All I Want for Christmas

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

The mall a few scant weeks before Christmas no longer resembled a weekend destination, transformed into a battlefield where shoppers, world-weary and hardened by stress, sprinted from store to store in service of achieving their goals. Conquering the Western hemisphere or reclaiming Spain from the Moors seemed a simple task when compared with tracking down a Nintendo Switch or procuring a pair of Bean Boots in size ten-wide. Colorful hats and winter parkas took the place of camouflage makeup and military uniforms, rendering it almost impossible for shoppers to know who were their rivals for the most coveted items; that vague uncertainty fermented into suspicion which bred hasty shoving and brusque replies at odds with the holiday cheer so often touted during the season.

The faint echoes of the Salvation Army Santa Claus’s bell still rang in Simon’s ears, long after the red suit and matching pail had faded from his line of sight, left behind by the entrance where foot traffic was greatest and he might entreat upon a few charitable souls to part with a few bills still crisp from the ATM.

Simon’s slumped shoulders and steadfast refusal to make eye contact rendered him impervious to solicitation. At first glance, it made him appear miserly, Scrooge-like conforming to stereotypes. Surely he would benefit from a midnight home invasion by three spirits sent to show him the true meaning of Christmas and open his heart and his wallet to those less fortunate souls whose deprivation garnered pity in December but whose suffering the rest of the year was deemed necessary in service of austerity measures, tax cuts for the wealthy, and the perpetual warfare abroad.

In truth, Simon simply didn’t like the Salvation Army.

It was difficult to remember that he liked anything, as the harried undertow of disappointed shoppers and exhausted retail employees threatened to sweep him out to sea.

“Let it Snow. Let it Snow. Let it Snow” piped in from some unidentified loudspeakers above, competing with a saccharine voice recounting, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” and the more festive tempo of “Feliz Navidad” for supremacy of the airwaves. Yet none of them were loud enough to drown out the disparate thoughts and emotions of their fellow patrons.

He regretted coming here. He regretted agreeing to come in the first place. He regretted getting out of bed this morning. And after another couple of minutes of sensory overload, he would probably regret moving to Vermont at all.

But it wasn’t as though he could request Cyrus’s help here. Not when James had asked him out in large part to shop for the more effervescent Ettinger twin.

They approached a directory and Simon slowed to a halt in front of its glowing map, eyes searching for the “You are here” sticker to mark their location.

“So, uh, how many people do you need to shop for today?”

[James Fawcett]

James wore one of his many Christmas sweaters, the kind that were described gleefully by others as tacky or ugly but which he genuinely believed were festive and charming despite their gaudiness. Or perhaps because of, given the types of suits he was drawn to in other seasons. This one was off white with a navy blue snowflake pattern across the chest, muted compared to some of the other sweaters in his closet but no less fun despite that.

At least he didn't own anything with flashing lights or that sang Christmas songs on repeat.

There was no need for more Christmas music than what the mall loudspeakers provided.

He stopped in front of the directory behind Simon, peering around his friend at the map, brow wrinkling in concentration as he attempted to work out which direction they ought to go in. Always tricky, that, even with the helpful location sticker.

"Well, I gotta get somethin' for my parents and Luke and Rachel and uhhh my old piano teacher...and Cyrus."

And that was the sum total of the people he planned on shopping for. He would bake cookies for the other members of the band, and he would provide cookies for the staff lounge because it felt a little awkward trying to buy presents for all his coworkers, and he would have Cyrus help him pick something out for Simon. He didn't have other friends, certainly not anyone he considered close, and Rachel had insisted that nobody in her family buy anything for her kids which was kind of a relief because he had no idea what she would consider appropriate.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

Little in Simon’s wardrobe rose to the level of “fun,” and nothing in recent memory approached “holiday cheer.” Some of his tee shirts had jokes or logos of something more lighthearted than the black, charcoal, and dark blues that dominated his drawers, but covered as they typically were by a sweatshirt, nobody had reason to notice. That his contained blue today was nothing more than coincidence rather than pride in the upcoming Hanukkah holiday, evidenced by the yellow counterpoint along cuffs, collar, and chest.

A sweatshirt from his alma mater - logo fading from frequent trips through the wash.

The empath counted silently as James named his people, fingers curling at his side reflexively. Four members of his family, a beloved musical mentor…and Cyrus.

Half a dozen presents, five for people Simon had never met before and whose opinions were informed by a combination of stereotypes, second-hand stories from Cyrus, and gleaned from conversation or first-hand thoughts and feelings whenever he and James shared common space. One for his twin brother, the person he knew better than he knew himself.

Not exactly the Ten Trials of Hercules, but between his depression, James’s anxiety, and their shared dislike of crowds, it was transformed from the simple into the near overwhelming.

“Do you, uh, want to start with your piano teacher?” Probably less conflicted than shopping for his family after fleeing north. Maybe she would condemn him to eternal damnation like the rest of the Fawcetts - Simon didn't have the sunniest impression of Southern Evangelicals considering he taught high school biology - but she wasn't related to him and might not have heard that he was gay.

"Heard." She'd talked to him but Simon tried not to form opinions about gaydar given the leg-up his powers provided.

[James Fawcett]

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

James latched onto the thought of Mrs. Suzanne over his parents with the eagerness of a drowning man given a life raft. He was more willing to call her regularly than to call his own parents because she didn't passive aggressively share Bible verses with him and her reminders that she was praying for him didn't come with any coded messages. Or none that he'd yet to decipher, at any rate.

"She likes jewelry," He commented, scanning the directory for any potential jewelry stores. "The bigger the better."

So possibly costume jewelry, because real jewelry was surely too far outside his budget even for someone he owed his entire career and life passion to.

"And I'll get to give it to her in person." Which was almost a happy thought, unlike the thought of seeing his family over Christmas. But Mrs. Suzanne was old, and he doubted she had too many more Christmases left in her. His parents weren't young, either, and if he didn't go back to Hahira to visit surely he'd regret it later, as stressful as it was to return to his former home.

[Simon and Cyrus Ettinger]

A more confident man might casually quip that he had them (good ideas) from time to time, accepting the compliment without allowing it to go to his head. Simon, already worn thin by the social stimulation, couldn’t muster more than to blink at the other man. The matter was settled.

They would start with his piano instructor - Mrs. Suzanne. A name to match to the position and the face that might pop into his mind at any moment if James thought about her too loudly or lost himself in memory.

“Okay. Jewelry…” Simon’s eyes scanned the directory listing for the jewelry stores, settling on the names of about a dozen stores, either dedicated shops, the department store that had a jewelry section, and the few kiosks scattered about the mall.Any of those would be a starting place and Simon chose one at random, located it on the map and then lifted one finger to point at the outlined space. “So, here?”

James mentioned giving it to her in person. That was surprising, Simon thought, given how negative his experiences had been in Georgia and how fastidiously he had avoided returning for Thanksgiving. But Christmas was harder to avoid, he supposed.

“How, uh, how long will you be down South? Have you told Cyrus yet?”