James Tiberius Kirk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
boldygoing) wrote2018-01-01 06:45 pm
boldygoing) wrote2018-01-01 06:45 pm
Ringing In the New Year
Jim is not usually one to celebrate New Year. Only four days before his birthday, by far the worst day of the year, he's never once been in a mood to stay up late and watch fireworks or make out with a lover. Drinking until he can't remember a damn thing, sure, but that's not really a party activity. And there's no fucking way he wants his well-meaning friends to track him down and make him pretend like he's having a good time.
Which is why this year, he's holed up in Hunter's apartment, the traditional New York City ball drop festivities playing on television. The sound is turned down quite a bit, tinny strains of someone singing old twentieth century tunes filtering through the speakers. The glass of brandy in Jim's hand is doing little to change anything about his sobriety, but it's a small comfort nonetheless, a familiarity born from years of doing this exact thing.
What's unfamiliar is the regular thud thud thud coming from the main art room, as Hunter slings paintballs at a large canvas one-handed, creating wide splashes of color, the mural on the walls behind protected by plastic sheets. It's abstract as all hell, and Jim is pretty sure it's not meant to be anything, but Hunter is having fun doing it, judging by the look on his face.
Five minutes to midnight.
The thudding stops as Hunter takes a break, or maybe he's just done, Jim can't really tell. His own wine glass in hand, the other man joins Jim in the couch, the clock in the corner of the television screen ticking down the minutes until the new year officially begins. "Looking good," Jim says with a small smile.
Hunter knows by now not to assume that Jim means the painting, and laughs a little, clinking his glass gently against Jim's. "It's my gift," he answers.
Jim will find no better opening than that. He straightens, and reaches into the shoulder bag that has been resting on the floor, pulling a wrapped gift out of it. Hunter's look of surprise makes Jim smile a little, glad to have caught him off guard this time. "This is my gift," he says quietly, holding out the wrapped package to the other man. "I know you said you don't really do Christmas, and it's late for that anyway, but... I wanted to thank you. For Hanukkah." And so much more.
"Jim, I... thank you." Hunter doesn't say that Jim didn't have to do this, or that he didn't go through all that effort with any expectation of getting anything in return. He just smiles, sets down his wine, and pulls the package onto his lap to begin unwrapping it. There are four more boxes inside, one significantly smaller than the others. The three larger boxes contain a trio of classical art-inspired candles, something to relax the atmosphere and inspire Hunter's own creations. The smaller box holds a set of silver cufflinks, crafted in the shape of roses.
Hunter admires them all, one at a time, sniffing the aroma of the candles, rubbing his thumb over the curled metal of the rose petals, and a warm spark settles in Jim's chest, despite the numbing cold that holds him prisoner this time of year. "Happy New Year," he says, leaning in to give Hunter a kiss as the countdown reaches zero.
Maybe this year will be a better one. Jim certainly hopes so.
Which is why this year, he's holed up in Hunter's apartment, the traditional New York City ball drop festivities playing on television. The sound is turned down quite a bit, tinny strains of someone singing old twentieth century tunes filtering through the speakers. The glass of brandy in Jim's hand is doing little to change anything about his sobriety, but it's a small comfort nonetheless, a familiarity born from years of doing this exact thing.
What's unfamiliar is the regular thud thud thud coming from the main art room, as Hunter slings paintballs at a large canvas one-handed, creating wide splashes of color, the mural on the walls behind protected by plastic sheets. It's abstract as all hell, and Jim is pretty sure it's not meant to be anything, but Hunter is having fun doing it, judging by the look on his face.
Five minutes to midnight.
The thudding stops as Hunter takes a break, or maybe he's just done, Jim can't really tell. His own wine glass in hand, the other man joins Jim in the couch, the clock in the corner of the television screen ticking down the minutes until the new year officially begins. "Looking good," Jim says with a small smile.
Hunter knows by now not to assume that Jim means the painting, and laughs a little, clinking his glass gently against Jim's. "It's my gift," he answers.
Jim will find no better opening than that. He straightens, and reaches into the shoulder bag that has been resting on the floor, pulling a wrapped gift out of it. Hunter's look of surprise makes Jim smile a little, glad to have caught him off guard this time. "This is my gift," he says quietly, holding out the wrapped package to the other man. "I know you said you don't really do Christmas, and it's late for that anyway, but... I wanted to thank you. For Hanukkah." And so much more.
"Jim, I... thank you." Hunter doesn't say that Jim didn't have to do this, or that he didn't go through all that effort with any expectation of getting anything in return. He just smiles, sets down his wine, and pulls the package onto his lap to begin unwrapping it. There are four more boxes inside, one significantly smaller than the others. The three larger boxes contain a trio of classical art-inspired candles, something to relax the atmosphere and inspire Hunter's own creations. The smaller box holds a set of silver cufflinks, crafted in the shape of roses.
Hunter admires them all, one at a time, sniffing the aroma of the candles, rubbing his thumb over the curled metal of the rose petals, and a warm spark settles in Jim's chest, despite the numbing cold that holds him prisoner this time of year. "Happy New Year," he says, leaning in to give Hunter a kiss as the countdown reaches zero.
Maybe this year will be a better one. Jim certainly hopes so.