Page 141 of The Gaybor War

Clearly, I have made terrible life choices. And I wouldn’t undo a single one.

That night, we set up the tree in Benji’s living room. It’s worse than I imagined.

Thirteen tiers of synthetic pine, stacked like a glittering rainbow wedding cake, each layer a different shade—hot pink bleeding into orange, into yellow, into green, into electric blue and deep, moody purple. The branches shimmer with embedded glitter, as if a craft store exploded. Colored lights pulse softly across the whole thing, cycling through patterns that leave me dizzy.

And then there are the ornaments. Glass baubles. Neon stars. Mini disco balls. And leather harnesses. And—God help me—a collection of Daddy Santa ornaments, each one wearing some variation of BDSM leather with tiny, molded abs glinting beneath strategically placed belts.

I stare long and hard. "I’m not even going to ask," I finally say.

Benji snickers. "Smart."

"This is… a lot."

He plants his hands on his hips and surveys the monstrosity proudly. "It’s festive."

"It’s aggressive."

"It’s celebratory, Carter. Loosen up."

"It’s a cry for help."

"It’s iconic."

I glance between his rainbow fever dream and my own tree across the street—tall, green, symmetrical, and draped in warm white lights and glass ornaments collected over decades. It shines like a beacon of tasteful serenity through the living room windows. A tree that whispers peace on earth.

His screams Daddy issues.

"Isn’t this a little much?"

"Seriously?" he shoots back. "Your tree is so… white."

"It’s elegant."

"It’s boring."

"It’s classic."

"It’s emotionally unavailable."

I gesture at his. "Yours looks like a gay pride parade collided with a sex shop."

"I’m gay," he deadpans. "It’s got personality. Like me. Yours is very regulation-coded."

"And yours is a violation."

"Thank you," he says proudly.

I shake my head, fighting a smile. "Someone needs to jingle your bells."

His gaze slides to mine, slow and deliberate. "I was kind of hoping it’d be you."

I snort, because that’s safer than kissing him. "You’re impossible."

He steps closer, fingertips brushing mine as he reaches for another ornament.

"And yet, here you are. In my glitter dungeon. Arguing about Christmas trees."

I look around at the rainbow lights. At the absurd leather-clad Santas dangling from synthetic pine. And then I look at him.