The Santa Clause Act (Completed)

❄7

❄7 *Edited only once*

     “So don’t you have like…duties?” I ask, flopping back onto the snowy ground.

            Clyde turns to look at me from where he’s sitting, a puzzled look on his face.

            “Duties?” he asks, quizzical.

            “Yeah, duties like preparing to eat millions of cookies and you know, distributing everything,” I say, shrugging.

            Clyde laughs, flopping back onto the snow beside me.

            “Yes, yes I do,” he chuckles, turning his head to face mine.

            With his face so close, I can see little flecks of silver in his icy blue eyes. My eyes trail down from his eyes to his perfect nose and down to his perfect lips.

            My heart skips a bit and I find myself growing red with just the thought of our kiss.

            When I look back up to Clyde’s eyes, I am startled to find that he’s studying me too, a tender look on his face.

            When he catches me looking at him though, he snaps out of it, smiling.

            “Here, come closer, it’s cold,” Clyde tells me, tugging me by my jacket so I am resting on the crook of his arm.

            I laugh. “It’ll do no harm to me. You made me wear like 15 layers.”

            Clyde rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t want you getting sick.”

            I only laugh.

            With his arm supporting my head, we stare up at the starry night.

            The starry nights were different in Tinseltown.

            Here, in the middle of the forest- Clyde’s secret hide out- the stars sprinkled the dark indigo night, smearing the sky like paint on a canvas.

            The stars burned brighter- shinned harder- here in the arms of Clyde, as clichéd as it sounded. Things were different when you had someone beside you to share it with.

            I smile softly, content with the feel of snow beneath my body and Clyde’s arm around me as I study the night sky.

            “Tell me about your family,” Clyde murmurs softly.

            At his words, a soft feeling of nostalgia and longing plop down into my heart.

            “Well, I’m an only child,” I begin.

            “Me too,” Clyde chuckles, interrupting.

            I laugh. “My mom-you’d love her- she’s very cheery and somewhat sporadic. She paints for a living so I guess that’s an outcome from all her creative energy but often times, she’s very forgetful,” I smile, thinking about my mom. “She’s more like my best friend instead of a mother.”

            Clyde stares at me as I stare up at the sky, thinking about my mom right now- probably covered in paint with a cup of hot cocoa made with milk beside her.

            I don’t even notice a tear slip out of the corner of my eye until Clyde half sits up on his elbow, leaning over me to gently wipe it away.