Chapter 10 Christmas Miracle
Christmas Miracle
The warmth of the sun against my skin is the first thing I notice, the second is that I’m no longer in the cabin, and by the looks of the familiar room—I’m back in the office.
My office.
Everything feels cozy, not the choking kind that clings to your lungs, but the gentle kind that smells like cinnamon and cedar with a hint of plastic. The kind I once loved as a kid until Christmas lost all meaning.
The second thing I notice…
Is him.
Neno, who sits on the edge of my desk, legs crossed at the ankle, a coffee mug steaming in one hand.
He’s dressed in a black turtleneck and grey slacks, the morning light catching his chestnut curls.
A laugh escapes his lips as he looks down at his phone—that same low, honey-thick laugh that still crawls beneath my skin after all these years.
Using my fingers, I pinch the bridge of my nose before dragging them through my eyes, all of this feels like a dream.
How?
My eyes scan the room, everything looks the same but different at the same time. The only difference that stands out right now, is that there’s no boxes. No charts. No workers dragging the joy out of themselves just to fill quotas. There’s color here. There’s cheer.
Plants, and not the artificial kind, but real thriving poinsettias and holly.
The cheer and warmth of Christmas can be felt as something palpable instead of the corporate bleakness that once adorned it.
Family photos, alongside a framed prototype of the Harmony Bear, version one—the seams are uneven, one eye crooked, but still smiling.
I blink, my head pounds with a headache, the throbbing pulse in my temple makes it hard for me to focus.
“Neno?” My voice comes out low and even breaks a little. He looks up, his pouty lips parting into a grin so bright it hurts. “You're late, Toy King, again?”
Late?
He slides off the desk, crossing the space between us in three lazy, deliberate steps. I take in a deep breath and somehow manage to hold it, every cell in my body comes to life. The urge to flee tries to override my need, still I don’t back away.
I just can’t.
“You forgot,” he teases as his delicate soft hands reach for my tie, and he fixes it in silence as if he’s done it a thousand times before. Maybe he has. Maybe we really did build the life we said we would, maybe I imagined it all.
“What did I—” I stammer out, my voice breaking. “I forget?”
Maybe I drank too much booze and somehow conjured up a life without him. Neno hums a Christmas jingle under his breath, before looking up at me through his curly lashes.
“What is this?” I whisper.
Neno hums. “The future we almost had.”
I open my mouth to ask more, but his lips crash against mine, his tongue sliding against the seams of my lips, demanding access.
I groan into his mouth, as his tongue glides against mine.
The kiss is slow and tender, yet not lacking passion.
He bites down on my bottom lip, tugging it gently.
My hands rest on his hips, my fingers dipping into his flesh.
“Fuck,” I groan just as he goes back in for seconds, the slow passionate kiss turns into molten heat. The way our tongues dance with one another feels familiar, like muscle memory. It goes from tender to desperate. A macabre dance of flesh, my hand leaves his hips and snakes up his chest.
Mapping.
Memorizing.
Until I stop at the base of his neck, gripping it and pulling him closer until the desk hits the back of my thighs.
He pushes me down onto it, papers scattering to the floor alongside everything else.
Neno tastes like mint and coffee, like something that could have saved me.
And when his fingers slide beneath my shirt, I nearly see stars from the contact.
His soft, long fingers trace over my skin like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. And maybe I will. Maybe I already have. For once, I let myself forget the factory, Porter Toys, my grief, and all the stress I’ve carried all these years.
And I lose myself in him.
“See,” Neno murmurs against my lips. “You could’ve had this. No ghosts. Just me.”
He presses one soft kiss against my swollen lips before his mouth moves lower, trailing heat down my neck into my chest. The office fades around us, the sound of wind returning like static under glass.
I try to focus on him, the weight of his body as his fingers dip between us.
The room begins to flicker, I shake my head hating this feeling. ..
This moment is fading between my fingers like sand. Neno's hand works to quickly undo my pants, pulling down with little to no effort, and of course, with a little help. The room blurs in a kaleidoscope of light.
Green.
Red.
White.
“Stay,” I beg, my back arching off the desk as the pressure of his fingers inside me fills me with need. “Stay.”
He chuckles, his fingers twirling and hitting the spot that has my toes curling and my stars dancing in my vision. “Please.”
“Shhhh...” he coos, as he continues to fuck my ass with his fingers.
Slow and precise movements that drive me head first towards the brink.
The sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor, stops the movement of the room.
And when his crown brushes against the spot I need him the most, I nearly see double from the delicious pain that comes from being stretched by a thick cock up the ass.
The lights flicker..
DING !
DONG!
DING !
“NO!” I shout, my legs wrapping onto him and pulling him into me. The head of his cock pushes inside me with the movement, leaving me breathless, but I didn’t care. I just need to anchor myself to this moment.
To him.
“Neno,” I whisper, fingers clutching at his curls when he leans over me. His hips are pistoning slowly and in circular motions. He lifts his head, his eyes are different now—greener, darker, almost glassy.
Dead.
He chuckles low, the shake of it vibrates against my chest. “That’s the thing about miracles,” Neno whispers softly, “they never last.”
The warmth drains, the fullness evaporates and the light bleeds away.
The air sharpens until it tastes like smoke again.
The desk is gone, replaced by the cabin's table.
The mug of coffee becomes a cracked bourbon glass and the plants vanish.
In its place only lays dust and frost. I blink once and then again, even rub my face—smacking it a few times. “Wake up, wake up.”
But I’m not fucking dreaming… I’m wide awake. The fire is dead, the warmth of it no longer lingers in the space. The phone on the counter buzzes, and through blurry vision, I stumble towards it.
“What the fuck?” I mutter as I look down at the text.
Emily:
Sector B, drivers reporting whiteout. They want to stop early.
Leaning into the counter, I hold the phone up to my forehead, relishing in the coolness of it against my fevered skin. I read the text over and over again, it’s like I’ve been here. A full circle, one might even call it deja vu.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I practice my breathing, like my therapist taught me a couple of times, as my body regulates and instinctively begins to work. My fingers typing on the screen's keyboard with ease.
Me:
Tell them Santa Claus wouldn’t stop because of the weather and neither would we.
Send.
The screen goes dark, and the air goes still.
The sound of the wind howling against the white backdrop, the snow drifts in slow spirals.
Dead branches lean from the mounted pressure, the tip scratching against the glass.
Somewhere beyond the pines a figure emerges, watching from the shadows, sending a shiver throughout my body.
I run a shaky hand down my face, feeling the sweat that has gathered on my forehead.
Turning my back to the window, I walk towards the kitchen sink and turn on the faucet.
Gathering water in my palms before splashing it on my face. “Wake up, Toy King,” a menacing voice purrs against my ear.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, please.” I take a step back and then another, the sound of the bells tolling inside my head has my knees giving out.
DING!
DONG !
DING!
DONG !
“STOP!” I shout, saliva flying out my lips. “STOP!”
TICK ! TOCK ! TICK! TOCK !
The grandfather clock chimes, the pendulum swinging slowly, merging into bells. They don’t stop and neither does the feeling of dread that intensifies by the second.
KNOCK! KNOCK !
DING! DONG ! DING!
The sounds repeat over and over, the chaos feeding from each other as I rock on the floor, my surroundings warp, glitching and spinning, making me nauseous.
“MAKE IT STOP!” I repeat again and again before the front door slams open.
The door swaying with the wind, I scatter to my feet, and when I stand, my eyes fall on my reflection in the window.
It grins back at me, lips parting into words I can’t make out.
Grabbing the glass on the counter, I hurl it at the window and my reflection laughs.
Mocking me.
Fuck, I’m really losing it, but when I blink, the reflection is gone, along with the mess of glass.
The bourbon remains on the counter, “I just need some sleep and another drink.” With that, I pour myself two fingers of amber liquid, and for a moment, I stare at it as if I might find some answers.
From the living room, the familiar sound of the tv turning on catches my attention, and with my bourbon in hand, I head towards the source of the sound.
I lift the glass to the air and toast to the things that couldn’t be.
“Merry Christmas, Neno,” I mutter, before relaxing into the couch.
“They say Devon Porter was found dead on Christmas morning. His legacy is remarkable, but marked by his lack of compassion. Known as Devon Scrooge, Jollytown’s Toy King has died at the age of thirty two.”
My eyes widen, and the glass falls from my hand. When a single bell tolls once.
DING!
“Welcome to Porter Toys, where the joy comes to die,” Neno’s voice echoes in my head, as the ground splits open, sucking the room into it. “Merry Christmas, Devon Scrooge.”
My lungs seize inside my chest, my knees buckle, and I collapse to the ground. My fingers clawing at the tiles as my heart thumps wildly inside my chest.
Thump!
Swoosh!
Thump!
Just as I feel like the world is caving in, I hear a familiar voice in my ear. “Mr. Porter, the old workers have assembled outside the warehouse.”
I frown, focusing on my surroundings, my temples sore from the headache.
I blink again, and inhale deeply. Filling my lungs with the scent of leather and peppermint chocolate that comes from the warm latte in my hand.
Clearing my throat, I listen to the hum of the engine and gaze out the window.
Snow drifts across the factory gates, the crowds press against the fence, their signs bleeding red and white. I read each sign;
Fair pay. Another reads: Porter steals joy.
The familiarity of it brings me comfort, eliciting a sigh from my lips as I sink into the leather seat of my car. The same words and the same faces. Oh what a joy to be alive. “Ahh, Mr. Porter,” the voice stammers in my ear, my lips curling into a smirk when I answer.
“Call the cops, do your job or consider yourself fired.” With the press of a button, I end the call, and my phone buzzes in my hand, a message from Emily that has me relaxing further and taking a careful sip of my peppermint mocha latte.
I let out a breath, watching it fog up the glass as I soak in another glorious morning.
For a second I think I see brunette curls in the glass—but when I blink, it’s gone.
SWOOSH! SWOOSH!
I can hear my heart in my ears, and something sounds off in the distance, for a second I think I hear bells.
DING !
I shake my head, letting out a deep sigh, and I put on my fakest smile when the car stops at the entrance. Something feels out of place, not quite right, looking down at my clothes I notice the brown stain on them and my brows knit.
“Mr. Porter,” Emily calls from inside, motioning me to hurry, and I slam the door behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I watch as the car rolls slowly down the hill, the snow still falling and people still chanting.
SCROOGE.
SCROOGE.
Somewhere in between the faint sound.
DING!
DONG!
DING!