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"What was your best Christmas ever?"
Pressing his thumb to hold the crease as tightly as he can, Tommy glances up from the box he's wrapping—inside is something called a "Hatchimal Pufficorn," which can't possibly be actual words in the English language, and yet Jee-yun has talked about nothing else for the last couple of months—and says, "My what?"
Evan watches him tape the edge down. His brows furrow. "I-Is Jee even going to be able to unwrap that?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's got, like, hospital corners. She's going to dislocate an arm trying to get that stupid thing out."
Laughing, Tommy balls up some wrapping paper from the discard pile and throws it at him. It flies a whopping six inches. "Shut up. So she'll have to work a little for it. Builds character."
"The last thing Jee needs is more character," Evan says with a grin.
The light from the godawful $450 lamp Evan fell in love with in the Modani's window—he'd begged Tommy to let him buy it, even though it didn't go with any of their furniture and had almost certainly been fished out of H.R. Giger's trash at some point, and Tommy is too weak to deny him anything—catches on the unapologetic fondness in Evan's eyes like it's a physical thing, like it could cast shadows, and the sight of it never fails to damn near drop Tommy's ass to the floor. He grips the edge of the coffee table just to be on the safe side.
It's unthinkable that he tried to throw this away. Honestly, it's amazing they keep allowing him to renew his pilot's license, considering how fucking stupid he is.
"You look like you want to eat me," Evan smarms, propping his chin up on his hand. Sprawled out in the recliner they bought together, he's the very picture of a spoiled prince, pleased as punch with his lot in life. All that's missing is a crown tilted rakishly on top of his head and a loyal knight between his thighs fucking him so hard it falls off.
Tommy can't help but smirk, because, well. "I do."
"All right, before you decide on which cut of me to sink your teeth into first—flank, rump, or short plate—"
"Oh, definitely rump," Tommy says immediately, tongue between his teeth. He waggles his eyebrows for good measure. It's no secret which cut is his top choice, especially when dealing with a grade-A, grass-fed, all-American ass like Evan's.
Evan bites his lip to try and stifle a grin and, failing that, determinedly presses on, "—you should answer my question."
"Which was?" Tommy spins the box around to start folding the paper on the other side. He hates it when wrapping paper comes without grid lines. He should've known when he bought it. You can either have a pretty design or you can have common sense functionality; they don't give you both. "Hey, where did I leave my metal ruler?"
"Tommy, she's five: she won't care how even it is. She's gonna rip into it the second you hand it to her," Evan says with a long-suffering sigh. "And Chim swore he'd set fire to the tree if you showed him up this year."
"If Howie wants to play with the big boys, he needs to up his wired ribbon game."
Evan ignores that, but Tommy knows come Christmas morning he'll be the one sitting pretty while Maddie oohs and ahs over the picture-perfect double bows on all her gifts.
"You still didn't answer my question," Evan says.
"You didn't answer mine, either."
Rolling his eyes, Evan leans forward a little, chin still resting on his hand, watching Tommy wrap Jee's gift like it's a sports car. "Your best Christmas."
Tommy eyeballs the edge of the fold and deems it straight enough—the last time he'd had that thought about anything, he was proposing to Abby—while he thinks about it.
Historically, it's never been a day he's looked forward to. Growing up, it meant his dad had an excuse to drink like the world was ending and carve pieces of Tommy away like a Christmas roast while the rest of his family squirmed but said nothing. In the army, Tommy was usually flying an op on Christmas for whatever reason, but he'd get to listen to Kirby's copy of A Very Special Christmas, Vol. 2 when he got back, and his CO always slipped him extra cookies. The one Christmas he had with Abby was fine; he went with her to the 911 dispatch holiday party and spent most of it talking to her co-worker Warren about the going rates of vintage cars, all the while trying not to notice how green Warren's eyes were.
He'd been looking forward to last Christmas, though. He'd bought Evan's gift almost three months early—a leather-bound anthology about unexplained phenomena throughout history—and spent an hour wrapping it until it met his standards. The paper had been light blue with the most intricate, kaleidoscope metallic silver snowflakes he'd ever seen, and the ribbon had been some of his best work. The West Elm marketing director would've killed someone for the chance to feature it in their holiday catalog.
Of course, he didn't get to sit in front of Maddie and Howie's tree and watch wonder and excitement blossom on Evan's face when Tommy handed his perfectly-wrapped gift to him, or be part of a family photo, or kiss Evan under well-placed mistletoe, or curl up on the couch between Evan and Howie with Jee sitting on his shoulders while they MST3K'd the Rankin/Bass version of Rudolph. Instead, he swapped shifts with Wagner so she could be with her family, and a girl Jee's age coded in the back of his bird halfway to L.A. General.
Tommy lifts his gaze to find Evan already watching him.
"Well?" Evan lifts his brows, expectant.
It's December 16th, and there's not one, not two, but eighteen stockings hanging over the fireplace. There's pine garland that lights up strung across the mantle. They'd moved the couch from in front of the windows so the tree could be seen from the street and nearly pissed themselves laughing while decorating it. Dozens of gifts have been Tetris'd under it, all carefully wrapped by Tommy with tags filled out in Evan's slanted handwriting. Every card they've received has been taped up in the living room doorway, which also bears a sprig of mistletoe, as does every other doorway in the house. The air smells of cinnamon and spice all the time, because Evan declared on December 1st that it was "simmer pot season, bitches!" and every few days there's some weird concoction that involves orange slices on the stove.
They'll be spending Christmas Eve at Bobby and Athena's new place. Evan's earmarked no fewer than ten recipes for the party, and Tommy went out with Eddie and Hen a few days ago to get their gifts for the grab (Hen got an awesome multitool that Tommy's gunning for, Eddie got a 1000-piece underwater scene puzzle because he's lame, and Tommy can't wait to sit back and watch everyone fight over his self-heating coffee mug). The next day, they'll do dinner and gifts at Howie and Maddie's. It's baby Kevin's first Christmas, so it's going to be particularly special. Then Tommy's whisking Evan away for a surprise helicopter ride over the San Gabriel Mountains so he can watch Evan watch the last of the Geminids.
He looks at Evan now, in his indolent sprawl in the chair they bought together, in the house they've made a home together, and thinks of himself at nine, at nineteen, at twenty-eight, at forty, and wishes he could tell every iteration of Tommy Kinard that never understood why people made such a big deal about Christmas that eventually he would see the reason for the season. That it would be more than worth the wait. That Evan would be more than worth the wait.
Feeling a bit like someone's strung up a thousand blinking lights inside his chest, Tommy smiles and turns his attention back to Jee's gift.
"Ask me in nine days."