Salty fish and noodles.
Oh, Gen called them baccala’ and spaghetti a la something, but they sure didn’t look like Christmas. The noodles he could handle. He just wasn’t so sure about the fish. Christmas in Italy might be more than he could swallow.
“You look very nervous for a man at a feast, tesoro,” Gen said, hand sliding on his back.
“Oh, just a little homesick is all. This is very different.”
“Mmm. I imagine so. It is all traditional.” Gen had a few thousand relatives, all of them very sweet but loud and emotional and hungry. “I have something just for you. Not to share.
“Well, I should hope so, honey.” He waggled his eyebrows, looking Gen up and down.
Gen laughed, which drew a few looks from the people starting to edge toward the food. Gen took his hand, leading him out of the big formal dining room. He was living in a villa, for god’s sake.
Him. Goofy redneck him.
How fucking cool was this?
Gen kissed him gently, bringing him back to the moment, which had resolved itself into a table for two.
“Gen?” A table just for them?
“Mmm. Yes. We can join the others in a bit, but I wanted you to have something traditional for you, as well. I talked with your old roommate.”
There were two covered platters, and Gen waved him toward them. He headed over and the smell of home hit him. He tugged the lids off and, praise the Lord, there was a pile of tamales and what looked like sliced brisket with onions, pickles and sauce.
“Oh, Gen. Gen, did Santa talk to you?”
“Perhaps.” Those dark eyes shone with love, Gen smiling for him. “Buon Natale, tesoro. Are you happy?”
“Merry Christmas, honey.” He grabbed his lover, took a long, hard kiss. “Who on earth wouldn’t be happy if they were me? I got my heart, right here.”
Even if there was salted fish and spaghetti for Christmas dinner. They got tamales to share.
Buon Natale, y'all. ;-)
(Dale and Gen are from Private Dances, btw. Comment for a chance to win books.)