It's Christmastime.

The house echoes with it, reeks of pomander and sugar cookies. Greenery draped over anything that will stand still and some things that won't, pinned through the heart with red bows. Gold glittering to hurt the eyes.

She wanders with her arms wrapped in front of her chest to defend herself. Christmas gives her a headache.

"Look!" He's standing in the doorway and she smiles at him, pointing up above his head as she walks past. "Mistletoe?"

He folds his arms over his chest. Gypsy once, back to back, turn and promenade away.

It's a dance. Here a holly, there a holly, everywhere a holly jolly Christmas. He gets lost in the shuffle and, to be honest (and isn't that a joke), he likes it that way.

She jogs around the house and it takes her almost an hour to come back, panting, into the doorway. He's helping, under duress and family pressure, which always makes him either silent or sullenly talkative. Or both at once, which is a neat trick. They stare at each other as she goes around the outside of the so-called winter garden, as he stands at the inside and glares at her until she's gone through the archway.

He finds her in the library. She's scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, fist clenched tight around the pen, pressing grooves into the paper as she writes. There are tears of frustration on her cheeks that she never lets fall to the paper.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm working on a problem."

Her voice is steady. It takes more than that to flap her concentration when she's around him, no matter how much she may be tearing up on the inside. She doesn't look up at him, either.

"What kind of a problem?" He reaches out a hand and turns the notebook so he can see. She smacks his hand.

"Stop that."

"Don't hit me."

"Don't bother me while I'm working."

It sounds more like something he would say. They stare at each other for a second before they break apart again. When he's gone she throws the pen across the room. He has that effect on people who know just enough to be dangerous and not enough to be wise.

He drops the bar of chocolate down in front of her at dinnertime, after most of the others have gone away, when it's just the two of them on one side of the table and a few others further down.

She looks up at him. "Where did you get that?"

"You're welcome."

They look at each other for a moment. Then she slugs him in the arm. Fake-punch. "Dork."

"Ow."

They stare at each other for a little while longer. He smiles, but it's quick and gone the moment she starts to look and see if it's real. And then he's gone a moment later, walking down the length of the table and out the door.

"I saved you a cheesecake!" she calls after him.

He laughs.

The day after Christmas everyone is putting away the wrapping paper and their new things and thinking of all the disappointments and all she can think is, it's over. We survived this year.

He's on the balcony again. Every now and again she hears someone calling up to him and he shouts something back, but it's never clear and the words are almost always garbled. She takes the expedient route of going through the door and joining him on the balcony.

"Joie," she says.

"Shut up."

They lean their arms on the railing and she tries not to look at him, and maybe he's trying not to look at her. It happens. Side by side for now, she'll look up and see him again as she jogs past on her circuit around the building. He'll pass her by in the library and look through the doorway.

It happens.

"Hey, did you..."

He looks at her. The words turn to cornmeal and stick her lips shut.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He shakes his head. Silly girl. Turns around to go through the doorway, out into the hall and for parts unknown.

"Hey."

He looks over his shoulder. "What?"

She points. "Mistletoe."

He snorts. "Don't be an idiot."

And then he's gone.

She doesn't even bother looking for him at the New Years party. She spends a couple hours there in the lights and the migraine-thumping music before she leaves.

The room is dark. The record player scratches out something older, softer. Her hand curls around his shoulder but he knew she was there, and didn't jump. Didn't look around, either.

"Do you want to dance?"

"I don't dance."

"Sway, then."

She's right. It's more swaying than dancing, hand on hip, hand on shoulder. Back and forth, keeping her feet out from under his, keeping her eyes away from his secrets. They fall into the rhythm way too easily.

The first rule of the game is you do not acknowledge the game.

She drops her head to his shoulder and he puts his hand on the back of her head because it's all he knows how to do. Or maybe it's all he allows himself to do. The space between them is filled with static and every now and again words pass through, but not enough of them to count. To matter. To make a difference.

And yet it does matter. It does make a difference.

He shifts from foot to foot and pats her hair. She closes her eyes and tries not to let him feel the tears on his shoulder, partly frustration, partly pride, partly shame. Awkwardness rules. But after so long they don't know any other way, and it's only when they're this close that it feels this much.

Too many feelings and too much static.

She looks up at him and her eyes are dry now, and she's smiling. A quirky little smile. He looks back at her and he doesn't understand, but that's okay. Half the time she doesn't understand him either. They make it work.

He reaches across the space between them and presses her palm with his and their fingers lock. His hand is slender and long, hers is tiny. They're circling each other again. Swaying.

It's Christmas time.

It happens.

Go to the top! For you have reached the bottom.