Fandom: QaF
Title: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Rating: Mild R
A/N: This was written for the scrooged challenge, to the following prompt:

Pairing(s): Brian/Justin. Brian/Michael friendship and/or Ted/Blake a plus.
Angst/drama/etc. okay, but a happy ending would be appreciated. Any rating and any season (even post-show) welcome. No kinks (unless rough sex/possessiveness/marking count. Requested by lardencelover

-*-

 Brian. Christmas Eve.

“It’s only time,” you told Justin, before he left, as if it meant nothing, but sitting here now, in the sitting room of Debb’s house, surrounded by garish Christmas decorations, you couldn’t keep your eyes off the clock.

It was moving slowly, its second hand stalling, as if it knew that time was short, that there was only forty minutes to go before Christmas Eve ticked over into Christmas Day.

He was supposed to have arrived by now, at least that’s what his flight times had suggested when he had emailed them to you earlier in the week.

You glanced out of the window at the snow building up in the drive, the flakes floating down and sticking to the outside of the window.

“Daddy!” You turned just in time to grab an armful of Gus before he dive-bombed your lap, and swung him upwards, before pulling him close.

“What is it, Sonny Boy?” you asked, your eyes flicking back to the clock.

Thirty-four minutes to go.

“When will Santa arrive?” he asked you, his cheeks pink with excitement, his eyes half-closed from exhaustion.

Lindsay gave you a look, as if to say ‘Don’t you dare say anything to ruin this night’ and you rolled your eyes, wrapping your arms around Gus as you sat back in the chair with him, his little hands clinging to the front of your new Prada shirt.

“Santa isn’t going to show until you are tucked up in bed, asleep,” you told him, and he stuck his bottom lip out in a pout.

“But I want to open my presents now.”

You smiled at the little whine in his voice, and began to stroke his hair. “Tomorrow, Sonny Boy,” you told him, glancing up when the door opened, and a snow-covered figure walked in.

It was just Blake.

You watched Ted’s expression change from nervous, the same expression you imagined on your face as you sat waiting, to pure, undiluted joy. He grinned at Blake, and threw himself at him before he had chance to take off his coat, and kissed him soundly.

Emmett and Debbie sighed happily, and you rolled your eyes.

You looked up again as Lindsay sat down on the arm of your chair, reaching over to tug Gus’s shirt down over his stomach, where it had ridden up during his wriggling.

“He will come, Brian,” she told you, cutting through your bullshit as she had always managed to do.

“Santa?” Gus asked, sleepily, burrowing a little closer to your chest.

“Santa,” Lindsay confirmed, giving you a look. “He always comes. You just have to wait.”

You snorted. You had never been any good at waiting. Especially for things you wanted badly. You were used to being able to have what you wanted, when you wanted.

It was so like Justin to upset the status quo.

You looked back at the clock.

Thirty-one minutes.

-*-

Emmett pranced about at approximately twenty-seven minutes to midnight, making sure everybody’s glasses were full.

You gave him a glare and downed your drink at once, causing him to give you a long-suffering sigh before he refilled it again.

You looked down at Gus, whose face was slack in sleep, and tugged him a little closer, keeping out some of the chill with the shield of his warm body.

Twenty-six minutes.

“I don’t think he’s going to show, Brian,” Mikey said, from across the other side of the room.

You tried to ignore him, looking back at Gus, smoothing your thumb over his cheek, but Ted decided to pick up the line of conversation and run with it.

“Maybe the plane couldn’t take off,” he suggested. “There’s a lot of snow in New York.”

“Shut up Ted.”

For the first time in your life, you felt grateful towards Emmett. He threw a small smile in your direction and took a sip of the neon pink cocktail in his hand, almost stabbing himself in the eye with the little paper umbrella sticking out of the top.

“He’ll be here,” Debb said, as she sat back down, her face red from the heat of the kitchen, where she had been making up yet another batch of Christmas cookies. “If Sunshine says he will do something, then he will. Snow isn’t going to stop him.”

“Snow can’t stop Santa…” Gus mumbled, and you sighed, shifting him in your arms.

-*-

You stood in the line at check in, your carry-on bag in your hand, laden down with gifts and very little else. You shifted your weight from foot to foot, periodically, as you craned your neck to try and look over the shoulder of the man in front of you.

The line hadn’t moved in almost thirty minutes.

You glanced at the huge clock suspended from the ceiling. You were supposed to be boarding the plane in ten minutes.

You stared as a woman in an Air America uniform walked around to stand next to the front of the line, and leaned over, talking to the man at the desk. You wished you could hear what they were saying.

She picked up the microphone, and pressed the button to broadcast her voice.

“I’m sorry to say, but passengers expecting to board the 891 flight from New York to Pittsburgh will have to make other arrangements. There is a technical problem with the plane and it will not be taking off this evening. If you wish to book yourself on the next flight, which leaves tomorrow at 9:30 am, then please stay in the queue. If you wish to claim a refund for your ticket and make alternative arrangements for your journey then please follow me over to the customer service desk-”

You stopped listening at that point. The flight couldn’t be cancelled! You had to get to Pittsburgh. You had said -no, you had promised- that you would be home for Christmas. You had told Debb you would be there for her little pre-Christmas get-together. Everyone would be there - Emmett, Ted, Blake, Mel and Lindsay, Gus. Brian, for god’s sake!

Brian.

You hadn’t seen him in over eight months, each plan to return home thwarted by something, usually an impromptu offer of an art show, or your boss begging for you to work extended hours at the coffee house where you were employed part-time.

You were starting to think something bigger than the both of you was determined to keep you and Brian apart.

You continued to wait in the line, impatiently shifting as the people in front of you got themselves booked on the next flight, or vanished over to the customer service desk to demand a refund.

Finally, you reached the front, and you showed your passport to the man at the desk.

“You would like a seat reserved on the next flight from here to Pittsburgh, Mr. Taylor?” he asked, barely looking at you as he began to type your details into his computer.

“No. I need to get there tonight,” you told him.

“Mr. Taylor,” he said, trying hard to keep his voice along some semblance of patient. “As my colleague explained, your flight has been cancelled and the next flight is tomorrow morning. We have meal vouchers if you would like to wait at the airport--”

You cut him off with a wave of your hand. “You don’t understand,” you told him firmly, in the voice you used when you had to deal with gallery owners who were determined to fuck you around. “I need to get to Pittsburgh tonight. Not tomorrow, that’s too late. Tonight. Before midnight.”

“I’m sorry but that’s an impossibility, Sir. The flight has been cancelled.”

“I’m getting there tonight,” you told him, leaning your elbows on the desk, preparing to stay there for a while. “I don’t care how you get me there, how much I have to pay, and how many changes I have to make. Just get me there.”

The airline employee gave you a look as if to say ‘why do I have to deal with the likes of you on today of all days?’ and turned his attention back to his computer, using his mouse to scroll through the flight listings.

“You could take the next flight to Washington D.C. They have a flight leaving from there to Pittsburgh. It would be tight, but if you want to risk it…”

“How tight is tight?” you asked, smiling slightly as you imagined Brian making some comparison with a tight ass. Most probably yours. “Is there any chance I can make it?”

“There is fifteen minutes between flights, but if you get a move on, there is a possibility,” he told you, trying to hurry you through so he could get on with dealing with the next disgruntled customer. “It’s the only flight I can find to Pittsburgh in Continental U.S that isn’t either fully booked, or will take longer than your allotted time.”

“I’ll take it.” You handed over your credit card, the one Brian had made you get for emergencies only, trying not to wince at how much it would cost, placating yourself with the knowledge your previous, cancelled flight would be refunded to you at some point, and waited for your tickets to be handed over before rushing through the airport towards the Washington D.C flight, which was due to take off in only a matter of minutes.

-*-

You found your seat and sank down, letting out a breath of relief. At least this part of your new plan was going right. You fastened your seatbelt as the take-off light came on overhead, and glanced out of the window as the plane taxied down the runway.

You watched with wide eyes as New York fell away below you, and was replaced by swirling, snow-filled clouds, and then relaxed back in your seat.

You could do little else but wait.

“You look like someone who has been in a rush tonight.” You looked over to find a smiling woman sitting at the end of the little row of seats, wearing a business suit that even Brian would have been impressed by.

“You could say that,” you told her. “My flight was cancelled and I had to take this one instead, changing onto another when we arrive in D.C.”

The woman smiled sympathetically and reached down to undo her belt when the overhead lights flashed off. “Where are you heading?”

“Pittsburgh.” You undid your own belt and asked the steward for a whisky when he came around.

“Pittsburgh?” she asked, sounding surprised, and wrinkled up her nose. “What the hell is there in Pittsburgh?”

You shrugged and accepted your drink with a nod, taking a sip that instantly began to calm you down. “Not a lot really,” you said, smiling wryly at her. “Just my entire life.”

-*-

Brian.

Twenty-one minutes.

You tightened your hold on Gus and glared at Lindsay when she made a move to take him away. “He’s fine here,” you told her.

You didn’t really know why keeping Gus there, on your lap, eased your nerves a little, but it did. Perhaps it was the warmth of another body against yours, the thrum of his pulse underneath your fingers, something you hadn’t really felt since Justin had left.

You sighed and glanced out of the window again, watching the snow building up outside, and tried not to watch as Blake and Ted lost themselves in their own little world. You wondered if you and Justin had ever looked like that.

Nobody had really asked you why you had called off the wedding, why you had let Justin go, and you were glad that you had never had to explain it. You weren’t even sure if Justin knew the real reason why you had let him go without a fight.

The truth of it all was that you couldn’t be the one to keep him here. It would have been so easy to tell him to stay, to beg and plead and bribe him with all manner of sexual activities that would short circuit his brain until the only thing he could think about was the way you felt above him, around him, pushing into him over and over again, your tongue sliding against his in his mouth as his fingers scrabbled down your back, trying to push you further inside his tight little ass.

But you couldn’t do that. Not then, not ever. You had known, as perhaps you had always known, that while you were part way through your journey, stable in a steady business, more money than you knew what to do with, he was just at the start.

You had been able to see his whole life stretched out in front of him, and there were two paths he could take. One of them would keep him in Pittsburgh, with you, forever being Brian Kinney’s boyfriend, a kept toy-boy with his sugar daddy.

The other, the one you knew he had to take if your relationship had any chance of survival, took him to New York where he would attempt to carve himself a name in the art world. The latter was painful, of course it was. It was evasive, without answers, and there was every chance he wouldn’t come home to you.

However, in many ways the first path was the hardest. You would be forced to watch him struggling with himself over his regrets, over his choice to be with you over his dream of painting, over that chance that he could have made it big.

You couldn’t be the one to make him think ‘what if?’. If he was to be with you, then it had to be a certainty, with no room for other possibilities. No room for bitter regret.

You regretted enough for the both of you, and there was no way you were going to put Justin through that.

So here you are, on Christmas Eve, hoping that for the first time in such a long, long time, you would see him again, would be able to touch him, would be infected by that god damn laughter.

Sunshine. Such an appropriate nickname, but one which left you feeling so hollow every time you heard someone drop the word easily, as if it meant nothing.

“Gonna have sunshine today,” someone at the diner would say, looking skyward, and you would drain your coffee cup and walk out, unable to hear anymore.

The sky may have been forecast for sun that day, but there wouldn’t be any Sunshine for you.

-*-

You ran from the plane as quickly as possible when they opened the doors, making a hasty farewell to the business woman who had kept your mind off Brian for most of the journey.

You skated across the airport, your eyes flickering from screen to screen, scanning them for the gate for your next flight.

“Last call for Washington D.C to Pittsburgh,” you heard over the speakers, and you dashed for gate two, skidding to a halt at the desk.

“Ticket please,” the bored woman with the stiff hair-do asked you, and you practically flung it at her, waiting impatiently as she checked it and handed it back, gesturing down the tunnel towards the plane.

You made it just in time, flinging yourself into your seat and fastening your belt as the plane careened down the runway and took to the skies. There was nobody sitting near you on this flight, and you were left with your thoughts as you picked at the small bag of complimentary peanuts the airline provided you with, ignoring the tight panic in your stomach that you were so close to not making it.

For you, not being there wasn’t even an option. There had been too many times when you could have seen Brian, but something had kept you away. You were determined that this wasn’t going to be one of them.

New York, in many ways, felt like home now. You were used to the area where you lived, your neighbours, the people. You even had your own friends, people who liked you for who you were, who knew you first, who had never met Brian.

That had been one of the problems with being in Pittsburgh. Apart from Daphne, everyone you knew was an association through Brian. Of course, you knew that your little make-shift family loved you for who you were, but it didn’t change the fact that they knew Brian first.

Everything there had been of his creation, and your move to New York had only solidified that fact in your head. In New York, it was about you, who you were, and what you could do. It was intoxicating. But it was lonely too.

You missed having Brian there with you, someone to rant on to when things weren’t going well, and someone to brag to when they were. You missed his arms wrapping around you from behind, and the easy way he would make all of your worries vanish just by kissing your neck. His very presence was soothing.

At one point, he had been like a security blanket, protecting you from the worst the world could throw at you, and you supposed that was a dangerous association to make.

You had needed New York to prove that you could survive on your own, and that Brian’s protectiveness could be a sweet product of how he felt for you rather than a necessity that you felt you couldn’t live without.

At the heart of it, you had found the truth. That contrary to your previous, misguided belief, you didn’t need Brian Kinney, and he had never needed you.

But you wanted him. You wanted him more than you could express. You wanted his toothbrush there in the holder, next to yours; you wanted his clothes in the closet, taking up all of the fucking space. You wanted his early-morning grumbling and his bed-head sticking up in all directions. You wanted to see his face, smell his scent, pull his hands onto your lap and tangle your fingers together, as if they had been created just to fit.

You had waited far too long to revisit all of that, perhaps a part of you knowing that if you saw him too early, if you fell into his arms, then that would be it: your dreams of making it on your own in New York would be over, and whether it was healthy or not, you would have gone back, simply because it was too painful to be without him.

You’d gotten over that now, you decided, as you closed your eyes and leant back in your seat, the vibrations of the plane’s engine lulling you towards a fitful sleep. The ache was still there, underneath everything else, and you carried it with you wherever you went, no matter what you were doing, who you were talking to. But it was like a familiar friend, a constant reminder of what your goal was, what truly mattered in all of this: that one day you would be ready to return to Brian.

-*-

“I think maybe you have to get used to the idea that he isn’t going to be here,” Ted said, from his place on the couch, where he was curled up with Blake.

Just looking at them disgusted you; you wanted to be in their place with Justin.

“He’s coming,” you said, sounding less sure than you felt.

Of course he was coming. You had complete belief in that, and after all, what was left if you didn’t have that? Not seeing him for so long, keeping contact with him through late night phone calls, your cock hard in your hand, or quickly typed emails full of his typing mistakes, that you saved on your computer, re-reading them again and again when you felt like he was slipping through your grasp. All of those things had taught you one thing - that despite your natural instincts to shoot down everything that resembled hope, you had been forced to create your own.

It was a faith, a devoted, blind faith that he would come back to you, that one day you would see him again. You tried not to compare it to your mother’s faith in her God, but it was hard not to. You imagined that your tendency to surround yourself with his paintings, your habit of taking out one of the shirts he left behind and sleeping with it tucked under your pillow, was a little like your mother’s obsession with her bible. She needed it to feel close to her God, and you needed a few of Justin’s things to feel close to him.

You almost hated yourself for that.

Nineteen minutes.

Gus shifted in your arms, mumbling to himself about this or that present that he had asked for, and you smiled, brushing the hair off his forehead.

You hadn’t seen Gus for months either, now that he was living in Canada with his two Moms. You missed him as much as you missed Justin, but in a completely different way. The aches were similar, but with Gus there was always something that kept you tethered to him. Blood, you supposed, although you put little stock in that. Biology had never been something that had felt important to you, not when you were trying to cut ties with your parents, but watching Gus now, you had to admit to yourself that it was exactly that fact that allowed you to feel a little more secure that there would always be ‘next time’ where Gus was concerned.

Justin, you weren’t so sure.

You knew you would always see him in some context, would always be a part of his life, but you couldn’t say whether it would always be in the context you wanted it to be.

You couldn’t imagine being around him, watching him talk, bouncing around when he got excited about something, and not allowing yourself to reach out and pull him flush against you, capturing those pink lips with yours and kissing him until you couldn’t breathe.

You thought, perhaps, that in so many ways seeing him and knowing he wasn’t yours would be far worse than never seeing him again.

But that was a risk you had taken, that you had to keep on taking if you wanted him to return to you. If you wanted to keep your promise to yourself that love was about letting him fly free.

And this, amongst other things, was exactly why you had never been keen on the idea of love in the first place. Sappy romance requirements aside, you had never been drawn to the idea of something that was so evasive, that couldn’t be pinned down and written out logically, step by step. With love, there were no rules that could be followed. There was no rhyme or reason, no textbook motion to play out that would give you the desired result.

It simply was. And that was the hardest thing of all to get your head around.

Thirteen minutes.

-*-

The airport was busy when you landed, and you looked around the familiar terminal, quickly locating the exit and making your way towards it.

You pushed the door leading outside, immediately assaulted by a whirlwind of snow. You cursed under your breath, pulling the collar of your coat higher around your neck, and fought through the crowd towards where the cabs were usually parked.

There were none there.

You cursed again, looking around as if you expected one to appear from nowhere, and huddled back against the wall, dumping your bag on the ground as you wrapped your arms about yourself for warmth.

“That’s doesn’t look like the Christmas spirit to me,” a voice said, and you turned, groaning when you saw who it belonged to.

A fat man in a red suit, trimmed with white, an annoying jingling bell in his hand, was beaming at you from above a fake white beard.

Santa Claus was the last thing you needed.

“Yeah well,” you said, “I don’t feel particularly Christmassy right now.”

“Why not?” Santa Claus asked, coming closer. “You look like you have a home, have enough to eat.” He shook his collection tin under your nose. “I’m collecting for the homeless shelter.”

You sighed, feeling a little guilty, and dug in your pocket for some loose change. You shoved it into his tin and folded your arms back around yourself again. “There. Better?”

Santa laughed and stomped his big black boots on the sidewalk, knocking some of the snow off into the road. “For the homeless people, sure. But what about for you?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You shot him an annoyed look before glancing back to the road, scanning the streets for a cab.

“Usually giving to charity makes people feel good about themselves. Doesn’t look like it in your case,” he commented, as annoyingly jolly as he was before. “What could possibly be so bad to make you this grumpy on Christmas Eve?”

“You really want to know?” you asked, turning towards him, fed up of his questioning, fed up of the god damn snow that was beginning to burn the tips of your ears. Fed up of the stupid airport, the lack of cabs. Fed up of being out alone, less than fifteen minutes to go until midnight, the chances of getting to Brian on time diminishing by the second.

“Sure,” Santa said. “Tell all to Santa Claus. If I can’t make you feel better then nobody can.”

You scoffed and began talking. “You want to know what’s wrong?” you asked. “I’ll tell you. I moved to god damn New York to try and become an artist. It’s going well, so I should be happy, right? And I was at first. Really happy. How could anybody not like living in the hub of New York, people fawning all over them?” You sighed and looked back towards the road as a cab raced by with passengers in the back.

Lucky bastards.

“Anyway,” you continued, blowing on your hands to try and breath some life into them, “I’m not happy now, because I made a mistake. I left Brian, the only person I have ever loved, back here in the Pitts, so I could pursue my happy little career. I haven’t seen him in god knows how long, and I was supposed to be coming back tonight. I promised him I would be there before midnight but my flight was cancelled. I had to take a detour to god damn Washington D.C and then get a connecting flight here. I made it, as you can see, but there are no cabs. So I’m not going to make it anyway! I should have just stayed in New York.”

You stopped talking, suddenly running out of things to say, your breath coming out in tiny little cold puffs as you stood there panting.

Santa began laughing, clutching his red stomach with both hands. You felt like kicking him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally managing to get himself under control. “But it’s just so comical.”

“What the fuck is comical about that?” you demanded, whirling on him. “It sounds like a tragedy to me!”

“Not really,” he said, and pulled a hip flask out from his pocket, offering it over to you with a wink.

Great, not just an interfering Santa, but a drunk interfering Santa. You took the flask and unscrewed it, taking a gulp of the contents, conceding that maybe he had some use after all.

You arched an eyebrow, waiting for his explanation.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that you didn’t make a mistake at all.”

“I didn’t?” You sounded wary.

“Nope,” he replied, taking a swig from his flask when you handed it back. “Seems to me like you did the right thing moving to New York.”

“Then why am I fucking miserable?” you asked him, huddling against the wall again, your pout so large it threatened to hit the sidewalk.

“You said you were happy at first,” Santa said, with a smile. “And now you’re not. I reckon that tells you it wasn’t a mistake to go there in the first place, but now it is time to go home.”

“I don’t get it,” you admitted, your brows furrowed in confusion.

“You were happy because you were doing the right thing. Whatever you moved to New York to find, you obviously found it. You’re not happy now because there is something left, something incomplete, and it isn’t in New York.”

“Brian…” you whispered, and glanced away from him, looking desperately towards the road again.

Santa nodded and stepped off the curb, walking away. “Got it in one kid,” he said.

“Where are you going?” you asked him, annoyed that he was leaving mid-conversation after he had somehow managed to make you feel worse than you had before.

“To start up my sleigh,” he called over his shoulder, with a wink. “Get a move on or you won’t get a lift.”

You blinked and then grabbed your bag, racing after him. You didn’t need to be told twice.

-*-

Five minutes.

You sucked in your bottom lip, staring at the clock, willing it to stop.

“We really need to put Gus to bed,” Lindsay said, looking almost apologetic.

You nodded and shifted him in your arms, standing up. He rubbed sleepily at his eyes and hooked his arms around your neck, burying his head against your shoulder.

“Is it time for presents yet?” he mumbled, and you smiled, placing a hand on the back of his head.

“Not yet, Sonny Boy. Santa hasn’t been.”

Gus sighed in frustration, his eyes closing again, and you stepped towards the stairs, holding him carefully as you began to ascend.

You paused, the crunching of feet against snow outside stopping you in your tracks.

“Carol singers!” Emmett squealed, and you sighed, turning to watch as he flung open the door and everyone filtered out to stand on the porch to watch.

“Silent night, holy night…”

Gus shifted again in your arms. “Want to listen, Daddy,” he mumbled, and you walked back down the last couple of steps, holding him close in your arms as you stood between Debbie and Michael on the front porch, watching the carol singers as they congregated on the sidewalk, snow fluttering down upon their heads.

“What the fuck?”

You glanced at Michael, who had his eyes fixed firmly on the end of the road, and you followed his gaze, your brow furrowing as a rusty car stalled a couple of times before re-starting, and spluttered down towards the house. The engine died outside, the exhaust belching a cloud of smoke, and the door opened.

You blinked a few times as you took note of the figure getting out, clad in red, and opened the trunk, pulling out a bag. Obviously you had drunk far too much that night.

“Santa?” Gus’s voice was full of bewildered amazement, and you glanced down at him, taking in his wide, sleep-filled eyes as they watched the man walk up the drive and deposit the bag down at your feet.

You almost laughed at the shocked, silent faces of everyone around you, and you quirked your eyebrow at the man.

“Can I help you?” you asked, mindful of Gus in your arms, his expression full of awe.

“Ho, Ho, Ho!” the man said, his nose a little red, from drink or the weather, you couldn’t be sure. “Merry Christmas!”

“Are you the real Santa?” Gus asked, sounding a little unsure, and you laughed. You couldn’t blame the kid for being unsure. Not when the man standing in front of you was swaying on the porch, looking like he had consumed one too many Sherries, his fake beard slightly askew.

“Of course I’m the real Santa Claus, little boy!” he declared, smiling at Gus. “This is Christmas Eve. Who else would I be?”

“I don’t know,” Gus replied, eyeing him. “Mommy took me to see Santa in a department store and he wasn’t real.”

Santa nodded. “I have helpers because I can’t be everywhere at once, can I?”

“I suppose not.” Gus looked back towards the car. “But that doesn’t look much like a sleigh.”

You bit your lip. Nothing could get past your son.

“My sleigh is in the shop,” Santa said, sounding a little annoyed. “It broke down.”

You looked up as the church bells in the distance began ringing, the sound blending in with the final notes of the carol singers' song.

It was midnight. And Justin wasn’t there.

You looked back at Gus, who was reaching out to grab hold of the man’s beard, and you quickly grabbed his hand, holding it in your own. “Don’t be rude, Gus,” you chastised.

Santa rummaged in his pockets and produced a couple of pieces of candy. “Have you been a good boy this year?” he asked Gus.

“I suppose…” Gus replied, and examined the candy when Santa handed it over. “Is this all I get?” he asked, looking up. “When I wrote you a letter I asked for a bike.”

You hid a smile, wondering what on earth the man would come up with to explain that one.

“I can’t give you proper presents, can I?” Santa told him. “You’re still awake.”

Okay, so you had to allow him a point there, since you had been using that excuse yourself.

Gus wrinkled up his nose, still looking rather skeptical, and you turned to carry him back in the house. You didn’t know about him, but you had more than enough for one night. All you wanted to do was go to sleep and hope that everything wouldn’t feel so hollow in the morning.

“Justy!”

You glanced at Gus, who was leaning over your shoulder, reaching out behind him, and you turned, looking back towards the road.

There he was, like a god damn Christmas angel, the light hitting the top of his hair as he emerged from the beaten up old car and walked towards you.

Everyone rushed towards him at once, engulfing him in hugs and kisses, but his eyes stayed firmly fixed upon yours.

“Santa must be real,” Gus whispered his eyes wide with wonder. “I didn’t tell anybody, not even the department store Santa, what I really wanted for Christmas. But I got it anyway coz Just is home.”

You bit your lip and kissed the side of Gus’s cheek. “Me too, Sonny Boy,” you whispered, before you handed him over to Lindsay and walked slowly down the steps to greet Justin. “Me too.”

Justin smiled, that fucking blinding smile of his that was brighter than any glare from the snow, and practically launched himself at you, holding on as if you were the only thing keeping him standing up.

You knew that it was more accurate the other way around.

You closed your eyes and pressed your face against the side of his neck, inhaling deeply, the warmth of his body heating up yours.

Behind you, the carol singers struck up a rendition of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ and you smiled against Justin’s throat.

It really was.