Christmas catch, p.1
Christmas Catch, page 1
Christmas Catch
Christmas Shorts
Yolande Kleinn
Published by Yolande Kleinn, 2023.
Copyright 2023 Yolande Kleinn
ISBN 978-1-946316-36-3
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Christmas Catch
Cover Design
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Further Reading: Something Borrowed
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About the Author
Christmas Catch
by Yolande Kleinn
Cam's house already smells like heaven when Billy steps across the threshold.
"It's eight in the goddamn morning!" he shouts from the front hall, simultaneously unwinding his scarf and kicking his boots into the corner. "How are you already baking? You were supposed to wait for me!" He shrugs off his coat, the soft canvas material wet from heavy snowfall, and shoves his hat into a sleeve before draping everything over the stairway banister.
Even if he were unfamiliar with the layout of Cam's home, Billy would only need to follow his nose in order to find the kitchen. He inhales just to savor the warm aromas of sugar, vanilla, cinnamon. He deliberately ate a big breakfast—Billy knows better than to arrive with an empty stomach for a day like this—but his mouth still waters. It's going to be a challenge to resist gorging himself on the cookies they are supposed to be making for other people.
As Billy moves deeper into the house, he takes in an endless and charming sequence of holiday decor. The wreath outside was apparently not enough to express Cam's wellspring of Christmas cheer. There are smaller wreaths hanging from nearly every door inside the house as well, not to mention garlands draped and wound and woven wherever there is the slightest suggestion of a foundation to support them.
The massive tree in the living room is not yet decorated, but that's only because Cam always waits for his family to arrive in force. A small army of children—nieces, nephews, cousins, second cousins, godchildren—will descend and wreak their cheerful havoc sometime next week. But even with only the glint of rainbow string lights twining amid the branches, the festive aura is palpable.
Billy's best friend has always been Extra about Christmas.
When Billy finally pads into the kitchen, stockinged feet slipping on the smooth tile floor, he finds the explosion of holiday cheer has reached all the way in here. He can't help grinning at the sight, exasperated and fond in equal measure. There are strings of gold and silver garland strung along the tops of the cupboards where they don't quite reach the high ceiling. Glittery snowflake decals cover every cabinet and even what little of the fridge isn't already overburdened by souvenir magnets and family photos.
Cam himself wears a garish t-shirt bedecked in an abstract pattern of wrapped gifts and reindeer. It's a hideous shirt, and yet the way it clings to Cam's broad shoulders—the way it strains around powerful biceps—the way the thin fabric molds itself to every movement of his mountainous frame...
The effect is so distracting that Billy forces himself to look away.
He's been doing a lot of that lately. Jerking his gaze aside only after belatedly realizing he's staring. Hell, it's not like hero-worship is an unfamiliar sentiment where Cam is concerned. It's perfectly natural to admire the strong, sturdy, wildly protective man who's been at Billy's side since they were kids. Cam is the one person Billy relies on without fail—twenty years of friendship that has never once faltered.
Cam always put himself between Billy and any bullies who thought he looked like easy prey. He stood taller than their classmates when they were kids, and he towers over Cam now. Big and strong and sturdy, not just in the midst of confrontation, but in all the quieter moments that felt so much more important.
This new perception is different, in ways that Billy's stubborn brain shies from sorting out.
He doesn't know why he's being such a coward. He only knows, with some soft and inexplicable instinct, that he needs to be careful.
"When did you get up this morning, you absolute fanatic?" Billy surveys the racks of ornament-shaped sugar cookies already cooling on the counters.
"Four o'clock." At least Cam has the sense to look sheepish about it. Then he closes the oven door on a fresh batch and turns to give Billy a bright smile. He hasn't shaved in a couple days, but the rough stubble only serves to soften his expression. It does nothing to conceal the dimple creasing his left cheek. "I was too excited to sleep. Besides, we need to make twice as many cookies this year. We'll probably run out of time for decorating as it is."
Billy rolls his eyes, but he's grinning. Everyone knows Cam has a magic hand for baked goods. Iced or not, his cookies are sure to sell out at the Christmas bake sale.
Cam laughs at the display of exasperation and opens his arms. "Get over here, shameless brat."
Billy practically melts as he lets Cam wrap him up in a hug that smells of sweetness and citrus—the new batch in the oven must be the lemon-infused batter Cam's been experimenting with. It's so easy to bury himself in his best friend's arms and return the embrace, squashing his face in Cam's shirt to take in the soft, clean, sugar-dusted scent. If he's inclined to hold on a little longer than is strictly reasonable, so what? Cam is clearly in no hurry to let go either.
When they finally part, Cam's face scrunches in an expression Billy knows well. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he casts an amused gaze along Billy's less-than-festive attire: gray t-shirt, soft jeans, colorless socks.
"You didn't get into the spirit at all, did you?"
"Shut up." Billy can't seem to wipe the sappy smile off his own face. "I'm here, aren't I? Do you want my help or not?" As though he could possibly stand to be elsewhere today. As though they haven't done this together every year for the better part of a decade, baking a steadily increasing mountain of cookies in Cam's spacious kitchen. If food is love, Billy and Cam have turned baking and sharing Christmas cookies into a love language all its own.
"Of course I want your help," Cam retorts, aggressively jovial. "You can mix the batter for the spritzes while I start the peanut butter balls."
It's only as he finishes gathering bowls and measuring cups that Billy realizes Cam's got some sort of Christmas playlist struggling too quietly through tinny phone speakers. The result is cheerful enough, but so weak as to be nearly inaudible.
Billy rolls his eyes again as he fishes in a drawer near the pantry. "There's a reason I bought you a wireless speaker, you ungrateful heathen."
"Too complicated," Cam says without taking his attention off his task.
"Uh-huh," Billy mutters. He has to fish out the charging cable and plug the device into the wall—of course Cam let the battery die—but as soon as he turns the thing on, Cam's phone automatically syncs. After a brief hitch in playback, the music pours through the small speaker, audible and far more robust, and Billy gives a nod of satisfaction. Too complicated his ass. Cam's just a stubborn luddite, determined to resist every effort Billy makes to simplify his life with technology.
But Billy makes no further comment as he tucks the speaker against the wall, then goes to wash his hands and dive into the work. Cam bumps his shoulder on the way past, and it's easy and good. Billy settles into the familiar routine with a warm pulse of satisfaction. There is something so viscerally right about sharing space with Cam this way. They barely need to talk, so practiced in their roles that everything feels like instinct. Ingredients, timers, temperature settings. All of it falls into an intricate dance to which both of them know every step—and with each dart for the sink, each beep of the kitchen timer, each hot tray of cookies coming out of the oven—Billy finds himself more aware of Cam's physical presence than he's ever been before.
There's a lightness in Billy's chest. The same one that's always there when he's around Cam, but he has the strange sense that the ember of devotion has begun to glow differently since...
When? He honestly doesn't know. The intensity of it doesn't feel new, and yet surely he should've noticed something so bright taking up space inside him. When he tries to decipher what it means, his mind once again skips to the side. Deftly avoiding... something. Billy makes himself let it go, knowing better than to try and chase down the sensation. Whatever it means, it will reach him when he's ready. And if it's going to make him feel this buoyant—this alert and light and full of affection—it can't possibly be anything bad.
"What are you thinking about?" Cam asks, as he steps into the space beside Billy and uses a spatula to scoop a tray of candy cane twists onto an empty cooling rack. He must have spotted the inward tilt of Billy's focus, but there's no hint of worry in the question. If anything, Cam's eyes sparkle with curiosity.
Billy cannot fathom what madness possesses him to answer, "You." It's too honest, and far too strange—and yet when the admission draws Cam's eyes in a startled stare, Billy can't bring himself to regret his honesty.
He can't believe Cam makes no answer to the clumsy confession. Surely he must want to know more. But Cam goes back to the cookies with an efficiency that might make Billy suspicious if he thought Cam had something to hide. And a moment later they are right back in
There's no point pausing for lunch. The sugar crash at the end of the day will be brutal—Billy knows this from long experience—and yet this rational knowledge does nothing to stop him from snacking on the dozens of cookie varieties they pull from the oven, one after another. Sometimes under the pretext of testing a result. Sometimes because a broken cookie won't make the final cut anyway. Sometimes because the freshly baked beauties simply smell too good to resist.
What's the point of self-restraint at Christmas?
"Can you clear the island?" Cam asks. The sun has begun to sink low along a horizon of snowy rooftops, and the heavy glow through the window turns the kitchen a beautiful gold.
Billy turns his attention to the freestanding counter that takes up the middle of the room. Every other available surface is already covered in cooling racks and trays and other things that can't be moved—even the big dining table by the window has been thoroughly buried—leaving only the island for a staging area, now mostly covered in used bowls and dirty spoons. Easy enough to clear. They'll need the massive swathe of empty counter space to start icing sugar cookies.
Tired as Billy is after what has already been a long day—they've been at this for eight hours, not counting the work Cam did before Billy arrived—he's excited to finally start his favorite part of the entire process.
Cam may have magic hands when it comes to baking, but Billy is a wizard with a tube of icing.
Once the counter has been emptied of detritus and wiped down clean, Billy turns to toss the dirty washcloth into the sink.
At least, that's what he tries to do. A simple maneuver—and the rag lands exactly where it's supposed to—but his balance tilts with his shifting weight. His socks, which are slippery but haven't given him any trouble so far, skid on the smooth floor.
Fuck, he's going to fall. He's already falling, missing by a mile when he tries to grab the counter behind him.
He's braced for impact—for the inevitable painful smack of elbow or skull or ass against unyielding floor—when his momentum simply stops. Quick as a breath, he is no longer falling. And though his eyes are squeezed tightly shut in the anticipation of pain, he knows instantly what just happened.
Cam's arms have wrapped around him, catching and guarding Billy. Holding him too securely to ever let him fall.
Billy blinks and finds he's twisted both hands in the back of Cam's festive t-shirt. The island counter's unforgiving edge digs into his back, and Cam's sturdy bulk crushes forward against him. Pinning him there.
Cam's eyes are wide. He's staring as though he has just done something far more complicated than saving Billy from a fall.
"Thanks." Billy dredges the word up from some flustered depth inside him. He doesn't know why he's shaking. The adrenaline rush shouldn't leave him this winded.
"Yeah." Cam's voice, always low and earnest, takes on a strained edge of gravel that Billy doesn't recognize. "You okay?"
"I'm good," Billy says.
For a very long time, they stand there in taut and disconcerting stillness. Billy's heart is racing, and even though the danger has passed, his pulse seems determined to speed further rather than calm the fuck down. He finds himself peering up into wild, expressive brown eyes and wishing he had any goddamn idea what to make of the intensity smoldering there.
Maybe if he had some notion what Cam is thinking, he could begin to decipher the overwhelming new sensations uncoiling in his own body.
When finally Cam's arms unwind from around him, it's an unmistakable signal that Billy should let go in return. This isn't an embrace. It's an emergency intervention that has successfully served its purpose. Time to step back and regain lost equilibrium.
But as Cam shifts his balance and moves to pull away, Billy breathes an incoherent sound of refusal and twists his fingers tighter in the fabric of Cam's shirt.
"Billy," Cam breathes. It doesn't sound anything like protest, and a shock of heat runs down Billy's spine in answer.
He still can't bring himself to let go. And when Cam leans carefully forward instead of retreating—when Cam braces both hands on the counter to either side of Billy's hips, effectively boxing him in—the surge of pleasure that roars through his blood is matched only by his relief that Cam has not pushed more forcefully away.
Feeling bold, Billy unwinds his fingers from Cam's shirt and spreads his palms flat against the fabric. He lets himself feel the muscle of Cam's back, the tension holding his best friend utterly still. When he pulls Cam tighter to him, the movement is entirely instinct. He needs Cam's impossible heat against him. Touching him. He needs Cam close.
He is more than half expecting a perplexed and startled, Billy, what the hell?
But all Cam says is, "Are you sure?"
Sure of what? Billy almost asks, but even at his most unobservant he's not that oblivious. Instead, he nods his head, decisive and sharp.
Cam closes the distance, hand curling along Billy's jaw to guide his head back, a better angle for...
Yes. Oh. God. Cam is kissing him, and the warmth of Cam's mouth sends the world spinning sideways. Cam is kissing him, and Billy's eyes fall helplessly shut. Cam is kissing him, and Billy needs this, and how is he only now making sense of his own reckless desire?
When Cam coaxes the kiss deeper, Billy breathes a sound that is equal parts shock and satisfaction. He's losing his balance all over again, even though he's pinned securely against the empty counter. Cam's body is solid and strong along his front.
His best friend will never let him fall.
Even so, Billy finds himself grabbing hold with new desperation, wrapping an arm around broad shoulders and clinging like he'll drown if Cam stops touching him.
It's an eon before Cam breaks the kiss, and even then Billy doesn't want to let go. The impossibility of this moment hovers between them, wild and electric with contradictions. So much potential—so many things Billy wants—and he can't even bring himself to feel sheepish that he took so long to figure it out.
He gasps in audible delight when Cam nuzzles beneath his jaw and starts kissing an aggressive line down the column of his throat. Teasing fingers have twisted into Billy's hair now, and he shivers at the wordless command of Cam's grip tugging his head back.
Submitting to these explorations is the easiest thing Billy has ever done, and he whimpers at a teasing sting of teeth. Oh god, oh fuck, he needs Cam to do that again.
"Tell me what you want," Cam growls, breath tickling directly across Billy's racing pulse point. "Tell me, sweetheart."
Billy gasps a sound closer to a sob than a moan. He arches helplessly into Cam's steady warmth, frantic for things he can't begin to articulate. How is he supposed to find words for the ember burning hot in his belly, the arousal building at the base of his spine, the desperate need between his legs? He aches to be touched, but he is already too far gone to articulate how.
"More," he finally manages, squirming uselessly in search of friction he doesn't have the leverage to achieve. "I need more—God, Cam, please..."
When Cam's muscular thigh forces roughly between his legs, Billy thinks he's died and gone to Heaven. He grinds thoughtlessly down against the sturdy presence. Fuck, it's so much better—it's so good he might actually cry. A distant and irrelevant corner of his brain is mortified by the sounds coming out of his mouth, the wrecked and wanton honesty panting from his chest with every exhale.
His head spins as he marvels at his own capacity for self-deception. How did he not know? How long has he craved Cam this way and simply not been able to see it?
Has Cam known? Has he been waiting for Billy to figure it out? Or is he every bit as blown away as Billy by this stark and hungry revelation.
Billy is gasping Cam's name now. Over and over. The helpless litany sounds completely obscene, but he can't stop. Even when he buries his face in Cam's throat to try and muffle his voice, the ragged recitation continues. He doesn't know what he's begging for, but he's begging just the same.
"Stop fighting it, sweetheart." Cam's tone is a filthy purr in Billy's ear. "Let go. I've got you."
"I need..." Billy shakes his head, still utterly lost. "Cam, fuck, please..."
