Justin cursed as yet another puff of flour and powdered sugar rose into the air and coated his face. Blinking away the white powder, he set down his mixing bowl and shook his head from side to side. A snow of baking ingredients drifted onto his burgundy sweater, but at least it wasn’t in his eyes now. He’d never imagined that making cookies without a proper mixer and mother’s guidance would be this difficult.

It had been a tradition in the Taylor household to make six platefuls of cookies each Christmas for Santa and any relatives that might drop in. He’d seen his mother make them numerous times and even helped add the ingredients once she was confident that he wouldn’t break the egg shells or pour in too much salt. He could still remember the unbelievable smells of vanilla and almond wafting upstairs and the warmth on his face that came from checking the oven every thirty seconds (Justin, I told you to stop it. You’ll let out all of the heat!).

As a rule, the kids were in charge of the decorations each year, even when Molly was a useless toddler and let the green and red sprinkles melt in her hands. Justin had taken a small amount of pride in being able to place his M&M’s just-so on his cookies (Oh, Justin, those are beautiful! You’d make quite the little artist.) while Little Miss Special made a mess of things (Nonono. Molly, let go of the spoon.). For those few short baking days, he was Mother’s Special Helper, and nothing could bring him down. Not even a drooling, green-and-red-handed brat.

As he got older, however, Justin slowly stopped helping with the holiday baking. At first, it was because he was “too old” to participate in something as “uncool” as baking with his mother. He left that job to Molly, who wasn’t that bad after all, and who enjoyed baking more than he did anyway.

Once he was out of high school, the oddest thing happened. The holidays rolled around and Justin found himself missing his mother and their baking session. He toyed with the idea of calling her, but every time that he sat down to do so, another important thing came up. By the time Justin finally got a hold of his mother, it was too late. Jennifer had already made the cookies with Molly while he had been . . . well, living his new life.

It seemed that holiday baking was a thing of the past and obviously not in the cards for Justin. Perhaps it was some big hint from the world that things really had changed and that he should let go of the past and grow up. But, glancing around the undecorated loft, Justin couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness and recall what would be different in a Taylor Family Christmas.

When the Gay and Lesbian Center decided to hold a holiday bake sale in order to fundraise, Justin heard his mother’s patient sighs and gentle guidance in the back of his head. (Pour the milk. Easy now, don’t let it go over the sides.) Call it nostalgia or just a lapse in sanity, but he volunteered to bake three dozen cookies.

Despite Brian’s tolerant sigh and more than a few wary looks that were thrown his way by some of the mothers in the group, Justin felt that he could handle the baking assignment. It really didn’t seem that hard to do: read a recipe, add the ingredients, bake, and poof! Enough sugary fuel to feed a small army. His mother had done it hundreds of times.

Now that Justin was alone and at the ground zero of what looked like the aftermath of a flour bomb, he realized that baking wasn’t quite as easy as he remembered it. Doubling the recipe brought with it the unpleasant discovery that Brian’s largest bowl in the loft was the one they used for popcorn. Ingredients already threatened to slosh over the sides with every round he made with a fork, and adding the white concoction of flour and sugar proved to be near-impossible.

Looking around the white mess that was once Brian’s clean, marble countertop gave Justin the distinct impression that his life would end in a mound of unbaked cookies and a disgruntled non-conventional boyfriend. He stared at the offending mixing bowl and swore softly. In all of his frustration and expletives, Justin missed the opening and shutting of the loft door that announced Brian’s presence.

Brian stepped across the loft and quickly took in the scene before him. Books, bowls, and bottles of various sizes cluttered his countertop. Justin, dressed in the khakis that Brian had urged him to burn and a scholarly burgundy sweater, stood in the middle of the kitchen, muttering something to himself while shaking his head. All of these things, including Justin, were coated in a mysterious, white powder that looked suspiciously like coke. Brian drew closer to Justin’s turned back, still undetected, and whispered in his ear, “Ah, I see you’ve been hanging around Theodore for too long.”

Justin jumped a little before turning around. Still distracted by his previous thoughts, Justin asked, “What?”

Brian continued in a melodramatic tone, “He’s passed on his drug habits to my impressionable youth.”

Justin was about to make a retort, but he caught sight of the wrapped present Brian held off to the side and stopped all attempts at speech. The big gift exchange at Debbie’s was still a few days off, so it couldn’t be from any of their friends. They’d already had the Christmas Dinner with Vance, so it wasn’t a gift from work, either.

Against all odds, it seemed that Brian Kinney had purchased a Christmas present for someone else. Oh, this would be good. Justin could feel the smile tugging at his own lips. In response to Justin’s spreading smile, Brian leaned in for a long kiss.

It was a little more aggressive than their usual “welcome home” kiss, but Justin had no complaints. In fact, he allowed his lightly powdered hands to explore Brian’s jacket and the muscles beneath it, working his way around to the back where he could almost reach the present and . . . his hands were swiftly derailed from their path as Brian trapped them with his free hand.

Brian yanked the clasped hands in front of him and used his tongue swipe off some of the dust coating Justin’s palm. Justin inhaled a steadying breath that ended up sounding more like a gasp of pleasure. He stood otherwise motionless, entranced by the sight of Brian’s tongue darting back between moist lips and returning to tickle his right hand.

“Mmm,” Brian murmured as he looked up at Justin over the raised palm between them. “Not Anita’s, then.”

Justin pushed Brian’s chest away with a playful shove and answered, “No.”

His demeanor changed slightly and he threw a meaningful glance at the wrapped gift that Brian held at arm’s length behind him. Justin’s voice went deeper, more seductive, and he ran a still-powdered finger up and down Brian’s chest as he spoke. “Not Anita’s. Good boys don’t do drugs, and I’d say I’ve been a very good boy this year. Wouldn’t you?”

Brian tried his best to look irritated by the trite come-on. This was made somewhat easier by the combined facts that Justin’s words placed Brian as a (much older) father figure, and that Justin’s gaze was still fixed on some point behind Brian instead of on him, where it belonged.

Realizing what Justin’s motives were, Brian said, “Nice try. It’s for Cynthia. She said she’d use the new letter-opener to castrate me if she didn’t get a present this year.”

The wattage of Justin’s smile went down a few notches as his face threatened to fall, but he tried to recover. He rolled his lips into his mouth and gave a forced smile. “We wouldn’t want that to happen, now would we?”

Brian shook his head in agreement and moved to place the parcel on a countertop, but couldn’t find an empty space. He continued to search as he added, “You wouldn’t be jealous, would you, Sunshine?”

Justin seemed to consider this and then raised his eyebrows and grinned in a slightly evil fashion. “If she’s got your balls held ransom already, I guess that only leaves your ass. I wouldn’t be opposed to owning that for the New Year.”

Brian smirked. “I’m sure. But who’s to say I didn’t already get you something?”

Justin stared back at him and said, “You didn’t. Brian? You didn’t, right?”

“Maybe I did. What if I told you it started with a red ribbon . . .” Brian settled for placing Cynthia’s gift atop the refrigerator.

Justin’s shoulders tensed. “I swear to God, Brian, if it’s another hustler . . .” he trailed off and recollected himself. “The next time you get me a hustler, it’d better be a dyke set on riding your ass while I watch.”

“Kinky.” Brian frowned, clearly disturbed by the threat. “You’ve, ah, got a bit of a vengeful streak there, Taylor.”

Justin smiled tightly and held up one of the butter knives he had been using to level off the flour.

“I’ll make Cynthia look like a kitten,” he promised.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Brian said, running his hand down the nape of Justin’s neck. “So, where’s my kitchen?”

Justin looked around at his mess and heaved a sigh. “I’ve been here for two hours trying to bake and I can’t do it.”

Brian pulled Justin closer and tucked him under an arm. He said softly, “Of course you can. You made jambalaya once, remember?”

“That’s different, Brian. I used instant ingredients and I called Mom twice before you got home to make sure I knew what to do.”

“So? Call her now.”

Justin took ducked out from under Brian’s arm and argued, “I can’t call her. If I go running to Mom for help, then it’s like I’m still a little kid. She’ll think that I’m not ready to be out in the real world.”

Brian squinted and said, “Let me get this straight. You’re trying to prove your masculinity by baking cookies?”

Justin crinkled his nose. “No, not when you put it like that. Look, I just can’t call her, okay? I’m my own man now, and I need to do this on my own.”

“But you can’t cook,” Brian pointed out.

“I- I used to… well, fuck it. I used to decorate the cookies, not bake them. But I’ll be damned if I let that stop me.”

Brian sighed and picked his jacket back up form the stool he had draped it on. “Fine, I’m going out.”

“You’re going out,” Justin repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

“I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown-”

“Over cookies,” Brian affirmed.

“-and you’re going out?”

“Listen, Justin,” Brian said, tugging his jacket on. “You can be a man about it and call Mother Taylor when you need her help, or you can sit here and be a princess about it, sulking in four pounds of sugar and spice. It’s not my job to stick around when you’re being a twat.”

“Brian-”

“No,” Brian interrupted. “We’re going to see the North Pole-Dancers at Babylon tonight, so you’d better stop this shit and make up your mind soon.”

Justin gaped as Brian gave a quick, “Later,” and exited the loft, leaving the place entirely too silent. Maybe Brian was right; maybe Justin should just suck it up and call Jennifer. He glanced at the phone where it lay on the sofa, but couldn’t bring himself to make the call. No, he could just see how that conversation would go. Imagining Molly’s laughter in the background, Justin felt a renewed sense of determination. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his stirring fork and approached the bowl of ingredients.

Half an hour later, the contents of the bowl were no more dough-like than they had been when Brian was there. Justin had tried to scrape the . . . thing out of the bowl and onto the counter for rolling out, but it crept and slowly spilled in all directions instead of behaving like cookie dough.

Justin tried to start over from scratch again, but he figured out halfway through that he didn’t have enough margarine to complete the task ahead of him. Frustrated, he collapsed on a kitchen stool with his head buried in his arms. He missed Jennifer’s quick mixer. He missed adding in pre-measured ingredients. He missed having a perfect cookie handed to him for decoration. Without Brian there, the loft’s silence was unnerving. Justin could practically hear the unfinished dough whisper, “Failure.”

Another half hour passed, in which Justin fell asleep, still leaning over the counter in his baking-induced misery. He awoke to the sound of papers bags rustling. Opening one eye, he spotted Brian unloading two bulky shopping bags. Brian caught his eye and placed a large tube in front of Justin’s already blurry vision. Justin blinked and rubbed his eyes so that he could clearly see the object.

When he realized what it was, Justin exclaimed, “You went out and bought refrigerated cookie dough?!”

It was difficult to tell whether Justin was angry and insulted or grateful and ecstatic. Brian swallowed nervously, but regained his ground. “Move over. Your baking’s for shit, these have to be dropped off before we leave, and the guys are meeting us in an hour.”

Justin knew better than to argue by this point. Instead, he accepted the bizarre alternate reality in which his not-boyfriend boyfriend skipped tricking in favor of buying him cookie dough. This would be the same twilight zone where Brian took over in a kitchen which Justin had never seen him use in nearly three years of knowing each other. Justin asked, “What’s in the other bag?”

“Some cinnamon junk, sugar sprinkles, and more Red Lake 40 than should be legally permitted.”

Shrugging, Justin indulged the alternate reality further by joining Brian at his side and opening the tube of cookie dough. They made idle chitchat as Justin sliced the dough into small disks and Brian placed each one onto the cookie sheet.

“How come you weren’t at the office when I left?”

“I was there. You were too busy conferencing to notice me. I came home because Steve let us out early for the holidays.”

Brian would never admit it, but he felt a little bit envious of the gentle, easy way Justin said that word. Home. Brian usually thought of it as The Loft, but with food in the refrigerator, an increasing amount of Justin’s clothes haphazardly thrown and forgotten around the place, and a welcoming kiss after a hard day’s work, “The Loft” was no longer a sufficient title. Catching himself in time to avoid further domestic and potentially lesbianic thoughts, Brian asked, “Steve sent you home?”

“Yep!” Artistic hands directed the knife in a smooth downstroke.

There was a hesitation in the dough distribution. “For the holidays.”

Justin furrowed his brow, but continued slicing. “It was nice of him.”

“Nice?! Justin, there were still four boards that needed matting and another mockup was in my office, only half-done! We don’t have time to be nice!”

“The deadlines for those projects are in mid-January, Brian, we have time.”

“I’m the boss, I’ll say when we have time.”

Staring Brian directly in the eyes, Justin slowly reached over to the counter, scooped up some excess flour-sugar mixture, and smeared it into Brian’s jacket.

“Take that, Sir,” Justin taunted.

Brian looked down at the white handprints and fainter white streaks on his charcoal suit. Perhaps two years ago, he’d have scowled angrily at the ruined suit and perhaps blown a fuse about the mess in his kitchen. Perhaps two years ago, he wouldn’t have known what he would be missing if he drove Justin away.

Brian took a deep breath, poked his inner cheek with his tongue, and grabbed a handful of powder himself. He flung it at Justin’s face and ducked, preparing for Justin’s retaliation. Justin squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught, inhaled, and coughed, nearly choking on the flour. Even before his coughing fit was over, however, Justin scrabbled for another scoop of powder with which to nail Brian.

In a matter of seconds, their adult conversation had degenerated to a food fight. Brian’s competitive nature and Justin’s enthusiasm collided in a flurry of baking powder, sugar, flour, and every other dry ingredient that was readily available. If one were to look for a winner in the scuffle, Brian would be the obvious choice. A long mop of blond hair apparently made an excellent target. Justin was left spitting out bits of ingredients while Brian merely dusted off his suit.

They finished laying out the cookies in silence and Justin set to decorating them as Brian took a shower. Using fair amounts of the sprinkles and cinnamon candy, Justin transformed the little white disks into edible Christmas ornaments worthy of any Taylor. In fact, once they came out of the oven, it was impossible to tell that corners had been cut for the dough. He set one aside so he could show his mother the finished product.

Freshly out of the shower and toweling off, Brian spoke to Justin from the bedroom. He informed Justin, “We’ve got fifteen minutes to drop off those cookies and get our asses to Babylon. Leave the mess, it’ll get cleaned later and we’ll leave Martina a big tip.”

Justin nodded and used his khakis to brush some powder from his hands. “Let me throw on some different clothes and I’ll be ready.”

“Oh, and Justin?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got something here,” Brian said, gesturing to his cheek.

With such time-intensive cookie decorations, Justin didn’t have a chance to clean his face from the food fight. He brought his hand up to his cheek and realized that his entire face had a healthy coating of the white powder that infested the kitchen floor. His eyes narrowed, but he was laughing. “Fuck you.”

Ten minutes later, the cookies were safely delivered to the Center. Justin held his head high and beamed at the gathering of mothers who had doubted him. He set down the three dozen cookies on the collection table and rushed back out to Brian.

The night passed with an odd combination of remixed Christmas carols, grinding bodies, alcohol, and mistletoe. By the time Brian and Justin reached the loft again, it was nearly five in the morning. They opened the door and faced the battleground of their cookie dough fight (the event that they swore never to speak of again). Brian tried leading Justin by his hand to the bedroom, but Justin stopped at the kitchen counter.

“What do we do with all of the dough I made?” Justin asked.

Brian rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d suggest donating it to a homeless shelter, but even the homeless have taste buds.”

“Ha. Ha.”

Brian gave a shrug and suggested, “Give it to Hunter. After seeing the shit he eats at the diner, I doubt this would faze him.”

Justin chuckled, a little bit tipsy from the night’s celebrations. “Yes, and have Michael arrest me for poisoning his surrogate son.”

Brian managed to pull Justin away from the counter and get him moving toward the bedroom.

“Prison’s not so bad. All of those handcuffs and communal showers . . . I could have phone sex with a convicted criminal, it’d be hot.” Brian said, raising an eyebrow in Justin’s direction and pressing Justin further back toward the bed. The backs of Justin’s knees hit the mattress and he started to tip backward, onto the cushions and blankets behind him.

Justin objected, “If I’m going down, I’m taking you down with me.”

As if to emphasize his point, Justin clung onto Brian’s neck and fell onto the bed. He pulled Brian down to his level.

“Mmm,” Brian groaned as their hips aligned. “You mentioned going down?”

“Yes,” Justin laughed, “but we need some sleep . . . especially if we’re going to be spending our nights in jail. I’ll tell them you were an accessory to the crime.”

Brian nipped at his ear. “Partners in crime.”

It had been an innocent enough slip (probably caused by alcohol and exhaustion), but Justin latched onto it. Pulling the duvet up around them, Justin repeated softly, “Partners?”

Brian didn’t respond, but he gently nuzzled Justin’s hair with his nose and slipped an arm beneath Justin’s body. Justin let the phrase twist around in his mind and decided that he liked it. Partners. Brian was out of it and would probably forget his slip by sunrise. Justin made a mental note to remind Brian someday that there was a word for their previously undefined relationship. Knowing Brian, it was probably better to bring up an idea like that after Justin received his Christmas present, whatever it was. Maybe after the holidays, they could . . . maybe they could . . .

Sleep tugged at Justin’s consciousness, and he was too tired to resist. Brian shifted onto his side and spooned up against Justin. Their limbs were heavy from dancing and the effects of alcohol, but they somehow managed to entwine them. The couple lay together in a content silence and drifted slowly to sleep while listening to each other’s steady heartbeat.