Rise of the Snowmen

by Emmi Lawrence

  “Taylor?”

  He quickly pulled up the camera again and snapped another three photos, this time with Mandy sitting on Greg’s knee as he first hugged her, then kissed her, then posed.

  “There’s nothing here,” murmured Greg as he came close enough to reclaim his phone. “You keep looking, but just know that you’ve got this, even if something does happen. You can relax, not be so on edge.”

  “That’s why I’m on edge. So I can take care of it when it happens.”

  “I know that.” The words tense with defensiveness.

  Behind them, a couple of teens took over the photo opt, flashing braces and tongues to the world. Greg slipped his arm around Taylor’s back in a gentle grip, one that spoke of anniversary worries rather than holiday ones. Taylor leaned into him, but kept his head turned away, gaze darting back to the snowman with the crab cage, then to the gaping hole in the tree, then to the trio of frost angels dancing in the wind blasting up from one of the food trucks. They, at least, seemed to not feel ominous, their plastic wings tapping against one another in a sense of materialism rather than mysticism.

  He ate a warm pretzel bite Mandy offered while staring at a bevy of unsteady, coat-swathed toddlers playing in the grass. He winced as families cheered when the fire truck came around, a Santa up top throwing piles of candy like some benevolent diabetes-gifter. He backed Greg up with a shrug and a wrinkle of his nose when Mandy asked where her peppermint stick had disappeared to (the trash—it had disappeared straight into the trash when Greg couldn’t stand carrying it anymore).

  Yet all the while, he couldn’t breathe quite right, constantly checking the alleys, the streets, that damn snowman that seemed to fluff and flutter whenever anyone passed by it too closely, making it look as if it were turning its head. That HO! HO! HO! sign was visible even over the crowd, drawing Taylor’s eye over and over again till he could have drawn the paint drips from memory.

  He wanted to skip out, go check the Third Grade Botanical Garden for hoof prints, but one look from Greg at the mere idea quelled that thought dead. He didn’t need to ask to imagine the sad downturn of Greg’s eyes. It was hard enough to deal with Greg’s tentative grasp when they held hands or the hesitant “If you want tos” that seemed to either preface or finish everything Greg said.

  “We could go around front so Mandy could see the star better when they light it. If you’d like.”

  They did, Taylor looking everywhere but at the star or the Christmas lights. Someone had hit the HO! HO! HO! sign so it now stood tilted, facing just far enough away that the white between the two boards had this curved section that almost looked like the smooth head of a snowman, dark spots where the paint had flecked off reminding Taylor of eyes.

  Greg nudged him with an elbow and Mandy clapped sticky kitty gloves above Taylor’s head. She became ornery after that, complaining of everything but tiredness.

  “Can I have a new lollipop stick? I didn’t get to finish mine.” She begged for hot cocoa, for cookies, for the hand-dipped chocolates one vender had on display.

  “Your stomach would be waging war on yourself if your Dad let you eat all of that,” said Taylor, raising his voice so she could hear him better where she sat on his shoulders, though he kept his attention on the holes in the fir tree. On the spaces between the bright bulbs of the Christmas lights where the shadows might be hiding anything.

  Might be hiding nothing, Greg would say.

  As they walked down toward the car, Mandy’s head braced against Greg’s shoulder as he lugged her, Taylor’s senses turned on high alert. The music pounded carols in the distance. Spikes of laughter radiated from the coffee shop patio they passed. And the air, that had been stagnant this morning, tapped wind chimes, scuttled leaves, and turned the wooden snowman on a residence back and forth. Hands waving, coal-black eyes never taking their gaze off of Taylor.

  It seemed, for all the world, as if the little snowman winked.

  Chapter Six

  In the time it took to coax Mandy into a nightgown and tuck her into bed, Greg worked himself into a knot of worry. Had that been the front door closing softly as he’d brushed Mandy’s hair? Had the engine he’d heard puttering in the street been Taylor’s Camry?

  Taylor had been absent despite his presence for the entire outing in town. Those there-and-gone smiles becoming rote and painful to see.

  Greg kissed Mandy’s forehead and then stopped at her door in the darkness. Listening, he realized. He was listening for some sign that Taylor hadn’t escaped out into the cold of Christmas Eve. Not that there was anything he could do if Taylor had already left, but there’d been a few gifts hidden in his closet and Mandy had been so excited for Taylor to unwrap her gift to him, the layered red wrapping paper, multicolored ribbon and incredible amounts of tape turning the present into a challenge.

  A sudden whirring, then a dripping sound released the tension in Greg’s shoulders.

  He left Mandy’s room, ducked into his own to fetch a small gift box, and then headed out to the living room where Taylor paced with a fresh cup of coffee in hand. Taylor had removed his jacket and shoes and socks, his jeans riding low on his hips and his white tee just snug enough for Greg to see the lines of his body.

  “They found that thirteen-year old. That runaway I mentioned earlier,” said Taylor without glancing around. He squinted out the front window, as if seeing more than the reflection of the room within the darkness of the glass.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Nothing to do with elves.”

  “That’s even better.”

  At that, Taylor shot an unreadable glance over his shoulder. There he paused, gaze flicking down to Greg’s hand, then back up, then down with staying power.

  Greg held out the package, a nondescript brown box with a cheap silver bow stuck in the corner. Nothing garish here. Nothing non-Taylor-like. “Happy anniversary.”

  But Taylor didn’t take it. His feet stilled, his mouth pulled down, and he stared at the box as if expecting a monster to pop free from its contents at any second.

  “Take it,” Greg insisted, nudging it against Taylor’s free hand. “I don’t care if you didn’t get me something. I wasn’t expecting anything. It’s Christmas anyway. Strange time for an anniversary.”

  Taylor’s gaze wandered away, his expression unchanged. “Greg…”

  “Not tonight.”

  “A different night?”

  “It’s Christmas Eve. I don’t want you going back to your apartment, alone, with nothing in your fridge and no plans. Not tonight. Just roll with it, would you? That’s something you’re good at.”

  “Christmas Eve…”

  “It’s a good night. Means your stress for the year is over. Christmas is going to come and go without a murmur from the North Pole and you can worry about what comes next later.”

  Taylor reached across and plucked the box from Greg’s hand. But he didn’t open it. Turned it around and over, ran his thumb over the cheap bow. “I’ve sort of invaded your life. Your house. Everything.” He lifted the coffee as if it represented everything he’d taken.

  Greg shrugged. “As home invasions go, I think I could do far worse.” He guided Taylor over to the couch and sat them both down. Then extracted the coffee from Taylor’s grip. “Go on. Open it. It’s not much, so don’t get too horribly excited.”

  “You keep talking about…the future.”

  “Better than dwelling constantly on the past.” Greg had meant it as a joke, to diminish some of Taylor’s obvious insecurities, but Taylor winced.

  “I guess I’m just not so sure we have one.”

  “A future?”

  Taylor pursed his lips. “Together.”

  “Not if you leave we don’t.”

  “That simple?” The corner of Taylor’s mouth turned up. His eyes reflected a jaded pessimism, though he’d have called it pragmatic.

  “That simple,” agreed Greg, ignoring the undercurrent of Taylor’s meaning. “Now stop talking.
You’re ruining our anniversary with all these pointless words. Open it.”

  For a moment it looked as if Taylor would argue, then he sighed softly and popped the lid off the box. The card inside had turned sideways, gold script reading It’s a Date! seeming too garish now, but Greg couldn’t exactly change it.

  “Top Deck at five-thirty? Reservations?”

  “Seafood place over the bridge. Really nice. Quiet and looks out over the water. It’s why I made the reservations so early, so we could see the view before the sun sets.”

  Taylor flipped the card back and forth, the back blank, the gold font flashing in the Christmas lights. “This your way of getting me to stick around?” And if it hadn’t been for the thick layer of resentment in his voice Greg might have thought the words mere mild teasing.

  “Taylor—It’s not—” Greg bit off a nasty retort and tried again. “This is what people do on their anniversaries. They go out to eat. They spend the day together. Thought since we couldn’t exactly do something Christmas Eve we could do something special next weekend when I don’t have Mandy. It’s not some twisted ploy to get you to stay. It’s normal human behavior.”

  “Normal human behavior…”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re normal too. I just—damn it.” Greg scrubbed at his head, his short hair pricking at his fingers, the cold from the tree lighting growing more pervasive throughout his body, like he’d never get warm again.

  “I’ve never had an anniversary before,” said Taylor softly. He still held the box in his lap, the card flipping between his fingers in a careful, controlled manner.

  “Your birthday’s a damn anniversary,” muttered Greg. “You didn’t mind us celebrating that. It’s just anything to do with us you seem to have a problem with.”

  The silence dragged on, the soft scratch of the card in Taylor’s fingers stilled, the lightly falling snow outside dampening the world. The living room grew and grew, expansive, too much space, and yet Greg felt cramped, drowning. He leaned too far out from the couch to set the coffee down, then set his elbows on his knees, hands linked and pressed against his forehead. The floor reached for him, clammy not-really-there touches against suddenly too-tight skin.

  Taylor’s voice came through the fog. “I made it up, you know. My birthday.”

  Greg pulled himself free from his thoughts and turned toward Taylor.

  “Never could quite remember it. The date. Have this vague sense of getting some dinosaur toy while wearing short sleeves. Bare feet in carpet. Someone’s long hair almost getting burned by candles. There was a plant—green and stringy like a fern—made me think of spring. But hell, could have been winter for all I know. The only time people ask me my birthday is for medical reasons and I always just made something up. You and Mandy wanted to know for real, to do something that day, so I really thought about it.”

  “You picked your birthday?”

  That shocked look when Greg had asked him last year. He’d assumed it’d been a response to the thought of someone thinking about him for once. He’d never even considered Taylor would have been too young to have remembered his birthday.

  “June 25th is literally the furthest I could get from Christmas. Thought it sounded best.”

  “That sounds like you.” The room steadied, the clamminess on Greg’s neck chilling as he stared at the haunted look in Taylor’s eyes. “June 25th is a good day. A perfect day.”

  This time when a smile filtered onto Taylor’s face, it didn’t seem false at all despite its thinness, despite the fact that apprehension tempered the expression. “I’ve never been to a fancy restaurant.” Taylor gently replaced the card in the box, right side up.

  Greg slid his fingers over Taylor’s, their skin sharing a lingering chill from outside. Yet it warmed immediately, more from the fact that Taylor turned his hand over to lace their fingers together than from any actual heat.

  “I’m here to remedy that,” said Greg. “I’m here to remedy all I can.”

  Then he pressed Taylor into the couch with a kiss, leaning into the ever-present fear that each time they touched, each time they met like this might be the last. That Taylor might finally fall on one side or other of his waffling. That he’d leave in the morning, nothing but a cooling spot on the bed. Nothing but a memory of desire and pain and regret.

  Action always did seem to make Taylor’s world go round.

  He rose up and met Greg’s ardor, the box with its promise going onto the couch’s arm, abandoned, but not forgotten. They wrapped about one another, pressing all conflicted anxieties into a flat plane between them that couldn’t be read from this angle, couldn’t be considered with all the sudden want that flared more powerfully through Greg’s limbs than fear ever could.

  Their tongues twining and a strong hint of coffee flavoring the kiss, Greg slid a hand along Taylor’s thigh, squeezing, then stroking, thumb rounding inward toward the bulge thickening in those jeans. He cupped that burgeoning thickness gently, then ran his fingertips along the inside band of Taylor’s waistband. Dragged his teeth across Taylor’s bottom lip and leaned lower, kissing jaw, then neck.

  “I’ll have to get new clothes,” said Taylor on a soft sigh. “Don’t think I own anything fancy enough for going out.”

  “You could just get out of your clothes. Go without.”

  Taylor chuckled, the sound deep and present in contrast to the vague smiles and responses he’d given all night. “Naked dinner?”

  Greg took another long breath of Taylor’s scent—mixed with peppermint from where Mandy had wiped her gloves—then lifted his head. “I’d pay extra for that privilege. We could try it here one day.”

  Something shuttered in Taylor’s gaze. His stomach suddenly taut under Greg’s palm. His brows knitting, his expression going from steamy and lax to wary.

  Damn. Another one of those flight-risk phrases had slipped off Greg’s tongue without him realizing. One day. As if planning something pleasant held hidden cruelty. He didn’t want to watch what he said; he wanted to drag Taylor into his bed, tie him there so he couldn’t run off to his apartment, or, worse, to another state.

  Couldn’t disappear.

  He popped the buttons on Taylor’s jeans and reached in to massage that half-mast erection. Then he murmured directly against Taylor’s lips. “Serve you onion rings off my dick. Suck wine off your nipples.”

  “And what are you going to eat out my ass?” Eyelids drooping, Taylor relaxed into Greg’s arms, his resistance to future plans fading in the face of the details.

  “Whatever the fuck I want.”

  Then Greg took Taylor’s mouth again, licking inside, pent-up stress and frustration from the last month making him greedy. He worked his hand over Taylor’s cock, thumbing up over the head, strangling his grip at the base. He curled his fingers to stroke further down. Grinding against Taylor’s hip, Greg pressed them into the couch, an ephemeral worry coasting through his mind that this would be the first and last peaceful Christmas he’d spend with Taylor. And that thought, as quick as it’d been, spurred him on.

  He pulled off Taylor’s shirt and then his own, tossing them both to the carpet where the glow from the Christmas tree reflected rainbow on the white fabric. Then he knelt, the cushion dipping so Taylor all but fell against Greg.

  Chest to chest, groin against groin, they settled at a angle. A soft thud of the present box hitting the carpet came when Taylor arched his head back against the arm of the couch. Greg wrapped himself around Taylor and ground down, swallowing a groan when Taylor bucked up. As they kissed, they rocked against one another in a slow, steady rhythm, cock tips escaping boxers, precome dotting their stomachs.

  Outside, in the dark, a car drove by, headlights flashing across the windows, reflecting the sprinkling snow for just a few seconds. Somewhere, the clocks were ticking over the seconds, winding down, down, down, till Christmas.

  Only a scant few hours now.

  Greg pushed their pants down further in motions forcibly
methodical. Their cocks lay side by side, hardened lengths aching, waiting, eager to be touched and pumped and pulled until winter and holidays and dangers all lay far, far behind and only the musky scent of semen remained where peppermint had once reigned.

  “Is anniversary sex different than ordinary sex?” asked Taylor. Their lips remained close and damp, short kisses between his words.

  “Ordinary sex? Since when do we have ordinary sex?”

  Taylor laughed, a real thing, eyes crinkling even as he shivered under Greg’s fierce grip. “Extraordinary then. Is anniversary sex different—” Another shudder and his body undulating.—“—different than extraordinary sex?”

  “It’s like a mini-celebration.”

  Chapter Seven

  Everything had been stolen once. Family, friends, life. He didn’t remember being happy then, but it must have been so, a blissful ignorance, his youth giving him an untempered greed for life. Gone for so long, that bliss, torn off and ripped up, ravished, just as Greg strived to do to him now as they rocked in his bed. The chill from their outing was long gone, faded into the heat of the extraordinary.

  They pressed together, Greg moving for the both of them at times, his hands hard against Taylor’s back and hip. A rising need, synonymous with the greed Taylor thought he’d have felt in his youth, cut into him, both bodily and mentally.

  He wanted more. He pressed back, fighting, demanding that this be reality—his reality, not some false pretense of what could be, but the reality he wanted to carve for himself.

  Guilt threatened to swallow him. Images of stolen children and old friends long gone to Christmas evil called out condemningly at Taylor ignoring them in favor of this. In favor of Greg’s arms, his hot, open-mouthed kisses against Taylor’s shoulders. In favor of slick skin and slicker cocks. Of the rising, rising tingle shuddering through Taylor’s muscles and shivering across his skin.

  But not just that. Not just this moment’s passion, this greedy in and out, push and pull that would lead to an inexplicable climax, but also the grasping for the future days, for permanency, for the happiness that came from waking up the next morning still in the arms of a man who loved Taylor.