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As the calendar rolled inexorably toward what those in the United States refer to as "the holiday season," I found myself anticipating it - for the first time in years - with joy instead of dread. It's a time of year when every breath taken seems to be tinted with the insistence of sharing everything with someone special, and having been alone for so many years (my own parents both gone, my only sister far away and very slightly estranged, and I'm willing to take a full share of blame for lack of effort), I'd usually become more of a Scrooge than I'd like to be. With Aleksandr sharing with me the center of my world, I found myself with an immense amount of energy, affection, and puckish desire to do fun things for everyone I knew. Besides, after my usually grumpy attitude during November, when I'm in the throes of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), it made for a nice change for those around me.

Part of the reason for my glee was that I had someone to plan with. Over the first half of the month, Aleksandr and I went through entire lists of friends and acquaintances, hoping to find reasons to tease and delight the whole bunch. At the top of the list were our neighbors, Sylvie and Maggers, who we knew were going to have an open house from "noonish to sixish, after which we hope to shut down the house and get away from polite company." We invited them to share a movie with us that same evening, figuring that we could be as impolite as necessary. They accepted with precisely the right amount of sarcasm.

Aleksandr told me that we'd have the whole day together. I was concerned that he might be ignoring his family - who lived within an hour's drive, after all - but he assured me that this wasn't the case. "For Russians," he explained, "New Year's Day is the greater festival - cooking, gathering, celebrating the old year's accomplishments and readying yourself for the new. And that's why I want you to meet my family on New Year's Day." He smiled and kissed me softly. "I expect you to be part of my future."

My actions after he said that helped him to believe that it wouldn't be a problem. I won't go into details, other than to say that significant quantities of mutual toe-curling were very definitely involved.

The rest of our family - Dasher and Reed - would come by for a nice Pagan Old Year's Day dinner on the 21st. The next day, they would be driving to stay with Reed's family for the holidays. Since Dasher's family had more or less disowned him, I was very glad to learn that Reed's were expected to make a great fuss over him. Aleksandr, who had been with Reed at this time last year, assured me that the family would take very good care of our "adopted" cheetah, perhaps especially after Aleksandr's call to Reed's mother. The lady panther was concerned about the separation of her son from the great lion, but all remained friends long after. She teased Aleksandr about being "the one that got away," but after Aleksandr's high praise for Reed's new love, she was well prepared to meet and like Dasher.

I can't say that I was either serious or kind when I suggested to my lion that we arrange to have a gift sent to Roy, his German shepherd ex, who was now in jail awaiting trial for a brutal attack upon Dasher. Even on the "fast track" (a poor move on the pup's part), it wasn't likely that the trial would take place before mid-January. When Aleksandr asked me what I had in mind as a gift, I came up with Dale Carnegie's book How to Win Friends and Influence People. Grinning, the lion fetched me a Gibbs-slap. Just to prove that I wasn't the only one with a mean streak, however, my lovely, wicked lion suggested frilly panties and some stockings. Needless to say, we sent nothing; it's bad form for witnesses for the prosecution to offer gifts to the defendant.

With Aleksandr to help, decorating the interior and exterior of the house became fun again. I broke out the 26-point Moravian star and, with my lion's deft-fingered assistance, assembled the 21" diameter beastie in almost no time at all. He'd grown up with one in the family, an old kit made of thick paper instead of the newer light plastic assemblies. I looked up my source on the Internet - theSalem Baking Company, in Winston-Salem, North Carolina - and used the opportunity to order several tins of the delicious, thin Moravian cookies (in several varieties) along with a new star for him to present to his parents as an early Christmas present from both of us.

The eaves of the house were trimmed with white icicle lights, and the thick boughs of the dwarf spruce trees out front were decorated with gently shifting multi-color strings of lights and (to my delight) some large bows that Aleksandr had found somewhere. The Moravian star hung with pride of place above the front door, inside the small portico to the house, softly illuminated from within and intended to be left through January 6 - Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, depending upon who you ask. Although I've always loved the smell of a real pine or fir tree, I have spent my adult life helping to keep forests as forests rather than a cheap means to make a buck once a year. I found a spectacular and very realistic-looking fake tree a few years ago; Aleksandr approved happily as we put it together, enjoying the process - boughs, lights, garlands, ornaments, icicles, angel on top. The superior aromas of candles from Yankee Candle provided the necessary scents. I dared to make a suggestion, blushing madly through my black fur, and my wonderful, loving, romantic lion kissed me warmly at the idea. From that moment, we were on the lookout for an ornament to celebrate our first WinterFest together.

It was an immense temptation to smother Aleksandr with gifts. All I had to do was page through the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog, and I could find a dozen things I thought he'd enjoy. It was even worse with some of the other catalogs like Bits and Pieces (jigsaw and other puzzles), Wireless, Brookstone, Betty's Attic, and Things You Never Knew Existed. I'm a list-maker by birth, but I knew that I might end up leaving the list out where he could find it... and besides, it would have taken up an entire notebook. Eventually, I did settle upon a couple of good presents, and I was able to indulge the rest of my new family and friends quite sufficiently. I can be a clever old bear when it's warranted.

As we spent more and more of our time together, cautiously approaching the idea of actually moving in together sometime in the new year, I came to realize two things simultaneously. One was that I really had no good place to hide his presents where he wouldn't find them. The other was that it was foolish to try to hide them, because we're both adults, and we would respect an admonition not to look in one place or another for gifts before it's time to give them. For that reason, Aleksandr agreed that it would be more convenient for him to bring his gifts for me and the various members of our extended family into the house so that he could wrap them at his leisure and have them available for the day itself. I completely supported the idea. And even though it was my own house, and I'd lived there for several years, I never did figure out where the hell he hid that stash...

Blame it on my OCD if you wish, but certain things have to happen during my holiday season, or I feel somehow cheated. Of all the fine versions of Dickens' A Christmas Carol, my favorite is still the 1984 George C. Scott rendition; Aleksandr hadn't seen it, so we set aside an evening for it, and he enjoyed the all-star cast as much as I do. My DVD copies of the TV specials of A Charlie Brown Christmas and the original, animated How the Grinch Stole Christmas must be played during the season. I had watched them on TV every year since they debuted, and I purchased them as soon as they were available. Without Dolly Madison and Coke to spoil the intervals, I now get to enjoy a bit of my remote cubhood without having to get on my soapbox about corporate sponsorship and seasonal greed. It also removes the temptation to succumb to those sugary treats, and Aleksandr is nothing if not vigilant where my health is concerned. After a lovely dinner at my home on Christmas Eve night, we settled in on the couch with our comforter wrapped around us. We had prepared a naturally-sweet gingerbread chai and spent some carbs on a few of his fresh-baked shortbread cookies - whole grain and slightly less sugar than most recipes making a better and equally delicious choice for us. He took that moment to remind me that, if I worked out with him more often, I could have more of his cookies. Even without the double entendre, it was an all too tempting offer.

Before bed, we checked NORAD to see where Santa Claus was currently visiting, then we each brought out our Christmas stockings. I had long since lost the one I'd had as a cub, replacing it about a dozen years or so ago when I found a lovely one at an Eddie Bauer Home shop one season. Aleksandr's looked paw-made rather than machined. "My Aunt Sophia made this for me, a long time ago. She died the following summer. Before she left, she and my mother told me that she'd always make sure that Santa put in something special from her." He looked a little embarrassed for a moment. "For a young kit, especially that first year, it was something particularly special to look forward to. Even after I knew that it wasn't really Ded Moroz who filled my stocking each year..."

"Dead who?" I grinned. "Is this the Russian Santa Claus?"

"Exactly," Aleksandr nodded, smiling. "I'm sort of surprised that you'd not come across Grandfather Frost in some of your readings. He's a fine white Russian sable, not from the North Pole but from the far distant town of Veliky Ustyug in northwestern Russia. He carries a tall staff to help him in his treks through the winter environs. His sleigh is pulled by three Russian horses in a troika; Russian horses are so strong that three do the work of eight reindeer." He grinned. "Grandfather wears valenki¸ tall leather boots, to protect his legs and hind paws from the snow. He also delivers gifts on New Year's Eve, rather than Christmas Eve - remember me telling you how New Year's is actually a bigger holiday for Russians? - but with all of the Father Christmas and Santa Claus images about, the family generally shifted everything to fit the country we'd come to live in."

"I know you said that your family has a classic nutcracker. Might you have something of Grandfather Frost as well?"

"An ornament on the tree," my lion said with a bit of blush, his tail twitching slightly. He grinned. "I broke it one year, when I was little. Well, okay, when I was young."

"I see you're keeping up on your Garfield jokes!" I chuckled. "What happened?"

"A little brotherly roughhousing that got out of hand, and I spun right into the tree and nearly knocked the whole thing down. The only ornament that fell was Grandfather; he broke into several pieces, which we rescued, but the damage was done. I was certain that I'd never again get another present. That ornament was older even than I was, as much a part of the family, I felt. I ran to my room and cried all that night." A rueful smile on the lion's muzzle. "What was that you said about Russians being a passionate people?"

I reached out to squeeze his arm. "Tell me what happened. Were your parents angry?"

"Only about the roughhousing, reminding us not to be so careless in the house, that kind of thing. No one said anything about presents. On Christmas Day, when we would get gifts from each other, family, friends, etc. - the usual American celebration - I got a special box that said it was from 'One Who Knows.' When I opened it, I found that it was a complete model building kit - not a model itself, mind you, but all of the tools, brushes, tiny pots of paint, glue, the whole works. My mother, just as if she hadn't known what was in the box, exclaimed that maybe I could fix Grandfather after all."

His smile told me everything, but I wanted to hear the words. "And you did...?"

"I did," he nodded, his tail swaying gently with the memory. "With my brother's help, we patched up the ornament, repainted him carefully, and had him ready for New Year's Eve. And on New Year's Day, I found the most beautiful Ded Moroz-style scarf I'd ever seen. I think my Aunt Sophia made it for me; she had no idea I was going to grow up to be this big."

I smiled one of my particularly knowing smiles, and Aleksandr returned it with his best what-are-you-up-to-now looks. I shook my head and kissed my lion tenderly on the lips. "You know, if we don't fall asleep, Santa won't come."

He kissed my nose, grinning. "Well, I guess we'd better fall asleep then. I certainly wouldn't want him to not come."

Arm in arm, we retired to the bedroom, offering utterly obvious double-entendres regarding various Freudian aspects of chimneys, testing stockings by feel, inserting presents, and Santa leaving something behind. It's amazing how a childhood legend becomes so much more fun when you have someone in your life to make such egregious jokes and puns with. We cuddled together, laughing softly, nuzzling each other as lovers will do, and occasionally listening for sleigh bells until sleep finally overtook us.

* * * * * * * * * *

The story goes that, during an invited talk, author Somerset Maugham said, "There are advantages to growing old." After that, he paused for such a very long time that a member of the audience spoke up and asked if he were all right. "I'm fine," he said quietly musing, "I was just trying to think of one."

In my case, the advantage was one helped along by drinking a large quantity of water the night before. As predicted, my bladder awoke me in the (you should pardon the expression) wee hours of the morning. I don't often need to get up to answer the call, but I'd done it often enough that I didn't waken Aleksandr (or at least he didn't let on that I'd done so), and I padded as silently as a creaky old bear can, down to the bathroom first, and then into my workroom to retrieve my Santa-goodies for my sweet lion.

At the fireplace, where our stockings were indeed hung with care (no jokes about my lion being similarly so, please!), I proceeded to fill his as best I could with the various goodies I'd found, leaving one gift hung about the stocking itself. I saw that my own stocking was still empty, but instead of disappointment, I simply grinned; the sneaky cat knew that I'd be tempted to look long before daylight, and truth told, it was better that some temptations weren't put in my path. I looked over my work, decided that Wenceslas would be satisfied, and went back to my bed, where a for-all-I-knew still-dozing lion had kept everything very warm indeed. It took little time for me to fall back to sleep, not necessarily dreaming of dancing sugar plums, but perhaps of some wonderful, sweet things of a similar size...

* * * * * * * * * *

I woke some little while later to something gently tapping my muzzle, the tangy scent of it slowly becoming recognizable. I smiled, blinking my eyes to confirm the identification of the tiny bundle of mistletoe being held by a large blue forepaw just above my head. I rolled over to see Aleksandr grinning at me, and I took the great lion into my arms and kissed him warmly. "Happy Christmas, my lovely," I whispered to him.

"Happiest yet," he said, and kissed me yet again. Pulling back slightly, he grinned at me. "Isn't this the point where the kids come running in to break up the romantic moment?"

"Good job we haven't got any, enit?" I leaned in to nuzzle the great indigo ruff of his luxurious mane as he laughed and giggled slightly, his arms wrapped tightly around me. We cuddled and kissed and took our time as the day dawned brightly through the slightly-parted window curtains. It had snowed during the night, just enough for kids to make snowballs, snow angels, maybe a small snowman, enough to be pretty but not enough to have to be moved with a snow thrower. Just enough... the perfect Christmas Day snow. I couldn't begin to count the ways in which I felt so fortunate in those moments.

"Hey," I said at last, "think Santa left us anything in our stockings? Ya know, besides coal?"

"In this economy? We could figure out how to burn the coal." He chuckled wickedly. "Let's go find out."

Even when you know where the goodies really come from, there's still something magical about seeing a Christmas stocking full of yet-unknown treats and presents hanging from the mantle irons just as if some otherwise mythical, mystical being had come by to fill them. My own stocking was clearly overflowing, but I held back a moment since Aleksandr's first gift was clearly visible; it hung draped over his stocking, the colors and configuration announcing its identity long before he padded over to get it. He gasped as if he'd not seen it before (surely he had, when he filled mine, but it was still great fun to watch) and went to unfurl it. I'd found the pattern online, and I found someone to paw-make a genuine Fourth Doctor Who scarf of sufficient length. My lion is a good head taller than actor Tom Baker, so I didn't think that five meters was too outrageous for him. The original, after all, had once gotten as long as nearly seven-and-a-half. Grinning ear to ear, he donned it, adjusting the loop around his copious mane and ruff.

"Veddy good, Mahs-tah!" I did my best imitation of John Leeson's "K-9" and bowed to him.

"How did you ever...?"

"There are patterns on the Internet, and I found someone willing to knit it if I paid for the yarn. Nice young Husky lass working in the departmental office this semester. She's a Whovian too, so it's worked out well."

We each took our stockings to the sofa, planted ourselves, and started to dig through. I found a scattering of Lindt truffles, in various much-loved flavors, amid the rest of the goodies; Aleksandr only suggested that it might be best to savor one or two at a time with meals, so that they wouldn't spike my blood sugar. I had a chance to respond to that when he discovered a half-dozen genuine Russian sugar soya bars, each properly wrapped. "Where did you find these?"

"I have my sources," I grinned. "Remember, those things are all but pure sugar! Workouts are mandatory!"

"Anything in mind?" he smirked back at me.

"Keep digging."

Amid the soya bars, some wrapped pastilles, and traditional bits like chestnuts, a Clementine or two, a few plums, and a particularly nice peppermint stick, he finally found it, and withdrew the small plastic bottle almost smirking. "Aunt Sophia would blush crimson."

"You could tell her it's for keeping the toy train's wheels from getting rusty."

"More like keeping the piston from overheating."

"My boyfriend started smoking, so I slowed down and applied lube."

"Stealing all the good quotes, I see."

"But of course!" I hesitated, looked away. "I think there might be one last something down in the toe."

My lion's forepaw was too large to push down into the depths of the stocking without making it bend quite out of shape, so he felt the boxy shape from the outside and maneuvered it carefully toward the top. He took it out and held it by the thin looped cord that allowed it to dangle and twirl from his fingers.

"I remembered what you said to me on the night that we shared our first kiss," I smiled happily. "Just as you were leaving, you told me that you would return in the morning. You said, 'I've found you, my sweet bear. Through all of space and time, I've finally found you. I'm not going to lose you now. I promise you that, dorogoy.' And in honor of that, I thought this might make a good ornament to celebrate our first Christmas together."

"Through all of space and time," he repeated, gazing at the tree ornament, the hint of a tear in his golden eye. The miniature blue police call box spun on its cord, and he noticed the tiny button on its base. As he pushed it, the sound of the dematerializing TARDIS came through its tiny imbedded speaker, and we both laughed. Without hesitation, he rose and found a spot on the tree that showcased it perfectly. I joined him near the tree, and he took me in his arms and kissed me for a very long and tender moment. Afterward, he pressed me against him, my cheek against the luxuriously thick ruff of his indigo mane, his chin resting atop my head, my arms wrapped around him in a passionate embrace. "I love you, Tristan."

"I love you, my sweet Aleksandr."

And in the midst of this perfect, tender, romantic moment, my belly gurgled.

Since it's us, we collapsed upon each other in a fit of laughter, which meant of course that the perfect, tender, romantic moment was now even more perfectly sealed into our memories. We retired to the kitchen, where I made a comparatively light breakfast for the two of us, seeing that we were to be spending our afternoon delicately gorging on Sylvie's culinary delights. Aleksandr was careful to keep food from getting onto his scarf, and he seemed relieved to know that it was washable (cold water, gentle cycle, Woolite, and air dry). Recharging our mugs with hot gingerbread chai, we retired to the living room again to open what presents we had under the tree.

It was just the two of us; we had gifts from friends around the world who had mailed sweet tokens to us in time for the holidays, and we had a few things for each other as well. My present from Reed and Dasher told me that we'd picked the right kits to be part of our family. The slinky-looking, black male thong could only have fit Aleksandr (Reed would, naturally, know the right size); the note inside read, "Put them on him, tear them off him - your choice." Aleksandr's gift from them was a high-value gift card to Barnes & Noble inside a paperback volume jokingly called The Gentleman's Guide to the Golden Age of Blowjobs. The note read, "This is to remind you that, if you haven't got your nose stuck in a book, there's an even better place to stick it." I heartily endorsed the sentiment.

Aleksandr remembered my passing wish to know a bit more about his own work and skills, so he had found a book and CD-ROM set that promised to teach me Python in record time. Knowing my penchant for brightly-colored, almost Hawaiian-style scrub shirts, he packaged a pair of beautiful designs into a perfectly wrapped box labeled "Loca Kine Grinz, Two Scoop!" For him, a play-toy for his office - a miniature missile launcher that would plug into his USB drive and fire small foam-rubber darts at his coworkers. And knowing that he was considering getting out of the programming side of things, I gave him a comprehensive study book for the CCNA certification. It was, in some ways, a very practical sort of Christmas.

We whiled away the time enjoying the quiet of the morning, making or fielding a few phone calls from distant friends and relatives, and - brainiacs that we are - nosing through our new computer books. A few minutes after noon, the house phone rang. Upon answering, I was issued the royal command by His Majesty of Next Door that our tails (and all attached accoutrements) were expected in his kingdom at once if not sooner.

"Do you mind if we get dressed first?" I asked him.

"Actually, yes, I do mind, but I should probably think of my other guests... especially Benedict."

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"No, he wouldn't, but Aleksandr wouldn't be the least bit safe. I'm already trying to figure out how to safeguard the various rooms so that he won't sneak off with some young visiting male."

"Won't Eoin keep him in check?"

"One Saluki against all of Benedict? You do the math. See you shortly."

We dressed smartly but not too warmly, since we were after all only having to walk next door. Aleksandr was decked out in his Whovian scarf (as if I'd let him appear without it?), and I brought out my favorite (and only) velour shirt-jacket from its long summer hibernation. Pausing only to get a wrapped tray from the fridge, we made our way to the festivities in short order.

Sylvie answered the door. The happy, super-buffed lion, taking a tip from Dickens, was decked out "brave in ribbons" - he, or perhaps Maggers, had woven six beautiful ribbons, each a different color, into the lion's thick russet mane, calling to mind a story I'd read recently. He wore a form-fitting Henley-style long-sleeved shirt with the words "KISS ME!" in bold letters, and the picture of a small clump of mistletoe perched suspiciously about the realm of his navel. "Happy Christmas, you two! Welcome, welcome, come on in!"

I produced the tray with a flourish. "A special gift for our wonderful host. Tuna sushi."

"Ooooo, tooooonaaa..." the golden-furred lion intoned, recalling an old joke between us. He took the tray carefully before giving me a one-armed hug and a kiss, and then he proceeded to do the same for Aleksandr. "Go mingle, eat, enjoy - the roasted chestnuts are out on the brazier on the back deck, and I fully expect rave reviews."

"Then I have little choice but to sample your nuts." This, of course, fetched me a slap on the backside from both lions. "Ooo, you always know what I want for Christmas!"

I made my grinning way to the brazier out back, which I found tended to by a friendly young fur who lived with his parents a few doors down. "Eolaiokt! Happy Christmas! How good to see you!"

The handsome tiger-bear hybrid grinned at me, his shape reflecting the musculature and striping of his father and the full body and coloration of his mother. "Happy Christmas to you too, Professor Black Wolf!"

"Now, now, you know you can call me Tristan."

"I'm practicing for when I'm in your class."

My eyebrows went up. "You got in!"

"I got in!" he crowed. "Got the letter yesterday. I'll start with summer courses, to get a jump on things." He used a metal scoop to dig the roasted nuts out of the warming section of the brazier and put them into a small paper bag, just like the traditional vendors might use. Sylvie had thought of all the touches. "You gotta try these, they're terrific!"

The cub wasn't kidding, and I let my pleasure be known with appropriate noises of appreciation. The nuts were hot and just the right level of toothsome - somewhere in the range of a firm baked potato, and with similar but more nutty flavor. "Positively Dickensian," I murmured through a happy muzzleful. "Is Sylvie planning on keeping you here for the whole afternoon?"

"Just a little while. I don't know how long to put the next batch of chestnuts on for, so he'll have to come fix them."

"No problem. You'll get to mingle and meet yet more of your future professors."

The words were no sooner out of my muzzle than came a lilting baritone voice calling, "Fresh hot nuts! None could resist!"

Poor Eolaiokt looked positively comical, the surprised look on his muzzle worth any number of Kodak moments. I offered the introduction. "Eolaiokt Nosmada, Doctor Benedict Spenser."

Fully two-and-a-quarter meters tall, the brilliant crimson dragon with the silver scutes from under his chin all the way down past his belly (don't ask how I know) is never anything short of a sensation, whatever the occasion. Today, he was decked out in full Dickensiana - not, I hasten to add, that he was quite old enough for it to have been part of his original wardrobe. (To the best of my knowledge, he's just short of his first century, but I've yet to find the nerve to ask him directly.) I'd no doubt that a top hat and greatcoat had been taken at the door, but he remained resplendent in a tailcoat of something like black velvet, along with vest, ascot, and what I didn't doubt to be a fine linen shirt made according to traditional style. His rounded nostrils twitched and flared at the scent of the roasted chestnuts, and he reached for them as a drowning fur might seek the nearest floating flotsam.

"I must sample your fresh, hot, sweet nuts, young fur!" he cried, giving Eolaiokt a start worthy of a Vaudevilian.

"The joke's already been done, Benedict. And let the poor lad have at least a semester or two at university before jumping him, won't you?"

The young tiger-bear tremulously handed over a packet of nuts, and the dragon popped several into his maw at once, worrying about neither excessive heat nor manners. He made appropriately appreciative noises just as Sylvie padded back into view to take over from Eolaiokt, who seemed quite happy to rejoin the party in another part of the house.

"Do they pass your scrutiny, Benedict?"

"Oh, my dear Sylvian," he managed, even as he continued to roll the tasty morsels about on his tongue. "Brilliant. Stellar. Superlative in every sense. You have outdone yourself! I must find some way to reward you properly, even if it's to be forced into being your sexual slave."

"Not much forcing involved," the lion observed. "Although you haven't specified what onto whom and just where."

"That would depend upon whether or not your mate is joining in, my dear. Must make room for all."

"All of what?" inquired a handsome young Saluki who came up to give me a hug and kiss.

"Nothing you're not intimately acquainted with, I daresay." Chuckling, I returned the pup's affections. "How are you, Eoin?"

"Ready to sample your much-lauded roasted chestnuts," he said clearly to Sylvie. "I think I've managed not to repeat anyone else's entendres?"

Benedict snorted a tiny puff of smoke through his nostrils in mock indignation. "Haven't you been told to respect your elders?"

"Easy for you to say, Benedict." The sleek white-gold furred pup, himself sporting what looked like a proper Dickensian vest and coat, leaned up against his dragon lover, grinning. "Can't be many elders around for you to respect."

"You shall pay for your insolence, you artful dodger! For this insult, I shall withhold from you my Christmas pudding!"

The lot of us pondered the best way to respond to what was the closest that Benedict could ever get to what could be called a "straight line," when the huge muscular black-furred bull of the household stepped in to save the day. "Tristan!" Maggers bellowed happily, his arms thrown wide to embrace me in a hug that could crush a small automobile had he not been such a gentle giant. Dressed in a velour shirt similar to mine (although much more form-fitting to his remarkably hard-bodied form), with two tiny sprigs of mistletoe dancing jauntily from his horns, he kissed me warmly with velvety lips, grinning happily. "Sylvie and I have had the piano tuned especially for the occasion; may we impose upon you to perform for us?"

"Impose?" Aleksandr stage-whispered to Sylvie, dripping with disbelief.

"What?" I gawked. "Be the center of attention? Oh, how could I possibly?"

No one, including me, could keep his muzzle proper. Extending an arm for me to take as his escort, Maggers led me away to the living room and the lovely spinet piano that Sylvie had inherited from his mother, couldn't play, and couldn't bear to part with. Part of my friendship with them included the unspoken command that I return often to practice and play and sing for them - an offer I could rarely bear to refuse. The great bull sat me down, then hugged me from behind, pressing me against his hard muscular chest and whispering in my ear, "Knock 'em dead, beautiful."

I had agreed to play only if others would join in to sing known songs and carols, and if I could have frequent breaks to stuff my maw with goodies from the buffet table. It didn't hurt that Aleksandr made a dash back to the house to retrieve his guitar. Both Benedict and Eoin joined me often, the young Saluki having a surprisingly resonant and rounded bass voice for a fellow with such a slender frame. Various old favorites came up, as did nontraditional and pagan tunes. I sang "I Believed in Father Christmas" to a few teary eyes, and then brought out Tom Lehrer's "Christmas Song" to bring the laughter back.

Because some of the guests here had been guests of our own, Aleksandr and I had a few requests that weren't strictly Christmas songs but were nonetheless part of our popular repertoire. His guitar gave great tribute to Dave Guard's abilities as we harmonized on his Kingston Trio tune "Fast Freight," and anyone who had ever attended a renaissance festival were delighted by our rendition of "She'd a Dark and a Roving Eye," which Benedict nearly overtook as he convinced Sylvie to improvise a mime play with him, the lion playing the coquette of the song as well as if he were in drag. Aleksandr took the spotlight solo as he played"First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," and I did my best not to cry right there in front of everyone. It was a near thing, as he looked at me often, the soft smile on his muzzle retelling the tale of our first lovemaking with every note.

We weren't the only musicians, fortunately, because there was one song for the season that I truly would have missed hearing. I'd never been able to learn the sometimes Liszt-like intricacies of Howard Blake's "Walking in the Air", from the magnificent animation The Snowman; that took the talented paws of a late-teen arctic fox whose fine full winter coat was even whiter than the dusting of snow outside. Eoin was able to keep Benedict in line, at least partially, and the young fox got through the day without being cornered and soundly flirted with. If the todd were to become a student at university, of course, all bets were off.

The afternoon passed with laughter, music, games, prizes, forfeits, hugs, kisses, flirts, conversation, and excellent company. Nothing shocked the neighbors (most of whom attended and enjoyed the food and frolic), and no one did anything to cause children to be scarred for life, contrary to the insistence of the dwindling minority of the puritanical types. The sun set, the crowd thinned, and by a very respectably close approximation of six o'clock, it was down to the four of us. Sylvie flopped himself onto the sofa, and Maggers joined him, both hosts properly exhausted after entertaining for much of the day. We chatted idly back and forth for a short bit before Aleksandr and I turned our paws to some initial collection of plates and putting away of leftovers. Knowing Sylvie, he'd want to do the majority of it on his own - he's a lovely lion and quite the perfectionist, with a touch of OCD to rival mine - but we made enough of a start that he wouldn't fret about it for long enough to come over and watch a movie with us.

We stood outside the houses for a moment, taking in the peaceful scene. It was full dark, and the various houses up and down our quiet suburban street were lit up in all their glory, some with icicle lights, some with multi-colored chains of lights, some few with lit wreaths on home and garage doors, and some with the simple beauty of an electric candle in each window. Some houses showed extra cars, indicating family and guests for a later Christmas Day dinner, perhaps, or visitors lingering for a bit of warmth on a winter's night. For this short time, at least, all the world seemed at peace. We breathed it in, to savor it between us, finally padding into my home... one day, perhaps, my and Aleksandr's home ...

My lion re-stoked the fireplace while I got our movie ready. With an unerring eye for detail, Maggers was first to notice the new TARDIS tree ornament, and he got a great chuckle from pressing the button on the bottom of it to make the dematerialization noise. "To celebrate our first WinterFest," I told him, nodding at Aleksandr.

"You are such a romantic!" Sylvie gushed, making a particularly fussy look at Maggers. "Does _he_ever think of such things? Oh, of _course_not."

"You want a TARDIS? I'll get you a TARDIS." The great bull played right along, taking it for the game we all knew that it was. "If you're very, very good, I'll see to getting a life-sized one."

"Which Doctor?"

"How about Hartnell or Troughton? You could have all that lovely wood-grain paneling on the central controls and all."

"Didn't Pertwee and Tom Baker have some wood-grain too? It didn't get all shiny until Davison, right...?"

"Surrounded by Whovians!" I cried out, my arms spread wide. "Could there be a better Christmas present?"

I gathered my charges in front of the sofa rather than on it; our sheer sizes, combined, made cushions on the floor a far more practical choice. I had retrieved our largest comforter - one that actually could cover all of Aleksandr and myself and still have room left over (no small task, that!) - and brought it out for us all to snuggle under. Maggers grabbed my forepaw and grinned. "Dibs on the romantic."

Aleksandr comically pointed to himself, making whimpering noises. Sylvie grabbed my lion and pulled him into his own lap, happily crowing, "Got one of my own!"

Knowing Sylvie's ticklish spots, it was easy for my cerulean-furred lover to mock-wrestle his tawny counterpart into sufficient submission to have him in ensconced in his lap instead of vice versa. Sylvie got good use of his favorite joke; his tail is positively prehensile, and he used its thickly-furred tip to smack Aleksandr in the face frequently. I snuggled up with the great bull, then frowned a little, squirming in his lap. "Who brought in the Yule log? Oh... sorry, Maggers..."

Both lions laughed in delight at the raspberry that comment fetched me, followed by a delicious kiss on the cheek. I waved the remote toward the entertainment system as the bull said, "Careful which buttons you push, teddy bear!" I was certain that I was blushing, but it felt great, and I settled back against the taurean's hard-muscled body to enjoy one of my favorite Christmas movies: Love Actually.

The story of nine intertwined tales of how we look at and live with the emotion of love is about 136 minutes long, and of the scenes that were cut out, I always have to play the one regarding one boy's Christmas wish that, for one day, you could see people's farts. (No, it's hilarious, trust me.) The director had to choose to cut out about 45 minutes worth of film, but it's so very worth it to see it all preserved in the Cut Scenes section, and my dear loves had no objection to sitting through the lot of them (after a discreet pee break, of course, and setting a kettle for some more of that lovely gingerbread chai and some of the Moravian spice cookies to go with them). In all of the right romantic moments, Maggers snugged me a little closer to him, and I snuck a kiss or two to his muzzle. Aleksandr and Sylvie weren't to be outdone by any stretch; they got their own nuzzling in, and it's amazing how intense the sound of two lions purring can be.

Finally, with the clock inching toward ten, we all decided to call it a full day. We saw our guests to the door, each receiving a proper kiss from each, final Happy Christmases and Good Nights, and we closed the door gently behind them. I turned to my magnificent cerulean-furred lover and kissed him warmly. "Happy Christmas, my love."

"Happiest yet." He smiled, turned off the room lights, leaving only the Moravian star glowing outside, its soft white light peeking in through the semi-circle transom above the front door, and the tree lights on inside, sweetly colorful and filling us both with memories of this day and others like it... and none like it ever before. "I almost suggested a sleep-over."

"You too?" I asked, with a grin. "We'd need a lot more cushions; I don't think the bed would hold us all."

"They'd have declined anyway, I suspect. I think Sylvie is packing extra mistletoe in their bedroom."

"As if they need an excuse." I leaned against my sweet lover. "How about you? Got any more mistletoe left, or should we just fall madly in sleep together instead of making love?"

"Anything we do together is making love."

"And who told you that?" I asked, grinning.

"A very wise bear, who gave me the best Christmas ever." He pulled me close to him, kissing me atop my head as I hugged him. "I've got a sneaky feeling," he said, quoting the opening lines from the film, "you'll find that love actually is all around."

As I led him back to our bedroom, an arm about his waist as he laid his arm across my shoulder, I said softly, "You know... I think I can live with that."