I hate New York in the winter. Fine, LA’s dirty and overpopulated, but at least it’s a warm dirty and overpopulated. People don’t huddle inside, barely moving for hours because then they’d have to deal with the fucking bone-deep cold. Around here, they walk like they’re being timed on their walks from place to place and if they’re over five minutes, their loved ones will be shot. It’s snowing, a hard gray snow. The nice people in the red Salvation Army aprons nearly mug me on the way into the building.

“Christmas is a time of giving,” the gray-haired battle axe had gritted at me. She didn’t seem too amused when I offered to show her the pictures from my bar mitzvah. She did offer me a religious tract, though.

Fucking Christians.

The doorman, a large black man who towers over me and always seems to have a book of William Yeats on his lap, nods me through and endears himself by not offering to carry the duffel bag that’s hauling my tired ass around.

It’s late, so the elevators are empty when I get there. Thankfully. I jab the button for the 49th floor, swipe the card through, then lean back against the wall to rummage through my pockets for a key. I don’t glance at the mirrors on every wall of the elevator. If I look like hell, which I probably do, I don’t want to know.

A two minute elevator ride and a narrow hallway later, and I’m at his door. I lean my forehead against it, feeling the cool wood against my skin. I don’t want to wonder when this started to feel like home. Not right now.

I can hear his voice through the door, rising and falling in the steady cadence that means that he’s probably taking a business call. It’s only 10 in California, still viable working hours in the studio. Hell, there aren’t many hours that aren’t viable working hours in the studio.

I get the door open as quietly as I can, and shut it silently behind me. Leaving my bag in the hallway, I take a few cautious steps forward. I can’t really help smirking when I see him, but I don’t really try at that hard.

He manages to fold himself into chairs, all bony angles bent into a shape that makes me wince. The business voice really belies the Christmas socks he’s got on, and the fact that he’s sketching even while he listens. He has his back to the door, trusting the world more than I ever could.

“No,” he’s telling someone quite bluntly, “I’m not casting Tom Cruise.” A pause. “I don’t care if he’s got star appeal. This is the same guy who swore that he wanted Edward Scissorhands to be more ‘manly’. He wouldn’t know acting if it bit him on the ass. It’s Johnny or nothing.”

Christ. This is the same guy who hid under his desk to keep the producers from yelling at him?

I shake my head at his back, then head into the back bedroom to stow my bag. The bed is littered with scripts, a sign that he’s probably been sleeping on the couch just to avoid having to organize it all. This should be fun.

The bathroom, at least, is clean. There’s a reason why Tim ended up in an apartment that offered cleaning services. It’s not that he can’t take care of himself. It’s just that it would slow him down. I know the feeling well.

The shower, clean and white and cool, looks way too fucking inviting. I glance at it, then lean back towards the living room, wondering if I’ve got time for it before Tim hangs up in frustration.

“No, I’m not going to choose if Johnny or Lisa get a part. This is not an either-or proposition. I can still take this deal to Paramount really fucking easily-“

Oh, yeah. I’ve got time to spare. Sweet, gentle, sleepy-eyed Tim can be a real bitch if you push him just right. He’ll put up with shit, but God help you if you try to fuck with his vision.

There are a few reasons why we got along from the start. The first time the meek little thing who wouldn’t even stutter through complete sentences with me turned around and snarled at some actor who thought his interpretation took priority, it was a sealed fate.

It’s been way too long since I showered. The smell of the studio, cigarette smoke and cheap take-out and sweat, is clinging to my clothes. And probably, by extension, to me. Fuck, and I wondered why Sam nearly shoved me out the door?

“I don’t care if you composers don’t have a union. I’m not working Christmas, no one else is working Christmas, you’re not working Christmas. Out.”

“Sam, for Christ’s sake, someone has me listed as a member of the Church of Satan, which should tell you something about my sense of Christmas spirit-

“Yeah, but your boyfriend’s not listed, now is he?… Oh, don’t stare at me like that. Half of Hollywood knows. Just go. Your hair’s hurting my eyes.”

“… Thanks, Sam.”

“Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas. Go catch a flight.”

One of these days I’m going to have to measure how much time I’ve spent getting pushed around by one director or another. Something tells me the number would be depressingly high.

I turn the shower on hot, so hot it’s just on the verge of too much, and lean my head back into the spray. I let the silence and the solitude slide over me, washing away and winding down the stress of too many people, too many distractions, too many deadlines, too many songs in my head.

A week off. Seven days under my complete control. It’s nearly unheard of in my life; I don’t think I’ve had that much time to myself in years. I’ve been living in snatched-up bits and pieces around scoring since ’95.

Christ. I’m going to drive myself insane. Tim’ll be shoving me out of the house by the time the fourth day rolls around.

Tim’s got bizarre taste in shampoo. That or he just never bothered to throw out Lisa Marie’s stuff after the divorce.

Divorce. The word’s too harsh for what happened between them. It was more like drifting apart, gently and painlessly. He still loves her, in a way. He’ll bite and scratch to protect her, like some sort of younger sister he never had and would claim that he never wanted. And Lisa Marie… the last few months before they split up, she came into my studio without knocking; It had been the first time I saw her without Tim. She kissed me on the cheek, and offered me congratulations while I sat there staring at her, and walked out without another word, still smiling. She showed up at her next premiere with a girlfriend on her arm, beaming so bright she was nearly glowing. It nearly killed me when she took it upon herself to inform me of the spot on the side of Tim’s throat that makes him almost claw through the bed. I’m fairly sure neither Tim or I told her that we were together.

Yeah. Almond and vanilla shampoo. Sounds like her sort of choice. I’ve got to send her flowers this year. Daisies. Something innocent, something bright.

The shampoo’s, surprisingly, not too cloying, and it gets me clean. I linger in the heat a little longer than necessary, trying to get the city’s gritty cold off my skin, then regretfully twist the water off.

There are advantages to having separate apartments. It gives me an excuse to steal Tim’s clothes without feeling like a stalker. They’re baggy on him, so they tend to hang on me. Still, it smells like him, that vaguely spicy scent I’ve never admitted out loud that I like. So far, he’s never caught me with my face buried in one of his shirts.

It’s sick, really. Deep and truly sick. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop doing it. After almost fifty years of being one of the  most cynical bastards in a land based on cynicism, I think I’m allowed the occasional moment of weakness.

This still doesn’t mean I’m going to let him catch me in the act, mind you. I’ve got my dignity.

I drift back into the living room, toweling off my hair. Tim’s still going, his voice starting to get strained on the edges. I wonder how long the bastards have had him on the phone. Probably hours, if I know the execs.

He glances up, catching sight of me for the first time, and gives me that sweet, genuine smile that never fails to knock the air out of me. Making a face as the executive starts babbling about something, he tilts his head back and forth and mouths whatever they’re saying. I don’t catch most of it, seeing as I’m too busy staring at his mouth.

“Right,” he says suddenly, his voice not at all betraying the fact that he’s got the phone tucked against his shoulder and is miming wrapping his hands around someone’s throat and squeezing. “Fine. Great. I’ll take Phoenix for that if I can take Depp for the main role and get Lisa Marie in there as well. But there will be no tie in pop album-“ His voice suddenly gets louder and faster, like he’s talking over some dissenter. “No, I will not reconsider. The last time we did that it fucked over my composer and threw off the score. No. That’s it, no.”

Oh, God, they’re gonna love us both for that one. I could kiss him. Instead, I smirk at him, then go into the kitchen to get him a glass of water before his voice outright breaks. He takes it with another sweet smile, and grabs my hand before I can move away. He tugs once, until I sigh and lay my head on his shoulder to let him hold my hand. He’s a romantic sap like that.

Grabbing the pencil tucked behind his ear, he scribbles on his notebook, “I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

I shake my head and pluck the pencil out of his hand to write down, “Take your time.”

He frowns and shakes his head, almost dislodging the phone, then points a finger firmly at what he wrote a moment before. I sigh at him, then kiss his cheek. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, but then neither have I. Writing that I’m going to check for food, I start to pull away. He slides a hand through my hair fondly, flicks the wetness at me, then lets me go.

His refrigerator is, as par for course, filled with take-out cartons and that single, inexplicable item that no one will ever use. I think he keeps it in there just to throw people off. This time it’s an unopened jar of mustard with a label in German. I don’t want to know.

The Tai heats up nicely. I wander back in, picking at it with a fork, and stand in front of the window to stare out into the night.

No matter what I think of the city, I have to admit that Tim’s apartment has an amazing view. It’s high enough to give an agoraphobic a panic attack. People look like ants, and the lights seem to stretch on forever. Lines and lines of streetlamps, streets crowded with humanity and the chaos that comes with them.

Beautiful.

The phone beeps cheerfully as Tim finally presses the end button and lets the phone drop back into the cradle. I turn around and find him draped bonelessly back in the chair, all languid limbs and bare throat.

Now there’s a fucking invitation…

Raising his head just in time to spare himself getting pounced on, Tim pushes himself up and stumbles for the first few steps. He puts a hand on his neck and stretches until something pops, then sighs in relief. “I hate execs,” he grumbles under his breath. “They still think I’m just that naïve little director they can jerk around.”

“Nah. They do it with everybody.”

“Mmgh.” He drifts closer, then reaches out and plucks a stray piece of chicken out of the noodles with his fingers. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he lingers a little longer than necessary when he licks the sauce off his fingertips. The innocent little smile on his face while he does it doesn’t help the urge to lunge at him. There’s a warming sort of happiness in his voice when he comments, “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you.”

“Sam gave me time off.” I set the box down and reach for him. He slides into my arms with a easy motion, laying his head down on my shoulder. I can’t help nuzzling at his hair, but I don’t try really hard to stop myself. “He says hi, by the way.”

Tim snorts and presses his forehead against my neck. His words are muffled into my skin. “Why the fuck don’t we just come out already?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but…” His mouth slides over my throat a little more deliberately than necessary, and my voice falters for a second. Shaking myself, I lean my head back to smirk at him. “I’m saving it for the next time one of us wins an Oscar. I’ve been wondering if I could get you half-naked and kissed senseless before security hauls us off stage.”

“Ratings would jump,” he murmurs thoughtfully, then raises his head to give me that playfully suspicious look. “Why do I have to be the one to get half-naked?”

“Because if I did it, the audience would be blinded. Pale skin and bright lights equals bad.” When he gives me that ‘yes, Danny, I’m going to humor you now’ look, I inform him, “Seriously. It’d be like the Nazis opening the Arc of the Covenant. Implants melting… it’d just be a mess.”

He raises his head to look at me, then shakes his head and rolls his eyes to let me know exactly what he thinks of that. Then, unfortunately, he lets go and steps back. “You want some egg nog? ‘Cause… if I drink any more, I’m going to hurl.”

Wow, that was impressively non-linear. I shake my head, wasting a few seconds on trying to figure out where the fuck that came from, then give up on it. “Alcoholic or non?”

He offers me a sheepish little smile and shrugs, sliding his hands in his pockets. “Um… yes.”

I should have known… “Non works for me.”

He nods, half bouncing back into the kitchen. I follow him despite my better instincts, watching him pour two glasses of the thick, milky stuff. I’ve never been able to understand what it has to do with Christmas. Rick claims that the mystery of exactly what’s in it is a metaphor for the mysteries of the Trinity and the Immaculate Conception, but then Rick is also full of shit. I think it just goes under the ‘Christians are fucking weird’ file.

I reach up and play with a stray hair that falls into his face, making him smile a little absently and tilt his head into my hand like a cat. If he looked any more domestically content, he’d be humming. “You really go all out for this Christmas thing, don’t you?”

Just as soon as the smile came, it’s gone. The languid grace is gone, replaced by sudden tension.

Fuck. I just hit a psychological landmine.

Shifting away subtly enough to make it look normal, he raises the glass to his lips and takes a drink without tasting it. His eyes are distant, staring into nothing. Then, miraculously, he sets the glass down again and starts to talk instead of falling into the brooding silence that he usually sinks into when he’s hurting.

“Yeah. My parents… when I was a kid, they treated it like… Dad and the neighbors…” His words trip and battle over each other, like they usually do when he’s upset. He swallows, closing his eyes for a moment while he struggles to be coherent again. I’d like to know when I started hurting with him, but I’m having trouble breathing past the need to get rid of his pain for him. This is supposed to be the point where I make an excuse and run. Instead I just reach out and take his hands in my own. He’s shaking.

Taking a deep breath, he finally manages a complete sentence. His fingers flex and relax uneasily in mine. “They treated it like some weird kind of competition. Who had the most lights and presents and food.” A shadow slips into his eyes, and his lip curls a little in angry disgust. “Whose kids were in the Christmas pageants. Stupid shit. Things got… vicious, sometimes.” He frees a hand to twist the forgotten glass idly in circles on the counter, back and forth, never going anywhere. “I asked Mom why, once. Because, you know, it’s not like this shit was in the Bible. She got pissed.” Reading the look on my face, he shakes his head before I could ask. “She didn’t hit me. They never hit me. They just… nobody talked to me about Christmas, after that. I spent most of it in my room.”

I have this continuing fantasy of killing Tim’s parents in a slow and bloody manner. And no, I don’t care if it’s not fair. Tim didn’t get this badly fucked up by himself.

Looking down into his glass, he smiles ruefully. “It’s a comfort thing, I guess. For them.”

God. He sounds like he’s talking about some alien culture, like he didn’t grow up with this fucking holiday shoved in his face until it drowned him. He sounds like it’s something he’ll never be able to understand, something he’s resigned to admiring from afar.

Comfort. Happiness. Things that people like us have to fight for, things that Tim’s never fought for in his life. The poor twisted fuck doesn’t think he has the right.

Mistaking the look on my face, he looks away with a bitter smile. “I know how it sounds. It’s just some empty holiday. Family holiday when I haven’t talked to them in years, religious holiday when I don’t believe in God, so I don’t know why-“

I reach up and touch his jaw with my fingertips, turning his head around until he looks at me. He considers me through his eyelashes, and I want to hit someone until something in my hand fractures. I want to tell him stupid, insane things. I want to promise to protect him. I want to wipe the shadows out of his eyes. I want to kill whatever idiot convinced him that happiness isn’t something he deserves. If anyone in that soulless family deserves it, it’s Tim.

I open my mouth, and manage to ask only, “Did you put up lights?”

He blinks, then stares at me warily, his lips pursed. Finally, he raises his glass hastily to his mouth and takes a sip, trying to play it casual. “Yeah. Why?”

I slide my hand up to play with his hair for a second, then let it drop back down to my side. “Can I see?”

Tim blinks, caught off guard. Then, cautiously, he starts to brighten. I can almost breathe again. “Yeah. Of course you can see. I mean, I just thought… with the Jewish thing…I didn’t think you’d want…”

Christ. Every time I think I’ve managed to get Tim halfway secure and well-adjusted, I get a smack in the face to remind me exactly how screwed up we both are.

I frame his face in my hands, pulling him down for a lingering kiss that tastes like Tai and eggnog and Tim. He goes stiff for a second, but relaxes before I pull away and leans into me with a sweet little purring noise that goes straight through me. He sighs when I let him go, soft and content.

“Yeah. I want.” And maybe it wasn’t entirely fair to use the sex voice, but it makes him shiver so nicely. I squeeze his fingers gently. “So. The lights…”

“Oh.” Shaking himself, he offers me a blush and a lopsided, fairly goofy grin. “Right. That.”

“Yes. That.”

“Cool. But first, could we… uh… ‘cause, I’ve missed you.” Glancing down, Tim gives me a dark little smile. His voice slides down in that rough, husky bedroom whisper. “Kind of a lot.”

Fuck. Willpower. Must have willpower. Somehow, I can’t resist the urge to slip my fingertips up under his shirt and stroke the base of his spine, that sweet place where I can taste the sweat on him and if I lick makes him drive his hips into the sheets. I can feel the knobs of his spine under my fingers. He makes a soft, panting noise, leaning into me. God save me from incredibly horny directors… I have to swallow before I can speak, because my mouth has gone suddenly dry. “Lights first, baby.”

He pouts for a moment, tempting me with the urge to bite his lower lip, then shrugs and slides his hand into mine. Despite how it would seem like normal Tim behavior, whatever that is, the caution in his eyes as he tugs me the second bedroom he uses as a study hits me like a slap across the face. It's a nice reminder of why pouncing on him right now is a remarkably bad idea.

The door to the study is closed, but then it almost always is. He hesitates with his hand on the knob, his look gauging me. I’m not sure what he thinks I’m going to do, laugh or hit him. Experience says that laughing would hurt him more.

Finally, he seems to give in somehow. With a sigh from someplace deep in his chest, he opens the door and flicks the lightswitch. Colored lights flare inside and start blinking. I nudge him forward a step so I can see, and stop dead.

I’m not sure how he got an actual Christmas tree in the middle of a fucking urban center, and I probably don’t want to know. But there it is, in all it’s pine-scented glory. It’s not a big tree, sort of average looking except for the fact that it got the shit knocked out of it in transit; the trunk is gouged and scarred in places. It’s still alive, even healthy in its pot of dirt. Figures that Tim would dote on a tree. He wrapped the fucking thing in bright lights and tinsel and the most eclectic ornaments I’ve ever seen. There’s an obvious expensive silver-cast angel right next to an ancient popsicle-stick sled with a name in block-letter child’s scrawl crayoned on. And the strange thing is, it works. It all fits together. And it’s a twisted sort of beautiful.

I glance back and find Tim pointedly not looking at me, his shoulders hunched and his eyes down. He looks like he’s waiting for me to snarl at him for doing something wrong. He flinches a little when I slide my arm around his waist and lean against him.

“Where’d you get the ornaments?” I go for the safe, non-loaded question.

Flicking a look at me, he eases down a little. His voice is too soft, his words too fast, like he’s afraid someone will catch him talking. “My grandmother. She was the only one… she left them to me, when she died. She said I’d be the only one who used them right.” With a quirk of his lips, he shakes his head and mutters, his tone betraying the fact that he doesn’t buy a word of it, “Grandma was never all there.”

“She was right.” I crane my head to look at him until I can catch his eyes. “Tim. I like it.”

He blinks, caught off guard. Whatever he was expecting, a compliment was sure as hell not it. “You… really?”

“Do I lie?”

Suspicious, he eyes my face, then demands, “Are you saying that just to make me feel better?”

I snort. “Right. Like I have that much fucking tact.”

And he finally, blessedly, relaxes enough that I can pull him closer, and barely even hesitates when I start trying to guide him down to the floor. He left a pillow and blanket tangled up beside the tree; he’s probably been sleeping here. Somehow I end up on my back, my head on the pillow and Tim curled up under my chin. The flashing lights reflect in his sleepy eyes.

“Thanks.” My voice sounds out of place in the quiet.

He raises his head to look at me, startled. “Why?”

Oh, he’s clueless. Cute, mind you, but clueless. I reach up and tug gently on a strand of hair dangling in his eyes. “Because you let me see this.”

His surprise eases into a shy smile, and he shakes his head, making me let go of his hair. “This is nothing. You should see what I’m butchering my stereo with.”

“Bing Crosby?”

I swear to God, he blushes and ducks his head. “Some of it.”

I never had any “aww, that’s so cute” leanings until after I met him. Really.

Framing his face in my hands, I nudge him into looking at me. He looks at me through his eyelashes, about as far from the posterboy for director wunderkinds as you can get. “Can I hear?”

He blinks. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m aware. But do you want me to or not?”

Tim hesitates, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. That distrustful look is back; I don’t think it ever really left, just hid under the easy smile and the innocent eyes. Too much laughter, too many whispers behind his back about the ‘disturbed’ artist too dark to be normal or sane, for it to go away that easily. I know the feeling. He’s quiet just long enough to make me nervous; I never know how hard I can push before the fragile whatever-the-fuck-it-is between us rips.

It’s not paranoia if it’s happened two or three or twenty times before. There are reasons why I don’t hold grudges against my exes, and that’s because it’s almost invariably my fault. Between my tendency to push and withdraw in cycles and his tendency to outright hide, we should have killed each other long before now.

It makes me wonder how much longer this can possibly last.

Something taps against my nose, startling me out back into reality. Tim regards me almost steadily over the stereo remote in his hand. Sometimes he’s so fucking brave it scares me. I want to kiss the air out of him. “Go for it.”

As soon as I can figure out the myriad of buttons on this fucking thing, the sound of a choir belting out ‘O, Holy Night’ rings out in the tiny room. Tim closes his eyes, looking almost pained, but nuzzles closer and lets me hold on to him. I can feel him shaking as he breathes.

I don’t know how long we stay like this, neither of us saying a word. I stay so still it hurts and my entire body is going to ache tomorrow, afraid to even breathe too deeply while I listen to the worship of somebody else’s god. The reason for that lays against me, staring into nothing with the old ghosts and shadows in his eyes. My hand keeps twitching towards the remote, hating to watch him exorcise his demons alone, and every time he gives me this look that makes me stop. He needs this, for whatever fucked up guilt-fueled reason. So I sit here and hate myself and pretend that I don’t see tears in his eyes.

Bastard.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Tim lifts his head off my shoulder with a little sniff and wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand. Then he has the audacity to smile weakly, like he has a nervous breakdown all the time. “Sorry. I zoned out, there.”

“Sorta, yeah.” I comb my fingers through his hair more for my comfort than his. He leans his head into the touch, brushing his lips against my fingers. Which is something he only does when he wants something. “Tim?”

He takes a deep breath that only hitches once, then lets it out in a rush and looks at me seriously. “I want you.”

Nice of him to put it so nonchalantly. My stomach wrenches, warmth sparking back to life. “Yeah?”

That slight, dark smile tilts up his lips, and he nods. He means it.

Okay, then.

Shifting out from under him, carefully enough to give him warning, I slide around him and lean, pressing him down against the blanket. His breath catches as I move over him, propping myself up on my arms to look down into his face. He’s breathing a little faster than normal already, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. I make sure to lean in close enough that our lips are almost touching before I murmur, “Twisted, baby. You want me to fuck you under the tree?”

“Beside it, technically.” Despite the fact that he’s being a smartass, he presses his hips up against mine. Those oddly graceful hands slide over my back, pulling me in closer. I think I can feel his heartbeat against my chest. His voice drops, getting low and almost breathy, when he purrs, “Yeah. I want. Now. Hard.”

Thank you, God.

Reaching down, I tug at his clothes. “Off.”

He rolls his eyes with the most energy I’ve seen since we came in here, then shoves gently at my chest and props himself up to shrug out of the t-shirt. I have to slide back to sit on the floor to let him pull off his jeans, but it’s more than worth it when the zipper slides down to show just dark hair and pale skin.

I think I stop breathing for a couple of seconds.

Glancing up, Tim catches the look on my face. Whatever it is, it makes him give me a very smug little smirk before he slides his hands down his thighs, deliberately teasing. “I planned,” he comments with a playful sort of shrug. “You know. In case.”

Without actually planning it, somehow my hands end up on his narrow hips. His hipbones fit nicely in my grip, sharp and, as I find out by petting slow strokes with my fingertips, sensitive as hell. He squirms, hips moving in restless little motions against my hands. It makes me want to bend him over something and…

He finally swats at my hands, squirming his way back a few inches to tug his jeans the rest of the way off. Catching me staring, he starts to blush, stops and goes for the full-on confident smirk instead. Better. Much better. Until he throws his shirt at my head, anyway. “You. Clothes. Off. Five minutes ago, in fact.”

Funny thing about Tim. When he wants sex, he can get damned near bossy. I consider ignoring him and just pouncing, but he’s got that ‘May God help you if you fuck with me’ look going. And atheist or not, I’m not going to ignore a warning like that. I start pulling off clothes, too impatient to bother looking seductive. Heat flares behind those sleepy eyes anyway, so I must be doing something right.

He moves with me when I lay my hands on his shoulders and push him back until we’re tangled together, skin against skin for the first time in months. He’s hot and smooth and so fucking perfect that it hurts me. He reaches up and takes my head in my hands, kissing me like he’s trying to devour me, pull me in to make up for the pain of a few minutes ago. I’m so going to be bruised in the morning. I have to force him to ease up a little, trading teasing for desperation, gentleness against that raw hunger. Flicking my tongue over his lips, I breathe soothing nonsense against his mouth when he whimpers and tries to surge up against me. He’s going to burn us both fucking alive like this.

“Relax, Tim. Jesus, relax.”

“I need-“

“I know, baby. And you’ll get it.”

“Now-“

“No.”

“Danny-“

I kiss him, cutting off the words. He makes a noise close to a sob, but he lets me go when I start to pull back. His hands grip at my shoulders, probably hard enough to bruise; he’s stronger than he looks. It doesn’t change a damned thing, though. A quickie’s not going to fix forty years’ damage. I’m going to take my fucking time for a change.

And yeah, it’s entirely selfish on my part, but I miss the long slow fucks. I miss being able to feel something before it’s over. I miss being able to have him on his back, spread out naked on a bed instead of half-clothed and leaning against his desk for a five minute blowjob. I miss him.

The curves and hollows of his throat are sensitive as hell, and taste like sweat and his scent on my tongue. I can’t fight the urge to bite him, but then I don’t really try very hard. He whimpers and kneads at my shoulders, arching into the sting. He’s got sharp collarbones, easy to bite around, easy to mark; there are benefits to never seeing the sun.

“Fall on your knees,” wails the stereo, “and hear the angels sing…”

His hands tangle in my hair when I slide down. I can feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes, and if I tilt my head enough I can listen to his heartbeat without letting on. I ‘d never admit it to him, but it’s comfort, pure and simple. It’s a reminder that he’s here and he’s mine and he’s fucking alive. I can’t admit to needing that.

His nipples are already hard under my touch. I barely brush with my fingertips and he shivers all over, twisting into the touch and away all at once. His lips part on a soft desperate noise that might very well be my name. His voice breaks when I lower my head and suck, catching his nipple between my teeth to tug and lick with slow easy strokes. I’ve been addicted to this since the beginning, to the sounds it makes him make and the slow rolling way it makes his body move and arch. It doesn’t seem like I’ve had long enough before he tugs at my hair and asks with a real sort of need, “Jesus, Danny, please. Please.”

I don’t do well with denying Tim anything.

“How still we see thee lie,” crooned some woman with a voice so low it seemed to rumble. Still? Not fucking likely.

Tim really hasn’t been eating well lately, probably not since I got caught up with too many scores and had to go underground for a few months. When I brace my hands on his ribs, I can count them against my fingers as I bend to nuzzle at his stomach. It’s supposed to be a nice, neutral place; it’s supposed to calm him the fuck down.

Except, that’s apparently not happening tonight, because if anything he is not calming down. Everything, every bite, every mark, every touch makes him purr or moan or sigh or something. I stop to lap a circle around his navel because it usually makes him laugh, and because it’s just a sickeningly cute belly button. If it is cute, I’m not paying much attention, because it’s hard as hell to concentrate with his cock smearing the slickness of precum on my throat. I can actually smell how close he is, which is a confusing mix of weird and hot as hell all at once. Arousing in that primal way, like scenting a mate.

Yeah. He’s my mate. I could get into that.

“All is calm, all is bright…”

I leave a mark on his hipbone just because I can, because I feel like sinking my teeth into his skin. He makes a gasping noise that isn’t words, not even close. His thighs feel like steel under my hands, where they’re pressed against my sides, surprisingly strong. They just get tenser when I slide my fingers up between them, letting myself stop just short of where he wants to be touched.

Tim lifts his head and actually growls at me in frustration. I don’t quite blame him; he’s so hard it’s even making me twitchy. I growl back anyway, because I’m about as hard, pressing into the blanket. I don’t have that much patience left, and with his cock so close that if I duck my head its in my mouth, it’s not going to last long.

Maybe the growling was a bad idea. The corner of Tim’s mouth tilts up, and it’s suddenly very clear that he knows exactly where he’s got me. That’s the only explanation for why the string of whimpers turn into semi-coherent babbling. “Danny, God, need you, fuck me-“

“Greedy thing,” I mutter unsteadily, then bite his lower stomach hard enough to make him whimper. It’s a nice little display of dominance, and that he’s not going to push me around. Yet somehow my fingers still end up smearing in the precum puddling on the curve of his stomach and sliding back. So much for dominance.

And God, he’s ready for it, because he just spreads himself open for the touch.

Willpower, Elfman. Fucking willpower. This is not about you.

The first few teasing strokes that don’t quite delve inside leave him growling, moving against me with short hard motions that make his point painfully clear. It’s going to have to be quick or not at all.

“Shh, shh…” It’s a pretty pointless gesture at this point, like ordering the ocean to be whipped into obedience, but I keep making little soothing noises anyway as my finger slides inside. He’s so fucking open, so ready, that my hands start shaking and I have to bite the inside of my lip until I almost taste blood.

And he’s already shameless, head thrown back as he shifts his hips to fuck himself on my touch, making keening little whimpers. Between my stroking and his desperation, one of us manages to just rake over his prostate, and he lets out a low and throaty moan that’s usually reserved for when he’s come twice and is beyond thinking.

“That mourns in lonely exile here…”

Another finger glides in as easily as the first. He sighs, a content sound, and drags his nails over my shoulders, smirking as he startles a whimper out of me. I nip him, and he just smirks wider.

My patience is really starting to fray here, so I skip to three before I lunge at him. He bares his teeth in a fierce sort of triumph, hissing, “Yeah…”

Oh, no, sunshine. I don’t think so.

His eyes snap open on a sharp gasp as I angle on the next stroke, find his prostate and stroke fast and hard, just long enough to prove a point. I’m still on top here, damn it, even if I am about to drown in his eyes. I can’t see his irises anymore, just pupils with maybe a sliver of coffee-brown around the edges.

Amazingly, he doesn’t back down. He just grabs my shoulders and tugs me up for a long kiss, hard and bruising, full of teeth and mating tongues. I’m the one that’s breathless, staggering when he lets me go.

He smiles darkly, promisingly. Any hint of old ghosts are gone when he informs me in a very low, controlled voice, “Daniel. Fuck me.”

I don’t argue with him when he calls me Daniel. Maybe it’s a fucked up sort of safeword, I don’t know and I don’t want to think about it now. He’s calling for mercy here, and I’ll give it.

Sort of.

Giving him the ‘all right, but just this once’ sigh, I bend closer until my lips brush against his ear. “How do you want it, Tim?”

“Mmm…” Damn, he is far gone; it takes him a minute to interpret that and manage to gasp out, “Like this. Want to see you- Danny, please, please…”

A nicer guy probably would have stopped fingerfucking him for a few seconds before expecting him to answer questions. Nobody ever claimed that I was a nice guy. But Tim’s practically dying here, grinding his hips against my stomach in some blind attempt to get off, whimpering between gasps. Sliding my hand down his side, I grab his hips half to stop the desperate motions that are enough to drive me close to coming, let alone him, and half to hold him still so I can give him what he’s been begging for.

He lets out that low, keening moan again when through blind luck or practice I manage to start the slow slide into him. It’s not easy to go slow with him now, not when he’s this ready, not when I have him whispering breathy, filthy words in my ear. I’m supposed to be the one with the sex voice between us, but when Tim gets inspired…

And he’s tight and hot as hell inside, no matter how ready he is. He growls when I slide the rest of the way home, and it’s not until I hear it that I realize I’ve been moaning. Wonder when that started. Wonder why I don’t care.

It’s several seconds before I can beat the urge to just fuck him into the carpet down far enough to raise my head and look at him, shuddering when I feel his cock pressing hard into my stomach. Even with all that time beating my libido down, I nearly lose it all when I look at his face.

Tim looks up at me, all heavy-lidded dark eyes and mysteriously smug half smile. He’s beautiful, defiant and completely mine. Somehow, I can’t seem to bring myself to hide the shaking in my hands when I reach up and tweak his nipple just to see him shiver.

To give him credit, he catches me completely off guard. One second I’m on top, sure that I’ve got as long as I’d like to fuck with him. The next second I’m on my back, blinking at him and wondering what the hell just happened.

He crouches down to grin at me, a grin which looks rather disturbingly like mine, then has the nerve to kiss the tip of my nose. “Changed my mind. I like it better up here.”

“You… you little…” Okay. Sputtering, not impressive. That and it’s just making Tim look even more smug. I prop himself up on my elbows to narrow my eyes at him. “That was evil.”

He just perches on my lap and tilts his head, his expression a study in innocence. He’s got tinsel in his hair. It flashes different colors in the lights when he suddenly decides that innocence is a moot point, and shifts his hips once experimentally.

I’m not entirely sure what to call the noise that comes out of my mouth, some cross between a curse and a moan, but Tim purrs like a particularly satisfied kitten. When I think I can manage it without falling, I reach up and brush my fingers against his cheek. “Is that what you wanted?”

He considers for a moment, then shakes his head with a slightly evil smile. “Nope. I wanted you pinning me down and fucking me until we both were screaming.”

Well. Nice of him to be descriptive. My hands twitch on the ground, and I nearly end up on my back again. “I see,” I manage to get out semi-coherently. “So, why are you on top of me?”

“Hmm…” Leaning close, he props himself up on his hands and begins to move, a slow easy rocking of his hips that manages only to be torture. The fact that his voice starts to falter on moans and soft gasps doesn’t do much to make him stop. “You t-think you’re going to… mmm, God… torture me f-for that long without… fuck, you feel good in me… any sort of payback?”

My mouth’s gone dry again. I swallow once, twice, and barely resist the urge to grab his hips and just drive into him. “A guy can hope.”

His nose wrinkles slightly in annoyance that I can still get out words and he can’t. I’ve got an urge to stick my tongue out at him, but I’m afraid of what he’d do with it. So I struggle up to almost sitting until we’re eye to eye, despite the fact that my arms are shaking and I keep throwing myself off balance by shivering and biting back moans that would turn this entirely too much in his favor. He eyes me, knowing damned well what he’s doing, then leans close to kiss me as his hips start moving a fraction faster.

My gasp is lost in his mouth, but he hears it. His hands start roaming, seeking out whatever weaknesses he knows until I’m twitching, moaning into him, rocking back and forth slightly on my hands. If I could catch my breath for a second I’d figure out how this turned suddenly around on me, but Tim never lets up on the kisses.

Finally, when my hips are twitching under his while he rocks back and forth and shudders against me and I know the world is starting to blur, I pull away, gasping. He pouts at me for a second, but his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wild; I’m not the only one on the edge here.

“S-so…” Fuck, I’m stuttering now. Shaking myself, I try that one again. “Are you gonna let me give you what you want?”

His eyes flare a little too much for him to hide. Yeah, he wants. With a smile that’s slightly crazed on the edges, he tweaks my nipple and leans in to half-pant, “That depends.” Tilting his head, he drags his tongue along the streak of dried precum smeared on my throat. I’m too far gone not to whimper. “Think you can make me?”

Oh, Tim, Tim, Tim. Poor boy. You should know not to challenge me.

Tim yelps when I grab his hips and calmly flip him on to his back. The second his shoulders hit the floor, I’m on him, pressing him to the ground, my lips to his throat, my fingers wrapped around his wrists and pinning them to the floor. When he swallows nervously, I feel it against my lips and smile.

Lifting my head, I look down into his face, reading the hunger. If I thought he was close before… Both of us are wired, ready to go off. I can see it in his eyes when I murmur at him, my voice dangerously low, “Is this what you wanted?”

He whimpers softly, shifting under me until his thigh slides against mine. All it really does is spread him open, giving me better access. But then, I like that. “Danny, please…”

“Oh, now it’s please, huh?” But I lean back far enough to pull almost completely out, then drive back in hard enough that both of us end up gasping. Tim just arches, pressing his body against mine in a silent plea. He’s too busy making little mewling noises to actually say it out loud.

So I give us both what we want, fucking him hard and slow and deep. And he’s so tight, so perfect, that I think I might be telling him so in gasps between thrusts but I don’t even know. He just tosses his head back and forth, his hands jerking in my grip with some urge to grab me and do God knows what, shaking with hard shudders underneath me, mewling and growling in a rising pitch that makes me think he’s going to come screaming. Most of it is my name.

“Jesus, Danny, harder, need you, please need so fucking good…”

His words, not entirely coherent in the first place, are starting to blur together. Neither of us can last much longer. He’s practically sobbing now, arching and squirming and struggling.

“Tim. Timothy.” It takes a few tries, but somehow I manage to force some sort of authority into my voice. “Baby, you’re going to come for me. Understand? Because I’m not going to touch you.” My only response is a fierce shudder that probably hurt him. Leaning close, I growl against his ear, “Come for me, Tim. Do it. Now.”

I shift on the next thrust, shaking so badly myself that I almost fall, and the angle is right, and he jerks under me suddenly.

Yes. Right there.

The keening howl rips out of him, echoing off the walls. He arches under me, shuddering, throat bare as the flickering lights cast his face in shadows and colors, and I realize absently that I’ll remember him like this when I die. Then the way he shudders and clenches around me pulls me down, and I come with a cry that sounds broken and was probably his name. I see static in the dark behind my eyes.

And then all I hear is breathing.

I can hear his heartbeat, still fast but gradually slowing back to normal. Just outside my eyelids, I can see the lights flashing on and off and on again.

His hands twitch in my grip, a reminder that I’m still holding on to him. I ease off, forcing myself to sit up with a groan I can’t quite bite off. My entire body hurts, the almost pleasant low level ache that comes from a good fuck. The places on my shoulders where his nails dug in are throbbing in a good sort of way. Tim moans softly when I slide out of him, one hand on his hip to steady us both, but he doesn’t stir.

His study now smells like a bathhouse, all sweat and sex, and his come is all over both our stomachs. He sighs and smiles faintly when I bend to kiss his cheek. He’s cute when he’s fucked out, languid and motionless, his hair spread over the pillow and clinging to his forehead with sweat. I don’t think he could move a whole hell of a lot if he tried.

“I’m going to get a washcloth, baby.”

He doesn’t make any convincing protests besides a distracted ‘mmph’. I’m half up to my feet when finally gets up the energy to tug weakly at my arm. “No, you’re not. Get back here.”

I resist for a couple of token seconds. “We’re going to get glued together-“

With a comparatively explosive burst of energy, he rolls his eyes, grabs the blanket, wipes us both off and yanks me back down.

Well. Okay, then.

I settle for spreading slow, comforting kisses against his shoulder. His hands comb through my hair, but he isn’t looking at me. Instead, he’s staring at the ceiling with that look that means he’s thinking, probably too much. I let him, because he usually lets me, and keep petting him.

I like the smell of his skin, soap and sweat and my own scent. Pine needles and peppermint, eggnog and sex. It’s almost too much; I can roll the scent of it on my tongue like smoke from the cigarettes I had to give up for him.

His voice is so soft that I almost miss his words. “I love you, you know.”

Everything seems to shudder to a stop. I half-expect it to stay that way, frozen like I suddenly am, the end of the world in the fraction of a second and the fall of a few small words from his lips.

He’s never told me that before.

Yet the world has the disrespect to keep going. The music keeps playing. Outside, a car alarm whines faintly in the distance. The blanket rustles as Tim shifts to look at me, nudging my head up so he can look at me. The look in his eyes, firm and confident and unflinching, startles the air out of me.

Jesus. He means it. He means it, and he’s starting something, gauging my reactions. Fuck. I liked him better when he was still the passive little thing crouching under his desk to avoid pissing anyone off, terrified of his own shadow.

Yeah, I know anyone could tell how much of a lie that is. But it makes me feel better.

His lips quirk. “Yeah. I thought not.”

Shit. That’s not even close to fair. I’m sitting up before I can realize it, pulling away even if it’s illogical because this is just shocking the fuck out of me. I knew it would go bad but not so soon, not so fast, dear God, please let me fix this. I couldn’t salvage anything else in my pathetic life, at least let me have this. “No, Tim, that’s not it, I-“

One long pale finger on my lips, and I shut the fuck up. Still smiling that oddly content smile, Tim shakes his head at me. “No. That’s not what I meant. I was wondering if you knew.” When I blink, he pulls his hand away and clarifies gently, “If you knew that I loved you. Which I do.”

“Oh.” Well, that was fucking smooth… Shaking myself, I keep going, trying to breathe past the slow warmth rising in my chest. Trust Tim to knock me speechless this many times in one night… “I-“

“Danny. Breathe.” Sparing me a gentle smile, he crawls back on to my lap and nuzzles his head against my shoulder. I can’t much help smirking at the top of his head. He couldn’t have been this affectionate when I first met him… “I’m not expecting you to say it.”

The relief is almost palpable. I sigh so heavily he chuckles. “Thank you, baby.” Sliding my hand absently down his spine, I nip his shoulder because it’s in reach before leaning my head against his. “I’ve just… I’ve got bad luck with those words. I’ll get over it.”

“Take your time.” I appreciate the whisper in my ear, but I’m not sure if sucking on my earlobe was really a necessary part of the process. Letting go, he nuzzles me. “You don’t have to say it if I know already. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

“True. Very true.” I slide back far enough to look at his eyes. “By the way, before I get distracted again, Merry Christmas.”

He nearly beams, all enthusiasm and innocent, and leans forward to kiss the tip of my nose. “Yeah. Merry Christmas to you too.”

That duly accomplished, he pushes me down to the blanket and cuddles in for the warmth. Spitting his hair out of my mouth, I settle for stroking absent patterns down his spine. He’s silent for so long that I mistake him for asleep, and jump slightly when he speaks up without warning.

“Danny?”

“Yeah, baby.”

“It’s only the 22nd.” He says it like it just occurred to him. “Christmas isn’t for another three days.”

“Oh. Well, then. We’ll just have to do this again. And again. And possibly again, if you decide to leave the tree up.”

“Oh. Cool.” A moment’s silence. “Except, can we try the bed next time? I’ve got pine needles jabbing me.”

I manage not to laugh through a particularly noble effort on my part. “Whatever you want.”

“Sweet.” Nuzzling in again, he yawns until something in his jaw pops. “Night.”

“Night.”

He’s out in a few seconds, pliant and warm and relaxed, drooling slightly on my shoulder and muttering in his sleep. He’s beautiful, and I love him, and it’s good.

All is calm. All is bright. I’m getting some fucking sleep.