Here We Come A-Wassailing

[James Fawcett]

Valley View Baptist Church was a tiny little church on the outskirts of Pilot Ridge. It wasn't the only church in town, but it was the one James had settled at as the most familiar (but gay affirming). Next to the road was a white wooden sign proclaiming the name of the church and pastor, and letting potential visitors know that services were offered at 10:30 am. The front door had a large wreath with a red bow with gold trim tied at the bottom and lead into the narthex. To one side of the narthex was a brochure stand, full of literature for those recovering from alcoholism and that advertised different activities of the church. On the other side of the narthex was a Christmas tree decorated with paper angels; on each angel was written a simple item to be purchased for Pine Creek's homeless shelter. There were also two ushers, a gray haired couple, handing out programs for the nights concert. 

From the narthex the audience spilled into the chapel, seating themselves in the two rows of wooden pews that formed three aisles. Each aisle was lined with poinsettias purchased by congregants - the names of those honored or memorialized by poinsettias were listed on the very back page of the program. The alter, likewise, was filled with poinsettias.

On the wall behind the alter was hung a wooden cross. In front of the cross was the choir loft, filled at the moment with every member of the congregation who even halfway enjoyed singing, decked in crimson robes and stock still as they waited for their audience. 

James wasn't used to being in this section of the church; he'd more often been in front of the piano, or the organ when that was available. But Valley View already had a pianist, and he'd not felt like shopping around solely for a church that might have an opening for an accompanist. 

The room immediately behind the chapel was the choir room, and if one exited not from the back of the chapel through the narthex but near the front and to the left (for the congregation) then one would enter into a hallway that lead to the sunday school classrooms. 

James looked out over the audience, watching to see if he could spy Cyrus before the music director silenced everyone and his attention became focused on the music. 

Lo, How a Rose lead to Joy to the World! to Once in Royal David's City to In the Bleak Midwinter to Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. When it came time for O Holy Night James stepped forward to sing a confident and clear solo that people who only knew him as a skittish introvert might not have expected from him. 

The concert ended by asking those gathered to join the choir on the more peaceful note of Silent Night and then the choir filtered out of the lofts to change out of their robes while the audience dispersed. As soon as his robe was hung up and his music put away James poked his head back into the choir loft to see if he could find Cyrus, who had promised he would attend the choir after party with him. 

After party, of course, meaning that everyone had brought different festive cookies to share and a bowl of punch and standing around chatting until people drifted off one by one, the older or quieter members leaving for a bedtime deferred by the concert. 

Now that he was no longer in his robe the festive nature of his outfit could be better seen; no sweater, but a deep red shirt that nearly matched the robe he'd been wearing earlier and a red and forest green plaid tie with little reindeer scattered among the plaid. Black dress pants, because he'd been unable to find a red color that matched his shirt. 

When he spied Cyrus he lifted one hand to catch his attention. 

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Attending a Christmas concert at a Baptist church was a new experience, one he could cross off his bucket list, situated between membership in the Mile High Club and European travel.

However, the evening had three factors in its favor that would push Cyrus from mild disinterest to full-throated support: First, this was for James, and his blossoming affection for the other man ensured that there was little he wouldn’t do to support his endeavors. Second, research confirmed that the church was gay-affirming unlike his former affiliation, ensuring that Cyrus wouldn’t find himself subjected to fiery speeches about the sin of Sodom of Gomorrah pepper between overtly religious songs about Christ’s birth. Third, James mentioned he had a solo, and if his presence wasn’t enough to tilt the scales, then curiosity at hearing him sing alone in front of a church filled with people stuffed into the pews certainly did.

Besides, the promise of an after-party had been dangled in front of him, and how could Cyrus turn that down?

Briefly, he had flirted with whipping out the Hanukkah sweater he’d entered into an ugly garment competition three years back (and which had procured second place and a $25 gift card to Target). That would be disrespectful, it might make James nervous, and the empath had no wish to embarrass his friend in front of his congregation. Instead, he opted for a forest-green cardigan knit from Irish wool , warm and inviting while the shade matched the needles of the Christmas tree that greeted him when he entered the church.

He had opted for an empty seat in one of the middle pews, for once uninterested in calling attention to himself, and mindful that the front should be reserved for family, children, or the infirm and elderly who might not see or hear quite as well if seated farther back. Like a parent attending his child’s first concert, he’d waved before James started, confirming that he had arrived, and during the solo had managed to snap a few photos with his phone - flash off, careful not to interrupt. His hearty applause added to the thunderous roar as the concert concluded, and while his fellow attendees rose and filed out, he folded the program into his breast pocket for safekeeping, smiled and nodded when asked whether he was new, and waited for his friend to appear.

They met one another’s eyes just as James lifted his hand. Cyrus straightened and strode to meet the other man. A smile lit his face, eyes wide with pride, and he raised one hand to clap his friend on the shoulder. “You were fantastic.”

[James Fawcett]

James's expression shifted to a smile to mirror Cyrus's, pleased (but also embarrassed) with the compliment. "Thank you," He replied, one hand stretching out, almost searching for Cyrus's, and then settling for gesturing towards the hallway that lead towards the back of the chapel. "And thank you for comin'."

He'd been nervous about extending the invitation, concerned it might come across as an attempt at conversion when all he truly wanted was the presence of a crush cherished friend.

"I know it's not really your uhhh...thing. But don't worry, the cookies'll taste like cookies even if they're shaped like angels."

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Would that James had reached for his hand, Cyrus would have taken it readily as he had while navigating the corn maze or during some of their other near-misses. Yet, with the gesture, the subtle implication that they begin walking, the empath withdrew his hand, dropping to his side as he followed James towards their promised destination.

“I wouldn’t miss it. The robes were a nice touch.” Wholly different attire than worn during Shul attendance. Song, too, was handled less formally, more communally, divided between the congregation as a whole and the cantor and rabbi for certain prayers. “Do those belong to the church? Or do you get to wear them home?”

The answer might feature prominently in a future idle fantasy.

His grin broadened as his friend rushed to assure him that the cookies wouldn’t burn his tongue like holy water to a vampire in popular depictions. “I have no doubt. You know, I’ve been to Christmas parties before.” Never hosted at a proper church, certainly not Baptist, but he hadn’t emerged from the shtetl at the turn of the last century, cloistered away from Christmas customs. “You should know it took every ounce of my willpower not to whip something up at the last minute.”

[James Fawcett]

"They belong to the church," James answered. He'd never had any particular desire to bring his robe home with him; choir members simply slipped them on over their heads before performing in order to achieve a uniformity of appearance without dictating what everyone wore - anyone with too shiny earrings was asked to take them out for the duration of services, but that was the extent of it.

Already the choir room was empty, robes hung in the dressing rooms and choir folders carefully (mostly) placed in the slots above the robes. Most of the other choir members had already headed towards the gymnasium that doubled as a dining room - there was a small kitchen in the back where volunteers served sometimes during events, but which was now closed, and there were basketball hoops on either end of the room. The high windows along the far wall were garlanded with greenery and red ribbons. Currently there were long tables with festive tablecloths printed with green trees topped with a gold star and golden swirls decorated with red and green ornaments. All along the tables were plates of cookies and brownies and other baked goods, around which people stooped to snatch up samples when not clustered in little groups.

As soon as James stepped through the doorway he was inundated with people congratulating him on his solo, even though every single one of them had heard him through countless rehearsals.

As soon as he was able to shake free of the first well wishers he led Cyrus towards the back of the hall, pointing to white powdery cookies. "Pecan snowballs. Those're mine."

There was a hint of pride in his voice, overshadowed by a desire for his friend's approval of his choice.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

“That’s a shame,” Cyrus replied without elaborating what contained in his friend’s answer could possibly rise to that level. It made sense; the church owning the robes allowed for casual participation without incurring the expense of an outfit and ensured that everyone would be dressed properly for performances; nobody could forget theirs at home when dashing out the door or shrink it in the laundry when ignoring dryer instructions.

At least he had the memory of the other man clad in the garment. That would go a long way.

What a reversal - James soaking up the spotlight as a crowd surrounded them to offer their congratulations, lauding his solo as Cyrus had a mere moment prior. Every ounce was deserved, no matter the embarrassment emanating from the younger man from the attention and the lingering question of whether he might wither like a flower who soaked up too much sunlight. Cyrus didn’t interrupt, hanging back patiently until James was free, and, through the silent exchange of locked eyes, pushed off again to finish their journey.

The familiar sweet scents of sugar, chocolate, vanilla, cinnamon, ginger, and candied fruits and nuts greeted his nostrils before his gaze could sweep over the offerings. The announcement of “pecan snowballs” was intriguing enough, but the follow-up regarding their origins ensured that Cyrus stepped forward and plucked one up with a red and white striped napkin to sample first.

“They smell delectable,” he remarked, before cleaving the cookie in half with his teeth for his first enthusiastic bite.

[James Fawcett]

More than the compliments on his solo the (solitary) compliment on his cookies caused James to perk up, expression eager as he watched Cyrus bite into the cookie. Only after his friend had taken a bite did he grab a napkin himself, although he didn't grab any of his own cookies (he had some at home just in case they were somehow popular tonight) but instead took one of the chocolate crinkle cookies from the Christmas tree shaped tray beside his. It also was dusted with powdered sugar, which clung to his lips as he bit into it.

"I know it's different from the band but...it's just not Christmas without Christmas music."

This statement was almost apologetic in nature; he knew that Christianity wasn't exactly kind to Jewish people. Or. well. A lot of people, actually, including himself. And yet he couldn't dismiss the music or the culture; he didn't have another community without this.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Powdered sugar drizzled from the cookie and his chin, leaving behind a light dusting across the front of his cardigan. Cyrus ignored this, too swept up in the flavors that danced on his tongue. His eye roll was a bit exaggerated, but his pleasure sincere as he savored the taste and then swallowed, pausing only long enough to proclaim, “they taste even better,” before popping the other half of the cookie into his mouth.

He dabbed at the corner of his lips and wiped his fingers to prevent smudging sugar on the other plates as though he was a criminal eliminating the need for law enforcement to investigate.

After swallowing again, he claimed a second, lest there was a sudden run on James’s contribution and Cyrus would miss the opportunity. Then, free to survey the rest of the offerings, he joined his friend in a crinkle cookie.

“It’s important to you which makes it important to me.” Clearly articulating the basic concept of friendship and empathy. James had wanted to share and Cyrus recognized this, unwilling to slap away a hand reaching out to him because it wore a red and white glove and was accompanied by Angels We Have Heard on High.

“Besides,” his lip twitched affectionately. “I got to hear you sing a solo and that’s a holiday treat.”

[James Fawcett]

The compliment wasn't unexpected both because that level of enthusiasm was simply the way Cyrus was and because, well, everyone had complimented his solo. He might have been insecure about many things, but his singing wasn't one of those things. That didn't mean he didn't enjoy hearing it, of course; he did, especially when Cyrus was the one praising him. And yet at the same time he felt the need to put up a wall of sorts, guarding himself from the intense pleasure that arose from Cyrus's compliments.

"Oh, uhhh. Thanks. Maybe I can sing something else for you later. In private."

He would have to figure out what sort of songs Cyrus might want to hear, of course. But...no, who was he fooling? Just because Cyrus enjoyed hearing him sing at a concert didn't mean he wanted to hear James sing in other contexts. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, heads full of ideas of importance that didn't exist.

"How long d'you wanna stay for? We could grab some cookies and go," He suggested, eyeing one of the snowman print paper plates.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

“I’d like that.”Cyrus behaved as though this was a contract, a promise extracted that he could call in at a future time as one might a boon from a mythical creature after pulling a thorn from its paw or freeing it from a fisherman’s net. Already, his mind was abuzz with possible suggestions, songs that his friend would know without needing to watch a Youtube video first and that would match his register without straining him by forcing him too high like Frankie Valli or too low like a Barry White song.

The latter was too bad, because the thought of James serenading a Barry White song held some appeal, now that it had popped into Cyrus’s mind. Maybe that would be unsubtle enough to convey his interest free and clear.

Without appearing to notice James’s gaze (yet aware all the same from his telepathy), Cyrus snatched up two of the paper plates, passing one to his friend while depositing his meager bounty of the chocolate crinkle cookie and his second helping of the snow balls atop his own. Then bringing his fingers to his lips, licking off the stray powdered sugar until they were no longer sticky.

”You don’t want to introduce me to everyone?” His question was equal parts gentle teasing and sincere offer. A social butterfly himself, Cyrus would hardly mind if James spent the next twenty minutes making the rounds, dropping names and bits of backstory between handshakes and scarfing down cookies. But if the younger man would rather slip out the back after they’d sampled their fill, he was willing.

From the corner of his eye, he spied what looked like peanut butter thumb prints with a Hershey’s kiss in the middle and reached for those next, claiming them for Simon when he next emerged from his slumber.

[James Fawcett]

Introductions. Of course! How could he have failed to consider that Cyrus, as a people person, might actually want to hang around for more of the party than only the cookies? This was an area where the other Ettinger brother might have related more to the desire to slip out without talking even to people he spent intimate time with each week. There had already been the pre-concert warming up, to which he'd been uncomfortably early, not to mention the concert itself - fun, worth the effort, but nonetheless exhausting. Exhausting in a good way, though, rather than the sharp energy depletion of conversation.

"Umm. You should meet the rest of the tenor section, then," He offered, casting about for one of the other tenors who might pay enough attention he could wedge himself into their conversation. He raised one hand to catch the eye of Kevin Ayers, the same age as him and currently with white feathery wings spreading from behind his Christmas sweater.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

This was an area where Simon not only would relate but likely would have managed to one-up his friend, bolting out the back the minute the lights turned back on, using the thunderous applause to disguise his retreating footsteps before someone could shout for an encore. Had he agreed to attend in the first place.

Fortunately, for all three of them, Cyrus stood here, his enthusiasm infectious and his charisma hovering around an eight of ten as he perused the trays of cookies so nicely spread out before him. He claimed a second peanut butter cookie, intending to bring both back to share with Simon rather than eating one here. Peanut butter was fine but with so many other options to sample, he would prefer to experiment.

For instance, the sandwich cookies shaped like Christmas trees that appeared to contain some sort of green - possibly mint - jelly.

“Let’s meet the tenor section,” he agreed, smile lighting up near-blinding as the wined man returned the wave and set down his plate before squeezing between two women to approach James and Cyrus. Before formal introductions could be exchanged - in part to alleviate some of the social pressure on his friend - Cyrus held out his hand to shake. “Did you make those wings yourself?”

[James Fawcett]

Kevin's lips quirked in entertainment at Cyrus's question. "I suppose you could say that," He answered, lifting one hand behind him to touch a soft feather.

James dug his fingers into the plate Cyrus had given him, licking his lips nervously. Introducing people shouldn't be difficult, and yet he had to steel himself to speak at all, and when he did his voice remained too low to be easily heard over the chatter of the people around them. "Kevin, this is uhhh...my friend, Cyrus. Cyrus Ettinger. Cyrus, this is...this is Kevin Ayers. He umm. Sings tenor. With me."

Kevin's face twisted into thought as they were introduced, but he couldn't quite work out what was tugging at the corners of his mind and so instead he asked, "A friend, eh? What did you think of the music? Not too bad for a rural choir out in the middle of Vermont, eh?"

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Cyrus understood the implications, gaze drifting briefly to the wings yet again, lingering on the tips of soft feathers, imagining what they felt like. Once, a friend at Hammel had allowed him to touch, but they hadn’t dated or lived together, and the moment had passed quickly,intimate in its intensity and vulnerability. To send a subtle signal, he lifted his hand, thumb brushed his temple lightly while he said, “Class of 2003” and let the matter drop.

After all, plenty of people lived in and around Burlington, inhabited the town limits of Pilot Ridge without status as Hammel alumni or special powers. But they remained the meta-human capital of the United States of a reason, and odds were in their favor here.

“The closest of friends,” he assured, glancing from the corner of his eye at James who stood there so discomfitted one would think the devil himself was poking him in the rump with a pitchfork. Cyrus felt a sympathetic pang, caused less from his empathetic powers than affection for his friend and resolved to ease this a bit. His smile mirrored Kevin’s as they shook hands.

”I thought you did a great job. I only knew about half the songs but you kept me riveted on the edge of my seat right to the very end. And how long have you been with the choir?”

[James Fawcett]

"Class of 2005," Kevin responded, relieved as the realization dawned that his recognition must have come from Hammel. He couldn't quite put a younger face to the one standing before him, but that was no matter. What was important was that the sense of familiarity had meant something, after all. "I joined the Valley View youth choir when I was at Hammel," Kevin explained. There had been a break for college, of course, but those four years barely counted against the rhythm of the years before and after. "Have you met Linus and Eugene yet? They bring the best Cranberry duff every year. Have since I was a teenager."