One

Maine in mid-December is cold, and the air is sharp in Sebastian’s nose and lungs. His watch says it’s just above freezing, but there’s a crust of ice on the puddles outside the airport terminal and it feels at least ten degrees colder. Dylan’s been threatening to drag him to the L.L. Bean outlet for a proper winter coat, and he’s not wrong. Sebastian’s outerwear is fine for San Francisco, but now that he’s moved to Maine permanently, he should suck it up and get some warmer gear.

It’s refreshing, though, after his long plane ride and Sebastian sucks a few deep breaths in, clearing his head from the muzziness of recycled airplane air and jet noise. It’s snowing lightly, tiny flakes swirling in the air, though it hardly seems like enough to stick. Yet. Sebastian feels a twinge of childlike excitement at the prospect of a white Christmas. He can’t remember the last time it snowed on Christmas in San Francisco.

There’s a honk from the back of the lineup of cars outside Bangor International Airport and Benny’s ball-cap-covered head pops up above the roof of an ancient light blue Ford pickup truck. Sebastian waves at him and hefts his carryon duffle over his shoulder.

“Hiya, kid,” Benny says. He comes around the truck and shakes Sebastian’s hand, then pulls him into a hug. “Good flight?”

“Uneventful,” Sebastian says. “Long, though.” He’d taken a red-eye with a layover in Philadelphia and he’s never been able to sleep well on a plane. He’d splurged for first class, mostly because he’s simply too tall to fit in an economy seat, but the drone of the jet engines and the changing pressure of the cabin always keep him from being able to get any shuteye. Not to mention the anticipation of being back home with Dylan.

He drops his carryon in the truck bed and folds himself into the passenger seat. Benny fiddles with the heater controls and a blast of warm air from the vents takes the edge off Sebastian’s chilled fingers. He needs better gloves, too. The radio is tuned to a classic rock station, and Benny hums along under his breath to something Sebastian sort of recognizes from Dylan’s cassette tape collection.

Benny pulls away from the curb and navigates around the roundabouts leaving the airport. It’s a small airport and it’s not long before they’re on Route 15, heading north.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Sebastian says. Dylan hadn’t explained why he wasn’t coming himself when he texted Sebastian, but Sebastian likes Benny and it’s only another hour and a half until he’s home. With Dylan.

Benny shrugs. “Had something to take care of here, anyway.”

“Christmas shopping?” Sebastian guesses.

“Something like that.” Benny’s staring forward at the road ahead and doesn’t volunteer more. Sebastian’s used to his taciturn nature and doesn’t press.

“How’s your mom?” Benny asks. It’s patently a change of subject and Sebastian suppresses a smile.

“She’s good. Her husband, Dimi, is shooting a new film and she hosts—well, she caters—Thanksgiving dinner for any cast or crew members that can’t get home to their families. There were only a handful of people this year, so I got to spend more time with her.”

“She as bad a cook as you are?” Benny tosses him a sideways smile.

“Hey,” Sebastian protests mildly. “I’m not bad at it; I just don’t do it very often.” Dylan’s a great cook and has taught Sebastian a few things, but Sebastian mostly just chops vegetables and does other prep work at Dylan’s direction. Benny was the guinea pig for Sebastian’s one attempt at cooking something on his own, though, when Dylan was out of town. Apparently, he’s never going to live that down.

“Anyway, she’s worse, actually.” Sebastian says. “She used to try when I was a kid. She had this recipe box she got from her mom, and one year—I think the first year she was married to Dylan’s dad—she tried to do the full Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey, stuffing, the works.” He shakes his head at the memory.

“That bad, was it?” Benny asks.

Sebastian smiles a bit. “I mean, I was twelve, so it’s not like I had a sophisticated palate.” Benny snorts, but doesn’t say anything. “She definitely overcooked the turkey. I could see Samuel and Dylan just chewing and chewing, and eventually washing bites down with beer. I think the stuffing was just cubed white bread she sauteed in butter with a chopped-up onion. I think the final straw for Samuel and Dylan was something her mom called ‘potato filling.’ Instant potato flakes mixed with more cubed white bread and another onion.”

Benny casts a sideways look at him. “That sounds disgusting.”

Sebastian chuckles. He remembers how the lumpy, only vaguely potato-flavored mess sort of dissolved in his mouth rather than needing to be chewed. “Samuel and I drowned it in gravy and managed to clean our plates. But I think Dylan excused himself early and took off to the Stress Free Moose for dinner.”

Benny chuckles, too. “Sounds about right.”

“What did you have for Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Dylan grilled a couple of steaks and made an apple pie. Art made some garlic mashed potatoes and green bean casserole.” Benny’s cheeks are a little pink and his eyes are again fixed on the road ahead of him. “I brought the whiskey.”

“How is Art?” Sebastian can feel his lips twitch and resists a smile at Benny’s discomfort. It turned out that while Art Davies was contesting Dylan’s dad’s will over the summer, he was also seducing Benny on the side. Sebastian’s still convinced that it was Benny’s influence that convinced Art to drop his petition.

They’d come clean about their relationship not long after Sebastian and Dylan returned to Greenville for good, Sebastian’s hoyas and books in a moving truck, the restored 1955 Ford Thunderbird Dylan had given him towed behind it. Dylan had been floored. He’d looked from Art to Benny and back again, the four of them standing in the reception area in the shop, Benny twisting the brim of his ball cap in his hands, Art staring at Dylan with a set to his shoulders like he was about to throw down.

“Whatever floats your boat, man,” he’d finally said. “Don’t know what you see in this asshole.” This was addressed to Benny with a jerk of his chin at Art. “But if anyone deserves happiness, it’s you, you son of a bitch.”

Benny flushed a deep red and Art relaxed. Then they all went back to work—Sebastian to the office to finish reconciling the accounts, Dylan and Benny to the shop to continue working on the 1958 Cadillac Fleetwood they’d acquired as a barn find. Art’s been filling in for Krystal as receptionist and part-time mechanic since they got back, though Sebastian suspects it’s only a matter of time before he decides on something else.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner with you guys,” he says. Not the steaks, of course, though Dylan’s been good about having fish or vegetarian options since Sebastian moved in, and it’s not as hard as he expected it to be to find non-meat options in rural Maine. It helps that they live practically on the largest mountain lake in New England, known for its salmon, trout, and bass stocks.

But it was good to spend Thanksgiving with his mom, and then he got to spend a week in San Francisco with Ellen. He’s more than happy to be home, though. It’s his first Christmas with Dylan.