Page 29 of Oh No, My Best Friend Hates Christmas!

I nod, swallow my elf, and give him a thumbs up. What do I care about electricity anyway? I have Christmas creatures to eat.

And eat we do, relaxed and with only minorly shivering.

Basil finishes his food first, then spends the rest of lunch feeding me bites of rice, chicken, and vegetables whenever I get too chatty at Archie. I thank him with a smile, and he bends over to rub his forehead on my shoulder.

You’re welcome.

Goodness, he makes it hard to be respectful.

After we finish our food, I gather up the dishes to rinse them while Archie gets to work on turning the lights – and heat – back on, and Baz heads outside to retrieve the tree for decorating.

I’m done rinsing out the bentos and have them neatly stacked in the sink to wash later before either of the guys are done with their tasks, so I make my way to the living room and start picking up fallen boxes and organizing them against the wall in neat stacks, separated by which room they decorate.

Bazzy comes in the front door, dragging the tree right as I’m balancing the final box onto the stack of upstairs decorations. I rush away from my box towers to set up the tree stand andjustmanage to get it ready by the time Baz has dragged the tree through the door, around the couch, and to the corner without knocking anything over or poking a million pine needle-sized holes into the fabric of the couch.

He is so talented, that Basil.

We work to get the tree upright on the stand. Meaning Baz gets the tree upright while I run around holding my arms out and yelling every time it tips too far in any direction. Hedoes notthank me for my help, which I find rather rude, as well as the way his hands flick, shooing me elsewhere. I harrumph.

Fine. I can take a hint.

I grab the box at the top of the living room stack labeled “candles” and set them around the room, lighting them with the matches that were at the bottom of the box. The candles are various scents – pine, amber, vanilla, cinnamon, cedar – and they work together to make our home smell exactly like what I imagine the North Pole to smell like.

The tiny flames heat the room enough to make taking off my coat a good idea, so I do, hanging it in the closet and hoping I won’t need it again today. Surely it can’t takethatlong to fix a breaker box, right?

Wrong.

Baz and I are on box three of Christmas tree baubles before the lights come back on, and the house itself doesn’t feel warm until I’m on Baz’s back, reaching high to set the star on top of the fully adorned evergreen.

After I have it secured, I wrap my arms around his neck and smile.

“Christmas, Bazzy,” I whisper into his ear.

His body shivers beneath me, and I cling tighter, trying to lend him what paltry amounts of warmth I have. The hands he has on my thighs to hold me steady tighten, then loosen, signaling me to get down. I do, sliding down his back until my still-booted feet hit the ground, then I wrap my arms around his waist and squeeze three times.

He turns, dislodging me, and pulls me in for an even better hug. One, two, three.

I love you, too.

I smile and dig my face into his chest. The soft material of his shirt rubs against my skin, and I find myself grateful that he took his rough outdoor coat off around the time we were addinglights to the tree. I like the feel of cotton beneath my cheek, and I like even more that I can hear his heartbeat through it, steady and strong, without any pesky layers keeping the rhythm hidden from me. It is a song I never want to be far from.

I sigh.

Christmas – the most wonderful time of the year. Joy, peace, love, happiness. Everything that is good and lovely. Comfort and memories.

This moment, surrounded by the scent of the holidays and held in the arms of my very best friend.

“Can I ask you a question, Bazzy?” I speak softly, half hoping he won’t hear me.

No such luck.

He hums low, an affirmation.

“How come you don’t like Christmas?” My eyes well up at the question. It’s not fair to him, not even a little bit, but knowing he doesn’t love these moments the way I do, even if it’s only as friends? That kills a little something inside of me.

It feels like the worst kind of cosmic joke that I would be given this man – this kind, caring, wonderful, perfect man – only for him to never feel the same way as I do. Only for him to hate the bits of magic that are everything to me.

I mean, is it too much to ask?

---