By Miaou Jones for spstocking. Originally posted here. December 24, 2012

As Craig pulls into the driveway, his headlights flash over a familiar figure in the yard, gazing up at the night. The man looks down from the stars but doesn't move as Craig parks; even from here, as he opens the door and sets one foot on the drive, Craig can feel his smile in the dark.

"Clyde?" The question mark is unintentional; the figure, unmistakable. Craig gently slams the car door behind him. "What are you doing here?" he asks, genuine question this time as Clyde bounds over to meet him.

"Nice to see you, too, man" Clyde grins, giving him a hug. "I just wanted to see you," he shrugs, "so I came by."

It's not that Clyde comes by only when he wants something, but—"Are you sure that's all?" Craig grins to take the edge off his dubious squint.

"Actually," Clyde says, "I'm here to help you decorate your tree."

"Oh, well," Craig slides the key into the lock, "I don't have one yet." He's about to point out that it's only the first week of December but Clyde's grin has widened in a way that is both wonderful and suspicious—

And then Clyde points. Craig follows the trajectory of Clyde's finger to the spruce tree leaning against the side of his house. He looks back at Clyde, who adds an eyebrow waggle to his grin.

"Come on!" Clyde tugs at Craig's elbow, tows him over to present the tree: "What do you think? Awesome, right?"

Craig peers up at the top branch, and estimates it to be well over seven feet. What he thinks is that Clyde is crazy. "Yeah," he says, and smiles.

"Like wrestling an Ent," he grunts a few moments later as they struggle for the right grip.

Clyde's laughter comes back to him from somewhere on the other side of the tree and Craig wonders if Clyde is also remembering their days of playing Lord of the Rings. "We shouldn't be wrestling the Ent," Clyde says. "We should be the Ent!"

They reorient themselves and herd the tree through the front door, branches springing free on the other side; then down the hallway, pausing to readjust their grips, and into the living room.

Bruised needles let off the resonant musk of pine: it's like the house has been turned inside-out. What's it's really like, is Christmas.

Clyde raises a questioning eyebrow to Craig's smile, but only asks, "Where do you want it?" He turns to survey the room, absently brushing stray needles from himself.

"Over there," Craig says, nodding to the customary corner.

Gesticulating restricted as they rearrange the furniture, Clyde pours his enthusiasm into words, going on about being a pirate for Halloween this year and pausing for the intermittent "yeah?"s Craig attentively offers.

The armchair slides against Craig's palms, the underside of his knuckle joints, to his fingertips; his fingers curl and dig in but can't hold it, and the chair thuds to the floor.

"Hey," Clyde says, interrupting his own swashbuckling tale, "are you all right?"

"Yeah." Craig picks up the chair again.

"Should we—would you rather do this in the morning?" Clyde is bordering on solicitousness, brow comically raised and furrowed as if he's just now realized the hour and is comparing it to Craig.

"No." Craig picks up the chair again. "It's fine."

"Just so long as you're up for it!" Clyde slips back into an easy grin.

Craig quirks his mouth enduringly and snorts. "I'm up for anything you are!"

Clyde laughs.

Giving each other directions, trying not to step on toes, they wrangle the tree into the stand, adjust the angle, and clamp it in. Then they come around to the front and step back to the middle of the room to survey it.

The tree that towered over them outside now stretches up towards the ceiling, fits into the corner and reaches into the room, making the space more intimate, inviting and welcoming.

Craig can't help smiling: "You're not completely crazy after all."

"You thought it was too big, didn't you!"

"Yeah," Craig admits, still smiling. "But it's good."

Clyde beams proudly.

As they're opening up the boxes looking for the tree lights, Clyde says, "Oh, I left something in the car." He disappears with a promise to be right back and Craig nods, pulling out the string of clear bulbs he's just found.

Craig sets the step stool down and loops one end of the lights around an upper branch. The tree sways slightly, so he kneels to tighten the screws. He doesn't look up when he hears Clyde come back. Doesn't look up until he feels something encasing his head, fur tickling his ears; then he looks up and Clyde is grinning down at him from beneath a Santa hat, and Craig puts up his hand to touch his own.

"Don't take it off!"

With a grin of his own, Craig adjusts the hat more comfortably.

They wind the lights around the tree, fingertips occasionally touching as they pass the wire back and forth to each other. Then Craig finds himself on his knees again, plugging in the cord. Clyde whoops victory as the lights come to life, and a warm radiance fills the room.

Craig goes into the kitchen to warm up some mulled wine. When he returns, Clyde is showering the tree with exuberance, wafty strands of silver tinsel cascading in irregular patterns all about. As Clyde turns to take the proffered mug, lights glint off the stray strands of silver clinging to him, making him shimmer, and Craig doesn't brush them off.

In between appreciative sips and savors, they continue dressing the tree with multi-colored glass baubles and ornaments of painted wood and ceramic: traditional Christmastime and winter symbols, snowflakes and train carriages and angels and animals.

"All right then," Craig says as he hangs a moose whose goldleaf antlers have chipped, "how did you do it?"

"What?" Clyde looks over and sees Craig eyeing the uppermost branches of the tree. "Oh, the tree? Easy—I measured."

"Yeah," Craig says, "but how did you know it would fit so perfectly?"

"I measured your house," Clyde says, amused. "Last time you had me over, when you were out of the room, I measured floor-to-ceiling."

Craig opens his mouth to jibe Clyde; but he can't think what to say, so he only smiles and reaches for another decoration.

When the boxes are empty, Craig excuses himself and makes a quick trip to retrieve something from the hall closet.

Clyde's eyebrows go up when Craig hands him the star for the top of the tree. "Don't you want to do that one yourself?"

"You can do it," Craig says.

Clyde climbs up on the step stool. Reaching for the spire of the topmost branch, he leans in a little closer, misplants his foot, and falls into the tree. Ornaments clattering, the tree knocks against the wall; it doesn't fall over, but Clyde does. "Whoa!" he says, and grins up at Craig. "Ha ha—just like when we were kids, right?"

It's not; not exactly. Craig doesn't say that, though. He doesn't say anything.

They look at each other in the quiet glow. The moment should be awkward, but it isn't. Then Craig extends his hand and Clyde takes it, helping Craig help him up.

After they straighten the tree, readjusting the stand and sorting out the decorations that have gone askew or fallen off entirely, they stand back to admire their handiwork.

"That's done, then," Craig says.

But Clyde says, "Not quite!"

Under Craig's curious gaze, he goes to his bag and pulls out a sprig of mistletoe. Crossing to the archway between the hall and the living room, he stretches for the lintel but can't quite reach.

"Try this," Craig says, bringing the step stool over. Clyde eyes it with mock wariness. Craig laughs and helpfully puts his hands on Clyde's hips to hold him steady as Clyde climbs onto the stool.

"There," Clyde says, pinning up the sprig securely.

He backs off the stool and turns to Craig. And Craig's hands are still on his hips and they're looking at each other, and it should be awkward again, but again it's not.

And Craig kisses him.

Lips brush together, part slightly; warm and moist and welcoming; tongues slide and lick and curl, wrapping around invitation and acceptance.

Mouths move apart, heads still together, and Clyde says with soft amusement, "We're not under the mistletoe, though."

Craig covers Clyde's smile with his own and walks him backwards, kicking the stepstool out of the way; and now they're in the doorway, fitting to each other like never before; like they always have.