The Santa Mug (7 page)

The stone of Max’s face cracked, and pain leaked out of the fissures. “No, no, you don’t understand.” Max’s shoulders shook as he struggled to speak.  -“I brought it to you today hoping you would finally let him go.” Max lifted his head and his eyes were red rimmed and streaming. “I wanted you for myself,” he said and looked away. “I’ve always wanted you, ever since the first day we met.”

Darren pulled back to stare at Max. His face wore a startled expression for a moment, and then it softened. He began to laugh, a rich, full-throated sound that chased the shadows away and rendered the firelight cheerful and inviting. “Max, don’t you get it? You already have me.”

10

 
Darren
cradled Max in his arms, marveling at the strength it gave him to comfort another. Max let himself be rocked for a long moment before lifting his head to look at Darren. The question on his face was obvious, even in the dancing shadows.

“Ever since that night on the porch at your mother’s house, you’ve had me.” Darren brushed at Max’s face and kissed his forehead. “I just didn’t know it at the time.” He tucked Max’s head beneath his chin again and stroked his hair. “Did I tell you I dreamed about Marlon while I was waiting for you?”

Max nodded and wrapped his arms around Darren’s waist, holding on like a drowning victim who’s just been rescued. “What happened?”

“He let me go, Max. He was loving me, and at the end he let me go. I can’t help but think it was so you could find me, or better yet, so I could find you.” Darren kissed the top of Max’s head again, letting his lips linger amidst the silky surfaces. When he spoke again, the tiny puffs of air made Max’s body tremble.

“He adored you, Max. Did you know that? He used to talk about you constantly.” Darren laughed ruefully. “It used to make me crazy sometimes, the way he would go on and on about the things you did together.”

“He loved you, too, Darren.” Max’s voice was a low rumble against Darren’s chest.

“I know he did, baby, but you know what else? I think that if you two hadn’t been so young, if you had met under different circumstances, it would have been you, instead of me.”

Max stiffened and tried to pull away, but Darren held him firm.

“Don’t, Max. I don’t mean that as a bad thing. I just know he loved you very much, just as he loved me.”

Max’s body relaxed, and the weight against Darren’s chest snapped the last remaining barriers between them. Darren bent his head as Max raised his, and their lips met. Their kiss was tender and sweet, owing more promise than passion, and when they separated to look into each others eyes, neither man’s face held any hint of regret or remorse. They held each other in silence, staring into the fire and lost in memories until Darren sighed. “You know, I miss having a Christmas tree.”

Max chuckled. “It’s a wonder Marlon hasn’t been haunting you since day one for the lack.” He reached up and slid his fingers through Darren’s hair. “We still have time. Do you want to get one tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I think I do,” Darren said. “But under one condition. You have to help me pick it out.”

“I have had some experience in that area,” Max said, and he began unbuttoning Darren’s shirt. The little package was all but forgotten.

*  *  *

Darren’s
eyes were misty as Max plugged in the extension cord. Soft white light filled the room, reminding him forcibly of his dream the day before. The tree they had chosen, amidst much laughter and argument, stood shining like a beacon in the center of the large front window.

“Come on!” Max said as he grabbed Darren’s hand and pulled him toward the door. “We have to see what it looks like from the outside.”

“The same as it looks from the inside, only warmer,” Darren replied, but he let himself be dragged down to the snow-covered walk.

“It’s beautiful,” Max said as they huddled together staring at the perfectly framed tree. “Marlon would be proud of you.”

“Of both of us, I think,” Darren agreed. “Now, back inside before we freeze to death and I’ll make us some chocolate.”

“As long as you make it Irish,” Max said, and the two raced for the door.

*  *  *

 “
Darren
? What do you want to do about this?” Max held up the small red package as Darren came in from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs. He set them down on the hearth where Max was sitting.

“I don’t know,” Darren admitted. “I think I’m afraid to open it.”

“Do you want me to open it for you?”

Darren thought about it before picking up his mug and taking a sip of the aromatic chocolate. “No. You have been doing things for me for a long time, Max. It’s time I did something for myself.” He took the package from Max and tore it open, almost as if he were pulling a BAND-AID from tender skin. Darren stared, dumbfounded, at the cellophane window set into the side of the box. A ridiculously cheerful Santa face stared back at him, winking. “Oh my God, he knows how much I hate this shit.” Laughter sparkled in his eyes as he handed the box to Max.

Max took the box and opened the lid. He pulled out a brightly painted Santa mug and held it up as he studied it carefully. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for Santa to wink salaciously,” he said.

Darren laughed, hard. There was an edge to the sound that had little to do with simple joy. He took the mug back and cradled it in his hands as Max joined in. His laughter also had a slight edge, but after a moment he stopped.

Darren looked at him curiously. “What is it?” he asked, still grinning.

“There’s something inside,” Max said cautiously.

Darren turned the mug and peered inside. A slip of paper was wedged in at the bottom. He tweezed the paper out between two fingers and set the mug down as he looked to Max for reassurance, who nodded.

Darren unfolded the paper and scanned it, reading the words written in Marlon’s neat, precise script. His eyes watered and tears began coursing down his cheeks. He handed the paper to Max, who read it aloud:

Darry, my sweet, beautiful boy. By the time you read this, I will be talking to my boss, telling him face-to-face, and without reservation, that I quit. You were right, Darry. No job is worth what we have together, you and I. Your love is worth more to me than anything in this world. You are the absolute center of my universe, and I love you, forever.

I asked Maxie to bring this to you, rather than deliver it myself, because I am afraid. I’m afraid my walking away like that hurt you too much to forgive me. I should have dropped everything and taken you in my arms right then and never let you go, but I let my obligations get the best of me, which is stupid, because I realize now that you are the only obligation I want, or need. I hope that if you’re reading this, it’ll mean we can talk, at least. I miss you already, Darry. I miss your smile, and I miss your touch, and I miss the way you frown at me when I bring home something silly, like this mug.

I promise when I get home, we’ll talk. Maybe talk about moving to someplace warm all year long. (I’m really hating the snow right now!) but especially we’ll talk about us. I want there to be an us, baby. I want it to be us, forever. I want us to grow old together, watching the stars come out and making love under the Christmas tree and having you grump at my stupid sense of humor. I even want us to be able to fight sometimes so we can make up afterward, but maybe not too much of that. As that moldy old song says, ‘I want you to want me.’ I hope you still do.

I love you Darry, always.

P.S. If Maxie is still there, give him a great big wet kiss on the lips for me, but don’t tell him what it’s for. I just know he’ll blush. Ha, ha.

Take care, baby! I’ll be home soon.

Darren picked up the grinning Santa mug and cradled it in his lap. Tears coursed down his cheeks and splashed the mug, giving its cheerful wink the appearance of regret. “He said he was turning around,” Darren whispered. “The connection was so bad, I could only make out a few words.” He looked beseechingly at Max. “At first, I thought he had decided not to go, but I played it over and over so often in my head I began to think he had something else in mind. Especially with that look on his face when he left.” Darren absently wiped the moisture from the mug’s face. “When you brought this and said it might be bad news, I wasn’t really surprised.”

Max slid closer and folded his hands around Darren’s and the mug. “I’m glad it was good news after all.”

“I hated myself that he died because he had turned around. If he had kept on going, he might still be alive today.”

“You can’t know that, Darren. It was a bad storm.” He squeezed Darren’s hands for emphasis, pressing the round contours of the mug into Darren’s palms. “There’s only one thing that truly matters, Darren. He loved you, right to the end.” Max wrapped his arms around Darren’s shoulders, drawing him in. They sat that way, bathed in the light from the gleaming Christmas tree and warmed by each other’s company. After a time, Max scooped up the piece of paper and carefully refolded it. He stood and drew Darren to his feet. “Come on. We’ve got one more ornament to hang.” He led Darren to the Christmas tree and pried the mug from his hands. Max chose a branch near the center of the tree and slid it through the handle, pushing the cup in deep so it would have no chance of falling off. He handed the paper to Darren who tucked it carefully back into the mug. Max put an arm around Darren’s waist, and they stood together, looking at the mug, and the tree that showcased it.

“It’ll be our first ornament together,” Max said. “A reminder of all three of us.”

Darren, still struck by the revelations of Marlon’s note, spoke softly as he leaned his head on Max’s shoulder. “I should have believed in him,” Darren said. “I should have known that he still loved me.”

“Yes, baby,” Max replied. “He loved you all the way to the end, and so will I.”

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About the Author

Born during one of the worst fires in L.A. history,
Patric Michael
escaped to the foothills of the Cascade Range where the world is a lot more green, even in summer.

His wide-ranging and varied career, from ship building to making special effects movie props, has given him enough material for a lifetime of stories.

He constantly reinvents himself with each new thing he creates. Now, it is as a writer of what he loves to read, but only when he can convince the cat that his keyboard isn’t the only place in the house to sleep.

Visit Patric’s web site at http://www.patricmichael.com and his blog at http://blogs.patricmichael.com.

Copyright

The Santa Mug ©Copyright Patric Michael, 2009

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.