and yet more backstory.
cairo, egypt. christmas eve, 1995
Sometimes Johnny will say to Jack, "Tell me where you want to go," and Jack will say, "Anywhere," so Johnny has to poke and press and draw it out of him, find out what places Jack's always wanted to see. Florence, last Christmas, then Hong Kong for two weeks this past spring. He loves to take Jack places he's been but Jack hasn't, to see them freshly through Jack's eyes.
Now they're discovering Egypt, camels and pyramids and date palms, it's a hundred degrees in the shade in December and Johnny has burnt to deep sienna color while Jack has acquired a smattering of freckles and a soft honey glow. They have been touristing for a week, to the pyramids, to Giza and Luxor, tramping through the sand and taking barges down the Nile. That morning and into the afternoon they had wandered through the bazaars and markets, bought Bedu rugs and handblown glass and trinkets of bone and shell. They found a small dark shop crammed with vials of oils and perfumes; Johnny bought a bottle of sandalwood and another of almond oil, spent the half hour after their late lunch (a cold green soup and something they called coffee but was really tea) mixing them into a heavy slick mix that he leaves to warm in a small blue dish on the table by the window.
The sun is setting in a hundred shades of flame when Jack comes out of the shower, still dripping, his towel knotted loosely around his waist. "Christ, it's bloody hot," he says, and cool droplets fall from his hair onto Johnny's face when he leans down to kiss him. Johnny allows himself to be pulled to his feet, allows Jack to pull off his t-shirt and unsnap his shorts.
"Mmm, hey," Johnny mumbles, brushes the back of his hand over Jack's cheek. "Merry Christmas, big man."
Jack quirks an eyebrow. "Is it time for gifts already?" he asks; somewhere down the street a muzzein takes up the call to evening prayers. "There's my answer, then," Jack says, and presses his laugh to Johnny's lips. "Happy Christmas to you, too."
Merry, happy, either way: perfect, man, so perfect. They have begun a tradition of exchanging gifts on Christmas Eve - Christmas morning is for sleeping in, lazy lovemaking, tea and a tin of cookies, so Christmas Eve is for presents.
"Love you," Johnny sighs, and at Jack's identical reply he backs him up against the jali, the window screen; backs Jack's shoulders into the heavy carved wood with a gentle slam.
He reaches for the table, swirls one finger in the bowl of oil. "So, yeah," he says softly. "Presents."
Sometimes Johnny will say to Jack, "Tell me where you want to go," and Jack will say, "Anywhere," so Johnny has to poke and press and draw it out of him, find out what places Jack's always wanted to see. Florence, last Christmas, then Hong Kong for two weeks this past spring. He loves to take Jack places he's been but Jack hasn't, to see them freshly through Jack's eyes.
Now they're discovering Egypt, camels and pyramids and date palms, it's a hundred degrees in the shade in December and Johnny has burnt to deep sienna color while Jack has acquired a smattering of freckles and a soft honey glow. They have been touristing for a week, to the pyramids, to Giza and Luxor, tramping through the sand and taking barges down the Nile. That morning and into the afternoon they had wandered through the bazaars and markets, bought Bedu rugs and handblown glass and trinkets of bone and shell. They found a small dark shop crammed with vials of oils and perfumes; Johnny bought a bottle of sandalwood and another of almond oil, spent the half hour after their late lunch (a cold green soup and something they called coffee but was really tea) mixing them into a heavy slick mix that he leaves to warm in a small blue dish on the table by the window.
The sun is setting in a hundred shades of flame when Jack comes out of the shower, still dripping, his towel knotted loosely around his waist. "Christ, it's bloody hot," he says, and cool droplets fall from his hair onto Johnny's face when he leans down to kiss him. Johnny allows himself to be pulled to his feet, allows Jack to pull off his t-shirt and unsnap his shorts.
"Mmm, hey," Johnny mumbles, brushes the back of his hand over Jack's cheek. "Merry Christmas, big man."
Jack quirks an eyebrow. "Is it time for gifts already?" he asks; somewhere down the street a muzzein takes up the call to evening prayers. "There's my answer, then," Jack says, and presses his laugh to Johnny's lips. "Happy Christmas to you, too."
Merry, happy, either way: perfect, man, so perfect. They have begun a tradition of exchanging gifts on Christmas Eve - Christmas morning is for sleeping in, lazy lovemaking, tea and a tin of cookies, so Christmas Eve is for presents.
"Love you," Johnny sighs, and at Jack's identical reply he backs him up against the jali, the window screen; backs Jack's shoulders into the heavy carved wood with a gentle slam.
He reaches for the table, swirls one finger in the bowl of oil. "So, yeah," he says softly. "Presents."