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He approached the task like a cleansing ritual. Purge his home, purge his soul. What better day than Christmas Eve to initiate this new chapter of his life?
Armitage Hux sat on the carpet of his living room, shallow cardboard box in his lap and surrounded by an array of gifts and reminders. One by one, he selected an object, thanked it for its service in true Marie Kondo fashion, and thunk . Into the box marked for the thrift store.
First, the ninety-dollar bottle of Burberry cologne that made Armitage sneeze whenever Ben wore it. Over time Ben became considerate enough to stop spraying it daily, but he kept it for holidays and special events so as not to hurt his mother’s feelings. She bought him the boyfriend killer, after all.
Would a thrift store take a used bottle of cologne? Not his concern.
Thunk.
Next up, a beanie-stuffed tabby cat toy with the heart-shaped price tag still attached. Armitage wasn’t allowed to cut it away because, according to Ben, it was worth more intact. Armitage scoffed at the presumed appreciation in a toy’s value. Ben got it for him as a gift , he thought, to memorialize his pet cat Millicent. Not a commodity.
Now, it was up for grabs to some gullible collector. Thunk.
Other trinkets followed. Stocking stuffers and hat pins. Vintage paperbacks and cheap watches. Some things Ben left behind after overnight dates, others spontaneous buys while in line at the drugstore. All tainted with their connection to a broken relationship.
Last, and Armitage wavered on whether or not least , went the red velvet jewel box and its contents, a crystal ornament with the etched design of two kissing turtledoves and the words Our First Christmas in a calligraphic font. Armitage recalled Ben wanted to include their names in the design, but the extra engraving costs put that idea out of their budget. Good news in the end for the thrift store when they put it in the display case with the “nice” stuff.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Armitage took in a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. It might have made more sense to set the bloody box on fire, really pronounce the symbolism. Some of this crap was plastic, though. The idea was to excise Ben, not introduce a new toxin into the atmosphere and make Armitage sick.
He’d cried enough when they split in late October. He drank more than his share in November. He sobered up in December and now, with a new year approaching, Armitage was ready to return to the world.
He closed the box flaps and pulled away a strip of packing tape from its roll to seal away the ill feelings. Solo’s box, ten times worse than Pandora’s. “Thank you for your service,” Armitage murmured, and moved to stand.
Only the weight of the box, the metaphorical one, anchored him. Sadness panged in his heart. Five years with Ben, reduced to a small package. Not even a full one. Armitage longed to cry but his body seemed to seize up at any attempt, and forbid him the tears. Tears meant mourning, and Armitage cleared that stage.
He scanned his gaze around the living room for evidence of it. All the framed pictures of Ben and him with Ben sat in another box, destined for the trash. Armitage smiled at his white-branched Christmas tree, his first purchase after the break-up. He’d always desired a non-traditional tree, but Ben argued for live firs and never yielded… and he didn’t even live here full-time! In defiance of his ex-boyfriend’s resistance to new traditions, Armitage only used blue lights and garlands. No ornaments, definitely not the one he packed.
New tree, new decor, new sweater for his friend Phasma’s party, and the hope of meeting somebody new tonight. With his determination to focus on the positive came the strength to stand and take the box to his car.
Mission accomplished, he slammed down the trunk door to find Ben standing in the adjacent empty spot. Armitage shuffled back a few steps. The sallow appearance of Ben’s skin stood out to him. Shadows darkened the wells of his eyes, and crooked red lines streaked across the whites. Ben personified the mourning Armitage left behind.
“Hux,” Ben whispered.
“Ben, you oughtn’t be here.” Two months…Ben aged so much in a short span. Armitage’s heart went out to him, and he fought the pull to draw the young man close for a hug. Seeing Ben again rushed forward memories of the chain of events leading to this moment. Armitage guessed touching Ben might amplify the pain.
Ben held out his hands, palms up. Armitage pressed his legs together. Here came the ache, his skin rippling with hunger. He’d missed Ben’s beautiful hands, and the length and thickness of his fingers. Strumming his cheek and neck, sliding down his backside, stretching and filling him.
“I miss you,” Ben said. “I was wrong, I’m sorry and I miss you. I have been miserable without you.”
Snowflakes swirled around them, pecking his lips and forehead. Armitage wiped at his cheeks, but damned if he could pass off the tears as winter weather. “So have I,” he said, indicating the last two points, anyway. “But I’ve acknowledged it’s time to move on. We can’t repair what we had–”
“Why not?”
“We can’t,” Armitage snapped. They could. He didn’t want it. He nursed a fragile heart incapable of surviving another heartache.
Ben breathed hard, and drew his gaze down as though to think through his next words. A first for him if so. Finally he raised his eyes and said, “If we can’t repair it, let’s leave it all in the past.”
The weight left Armitage. Breathing resumed with greater strength and the relief of Ben accepting the breakup…
“Let’s start over,” Ben said. His words pushed hard against Armitage, robbing him of air.
“Are you serious?” Armitage demanded. “What makes you think–”
Ben stepped forward, but this time Armitage didn’t maintain the distance. The sight of Ben’s hand held out for a greeting distracted him.
“My name is Ben Solo. It’s nice to meet you.” Ben tilted his head and widened his eyes a bit, encouraging the role play. “I live in the next building. I’ve seen you around.”
Utterly amazing. Ben said those exact same words on the day they met. Ben still lived in the next building despite their five years together. That Armitage managed to avoid him these past few months equated to a miracle.
Armitage shook Ben’s hand. Big mistake. The man’s warm grip took hold of his senses, like last time. “Armitage Hux,” he said. He was curt, if he recalled.
“New to town, or just the complex?”
I’ve lived here for years, you dolt. “I was waiting for a vacancy to come up,” Hux said, playing along. “It’s close to work.” Kriff if his original dialogue failed him. Ben looked expectant. “I’ve been…”
He sighed. “Look, Ben…”
“Do you need help with your boxes?” Ben nodded at the trunk. That’s how it started. Ben helped him with the last few bits for his apartment, accepted a beer in thanks, and lingered for conversation. Ben took him to his favorite bar two nights later, then roped him into his regular card group the week after that. By the end of the second month they were inseparable. Started out as friends, then best friends, then lovers, then engaged to be engaged... until this past October.
Armitage stood by his car as the rush of good memories pushed forward. So many. They outnumbered the chain of arguments leading to the breakup. Why hadn’t he realized they shared so much joy?
Ben waited for an answer, his eyes pleading.
Armitage moved his thumb over his key fob and depressed the last button. The trunk lid popped. “Thank you,” he said to Ben. “If you grab this one, I don’t need to make any more trips out.”
Ben took the box meant for the thrift store, and followed Armitage into his apartment. He set the box under the garish blue and white tree and blessed Armitage with the forethought to keep his mouth shut about the writing on the top flap.
This time, though, Armitage didn’t offer Ben a beer but a glass of the Scotch he’d won at his office party. He’d worn an ugly sweater and deflected all the “Where’s Ben?” inquiries from his co-workers.
New tree, new decor, a different drink. Armitage hanging in the kitchen and talking across the pass-through instead of sitting on the couch with Ben. No more repeated dialogue or gestures. If Ben wanted to start over, they’d begin a new way.
Somewhere between the first drink and the last apology, they tangled up on the couch and stayed there until morning. So much for the new sweater and Phasma's party.
Scotch whiskey kisses turned sour, but no less welcome, over time. Ben offered to get coffee and Armitage promised to have breakfast ready.
When Ben returned, he held out a cardboard drink tray with two cups and a small box. The shop sold ornaments, and they hung the acrylic, linked mini coffee mugs bearing the inscription Our First Christmas.
Because, if they were doing this new beginning thing right, it was.