First day of Christmas - 1. Chapter 1

Bruce tried to ignore the aches and pains that afflicted him from top to bottom. Sunlight, low, warm, and golden, streamed into the lounge and caressed his lower limbs. Unexpected brightness, reflected in the French windows, was dazzling when his head occupied one particular position. Standing upright required more strength than he currently possessed. He felt unbalanced. Unsteady. Even more so because the lounge carpet from previous winters had gone completely, replaced by some slippery faux-wood substitute.

Off to one side, Max sat on the floor, legs tucked up, and stared at a small heap of boxes, muttering under his breath. “So just where the fuck are the fucking tree lights?” He let out a groan and flopped backwards, arms out wide. “Jeez. I fucking hate Christmas!” Max's shocking electric blue quiff stood out against the pale wood grain. The blue clashed with a red Christmas pudding jumper – bought specially by his mum – and tight purple jeans.

Bruce blinked several times in succession. It always took a while to reacquaint himself with festive bling. He carefully flexed every extremity to make sure the room's warmth reached as far as it could. Bliss. What colour had Max's hair been the previous year?

Nothing out of the ordinary came to mind. Instead, Bruce relived all-too-vivid memories of a weeping, snotty-nosed Max yelling into his phone before throwing it against the wall behind the TV. The festive season that had started out so promisingly ended in a dismissal for Bruce that bordered on cruel. Rough, uncaring fingers hurriedly stripped him of everything before he was consigned to a cardboard box and the garage's dark, lonely chill.

A huff escaped as Bruce attempted to straighten his spine. These days, cold and damp did their worst to an ageing, cranky frame. A crick in his neck felt permanent; other joints creaked ominously and some had a looseness that didn't bode well. Getting old was no joke.

Max still lay on his back. He now held a different phone from last year's at arm's length. The screen was angled to capture his face. Bruce caught sight of an eye-roll worthy of teen Max from several years ago.

The young man sighed loudly. “It fucking sucks being here for Christmas.” The comment was apparently aimed at his phone.

A pause followed, during which Bruce listened intently but heard nothing.

“Yeah?” Max continued. “Well, you don't have my mum on your case every fucking day.” A scowl marred his remarkably stubble-free face. “When are you gonna get a job? You should go out more. There's a new housing association place open on the High Street. Go and get your name on their list. It never fucking ends.” His torso bucked slightly in frustration.

This time Bruce overheard a low rumble – no words, more a sensation.

Max coloured a pinkish red that clashed with everything. A reluctant smile surfaced. He squirmed a little, looking away from the phone.

Only a few beats late, his mum, Sharon, emerged from the kitchen. Bruce watched, breathing in the luscious scent of mince pies that wafted through. That was more like it.

She rubbed her hands on an apron decorated with grinning cartoon reindeer. “Max, darling–”

Startled, the young man dropped the phone, rolled over onto his stomach, thereby concealing the screen, and glared up at her. “Fuck, mum! What now?”

There was a pause as she took in her son. “One of your uni friends?”

Max's glare continued a moment longer before he looked away. “Kinda.” The blush was back.

One corner of Sharon's mouth twitched. She looked Bruce's direction. “How's the tree decorating going?”

A sigh of theatrical proportions followed. “I can't find any lights.”

His mum bent to ruffle the electric blue quiff. “I threw them out last January. Several lamps were cracked and the wire looked damaged in places.”

Bruce shivered. He wasn't remotely surprised – those memories of being stripped would haunt him.

Another sigh – of frustration, this time – from Max. “You didn't… like… think to buy another set?”

“Sorry, darling, I obviously forgot.” A timer pinged insistently from the kitchen. Sharon turned in that direction before looking back briefly with a smile. “Why don't you find something you like online. My treat.”

Her son shrugged, or as much as he could while lying on his front. “Why bother?” Max turned over and sat up. “I mean, what's the point? Just look at it.” A finger pointed straight at Bruce. “That tree's only fit for the bin. We've had it for freaking ever.”

The shock made Bruce shiver. Yes, he understood life was finite, but he never expected treatment like that. Threats. Contempt. Disdain. His posture sagged, limbs drooping floorwards. Was this how it all ended?

Sharon was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she'd retreated to the kitchen and was occupied in rescuing mince pies from the oven or whatever else the timer heralded. Bruce lost himself in memories.

His unveiling, however many years ago it was now, to squeals of excitement from Max and his older sister, Emma. The reverence with which they straightened out Bruce's limbs and made him stand tall. Fierce arguments about which ornaments made him look his best. The gasps and huge smiles when Sharon finally switched on the equally new tree lights.

Bruce sighed, his whole body seeming to join in. He'd felt on top of the world – a central, starring role in that year's festivities. Gradually, the lustre faded. Fewer presents, more sulks, and the feeling he was there on sufferance. Had he become irrelevant? Something that spent most of the year taking up valuable room?

Max sat, huddled over his phone, tapping, swiping, and pinching in and out. He stopped. “That's so sick.” The awe in his voice puzzled Bruce. Maybe he wasn't hearing right. The young man swayed towards the kitchen and called, “Mum?”

“I'll be back in a minute, darling.” Sounds of washing up drifted into the living room

Max continued anyway. “I've found some black tree lights. There's a Goth vibe this year.”

Water gushed from a tap and gurgled down the plughole. Silence.

Sharon's puzzled voice followed. “Black?” She stood in the doorway.

“Yeah. Lights, wire, everything.”

That intense satisfaction in Max's reply made Bruce let out a long breath. Kids. And parents with more money than sense. One year, they draped him in a mile's worth of blinking, flashing, disco-themed lights. The migraine which resulted lasted on and off until New Year when Max, drunk on rhubarb gin, tripped over the power transformer and brought Bruce to the floor. Bruce grimaced at the memory. He was sure some of his lingering joint pain came from that night. Still, at least the disco lights had died a most satisfactory death.

Bruce tried to catch the last of the sunshine; the crick in his neck pulsed. That weakness was Max's fault as well. His and Emma's. Bruce felt his shoulders tighten. Which idiot purposefully placed the best cracker alongside his own crowning star? And then let two hellions fight it out for the spoils. The spat lasted less than a minute. Long enough.

Max and his mum stood in front of the tree. Max pointed at something on his phone's screen. “Black lights on a black and purple tree? Man, I can't wait for that shit.”

Sharon's eyes widened. “When you have your own place, darling, that'd be great. For now, I'd prefer something more traditional. Colourful.”

“Boring.” A pout advertised her son's frustration.

His mum grinned. “Yes, Max. Boring.” She gave Bruce a once-over. “There's nothing the matter with this tree that a little tlc won't put right.”

“Yeah?” Max pointed. “It's lop-sided. And a mess. Look at those branches.”

Bruce attempted to assume a pose – a reminder of his former glories. All the aches crowded back in, especially on his left side which had been mashed up against the garage wall, stuck in between the unused croquet set and a random piece of wooden fencing.

One of Sharon's hands, gentle and warm, touched Bruce. A few judicious tugs and careful probing brought some relief in his chest area. Bruce took a deeper breath than usual and relaxed a little. He felt more himself – less consumed by the travails of old age.

Sharon nodded to herself. “Yeah. As I thought. Now the tree's had chance to warm up, it's easier to pull the branches into shape.”

“If you can be bothered.” Max glowered at Bruce. “It'd be so much easier to get a new one.”

His mum rolled her eyes. “Maximilian Benedict Mason, I am not buying a new Christmas tree because you can't be bothered to spend time on this one.” A huff of affectionate exasperation followed. “Darling, things are a little tight right now. We have to make do with what's here. Who knows. Next year, maybe we'll visit you and your weird death star tree.”

Max stared at fluffy, bright yellow, sock-covered feet. One big toe poked repeatedly at the boxed Christmas decorations.

“You could always invite your friend round, if he lives locally.” The slyness in Sharon's tone made Bruce smirk.

“Mum!” That clashing shade of pink had returned.

“Max!” She drew out the 'a'. “Darling, bribe him with mince pies if he won't come just for you.”

“You're freaking weird sometimes.”

Sharon snorted, leaned in to give Max a kiss on the cheek, then turned towards the kitchen. “If your friend's really good, he might get some of my lebkuchen.”

Her son's gaze shot up. His mouth opened slightly. “Chocolate-covered lebkuchen?”

Sharon looked over her shoulder at him. “Dark chocolate. With extra cinnamon and ginger.”

A groan escaped Max, the sort of sound Bruce associated with sex scenes on TV or when Max lay on the sofa late at night and watched porn on his phone.

His mother smirked. “Ask him.”

Bruce woke from a doze to find certain of his extremities being tugged – short, hard pulls that demanded rather than coaxed and were nothing like Sharon's earlier attentions. The curtains were closed and some distinctly un-Christmassy music dominated the room. Bruce heard lyrics, peppered with swear words, layered over a beat that was at once thrilling and curiously monotonous. An electric guitar swooped in, its wailing, pulsing scream giving him the shivers. It made a change from Slade, Kylie, and whoever else on a loop.

Standing back from the tree, Max examined his efforts and scowled. He briefly juggled some glittery baubles in both hands before letting them fall back into the box. “Waste of fucking time. Bin – that's the only place.”

His phone rang. Max snatched it up from the floor and yelled, “Shut it!” at a new, alien-looking, black sphere that sat on the mantelpiece. An echoing silence descended, broken only by soft thuds as Max stomped towards the kitchen and slammed the door closed after him.

Bruce couldn't help smiling. It was as if the young man wanted privacy, despite there being no other humans around. The smile soon faded, to be replaced by uncertainty. Same thing every damn time. Would Bruce survive until the New Year?

Each successive year contained an element of jeopardy. A number of them, in fact. Would he make it out of the garage? Did he feel OK? Would he survive the ritual dressing-up? Bruce grimaced at that one. The dressing-up wasn't exactly progressing. How would he last out the festivities? Did another eleven months in the garage await?

So many questions.

Questions with no answers. So far, at least. Bruce was under no illusions. A Christmas tree's homelife could be ended in the blink or two of a flashing bulb.

He watched their neighbours discard their tree, year after year, on New Year's Day, like so much rubbish. Rubbish that was left out in all weathers until the bin men came and put the tree out of its misery. Bruce shuddered. One time, that year's sacrificial offering wasn't collected for some reason. It lay on the pavement, the few branches he could see slowly turning brown, until one morning, a guy turned up in a battered van, picked the tree up as if it were a twig and fed it into his machine's ravenous maw. A small heap of wood chips were all that remained.

Bruce swayed, the memory playing on a loop which made him light-headed. After a disorientating couple of minutes, he let go and fell into another doze.

“Wow!”

Bruce jerked awake to find a stranger giving him the once-over. Chestnut brown eyes appraised his looks in a way that hadn't happened since that very first Christmas. Warmth trickled down Bruce's spine and spread outwards. He stood proud. Or tried to.

“That's a pretty good imitation of a spruce,” the guy continued, turning to address Max. “How old is it?”

Max glowered first at the guy, then at Bruce. “Like, end-of-the-universe old. Duh.” A soft, throaty chuckle in reply made the young man blush. Again.

“OK. So where am I on this scale of decrepitude?” The stranger smirked, merriment dancing in his eyes. “Earth death? Or maybe, the sun collapsing in on itself?”

Bruce delved into his limited store of knowledge and guessed the guy to be ten years older than Max. There were the start of laughter lines in his face and he came across as more mature. Not as coltish as Max could still be.

“Fuck you!” Max was laughing as he attempted, hands outstretched, to shove his companion backwards. At some point, Max had lost the shapeless pudding jumper. The young man now sported a rainbow Little Pony tee which left slim, wiry arms mostly free. Bruce knew from experience Max was no weakling, yet he now made little impression, only managing to make the other man rock back on his heels before he reached down and grabbed hold of Max's wrists.

A scuffle ensued. Max squirmed and fought against his captor, but Bruce realised what he was hearing were hiccuping giggles, snorts, and whispers. Nothing serious, then. Even so, he drew in his feet and tried to become less three-dimensional. Bruce knew all too well the trauma of ending up on the floor.

The mock skirmish ended abruptly when the stranger – Bruce hadn't caught a name – pressed Max up against the opposite wall and kissed him deeply. The young man melted. Bruce spotted the moment Max's knees started to buckle. So did his boyfriend. One muscular arm curved round and pulled Max in close. The kissing resumed. And nibbling. The two men separated slightly. Clothing rustled. Sounds of licking. Or was it sucking? Maybe both.

Bruce flinched at a high-pitched, fevered yelp from Max. What was that the result of? His imagination supplied the possibility of a bite. A bite? Should he even be watching? Listening in. Bruce had no wish to be a voyeur.

The sound of the front door clicking shut froze both men momentarily in the act of kissing. They disengaged, eyes wide and staring, then each raced to put hair and clothing to rights, their cheeks red, lips swollen, still breathing rapidly.

Another fit of giggling consumed Max. He leaned forward, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. The other man bent down, one hand resting on Max's back and whispered something. Max nodded agreement. His head came up, face still flushed, eyes seemingly darker than usual.

Whoever shut the front door – Sharon, Bruce assumed – their feet now tapped along the entrance hall and into the kitchen through the far door. The clunk of cans, crinkle of plastic and soft thuds of the refrigerator door opening and closing all added up to a trip to the supermarket.

Max, meanwhile, tipped his face up for one final kiss before slipping quietly out of the lounge. The boyfriend patted himself down, vainly wishing away wrinkles in a patterned, long-sleeved shirt. He readjusted the collar, taking several long, deep breaths, before turning to face the kitchen. Nearly time for introductions, Bruce thought.

Sounds of running water from upstairs partially explained Max's disappearance. A quick shower. A cold one, maybe. Hot, flustered, and tingling everywhere, Bruce felt a generous dusting of snow for himself would be a great idea. He focused instead on the sneaky draught seeping in through the French windows and tried to summon cool thoughts.

In the quiet that followed a final kitchen cupboard clicking shut, Bruce heard Sharon call through the partially open door into the lounge, “Max, darling?”

Showtime. Bruce braced himself for the encounter.

The boyfriend cleared his throat and took a step or two towards the kitchen, hands fiddling with his hair, that shirt, then brushing down chino-clad thighs. “Err… hi, Mrs Mason. Max is taking a quick shower.”

Sharon now stood in the doorway, a questioning but friendly look on her face. “Ah. You must be Max's friend.” A smile followed.

“Yes. Hi, I'm Paulo.” Rose pink suffused copper-hued skin. “Paulo Gonzales Lopez. I'm a doctoral research fellow in vulcanology at–” The guy faltered, maybe conscious it was not the right time for an academic CV. “Max and I met at the university,” he finished.

Sharon's smile widened. “Welcome, Paulo. Please call me Sharon.” She closed the gap, one hand partially extended as if she wasn't sure of its reception.

Bruce had been present for enough British sitcoms to recognise the potential pitfalls. Paulo however, matched her and refrained from any kisses. Bruce smirked to himself. Maybe the boyfriend was all kissed out?

A series of rapid, muffled thuds on the stairs and Max burst into the lounge, hair all over the place, although his clothes were fresh. “Mum! Couldn't you've waited until I was here?”

“Why?” Sharon exchanged a smirk with Paulo. “I think we managed OK.”

“We did.”

Max pouted, but his expression lifted when his boyfriend held out one arm and drew Max into an embrace.

His mum looked back towards the kitchen. “There's a rack of lebkuchen cooling off. Just need their chocolate coating.”

That same groan from Max. His boyfriend gave him a side glance.

“They're heaven, Paulo. Out of this world.”

With a snort, Sharon shook her head. “They'll be done by the time you boys get the tree ready.”

“Can't.”

“Can't what?”

Another theatrical sigh from her son. “Get the tree ready. Duh. There're no lights.”

Like a magician, she produced a small cardboard container. “And, lo. See what I found on the Seasonal aisle at Tesco's.”

Bruce sent a prayer up to whoever, hoping the lights would be unobjectionable. He'd been out of the garage for less than a day and it already felt like January. Would he even make it to Twelfth Night? He smothered a sigh and tried not to stoop. Or slump. The blues were hitting him hard.

Taking the small box, Max brandished it at his mother. “White lights? Fuck, Mum. Why d'you buy boring shit like everyone else?”

“Boring shit is cheap and adds points to my store card. Funnily enough, they didn't stock black lights.”

That edge to Sharon's voice usually only appeared after Christmas. Boxing Day, Bruce thought, if Max acted like a little shit. As now, in fact.

Paulo's gaze flitted between both Masons. In the tight silence, he offered a hesitant smile. “I'm sure they'll look great, Mrs–” A cough. “Ehm… Sharon.”

Max rolled his eyes, though fondness countered scorn. A fondness that ramped up when Paulo leaned in to kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you, Paulo.” Sharon eyed her son. “Tree, then lebkuchen.”

“Yes, Mum.”

An hour or so later, Bruce decided the evening was finally improving. He'd undergone another shaky start. Another flash of fear he'd be out on the street, cold and unwanted, abandoned like so much trash.

Max, clearly pissed off about the lights, had continued with his tree complaints, shoving Bruce's trunk in demonstration of how unstable and crap he thought the tree was. Bruce wobbled, every part of him swaying dangerously, until a steadying hand at his base restored lost equilibrium. He continued to quiver, expecting every moment to be his last.

Paulo's calm, quiet voice silenced Max's tantrum, leaving the younger man pink and staring down at his socks, orange and green stripes this time. Bruce dared to hope.

Paulo remained kneeling down to check Bruce's feet. A couple of deft manipulations followed. Miracle of miracles, standing was no longer an issue. The guy ran hands up ageing limbs, checking joints, muscles, ligaments with a firm, reassuring touch.

Masterful and so calming.

Inside, Bruce glowed. He smiled at the recollection. When had someone last showed him such consideration? Such tenderness. At his unveiling, maybe. He held those loose, floaty, happy feelings close, not minding too much when Max tweaked and pinched to get a particular ornament where he wanted it.

Ornaments were laid out on the floor – neat, orderly, and utterly unlike Max's usual chaotic heap. Paulo stood holding a bright, jewel-coloured bird. His unoccupied hand gently stroked Max's electric blue hair as the younger man hunkered down and stared at serried ranks of Christmas trinkets.

“Why are you so organised and shit?”

“D'you think that a fault?”

Their gazes met. Paulo appeared interested and gently amused. Max's indignation sputtered and it wasn't long before he looked away.

He sighed. “No – just weird.”

“Like me?” More amusement.

“What? No. Never!” Max sprang up and launched himself at his boyfriend.

They tangled, Paulo trying to keep the bird ornament out of way as they kissed fiercely. Coming up for air, he gently dropped the decoration down with the others before drawing Max to him again. The younger man attempted to force their bodies even closer together. Bruce wondered if Max was trying to merge himself into his boyfriend. Paulo took a half-step back and spoke softly. Max quieted and looked floorwards. The older man reached out, tipped Max's chin up with a finger and kissed him. On repeat.

Cue another case of weak knees, Bruce suspected. Max's, again.

Paulo's smile refused to remain hidden. “If we get the tree decorated in good time, we can play a game.”

Max's breath hitched. “A game?” Suddenly, his tone was all eagerness.

That smile flared for a moment. “Yes. One I think you'll enjoy.”

Sharon's voice floated in from the kitchen. “The lebkuchen are all yours, boys. Whenever you're finished – I'd prefer the tree didn't get covered in chocolate.”

“See?” The smile turned wicked.

Max squirmed. His “OK” was half gulp, half squeak. He swallowed. “But–”

Bruce stared at the two men, both fascinated and vaguely horrified. His imagination whirred.

Now that smile turned considering. Paulo held a long, painted glass icicle on one palm and stroked its length. “It'll be quite…sedate. On the surface. We both enjoy mind-games, don't we?”

An eager nod from his boyfriend. His mouth hung open slightly.

“But first–” Paulo reached around one side of Bruce and hung the ornament off a vacant spur. “The tree. Let's make it the best dressed tree this house has ever seen.”

“OK.”

Bruce examined himself from head to toe. Somehow, every single ornament had been found a home. Nothing was doubled up or shoved somewhere at random. Baubles were evenly distributed, rainbow tinsel adorned his shoulders, and he even found the new lights bearable. Bruce let out a sigh of contentment. Time to stand tall and proud.

The two men huddled in front of a phone which Max held aloft. Bruce was startled to find he was in the picture. Not a blurry limb or two, or an out-of-focus bauble, but him, in all his glittery glory.

Max was speaking. “Doesn't our tree look fab this year?” Paulo raised an eyebrow and Max blushed. “Yeah. I was, like, all for throwing it out earlier.” He shrugged. “Paulo taught me otherwise.” They exchanged a quick kiss. “Boyfriends – I recommend getting one.” Max smirked in Paulo's direction. “But not this one – he's taken.” That earned Max a peck on his nose-tip that made him giggle.

The younger man disengaged to take a step back and hold the phone's screen on Bruce, moving it side to side, then top to bottom.

Wide-eyed, Bruce beheld a star on the screen, a real star. He looked fabulous. A sensation. Who cared what the next year held?

Max rejoined his boyfriend. “Happy Christmas, people!” he exclaimed into the phone, “From me, and Mum, and Paulo, and of course, our tree.”