Last Christmas
Day 1 of the 12 Days Of Christmas Festive Fic Challenge!
For malibuforme, Merry (Early) Christmas! Hope you like it!
-
Jenson sniffles, wraps his duvet tighter around himself and flinches from the cold tile of his kitchen floor against his bare feet. His Christmas has quite frankly, gone up shit creek without a paddle, or a boat, or even a lifejacket, without ever learning how to swim. To put it bluntly, it’s by far his worst Christmas yet. And he’s been around a while, as Seb is fond of reminding him. God, even Sebastian’s company would be preferable to his current company of…an empty apartment and a broken heart. Even the booze has gone. Mostly. But Sebastian has a girlfriend, a properly functioning love life. Jenson has nothing but lost dreams and hopes, and a love that won’t die. The first relationship he’d let himself fall into, tumbling into love without a care for the consequences, fall deeper than he ever had before, and it’s broken him.
-
There’s still presents under the tree. His, for Lewis. Lewis hadn’t even bothered to put his under the tree when they‘d decorated. He should have known, really, the signs evident in hindsight. But hindsight’s a wonderful thing, but blinded by love he hadn’t seen the signs, and Lewis had been so wonderful that day, larking around with a sprig of mistletoe. Jenson curls up on the sofa with the last of the beer and sighs, reaching for the remote to turn off ‘The Holiday‘, leave it on one of the news channels. Everyone else is being cheerfully festive, and cheerfully romantic. Except Checo, who seems to be more drunk than Jenson is and has texted him something that might be ‘happy Christmas’ in Spanish, if Checo wasn’t presumably slightly tipsy on what is probably tequila. At least everyone else is having a good time, Jenson muses, sighs and stares at his ceiling. It could do with repainting. Another thing he and Lewis were planning to do, until Lewis fucked off with someone else. Redecorate his flat, Jenson moving Lewis permanently into his life, as well as his heart. “Fat fucking chance of that.” Jenson snorts, curls his arms around himself as if he can hold his aching chest together, and doesn’t move for a good while, just tries to breathe against the constriction of his heart, hold himself together. He’s a World Champion, he’s stronger than this, but his heart disagrees with his desperate reasoning to keep himself sane.
-
His phone buzzing drags him off the sofa to find it underneath the pile of Kleenex (because Jenson’s manly enough to cry, OK?) and sniffle a little more at the message. Mark. Oh, Mark. Always willing to listen and certainly good for a laugh. Usually at Seb, if Jenson’s totally honest. Really, the young German is asking for it, Mark reasons whenever Sebastian protests their mocking. Any reason Lewis is tweeting pictures of himself in a London nightclub without you?
Take a fucking stab in the dark. Jenson replies, and it feels like a stab to the heart, finally giving up. It’s over. He’s given it everything he had. George Michael says it for him on a Christmas advert on the TV, because this Christmas he’s given Lewis his heart and Lewis has thrown it away without a care for celebrity and fame, partying with some girl who doesn’t even care, who hasn’t spent the last year celebrating the highs, comforting during the lows, kissing, cuddling, and loving him. He’d given Lewis his virginity. (Well, for, erm. You know what. It wasn’t like he’d been celibate before Lewis. But Lewis had changed everything, for good, or so Jenson had thought.)
Happen to have a spare sofa for a lonely soul stranded in Monaco? Mate, your airports are crap with snow. Jenson can’t help but laugh at Mark’s text.
Of course. Pick up some vodka on your way.
-
“I come bearing vodka and a listening ear.” Mark announces, lets himself in. Jenson hasn’t moved since Mark invited himself over, can’t bring himself to look away from his new text. Mark tugs the phone from his cold hands, takes it with him when he goes to figure out the heating, leaves the vodka in the kitchen and brings hot chocolate instead. It scares him, how silent, how unresponsive Jenson is, because Jenson is the life and soul of the party normally, because since the start of his relationship with Lewis he‘d flourished. Today, he just snuggles close and sniffles into Mark’s t-shirt, shivering until he finally warms up, damp patch growing on the shoulder of Mark‘s hoodie. “He’s a twat, Jenson, and you know it.”
“But he wasn’t a twat to me.”
“He has been now.” Mark points out, pets Jenson’s hair, offers him a Jaffa Cake from the packet he’s made a pretty decent assault on, smiles as Jenson nibbles at it between hiccoughing breaths. “Jens, you’ll get over him. It’s not like you’re going to see him much next year.” Jenson starts crying again, gasping sobs, struggles for breath as he sobs. “Jenson, there are far, far, far better fish in the sea.” Mark sighs, tugs his hoodie sleeve over his hand to wipe the tears away, puts down the Jaffa Cakes to rub Jenson’s back, leaves the mug on the coffee table where they’re not likely to spill it on their laps “Believe me, because you’re perfect, you’ll find someone far, far better. Trust me.”
“I just find it hard to believe anyone now.” Jenson laughs, takes the mug when it’s offered, sighing at the warm hand rubbing his back.
“Next year, I promise you,” Mark starts, hand curling around Jenson’s chin to make the Brit look straight at him, “that you won’t be sad and alone on Christmas day.”
-
(Mark keeps his promise, by the way, and so Jenson has the best Christmas yet the year after, laughing on a beach in Australia, kisses from his own Australian, and that traditional Christmas dinner, a barbeque. And the only tears in sight come when Mark fishes out a simple gold band and kneels in front of Jenson, Jenson yelping out a ‘yes’ and flinging himself at Mark in delight, heartbreak of last year long forgotten.)
For malibuforme, Merry (Early) Christmas! Hope you like it!
-
Jenson sniffles, wraps his duvet tighter around himself and flinches from the cold tile of his kitchen floor against his bare feet. His Christmas has quite frankly, gone up shit creek without a paddle, or a boat, or even a lifejacket, without ever learning how to swim. To put it bluntly, it’s by far his worst Christmas yet. And he’s been around a while, as Seb is fond of reminding him. God, even Sebastian’s company would be preferable to his current company of…an empty apartment and a broken heart. Even the booze has gone. Mostly. But Sebastian has a girlfriend, a properly functioning love life. Jenson has nothing but lost dreams and hopes, and a love that won’t die. The first relationship he’d let himself fall into, tumbling into love without a care for the consequences, fall deeper than he ever had before, and it’s broken him.
-
There’s still presents under the tree. His, for Lewis. Lewis hadn’t even bothered to put his under the tree when they‘d decorated. He should have known, really, the signs evident in hindsight. But hindsight’s a wonderful thing, but blinded by love he hadn’t seen the signs, and Lewis had been so wonderful that day, larking around with a sprig of mistletoe. Jenson curls up on the sofa with the last of the beer and sighs, reaching for the remote to turn off ‘The Holiday‘, leave it on one of the news channels. Everyone else is being cheerfully festive, and cheerfully romantic. Except Checo, who seems to be more drunk than Jenson is and has texted him something that might be ‘happy Christmas’ in Spanish, if Checo wasn’t presumably slightly tipsy on what is probably tequila. At least everyone else is having a good time, Jenson muses, sighs and stares at his ceiling. It could do with repainting. Another thing he and Lewis were planning to do, until Lewis fucked off with someone else. Redecorate his flat, Jenson moving Lewis permanently into his life, as well as his heart. “Fat fucking chance of that.” Jenson snorts, curls his arms around himself as if he can hold his aching chest together, and doesn’t move for a good while, just tries to breathe against the constriction of his heart, hold himself together. He’s a World Champion, he’s stronger than this, but his heart disagrees with his desperate reasoning to keep himself sane.
-
His phone buzzing drags him off the sofa to find it underneath the pile of Kleenex (because Jenson’s manly enough to cry, OK?) and sniffle a little more at the message. Mark. Oh, Mark. Always willing to listen and certainly good for a laugh. Usually at Seb, if Jenson’s totally honest. Really, the young German is asking for it, Mark reasons whenever Sebastian protests their mocking. Any reason Lewis is tweeting pictures of himself in a London nightclub without you?
Take a fucking stab in the dark. Jenson replies, and it feels like a stab to the heart, finally giving up. It’s over. He’s given it everything he had. George Michael says it for him on a Christmas advert on the TV, because this Christmas he’s given Lewis his heart and Lewis has thrown it away without a care for celebrity and fame, partying with some girl who doesn’t even care, who hasn’t spent the last year celebrating the highs, comforting during the lows, kissing, cuddling, and loving him. He’d given Lewis his virginity. (Well, for, erm. You know what. It wasn’t like he’d been celibate before Lewis. But Lewis had changed everything, for good, or so Jenson had thought.)
Happen to have a spare sofa for a lonely soul stranded in Monaco? Mate, your airports are crap with snow. Jenson can’t help but laugh at Mark’s text.
Of course. Pick up some vodka on your way.
-
“I come bearing vodka and a listening ear.” Mark announces, lets himself in. Jenson hasn’t moved since Mark invited himself over, can’t bring himself to look away from his new text. Mark tugs the phone from his cold hands, takes it with him when he goes to figure out the heating, leaves the vodka in the kitchen and brings hot chocolate instead. It scares him, how silent, how unresponsive Jenson is, because Jenson is the life and soul of the party normally, because since the start of his relationship with Lewis he‘d flourished. Today, he just snuggles close and sniffles into Mark’s t-shirt, shivering until he finally warms up, damp patch growing on the shoulder of Mark‘s hoodie. “He’s a twat, Jenson, and you know it.”
“But he wasn’t a twat to me.”
“He has been now.” Mark points out, pets Jenson’s hair, offers him a Jaffa Cake from the packet he’s made a pretty decent assault on, smiles as Jenson nibbles at it between hiccoughing breaths. “Jens, you’ll get over him. It’s not like you’re going to see him much next year.” Jenson starts crying again, gasping sobs, struggles for breath as he sobs. “Jenson, there are far, far, far better fish in the sea.” Mark sighs, tugs his hoodie sleeve over his hand to wipe the tears away, puts down the Jaffa Cakes to rub Jenson’s back, leaves the mug on the coffee table where they’re not likely to spill it on their laps “Believe me, because you’re perfect, you’ll find someone far, far better. Trust me.”
“I just find it hard to believe anyone now.” Jenson laughs, takes the mug when it’s offered, sighing at the warm hand rubbing his back.
“Next year, I promise you,” Mark starts, hand curling around Jenson’s chin to make the Brit look straight at him, “that you won’t be sad and alone on Christmas day.”
-
(Mark keeps his promise, by the way, and so Jenson has the best Christmas yet the year after, laughing on a beach in Australia, kisses from his own Australian, and that traditional Christmas dinner, a barbeque. And the only tears in sight come when Mark fishes out a simple gold band and kneels in front of Jenson, Jenson yelping out a ‘yes’ and flinging himself at Mark in delight, heartbreak of last year long forgotten.)