I stood on the front porch step for what seemed like an eternity. There weren't any sounds coming from inside, despite all the lights on in the house, which I thought was odd. Normally, my parents’ house was an absolute zoo leading up to Christmas Eve dinner, which was something of a tradition in our family. Granted, it never went well and almost always ended with someone crying, but it was a tradition nonetheless. After taking a deep breath, I knocked on the front door, which was ridiculous—I didn't even have a key to my parents house anymore.

Sara opened the door, and she didn't look happy. She looked me up and down, shook her head, and stepped aside to let me in.

"So it’s started already, huh?" I asked, because she didn't need to provide any details. The reason that so many of our holiday get-togethers ended in disaster was because of one person and one person only: Dad. She nodded.

"Yeah, like hours ago. Dad thought it would be a good idea to break out the eggnog before we started cooking, and he never stopped," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Is everyone else here already?"

"Grandpa and Grandma Smith are here, but I don't think Mom's parents are coming," Sara said, and my heart fell. If I had to choose between the two sets of grandparents, I would've always picked Mom’s. Just like Dad, his parents were overly critical and had never really approved of anything I’d done, least of which was moving to New York to become a writer, which they thought was uppity, like I thought I was too good for them now. So, yeah, I wasn't looking forward to seeing them.

"How have they been so far?" I asked.

"Did you really have to ask?"

"Rylan? Is that you?" Mom called from somewhere inside the house and Sara sighed. Mom appeared in the hallway, her cheeks flushed, her hair flying behind her as she made a beeline for me. She threw her arms around me, holding me far too close, and it only confirmed my suspicions. As usual, Dad had probably taken out his general disdain for Christmas on her, as well as the displeasure of being around his own parents—he wasn’t alone in that.

"Rylan, honey, I'm so sorry about what happened the other day," Mom started, but I weaseled out of her grip and shook my head.

"It's fine, you don't have to apologize. It wasn't your fault, it never is," I said. Though I'd spent almost all afternoon thinking of ways I could get out of coming to this dinner, there was no escaping it. It’d be better just to hurry up and get the whole shebang over with so that I could move on with my life for another year, hopefully more, before I had to do this all over again.

"Your grandparents are here, why don't you come inside and say hello?" Mom asked, placing her hand on the small of my back and more or less ushering me through the living room and kitchen into the dining room. Sure enough, Grandpa and Grandma Smith were there, each of them looking as sour as I remembered. I smiled at them both when they looked at me, not failing to notice the lack of excitement on their faces when they realized who I was.

"Hi Grandpa, hi Grandma," I said, my hand held halfway up. There was something about them that put me back into a childish mindset, something that made me watch and consider every one of my moves, as if one wrong one could land me in some sort of timeout. Grandpa grunted at me and Grandma at least had the courtesy to smile back. I went to her and subjected myself to the overpowering scent of her perfume, the same one she'd been wearing my entire life in far too heavy doses, as she wrapped her arms around me and patted my back like a baby.

"You're so thin. Do you even eat up there?" Grandma asked and I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. At least she couldn’t see it. She’s always been critical of my weight, no matter what it was, so it wasn't a surprise that was the first thing she said to me, though I'd been naïve enough to hope she'd say something else.

"Are you kidding? I eat so much pizza that if I keep it up I'm gonna turn into a thin crust," I said as I pulled away from her, and she smiled at me.

"You're working too hard, aren't you? That's why you're not eating," she said, which was absurd coming from her, a woman who’d never held a day job.

"Yeah, things have been pretty hectic lately," I said as I sat down in the chair beside her. I’d learned the hard way it was always better not to argue. I wasn't sure how much of my predicament Mom or Dad had already filled them in on and I wasn't about to out myself as jobless to the two most critical people in the world, Dad notwithstanding.

"Well, I'm glad you could take some time off to be with your family. It's been so long since we've seen you," Grandma said, her maroon lipstick cracking to reveal paper-thin, almost translucent lips as she smiled at me again. Though she'd said the opposite, it was pretty obvious she couldn't have cared less whether or not I was there. Given the choice, I wouldn't have been.

"Do you want something to drink, Rylan? Pop? Beer? Cocktail? Wine?" Mom asked as she bustled into the dining room. She probably hadn't taken five seconds to sit down since she woke up this morning. She had a pretty bad habit of making herself crazy in the fruitless pursuit of perfection for Christmas, though I'd never understood where she'd gotten it from—unless, of course, she was just trying to impress Grandpa and Grandma Smith. As little as they thought of me, they thought even less of Mom and always had, like they thought Dad could’ve done so much better. I didn’t agree.

"I'll take a Coke if you have one," I said. Truthfully, I would've killed for a stiff drink, but I wasn't about to say that in front of my grandparents—we already had one drunk in the house, I didn't need to add to the problem. Which reminded me, where the hell was Dad?

"Of course," Mom said, whirling out of the dining room again. Sara sat down across from me, her face buried in her phone, but I didn't blame her. If I knew I wouldn’t get skewered for it, I’d have done the same thing.

"Your mother tells us you're working for a magazine these days, is that right?" Grandma asked. So, neither Mom nor Dad had ratted me out yet, though I didn't think it was for my sake. If anything, Dad had told Mom to keep it to herself just to make himself look better for his parents.

"Yeah. I write columns and reviews for a technology magazine," I said. As much as I would've loved to shock the two of them, it would only backfire on me when Dad found out about it, so I let the urge go.

"Technology? Like computers? I'm hopeless with those, so maybe it's a good thing we have people like you out there helping us old schoolers," Grandma said with a wilting laugh. Yeah, like I hadn't heard that joke before. Mom reappeared with a Coke in hand and Dad behind her, who stumbled through the living room and with each of his thundering steps, my anxiety spiked. Sara hadn’t been kidding, Dad really was sloshed. This ought to be good.

Mom set the Coke down in front of me and I smiled at her and whispered a small thanks, terrified even the sound of my voice would set Dad off. It was impossible to say what would push him over the edge. Sometimes it was something as innocuous as coughing during a movie, other times it was something even less significant, like the way I held my fork during dinner, as if that were some sort of grand commentary on him or the way he'd raised me.

"Well, look what the New York sewer rats dragged in," Dad said, his words loud and slurred as he clapped me on the back like we were old friends. He collapsed into one of the dining room chairs, amazingly managing not to splash eggnog all down his front. Though an equally-insulting reply burned at the back of my throat, I held it back.

Thankfully, he was the only person in the room who laughed at his own dumb joke. Even Grandpa and Grandma, who were usually quick to enable and amplify his behavior, looked down at the table in discomfort. Dad cleared his throat, took another deep swig of his eggnog, and sighed.

"Guess I broke some rule of political correctness," he said, rolling his eyes. Clearly, he had no idea what that term meant. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?" For the first time in as long as I could remember, he and I agreed on something. The sooner this was over, the sooner I could leave and be with the one person I actually wanted to be with on Christmas.

"Great idea, let's move to the living room," Mom said without any hesitation, darting up out of her seat and leading the charge. She seemed to be as anxious to get through this as I was, which made sense given that she’d almost certainly been going nonstop for hours now. If she sat in one place for too long, she’d probably fall asleep sitting up.

We followed, some of us faster than others, and took seats in the living room around the Christmas tree. A pile of gifts sparkled underneath the tree’s lights, each of them labeled and addressed to one or more of us. It was a stupid tradition, one we'd been doing since Sara found out Santa wasn't real ten or more years ago, but that's the thing with traditions: even if they're stupid, people keep doing them anyways because they’re tradition.

"Rylan, would you like to start?" Mom asked as she pulled a gift out from under the tree and passed it to Sara, who passed it to me. It wasn't a question so much as an order. Playing the part, I rattled the box and scrunched up my face like I was trying to figure out what was inside before I opened it. It didn't matter who it was from, I doubted anybody actually cared.

Mom smiled at me, which I took to mean I could rip it open, so I slipped a finger underneath the wrapping paper and tore it apart. Inside, there was a small, white cardboard box without any writing. Since I had no idea what it was, I carefully opened the box and found a new, shiny watch inside. It seemed silly, because I had next to no use for a watch, but then I remembered that almost no one in this room save for Sara would’ve known that about me. Still, I feigned surprise as I slipped the watch over my wrist and admired the way it looked, though I’d never wear it again after.

"Do you like it? We didn't know what else to get you," Grandma said, patting my knee. Of course.

"I love it, it's great," I said, smiling back at her. As inscrutable as she was, it was impossible to tell whether or not she believed me, and more difficult to tell whether or not she cared.

"This one's for you too," Mom said, passing me yet another present. Was she trying to make up for lost time by showering me with gifts? I stopped long enough to read the label on the box, which was larger than the last one. It was from Sara, so at least this one had some promise. Just like I’d done with the last gift, I tore off the paper and opened up the box to find a pair of hot pink fishnet leggings. Sara burst out laughing, and though I initially joined her, I stifled myself when I saw Dad's face turn purple and the little vein above his left eye start to throb. A gag gift like this might’ve worked if it’d been the two of us alone, but with our parents and grandparents in the room? Was she trying to make a scene?

"I figured they’d come in handy for your nights out in the town in the big city," Sara said with a wink, which didn’t help. I should never have told her about the times I’d done drag in the city. Mom had turned white as a ghost, and Grandpa and Grandma looked like they'd just gotten the news of a death in the family.

"Very funny, both of you," Dad hissed. "You know, it's not bad enough you are what you are, but now you have to bring the shit in my house, at my Christmas celebration, to rub it in my face?!" he shouted and his words shook the windows. Something inside me snapped. I couldn't and wouldn't put up with this, not again, not now.

"Screw you, I don't have to take this," I said, launching up out of my chair and hurling the pair of leggings at Dad. If he hadn't been three sheets to the wind, he might've been able to get out of his chair fast enough to catch me, but by the time he stood I was already at the front door, Mom trailing behind me and shouting for me to stop. She caught me by the wrist as I stepped out onto the front porch and I froze.

"Rylan, please don't do this. Your Dad's not in his right mind, he doesn’t mean what he says," she said, tears trailing down her face and sparkling in the light from the moon.

"Bullshit. He's saying what he's always wanted to and I'm not sticking around to hear it. I love you and I’m sorry but I can’t deal with this. Merry Christmas, Mom," I said, pecking her cheek with a kiss before I walked down the rest of the stairs and climbed into the rental car. She stood watching me from the door and Sara appeared behind her. I felt sorry for leaving the two of them with Dad and the rest of his nutty family, but Dad hadn’t given me much of a choice. It reminded me why I’d left town as soon as I was able to, reminded me why I’d avoided coming back for two years. I should never have come, should never have shown my face no matter how bad things were.

Thankfully, when I threw the rental car in park in Ben's driveway, he was home. When he'd left that morning, he'd warned me he’d probably be working late and I shouldn't wait up for him. More than anything else, I wanted to see his face, wanted to be near him and be told that everything would be okay. He’d left the front door unlocked for me, yet another small way to show he cared, and when I stepped inside I found him lying spread eagle across the couch in front of the TV, where Rudolph, the animated movie, was playing. He'd also started a fire in the fireplace on the opposite side of the room, giving the space a comfy and toasty feel, which was exactly what I needed.

"You’re home early," he said, and my skin tingled. Home? This wasn't my home—but maybe it could be. Without a word, I went to him on the couch and lay down beside him, pulling one of his arms over my chest so I could link my fingers with his and feel the warmth of his chest against my back.

"What's wrong?" he whispered into my ear as I started to cry. I didn't want him to see me like this, but if I couldn't trust him, then who could I? "Was it your dad?"

"Is the sky blue?" I asked through my strained throat. He kissed my cheek and squeezed me closer.

"Rylan, I'm so sorry," he said, his lips brushing against my earlobe, the spark to catch my tinder aflame.

"Thank you," I said.

"For what?"

"For being here, for holding me, for everything," I said and despite my best efforts, the tears came in earnest. He held me all through it, even as my body rocked while my anger poured out, and when it passed he gave me another kiss on the cheek. There was something cathartic about it, about letting go of all that crap, and doing it in his presence. For better or worse, I trusted him with these feelings.

"Of course. I’d do anything for you, you know that, don't you?" he asked, his words and the feeling of his lips against my ear combining to take me up and out of my own body.

Without thinking, I sat up and turned to face him. Tears twinkled in his eyes and warmth radiated off him. The wall I’d spent two years building up around him to keep him compartmentalized in my mind crumbled when I realized that this man, this relationship, was what Christmas was really about. I couldn’t choose my family, as much as I would’ve liked to, but I could choose to forgive Ben. I could choose to accept the gift I’d been given in the form of this beautiful, caring, sensitive man instead of running from him—so I did.

He met my advance with his own, his hands tangling themselves up in my shirt as he struggled to lift it over my head. There was no need for words, no need to explain what we were about to do or why; there was only desire, a pure connection we’d been denying since the moment we'd reconnected. So when he stopped to admire my bare chest and all its imperfections, I wasn’t the slightest bit self-conscious. It was a homecoming of sorts, two bodies physically bringing together two souls that’d been lost without each other.

His hands, perfectly callused and rugged against my skin, traced the shape of my sides before resting on the waist of my jeans, and I forced my lips against his. I wasn't sure I'd ever find the courage to apologize for the way I'd abandoned him, but I hoped this moment would say everything I couldn't.

We tore each other's clothes off with reckless abandon, and when we were naked, he forced me off the couch onto the floor by the hearth and the transition from cold to warm sent goosebumps across my skin. He draped over me, a mountain of rugged masculinity, his muscles and definitions catching light from the fire as he placed a flurry of kisses down my neck and torso until he reached my cock, which he took into his mouth without hesitation.

The way he treated it with his tongue, making gentle, slow circles around the shaft and head, was a microcosm of his feelings for me. He'd always treated me like I was a precious gift, something that could be broken as easily as it was made, and that didn't stop when our bodies came together. He worshiped my body with his, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered to him—and maybe I was, maybe I always had been. The realization only made the pleasure that much more intense, only made me that much more appreciative of warm velvet of his mouth around me.

But it wouldn't have been fair to receive without giving so I sat up off the floor, shoved him backward, and turned my body such that ours formed a perfect circle. I took him into my mouth and he did the same. The sound of our pleasured moans mixed with the crackling of the fire as we gave each other something only our bodies could.

It was perfect, everything the holidays were supposed to be, and as a burning sensation of pleasure began to build at the base of my cock, a thought simultaneously rushed to my head: I wanted to try again. With our bodies together, my cock in his mouth, his in mine, and our rocking rhythm perfectly in sync, none of the problems from before mattered anymore. The only thing that did was that he and I were meant to be together, meant to make this beautiful piece of art with our bodies, despite what troubles we brought to the relationship and what troubles we created within it. This bond would transcend all of it.

So when his groaning built to a fever pitch and his body went rigid along with his cock, I took it to mean he wanted to try again as well, and swallowed the piece of his soul he gave me as his body spasmed. Throughout it all, he never stopped his gentle care of me, and when his orgasm passed, mine wasn’t far behind. When we were both spent, we retreated back to the couch, curling up in each other's arms again, the fire the only noise in the house.

"I've never said this, but I think I love you," Ben said and everything that’d been turned upside down seem to right itself.

"I think I love you too," I said, squeezing his hand in mine.

"Merry Christmas," he said.

"Merry Christmas to you too," I said, watching the lights on the tree I'd helped him decorate twinkle and flash until the crackling of the flame and his gentle strokes of my hair lulled me to sleep.