Alone in the café, the silence pressed in on him. He couldn’t unwrap these here. He gathered everything up, turned off the lights, locked up, and climbed the stairs back to his apartment. Nick’s place was eerily quiet too, and Paul ended up turning a random movie on just for the background noise. He picked up the squishy gift and unwrapped it, but he already knew what it was.
Socks. A nice pair, stripes but no strange pattern. The jar turned out to be honey from a local farm, and the rectangle turned out to be a softbound pocket-sized notebook. Paul sat back, staring at the last gift. He’d figured out who this was from, and he didn’t know how to feel about it.
He unwrapped the wine to reveal a pinot noir from a local vineyard and a small note folded on itself. Paul set the wine aside, then hesitated. It was strange to be getting gifts like this, with such a personal flair, delivered into his store where no one but he would find them. He almost didn’t want to ruin the feel of this with a note—no one had ever treated him like they’d secretly admired him, and Paul couldn’t deny it felt good.
But he had to know for sure. He picked up the note, unfolded it, and read:
Thanks for a lively end to the year.
-Nick
PS: Sorry for being that asshole.
HE LEFT the book, still wrapped, on his cluttered coffee table. Nick had been a little surprised to see it there, lying under his tree, with the rest of the gifts he’d been giving away at the end of the day. But though everybody picked up their prizes, the book in its holiday-green paper remained.
At first he’d told himself it would go under his personal tree with the gifts he’d been getting in the mail from family and friends, and the couple of things he’d gotten himself. But when he got home, Nick had thrown it on the coffee table, rattling the beer caps he hadn’t picked up yet. It was still there in the morning when he got up, made himself coffee, and sank onto the couch to have a look at the weather.
Snow tonight, merry Christmas Eve—the meteorologist thought he was very funny. White Christmas and all that, just what everyone wanted to hear. Nick mostly needed to see how much time he had to get to the grocery store before he decided to wall himself in completely for a few days. He knew at least one of those gifts under the tree was a new game—he got it for himself, after all—and he intended to play through as much as he could before his restaurant opened back up after the holiday.
He set his coffee down and eyed the present again.
“Shit,” he said. He leaned over, picked it up, and put it back down again. There was no mistaking it for anything other than a hardcover book, and a large one at that.
This was either from Sammie—very likely—or Paul. And Nick very badly wanted it to be from Paul, even though he knew it was ridiculous to hope. Sammie was probably trying to cheer him up. Paul hadn’t drunk the beer and hadn’t come over yesterday, even though Nick was sure he must have found the presents in his stockings.
Nick sighed. He was usually not this moody. But putting this off would only allow him to hope for another day, and if this was from Sammie, he wanted to know now.
Nick set aside his coffee mug, picked up the gift, and ripped off the paper. “A cookbook,” he muttered. It was a big one too—one of those has-all-the-basic-recipes kinds that you’d give someone who was just starting out or couldn’t cook worth shit. Well, Sammie was right—Nick couldn’t cook worth shit. He very much doubted a book would help with that. He opened the cover to see whether Sammie had written anything in it and instead pulled out a Christmas card depicting a snow-covered town at night. Nick opened it and read.
This probably doesn’t make up for the fish, but I hope you’ll take it anyway.
The card wasn’t signed, but Nick could figure it out. Now he wished he had saved it for Christmas morning—waking up to a gift from Paul sounded like the high point of his time off. He stared at it for a full minute, trying to figure out what to do.
Nick couldn’t spend Christmas next door to Paul without speaking to him. He slid the card back into the book, picked it up, and went over to Paul’s door without bothering to change out of his pajamas. He was surprised when Paul opened the door. He was still in pajamas too, and he couldn’t look Nick in the eye, instead glancing down at the cookbook in Nick’s hand.
“You?” Nick asked, breaking the awkward silence. Paul nodded as Nick swung the cookbook up. “Am I supposed to be insulted or appreciative?”
“I was hoping…,” began Paul, then pulled the door open wider. “I have coffee.”
Nick couldn’t stop himself from shooting Paul a grin as he entered. He was being invited into Paul’s place. In his pajamas. He felt like he was practically scoring already.
“Do you have to be so smug about it?” Paul asked, shutting the door and moving to his kitchen.
Nick glanced around the apartment, finding it bland and sterile. Clean, obviously, much cleaner than his place, but without any personality. “Nice place. Really captures your character.”
“Now am I supposed to be insulted or appreciative?” Paul asked, but continued before Nick could answer. “You take anything in your coffee?”
“Something milky, thanks,” Nick said, grinning again as Paul sighed. He took a seat in the middle of Paul’s couch and waited to see what he’d do.
Paul brought the coffees over and handed Nick’s to him. “You’re an asshole. Move over.”
“Maybe I want you to sit next to me,” Nick said, a little surprised but a lot excited when Paul did just that. His heart raced. Merry fucking Christmas, maybe he had a chance with Paul after all. Nick felt bold. He put his hand on Paul’s knee and it wasn’t removed, though Paul did lean forward and set his coffee down on the table.
“I don’t know what to think about us both getting each other gifts,” he said, and Nick glanced at the five stocking stuffers sitting next to the cookbook on the coffee table.
“I don’t know how much I get to read into them either,” he said, and Paul glanced over at him.
“That was an apology. I feel like shit that I fucked up your place that badly. I let things get out of control.”
“Funny. I was trying to mend things too.”
“Were you? It seems to me like you’re trying to get laid.” Paul leaned back after he said it, and Nick tried to calm himself. Paul wasn’t pushing his hand off, jumping up, or otherwise trying to get away from Nick, which was a good sign. He thought Nick wanted to sleep with him and was okay with it.
“What gave you that idea?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Nick, maybe all the charged grinning. The beer, the beer, and the wine. The gift overkill.”
“I thought your stocking could stand to be stuffed.”
“Right,” Paul said.
Nick struggled to stay calm. His cock was getting hard enough, being this close to Paul, that soon it would be visible even through his pajama pants. He moved his hand a couple inches farther on Paul’s leg and opened his mouth to get it over with, to break the tension and ask directly.
And found Paul’s lips on his. Not something Nick was planning on arguing with. He kissed back, hard, felt Paul’s hand on the side of his face, the back of his neck. Paul’s beard rubbed against his face, his tongue found its way inside Nick’s mouth, and Nick’s cock was suddenly completely, almost painfully hard. Paul was not kissing like he intended to just make out a while, no—Nick knew this sort of neediness. He felt it too.
He ran his hand all the way up Paul’s leg and found his cock just as hard. When he grabbed it through the soft fabric, Paul breathed out hard through his nose and pulled back a little. But Nick was not letting him get away. He stood, dropped his pants to his ankles to release his cock, and leaned forward to yank Paul’s pants down too.
Paul didn’t object, instead taking Nick’s hand and pulling him back down to the couch. Their mouths met again, Nick tasting coffee and desire, and he leaned forward over Paul. He grabbed Paul’s cock, felt it hot and rigid in his palm, and began to stroke. Paul shuddered ben
eath him, reached out, and grabbed Nick’s cock in return.
Nick’s brain went numb. All of reality was his hand on Paul’s cock, his mouth warring with Paul’s for satisfaction, his tightening balls and building orgasm as Paul pumped him. Nick didn’t hold back at all, didn’t do anything but enjoy the moment until it reached its inevitable conclusion. He shuddered as he came, Paul’s strokes demanding every drop of him, and Nick’s lips faltered, missing their rhythm against Paul’s. He felt the warmth and wetness as Paul exploded in his palm too, and Nick fell back onto the couch, panting, covered in sweat and semen and not knowing how much of any of it was his own. His mouth was damp and he ached still, but it was a relieved sort of ache.
He glanced at Paul. “Did we just—”
“Yes,” Paul said, and the word came out like a growl.
Nick grinned.
“IS THE cookbook because you want me to cook you breakfast?”
“It’s because you burn your food when you cook it,” Paul said, finishing his coffee. Part of him wanted to go back to bed and sleep this off. He was terrified what any of this meant and couldn’t look at Nick anymore. He’d be grinning. He’d be certain.
At the moment Paul was about the farthest from certain as he could be. Going back to bed, waking up and finding it had all sorted itself out, was immensely appealing. But that wasn’t going to work. Here he was, half-naked and limp on his couch, next to a very sticky, very pleased Nick, and there was no way out of the situation.
“They do say it’s the thought that counts,” Nick said.
Why he had to keep talking, Paul didn’t know, but it was getting on his nerves. He stood and refilled both their coffees before lowering himself back to the couch and changing the subject. “Did you have any other plans for today?”
Nick’s mood leveled some. “Shit. Are you kicking me out?”
“No,” Paul said, faster than he was expecting, more intensely than he was expecting. He paused and looked over at Nick, understanding dawning on him. Fuck, he liked Nick. Really liked him. He wanted him. It wasn’t just getting off. And Paul had only just realized some of the irritation, some of the draw, was because he actually wanted to engage with Nick. He’d been attracted to him from the first and repressed it until it exploded.
And now that it had….
“I want to know if I have to spend the day alone,” Paul said.
Nick’s grin returned. “Not unless you hate grocery shopping.”
“I do. But we’re not going to have anything to eat for Christmas if we don’t make a run to the store.” Paul glanced at the table. “I think we’re going to need more than one bottle of wine….”
“Paul, are you trying to weaken my inhibitions and get me into bed with you?”
Paul drank the rest of his coffee. “We can have Christmas at your place instead,” he said, and Nick grimaced. “What? I expect the tour after I show you around my place.”
Nick shrugged. “Your funeral,” he said, and proceeded to show Paul what he meant.
Paul followed him back to his place, which was better decorated, but filthy. It looked like Nick would be staying with him for now instead. Paul didn’t care to sleep in a bed with sheets that probably hadn’t been washed since they were first bought.
Together they planned meals for the next few days and split the cost of the groceries. It was strangely intimate, and though Paul resisted, he did enjoy it. When they weren’t out to get each other, he and Nick worked together well. They had like tastes in food too, which he supposed wasn’t surprising given their similar menus.
The day passed quickly, shopping and a bit of tidying, cooking for each other, putting off talking about the big topics and pushing off sex until they could barely wait any longer. Paul took Nick to his bed, stripped them of their clothes, and kissed him long, and gentle, and then harder. They indulged in each other, skin against skin, and fell asleep spent.
When Paul woke Christmas morning, it was to a hardness pressed against his bare ass. He moved a little, yawning, and Nick wrapped an arm across Paul’s chest.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” he said into Paul’s ear, sending tingles down his spine. He was already hard too, and very awake now. “Want to see how many times we can get off in a day?”
“Is that how you’re going to make up for running out of presents for me?” Paul asked, pulling Nick’s hand to his nipple. Nick obliged, twisting and pulling, while Paul shuddered back against him and took his cock in his hand. He wouldn’t admit it—not yet, at least—but he loved morning sex. The thought of getting off, having coffee and breakfast, and then getting off again was immensely appealing.
Nick let him go a moment to get a bit of lube and wedged his cock between Paul’s asscheeks. He thrust, rubbing himself on Paul but not entering him, and returned to twisting Paul’s nipple, kissing the back of his neck. Paul closed his eyes and enjoyed it, not caring when he came all over his sheets and Nick released all over his back and ass.
“Good morning,” he said, and pressed backward until he smeared Nick’s come across him. Nick wrapped his arms around Paul and hugged tight, pulling him back and forth a bit. Paul rolled over and kissed him, recognized the light in Nick’s eyes, and immediately rolled back.
Shit. One of those important talks was coming.
“Get it over with, Nick,” he said. He felt Nick stiffen behind him, but it wasn’t with excitement.
“You want me to say that I love you?”
“Fuck,” Paul said, and stood. He needed some coffee. Nick followed him, waited silently as he filled the pot and turned it on. Paul leaned on the counter before speaking again. “No, I—tell me you love me if you want, that’s not it.”
“You don’t care?”
“I love you too. But that’s not what this is about, is it? I can fall in love, you can fall in love—that’s not the hard part.” Paul paused, turning to look Nick in the eye. “So spit it out.”
Nick grinned.
“Oh, fuck you,” Paul said, and stalked off to the couch. He flopped on it naked, and after a moment, Nick joined him. “I’d rather we get this over with now.”
Nick took his hand, and Paul wanted to yank it back but resisted the urge.
“We’ll be back to work in a few days,” Nick said. “Is this a brief thing or something else?”
Paul tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and listened to the coffee percolate. “For me it could be something else,” he said, the most he was willing to admit to when he didn’t know what Nick wanted. In response, Nick squeezed his hand, and when Paul opened his eyes and looked over, Nick was grinning.
“For me it already is.”
“You disgust me,” Paul said. He stood and poured coffee. “You know that?”
“Because I always know the right thing to say?”
Paul laughed and handed Nick his coffee. “You’ll have to clean your place before I move in with you,” he said, watching Nick blink. He enjoyed catching Nick off guard; he’d have to try it out more.
“This is the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten,” Nick said. “A whole boyfriend and maybe more.”
Paul shook his head. “Don’t plan the wedding yet. We’ve been fucking for two days now, and that’s only because we stopped screwing each other over a few days before that.”
“Does this mean we can stop being at war with each other professionally?”
“Only if I can harass you in other ways,” Paul said. He reached forward and shoved the cookbook toward Nick. “Want to see how good you are at making breakfast? I’ve got a great reward if you manage not to poison me.”
Nick looked at him, brief fear lighting his eyes. Then he smiled—a nervous smile that was rather cute on him—and picked up the book. He entered the kitchen and flipped through it, leaning on the counter as he sipped his coffee, presenting his ass to Paul. It was a good view.
“You know, it’ll be hard to manage our life together. You moving in with me is going to leave this place empty.” Nick p
aused. “Unless we knock down the walls and turn it into a massive apartment.”
“We’ll rent it out,” Paul said. “That way if I ever need to dump your ass, I can have my place back.”
“You probably won’t have to do that.” Nick leaned forward more, showing off his balls now. “I promise I won’t hook up with my fuckbuddy Brandon, and I’ll learn to cook waffles or french toast for you.”
“What?” Paul asked. He didn’t like the sound of mirth in Nick’s voice. He had a fuckbuddy? Shit. Paul wasn’t sure what he was getting himself into. At the moment, though, he kind of liked that. Maybe he needed someone in his life who helped him be less boring.
“I can settle down for you. Pancakes? Eggs?”
“Fuckbuddy?” Paul asked.
Nick leaned on an elbow and sipped his coffee. “It’s fine. What’s not going to be fine is figuring out how to merge our restaurants. We’ll have to at some point, if you ever let me propose.”
“We’ve been together two days,” Paul said, standing. “And you have a fuckbuddy.”
“Maybe we can tear down the wall between our rival eateries,” Nick said as Paul crossed to him. “Instead of Nick’s, or Paul’s, it will be known as Nick and Paul’s.”
“Paul and Nick’s,” Paul said, crossing to Nick, who grinned his asshole grin.
“Nick and Paul’s does sound better. And it’s alphabetical.”
Paul set his coffee aside and leaned down until their faces were an inch apart. “Paul and Nick’s,” he said, and kissed Nick.
“Hmm. Still doesn’t sound as good.”
Paul pulled back and shook his head, but he was grinning now too. “Breakfast first, sex after, arguments later,” he said.
Nick didn’t object.
JESSICA PAYSEUR has been cursed with the ability to see a story in anything at all. This is especially useful in the long Wisconsin winter months, when the only inspiration the world gives is endless snow and the lingering promise of frostbite for the unwise. When not trying to write the stories away, she can be found taking long walks with her dog, going on small adventures with her partner, and generally attempting to thwart whatever devious schemes her cats have been plotting. She has an impressive collection of books, a modest collection of stationery, and a dwindling collection of wine, all of which she regularly enjoys.
Wreck the Halls Page 5
