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Next Christmas
by The Enigmatic Big Miss Sunbeam
Waiting. The music on: "If you had not fallen and I had not found you, angel flying too close to the ground" "Spock, turn on some Christmas music for Pete's sake!" Spock lifted his elegant head. "But listen, before you do that, come in here a minute and tell me if I look okay." Spock walked over and stood in the bedroom door. Jim looked okay. He always looked okay. "The boy's outa shape, Spock. Look." Wet as a mermaid, Jim had just come out of the shower with a towel wrapped loosely around him, his hands gripping a certain loose fleshiness in his waist. "Oh, well, more of me to love, eh?" "Yes, that would be my assumption. I do not think that, if she accepted a date with you, she would then find any part of your body objectionable." Kirk smiled at him, a boy's smile, well, a girl's smile really, direct and wet-eyed. "I'll let you dress." "No, Spock, keep me company. We can talk." "and I patched up your broken wings and hung around a while trying to keep your spirits up and your fever down." "That music!" Jim shook his head. "Don't tell me you're going to stay home on Christmas night listening to Willie Nelson. How . . . grotesque! Listen, come on. I bet Janice has got a friend who wouldn't mind a good meal with a tall drink of water like yourself. It's going to get lonely here, I'm telling you, man. I'm not coming home til I hear the sleigh bells ring. If you know what I mean. Yeah, old Santa Claus came last night, but it's my turn now." "I knew someday that you'd fly away" Jim slipped off his towel. Too bad he had already put on those abbreviated briefs he liked to wear; now decent, plump, and pink, he looked at Spock and smiled again. Then he put on a teeshirt; nobody wore a teeshirt like Jim Kirk. There was a shaving mirror, and Jim checked it, turning his head this way and that, trying to see if he needed a shave. The round shaving mirror. That little bit of silver that had seen everything. It now had an almost fetishistic import to Spock; he had deceived Jim so many times with its shiny surface. Placing it on the top of the toilet tank, tugging at the front of his pants, bringing out his aroused self, and moving his long pale hand back and forth and back and forth as he pretended it was Jim's rounder pinker hand, as if he and Jim had somehow showered together and now smelling of Old Spice and Dial and water had decided to end their pleasant shower with an almost hygienic jerkoff session, and his cock would begin to pulse in his hand, and he closed his eyes and none of it was true: there was no shower and Jim would never jerk him off. But now Jim was standing there smelling of Old Spice and Dial and water, and he had started brushing those sweet boy's teeth and making elaborate childish grimaces. "Love's the greatest healer to be found." "Gotta look good for my baby." "I am sure you will be quite successful at that." "Spock, come on. We'll get you a girl. Christine's home alone. I know. Or if that's not what you fancy, well, I know Uhura's got a date, but I bet she could dig up a cousin or something. I mean, what else do you have planned?" "Now would be a logical time to get caught up on the laundry. I anticipate next week's workload being quite intensive, and I am not sure when I will have free time like this again." "Laundry! Spock, there's got to more to your story than that!! I bet you're waiting for a special phone call." Jim lifted his eyebrows and smiled; his mouth had the most erotic curve to it. "So leave me if you need to; I will still remember an angel flying too close to the ground" "Jim, my relationship with my family is quite strained. As you know." Jim blushed. "That's not what I meant at all. I meant you had a secret lover." Little did he know. There was a pause. "Fly on past the speed of sound. I'd rather see you up than see you down." "Spock, that was a great gift. You did too much, pal." At the supper table on Christmas Eve, Spock had set the table very carefully. Then he put one crisp airline ticket on his plate and another on Kirk's. "I have been planning that trip for some time. I always wanted to go to England. I am particularly keen to see Stonehenge. I have always found it . . . fascinating." The only problem was that the tickets were thus far one way. Spock would have to do a lot of freelance consultation work to get the money for return tickets. Maybe by next Christmas. "Spock, if you hadn't given me a ticket, you'd have enough money to go by yourself." "I think a companion would add to the enjoyment. As a roommate, you have proven to be a good companion in the last few years." There was another pause. "By the way, Jim, I have decided to participate in the traditional New Year's festivities." "Oh ho, that's the spirit, pal!" Last New Year's, against his will, Spock had accompanied Kirk to a raucous celebration held at the home of one of the people they worked with. And he had found this curious thing: at midnight on New Year's, everyone went around and kissed everyone else. And Jim had kissed him. Stupid little Chekhov had kissed him, and drunken McCoy with his poison breath, and the burly janitor Mr. Scott had kissed him on the cheek while making a funny face, and the girls were there with their indifferent kisses too, Janice and Christine and Uhura, kisses cold and wet, clumsy and formal. And Jim had kissed him. Jim had been drunk and Jim had kissed him and at the very end of the kiss of there had been the least suggestion that Jim had opened his mouth. The taste had been so clean and sweet. Then Jim had gone on to grind himself against the squealing Christine. And Jim had kissed him. "Happy New Year, good buddy!" And Jim had kissed him. This New Year's, if Spock were clever, he could make sure that Jim was very very drunk and, when all the squalling party horns went off and Jim ritualistically started around the room collecting his kisses, Spock could position himself so that Jim would kiss him last and possibly Spock could kiss Jim for a little longer and perhaps open his mouth and Jim's mouth would be open, and . . . He looked down. "So leave if you need to; I still remember an angel flying too close to the ground." "Spock, want me to fix you up with Christine for New Year's?" "Will she not have a partner again this year?" "Uh, Christine's kinda shy." "I see." Across from their apartment complex, there were some rundown rental houses, and right before Thanksgiving, a family with four children had moved into the closest one. Jim was crazy about those kids, and they were crazy about him. Spock could hear the children now, playing with their brightly colored Christmas toys, their cheap plastic big wheels and bows and arrows and basketballs. A couple of weeks ago, Spock had driven home from work, tired, probably nothing in the fridge, nothing to anticipate except seeing Jim, always his hope of seeing Jim and, when he had pulled up, Jim was playing out front with the children and they were all wearing a kind of . . . device on their heads, a headband it seemed with flexible wires attached like some sort of . . . feelers, and they all appeared to be playing space men and Jim was right there in the center of them with his headband and his feelers and, when they all saw Spock, Jim had said, "Oh, no, it's Mr. Spock! The outer space monster! Get him, men!" And the children had all made *ack ack* sounds as Spock got out of his car and then Spock had looked at all of them and lifted one hand and curled it into a fist and said "grr grr" and the children and Jim had all collapsed in laughter. Jim finished brushing his teeth and went to get his clothing. "So it's a deal. Christine and you on New Year's. That'll be a big relief for Janice; she was worried about you both." "Anything to relieve Janice," Spock said softly; he hoped Jim had not heard him. But of course Jim had. Everything about Jim was perfect, including his hearing. He peered around the door at Spock and cocked his head. Thankfully, he seemed amused. Spock made no sign of emotion. Jim went back in the bedroom and made noises, zipping and rustling various articles of clothing. Then he came back out. "How do you like me now?" Like the eternal boy he was, Kirk always dressed extremely casually. For his Christmas night date, he was wearing a yellow polo shirt with narrow red and white stripes, jeans, and a beat-up corduroy jacket. He looked like Apollo. He looked better than Apollo. He was a moist Adonis in a teeshirt; no poem written could do justice to that angel face. "Jim, I believe you will be deemed acceptable by Miss Rand." "Look at the time! I can't stand here jawing with you all night, Spock. I've got to run." "Do you have any further directions concerning the laundry?" "Spock, man, lighten up!" "So leave if you need to; I still remember an angel flying too close to the ground." And he was gone. Spock waited until he heard Jim slam the door at the bottom of the stairs; then he went into Jim's bedroom. Jim's bedroom. On the street, Spock heard the children playing. He went to the window. The brio of poor children; they played as if they had no idea where their next pleasure was coming from. Then the children saw Jim coming out of the apartment, and they ran to him, frantic with happiness. Spock could see it all. Jim hugged all of them and, using extravagant gestures, began to pat his pockets as if he'd forgotten something. Then, seeming to find what he was looking for, he made a relieved-looking face. However, Jim was a very poor actor, and the children were not fooled. He brought out four crisp white envelopes, each with a child's name on it, from his breast pocket. (Earlier that day, he and Spock had put a five-dollar bill in each envelope and addressed them carefully.) Astonished, the children took the envelopes, and, when they opened them and saw the money, they ran and grabbed Jim's legs. And suddenly Jim looked up and pointed to Spock in his window. He panicked. He hadn't known they could see him. But then he remembered himself. He made his space-monster hands again and the children pointed imaginary ray guns at him and he backed away. He stood by Jim's bed for the longest time until he heard the rattle of Jim's old Ford Falcon and he was sure Jim was gone. What if it snowed (Spock hated snow) and Jim got trapped in the snow? But it never snowed where they were. What if Janice had Jim make an honest woman of her? He looked down at the white clutter of Jim's bed. All those nights Spock would lie in his bed, the door cracked a bit, and he could hear Jim's breathing and sometimes he would pretend that Jim was masturbating, Jim ecstatoc, Jim's mouth open and wet, his eyes closed, visions of waiting asses and flat chests and a yearning mouth against him, and Jim going again and again at it, and Spock moved his hand down under the covers and brought it out and looked at himself, stiff and ready, and he would think of Jim's mouth and come, so relieved and guilty his eyes were wet. He lay down on Jim's bed, drawing the clustered sheets around him, like innocent ghosts who smelled of sweat and Old Spice. But Jim sweated no more than an angel might. And he thought of all the things he wanted: holding Jim's legs up by his shoulders while he moved in and out and in and out of his firm buttocks. Oh, that way lay madness. What he wanted and what he had did not seem to occupy the same universe: he wanted Jim to love him but he also wanted Jim to bow like a geisha while he fastened him completely with his big throbbing cock and he wanted Jim on his knees with those pretty pink hands tied behind him as he sucked Spock off. Naked Jim. Jim with his y-fronts folded down to the top of his thighs. Jim with his jeans on but open and Spock's hand in his fly. His newest favorite fantasy had them flying to London and he went to the men's room and so did Jim and somehow, how did he know how, they ended up in a broom closet and Spock was on the floor with his jeans down, and Kirk naked from the waist down was sitting on it and fucking Spock while he jerked himself off, the concrete floor cold against Spock's back, and they were on their way to Stonehenge and Spock was fucking Jim over and over and Jim was innocent and breathing with his eyes closed and saying staccato things, *Spock, Spock, don't stop, don't stop, your cock is so big." And Spock could feel himself beginning to come and he kept his hand still, he loved that almost timeless throbbing, and then his hand was wet and he grabbed himself hard to continue the ecstasy, and his cock was jerking and his skin was flushed and he was breathing heavy. Jim. Jim. Now there was a silence, Christmas-night dark-early-outside silence, and Spock realized that even the children across the street had gone indoors. He rearranged his clothing and went to the window. It got dark early in December. The windows glowing orange in the indigo air. He could see a pale flickering light in the children's home; they must be gathered around the televison watching some preformed dreams unfold. On solitary nights like these, his practice was to have two sessions, one fast and furious as he just had done, and then one slower, maybe involving other pieces of Jim's laundry, there was an old teeshirt worn soft as satin that Spock found particularly satisfying. Sometimes he ended up in the bathtub with the water as hot as it could be; he always had a faint hope that Jim would catch him in the tub, his cock long and hard (he was big in comparison to others, he'd seen a few dirty photographs, he'd heard discussions of inches, he knew he was big) . . . and would . . . and Jim would . . . this fantasy never quite ended correctly. He gathered up Jim's soiled sheets and carried them to the laundry, like a groom crossing the threshold with a boneless and imaginary bride. Maybe next Christmas Jim would be with him, just him, somewhere far away. Maybe next Christmas Spock would somehow have earned Jim's time and affections. Maybe next Christmas his dreams would come true. He leaned against the wall with all the white debris of Jim in his arms. Then he stood a little straighter. He couldn't give up and he couldn't give in. That would be the one thing his beautiful and driven Jim could not forgive. They kept their washing machine in the kitchen. Spock loaded the laundry and started the machine. Then he saw it. Something on the kitchen table, a present. Something round, wrapped awkwardly with cheap paper. A wrinkled bow and a brightly colored tag. "To Spock! Have yourself a ball! Jim!" Jim had never given him anything before. How should he interpret this? What if it were a submerged version of 'good bye'? But Jim didn't work that way, Jim was too bold for irony and subtlety. He opened the present. It was a soccer ball. New and fragrant. A soccer ball. He held it up with his long slender fingers. Turning it this way and that. Because it was Jim's, it almost seemed to be breathing. Because it was Jim's, he felt as if he were holding a strange new world. He set the ball back down and it rolled off the table, thudding and rumbling across the floor. It was not logical to lose hope because of a soccer ball; on the other hand, it was not logical to be hopeful because of a soccer ball. He took the soccer ball, solid and enigmatic, into his room and put it on his bed and watched it for a moment. Then he went back into Jim's bedroom. He breathed deeply; he couldn't help it. He was becoming aroused again. Sometimes, when he felt this way, he would tease himself into almost coming, but then stop and stand at the door of Kirk's closet where he would examine Jim's clothes, leaning against them, having Jim's soft jeans and softer shirts drowse against his erection as he fucked against them, fucking the air that Jim had lived in. Always trying to smell Jim (Spock had an especially keen sense of smell) on his clothes and sheets, every acrid seam of Jim's clothing seemed to be designed to spin Spock into a new frenzy of longing. He walked over to the window again; now the house across the street was dark, the children must be embroiled in their turbulent dreams, and their rough-spoken hard-working parents lying warm and entwined, fragrant and sated, in each other's arms. Would this ever happen for himself and Jim? He pressed his forehead against the chill of the December window. Possibly Spock could appear to have misjudged and everybody would be vacationing at Stonehenge and the only available hotel would have only one room and that one room would have one bed and Jim would be lying bare-chested in the bed and, after many dry protestations that Spock could just take the floor and lie on an overcoat, Jim would finally coax him into sharing the bed and they would lie together. And would Jim find his big cock enticing? He gripped himself again. And began to pull. No one could see him standing at the window, their apartment was dark, maybe Janice would get fed up with Jim's worthless-tomcatting ways and kick him out and bruised and teary-eyed Jim would come home and find Spock was jerking off in his bedroom, thinking about him, about that ass, there was no ass in the world like Jim Kirk's, and Jim would in the hushed hum of the furnace and the gentle light of the tiny Christmas tree take off his pants too and there they'd stand hard and waiting and aching and Jim would reach for Spock's erection and touch him and that one touch in the gentle light and hot air would be enough. "Jim," he whispered, "Jim," and he began to come again, pulsing hot over the back of his hand. "Jim." It was a few minutes before he gathered himself. He looked down at his forlorn hand. Curious how the saddest thing he could think of was the only thing that satisfied him. It was getting better, he had to believe that. Jim's affair with Edith was over, and his fling with what was her name, Rayna. Now, when Jim wasn't shacking up with Janice, he was home sleeping on the sofa, peering in the fridge, pushing the buttons on the microwave, and Spock got to be there beside him, polishing the flatware, folding the laundry, making sure things were in the fridge that Jim liked to eat. Now he had the soccer ball and he also had Jim's New Year's kiss. Maybe January wouldn't be so dire, so bald after all. Perhaps things weren't as nice as they could be right now, but they were nicer than they had been. He looked back out at the cobalt Christmas night, the preposterously bright stars blinking out some dazed meaning. Like a dimestore Christmas card with its trite hopeful message. Next Christmas, he said out loud, next Christmas. The End |