Chapter 7 #2
"It is," said Clayton. "It's an oldie but a goodie." He'd never seen it, but he knew that it existed, but maybe Kyle didn't need to know that truth just yet. "And the Muppets one," he added. That one he did know, because he'd watched it with Shawn at least a dozen times.
"That one's good too," said Kyle, and the smile was coming back into his eyes. "Are you just humoring me?" he asked.
"Not really," said Clayton. "I'm here, you're here, the house is here. You did all this work. If you're willing to have me as a guest until the roads clear—"
"Yes, of course," said Kyle, somewhat sternly. "You're welcome for as long as it takes."
"Thank you," said Clayton. "But I should pay you for the food and stuff—"
"Too bad for you," said Kyle, with the same spirit he'd shown the day before, chin raised, a flash of passion in those blue eyes. "Everything's free and you can't pay for any of it."
Clayton thought to argue with him about it, but then realized that it would be rude.
Kyle wanted to play Christmas host, and Clayton had already promised himself he'd be the best sort of guest, which really meant that he needed to be the best sort of Christmas guest, whatever that was.
Well, he'd play it by ear and do his best, which was all anybody could really ask of him.
"I can help with stuff, then," said Clayton.
"Let me do that at least. I can cut and bring in firewood, take out the trash, uh—" He waved his hands in front of him helplessly, as what was really involved with being a Christmas guest was beyond him, however in earnest he was.
"I can shovel the walk, fix any plumbing problems—"
"All the manful stuff, I see," said Kyle with an arched brow.
"I can wrap presents, too," said Clayton, laughing. "And sew buttons back on! I have mad skills, you'll see."
Kyle laughed out loud at this and, perhaps without thinking, walked towards Clayton and patted him on the shoulder as he went to the pantry. The touch of his hand left a warm trace that lingered.
"I do have a sink in the other bathroom that drips," said Kyle as he hunted through the pantry. "But first, let's make popcorn and string it for the tree."
"Do we get to eat any?" asked Clayton, for though he wasn't hungry, he loved popcorn.
"Of course," said Kyle. "With garlic butter."
"Oh, man," said Clayton. "That sounds perfect."
And it was perfect. While the blizzard raged outside, swooping around the windows and moaning as though it wanted to be let in, the inside of the house was perfectly cozy.
They popped popcorn in a big kettle with a crank handle on it, and Kyle melted butter with garlic salt and poured it over a large bowl of the stuff.
Which still left enough plain white popcorn to put on string for three trees.
One after the other, every version of A Christmas Carol played on the flat screen TV on the wall next to the tree, and though some of the branches got in the way, that was okay.
It was the sound they listened to while they worked, with Kyle cross-legged on the couch and Clayton on the floor, having shaved and found his socks.
The room was warm and was scented with the pomander that Kyle had made by sticking clove buds in one of the oranges.
They stopped working to have lunch, which was roast beef sandwiches and potato chips. After which, Clayton, feeling a sense of needing fresh air, suggested they go check the mail.
Kyle's expression, with his quirked eyebrows and dubious frown, was hysterical, but he bundled up along with Clayton, loaned him a hat, scarf, and a pair of gloves, and the two of them stomped into the snow, even though it was obvious that the mail truck had not been by all day and probably would not for several days.
They breathed through their scarves as they trudged through the knee-deep snow, their heads bent to the wind, and laughed as they touched the metal mailbox and ran back to the house as though playing a game of tag with it in the howling snow.
Clayton totally ignored the white mound that was his car as they banged their boots on the steps to knock off the worst of the snow.
Then, after they'd gone inside and, all warmed up from their exertions, hung up their coats and took off their boots, Kyle made hot chocolate.
This was from scratch of course, with good cocoa powder and a dollop of real cream to make it thick and sweet.
They drank that and watched some more of A Christmas Carol, and Clayton felt his head tipping back on the couch, in spite of his best efforts to participate in what was surely the most magical Christmas Eve Day he'd spent in a long, long time.
He half opened his eyes as he heard Kyle get up and go down the hall toward the bedrooms. When he came back, he was carrying a red wool blanket that he laid over Clayton. Then he took the mug from Clayton's hand.
"Here's a pillow," said Kyle, and Clayton felt one being tucked behind his head.
"What are you going to do?" asked Clayton, his eyes closing, his body suffused with warmth and ease.
"I'm going to read a book about mountain men," said Kyle. "I got this one for myself for Christmas, and today's the day. It's really good, you'd like it—"
Clayton's eyes felt like lead weights, and Kyle's voice became a soothing pattern in the back of his mind. He fell asleep, half sitting up, half leaned against the arm of the chair, as if he'd known Kyle forever and knew he wouldn't mind.