Page 218 of Untouchable

When he finishes his examination of the tree, he goes back to Harp, throwing his arms around him and kissing him fiercely, as Bo and Gunny and Petunia all nuzzle at his legs, vying for attention.

“It’s perfect,” Parker says, his voice choked with emotion. “It’s so, so, so, so lovely.”

He is light-headed, his legs a little weak, and he feels like he’s doing a terrible job at expressing to Harp just how much this all means to him.

He hopes Harp knows, though. He hopes that, somehow, the joy, the love, that Parker feels, is radiating from him, hopes that Harp can see it, can feel it.

* * *

Harp doesn't know exactlywhat to do with the attention. It's been a long time since he tried to do anything nice for anyone but Parker.

"Do you want to go home and eat, or walk more?" Harp asks, trying to deal with the discomfort of being at the center of Parker's attention. It hadn't felt so difficult when they'd been at The Stewart, but now it feels like there's more at stake. This is what Parker is doing with his holiday instead of spending it with his parents, Harp reminds himself. Maybe at the end of the day, just shielding Parker from that is the important part—not any big plans or dumb surprises.

“I’m starving,” Parker says. “Let’s head inside.” He steps back to take one last long look at the tree, as if burning it into his memory.

“Oh my god,” he says. “Wait.” He pulls out his phone and drags Harp to the tree, and before Harp can protest or overthink it, Parker throws his arm around Harp, kisses him, and takes a photo of the two of them. Harp frowns at Parker as Parker checks the picture and laughs.

“Oh, this is a good one,” he says proudly, holding it up so Harp can see.

Even though the picture is of Parker’s profile as he turns to kiss Harp on the cheek, it’s clear to see how happy he is. He’s radiant, beaming, his features softened by the rosy glow of the lights behind them.

* * *

What Parker lovesmost about the picture is Harp’s expression, a look of soft surprise, like he can’t quite believe this is all real. He looks handsome and untroubled, the deep furrow between his eyebrows smoothed.

They look, Parker thinks, like two people deeply in love.

"How are you so good at that?" Harp demands, laughing as he examines the picture. "You didn't even aim."

“Years of practice,” Parker says with a grin. “You don’t end up with this many Instagram followers on accident.”

* * *

"You never really know howsomeone is going to be about gifts, you know?" Harp says. All too often, he'd created something homemade or set up an experience for someone, only to realize that what they really wanted was something store bought, or something specific.

Cherry, bless her, had always tried to drop hints about what she wanted and Harp tells Parker about the different things he'd done to surprise her at Christmas after they were married, only to fall flat. She'd never really been interested in Harp's handmade stuff—and that was fine. They grew up together, after all, and she grew out of arts and crafts and playing in the dirt with animals, even while those remained some of Harp's favorite activities. It had taken a long time, but eventually he'd learned to ask her for a list. It wasn't romantic, going down the shopping list like he was running errands instead of picking out gifts for someone he loved—but it made Cherry happy, and that was what mattered.

"I'm not trying to say her way was wrong or something," Harp says. "It's just that I appreciate it now, being with somebody who doesn't mind getting the types of gifts I like to give."

He hopes he didn't just ruin the night, bringing Cherry up, but Harp has been making a concerted effort to talk, unfiltered, and not judge himself at every corner.

“I like it,” Parker says, almost shyly, as they reach the house once more. “In my family, gifts were always… bought. It’s nice to have someone spend time on something for me.” He flushes slightly. “I guess it’s kind of a weird thing to admit. Feels kinda selfish.”

"I'm just glad you don't think it's lame," Harp says. "You don't treat me like anything I like to do is weird or dumb or annoying or takes too long. I appreciate that, you know? You're the only person I can think of whose been this close to me who doesn't constantly act like it was inconvenient that I am the way I am."

“Oh, Harp—” Parker says. They’re on the porch now, and he turns to Harp, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him hard. “I would never—I could never—think that about you. And… it makes me want to… I dunno, go beat up anyone who ever made you feel that way.” He grins up at Harp, knowing that, though sincere, his threats are about as scary as Bo barking out the window at a squirrel.

"Maybe next year we can take a cross-country tour, avenging all the wrongs and being mean to people who deserve it," Harp offers. "Let's get inside before I freeze you."

They dust off the snow and stamp their boots and come inside, unhooking the dogs and undressing.

"Why don't you go serve up our dinner," Harp suggests, "and I'll get a fire started."

Everything is done and warm in the oven—it's just a matter of taking things out and serving them up. Harp gets a fire roaring in almost no time, and when he finds Parker in the kitchen, he's made them both plates piled high with an absurd amount of mashed potatoes and stew.

Harp turns on the dumb mix CD he's made—his favorite reggae Christmas songs, a throwback to Florida holidays when the weather was too sunny to feel much like Christmas—and pours them wine. Harp feeds the dogs before he sits down. The moment is too casual to be romantic, with the three dogs slurping away behind them, but Harp has never felt so thankful to be celebrating with someone. He leans across the corner of the kitchen table to kiss Parker's nose.

"Merry Christmas," he says, and means it, and wonders when he's ever felt so happy to be celebrating it.

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