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Before sunrise on Christmas Eve morning, Carlos jolts awake. His eyes adjust to the dark as he stretches beneath the warm white quilt and pats around for TK, finding him low down in the bed and curled up against him like a cat. He strokes through TK's hair delicately, and when TK doesn't move Carlos slips out from under the sheets.
Folded on the chair there’s a pair of green tartan pajama pants his mom bought him last Christmas. He pulls them on quickly for warmth, and from his dresser he chooses the fleecy brown sweater that TK loves because it makes him look like a grizzly bear.
He needs to make a pot of coffee urgently. It’s medicinal at this point, a healing potion. And he’s going to sit quietly with this coffee, take a deep breath, stay focused, solve his problem. He’s going to quieten the thundery noise in his head that’s disturbed much of the night.
But before anything else, as though prioritized over caffeine itself, he walks over to the Christmas tree positioned by the window between the armchairs, and switches on its soft gold lights. For a dreamlike moment, he stands and admires the scattered glow that lusters off the vintage glass ornaments, which he's collected for the specific purpose of splaying light as far as it can reach.
After he fills a large snowflake-patterned mug with black coffee, Carlos slips his reading glasses on, lounges across the couch, and opens his laptop.
An hour later, the risen sun is obscured behind mountainous lilac-gray rainclouds. Beyond the jewel glow of the Christmas tree, the light in the loft is wintery and dim, and the size of Carlos’ problem has only increased. He has twenty tabs open on his browser – all of them full of poetry. It's his job to select a poem for their wedding ceremony, which is a task he took on with the unchecked assumption that he’d absolutely nail it. Over the past forty-eight hours, his sturdy confidence has become shaken to its core.
"I just want to get it right," he says under his breath.
He gets repeatedly distracted by non-love poems, which doesn’t help. They naturally catch his interest despite being far-flung from the topic, and now he's mind-blown after reading Mark Doty's Homo Will Not Inherit, which would be somewhat of a radical option for the wedding…
TK slides the bedroom door open and wanders straight towards the coffee machine like he’s magnetized to it. Shivering in black boxers and his orange hoodie, he yawns with his eyes half-shut and greets Carlos with a sleepy "Hi baby," as he passes him, and then does a double-take.
The last time he found Carlos on the couch like this – which is to say staring at his laptop while totally freaked out – he was in detective-mode, trying to solve the kidnapping of a little girl.
"You want a refill?" TK asks, signalling at Carlos' snowflake mug, which Carlos picks up and passes to him without saying anything. "Have you been studying deeply messed up footage again for some reason?"
“What? No.” Carlos rests the laptop on the cushion beside him and takes off his glasses, sitting up straight. He pinches at the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "It's the wedding poem. I just can't find the right one for us.”
"Baby, you might be overthinking it. Anything you choose will be perfect."
TK walks off to fetch them coffee, and Carlos’ watches him enter the shadowy kitchen, wishing that were true.
As a teen Carlos was secretly into poetry. He anonymously published two poems in his high school newspaper at the end of sophomore year. He thinks that’s something he’d like to try again someday as a hobby, although this time he’d target journals and publish under his real name. As an adult he’s openly keen on it, and has gathered a large collection of favorite poems and authors – yet there’s none he can wheel out for the occasion. There are so many beautiful works that could technically be a fine choice, but nothing ‘wedding-ish’ seems to sum up his feelings for TK accurately enough. In fact, if anything sums up his love it's probably not a word so much as just hitting random characters on a keyboard. Something like: qjfqoifhwjcmswddwdkdjsdhjdk. He can barely comprehend it.
How can any human language explain what happens between him and TK when they look at each other sleepy and safe in the morning, when they hold hands and it’s like conducting electricity, when they bicker and laugh, when they show up for each other's pain with intent to heal it? How can any poem describe the feeling of watching TK’s plane barely make an emergency landing? Or the moment during their months-long breakup when he learned that TK was comatose with hyperthermia after plunging into a frozen lake to save a boy? How he knew then that he loved TK with a power that never faded, and that he’d been trying to deny the undeniable force of it. Pretending not to love TK was like trying to have a picnic during a hurricane. It was like insisting on running a marathon with two sprained ankles.
Or, before they were an official couple – when TK took a bullet while on a call. Carlos tearfully arrived at the hospital and just sat and held TK’s arm and stroked his hair. Helpless, completely. Unable to do anything else but be so soft and gentle with him, wishing so much that TK knew, and understanding then too that he was drawn to TK in an unexplainable way. Love was something that actually hurt and he wanted it forever.
"This is so much harder than I thought it would be," Carlos confesses, sounding to TK pretty gloomy.
TK abandons the coffee in favor of wandering over to massage Carlos' shoulders. "Well, show me what you've got," he says, peering at Carlos' laptop screen, which has a poem up called The Fluffer Talks of Eternity by D.A Powell. "Hmm..."
"Not that one," Carlos leans over to grab his laptop again and work through the tabs as TK sits down in the empty space beside him.
A small sound – a metallic crack, glassy shatter – emits from under TK's ass.
"Baby..." TK says, suddenly red hot all over.
Carlos turns to look at him, moving more slowly than TK knew he was capable of. "Did you just sit on my glasses?"
"I love you," TK says.
"TK..."
TK reaches for Carlos and squeezes his bewildered-looking face. "It’s dark in here! They were camouflaged against the couch!"
Carlos blinks at TK, thinking qjfqoifhwjcmswddwdkdjsdhjdk.
He's annoyed with himself and feels bad for TK – he never usually leaves his glasses somewhere so precarious. "It's not your fault," he says, his voice coming out funny through his contorted mouth as TK holds his face firmly and with extra squish. "You're sitting on broken glass though, babe, and you need to get up."
"Sorry..." TK lets go of him and stands, not wanting to look beneath him.
“Don’t be sorry. I wasn’t concentrating and I put them in a stupid place.”
Carlos inspects the damage. Fine shards of glass glint like ice on the black cotton of TK's boxers, and the thin silver frames are mangled on the cushion. Carlos remembers the time he accidentally stepped on a dragonfly, how its crumpled body and wings flicked out in odd directions.
"You're not cut, are you?" Carlos asks.
"It kinda hurt but I don’t think it went through…we'll have to take a look," TK says, trying to laugh. “Sorry, baby,” he says again, just because.
Carlos and TK have done many exposing things with each other before – but Carlos on his knees in the bathroom, shining a flashlight across TK's buttocks to detect any rogue glass that's punctured his skin, is new. It would appear he's fragment-free. There's no blood or splinter-like pain.
"I can't see any damage," Carlos says with determined concentration, holding TK's hip so he can tilt him a little more towards his light.
"Maybe that's because you're not wearing glasses," TK jests, which blessedly makes Carlos smile. "I guess we better go and get you a new pair."
A Christmas Eve trip to the mall isn't for the faint hearted, but as soon as Carlos and TK step out of the Camaro, which they were forced to park at the far end of the lot where only a few free spaces remain, Carlos is filled with a warm, festive buzz. He grins at TK, who laughs and shakes his head because this was his idea, yet he wishes they were doing literally anything else.
But Carlos does not wish that at all.
Because at this point last year, they were broken up.
Carlos had never dreaded the holidays more, never wished harder to skip ahead a couple of weeks into the grayness of January, where he could request extra shifts and patrol the chilly streets virtually non-stop, like some sort of penance. Now he's with TK again. They’re engaged. It's Christmas Day tomorrow and they’re going to his parents’ house. Right now he wants to hold TK's hand as they wander the busy, sparkly stores – sparklier the better. Let the bells ring out – let all the cheesy Christmas muzak play loudly from the speakers – let the animatronic teddy bears wave up at them as they ascend the escalators. Maybe he and TK can indulge in Carlos' guilty pleasure and pick up mint hot chocolates and share a salty mall pretzel.
But before any of that: new glasses.
They stuff their hands into their jacket pockets as they proceed forth through the parking lot, headfirst into fuzzy drizzle whipped everywhere by the north wind. They are aiming straight for Carlos' usual opticians on the ground floor – he needs reading glasses of a particular strength to combat his chronic eye strain, and he likes this place and their range of styles that you can purchase on the spot.
As the mall doors swish open, Carlos and TK are blown back by the scent of cinnamon and the noise and movement of hundreds of people hurrying around on their own festive missions. Everywhere
grandparent-age folk struggle to carry enormous bags from the toy store, teenagers in ironically ugly Christmas jumpers chase each other, little children whine at their exhausted parents.
TK spots a gap in the crowd and leads Carlos through it. As soon as they enter the opticians, Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas starts up on the in-store radio, and TK becomes a kid in a candy store trying on frames for himself while Carlos speaks to a cheerful sales assistant.
Ideally, he wants a replacement pair of glasses that are like-for-like – gunmetal temples with narrow rectangular rims that have a slightly upward slant and heavier browline – because he knows TK likes him in those, and anyway they’re smart and sensible.
But it's impossible to resist reaching for some oversized aviators when TK does.
"Or how about these?" TK passes him a pair of enormous roundish lenses within pale tortoiseshell frames. Carlos takes off the aviators and puts them on. He gazes at himself in the mirror, unexpectedly feels cute.
For himself, TK grabs from the ladies section a pair of 50s-style rockabilly cat-eye frames and looks absurd in this brilliant way that has Carlos creasing up.
"Sir?" the woman helping Carlos has been standing behind them for a moment, smiling with a blush and not knowing how to interrupt, but TK has the giggles now. He pats Carlos’ shoulder, biting his lip to muffle his laughter.
"Sorry," Carlos says, taking off the massive glasses so he can try on the genuine replacement pair she's dug out for him. He slips them on, and they feel at home on his face. He looks like himself.
"Adorable," TK says to him while swapping the rockabilly glasses for a geometric pair with clear frames. They catch Carlos’ attention and he tries them on too – suddenly a wildcard in the mix, and he likes them.
“And you’re adorable in those,” TK tells him, “Extremely.”
“Now I can’t decide.” Carlos hums, shaking his head at himself. “It’s like I can’t decide on anything important today.”
“Maybe you don’t have to.” TK slots his arm around Carlos’ waist, and brings his face close to his. Behind the lenses of another supersized rounded pair he’s tried on, TK has a twinkle in his eye. “I know you said you weren’t going to let me buy the replacement, but what if you bought the replacement and I bought you an extra pair, just in case? Christmas present.”
“We said we weren’t going to do Christmas presents,” Carlos sighs, keenly aware that he’s kind of dragged TK into celebrating a holiday he mainly grew up on the periphery of, although TK hasn’t said much about Hanukkah either, mourning for his mom. It’s like he’s just trying to get to January this year too, and it makes Carlos ache in a new way.
“I know we said that. And I know you got me something anyway.”
“Babe. Did you snoop?”
TK scoffs like this is a stupid question. “No. I don’t have to. I can see it in your eyes. Do you or do you not have a present for me?”
“Okay. Yeah. I do.”
“Ooh…” TK chuckles and hugs Carlos a little. “What is it?”
“TK!” Carlos takes off the glasses so he can look at TK seriously, and wishes TK would do the same. “I’m not telling you. It’s just something small so you’ll have a gift to open under the tree, along with everyone else, and these glasses are expensive.” (Carlos’ gift to TK is actually a small diamond earring, but TK does not need to know that detail yet).
“In fact, Sir–” the sales assistant, who has been hovering patiently the whole time, points to a sign on the checkout counter, “We’re running a holiday promotion – buy two pairs and you get the cheapest at 50% discount.”
“Perfect.” TK gives Carlos a hearty pat on the arm. “Hand them over, baby!”
“TK…” Carlos shakes his head wearily, but does as he’s asked.
They’ve found free bench space on the top floor of the mall, where they sit close with their legs touching, and pull apart a salted pretzel between them. Heavy rainfall pummels the domed glass roof above, and a local acapella choir has assembled on the level below to sing carols in old fashioned-sounding harmonies, which makes both Carlos and TK feel tired and soothed.
“So, this poetry thing is getting you down, huh?” TK asks, taking another bite from his half of the pretzel. “But you said you’d have plenty to choose from.”
“I know. I thought I did. It’s just, most of the poems that make me think of you, or our relationship – they aren’t exactly classic love poems.”
“Wow. Thanks, Carlos.”
“No…” Carlos takes TK’s hand and laughs. “I don’t mean that in a bad way at all. I mean poems that aren’t wedding-appropriate.”
“Kinky?”
“The literary term is erotic. And yes, some of them are.”
“In that case, I’m a lot more interested.”
“Some of them are about life in general,” Carlos goes on, working hard to ignore TK’s comment. “Survival, and determined living, and being yourself.” He pauses to sip his mint hot chocolate, still stitching together the loose threads of his torn thoughts. “But they’re not right for the wedding, for reading in front of everybody. I don’t know. I just don’t want anything to be wrong. We’ve only got one shot at this. I’ll have another look later. Try out my new glasses.”
TK gives Carlos a reassuring smile and rocks against his arm gently. “Things can go a little wrong, you know, and the day will still work out fine.”
Carlos isn’t sure if TK is trying to calm his nerves about the wedding planning, or if he’s talking more generally, invoking everything they’ve been through that’s led them to this point. Totally in love and just errand-running and hanging out on a bench in the mall outside the food court, spilling salt on their jeans as they share a pretzel, while angelic voices sing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas to shoppers passing by. It’s nothing and yet it means so much. It’s all Carlos ever wanted. It’s all TK never knew he needed.
TK kisses Carlos in the communal hallway as Carlos turns the key in their lock, and as the door slides open they spin slowly across the threshold into their home, holding each other by the waist. Carlos carefully deposits the bag containing his new reading glasses onto the table across from the door, and settles his mouth against TK’s neck for a kiss so tender it makes TK feel as iridescent and lightweight and mindless as a bubble drifting on the air.
Carlos leads TK to the bedroom, where they start each other off slow and end frenzied, with TK almost toppling off the bed and Carlos barely catching him – the gathered tiredness from last night dulling his reaction times. But catch TK he does, and he pulls him down for a nuzzly naked bear hug.
“That was amazing,” Carlos whispers into TK’s neck. “I’m not going to get over that for a while.”
TK raises his face up and kisses Carlos’ lips. Carlos kisses him back lightly, unable to open his eyes, he’s so spent and sleepy.
“Turn over,” TK orders.
“Mmm. What?”
“Turn over. I’ll give you a backrub.”
“You don’t have to,” Carlos mumbles.
“I want to.”
Carlos opens one eye briefly enough to give TK a suspicious look. “If you’re still feeling bad about breaking my glasses, no need. You’ve more than made up for it.”
TK shrugs. “Honestly, I just want to keep touching you, and you need a nap.”
Carlos gives in without further protest – neither of them take much convincing when a backrub is offered, even as a bribe. He turns onto his front while TK rummages for a bottle of Ayurveda massage oil in the lower drawer of his bedside cabinet, and rubs a little into his already warm palms.
The sensation of TK’s strong, neat hands anywhere on his body is Carlos’ favorite thing generally, but sometimes a backrub is the absolute pinnacle – sensual of course, in a different way to sex, but just as important. A parallel kind of touch. One that doesn’t get him off, but still sends him into
another world: a comfortable, small, gold-lit space that smells great and contains TK being a sweetheart.
TK pushes his supple fingers upwards, traveling along the muscles that flank Carlos’ spine. They find a knot in his left shoulder blade, a pressure point near his neck that makes him grunt with pain and pleasure. After a while, TK feels Carlos’ body sink beneath him as he falls asleep.
Carlos slumbers for a couple of hours – TK thinks of him fondly as a hibernating bear. To occupy himself, TK pops in his airpods and listens to a mellow rock playlist while he tidies the living space, and then does some Googling of his own.
When TK hears Carlos stir in the bedroom, the sun is starting to set behind the broken rainclouds, and the droplets on the window shine purplish silver. TK picks up his laptop and selects Carlos’ replica reading glasses from the discarded bag on the table.
“I think I’ve found one,” he says as he gets onto the bed, bouncing on his knees along the quilt until he’s next to Carlos, who is sitting up against the pillows. “It used to be on posters on the New York subway, few years back. I just remembered it, so I thought I’d read it again.”
Carlos woozily takes the new glasses from TK and reads the poem presented to him. Within thirty seconds, he’s smiling broadly. “Babe.”
“What do you think?”
“Yeah…” Carlos wants to hug the laptop, hug the poem in it. Instead, he hugs TK, which is even better. “I think it’s this. This is the one.”
“Really? You’re not just saying that because I like it?”
In a way, that is the reason. Carlos loves the poem for what it is – simple, beautiful, romantic and warm, but with a slightly melancholy edge that keeps it real and stops it from being saccharine. He wonders if he was on the wrong track all along, and instead of needing a poem that was vast and complex and mighty, what really suited them was this: something adorable. But what he loves is that the poem comes with the image of TK quietly looking up poetry, rediscovering a gem once familiar, and being moved by it the most.
Carlos reads it again, out loud to TK. Sometimes they read things to each other and it’s one of their mutual most-precious activities. The poem is by Ted Kooser. It’s called A Map of the World.
“…feeling is indelible,
and longing infinite, a starburst compass
pointing in all the directions
two lovers might go, a fresh breeze
swelling their sails, the future uncharted,
still far from the edge
where the sea pours into the stars.”
Carlos chokes on the last word, stars, and laughs at himself, nudging his slightly-slipped glasses up his nose. He looks at TK. A magnified tear in Carlos’ right eye glitters behind his lens and falls.
TK strokes the back of Carlos’ neck. His own voice is gluey with emotion. “It’s funny how I’d see it on the subway – I saw it a lot, like it was following me. I thought it was nice and all, but I didn’t pay much attention. I should have though. Because it was telling me about you the whole time.”
Carlos can’t speak. Once again, there are no words outside of what’s on the screen in front of him. In his head, only qjfqoifhwjcmswddwdkdjsdhjdk.
But what Carlos does know is that he’s overwhelmed with a desire to feed his fiancé. He strokes the back of TK’s neck too, mirroring the soothing motion that TK began, giving him the same love back. “Do you want to start dinner? I’ve only defrosted that chicken soup, but because I figure we’ll be eating so much tomorrow–”
TK leans in quickly and kisses Carlos – not to shut him up, although he had sounded apologetic about nothing fancier than soup. It sort of just happens, this need to kiss him and connect to him intimately even when they’re in the middle of an ordinary conversation. “Sounds perfect, baby,” TK says, laying another kiss on Carlos’ brow and accidentally steaming his glasses with his breath.
Carlos laughs and reaches for TK so they can walk to the kitchen with their fingers intertwined. With his free hand, he takes off his adorable glasses, fogged from the sudden impact of TK’s face pressed against his, and rests them, safely, on his bedside table.