On Grafton Street

He was starving, a hungry wanderer. Every stall steamed with tempting food; little polystyrene cups of chili and soups ladled to their folded brim on his left. A tall, thin man grilled thick sausages beside piles of caramel-colored shredded onions and slightly charred red peppers.

Stevie pulled to a stop in front of the smoking foodstuffs. The air carried the aroma of fennel and cardamom caressed his senses, a gloved hand to stroke his olfactory system. He was reminded painfully of Scott.

Maybe Stevie had a death wish, shopping on Christmas Eve. He needed fresh air. He was a mover, a live-er, a doer, and needed to prove it now.

Mentally, he counted the number of boxes and baubles he'd picked up over the past hour. Lights for the artificial tree, all red, like the ones Scott had admired years before.

"Red's my lucky color.
"You always wear black."
"But it's not usually lucky for me."
"I like red. In fact, I prefer it to, oh, that gray sweat suit thing you have on now.
"Maybe it would suit the floor better."
"Ahh..."

He crossed the narrow brick walkway, pressing his head against a window molding.

All around Stevie, the world went on. Happy families giggled, their arms filled with their own packages, dreams. His forehead absorbed the ice-cold of the molding, a slow throbbing sprawling across his forehead.

A brighter light than the burnished street lamps glowed around the corner. In front of a window-boxed, blue-painted clapboard storefront, a group of carolers chanted the lyrics to "Silver Bells".

"Why do you hate Christmas music so much?"
"It reminds me of my mother."
"Baby, it's been ten years since you left home. Your mother's dead, or as good as dead."
"You have no right to give me a lecture! She'll never be dead. In my mind she'll always be here."

He blinked through a veil of tears. One bad memory had been supplanted with another. He tried to deny this pain; It was just Christmas, he reasoned; under normal conditions these thoughts never crossed his mind.

Stevie ducked into the storefront, confronted instantly by more happy people, and the sound of food meeting its destiny in the mouths of society's most bored.

He was so hungry, the act of eating was no longer something avoidable. Every happy Christmas contained the sharing of food.

From left to right, and then out, the restaurant was packed, with not an empty seat in the place.

"My child," He heard distinctly in the rabble of broken conversation, "My child."

Smooth, mannered hands captured his hand. All that was in him leapt up in defense. A tall, old, black-robed woman balmed his soul and consciousness "You may have my table," she said, as though bestowing him with great riches. "And the soup here is wonderful."

She seemed familiar, not just a kind stranger, so he sat on the chair she offered, allowed her to buy him a cup of coffee and several bowls of soup (Christ, he must look like shit, a bum) and there his story appeared on his tongue.

"Left home young...father died...mother was sadistic...became a wrestler....fell in love, got drunk on it; I promise that love was worse than the beatings...ran away..ran in circles...came back...went through therapy...got back together...he's in Texas...he's with some boy with eyes bluer than mine...Imagine that, Texas, all of the shit I went through...And it's been years, but the Holiday season..." And there it was.

"My sister asked you if I was gay?!"
"She wanted to know why my picture was on the mantle."
"Shit, what'll I tell her?"
"I don't believe it. You still want to pretend that I'm your roommate."
"She's a Catholic, Scott...Don't give me that look."
"It's the only thing you'll let me give you."

In the distance, behind the bar, some Michelle Shocked wannabe sang about coming a long way without having even left LA. And the woman said, "He'll be waiting for you where you live."
"He's in Texas."
Her open palm moved to the crook of his elbow. "He's home. Go to him."

He grabbed his packages from the floor and ran out of the open door, leaving only the pandemonium of bells in his wake.

The shadow of a church, tolling for the Holy hour, marked their building.

The street was an endless parade of lights, plastic snowmen on doors, waving Santas on roofs. Doors flung open for parties: red dresses and green velvet bow ties marching by in pairs; All were singing, dancing. Churches with polished floors, their authorities shouting for benediction for their people

Stevie was running.

Go to him. Go to him. Go to him..

He ran in the rain until, at last, his building was in sight. He leapt over each staircase's landing, triumphantly reaching his floor. Unlocking the door and rushing through in one gesture, the name he hadn't spoken for years escaped his lips.

"Scott."

A silent universe answered him.

Frantic, he searched the apartment, only to discover it empty.

The pain was an echo; drops in a pool that had grown deep and wide over the passing of years. But there was a bridge over the pool; his complacent sense of reason. The woman had some sort of soothing power over his senses, but she couldn't control Scott. No being of matter could.

Instead of collapsing into a shapeless mound, Stevie unpacked the now rain-soaked brown paper bag. Sitting on the floor, he unstrung those red lights, then hung them on a bare-limbed tree. The beads from a week in New Orleans, during Mardi Gras, snipped, restrung and then knotted together. Small pictures on hooks of the long-dead; pictures of Scott's family, his effort to heal the gap between them, to apologize for hiding from the world. Little blue glass balls, a private joke. An angel in black leather boots.

Finally, beneath the drying limbs of this now-regal tree, he placed a gift he had bought himself. It was a bracelet of tourmaline, dark, like his eyes; a loop for charms hanging from the clutch.

A pink triangle.

It was not of his taste or style, but he took it from its box and wore it because the trinket was something Scott would have loved and bought instantly.

"Why him?"
"Because Steve's not afraid of anything."
"You mean he's not afraid of marching around in pink shorts and eyelashes.."
"Fuck your stereotypes. Funny how they don't seem to matter when you're on your knees."
"What do you need from me Scott? Who do you want me to prove myself to? I thought those days were gone when I met you."
"A man needs someone stronger than he, to allow a moment of pure weakness."
"And I don't let you?"
"I do it for you, and you won't let me. You won't let me be weak. And I am, Stevie."
"I can change, Scott."
"But I can't. Hasta Manana,. I'll be in Texas with someone who can."
"You're not going to leave me."

And he had.

"I was right."

A ball fell from the tree and, almost in slow motion, hit the floor and crumbled.

"Scott." It wasn't a question.

He stepped into the light; it highlighted his beautiful face, his sculpted cheeks. "Red does suit it."

Stevie dared not to look at him again. "Where's Steve?"
"Back in Texas."
"Yes?" He asked, meaning 'I knew it would be'.
"Before it began. I'm sorry, Stevie."
"It's my fault. You need someone who can live without lying. I needed to lose you to learn that I can."
"And I can't live without you. Can you believe this? I called Steve 'Stevie' once. He threw a fit."
"Stevie?!" He giggled, "Stevie Austin..." he tried out, then shook his head.
"I love you, Stevie."
"I know. I love you, Scott."
Scott made the first real physical contact between them in years then, laying his heavy arms around Stevie's waist. He'd seen the bracelet around his old lover's wrist. It was an acquaintance he would remake soon enough.

They would stay by the tree for the rest of the night, that symbol of rebirth and regeneration.

Up and down Grafton Street, lights ceased to glow, guests went home, doors locked. The world went into temporal festive hibernation. Church bells went silent and streets were empty. The world nested. Even the lonely slept.

But one apartment, in one building stood bright with a heat that belied the cold rain falling onto the brick lanes, rain that swiftly turned to snow.

The End