Chapter Twenty-Six #2
Nash spins around to stare at him, an incredulous look on his face. ‘I’m sorry, but the casual way you just dropped that bomb on me might be the thing that takes me out today.’
Christopher stops a step down, so their faces are level. He could just reach forward and kiss him. There’s so little space between them. ‘Well, before the very fascinating culture of Wales takes you out, why don’t we go on a very small adventure?’
Nash
They bundle up in as many layers as possible before getting into the van.
Christopher insists Nash adds at least another jumper layer even when he thinks he’s wearing enough, which they bicker about for a few minutes until Nash relents, the arms of his coat nearly bursting at the seams from so many layers.
To be fair, he always struggles with regulating his temperature after a seizure because his nervous system is so whacked. In LA, this isn’t so much a problem because he can just turn the air up or down. In snow, it’s a little more complicated.
Christopher drives them through the now slushy snow right onto the promenade, and Nash is briefly worried he’s going to drive right onto the sand and cause an incident, but he turns the ignition off when the truck faces out to the grey sea.
Christopher turns to look at Nash. ‘We can just sit in here, in the van, if you’d like?’
‘Nah, let’s get some air.’
It’s ice cold, the wind whipping at the exposed skin on their faces.
Despite the sun, it’s much colder today, way below zero, so the cold is dry for once.
The tide is going out (naturally, Christopher claims to have checked the tide tables like a good Boy Scout).
The sea rolls back in coils of grey and white, revealing dark sand and glistening pebbles that whoosh along together in harmony.
‘It’s kind of beautiful here, isn’t it?’ Nash sighs. ‘Weirdly fucking beautiful.’
‘Did you grow up near the sea in Canada?’
‘No, I’m from inland Ontario, but near the Great Lakes. LA is the closest geographically I’ve ever lived to the sea, but, like, it’s still a long drive to get there. It’s amazing to just be here in minutes.’
‘I’m really lucky to live here,’ Christopher admits. ‘For however long I get to.’
‘Thinking of leaving?’ Nash asks.
‘Oh, no. It’s just . . . you know the statistics. So many businesses fail in their first year. The previous occupants ran a little café, and that struggled for a long time.’
‘Sure, but you’re dedicated. It’s your dream.’
‘Chasing the dream is half the fight,’ he says with a sad smile.
‘You still have to live it, make it work. Turn it from a dream into a reality and keep it that way. That’s pretty hard in and of itself.
Plus, making your hobby the thing you do for a living means you no longer have a hobby not tied to your personal finances. ’
‘You’ve thought about it a lot.’
‘I’ve had a lot of time alone to think.’
‘It’s brave, though. Even if it is just a dream for now, you still did it. That’s not a failure. You tried something new that mattered to you. Most people don’t even bother doing that.’
As if making his point for him, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. It’s not a phone call from Kurt, but it is a calendar invite for them to have a talk tomorrow.
Fuck’s sake, it must be barely six in the morning over there. Can he not just have a moment to enjoy the view? Not just the sea, but Christopher, too.
Nash has barely been awake long enough to process everything that happened last night.
First off, having a seizure in front of someone, which is just a whole other level of vulnerability that most people will never experience.
But secondly, how gentle Christopher was with him.
How he’s continued to be that way this morning.
If Nash is honest, part of him was half expecting the other shoe to drop, for Christopher to realise what an imposition it was . . . he is.
But he hasn’t.
He’s a little afraid of the things that he’s feeling and trying not to notice. He thinks about trying to tell Christopher what it all meant to him, but the words stick in his throat.
And that’s when a perfect snowflake lands right on the tip of Nash’s nose.
Above them falls a fresh flurry.
‘It’s snowing,’ Christopher whispers with such boyish glee that it grips Nash’s heart.
‘Snow on the beach. I thought that was impossible.’
‘Magic. It must be magic.’
* * *
Christopher
Snowflakes gather like icing sugar all along the brim of Nash’s hat, peppering the fringe of hair sticking out at the front.
They lock eyes and Christopher feels the weight of what’s growing between them.
Can either of them deny it anymore? It feels increasingly difficult to say it’s ‘just blowing off steam’ after the last couple of days.
‘Nash,’ he says, his voice low and soft.
‘Christopher,’ Nash echoes in the same tone.
‘Can I kiss you?’
‘You’ve been doing that for the last couple of days.’
‘Yes, but I wanted to ask you again. Just to be sure.’
Their kiss is the only warmth in the world right now. It’s soft and tender, as if they’re just finding each other for the first time. He doesn’t want it to end.
Christopher wraps his arms around Nash, deepening the kiss. Even through all the layers they’re wearing, he’s sure that Nash can feel his heart beating, furiously joyful.
He knows this is dangerous, to kiss a man who is destined to leave. But hang sensibility. He wants this. He wants Nash.
He wants Nash Nadeau, who tastes like the sweet warmth of home . . . and a little of gingerbread, which means he’s getting a telling-off later. His kiss, this kiss, is more than he could ever have imagined. So much for movie magic; he has the real magic of a kiss in the snow.
An improbable, impossible kiss.
But it’s all real. It’s all theirs.
And it’s all he’s ever wanted.
When they break apart, Nash’s cheeks are pink. ‘I was wondering when you were going to do that again.’
‘I didn’t know if you wanted me to.’
‘Of course I wanted you to.’ And he grabs Christopher by the coat lapels and pulls him into another kiss. It’s like being dragged into Nash’s orbit. He never ever wants to leave.
They walk on a bit, hand in hand, and Christopher dares to dream of another day at the beach.
What would it be like in spring, or summer, when they could brave the chill and swim in the sea?
He wants to walk along the beach with Nash in all seasons, in all weathers.
It’s dangerous to think about, but he’s realising he really wants more days like this. More time together.
Nash’s phone buzzes and he takes it out, dismissing whatever it is, probably a call from his agent.
Part of Christopher wants to tell him to answer it, to speak what he wants out loud, but that’s letting the real world in.
Can’t they just stay in this wintry fantasy a little longer?
This is their time to be selfish and together, and so he pulls Nash into another deep kiss as the salty sea laps the shore.
How impossible it is to be here, kissing the man of his dreams, under a sugar-coating of snow? This Christmas was never going to turn out like he expected but what are the chances of this? It makes it all feel that bit more magical, as if they were meant to find each other in the storm.
The wind whips up into a gale, and they break apart from kissing with shrieks.
‘You’ll have to carry me back to the van. I’m too frail and tired,’ Nash says, burying himself against Christopher.
‘You know I’d love to be able to lift you, but I’m afraid that’s definitely not going to happen.’
‘That sucks,’ Nash pouts. ‘I’ve always wanted to be carried. You’re letting the side down.’
‘Well, maybe you should carry me. You’re much stronger than I am.’
‘Have you seen how long your limbs are, Calloway? I’m not sure I can lift high enough to get your giant tree-trunk legs off the ground. I swear you’re part ent.’
‘Is this our thing?’ Christopher laughs, wrapping his arm around Nash’s shoulders and guiding them forward through the snow and sand back to the van.
‘What?’
‘Bickering and getting annoyed with each other and then kissing?’
‘I think so,’ Nash says with a sharp flash of a grin.
Our thing feels like a tacit admission of something. Or a wish.
He doesn’t know how long this will last between them.
‘Maybe . . . we should go home and bicker some more then.’
‘I’d like that. Also, I’d like to eat, for the first time, some of that gingerbread you made.’
‘Nice try.’
‘I didn’t eat any! It was the cat.’
‘I’d know that taste anywhere.’
‘Oh, all right then,’ Nash says, giving up the pretence almost immediately. ‘But you better let me have some more.’
Even though the drive is short, Nash falls asleep in the van. Christopher feels awful prodding him awake when he’s so exhausted, but he manages to coax him upstairs and tucks him into bed. His bed. Their bed.
This is the kind of thing he can imagine doing forever. And it’s kind of horrifying to realise, but maybe he wants to do this forever. He could be the man Nash can come home to, the one to look after him when things get too much.
Is he really thinking about this?
The gingerbread is cool so he decides to distract his mind with decorating, but the thought doesn’t shift.
What-ifs run through his mind, one after the other, and the thing is, he’ll only get an answer if he talks to Nash about it.
That was his advice for Nash thinking about his future career and what he wanted, wasn’t it?
To actually address it? Perhaps he should take that same advice too.
But for now, he’ll let him sleep.