t h r e e
*
It's still pissing it down in the morning. I usually wake up to silence, or the muted rumble of a car going past, but this morning I hear the thunderous rain before I open my eyes, and when I lift my head I can see my rain-streaked window through a crack in the curtains. It's dark outside, not because the sun has yet to rise but because thick grey clouds have taken over the sky, and it's hard to see much through the storm.
Even with my woolly onesie and a heavy winter duvet, a chill runs through me. I can't bear the thought of throwing back the covers and tearing myself from my bed when it's so dingy outside, until I remember with a start that I'm not alone in my house. Through the fog that comes with a good night's sleep, I scratch away at the surface of last night's memories and there's a moment that my heart jumps when I recall a soaked Casper on my doorstep; a crying Casper by my fireplace. I remember hearing him running a bath and I remember the sound of the water draining out, but after that I was dead to the world.
The thought of Casper in my house propels me into action: I trip over my bauble-printed duvet as I scuff my feet into reindeer slippers, both part of my attic inventory that comes out at the start of November and doesn't return until the end of January. Sometimes later. One year, it took me months to realise the two duvet covers I was switching between were both Christmas-themed.
It's only now that I check my phone and see his texts and calls from last night, missed while I was blissfully unconscious in front of a cosy fire, and when I make it downstairs in one piece, I find him in the sitting room.
"Hey. Morning, Cas. How're you feeling?"
He nods at my Christmas tree. "How the fuck did I not notice that last night?"
The tree in question is six feet tall, almost reaching the ceiling, and it's dripping with tinsel and ornaments in every shade of red and silver and green. I'm all about the classic colours: there's no hint of blue to cool down the warmth of the reds. The branches are thick and bushy, at least half of them holding a bauble or some quirky decoration I've picked up over the years, and the LED lights emit a warm glow that gives the pine needles a halo.
"You were pretty upset," I say, tearing my eyes from the tree. It's one of my favourite parts of the season, saving up to select only the best and spending days adding to it. It isn't done yet; it won't be finished until Christmas Eve, when I'll add the star to the top to guide Mary and Joseph to the barn. It may not be historically accurate, but it's a King family tradition. As soon as it strikes midnight and Christmas Day begins, I'll add baby Jesus to the manger in my nativity set.
"Still." Casper eyes the tree as though it's an intruder. "God, I must've been in a right state to miss that. Was it lit up?"
"Mmhmm. Always is."
"Fucking hell."
I give him a look not too dissimilar to the one he's giving my tree. Caution and disdain in equal measures, with a smattering of disgust. "I meant what I said last night. You're more than welcome to stay as long as you need, and it's up to you whether or not you want to talk about what happened, but it's non-negotiable that you let go of your inner grinch," I say. Casper winces. "It might make you feel better, if you let my Christmas spirit into your heart."
He takes a deep breath, fiddling with the hem of his pyjama top. It's strange seeing it on him when the last person to wear it was the last person to break my heart. I didn't realise how many memories a t-shirt can hold until right now.
"Well," Casper says, one hand going to the back of his neck. For the first time, I'm seeing him with bedhead hair rather than his usual perfectly coifed curls and it's strangely endearing, and a little heartbreaking. I've seen many sides to him, but this is the first time I've caught a glimpse of vulnerability.
"Are you seriously going to reject my very generous offer just to avoid, you know, liking Christmas?"
"No. That's not what I was going to say." He scratches his neck, his eyes drifting from me back to the tree. "I was going to say that considering my choice is between here or the street, or some overpriced hotel that will bankrupt me in a week, I'm very grateful to you. And it would be really nice to stay."
"Oh. Well, that's great." I give him my softest smile. "I know we don't have a particularly traditional friendship, but maybe this just an untraditional way to start."
"What d'you mean?" He tilts his head, a sweet look of innocent confusion on his face. It suits him a lot better than his grinchiness or tears. "We're friends, aren't we?"
"Well, yeah, of course, but this isn't, like, a normal friendship." I'm sticking my foot in it, I'm sure. Shut up, Beth. Learn when to stop talking. I try to cut myself off, but I can't stop there. "You know what I mean. It's kind of a platonic situationship."
He laughs and says, "I've got no idea what you're talking about, Nazareth. But here I am not realising there are apparently multiple degrees of friendship."
Am I overcomplicating it? Is this yet another example of my brain taking a simple situation and overthinking it until it hardly resembles what it once was? I genuinely can't tell.
"For what it's worth," Casper continues, "I consider you to be a friend. Aside from the Java Tea crew, and you-know-who, I see you more than anyone else. I wouldn't have come here if I didn't think we were friends. So if you're worried that I don't think we're friends, you can stop."
Part of me wants to try to explain myself further; part of me knows I'll only dig a deep and weird hole. A short battle rages before I plump for the second, for the sake of ease, and remind myself that yes, I do have a tendency to overcomplicate. "That's good to know. I guess we're both on the same page now," I say.
He gives me a wry smile. "I didn't realise we weren't before."
"Well, if anything, this is a good opportunity for us to get to know each other better," I say, "and for you to come to terms with the fact that if I'm in the house and it's cold outside, I'm probably wearing a onesie."
"I gathered." He laughs.
I head into the kitchen to put the kettle on and he follows me, perching on one of four chairs at my table as I take out a couple of mugs and find coffee and milk.
"I don't have anything fancy, I'm afraid." I hold up the pot to show him. "Basic coffee only, unfortunately, none of this fancy schmancy freshly ground stuff that I'm hopelessly addicted to. Or tea. I have a lot of tea."
Casper eyes the off-brand instant coffee as though it might infect him. Something tells me he's a coffee snob, which I am most definitely not: I can't tell the difference between any kind of coffee, no matter how much I love it or how much time Casper and Julio have spent trying to explain the differences between their various blends. My blind taste test results vary wildly, no consistency to my palate, so it has never made sense to splash out unless I'm in a cafe.
"What tea d'you have?" he asks, once he's deemed the coffee unworthy of his attention.
"Whatever you want pretty much." I cross the kitchen to a miniature chest of drawers beside the sink, each one holding a different flavour of teabag. "Okay, I've got builder's; chai; Earl Grey; Lady Grey; Masala chai; peppermint; hibiscus; ginger ... um, probably some chamomile somewhere."
When I hear nothing, I turn around to see a shocked Casper staring at me, his eyebrows raised. "Wait. Are you telling me that, after all these years, you're the kind of person who has shitty coffee and a thousand types of tea? You're a tea person?"
"I like both," I say, "but at home, I tend to prefer tea. Very hard to get wrong." I shake a chai tea bag at him and drop it into my favourite mug, shaped like a bright-eyed robin. "What'll it be?"
He clucks his tongue and taps his thumbs together. "I think that, after four years of me making you coffee, it's time I tried it the way you make it."
He doesn't look convinced. I shake a heaped teaspoon of granules into the other mug, this one shaped like a penguin wearing a snowflake-printed scarf, and pour boiling water over both once the kettle whistles that it's done. I always loved the cliché of a whistling kettle and one of my favourite impulse purchases is the whistle attachment I added to the spout of my otherwise boring, bubbling kettle. It reminds me of childhood mornings getting ready in front of my parents' Aga, my mother wearily making tea as my sisters and I scuttled around getting ready for school.
Once the granules have dissolved in Casper's mug and the teabag has turned the water murky brown in mine, I splash milk into both and take a seat opposite Casper. It's weird having him in my kitchen. I've never had that many people in my house before, and certainly no-one from the café. One of the other staff, Diane, gave me a lift home once when my car was in the shop, but it was pissing it down then too, so she never made it inside. This feels like the unnatural blending of worlds. Especially unnatural considering the clash of Casper's and my attitudes towards the holidays.
My home is all about everything festive and fun, from cards on the mantelpiece to my elaborate tree and decorations in every room. Tinsel is strung up in the kitchen, wintry candles in the middle of the table amidst the remains of yesterday's wrapping endeavour, and the regular magnets on the fridge have been replaced by an assortment of Santas and reindeer and elves.
"What's the verdict?" I nod at the mug in Casper's hand once he's taken a sip.
"It could be worse," he says, "but I'm in no place to complain. I'm not sure what I would've done without you." He shakes his head and sighs, twisting his hands around the mug and occasionally lifting it to his lips, only to put it down again.
"Luckily for you, you don't need to find out."
"You're a real one." He gives me a smile, holding my gaze for a moment before it drops to the swirl of his coffee. "Just so you know, I'm not sure I want to talk about it all quite yet. I'm still trying to figure out what the fuck happened last night. I can't get my head around it yet." His head goes back to slowly shaking; he exhales another heavy sigh.
"In your own time, Cas. I'm not that well versed in emotions and I'm not great at advice, but I'm always happy to listen." I take the first sip of my tea and relish in the gentle, milky spice. The steam fogs up my glasses.
We drink in silence for a moment, listening to the rain as it starts to let up. That's probably nothing more than a sign that there's worse to come: the rain slows when the cold hits, which means deep puddles and soaked roads are going to freeze over before the snow starts to fall and turns driving into a death wish. It's the only thing I dislike about the season, and living in a valley where the rain seems to fall harder and stay longer, and the snow gathers for months on end. I have chains on my tyres and I know when it's best to stay home, well versed in the ways of Saint Wendelin by now,
"What were your plans today? I don't want to get under your feet."
"You're not gonna like it."
"I'm going to take a wild guess and assume that everything you do for the next twelve days is going to be Christmas-related," he says.
"Correct. And yesterday was my last day of work until after the new year, so the-"
"Wait, what? You get, like, three weeks off?" He stares at me, bug-eyed. "I thought you worked in an office?"
"An office in a university," I point out. "The students have a whole month of, and all the admin staff are off from Christmas Eve until the day after New Year's; I just choose to use a week or so of my holiday on the week before Christmas. I'd rather make the most of my favourite season than take a pointless holiday in summer."
"Don't you get three months off in summer?"
I laugh at his naivety, a sure sign that we haven't dug very deep in the last four years. "I'm not a student," I say. "Admin's a year-round job. Someone's got to be there for all the A-level kids freaking out about their grades or trying to get a last-minute place, and I'm happy to work during summer when everyone else would rather be in Spain, as long as I get my extra-long Christmas."
Casper digests this for a moment before he shrugs. "Fair enough. Well, there you go, we're getting to know each other better already. Your obsession with this shitty season has consumed you to the point that you'd rather spend your holiday freezing your arse off than baking to a crisp on a Spanish beach."
"Spot on. And today, I'm going to the Christmas market."
"Saint Wendelin has a Christmas market?"
"No. It's about twenty minutes away, so if you want me to drop you off anywhere, that's fine. Do you need to get anything from Eric's?"
His face crumples. "Yeah. But I can't face that yet."
"You're welcome to stay here, if you want, but I think distraction is the best technique for dealing with heartbreak in the early stages. Maybe, if you're too busy grumbling about festivities and rolling your eyes at me when I buy decorations and presents, you won't be thinking about Eric."
"Mmm."
"I'll throw your clothes in a fifteen-minute wash and it won't take long for them to dry. Then we can get on the road and you can discovery the wintry wonderfulness of a Christmas market. A mug of mulled wine will perk you up. You never know, now that there's some extra space in your heart, it could be that Christmas is all you need."
Casper finishes his coffee and crosses his arms, regarding me with a withering look. "I'll be the judge of that," he says, "though for some reason, I don't think Christmas is quite the same as a boyfriend."
"No, you're right." I squeeze his shoulder and pat his head when I squeeze past him to rinse out the mugs. "It's so much better."
*
only two days of nanowrimo left! this story has been my saving grace, contributing to almost half of my nano word count, so i hope you're enjoying it - plenty more to come!