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December 2002
When Pete had said “punk-rock Christmas party,” Patrick hadn’t exactly been excited. Christmas really wasn’t his favorite time of year, and what little he did participate in was mostly for the sake of his mother. He didn’t like Christmas, or parties, or most of Chicago’s small time punk scene, but Pete had asked the whole band, so Patrick decided to go.
In truth, he expected it to be a bit heavier on the Christmas, but when he walked in the door, it looked like every other awful party Pete had taken him to. Filled to the brim with drunk and high college students wearing too much eyeliner, the whole house smelled heavily of American Spirits and PBR, barely masked by a bundle of Dragon’s Blood incense smoking in the corner by a long dead houseplant. Patrick didn’t recognize anyone, and the music was loud and sounded like it was mixed in someone garage. Badly. The only thing that made it distinguishable from any other party were the feeble looking red and green tinsel strung up on the bannister and speakers, and the addition of egg-nog to the plastic table laden with bottles of orange brown liquor.
“Hey, you have fun, I need to catch up with my buddy over there!” Pete yelled at Patrick over the din, and disappeared. It figured.
Patrick stuck out like a sore thumb, and he didn’t miss the incredulous stares that people were giving him as he slunk off into a corner. He could have stayed home and watched the Grinch with his mom, maybe even picked up an extra shift at the record store so his Christmas presents to everyone weren’t so miniscule. But that wasn’t the way of living with Pete Wentz.
“You look miserable,” Patrick heard above him. He looked up to see Joe, all bleach blond hair and knowing smirk as he sat down next to him, bottle in hand.
“You celebrate Christmas?” Patrick asked.
“I celebrate beer,” Joe said, taking a drink and then pulling a face.
“There’s no shame in fruity drinks,” Patrick said.
“There’s a little shame in fruity drinks,” Joe argued. He winced again as he sipped at the beer, and Patrick giggled.
Pete stumbled over to the two of them, with Morgan on his arm.
“You gotta try this!” he slurred. Patrick was a little concerned. They got there half an hour ago, and Pete must have been in some kind of mood to get this gone this quick. He shoved a green Solo cup into Patrick’s hand, and slopping something that smelled like vanilla all over Patrick’s shirt.
“It tastes like Christmas!” Morgan crowed, leaning on Pete and nuzzling against his arm. It smelled like eggnog and cinnamon whiskey, but Patrick just nodded and forced himself to smile at her.
As the two of them fell away, Patrick brought the cup closer to his face and took a hesitant sip. It actually tasted pretty good, so he took a deeper draught of it.
The music got marginally better the more Patrick drank, but it still was loud and heavy on screaming. It didn’t take long for Joe to join the party, being his usual sarcastic and still somehow lovable self. Patrick rested his chin on his knees, wishing, yet again, that he had stayed home.
Joe eventually sat down next to Patrick again, a red Christmas cup in hand and a pair of felt antlers on his head. His cheeks were flushed, and he was still giggling as he fell into Patrick’s side.
“You- are-” he hiccupped around the words, “You are such a scrooge!”
“I am not!” Patrick huffed. “I like Christmas!”
“You don’t like anything,” Joe said, jamming his pointer finger into Patrick’s chest. “You think it’s cool to hate stuff, or, or like, to like stuff ironically? That’s not cool.”
“I like things!” Patrick hissed. The dissonance between the statement and his tone of voice was painful and obvious.
“Name one thing you like!” Joe demanded.
“Drumming,” Patrick said, and Joe rolled his eyes.
“Name one object that you like.”
“Drumsticks.”
“You’re such a scrooge.”
“I am not!”
“I’m Jewish and you’re Ebenezer goddamn Scrooge, so what the hell are we doing here?”
“I was under the impression you were getting drunk,” Patrick said, and Joe giggled and nodded.
“We’re gonna go do something fun,” Joe said. “You’re gonna have FUN!”
“Sure I am,” Patrick muttered.
Pete approached them again, Morgan still in tow, and he lit up with a grin when he saw Patrick.
“My boys!” Pete yelled, then turned to Morgan. “I’m gonna be back in a bit, okay, babe?”
“Don’t be long!” Morgan called, and Pete grabbed Patrick by the arm, Joe grabbing his other arm.
“Oh no, no, I don’t want to have fun, I changed my mind,” Patrick groaned, the two of them marching him out the door. “Can’t I just get drunk and watch holiday movies?” he pleaded as they pulled him outside into the biting winds and swirling snow.
“Nope,” he heard a new familiar voice say. Patrick looked up and saw Andy leaning back in an ancient looking car. Andy still kind of intimidated him, but Patrick smiled at him nonetheless.
“We’re going on an adventure,” Pete stage whispered to Patrick, and shoved him over into the backseat.
Patrick was a little drunker than he had thought, but Andy didn’t seem to mind, and he wasn’t scolding any of them. Patrick found that he was warm enough that he didn’t really mind not knowing where he was going. He was, however, surprised when Andy stopped in what looked like the middle of nowhere, nothing visible but the snow falling thickly in beams of the head lights.
“Where did you take me?” Patrick asked, his tongue thicker than he remembered it being.
“We’re going sledding,” Andy said shortly, kicking his car door open.
When Patrick got out of the car, he looked down the slope of an impossibly tall and steep looking hill.
“Do we have sleds?” he asked, dreading the answer.
“Man up, we’re going body sledding,” Andy said. He winked at Patrick and threw himself over the edge of the hill, chest first, screaming as he slid down. Patrick’s stomach lurched as he heard Andy’s screams drift farther and farther away.
“I can’t-” he began, and Joe rolled his eyes.
“SCROOGE,” he insisted. Joe sat on the edge of the hill, then leaned back onto his back, so his vinyl coat was pressed against the snow. “See you on the other side, Ray, right?” he teased, then pushed himself forwards with a loud whoop.
“Fucking Ghostbusters quote, like I’m that easily convinced,” Patrick muttered, but he sat down too. The snow was freezing against his ass, and he really couldn’t see the appeal. The drop looked way too steep, but then again, they wouldn’t kill him, right? Pete couldn’t introduce Patrick to someone without bragging about him. He paid rent with Pete and Joe. Against the odds, they probably liked him, right?
“If I were sober,” Patrick whispered to himself, but he followed Joe’s example and pulled his knees up to his chest, thinking his slippery coat would slide better than jeans, and he let himself fall.
And then he was flying. He had no control, sledding without a sled, but he was absolutely flying, spinning in circles as he glided down the hill, picking up way too much speed to be safe. Laughter bubbled up in his throat and burst out of him every time he hit a bump, and the sticky wet snow felt refreshing on his too hot face. For a minute, there was nothing but the feeling of flying and the sight of the stars.
Then, breathlessly laughing, the ground levelled out around him and he hit a bump big enough to loosen his arms’ grip on his legs, sending him tumbling into a fluffy snow bank. He was still laughing as he lay flat on his back, snow melting in his hair.
“Get up!” Andy cried, but before Patrick could even look up Pete had tumbled on top of him, knocking the wind out of Patrick. Patrick could only see Pete’s teeth in the starlight, but he could tell he was grinning.
“So?” Joe asked, hiccupping slightly. Patrick grinned up at him.
“Can we do it again?”
December 2003
For the guys in Fall Out Boy, the holidays were difficult to deal with alone. Personally, Gabe didn’t get it, but then again, he was, according to Pete, “adaptable to the point of ridiculousness,” and he’d been living away from home the longest, so perhaps it made sense.
Gabe decided that the best way to cheer his friends up when they were dealing with whatever the opposite of seasonal depression was would be a party.
“It’s a Chanukkah party,” he said to everyone he invited. “I mean, you can bring Christmas gifts too I guess.”
“So, it’s a holiday party?” Pete asked.
“I put up with two months of red and green madness from the rest of you. I get this week. It’s a Chanukkah party.”
Pete, wisely, didn’t fight him.
And Gabe knew how to throw a party.
For the sake of his midwestern friends, he bought a cheap Christmas tree at Target and threw it up in the corner with gifts (mostly alcohol) wrapped underneath it. Decorating the tree was fun, but not the point by far.
For a festival of lights, he decided to deck out his house in blue and gold lights twinkling from every surface. The sun set so early that the chanukiah was lit before the party started, but Joe obligingly came over to light it with him.
“Dude, I’m, like, culturally Jewish,” Joe reminded him. “I barely remember the prayer.”
“You’ll do,” Gabe said grimly, and they spoke the prayer in unison, with Joe only forgetting the third blessing.
The party involved a lot more praying than most of his friends were used to, but they seemed, on the whole, pleasantly surprised. Pete gave Gabe eight individually wrapped gifts all at once (“That’s, um, not quite how it works.” “It’s the thought that counts.”) and Bill was a surprisingly excellent dreidel spinner, and a very flirty drunk, demanding kisses whenever his dreidel spun the longest.
The party was further enhanced by the drinks.
Gabe scoured the internet looking for Chanukkah themed cocktails, and he finally found some. The best name went to the Mazel tov cocktail, but the best tasting by far was the Sufganiot themed drink.
Andy participated in a prayer of thanks after Gabe glared at him for an hour straight, and Patrick gave him a stern talking to that began, before they were pulled out of Gabe’s earshot, with “Just because you are atheist doesn’t mean you have to disrespect other religions, and-”
Gabe appreciated how hard Patrick tried. He wasn’t that good at it, but he definitely made the most effort.
The party was a huge success, though it was fairly intimate. A few drinks in and Joe turned into a wolf and brayed at the moon. Pete and Bill let their eyes glow when Gabe explained the concept of it being a festival of lights, much to the delight of the entire party. It was nothing like being home, but everything like celebrating with family.
And the best part, Gabe thought privately, was that he didn’t hear a single Christmas carol all night long.
December 2004
Joe could hear his band whispering about him. He knew they thought he couldn’t, for some reason, but he had super hearing. He could see all their worried looks, wondering what was wrong with him and why he wasn’t playing his best.
He didn’t want to wear his heart on his sleeve, and he certainly didn’t want to talk about it. That said, Joe was pretty sure if he cared more he could put together a decent discrimination lawsuit.
Because of course, it was expected that they should go home for Christmas, but the record company didn’t really consider any other winter holidays.
Joe wasn’t bitter, honestly. He didn’t have it in him to be bitter, but he did have it in him to mope. It was too hot in LA, and nothing, absolutely nothing at all felt like home.
Still, he decided, tomorrow was the first night of Chanukkah, and Pete could stay off Skype for one night so that Joe could hog the WiFi for once and call home.
The next day dragged the entire time they were at the studio. Joe played horribly, and he must have looked pathetic too, because Patrick didn’t jump in all superior and say he could play the guitar for that track, which almost made Joe feel worse. It sounded awful, and when the day ended, Pete clapped him on the back and said:
“Hey, if you wanna work on polishing that up, they said they can stay open for another hour or so. We’ll be waiting back at the apartment.”
Joe ground his teeth as his band left, playing worse for about fifteen minutes out of spite before dropping his guitar and leaving.
He stomped up to the apartment door, angry and tired, but noticed before he went in that there was another car in front of their door. His heart sped up as he wondered, for a moment, if it was someone in his family, before he recognized the car as belonging to the kid from Panic!, Spencer. Joe’s eyebrows furrowed, and he kicked the door in.
Too many people stared up at him when he walked in. Six pairs of eyes met his, all looking like they had been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. Brendon smiled guiltily, and Brent waved awkwardly from the back of the living room.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Andy called from the kitchen. He walked out of the door, and Joe was assailed with the scent of… latkes. His eyes widened.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Pete bit his lip, looking a little embarrassed. “Um, surprise Chanukkah party?”
Joe glanced around the living room again and saw a menorah in the window, a bag of cheap gelt in Ryan’s hands, and felt heat swelling suddenly in his chest and behind his eyes.
“Do any of you… um… know what you’re doing?” he asked, trying to fight back a huge smile.
“Totally!” Pete said. Joe gave him a look, and Pete buckled under it immediately. “We called Gabe for help, but after that totally!”
“I made vegan potato pancakes and suf- suf- the donut thing,” Andy said. “Um, the donut thing actually didn’t work that well, but the potato pancakes are fine.”
Joe glanced over Andy’s shoulder to see the kitchen, a disaster of flour and scorch marks, and Andy shouldered the door shut self-consciously.
“Um, Pete called me because I sang Ma’oz Tzur in school choir,” Brendon said. Joe raised his eyebrow and looked at the rest of the band behind Brendon, and Brendon shrugged. “Well, they’re Catholic and here for moral support.”
“Course,” Joe said, barely biting back a grin.
“I bought the menorah,” Pete said proudly.
Joe turrned at last to Patrick.
“I learned Hebrew,” Patrick said.
“The whole language?!” Joe shouted.
“No, no, just the prayers!” Patrick said, holding his hands up. “But, I mean, they’re long prayers.”
“Clearly you’ve never said a hail Mary,” Ryan muttered.
“And we put the menorah in the window like Gabe said,” Pete said.
“Brought the chocolate coins and a plastic dreidel,” Spencer added.
“Did we mess it up?”
“Am I allowed to say the prayer if I’m not Jewish?”
“Do you retell the story about the priest and the oil? Because that was badass.”
“Guys,” Joe was overwhelmed, the heat and pressure right behind his eyes that threatened tears growing stronger by the moment. “I- thank you.”
He blinked a few times to clear the blurriness from his eyes, then straightened up and walked over to the window.
“Come on, let’s do this before the sun sets. Gimme your best Hebrew, Patrick.”
December 2005
Andy wasn’t quite sure what to do with Carmilla.
She was one year old this year, and he loved her so much, but he really did not celebrate Christmas.
Of course, his mom still did, and he’d probably take Carmilla to her house on Christmas. He’d say it was because his mom wanted it, but in all actuality, he wanted her to have a holiday.
It was all well and good, he thought, for himself to not want to celebrate Christmas. He didn’t like the religious connotation, Christmas got kind of pathetic when you were over the age of twelve or so, but still, he wanted her to have something.
He wasn’t even sure why he wanted it.
Her first Christmas hadn’t really mattered that much. She’d been an infant with the memory of a goldfish and Andy had been too depressed to do more than autopilot himself that holiday season, but this was different. When they went out grocery shopping she would reach out to try and touch the big Christmas tree in the front of the store and giggle at the Santa Claus in the mall. She loved the pretty colors and the snow and the smell of Christmas trees.
It was a conflict of interest for Andy. On the one hand, he disapproved of the holiday, thought it based off a sexist religion that he wanted no part of and in any case it was a commercial nightmare invented by capitalists to make money off of exploiting pagan holidays post crusades, but on the other hand, it made his daughter happy.
It didn’t actually take that long for him to call in the cavalry.
“So say, hypothetically, I wanted to give Carmilla a Christmas-” Andy began, and Pete sucked in a deep breath through the phone.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
It was still mid-December, but in a few hours the whole band was in the midst of Fuck City, along with Chicago, who was getting along much better with Patrick than he had been a few days ago.
Andy couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
The moment the tree was set up he couldn’t pull Carmilla away from the sight of it. They put up twinkle lights, the kind that faded in and out softly, and Carmilla could stare at it for hours, her mouth opened softly as she watched the glow of the lights against the ornaments. Patrick promised to sent presents up with Chicago, and they all cleared out, leaving Andy with a tree and a very little girl who adored Christmas.
Andy also had no idea what to buy a one year old. She was surely too young for most toys, but she liked bright colors, so maybe some plastic play balls would be good? He felt helpless, and wondered, not for the first time, what Andrea would do in this situation.
They had talked, a little, about how they would raise their kid. Andrea liked the idea of celebrating the solstice, still giving their kid presents, but teaching them about nature and beauty and the cyclical nature of the seasons. Andy didn’t have the energy, though, not without her.
But he could put up a damn tree.
On the afternoon of the 24th, Andy put Carmilla in her carseat and picked up Chicago from the train station. Chicago chattered the whole ride home about Patrick and politics he’d seen on TV and is that your daughter she’s so cute?
Andy wasn’t surprised that Chicago and Carmilla loved each other, if he thought about it. While he took a nap, Chicago played peek-a-boo with her for a solid three hours without getting bored.
“Are you getting her anything for Christmas?” Chicago asked, his voice curious and non-judgemental, but it made Andy squirm nonetheless.
“I haven’t, um, come up with anything yet,” he admitted. Chicago nodded and turned back to Carmilla, making a cooing noise before tickling her stomach, her peals of laughter echoing all through the house. The sound of it stung Andy’s face like cold water, waking him up from a stupor he hadn’t known he had been in.
“Can you watch her for a bit?” Andy asked.
“Sure,” Chicago said with a grin, and Andy ran out of the house.
It was dark and getting late, but he needed to get to a store. Sending a mental apology to the universe, he wheeled into a Toys ‘r Us and ran inside, scooping up everything that caught his eyes until the cart was overflowing.
“She’s incredible,” Chicago said that night after Carmilla was in bed, and Chicago had been enlisted to help Andy wrap presents.
“You’re incredible too,” Chicago added. Andy shook his head, his mouth tasting sour.
“You should’ve seen her mom,” he said.
“I knew her,” Chicago said. “I still think she’s lucky to have a dad like you.”
And Andy had no response to that.
December 2006
Patrick was trying to pretend that he wasn’t upset that his mom was going to be working on Christmas day.
Patrick’s aura was dark blue and pulsing with despair, and he was still trying to smile and say it wasn’t a big deal, that he could just do Christmas alone in his apartment seriously Pete I don’t want to impose it’s not that big of a deal. (Lying.)
What a martyr. Pete couldn’t believe he’d let a guy like this get involved with magic.
It was unfortunate but not game changing that Pete couldn’t lie. He called his mom and told her the full truth, that Patrick couldn’t just be alone on Christmas and he would be home the very next day. Patrick was a little trickier, but eventually Pete gave in and told the truth there too.
“What kind of best friend lets you spend Christmas alone?” he asked.
“The normal kind,” Patrick said, but his aura was already deep and grateful. “Come on, don’t you miss your parents? Your brother and sister?”
“I’ll see them the day after Christmas, same as you,” Pete said. “Besides, this isn’t all selfless. I don’t want to fly back to Chicago alone.”
Patrick caved at once.
Pete hadn’t really planned on doing anything for the holiday, but he had a carton of eggnog and some cinnamon whiskey, because he remembered that that was a favorite holiday drink of Patrick’s. He went out two days before Christmas to get a tree, almost as an afterthought, and picked up the last non-plastic tree he could find in stores, which was scrawny and hurt to touch because it was so spiny, but gave off a faint piney smell.
Then, since stores would be closing soon, he also got a frozen pizza, a grocery store cake, and a bag of salad, and began to come up with a plan.
On Christmas day, he didn’t give Patrick a single free minute to mope. He launched himself onto Patrick’s bed (the guest bed, he halfheartedly tried to remind himself, but he knew at this point it was just Patrick’s) and shook him awake.
Patrick opened his eyes glaring in the sunlight, and Pete grinned down at him.
“What do you want?”
“It’s Christmas!”
“I feel like it’s before noon.”
“Of course it’s before noon, it’s Christmas!”
Patrick rolled his eyes but dragged himself unwillingly out of bed and followed Pete downstairs.
Pete hadn’t actually gotten Patrick anything expensive for Christmas, because he had no idea what kind of pricey stuff his best friend would want. Guitars and music stuff, obviously, but that was a little ambiguous, and only Patrick knew what exact model of instrument he wanted, so that was out. He already owned every piece of Ghostbusters memorabilia that Pete knew existed thus far, and he was low on ideas, but still wanted a tree with a lot of presents underneath, so he wrapped at least six gifts for Hemingway, and gave Patrick silly things that were also bulky: a framed David Bowie poster, a pair of black skinny jeans he would never touch, a pre-wrapped shaving set sold on a department store endcap, and other such things. He thought it was pretty impressive, and almost felt guilty for outshining Patrick when Patrick handed him a very small, very poorly wrapped square, using Pete’s own wrapping paper, no less.
“You probably already have it,” Patrick said, not meeting Pete’s eyes. Pete unwrapped it to find a CD. The Queen is Dead, by the Smiths. He was going to laugh, but then, Patrick definitely knew he already owned this, so he opened it, and his jaw dropped.
“This is signed!” he said.
“Found it on ebay,” Patrick said, looking plain, but his aura was brightly smug. Pete felt warmth glowing in his chest as he looked from the CD to Patrick.
That night, while Patrick was watching A Christmas Story, Pete snuck into the kitchen, putting the pizza in the oven as quietly as he could and setting up the rest of the dinner in the rarely used dining room. The salad was a little wilted looking and the wine was cheap, but Pete yanked the cork out to let it breathe and ran back into the living room, sitting down next to Patrick, still breathless.
“You missed the line,” Patrick said, smirking without looking at Pete.
“The line?” Pete asked wearily.
“You’ll shoot your eye out,” Patrick chuckled, and Pete punched him in the arm.
“They say it, like, seven times.”
Patrick hummed and let his head drop onto Pete’s shoulder, the warm weight of it more than welcome to Pete. He leaned in, the feeling Patrick’s soft hair on his cheek sending his head spinning. He couldn’t pay attention to anything going on on the screen while he felt Patrick breathing underneath him, and he let his eyes fall shut as he adjusted his breathing to meet Patrick’s in time.
He was feeling way too peaceful and warm pressed into Patrick’s body when the kitchen alarm began blaring, causing both of them to jerk up. Patrick’s eyebrows furrowed.
“Are you… cooking?” he asked, slightly nervous looking.
“Don’t worry, not too bad,” Pete laughed, grabbing Patrick’s shoulder and tugging him into the kitchen.
Patrick laughed as Pete yanked him into the the dining room and sat him down at the table.
“You made Christmas dinner?” Patrick asked.
“Yes,” Pete giggled, and he pulled the pizza out of the oven. It was burnt around the edges, but it smelled fine. He sliced it up into tiny square pieces and brought it into the dining room. Patrick had already poured out drinks for both of them, his face flushed with happiness.
“This is… sweet,” he said, smiling up at Pete.
“Thanks,” Pete said, handing him some of the pizza. Patrick bit into it and winced at the texture, but persevered.
The pizza was bad, but the drinks were fine, and the food got better the more they drank until they were cackling around wine glasses and sharing one chair, Pete half in Patrick’s laugh and barely staying balanced.
“We-” Patrick hiccupped, “We should stop. We’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh,” Pete said, refilling Patrick’s glass.
“I’m glad,” Patrick was fuzzy around the edges, softer than usual. He let the walls around him dissolve slightly, leaning in just a little too close to Pete with his soft and gentle smile.
“I’m glad,” Patrick struggled to talk around the alcohol on his tongue, “That you spent Christmas with me.”
Patrick was much too close, his eyes right in front of Pete’s so that Pete could see all the colors in his irises, where the blue stopped and turned to gray, green, and brown. He could see all of Patrick’s individual eyelashes, see the flush spreading across the capillaries on his cheeks, see his chapped lips right in front of Pete’s…
“We should go to bed,” Pete said suddenly.
Patrick pulled back.
“We’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow morning,” Pete said, looking down suddenly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Patrick nod slightly.
“Right,” Patrick said. His fingers just barely brushed the top of Pete’s hair as he walked out of the dining room. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.
Pete touched his hand to the top of his head and shuddered a little. Too many minutes after Patrick left, he whispered aloud to the empty kitchen: “Merry Christmas.”