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Oxford Street was not magical, for magic does not exist. As much as Steven would like it to, he couldn’t bring himself to believe in luck either. It was his fault for what had happened. He was not, simply, unlucky.
The shops were closed and sullen, with none of the usual murky, brown snow for the strung fairy lights to reflect. It was the opposite of Christmas eve, Steven thought. Where was Santa Claus? With his jolly beard and his friendly elves? Would Santa be real this year, bring him presents on Christmas morning?
Steven’s cynicism brought him back to earth. You’re twenty-eight years old, man. Get a grip.
Steven looked up. The yellowness of the streetlamps guided him, though made the night sky appear almost green.
He was reminded of what his mother told him. Whenever you feel like you need to sneeze, look at the light. He chuckled at the thought; how random it was for it to appear in his head.
His mind wandered momentarily. Is there a way to stop yourself from crying? From everything reminding you of a time when things were happier, were better?
Steven recognised how dramatic he was being, though couldn’t bring himself to find a reason not to be.
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It was Camille. It was always Camille and it was always going to be Camille. Steven knew that.
He’d never met her, but Tom always told Steven that he would have loved her. The deep brown of her hair, cascading down past her shoulders in tidal waves of curls.
From the first photo that Tom showed him of Camille, Steven knew it was never going to be him. Her navy eyes were filled with lightning, a face only calmed by a thunder of freckles. Perfect smile, perfect little dimples, like a meteor shower nearly missed. Steven almost fell in love with her too, had it not been for the man lying on the bed next to him, grinning.
Six months was all it took for Tom to realise it was never going to be Steven.
It was always Camille. Camille who had never been there for him; Camille who had broken up with him, who had left him, tears pouring from her disastrous eyes.
Steven knew this, of course. Tom had told him; he’d come running to Steven, in fact.
Camille ended everything, she’s gone, Steven, Tom had whimpered.
Steven remembered those delicate, strong arms pulling on his shirt; the grey fabric darkening from Tom’s tears.
It was that night that he’d first kissed Tom.
Not as weird as he’d expected, actually enjoyable. He felt like home, and he needed a home.
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Six months later and Steven’s eyes stung as Tom spoke.
To Tom, Steven was like fire. Like a warmth that engulfed him, keeping him from the cold. But eventually burned away at his conscious, his guilt.
He needed Camille.
And he needed to put his own happiness before Steven’s.
He wasn’t meaning to fall in love with Steven, and he didn’t think he would.
He liked eyes that reminded him of Cadbury’s chocolate. But soon he craved the blue of the sea, struck by white flashes of lightning.
And Christmas wasn’t a time for lying. He couldn’t lie to Steven any longer.
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Steven remembers what he’d said to Tom, chocolate eyes stinging and hands running through his hair.
It’s okay, Tom. It’s okay.
He was sitting on Tom’s bed next to him, unable to meet those green, green eyes he knew so well. Their knees touched slightly, sending an uncomfortable shiver up Steven’s spine.
She’s beautiful, Tom. Really, she is.
He was glad that Tom couldn’t see him, for Steven knew his eyes were red and his face blotchy.
I understand. Go and love her, Tom. I don’t mind.
He did mind. Of course he did; how could he not?
And then Steven stood; Tom looked up at him with those eyes, and Steven felt a pang in his heart and tears threatened to spill.
He moved closer to Tom, cupping Tom’s face in his right hand. Steven felt dampness on the tip of his thumb, and a lump formed in his throat when he saw a glimmer, the tiniest tear fall down those cheeks. Steven brushed it away softly.
I love you.
Tom opened his mouth to say something, but Steven smiled softly, sadly and interrupted him.
No, Tom. You don’t have to say it back.
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His Adidas tracksuit top was the only think Steven kept at Tom’s house, and he was very glad for it as he looked up at the winter sky.
He looked forward again, hands deep in his pockets pulling his coat tighter over his torso. One hand emerged to brush away tears, and then disappeared again.
Steven knew exactly what he looked like. It was easy for him to disguise his red, freezing nose and chapped lips as effects of the frigid weather.
The puffy eyes were less easy to explain.
He looked up again, the lights strung from either side of the street making his stinging eyes water.
I need some dramatic, sad music to serenade me right now, he thought with a hesitant laugh.
He wiped a tear again as it threatened to escape.
Steven looked to his right, hearing a slight rustling sound.
“Merry Christmas, sir.” He hears. The man appears out of the shadow, his old, dark, sunken eyes appearing warm and homely.
Steven removed his hand from his pocket, and gave a quick wave to the man. He did not have to heart to correct him: it was only Christmas eve.
“Merry Christmas to you too, sir.” He smiled. His voice felt foreign and raspy, and the smile wrong.
He quickly put his hand back in his pocket, it beginning to feel frigid from the freezing air.
The street returned to silence, inhabited only with those who are lonely, those that have yet to find love and those for whom it has departed. Steven decided that he must fill all those three categories.
He continued walking forwards, the cobbled stones numbing his feet in only canvas shoes.
He looked down at his watch and wiped away another tear which had escaped against his will. He ran a hand through his hair.
12:03am, he read.
Steven stopped walking, and looked again up at the lights, this time punctuated with a large golden star.
Another sob escaped his lips, and he looked around to make sure no one had heard him.
Merry Christmas to me, he thought.
He looked ahead, seeing someone walking towards him in the distance. He saw a man with golden hair, glowing in the light of the star.
A drunk, perhaps? A homeless man?
No, Steven concluded. No.
He could see the outline of a black coat, slim jeans and dress shoes.
Steven to the side of the pathway, where the light did not hit.
He was not in the mood to interact with someone who may exude sympathy.
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Stuart could see him in the distance. A small speck first, yet growing larger with every stride he took.
He felt something fall on his face, and looked up immediately.
Rain, he noted. He slipped under the shelter of the empty storefront closest to him.
He knew the other man had felt it also, as he too sheltered himself by the shop windows.
He was only metres away now, and Stuart could start to see his face forming. Deep brown hair, eyes like liquid gold in the Christmas lights. Only a shadow of a man.
The man ducked his head, realising Stuart was looking at him. They were face to face now, a metre away from him.
The man had stopped, waiting for Stuart to move out of the way so he could pass under shelter from the rain.
He still could not see the man’s face fully, just the top of his head and the tip of his nose, red from the cold.
Stuart smiled slightly at the shyness of the other man. “Merry Christmas,” he told him.
The man flinched, startled by Stuart’s voice puncturing the silence. He looked up, right into Stuart’s eyes.
Looking bad at him was heartbreak. Eyes red and puffy, and a face pattered with tear tracks like lace. He did not smile.
A flush crept up the man's cheeks, and he looked back down at his thin, canvas shoes.
The rain was harder now, and Stuart noticed the man mumble something that he could not hear. Stuart frowned slightly, urging the man to repeat himself.
“I said, Merry Christmas.” His voice was a cracked whisper, and another tear fell down his cheek. The man shivered, wrapping his long arms around his torso.
Stuart’s hand twitched urgently in his black gloves with the desire to brush the man’s tear away.
He could not stop himself, however, from holding his hand out for the other man. Whether this was for a handshake, or to hold the man’s hand, he did not know. All he knew was that he wanted to feel the warmth, to feel the touch of this stranger.
The other man looked down at Stuart’s hand, the tear dripping into the puddles on the ground and getting lost within the rain.
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He took the hand outstretched with his own corresponding hand. It was hesitant, and the immediate warmth of the other man's fingertips sent a warm fire through his body. Steven wasn’t sure why, but he did not mind this man. He did not mind his touch, his kind words, his silky voice and soft smile. He frowned, unable to explain his own actions to himself.
“Um,” Steven croaked. “I’m Steven.” He looked up, lacing his fingers into the other man’s. He used his other hand to wipe away the tears that had escaped.
He looked stupid, he knew. Puffy eyes, tear tracks. But there was something about the warmth from the man’s delicate fingers that startled Steven. He almost gasped, but stopped himself. The icy air a deep contrast to the fire creeping up him until he felt his cheeks turn a deep red.
The man stepped one pace toward him, slowly, as though to assure Steven that he was not to be afraid. “I’m Stuart.” He smiled gently, and finally, hesitantly reached up to brush the remains of a tear from Steven’s face.
Steven smiled slightly, unsure of why, what, who this man was. He leaned closer to Stuart, just an inch or two. Steven's looked down at his other hand which he had removed from his pocket.
I need to. I want to. Is all Steven needed, reassuring himself that he was not, in fact, diving in too deep. His hand stretched further from his torso, until it reached Stuart's covered arm.
He watched as firstly, it was just the touch of his fingertips. But eventually, finally, his whole hand was rested comfortably on Stuart's bicep; his coat wet from the pouring rain.
Steven knew the interaction had only been momentary, but in that instant he’d known Stuart for years.
He felt something brush his arm. Gasping slightly, he and Stuart looked out towards the empty street, slowly being covered in a light layer of white dust.
And he realised, as energy surged from their joined fingers, that maybe he really was lucky. And that magic, however unlikely, could be real.