Page 63 of The Light Within

It did not surprise Cinn in the least to find Julien’s presents meticulously wrapped, crisp folds and red bows that bordered on origami-level skill.

“Are we safe to watch you two open each other’s presents, or will I throw up from cuteness overload?” asked Darcy, scrutinising Julien with wariness.

“You’re welcome to leave the room,” Julien retorted.

Cinn hesitated for a moment, pulling his face into a neutral expression. Then, one tug of red ribbon later, a pair of silk pyjama bottoms fell into Cinn’s lap.

He laughed.

The label, a French brand Cinn didn’t recognise, informed him they were crafted from the finest mulberry silk. The fabric had a subtle sheen that caught the flashing Christmas lights, highlighting their rich, deep olive-green colour that was remarkably similar to his beanie.

“I hear they’re rip proof,” Julien said, in a completely casual voice that did nothing to stop Cinn’s cheeks from burning as his eyes traitorously glanced between Darcy and Elliot.

“Let’s hope,” Cinn muttered.

“There’s another one,” said Julien, eyes twinkling with an excitement that caused Cinn’s anxiety to return with fresh vigour.

“Darcy owes me a fiver,” announced Elliot, then sniggered. “Because she insisted you’d have got him at least three.”

“You two have no lives,” Julien retorted. He may then have mumbled something about another four presents back at Auri that Cinn ignored.

Desperate to move the spotlight along from him, he opened the next present far too quickly, sending a pile of cassettes scattering across the wooden floorboards, chased after by a dozen AA batteries that rolled in every direction. Cinn reached for the tapes, fearing Julien had decided to ‘educate’ him with some blues or jazz, but found instead some of the Pearl Jam albums he didn’t own, and something by a newish band named Wu-Tang Clan. Julien nudged the final cassette towards him with his foot, but it was one he’d recognise from a mile away—Doolittleby the Pixies.

What?

For a moment, he thought it was his own copy, the one that ended up royally fucked from years of relentless rewinding. However, this cassette was in a plastic wrap, brand new.

“How did you—”

“I found the remnants of it in the bin the other day. What did you do to it, use it as a chew toy?”

Cinn peeled off the wrap, and popped out the tape, running his fingers over its immaculate shiny surface, ready for him to undoubtedly scratch and dent again.

Julien looked rather proud of himself, preening for praise.

Ordinarily he’d give him shit for it, or at least attempt to, but today the fuzziness in his chest softened any sarcasm on the tip of his tongue.

“Thank you,” fell out as a whisper as he locked eyes with Julien, who was smiling at Cinn in a different sort of way. No smirk, no edge of wickedness, only a gentle upwards tilt of the lips, a gleam of white teeth,a melting of grey eyes. It was possibly the most genuine smile he’d ever seen from Julien. He wanted more. He’d collect them like gems, store them in the crevices of his mind to brighten the darkest days.

“Right, let’s get this over with,” Darcy interjected. “We’re not spending all Christmas Day swooning over you two. Give Julien his present, Cinn.”

Elliot cackled. “This is top-tier entertainment, Darce. What else could you possibly want to be doing right now?”

Cinn’s stomach clenched as he handed over Julien’s. He’d wanted to give it to him in private. Alas, no such luck.

The paper practically fell apart in Julien’s hands, and Cinn cringed. “I ran out of tape to fix your one.” He became uncomfortably aware of the increasing rate of his heartbeat as Julien held up the black mass of wool that was vaguely scarf-shaped.

“It’s… wonderful,” Julien said.

The style of the scarf drastically changed halfway through—neat rows of tightly interwoven yarn descended into anerratic, uneven pattern with loose, tangled strands that Cinn wouldn’t want to test.

“It’s fucking awful, don’t lie. Half of it looks like a cat attacked it,” Cinn said, wincing, then held his breath, waiting to see if Julien would even understand what he was looking at exactly.

Julien carded his fingers through the professionally knitted half of the black scarf, recollection dawning on his face.

Finally.

“Wait. Is this… the scarf that Béatrice was halfway through knitting for me? The one on her desk?”

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