I don't remember what day it is until precisely four minutes after I wake up. I know that because I glance at my clock with bleary eyes as I lift my dead-weight bed head off the pillow when I first open them, and it's 7:02. I spend the next minute and a half wondering why the hell I awoke so early when it's Christmas break and I could be snuggled away from the cold for a good few hours yet, and the next minute and a half searching for my phone – Brendon gets up super early sometimes, so he might have texted me.

The remaining minute of those four is spent groggily registering no texts, getting confused at the sound of my parents' low voices in their room down the hall when usually they'd still be sleeping, starting a text to Brendon and finally, finally glancing at the date in the top corner of my screen.

December 25th.

"It's Christmas," I mumble to myself, mentally shaking myself for being such a dumbass. Because, wow, who forgets Christmas? Even someone like me who's had his fair share of rough holidays remembers the dates, at least.

I attempt to spring light-footedly out of bed, you know, celebrate the holidays with vigour, but I manage a retarded flail and a stumble that ends with me landing on my ass, early morning coordination. "Fucking Christmas," I mutter, and I drag myself slowly to the shower.

I take my time, because it's Christmas and even if they're awake they're not expecting me to be, so. I take my time. Shampoo my hair and stand under the water until it runs cold and lazily jerk off with my back against the tiled wall and thoughts of Brendon reeling through my head – my boyfriend, fuck, I'm allowed.

Once I've towelled off and stepped back into my bedroom, I consider for a second, then get into a different pair of pyjamas. Christmas morning isn't worth living through if you're not wearing pyjamas, and that's a fact.

My phone is lying where I left it on my bed and I pick it up, finish typing out the text I was going to send to Brendon. hey, merry xmas gorgeous, ily. =)xx

It's kind of sickeningly domesticated, but I'm so used to it now. So happy with it. I could do it forever. He's everything to me, and if talking like that to him is what it takes to keep me at the same level in his books, then I'll do it.

And, well, I kind of like it too.

I pull a hoodie on over the pyjamas, hunching my shoulders a little as I stuff my hands in the front pocket to keep in the warmth, slipping my phone in there as well, loosely cupped in my palm. The thick fabric smells like him, and I belatedly realise it's because it's his. Of course, I should have been able to tell that from the gold Pussycat Dolls logo on the breast – fucking Brendon and his obsessions – but I blame that on the early hour.

I can hear the stairs creak as my mom and dad head downstairs, and my mom actually laughing at something he's said. He chuckles a bit too. I wait a few minutes before I go down to join them; have to prepare myself, because yeah, it's Christmas, but it doesn't mean I know what to expect.

My mom has a green apron tied around her neck and her middle that has tiny red Santa hats peppered across it, and her cheeks are a rosy pink as she stands over the stove, frying pans galore. "Oh, you're up early," she says with a smile. "Merry Christmas, darling." She leaves the cooking and walks over to me, shuffling in her bunny slippers, and hugs me softly.

"Yeah, merry Christmas, Mom," I mumble, the heady aroma of fried bacon and fried eggs and fried everything assaulting my senses.

I look over, then, to the chair that Dad's sat himself in. He nods in acknowledgement and smiles tiredly, and it's not a fake smile, not one that's forced, but rather it's the old one from days I vaguely remember, trying to break out.

"Merry Christmas, Dad," I say, smiling lopsidedly, and he echoes it. He's quiet. He's been quiet a lot these days, these past couple of weeks. Ever since the night I got back from the dance and Brendon had insisted on taking a different way so he could walk me home for once, and I kissed him goodnight and kissed him thank you and kissed him a lot of other things at the end of our garden path, and I got inside and Dad had seen it all, he's been quiet. Ever since he shouted until his lungs were burning and he threatened until tears sprung to my eyes, ever since he yelled and yelled and then the words caught in his throat and he looked so horrified at himself, like he only just came into the situation, ever since he realised he needed to change something, he's been quiet.

He's told me he's going to change. I've heard it before, but never so earnest, and as much as I'd like to stop it, tiny flames of hope are licking away at my insides, soothing away the ice that walls me away from him.

He gestures at me, angling for a hug like he just saw me give Mom, but I shake my head almost apologetically. We're not there yet. I can't—yet, not yet.

When I sit down next to him, though, there's no liquor on his breath, no underlying tang that makes the nausea hit. Just mint and a faint smell of cigarettes that always lingers on his clothes and his skin, but that part's familiar.

After breakfast, it's the whole routine. The troop to the living room, the discovery that yes, the stockings hanging from the fake fireplace have been filled, what a surprise, and the generic rooting through them to find all those crappy presents you didn't know you wanted. The presents that were put under the plastic tree in the corner last night are pulled out one by one and ripped open, and everyone's laughing. Even Christmas hasn't been like this, not for years and years.

Mom and Dad are sitting in their own spaces on the sofa, surrounded by destroyed wrapping paper, and I'm cross-legged by the tree, full-on present duty. I pull out a parcel meant for Dad, and cross the room to hand it to him. "Thanks," he murmurs, followed by a closed smile and yeah. It's getting better.

I feel really light, like I'm made of fucking air, and when my mom says without thinking, "I'm gonna get another drink, you want anything, George?" I freeze, lead tugging at my insides.

There's a horribly tense moment, where all the ripping and the conversation ceases and it's just us and silence, but then he says, "No. Just some coffee, please." And I could cry with happiness, because it's something so small, so insignificant but it's so different to what he usually would have said, and it's not just for Christmas because the last time either of us saw him with a drink was a good two weeks ago.

At that moment, my phone goes off, and I look at it discreetly. Brendon's replied merry xmas2 u 2.u stil ok to cum c me l8r??coz i kindof hav anothr idea xxx

We arranged before today that I'd drop by his house in the afternoon today, to exchange presents, and I can't really think of what his change of plan could be. I've told him before that it makes me more than a little uncomfortable to have him around my place, so it can't be that, and there's nowhere else really for us to go. yea ofcourse, why what's the idea?xx I type back quickly, under the eye of my mom, and I'm kind of curious. Brendon's ideas are always a good thing.

He texts back almost immediately: meet me@ the sme time but nt my house, go2 the cabin.xxx and I frown at the screen. The 'SOLD' sign is still standing stark clear in the ground outside the cabin, and we haven't gone back since we saw it there. It's not ours anymore.

but its sold?xx

they havnt moved inyet dickhead i check these thngs!it works better 4 my present if we do so u dnt really hav a choice =)xxx

I blink. Well, okay.

My interest is piqued, and all day until ten minutes to three I'm left wondering what he's got me. And it's stupid, I know I shouldn't care that much, but fuck if he hasn't made me curious. And, yeah, if I'm honest, a little worried; I mean, I didn't have much money to buy him something nice, and I made do with what I had, but. I've got that feeling that he's going to beat me. There's always the element of competition, and I want to bowl him over, I want to shock him with how pleased he is, and the anxiety that he'll be disappointed is overwhelming.

Before I leave, I call out a goodbye, and Dad emerges from the living room to my right, asks, "Where are you going?"

I swallow, lifting my chin defiantly out of habit. "To see Brendon."

"Oh," he says, struggling a little. "Have fun."

"Thanks," I say quietly, appreciating the effort but looking down and away from him because I'm so not used to this. "I won't be back late, so."

"Okay."

I smile at him quickly and reach for the door, wrap my scarf around me a little tighter. I grab my guitar case and sling it over my shoulder. "Later," I say, and with that I'm out into the December cold. I can actually see my breath, clouding in little puffs from my mouth and curling in front of me, like nicotine and tar smoke but purer, white.

There's a spring in my step that hasn't been there for a while, and the streets are quiet as I walk through the edges of town and eventually come to the path up to the cabin, everyone being in their homes. Christmas trees in every window, covered in twinkling lights, and flashing neon Santa figures and 'Merry Christmas's stuck to roofs and outside walls. It's the kind of scene I once would have turned my nose up at, sniffed at and not enjoyed because it's too over-the-top, too festive for the festive season, but I've been changed by something better.

As I come to the end of the wooded part, where the trees thin out and the clearing is in view, the imposing sign is still there, staring at me and mocking me. It's still hard to get over the fact that it's not ours.

I guess Brendon's already inside, there's little wisps of smoke coming from the chimney. I smile at that, shake my head a little. Yeah, it's not ours, but obviously Brendon still lit the fire. He's the kind of person that just can't see a why not. I feel like I should knock at the door, and I'm not sure why; maybe because it's actually owned now, even though they're not here, or maybe it's because I still feel like I owe Brendon a lot more than I give to him. I don't know if I'll ever think otherwise.

I just hear a called-out, "Hey, it's open," muffled by the wood, and I push it almost obediently, stepping into the warm. As I close it after me, Brendon's standing at the far end of the living area, looking over his shoulder in the direction of the bedrooms with his hand pulling at his bottom lip, like he does when he's anxious or nervous. I frown and I'm about to question it when he turns quickly, smiles and says, "Merry Christmas," as he throws his arms out either side of him.

"You too," I answer, feeling a little weak just at the sight of him. He must have only just got inside, he's sporting woolly mittens with little zigzag patterns and spots – mittens – and a knitted bobble hat with a matching scarf. Jesus Christ, he's fucking adorable. He takes on an embarrassed expression when he sees me looking, reaches up and pulls the hat off his head. It ruffles his hair, and I can't resist anymore, cross the room as quickly as I can without, like, sprinting at him, and I cup his rosy cheek with one hand, using the other one to wind around his waist and pull him into a kiss. He tastes like candy canes.

"You're cold," he remarks, when we break apart.

"Mm, and you're warm," I reply, keeping him held close. Then, "Mittens?"

"Shut up," he mumbles, tugging them off his hands and shoving them into a pocket, "it's freezing out."

I laugh. "It's not freezing, but you're really cute, so it's okay." Chuckling, he squeezes me, then tilts his head to press our lips together, delving into my mouth and winding his fingers through my hair.

"I was gonna bring mistletoe," he mutters against my mouth, fingers curling in my – his – hoodie. "But I couldn't find any. Apart from the plastic stuff, but I figured you're too classy to fall for that."

Biting at his lip, I say, "Does it look like I need it?"

He laughs sharply, pushes me away gently. "Okay, I vote I get my present first. Right?"

I take a breath, suddenly nervous, my stomach fluttering. "Sure, okay." Kissing him quickly, I move away from him, go back to the door where I left the guitar case. As I'm unzipping it and taking out the instrument, I can feel his eyes on me, and it feels a little scrutinising; like he's going to laugh or scoff or ask where the hell his real present is. Shit, I need to breathe.

Getting to my feet, I mean to go back over to him, but standing right in front of him seems way too intimidating when it actually comes down to it, so I keep my distance. Look down at the guitar, adjust the strap over my shoulder. "Ryan?" he says slowly, and when I look up there's this weird, soft look on his face.

I shrug awkwardly, trying to keep my breaths regulated. "I couldn't afford a lot of stuff," I tell him apologetically, "so, I." Closing my eyes, I mumble, "I wrote this thinking about you. And, you know, your stupid face." His mouth has dropped open a little, and his eyes are completely fixed on me. He takes a step forward, closes the distance slightly, and there's nowhere for me to go so I stay, and I start to play.

The sheet of hair that falls forward as I look down at the guitar helps a little, gives me something to hide behind as shaking fingers slide over the frets and grip the small red pick. The playing, the notes and the tune, that part's easy; I can do that. But when I start to sing, I have to look up, have to look into his eyes as I peel away everything and let him see for sure what he's done to me.

It's a song about the stars I saw in his eyes and all around him, something I clearly remember writing on the same night, but it's all implicit and I don't know if he'll know when I wrote it. My voice shakes to start off with but I force it to be stronger, shaping the words and the melodies that fall into place whenever he walks into the room. There's a line, "On the brink of something else," that makes my heart thump nervously because it sounds so obvious, such a blatant picture of what I was starting to feel about him at that time, and it's right there on display for him. "Diamonds loose are never lost," I sing, drawing out the note and looking warily into his eyes, and his hand has settled over his mouth as he watches, listens, takes it all.

As the last notes play out – like clockwork, I've done it so many times, played it to absent thoughts while holed away in my room alone – I fix my gaze on my hands and the guitar, don't want to see his reaction. Immediately after I'm done, though, I don't as much see his reaction as feel it; he launches himself at me when my head is still ducked down, almost knocking me over and crushing the instrument between us uncomfortably but I don't care because his lips are everywhere, catching my mouth and my cheek and my neck and he's clutching at me, holding me and saying, "Thank you, thank you, oh my god." He's delighted, touched, and the warm feeling spreads like wildfire.

I kiss him back and pry him off me long enough to get the guitar off, mumbling embarrassedly, "Sorry it wasn't more."

"What, no," he says, disbelieving. "It was amazing, Ry, it was beautiful, thank you so much." He pauses, then cocks his head at me curiously, a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. "Did you write that... when we. That night on the roof?"

I'm taken aback, because there was nothing actually mentioned in there that pertained to that night, I made it that way, I made sure of it. But. "Yeah," I breathe, confused. "How did you know...?"

He shrugs bashfully, biting his lip before saying matter-of-factly, "That's when I. It changed for me, too, that night. So."

"Oh," I manage, smiling helplessly. "I didn't know."

"Yeah, I figured." Brendon steps back, looking over his shoulder again for some unknown reason, and says, "Wow, my present's gonna suck now." He looks genuinely anxious, and I shove him playfully.

"Don't be stupid," I tell him, shaking my head, "I'll love it, seriously." I'm pretty sure anything he did would be perfect.

He sighs and hesitates a couple more times, but eventually he says, "Okay, just, wait here," and kisses me like he's magnetised and he can't help it, and then, to my growing confusion, he disappears to the bedrooms at the back of the cabin.

Which, yeah. Okay. Now I'm definitely curious, because what the hell kind of present needs to be kept in a separate room? I crane my neck to try and see, but he's gone to one of the bedrooms past the corner in the corridor, one that I can't see, all I can do is listen. So I do.

There's the unmistakeable sound of a door opening, sparking more possibilities and scenarios in my head, and then I hear his soft voice saying hurriedly, "Hey, hey, no—just—get off me," and I completely give up. I have no idea what the fuck he is doing. Another exclaimed, "Hey!" from Brendon and then there's this weird skittering sound echoing down the corridor accompanied by the jingling of bells, and a little ball of energy comes bounding around the corner on all fours, a blur of brown and white. It's heading straight for me, and I step back automatically before I figure out that it's a dog, shit, it's the dog, the beagle I see in the mornings and around town sometimes; Hobo's here in the cabin and running up to me, jumping up at my legs.

"Hey, hey," I stutter out, totally shocked. "What're you doing here, huh?" I ask, bending down to her and petting her head but directing my eyes and the question to Brendon, who's followed her out from the back, scratching bashfully at the back of his neck with the other hand buried in his pocket. His cheeks are pink. He's fucking perfect.

"I just," Brendon speaks up, clearing his throat. "Saw you talking to her one or two times, knew how much you liked her. And then, like, I saw a sign saying a dog was for sale, so. I checked it out, just out of curiosity, you know, and guess who it was." Hobo licks enthusiastically at my hand, and I scratch behind her ears, grinning.

"Shit," I say, dry-mouthed. "You got me a dog."

"Um." Brendon shrugs helplessly. "Yeah."

"Brendon, you got me a dog."

"It's okay if... like, I asked, and he said I could take her back within a certain amount of days, so if you—mmf." I cut him off by my lips on his, grabbing at him and winding myself around him, sliding a hand down his arm and linking our fingers, squeezing.

"Can I just ask," I murmur, "why does she have antlers?" We simultaneously look down at the dog wagging its tail as it sits and stares up at me, brown fuzzy reindeer-style antlers perched on her head. They have jingle bells on the tips. She looks surprisingly content about wearing them.

Brendon shrugs, smiling like I'm being dense. "She's getting into the Christmas spirit."

"Really?" I arch an eyebrow sceptically, and he nods.

"Uh-huh."

I laugh. "You're ridiculous," I tell him.

"I'm aware," he says happily, and he hugs me tightly, placing a soft kiss to my neck at the same time. "Your dad gonna be okay with her in the house?" he asks.

"Yeah, I think so," I assure him, and Hobo barks an agreement.

We pass the time with idle conversation as the cold wind rattles the glass in the windowpanes and the fire emanates a glow to match the warmth in his eyes. There's no furniture now, of course there isn't, and it's odd to see the place so bare, but it feels full somehow. Brendon ends up leaning on one of the windowsills with folded arms, looking out over the world outside. When I stand next to him, he leans on me, his head tipping onto my shoulder, and my pulse races that much faster. "I wish it would snow," he says wistfully. "I always wanted to see it."

I make an agreeing noise, quiet and unobtrusive. After a time, I clear my throat, looking around. "You know, we're going to have to leave after this."

He nods regretfully, peering up at me. "Well, maybe we can hang out at the mall or the movies, or, like, you know... bed. Like normal couples." I scoff a little, because it's not like we haven't spent a lot of time in bed. I can't help smiling, though, because I could have easily been talking about what else to do today or about the sad fact that we can't come back, ever, and he takes the most positive thing, on auto-pilot.

My smile falls after a second or two, something dark and unwanted creeping into my memory. And it's not something I'd want to bring up right now, ruin the moment, but we've never mentioned it, always skirted around the edge. I say softly, quietly, "You know I'm gonna have to leave soon too, right?"

Brendon stiffens up next to me. "What?" he says, clearly playing dumb.

I sigh, my throat constricting and my heartstrings tugging painfully as I mutter as clearly as I can, "I'm a senior, Bren. I've got to—"

"Don't," he interrupts. "That's so. I don't want to think about that."

"But it's going to happen," I insist, and he slips an arm around my waist.

"Yeah, it is, okay, but. I'll call you every day. Every single day, Ryan. Don't let it ruin this, it doesn't have to." I swallow, taking deep breaths, and I involuntarily shake my head, like I don't believe him. I don't know if I do or not. "I'm serious," he says, "I'll call you and I'll come visit you and you can come visit me, you know, when we can, and. And I'll jerk off to your picture every night, okay," he jokes, trying to keep it light. And suddenly, it is light. It's fine. We'll get through.

"Yeah?" I mumble, and he turns me around to face him, so he can circle his arms around me properly.

"Yes," he says definitely. "And then in a year's time, I'll come track you down, and we'll be... together again. You can't get away that easy." I laugh and smoothly run my hands through his glossy hair, burying my fingers in it as I kiss him breathless, keep our lips pressed and tongues sweeping until he's gasping for air against me. "Nothing has to be as difficult as you make it, Ryan," he murmurs.

I hum in agreement, keep him pressed close, moulded along every curve and line of my body and slotted in like we were made to fit. Breaking the silence, I ask, "A whole year, huh?" because I kind of really like the way he just assumes that I won't do something stupid, I won't break what we have, we'll last that long. A whole year. Well, then.

"A whole year," he repeats, pecking at my lips. "Ryan, it took way too much hard work to finally get you, to just let you go."

I duck my head, smile, and get lost in his touch. Trust and lust and love all swirl together inside my chest, creating a maddeningly sweet whirlpool that I imagine only he can see. We return to watch the outside, watch the trees move with the wind and watch the snow that's not falling as Hobo leans against my leg. One day, I'll take Brendon somewhere for Christmas that's sparkling white with a whole thick blanket of snow. I'll take him and he'll smile that smile that makes his entire face glow, the one that means he's got everything he could ask for.

But then, see, he looks at me and my breath totally catches, because he's wearing that smile right now, and maybe I don't have to prove anything anymore. My heart pounds, I find his hand to hold, and I give that smile right back.

--FIN--