Work Text:
Perth sits in the car, his leg twitching nervously, foot barely brushing the gas pedal. The car is parked in a dark alley, far enough from Santa’s house that there’s no chance he could notice him there.
The clock reads 11:50 p.m., and Perth can feel the heat rising up his neck, burning all the way to his ears. It’s not the first birthday of Santa’s he’s ever celebrated, but it’s the first birthday of his Santa.
He stares at the small box in the passenger seat, simple wrapping, a ribbon slightly crooked from being retied too many times. He’d gone through every possible idea for a gift, and yet, somehow, this one felt right. Personal. Real.
Perth runs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. God, why is he even this nervous? It’s not like he hasn’t seen Santa a thousand times before. They’ve fought, kissed, yelled, laughed, he’s seen Santa in every possible state, from furious to blissfully sleepy. And yet tonight, his palms are sweaty like it’s the first time all over again.
He glances at the time again. 11:53. Seven minutes until midnight. His heartbeat picks up, faster, louder, until it’s all he can hear. He wonders if Santa is already asleep or if he’s still awake, scrolling through his phone, unaware that someone is sitting outside, fighting with himself over whether to knock on the door or drive away.
Perth sighs, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “Get it together,” he mutters under his breath.
But of course, it’s useless, because this is Santa. And with him, Perth never really has it together.
He glances around, trying to pass the time. It almost feels as though congratulating Santa back when he was just his “friend” had been easier, lighter, even. But now, holding Santa in his hands, knowing he could call him the love of his life, the moment feels like judgment day.
What if he chose the wrong gift? What if Santa doesn’t like the flowers? What if the cake tastes off? What if Santa’s asleep and not ready to see him at all?
Perth taps his fingers nervously against the steering wheel again, his thoughts racing faster than the ticking clock. Every possible disaster flashes before his eyes, Santa frowning, Santa laughing awkwardly, Santa politely thanking him before hiding the gift somewhere out of sight.
He swallows hard, glancing at the bouquet on the seat beside the box. The flowers suddenly look stupid, too bright, too romantic, too much. He almost wants to throw them out the window.
It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s just a birthday, right? Just his boyfriend. But no, it’s Santa. The same Santa who can make him lose his mind with a single glance, who can turn a teasing grin into a full-blown war, who somehow managed to become his whole world without even trying.
Perth leans back in the seat, breathing out a shaky laugh. “You’re losing it,” he mutters to himself, watching the clock tick to 11:58. Two minutes left.
He grips the steering wheel tighter. He’s either about to make Santa the happiest person alive or the most confused. Either way, there’s no turning back now.
He knows Santa loves him. He knows he’s the reason behind that bright, heart-melting smile, the one that could make even the worst day feel lighter. He knows Santa notices every little thing, every late-night text, every snack left on his desk, every dumb joke. And still, somehow, it never feels easy.
Perth’s heart won’t calm down. Even knowing he’s loved doesn’t stop him from worrying, doesn’t stop the thought that maybe, just maybe, he could be doing more. Maybe Santa deserves more than what he’s able to give.
He even went to church once, just to pray that Santa would always be happy. It felt stupid at the time, standing there under the high ceilings, mumbling a quiet wish to someone he wasn’t sure was listening. But he did it anyway. Because no matter how many goals he scored, no matter how confident he acted, Perth still couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing he did for Santa would ever be enough.
And yet, he still tries, again and again, because loving Santa, even with all the nerves and chaos, feels like the most natural thing in the world.
He stares out the windshield, lost in thought. The streetlights blur into golden streaks across the glass, and the hum of the quiet night fills the car. Somewhere behind one of those softly glowing windows is Santa, probably brushing his hair after a shower, humming something under his breath, completely unaware that Perth is out here, losing his mind over whether the ribbon on the gift box looks too crooked.
He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “You’re pathetic,” he mutters, but the words come out with a smile. Because he knows he’d do it all over again. Every stupid, nervous, heart-thumping second of it.
Perth glances at the clock again. 11:59. The world holds its breath for a moment, and then the small digital digits flip to midnight.
Happy birthday, Santa.
He whispers it first, just to the quiet air inside the car, as if saying it aloud might calm him down. It doesn’t. So, before he can think twice, he grabs the box and the flowers, gets out, and starts walking. His legs feel like lead, his chest tight.
Each step brings him closer to the door, closer to Santa. And when he finally stands there, hand hovering over the doorbell, he realizes, he’s not afraid of being rejected. He’s afraid of how much he loves him.
Sometimes there was so much love inside him that he felt he might burst from it. Because Santa, without a single doubt, was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened in his life.
It wasn’t even about the fame, the lights, or the endless cameras following them around. It was about the quiet moments no one else got to see. Santa yawning between takes, head resting on Perth’s shoulder. Santa messing up a line and then laughing so hard he forgot the next three. Santa looking at him across the set, just a glance, quick and simple, but enough to make Perth forget what planet he was on.
And when the day was over and the lights went out, that’s when Perth missed him the most. Not the character, not the version everyone adored on screen, but the real Santa. The one who texted him about late-night snacks, who stole his hoodies, who always managed to make him feel both insane and alive.
Sometimes Perth wondered how he got so lucky. Out of millions of faces, somehow it was this one, this smile, this warmth, that became his whole world.
And if loving Santa still made his heart race even after the director yelled “cut,” then maybe it wasn’t acting anymore. Maybe it never was.
He exhales all the air from his lungs, his hand trembling slightly as it reaches for the doorbell. All the what ifs rush through his mind like a film reel, what if Santa’s asleep, what if he’s annoyed, what if he opens the door and that usual spark in his eyes isn’t there tonight?
It’s ridiculous, really. They’ve been together long enough for Perth to know every tiny habit of his boyfriend, how he laughs when he’s nervous, how he pretends to be annoyed just to hide his blush, how his fingers twitch when he’s about to hug him first. And still, somehow, Perth feels like he’s back at square one, standing there like a teenager about to confess for the first time.
His heart is hammering, loud enough to drown out the quiet night. The bouquet feels too heavy, the box too fragile, and his throat too tight to breathe properly.
He almost laughs, because how can a person you already have still make you this nervous? How can love feel brand new every single time?
And yet, it does. Because it’s Santa. And with him, even the familiar feels like falling all over again.
He hesitates for another second, listening to the muffled sounds coming from inside the house, soft music, maybe, or the hum of the TV. His pulse jumps.
The door opens slowly, and for a moment, all Perth can do is stare.
Santa stands there, barefoot, wrapped in the soft glow spilling from the hallway. His hair’s a little messy, his hoodie hanging loose on his shoulders, and his eyes, still heavy with sleep, widen the second they land on Perth.
For a heartbeat, no one says anything. The night feels suspended, stretched between them like a held breath.
Perth opens his mouth, but the only thing that escapes is a quiet, shaky laugh.
– Happy birthday, – he finally manages, lifting the flowers and the box like some kind of peace offering.
Santa’s gaze softens instantly. He looks at the gifts, then back at Perth and something flickers in his eyes, something small and bright and full of emotion. He doesn’t move right away; he just stands there, trying to take in the sight before him, the fact that Perth is actually here.
And when he finally reaches out to take the gift, his fingers brush against Perth’s, warm, careful, trembling just a little.
– You came,– Santa says quietly, almost in disbelief.
Perth lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
– Of course I did.
For a moment, Santa can’t speak. His throat tightens, his chest feels too full. He lowers his gaze, smiling faintly, that kind of smile that says more than words ever could.
And when he finally looks up again, there’s a quiet shine in his eyes, the kind that makes Perth think that if the world ended right now, he’d still die happy.
Every worry was worth it, every foolish thought, every doubt. It was all worth it just to stand here, on the doorstep of Santa’s house, watching him smile faintly, trying so hard to hold back his tears. Maybe they weren’t visible yet, but Perth knew. He knew Santa too well, knew that even now, he was already trying to hide them.
For a long moment, neither of them moves. The world outside falls silent, even the air seems to hold its breath. Then Santa takes a small, trembling step forward. His hand brushes against Perth’s, and the warmth of that touch says everything words never could.
– You came, – he whispers, his voice soft, almost breaking.
Perth exhales, a quiet, shaky laugh escaping him, part relief, part disbelief.
– I told you I would.
Santa nods, eyes glistening now, and in that fragile smile lies everything they’ve ever been through, the fights, the distance, the waiting, the endless longing that somehow always led them back to this.
For a heartbeat, Perth thinks he might cry too. But instead, he just reaches out and draws Santa into his arms, holding him like he’s afraid to let go again. The scent, the warmth, the heartbeat pressed against his chest, it’s all real.
And for the first time in a long while, Perth knows, this, right here, is home.
– How could I not come? How could I leave you alone on your birthday? How could I? – Perth whispers, gently running his fingers through Santa’s hair.
The bouquet suddenly feels too big, almost ridiculous in his hands, but none of that matters anymore.
Santa shakes his head against Perth’s shoulder, a quiet sound escaping him, something between a laugh and a sob. His fingers clutch the fabric of Perth’s jacket, as if making sure he’s truly there and not some cruel dream.
– You always come, – Santa murmurs, his voice muffled, trembling with emotion, – Even when I don’t ask you to.
Perth smiles faintly, the corner of his lips brushing against Santa’s hair.
– That’s because you never have to ask.
The bouquet slips slightly in his hand, petals brushing against Santa’s back, and he realizes how useless the flowers are compared to this, the warmth in his arms, the quiet heartbeat syncing with his own.
For the first time that evening, he stops worrying about the gift, the words, the timing. Because the only thing that matters, the only thing that ever did, is right here, holding him just as tightly back.
– Can you kiss me? – Santa sniffles, his voice trembling to the point of breaking, but still loud enough for Perth to hear – I need to make sure that everything is real and i’m not dreaming.
He doesn’t even know why he’s crying, it all feels so foolish, but he knows one thing for sure: when Perth is beside him, he never has to hide.
Perth doesn’t answer right away. He only looks at Santa, really looks, and it feels like time itself forgets to move. The city noise fades somewhere in the distance, the soft glow from the porch light tracing the edge of Santa’s tear-damp lashes.
Then Perth nods. Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too fast. His hand finds Santa’s cheek, thumb brushing away the last trembling drop.
– You don’t have to cry, – he whispers, though his voice sounds just as unsteady.
Santa smiles through the tears. Small, helpless, beautiful.
And when Perth finally leans in, it isn’t just a kiss. It’s every word he couldn’t say, every prayer, every heartbeat that had been waiting for this single second.
The world seems to stop, leaving only the taste of sweetness and salt, the warmth between them, and the quiet thought that maybe, just maybe, love was always meant to feel exactly like this.
When they finally pull apart, the air between them feels fragile, like something sacred might still be floating there, too precious to disturb. Santa blinks slowly, his lips trembling with the faintest smile, the kind that only ever appears when he’s too full of feeling to speak.
Perth’s forehead stays pressed to his, breaths mingling in the small, quiet space between them. His heart is beating so fast it almost hurts.
– I don’t ever want you to think you’re alone, – he murmurs, – Not tonight. Not ever.
Santa lets out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-sob, and hides his face against Perth’s shoulder. He smells faintly of wood and something warm, the same scent Perth has come to think of as home.
– You came all this way just for me, – Santa whispers.
Perth chuckles softly, his hand finding the back of Santa’s neck, fingers threading through his hair.
– I’d go further.
Santa lifts his head, eyes glistening under the dim porch light. There’s something about the way he looks at Perth, that mix of awe, love, and disbelief, that makes Perth’s throat tighten.
– You’re going to make me cry again, – Santa says with a wobbly laugh.
– Then cry, – Perth whispers, brushing his lips over the corner of Santa’s mouth. – Cry if you need to. I’ll still be here.
And when Santa finally smiles, really smiles, it feels like the world exhales with him. The night softens, the air turns tender, and somewhere in the distance, a clock strikes midnight.
Santa’s birthday has just begun. And Perth, holding him close beneath the quiet hum of the city, knows he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.
They stay like that for a while, two silhouettes on the porch, wrapped in silence softer than any words could ever be. The bouquet rests forgotten at their feet, petals trembling in the night breeze.
Perth doesn’t even remember when he stopped feeling nervous. Maybe it happened the moment Santa smiled. Maybe it was the way his hand fit so easily into Perth’s, as if it had always belonged there.
When Santa finally speaks again, his voice is small but steady.
– You know… I think this might be my favorite birthday ever.
Perth laughs quietly, brushing his thumb over Santa’s cheek.
– Then I guess I did something right.
Santa shakes his head, smiling through the tears that still glimmer in his lashes.
– You didn’t have to do anything right. You just had to come.
The words settle between them, simple, honest, and enough to make Perth’s chest ache. He leans in one last time, pressing a kiss to Santa’s temple.
– Happy birthday, my love.
Santa closes his eyes, a soft hum escaping his lips as he leans into the touch. The world feels still again, the same quiet stillness that once made everything else disappear.
And for the first time that night, Perth lets himself believe it’s okay to stop holding his breath. Because here, in this moment, with Santa’s fingers intertwined with his and the faint scent of cake and flowers in the air he knows he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.