A Different Kind of Wreath; an Undercover Blues exclusive story
Ryan found something appealingly domestic about the idea of going home for Christmas, something that was hard to reconcile with his decidedly un-domestic relationship with Jason. They drank, fucked, argued occasionally, and watched the sunrise over the Pacific while bobbing on their boards, waiting for the swell to pick up and the day to start. What they didn’t do was park the ute at a shopping centre and push a shopping trolley around a department store.
Jason picked up a toy car in a box and shook it. “Think this will do for Sharon’s youngest?”
“Do you really expect me to have an opinion?” Ryan asked, leaning forward and resting his weight on the trolley handle. “Because I’m not sure I can manage one.”
Jason grinned at him, and Ryan had to smile back. They were both deeply tanned, Jason’s hair was almost white, whereas Ryan’s had sun-bleached to a strange reddish brown. Ryan was getting used to a life lived in boardies and T-shirts, and to the flapflap of thongs as his only footwear.
“Imagine you’re ten years old,” Jason said, holding the car out. “Would this do it for you?”
“Is it remote controlled?” Ryan asked, taking the box and studying the label. “Because if it isn’t, I don’t think I want it. Look, it doesn’t take batteries, you’d better put it back.”
Jason balanced the car back on the teetering display and picked up a teddy bear. “Eight year old girl?” he asked.
“How would I know?” Ryan asked, balancing his feet on the base of the trolley and skating down the aisle a little, before he had to jump off to avoid crashing into shelving. “Just buy them stuff. As long as the kids get to rip the paper off and run around, it’s not going to matter.”
Jason slid his arms around Ryan, standing close enough to nuzzle at his neck. “It’s their first Christmas without their dad,” he said. “I wanted to make an effort.”
A woman with two kids trailing behind her pushed past them, tutting disapprovingly.
“Get over it,” Jason said over his shoulder to her, and his arms tightened around Ryan. “You choose, since you know so much about kids.”
Ryan did choose, shoving a radio controlled car and an animatronic cat into the trolley decisively.
“Now choose something for Blue,” Jason said, and it was a challenge if ever Ryan had heard one.
They drove out of the mountains and down into the city sometime after dusk on Christmas Eve, with frequent stops to top up the leaking radiator on the ute. Blackie had collapsed in an exhausted heap under Ryan’s feet, worn out by the sustained howling at the shopping centre, and Ryan could understand her point of view. Shopping on Christmas Eve made him howl too.
“Tell me about your Christmases.” Jason said, breaking into Ryan’s reverie. “Keep me awake for the last bit of the drive. What did you do last Christmas?”
“Worked,” Ryan said. “Absolutely every police officer pulls a shift on Christmas Day. I put a uniform on, stood at a booze bus with a breathalyzer in my hand. Got horribly sunburned, spent the day booking people for being pissed and driving. What about you?”
“Certainly didn’t work,” Jason said. “Certainly did get pissed. Pretty sure I didn’t drive anywhere.”
Sharon’s house dripped with fairy lights, with an enormous blue tinsel wreath on the front door, and there were kids in pajamas tumbling down the front steps and clambering over Jason while screeching. Blackie took off after a little white ball of fluff that yipped in protest, and Ryan had to run the gauntlet of Sharon and Blue.
“Come on inside,” Blue shouted over the noise, while Sharon kissed Ryan on both cheeks repeatedly. “We’ll have a snack, and watch the carols.”
The snack was reheated sausage rolls, served with Bolly for the grownups. The kids had mugs of milk topped with a generous layer of un-dissolved Milo, a chocolaty substance that Ryan had never developed a taste for.
The house was different, perhaps less ostentatious than the mansion Harvey had died in. The couches were wipe-clean black leather instead of impossible white; but it was still an uncomfortable feeling for Ryan to be in Sharon’s living room, watching TV, listening to her and Jason tease Blue, after being there when her husband was killed.
Jason’s arm slid around Ryan’s shoulders and squeezed, and he said, “Hey there.”
The choir on the TV started to sing Little Drummer Boy, and the two kids joined in tunelessly. Ryan had to swallow, and his hand squeezed Jason’s thigh. Jason was right, they had to make this Christmas good for the kids, now their dad was dead.
In Sharon’s guest room, once they’d cleared the bed of cushions, lace throws and a hideous doll dressed in a crinoline, Jason pulled Ryan down onto the bed, their legs tangled in the pale pink bedcovers. “Wanna fuck?” Jason whispered against Ryan’s ear. “Wanna fuck me?”
This was something new, something that had only happened a couple of times before, and between the champagne and the thought of getting to slide into Jason, Ryan was struggling for control of his own body.
Ryan had tossed the lube onto the floor beside the bed when he’d emptied his pack onto the peach carpet, and it was there, buried under wrinkled T-shirts and battered paperbacks. He had to lean right over the edge of the bed to find it, a maneuver that was complicated by the feel or Jason’s stubble rubbing across his buttocks and fingers flickering over his arse.
Ryan flopped back on the bed, tube in his hand, and said, “Changing your mind?”
“Tempted to,” Jason said, but he spread his thighs willingly.
Ryan pushed two slick fingers against the crack of Jason’s arse, easing his fingertips in at the same time as he slid Jason’s cock into his mouth. Jason’s fingers pressed against Ryan’s neck and scalp, urging him on, and it didn’t feel like they’d fucked that morning in a rented caravan. They were both hungry for this, Jason’s cock thick and hard in Ryan’s mouth and throat, Jason’s fingers wrapped tightly around Ryan’s cock, making him ache.
When Jason had come, and they’d kissed, Jason rolled onto his side, and Ryan pushed inside him, so hot and tight. It was hard to breathe, hard to hold still until Jason squeezed Ryan’s hand against chest, hard to hold back and move slowly, but the sweetest thing in the world when he did move, gently rocking, so that the bed squeaked and they both moaned.
Jason said, “Gotta be quiet,” and Ryan paused.
He could hear Blackie, frantically humping something in the room, and Blue’s voice calling, “Good night, and merry Christmas,” echoing up the hallway outside the closed door, then the house was silent.
He moved again, rocking his hips a little, just enough to drag his cock inside Jason, the tiny movement providing enough friction to make him press his mouth against Jason’s shoulder to keep himself quiet.
Ryan closed his eyes, shutting out the floral curtains and the artificial flowers on the bed head, shutting out everything except the amazing sensation of being so deep inside Jason.
“Fuck,” Ryan whispered, his control slipping, and there was an appreciable thud as the bed hit the wall in response to him thrusting hard into Jason. Once, twice, then he was coming, trying to stifle his moans, trying not to scream, trying to hold onto Jason as tightly as he could.
He was floating afterwards, drifting on a post-fuck champagne buzz, arms wrapped securely around Jason.
Jason’s face was wet when Ryan leant across and kissed his cheek, so Ryan held him tighter. The kids weren’t the only people who needed to have a good Christmas.
The kids woke them, first of all with delighted shouts, then by bursting open the guest bedroom door and clambering across the bed, elbows and knees everywhere, Blackie barking and bouncing after them.
“Oh God,” Ryan said. The light through the curtains was horribly bright, and he thought he might be just a little hungover.
Jason grunted beside him, and Blue’s voice called out, “Get off, you little horrors!”
Ryan lifted his head reluctantly, and Blue was standing in the doorway in a dressing gown, her usually painstakingly coiffed hair standing up in random violet clumps.
The kids scrambled off and tumbled out of the room, Blackie chasing them, and Blue said, “Coffee’s on, boys. Time to open the presents.”
They both desperately needed a shower, and Jason was right behind Ryan when Ryan fell through the shower. A minute each, that was all the kids would probably give them before the little darlings staged another raid on the guest bedroom.
Ryan stepped out of the shower, leaving the water running for Jason, and grabbed the nearest clothes that were his from the bedroom floor.
He stumbled down the stairs, sunglasses on, and took the mug of coffee and bottle of water that Sharon held out for him.
“Jase hungover too?” Blue asked, and Ryan grimaced and shrugged.
“That champagne is evil,” he said, falling down onto a couch.
Jason appeared a moment later, arms full of the presents they’d bought on Christmas Eve, and when Jason squatted down in front of the garishly blue tinsel tree to add the presents to the pile there, Ryan’s T-shirt from the day before rode up, baring his lower back.
“Jason’s hungover,” Ryan said.
It was horribly bright out by the pool, even with sunglasses on, and the banging in Ryan’s head hadn’t started easing, even after three bottles of water. He shifted his folding chair back further into the shade, and further away from where the kids were splashing pool water, then removed a wet Blackie who reeked of chlorine from his lap.
Jason handed him a stubbie, and Ryan said, “Oh God, isn’t it a bit early?”
“It’ll help,” Jason said, popping the top off his own stubbie and slouching back in his folding chair beside Ryan. “Take the taste of champagne out of your mouth.”
They shared a private glance, and Ryan’s mouth quirked up in spite of his headache.
“See you’re still hanging onto your present,” he said, twisting the cap off his own stubbie and waving it at the keys dangling from the leather thong around Jason’s neck.
“I wanted to bring the new ute around the back, so I could gloat over it some more, but Blue wouldn’t let me,” Jason said regretfully, then he brightened up. “It’s immaculate, Ryan. A mint condition HR Holden ute, with original upholstery. It’s a rebuilt red motor, resleeved bores and new pistons, and the timing chain is a replacement alloy one, because the original…”
Ryan lifted his sunglasses and squinted at Jason, who had ground to a halt.
“Guess you don’t want an introduction to the history of the Holden engine, do you?” Jason said.
Ryan shook his head gingerly, just in case it made the pain worse.
The kids shrieked, leaping into the pool in tandem with both dogs, sending a wave of cold water over Ryan and Jason. The sun was already too hot to bear, heat bounced off the paving around the pool, and Ryan could smell the barbecue plate heating, charcoal and oil.
“Jason!” Blue called, putting a platter heaped with raw steaks on the table beside the barbecue. “Come and cook!”
“Ready to face another rite of passage?” Jason asked, holding his hand out to Ryan. “Time you learnt the correct way to scare meat on a barbecue.”
“There’s a correct way?” Ryan asked, but he let Jason pull him to his feet. “Don’t you just cook it?”
Jason hugged him briefly, his stubbie icy cold through Ryan’s T-shirt, and said, “Scare it. Steak is only ever startled, never actually cooked.”
Leaning against the table beside the barbecue, feeding bits of stolen meat to Blackie and watching Jason startling steak while Blue and Sharon fussed over bowls of salad and paper plates, the heat from the sun stinging his skin, Ryan had to lean across and touch his knuckles to Jason’s bare arm. “Hey,” he said quietly.
Jason smiled at him briefly, and said, “Hey,” back to him, then reached for the clean platter Sharon had left ready for the steak. “Meat’s cooked!” he called out, and the kids shouted and threw themselves at the table, dripping wet. It was a good Christmas.