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Christmas is a busy time in the Hemmick-Klose-Minyard household. The Hemmick component is most to blame.
Nicky is cooking up a storm downstairs, with help from Erik as Aaron seems to have resigned himself to do his homework at the dining table. This puts him in easy reach of Nicky, who slides him vegetables and fruit to peel while also keeping him out of the way in the small kitchen.
Andrew stays upstairs.
Erik comes for him only once. “Do you want to come downstairs?” he asks. “Nicky suggests we grab a bite while cooking.”
“No,” Andrew replies, curled up in bed.
Erik looks at him, then at the blinds, still pulled down on the gray day. It’s a little after noon.
“Alright,” he says. “Door closed?”
“I don’t care,” Andrew says, and he doesn’t.
Erik smiles, his lightning-quick smile that means a silent “alright,” and leaves the door cracked open. His steps retreat down the stairs, dulled by the carpet. Andrew goes back to watching the shadows move on the wall across the room, eyes heavy.
Downstairs, the radio cuts on. The house is small and the staircase is right next to the kitchen, so the sounds of carols fill Andrew’s bedroom easily. It’s almost enough to get him to move and close his door, but instead he tugs his comforter a little higher over his head.
Andrew’s drifting in and out of sleep when he hears Aaron running up the stairs. Recently, he’s taken to taking the stairs two steps at a time, whether going up and down. It gives a peculiar sound to his steps, rushed and lighter than before.
Aaron crosses the hallway, rummaging in his bedroom for a moment before going back out. Andrew’s door is closer to the stairs than his; when he passes by, Andrew can hear him stop on the threshold, hesitating.
He stays a second, probably glancing inside, then he runs back down.
The next person who comes up is Nicky. His steps are much more measured than Aaron’s. He actually surprises Andrew when he knocks on the frame of the door.
“You up?” he whispers, like his presence alone wouldn’t wake Andrew up.
Andrew considers not answering. He turns over in his bed, facing the door. Nicky takes the rustling for the agreement it is and steps inside, carrying a tray he sets down at the foot of Andrew’s bed.
He leans forward to turn on the bedside light. Andrew instinctively scoots back, then back again when Nicky takes it for an invitation to sit on the edge of the bed.
“I brought you something,” he says, rather obviously. “I know you didn’t eat much last night.” Andrew grunts. A beat, then: “Did you forget your meds or is this a side effect?”
“They didn’t do anything,” Andrew says.
“You have to give it time. It’s not an overnight solution.”
It’s not. Andrew knows this. He also knows how to deal with his lows; the former meds brought him to highs unknown. This is familiar, like dipping his toes in a vortex he knows will suck him in if he lets it. He just has to be smarter. Faster.
“You’ve only been taking them for a few weeks—”
“I flushed them down the toilets.”
“Andrew—” Nicky sighs. Andrew wonders if it’s because Nicky thinks he acted like a child or because the pills were expensive. Probably both. Money is less tight now that Nicky and Erik aren’t living two separate lives on each side of the world, but they’ve learned to be serious in those few months after Tilda’s death.
“What does Bee say?” Nicky tries again.
“She’s in vacation. Off for the week.”
“So you just flushed down your meds without talking to your therapist about it?”
Andrew says nothing. He focuses on the wall across the room—despite the early hour, it’s already gray and half-dark—and lets Nicky lead the conversation alone.
“When’s she coming back?”
“Three days.”
“Alright, then we’ll call her first thing in the morning. Do you think you can do it?”
“I’ve done it for sixteen fucking years.”
“Perfect, then you can eat as well.”
Nicky places the tray in front of Andrew. “Bring back the tray when you’re done!” He slips out of the room, still not closing the fucking door.
On the tray is a sandwich cut in bite-sized parts held together by toothpicks like it’s some kind of fancy party, a ramekin of homemade applesauce, still warm from the stove and smelling of cinnamon, and a little stack of chocolate cookies.
Andrew hesitates but he starts with the cookies. He eats slowly, one bite at a time, waiting for the nausea to subsist. By the time he nibbles on the first bite of sandwich his stomach feels more settled.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. One glance at it, even from afar, is enough to see Neil’s profile picture next to the text notification. Andrew drops the toothpick he’s holding.
Hey. Do you have the math homework? I noted it wrong.
Andrew blinks at it. He locks his phone without answering. Then he unlocks it again, almost immediately, thumbs hovering over his keyboard before he clicks the call button.
“Why are you doing your homework on Christmas Day?” he asks when Neil picks up.
There’s chatter in the background. Neil’s voice is low when he answers, “I’m on my break.”
“On your break.”
“At the diner?”
“Sweetie’s doesn’t open on Christmas Day.”
“It does. Sarah and I needed the extra hours, and we don’t celebrate. Do you have the homework? I can’t stay long on the phone.”
Andrew stares ahead at his closet door, then closes his eyes and takes his decision. “I have it here,” he says. “When does your shift end?”
“I don’t know, like four? We’re not open tonight.”
Pathetic. “Come over when you’re done,” Andrew says. “Nicky will have a fit if he knows you’re spending the day in that dingy hole you call a flat.”
“Technically it’s just a bedroom,” Neil says.
He’s found some place to legally live at last. It’s on the top floor of a youth center, a bedroom with a private bathroom but not even a place to boil water. Andrew came over once—not to help him move, because one trip with Neil’s duffel bag took care of that—and they spent that time fixing a new lock on the door.
“I don’t care,” Andrew replies. “Be there before five.”
He can almost see Neil roll his eyes. “Fine,” he says, almost fond.
Andrew hangs up on him before he starts to feel things he’s sworn off. Talking with Neil, lately, has proven slippery and dangerous.
He gets out of bed, then, changing out of his wrinkled pajamas. He dresses warmly, a long-sleeved shirt over his armbands and then a warm sweater he got in the presents they opened that morning. Nicky bought it for him, so it’ll probably make the fact that he invited Neil out of the blue to their family holiday easier to take in. That’s the kind of things Nicky cares about. Of course, he also cares about Andrew having friends and Neil’s waifish appearance, so the chances are high that he won’t mind either way.
Christmas carols welcome Andrew when he steps down into the kitchen. Nicky’s at the stove, stirring something from a large pot. He turns when he hears Andrew come down.
“Hey!” he exclaims. He looks like he wants to say more, but refrains himself at the last moment. “Is there enough salt in this?”
He holds out his spoon toward Andrew expectantly, who sidesteps him and places the tray on the counter. “Why don’t you check yourself?”
“I burnt my tongue. Come on, Andrew. It’s good, I swear.”
It is good, although it leaves an ashy aftertaste in Andrew’s mouth. He feels almost sick with the feeling of food, even though he managed to eat everything Nicky put on the tray earlier.
“More salt?”
Andrew shakes his head and takes a seat at the table. Aaron glances up at him and immediately slides a knife at him across the table. Andrew tugs the cutting board a little closer to himself and starts on one of the carrots waiting by Aaron’s side.
“Neil’s coming at five.”
Aaron’s knife slides along the carrot and embeds itself in the cutting board with a loud noise. Andrew stares at him steadily, but Aaron doesn’t say anything. He squints at Andrew before going back to his carrot.
“Neil’s coming?” Nicky repeats. “Like, for dinner?” Andrew shrugs. “Okay. I’m so glad he won’t be alone for Christmas!”
“Less leftovers,” Erik says from the living room. Andrew glances back at him over his shoulders. He’s sitting on the floor, fiddling with the end of the plug-in string lights running along the Christmas tree branches. He smiles when he sees Andrew watching him and cuts a bit of tape with his teeth.
“There,” he says, turning to plug the lights in the outlet behind him. The lights turn on, shaky at first, then brightly colored. “It won’t hold but it should do for this year.”
“You’re the best.” Nicky leans over the counter to steal a kiss.
“Can we go back to the fact that Andrew invited his—fuck you!”
Aaron drops his knife to rub at his shin, glaring daggers across the table. Andrew stares back steadily. “Oops,” he deadpans.
“Stop fighting,” Nicky admonishes. “I’m glad Neil’s joining us tonight. Aaron, I thought you liked him?”
“Whatever,” Aaron says.
He doesn’t say anything on the matter for the rest of the afternoon, but at least he doesn’t brood. By the time five rolls around, they’re all spread around the living room in post-cooking lethargy. Aaron is still engrossed in one of his books, which he puts down at regular intervals to type at his phone.
“Ugh,” Nicky says as he collapses into Erik’s arms on the couch. He sheds the oven mitt still on his left hand on the coffee table. “Someone reminds me not to cook everything in one day next year.”
“You’ve been saying that for the past four Christmases,” Erik says. He kisses Nicky’s forehead and they exchange smiles, too full of unbridled feelings for Andrew. He looks away and his gaze catches on Aaron, who rolls his eyes at the display.
The bell rings a few minutes later. Everyone looks up but stay seated, a tense moment suspended in the calm evening air.
Then everyone gets up at once.
“Neil,” Nicky says, delighted.
“I’ll get it.” Andrew, the closest to the hallway, beats Nicky on the way out.
“Ugh,” Aaron complains. He closes his book and stalks upstairs. “Call me for dinner.”
“Isn’t Neil your friend?” Erik asks.
“No.” Andrew and Aaron share a look through the living room, Andrew with one hand on the door handle and Aaron halfway up the stairs.
These moments happen more and more frequently: answers given at the same time, with the same inflexion; finding each other’s eyes through a room to hold a silent conversation. They are snatches of a quarter of a life lived together, a collection of what-ifs waiting to be answered.
Andrew opens the door.
Neil is standing on the porch, huddled in a hoodie and a jacket Andrew bullied him into buying to protect him against the cold. Neil had complained at the time, but now he looks somewhat less miserable than he did a few weeks ago, when they got their first—and only—snowfall of the year.
“Hey,” he says, smiling quickly. “Uh, I brought dessert.”
He’s holding a bag labelled with Sweetie’s colorful logo, weighed down by what Andrew hopes are takeaway boxes of cake. Andrew steps aside, snagging his fingers into the handles of the bag when Neil steps inside.
“Nicky already made dessert,” he says.
Neil’s face falls down. “Oh,” he says, as though he had any idea of social conventions.
Someone at Sweetie’s probably told him bringing something to a house he’s invited to for dinner is the polite thing to do.
“I’ll keep that,” Andrew says.
“Of course.” The corners of Neil’s lips turn back up. “Wouldn’t want to upset Nicky.”
“Not on Christmas,” agrees Andrew.
Nicky predictably fusses over Neil as soon as he steps into the kitchen. Andrew abandons him to it and sticks the cakes in the fridge—there’s different kinds of pie and a large slice of cake with thick icing that needs to stay cold. When he turns back, Neil has a glass in his hand and is being pushed onto the couch.
“Let him breathe, Nicky,” Erik says with a laugh. “Do you want me to check on the meal?”
The distraction works. Nicky runs back to the kitchen, leaving room for Andrew to drop into the spot next to Neil.
“So,” Neil says after a while, sipping on his drink—water. Predictable. “What did you say the math homework was?”
“I didn’t.” Andrew pushes at Neil’s tight with his foot until Neil slides off the couch and grabs his new backpack, much less battered than his old duffel. “Pages 187 and 188.”
“Thanks.” Neil opens his book, takes out a sheet of paper and starts scribbling. The numbers line up neatly on the paper, even though Andrew knows his writing is atrocious. He doesn’t even need to think before laying the equations on the paper, typing on his calculator at regular intervals.
After a while, he stops, straightening his back. He looks at Andrew, meeting his gaze, and his lips curl up without prompting.
“Staring,” he says.
“You’ll hurt your back if you keep hunching over like that.”
Neil shrugs, but he doesn’t go back to his notes immediately. “I’m used to it. I don’t have a desk in my bedroom.”
“Your life is a tragedy,” Andrew says with the hypocrisy of the privileged. He’s aware of the comforts Nicky and Erik provide him and Aaron with: separate bedrooms, doors that lock at night, the overlooked promise of safety. Desks to do their homework on.
“You’re still here,” Neil says. “If you didn’t like the play you would have left a long time ago.” At Andrew’s expression, he adds: “I was just trying to keep up with the theatrical metaphor, but it doesn’t sound as good.”
“Just stick to math.”
Neil curses at him in Spanish, just to prove that he can, and shuffles into a more comfortable position. He leans back against the armrest, bringing his legs up so that he can prop his book against them. Andrew can’t see what he’s writing anymore in that position, but their socked feet are almost meeting in the middle of the couch.
Andrew looks away. In the kitchen, Nicky is busy at the stove, chatting with Erik in low German as though it’ll prevent anyone in the house from understanding. Or maybe it’s unconscious, a slip into the language that shaped them.
It’s a stupid thing to think about. Andrew closes his eyes and wills his mind blank. On the couch, Neil’s feet slide forward until they’re brushing Andrew. When Andrew presses back slightly, Neil settles his feet a little over Andrew’s, warming them more effectively than the thick socks he’s wearing. The scratch of his pencil on paper never falters.
Dinner starts early, because none of them have had more than a few bites early in the afternoon, and lasts a long time. Andrew mostly stays quiet. Weariness drills into his bones until keeping his mind blank is the only thing that carries through dinner.
Not even Neil’s presence on the chair next to him is enough to challenge his need to be alone. It gets worse when Aaron’s phone pings with its usual warning at nine.
“Take your meds,” he says to Andrew from the kitchen, where he’s fetching plates for the cake Nicky baked.
Silence settles over the table. Aaron only notices when he comes back, passing plates around. “What?” he asks. “Did you take them already?”
“No.”
“Well, go get them, then.”
“No,” Andrew repeats.
“No?” Aaron looks over at Nicky, who avoids his eyes, then back at Andrew. “But—”
“Aaron, give me a plate, yes?”
Aaron does, still staring at Andrew. “Oh no,” he says, clearly exasperated. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to stop taking them without warning.”
“Fine,” Andrew says. He accepts a plate from Neil, loaded with cake. He’s picked at his food all dinner, but Nicky still made his slice bigger than average. “I won’t.”
“You’re so stupid it physically pains me,” Aaron snaps. He sits back in his chair and slams his plate down. Powdered sugar flies everywhere like weightless snow.
“Aaron,” Erik says. “Lighten up?”
“He’s being an idiot.”
“It’s Christmas day. Maybe you can argue with your brother about his own mental health another day.”
Aaron relents. It took Erik a long time to start butting in in such arguments, but after four years Andrew is almost surprised to see Aaron accept the rebuttal.
They dig into the cake in silence, the only noise being the scratch of forks against porcelain. Then Neil, who made himself so invisible during the argument that Andrew almost forgot he was there, grabs the easiest topic at hand and compliments Nicky on the food.
“Just like I had in Germany,” he lies, because Neil Josten—or Chris, or Alex, or whoever he was then—didn’t stop running to eat cake.
Nicky beams at him. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s Erik’s mother’s recipe, but he won’t tell me honestly if it’s as good as hers.”
“I do,” Erik says. “But you don’t believe me. Did you visit Germany?”
“I lived there for a few months,” Neil says. He skirts the truth but doesn’t lie outright, maybe because he knows that the whole school—and parents by extension—have been talking about his life too much to believe his simple lies anymore.
They jump on the topic of Germany until Aaron stops sending death glares at Andrew over the table. When they’ve said enough banalities about it, Neil speaks about Britain and France and Greece and Dubai before they all split up again after cleaning the table.
Nicky and Erik set up Skype to call the Kloses, all the way in Germany. Aaron squints at Andrew and Neil, then goes back upstairs, presumably to avoid being drawn into a conversation with his cousin’s family in a language he’s not entirely comfortable in. Those Skype calls are really only necessary because Nicky and Erik’s decision to move to America to take care of the twins, something that always makes Aaron uncomfortable.
Growing up with Tilda didn’t prepare him for the reality of other people’s sacrifices. Andrew’s life didn’t prepare him either, but Andrew is more used to change than Aaron is.
Case in point. Neil’s presence in the house throws off their usual routine and balance, but Andrew doesn’t mind. Neil is quiet and a quick study. He learns to walk around Andrew’s edges without tiptoeing, to respect Andrew’s boundaries without sacrificing his own. It makes Andrew feels infuriatingly safe.
“Hey,” Neil says as they finish clearing away the dishes. Andrew looks up, closing the dishwasher. Neil’s eyes are wide and clear in the yellow light. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“It’s just a meal,” Andrew lies.
“And leftovers.” Neil shakes the boxes Nicky packed for him when he learned the only kitchen amenity in Neil’s bedroom is a recently-added wonky microwave. “I mean it,” he adds. “I haven’t celebrated Christmas in years.”
“Have you ever?”
Neil shrugs. “Not really.”
“Better go before Nicky hears you say that,” Andrew tells him. “He’ll keep you there for the night otherwise.”
Neil nods. He places the Tupperwares of food at the bottom of his bag, then stacks his homework on top.
“I’ll just jog home,” he says. “I haven’t eaten that much in days.”
Andrew steps forward. When Neil straightens up, blinking at finding Andrew in his personal space, he has no choice but to brush against Andrew.
“Yes?” Neil asks as if Andrew had just called him in the middle of a task.
Neil lets himself being led down the hallway and out of the door. Andrew’s hand tingles from the contact with Neil’s ruined skin. It’s not sensory overload but something else that Andrew doesn’t want to put a name on right now.
Andrew softly closes the door behind them, cutting them from the sight of the house. The night is cold, but Neil doesn’t shiver so Andrew grits his teeth and tries to relax his muscles against the cold.
“Yes or no?” he asks, toes curling on the cold wood. Stepping outside in just his socks strikes him as a very stupid idea, right until Neil says, “yes,” and brings their mouths together.
Neil’s lips are slightly chapped. Andrew’s seen him chew on them so many times that he would know this even if they weren’t pressed against his own.
Neil was an inexperienced kisser when they started whatever this is, but Andrew didn’t mind then and he certainly doesn’t now. He got to mold Neil’s skills to match his own preferences, and Neil learns quickly through example. He opens his lips just so under Andrew’s mouth—under, because he’s standing one step below Andrew and for once Andrew has a couple of inches on him—in a way that almost makes Andrew forget they’re on the front porch.
He’s brutally reminded when the door opens behind him.
“Andrew?” says Nicky. He’s quick to lose his interrogative tone. “Oh.”
“Leave,” Andrew says, blood icing in his veins. He doesn’t know who he’s talking to: Neil, who glances at him and turns away, or Nicky, already stepping back inside and closing the door behind him.
Andrew catches Neil’s sleeve as soon as they’re alone. It’s barely a tug, but it stops Neil in his tracks. His hand fall from the railing, but Andrew doesn’t let go of his stupid jacket.
“I’ll deal with it,” Andrew tells him after a beat. Neil’s looking at him steadily, his expression too open like it always is when he’s with Andrew.
Neil glances at the door. “I don’t care,” he says. “It’s Nicky.”
He says it like he omitted a just in the middle. It’s just Nicky, except it isn’t. It’s Andrew’s past catching up with him when he’s managed to put it aside for so long. Neil doesn’t understand it, but he’s the closest to it than Andrew has ever known anyone to be.
“Because you don’t swing.”
“Because it’s Nicky,” Neil repeats. “He’s not going to tell anyone if you don’t want him to, right?” When Andrew doesn’t say anything, he presses on: “It doesn’t change anything, does it?”
Neil has rearranged his face to carefully neutral. Andrew thinks about the assertions that this meant nothing to either of them. Something like rage boils up under his skin. They’ve been feeding each other lies for too long for it to make a difference.
“Go home,” Andrew tells him finally. He watches Neil’s back as he descends the last steps to the driveway. Then: “Keep your phone on.”
Neil turns away at the bottom of the stairs. The lack of duffel bag at his side is disorienting, but he looks more at ease since he’s found someplace to store his clothes and belongings to. Homelessness didn’t suit him.
He’s almost smiling as he says, “You’ll call me?”
Andrew rolls his eyes at him and pointedly turns back.
Nicky is washing the dishes in the kitchen when Andrew steps in. He glances up and cuts off the water, hands lingering on the edge of the sink.
“Andrew—” he starts.
“No.”
Andrew bypasses him without a glance and starts on the stairs. A conversation with his too talkative cousin on their shared sexuality is not how Andrew wants the day to end. He steps on his dirty socks until they come off and crawls into bed, but he can’t even find rest there. The pillows already have the imprint of his head from earlier and the sheets are crinkled from tossing and turning all night.
Predictable as clockwork, Nicky comes knocking less than a minute later.
“I know you’re not sleeping,” he says. “Can I come in?”
Andrew doesn’t answer. Nicky takes it as a yes anyway and kneels on the floor at the head of the bed, crossing his arms on the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t seem to care that Andrew is completely ignoring him.
“I’m here if you want to talk,” he starts.
“I don’t,” Andrew answers, wondering if it’ll banish Nicky accordingly. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t. Nicky makes a noise like he’s just humoring Andrew and stays where he is.
“I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Andrew waves his words aside. “I don’t worry.”
“Sure. And this is you being cool as a cucumber?”
Would Erik still take in the twins if Andrew strangled his husband? Maybe he’d keep Aaron. Andrew can go to juvie, for all he cares. It has to be better than this having conversation.
He sits up on his elbows and glares at Nicky as much as he can in the semi-darkness of his bedroom.
“You have thirty seconds,” he announces.
“Is Neil your boyfriend?” comes the first rushed question. “No, wait, never mind that. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Why.”
“Some things can’t be answered fully by a quick Google search in an anonymous tab,” Nicky says. “Trust me on that. Feelings and sex can be—”
“No,” Andrew cuts him off. Nicky surprisingly—or not—takes it in stride.
“Alright. But I mean it. You can come to me anytime you want. Or Erik, I guess, if—”
Dread settles in Andrew’s stomach like a heavy stone. “You haven’t told Erik,” he says, and it’s more than a question.
“In the two minutes it took you to see Neil off? No, I haven’t. Do you want me to?”
Things might actually have been less awkward had Erik been the one who walked in on Andrew and Neil instead of Nicky. He would have been quieter, at least.
“No,” Andrew repeats.
“Then I promise I won’t.” Nicky’s tone grows serious. “I’m sorry circumstances forced your hand in coming out. I know it’s not easy. I’m glad you have Neil, though.”
It’s so incredibly stupid and like Nicky to think that Andrew somehow has Neil because of that thing going on between them that Andrew has to contain his reaction. He rolls over toward the wall, his back to his cousin.
“Aaron’s face when he realizes he’s the straight cousin,” Nicky snickers. “Ha. I can almost see it.”
“You’ve been seeing it every day.”
“Does he know?”
Andrew thinks about Aaron’s remarks about Neil, even before they started anything. He thinks of Tilda’s vocal disdain for anything not heterosexual and Aaron’s silence on the question since Nicky and Erik came into their lives.
Aaron can put two and two together. He probably has, too.
“He might if he’s not even more stupid than I think he is,” Andrew answers. “Are you done?”
“Not even remotely, but I’ll leave you alone if you want to stew in your own sweat and have a gay panic.”
Andrew’s not stewing in his panic, but he accepts the set of fresh sheets Nicky throws him from his closet. They make a quick job out of stripping and remaking the bed, then Andrew falls back on the patted down comforter and tries not to think about how comfortable it is.
Nicky hesitates on the threshold. “Can I hug you?”
“How much do you care about your arms?” Andrew answers.
He stays very still when Nicky wraps his arms around him. It’s a quick hug by Nicky’s standards, a slight squeeze around Andrew’s shoulders that is meant to be comforting but only leaves Andrew out of place. He ghosts a kiss on top of Andrew’s head and Andrew pushes at his sternum until Nicky takes a step back.
“Enough,” he grits.
“Alright. Thank you for the conversation and the confidence. I’m proud of you.”
On the nightstand, Andrew’s phone silently lights up with an incoming text notification. It doesn’t make any noise, because Andrew hasn’t taken it off silent mode since the day he got it, but in the darkened room, it’s impossible to miss. Nicky knows as well as Andrew that there’s only one person Andrew allows to text him. He says nothing, but he smiles one last time and retreats downstairs. Andrew can hear him speaking with Aaron in the kitchen—is Aaron already going back for leftovers? —and takes a minute to breathe before grabbing his phone.
I’m home, Neil’s text reads. Andrew lets the cursor rest in front of an unwritten answer before slowly typing, good for you.
Neil’s answer is slow as usual.
I’m waiting for your call, it says, and even though Neil could never master the art of sounding teasing and cheeky over text, a thrill zaps through Andrew.
He waits five minutes on the dot before calling Neil.