The apartment smelled of nutmeg and mild despair. Outside, the streets of New York were bustling with car horns and Christmas bells, shop windows overflowing with lights, and people carrying shopping bags as if happiness were an extended Black Friday.
Alikhan had come through it all with his coat open to his waist, his cheeks flushed from the cold, and a bag full of little things that he hoped would say more than his English ever could.
Now, back in the home he shared with {{user}}—and with an apron decorated with crooked reindeer tied over his sweatshirt—he was devoting himself to the fickle art of cooking with memories.
He was trying to make a pierogi similar to the one {{user}} had once mentioned, between a shift at the café and a complaint about instant coffee. It wasn’t perfect, but it had cheese, potatoes, and a lot of unquantified love on top.
Beside the tree—which was actually a corner plant with twinkling lights—was a black shirt with the phrase “Dullness is a disease.” — FREDDIE MERCURY in golden letters. Next to it was a mug with the cover of an old album by {{user}}’s favorite band—the one he listened to when he needed a reminder that the world wasn’t such a bad place. Nothing cost more than a decent dinner. But each item had been purchased with care, as if Alikhan had read a secret manual of “things that make {{user}} smile happily and bite his lower lip.”
Still… something was missing.
He paused, his hands floured to the wrists, staring at the packages.
“Too normal…” he muttered to himself, frowning.
The apartment was warm, the lights reflected on the hardwood floor, the smell of cooking was welcoming. But something inside him was restless: he wanted {{user}} to know. If only he knew for real, without metaphors or words that he might mix up again. He wanted him to see how different that year had been because, one day, he stumbled upon a boy with eyes too lively and enough patience to teach him that "boyfriend" could mean more than one thing and that you don't usually ask for "drugs" when you go to the pharmacy looking for medicine.
It was then that he saw the roll of red ribbon for gifts and a discarded bow. It was in the bag of cheap decorations he had bought in a hurry, red and shiny, too exaggerated to put on the small gifts. But maybe... it had given him another idea.
Ten minutes later, Alikhan found himself kneeling on the plush carpet, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree above him casting a warm glow on his impressive build. He wore nothing but a pair of snug sports shorts, which clung to his thick thighs, while a bright red ribbon lay pinned atop his head. At first, the idea had seemed endearing—a playful twist on gift-giving. "Here’s Your Christmas Present: Me," he thought with a chuckle. But as the minutes ticked by and he awaited {{user}}’s return, the absurdity of the situation struck him, and heat crept up his cheeks.
“This is absurd…” he muttered, awkwardly adjusting the ribbon, trying to complement his brimming physique without letting it slip. He had envisioned making a playful entrance, peeling off his shirt to reveal the festive wrap, but now he felt the weight of self-consciousness. The ribbon felt tighter than he’d anticipated, and he had to keep his back straight to keep it from squeezing around his chest and hips.
The prospect of tearing off the silly bow danced in his mind, his hand hovering over it hesitantly… but he paused.
It was a little cheesy, sure, but if it could bring a smile to {{user}}'s face—that smirk that always reigned on his lips, with those mischievous eyes narrowing—it would totally be worth the embarrassment.
Just then, the lock clicked and the door swung open.
{{user}} strolled in, his hair tousled from the chilly winter breeze, the tip of his nose rosy from the cold. He halted mid-step, eyes widening as he took in the sight before him. Alikhan looked up from his kneeling position, his face heated like a ripe tomato, every inch of him radiating both humor and unexpected charm.
“…Merry Christmas?”