The streetlights were the color of piss in the snow.
That was Jesse’s first thought, staring out his apartment window. A sick, chemical yellow bleeding onto the fresh white, making the whole world look like a badly lit stage. Another December. He could feel the bass of some relentlessly cheerful Christmas song thrumming up through the floorboards from the apartment below. It was the kind of forced joy that tasted like stomach acid and the tinsel you accidentally got in your mouth as a kid.
He yanked the scratchy wool blanket higher, tucking it under his chin. It didn't help. The chill wasn’t coming from the drafty window frame anymore. It was coming from inside, a deep, marrow-level cold that no amount of cheap fabric could touch.
Across the street, a kid in a puffy red coat was trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue, head tilted back, his laughter a silent puff of white in the frigid air. Jesse felt a ghost of the memory, a phantom sensation of cold melting on his own tongue. Before. Before the silence at the dinner table became a weapon. Before his dad started looking at him like he was a stranger, a disappointing puzzle he’d long since given up on solving. Now, Christmas was just an amplifier, turning the low hum of his own emptiness up to a deafening roar.
He had to get out. The thought was a spike of panic. Another four hours in this room and he’d start clawing at the walls.
Which is how he ended up here, at the community center, a place that was officially a category-five stupid idea. It was supposed to be a refuge—a few hours of free Wi-Fi and blessed anonymity to finish his history essay on post-war European economic recovery, a topic blessedly, beautifully devoid of sentiment.
Instead, he’d walked into a glitter-and-tinsel explosion.
Red and green paper chains, already starting to sag, drooped from the acoustic ceiling tiles. Someone was murdering ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ on a cheap acoustic guitar plugged into a tinny speaker. The air smelled thick with burnt sugar from a popcorn machine and the sharp, pine-scented disinfectant they used on the floors. It was relentless.
He shoved his hands deep into the worn-out pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched up to his ears. The fire exit. That was the plan. He could camp out in the stairwell, where it was cold and quiet and smelled like concrete dust. Pretend his phone was dead. Anything but this. He was almost there, the cold metal of the push bar a few feet away, a promise of escape.
Then a voice cut through the noise.
It wasn't loud, but it had a low, steady quality that made Jesse stop, his hand hovering halfway out of his pocket.
“Seriously? The flashing reindeer again? We talked about this. Understated. The word was understated.”
Jesse risked a glance over his shoulder. And his stomach did a slow, stupid flip. Of course. It was Simon.
Simon was on a rickety folding chair, wrestling with a tangled mass of fairy lights that looked like they’d been stored in a blender. He was wearing a dark grey Henley that stretched just enough across his shoulders and back when he reached up, the worn fabric hinting at the lean, wiry muscle underneath. The line of his neck was sharp and clean. His dark hair, usually so meticulously neat, was a mess, dusted with what was unmistakably silver glitter that caught the fluorescent lights like a private constellation.
He looked… focused. Solid. Like he could untangle anything just by being patient with it. Jesse felt a pang of something that might have been envy, but it was sharper, more complicated than that.
Then Simon looked down, and his eyes—dark, steady eyes that never seemed to dart around—landed directly on Jesse.
A small, almost secret smile touched the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t for anyone else. It was the kind that didn’t show teeth, just shifted the lines of his face enough to make the skin around his eyes crinkle. It was a private acknowledgment. An invitation.
Jesse’s neck went hot. Fucking hell. Why did this guy always make him feel like his skin was two sizes too small and his bones were made of glass?
“Jesse,” Simon said. His voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in Jesse’s own chest, cutting through the jangling music. He didn’t sound surprised to see him lurking by the exit. Simon never seemed surprised. He just… noticed things. “Hiding out?”
Jesse’s throat felt like it was coated in dust. He gave a weak cough. “No. Just… water. Getting water.” The lie was so thin it was transparent, and he knew, he just *knew*, Simon could see right through it. He could feel the judgment, even if there was none in Simon's expression.
Simon just nodded slowly, his attention returning to the knot of wires in his hands. He had good hands. Capable. Long fingers that moved with a patient, deliberate grace that made Jesse’s own fidgeting feel clumsy and loud.
“Fountain’s busted,” Simon said, not looking up. “But the back room’s mostly empty. They’re clearing it for storage.” He offered the information without any pressure, a casual life raft tossed into Jesse’s churning social anxiety. His gaze flicked down to Jesse’s fists, still clenched deep in his pockets, then back up to his face.
That was the thing. The way Simon’s gaze held his for a half-second too long, like he was actually *looking*, not just glancing. It did this stupid, frantic, fluttering thing to Jesse’s ribs, like a trapped bird beating against them. He hated it. Hated feeling like a page in a book Simon was casually reading.
“Right,” Jesse managed, finally pulling his hands free. His palms were sweaty. “Thanks.”
He didn’t move. His sneakers felt glued to the scuffed linoleum, caught in the quiet gravity of Simon’s presence.
A girl with bright pink streaks in her hair bounced over, a fistful of red tinsel clutched in her hand. “Simon! The tinsel. Do I… drape it? Or, like… throw it?”
Simon let out a soft, long-suffering sigh that made a piece of his dark hair fall over his forehead. “Carefully, Tina. The goal is festive, not ‘crime scene at a craft store.’” He hopped down from the chair, landing with a soft, balanced thud that made Jesse feel even more like a bundle of loose nerves. Simon was always so grounded, so planted on the earth. Jesse felt like he was perpetually in free fall.
Tina giggled. “But it’s Christmas! It’s supposed to be extra. All sparkly and… magic-y.”
The word scraped against Jesse’s last raw nerve. It slipped out, colder and sharper than he’d intended. “Fucking magic-y? It’s just a corporate-mandated guilt trip with a good marketing campaign. A reminder for anyone who doesn't have the perfect 2.5 kids and a golden retriever that they’re a failure.”
The moment the words were out, his face burned with a hot, prickling shame. Jesus. Why was he like this? Why did he always have to ruin things?
Tina’s smile evaporated. She just blinked, looking from Jesse to Simon, her handful of tinsel suddenly looking like evidence from the aforementioned crime scene.
Simon, however, didn’t flinch. He turned, slow and deliberate, and his gaze settled on Jesse. There was no judgment in it. No shock. Just a quiet, unnerving intensity that made Jesse’s breath hitch in his throat. He felt pinned. Seen. Utterly, horribly seen.
“That’s one way to look at it,” Simon said, his voice even and calm. He took a step closer. Then another. He stopped barely two feet away, invading Jesse’s personal space without a hint of apology. He smelled like clean laundry, cold air, and something else that was just… him. Like damp earth after a storm. Jesse’s heart started hammering against his ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm.
“What’s the other way?” Jesse heard himself ask, his own voice tight and defensive. He wanted to break eye contact, to look at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere else. But he couldn’t. Simon’s gaze was a physical weight.
Simon reached out. His hand hovered in the space between them for a heartbeat—a whole universe of time—before his fingers gently plucked a stray piece of silver tinsel from the shoulder of Jesse’s hoodie. The brush of his knuckles against the worn cotton was feather-light, but a shock, sharp and specific, shot straight down Jesse’s arm and pooled, hot, in his stomach. He flinched, a tiny, involuntary jerk backward. *Idiot.* He mentally kicked himself. *It was just tinsel.*
“The other way,” Simon said, his voice dropping to a low murmur that seemed to block out the rest of the room, “is that it’s a quiet stubbornness. A middle finger to the dark.” He paused, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. “Or it’s a chance to build your own thing. To find the people who don’t give a shit about the perfect picture, because they see *you*.”
Jesse swallowed against a sudden thickness in his throat. The words landed like stones, sinking deep and hitting all the bruised, hidden places. He saw a flash of last Christmas—his mother’s tight, teary smile, her question about when he was going to meet a ‘nice girl,’ his father’s stony profile as he stared at the television, refusing to engage. The suffocating feeling of being an alien in his own home.
“What if there aren’t any of those people?” The question was a whisper, raw and broken. He hated the sound of his own voice, the tremor of weakness in it. But he wasn’t afraid Simon would use it against him. That was the most terrifying part.
Simon’s hand, the one that had taken the tinsel, moved again. Slowly. Deliberately. It settled on Jesse’s elbow, warm and firm. Just a light grip, but Jesse felt it like a brand through his hoodie and the t-shirt underneath. A single point of burning heat. He forgot how to breathe. His entire universe shrank to the size of Simon’s palm on his arm.
“There are always those people,” Simon said, his thumb stroking the soft, worn fabric of Jesse’s sleeve. The small, repetitive movement was both calming and agonizing, sending little sparks up his arm. “Sometimes you just have to let them find you.” His eyes were locked on Jesse’s, a steady, unwavering anchor in the storm inside Jesse’s head. He wasn’t offering pity. He was offering… a fact. An alternative.
The air between them felt thick, charged. Jesse could hear his own pulse thudding in his ears, a frantic drumbeat against the distant, tinny carols. He should pull away. He should run for the fire exit. But his feet were lead. He was caught. Not trapped, but… held.
Tina cleared her throat, way too loudly. “Okay, well, I’m gonna… go make this tinsel look less like a massacre.” She practically fled, leaving them in a silence that was louder than all the noise before.
Simon didn’t let go. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to Jesse’s mouth, then flicked back up. The brief, casual sweep sent a phantom tingle across Jesse’s lips. A shiver traced its way down his spine, cold and hot all at once.
“My family,” Simon said, his voice a little rougher now, “they do this huge, insane thing on Christmas Eve. It’s… a lot. My aunt belts opera at the dinner table, my uncle tells the same three terrible jokes he’s been telling since 1998, and my little cousins basically try to burn the house down with wrapping paper. It’s loud. It’s a mess. It’s… real.” He tightened his grip almost imperceptibly on Jesse’s elbow. “You could come. If you wanted. See what a truly dysfunctional Christmas looks like. For… comparison.”
The invitation hung there, heavy and terrifying and beautiful. It wasn’t just about dinner. It was about his world. *Come in. Be here.* Jesse’s mind reeled. His mother’s last words on the phone echoed in his ears, the tearful, "We just don't understand your... choices, Jesse. We just don't." Accepting this felt like slamming a door on them for good. It felt like a betrayal.
It felt like a lifeline.
“I… I don’t know,” he stammered, finally managing to look away, down at the scuffed toes of his sneakers. The heat from Simon’s hand was a constant, pressing reminder of the offer. He wanted to say yes so badly it was a physical ache in his chest. But the fear, the deeply ingrained certainty that he would be too much, or not enough, was a hand around his throat.
“No pressure,” Simon said softly. He finally, slowly, let go.
The sudden absence of warmth was a shock. The air on Jesse’s arm felt impossibly cold, and he had to fight the insane urge to grab Simon’s hand and put it back. He felt adrift again, the noise of the room rushing back in.
Simon turned and picked up a tarnished metal star from a box of old decorations. It was bent in one corner, dull and scuffed. He held it in his palm. “This one’s my favorite,” he murmured, turning it over. “Total piece of junk, right? My grandmother made it. It’s been dropped, stepped on, probably chewed on by a dog at some point.”
He looked back at Jesse, his eyes dark and serious over the battered ornament. “But it still catches the light, you know? You just have to… be looking.”
Jesse’s throat was tight. He stared at the star, then at Simon’s face. The invitation was still there in his eyes, patient and waiting. He thought of the crushing, sterile silence of his apartment. He thought of the chaos Simon described—the opera, the bad jokes, the mess. He looked at Simon, holding that imperfect, beautiful piece of junk, and offering him a place to be just as dented and just as real.
“What… what time?” The words felt like they were torn out of him, rough and quiet.
He saw it then. The slow bloom of a genuine smile on Simon’s face. It wasn’t the small, secret smile from before. This one was wide and unrestrained, completely transforming his features. It cracked open his careful composure, lit his eyes from within, and hit Jesse like a physical blow, a dizzying warmth that spread right through his gut.
“Seven,” Simon said, his voice a low, satisfied hum. “Christmas Eve.”
And just like that, the knot of fear in Jesse’s chest didn’t vanish, but it loosened, making room for something else. Something terrifying and stupid and bright. Hope. The streetlights were the color of piss in the snow.
That was Jesse’s first thought, looking out his window. A sickly, chemical yellow bleeding onto the fresh white, making the whole world look like a badly lit stage set. Another December. Another tidal wave of carols thrumming through the paper-thin walls of his apartment, the kind of forced cheer that tasted like tinsel and stomach acid. He yanked the scratchy wool blanket higher, but the chill wasn’t coming from the window anymore. It was coming from inside, a deep, marrow-level cold that no amount of cheap fabric could touch.
Across the street, a kid in a puffy red coat was trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue, head tilted back, laughing. Jesse felt a ghost of the memory, a phantom sensation of cold melting on his own tongue. Before. Before the silence at the dinner table became a weapon. Before his dad started looking at him like he was a stranger, a disappointing puzzle he’d given up on solving. Now, Christmas was just an amplifier, turning the low hum of his own emptiness up to a deafening roar.
A dull throb started behind his eyes. Coming to the community center tonight was officially a category-five stupid idea. It was supposed to be a refuge, a few hours of free Wi-Fi and blessed anonymity to finish his history essay on post-war European economic recovery—a topic blessedly, beautifully devoid of sentiment. Instead, he’d walked into a glitter-and-tinsel explosion. Red and green paper chains drooped from the ceiling tiles. Someone was murdering ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ on a cheap acoustic guitar through a tinny speaker. It was relentless.
He shoved his hands into the worn-out pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched. The fire exit. That was the plan. He could camp out in the stairwell, pretend his phone was dead. Anything but this. He was almost there, the cold metal of the push bar in sight, when a voice cut through the noise.
It wasn't loud, but it had a weight to it that made Jesse stop. “Seriously? The flashing reindeer again? We talked about this. Understated. The word was understated.”
Jesse risked a glance over his shoulder. Of course. Simon.
Simon was on a rickety folding chair, wrestling with a tangled mass of fairy lights that looked like they’d been stored in a blender. He was wearing a dark grey Henley that stretched just enough across his shoulders and back when he reached up, the worn fabric hinting at the lean muscle underneath. His dark hair, usually so neat, was a mess, dusted with what was unmistakably silver glitter that caught the fluorescent lights like a private constellation. He looked… focused. Solid. Like he could untangle anything.
Then he looked down, and his eyes—dark, steady eyes—landed directly on Jesse.
A small, almost secret smile touched the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t for anyone else. It was the kind that didn’t show teeth, just shifted the lines of his face enough to make the skin around his eyes crinkle. It was an invitation. Jesse’s neck went hot. Fucking hell. Why did this guy always make him feel like his skin was two sizes too small?
“Jesse,” Simon said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in Jesse’s own chest. He didn’t sound surprised to see him lurking by the exit. Simon never seemed surprised. He just… noticed things. “Hiding out?”
Jesse’s throat felt like sandpaper. He coughed. “No. Just… water. Getting water.” The lie was so thin it was transparent, and he knew Simon could see right through it.
Simon just nodded, his attention returning to the knot of wires in his hands. He had good hands. Capable. Long fingers that moved with a patient, deliberate grace. “Fountain’s busted. But the back room’s mostly empty. They’re clearing it for storage.” He offered the information without any pressure, a casual life raft tossed into Jesse’s churning social anxiety. His gaze flicked down to Jesse’s fists, still clenched in his pockets, then back to his face.
That was the thing. The way Simon’s gaze held his for a half-second too long, like he was actually *looking*, not just glancing. It did this stupid, frantic, fluttering thing to Jesse’s ribs. He hated it. Hated feeling like a page in a book Simon was casually reading.
“Right,” Jesse managed, finally pulling his hands free. “Thanks.” He didn’t move. His sneakers felt glued to the linoleum, caught in the quiet gravity of Simon’s presence.
A girl with bright pink streaks in her hair bounced over, a fistful of red tinsel in her hand. “Simon! The tinsel. Do I… drape it? Or, like… throw it?”
Simon let out a soft, long-suffering sigh. “Carefully, Tina. The goal is festive, not ‘crime scene at a craft store.’” He hopped down from the chair, landing with a soft, balanced thud that made Jesse feel even more like a bundle of loose nerves. Simon was always so grounded, so planted on the earth. Jesse felt like he was perpetually in free fall.
Tina giggled. “But it’s Christmas! It’s supposed to be extra. All sparkly and… magic-y.”
The word scraped against Jesse’s last raw nerve. It slipped out, colder and sharper than he’d intended. “Fucking magic-y? It’s just a corporate-mandated guilt trip with a good marketing campaign. A reminder for anyone who doesn't have the perfect 2.5 kids and a golden retriever that they’re a failure.”
The moment the words were out, his face burned with shame. Jesus. Why was he like this?
Tina’s smile evaporated. She just blinked, looking from Jesse to Simon, her handful of tinsel suddenly looking like evidence.
Simon, however, didn’t flinch. He turned, slow and deliberate, and his gaze settled on Jesse. There was no judgment in it. No shock. Just a quiet, unnerving intensity that made Jesse’s breath hitch in his throat. He felt pinned. Seen.
“That’s one way to look at it,” Simon said, his voice even. He took a step closer. Then another. He stopped barely two feet away, invading Jesse’s personal space without a hint of apology. He smelled like clean laundry, cold air, and something else that was just… him. Like damp earth after a storm. Jesse’s heart started hammering against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
“What’s the other way?” Jesse heard himself ask, his own voice tight and defensive. He wanted to break eye contact, to look at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere else. But he couldn’t.
Simon reached out, his hand hovering in the space between them for a heartbeat before his fingers gently plucked a stray piece of silver tinsel from the shoulder of Jesse’s hoodie. The brush of his knuckles against the worn cotton was feather-light, but a jolt, sharp and electric, shot straight down Jesse’s arm. He flinched, a tiny, involuntary jerk backward. Idiot. He mentally kicked himself. It was just tinsel.
“The other way,” Simon said, his voice dropping to a low murmur that seemed to block out the rest of the room, “is that it’s a quiet stubbornness. A middle finger to the dark. Or,” he paused, his gaze softening, “it’s a chance to build your own thing. To find the people who don’t give a shit about the perfect picture, because they see *you*.”
Jesse swallowed against a sudden thickness in his throat. The words landed like stones, sinking deep and hitting all the bruised places. He saw a flash of last Christmas—his mother’s tight, teary smile, her question about when he was going to meet a ‘nice girl,’ his father’s stony profile as he stared at the television, refusing to engage. The suffocating feeling of being an alien in his own home.
“What if there aren’t any of those people?” The question was a whisper, raw and broken. He hated the sound of his own voice, the tremor of weakness in it. But he wasn’t afraid Simon would use it against him.
Simon’s hand, the one that had taken the tinsel, moved again. Slowly. Deliberately. It settled on Jesse’s elbow, warm and firm. Just a light grip, but Jesse felt it like a brand through his hoodie and the t-shirt underneath. A single point of burning heat. He forgot how to breathe. His entire universe shrank to the size of Simon’s palm on his arm.
“There are always those people,” Simon said, his thumb stroking the soft, worn fabric of Jesse’s sleeve. The small, repetitive movement was both calming and agonizing. “Sometimes you just have to let them find you.” His eyes were locked on Jesse’s, a steady, unwavering anchor in the storm inside Jesse’s head. He wasn’t offering pity. He was offering… a fact. An alternative.
The air between them felt thick, charged. Jesse could hear his own pulse thudding in his ears. He should pull away. He should run. But his feet were lead. He was caught. Not trapped, but… held.
Tina cleared her throat, way too loudly. “Okay, well, I’m gonna… go make this tinsel look less like a massacre.” She practically fled, leaving them in a silence that was louder than all the noise before.
Simon didn’t let go. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to Jesse’s mouth, then flicked back up. The brief, casual sweep sent a phantom tingle across Jesse’s lips. A shiver traced its way down his spine.
“My family,” Simon said, his voice a little rougher now, “they do this huge, insane thing on Christmas Eve. It’s… a lot. My aunt belts opera at the dinner table, my uncle tells the same three terrible jokes he’s been telling since 1998, and my little cousins basically try to burn the house down with wrapping paper. It’s loud. It’s a mess. It’s… real.” He tightened his grip almost imperceptibly on Jesse’s elbow. “You could come. If you wanted. See what a truly dysfunctional Christmas looks like. For… comparison.”
The invitation hung there, heavy and terrifying and beautiful. It wasn’t just about dinner. It was about his world. *Come in. Be here.* Jesse’s mind reeled. His mother’s last words on the phone echoed in his ears, the tearful, "We just don't understand your... choices, Jesse. We just don't." Accepting this felt like slamming a door on them for good. It felt like a betrayal. It felt like a lifeline.
“I… I don’t know,” he stammered, finally managing to look away, down at the scuffed toes of his sneakers. The heat from Simon’s hand was a constant, pressing reminder of the offer. He wanted to say yes so badly it was a physical ache in his chest. But the fear, the deeply ingrained certainty that he would be too much, or not enough, was a hand around his throat.
“No pressure,” Simon said softly. He finally, slowly, let go.
The sudden absence of warmth was a shock. The air on Jesse’s arm felt impossibly cold, and he had to fight the insane urge to grab Simon’s hand and put it back. He felt adrift again.
Simon turned and picked up a tarnished metal star from a box of old decorations. It was bent in one corner, dull and scuffed. He held it in his palm. “This one’s my favorite,” he murmured, turning it over. “Total piece of junk, right? My grandmother made it. It’s been dropped, stepped on, probably chewed on by a dog at some point.” He looked back at Jesse, his eyes dark and serious over the battered ornament. “But it still catches the light, you know? You just have to… be looking.”
Jesse’s throat was tight. He stared at the star, then at Simon’s face. The invitation was still there in his eyes, patient and waiting.
He thought of the chaos Simon described. The opera, the bad jokes, the mess. He imagined being there. He thought of the crushing, sterile silence of his apartment. He looked at Simon, holding that imperfect, beautiful piece of junk, and offering him a place to be just as dented and just as real.
“What… what time?” The words felt like they were torn out of him.
He saw it then. The slow bloom of a genuine smile on Simon’s face. It wasn’t the small, secret smile from before. This one was wide and unrestrained, completely transforming his features. It cracked open his careful composure, lit his eyes from within, and hit Jesse like a physical blow, a dizzying warmth that spread right through his gut.
“Seven,” Simon said, his voice a low, satisfied hum. “Christmas Eve.”
And just like that, the knot of fear in Jesse’s chest didn’t vanish, but it loosened, making room for something else. Something terrifying and stupid and bright. Hope.