Work Text:
Christmas: the so-called most wonderful time of the year, and Patrick Stump’s favorite holiday. Ever since he was young, the 25th of December had filled him with unparalleled excitement and cheer. As soon as the sunlight poked its head through the slats between the window blinds, he would shoot out of bed and race down the hallway, laughing and banging on his parents’ bedroom door. Next came his brother’s door, then his sister’s; they were young enough to still be excited on Christmas morning, but old enough to be annoyed at being woken up at 7 am.
Even the days leading up to that morning only added to the warm and fuzzy feeling that Patrick got in his chest during the holiday season. As soon as the tree went up and the carols started playing on the radio, he couldn’t help but smile, no matter how foul a mood he was in. His family would bake cookies and build a gingerbread house together every year, even long after Megan and Kevin insisted that they were too cool for it.
The divorce had thrown a wrench in their traditions for a while. All of the fun Stump family activities felt empty to Patrick without his dad there to share them, but his mom was insistent that everything was just as enjoyable with four instead of five. To make up for it, Patrick’s mom started letting him and his siblings open a present on Christmas Eve as a sort of sneak-peek into what awaited them the next day.
This didn’t make Patrick feel any better. When it came to Christmas, there was one area where his family fell short: presents. As selfish as it sounded to say, Patrick never got any gifts that he really enjoyed. He’d ask for plushies, instruments, and toy cars; he’d end up with baby dolls, dresses, and nail polish, all marked with identical gift tags.
‘To Patricia, Love Santa’.
Those four little words only made Patrick feel worse as time went on. Every year those gift tags would sit there, mocking him for a reason that he just couldn’t pick out.
Then he hit puberty. His chest started to swell out into two hulking lumps of fat. Bra shopping was a catastrophe. For Patrick, his first period brought nothing but excruciating pain and tears with it. His mother, on the other hand, was thrilled; so thrilled, in fact, that she immediately called up half of the family to tell them that her daughter had finally become a woman.
Patrick’s stomach dropped, but‒ unlike the gift tags‒ now he was pretty sure he knew why.
He’d heard the term before in passing, usually in voices laced with judgment and contempt: transgender, someone whose gender identity didn’t match the sex they were assigned at birth. He’d never considered that the word might describe him, never wanted the word to describe him because of all the negativity surrounding it.
But there was no denying it now. He spent some sleepless nights locked in his bathroom, crying in front of the mirror and tearing at his chest and hair as if that alone could fix everything he hated about his body: his face was too round, his hips too wide, and his boobs too big for him to be happy. He just wanted to feel good. He just wanted to be Patrick, but he was afraid. So he swallowed his feelings and played cis.
All through middle school, he let his mom dress him in glitter and skirts. She would do his makeup on special occasions and help him shave his legs every night. Patrick was miserable, but he pasted on a smile while his mother taught him how to flirt with boys and practice safe sex. It made Patrick’s stomach churn. He wasn’t ready for anything that intimate. How could he love someone else when he didn’t even love himself?
It wasn’t until junior year of high school that Patrick got his first boyfriend. His name was Dallas. He was the captain of the football team and the son of his mom’s best friend. Their first date had been at the bowling alley; Dallas had tried to grab Patrick’s boobs and earned a sock in the jaw for his efforts. Somehow though, Patrick’s mother had seen this incident as an unprovoked attack on Patrick’s part and made him apologize to Dallas; not only that, but Patrick was forced to continue to go out with Dallas because Patrick’s mother didn’t want her friend to be upset. This was only making Patrick’s gender dysphoria‒ as he’d learned it was called‒ worse.
Patrick had been doing plenty of research on transgender issues in his spare time, making sure to always browse in incognito mode. He’d learned about all the different types of trans people, the transition process, common causes of dysphoria, and even ways to reduce dysphoria while still closeted. He knew he couldn’t afford to transition on his own; he would have to come out to his mother to stand any chance at hormone replacement therapy or surgery.
The thought paralyzed him. His mother had never really acknowledged the LGBT+ community in his presence, so he was unsure how she would react. Thinking back, he should’ve realized how strictly she had forced him to adhere to gender roles; then, he might not have made the biggest mistake of his life.
Patrick decided to take the chance and come out to his mother only a few days before his eighteenth birthday. Eighteen would mark the beginning of his adulthood and his ability to consent to major procedures on his own; with his signature and‒ hopefully‒ his mother’s money and support, his transition could finally begin.
“Hey, mom?” Patrick poked his head into his mother’s office, playing with his fingers like he always did when he was nervous. “Can I… talk to you about something?”
Patrick’s mother spun around in her desk chair, raising an eyebrow at him over her glasses. “What is it, Patricia? I’m in the middle of something.”
“It’s important,” Patrick promised, shutting the door behind him as he paced further into her office. “I…” he swallowed, trying to steady his nerves. “I don’t feel… right in my body.”
“No wonder. I’ve been telling you to lose weight for months now,” his mother replied coldly, her eyes raking up and down Patrick’s form. “If anything, you’ve gained‒”
“It’s not about my weight, mom!” Patrick snapped. He squeezed his eyes shut to fight back the frustrated tears that were begging to fall. “It’s… everything else.”
“What do you mean, baby? Do I need to take you to the doctor?”
“No, mom, I… I’m not Patricia.”
Silence.
“Excuse me?”
“I…” Patrick took a deep breath. “I’m a boy. I feel like a boy. My body doesn’t feel right because I’m transgender.”
All Patrick could hear was his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His eyes were still shut because he wasn’t sure he wanted to see his mother’s reaction, but his curiosity eventually won out. He opened one eye to peek; his mother was scowling.
“I didn’t raise a boy.” Her voice was firm. “You are not a boy. I don’t know what sort of fluff the internet has been filling your head with, but it’s not cool or trendy to pretend to be something you’re not.”
The irony of that statement was lost on her.
“I’m not pretending! I’ve been pretending to be a good daughter my whole life, but I’m not your daughter. I’m your son. Please, won’t you just‒”
“No!” Patrick’s mother roared, standing from her desk chair so abruptly that it toppled over. “I won’t have a tranny for a daughter, and if you’re going to insist on this horseshit, then I’m going to have to ask you to get out.”
“But‒”
“Out!”
Patrick flinched back from his mother’s harsh words, tears spilling down his cheeks as he bolted from her office and out the front door. Nobody was going to miss him; his mother didn’t want him, and his siblings had left the house years ago. There was only one person he could think of that might grant him asylum.
Dallas.
He might’ve been a sexist pig and an all-around terrible person, but he was the last chance Patrick had at shelter now. If his immediate family didn’t want him, neither would his extended family. Dallas was his boyfriend, whether he wanted to be or not, so he had to feel some sort of obligation to keep Patrick safe. Didn’t he?
It wasn’t particularly cold out, being spring already, but the April showers had decided to kick their efforts into full force that afternoon. Patrick was soaked to the bone within minutes. His hands shook pitifully as he reached out to ring the doorbell at Dallas’s front door. He was lucky that Dallas only lived a few blocks away; he’d been over several times in the past for ‘dinner dates’ which were really just an excuse for Dallas to try and get in Patrick’s pants. It never worked.
The heavy wooden door was finally pulled open after several long, excruciating minutes out in the rain, and Patrick was greeted with Dallas’s stupid condescending smirk.
“Aww, Patty, you’re drenched,” he cooed, stooping over to talk to Patrick in that same way he always did. Like Patrick was a toddler who didn’t know anything.
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Now can I come in or‒”
He was cut off as Dallas roughly pressed a finger to Patrick’s lips. “Shhh. Don’t get sassy,” Dallas scolded. “Why are you even here? Did you walk here in the rain just to see me?”
Patrick growled and grabbed Dallas’s wrist, forcing his hand away. “No! I got kicked out of the house, and I… I didn’t know where else to go.”
Dallas’s expression softened. This was a rare sight, and one Patrick dared to let fill him with hope. “Oh.” He sounded almost sympathetic. “Are you hurt?”
“N-no…” Patrick sniffled. “Not physically.”
“Then what happened, babe?”
“I told my mom I was transgender!” Patrick cried, fists clenched at his side. “Please, please, let me in.”
Dallas’s face transformed in an instant; before he’d been ready to take Patrick in, but now he looked appalled and disgusted. Patrick’s heart sank. “Why would I let you in after that, freak?” Dallas snarled, starting to close the door between them. “Consider our relationship over. Have fun catching hypothermia.”
Patrick’s last chance for shelter vanished with a slam of Dallas’s front door, forceful enough to shake the frame. He stifled a sob with his sleeve and turned away from the house.
All he could wish for now was a nice, dry dumpster to spend the night in.
And that was where he stayed for the next few months of his life. He had no money to his name, no family, not even a roof over his head. He was forced to bounce from alley to alley in the city, scavenging for food and clothes that nearby business threw away. He knew that he could probably go and stay at a homeless shelter, but the crippling fear of being misgendered and housed with the women kept him from following that path.
It was rather peaceful for the most part, he had to admit, even if nights were especially lonely. Most evenings he found himself curled up in a cardboard box or dumpster to try and get some rest, and it was mostly successful.
That is, until he found himself camping out one night beside a dive bar. It was loud, with music pounding through the walls and into Patrick’s skull. He did all he could to block it out‒ plugging his ears, covering his head with the old coat he’d found outside the Goodwill‒ but nothing worked. It was going to be impossible for him to get any sleep like this.
Besides, Patrick did like music, and the songs blaring from the bar’s speakers sounded far too unpolished to have been recorded. A live concert could be just the thing Patrick needed to boost his spirits.
As he made his way to the bar entrance, Patrick noticed a colorful poster on the front window advertising a live show by the band Arma Angelus on the evening of July 13th. A great feat of logic led Patrick to the conclusion that today must be July 13th, and the band playing inside must’ve been Arma Angelus.
He also very pointedly ignored the pastel-colored piece of paper taped just below it, saying that tickets had all been sold.
Pushing through the front entrance, against a sweaty throng of moshing bodies, Patrick could practically feel the music thrumming inside his skull. It was almost three times as loud inside as it was in the alleyway, and the voice of the lead singer was more of a screech than anything.
But what he may have lacked in vocal talent, the frontman of Arma Angelus made up for in sheer rugged handsomeness. His skin was tan and flawless, his arms decorated with the humble beginnings of intricate tattoo sleeves. His bangs were stuck to his forehead with slick sweat, but when Patrick’s baby blues met his wide-eyed browns, Patrick could hear his own heartbeat over the band’s set.
Then reality came crashing down.
“Hey, kid. Let me see your wristband.”
Patrick looked up, shaken from his hot-guy-in-the-vicinity trance. “Huh?” he replied, very eloquently.
“Your wristband.” The gruff-looking security guard that was currently blocking Patrick’s view of the stage didn’t look amused. “Everyone with a ticket got one at the door. Where’s yours?”
“I-I don’t have one. I’m sorry, I was just coming in to… use the restroom!”
“Never heard that one before,” the guard snorted. He grabbed Patrick by the upper arm, not taking care to be gentle. “Let’s go, kid.”
“No! Let me go!” Patrick cried, kicking and spitting at the guard. In the past few months, he’d been disowned, insulted, and forced to live on the streets. He wasn’t about to let this guy kick him out of the show, the first thing that had brought him happiness since April. Not without a fight. “Fucking put me down!”
“Hey!”
The music stopped. The crowd went still. Arma Angelus’s punk heartthrob of a singer had called for silence. All the heads in the packed bar had turned to look at him, including Patrick’s.
“Put the kid down.”
The guitarist seemed unsure of this decision. “Pete, what are you‒”
Pete, the singer, ignored him, lined amber eyes boring into the security guard. “What the fuck did I just say?”
The guard released his grip of Patrick, putting his hands up in surrender. “Just doing my job. Kid didn’t have a ticket.”
“I don’t give a shit, man. What kind of asshole would I be if I kicked every poor kid that snuck in out of my shows?” Pete looked back at Patrick, smiling gently. “What’s your name kid?”
Patrick swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to speak, ignoring all the stares he’d earned. “...Patrick.”
“Well, Patrick, how about I let you stay for the rest of the set, and you can make it up to me by coming to hang out with me after. My treat, okay?”
Patrick really didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded dumbly. That made Pete smile again.
As soon as the music started back up, the kids in the bar started the mosh pit back up, taking special care to help Patrick up to the front of the crowd. Patrick was grateful, for sure, and hadn’t expected such a kind gesture from punks.
Maybe he had a thing or two to learn about the scene.
And he did learn quite a bit later that night, but not about the scene as much as Pete Wentz.
It was beyond terrifying to meet up with a boy he’d developed a crush on about an hour before, but Patrick tried to let himself relax. This was the happiest he’d been since getting kicked out, so he should be embracing it, awkward or not.
Pete came back out into the bar shortly after the set had ended and led Patrick over to grab drinks‒ beer for Pete, and a virgin Bloody Mary for Patrick‒ and chat.
“So, what’s your story then, Rick?”
“Huh?”
“Everyone’s got a story,” Pete continued, taking a sip of his drink, “‘specially kids like you. People don’t usually end up on the streets so young‒” he held a finger up in front of Patrick’s mouth‒ “and yes, I can tell. You’re all gaunt and pale, and your clothes are on their last leg. What happened to you?”
Maybe it was the adrenaline leftover from the show, maybe it was the presence of alcohol in Patrick’s surroundings, but he decided to spill his guts. He gave Pete the whole story, from girly Christmas presents to his dysphoria to being disowned and dumped in the same day. He had to be honest, even if he expected insults, backlash, and violence in response.
Instead, Patrick received nothing but sympathy and an admittedly unexpected reply.
“My mother did the same thing when I told her I was bi.”
That was all it took for Patrick to fall in love.
Now, it was Patrick’s favorite holiday once again: Christmas. He and Pete had been going steady for four months now, and Pete had been nothing but supportive of his boyfriend’s transition. They didn’t have much except the money Pete made off of Arma Angelus’s ticket and merch sales, along with Patrick’s minimum wage job at the nearby record store and his little music gigs on the side. He’d learned how to play guitar as a teenager to give himself a creative outlet, and now he could put it to good use, earning tips to help support them both.
Patrick had wanted to find a better career, but his lack of high school diploma made that hard. He hadn’t had the courage to go back to school after getting thrown out of his house, so he had to make do with what he had.
And what he did have was a cozy little apartment and Pete.
Patrick had been terribly afraid of what his first Christmas alone would be like, but he hadn’t expected to have a loving boyfriend there with him for it at all.
Pete was every bit the doting, sweet, supportive, angelic boyfriend Patrick had always dreamed of. He helped Patrick put up all their decorations. They didn’t have very many, but they did their best: a few garlands, some Yankee candles, and a little artificial tree. They bought themselves matching stockings too, both embroidered with the letter ‘P’ in fancy cursive.
On Christmas Eve, they tried baking cookies from the premade dough they’d bought at the grocery store. It came already cut into little shapes, but they all looked horribly blobby coming out of the oven. Pete was not a great baker, it turned out; he undercooked the first batch of cookies and then overcompensated and burnt the next, but the third batch came out just right, and Patrick did his best to make them recognizable with his decorating skills. This was no easy feat given that they only had one color of frosting and two cans of sugar sprinkles.
Even if the cookies turned out hot messes of red and green, they were delicious, and Pete and Patrick shared a plate of them while they watched old claymation Christmas classics on television.
“You know,” Patrick spoke up, his head nestled in the crook of Pete’s neck, “my mom used to let us each open a present on Christmas Eve.”
Pete chuckled. “Well, I’m not your mom.”
Patrick let out a little whimper, pouting and batting his eyes up at Pete.
“Fine, okay. But I get to pick which one.”
“Deal!” Patrick happily jumped up from the couch and settled himself in front of the tree, soon joined by Pete and a box wrapped messily in shiny red paper.
Pete gently handed the box over with a timid smile. “I’ve been saving up for this since October, so I really hope you like it,” he said.
That piqued Patrick’s interest. He gingerly took the box from Pete’s hands and began to unwrap it, tearing open the cardboard underneath to reveal a small black piece of clothing. It looked almost like a sports bra, but it wasn’t.
“A… a binder?” Patrick looked up at Pete with tears in his eyes.
“I hope you like it, if not I can‒”
“Shut up.” Patrick set the box down beside him and pulled Pete into a heated kiss. They both tasted of sugar and frosting, and were panting when they pulled away.
“I… I take it you like it then.”
“Duh. Now let’s go to bed.” Patrick stood and pulled Pete to his feet, dragging Pete into their bedroom for a festive night of snuggles and lovemaking.
On the living room floor by the tree, the discarded wrapping paper sat undisturbed, the gift tag still intact.
‘To Patrick, Love Santa’.