Diamonds, Loose (Ryden)

Part 10

I don't remember what day it is until precisely four minutes after I wake up. I know that because I glance at my clock with bleary eyes as I lift my dead-weight bed head off the pillow when I first open them, and it's 7:02. I spend the next minute and a half wondering why the hell I awoke so early when it's Christmas break and I could be snuggled away from the cold for a good few hours yet, and the next minute and a half searching for my phone – Brendon gets up super early sometimes, so he might have texted me.

The remaining minute of those four is spent groggily registering no texts, getting confused at the sound of my parents' low voices in their room down the hall when usually they'd still be sleeping, starting a text to Brendon and finally, finally glancing at the date in the top corner of my screen.

December 25th.

"It's Christmas," I mumble to myself, mentally shaking myself for being such a dumbass. Because, wow, who forgets Christmas? Even someone like me who's had his fair share of rough holidays remembers the dates, at least.

I attempt to spring light-footedly out of bed, you know, celebrate the holidays with vigour, but I manage a retarded flail and a stumble that ends with me landing on my ass, early morning coordination. "Fucking Christmas," I mutter, and I drag myself slowly to the shower.

I take my time, because it's Christmas and even if they're awake they're not expecting me to be, so. I take my time. Shampoo my hair and stand under the water until it runs cold and lazily jerk off with my back against the tiled wall and thoughts of Brendon reeling through my head – my boyfriend, fuck, I'm allowed.

Once I've towelled off and stepped back into my bedroom, I consider for a second, then get into a different pair of pyjamas. Christmas morning isn't worth living through if you're not wearing pyjamas, and that's a fact.

My phone is lying where I left it on my bed and I pick it up, finish typing out the text I was going to send to Brendon. hey, merry xmas gorgeous, ily. =)xx

It's kind of sickeningly domesticated, but I'm so used to it now. So happy with it. I could do it forever. He's everything to me, and if talking like that to him is what it takes to keep me at the same level in his books, then I'll do it.

And, well, I kind of like it too.

I pull a hoodie on over the pyjamas, hunching my shoulders a little as I stuff my hands in the front pocket to keep in the warmth, slipping my phone in there as well, loosely cupped in my palm. The thick fabric smells like him, and I belatedly realise it's because it's his. Of course, I should have been able to tell that from the gold Pussycat Dolls logo on the breast – fucking Brendon and his obsessions – but I blame that on the early hour.

I can hear the stairs creak as my mom and dad head downstairs, and my mom actually laughing at something he's said. He chuckles a bit too. I wait a few minutes before I go down to join them; have to prepare myself, because yeah, it's Christmas, but it doesn't mean I know what to expect.

My mom has a green apron tied around her neck and her middle that has tiny red Santa hats peppered across it, and her cheeks are a rosy pink as she stands over the stove, frying pans galore. "Oh, you're up early," she says with a smile. "Merry Christmas, darling." She leaves the cooking and walks over to me, shuffling in her bunny slippers, and hugs me softly.

"Yeah, merry Christmas, Mom," I mumble, the heady aroma of fried bacon and fried eggs and fried everything assaulting my senses.

I look over, then, to the chair that Dad's sat himself in. He nods in acknowledgement and smiles tiredly, and it's not a fake smile, not one that's forced, but rather it's the old one from days I vaguely remember, trying to break out.