implication gnawing at his nuts, rather than the reality of it, which he’d done his damnedest not to dwell upon. At all. Circulatory contemplations that had borne no fruit, whatsoever, and left Dylan none the wiser as to what he wanted. Or not.

  Gabriel had never pressed him—verbally—so Dylan couldn’t even blame him for causing them. Except via existing. An argument he couldn’t begin to persuade himself was fair, when that very fact made him happier than he’d ever been in his goddamn life. Or, in all honesty, had ever believed himself capable of being.

  Christmas Day proved this so conclusively that, by the time Dylan had downed an entire bottle of rum, he couldn’t quite recall why he was making such a fuss, about what was, in truth, a technicality. An alternate rendezvous-spot. Geographically.

  Dylan was shagging a man. His mates knew he was with Gabriel. His sister had not only been told, she’d declared herself delighted, then promptly demanded to be ‘best woman’. F’fucksakes. As if Dylan would chose anyone else—but that was beside the point—they’d only been together for three flamin’ weeks. Despite this, Dylan did plan to mention Gabriel to his mum, during his Boxing Day visit. He might have fretted about it beforehand, as was his wont, but Dylan had not flinched from declaring how he felt about Gabriel.

  The one thing he had not done, was get a tattoo on his forehead that proclaimed: ‘I never take it up the arse’. No one knew whether Dylan did, or not. Nor, was he even sure why he’d deemed this detail so significant. In his own defence; the last few weeks had come as something of a shock to his system, but he’d done his utmost not to let his own crap effect Gabriel. In every way, except one.

  By the time he drained the bottle dry on Christmas Day, Dylan was in no fit state to pick a fight with a paper hat from a cracker, let alone referee yet another battle of body v brain. He was driving himself nuts. On that note, he was horny as hell. Again. He was also splayed rather inelegantly on the sofa, and possibly sporting a blue crown from a cracker, but didn’t appear to be wearing very much else. About half a bathrobe, he decided, after squinting down at it.

  “C’mere…” Dylan must’ve managed to slur that, because he found himself staring, rapt, as Gabriel unfolded himself from sitting cross-legged on the floor and rose to his feet. A mesmerizing manoeuvre, no matter how many times Dylan watched him do it.

  “Hmm…” This purr of sound accompanied the slide of his extravagant self along Dylan’s body in a mind-boggling onslaught of skin. “Yeesss…”

  “Is that a question, or an answer?” Dylan genuinely had no idea. He wasn’t even sure which would be preferable. Or whether that was true.

  “Which would you prefer it to be?” Gabriel murmured at his lips, tugging the bottom one with taunting teeth.

  “I’m not actually sure…” he groaned.

  “Hm, intriguing,” Gabriel mused. “In which case, it’s an answer. Yes. To whatever it is you’re not sure you want. Me to answer.”

  “That’s not very helpful,” Dylan grumbled. Why the fuck isn’t he just…whisking the decision away?

  Gabriel somehow managed to wrangle Dylan into doing whatever the hell he wanted, in every other way. Why not in this? Now? When Dylan wanted—needed—Gabriel to do exactly that?

  “Hm, okay. Is this…?” A flash of movement was accompanied by the jab of an unwieldy elbow when Gabriel scrambled off the sofa.

  “Where y’going?” Dylan frowned.

  “Nowhere. You are,” Gabriel grinned, bending to scoop Dylan into his arms before striding over to the bed to dump him on that. Then stood, towering over Dylan, porcelain skin dappled with candlelight, impossibly beautiful. How I want him…all of him…want… Thoughts that seemed to leak out of his ears, because Gabriel abruptly stripped off his boxers, which was all he’d worn for the last couple of hours. As if dead set on driving Dylan to…drink. So, he had.

  At the bottom of the bottle, lay the answer to all his worries, he’d decided. He would either; pass out in a drunken stupor, then wake up with a god-awful hangover and the certainty that fate had decreed it: A Very Bad Idea. Or, Dylan would be wasted enough to quit prevaricating… and get the fuck on with it.


  “Dylan, look at me…” Whisper soft words, but a command, nonetheless.

  “I am.”

  “Tell me what you see…”

  “An endless streak of you. Legs…eyes…lips…” Dylan sighed. Sappily.

  “How long would your list grow, afore you got around to mentioning what’s staring you in the face?” Gabriel chuckled.

  “That wouldn’t be very…noble, would it,” he noted.

  “Maybe not, if I was a woman. Shurrup, I know there’s a bit of a flaw in that argument, but you get my drift.”

  “I’ve never wished you were, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Dylan stated as fact. “Gabriel, please…”

  “Please…This?”

  It was with a far-too knowing smile that Gabriel hooked a finger into the belt of Dylan’s robe and tugged, slowly, until its knot slithered undone. His heart was hammering against his ribs, skin prickling with a sheen of sweat, his breath as scrappy as if he’d sprinted home from the pub. But Dylan schooled himself to stillness. Hell-bent on not doing a damn thing to divert or derail Gabriel now; trusting that he’d somehow magic up some sorcery or other that would save Dylan from himself. Just as his angel-with-a-dirty-face had, from almost the moment they met.

  Dylan lay, pliant, unresisting, when Gabriel clasped his shoulder and hip, about a snatched-off breath before flipping him onto his front. By the time Dylan dragged his face out of the pillow, Gabriel had scrambled onto the bed and kneeled astride his legs. Dylan wasn’t sure what he expected—perhaps some sudden flurry of movement—that caught him unawares? Instead, long fingers were slipped into the collar of his bathrobe, which was then peeled down Dylan’s arms. The soft fleece slithered across his flesh in a shiver of touch, then vanished with a puff of air, leaving him naked; skin twitching with anticipation, need coiled deep, dark, in the pit of his belly. It was not forced to wait.