All I Want For Christmas

Chapter One

Christmas. Who doesn’t like Christmas? Sleigh bells, racing down winding country roads, chestnuts.

Open fires. Yule logs. Homemade fruitcake that’d soaked up a full bottle of brandy.

Marzipan. Bing Crosby and Frankie Sinatra crooning from the traditional playlists, Mariah Carey from the poppier ones.

Moving the Elf off his Shelf and leaving him on a coaster near the toaster, or in the pocket of a coat along with a remote.

Good times.

James flicked the curtain back from his living room window and gazed out at the street, really taking it in.

City neighborhood, yes, but far north enough for a coat of snow to be draped over the asphalt, a fluffy white blanket that glittered when the streetlights hit it just right.

Holly, either real or a really good fake, encircled all the posts, while LED candles danced over street signs.

The apartment directly across the street had their blinds open and a real beauty of a Douglas Fir decorated to the nth degree.

He loved it. A sight to warm the heart. His family’s tree might be better, but it’d have a fight on its hands.

Not that he’d get to see the damn thing this year if events kept spiraling down their current path.

“Your call is very important to us. Please continue to hold. An agent will be with you momentarily.”

James dug his fingers into his hair, tucked beneath a warm knitted ski cap, and swore quietly at the hold music burrowing its way into his brain.

Thirty minutes he’d been waiting. Thirty minutes this time, anyway -- the first two calls had disconnected fifteen and twenty-four minutes in, respectively.

“I would like to go home for Christmas,” he told the pre-recorded soprano warbling in his ear. “Is that too much to ask? Isn’t that what Christmas is supposed to be about? Come on. Cut me a break here.”

All I want for Christmas is youuuuuuu …

James bowed his head and thumped it gently against the windowpane. At first, he thought the quiet rattle and bang was from the shitty, landlord special, glass rattling in its frame. The much louder swearing, first frustrated and then triumphant, told him Cillian was home.

His heart rate, already nice and high, spiked a jolt or two skyward.

Cillian . His roommate. Platonic, not permanently attached, but in high demand, with a new pretty boy or big bear on his arm at least twice a month.

He rattled all the windows when he had company, and James had learned to take it with a grain of salt, a snorted chuckle, and a really good pair of noise-canceling headphones -- because honestly, Cillian was one of those guys you couldn’t help but love.

Some men had a gift for that. Half Irish and leaning into it, using the accent he’d gotten from his Galway mother to its full advantage.

Full head of wild red curls and a day or so’s worth of stubble.

Surprisingly broad shoulders, built like a Viking bard, with a cute little pillow belly when he sat down.

“Your call is very important to us. Please hold…”

James missed the rest of the robot spiel, too busy watching Cillian wander into their living room, tossing his keys in the general direction of their coffee table and his own knitted cap toward the back of the couch. No company tonight, James noticed.

Cillian grinned broadly, his teeth white and even, and mimed “phone call?” before putting his finger to his lips and plunking cheerfully down onto their couch.

Yep. There was the belly. During dry spells, which happened far more often than James would like, he itched to drop down beside Cillian and rest his head on that nice little cushion to see if it was as comfortable as it looked.

“Won’t say a word,” Cillian mouthed to James. Then almost immediately, out loud: “Problems? Weren’t you supposed to be on a plane tonight?”

“Supposed to be, sure.” James gestured at his phone. “Airline says otherwise.”

“You bought your ticket weeks ago.”

“Again, airline’s website says otherwise. Trying to get an actual human on the line to convince them of that.”

Cillian winced in kind sympathy and idly rested his hand on his stomach where his Aran sweater had ridden up an inch or two. “Sucks, my friend. Wish you good luck.”

James’ fingers twitched. Their windows didn’t keep all the cold out, but Cillian ran warm.

He’d be toasty as a fireplace to cuddle up with.

James could rest his head or roll over to face him while they talked about a little of everything and a lot of nothing.

And while he was there, possibly nose into the warm skin.

Press a light kiss to Cillian’s navel. Or flip completely onto his stomach, braced on his arms, all the better to take care of the zipper on Cillian’s jeans and --

Okay, so he didn’t think about that kind of goings-on only during dry spells. More like all the time, actually.

All I want for Christmas is youuuuuu …

Click . “Your call has been disconnected. Please hang up and try again.”

James clapped a hand to his forehead and growled through gritted teeth, wondering if Androids could actually accordion up and break across the middle if you squeezed them hard enough. Either way, he was about to find out, either from travel-induced rage or sexual frustration.

“Ah, now. I know that look.”

James had closed his eyes, but he heard Cillian lever himself off the couch and clatter over before thumping a companionable hand to his back. “It’s a few days till Christmas still. You’re not going to get a human on the line during rush hour.”

“True so far.” James opened his eyes. “Suggestions?”

“Sure, easy. Call back tomorrow morning and yell at them then. Or not, because they’re humans and they’re probably at least twice as pissed at the system as you are, so be a kind fellow and go easy on the poor bastards. Figure it all out with a cool head then.”

Cillian grinned at him from inches away. He smelled of bayberries and fir and wool. “And in the meantime, I happen to know the perfect cure for a raging temper fit.”

Despite himself, a matching smile tugged at James’ lips. Cillian was just magic that way. “Don’t say drinks.”

“Drinks!” Cillian thumped him harder, then tossed an arm around James’ shoulders. “Best idea I’ve heard today. Let’s go.”

With a choice between that and listening to bubblegum caroling for another hour -- well, it wasn’t really a choice at all.

All I want for Christmas is you . He tapped Cillian’s fist with his own. “You’re on. Let’s go.”

* * *

“There now, what did I tell you?” Cillian shoved a glass of -- something -- into James’ hand, beaming in approval when he took it. “You feel better already, don’t you?”

James eyed the glass, surprised at its weight, and then mystified by the oil-slick-rainbow of colors shining through. “What the hell is this?”

“Booze, my friend! The pause that refreshes. Glug-glug-sip-sip ahhh .” Cillian peered at him. “Alcoholic beverage. Am I getting through to you?”

James laughed. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t hear himself over the thumping bass in the club they’d ended up at, and if it wasn’t for a decent ability to read lips he’d have had no idea what the hell Cillian was saying, but for all that he did feel better.

He leaned closer to Cillian, his lips almost against Cillian’s ear.

“I meant, what the hell is in this? Looks and smells like every flavor of schnapps known to man, mixed with WD-40.”

Cillian’s grin blazed white in the club’s dim lighting, Cheshire Cat style.

He bent his head, too, his breath tickling the side of James’ neck in a way that would have made him shiver if he wasn’t made of sterner stuff.

“How’d you guess? But then, it wouldn’t be a drink special otherwise. Gives it that extra little kick!”

“You’re not serious.”

Rolling his eyes, still amused as hell, Cillian thwapped James lightly on the side of his head.

“Of course I’m not serious. It’s a club, not a murder hole, and that’s a cocktail, for fuck’s sake.

One that ought to put a real smile on your face once you get to the bottom of it.

Get to drinking, get to smiling, and get on with you.

Don’t make me start up the ‘chug, chug, chug’ chant. Because you know I will.”

James did know. It’d happened before. “I just like giving you shit, Cillian. You know that.”

“And that would be why I love your scrawny ass!” Cillian dropped a wet, smacking kiss on James’ cheek, making him yelp and swipe at the drool in mock offense. “Drink, and I don’t mean maybe.”

“All right, all right. You don’t have to twist my arm.”

Cillian crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow, quite the feat for someone who’d presumably already downed one of those multicolored monsters on his way back from the bar.

“Apparently I do.” He slapped his hands together enthusiastically when James tried a sip.

“Keep going past the whole numb, tingling part of the experience. That’d be the cyanide.

A few more sips and you won’t be feeling any pain. ”

James took a deeper draught of the cocktail and coughed.

Okay, potent, but… Cillian wasn’t wrong.

Flavors blended in ways they shouldn’t have, and if they didn’t go down smooth, they went down with good solid intent.

This was a drink meant to knock all your worries on their ass.

Nice . He saluted Cillian, who looked even more pleased, with his glass.

“Stay there, and keep doing that,” Cillian instructed. “I’ll be back in… five, ten, maybe fifteen. Need to work off a little steam.”

“What steam do you have to work off?” James asked, already a little owl-eyed. Damn, that drink was strong.

Cillian tapped the side of his nose as he took a few moonwalk-style steps backward. “That’s for me to know.”

“Isn’t that supposed to end with ‘and for me to find out’?” James called after him. “Seriously, where are you going?”

Too late. Cillian had already pivoted and disappeared into the throng, where the drifting smoke from dry ice, colored as wildly by random LEDs as his drink, reduced all the bodies packed in the club into one big human mass.

James snorted quietly, and, like a good boy, did as he’d been told.

He drank and wasn’t worried. Not really.

Cillian was good for his word, always. If he delivered a threat, he meant it.

If he made a promise, he kept it. He’d be back.

Besides, James knew damn well where Cillian was going -- fishing for a little extra entertainment.

Not surprising. Cillian didn’t like to be alone, after all.

That was why he’d latched onto James when a quirk of fate put them in the same dorm room mumble-mumble years ago.

Why he’d been so enthusiastically down for having a roommate to split the bills with.

Yes, Cillian had shown him the “ they were roommates ” Vine.

So what if it was a cliché? It worked for them both to stick together.

But… all that aside, Cillian didn’t like to get attached. That was the part James had never quite been able to wrap his head around. One-night stands, sure. As far as James knew, no one had ever lasted longer than a week with Cillian.

Except him. Huh .

He sipped his drink idly, letting the bass rattle and buzz through his bones while the mystery alcohol warmed his blood and burned in his belly. It wasn’t a new question. James never had understood why out of everyone on God’s green earth, he was the one Cillian didn’t get tired of.

He didn’t like to think about what life would be like without Cillian. Far less entertaining, for one thing, but for the other… lonely was the word that fit best. He’d have a hole in his life that’d never be filled quite right again.

And if Cillian figured out the one secret James had managed to keep from him since that dorm room… exactly how very much he wanted Cillian…

No. No way could Cillian ever be allowed to find out. James would chance a lot of things, mostly when Cillian was egging him on, but still. He’d take the secret to his grave before he let Cillian know how much, how deeply, he cared.

But then there’s the opposite side of that coin , a sneaky little voice whispered in James’ mind as he tipped the glass all the way back for the last few delicious drops. What if you told him, and he didn’t mind? What if, just if, he said “fucking finally, took you long enough .”

James licked his lips, lost in thought and mesmerized by the club lights. What if?

What if …