Chapter Text
A/N: Hey, I did it! I wrote a Christmas story in time for Christmas, woo! Hope you enjoy and lemme know what you think. Happy holidays! xx
It was nearly midnight when he turned his key in the lock and opened the street door of 235W. The building was quiet and he was careful to tread lightly on the stairs, lest he wished to wake Mr Perez yet again, an elderly playwright who, although he lived two stories under them, seemed to have a very keen sense of hearing - too keen for his age anyway - and would always complain about all the noise they made. Mostly, "they" was a codename for "Max", but he never defended himself or blamed it on his partner whenever he was confronted by their neighbour. He would simply offer a smile that he hoped was apologetic enough to hide his true amusement and promise him that he won't play the jukebox that loudly ever again, especially not in the evenings, when Mr Perez needed his rest. But then Max would turn the music up again, and he'd be too ensnared by it, too charmed to care, until the miserable retiree would come banging on their door once more. He had understood this, because Max was, in fact, a loud person, and he had, in fact, the bad habit of playing the jukebox way too noisily way too late in the evening.
But now he craved that noise; he even craved the song he'd grown to detest, hearing it on the jukebox or on the radio or on a party or in a café for the past half a year. Good Golly Miss Molly seemed to be unwillingly embedded into his memory forever, and yet, he'd have given anything to have Max turn it on right now, when he would sit down behind his desk to look over the contracts once more so that his sleep wouldn't be restless. He'd have given anything to have his focus shifted from the annoying paperwork to the annoying music.
But there was no music tonight, and as it was, he had to tiptoe around the neighbour's apartment; had to tiptoe up the stairs, and when he reached the door 716 - his eyes flickering to both their names on the white glass for a split second - he even had to be careful that he turns the doorknob as noiselessly as possible. Yet, he tried to understand; Mr Perez was still unused to the odd hours he worked. So was he, though he would never admit as much to anyone. He needed the occupation of time, and it gave him something better to think about.
Well, mostly better.
He let himself inside and flicked on the lights before pulling off his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. He unwound the scarf from his neck and hung it there as well, and then crossed the room to turn on the radio, setting its volume just over the level of the refrigerator's ceaseless hum. At this time of day there was little traffic noise for it to compete with, and no roadworks yet either. He flicked through the channels until he found one with nonstop news reports and left it there before heading to the bathroom, where he let warm water flow over his frozen fingers, the cold slowly replaced by a pleasant sting of warmth.
He turned to lean back against the sink and sighed, willing the tension to drain from his neck and his shoulders. Coming off a twelve-hour shift was never easy, and tonight he'd barely had a break. Not by command, of course; had Roger or Carmen known that he spent almost half as much time at the theatre than was necessary, they'd make him stop immediately.
But he didn't want to.
It was fulfilling work, and he enjoyed it more than anything he'd done in his life before. Whether he was good at it was for others to decide - and Max always said he was - but it was enough to satisfy routine was predictable most of the time, which was calming, but tonight it had been put to a test as investors dropped out faster than they could be replaced. On days like this, he barely had the time to think about anything other than the work, which was a good thing. He welcomed the distraction.
Coming back to the apartment was a relief in some ways, the silence being like a restorative draught after the frenetic rush of the day, surrounding him like a fresh white blanket of snow on a winter's day. The radio, rarely used for background noise until the last few months, hummed its quiet presence from the living room, calling him in. He followed, trying to focus on the news it told, but found none of them interesting enough to listen to. Instead, he took his usual place at the wooden desk, spreading numerous balance sheets out before him, his eyes merely skimming over the numbers.
That was when he saw it.
The calendar sitting on the side of the desk, inconspicuous as ever, showed a date that wouldn't usually catch his attention; 21st December, a day like any other.
And yet it wasn't.
The difference was subtle, but a difference nonetheless, and seeing it right in front of him made him remember. The date was circled, carefully, the ink red and prominent, making it stand out among all the other meaningless numbers. Had he been more alert, or at least less tired, the sight would probably be just that; an unpleasant reminder of an unusual anniversary, one he would distract himself from as quickly as he was made aware of it. But he wasn't alert, and he was tired; so instead, the remembrance made his eyes sting, and he suddenly wished, the desire so intense it made his chest swell with emotion, that he could call Max.
But he couldn't; he shouldn't
Four months ago - on the 21st of September, to be exact - he had left on a business trip to London. It was the longest one he'd ever been on, and he went to collaborate with the West End's most highly-regarded production team, to both observe and advise, so that by the end of the period, both troupes would be enriched by a foreign point of view to help their own productions grow. And of course, a great deal of money was involved.
The contract promised that after those months were over, he would be replaced by another of their team, and they would finish what Max started, carrying the show all the way to the opening night along with the West End's producer; some Isaac Elton, of whom he hadn't heard before but of which everyone spoke as a strict, capable artist. He didn't yet know who Max's replacement would be, nor did he seriously care, because one thing was certain; it wouldn't be him, not under any circumstances, because he simply couldn't bear another four months like that.
It was enough as it was.
It was an important quest, everyone told him. It was a unique chance that they would be foolish to pass up, he was reminded every day. Still, he couldn't understand what made it so special. He couldn't think of a task important enough to justify Max's absence from him for longer than he could tolerate.
He had cried; he had asked him not to go. But "no, Leo, please don't do this. Don't try to change my mind," Max had said, and when he tried getting angry instead: "Leo - four months. Four months and I'm yours. Forever if you like, but let me do this. Alright?"
So "alright" he had replied, although he wasn't at all alright with it, and Max went. And now he wished he hadn't.
The first month had been hard; he's had to get re-accustomed to waking up alone, to having lunch alone, to working alone and worst of all, to coming home to an empty, quiet house. The period ahead of him felt awfully long then and he was often distressed, relying on the support of Roger and Carmen, at whose house he'd spent most evenings. He had felt better with them, but far from good.
The second had been difficult still, but somewhat calmer than the first; he'd gotten used to relying on his own decisions when he had nobody to ask or reassure him, and he got better at managing his emotions alone. He no longer needed to spend the nights with the DeBris', but he didn't sleep well, and he woke frequently, the urge to do anything but be in bed stronger than his worry of being useless on the rehearsals the next day.
The third had been surprisingly uneventful. He got as adjusted to his new routine as well as he could, and although he still missed Max in everything he did - although he still had cried at having to spend the first Thanksgiving in years without him - he had also stopped worrying about him excessively. His prevalent fear that he would like the London's team more than he liked theirs got weaker, just as did his irrational worry that he wouldn't return. That had been mostly thanks to a small adjustment in the frequency of their contact, and they now called each other three times a day, as opposed to one that, although long and detailed, wasn't enough to keep his nerves under check for the rest of the day. Making their schedules work so that they could talk that often wasn't easy - London was 5 hours ahead, after all - but they managed to set aside enough time throughout different parts of the day to keep in touch and still handle their own responsibilities. It wasn't easy, or convenient, but it made so much difference.
He had been surprised that it was Max who came up with it, even more so by the suddenness, because he had seemed content with their daily calls up until then. It was only when he stayed for dinner with Carmen and he had asked him how he was coping these days. "Much better," he had replied. "Now that we talk regularly, it doesn't feel as though he's an ocean away, you know?" Carmen had smiled sheepishly then, hiding his self-satisfied expression by turning his face down towards his dish, and he knew.
But now it was the fourth month, and somehow, it was both the best and the worst one yet. Best because the date of Max's return was nearing; because they would be able to spend the holidays together. Worst because it wasn't true.
Earlier that month - on the 8th, he thought, though it didn't matter much - he had gotten a phone call at an odd hour of the day. It wasn't on the pre-planned time he and Max had, but somehow he knew it would be him nonetheless. He had been right. As he had picked up, happy to hear Max's voice greet him on the other side, he had started to brag about his day immediately, not even giving Max a chance to explain as to why he had called so late. That was, until he was cut off by a terse "not now, Leo. I've got something to tell you."
That was when he realized that something was amiss, his stomach already in knots.
What was it? Did something go wrong? Was the production not going as well as he'd hoped? Did someone get sick? What did he have to tell him? It was alright; whatever it was, he could tell him. He was there to listen.
But Max had answered most of his frantic questions with a "no" that was too simple, too rehearsed. He had almost panicked.
He could hear the words already, loud and clear in his mind: "Leo, I'm sorry, but the West End is just better; cleaner, more structured. And the people here are real professionals. I hope you know what this means, but you can come and visit if you want to. Our show is really good. So long, pal." And he had braced himself for them, even though his brain wrestled with the absurdity of the thought. Max wouldn't - he couldn't - leave him just like that.
So "go on," he stuttered, and Max did.
He couldn't really remember the explanations, or the endless sugarcoating that Max had tried to wrap it into to make it seem like less of a deal, but despite his efforts, it didn't make the truth any better. Not to him anyway. The only part he had truly registered was the one that wouldn't leave him for the last two weeks: "Leo, listen. I really am sorry, but there is no other way. Not if I don't want the last three and half months to go to waste, that is. It seems - no, it's certain - that I will have to stay a little longer than we had agreed on. Not too long, I promise; half a month, maybe another 30 days if things really go to hell. But, Leo - I know you looked forward to it, but I won't be home for Christmas. I'm sorry."
It had been like being hit squarely in the stomach, his disappointment so crushing and real that he recalled what he had replied to it only faintly, but he knew that he had been silent for a long time, and then got angry. He was a liar, he was unreliable. He had promised him four months, he promised. Four months and he would be his, four months and this would be over. He had led him on, he had made him hope. He had betrayed his trust.
But he didn't remember which of those things had he actually said aloud.
Then he had tried begging. Couldn't someone replace him? Couldn't he come for just one weekend, just a single day? But no one could; it was Christmas. But he couldn't; it was too complicated.
And so the day on which he was supposed to be so happy - so relieved to have him back - passed by as just another empty day, and he barely noticed it would indeed be Christmas in three days.
Not that he cared for the holiday itself too much. He did, once, but now his priorities laid elsewhere.
For many years, his relationship with Christmas was fairly unfraught, but maybe even that was an understatement: he loved Christmas and loved it in an exceptionally uncomplicated way for a young jewish boy living on the outskirts of Brooklyn. Every year, he looked forward to the day when he would find himself at the Rockefeller Center and see the Christmas tree in all its majesty. And every year, his mom and he had a ritual. Sometime after Thanksgiving, they would drive across the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan, where they would get hot chocolate and then take a stroll to 5th avenue, from 34th street to 58th street, to view Macy's and Barney's storefronts festooned with holiday décor. Nothing he loved about this ritual had anything to do with religion or culture. It had to do with shiny things and happy people, with upbeat songs about eating pie and making snowmen. He loved the aesthetic splendor of Christmas, not the thing itself.
When he was in college and as a young professional, that relationship remained uncomplicated. In Whitehall and Marks, the office was almost as quiet on Yom Kippur as it was on Christmas. The only decorations that he had bothered with in his rented apartment were a medium evergreen and a small menorah, out of habit than anything else. But even then, he loved walking around the neighborhood on the 25th of December, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas, not minding one bit when they wished him the same. It was just a little exchange between people bursting with goodwill.
Christmastime meant good spirits for everyone. Even him, at least while his mother was still with him. At least until he'd gotten too tired of his work, too sick of spending the time he once so adored alone.
But recently his view on Christmas had changed, as had most of his life after he had met Max, and the new view was quite simple; He had always assumed that everybody understood that there was a difference between the festive appurtenances of the holiday and the holiday itself, that there was a part of Christmas that could be for everyone and that he could claim that part while declining the rest. So he had done exactly that.
Christmas had simply become a time when they would be together with a certainty that was almost unbreakable (but apparently, it wasn't) and an opportunity to relive some of the traditions that he and his mother had shared, passing them on to Max. Over the years, those small but meaningful habits accumulated, and each year, he learned to love the holidays again, learned to look forward to them with growing intensity as they thought of new ways to make the days special. His personal favourite: Skipping the chaos of Times Square and enjoying the holiday from a calmer perspective, watching the New Year's fireworks from the Brooklyn Bridge.
And now even that was taken from him.
He couldn't even focus on the papers anymore, not for a minute. He had allowed it to happen again. He let his thoughts take flight because he was tired, because it was easier. And now they won't let him be for the rest of the night, probably the rest of the month, all of the progress lost because some british producer didn't find Max's work helpful enough, wanting more from him still. Because he decided that he had more right to claim Max than himself.
So he let the thoughts come, folding the files carefully and storing them away. Changing into something more comfortable, he crawled into bed, hoping that for once, the night would pass undisturbed, and he would wake when the city is alive once more, the heaviness on his chest just a little bit lighter.
For some time he laid there - minutes, hours, he didn't know - slipping in and out of restless wakefulness, conscious thoughts meddling with dreams, until he tossed the covers aside, contenting himself with just his blanket. He climbed out of the bed again, choosing to lay on the living room's sofa instead, which gave him a slight view from their balcony. It was snowing outside, he noted with little interest.
Turning onto his left side, he stared out of the window, the gentle snowfall entrancing. It danced in the street lamp light, a choreographed ballet conducted by the gentle wind. He fixed his gaze somewhere into the distance, and with each passing minute, his mind carried him a little further from where he was. With each new snowflake swirling through the air, it felt more like floating among them.
The last time he had undeniably believed in miracles - in some otherworldly forces that had the power to make your desires come true, if only you wished hard enough for them - was when he was young, too young to fully understand such concepts. But his mother had told him that they happen, that they always have and will happen to good people. He wanted to believe her; he did. He sometimes just doubted her definition of good people.
But tonight he needed a miracle; it was his only option left. So he closed his eyes, squeezing his blanket tightly as he did, and wished for it. His one and only Christmas wish.
Please, he begged with something abstract, hoping it would hear him out, come back.
"Are you sure?"
He turns to me with a teasing smirk, his hands still tangled in the lights that he tries to unravel with patience that I would never be capable of, and speaks in a tone that is half amused, half serious: "Yes, Roger, I am sure. The true question is, how can you not be sure?"
I huff half-heartedly, sinking deeper into the cushions on our sofa and watch him for a moment, his back turned to me again, as he reaches up high to secure a mistletoe in a doorframe where he'd originally planned to put the lights; even he gave up on them, it seems. I scoff at that, taking a moment to sort my thoughts.
"Well, first of all, it's just a few more days compared to - don't give me that look, I know it's selfish - it's just a few more days, considering how long it was already. What difference does it really make? Surely they can wait a little longer."
I hear him sigh, his shoulders dropping, but he doesn't lose his jovial spirit. "My point exactly; what difference does it make if I leave 'just a few days' earlier? Surely we can tolerate that, compared to how long it'll be."
"It wouldn't have to be any time at all, if you weren't so stubborn and let someone else go," I grumble, annoyed mostly because he's right. In every point.
"Hm, true," he says, throwing me a bunch of glittery garlands to untangle, "you can go, of course."
"Oh, give me a break." I wave a hand, tossing the garlands back at him and giving the lights another chance instead. "You know I don't want to travel. Much less to England. And especially not to argue with a snobbish producer about whether my visions are brilliant enough. I know they are, and besides, arguing with Max about that is sufficient, thank you."
"Right." He snaps his fingers for emphasis and crosses his arms, and I already know that his next argument will be bulletproof. "You can't go, Leo can't go, Max already went. Who else is left if not me?"
"Literally anyone," I counter him, raising my eyebrows suggestively, but once again, I already know that is not an option.
My senseless reasoning is enough to push him to irritation, and when he speaks again, his words are sharper, but I can sense that he is starting to doubt them as well. "They don't want just anyone, you know that. They want someone who actually has a clue of what is going on, which, forgive the vanity, is me if not you or Leo."
I don't have an answer to that, and so I turn my attention back to the lights, probably knotting them more than they were to begin with, but I don't care. Am I being petty? Undoubtedly. But I have the right to be. So I don't look up even as I feel the sofa under me sink slightly; I don't move as I feel his hand on my back.
"Look, Rog," he begins, and when I still won't look at him, he kneels in front of me instead, making me meet his eyes. I am already lost in them; I am already convinced. "You know I don't want to be without you either. You do know that, right? Good. But you also know that I care for Leo's well-being, more than I care for my own comfort. He's already had it so hard these past months; he's already been so brave through them. Do you want him to have Christmas ruined too? He loves the holidays, but more than that he loves consistency, and that means spending them with Max. I still don't understand his utter devotion to him either, rest assured; but that doesn't matter, because everyone deserves to be happy on Christmas."
"But what about you?" I ask sadly, but feel no irritation anymore; I feel nothing but appreciation for the man before me, nothing but love for his generosity.
"What about me?" For the first time he smiles - really smiles - and I am both humbled and comforted by his presence. "I will only be happy if Leo is."
I sigh. Of course.
"I love you," I can only whisper in response and lean in for a kiss, and for some time we just sit here; me on the sofa, him on the floor. And I will only be happy if you are, I want to say, but I don't, just keep smiling back at him.
"I know you do," Carmen replies after a while and gets up, sitting next to me instead. "That's why I know you'll understand. And agree with me."
"I do," I assure him, squeezing his hand. "I do."
"Well," he grins, springing from his seat to resume his decoration plans, "you won't miss me as much because you won't be alone here." He gestures around the room vaguely, adding with fake exasperation: "You can never be alone in this house, after all. Whether you like it or not."
I have to laugh, shaking my head at him. He is wrong. So very wrong.
How could I ever not miss you?
A/N: Continued right in the next chapter :)