Page 4 of His for Hanukkah

“Harder.”

He gave it another shove, pushing it into the wall. Tate crowded behind him, his presence powerful even without touching him. Heat flashed through Adam’s body. He followed Tate’s non-verbal command and stepped closer to the box.

“Again.”

Adam kicked the box. The side dented. He kicked it again, the festive paper tearing under his foot as he ripped through dozens of smiling Santas.

He attacked from the top, grinding the ribbon under his dirty boots. He felt angry and powerful and free.

He vaguely noticed that his shoulders felt lighter and some part of his brain registered that Tate was pulling off his coat. He didn’t care.

He kicked the box again.

Then he was smashing the box. Destroying it. Pounding every minute of anger and loneliness and confusion into the flimsy cardboard. Making it hurt the way the world was hurting him. One kick after another, until his legs felt wobbly and his toes started to hurt.

The box came apart, flattened into the ground. There was nothing more to kick. But he still wasn’t done.

He didn’t even know what done would look like, but he was pissed that the box had given out before his rage.

There was a flash of red and he turned his head. Tate was holding a new box against the wall at chest height, his hands securing it above and below.

Tate gave him a brusque nod and Adam didn’t wait for a second invitation.

Drawing back a fist, he slammed it into the box. Anger consumed him. Burning and horrible and weirdly satisfying all at once.

He’d literally never punched anything in his life, and he was surprised that his hand hurt, but not surprised enough to stop.

He drew back the other fist. The cardboard on this box was thicker, barely dented from his punch. He scratched at the paper, pulling it off and hurling it away.

Somewhere in there, he realized he was yelling. “I don’t want to have a merry Christmas. I don’t fucking celebrate Christmas! I’m Jewish. I’m not invisible! Putting up a fucking menorah is not the same. Jews don’t even give a shit about Hanukkah.

“Does anyone ever wish me a happy Purim? No!” He punctuated his shouts with punches. “Does anyone ask if I have somewhere to go for Pesach? No!”

This was the rant he kept in his head, all through the Christmas season. And now it was coming out. “Does anyone bring me apples and honey for Rosh Hashanah? No! Does anyone wish me a good fast on Yom Kippur? No!”

He tore the looping ribbon off the top. “Does anyone help me build a goddamn sukkah? No! All I get is fucking Happy Hanukkah, like Hanukkah is its own. Fucking. Religion.”

The box gave out and his hand hit the wall, stinging his already bruised knuckles.

Suddenly it was all too much. His anger departed, leaving him hollow and splintered. He fell to the floor, sobbing and surrounded by the mess he had created.

Then, somehow, he was in Tate’s arms, balling and sniffling into his muscular chest. He wasn’t thinking or screaming any more, just wailing out his storm of rage and abandonment and self-pity.

Feelings swirled around him and through him, as if he didn’t exist anymore except as a conduit for his emotions. His sobs shook him, shook everything.

He cried because of Christmas and Hanukkah and being off his schedule and being invisible. He cried for his distant parents, his failed relationship with Jacob, and his years of being alone.

He cried for his damaged hoodie and the new one that wasn’t soft enough. He cried because he didn’t have a Daddy. And mostly, he cried because he couldn’t fix any of it.

When the storm passed, his throat was scratchy and his eyes hurt, but not as much as his scratched and aching hands.

He became slowly aware of gentle caresses along his back and fingers trailing through his hair. Tate’s whispered words drifted to his ear, quite assurances and words of care.

Tate’s arms were holding him tightly, and his legs were bent sideways over one of Tate’s outstretched thighs, their bodies tangled together. Somehow, even though he knew he was taller than Tate by a good three or four inches, he felt small and enveloped.

He snuggled in further to Tate’s shoulder. He didn’t just feel held. He felt safe. Comforted. Tate had somehow done the impossible and given him exactly what he needed. He felt renewed, washed clean of all of his anger and fear.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” Tate’s voice was soft and low.