MOST OF '81

 

 

December, 1981

 

Despite the scent of the cooking food—a favourite part of his favourite holiday—and a determined effort to reclaim this night in some way, Christopher found himself wincing as that awful Christmas medley started playing on the radio.

Again.

“Bah humbug,” Christopher said to himself, rolling his eyes at his own frustration, but he fiddled with the dial until the holiday music—which of course he kept finding on multiple stations—was finally replaced with something he could stand.

Blondie, explaining he couldn’t outrun a gun-wielding alien about to shoot him and eat his head, seemed a much better choice, frankly.

What a year.

Closing his eyes and rocking his chin along to Blondie, Christopher tried to gather some sense of purpose or energy beyond “get to the end of the day.” He took a breath, snorting to himself, and pushed off from the wall. If he could skip Christmas this year, he would. Hell, he was doing a pretty close facsimile as it was.

Today had sucked. The whole month had sucked. Fuck, everything about this entire goddamn year had sucked…

Well.

Christopher smiled.

Most of ’81.

 

A

 

February, 1981

 

“So, the lesson here is I am shit at skiing,” Christopher said, pushing open the door to the ski shop and tying not to limp too badly.

“You almost had it by the end of the day,” Patty said, tugging her pom-pommed toque off her head and grinning at him. Her short dark hair was barely ruffled, which was better than Christopher could say about his own spikes, all but destroyed by his hat.

Standing beside Patty, Ariel made a choking, laughing sound of derision, but didn’t overtly argue with her girlfriend, which was honestly a rare moment of kindness from the butch, and one he intended to take in stride.

Man, his ass hurt.

“Uh huh,” he said. “How about we hit somewhere with alcohol? Numb my pain?” He aimed his best please-can-we-stop-being-butch-lesbians-now? gaze their way.

“Black Russians it is,” Ariel said.

“Delightful,” Christopher said. Spinning away from the two of them to try and find a mirror so he could fix his spikes, he collided bodily with someone who’d apparently decided to take the same narrow aisle between the puffy ski jackets.

Someone cute. Tall, good shoulders, and short blond hair done with stylish, wavy volume, and killer brown eyes.

Hopefully not intending to kill Christopher, at least.

“Sorry,” Christopher said, holding up his hands and deepening his voice to the most normal-dude register he could manage (not a forte) before spotting what he was almost completely sure was a welcome smile from Blondie Brown Eyes.

Christopher relaxed a notch.

“You’re good,” the man said, his smile revealing the most wonderfully crooked eyetooth Christopher had ever seen. The rest of his teeth were all perfect little soldiers, with just the one nudged back, and somehow it worked magic for his smile.

“I haven’t been good all day,” Christopher said. “My friends are trying to teach me to ski.” He aimed a thumb at Patty and Ariel, and if that wouldn’t be enough to tip off Blondie Brown Eyes he was family, nothing would. “I’ve been falling on my ass all day.”

“Maybe you need more practice,” he said, revealing the cutest eyetooth once again.

“Please don’t tell them that,” Christopher said putting his hands together, like he was begging. “I just convinced them to go to drinks.”

“Where you heading?” he asked, and okay, that was a great question because it sounded an awful lot like maybe Blondie Brown Eyes was intending to meet him there.

“I… don’t know,” he said. “Any suggestions?”

“Don!” a voice called, and Blondie Brown Eyes turned to glance at a pair of men on the other side of the room. If they weren’t family, Christopher would eat his toque. The hair, the moustaches—these boys were not being subtle, and given how nearly identical they looked, Christopher decided to err on the side of optimism and believe they were together, leaving Blondie Brown Eyes free to be single until the point at which Christopher captured his heart.

Or, y’know, his attention for an evening.

Or an hour.

He could work with an hour.

“Here,” Blondie Brown Eyes said, sliding his hand into his pocket and pulling out a matchbook, and, after patting his jeans, a short pencil. He flipped open the lid of the matchbook, and wrote something down. Then he held out the matchbook towards Christopher in two fingers.

“I have to go,” he said.

“That’s awful,” Christopher said, taking the matchbook.

Blondie Brown Eyes smiled, and then he was gone.

Christopher opened the matchbook. In it, underneath the name Don, was a phone number.

“Did you just pick up a trick in a ski shop?”

Christopher turned. He hadn’t heard either Patty or Ariel approaching, but they were both behind him now, aiming big grins his way.

“Maybe,” Christopher said, sliding the matchbook into his pocket. Maybe his months-long dry spell was over. Maybe despite a January man-drought, 1981 would be his year after all.

“Back to the hotel and change before drinks?” Ariel said.

“Please!” Christopher said. He kind of assumed he wasn’t going to bump into Don at whichever bar they went to, but if it did happen, he was going to restore his spikes first.

In their room, however, the plastic cube light on the telephone was blinking.

“We have a message,” Christopher said. Patty dialled down to the desk while Christopher surveyed the damage in the bathroom mirror. It was a miracle his post-toque hair hadn’t scared Don away completely, he decided.

When he was restored to his best self, he looked through the shirts he’d brought, settling on his tightest option while he listened as Patty hung up and then, to his surprise, picked up the phone and started dialing again.

“Jonas wants us to call him,” Patty said, sounding worried. “He left a message saying it was a family emergency.” She finished dialing and waited.

Jonas didn’t have a family. Well, he had them, obviously, which was the same as Christopher, but…

“Jonas?” Patty said, a few seconds later.

Christopher could hear Jonas’s panicky, rising voice, even from here. He looked at Ariel, and she stepped close to Patty, sliding one arm around her girlfriend in support.

“What?” Patty said. “Oh God. Okay. Okay.” Listening to her talk made Christopher want to scream, but he waited. Finally, she said. “We’ll leave right away.”

They would?

Patty hung up.

“What is it?” Christopher said, not able to hold it back any more.

“Cops raided the bathhouses. Like, all of them,” Patty said. Her eyes were wide behind her glasses. “Jonas said they arrested everyone. He was working at the hotline when he found out.”

“Let’s go,” Ariel said.

Christopher started packing.

It wasn’t until they got back to Toronto he even remembered the matchbook in his pocket, but between helping to get nearly a dozen friends he knew out of jail, protesting, marching, and sitting-in, he was a little busy for the next two weeks trying not to get the hell beaten out of him by the asshole cops, alongside thousands of others—actual thousands of angry fags and dykes like him—filling Toronto’s streets with their rage.

It wasn’t just about the so-called “Operation Soap” anymore, or the day-to-day reality, no…

It was everything.

 

A

 

December, 1981

 

Blondie ended, and when another Christmas song took her place, Christopher gave up and shut off the radio. He’d put on a record if he wanted music he could trust not to add more chill to his small bachelor apartment. The silence allowed the low howl of the winter wind outside into his kitchenette, a harshness that had him considering getting started early on the libation portion of the evening.

Don’t drink alone, Christopher, it’s never a good idea. The advice sounded like Ariel’s voice in his head, and given she was a nurse and saw her fair share of the fallout of people drinking alone, he supposed it was good advice. He wondered how she was doing. Both she and Patty were at their family Christmases by now, no doubt counting the seconds until they could make a tactical withdrawal and get back to each other.

Though, in Patty’s case, at least her mother cooked a mean turkey.

Speaking of.

He took a moment to check on the food and the trio of pots on the stovetop, then left the kitchenette to sit on the edge of his futon and consider his two-foot Christmas tree, which he and Jonas and Patty had decorated with popcorn strings. Beside the tree to one side was the painfully retro Christmas card Ariel had found at a second-hand shop with the hokey “folks back home” poem inside it. Ariel had used a black marker to change “folks” to “fucks,” which made them all guffaw and secured it a place in his small box of holiday decorations forever. To the other side of the tree stood the dark wooden candlestick with the flared base covered in carved robins. That one his grandmother had left him in her will, and he’d always thought of as Christmassy for some reason.

Seeing the tree, card, and candlestick, he almost felt a little spark of holiday joy.

Maybe he should light the candle? Christopher swore any candle he lit in that candlestick was brighter than it had any right to be, and always made him think things could be better, no matter where his mood had begun.

Then he saw the calendar beyond his meagre tabletop ode to the holidays, where despite it being late in the year, he’d stopped crossing off the days after the big black X through December 1st, weeks ago now.

December 1st had more or less tanked the month for him.

No, not just the month. The year.

“Fuck you,” he said, tossing a finger at the calendar, its picture of sparkling, snow-covered winter conifers, pretty streak of northern lights, and every asshole in the Ontario Legislature who’d raised their voice in a “nay” and turned what could have been something actually good, something helpful and necessary and, hell, what had the potential to have been one of the best fucking days of the whole awful fucking year into…

This.

They won’t protect us. We’ll have to protect ourselves, like always.

God, Christmas Eve and he already just wanted this winter over with.

 

A

 

March, 1981

 

An angled rain his umbrella did little to deflect soaked Christopher from the waist down as he attempted to cross the street and get under an overhang—any overhang—on his slushy, wet trek down Yonge.

Spotting a brief respite beside the stairwell up to Glad Day, Christopher managed to hop over a puddle and collide bodily with someone doing exactly the same thing from another angle.

“Shit, sorry!” Christopher said, his umbrella going one way while he grabbed out with his free hand for the railing in an attempt not to either fall down or knock the other person over.

“Damnit, shit!” the other man said, more or less doing the same, though he’d had no umbrella and instead used one hand on the railing and one grabbing at the front of Christopher’s jacket, which was honestly the only thing that kept Christopher upright.

After a moment to let his heart stop pounding and a quick swipe at his eyes to get the rain out, he looked up, ready to apologize more meaningfully and…

“Don?” Christopher said, recognizing the dark brown eyes and the crooked eyetooth. Also the whole face, which was just as handsome as it had been, what, two months ago?

“Yes?” The recognition wasn’t mutual, which stung, until those brown eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, hi!” The view of the smile, crooked-tooth-included, was all the more enjoyable for the minor delay.

It was him.

“You didn’t call,” Don said.

“No, I didn’t,” Christopher said, holding up his free hand. “But it was an accident.”

“Sorry?” Don’s smile grew amused now, like he couldn’t wait to hear how that made sense.

“The raids,” Christopher said, seeing the moment Don realized what he was referring to.

“Oh shit,” Don said. “You got arrested?”

“Oh, no, the raids were when we were skiing, but we needed to get back right away,” Christopher said. “Somewhere between getting our friends out of jail and hitting the streets…” He aimed what he hoped was a winning smile Don’s way. “That matchbook? Went up in smoke. I think maybe one of the times I got arrested at a sit in, but I’m not sure.”

“Well, now I have to forgive you,” Don said. He licked his lips, which were still wet with the rain and also made Christopher want to lick Don’s lips.

As well as other parts of him.

“Are you in Toronto long?” Don said.

What? Christopher frowned. “I live here.”

“Oh, I thought you lived in Quebec, because…” He gestured out into the rain, which Christopher took a moment to parse into We met in Quebec, skiing. Was Don French? He did have a slight accent, and the way he spoke…

“No, we were just getting away together. Some friends, I mean.” Christopher smiled. “So, if you want to give me your number again, I swear this time I’ll actually use it. If it stops raining, we could even be dry.”

“Wet isn’t terrible,” Don said, definitely flirting, and now Christopher definitely wanted to lick him. “But I am not free tonight, and tomorrow I head back.”

“Back?”

“Montreal.”

“You’re from Montreal,” Christopher said, finally getting why Don had asked the question.

“I am,” Don said. “But I am back next month—April 11th. Saturday?”

Christopher winced. The date immediately pinged. “That’s my night for the help line, but… Sunday?”

“I’m only here Saturday.”

Well, damn.

They looked at each other. Don smiled, then pulled a pen from his pocket, as well as an only mostly-damp piece of paper. He wrote his name and number again—which this time Christopher noticed included an area code, which was not 416—and then tore the paper in half and handed his name, number, and the pen and other half of the paper to Christopher.

“Now you give me your number. Double our chances this time?”

Okay, Christopher was absolutely willing to double his chances with him if he continued to smile that smile and show off that damned sexy curl of his lip. Was it the tooth that did that to his smile, or was it just Don’s whole “even sopping wet I’m desirable” thing?

Christopher didn’t know. He didn’t care. He wrote his name and number down, and after a brief glance at the torrents still coming down from above, Don nodded at the street. “I have to run. Keep in touch, Christopher.”

Yeah, even the way he said Christopher’s name was good.

“Yes,” Christopher said.

Don made a run for it. Christopher lifted his umbrella and leaned out onto the street to get a good view of the wet jeans stuck to Don’s ass like a second skin.

And of course, Don caught him looking when he looked back.

 

A

 

December, 1981

 

The phone rang.

Christopher got up, crossing the length of his apartment and lifting the receiver off the cradle. “Hello?”

“Oh, thank God you’re home,” came Ariel’s voice, pitched low and whispery. “I’m going to need a rescue phone call in one hour. Deal?”

“Deal,” he said, unable to stop himself from snorting out a little laugh. “Should I be your boss, all butch and growly? Or are you looking for something in a ‘she’s the best, if we had anyone else to call we would’ve’ plea sort of thing?”

“I don’t fucking care, just get me away from these people.”

The call disconnected seconds later, and Christopher laughed again, checking the clock, then—not quite trusting himself—grabbing a scrap of paper and writing down a note to himself and popping it front and centre on his fridge with a magnet.

In one hour, he’d call Ariel’s house, tell them he was so very sorry to interrupt their evening, but that their daughter was the next on the list for the on-call rotation and—oh no—she’d have to leave their family celebration.

He wondered if Patty had already initiated her evacuation attempt yet or not. Christopher was pretty sure Jonas was her lifeline this year. It was a good thing they both had fake hospital emergencies to fall back on.

Lesbian nurses for the win.

Christopher’s gaze went back to the window, watching the snow blow by, and he closed his eyes, trying to remember what it was like to feel warm.

 

A

 

July, 1981

 

Christopher stood in his kitchen, closed his eyes, and tried to remember what it was like to feel cool.

It didn’t work. Also, sweating hurt, and he was already down to just his underwear. Maybe he should open the fridge door? Did he even have any ice cream left? He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the discomfort, and crouched to check. Pain raced along his skin, but he managed to get into the fridge and located what remained of a small carton of ice cream.

One spoon later, and he was bracing himself once more for the journey back to his couch.

“You can do this,” he said.

His phone rang.

“Noooo,” he whined, looking at his ice cream and the spoon and the multiple steps it would take to get to the phone. But it could be work or the lifeline. He tried to be a big boy, put down the ice cream and his spoon, and stumbled his way to the phone with only one or two curses before lifting the receiver on the third ring.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hello,” came a slightly accented, soft voice that was just a little teasing. “Do you like boats?”

“Don?” Christopher said, grinning in spite of the slices of pain criss-crossing his back from holding the phone to his ear. “Sorry, what? Boats?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Don said. “I am here in Toronto and we’re taking my friend’s boat around the islands—do you want to come? I know it’s last minute, but I didn’t know this was the plan until I got here.”

Christopher turned until he could see his reflection in the hall mirror. The reflection regarded him in abject misery. Apart from visible strips on his upper thighs where his swim trunks had covered them, all of his exposed skin was bright red and angry.

Still, he considered saying yes until he turned away from the mirror and it sent another jolt of pain up his back.

“I… can’t,” Christopher said.

“Oh no,” Don said. “You’re working?” He sounded let down, but not too surprised. Every time they’d tried to meet up for months it had been like this—one or the other of them just couldn’t make it work.

“No, I’m burned,” Christopher said.

“Burned?”

“Sunburned. I went to the beach yesterday, actually. And I fell asleep.” Christopher looped the phone cord around his finger, annoyed at himself all over again. “For hours.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Christopher said. “I am a lobster. A blistering lobster.”

Don’s muffled laugh didn’t make him feel any better, but he caught himself smiling anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Don said. “Next time?”

“I hope so,” Christopher said, because he really did. Frankly, he needed a success of some sort, and as much fun as it was to touch base with Don over the phone and renew the spark that was definitely there between them, he’d much rather touch more than Don’s damn base.

Indistinct voices rose in the background, as did the sound of traffic. Don must be on a pay phone. “I have to go,” he said.

“Enjoy the boat,” Christopher said.

“I would enjoy it more with lobster,” Don said.

Christopher laughed, and Don hung up.

 

A

 

December, 1981

 

An hour later, Christopher made the call. An older woman answered the phone, and when he asked for Ariel in his most professional, butchest tone, she didn’t exactly reply with seasonal cheer.

“Ariel!” she yelled, not even bothering to cover the phone. “It’s that damn hospital for you!” He heard muffled noises as the woman obviously read Ariel the riot act before passing her the phone. The receiver was pressed against the woman’s sweater, given the scratching sound he was treated to, but it didn’t quite drown out a quickly hissed “If you leave, your grandfather will be angry!”

“It’s my job, mom,” Ariel said, her voice growing clearer a moment later as she said. “Yes?”

“What are you wearing?” Christopher said.

“Oh no,” Ariel said, with the absolutely falsest fake-let-down voice he’d ever heard.

“No one is going to believe that,” Christopher said. “Try to put some actual sadness in your voice, honey. Like… Oh! I know. Picture this: I forgot to call you. The phone never rang. You are going to have to stay there with your parents all night.”

“That’s horrible,” Ariel said, and this time it held quite the emotional veracity. “But I understand.”

In the background, Christopher could hear Ariel’s mother already spinning up more anger over what she likely had intuited was the imminent exit of her daughter.

“Good luck,” Christopher said. “If you have to, try throwing holy water at her.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ariel said, in a deep, serious voice. “I’m on my way.”

Christopher heard the “No!” in the background from Ariel’s mother as the call disconnected. He put his own phone back on the cradle, smiling to himself. There. Good deed of the year done. Another Christmas miracle to unite the lesbian lovers in their own apartment for at least some of Christmas Eve.

Look at him: a regular gay Santa. Only without much magic of his own.

“Self-inflicted,” he said. He’d turned down every invitation he’d received this year, not that he’d had a tonne. Jonas and some of the other guys from the lifeline had told him he’d be welcome, but the thought of socializing this year just felt…

What?

He eyed the calendar. The big X through December 1st.

Too much. That was the thing. Something about Christmas this year was just… too much. He didn’t want the party lights, didn’t want the dashing about—though the snow or otherwise—and as much as it made for a quiet apartment, he just wanted to relax on his own.

As of that phone call, his to-do list was officially done. He had dinner, he had his own company, and if he wanted to drink some Taster’s Choice instead of getting tipsy that was his own business.

Yeah, so maybe gay Santa he was not.

Maybe he should put on a hat?

 

A

 

October, 1981

 

Maybe Christopher should have put on a hat.

The chill wind blasting down the Toronto street at him certainly made him think he’d picked the wrong costume for Hallowe’en, but he already had the devil horns from last year, and some red face paint, his tightest red shirt, and Jonas’s black leather pants had made it complete.

At least he’d been smart enough to wear a black button-up over the red shirt, though he’d definitely shuck that once he got to Stages and—finally—got to dance with Don.

Arranging the evening had taken a colossal amount of effort, and more than a few favours owed at work and the lifeline, but whatever. It was worth it.

Assuming he didn’t freeze to death.

He bumped into Jonas and Jonas’s latest—was his name Mitchell or was this another one of Jonas’s seemingly endless string of Michaels?—both of whom waved and dragged him through the doors before he could so much as say hello, and once they were up the stairs, the heat of Stages was wrapping itself all around them and the miserable chill of the walk over.

“I hate that you look better in those pants than I do,” Jonas yelled, while Mitchell-or-Michael went to get them all drinks.

Christopher blew him a kiss, but his attention was aimed at the door. He knew what costume Don was going to wear—Indiana Jones, which Christopher hoped included the mostly unbuttoned shirt—but so far, every hat he’d spotted belonged to a cowboy.

They clinked glasses, and then Mitchell-or-Michael downed his and dragged Jonas to the dance floor while Jonas laughed and tried to finish his own drink in time to drop the glass at the end of the bar.

Christopher smiled, feeling the same urge to just let go, but he’d wait for Don first.

After ten minutes, he was still riding an anticipatory high. After he finished his drink though, and another fifteen minutes had passed, the high was crashing, and his devil-may-care was starting to devil-might-not.

He got groped a few times, and a twinky angel with a tinfoil halo and very free roaming hands whispered some far-from-holy activities directly into Christopher’s ear, but Christopher brushed him off as kindly as he could, still holding out for Indy. He danced with Jonas and Mitchell-or-Michael, and then by himself, and then when it became perfectly clear Don was not coming, he made a polite exit and pulled off his horns for the walk home.

Don called the next day. His car had broken down at the side of the highway, just outside of Montreal. He’d not even made it half the way to Toronto. His apology was genuine, and Christopher tried to be as gracious as he could about it.

“We’ll try again,” Don said.

“Sure,” Christopher said, but he couldn’t help but notice Don didn’t have anything specific in the way of a time or date to offer, and neither did he.

Maybe he should have settled for the angel.

 

A

 

December, 1981

 

“Forget it,” Christopher said, after a swallow of coffee, staring at the tiny paper angel on the top of his little tabletop Christmas tree. Dwelling on Don was not going to make this particular holiday any more tolerable.

His stomach growled, and he put down his cup, kneeling down in front of his finicky oven to see the world’s smallest turkey through the gritty glass. He was no chef, but it looked good, and he was looking forward to sitting down with turkey and mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, and, of course—

Christopher froze.

Wait.

He stared at his countertop, where he’d already set up a plate, as well as the trivet for the turkey pan and then back at the stovetop, where the three pots waited. He’d mashed the potatoes, made the gravy, and the carrots were done; all three were just there to stay warm now. But with a sinking sensation, he went to his cupboards, opening them and checking and…

“Oh damn,” he said. He’d forgotten.

He crouched again, looking at the turkey. He had time. He looked up at the counter, not rising, considering. Did it matter?

His stomach growled again.

Fuck yes, it mattered.

If there was one thing about winter Christopher could do without, it was the boots and coat and scarf and mittens routine, but he threw them all back on and bundled up for the cold, late, trek to the closest grocery he was only half sure might still be open, but light streaming from the windows seemed to signify at least this one thing was going to go his way, and he stomped his boots at the entrance before heading right to the aisle in question, hoping they weren’t out and…

There!

He grinned, triumphant, and picked up a can of cranberry sauce.

Christopher turned on his heel and headed back to the front of the store, where the line was only three people and took his position behind a tall, blond guy with nice shoulders and…

Hold on.

No way.

“Don?”

Tall, Blond, and Nice-Shoulders turned around so fast he nearly collided with Christopher, and it was, in fact, Don, crooked eyetooth making its usual glorious appearance as Don aimed a delighted smile Christopher’s way.

“Christopher,” he said. Okay, so that lightly accented voice was sort of the best thing ever, really. “Hello.”

“Hello?” Christopher raised his hands, one empty, one gripping his cranberries. “You’re in Toronto?”

It maybe came out a little accusatory.

“I am,” Don said. “I was going to call you tomorrow. Just got here. I’m house-
sitting for my friend, the one with the boat. He had to go to New York, for a friend.” He shook his head, like the details weren’t necessary, but then added, simply, “he’s sick.” Christopher understood, and nodded to let Don know.

Christopher had heard the news out of New York, though the helpline, mostly.

The sting of Don having come to Toronto without telling him faded to nothing, and fizzled out.

“Anyway. I was housesitting anyway, so I decided to spend this one alone,” Don said, and he sounded almost embarrassed by the admission. “This year has been so crazy, I just needed a break.”

“Me too. I’m sort of skipping Christmas this year,” Christopher said, completely understanding that particular sentiment. “But why here, here?” Christopher waved at the store all around them.

“Oh, it’s silly. I brought dinner with me—just turkey sandwiches—but I forgot something.” Don held up a can.

Cranberry sauce.

“You’re kidding,” Christopher said, showing off his own can.

Some pressure inside Christopher seemed to release at their laughter, and those two cans of cranberry sauce seemed the singular most hilarious thing he’d encountered all year. It seemed to strike Don the same way.

They howled.

Then the clerk cleared her throat because the people ahead of them were already checked out, and so they wiped laugh-induced-tears and took their turns buying their cans of cranberry sauce and shuffled back towards the front of the store, still letting out puffy breaths of half-laughs whenever they looked at each other as they returned to the windy, dark, and snowy outdoors.

“So, I may have been skipping Christmas this year, but I’m six blocks that way, and I have something better than turkey sandwiches to offer you,” Christopher said, aiming a mittened thumb over his shoulder.

Don raised one eyebrow, that smile returning, and Christopher cleared his throat, because he hadn’t intended that double entendre. But frankly, he’d stand by it.

“So, you’re saying maybe we don’t skip Christmas?” Don said.

“Couldn’t possibly,” Christopher said. “Not this year.”

Don glanced around, but they were alone on the street and snow and wind was whipping in every direction, so when he leaned in for a kiss, Christopher rose on his toes to meet him, and the moment they connected, the cold fell away all around him.

Magic.

Don’s warm lip turned in a smile even as they broke apart, far too soon.

“I’ve been waiting all year to do that,” Don said, with a little growl.

“Me too,” Christopher said. “More please. Once we’re out of the snow.”

“Deal.” Don laughed. “I really was going to call you tomorrow.”

“After that? I really believe you.” Christopher nodded.

Don grinned. “Just six blocks?”

“Just six blocks,” Christopher said, leading the way.