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“So when are we going to go cut down our tree?” Patrick snapped his laptop shut and turned his attention to David, who had been quietly reading on the couch next to him.
“Excuse me, what?”
“A tree, David. A Christmas tree? It’s December 2; we need to get one up!”
“A Christmas tree,” David parroted somewhat tonelessly.
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Yes, a Christmas tree. I know that even in your delightful half-and-half situation you know what a Christmas tree is. It’s our first Christmas in the new house, and we finally have room for one, so we need to get on it.”
“I was unaware,” David said, “that we were planning to get a real Christmas tree.”
“Really? You want an artificial Christmas tree? Doesn’t really seem your aesthetic, David.”
“Not one of those godawful cheap ones,” David retorted. “But an elegant one. Refined.”
“And why do you want an artificial tree?” Patrick was genuinely flummoxed by David’s apparent distaste at the idea of getting a live Christmas tree. Prior to starting this conversation, Patrick had been certain that David would agree that getting a live Christmas tree was the only correct choice.
“Needles, Patrick,” David said as though the answer were painfully obvious. “I don’t want a dead plant shedding all over my carpet.”
“Our carpet,” Patrick corrected with a slightly giddy smile. He liked to use the pronoun “our” whenever possible, especially when it came to their new house. The one they’d picked out together and that had both their names on the mortgage. “The kitchen” became “our kitchen,” “the sofa” became “our sofa” and on and on. David pretended to be very annoyed every time Patrick interrupted him to insist David say “our” instead of “the” or “my” but secretly he loved it, loved the constant reminder that they were a unit, a pair, a partnership and that there were things that belonged—both literally and metaphorically—to both of them together.
After much banter and disagreement, they finally came to a compromise: Patrick would get the mess-making Douglas fir he had his heart set on if he ceded all creative control re: decorating and color scheme to David. This was an easy compromise for Patrick to make, seeing as he’d never been under the illusion that he’d have any say in the decorating process whatsoever, but he didn’t bring this up out of fear that David would change his mind.
“And a mood board,” David amended. “I get to make a mood board, and I will not hear a snarky word from you about it.”
“Of course, David,” Patrick said fondly, scooting closer and kissing David on the cheek.
“And I think it goes without saying,” David added, “but under no circumstances will I be handling an axe. Or chainsaw. Or any implement that might be used in the chopping down of a tree.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Patrick kissed David softly on the mouth now.
“And I get to create an appropriate tree chopping look for you. Hot lumberjack-y without being too literal, you know?”
Patrick did not know, but he nodded anyway, kissing David again. “Yes, David.”
“And—“
“Are you done?” Patrick interrupted, mouth mere centimeters away from David’s. “Because I can think of a few things I’d rather do than discuss appropriate Christmas tree attire.” He buried his face against David’s neck, covering it with teasing kisses
“Oh. Yes. Yeah. I’m—I’m finished. Carry on.”
---
With the help of a few bottles of red wine and some expensive cheese, David and Patrick convinced Stevie to watch the store for a few hours on Saturday morning so that they could go on their tree chopping adventure. It was early—by David’s standards, at least—when Patrick guided a still sleepy David to the car, Patrick’s boyish smile a stark contrast to David’s pre-coffee scowl.
“Are you sure we have to cut it down ourselves?” David asked as Patrick settled into the driver’s seat and turned the key. “Can’t we just, like, go to one of those lots and pick one that’s already cut down? Seems like it would be easier.”
Patrick’s smile slipped a little. Cutting down the tree had always been his favorite tradition growing up. Most of his extended family caravaned to the same tree farm they’d been going to since before Patrick was born, where the kids fanned out in search of the perfect tree. Patrick always felt he had an advantage over his hoard of cousins, all of whom had siblings they had to argue with about which tree to choose. As the only child of indulgent parents, Patrick always got the final say on which fir or spruce would eventually be on display in his living room.
When the kids were little, they’d group around the grown ups in charge of felling the trees, while the grown ups who weren’t wielding an axe struggled to corral the smaller children so that nobody would get too close. As the cousins got older, they were allowed to take turns with the axe, their skinny arms trembling under the strain, though none of them would dare admit it was too heavy or the task too hard.
They’d all cheer as tree after tree was separated from the base of the trunk, and small chubby hands would join larger hands in lifting the trees into the air and hefting them back to the cars. After, everyone would stand around the little fire the elderly owners of the tree farm—a sweet couple that Patrick swore had been 85-years-old since he was a toddler— built every year, styrofoam cups of hot apple cider or cocoa clutched in sap sticky hands, the kids trying to one-up their cousins with their plans for decorating and speculating about which gifts would end up under the trees come Christmas morning.
This was the exact kind of childhood memory David didn’t have or particularly understand, but David regretted his lack of enthusiasm as he watched the memories flit across Patrick’s face. He remembered the soft look on Patrick’s face a few nights ago, when Patrick had cuddled into David’s chest and given him the highlight reel of Brewer Christmas Tree Extravaganzas of years past.
“Um, yeah, I guess. I mean, it would be faster.” Patrick was trying desperately to keep the disappointment out of his voice, and David knew it.
David turned in his seat to better face Patrick, a look of contrite apology on his face. He placed his hand on Patrick’s thigh, needing physical contact to fully communicate his penitence. “No, we should cut it down. Or more accurately, you should. It’s a tradition. And now we can, um, carry on that tradition. For us. For our family.”
Patrick’s smile was both radiant and unbearably fond. He cradled David’s face in his hands and kissed him warmly. “Yes,” he said, his breath tickling David’s face. “For our family. Thank you, David.”
David kissed his husband again, fingers rubbing the back of Patrick’s neck soothingly. “Let’s go get that tree, Mr. Rose-Brewer.”
Patrick lit up the way he always did when he heard their combined last name and put the car into reverse to back out of the driveway.
___
A little over a half an hour later Patrick trundled down the narrow gravel road that led to the tree farm he’d chosen and parked the car in between a beat up old minivan and a pick up truck. He smiled at the thought of the family the van belonged to running through rows of pines to find their Christmas trees.
Hand in hand, they popped into the small outbuilding that served as the office to get the lay of the land and gather equipment. A jolly sort of old man greeted them, and Patrick couldn’t help but think of how much he resembled Mr. Murdock from the tree farm his family went to.
“Hello, boys,” the man greeted cheerfully. “Looking to cut a tree today?”
“Sure are,” Patrick answered. He stole a quick look at David’s face to gauge his enthusiasm level and was pleased to see a soft smile there. Even David, he supposed, had to appreciate the crisp fresh air and lingering scent of pine surrounding them.
“First Christmas together?”
David’s smile grew. “No, but it is our first Christmas since getting married.”
“Well congrats,” he said genially. “Hope it’s a good one!” He handed Patrick a map that he’d just drawn a few rough circles on. “Now these are the areas you’re gonna find the best trees in.” He pointed a gnarled finger at a plot of land he’d slashed out with an X. “These trees are too small—but they’ll be ready for you when you come back next year.” He chattered on for another few minutes about prime tree locations before realizing he was rambling. “You boys need to borrow a saw?”
“Yes, please,” Patrick said, and the man went to to a large wooden crate against the wall and popped it open.
“Huh,” he said. “Well looks like we’ve done run out of saws; we’ve got a pretty big crowd out there right now. You good with an axe? Kinda old school, but it’ll get the job done.”
“Yes,” David answered quickly. “An axe is perfect.”
Patrick gave David a quizzical look and was entirely too pleased to see that David was blushing slightly. He smirked and gave David a look that clearly communicated that they’d be discussing this in greater detail once out of earshot of this kindly old man.
The man handed Patrick a pair of work gloves and an axe and waved them off. “I’ll see you boys after you’ve picked your tree!”
“An axe is perfect?” Patrick said the moment they’d left the little office and were back in the cold air of the farm. Mirth danced in his eyes and smile as he nudged David teasingly.
David raised his eyes skyward as he desperately tried to look annoyed rather than sheepish. He huffed. “This lumberjack thing is just working for me, okay?”
“Oh is it? You mean my non-plaid flannel and boots aren’t too literal for you?”
“Of course they’re not,” David snapped, but there was no real bite to it. “Need I remind you that I crafted this look for you?”
Patrick kissed David’s cheek, pink both from the cold and their banter. “You need not remind me.”
A twisted smile from David. “Good. It was the best I could do with what I had to work with since you wouldn’t let me take you shopping.”
“I stand by my opinion that cutting down a Christmas tree is not an event that requires a whole new wardrobe, David.”
“We can agree to disagree.”
They were wandering through rows of trees now, skirting around other visitors and dodging running children whose parents apologized to David and Patrick. David, as Patrick had suspected, was taking tree selection very seriously. All Patrick had to do was look in the direction of a tree for David to spout a litany of reasons why that particular blue spruce was not correct or why that balsam fir didn’t support the aesthetic of their living room.
Patrick eventually decided to just enjoy the journey, and he found that doing so was surprisingly rewarding. This was David’s first tree selection, after all, and despite all of David’s initial hesitance about getting a live tree, it was clear that David was in his element now. He stalked up to trees, circling them slowly, searching for the slightest flaw, the most minute blemish that disqualified them from being The One before moving on to the next tree and repeating the process.
On what had to be at least the fortieth tree David had examined, an involuntary little smile snuck across his face. He circled it once, twice, three times, reaching out to brush some of the needles. He’d deny doing this, but Patrick clearly saw him lean in and inhale the tree’s scent as though in final confirmation. “I think I found it, Patrick,” he said, the glee in his voice almost childlike.
Patrick stepped closer to David’s chosen tree and had to admit that it was perfect. It stood a little over six feet and was properly conical and full without being too bushy. “This is the one,” he agreed. He dropped the axe and work gloves to the ground and pressed his side against David, one arm easily snaking around David’s waist. David wrapped an arm around Patrick’s shoulder and they just stood there for a moment admiring the tree.
David pressed a kiss to Patrick’s forehead before pulling away. “I think it’s time for you to get all macho and lumberjack-y now.”
Patrick smiled, bending to pick up the work gloves. “Should I be offended at how much more interested you seem to be in the axe than you are in my rubber thimbles?”
David rolled his eyes and took a few steps back so that he was out of the way. “Patrick, I’m literally always interested. But you can’t fault me for wanting to watch my husband swing an axe in a hot, definitely non-murdery way.”
Laughing, Patrick rewarded David with a smooth swing, the blade meeting the trunk with a satisfying thump. He quickly fell into an easy rhythm, despite not having used an axe to chop down a tree since his early teens, landing blow after precise blow near the base of the tree. Patrick could feel David’s eyes fixed on him, and he wasn’t too vain to admit that he was making an effort to look impressive as he worked.
The lumberjack thing was really working for David, and he shifted a little on the spot, trying to remind his dick that this was really not the place to show so much interest in the way Patrick’s forearms tensed with each swing of the axe and how thick Patrick’s thighs looked in the tight jeans David had picked out for him. There were children nearby, for god’s sake. He could hear their shrieks and giggles and pleas to their parents for a cup of hot chocolate. He pulled his phone out of his pant’s pocket and snapped a few photos of Patrick in action. For posterity’s sake, he told himself. He slid his phone back in place and then decided that a video or two was probably a necessity and took it back out again.
Soon—too soon, if you asked David—they heard the tell-tale cracking of a tree about to fall, and sure enough, their perfect Douglas fir separated from the trunk and fell to the cold earth. It took a little cajoling and the transfer of the work gloves from Patrick’s hands to David’s, but Patrick eventually convinced David to help him carry the tree to the car.
David stood to the side while Patrick and the man from the office lashed the tree to the roof of the—their—car, Patrick checking knots several times to be sure they’d hold. He looked very competent in a rugged, outdoorsy way, and David found that he liked that look for Patrick nearly as much as he liked lumberjack Patrick.
Tree secured and paid for, David and Patrick huddled together on a bench, drinking styrofoam cups of hot chocolate. Patrick could not stop smiling. Memories of magical childhood Christmases mingled with the overwhelming love and contentment he felt now in this moment, forging ahead with Christmas traditions that he now shared with David, with his husband. He nestled into David’s shoulder, pressing cocoa-warmed lips against the cool skin of David’s exposed neck.
“Thank you for this, David,” he said in that open and earnest way of his.
David rested his head atop Patrick’s. “I love this new tradition,” he said quietly. “We didn’t really have many traditions growing up, and the ones we did have … weren’t like this. I like this better.”
“You mean to tell me,” Patrick said, shifting easily into teasing, “that you prefer standing in the dirt on a cold Saturday morning to performing The Number?”
David scoffed. “I’d hardly refer to that as a tradition.”
“It’s something you and your mom did every year at your Christmas party. It was the same every time, and you never deviated. It ticks every box in the criteria of what it takes to be a tradition.”
“Fine. If you insist.”
Patrick kissed David on the cheek. “I do insist.” He stood, taking David’s empty cup from him and stooping to press a soft kiss to David’s mouth. “Ready to take this bad boy home?”
“Please never refer to the tree that I painstakingly selected from a literal field of substandard pines as a ‘bad boy’ ever again,” David said, standing to join Patrick. “But yes, I’m ready to go.”
___
It wasn’t until much later that evening that they finally got to work decorating the tree, as they’d had to relieve Stevie at the store and tend to customers for the rest of the afternoon until they closed.
David was surprised at how eager he was to rush home to decorate the tree after counting the till and locking up the store. They’d had time to set the tree in its stand before heading to work, so it was waiting, tall and proud in the corner of the living room when they walked in. David beelined for the hall closet, where he proceeded to pull down several boxes from the top shelf, handing them wordlessly to Patrick as he worked.
“What’s all this?” Patrick had literally never seen these boxes in his life.
“Ornaments. Lights.” David said, a little distractedly, grabbing one last box and holding it protectively against his chest. “I’ve got this one. It’s all part of the mood board.”
Per their agreement, Patrick didn’t so much roll his eyes at the mention of the mood board.
As Patrick had suspected, David did not yield much creative control over the tree decorating process. He allowed Patrick to drape the lights around the tree, but Patrick suspected that was less about compromise or teamwork and more about wanting to avoid the most frustrating and tedious portion of tree decorating.
Much as David had done while Patrick cut down the tree, Patrick stood slightly to the side as David pulled delicate ornaments out of the boxes, placing them on the tree deliberately and with great care and precision. The last vestiges of the late afternoon sunlight were disappearing in the window behind David, casting a soft, warm glow across his face. Patrick thought he’d never looked more beautiful. Just as David had done earlier that morning, Patrick couldn’t resist pulling his phone out and taking a few candid shots of David, who looked serene and free and happy.
A sudden rush of emotion clogged Patrick’s throat as he watched David’s strong hands place shimmering ornaments on the tree, suddenly struck by the realization that he would get to watch David do this year after year after year. Maybe next year they’d add new traditions or David would want to create a brand new color scheme and mood board, but the reality of getting to spend Christmas after Christmas here in their home filled Patrick with the kind of giddy awe that only David could inspire.
“Do you, um, want to help me with this last box?” David said quietly, bringing Patrick back to this moment, this Christmas.
A little surprised, but pleased nonetheless, Patrick nodded, accepting the box David was holding out to him, the one he had refused to let Patrick carry into the living room.
Patrick lifted the lid to the box to find small, intricately carved wooden ornaments, each attached to an iridescent ribbon, nestled in a bed of raw cotton. His breath caught as he surveyed them, the emotion he’d just barely tamped down rising once again. “Who—where—?”
“I commissioned them from Nori,” David said, naming the woodsmith who had recently started selling their carvings at the store. He peered at Patrick’s face as though trying to gauge his reaction.
“David,” Patrick said, his voice low and almost reverent. “These are … they’re beautiful.”
He reached into the box, gently running the very tip of his finger across each ornament: an exact replica of their house key with a minuscule D + P carved into the wood; a tiny wooden guitar; a baseball bat; the Rose Apothecary logo; a tea cup; a ticket labeled B13; what appeared to be a twig with small leaves sprouting from it. “David is that an—”
“Olive branch?” David cut in. “Yes. It is.”
Patrick smiled, turning back to examine the rest of the ornaments. There was a miniature wooden carving of the lightning bolt sweater David had worn on their first date; two rings linked together; a small portrait that was undoubtedly Mariah Carey; a first aid kit. “David, why is there a first aid kit ornament?” He asked, knowing the answer but needing to ask anyway.
“To remind us of the day we got engaged.”
“But we didn’t have a first aid kit.”
“Exactly.”
Patrick couldn’t help but laugh, and his laughter only increased when he spotted the last ornament and lifted it out of the box by its ribbon to examine it more closely. “A plunger, David? Really?”
The look on David’s face was equal parts sheepish and fond. “To remind you—and me—both of us, I guess—that I can compromise. Sometimes. When it’s correct.”
Patrick placed the ornament back in the box and put the box on the coffee table. He closed the short distance between them and pulled David into his arms, kissing him deeply. After several long minutes, he pulled back, sliding his hands to cup both of David’s cheeks. “This is—David. Thank you. I don’t—I can’t even explain to you how much I love these. And you. I love you so much.” His voice cracked the tiniest bit on the last sentence.
“And I love you, Patrick.” He kissed Patrick again, tugging him back against his body and luxuriating in his solid warmth. “Do you want to put them on the tree?” He asked eventually.
Patrick affected a gasp worthy of a Regency-era duchess spurned by her lover. “You mean I get to take creative control? I can put them wherever I want?”
“Yes,” David said in a long-suffering sort of way, refusing to acknowledge Patrick’s theatrics. “You can put them wherever you want.” He paused. “Except the plunger. That one goes in the back.”
___
It was fully dark outside now, and Patrick had flipped off all the lights so that the soft glow of the white lights on the tree (colored lights violated every tenet of David’s mood board) provided the only light in the room. They’d ended up on the floor somehow, David leaning against the sofa, legs spread to make room for Patrick to sit between them and cuddle against his chest, David’s arms wrapped protectively around Patrick.
They stared at the tree in comfortable silence, admiring the way that the rustic, wooden ornaments somehow looked perfect alongside the delicate glass ones David had chosen. Patrick absentmindedly ran soft fingers across David’s rings, feeling as though this moment couldn’t possibly be made any more perfect.
He turned his head so he could kiss David, deciding that now the moment was actually perfect.
“Merry Christmas, David,” he whispered against David’s lips.
“Merry Christmas, Patrick.”