Fic: Maybe You Can Sell Him On eBay
HAPPY HOLIDAYS, EVERYONE! I come bearing fic. Embarrassingly adorable and fluffy fic--perfect for the season, yes? :D
Title: Maybe You Can Sell Him On eBay
Pairing: baby Brendon/Ryan preslash
Wordcount: ~5,000
Rating: G
Summary: bb!Panic AU. "You know what we should do?" Brendon asks Ryan, eyes getting brighter. "We should get proof of Santa!"
Thanks to: the beautiful chaoticallyclev, fairest in all of beta-land.
Author's Note: Written for redorchids's Christmas Wish Exchange, in response to the prompt kid!fic in which Bren and Ryan try to catch Santa. I hope you enjoy, amyanonymous! ♥
“But Santa isn’t real!” Frankie folds his arms and glares at them.
Brendon’s mouth drops open, and Ryan notices that his tongue is stained purple. Ryan makes a mental note to ask Spencer’s mom for lollipops this afternoon.
“You can’t--Frankie!” Gerard wails. He’s twisting his hands together, sort of doing that weird hand-wringing thing Spencer’s mom does when they break something. “What if Mikey hears you?”
“Mikey isn’t here,” Frankie says petulantly. “And besides, they’re stupid, anyway.”
“We’re not stupid,” Spencer protests. “You-you’re stupid!”
Ryan sticks his tongue out in support.
“Frankie, come on,” Gerard says, tugging on his arm. “Look, it’s Bob!”
“Wait, really?” Frankie says.
“Sure,” Gerard says. “He’s right behind that wall.”
“Oh, okay,” Frankie says before running full tilt in that direction.
“Wait for me!” Gerard yells after him, and jogs to catch up, pudgy cheeks puffed out as he pants.
“He’s been such a meaniehead ever since he got into second grade,” Spencer says, eyebrows drawing down angrily.
“Like he’s too cool for us, or something,” Ryan agrees.
Spencer scowls. “He’s just mad because I’m taller than him, and he’s two years older.”
“Yeah!” Ryan says. He turns to look at Brendon, but Brendon’s staring at the ground silently, the corners of his lips pulled down.
“Brendon?” Ryan prompts.
Brendon just hunches a little further in, skinny shoulders drawing up to his sticky-out ears. He looks kind of like he’s cold. Or like he’s peed his pants.
“Did you have another accident?” Ryan asks. “I can get Mrs. Harris for you, if you want.”
Brendon shakes his head, slowly.
“Well then, what is it?” Spencer asks impatiently.
“Is Santa…” Brendon licks his lips, eyes still glued to the ground, and starts over. “Is Santa really not real?”
“Of course he’s real!” Spencer shouts, waving his arms around. “Duh. Where do you think your presents come from, dummy?”
“Don’t call me dummy,” Brendon says, but he’s smiling a little now. “Ryan? What do you think?” he asks.
“Oh.” Ryan frowns. “I don’t know, I guess. Maybe?”
“How can you not know?” Brendon asks, brow furrowed. “You’re a whole year older than us! You should know.”
“That’s true, I am a lot older than you guys,” Ryan nods. “And I do know a lot more.”
“So?” Spencer asks. “I’m right, right?’
Ryan shrugs. “I usually don’t get a lot of presents. And they’re never what I ask for in my Santa letter.”
“Oh,” Spencer says, hushed.
“But, you know.” Ryan waves his hand in the air. He’s being very noncha-noncha-noncha-something, he heard Mrs. Harris say it once, and he knows it means cool. Because this doesn’t matter. “It’s prolly because I don’t always follow the rules, and stuff. I’m kind of a bad kid, I guess.”
Brendon looks at him with big, dark eyes. “You’re not a bad kid, Ryan,” he says, and then, before Ryan can duck or run or do anything, he throws his arms around Ryan so tight that Ryan can’t wriggle out of it. But he tries, of course. He tries very hard. Brendon just has really strong arms.
“Brendon,” he complains. “I’m in first grade now! You can’t just hug me whenever you want.”
“Who says?” Brendon asks, bottom lip pushed out.
“I-I don’t know,” Ryan says. “Whatever.”
“Do you really think Santa doesn’t exist?” Brendon asks Ryan’s shoulder, face smushed against him.
“I told you, I don’t know,” Ryan says. “It’s not like we have scien-scien-we don’t have proof, okay?”
“That’s stupid,” Spencer says. “You guys are stupid. You don’t need proof! It’s Santa. It’s like-God, or something. Have you ever seen God?”
“No,” Brendon says, “but some people have. My mama said there were some people who saw him on some toast one day. That’s proof.”
“Whatever,” Spencer says, and stomps off.
Ryan sighs. Spencer’s just unhappy because Jon Walker went to Hawaii with his family for Christmas, and they left yesterday.
“Jon’ll be home soon!” Brendon yells after Spencer, because even though Brendon’s a whole year younger than Ryan, sometimes he can be pretty smart.
“I don’t care about stupid Jon!” Spencer yells back, and Ryan can hear him stomping louder, like he’s making a point.
“You know what we should do?” Brendon asks Ryan, eyes getting brighter. “We should get proof of Santa!”
“Okay,” Ryan says slowly. “But how?”
“We’ll have to bug somebody,” Brendon says.
“Wait, what?” Ryan asks. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Brendon says. “But I heard it on CSI when they were trying to find some proof.”
* * *
Mrs. Harris tells them that bugging someone means putting a secret recording thingie on them, and that they shouldn’t do it. Really really. She even gives them this look when she says it, so Ryan knows she means business.
Brendon sighs as he sits down at their table, and props his chin up on one hand. “What are we going to do, Ryan?” he asks.
Ryan shrugs and doesn’t answer. Someone carved a bad word into his side of the table, and Ryan stares at it, torn between horror and interest.
“What if we never find proof?” Brendon asks, and the tone of his voice makes Ryan look up. His lower lip is trembling, and his eyes look really shiny.
“We’ll find proof, okay?” Ryan says hurriedly. “Just-it’ll be okay.”
“Yeah?” Brendon asks. His hand creeps across the table to touch Ryan’s, and Ryan decides to let him. Just this once. Because Brendon’s a huge crybaby and nobody wants to see all that snot.
“This is what we’ll do,” Ryan says importantly. “We’ll catch Santa! Then we’ll have proof.”
“Oh, that’s a really good idea,” Brendon says, eyes widening.
“I know,” Ryan says.
“Wait,” Brendon says. “How are we going to catch Santa?”
“That’s easy,” Ryan answers. “We’ll just-we’ll just-oh, crap.”
“You said a bad word!” Brendon gasps.
“Who cares?” Ryan says. “How are we going to catch Santa?”
* * *
“Well, that is a question, isn’t it?” William says, hand stroking his pointy chin.
“Of course it’s a question,” Brendon huffs, but Ryan shoots him a glare. William is super cool. He knows all these big words.
“Have you perhaps considered,” William asks, “that Santa Claus is a being not subject to your beck and call?”
“Oh, sure,” Ryan says, nodding. Then he pauses. “Wait, what?”
William shrugs. “I don’t know, but it sounded cool, didn’t it?”
It did sound cool-really cool, even, and now Ryan’s itching to write it down even though he’s not sure how to spell all the words-but Brendon’s rolling his eyes in disgust.
“You’re not helping us at all,” he accuses.
William sticks his tongue out at him. “I’ll get Gabe. Gabe’ll know.”
* * *
Gabe doesn’t know.
“But why do you guys care about stupid Santa, anyway?” Gabe asks. “Let me tell you about something way cooler. I keep having these dreams about this ginormous purple snake; it is so awesome. It talks to me!”
“What does it say?” Brendon asks doubtfully.
“Mostly it hisses about dancing,” Gabe says. “Hey, have I showed you my new dance moves?”
“No, but I think we’re okay,” Ryan says, dragging Brendon away. Sometimes Ryan thinks that Gabe’s a little weird. And besides, Brendon likes to watch Gabe dance a lot, which is even weirder. Brendon shouldn’t be paying so much attention to Gabe; Gabe’s stupid.
“You guys should use duct tape!” Gabe yells after them.
“To do what?” Brendon yells back.
“After you guys catch him, you can tie him up with it!”
“But we’re not keeping him,” Ryan protests. “That’s a stupid idea.”
“Maybe you can sell him on eBay,” Gabe suggests.
Ryan walks away.
* * *
“Why are you guys looking for proof?” Pete asks them.
“Because we need to know if he exists or not,” Brendon tells him.
“That’s stupid,” Pete says. “I’ve totally seen him before. He exists, trust me.”
“And where have you seen him?” Patrick asks him, raising one eyebrow. Patrick always wears a hat and he acts like he’s forty, or something. He is so not cool enough for Pete. Ryan doesn’t know why he’s friends with him.
“I don’t know,” Pete says, shrugging. “Like, on the street, and stuff.”
“That’s the Salvation Army guy, dummy!” Patrick says.
“Is not!” Pete yells back.
“Is too!” Patrick shouts.
“How do you know?”
“I know everything!”
“No, you don’t!”
“You wanna bet?”
“Shut up!”
“You shut up!”
Ryan steers Brendon away after they start kicking at each other. Mrs. Harris will be there within minutes, and Ryan doesn’t want to be incriminated. He might get sent to time-out.
* * *
“Of course I don’t know,” Greta says, rolling her eyes behind her black glasses. “I’m only five and a half.”
“But we don’t have anyone else to ask,” Brendon says tragically. “Except Bert, but-“
“Yeah, we don’t have anyone else to ask,” Ryan interrupts.
“Duh, no one here is going to know.” Greta rolls her eyes again. Ryan thinks she looks really annoying when she does that, unlike Brendon, who just looks kind of cute. And stupid, of course. Cute and stupid.
“You have to ask an adult!” Greta says. “Or go to the library. I bet they’ve got tons of books on catching Santa Claus.”
Wait. “The library?” Ryan repeats.
“Yeah,” Greta says.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before,” Ryan says, frowning.
“You were distracted,” Brendon tells him, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
“Let’s go,” Ryan says, and they start walking off.
“You’re welcome,” Greta calls after them.
“Your glasses are ugly!” Ryan yells back. Brendon elbows him.
“Like I care, lame-o!” she screeches. “Vicky! Did you hear what Ryan said to me?”
Uh oh. Ryan walks a little faster.
* * *
“Sweetie, I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Ms. Donnelly says.
“We just want to catch Santa Claus,” Ryan repeats for the fifth time.
“And we want some books to help us!” Brendon adds. Then he freezes, and turns to Ryan.
“Ryan?” Brendon whispers, tugging at his shirt. “You can read good, right?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Ryan whispers back. Brendon beams at him, and Ryan gives him a tiny smile.
“But, ah-we don’t have any books on catching Santa Claus,” Ms. Donnelly says. “Might I ask what you, um. Why you need to catch him?”
“We need to find proof that he exists,” Brendon tells her earnestly, slurring the ‘exists’ a bit.
“Oh! Well, there’s, um. There’s a Santa right down the block, I think, and one at Macy’s-I mean,” and she giggles, coloring, “sometimes Santa’s down the block, and sometimes he’s at Macy’s, and you can talk to him there.”
“We’re not stupid.” Ryan turns an icy look on her-Spencer says it looks really scary. “We know that those are just regular people dressed up to look like Santa Claus because they want to copy him since he’s so cool.”
“Ah, right,” Ms. Donnelly says. She bites her lip. “Here, why I don’t I show you our picture book section…There are some great little stories about Santa Claus here-and oh, one about his reindeer!”
Ryan exchanges a look with Brendon. He doesn’t think this is going to work.
After they finally escape from her book recommendations, Brendon turns to look at him, shoulders slumping.
“If even an adult doesn’t know what to do, how are we going to find any proof?” he asks. “We’ll never know if Santa exists! Christmas will be ruined.”
Brendon’s bottom lip starts to wobble again, and Ryan stares back at him, helplessly. He doesn’t know what to do. Because Brendon’s right-Christmas will be ruined.
“Are you guys trying to find proof of Santa existing?” Bert asks from behind them.
Ryan turns around. “Yeah?” he says cautiously. Sometimes Bert’s a little…unstable.
Bert picks his nose a little bit and says, “Why were you asking an adult?”
“Because they’re smart?” Ryan says pointedly.
“That’s total bullshit,” Bert says, and Brendon stifles a scandalized gasp. “Asking adults will never get you anywhere. You have to do things on your own. Be less of a chicken!”
“On our own?” Brendon asks, wrinkling his nose.
“Yeah,” Bert says. “That’s the only way you can ever make sure something’ll get done right.”
“Huh,” Ryan says. He stands there thinking for a moment, but quickly hurries Brendon away when he sees Quinn coming. He heard that Quinn once killed a grown man with his bare hands. Ryan doesn’t believe rumors, of course, but sometimes it’s good to be safe.
* * *
“If we’re doing this by ourselves, we have to wait for Christmas Eve,” Ryan whispers to Brendon.
They’re crouched behind some bushes, hiding from Mrs. Harris, who is under the mistaken impression that break’s over and it’s time to come back to class.
“How come?” Brendon asks. He’s got some dirt smudged on his cheek, and Ryan rubs it away with his palm.
“Because the rest of the time he’s at the North Pole. Duh.”
“Oh, okay,” Brendon says agreeably. “How will we catch him?”
“I don’t know! I can’t do all the thinking around here,” Ryan huffs.
“But you’re the best at it,” Brendon points out, and Ryan has to agree.
“Fine,” he says, and makes a quick plan. “Let’s meet at your house on Christmas Eve, and we can go from there.”
“That sounds good! I’ll find some duct tape,” Brendon grins. “And-I’m glad you’ll be there. I hate spending Christmas with just the rest of my family; everyone always tries to pinch my cheeks and it kind of hurts after a while.”
“That-that’s good,” Ryan says, and has to fight down a blush, for some reason. Brendon just keeps smiling at him, happy and uncomplicated, and Ryan’s so preoccupied with staring at the gap between his teeth that he doesn’t notice the shadow until it’s right over their heads.
“Boys?” Mrs. Harris says. “It’s long past time to return to class. We’ve got some learning to do!”
“Oh, crap,” Ryan says.
“Ryan!” Brendon and Mrs. Harris say at the exact same time, and in the exact same horrified voice. Ryan rolls his eyes.
* * *
Ryan is so glad Brendon lives on the first floor of his house. He has no idea how he’d climb up to the second level; it was hard enough sneaking into the back yard. Ryan thinks he’s got at least five scratches on his knee from those stupid bushes-he counted.
“Brendon!” he whispers-screams, and jumps up so he can reach the window and knock on it.
There’s a brief pause, and then a dark-haired head pops up. Brendon grins at him and waves. He has to tilt up his chin to see Ryan over the windowsill, and Ryan’s guessing that he’s on his tiptoes.
“Let me in, dummy!” Ryan says.
“Let me get a chair,” Brendon mouths at him. A few minutes later, Brendon comes running back, heaves himself onto the chair, and reaches to open the latch.
“Whatcha doing here?” Brendon asks, breath fogging in the cold air.
“Our plan, dummy!” Ryan shouts back. He scowls to cover up the sudden worry that Brendon forgot about the plan. Will he make Ryan go home? What if he doesn’t want to spend Christmas together anymore? Ryan bites down on his lip. It really is cold out here.
Brendon blinks. “I know about our plan! I mean, why are you standing at my window? You could’ve just come by the front door.”
“Your mom doesn’t mind?” Ryan asks, eyes widening.
“Of course not,” Brendon says. He rolls his eyes. “C’mon, go to our front door and I’ll let you in there. Geez, Ryan, you always make everything so complicated.”
“Do not,” Ryan mutters. He scampers over to the front door, though, because it would be kind of hard to launch himself up and through the window.
“So,” Brendon says once he’s there. “What’s the plan?”
“You haven’t thought of one?” Ryan asks.
“I found duct tape, okay?” Brendon says defensively. He shoves the roll of tape into Ryan’s hands with slightly sticky fingers.
“But the duct tape doesn’t help until we’ve already caught him,” Ryan explains. “So what do we do now?”
Brendon shrugs at him. “I don’t know. But hey, want some cookies?”
“We really have to work on our plan…” Ryan protests, but lets himself be led into the kitchen. Just to make Brendon happy. It is his house, after all. It’s not like Ryan’s uncool enough to actually want sugar cookies shaped like reindeer and snowmen.
“Man, I really wish it would snow,” Brendon says wistfully, scattering crumbs everywhere.
“Yeah, that would be really awesome,” Ryan says. “But we live in Vegas. So not going to happen.”
Brendon nods, sadly.
“So, let’s think of ways to catch Santa Claus,” Ryan says, searching for a subject-change to distract Brendon. “We just need him to stand in one place long enough for us to see him, right? And then we can set him free.”
“Or sell him on eBay,” Brendon says, licking frosting off his fingers.
“…I guess,” Ryan says. He could use some extra cash. Santa would bring in at least five dollars, right? That’s enough for a ton of candy.
“We just need him to stick in one spot…” Brendon says, slowly. And then his face lights up. “We can glue him to the floor!”
“Glue him to the floor?” Ryan repeats.
“Yeah! Come on,” Brendon says excitedly. He leads Brendon into the living room, where there’s a gigantic tree, all lit up with lights and shiny ornaments. Ryan has to stop and stare for a moment. There’s no tree in his living room, just a bare space of carpet.
But it’s not like Ryan cares. Trees are stupid. And they smell funny.
“Here’s the fireplace,” Brendon says, panting a little. “And we can just spread glue over the tiles, here, so when he steps out he’ll be caught! And he won’t be able to move.”
Ryan inhales, surprised. “That’s a good idea!”
“Thanks,” Brendon says. He beams at Ryan, and Ryan smiles back.
Quickly, they go to Brendon’s room to grab his bottle of Elmer’s glue. Before long, they’ve covered the entire space in front of the fireplace in sticky glue. Ryan has to stop Brendon from putting his glue-covered fingers in his mouth a few times, but he’s used to that. Craft time in Mrs. Harris’s class is always pretty dangerous with Brendon around.
“We’re all done!” Brendon shouts delightedly. “We’ll catch Santa for sure. And it was all my idea.”
“Yeah!” Ryan grins back, excited. This is going to be so cool. They high-five, and Brendon gives Ryan an impromptu hug, which Ryan generously allows. He did think of the idea, after all.
But then he hears movement behind them. It’s Brendon’s older brother.
He’s laughing.
“Oh man, what are you guys doing?” he asks.
Brendon frowns. “We’re catching Santa! Duh.”
The guy blinks. “But how?”
“When Santa steps out, he’ll be caught in the glue,” Ryan says. “And then we’ll catch him.”
“That is never going to work,” Brendon’s brother says.
“What do you mean?” Ryan asks.
He rolls his eyes. “The glue’s going to dry in like, five seconds, geniuses. And then it won’t do anything. Hey, let me see.”
He walks closer and examines their handiwork, before putting a hand to his forehead and laughing again.
“What is it?” Brendon asks, annoyed.
“I can’t believe you brats actually spread like, a gallon of glue all over the floor. Mom is going to be so pissed at you guys. Jesus. Wouldn’t want to be you right now,” he sing-songs, and then walks off.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!” Brendon yells after him.
Brendon’s brother just waves a middle finger behind his back. Brendon gasps, but Ryan can’t focus on that.
He breathes in shakily, replaying Brendon’s brother’s words. Mrs. Urie is going to be pissed? And it wasn’t even his fault!
“This was such a stupid idea,” he says suddenly, turning on Brendon. “I can’t believe you made us do it.”
Brendon stares at him, mouth open. “I didn’t make us do it! You thought it was a good idea, too.”
“No, I didn’t! It was an awful idea!” Ryan shouts back, like if he says it loudly enough, Mrs. Urie will hear and understand. “It just-it sucked! Now we’re never going to catch Santa.”
“It’s not my fault!” Brendon yells, voice coming dangerously close to a wail. His eyes are getting teary, and Ryan has turn from the sight, break into a stumbling run as he tries to swallow down the lump in his throat.
“Ryan!” Brendon shouts.
“Go away!” Ryan yells at him, not looking back. “I-I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
He pushes open the nearest door he can find-it seems to be a closet, but Ryan’s not really sure because his vision’s getting blurry around the edges-and sits down, drawing his bony knees up to his chest. He doesn’t want to cry. He hates crying. But he can feel wetness coming down anyway, and he reaches up to rub at it angrily.
This is all Brendon’s fault. Mrs. Urie’s going to come, and she’s going to see what they did, and even though Ryan didn’t do anything, she’s going to yell at him and make him go away. She’s going to make Ryan go back home, and Ryan won’t have any more cookies or shiny ornaments or Brendon; he’ll just be home alone because his dad’s working late again, or whatever, and it’ll suck. It’ll just…suck.
Ryan reaches to wipe up at his face, horrified to find that he’s got snot coming down, too. This is so gross. He’s in first grade now, he’s not a crybaby. It’s so embarrassing, crying like this, and Ryan’s gut twists, but now the tears are just coming down faster, hot and kind of stinging on his cheeks. He sniffs and takes a shaky breath.
“Ryan?”
It’s Brendon, his small head peeking around the door frame into the closet. He looks cautious and upset, and Ryan quickly twists away from him, trying to hide his icky, snot-covered face.
“Go away,” Ryan mumbles.
But it’s too late. Brendon’s already seen, and he comes into the closet, walking closer.
“What’s wrong, Ryan?” Brendon asks. “What’s wrong? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, honest.”
Somehow Brendon’s apologies make it all worse, and Ryan shakes his head at him, shrinking back into the wall. “Don’t-I didn’t-“ He has to stop talking because tears keeping coming up, and Ryan scrubs at his face roughly.
“Don’t cry, Ryan,” Brendon begs, but Ryan just heaves out a huge sob, helplessly.
Brendon’s staring at him, horrified, and oh no, now Brendon’s lips are trembling. Ryan opens his mouth, but he can’t say anything. And Brendon blinks-and suddenly he’s crying just as hard as Ryan.
“Don’t-don’t cry,” Ryan sobs. “It’s not your fault; I’m sorry I was mean. I don’t-I don’t really hate you.”
“Yes, it was my fault,” Brendon wails. “Ryan, Ryan, I’m really sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to…” His words trail off as he falls half on top of Ryan and hugs him tight, wiping his face against Ryan’s chest.
Ryan just cries harder, because he didn’t mean to make Brendon cry, he’s such a mean person, and pretty soon they’re just sobbing into each other, Ryan hiding his inflamed face in the soft curve of Brendon’s neck. Brendon’s body is shaking, like he’s got the hiccups, and Ryan hugs him tighter, not minding the snot that’s getting all over his shirt.
It’s warm and dark and Brendon smells so familiar, like sweat and soap and crayons, that gradually, Ryan’s sobs start fading away.
He stays there, though, pressing himself close to Brendon because he’s tired and he doesn’t feel like getting away.
Ryan isn’t sure how long it is before another shadow falls over them.
“Oh, boys,” Mrs. Urie says.
And just like that, Ryan’s crying again. “I-I’m sorry, Mrs. Urie,” he says through sniffling, “I didn’t mean to! I’ll clean it up, I swear, please.”
“It was my fault!” Brendon says, sitting up next to him. “It was my idea, all my idea-“
Mrs. Urie coughs a little, like she’s trying to hide something, and covers her mouth with her hand. “It’s, um, it’s all right, sweetie. It was just Elmer’s glue. It’ll come off in five minutes; don’t you worry about it.”
“Really?” Ryan says, shocked out of crying.
“Sure.” She smiles at him.
“You won’t make me go home?” Ryan confirms.
“Please don’t!” Brendon pipes up. “I’ll even clean my room, if you want.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer after Christmas,” Mrs. Urie tells Brendon, winking. Brendon blanches. “And of course you can stay, Ryan. Come on, up we go. It’s almost time for dinner.”
Later, after their faces are washed and dried and they’ve eaten dinner, they’re stretched out in front of the fireplace, sleepily watching the flames.
“I don’t know what to do,” Brendon says, rolling to face Ryan. “I don’t have any more ideas on how to catch Santa.”
“I don’t either,” Ryan sighs. They went to so much trouble, and nothing’s worked out.
He stares at the fireplace a little more, thinking.
“Hey, Brendon,” Ryan says quietly.
“Yeah?” Brendon asks.
“What if we just slept down here tonight?” Ryan asks. “We’ll definitely wake up when Santa comes, and then we’ll know for sure that he’s real.”
“I don’t know,” Brendon says doubtfully. “I’m kind of a heavy sleeper. My mama says I’m like a rock.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Ryan says, screwing up his face. “Rocks don’t sleep.”
Brendon shrugs at him.
“Well, whatever. We can set an alarm,” Ryan tells him. “For midnight. This will totally work!”
“Well, okay,” Brendon says trustingly. “If you say so.”
* * *
“Hey, Ryan,” Brendon whispers.
“Hmm?” Ryan opens his eyes, yawning. The digital alarm clock they put beside them on the floor reads 10:30 PM.
“Do you think everyone’s asleep?” Brendon asks.
“Prolly,” Ryan mumbles. “Why aren’t you?”
Brendon shrugs. “I guess I’m too excited, or something. That happens a lot.”
“Oh,” Ryan says. He wipes at his eyes clumsily.
“I’ve been staring at those cookies over there,” Brendon says. “They look really good, don’t they?”
Ryan twists his head to look. Brendon’s pointing at the plate of cookies that Mrs. Urie left out for Santa.
“You hungry?” Ryan asks Brendon.
“Well…kind of.” Brendon looks down, flushing.
“Go eat some,” Ryan tells him.
“But they’re Santa’s!” Brendon hisses.
“The guy’s really fat already,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. “You can eat one or two.”
Brendon stares at him for a few seconds, face frozen in indecision, before breaking out in a huge grin.
“Okay!” he stage-whispers. Quickly, he squirms out of the sleeping bag and runs over to the plate, and then sprints back with a handful, like he’s afraid someone’s going to catch him.
“Have some,” Brendon says, and shoves one into Ryan’s hands. Ryan blinks at it, and puts it in his mouth.
“Thanks,” he says around the cookie.
“Welcome,” Brendon replies. “Hey, what did you ask for? For Christmas gifts, I mean.”
“Oh.” Ryan frowns a little bit. “I don’t know.”
“I asked for the new Pokémon videogame,” Brendon says happily. “And some more action figures and one of those small beginning guitar things. I want to learn how to play, you know,” he tells Ryan seriously.
“Yeah?” Ryan asks. “That sounds cool.”
“Yeah,” Brendon says, popping another cookie into his mouth. “It’s going to be awesome. So? What did you ask for?”
Ryan thinks about the unfinished letter that’s still sitting in his room, the one that began with “Dear Santa” and ended with the same thing.
“I asked for some action figures, too,” Ryan improvises, his voice quiet.
“That’s it?” Brendon asks, scooting in his sleeping bag until he’s right in front of Ryan’s face. “You don’t want anything else?”
Ryan bites his lip. The fire’s warm behind him, his stomach feels nice and full from the cookies, and Brendon’s looking straight at him, as if his answer will make or break Christmas for him. Like Ryan’s even more important than Santa, or something.
“No,” Ryan says honestly. “I don’t want anything else for Christmas.”
Brendon reaches over to Ryan, suddenly, and grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together.
“You can have some of my videogames,” Brendon decides. “We can play them in the morning. And then we should go over to Spencer’s house and make him stop moping ‘cause Jon’s gone, and we’ll all play! I bet it’ll snow. That would be cool, wouldn’t it? We could make a snowman together.”
Brendon’s hand is slightly sticky and Ryan’s pretty sure that there’s some frosting on it from the cookies, but it’s soft and warm and tightly wrapped around Ryan’s hand, so Ryan just holds on.
“That would be pretty cool,” Ryan says, and Brendon smiles at him, bright.
* * *
At 12:01 AM, Mrs. Urie gets up to turn the alarm off. The two boys are sleeping side-by-side, completely oblivious to the alarm, and they’re holding hands. She laughs a little at the sight, before turning away to go back to bed.
Outside, it’s beginning to snow.
End.
Any feedback is loved! ♥
Title: Maybe You Can Sell Him On eBay
Pairing: baby Brendon/Ryan preslash
Wordcount: ~5,000
Rating: G
Summary: bb!Panic AU. "You know what we should do?" Brendon asks Ryan, eyes getting brighter. "We should get proof of Santa!"
Thanks to: the beautiful chaoticallyclev, fairest in all of beta-land.
Author's Note: Written for redorchids's Christmas Wish Exchange, in response to the prompt kid!fic in which Bren and Ryan try to catch Santa. I hope you enjoy, amyanonymous! ♥
“But Santa isn’t real!” Frankie folds his arms and glares at them.
Brendon’s mouth drops open, and Ryan notices that his tongue is stained purple. Ryan makes a mental note to ask Spencer’s mom for lollipops this afternoon.
“You can’t--Frankie!” Gerard wails. He’s twisting his hands together, sort of doing that weird hand-wringing thing Spencer’s mom does when they break something. “What if Mikey hears you?”
“Mikey isn’t here,” Frankie says petulantly. “And besides, they’re stupid, anyway.”
“We’re not stupid,” Spencer protests. “You-you’re stupid!”
Ryan sticks his tongue out in support.
“Frankie, come on,” Gerard says, tugging on his arm. “Look, it’s Bob!”
“Wait, really?” Frankie says.
“Sure,” Gerard says. “He’s right behind that wall.”
“Oh, okay,” Frankie says before running full tilt in that direction.
“Wait for me!” Gerard yells after him, and jogs to catch up, pudgy cheeks puffed out as he pants.
“He’s been such a meaniehead ever since he got into second grade,” Spencer says, eyebrows drawing down angrily.
“Like he’s too cool for us, or something,” Ryan agrees.
Spencer scowls. “He’s just mad because I’m taller than him, and he’s two years older.”
“Yeah!” Ryan says. He turns to look at Brendon, but Brendon’s staring at the ground silently, the corners of his lips pulled down.
“Brendon?” Ryan prompts.
Brendon just hunches a little further in, skinny shoulders drawing up to his sticky-out ears. He looks kind of like he’s cold. Or like he’s peed his pants.
“Did you have another accident?” Ryan asks. “I can get Mrs. Harris for you, if you want.”
Brendon shakes his head, slowly.
“Well then, what is it?” Spencer asks impatiently.
“Is Santa…” Brendon licks his lips, eyes still glued to the ground, and starts over. “Is Santa really not real?”
“Of course he’s real!” Spencer shouts, waving his arms around. “Duh. Where do you think your presents come from, dummy?”
“Don’t call me dummy,” Brendon says, but he’s smiling a little now. “Ryan? What do you think?” he asks.
“Oh.” Ryan frowns. “I don’t know, I guess. Maybe?”
“How can you not know?” Brendon asks, brow furrowed. “You’re a whole year older than us! You should know.”
“That’s true, I am a lot older than you guys,” Ryan nods. “And I do know a lot more.”
“So?” Spencer asks. “I’m right, right?’
Ryan shrugs. “I usually don’t get a lot of presents. And they’re never what I ask for in my Santa letter.”
“Oh,” Spencer says, hushed.
“But, you know.” Ryan waves his hand in the air. He’s being very noncha-noncha-noncha-something, he heard Mrs. Harris say it once, and he knows it means cool. Because this doesn’t matter. “It’s prolly because I don’t always follow the rules, and stuff. I’m kind of a bad kid, I guess.”
Brendon looks at him with big, dark eyes. “You’re not a bad kid, Ryan,” he says, and then, before Ryan can duck or run or do anything, he throws his arms around Ryan so tight that Ryan can’t wriggle out of it. But he tries, of course. He tries very hard. Brendon just has really strong arms.
“Brendon,” he complains. “I’m in first grade now! You can’t just hug me whenever you want.”
“Who says?” Brendon asks, bottom lip pushed out.
“I-I don’t know,” Ryan says. “Whatever.”
“Do you really think Santa doesn’t exist?” Brendon asks Ryan’s shoulder, face smushed against him.
“I told you, I don’t know,” Ryan says. “It’s not like we have scien-scien-we don’t have proof, okay?”
“That’s stupid,” Spencer says. “You guys are stupid. You don’t need proof! It’s Santa. It’s like-God, or something. Have you ever seen God?”
“No,” Brendon says, “but some people have. My mama said there were some people who saw him on some toast one day. That’s proof.”
“Whatever,” Spencer says, and stomps off.
Ryan sighs. Spencer’s just unhappy because Jon Walker went to Hawaii with his family for Christmas, and they left yesterday.
“Jon’ll be home soon!” Brendon yells after Spencer, because even though Brendon’s a whole year younger than Ryan, sometimes he can be pretty smart.
“I don’t care about stupid Jon!” Spencer yells back, and Ryan can hear him stomping louder, like he’s making a point.
“You know what we should do?” Brendon asks Ryan, eyes getting brighter. “We should get proof of Santa!”
“Okay,” Ryan says slowly. “But how?”
“We’ll have to bug somebody,” Brendon says.
“Wait, what?” Ryan asks. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Brendon says. “But I heard it on CSI when they were trying to find some proof.”
* * *
Mrs. Harris tells them that bugging someone means putting a secret recording thingie on them, and that they shouldn’t do it. Really really. She even gives them this look when she says it, so Ryan knows she means business.
Brendon sighs as he sits down at their table, and props his chin up on one hand. “What are we going to do, Ryan?” he asks.
Ryan shrugs and doesn’t answer. Someone carved a bad word into his side of the table, and Ryan stares at it, torn between horror and interest.
“What if we never find proof?” Brendon asks, and the tone of his voice makes Ryan look up. His lower lip is trembling, and his eyes look really shiny.
“We’ll find proof, okay?” Ryan says hurriedly. “Just-it’ll be okay.”
“Yeah?” Brendon asks. His hand creeps across the table to touch Ryan’s, and Ryan decides to let him. Just this once. Because Brendon’s a huge crybaby and nobody wants to see all that snot.
“This is what we’ll do,” Ryan says importantly. “We’ll catch Santa! Then we’ll have proof.”
“Oh, that’s a really good idea,” Brendon says, eyes widening.
“I know,” Ryan says.
“Wait,” Brendon says. “How are we going to catch Santa?”
“That’s easy,” Ryan answers. “We’ll just-we’ll just-oh, crap.”
“You said a bad word!” Brendon gasps.
“Who cares?” Ryan says. “How are we going to catch Santa?”
* * *
“Well, that is a question, isn’t it?” William says, hand stroking his pointy chin.
“Of course it’s a question,” Brendon huffs, but Ryan shoots him a glare. William is super cool. He knows all these big words.
“Have you perhaps considered,” William asks, “that Santa Claus is a being not subject to your beck and call?”
“Oh, sure,” Ryan says, nodding. Then he pauses. “Wait, what?”
William shrugs. “I don’t know, but it sounded cool, didn’t it?”
It did sound cool-really cool, even, and now Ryan’s itching to write it down even though he’s not sure how to spell all the words-but Brendon’s rolling his eyes in disgust.
“You’re not helping us at all,” he accuses.
William sticks his tongue out at him. “I’ll get Gabe. Gabe’ll know.”
* * *
Gabe doesn’t know.
“But why do you guys care about stupid Santa, anyway?” Gabe asks. “Let me tell you about something way cooler. I keep having these dreams about this ginormous purple snake; it is so awesome. It talks to me!”
“What does it say?” Brendon asks doubtfully.
“Mostly it hisses about dancing,” Gabe says. “Hey, have I showed you my new dance moves?”
“No, but I think we’re okay,” Ryan says, dragging Brendon away. Sometimes Ryan thinks that Gabe’s a little weird. And besides, Brendon likes to watch Gabe dance a lot, which is even weirder. Brendon shouldn’t be paying so much attention to Gabe; Gabe’s stupid.
“You guys should use duct tape!” Gabe yells after them.
“To do what?” Brendon yells back.
“After you guys catch him, you can tie him up with it!”
“But we’re not keeping him,” Ryan protests. “That’s a stupid idea.”
“Maybe you can sell him on eBay,” Gabe suggests.
Ryan walks away.
* * *
“Why are you guys looking for proof?” Pete asks them.
“Because we need to know if he exists or not,” Brendon tells him.
“That’s stupid,” Pete says. “I’ve totally seen him before. He exists, trust me.”
“And where have you seen him?” Patrick asks him, raising one eyebrow. Patrick always wears a hat and he acts like he’s forty, or something. He is so not cool enough for Pete. Ryan doesn’t know why he’s friends with him.
“I don’t know,” Pete says, shrugging. “Like, on the street, and stuff.”
“That’s the Salvation Army guy, dummy!” Patrick says.
“Is not!” Pete yells back.
“Is too!” Patrick shouts.
“How do you know?”
“I know everything!”
“No, you don’t!”
“You wanna bet?”
“Shut up!”
“You shut up!”
Ryan steers Brendon away after they start kicking at each other. Mrs. Harris will be there within minutes, and Ryan doesn’t want to be incriminated. He might get sent to time-out.
* * *
“Of course I don’t know,” Greta says, rolling her eyes behind her black glasses. “I’m only five and a half.”
“But we don’t have anyone else to ask,” Brendon says tragically. “Except Bert, but-“
“Yeah, we don’t have anyone else to ask,” Ryan interrupts.
“Duh, no one here is going to know.” Greta rolls her eyes again. Ryan thinks she looks really annoying when she does that, unlike Brendon, who just looks kind of cute. And stupid, of course. Cute and stupid.
“You have to ask an adult!” Greta says. “Or go to the library. I bet they’ve got tons of books on catching Santa Claus.”
Wait. “The library?” Ryan repeats.
“Yeah,” Greta says.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before,” Ryan says, frowning.
“You were distracted,” Brendon tells him, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
“Let’s go,” Ryan says, and they start walking off.
“You’re welcome,” Greta calls after them.
“Your glasses are ugly!” Ryan yells back. Brendon elbows him.
“Like I care, lame-o!” she screeches. “Vicky! Did you hear what Ryan said to me?”
Uh oh. Ryan walks a little faster.
* * *
“Sweetie, I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Ms. Donnelly says.
“We just want to catch Santa Claus,” Ryan repeats for the fifth time.
“And we want some books to help us!” Brendon adds. Then he freezes, and turns to Ryan.
“Ryan?” Brendon whispers, tugging at his shirt. “You can read good, right?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Ryan whispers back. Brendon beams at him, and Ryan gives him a tiny smile.
“But, ah-we don’t have any books on catching Santa Claus,” Ms. Donnelly says. “Might I ask what you, um. Why you need to catch him?”
“We need to find proof that he exists,” Brendon tells her earnestly, slurring the ‘exists’ a bit.
“Oh! Well, there’s, um. There’s a Santa right down the block, I think, and one at Macy’s-I mean,” and she giggles, coloring, “sometimes Santa’s down the block, and sometimes he’s at Macy’s, and you can talk to him there.”
“We’re not stupid.” Ryan turns an icy look on her-Spencer says it looks really scary. “We know that those are just regular people dressed up to look like Santa Claus because they want to copy him since he’s so cool.”
“Ah, right,” Ms. Donnelly says. She bites her lip. “Here, why I don’t I show you our picture book section…There are some great little stories about Santa Claus here-and oh, one about his reindeer!”
Ryan exchanges a look with Brendon. He doesn’t think this is going to work.
After they finally escape from her book recommendations, Brendon turns to look at him, shoulders slumping.
“If even an adult doesn’t know what to do, how are we going to find any proof?” he asks. “We’ll never know if Santa exists! Christmas will be ruined.”
Brendon’s bottom lip starts to wobble again, and Ryan stares back at him, helplessly. He doesn’t know what to do. Because Brendon’s right-Christmas will be ruined.
“Are you guys trying to find proof of Santa existing?” Bert asks from behind them.
Ryan turns around. “Yeah?” he says cautiously. Sometimes Bert’s a little…unstable.
Bert picks his nose a little bit and says, “Why were you asking an adult?”
“Because they’re smart?” Ryan says pointedly.
“That’s total bullshit,” Bert says, and Brendon stifles a scandalized gasp. “Asking adults will never get you anywhere. You have to do things on your own. Be less of a chicken!”
“On our own?” Brendon asks, wrinkling his nose.
“Yeah,” Bert says. “That’s the only way you can ever make sure something’ll get done right.”
“Huh,” Ryan says. He stands there thinking for a moment, but quickly hurries Brendon away when he sees Quinn coming. He heard that Quinn once killed a grown man with his bare hands. Ryan doesn’t believe rumors, of course, but sometimes it’s good to be safe.
* * *
“If we’re doing this by ourselves, we have to wait for Christmas Eve,” Ryan whispers to Brendon.
They’re crouched behind some bushes, hiding from Mrs. Harris, who is under the mistaken impression that break’s over and it’s time to come back to class.
“How come?” Brendon asks. He’s got some dirt smudged on his cheek, and Ryan rubs it away with his palm.
“Because the rest of the time he’s at the North Pole. Duh.”
“Oh, okay,” Brendon says agreeably. “How will we catch him?”
“I don’t know! I can’t do all the thinking around here,” Ryan huffs.
“But you’re the best at it,” Brendon points out, and Ryan has to agree.
“Fine,” he says, and makes a quick plan. “Let’s meet at your house on Christmas Eve, and we can go from there.”
“That sounds good! I’ll find some duct tape,” Brendon grins. “And-I’m glad you’ll be there. I hate spending Christmas with just the rest of my family; everyone always tries to pinch my cheeks and it kind of hurts after a while.”
“That-that’s good,” Ryan says, and has to fight down a blush, for some reason. Brendon just keeps smiling at him, happy and uncomplicated, and Ryan’s so preoccupied with staring at the gap between his teeth that he doesn’t notice the shadow until it’s right over their heads.
“Boys?” Mrs. Harris says. “It’s long past time to return to class. We’ve got some learning to do!”
“Oh, crap,” Ryan says.
“Ryan!” Brendon and Mrs. Harris say at the exact same time, and in the exact same horrified voice. Ryan rolls his eyes.
* * *
Ryan is so glad Brendon lives on the first floor of his house. He has no idea how he’d climb up to the second level; it was hard enough sneaking into the back yard. Ryan thinks he’s got at least five scratches on his knee from those stupid bushes-he counted.
“Brendon!” he whispers-screams, and jumps up so he can reach the window and knock on it.
There’s a brief pause, and then a dark-haired head pops up. Brendon grins at him and waves. He has to tilt up his chin to see Ryan over the windowsill, and Ryan’s guessing that he’s on his tiptoes.
“Let me in, dummy!” Ryan says.
“Let me get a chair,” Brendon mouths at him. A few minutes later, Brendon comes running back, heaves himself onto the chair, and reaches to open the latch.
“Whatcha doing here?” Brendon asks, breath fogging in the cold air.
“Our plan, dummy!” Ryan shouts back. He scowls to cover up the sudden worry that Brendon forgot about the plan. Will he make Ryan go home? What if he doesn’t want to spend Christmas together anymore? Ryan bites down on his lip. It really is cold out here.
Brendon blinks. “I know about our plan! I mean, why are you standing at my window? You could’ve just come by the front door.”
“Your mom doesn’t mind?” Ryan asks, eyes widening.
“Of course not,” Brendon says. He rolls his eyes. “C’mon, go to our front door and I’ll let you in there. Geez, Ryan, you always make everything so complicated.”
“Do not,” Ryan mutters. He scampers over to the front door, though, because it would be kind of hard to launch himself up and through the window.
“So,” Brendon says once he’s there. “What’s the plan?”
“You haven’t thought of one?” Ryan asks.
“I found duct tape, okay?” Brendon says defensively. He shoves the roll of tape into Ryan’s hands with slightly sticky fingers.
“But the duct tape doesn’t help until we’ve already caught him,” Ryan explains. “So what do we do now?”
Brendon shrugs at him. “I don’t know. But hey, want some cookies?”
“We really have to work on our plan…” Ryan protests, but lets himself be led into the kitchen. Just to make Brendon happy. It is his house, after all. It’s not like Ryan’s uncool enough to actually want sugar cookies shaped like reindeer and snowmen.
“Man, I really wish it would snow,” Brendon says wistfully, scattering crumbs everywhere.
“Yeah, that would be really awesome,” Ryan says. “But we live in Vegas. So not going to happen.”
Brendon nods, sadly.
“So, let’s think of ways to catch Santa Claus,” Ryan says, searching for a subject-change to distract Brendon. “We just need him to stand in one place long enough for us to see him, right? And then we can set him free.”
“Or sell him on eBay,” Brendon says, licking frosting off his fingers.
“…I guess,” Ryan says. He could use some extra cash. Santa would bring in at least five dollars, right? That’s enough for a ton of candy.
“We just need him to stick in one spot…” Brendon says, slowly. And then his face lights up. “We can glue him to the floor!”
“Glue him to the floor?” Ryan repeats.
“Yeah! Come on,” Brendon says excitedly. He leads Brendon into the living room, where there’s a gigantic tree, all lit up with lights and shiny ornaments. Ryan has to stop and stare for a moment. There’s no tree in his living room, just a bare space of carpet.
But it’s not like Ryan cares. Trees are stupid. And they smell funny.
“Here’s the fireplace,” Brendon says, panting a little. “And we can just spread glue over the tiles, here, so when he steps out he’ll be caught! And he won’t be able to move.”
Ryan inhales, surprised. “That’s a good idea!”
“Thanks,” Brendon says. He beams at Ryan, and Ryan smiles back.
Quickly, they go to Brendon’s room to grab his bottle of Elmer’s glue. Before long, they’ve covered the entire space in front of the fireplace in sticky glue. Ryan has to stop Brendon from putting his glue-covered fingers in his mouth a few times, but he’s used to that. Craft time in Mrs. Harris’s class is always pretty dangerous with Brendon around.
“We’re all done!” Brendon shouts delightedly. “We’ll catch Santa for sure. And it was all my idea.”
“Yeah!” Ryan grins back, excited. This is going to be so cool. They high-five, and Brendon gives Ryan an impromptu hug, which Ryan generously allows. He did think of the idea, after all.
But then he hears movement behind them. It’s Brendon’s older brother.
He’s laughing.
“Oh man, what are you guys doing?” he asks.
Brendon frowns. “We’re catching Santa! Duh.”
The guy blinks. “But how?”
“When Santa steps out, he’ll be caught in the glue,” Ryan says. “And then we’ll catch him.”
“That is never going to work,” Brendon’s brother says.
“What do you mean?” Ryan asks.
He rolls his eyes. “The glue’s going to dry in like, five seconds, geniuses. And then it won’t do anything. Hey, let me see.”
He walks closer and examines their handiwork, before putting a hand to his forehead and laughing again.
“What is it?” Brendon asks, annoyed.
“I can’t believe you brats actually spread like, a gallon of glue all over the floor. Mom is going to be so pissed at you guys. Jesus. Wouldn’t want to be you right now,” he sing-songs, and then walks off.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!” Brendon yells after him.
Brendon’s brother just waves a middle finger behind his back. Brendon gasps, but Ryan can’t focus on that.
He breathes in shakily, replaying Brendon’s brother’s words. Mrs. Urie is going to be pissed? And it wasn’t even his fault!
“This was such a stupid idea,” he says suddenly, turning on Brendon. “I can’t believe you made us do it.”
Brendon stares at him, mouth open. “I didn’t make us do it! You thought it was a good idea, too.”
“No, I didn’t! It was an awful idea!” Ryan shouts back, like if he says it loudly enough, Mrs. Urie will hear and understand. “It just-it sucked! Now we’re never going to catch Santa.”
“It’s not my fault!” Brendon yells, voice coming dangerously close to a wail. His eyes are getting teary, and Ryan has turn from the sight, break into a stumbling run as he tries to swallow down the lump in his throat.
“Ryan!” Brendon shouts.
“Go away!” Ryan yells at him, not looking back. “I-I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
He pushes open the nearest door he can find-it seems to be a closet, but Ryan’s not really sure because his vision’s getting blurry around the edges-and sits down, drawing his bony knees up to his chest. He doesn’t want to cry. He hates crying. But he can feel wetness coming down anyway, and he reaches up to rub at it angrily.
This is all Brendon’s fault. Mrs. Urie’s going to come, and she’s going to see what they did, and even though Ryan didn’t do anything, she’s going to yell at him and make him go away. She’s going to make Ryan go back home, and Ryan won’t have any more cookies or shiny ornaments or Brendon; he’ll just be home alone because his dad’s working late again, or whatever, and it’ll suck. It’ll just…suck.
Ryan reaches to wipe up at his face, horrified to find that he’s got snot coming down, too. This is so gross. He’s in first grade now, he’s not a crybaby. It’s so embarrassing, crying like this, and Ryan’s gut twists, but now the tears are just coming down faster, hot and kind of stinging on his cheeks. He sniffs and takes a shaky breath.
“Ryan?”
It’s Brendon, his small head peeking around the door frame into the closet. He looks cautious and upset, and Ryan quickly twists away from him, trying to hide his icky, snot-covered face.
“Go away,” Ryan mumbles.
But it’s too late. Brendon’s already seen, and he comes into the closet, walking closer.
“What’s wrong, Ryan?” Brendon asks. “What’s wrong? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, honest.”
Somehow Brendon’s apologies make it all worse, and Ryan shakes his head at him, shrinking back into the wall. “Don’t-I didn’t-“ He has to stop talking because tears keeping coming up, and Ryan scrubs at his face roughly.
“Don’t cry, Ryan,” Brendon begs, but Ryan just heaves out a huge sob, helplessly.
Brendon’s staring at him, horrified, and oh no, now Brendon’s lips are trembling. Ryan opens his mouth, but he can’t say anything. And Brendon blinks-and suddenly he’s crying just as hard as Ryan.
“Don’t-don’t cry,” Ryan sobs. “It’s not your fault; I’m sorry I was mean. I don’t-I don’t really hate you.”
“Yes, it was my fault,” Brendon wails. “Ryan, Ryan, I’m really sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to…” His words trail off as he falls half on top of Ryan and hugs him tight, wiping his face against Ryan’s chest.
Ryan just cries harder, because he didn’t mean to make Brendon cry, he’s such a mean person, and pretty soon they’re just sobbing into each other, Ryan hiding his inflamed face in the soft curve of Brendon’s neck. Brendon’s body is shaking, like he’s got the hiccups, and Ryan hugs him tighter, not minding the snot that’s getting all over his shirt.
It’s warm and dark and Brendon smells so familiar, like sweat and soap and crayons, that gradually, Ryan’s sobs start fading away.
He stays there, though, pressing himself close to Brendon because he’s tired and he doesn’t feel like getting away.
Ryan isn’t sure how long it is before another shadow falls over them.
“Oh, boys,” Mrs. Urie says.
And just like that, Ryan’s crying again. “I-I’m sorry, Mrs. Urie,” he says through sniffling, “I didn’t mean to! I’ll clean it up, I swear, please.”
“It was my fault!” Brendon says, sitting up next to him. “It was my idea, all my idea-“
Mrs. Urie coughs a little, like she’s trying to hide something, and covers her mouth with her hand. “It’s, um, it’s all right, sweetie. It was just Elmer’s glue. It’ll come off in five minutes; don’t you worry about it.”
“Really?” Ryan says, shocked out of crying.
“Sure.” She smiles at him.
“You won’t make me go home?” Ryan confirms.
“Please don’t!” Brendon pipes up. “I’ll even clean my room, if you want.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer after Christmas,” Mrs. Urie tells Brendon, winking. Brendon blanches. “And of course you can stay, Ryan. Come on, up we go. It’s almost time for dinner.”
Later, after their faces are washed and dried and they’ve eaten dinner, they’re stretched out in front of the fireplace, sleepily watching the flames.
“I don’t know what to do,” Brendon says, rolling to face Ryan. “I don’t have any more ideas on how to catch Santa.”
“I don’t either,” Ryan sighs. They went to so much trouble, and nothing’s worked out.
He stares at the fireplace a little more, thinking.
“Hey, Brendon,” Ryan says quietly.
“Yeah?” Brendon asks.
“What if we just slept down here tonight?” Ryan asks. “We’ll definitely wake up when Santa comes, and then we’ll know for sure that he’s real.”
“I don’t know,” Brendon says doubtfully. “I’m kind of a heavy sleeper. My mama says I’m like a rock.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Ryan says, screwing up his face. “Rocks don’t sleep.”
Brendon shrugs at him.
“Well, whatever. We can set an alarm,” Ryan tells him. “For midnight. This will totally work!”
“Well, okay,” Brendon says trustingly. “If you say so.”
* * *
“Hey, Ryan,” Brendon whispers.
“Hmm?” Ryan opens his eyes, yawning. The digital alarm clock they put beside them on the floor reads 10:30 PM.
“Do you think everyone’s asleep?” Brendon asks.
“Prolly,” Ryan mumbles. “Why aren’t you?”
Brendon shrugs. “I guess I’m too excited, or something. That happens a lot.”
“Oh,” Ryan says. He wipes at his eyes clumsily.
“I’ve been staring at those cookies over there,” Brendon says. “They look really good, don’t they?”
Ryan twists his head to look. Brendon’s pointing at the plate of cookies that Mrs. Urie left out for Santa.
“You hungry?” Ryan asks Brendon.
“Well…kind of.” Brendon looks down, flushing.
“Go eat some,” Ryan tells him.
“But they’re Santa’s!” Brendon hisses.
“The guy’s really fat already,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. “You can eat one or two.”
Brendon stares at him for a few seconds, face frozen in indecision, before breaking out in a huge grin.
“Okay!” he stage-whispers. Quickly, he squirms out of the sleeping bag and runs over to the plate, and then sprints back with a handful, like he’s afraid someone’s going to catch him.
“Have some,” Brendon says, and shoves one into Ryan’s hands. Ryan blinks at it, and puts it in his mouth.
“Thanks,” he says around the cookie.
“Welcome,” Brendon replies. “Hey, what did you ask for? For Christmas gifts, I mean.”
“Oh.” Ryan frowns a little bit. “I don’t know.”
“I asked for the new Pokémon videogame,” Brendon says happily. “And some more action figures and one of those small beginning guitar things. I want to learn how to play, you know,” he tells Ryan seriously.
“Yeah?” Ryan asks. “That sounds cool.”
“Yeah,” Brendon says, popping another cookie into his mouth. “It’s going to be awesome. So? What did you ask for?”
Ryan thinks about the unfinished letter that’s still sitting in his room, the one that began with “Dear Santa” and ended with the same thing.
“I asked for some action figures, too,” Ryan improvises, his voice quiet.
“That’s it?” Brendon asks, scooting in his sleeping bag until he’s right in front of Ryan’s face. “You don’t want anything else?”
Ryan bites his lip. The fire’s warm behind him, his stomach feels nice and full from the cookies, and Brendon’s looking straight at him, as if his answer will make or break Christmas for him. Like Ryan’s even more important than Santa, or something.
“No,” Ryan says honestly. “I don’t want anything else for Christmas.”
Brendon reaches over to Ryan, suddenly, and grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together.
“You can have some of my videogames,” Brendon decides. “We can play them in the morning. And then we should go over to Spencer’s house and make him stop moping ‘cause Jon’s gone, and we’ll all play! I bet it’ll snow. That would be cool, wouldn’t it? We could make a snowman together.”
Brendon’s hand is slightly sticky and Ryan’s pretty sure that there’s some frosting on it from the cookies, but it’s soft and warm and tightly wrapped around Ryan’s hand, so Ryan just holds on.
“That would be pretty cool,” Ryan says, and Brendon smiles at him, bright.
* * *
At 12:01 AM, Mrs. Urie gets up to turn the alarm off. The two boys are sleeping side-by-side, completely oblivious to the alarm, and they’re holding hands. She laughs a little at the sight, before turning away to go back to bed.
Outside, it’s beginning to snow.
End.
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