Blue Christmas Eve

"It's warm here and the food is free, Evan, and it's about a lot more than you here. If Officer Thomas had to shoot you, it would haunt him for the rest of his life. It's not fair for you to transfer your problems to him. And If someone is caught bringing a gun in here, we could get shut down completely. All the guys here would be out of someplace safe and warm, with free food, on Christmas Eve. You don't want that, do you? Not for the other guys here. Give me the gun. I'll take it away someplace safe—for the night—you can have it back when you leave in the morning. Here, when no one's looking. Place it in this pan. I'll cover it with the towel and go put it someplace safe. What do you say? Eat your cookies, go watch a movie in the TV room, and find a warm cot here for the night. It will all look better in the morning."

There would be no giving the gun back in the morning, of course, Christopher knew. Christopher wouldn't even be here in the morning. But if the young guy handed over the gun, they could all continue as they were into Christmas morning.

"Yeah, I guess," Evan said. He surreptitiously slipped the handgun into the tray, Christopher covered the tray with the towel, and he got up from the table.

"Good. Thanks. I'll go put this in a safe place and then come back and we can talk." The last thing he wanted to do was to talk with a confused young man on Christmas Eve who looked so achingly like Steve had, but he was oddly compelled to do so. He was drawn to this Evan. He was heartsick, but he felt the need to connect with this young man—to find out what was wrong, what had brought a beautiful young man like him to a homeless shelter on Christmas Eve, and maybe to help provide some healing that he hadn't been able to do—hadn't been given the opportunity to do—the previous Christmas Eve.

"It will be fine. Trust me. I'll be back in a few minutes," he said, and he took the tray, being careful not to permit its contents to rattle around in the metal pan, back to the kitchen. Frieda was still talking with the two men who had been at the table with Evan, and Christopher gave her a smile and a nod of thanks as he passed her. Mae had gone to fetch the off-duty policeman, Ben Thomas, and the two of them were in the kitchen, watching Christopher approach.

"Mae told me . . . is it in there? Let me see it," Ben said. He reached out for the tray and Christopher gave it to him. "Maybe we should—"

"It's Christmas Eve, Ben," Christopher said. "These men have no place else to go and it's taken care of now. The young man doesn't have the gun anymore. Let's just put it somewhere safe and be happy it's taken care of. I'll go back and talk to him—his name's Evan—and I'll try to find out what his situation is."

"There was no threat," Ben said as he examined the gun. "This won't fire. No firing pin and it's not loaded. It's a piece of shit . . . sorry. I guess it's OK. No harm can be done with this."

"Unless he brandished it about and whoever confronted him—possibly armed themselves—didn't know it wasn't able to fire," Christopher said.

"Yeah, I guess there's the danger of that."

"Put it somewhere safe, Ben. I'll go talk to the young man."

But when Christopher went back to the table in the fellowship hall, Evan was gone—and Christopher wasn't able to find him anywhere else in the building.

* * * *

"Bundle up. You'll find an even snowier Christmas out there than when we came in," Mae Manning said as she passed Christopher at the intake table, where he was pulling on galoshes to protect his treasured Gucci loafers.

"Yes, it's going to be a cold one tonight, Mae. These men will be glad they got in here to mark their Christmas Eve."

She stopped and put a hand on his arm. "You take care tonight, Chris. You really didn't need to come out this evening. We all understand."

That came as rather a revelation to Christopher. Mae Manning was definitely old school and one of the more judgmental grand dames in this neighborhood. She obviously hadn't approved of the whole situation before and he would have thought she'd just avoid talking about it. But she hadn't. She was showing sensitivity and giving support. "Coming here and making myself useful was better than sitting at home and brooding," he said.

"Still, I think it was really unfortunate about the issue you had to deal with this evening. But you handled it admirably."

The first thing that came to mind was him having it on with Jamal in the preschool area, and he had a flash of fear that she'd seen them. He'd had a sense that someone had, but it hadn't been more than a fear they would he assumed. "Oh, the young man with the gun. We do have some unusual experiences with this program, don't we? And, don't worry about the gun. There were no bullets and it wasn't capable of firing anyway."

"I didn't see that young man again . . . after you'd talked to him," she said.

"Neither did I. I went looking for him, but I didn't find him. I certainly hope he didn't go out into the night again." That brought Jamal into his mind. Jamal had gone out again. Getting drunk was probably the worst thing Jamal could do on a night like this out there. He could go to sleep drunk and not even realize he was freezing. Maybe he should drive around a bit and see if he could find him.

But when he exited the church he found that the young man, Evan, had gone back out into the snow and finding that out completely knocked the thought of Jamal being in danger out of his mind. Evan was huddled in the shadows at the end of the portico just outside the church door, shivering, in a coat not quite heavy enough for this weather and crouched over a duffel bag not quite big enough to be carrying what a homeless man needed to survive.

"Evan. Is that you?" Christopher said, coming over the young man and crouching next to him.

"Sorry. I'll move away from the church. I know we aren't supposed to stay around if we leave."

"You look like you're freezing, son. Why did you leave? We had it all under control. I came back looking for you and you were gone."

"You took my gun. I didn't feel safe staying here any longer."

"Why did you need a gun in the shelter? And I found your gun wouldn't fire anyway, nor did it have bullets in it."

"Yeah, but the other men wouldn't know that."

"So what? Are you saying you were afraid of being assaulted by those on the staff or the other homeless men?"

"The homeless men."

"Did that happen to you in a shelter before, Evan?"

"Yes." He clammed up then and wouldn't comment further.

"Well, you can't stay here and you can't get back inside."

"My other bag is inside. I only brought this one out."

"OK. Come with me. I live just a few blocks away, over the East 65th street. You can bunk there tonight and I'll bring you back here for breakfast and you can retrieve your bag."

"You could just go in and get it for me, couldn't you?"

"Yes, I could, but that would still have you out on the street in the cold and snow on Christmas Eve. I couldn't sleep myself knowing you were still out. It's OK, I have a guest room. Come on, my car is just over there, in the parking lot."

"So, you won't get my other bag back for me unless I go to your place?"

"I won't unless I know you are in someplace warm and safe."

"Safe," Evan said and snorted. But he didn't resist moving to Christopher's SUV. He sat in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead, clutching his duffel bag in his lap while Christopher cleaned the snow off the top and windows.

In the car, en route to Christopher's townhouse on East 65th Street, which, indeed, was just six blocks from the church on Payne Avenue, Christopher pursued the issue of needing a gun. "What is this about needing protection at homeless shelters, Evan?"

"Apparently I'm the type for a certain kind of man among the homeless—as well as elsewhere."

"Is that what made you homeless? You don't seem to fit any of the molds that produce homelessness. I'd say you haven't been knocked down and out—at least not for long—and I don't sense any mental issues. Have you had trouble of this nature elsewhere?"

"It isn't trouble about preferences. I'm gay. And I like going with me just fine. It's an issue of having it pushed on me. A couple of men who come to these shelters—but before that . . . my mother's boyfriend. I couldn't stay around for that."

"Here in Cleveland?" Christopher asked, but then, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Evan had tensed up and, knowing that they were drawing close to his townhouse, he decided to back off in case Evan bolted out into the snow. "Sorry, I don't mean to probe. You don't have to answer that. Here, this is it," he said, drawing up onto the driveway in front of a garage door.

"You need me to get out and pull the garage door up for you or do you have an automatic opener?" Evan asked.

"No, we'll leave the car here. I don't use the garage anymore. Come on inside."

"Nice place," Evan said when they went up a floor to the living, dining, and kitchen area, which, indeed were quite plush, the living room being open another story to the ceiling, the master bedroom and bath being above the dining room, kitchen, and small study. "You must be rich."

"I do OK. I have a couple of jewelry stores here in Cleveland. You look like you're soaked to the core. Did you get a shower at the church?"

"No. I was scheduled for after dinner, but . . . well, you know."

"The guestroom is downstairs, behind the garage. There's a bath and laundry room down there too. If you toss your clothes out before going to the shower, I'll put them in the washer down there. You'll find clothes that I think will fit you in the guest room closet and the dresser. I'm sorry I don't have a tree up to make it feel like Christmas in the house, but I'll get the fireplace going and there will be Christmas music stations on the radio."

He turned to see that Evan was looking at a photograph he'd picked up on a credenza in the living room. "Who's this with you in this photo?"

Christopher grimaced. "That's Steve."

"He's in the photo over there too. Is he your brother? Does he live here?"

"He lived here, but he wasn't my brother. He was just someone special."

"He looks a lot like me, I think."

"Yes, he does—he did," Christopher answered.

"You say 'did.' He's not around here anymore?"

"He's not around anywhere anymore. He hasn't been around since last Christmas Eve. He died. Last Christmas Eve."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be nosey. I can go if you don't want to have me around tonight—especially as I must remind you of him."

"No, please stay. It helps that you remind me of him. Downstairs. Go down the stairs and turn right and you'll find the guestroom. Remember to toss your clothes out into the hall and I'll put them in the washer. I can have them dry by tomorrow morning and we'll drive back to the church. Come upstairs, to the fire, after your shower. I think I could use the company this evening. I really should have put up a tree."

"Thanks," Evan said, moving to the staircase. "Thanks for not leaving me out in the snow . . . and for not turning me over to the police back at the church. Your house is a whole lot nicer than a jail cell would have been."

Evan had handed the photograph back to him rather than putting it back on the credenza. Christopher studied the photo and ran his thumb over the image of Steve. He hadn't really thought of it, but, yes, this Evan looked quite a bit like Steve had. He wondered if that had been what had drawn him to the young man in the church hall and had made him feel protective toward him. He felt himself tearing up and hastily put the photo down, the image turned to the surface of the credenza and, giving a sigh, he went over to the fireplace to get the gas logs started up.

It was a good thing, he thought, that he'd had the sexual encounter earlier in the evening with the black giant, Jamal. Otherwise, he knew he'd surely be having the same arousal feelings for Evan now that he'd always had with Steve—especially since they seemed so much alike.

He couldn't say, though, that he wasn't having arousal feelings toward Evan. Not that he'd do anything about it—especially not on Christmas Eve.

* * * *

Christopher gave up trying to maintain control. He relaxed, sank back into the sofa facing the fireplace, encased Evan's waist between his hands, and concentrated on the penetration and slide of his sheathed cock inside Evan's channel, as the young man perched in his lap, facing him, feet flat on the sofa cushions on either side of Christopher's hips, and rose and fell on the shaft. Christopher lay there, head lolling to the side, eyes focused on the gas-fueled logs in his fireplace, and murmuring his pleasure. His Levi jeans and Calvin Klein briefs were puddled on the floor in front of the sofa, and his Brooks Brothers shirt was unbuttoned and flared open. Evan's face was leaning down, his mouth latched on Christopher's left nipple, sucking on it, as his pelvis raised and lowered on Christopher's erection.

Evan had appeared from downstairs, returning from the shower, with just a towel around his waist. He was a beautiful young man.

Hearing him come up the stairs, Christopher, who was sitting in front of the fire on the sofa, turned away from the stairs and called out, "I don't know what you want to drink. A Coke or beer? Wine or something harder. I've poured myself a beer. Your clothes are in the washer. I hope you found clothes in the guest room that . . ." But then he'd swiveled his head around and saw that Evan was just in a towel. And then Evan wasn't anymore. He dropped the towel, showing that he was in erection. Christopher sucked air.

"Evan, you don't have to . . . I didn't bring you to me house to . . ."

"I want to. It's not just that I want to show my gratitude that you brought me in from the cold—or saved me for doing something drastic tonight. I saw you. I saw you at the church with Jamal. You go with men. You don't just let men fuck you, do you? You fuck men too, I hope. I want you to fuck me."

"You saw me? You saw me with Jamal?" Christopher whispered, but it was all he was able to say before Evan had approached the back of the sofa; leaned over it; cupped Christopher's chin, pulling the man's head back; and took his mouth in a deep kiss. Christopher didn't resist, coming out of the kiss only once before Evan was straddling his hips, fucking himself on Christopher's cock; and for that brief moment, Christopher murmured, "Steve. Oh, Steve," before going under Evan's control again.

During the kiss, Evan unbuttoned and flared Christopher's shirt with the hand not cupping the older man's chin and then ran his hand down lower, unbuckling, unzipping, and flaring the fly of the jeans, taking possession of Christopher's hardening cock, and stroking him into total possession. The older man completely subdued, Evan came over the back of the sofa, into Christopher's lap, impaling himself on the older man's cock, slowly, languidly, rising and falling on the shaft, and then there was no further talking—just sighing, groaning, and murmurings of "Yes, yes, just like that," until they'd both released.

Christopher normally bottomed, as he had done with Jamal earlier in the night—but with Steve, and now with Evan, he became the top of sorts. He wasn't dominant; he still was submissive to his partner. But it was Steve, before, and now the very similar Evan, who was riding the cock—but from the top.

Upstairs, on the master room bed, after Evan, who had been riding the prone Christopher's cock in a reverse cowboy in their second coupling, rolled off the older man's body and stretched out beside him, letting his hand glide across Christopher's trembling body and fondling the older man's cock and balls, the first words since it had begun were spoken.

"Was it Jamal you were afraid of among the homeless men at the shelter?" Christopher asked.

"No, Jamal's cool. And he gives good fuck. Don't you think? Didn't he do you real well?"

"Yes," Christopher admitted. "He did. Real well. I don't know how I could have made it through Christmas Eve without him . . . and now you."

"So, it's OK that I came on to you?"

"Yes, it's more than OK, Evan. But I hate to think I've done to you what you were running from."

"You haven't. I left home because of my mother's boyfriend, Matt. It's not that I didn't go with men. I want to pick out the men I go with, and I didn't want it to be someone who was doing my mother too. She deserves better than that. She's had a rough time and doesn't pick men well."

"She must be frantic, not knowing where you are—that you're safe—tonight."

"Am I safe with you?" Evan laughed. "I guess I am. I'm the one doing all of the aggression. I suppose you're right about my mother, though. None of this, other than her bad judgment in men, is her fault."

"Your mother must be frantic with worry. How long have you been on the street, Evan?"

"Nine days, no, ten days now, I think. But I'm of age. I shouldn't be living with my mother now, anyway. I should be off, making my own way."

"Probably," Christopher said, "but that should be something the two of you work out. Do you really think you should do it this way—become homeless; not let her know where you are and whether you'd doing OK?"

"I'm certainly doing OK here. Oh, shit, that feels good." Christopher had taken possession of the younger man's shaft with a hand and was stroking him.

"Shush now. It's true, you are an adult, old enough to make your own decisions. I don't want to lecture you. I want to make love to you now. It's been so long. You are truly a Christmas gift to me."

Christopher rolled over on top of Evan and took the younger man's mouth with his. Coming out of the kiss, he buried his face in the hollow of Evan's throat for several minutes, both men concentrating on their cocks pressed against each other as they engorged. Their bodies were in motion, slow-dancing against each other in close embrace. Evan groaned as Christopher worked down his trembling body, Evan moaning as Christopher kissed and nibbled with his mouth and worshipped with his hands until he reached and inhaled the younger man's shaft. Evan grasped Christopher's head between his hands and moved his hips in the rhythm of the suck until, with a little cry, a long sigh, and a collapse, he came in Christopher's throat. The older man than moved back up Evan's body, between the younger man's open thighs, reached down and placed his cock head in position, mounted and penetrated Evan's channel, and took him in long, deep strokes. Christopher was in the saddle now. Steve was the only one he'd taken like this before.

"You whispered his name—Steve—several times while we fucked," Evan said when they were stretched out beside each other again, their hands roaming on the other's body.

"Yes. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I understand—well, sort of. You said he died last Christmas Eve. How did he die?"

A heavy silence ensued and Evan said, "Sorry, if you don' want to talk about it."

"No, that's good. I need to get it out. You were sent to me tonight, I think, to help me get past this. He shot himself. Here, in the house . . . in the garage . . . while I was at the church, helping with the homeless shelter there."

"Shit. And I gave you a problem with a gun tonight." Evan started to roll off the bed, but Christopher held him tight, in place.

"No, don't. Tonight was all for a purpose, I believe. There was nothing wrong between us but not openly facing the situation. Steve had found he had lung cancer—advanced. He smoked like a chimney and I had always been after him about stopping. It suddenly was there between us, rampant guilt on both sides, and we weren't facing it. I should have told him that it didn't matter between us—that I'd be there forever. I didn't say it, though, and he took what he thought was the loving way toward me out. It wasn't. But it was my fault for not making that clear to him. I've let it ride me. I see that now. And I see that with you. Sorry, but I think I do need to lecture. Your mother must be frantic. I'm going to shower and dress now. Call your mother. Tell her you're OK. That's what I should have done for Steve. I should have told him I was here—that it would be OK between us, at least, no matter what happened."