All the shops glowed an almost otherworldly green and red, and there were so many Santas per cubic meter—
foot
—that he wondered how kids hadn’t cottoned on to the fact that the magical elf, or whatever he was, could not be in so many places at once.
Stop it
, he warned himself.
You’re not going to become a Scrooge.
But it was hard to stop the gradual transformation, especially as everybody else’s ebullient moods only served to bring his own down. Vince soldiered on, however, buying gifts and decorations and fussing over what kind of wrap was best for them. He listened to Chuck’s mother making her plans for the big day and tried to join in. He watched the kids try to build snowmen—as well as they could, seeing the snow in the city immediately turned to slush—pools and oceans the last things on their mind.
Chuck would be running around with his nephews and nieces, indulging in snowball fights and snow fort building competitions. He would implore Vince to join in, but Vince would just shiver and stay by the fire.
When his care package arrived from his mum, he grossed Chuck out by eating Vegemite straight from the jar with a spoon. Even Vince thought he was pushing it a bit too far, but it seemed that with each mouthful he was a little closer to home. Until the skin started peeling off his tongue and he switched to the Tim Tams instead.
Vince knew he was in a funk, and while Chuck tried to be understanding, he was too swamped at work to be able to give him much attention over it. Even at home he was busy, on the phone far too often and working on the laptop. In the end, Vince’s own work started piling up as well, as everybody prepared for the break to come over the Christmas period and they wanted to get everything out of the way so their holiday could be enjoyed properly.
On Christmas Eve Vince arrived home to find Chuck in a flurry of activity in the kitchen, his ear pressing the phone into the crook of his neck and holding it in place. “You’re home early,” he said accusatorily.
“It’s Christmas Eve!” Vince reminded him. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
Vince wandered over and pecked him solidly on the cheek. “Like you’re channelling Martha Stewart?”
Chuck rolled his eyes. “You could have said Jamie Oliver. That’s more butch.”
Vince grinned as he watched Chuck slam the oven door shut with his arse. It was a beautiful sight. “Jamie Oliver? Butch?”
Chuck ignored him, saying into the phone, “Yeah, I know, I wrote that down.”
“Who are you talking to?” Vince asked, peering over the counter to try and catch a glimpse of whatever it was that Chuck was making.
Chuck pushed him away. “I know, Mum. He
can
be extremely rude.”
Mum?
That meant Chuck was talking to Vince’s mother, as his habit had grown over the years to address her in the Australian colloquial sense to keep her separated from his own mom and avoid confusion whenever they were talking about one or the other.
“You’re talking to my mother?” Vince asked.
Chuck shooed him away. “Get out of my kitchen!”
And that was another thing—since when had it become
Chuck’s
kitchen? Normally Chuck thought the best use of a kitchen was for it to serve as a takeaway menu holder. Seeing him all domesticated in a traditional blue and white butcher’s apron—
where did that even come from?
—and wiping the sweat off his brow with an oven mitt… well, Vince didn’t know whether to commit him under suspicion of a mental breakdown or to have his way with him then and there, because he was looking irresistibly sexy in this new role.
“Vince!”
Chuck was waving the phone at him. “Mum wants to talk to you.”
Vince took it off him and made his way to the living room, throwing himself upon the sofa. “Hey, Mum.”
“Hello, darling.”
It was a relief to hear the healthy strine of an Aussie accent that hadn’t been affected by years on another continent. Vince scratched at his chest absentmindedly and felt his nose tickle a little with a sudden rush of emotion. “What’s up?”
“I can’t call my son and my favorite son-in-law?”
“I hope you didn’t tell him that. He’ll get a big head.”
“And you won’t like the competition, I’m sure.”
Vince smiled at his mother’s gentle chiding. “Is everybody good over there?”
“You know, same-old, same-old. Your dad’s driving me crazy. He wants to rip out the old bath and put in a shower stall. You know what that means.”
“You won’t have a bathroom for over a year. Talk him out of it, Mum.”
“Believe me, I am!”
He could hear the rumbling of his father’s voice in the background.
“Your dad says hello,” his mum said.
“Put him on,” Vince replied.
There was the sound of shuffling in the background, and his dad came on the line. “Hi, Vince.”
“Hey, Dad. How are you?”
“Good. You?”
“Yeah, same-old, same-old. How’s the weather over there?”
“It dropped to negative two yesterday. Fahrenheit. Sleet
and
snow.”
“Well, it’s going to be forty-two here on Boxing Day.”
Vince whistled. “Good cricket weather.”
“You got it. I’ll speak to you tomorrow again, but I’ll put you back on to your mother.”
Vince laughed softly to himself. The typical father/son conversation: greetings, weather comparisons, goodbyes, here’s your mum.
“Are you okay?” It was his mum again.
The question jostled him out of his mirth. “What?”
“You don’t sound a hundred percent. I think Chuck’s worried about you.”
Vince tilted back in his chair to watch Chuck in the kitchen. He was whipping cream by the looks of things. “Did he call you, or did you call here?”
His mother deftly avoided the question. “Did you get your package?”
“I did, thanks.”
“I’m not happy that the presents haven’t turned up yet. I sent both packages at the same time.”
“You know what Christmas mail is like, Mum. And you’re avoiding my question.”
His mother trilled nervously. “Oh, your sister’s here! I better go, darling. Speak to you tomorrow! But have a good night tonight and be nice to Chuck.”
Be nice to Chuck?
When wasn’t he?
He said his goodbyes and hung up. The level of homesickness was still high, but it was manageable. It did good to hear his parents’ voices, though; it served to alleviate some of it.
Returning to the kitchen, Vince caught Chuck looking up from the stove with his spoon frozen in midair.
“Are you finally going to tell me what you’re doing?” Vince asked.
“Mom just asked me to help out with some of the food for tomorrow,” Chuck replied just a little too quickly.
“Your mother has
never
asked you to help with food, she always has it covered and enough to feed an army besides.”
“Well, Caroline’s stove is acting up, so Mom needs some extra hands on this year.” Chuck started drizzling pan juices over the sizzling meat again.
“Okay.” Vince shrugged. “I’m going to go and wrap the last of the presents. Are you sure you don’t need some help?”
Chuck shook his head. “All under control.” At that moment one of the pots on the stove boiled over, and Chuck lunged to lower the heat. “See? All fine!”
Vince nodded, his mother’s words ringing in his head:
Be nice to Chuck
.
He was
always
nice to Chuck.
A couple of hours later, when their chores were done, they met back in the living area and ordered in Thai for dinner. Despite having been stuck in the kitchen for the better part of the day, Chuck practically attacked Vince in bed, and Vince fell asleep a much happier man than he had woken that morning.
* * *
He woke
up with an uncomfortably dry mouth and the strange sensation of being overheated and sticky with sweat. Not the way one usually woke up in New York on a December morning. In fact, he had even kicked the blankets off his naked body and was lying out in the cold air—
Oh, shit, I better not be coming down with something…
—except that it wasn’t
cold
air at all. No wonder he had kicked off the blankets; it was bloody
sweltering
in their bedroom! Had the heat finally started working?
He groggily swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched himself to become more awake. As he yawned he could hear Chuck banging around in the kitchen. When he opened his eyes fully this time, he stared down at the footboard of the bed and saw a gigantic heater set at its highest level.
Where did that come from
?
The amount of energy the heater was putting out was staggering. Vince padded over to their bureau and pulled out a pair of clean boxers from one of the drawers. With this much heat, there was no need to wear anything else.
The small hallway that separated their bedroom from the rest of their apartment was also amazingly warm. Vince entered a kitchen that was more like a steam room; another heater was set up in the corner, and with the oven on he could feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.
Chuck was also dressed for the occasion, in boxers with a matching dark blue tank and bare feet. “Merry Christmas,” he said, dropping the tray onto the counter so he could meet Vince with a kiss.
Still surprised, Vince could barely return the kiss, and Chuck stepped back with a cheeky glint to his eye.
“Barefoot but not pregnant,” he said, indicating himself. “Do you like?”
“You look… good,” Vince finally said, and he meant it. It was very un-Chuck-like. He hated his feet, for a start, and usually kept them covered up. It had taken him almost a year to let Vince play with them in any form.
“So do you,” Chuck said, leering at the fine chest on display before him. “Is this the way all Aussies dress for Christmas Day?”
“Well,” Vince admitted, “I may be a
little
underdressed. Not for the pool, though.”
“Thank God for pools, then.” Chuck laughed. He came in close to Vince again and kissed him.
There was just something about the heat that made the libido want to come out and play. Vince crushed Chuck against him, and they fell against the table. Supported a little more now, Vince wrapped one leg around Chuck’s lower back to trap him. Their mouths worked furiously against each other, and Vince insistently sought entry with his tongue. His cock was getting delicious friction, caught between his belly and Chuck’s thigh, and he could tell Chuck was in a similar position by the way he bucked himself wildly against him. They fought for breath but didn’t pull away—the heat of the kitchen, the warmth of Chuck’s mouth, and the hellishly delicious panting of Chuck’s need for release all came together in a white hot vacuum that faded away and found Vince on his back against the table, an exhausted Chuck lying against him.
Vince began to laugh, and Chuck propped himself up on his partner’s chest. “What?”
“Thinking of a bad pun,” Vince wheezed. “Christmas came early this year.”
Chuck whacked him affectionately. “Idiot.”
“I couldn’t help myself. You looked so hot….”
“Well, it
is
hot in here.”
“Where did you get the heaters from?”
“Mom,” Chuck replied. “Caroline. And Alice lent me one as well.”
“Didn’t they ask what they were for?”
“I told them I was trying to give you an Australian Christmas. Of course, they think I’m insane.”
Vince pulled a sweaty lock of hair out of Chuck’s eyes. “You are. But I love you for it.”
“The roast is being reheated. I saved a pack of cheese and onion chips from your relief package. I even found Cascade beer at the import liquor store on Fourth Avenue.”
“
You’re
going to have a beer at nine in the morning?” Vince asked in disbelief.
“We have to start early if we’re going to be at my parents’ by two.”
Vince pulled him back down. “I love you.”
Chuck smiled, looking a little abashed. “And I love you. That’s why I’m looking like a fool. Are you sure this is what I would be wearing if I was at your parents’ house today?”
Vince looked around him and found a cracker lying near his head. He offered an end to Chuck, and puzzled, his partner took it. They both pulled, and a loud crack and the smell of fulminate filled the air. A small object tied with a rubber band fell out, and Vince deftly caught it with his left hand. He unfolded the paper crown and pulled it over Chuck’s head. It barely fit and tore slightly at one corner.
“There, fat-head. Now you’re fully dressed.”
Chuck laughed and kissed him again. “Last night, I called Mum. I got her trifle recipe.”
Vince sat up excitedly. “You didn’t!”
Chuck nodded. “I did.”
“She doesn’t give that to just anybody!”
“I guess she loves me too,” Chuck said smugly.
Be nice to Chuck
. Bloody old woman.
They showered together quickly, as neither had been expecting the passionate explosion that had taken place at the kitchen table. Chuck, as always, was dried and dressed before Vince, and when Vince made his way back into the kitchen he caught Chuck cleaning the table.
Sheepishly, Chuck smiled at him, went to the fridge and got them both beers. It felt strangely decadent to be drinking at twenty past nine in the morning, but it
was
Christmas. The cheese and onion chips were the perfect appetizer for the roast and veggies that followed. They kept the heaters on and had to wipe the sweat from their faces as they ate. More beer helped them cool down and move on to the plum pudding and custard.
“I don’t know how we’re going to eat at your parents’,” Vince said, his belly straining already.
“So you don’t want trifle, then?”
Vince’s eyes lit up. “Serve it up, baby!”
He took a moment to savor it all. The strawberries on top of the sliced jam roll glistened through the ruby-red but still translucent jelly, and the cream and custard layers made it look like a colorful slice of heaven that would taste just like it as well.
Chuck looked at him expectantly.
Vince made a show of deftly spooning through the dessert. “The trick to eating trifle is not to do it in layers. You have to get a bit of all the layers on your spoon and eat it as one explosion of flavor.”