Fanfic - "A Non-Traditional Christmas Feast"
Title: A Non-Traditional Christmas Feast
Timeframe: Post Season Five
Rating: R for language?
Word Count: 984
A Non-Traditional Christmas Feast
By Severina
* * *
He never expected the argument to go on this long.
Sure, they fight. It’s the norm. He calls Brian to bitch. Brian calls him to bitch. Sometimes, they hang up on each other. One of them goes out and gets drunk, and the other goes out and gets high. Some random guy in New York gets lucky, and another random guy in Pittsburgh gets on his knees. But then one of them always breaks down and shows up -- Brian leaning against the doorframe of his studio with a smirk on his face, or Justin dropping his gym bag in the middle of Brian’s office before pushing him back onto his desk. That’s the way it has always worked out, since he moved to New York six months ago. Always.
Justin taps the wooden spoon against the pot and turns up the heat on the burner. He hugs his body. He’s wearing a T-shirt and two sweaters and is practically living beside the stove, yet he still can’t seem to get warm. He spares a scowl for the broken heater. He never should have given Raoul a holiday bonus. Fucker can’t even keep the heater working.
The last he heard from Brian was two days ago… a terse phone call that lasted all of three minutes. Well, he didn’t have much to say. All he wanted to know was where Justin wanted his Christmas presents dropped off. Since Jennifer and Molly were spending the holidays with Tucker in Belize (fucking bullshit) and Debbie was flying up to Toronto with Michael and Ben to spoil Jenny Rebecca, there weren’t a lot of options left. Justin hesitated, all the things he wanted to say -- this is stupid, come to New York, I love you -- stuck in his throat. Brian told him he’d leave the presents with Emmett and hung up.
The pasta is boiling. Justin drains the hot water into the colander before dumping it back into the pot. He adds a dash of milk and some margarine and stirs it, leaving the nuclear-reactor-orange “cheese” until last.
He knows he could have gone home to Pittsburgh anyway. It’s not like Brian is his only tie to his home, even with his mother and sister gone (fucking bullshit) to Belize. He would have been welcome to spend the holidays with Daphne’s family. Ted and Blake would probably have accepted him at their table.
But he dug his toes in. He decided to stay in New York. Because he’s stubborn. And stupid. And stubborn. And while Daphne and her parents were surely feasting on roast duck and candied yams, his stupidity and stubbornness means that he is now getting ready to sit down to an oh-so-scrumptious meal of Kraft Dinner and boiled wieners.
This is not exactly how he imagined his first Christmas in New York would turn out.
Justin sets the small scarred table for one. He puts a poinsettia-themed placement at the head of the table, and lights the pillar candle surrounded by plastic ivy that serves as his holiday centrepiece. Then he ladles the Kraft Dinner onto his plate and plops a couple of wieners next to the pile of fluorescent orange pasta.
He unscrews the lid on the white wine and fills his glass. Lifts it in salute. “Merry Christmas,” he says to the empty room.
“Merry Christmas,” Brian says from behind him.
Justin freezes, the glass halfway to his lips. He waits a heartbeat, perhaps two, before raising the glass the rest of the way to his lips and taking a sip. Then he swivels in his chair and raises a brow.
Brian stands in the middle of the tiny living room, a key dangling from his index finger. “You gave me a key--”
“What,” Justin interrupts, “are you doing here?”
Brian drops the key on the coffee table and shrugs. “I’ll leave if you want me to.”
He gives Justin the hangdog look that normally melts his heart. And he’s wearing a cashmere sweater under a long wool coat and he looks good enough to eat. And Justin loves him, more than he’s ever loved anyone, more than he ever will.
He just doesn’t know if that’s enough.
It must have shown on his face, because Brian presses his lips together, and his fingers in his calfskin gloves clench once at his side. He lifts his chin and the smile on his face is sad and knowing. “Fine,” he says.
He takes four steps across the room toward the door before Justin sighs. “I have some extra macaroni,” he says.
Brian glances over his shoulder. “You’re actually going to eat that shit?”
“It’s delicious,” Justin says, daring Brian to contradict him.
“Hmm,” is Brian’s only response.
Justin decides it’s non-committal enough to pass. Brian strips off his gloves and places his coat carefully on the sofa before pulling up a chair at the table. Justin fetches him a plate and a glass; lets Brian pour his own wine while he spoons up a big helping of KD onto the plate.
“Smells… interesting,” Brian says.
Justin forks up a large mouthful. Eats in silence.
“Justin--”
“I’m still mad at you,” Justin says evenly.
“It’s Christmas,” Brian tells him. “Be mad at me tomorrow.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
“Everything looks great,” Justin says.
Gus kicks restlessly at his chair. At thirteen, he’s at the age where he wants to be away from the adults as soon as possible, even on Christmas Day -- preferably huddled in his room, listening to something dark and brooding while scribbling in his notebook.
He scowls at his plate -- piled high with turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes, broccoli and cauliflower, and…
“Why do we have to have macaroni every Christmas?” he whines.
“Be quiet and eat your wieners,” Brian says.
The End
Timeframe: Post Season Five
Rating: R for language?
Word Count: 984
A Non-Traditional Christmas Feast
By Severina
* * *
He never expected the argument to go on this long.
Sure, they fight. It’s the norm. He calls Brian to bitch. Brian calls him to bitch. Sometimes, they hang up on each other. One of them goes out and gets drunk, and the other goes out and gets high. Some random guy in New York gets lucky, and another random guy in Pittsburgh gets on his knees. But then one of them always breaks down and shows up -- Brian leaning against the doorframe of his studio with a smirk on his face, or Justin dropping his gym bag in the middle of Brian’s office before pushing him back onto his desk. That’s the way it has always worked out, since he moved to New York six months ago. Always.
Justin taps the wooden spoon against the pot and turns up the heat on the burner. He hugs his body. He’s wearing a T-shirt and two sweaters and is practically living beside the stove, yet he still can’t seem to get warm. He spares a scowl for the broken heater. He never should have given Raoul a holiday bonus. Fucker can’t even keep the heater working.
The last he heard from Brian was two days ago… a terse phone call that lasted all of three minutes. Well, he didn’t have much to say. All he wanted to know was where Justin wanted his Christmas presents dropped off. Since Jennifer and Molly were spending the holidays with Tucker in Belize (fucking bullshit) and Debbie was flying up to Toronto with Michael and Ben to spoil Jenny Rebecca, there weren’t a lot of options left. Justin hesitated, all the things he wanted to say -- this is stupid, come to New York, I love you -- stuck in his throat. Brian told him he’d leave the presents with Emmett and hung up.
The pasta is boiling. Justin drains the hot water into the colander before dumping it back into the pot. He adds a dash of milk and some margarine and stirs it, leaving the nuclear-reactor-orange “cheese” until last.
He knows he could have gone home to Pittsburgh anyway. It’s not like Brian is his only tie to his home, even with his mother and sister gone (fucking bullshit) to Belize. He would have been welcome to spend the holidays with Daphne’s family. Ted and Blake would probably have accepted him at their table.
But he dug his toes in. He decided to stay in New York. Because he’s stubborn. And stupid. And stubborn. And while Daphne and her parents were surely feasting on roast duck and candied yams, his stupidity and stubbornness means that he is now getting ready to sit down to an oh-so-scrumptious meal of Kraft Dinner and boiled wieners.
This is not exactly how he imagined his first Christmas in New York would turn out.
Justin sets the small scarred table for one. He puts a poinsettia-themed placement at the head of the table, and lights the pillar candle surrounded by plastic ivy that serves as his holiday centrepiece. Then he ladles the Kraft Dinner onto his plate and plops a couple of wieners next to the pile of fluorescent orange pasta.
He unscrews the lid on the white wine and fills his glass. Lifts it in salute. “Merry Christmas,” he says to the empty room.
“Merry Christmas,” Brian says from behind him.
Justin freezes, the glass halfway to his lips. He waits a heartbeat, perhaps two, before raising the glass the rest of the way to his lips and taking a sip. Then he swivels in his chair and raises a brow.
Brian stands in the middle of the tiny living room, a key dangling from his index finger. “You gave me a key--”
“What,” Justin interrupts, “are you doing here?”
Brian drops the key on the coffee table and shrugs. “I’ll leave if you want me to.”
He gives Justin the hangdog look that normally melts his heart. And he’s wearing a cashmere sweater under a long wool coat and he looks good enough to eat. And Justin loves him, more than he’s ever loved anyone, more than he ever will.
He just doesn’t know if that’s enough.
It must have shown on his face, because Brian presses his lips together, and his fingers in his calfskin gloves clench once at his side. He lifts his chin and the smile on his face is sad and knowing. “Fine,” he says.
He takes four steps across the room toward the door before Justin sighs. “I have some extra macaroni,” he says.
Brian glances over his shoulder. “You’re actually going to eat that shit?”
“It’s delicious,” Justin says, daring Brian to contradict him.
“Hmm,” is Brian’s only response.
Justin decides it’s non-committal enough to pass. Brian strips off his gloves and places his coat carefully on the sofa before pulling up a chair at the table. Justin fetches him a plate and a glass; lets Brian pour his own wine while he spoons up a big helping of KD onto the plate.
“Smells… interesting,” Brian says.
Justin forks up a large mouthful. Eats in silence.
“Justin--”
“I’m still mad at you,” Justin says evenly.
“It’s Christmas,” Brian tells him. “Be mad at me tomorrow.”
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
“Everything looks great,” Justin says.
Gus kicks restlessly at his chair. At thirteen, he’s at the age where he wants to be away from the adults as soon as possible, even on Christmas Day -- preferably huddled in his room, listening to something dark and brooding while scribbling in his notebook.
He scowls at his plate -- piled high with turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes, broccoli and cauliflower, and…
“Why do we have to have macaroni every Christmas?” he whines.
“Be quiet and eat your wieners,” Brian says.
The End