Tell Me You're Not Going Home

By Jamie F. Bell

Two young men, miles from oppressive homes, navigate the bittersweet holiday season together, their quiet understanding blooming into something more urgent and consuming.

Christmas. The word itself felt like a heavy, tinsel-covered blanket, suffocating and itchy all at once.

Mika watched the snow fall outside their dingy apartment window, each flake a tiny, mocking perfection. Back home, his mother would be orchestrating a grand performance of festive joy, every smile rehearsed, every gift meticulously chosen for its strategic impact. Here, it was just… snow. And Ben. Who, at this very moment, was attempting to untangle a string of ancient, flickering fairy lights, his brow furrowed in concentration, a silent testament to their collective inexperience in holiday pageantry. Mika’s chest felt tight, a dull ache behind his ribs. It wasn’t loneliness, not exactly. It was more like an absence of expectation, a strange, hollow freedom that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

He watched the careful curve of Ben’s back as he wrestled with the knotted wires, the way his dark hair fell just so, catching the faint, cool light from the window. Ben was a creature of contained energy, like a coiled spring, always present but never intrusive. He was the quiet anchor Mika hadn't known he needed, grounding him in a city that felt vast and indifferent. Since they’d moved in, Ben had somehow managed to turn their shared, cramped living space into something livable, even comforting. Mika, by contrast, felt like a tumbleweed, blown wherever the current took him, perpetually off-kilter. Christmas had only amplified that feeling, a magnifying glass on the quiet chaos of his internal landscape.

“These things,” Ben grunted, holding up a particularly stubborn tangle, “are a menace. They belong in a museum of planned obsolescence.” His voice was low, a rumbling vibration that Mika felt almost physically, even across the small room. It always made Mika’s skin prickle, a faint, internal tremor. He often wondered if Ben knew the effect he had, the way Mika’s gaze invariably snagged on him, cataloging the small shifts in his expression, the unconscious flex of his hands.

Mika scoffed, a brittle sound. “They’re a relic of last year’s attempt to ‘make memories.’ My mom insisted we salvage them. Said they were ‘charming.’ They’re a fire hazard.” He knew he sounded bitter, but the words felt like a shield, deflecting the sudden surge of vulnerability. The apartment, with its chipped paint and drafty windows, felt both like a prison and a sanctuary. A sanctuary from the relentless, performative cheer of his family, but also a stark reminder of how far he was from anything truly familiar. He missed the smell of his grandmother's ginger cookies, a memory that pricked at his eyes, an unwelcome, soft emotion.

Ben glanced over his shoulder, his eyes, dark and knowing, meeting Mika’s. There was no judgment there, just a steady, unblinking presence that somehow both unsettled and soothed Mika. “You don’t have to put them up, you know,” Ben said, his voice softer now, a quiet undertow. He turned fully, letting the tangled lights fall forgotten on the threadbare carpet. The air crackled, not with static electricity, but with something far more charged, something that pulled at the space between them.

Mika shifted, suddenly aware of the awkward angle of his weight, the clammy feel of his palms. “No, it’s… fine. It’s Christmas.” He felt a flush creep up his neck, a hot, undeniable tide. God, he was so transparent. Every emotion seemed to paint itself across his face, while Ben remained a cool, collected enigma. He hated it, this constant, visceral reaction he had to Ben, the way his own body betrayed him. It was embarrassing, this nakedness of feeling.

Ben just watched him, a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. He didn't push, didn't offer empty platitudes. He just *saw* him. And that, in itself, felt like a revelation, an intimacy Mika wasn't prepared for. Most people in his life either tried to fix him or ignored him. Ben simply acknowledged his existence, his complicated, messy self. It was a kind of warmth, like standing too close to a fire and feeling the heat on your exposed skin.

“I found a box of old ornaments in the basement,” Ben said, changing the subject with a gentle ease that Mika found both frustrating and endearing. He always did that, sensed when Mika was on the verge of splintering, and rerouted the conversation. “The landlord said we could use them. They’re… eclectic.” He paused, a small, wry smile touching the corner of his lips. Mika's breath caught, a stutter in his chest. That smile. It was rare, a fleeting glimpse of something unguarded, and it always sent a peculiar jolt through Mika, a feeling like gravity had momentarily shifted.

Mika pushed himself off the windowsill, the old wood groaning under his weight. “Eclectic how? Like, haunted dolls, or… taxidermied squirrels wearing Santa hats?” He tried for lightness, but his voice cracked slightly on the last word. He busied himself by picking up a stray piece of tinsel that had shed from the defunct lights, twisting it around his finger, a nervous habit. The cold air from the window still clung to him, a faint chill against his collarbone.

Ben chuckled, a low, rich sound that echoed in the quiet room. “Worse. Think mismatched ceramic angels with one wing, and a chipped reindeer missing an antler. And an entire collection of what appears to be miniature felt pickles.” He walked towards the small, synthetic tree they’d bought for ten dollars at a discount store, its plastic branches already drooping under the weight of their own ambition. It stood forlornly in the corner, a sad, green spike against the peeling wallpaper.

Mika found himself drawn to Ben’s side, an invisible thread pulling him closer. He knelt beside him, the cheap carpet scratching at his knees. Ben’s arm brushed his as he reached for the box, a sudden jolt, an electric current that made Mika suck in a sharp breath. He looked down, pretending to inspect the array of bizarre ornaments, his face hot. The felt pickles *were* real. And somehow, in their sheer absurdity, they were perfect.

“Felt pickles,” Mika murmured, a genuine laugh bubbling up, light and surprising. It felt good, the sound of it, like shaking off a heavy coat. “My mother would have a conniption. Everything has to be ‘curated.’ God forbid an ornament isn’t perfectly thematic.” He picked up a small, lopsided ceramic angel, its painted eye staring blankly into the middle distance. It was hideous. It was wonderful.

“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Ben said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that always made Mika’s stomach clench. He didn't look at Mika, his gaze fixed on the tree, but Mika felt the weight of his attention, a tangible pressure. “To escape the curated lives. To make our own… pickle-themed memories.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against Mika’s as he took the angel from him. It was a fleeting, accidental touch, but it left a lingering heat, a pulse point firing in Mika’s palm.

Mika swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. Pickle-themed memories.” The sarcasm felt thin, stretched taut. The air between them hummed, thick and potent. He could feel Ben’s warmth beside him, the faint scent of pine and something else, something uniquely Ben – clean, sharp, like cold air after a rain. It was intoxicating, unsettling. He wanted to lean in, just slightly, to feel the solidness of him, to confirm the electric pull wasn't just in his head. But he held himself rigid, a fragile shell.

They worked in a comfortable, uneasy silence, hanging the absurd ornaments. The sad little tree began to glow with a strange, defiant charm under their hands. Mika found himself talking, more freely than he had in months. About his father's suffocating expectations, his mother's meticulous control, the feeling of always being observed, judged, found wanting. Ben listened, truly listened, his head occasionally nodding, his eyes never leaving Mika’s when he spoke of the hard things. Mika found himself craving that steady gaze, that quiet understanding.

“It’s like,” Mika started, fumbling with a string of popcorn they’d painstakingly strung together earlier, the kernels threatening to snap, “they wanted me to be a certain kind of person. The perfect son. The perfect student. And I… I just keep messing it up.” He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “This whole year. College, being away… it’s been exhilarating, don’t get me wrong. But also… lonely. A different kind of lonely. Not the 'alone in a crowd' lonely, but the 'nobody really knows me' lonely.” His voice trailed off, his gaze fixed on the lopsided pickle ornament he was trying to hang.

Ben’s hand, warm and firm, covered Mika’s for a split second, guiding the pickle into place. The touch sent a shockwave through Mika’s arm, up to his shoulder, a sudden, searing heat. He froze, his breath catching. Ben didn’t move his hand away immediately, a silent, almost possessive pressure. “I know what you mean,” Ben said, his voice a low thrum against Mika’s ear, too close, too intimate. Mika could feel the warmth of Ben's body radiating next to his, a magnetic pull he couldn't ignore. “My family… they’re big on tradition. Legacy. I’m supposed to follow in my father’s footsteps, join the firm. Never questioned it until I got here. And then… it’s like someone opened a window.” He finally pulled his hand away, and Mika felt an immediate, inexplicable chill, a longing for the lost contact.

Mika risked a glance at Ben, his heart hammering against his ribs. Ben was looking at the tree, but his eyes were distant, shadowed. “And what did you see?” Mika asked, his voice barely a whisper, afraid to break the fragile moment. He noticed the slight tension in Ben’s jaw, a muscle clenching.

Ben’s gaze swung back to Mika, full of an intensity that made Mika’s stomach flip. “I saw… that the window was a door. And I didn’t want to go back through it.” His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Mika felt a strange, thrilling sense of recognition. It was like looking into a mirror, seeing his own fears, his own stifled desires, reflected in Ben’s quiet resolve. They were both running, in their own ways, from the ghosts of their pasts, seeking something new, something real.

Later, as the smell of their slightly burnt, pre-made Christmas dinner wafted through the small kitchen, Mika found himself watching Ben again. Ben was meticulously arranging slices of dry turkey on a plate, his movements precise, deliberate. He was wearing an old, oversized sweater, its cuffs stretched, and something about the domesticity of it, the sheer normalcy, made Mika’s chest ache with a quiet tenderness. This wasn’t the Christmas his family had dictated, with its forced smiles and carefully chosen decor. This was… theirs. And it felt more real, more honest, than anything he’d ever experienced.

“So, the big question,” Mika said, trying to inject some levity, “are we going to pretend this sad excuse for a meal is delicious? Or are we going to admit we both secretly wish we had ordered pizza?” He picked at a stray piece of stuffing that had fallen onto the counter, a faint aroma of sage and disappointment.

Ben turned, a spoon in hand, and Mika’s gaze snagged on the subtle curve of his lips, the way his dark eyes crinkled at the corners. “We can admit it’s passable, and then secretly wish for pizza,” Ben replied, his voice a low murmur that Mika felt deep in his bones. He set the plates down on their wobbly, makeshift dining table, a cheap plastic folding table covered with a festive, albeit stained, tablecloth they’d found in the basement. The fairy lights, now functional, cast a warm, flickering glow, making the chipped paint on the walls seem almost charming.

They ate mostly in comfortable silence, punctuated by occasional, wry comments about their culinary shortcomings. But the quiet was different tonight. It was thick with unspoken words, with the growing awareness of each other’s presence. Mika found himself hyper-aware of Ben’s breathing, the slight shift of his weight in the chair, the way his fingers curled around his glass. Every small movement felt amplified, significant.

“You really don’t want to go home, do you?” Mika asked eventually, the question hanging heavy in the air, echoing the deeper anxieties of their shared estrangement. He looked at his half-eaten plate, then up at Ben, who had paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. The question felt risky, like prying open a delicate, locked box.

Ben lowered his fork, his gaze steady on Mika’s. His eyes were unreadable, deep pools in the dim light. “No,” he said, simply, unequivocally. “Not really. Not yet. There’s… too much there. Too many expectations. Too much ‘this is what you’re supposed to do.’ And I’m just… not ready to walk back into that.” His honesty felt like a physical offering, something precious and vulnerable. Mika’s chest tightened, a familiar ache, but this time, it was mingled with a fierce, protective warmth.

Mika nodded slowly, understanding perfectly. “Yeah. My mom’s already planning my summer internship. And my engagement, probably. To some nice, bland girl who ‘understands my future.’” He gave a hollow laugh, the sound grating. “It’s like they have my entire life mapped out, and I’m just a character in their grand narrative. No room for improvisation. Or… deviation.” He felt a sudden, desperate urge to reach across the table, to grab Ben’s hand, to hold on to the solidness of him, the shared rebellion. But he held back, clenching his own hands under the table.

“Deviation can be good,” Ben murmured, his voice softer, a conspiratorial whisper. He reached across the table, not for Mika’s hand, but for a stray piece of tinsel that had fallen near Mika’s plate. His fingers brushed Mika’s as he picked it up, a fleeting, electric contact that made Mika’s skin tingle, a gasp caught in his throat. It was just tinsel. But it felt like everything. Ben didn’t pull his hand away immediately, letting his thumb brush lightly against Mika’s knuckles, a feather-light touch that scorched.

Mika’s breath hitched, his heart hammering against his ribs, loud in his ears. He couldn’t look away from Ben’s eyes, which were now fixed on him, dark and intense, a silent question. The flicker of the fairy lights danced in their depths, reflecting a hidden fire. It was more than just connection; it was a gravitational pull, an inevitability. Mika felt himself leaning in, unconsciously, drawn by an invisible thread, a silent plea for more.

Ben’s gaze dropped to Mika’s lips, lingering there for a beat that stretched into an eternity. Mika’s entire body hummed with a desperate anticipation, a flush spreading across his face, hot and undeniable. He felt like he was drowning in the intensity of Ben’s presence, overwhelmed and yet utterly, completely willing. This was it, the precipice, the edge of something terrifying and exhilarating.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Ben pulled his hand back, the absence of his touch leaving a cold phantom ache on Mika’s skin. He cleared his throat, the small sound loud in the sudden silence. “We should… uh… do presents,” Ben said, his voice a little rougher now, a slight tremor in the controlled calm. Mika deflated, a sharp, surprising pang of disappointment. The moment, potent and heavy, had passed. Or had it merely shifted, deepened, into something even more charged?

Mika could only nod, his throat too tight to speak. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, a jarring sound in the quiet room. He walked quickly to the small pile of gifts under their sad little tree, his movements clumsy, agitated. Each gift felt like a bomb, ticking. He knew what he had bought Ben – a limited edition graphic novel, something obscure he’d seen Ben looking at online for weeks. It felt intensely personal, a silent declaration of how much he paid attention, how much he *saw* Ben. And now, under the weight of the unspoken moment, it felt terrifyingly exposed.

Ben followed, his movements quieter, more deliberate. He knelt beside the tree, picking up a small, neatly wrapped package. “You first,” he said, his voice low, a command more than a suggestion. Mika’s hands trembled slightly as he took the gift. It was small, heavy for its size. He tore at the paper, his fingers fumbling with the tape, the artificial silence of the room punctuated by the rustle of wrapping paper, the erratic thumping of his own heart. Inside, nested in tissue, was a vintage compass, its brass casing dulled with age, its needle still perfectly true.

Mika stared at it, speechless. A compass. For someone who felt perpetually lost, who had spent his entire life being told where to go, what to do… it was devastatingly perfect. It wasn’t just a gift; it was an affirmation. A quiet, powerful statement about his own journey, his own direction. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, hot and unwelcome. “Ben…” he managed, his voice thick with emotion, barely a whisper.

Ben was watching him, a soft, almost tender expression in his usually unreadable eyes. “For when you need to find your way,” he said, his voice gentle. “Or when you just need a reminder that you already know.” The words, simple as they were, hit Mika with the force of a physical blow. He felt stripped bare, his carefully constructed walls crumbling under the weight of such profound understanding. He felt seen, truly seen, in a way he never had before.

Mika could only look up, his eyes swimming, meeting Ben’s gaze. He felt an overwhelming urge to close the distance, to simply fall into Ben’s arms, to let himself be held. He could feel the familiar flush on his cheeks, the tremor in his hands. He was a mess, raw and exposed. But Ben just looked back, steady and unwavering, a silent invitation in his deep eyes.

“Your turn,” Mika croaked, finally finding his voice, albeit a shaky one. He shoved the graphic novel into Ben’s hands, almost desperate to deflect the intensity of the moment, to give Ben something to focus on besides Mika’s unraveling. Ben took it, his long fingers carefully unwrapping the paper, his expression unreadable. As he pulled out the book, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of genuine surprise, then a slow, pleased smile spread across his face, a rare, breathtaking sight.

“You remembered,” Ben said, his voice soft, almost reverent, as he ran a thumb over the cover. “I mentioned it once, months ago. You remembered.” He looked up at Mika, his eyes alight, a warmth Mika had never seen there before, a direct, unfiltered joy. It was more than just gratitude for the gift; it was an acknowledgment of the attention, the care, the *seeing* that had gone into it. And in that moment, Mika knew, with a sudden, dizzying certainty, that the feeling wasn’t one-sided.

They spent the next hour simply sitting on the floor, propped against their worn couch, the compass in Mika’s hand, the graphic novel in Ben’s. The initial rush of the gift exchange had settled into a quiet, profound contentment. The wind howled softly outside, rattling the old windows, but inside, their small apartment felt like a cocoon, warm and safe. Mika leaned his head back against the couch, his eyes closed, listening to the soft rustle of Ben turning pages. He felt a profound sense of peace, a quiet joy that had nothing to do with festive decorations or carefully wrapped presents, but everything to do with the man beside him.

“My family… they wouldn’t understand,” Mika murmured, his voice soft, almost swallowed by the quiet room. “Any of this. The pickles. The burnt turkey. The… quiet. They’d think it was sad. Pathetic.” He opened his eyes, glancing at Ben, who had closed the book and was now just staring into the flickering fairy lights, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Ben turned his head, meeting Mika’s gaze. “It’s not sad,” he said, his voice firm, resolute. “It’s real. It’s better than curated happiness, isn’t it?” He shifted, turning his body slightly towards Mika, closing the small gap between them. His knee brushed Mika’s, and the familiar electric charge was back, a current running through Mika’s entire body. Mika found himself unable to move, frozen in place, his breath catching in his throat, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm.

“Yeah,” Mika whispered, his voice hoarse, his gaze fixed on Ben’s lips, which were now just inches away. “It is.” The air was thick, heavy with unspoken desires, with the weight of all the feelings they had carefully, clumsily danced around for months. The subtle scent of pine and Ben, clean and sharp, filled Mika’s senses, intoxicating him. He felt his own body leaning in, a desperate, unconscious plea.

Ben reached out, his hand hovering, then gently cupped Mika’s cheek. His thumb brushed along Mika’s jawline, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down Mika’s spine. Mika gasped, a small, involuntary sound. He could feel the heat of Ben’s palm, the slight roughness of his skin, and it was everything. He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, a silent surrender. Every nerve ending in his body was alive, humming with anticipation. This was it. The moment, finally, utterly, undeniable.

“Just stay,” Ben murmured, his voice a low, raw whisper, his breath warm against Mika’s lips. It wasn't a question. It was a plea, a command, a desperate longing. Mika’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Ben’s intense gaze. In their depths, he saw a vulnerability that mirrored his own, a desperate hope. He saw a mirror of his own terrifying, exhilarating freedom.

And in that moment, Mika knew there was no going back. Not to the curated life, not to the pre-planned future, and certainly not to the lonely freedom that had defined his year. There was only this. This undeniable, electric current. This quiet, resonant understanding. This hand on his cheek, pulling him closer, pulling him home. The absurdity of the felt pickles, the scent of burnt turkey, the flickering lights – it all faded, leaving only the profound, terrifying clarity of Ben’s eyes, and the desperate, urgent pounding of his own heart.

The world outside, the snow, the expectations, could wait. For now, there was only here. Only them. And the terrifying, beautiful precipice of what came next.