Everything secret becomes...

Aragorn walked slowly through the snowy streets with his hands in his coat pockets. The wind had completely subsided, a slight frost tingled his nose and cheeks, the snowfall, increasing by the minute, made the city look like a postcard. His shift at the hospital ended at eight in the morning, but he managed to leave work only by noon — doctors always have a lot of work on holidays.       Instead of diving into the subway, into a musty cloud of metal and fuel oil smells, Aragorn decided to walk a few stops. The streets were full of celebration, conversation, music, laughter. The aromas of caramel apples, pastries and coffee wafted from the open doors of the shops, oranges and tangerines were sold from street stalls, and live Christmas trees in tubs stretched out green paws to passers-by. Even the annoying promoters handing out useless waste paper that settles in nearby bins did not cause irritation today — dressed as Santa Claus, they wished Merry Christmas and all the best, shouted ‘ho ho ho’ and danced to the rhythm of Sinatra.       The face of one of these young old men in red suits seemed familiar to Aragorn. He even took a few steps back and held out his hand for the leaflet a second time. There was no doubt left. It was Boromir.       Aragorn moved into a new flat not so long ago, he was not familiar with all the neighbours yet, but he noticed this particular neighbour right away. The door of his flat overlooked the same landing, several times he had the opportunity to exchange greetings in the morning, hold the elevator, sometimes Aragorn borrowed tools from him — repairs, as you know, cannot be completed, you can only stop. Boromir did not give the impression of an overly friendly person, he was silent, reserved, but never refused a request. But he stopped attempts to help him, grumbling: ‘Go where you’re going.’ After being reprimanded, Aragorn retreated to a safe distance to make another attempt to approach in a couple of days.       Boromir was young — younger than Aragorn — handsome and endearingly unfriendly. However, perhaps Aragorn thought his grumbling was cute because he liked Boromir: liked his gray-green eyes, his eternally dishevelled hair, light stubble, hands in patches and scratches, long legs, the stern gaze and amazing bright smile, rare as a ray of sunshine in a cloudy city.       ‘That’s all, the day has gone to—’ Boromir did not finish, snatched the leaflet from the hands of a broadly smiling Aragorn, which he had just shoved at him without looking. ‘No, no, not you.’       ‘Hey, you seem to be handing them out,’ Aragorn reminded him. Boromir cursed him, judging by his expression, but returned the paper. ‘A shelter for dogs?’ Aragorn read the advertisement. ‘Aren’t you a dog handler at the police department? ’       ‘Yes. Besides, I…’ Boromir waved a stack of flyers in his hand. In the other he had an iron jar with a drawing of a one-eyed dog with a bandaged paw.       ‘Okay, I want to donate to the shelter,’ Aragorn readily responded and pulled out a crumpled bill from his pocket, not a very large amount, but clearly more than the one that was already ringing in the jar.       Boromir silently accepted the donation and just as silently pointed out the direction where the good Samaritan should now go. Aragorn restrained the invitation that almost escaped from his lips to warm up and drink coffee, judging by the whitened lips, the valiant volunteer was already thoroughly frozen. Aragorn simply walked into the nearest coffee shop, took a large glass of hot coffee and shoved it into Boromir’s hand, passing by for the third time. And finally, he went home to sleep.       In the evening, he was woken up by the doorbell. A guy in a courier’s uniform asked if a neighbour was at home — he did not answer the phone and knock on the door. Aragorn looked at the landing. At that very moment, the courier’s phone rang, he picked up the receiver, muttered ‘yeah, uh-huh, okay,’ dropped the call and left the package on the doorstep.       ‘He said he would come out to pick it up himself and there was no need to wait for him,’ the young man shrugged his shoulders and called the elevator, his work was over and it was not his concern to find out why the customer was unable to get to the door.       Aragorn felt alarmed, and all his fears were confirmed when the neighbour’s door opened and a sleepy Boromir appeared on the doorstep, sniffling loudly. He was in crumpled pyjamas, with a crumpled face, even shaggier than usual, with the heavy gaze of a man with a deep cold.       ‘I am not at all surprised. Not everyone is healthy enough to hand out leaflets in the cold,’ Aragorn grumbled, watching him from his doorstep.       ‘Fuck you,’ Boromir snapped. The message was ruined by a dull, weakening tone. ‘I’ll be fine tomorrow.’       ‘Do you have any medicine? Should I go to the pharmacy?’       Boromir silently picked up the package and slammed the door, ignoring the questions. Aragorn closed his door, went to the cabinet with the first-aid kit, rummaged through the bins. A shoemaker without boots, as they say — the first-aid kit contained scalpels, bandages, butterfly needles, clamps, a pack of sterile gloves and a blister of expired paracetamol.       Driven by the sudden urge to save someone in need of help, even against his will, Aragorn dressed hastily and ran to the pharmacy on duty, which was just around the corner. He bought cold powders, drops for a runny nose, throat lozenges just in case, and a pack of handkerchiefs. And at the convenience store next door, I bought hot chocolate in packets.       Boromir did not immediately open the door again. He still looked unhappy and pale, stared at Aragorn in surprise and did not even notice the package in his hands. And when he realised that the medicine had been brought to him, he recoiled, as if afraid. Aragorn did not listen to the objections.       ‘Take some mixtures, eat something tasty and go to bed.’       ‘How much do I owe you for this?’ Boromir asked, looking at the bundle and its contents in dismay.       ‘Just follow the doctor’s recommendation,’ Aragorn said with warmth in his voice. ‘Otherwise, the dog shelter will be orphaned.’       ‘I’m just cold,’ Boromir muttered, as if justifying himself, took the package, and nodded gratefully, slammed the door. Aragorn suspected that he would refuse to take medicine out of spite.       All the next day Boromir was neither seen nor heard. Aragorn wanted to call him, but then decided that he was being too intrusive; after all, no one had ever died of a trivial cold, and Boromir had enough worried friends.       And when Aragorn returned after another day in the hospital, he found a box of already cold pizza at his door. Even warmed up, it turned out to be incredibly tasty, largely because an adhesive sticker was glued to the lid of the box with the inscription ‘Thank you for saving me, B.’       Meanwhile, Christmas was fast approaching. Streets and shopping malls were dressed up for the holiday with such zeal that it seemed as if a herd of reindeer had thrown up tinsel on the city.       Aragorn didn’t plan to have a big celebration, but he didn’t refuse to have a cosy Christmas Eve. It was necessary to buy something tasty, and a bottle of good alcohol, to send ice to the freezer, to choose a film. But first, I had to survive the pre-holiday rush.       So on the morning of the twenty-second of December, he bravely drove to the nearest mall, shoving the car in from the edge of the car park so he could get out. As he pushed the cart through the rows, he tried to dodge the people competing in the speed of shopping and to keep his eyes on the shelves so he wouldn’t get distracted by the list.       His attention was sharply drawn to the quiet, unintelligible profanity. The pet food department was unusually empty. There was only one person here, and that was Boromir. In a very interesting pose. Standing on all fours, he was pulling a huge bag of dog food from the lowest shelf. A second one, estimated at fifteen pounds, was already loaded onto the cart.       ‘May I help you?’ Aragorn asked, barely holding back his laughter and frankly admiring the ass presented to his gaze, covered with cosy plaid trousers.       ‘Get lost,’ the owner of the seductive body part growled from the depths of the rack.       He sneezed and pulled out the bag, Aragorn hurried to support the burden, picked it up and threw it into the grocery cart. Boromir got to his feet and carefully dusted off his trousers.       ‘Hi,’ he nodded and shook the outstretched hand. ‘Thanks again for the medicine.’       ‘I got your pizza,’ Aragorn smiled.       They moved between the rows together, pushing carts in front of them. Boromir had more flea drops and a pack of tennis balls, Aragorn a baguette, butter and cherry tomatoes.       ‘This, by the way, was partially bought with your donation,’ Boromir said, nodding at his cart. ‘Just so you know, everything goes to targeted expenses.’       ‘It would never have occurred to me to demand an account,’ Aragorn waved away.       It was noisy and terribly crowded near the ticket offices. Everyone was pushing, swearing, apologising, wishing each other a merry Christmas and choking on holiday cookies.       Aragorn was looking humbly at the long lines when a joyful squeal sounded nearby. Three girls in short skirts (in December? The clients of the urology department), in coloured knee-high socks, club-footed to appear cuter, looked at him and Boromir, giggling.       ‘Mistletoe!’ One of the girls shouted, shamelessly pointing her finger somewhere just above Aragorn’s head.       He looked up. Bells, tinsel, garlands and balloons really hung here and there from the high ceiling of the store. And the mistletoe is artificial or real, the devil knows.       He looked up. There were bells, tinsel, garlands, and balloons hanging from the high ceiling of the store. And mistletoe — artificial or real, it was unclear.‘You have to kiss!’ another girl, in a hat with cat ears, echoed her friend. ‘It’s a tradition!’       Aragorn turned his gaze to Boromir. Judging by the expression on his face, he was going to prove right now that he only loves dogs and generally shares their hatred of cats.       ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss! ’ The nasty, shrill voices rang like a pile of empty cans on the tail of a stray cat.       ‘They won’t shut up,’ Aragorn said softly.       ‘Is it a day off in the children’s department of the madhouse? ’ Boromir muttered. ‘What is the name of this disease? ’       ‘It’s a fashion,’ Aragorn replied with a chuckle.       ‘I refuse to participate in this madness.’       ‘If you can’t beat them, join them,’ Aragorn shrugged. ‘But they won’t shut up.’       Boromir wanted to push his cart, move forward in the queue, but one of the girls put a thin leg in a heavy thick-soled shoe under the wheel.       ‘You… you can’t do this! ’ She said resentfully, as if she hadn’t been shown a long-awaited cartoon. ‘Traditions must be respected! ’       ‘All right,’ Boromir growled, turning to Aragorn. ‘Promise me you’ll never remind me of that.’       He closed his eyes and pressed his tightly compressed lips against Aragorn’s for a moment. It was not even remotely a kiss, but it satisfied the spoiled youth. The girls squealed, clapped their hands and ran off to the sweets department.       The rest of the time in line passed in silence. Boromir waited for Aragorn at the checkout counter, even helped him put his purchases into bags, but did not say a word. Aragorn was the first to speak, and already in the car park.       ‘Can I give you a ride? You don’t have a car, do you? ’       ‘I’ll take a taxi,’ Boromir said, ‘I need to take my purchases to the shelter.’       ‘Well, I could help you take them there.’       ‘For one kiss? ’ Boromir chuckled, but it wasn’t very funny. Aragorn struggled to decipher the emotions in his voice and couldn’t. ‘I’m not such an expensive courtesan.’       ‘You’re a terrible kisser for a courtesan,’ Aragorn nodded. ‘But it was probably the best thing that happened to me in December.’       ‘What a shitty life you have,’ Boromir grumbled and rolled his cart loaded with humanitarian aid for the tailed ones to the exit from the site.       He returned home very late. Aragorn caught himself thinking that he kept listening to the noise on the landing, waiting for the rumble of the elevator and footsteps. He had never changed the door, a very cheap door left by the previous tenants, as thin as cardboard. And now he could hear Boromir sniffing at his door, rustling packages and jingling keys as clearly as if it were his hallway. Aragorn opened the door ajar.       The narrow hallway was almost completely blocked by a Christmas tree. Small, but very lush, sprawling. The rope holding her broke, the tie snapped, the branches flew apart, and now Boromir was desperately trying not to crush the main symbol of the holiday, to enter the house and drag the Christmas tree there.       ‘Let me hold it,’ Aragorn, who arrived in time, picked up the tree to hold it by the top and not let his legs prick. The tree scratched and clung even through his pants.       ‘Thank you,’ Boromir leaned against the wall for a moment, catching his breath. Two grocery bags were visible at the threshold, one with a broken handle. ‘It’s the stupidest impulse buy ever.’       ‘You would rather not put up a Christmas tree? ’       ‘What’s the use? I’m not going to celebrate Christmas here anyway. My father invited me to his place, my brother and uncle will also come there.’ Boromir looked at the ill-fated tree again. ‘Well, at least let it stay until Christmas Eve. Although I have nothing to decorate it with.’       ‘So decorate it with candies,’ Aragorn suggested. ‘In brightly coloured wrappers.’       ‘I’ve already bought them,’ Boromir nodded and kicked one of the bags over the threshold of the open door. He threw the second one after it. Then he took the tree from Aragorn and dragged it into the flat. ‘Thank you,’ he said again and slammed the door shut.       

* * *

On the eve of the holiday, nature was much kinder than its gloomy neighbour. She generously gifted the city with soft snowfalls. It snowed almost non-stop for the second twenty-four hours, and when Aragorn left for work on the twenty-third in the morning, he didn’t recognize the city by evening — he’d gone out for coffee and a hot bun from a bakery a block away from the hospital and barely made it through the snowdrifts. The ambulance guys were arguing in the emergency room — the cars were stuck in the snow, the city was stuck in traffic.       As usual, it was impossible to leave the shift on time in the morning. On Christmas Eve, Aragorn did not get out of the hospital until noon, but he was cheerful — his colleagues drank to Christmas, congratulated those they would not see during the holidays and exchanged gifts.       On the way home, Aragorn stopped at a couple of stores, bought a pie with nuts and candied fruit, and exchanged a few words with acquaintances he met. It was already dark when he reached home, anticipating the couch, old black-and-white comedies, a bottle of scotch… Slipping his hand into his pocket, he found it empty. There was no key to the flat.       It must have been forgotten at work. Or it must have fallen out while Aragorn was taking his gloves out of his pocket. Or fell out where Aragorn slipped and almost fell into the snowdrift with the pie and oranges.       The evening instantly ceased to be magical. Instead of a cosy flat and a collection of classic movies, Christmas was to be celebrated on the landing. As luck would have it, the phone was practically dead: no locksmith or friends to call.       Aragorn stared at the door, wondering in his mind if it was flimsy enough for him to pry it open on his own. Then he thought he could borrow tools from Boromir. Of course! Boromir! He said he was going to his father for Christmas, but he probably was going to spend Christmas Eve at home. He could ask Boromir for a phone charger and… well, at least he could sit on a stool in the hallway instead of on the front steps.       Aragorn rang the next doorbell. The hope of a Christmas miracle flickered in him again, the memory of the pie revived. It was a pity that the scotch had been left in the locked flat, but if Boromir would be so kind as to take in a homeless man for the night, Aragorn would give him a full bottle in the morning.       Boromir did not open the door at once. But when the door did open, casting a ray of light on the desperate wanderer, he did not look sleepy; on the contrary, he was focused, attentive, but not very friendly.       ‘What’s the matter with you? ’ he asked, not bothering to greet his unexpected guest.       ‘I lost my keys,’ Aragorn confessed, smiling and openly admiring. ‘And the phone ran out of battery.’       He briefly outlined the situation he had found himself in. Boromir sighed, raised his eyes to the ceiling, cursed someone in his mind, apparently. Then he waved his hand, inviting the guest into the flat.       ‘Come in,’ he said.       Boromir’s flat was smaller than Aragorn’s, just one room, a kitchen, a tiny hallway, and a narrow, dark corridor jutting into the bathroom. It felt like an attempt to give the place some style, but without a plan, a designer, and a constant maintenance of aesthetics, the flat had long ago become the cosy hole of a clean-cut bachelor.       The large room, divided in two by a high partition of wooden slats, served as both bedroom and living room. There were some vines with dark green openwork leaves running along the partition, and Aragorn even went over to look and touch them — they were real! Boromir, as austere and stern as the watchdogs and service dogs he had trained, was not to be suspected of handling capricious flora.       Behind the partition against the wall was a bed — a small one-and-a-half bed with a high mattress — a bedside table, a suit rack. In the living area there was a sofa, a coffee table, a couple of bookcases and a TV set on a chest of drawers between them. The same impudent Christmas tree stood against the wall, covering the folded clothes dryer that had been pushed into the corner, unceremoniously taking over the space and the heart of the flat owner. On its branches glittered candy in brightly coloured wrappers and homemade paper snowflakes. Aragorn smiled as he imagined Boromir cutting out the snowflakes, sticking his tongue out and flicking the paper off the couch and onto the carpet.       Boromir, inviting his guest to make himself at home, disappeared into the bowels of the flat. Aragorn took the food he had brought into the kitchen, washed the fruit, unwrapped and sliced the pie, and glanced at the refrigerator, wondering if he could be asked to do some cooking in the morning. Boromir still hadn’t shown up. Aragorn set a meal for two in the living room and put his phone on the charger. He thought he saw a crumpled piece of red-green wrapping paper under one of the sofa cushions. It looked like Boromir had already started opening presents.       To get rid of the awkward silence, Aragorn picked up some sort of remote from the couch. A television was a great idea for not too familiar company; you could just stare at the screen and not necessarily talk, at least at first. But the moment Aragorn pressed a couple of buttons in an attempt to figure out the unfamiliar machinery, something strange happened.       The television was still silent. But at the opposite end of the flat there was the sound of something small but fragile falling, the crackle of shattering fragments and a muffled groan.       ‘Boromir? ’ Aragorn called out anxiously. The sound seemed to come from the bathroom. ‘Are you okay? ’       ‘What are you doing?’ Boromir shouted. His voice was muffled by the closed door, but he was angry.       ‘I wanted to turn on the television,’ Aragorn replied.       ‘Don’t touch anything!’       Aragorn found the ‘off’ button on the remote and pressed it. The remote went out. Aragorn, however, had a mad guess as to what those buttons turned on. He reached under the pillow and pulled out a wrapper and a box in a black bag. The box turned out to be from an intimate vibrating toy, the catchy headlines on the insert promising unforgettable sensations for singles and couples, various control transfer games, and new horizons of sensation. Aragorn grinned and turned the toy back on.       For a moment there was silence, Aragorn even thought that Boromir had managed to get rid of the toy. But then there was another muffled groan and a shriek: ‘Turn it off!’ There was no anger in his voice; probably all Boromir’s emotions were now focused on those very ‘new sensations.’ Aragorn suspected that not all of them were pleasant. The only reason Boromir had not yet removed the toy — besides the obvious invitation to bed for an unexpected guest — was the physical impossibility of doing so. It must have been the knock on the door that had caused the fright and the spasm, and if there wasn’t enough lube….       ‘Open the door,’ said Aragorn. He was leaning his shoulder against the wall of the hallway, listening to the noises in the bathroom. ‘I think I’m right; you need the help of a qualified doctor.’       ‘Fuck you,’ muttered a voice outside the door.       ‘You first.’       The lock clicked and the door opened a crack, Aragorn immediately grabbed it and threw it open so that Boromir would not change his mind. He stood holding the edge of the sink with one hand, pale, dishevelled, tense, with a dark blush of shame on his cheekbones.       ‘Has this… thing completely fallen in? ’ Aragorn asked cautiously.       ‘No,’ Boromir replied, looking away. ‘There’s a limiter there. But the base is wide, and I…’       ‘I see. There wasn’t enough lube, apparently.’       ‘There was a baggie included.’       ‘Is that all? ’ Aragorn wondered. ‘You didn’t buy the lube separately? Have you ever done that before?’       ‘Not with toys.’       ‘You should have chosen an anatomically familiar shape,’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘Or did you not choose the gift yourself? ’       ‘Myself,’ Boromir still didn’t look at him, blushing more and more with each phrase. ‘I gave it to myself.’       ‘And opened the gift before its time. You have already been reminded at the supermarket that traditions are important and that failure to observe them leads to unpredictable consequences,’ Aragorn smiled.       Boromir raised his head for the first time in these few minutes and looked at him with a mute promise of all the plagues of Egypt if he did not shut up immediately.       ‘You’ll kill me later,’ Aragorn promised. ‘Now go into the room, undress and lie down on the sofa. And I’ll find something to lubricate you with.’       ‘There’s olive oil in the kitchen,’ Boromir muttered.       ‘That’s great. It’s a pity that you didn’t remember this in advance.’       With another unhappy glare, Boromir walked silently into the room. Silently, but holding on to the wall and shuffling his feet carefully. Aragorn found a bottle of oil in the locker, washed his hands thoroughly, and fetched a towel from the bathroom.       A truly magical sight awaited him in the room by the Christmas tree. On the couch, face down into the cushions, as if hoping to suffocate and avoid embarrassment, lay a ravishing, half-naked man. The elastic band of his pyjama pants was pulled down just below his buttocks, and a pillow was placed under his thighs.       ‘Take off your shirt, please,’ said Aragorn.       Boromir raised himself, gave a questioning look, sighed in doom, pulled off his shirt and threw it on the floor in a clump. Aragorn picked it up and spread it on the back of the couch. He stared at the picture and the inscription, which he had seen for the first time that evening. The portrait of Sigmund Freud with a cup of tea was accompanied by the intriguing phrase ‘everything secret becomes a neurosis.’       ‘Wisely put, Mr. Psychoanalyst,’ said Aragorn. There was an unintelligible muttering from somewhere in the cushions, where Boromir had stuck his head like an ostrich. ‘I beg your pardon?’       ‘I wish I’d gone to surgery this morning,’ Boromir growled. ‘They would have laughed at me there. No lectures!’       ‘Okay, I’ll be quiet,’ Aragorn replied with a warm chuckle.       He settled on the couch between Boromir’s spread legs, poured some oil on his hands, warmed them, and placed his palms on his buttocks. The tip of the insidious toy glistened in the hollow between, a round plaque that looked like a doorknob with a crystal. Just pull it and the gates of paradise would open… The romantic nonsense of tabloid novels shone with new colours. The excitement Aragorn felt was also new, not bright, strong to the point of pain, making the blood pound in his temples, but warm, even, like a candle flame, warming, it demanded lasting tenderness, not a quick release.       Instead of forcibly retrieving the toy or diligently kneading the muscles clutching it, Aragorn began to gently stroke Boromir’s hips, loins, and back. He murmured something surprised, but did not protest. His white shoulders, sprinkled with freckles, attracted Aragorn as much as his rounded, firm buttocks. The most difficult thing was not to start pressing the groin against Boromir while the neck and back massage was going on. Aragorn squeezed and massaged several points at the base of the skull, for which he was rewarded with a quite moan.       Then he moved on to the shoulder blades and shoulders, rubbing, kneading, warming. The pink skin, in the faint sheen of absorbed oil, resembled expensive marble, shining like a mirror in the skilful hands of a master. Boromir was breathing deeply and evenly, he seemed to have completely calmed down. His tense body became flexible, responding to the caress and warmth, he did not hesitate to spread his knees apart to give Aragorn access to the inside of his thighs. However, Aragorn deliberately did not touch his groin, so as not to cause a new spasm when overexcited.       The clock on the wall ticked, the garland on the Christmas tree twinkled with little golden stars, midnight was approaching. Freud watched the two men from the back of the sofa with a condescending smile. Boromir’s pyjama pants had long ago been lying in the corner behind the cushions, Aragorn’s jumper there as well — the room had become too warm. Aragorn stroked his kneecaps and the veins under his knee with sensitive fingers, pressed his palms on his calf muscles, forcing the blood to rise through his veins, taking the fatigue and heaviness with it. Finished with his left leg, did the same with his right and moved back up to his thighs, trustingly spread.       The spasm of the anal sphincter was gone, the ring of muscle glistening from the oil, trembling but no longer clenched around the toy. Aragorn poured more oil, stroking gently, sliding and lifting the edges until two fingers fell inside. Aragorn fumbled with the wide base of the toy, added more oil, lubricated the walls of the hole inside and the plug itself as far as he could reach without causing discomfort, and gently pulled the toy out. It came out almost effortlessly.       It was something that looked like a beet — dark purple in colour, rounded, rather large at the base, with a long flexible tip that probably vibrated when the buttons on the remote were pressed. With proper skill, such an ingenious contraption could really give pleasure, stimulating the prostate, stretching receptors and walls with the stylus and small pimples. For the newcomer, however, it was predictably embarrassing.       ‘That’s it, you’re saved,’ Aragorn said quietly, leaning over to Boromir and kissing the back of his neck.       He doubted Boromir would hear him; he had hardly moved for the last half hour and seemed completely relaxed, as if asleep. But he immediately opened his eyes like an awakened dragon, turned his head and stared at the toy in his hands as if it were his personal enemy. Then he turned his gaze to Aragorn.       ‘Where are you going?’ he asked demandingly. Aragorn was already getting up from the sofa, putting the toy on the table.       ‘I want to bring you pants,’ Aragorn replied artlessly.       ‘You’d better take yours off.’ Boromir turned around, stretched, arched his body like a cat, and lay back on the pillows with his knees apart. ‘Do you need a special invitation?’       ‘Are you sure?’ Aragorn asked with doubt and inner glee.       ‘I had orgasms planned for tonight. You were planning to spend the evening off the landing. I’ve been raped by an electric lover and you’ve lost your keys. Plans ruined and jumbled, but we can still have fun, right?’       ‘You don’t need an electric lover,’ said Aragorn, kneeling by the sofa and leaning towards Boromir’s face. ‘The real one lives behind the wall, it was enough to knock on the next door.’       This kiss was very different from the kiss under the mistletoe in the store. It was deep, slow, sensual, inflaming passion and promising continuation. They made love on the carpet because the sofa was too small and narrow. Aragorn took, then more gently and lovingly, then aggressively and roughly, Boromir gave himself, willingly and consciously resisting. Freud was smiling at them from the back of the sofa, the tree was stabbing Aragorn in the small of the back.       They only woke up when they heard the popping of fireworks outside. The clock showed five past midnight, Christmas had come. Aragorn cuddled Boromir, his head on his shoulder, sniffling as if he were about to fall asleep. Aragorn shook him awake.       ‘Let’s at least have some champagne,’ he said.       ‘The bottle is in the kitchen in an ice bucket. Probably in the water bucket now. When you get there, grab a glass for me.’       ‘Won’t you get up?’       ‘Nope,’ Boromir rolled off Aragorn’s shoulder and tried to kick his knee toward the kitchen. ‘Bring it to me here, under the tree.’       From the outside, it would seem that these two were ungodly drunk on a holy holiday. That was true but they were drunk with each other. They drank the warm champagne naked on the rug under the tree, Boromir tossing the cork of the bottle into the face of an overly understanding Freud.       In the morning, Aragorn called the lock-opening service, Boromir confirmed to the specialists that the flat owner and his neighbour were indeed in front of them, and Aragorn was finally let into his own home. He changed his clothes, grabbed a whiskey, a turkey from the refrigerator, the leftover pie and went out onto the landing, where Boromir was waiting for him. They had gone together to his father’s house in the country to celebrate Christmas.