You're Under It

By Jamie F. Bell

Caught beneath a sprig of mistletoe by accident, two lifelong friends, Joey and Billy, are forced to confront the electric tension that has long simmered between them, leading to an unexpected discussion about holiday plans.

“Joey, just… hand me the box. The one with the garland,” Billy’s voice cut through the muffled thrum of holiday music and too many people in a too-small living room. The air was thick with pine and sugar cookies, an undercurrent of something metallic, like burnt out fairy lights, clinging to the heavy velvet curtains. I pushed past a group laughing a little too loud near the fireplace, my shoulder bumping against someone who didn't even flinch.

My hands were already full, a teetering stack of mismatched ornament boxes, all flimsy cardboard and peeling tape. I tried to angle my head to see where Billy was, but a stray arm, probably belonging to Mark from Accounting, snagged my scarf, pulling it tighter around my neck. I nearly dropped the whole damn pile. Billy, though. He was always steady. A solid anchor in any storm, even if the storm was just Sarah from HR’s annual 'festive' gathering.

“Which box, though? They all look like… garland,” I grumbled, my voice probably lost to the cacophony. My cheeks felt hot, not just from the stuffy room, but from the slight brush of Billy’s elbow against mine a moment ago when he’d guided me away from a precarious stack of gifts. His touch, even through layers of sweaters, always left a faint, buzzing heat behind.

He turned then, a slow, deliberate movement that somehow commanded the scattered light from the tree. His eyes, usually a calm, deep brown, caught mine, and for a second, the party noise faded. It was just him, me, and the way the fairy lights glinted off the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked tired, but in that way that made his jawline seem sharper, more defined.

“The one with the… red ribbon,” he finally said, his voice dropping, almost intimate amidst the hubbub. He took a step towards me, and then another. The distance between us closed with unnerving speed. I found myself gripping the boxes tighter, my knuckles white.

Then it happened. Not a grand, cinematic moment. Just clumsy, awkward physics. Mark from Accounting, recovering from his near-tumble, swung his arm back, probably reaching for another glass of spiked eggnog. His hand, heavy and oblivious, smacked right into the topmost box in my pile. It wasn’t the garland. It was the box containing the flimsy, plastic mistletoe we’d used for years, the one with the faded red bow.

The box lid flew open. The mistletoe, cheap and artificial, detached itself, a green blur against the blinking lights, and drifted down. It landed with a soft, almost imperceptible *thwip* right above our heads. It hung there, precariously balanced on a forgotten picture hook in the doorway, swaying slightly.

Billy froze. I froze. The party noise, which had briefly seemed to fade, now roared back, a wave crashing over a suddenly silent shore. My heart was thudding, a frantic drum against my ribs. I could feel the heat radiating off Billy, a solid presence, closer than he’d been all night. He was looking at the mistletoe, then at me, then back at the mistletoe, a slow burn starting in his eyes.

“Oh. Well. Look at that,” I managed, my voice a pathetic croak. My tongue felt too big for my mouth. My gaze was fixed somewhere around his collarbone, afraid to meet his eyes directly. The air around us felt thin, charged. Like before a lightning strike, you know? That weird static buzz.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just stood there, his chest rising and falling slowly, deliberately. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head, or maybe that was just my own panic. The mistletoe, cheap and fake, seemed to glow with an absurd, artificial significance. I wanted to laugh, wanted to run, wanted to just… melt into the floorboards.

“Yeah. Look at that,” he finally echoed, his voice low, a rough rasp that sent a shiver down my spine, despite the heat of the room. He shifted his weight, and I felt a faint brushing of his jeans against mine. That small contact felt like an electric shock, straight up my leg, making my breath hitch.

I risked a glance up. His eyes were on me. Really on me. Not the casual glance he usually gave, but an intense, unblinking stare that made my stomach clench. His pupils were dilated, dark. The soft, romantic lighting of the room did weird things to his face, throwing shadows that made him look impossibly handsome, unfairly so. My cheeks flushed, a deep, painful heat.

“So…” I started, then trailed off. What was there to say? The unspoken thing, the thing we’d both ignored for years, was suddenly suspended right over our heads, a literal visual aid to our mutual denial. It was humiliating and terrifying and… something else. Something warm, deep down.

Billy took another step, closing the infinitesimal gap that still remained. Now we were almost touching, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, the stack of ornament boxes pressing uncomfortably against my chest. He reached out, slowly, his hand moving towards my face. My breath caught, stuck in my throat. Was he…?

He didn’t. His fingers brushed past my jaw, grazed my ear, and then gently untangled the scarf from where it had been snagged by Mark’s errant arm. His thumb brushed my skin, just for a second, and it felt like a brand. His eyes never left mine, not once. That steady, intense gaze held me captive.

“You’ll choke,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost a whisper, despite the blaring holiday playlist. “Mark’s a menace.” A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched his lips. It wasn't a smile, not really. More like a quiet acknowledgment.

My heart was doing acrobatics. I could feel the blood rushing to my ears, making everything sound distant. My body felt acutely aware of his proximity—the faint scent of his cologne, something clean and sharp, mixed with a hint of cinnamon from the party. The way his breath ghosted over my lips as he spoke, warm and soft. It felt… too much.

“Right. Yeah. Mark,” I stammered, feeling like an idiot. The scarf, now free, felt like it was still choking me, but in a different way. A pleasant, suffocating heat.

He chuckled then, a low rumble in his chest that vibrated through my own. And that was when I broke. The tension, the absurdity, the raw, exposed nerves. I laughed, a short, choked sound that was more a gasp than anything. He laughed too, and for a moment, the sound was clear, shared, a tiny bubble of normal human interaction in the overwhelming intensity.

“We should probably… get the garland,” I said, finally, desperately, trying to ground myself. My voice still felt shaky.

“Yeah,” Billy said, but he didn’t move. His gaze was still fixed on me, the slight curve still playing on his lips. “Or, you know…” He glanced up at the mistletoe, then back at me. The question was hanging there, unsaid, electric.

I swallowed hard. My mouth was dry. My mind was a mess of conflicting thoughts. *Say something. Do something. Don’t do anything. He’s just messing with you. He’s not. He can’t be. What if he is? What if he’s not?*

“Or what?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. I hated how small I sounded. I wanted to be cool, composed, but my body was betraying me, every nerve ending screaming.

He closed his eyes for a beat, a slow blink that felt like an eternity. When they opened, the intensity was still there, but something else had settled over them. A calm resolve. The pursuer, making his move. “Or we could… lean into it.”

My entire body went rigid. *Lean into it.* The phrase echoed in my head, simple and utterly devastating. The party noise, the clinking glasses, the distant chatter—it all blurred into a dull roar. The only thing I could focus on was Billy, standing impossibly close, his eyes full of a silent dare, a question that felt like a command.

“Joey,” he said, his voice dropping another octave, a deep resonance that vibrated through my chest. He took the ornament boxes from my arms, gently, effortlessly. The sudden absence of weight in my hands made me feel lighter, more exposed. His fingers brushed mine as he took them, a slow drag of skin against skin that sent a fresh jolt through me.

He placed the boxes on a nearby side table with a soft thud, never breaking eye contact. The mistletoe still hung between us, a green, plastic symbol of everything unsaid. He reached out again, this time his hand settling on my shoulder, his thumb gently pressing into the thick fabric of my sweater. The pressure was slight, but it felt like a thousand pounds.

“Look,” he began, his voice rough around the edges, “I know this is… stupid. And this party is… a lot. But you and me, under this ridiculous thing…” He gestured vaguely upwards with his free hand, then let it fall back to his side. “It feels… right. Even if it’s wrong.”

My breath hitched. *Right, even if it’s wrong.* That was it, wasn't it? The perfect summary of every tangled, confused feeling I’d had for him for years. The comfortable familiarity that felt like family, the sharp, inconvenient jolt of something more, something yearning, something *other*.

“What do you mean, wrong?” I managed, my voice a mere breath. My eyes were still glued to his, searching, desperate for clarity, terrified of what I might find. His thumb continued its slow, hypnotic circle on my shoulder, a small, insistent friction.

He let out a soft sigh, a puff of warm air that smelled faintly of peppermint. “Wrong because… we’re friends. And this… this changes things, doesn't it? Or it could.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “But right because… I think I’ve always wanted to be here. Like this. With you.”

The world tilted. All the air left my lungs. The confession, so quietly spoken, felt like an explosion. My vision blurred around the edges. *He’s always wanted this.* The thought echoed, a frantic, joyous chime in the sudden silence of my mind. My cheeks were on fire. I could feel a tremor starting deep in my core, spreading through my limbs.

“I…” I started, but no words came out. My throat was tight, constricted. A dizzying mix of fear and exhilaration swirled inside me. He was so close. Too close. And yet, not close enough. I wanted to lean into him, to feel the solid warmth of his body against mine, to just… know.

He took my silence not as rejection, but as an invitation. His hand slid from my shoulder, down my arm, his fingers intertwining with mine. His grip was firm, warm, reassuring. The simple act felt impossibly intimate, a silent promise. My hand, usually fidgeting, was still, resting perfectly in his.

“Look,” he said again, his voice softer, gentler. “The holidays are coming up. Big deal, right? Your family’s off to Florida, mine’s doing the usual chaos. I was… kinda thinking of staying in. Just for once.” He paused, then squeezed my hand. “Unless… you wanted to avoid that chaos. You know. Together.”

My mind reeled. *Spend the holidays together.* It wasn't just a casual suggestion. It was a loaded statement, a quiet plea, an invitation into something utterly new and terrifying. The mistletoe above our heads, the chaotic party around us, the gentle, insistent pressure of his hand in mine—it all converged into this single, overwhelming moment. The air still buzzed. The static was palpable.

He watched me, his expression open, vulnerable, waiting for my answer. He wasn’t pushing, not really. But the intensity in his gaze was a silent demand. My breath caught again. This was it. The precipice. The jump. I looked at his eyes, those deep, unwavering pools, and felt a strange, thrilling sense of inevitability.

“Together?” I managed, my voice still small, but now laced with a tentative hope. My thumb, almost unconsciously, rubbed against the back of his hand, a small, exploratory touch. The world outside our bubble faded, leaving only the warmth of his skin, the beat of my own heart, and the dizzying prospect of a winter spent not alone, but with him. The chaos, I realized, wouldn't be so bad. Not if it was *our* chaos. Not if it meant him.

He nodded, a small, decisive movement. The corner of his mouth finally quirked into a full, genuine smile, and the effect was blinding. “Yeah, Joey. Together.”