The Mismatched Decorations

By Jamie F. Bell

Two queer youths, one embraced by Christmas and one shunned, decorate a tree and debate the holiday's true meaning, finding unexpected connection amidst differing family experiences.

"It's all a fucking performance," Ed declared, the words a low rumble that barely carried over the tinny jingle of the bell he was turning over and over in his fingers. He held it up to the weak lamplight, scrutinizing the chipped red paint on a ceramic reindeer. "The forced cheer, the relentless pressure to be happy. It’s exhausting. Like everyone's on stage, pretending their lives are some goddamn Norman Rockwell painting, even when the whole set is about to collapse."

He dropped the reindeer with a dull clink back into the cardboard box.

Lenny, perched on a wobbly step stool and wrestling with a tangled mass of icicle lights, just hummed.

It wasn't dismissive. It wasn't a challenge. It was a low, thoughtful vibration that seemed to sink right through Ed’s ribs and settle somewhere deep in his chest. The older guy’s movements were patient, fluid, even with the snarled mess of wires. He had this way of making chaos seem… solvable.

Lenny’s sweater, a heavy forest-green knit that made the gold flecks in his eyes practically glow, was already dusted with glitter. Ed’s fingers twitched with the bizarre impulse to brush it off, to feel the thick wool under his palm, to smooth the fabric over his shoulders, to maybe just… get close enough to smell whatever cologne he was wearing. To smell *him*.

"A performance?" Lenny finally echoed, his voice as warm as the mug of cider sitting forgotten on the coffee table. He looked down, and his stare snagged on Ed’s.

The heat was immediate, a familiar, unwelcome flush creeping up Ed’s neck. It was always like this. One look, one simple question from Lenny, and the walls Ed spent all his energy maintaining would start to crumble.

"Or maybe," Lenny continued, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he methodically untangled a particularly stubborn knot, "it’s a tradition. A story we agree to keep telling, even when the cast changes, or the script feels outdated."

Ed snorted, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "A story where some characters get written out, I guess. Or get stuck being the understudy, watching from the wings forever."

He picked up a glitter-encrusted star, its points bent and dull. It reminded him of the ones his mom used to buy. His family’s Christmases had been quiet, tense performances punctuated by his mother’s fragile smiles and his father’s silences. After he’d come out, the silences got longer, deeper. This year, there wasn’t even an invitation. Not a text. The plastic star felt like it weighed a ton.

Lenny slid off the stool, his worn slippers making no sound on the floorboards. He moved with an effortless grace that Ed found both captivating and intensely irritating. He was too calm. Too centered. Too fucking good.

He knelt beside Ed, the movement bringing him uncomfortably close, his knee almost brushing Ed’s thigh. The air between them suddenly felt thick, charged. He reached into the box. His hand—warm, solid, the knuckles calloused from whatever carpentry shit he was always working on—brushed against Ed’s.

The contact was a jolt of static, sharp and electric, shooting straight up Ed’s arm. He flinched, snatching his hand back like he’d touched a live wire. His breath hitched, loud in the sudden silence. He could feel the heat radiating from Lenny’s body, a quiet furnace pushing back against the winter chill seeping through the old windowpane.

"This little guy," Lenny said, his voice softer now, seemingly oblivious to the meltdown happening in Ed’s nervous system. He held up a small, wooden nutcracker with a crudely repainted nose. "He’s been around since my parents' first Christmas in this house. Dad painted the nose back on after my sister broke it. She must’ve been, like, five."

Ed risked a glance. First at the ridiculous toy, then at Lenny’s profile. The soft line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. He cleared his throat, the sound scrapy and loud, desperate to find his usual armor of detachment.

"So it’s sentimentality, then? Giving new meaning to old, broken things?" The question came out sharper than he intended, brittle with a defense he couldn't drop. This was dangerous. This quiet closeness, this sharing of stories. He was only here as a favour, payback because Lenny had helped him move his stuff into his tiny student apartment. That was it. But every second with Lenny felt like an invitation to something more, something he was terrified of wanting.

"Partly," Lenny conceded, turning the nutcracker over in his capable hands. Ed couldn't stop staring at his fingers—long, deft, sure. "But it’s also about what they represent. The people. My sister being a dumbass kid. My dad fixing things. My mom, who still insists on using that same crooked angel on the tree, even though she has a perfectly good new one in a box somewhere."

He let out a low chuckle, a rich, private sound that made the fine hairs on Ed’s arms stand up.

Ed scoffed, trying for a light tone that just sounded thin. "And what if you don't have those stories? If the people in your narrative… just write you out? What then? You just make new ones up?"

He meant it as a rhetorical shield, but the question hung in the air between them, raw and heavy with everything he wasn't saying.

Lenny’s head snapped up. His eyes, usually so placid, held something sharp and focused that pinned Ed in place. He placed the nutcracker gently back in the box as if it were precious.

Then he reached out.

His hand hovered for a split second, a breath of hesitation that made Ed’s stomach clench, before it rested on Ed’s forearm. It wasn't a casual touch. It was deliberate. A claim. The wool of Ed’s sweater wasn’t enough of a barrier; the heat seeped through instantly. For someone like Ed, starved of casual affection, it felt like a brand. His skin prickled, a dizzying warmth spreading from the point of contact, both unsettling and deeply, dangerously comforting.

"Then you find new people," Lenny said, his voice firm, cutting through all of Ed’s bullshit. He squeezed Ed’s arm, a soft, reassuring pressure that made Ed's heart stumble in his chest. "You build your own traditions. You write a new story. One where you're not the fucking understudy. You're the lead."

Just then, a key scraped in the front door lock, followed by a woman's booming voice that shattered the fragile, charged moment. "Lenny! We're here! Did you leave the heat off again, it's freezing out here!"

The sound was like a starter pistol. Ed snatched his arm back, the sudden cold where Lenny’s hand had been a physical shock. He scrambled to his feet, nearly kicking over the box of ornaments, his movements clumsy and loud. Too many people. Too much noise. *Shit.*

"That'd be my mom," Lenny said, a wry smile touching his lips, though his eyes, still fixed on Ed, hadn't lost their intensity. "Looks like the new narrative starts now, ready or not."

He stood, his shoulder brushing Ed’s as he moved past, another fleeting, searing point of contact that sent a fresh jolt through him. Ed told himself it was just static from the rug. He was a terrible liar.

Lenny’s mom, Carol, was a whirlwind of frosted hair and a festive red coat, her arms already open as she bustled in. "Lenny, darling! And who is this handsome young man?" She beamed at Ed, her smile so genuine it felt like an attack.

Before he could process it, she’d engulfed him in a firm, surprisingly strong hug. "You must be Ed! Lenny talks about you all the time. We're so glad you could join us!" She pulled back, patting his cheek.

Ed’s brain blue-screened. "Uh. Hi. Yeah. Ed."

He glanced past her, a desperate, pleading look aimed at Lenny, who was leaning against the doorway, watching him with an infuriatingly soft, amused expression. A silent message passed between them—*You owe me for this* from Ed, and *You'll survive* from Lenny.

"Mom, this is Ed," Lenny said, stepping forward and placing a hand on her arm, gently steering her toward the living room. "He's helping with the tree. Ed, my mom, Carol. My Aunt Beth." He gestured to a taller woman who was already frowning at a string of lights as if it had personally offended her. "And the hooligans are my cousins, Cassidy and Sam."

Two teenagers, maybe a year or two younger than Ed, were already shoving each other in the hallway, their faces flushed from the cold.

"Hooligans!" the girl, Cassidy, shrieked, lobbing a foam snowflake at Lenny, who caught it without looking. "We're here to save Christmas!" She winked at Ed, a quick, appraising glance that made him feel even more exposed.

The sheer, uncontained energy of this family was like a physical force, a tidal wave of noise and warmth he was not equipped to handle.

And yet, despite every cynical instinct screaming at him to run, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. A real smile. It felt foreign, like using a muscle he’d forgotten he had.

Carol was already bustling around the tree. "Oh, Lenny, honey, the garland is all wrong! It needs to *drape*, dear, not cling like a… a desperate lover!" She let out a hearty, infectious laugh. "Ed, dear, you look like you know what you're doing. Help me fix this monstrosity. Lenny, you go start the eggnog. The good stuff, not that store-bought crap."

And just like that, Ed was absorbed. He was handed fragile glass baubles, coached on the art of the 'drape,' and twenty minutes later, found himself being dragged into the backyard by Cassidy and Sam. The air was bitingly cold, and a light snow was beginning to fall, dusting the dead grass in a fine white powder.

"Heads up!" Sam yelled. A loosely packed snowball exploded softly against Ed’s shoulder, the wet cold seeping through his sweater.

For a second, Ed froze. This wasn't his world. This was loud and messy and… happy. It felt like a language he didn’t speak.

Then he saw Lenny watching from the kitchen window, a real, wide smile on his face, his silhouette framed by the warm light. Something inside Ed, a tight, angry knot he’d been carrying for years, snapped. He scooped up a handful of snow, packed it hard into a dense, satisfying ball, and hurled it at Sam, hitting him square in the chest with a satisfying *thump*.

The resulting chaotic snow-fight left him breathless, his cheeks stinging, his lungs aching with an exhilarating burn. He hadn't laughed like that in years. It felt like breaking a rule.

Later, as the sky outside bled from bruised purple into a deep, star-pricked black, Ed was back inside, arranging frosted cookies on a platter under Carol's meticulous direction. The house was thick with the smells of roasting turkey and warm spices. Lenny was at the stove, a ridiculous reindeer-print apron tied around his waist, stirring a pot that was sending clouds of fragrant steam into the air. The soft kitchen light carved out the planes of his face, the strong line of his back. Ed couldn't stop stealing glances, his eyes tracing the shape of him, memorizing it.

"So, Ed," Carol said, nudging him with her elbow. "Lenny says you’re at the university? What are you studying?" Her questions were easy, open, not the polite, probing interrogations he was used to, the kind that were always followed by a judgment.

"History," Ed managed, carefully placing a gingerbread man whose leg had broken off. "And literature. I like stories. Even the ones that fall apart."

Carol hummed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "A student of human drama. Excellent. You've come to the right place." She winked. "Our Christmases are less about perfection and more about… spirited chaos. And love. Sometimes, a little chaos *is* love, don't you think?"

Ed looked from the platter of broken-but-charming cookies to the living room. The tree was a beautiful, sparkling mess of mismatched ornaments, tangled tinsel, and crooked lights. He thought of his own family’s pristine, silent tree, where every ornament was perfectly spaced. He thought of Lenny at the stove, a solid, comforting presence. He thought of the feeling of Lenny's hand on his arm. The warmth. The claim.

"Maybe," Ed said, the word feeling fragile on his tongue. "Maybe chaos is more honest."

He watched Lenny laugh at something his aunt said, the sound carrying across the room, and felt a pull so strong it was physical, a magnetic force aligning with the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his own heart. He wanted this. Even for just one night, he wanted to be a part of this story.

Dinner was exactly the chaos Carol promised. Twelve people crammed around a table meant for eight, shouting over each other, passing plates, laughing until they cried. Ed was seated between Lenny and Cassidy. He felt a sense of belonging so acute it was painful.

Lenny was a constant, grounding presence beside him. His hand brushed Ed’s knee under the table, a brief, accidental touch, but then he didn't move it away. The sustained pressure was a quiet, secret conversation. When Ed reached for the salt, Lenny’s hand was already there, their fingers tangling for a second over the shaker. This time, Ed didn't flinch. He let the warmth sink in, a slow, spreading heat that had nothing to do with the mulled wine.

Later, full of food and feeling a pleasant buzz, they were all in the living room. The tree lights cast a soft glow, turning the room into a magical cave. Lenny’s dad was telling an embarrassing story about Lenny’s first crush in middle school, and Ed found himself laughing, a deep, genuine laugh that hurt his stomach. He looked over at Lenny, whose face was flushed with a charming mix of mortification and affection. Lenny caught his eye, and in that instant, the noise of the room faded to a dull hum.

It was just them. A silent exchange that felt more real than any conversation. A recognition. A promise.

When the party started to wind down and people began pulling on coats, Ed knew he had to leave. The thought of returning to his cold, silent apartment felt like a physical blow.

"I, uh… I should probably go," he said to Lenny, his voice rough.

"Already?" Carol exclaimed from across the room, having overheard. She pulled him into another fierce hug. "You have to come back for New Year's! No excuses! You're one of us now!"

Lenny walked him to the door. The cold air was a shock to his warm skin. The light snow was sticking now, blanketing the world in a pristine, silent white. The world outside the warm glow of the house felt alien.

"Thanks," Ed said, his voice quiet. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking up at Lenny. His breath plumed in the frigid air. "For… this. It was… a lot."

Lenny smiled, that soft, private smile that did dangerous things to Ed's insides. "You’re part of the story now, Ed. If you want to be."

He reached out, his gloved fingers gently brushing a few snowflakes from Ed’s hair. The touch lingered. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate line against Ed’s temple, just at the hairline. It was an impossibly tender gesture. An invitation.

Ed’s heart was pounding. He wanted to lean into that touch. He wanted to close the small space between them. He wanted to stay. He wanted to kiss him, right here on the snowy porch, and damn the consequences.

But the ghosts of old hurts were cold on his back, whispering that he wasn't the kind of person who got to be in stories like this. That he was the one who broke things.

He could feel the pull of Lenny’s gravity, the terrifying, exhilarating hope that maybe, just maybe, this time could be different. He just stood there, caught between the warmth of Lenny’s hand and the freezing night air, unable to speak, unable to move, his throat tight.

He was terrified that if he took one step forward, the whole fragile, beautiful narrative would shatter around him. And even more terrified that if he didn't, he'd regret it for the rest of his life.