Observing Holidays Part 4
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 TBA
John felt odd.
Not bad. He didn’t think it was a serious medical issue. Just odd. Or, well, not just odd but... primarily odd.
There was... pressure, inside his chest. But it wasn’t... it wasn’t an inward tightening, like a knot. It was an outward pressure, like something was inside his chest that was too big for it. Not too too big, it didn’t hurt, it was just enough that it was noticeable. In fact, the pressure didn’t feel uncomfortable at all.
He just felt... full.
Not so full that he struggled with lunch, of course. It was one thing to come to terms with the fact that genuine meat was readily available so soon after the war (it had been years, why couldn’t he remember it had been years?) but the spread before him now? That was a whole cooked turkey, juicy and bursting with flavour from the stuffing mix it was cooked with and strips of bacon wrapped around it. Roast potatoes, crispy coatings from his oil distribution, fluffy innards and so satisfying; roast parsnips, equally crispy outside but soft and sweet in the middle; steamed carrots cut into discs, with optional melting butter, that he could scoop a dozen of into his mouth at once; steamed sprouts, which regrettably had a very strong flavour but went down quickly; bread sauce, a thick, creamy, mild dollop that he’d happily eat a bowlful of; cranberry sauce, sweet and sharp, complimenting the salty bacon-infused turkey; two different types of gravy, one thicker and richer than the other; and something called pigs in blankets.
John didn’t think he’d ever felt such delight as when he found out that, many centuries ago, some genius decided that sausages could be improved with a bacon wrapping.
He had to admit, he probably ate more than his fair share. But he also had to admit that no one minded-- in fact, Mochou, Changming and Davis gave in and passed over food they didn’t have room for.
And it was strange, to sit in a group, listening to a conversation he wasn’t part of, and not feel like he was an intruder. Even if he wasn’t directly involved, they accommodated for him; things John wouldn’t be expected to know, they explained. He learned about local shops and services, amusing anecdotes from people’s pasts or about their relatives, plans for the new year and even talk of the political climate, but he was very focused on his little bacon-wrapped sausages for that discussion and took none of it in.
And then... dessert.
All of that food, and then dessert.
Two desserts.
One was a plate of pinwheel-shaped pastries filled with prune jam, and the other was a Bûche de Noël which looked like an awful lot of chocolate. While Riley had figuratively written the menu for the main meal this year, Alouette had been on the desserts with old family favourites, and she was eager to get John’s approval. And she most certainly did.
By the time the lunch was concluded, John felt bloated again and he kept smiling for no reason he could pin down.
They’d just settled in the living room, debating whether they wanted to play something or watch something, when Davis suddenly leapt up.
“Almost forgot a classic!” He declared, heading back into the kitchen even as others protested. John was curious despite the response-- what classic?
Davis returned with a tray full of drinking glasses, each full of what looked like milk, and a small plastic dispenser.
“Alright,” Davis started, setting the tray on the coffee table despite the lethargic moaning of the group. “I got eggnog, I got cinnamon, who wants some?”
John sat up a little, but before he could move or speak Davis was laughing. “Yeah I know you want some big guy, don’t worry! I got you.”
There was one more glass than needed, John realised, and with that in mind he shouldn’t have been surprised when Davis offered him one with cinnamon and one without.
“There you go,” Davis said, seeming pleased with himself, “see how you like that.”
John remained silent, and Davis started to frown. John firmly reminded himself of the kitchen incident, and focused on the worry in the smaller man’s eyes.
“You okay, John?”
Say something, he thought, take the glasses.
He didn’t.
“John? Ça va?” Alouette had propped herself up from her dozing slump, and everyone else was looking at him with concern again.
He nodded and forced himself to reach out and take them, if only to stop everyone staring, and fought to find his voice. “Thanks.”
They were still staring.
“John...” Mochou murmured beside him. “You can tell us.”
She intended to say more, but Davis cut her off. “Alright, anybody else? C’mon I know you guys’ll love it once you have it, you’re all getting one, just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to cinnamon.”
Riley immediately started waving a hand clumsily as if to fend Davis off. “Noooooo I’m stuffed stop trying to make us faaaaaaaat.”
All eyes turned to them instead as they lazily kicked up a fuss, and John felt the tension in his shoulders ease. He looked down at the ‘eggnog’ in his hands and decided to push aside the unsettled feeling he couldn’t place and focus on the objective; he’d try the undoctored eggnog first to get the base flavour, then see how the cinnamon interacted with it.
“Ó.” The soft sound from Mochou distracted him, and a quick assessment made his innards squirm. She had that look on her face, when he said or did something that upset her-- she’d insisted repeatedly that it wasn’t his fault, but the correlation was consistent enough despite changing variables to reflect cause and effect. Unfortunately he was struggling to ascertain the pattern, so he didn’t yet have any action to take, and it was frustrating.
John tilted his head in question, but Mochou brightened suddenly, smiling and patting him on the leg before turning to Davis and calling, “Cinnamon, please!”
And now John was the one left perplexed. Had he misread her expression? Had it not been aimed at him but rather at something unrelated within her mind? Was she pleased that he was no longer agitated, or perhaps realised what the problem had been and deemed it resolved? The urge to ask for clarification came and went, and he sipped the plain glass of eggnog.
He liked it. ______________________________
It was, as the Crew dubbed it, Present Time.
John had tried to excuse himself, offering to wash up after the meal, but he’d been veritably shouted down. So now he was sat here as the Crew passed gifts to each other, feeling truly awkward for the first time in days.
He was admittedly curious, itching to know what they’d given each other, but he felt uncomfortably conspicuous spectating a tradition he wasn’t (couldn’t be) involved in. Simply the fact that he had nothing himself to give caused an uncomfortable almost-burning sensation in his stomach, and he wanted nothing more than to walk out when Changming pulled out the cards John had written.
The effusive thanks he was met with were almost too much for him to take. (He’d clumsily handwritten the same hollow festive greeting over and over and they were praising him like they hadn’t saved his life; he swallowed back bile and dug his fingers into the couch cushions.)
He almost missed Riley’s voice calling his name.
Looking up, John froze. Riley was holding out a wrapped gift-- a Christmas present. The gift tag had his name on it.
Swallowing thickly, John said, “No.”
Riley startled, jerking back as their face fell, and guilt added to the sour churning in his guts.
All eyes on him.
(It wasn’t-- he couldn’t-- )
“I can’t,” he blurted, “I’m sorry.” ______________________________
He didn’t come back to himself until he felt the blast of cold air as he opened the door to step outside the apartment block.
Regretting his lack of clothing warmer than his hooded jacket, he pushed forward regardless. He wouldn’t be out long, he told himself. He just needed a moment. He just needed to breathe.
The crisp chill helped to clear his head, and he relished the deep breaths of fresh, unrecycled air. He found the cold weather much more pleasant with the knowledge that there was warmth to return to.
A sharp cry of alarm from nearby snapped his head around, and he caught sight of an elderly civilian fallen back against their car. Their arms were heavily laden with bags, overbalancing them, and with potential ice underfoot they might well do themself harm.
He crossed the distance and reached out, “It’s alright,” he reassured, “I’ve got you.”
“Oh! Oh, I--”
John gently took one load of bags, then carefully but firmly gripped their arm. His other hand steadily scooped the civilian off the surface of the car door, moving around to support their back as they got their feet under them.
“Are you alright?”
“Oh-- Oh my, you’re a strapping lad aren’t you? Thank you so much, I- I’m alright, didn’t quite do any damage!” They were startled but smiling gratefully.
John frowned. “Where do you need to go?”
“Oh, dear-- oh, just on the ground floor there.” They glanced up at him hopefully. “I don’t suppose you’d mind... ?”
“Not at all.” Said John, taking the other bags.
“Oh thank you dear, you are a treasure.”
They seemed surprised when John slipped all six bags onto one forearm, and beamed when he offered the other in support, making another comment about his being ‘impressive’. It seemed in good cheer, so he didn’t dwell on it.
On the short but slow walk back to the apartments, John learned that Makani had just come back from a lovely Christmas lunch with many of their friends, whereupon they’d received far heavier gifts they had expected. They hadn’t wanted anyone to fret, so they’d insisted they could get it all home safely, but clearly they’d only been partly right.
They seemed to be taking the near miss cheerfully, and had no qualms allowing John to support them with his “astonishing arms”, to the point that they made no attempt to let go of him after they were safely inside the building. He shivered at the difference in temperature, and Makani’s smile finally dropped.
They clucked their tongue. “Oh dear, you must be freezing young man! Come in, come in and have a hot drink.”
John hesitated. He knew the Crew were probably upset and worried about his absence, and he should really go back before they felt the need to look for him, but... he almost couldn’t stand the thought of facing them right now.
“And maybe,” Makani continued gently, a shrewd look in their gaze, “you can tell me all about whatever trouble’s got that look on your face.”
John immediately schooled his features, and Makani’s face scrunched in irritation.
“Oh, don’t do that. That’s unnerving, that.” At his lack of response, they sighed. “I only mean that it might help to put a voice to it, rather than running around in the freezing cold until you make yourself sick.”
Their eyebrow arched, and John felt his head dip in sheepish embarrassment. He didn’t particularly want another round of hypothermia.
“Either way, come in and warm up. A drink is the least I can do for lugging my sorry baggage to the door.”
They smiled and patted his arm, and John felt something inside of him pang with a strange longing. Something about Makani’s worn and wrinkled face made the acrid knots loosen in his belly, their dark eyes warm and welcoming. Despite himself, he nodded.
“I just...” For a moment John wrestled with himself, then huffed in frustration as he lost the words again.
But Makani seemed to understand. They nodded, like some unspoken question had been answered, and didn’t press. “Come in.” They urged again, and John gave in.