Merry Christmas Cobalt

Cobalt eyed the package with some suspicion. He hadn’t been expecting anything, and he’d already exchanged gifts with the people who cared about him and vice versa. There was a possibility that this was a mistake, but he was pretty sure that Cobalt Weaver wasn’t all that common a name. He sat on the couch and set the package—still unopened—on the coffee table, scrutinizing it. It had his name and his address on it. The probability for it to be a mistake was extremely low. But the typed address and the fact that his own address was used as a return address made it weird. He gingerly picked up the package and shook it. There didn’t seem to be a box, but the creases in the wrapping denoted something that felt like… books. Cobalt squinted off into space, trying to remember if he ordered any books these past few weeks. Nothing came to mind. Deciding that he didn’t need to worry about something as innocuous as books, he gingerly set about opening the packaging paper. When he opened it, he saw that he was indeed correct, the package had been two books: paperback and glossy. He turned the books over to glance at their titles and—

“AUGH WHAT.” Cobalt dropped the offending books and leapt to his feet, nearly falling back on the couch in his haste. He stared with wide eyes at the paperbacks, now slightly bent from their abrupt trip to the floor. “Wh—how…?” He turned back to the packaging, picking through it before finding a letter, folded amongst the paper. It was typed. Damn. He ran a hand through his hair, staring at the books, then the letter. “Okay.” He growled quietly, “What the hell is going on here?”

There were two explanations to this: someone was playing a tasteless, albeit accurate practical joke that was most decidedly not funny. This was possible, but he really couldn’t think of anyone who knew his address being that immature. Also, he was pretty sure that the vast majority of his friends and the people who knew his address were gay themselves, so this being a joke would be strange and out of character.

Which left another option: that someone knew about his orientation. He knew Elaine knew. She had more or less told him she could smell it in his aura and he was relatively okay with her knowing. In the scale of people-whose-opinion-actually-matters, Elaine was at the top, but she had reacted with affectionate exasperation than anything else. He’d promised her they’d talk about it later, and he anticipated that conversation involving cookies and Elaine telling him to get over himself.

So Elaine was out, then.

He didn’t know of anyone else who knew about this. He’d certainly never told anyone, and he was always careful in his interactions with close male friends anyways. Josh, certainly not, because the man was clueless as is, and even if he did know, he wouldn’t do something like this. He would instantly suspect Leila, but he was almost certain she didn’t know. Mostly because if she’d found out, she’d have confronted him about it. Then sent books. But he was pretty sure there would be a confrontation first. That, and she wouldn’t type a letter. She’d write it as loudly and obviously as possible.

He briefly, very, very briefly considered the people he’d met in college. Contrary to what this mysterious sender seemed to believe, he had managed to date in college. Well, sort of. He wasn’t willing to let idle attraction and an ill-timed kiss at eleven years old be the reason he identified as gay, so he’d tried to date women in college. With no success. So he’d even tried to date men. Well… man. He’d “dated” one boy in college and it had ended very shortly after they’d started. But still. But there was no chance it was a well-meaning gift from any of them, even though he’d ended on fairly amicable terms with at least two of them. Mostly because he’d fell out of touch with them and didn’t leave a forwarding address. No one from Chicago knew (or probably cared) where he was now.

He eyed the books, the initial horror residing into something more akin to offended. When he decided that he wanted help, he’d ask for it. Until then, he didn’t really appreciate anonymous books disrupting his evening. He ought to throw the books away. Really, he should. He didn’t appreciate them. And he didn’t want them. Cobalt stared at the books, which lay innocently on the floor. Sighing, he sat back down on the couch, leaned over with his foot and kicked them under his couch. There. They could gather dust there for all he cared.

With that taken care of, Cobalt pulled on his sweats and running shoes and prepared to go out for a run, intent on forgetting mysterious Christmas presents and well-meaning, yet annoying, mysterious gift-givers.