Chapter Twenty-Six
Christopher
Rather than wake him with breakfast, Christopher lets Nash sleep in.
Even after his nap on the couch, Nash still looked bushed last night, and so Christopher had led him to bed, helped him undress down to his underwear and tucked him in.
It was a tender moment. So different from the night before, when they had spilled out of their clothes, tearing fabric from each other’s skins.
This was different. This was careful. Gentle.
When he woke, Nash was curled up in a little ball against him, completely dead to the world; his long eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as he dreamed.
Christopher had been worried that moving would wake him, but Nash didn’t even move when the sun rose and bright light poured in through the window.
Outside, there’s a fresh dusting of snow but the gloomy clouds are long gone. It’s sunny and bright, his favourite kind of weather.
It’s practically lunch by the time Christopher decides to start the day proper.
It’s probably safe to leave Nash sleeping, but he doesn’t want to just disappear so he writes a little note and leaves it by his bed.
Ideally, he’d text him but, one, he’s worried that might wake him, and two, he doesn’t even have Nash’s number.
A kind of wild lapse in admin given the last few days.
Hopefully, he’ll be okay. The cat is curled up at the bottom of the bed, and gives him a look as if to say I’ve got this.
So, he gets dressed and makes himself a tea, picking at the plate of leftovers from last night while the teabag stews.
Boxing Day is always such a strange day if there’s nothing planned, a quick slide into the blur of Betwixtmas.
Last year’s was a little chaotic, so he’s ready for a quiet day at least.
Downstairs, the bakery is so clean and tidy that he could have sworn he dreamed yesterday. The only sign that Christmas Day happened at all is yet more leftovers in plastic containers in the fridge. He’ll have to find a way to redistribute those today, if he can.
And that’s when he remembers that he never baked the gingerbread.
He’d been so insistent on making it on Christmas Eve when they were both so tired, and yet he didn’t bake it at all.
Is this perhaps his first ever Christmas without doing a gingerbread house before the actual big day?
Well, nothing about this Christmas is particularly normal, he supposes.
With nothing better to do, he takes the clingfilm-wrapped gingerbread dough from the fridge and slowly starts rolling it out, ready to cut it into shapes.
There’s more than enough for a small house, and he can also make a bunch of reindeer to give to everyone who helped yesterday.
Plus, they’ll make a nice treat for Nash.
While he’s rolling the dough out, his phone buzzes. It’s Kit checking in again, after the panic of the reporters yesterday, and so he makes the decision to just video-call rather than get his phone all sticky.
Her sleepy face appears on screen, hair still sleep-mussed. ‘Morning. Are you baking?’
‘The gingerbread.’
He hears a chorus of groans. ‘Noooo, I’m so sad I didn’t get to eat it,’ whines Haf. ‘Also why are you up and dressed? It’s Boxing Day. Go back to bed, you weirdo.’
‘Unless . . .’ says Kit raising her eyebrows.
‘Yes he’s in there still and no it’s not what you think.’
‘I highly doubt that.’
‘Plus it’s lunchtime. But, actually,’ he says, setting down the reindeer-shaped cutter. ‘Erm, he wasn’t very well. I don’t want to go into specifics because I don’t know if it’s public but it’s—’
‘A disability thing,’ Kit says, but it isn’t a prompt for more information. She just gets it.
‘I just want to make sure I was looking after him okay.’
‘Did you follow what he said to do?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then you’re okay. Just keep doing that. And maybe, you know, dial down on the you.’
‘The me?’ he startles a little. He can’t help it.
‘You know. The worrying thing,’ Kit drawls.
‘Oh,’ he says, blushing. He starts measuring out the sides of the house, slicing fine tracing grooves into the dough while he makes sure he’s doing it right.
She softens. ‘I don’t mean you’re being annoying. I just know you’ll be worried about how to help him, but this is normal for him, right?’
‘It seems so, yes.’
‘Okay, so he might feel a bit weird about it because it’s the first time you’ve seen whatever it is happen.’
‘And because you two have some kind of sexy emotional entanglement going on,’ giggles Haf.
‘Exactly what I mean, though. Like I was pretty embarrassed the first time Haf knocked my hip out while—’
‘Please for the love of God do not finish that sentence.’
The two women dissolve into mischievous giggles. The hazards of your best friend dating your sister is that sometimes they forget that you absolutely do not want to hear a lot of this stuff.
‘But I take your point. I’ll dial it down. It must not be nice being unwell when you’re not at home, though.’
‘No, that’s true. Do you have anything planned for today?’
‘No. Everyone told us we had to take a day off after cooking yesterday. But maybe, I was thinking, I might take him down the road to the beach. It’s finally stopped snowing from the looks of things.
We can practically drive onto the front with the van so if he’s too tired to walk we can just sit and watch the waves, or toddle about a bit. ’
When he looks back at the phone, both Haf and Kit are squished into the screen beaming at him.
‘What?’
‘You’re just cute,’ Haf says.
‘I’m just trying to be . . . hospitable.’
‘Mmhmm,’ murmurs Kit, completely unconvinced. ‘Let us know how you get on with that.’
They talk for a bit longer about their weird individual Christmases, and he moves the camera so they can see him working away, laying the sides and roof of the house, and then each reindeer down on the baking trays.
With the sudden free time, Kit and Haf had watched the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy back to back, only moving to make more food or top up the wine.
‘Not gonna lie, it was much easier than last Christmas with everyone,’ admits Haf.
‘To be fair, last year, you and Lovestruck over here were pretending to be together while you were trying not to snog me, so the stakes were a little higher,’ laughs Kit dryly.
‘Yeah, but this time I got to pick all the best treats and I only cried once.’
‘You cried multiple times during the movies?’
‘Why did you cry the other time?’ Christopher asks.
‘Oh, you know, the cutlery was just too loud.’ Kit pats her gently on the head.
Christopher nods sagely. Sometimes it is too loud, and sometimes Haf says things that are all too familiar to him.
Ever since she got her autism diagnosis this year, he’s been quietly wondering some more things about himself, but his possible .
. . likely . . . neurodivergence is not something he’s entirely ready to look at head-on.
‘How many times did you cry, Christopher?’ asks Kit, dragging him from his thoughts.
‘Not once.’
‘Wow. That’s impressive. But maybe you should have a little cry? You know, a nice little festive one. As a treat.’
‘I think we have very different ideas about what treats are, darling,’ Kit says.
They sign off with a chorus of love yous, determined to get a walk in around the York walls if it wasn’t too icy, or at the very least get some kind of chocolatey delicious thing to eat.
They’ll have their time together when the snow is gone, he hopes.
Though Lord knows when. He’d have to keep the bakery shut for longer, and he doesn’t know if he can afford to do that, especially when he’s due to reopen in a few days anyway.
‘Morning.’ Nash is wrapped up in Christopher’s dressing gown. His golden hair sticks up in a truly impressive variety of angles, and there are deep dark furrows under his eyes.
‘Hi,’ Christopher says breathlessly, trying not to beam at the sight of him. ‘How are you feeling?’
Nash blows out his lips and shrugs. ‘Mid. Not bad but I don’t feel as sparkly as I might normally do.’
‘You’re sparkly in the mornings?’
‘I might be.’ Nash sniffs the air in a move that reminds Christopher of the cat. ‘What are you making?’
‘Gingerbread, finally.’
‘How long until I get to eat some?’
On cue, the timer goes off, and Christopher removes several baking sheets of wide shapes and crisp-looking reindeer from the oven, setting them on the wire racks to cool.
‘You have to wait for them to cool or it’ll be all squishy and gross.’
‘I hate the interminably slow passage of time,’ Nash groans. He bends down to closely inspect the reindeer. ‘These are cute.’
‘They’re Shaz’s favourites. I thought perhaps I’d drop a few round to people to say thank you for their help yesterday.’
‘That’s a nice idea and you should do it, but know that I am also objecting to it on the grounds that it means I don’t get to eat them all.’
‘Noted. Do you need some breakfast? I’ll whip up something for us.’
‘I was just going to have some toast. And then I’ll take a few of those cookies.’
‘Biscuits.’
‘Whatever.’
They make their way back upstairs, Nash taking each step with slow consideration. Christopher regrets going ahead, wanting to hang back to help push him up. He holds out a hand, and Nash takes it, so he leads him up the last few.
‘Do you have Boxing Day in America?’
‘A free day off for no reason? Of course not. Canada does, though. I figure it’s generally pretty similar to what you guys get up to here.’
‘Usually nothing?’
‘Sounds about right. Over on Newfoundland they have a whole mumming thing. Like a parade mixed with a play where everyone has to take part, or like they go knock on doors and ask for admission. Sounds fucking dreadful.’
‘Oh, they have that here. Well, not here, but in South Wales they do that but with a horse’s skull on a stick throughout midwinter.’