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The wind howled through the streets of New York, carrying flurries of snow that stuck to Frankie's dark lashes. At six-foot-five in his fur coat, he was a towering figure beside his little brother Donnie, who was currently shivering in his leather jacket, hopping from foot to foot like an overexcited Chihuahua.
"We should've stolen Reggie’s fucking space heater when we had the chance," Donnie grumbled, rubbing his gloved hands together. His nose was pink from the cold, blond hair peeking out from under a knit hat that Frankie had bought him last winter. Reggie launched into his usual spiel about kicking them out again, this time using "getting down to business" as an excuse to complain about their noise before booting them out into the freezing winter night.
Frankie sighed, adjusting the strap of their shared duffel bag. "We're not thieves, Donnie."
"Yet," Donnie said with a mischievous grin, elbowing his brother. "But we're about to be. Listen, I got a plan. It's Christmas—there are trees everywhere on the streets. To us, those things are pure cash. We steal 'em, sell 'em, then steal some more. It's science, okay? Totally logical!" Donnie exclaimed, gesturing wildly with excitement.
Frankie sighed, rubbing his temples as Donnie bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes gleaming with that manic energy that always preceded terrible ideas.
"Frankie, c'mon—We need money."
"Fine," Frankie cut him off, already regretting it. "But we gotta stay under the radar—only grab what won't be missed. No funny business, capiche?"
Donnie grinned, sharp and bright. "Wouldn't dream of it."
///
It was almost too easy—rich neighborhoods left trees unattended on snowy lawns, corner lots with cheap plastic fencing, even a few church nativities they "borrowed".
Frankie should've stopped it. But when Donnie pressed a cold cocoa into his hands after their 100th heist, his excited grin, rosy cheeks, and nose pink from the cold made him look impossibly adorable. Frankie just sipped the too-sweet drink and thought: Watching Donnie come alive while explaining his plans, glowing with each small victory, seeing his eyes sparkle under the Christmas lights... Maybe some crimes were worth the tally.
The Grand Times Square Christmas tree glittered under the night sky, a seventy-foot Norway spruce covered in thousands of twinkling lights. Tourists crowded around it, taking photos, laughing, talking, oblivious to the two brothers watching from a nearby rooftop.
Donnie bounced on his toes, his breath puffing out in excited little clouds. "Okay, okay, listen—"
"No," Frankie said immediately.
"You didn't even hear it yet!"
"I don't have to. Whatever it is, it's insane."
Donnie pouted, shoving his cold hands into Frankie's coat pockets to steal warmth. "Just hear me out. That tree is worth, like, a hundred grand. If we steal it, Christmas is canceled. No more Mariah Carey in every store, no more SantaCon drunks puking in the subway—"
"And no more us because we'll be in prison," Frankie deadpanned. Donnie rolled his eyes. "Not if we don't get caught."
"How the hell do you steal a seventy-foot tree?"
Donnie grinned, "Phase one: You dress up as Santa."
Frankie stared.
"Phase two: I cut the power. Phase three: You tell everyone the tree's unstable and they need to evacuate. Phase four: We borrow a truck—"
"We are not stealing a truck."
"—and take the tree to, like, New Jersey or something. Phase five: Profit."
Frankie pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is the dumbest thing you've ever come up with. We've already made our money by selling small trees—why take the risk?"
But deep down, he knew the reason. Donnie hate Christmas. And he is eager to do anything to stop it.
Christmas wasn't exactly something to look forward to for them. Not since Mom and Dad were gone. He remembered how they’d peer out from the orphanage’s cramped quarters, the world blurred beyond the fogged-up window. Through the flickering lights and hazy silhouettes, they could see the family across the street decorating their tree—the father lifting a giggling child to crown it with a star, the mother patiently untangling strands of lights, their living room shimmering like an untouchable snow globe of warmth.
Donnie's small hands had been clutching the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Why doesn't anyone want us, Frankie?" Frankie remembered doing what he always did—shoving Donnie's face into his scratchy wool sweater before the tears could fall. "We don't need 'em," he said. "Just the two of us make a whole family."
The memory dissolved like snowflakes on warm skin—Donnie's childlike face, streaked with tears, flickering into the sharp angles of the man standing before him now. The same brown eyes, though now they burned with something darker than childhood sorrow. The same stubborn set to his jaw, though now it was shadowed with stubble.
Donnie's grin faltered as he watched Frankie fall silent. Then he shrugged, looking away. "Yeah, well. It's not like we've got anything better to do."
Something in his voice made Frankie pause. Donnie wasn’t just being reckless—he was hurting. Frankie exhaled, long and slow. Then he grabbed the Santa hat from Donnie’s bag and pulled it over his dark hair. "Fine. But if we get arrested, you're explaining it to the cops."
Donnie whooped, throwing his arms around Frankie’s neck. "I knew you'd say yes!"
Frankie caught him instinctively, hands settling on Donnie’s waist. For a second, they were too close—Donnie’s breath warm against his jaw, his body pressed flush against Frankie’s. Then Donnie pulled back, cheeks pink, and Frankie cleared his throat. "Let's just get this over with."
///
Frankie adjusted the itchy white beard of his Santa costume, glaring at Donnie, who was currently doubled over laughing.
"You look ridiculous," Donnie wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "You're the most gangly Santa I've ever seen! Did the reindeers eat all your cookies?"
Frankie yanked the hat lower over his dark brows. "Oh, I look ridiculous? Wait till you see your costume." Donnie’s grin froze. "My what?"
The older brother reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a sparkly green elf costume complete with pointy ears and jingle bell shoes.
Donnie’s mouth fell open. "No." "Oh, yes." "Frankie, no—"
"Elf or jail, Donnie. Pick one."
Donnie groaned, snatching the costume. "I hate you."
Frankie’s smirk deepened. "No, you don’t."
Five minutes later, Donnie stood sulking in his elf outfit, the bells on his shoes jingling with every irritated step. "This is humiliating," he muttered, tugging at the too-short tunic. Frankie’s gaze lingered on Donnie’s thighs in those tight pants before he cleared his throat. "You look… festive."
Donnie flipped him off.
A Santa and an elf, practically a holiday hall pass. They soon blended into the bustling Times Square crowd, circling the grand Christmas tree multiple times to scout escape routes, all without raising a single security guard's suspicion.
"The security does rounds every two hours. There's a steel frame base under the tree, secured with four anchor cables," Donnie muttered. "The anchor points are buried underground, but we can pry them open."
Frankie scoffed. "You seriously wanna steal this damn thing? That tree's bigger than a truck!"
"We don’t need to take the whole damn thing, just chop off the top half and haul it away in the truck," Donnie said with smug confidence.
"You're making this up as you go, how the hell are we even supposed to—" Frankie started, but his words were cut off by a shrill scream tearing through the night.
"SANTA!!!" — suddenly a shrill scream pierced the air. Frankie barely had time to react before he was swarmed by tiny humans, all clamoring for presents, hugs.
Donnie yanked at Frankie’s arm, his elf hat askew. "We gotta go! This is the opposite of ‘low profile’!" he hissed through gritted teeth, eyeing the security guards starting to glance their way. But Frankie just sighed and scooped up a giggling toddler in his arms. "I’m not ruining Santa for these kids," he muttered, adjusting the child’s lopsided reindeer antlers.
"Santa, why is your elf so grumpy?" a little girl asked, pointing at scowling Donnie. Donnie bared his teeth. "Because Santa’s a dick—"
Frankie clapped a hand over Donnie’s mouth, forcing a jolly laugh. "Ho ho ho! My elf is just very passionate about Christmas!"
Donnie bit his palm.
Somehow, Donnie managed to ditch the kids by promising "Santa’s gotta go save Christmas from evil". Frankie exhaled in relief, leaning down to mutter, "Nice save, elf." They had already escaped to the nearby lawn. Donnie smirked. "Told you I’m the brains of this operation."
Their faces were too close.
Frankie reached over, brushing a stray golden lock from Donnie's forehead. "Honestly? For the first time, I realize you really do look like an elf. Adorably so. Also partly because you're already elf-sized" He burst into laughter before he could finish.
Donnie flushed, swatting at him. "Oh fuck you! Shut up."
Frankie caught his wrist, thumb brushing Donnie’s pulse point. "Make me." Then Donnie lunged, knocking Frankie into a pile of snow. They tumbled, Donnie straddling him, both breathless and laughing.
"You’re the worst Santa," Donnie gasped. Frankie grinned up at him. "And you’re the worst elf." Donnie’s smile softened. "Yeah, but I’m your worst elf."
For a heartbeat, they both fell silent—then erupted into laughter, scrambling upright. "Santa and his elf throwing punches?" Frankie gasped between chuckles, "Not exactly the Christmas miracle people expect."
///
It started well.
As night fell, people began gathering in the square. Donnie, quick and wiry, slipped past security and cut the power with a pair of wire cutters. The entire plaza plunged into darkness, the giant tree going black. Gasps rose from the crowd. Frankie stepped forward, still in his Santa costume. "EVERYONE STAY CALM," he boomed, deepening his voice. "THE TREE IS UNSTABLE. PLEASE EVACUATE THE AREA."
To his shock, people listened. The crowd began shuffling back, murmuring in concern. The square lay dark without the glow of the Christmas tree, its emptiness stark against the churning crowd. Donnie scanned the sea of faces for security. "We need to move fast before someone catches on."
It would’ve been a ridiculous sight, if anyone had looked: Santa and an elf crouched under a towering Christmas tree, hydraulic cutters and a crowbar in hand.
“Anchor point’s here,” Donnie muttered, prying open the ground cover with the crowbar to expose the steel ring buried below. Frankie pulled out the cutters—snap—and the first steel cable went clean through. The tree swayed, just slightly.
A tiny voice piped up. "Santa?"
Frankie froze. There, beside the tree’s stand, was Rupert Jr., still perched on his tricycle, eyes wide with wonder. Donnie cursed under his breath. "Kid, what’re you—?!"
Rupert beamed. "I knew you were real! Are you taking the tree to the North Pole?"
For a split second, Frankie hesitated. Then, a flashlight beam cut through the darkness.
"FREEZE!"
Detective Jack stood at the edge of the square, his flashlight in one hand, the other resting on his holstered gun. His face was a mask of fury and fear—fury at the thieves, fear for his son, who was clutching Santa's coat sleeve
Jack’s voice was steel. "Hands where I can see them. Both of you."
Frankie sneered, but slowly raised his hands. Jack’s jaw clenched. "You’re both under arrest. Rupert, get over here—NOW!"
Rupert loosened his grip and took half a step back, but remained planted beside Frankie. "Dad… they’re not bad guys. They’re Santa and his elf!" Jack didn’t take his eyes off the brothers. "Rupert, stay out of this." His flashlight swept back and forth across the brothers' faces."You’re just kids," the Detective muttered, "Why would you do this? Why aren’t you home for Christmas?"
Donnie laughed bitterly, pain lacing his voice. "We ain’t got no home. " He nodded at the tree. "You really think this thing matters? It’s just wood and lights. You got a family waiting, and we are just two nobodies. Don't make this difficult."
Jack’s jaw worked. "Then turn yourselves in. Make it right."
Frankie barked a laugh. "Right? Like the system’s ever been ‘right’ for guys like us?"
Donnie took a step back, "We are taking this tree." Then he dropped into a crouch and yanked out the hydraulic cutters again.
"Freeze!" The detective’s right hand drew his gun while his left braced the flashlight beneath it—both now locked onto Donnie.
A sharp ping cut through the tension. Donnie had snipped the third cable. The wind screamed through Times Square, whipping the tinsel on the doomed Christmas tree into a frenzy. The remaining steel cables groaned like dying animals, their frayed ends snapping one by one under the strain. The tree swayed. Then it fell. Not in slow motion. Not dramatically. It collapsed with the brutal physics of seventy-foot of pine and steel, its shadow swallowing the square in darkness. And it was coming down right on top of Frankie.
Donnie’s blood turned to ice.
"FRANKIE—!" Donnie’s voice tore raw from his throat. His brother didn’t even look up. Frankie still had his hands half-raised, facing the detective, oblivious to the ton of wood and needles about to crush him—and the kid, Jesus Christ, the kid was right there too—
Donnie moved before he could think. He lunged and shoved them both with all his strength, sending them sprawling onto the pavement just as—
CRASH.
The tree slammed into the ground right where they’d been standing. Donnie wasn’t fast enough.
Frankie gasped, the world a blur of tumbling lights and screaming voices. He landed hard on his side, Donnie’s weight crushing the breath from his lungs. For a heartbeat, everything was noise and chaos—splintering wood, shattering glass, the metallic scream of ornaments hitting concrete.
Then silence.
Frankie rolled onto his back, coughing. His vision swam. "Donnie?"
No answer.
He pushed himself up on shaking arms—and froze. The tree lay sprawled across the square like a fallen giant, its branches splayed in a grotesque halo. Frankie’s heart stopped. "No! " He scrambled forward, his hands tearing at the branches. Pine needles sliced his palms, but he didn’t feel them.
Donnie. Donnie. Donnie.
The name was a mantra, a desperate prayer. His hands scraped against shattered ornaments and splintered wood, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He couldn’t lose him. Not like this. Not after everything.
Then—there. A hand, limp beneath a fallen beam. Frankie’s stomach lurched as he shoved the debris aside, revealing Donnie’s pale, blood-streaked face. His little brother wasn’t moving.
“No, no, no—” Frankie choked out, pressing trembling fingers to Donnie’s throat. For a heart-stopping second, he felt nothing. Then—there. A pulse. Weak, but there. Frankie hauled Donnie into his arms, ignoring the pain screaming through his own injuries.
Detective stood frozen, his breath trapped in his chest like a stone. The world had narrowed to the jagged wreckage of the toppled Christmas tree. His son had been standing right there, seconds from being crushed.
A blur of motion, a shove so hard his own son stumbled back, safe, unharmed—while Donnie disappeared beneath the avalanche of pine and tinsel. Jake's pulse roared in his ears. In his career, he'd seen countless kids like this. Kids who'd never known a single good day, who'd been chewed up by life before they'd even grown teeth. So they became thugs, throwing themselves into the mud—fighting, stealing , stirring up chaos. He knew the way the system had chewed them up and spat them out. He’d been ready to drag both brothers in for questioning, convinced they were trouble.
But this—
Frankie’s choked sob snapped him back. The older brother was on his knees，his young brother limp in his arms. Jack's throat tightened. He should’ve said something. Should’ve called the police station, called for an ambulance, demanded answers and done his damn job. Instead, he stepped aside.
"Go," Jack said quietly. Frankie looked up dazedly, his eyes brimming with tears. "What?"
"Take your brother and go,"Jack repeated, louder. "Now. Before the others get here."
"You’re letting us go?"
"I’ll say it was an accident."He met Frankie’s eyes. Behind him, his son sniffled, small fingers clutching his sleeve. Jack exhaled, slow and unsteady. He pulled his boy close, pressing a kiss to his hair. He had spent countless days hunting down the bastard who sabotaged the Christmas tree—staking out, going undercover, chasing leads. But tonight, he let them run.
"And I'll be home for Christmas," he murmured to his son. Somewhere in the distance, church bells began to ring.
The safehouse was small, tucked away in a quiet corner of Long Island. The scent of garlic and rosemary curled through the apartment, warm and golden, as Frankie stirred the pot of stew on the stove. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, while humming along to the radio’s crackling holiday tunes. Snowflakes tapped gently against the window, melting into droplets that caught the glow of the Christmas lights strung haphazardly across the walls.
On the couch, Donnie was a mess of bandages, his arm in a sling, his ankle wrapped tight. The TV played the news on low volume—reports of the The Grand Times Square Christmas tree collapses due to winter storm and aging anchor cables.
A groan from the living room sent Frankie striding out of the kitchen.
"You ok?"
"Yeah." Donnie's eyes remained fixed on the TV. "Frankie, you’re not really mad about the tree thing, are you?" he asked quietly.
Frankie sighed, sitting beside him. "I’m mad you almost got yourself killed. I'll never forget that moment when I saw you...I thought you were..." He couldn't go on. His voice grew heavy with emotion.
"Hey." Donnie's bandaged hand gently cupped Frankie's cheek, tilting his face toward him. His lips curling into that familiar grin. "Not that easy to get rid of me."
Frankie rolled his eyes. "You’re an idiot."
"Yeah," Donnie said, softer now, "but I’m your idiot."
The words hung between them, lingering warmly. Frankie stared at Donnie, at those brown eyes, at the aliveness of him, bruised but breathing. The news kept playing—Christmas celebrations continue despite the tree’s collapse! Somewhere, the city moved on. But Frankie barely heard it.
"Yo," Donnie said, nudging him. "You’re staring."
Frankie didn’t look away. "Yeah."
Donnie’s breath hitched. "Yeah?"
Frankie leaned in, slow, giving him time to pull back. Donnie didn’t.
Frankie swallowed hard. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he closed the distance between them.
The kiss was soft, hesitant—a question. Donnie answered without hesitation, his hand sliding up to tangle in Frankie’s hair, pulling him closer. It tasted like salt and relief, like years of unspoken words finally given voice. When they broke apart, Donnie’s smile was real this time. “Took you long enough.”
Frankie huffed, but his thumb traced Donnie’s cheekbone, gentle. “Shut up.”
Outside, snow began to fall, blanketing the world in quiet. For the first time in years, Frankie didn’t think about heists or money or running. He thought about the way Donnie’s fingers laced with his, the way his heartbeat steadied under his palm. They had no tree, no grand plans—just this. Just them.
And for the first time in years, Frankie felt like he was home.
The End.