♡ imagine ♡

luke

The only thing better than Christmas with the family - you’re a big family person - is Christmas when you’ve got your own family. The hype began on December 1, even though Luke tried to persuade you it’d make more sense to have the twelve days of Christmas leading right up to the Big Day, and it hasn’t stopped. Your children have inherited a lot from their father, but they’ve definitely got your Christmas spirit. Your four year old daughter, Mia, has faithfully learnt the words to every Christmas song you’ve managed to cram into one playlist, and even your son, Oliver, who’s only one, will willingly don a Santa hat or a pair of reindeer ears. One. He’s clearly a gift to this world (and to you and your slightly insane festive ways), and you’re determined to cherish every moment of it you get. And at the same time, you’re already teaching them about not going overboard all at once - only one classic Christmas film a night (no, Mummy’s not crying at The Snowman, and yes, the little girl in The Grinch is very annoying), and always make sure we’re in bed with brushed teeth on time, because, you know, Santa’s always watching (this age of constant surveillance is really taking off). All in all, they’ve not been too bad in terms of sleeping, throughout their whole lives, but you should’ve known it’d be far too hopeful to imagine they might carry this on through Christmas morning - especially as your offspring. 

The first thing you know is the distinct sensation of somebody breathing about an inch away from your face. “Mummy?” comes a very bad attempt at whispering, and when you open one eye, you can make out the blurry, but unmistakeable shape of Mia Hemmings, perched on the edge of the bed and leaning directly over your face. “Mummy’s awake!” she crows triumphantly the moment you peer up at her, and takes this as a cue to bounce across the bed towards your husband, who has very few moments of sleep remaining. “Daddy!” she’s calling, but as she clears you and goes to shake Luke, you realise Oliver is standing next to the bed, his little tiger clutched in one hand. “Mia, did you wake Ollie up?” you ask with a yawn, pushing yourself somewhat upright. “No, he was already awake, because I accidentally went into his room and then the light was on and then he was looking at me, so he came with me,” she says all in one breath, and you let go of the idea of ever trying to follow that up and just pull your son up onto the bed, wrapping your arms around his little frame. “Why are we partying?” comes Luke’s sleepy voice from beside you. “Mummy, do you know why Mia and Ollie are here?” he asks, rolling over to look at you with feigned ignorance. “I think it’s because they just wanted to see us, right?” you reply, looking meaningfully at Mia, who rolls her eyes. “You guys!” she says exasperatedly, throwing her arms out with theatre precision. “It’s today!” she adds, widening her eyes. “What’s today? Make Mummy and Daddy a Cake Day?” Luke asks, playing confusion perfectly. “Daddy!” Mia practically shrieks. “Stop being silly!” You can’t help but to laugh at this. “He can’t, baby, it’s how he’s made. Why don’t you just tell Mummy and Daddy what’s today?” you prompt, and it’s all she needs. “It’s CHRISTMAS!” she cries, and Luke sits bolt upright straight away, eyes flying open. “Today?! Already?! Well, why didn’t you say?” he says, and Mia’s about to protest when he grabs her, tossing her slightly into the air. “Merry Christmas, princess!” he grins, and you press a kiss to Oliver’s cheek as he watches his suddenly flying sister. Nothing’s better than this.

michael

It’s not your first Christmas as a family, but it’s definitely the most exciting one yet. Max is now three, so nothing has been lost on him the way it has been in previous years, and you’ve had to practically wrestle him into his bed the past few nights, tearing him away from Santa Watch at his bedroom window. Mate, the thought’s beautiful, but it’s still a week away. Santa’s still making toys. But as tiring as it’s been, you can’t deny you’ve loved it. You can’t imagine any parent who could possibly begrudge their children for the pure, unadulterated joy the Christmas time brings, and neither you nor Michael are about to step in and play Grinch. After all, it’s pretty obvious you’re still fairly close to kids at heart, so having Max really didn’t change much. Christmas Eve is winding to a close, and you’ve just come back from resettling your son for the third time already, padding back into the bedroom and getting back into bed beside Michael. “Out for good this time?” he asks, and you just shrug, shaking your head. “I don’t know - I mean, I thought that last time, but that was only, what, forty minutes ago?” Michael just laughs, and you know he’s thinking of all the times he did the exact same to his own parents. You unwind a little bit - you read a book you thought you’d have finished about two weeks ago while Michael mucks around on his phone, and about half an hour later, you’re just about ready to go to sleep. The clock tells you it’s near enough to 2:00am, and while that might seem disgustingly late to some people, they probably don’t have a hyperactive three year old who inherited his father’s complete lack of a healthy sleeping pattern. You’ve made it through so far without any major incidents, you’re doing fine. 

You’re just about to turn off your light and snuggle down into bed when Michael suddenly turns to you. “Y/N, oh my God,” he says, face as serious as you’ve seen it, and you sit bolt upright, heart beginning to race as you try and work out what you’ve missed. “What, Mike, what?” you ask. “We haven’t done Maxi’s stocking!” he exclaims, like it’s the worst thing on earth, “Oh, Jesus, babe, I thought you were going to tell me the dog was in the oven or we left Luke at the petrol station,” you say exasperatedly, as he adds, “again.” Poor Luke. But he has a point, so you hop back out of bed as Michael grabs the bag of stocking stuffers, making your way as quietly down the hallway as you can to your child’s room. Opening the door silently, you peer in to see your little guy completely out to it, one arm thrown out to the side as he sleeps, and you’re still there when Michael catches up to you, putting a hand on your shoulder. “All good?” he asks, and you just nod. “How does one little tornado look so peaceful when he sleeps?” you whisper back, and Michael chuckles. “Just like his mama.” He lets you stay there as he slips past you and into Max’s room, transferring the contents of the bag into the stocking hanging off the end of his bed without the slightest peep. Straightening up, he goes up to Max, gently pulling the covers over him a little more before he quietly leaves the room, coming back to join you. “Looks like Mr Claus made it after all,” he says, and you smile. “Merry Christmas, babe,” you say, and he wraps an arm around your waist from behind, resting his chin on top of your head. “Merry Christmas, Cliffords.”

calum 

Everybody loves Christmas, right? Everybody except for the younger of your four year old twins, Elijah, who refuses to engage in any sort of conversation that remotely contains the holiday. You can understand where he’s coming from, in some respects, but it’s hard to see him this way. Because of course he went and ended up in hospital only days before, and has managed to get himself utterly convinced that means he’s going to be overlooked by the big red man, and no matter what you, Calum, or even Elijah’s twin, Ethan, tell him, he won’t listen. What he has isn’t that serious, and if it weren’t for his medical history he’d probably be fine to come home for the holiday, but the doctors want to keep him a couple of extra days just to make sure, and you don’t honestly want to argue with them about it; not if it’s about keeping your little boy safe. But now he’s going to be seeing in his fourth Christmas in a little hospital room, and the thought of it breaks your heart even more than it does his, if it’s possible. You and Calum have both been flat out over the past couple of weeks, especially since Elijah’s been sick, and when you add onto that that you’re starting to worry Ethan will feel like you’re favouring his brother over him, this holiday period is becoming much more tense than you ever wanted. Growing up is great, especially when you’re watching your own kids start to do it, but God, it’s hard. But you finally think you’ve got everything under control again, and just in the nick of time, too. It helps that your brother’s roommate knows a few people who work at the hospital, and so you’ve been able to figure something out that will hopefully do a little to bridge the couple hours until visiting hours start again - they’re earlier on Christmas, bless them. 

You and Calum had left at the normal time, needing to get Ethan home to sleep, but Luke had been there to take over bedtime duties so the two of you could slip back to the hospital, having worked something out with the ward staff. Elijah’s just drifted off, and you and Calum peer through a window as your guest makes his entrance, swinging the door just enough to make a noise. Elijah shifts a little at the sound, and you know he’ll almost definitely register what’s happening around him soon enough. The intruder treads carefully through the room, like somebody is staging trying to be quiet, and not quite making it. And just as they reach the foot of the bed and fix the stocking, they give it a little nudge, and finally, your son’s eyes open. He stares for a moment, then speaks. “Santa?” he whispers. And the man at the end of the bed, decked out in full Santa regalia, freezes like he’s been caught in the act. “Elijah Hood?” he replies, and Elijah nods. “How did you know I’d be here?” your little boy asks, and Santa gives a knowing smile. “I know where all the good little boys and girls are, all over the world!” he says. “You didn’t think I’d really miss you, just because you were here tonight?” and Elijah gives a slow shake of his head, because he did but he can’t quite tell Santa that. “Did you really know I was here, or did my brother tell you?” Elijah whispers, and your heart gives a little twinge as you watch silently, glued to the spot. “I’ll tell you a secret,” Santa says, “it was a little bit of both. I’d have know where you were if you were anywhere, whether it was Uncle Michael’s or at Dylan’s,” and here Elijah’s eyes widen at the mention of his best friend, “but your brother, Ethan, made sure to let me know where you were, just in case I missed it.” Elijah is speechless. “And that’s what Christmas is, Elijah. So you go on and go back to sleep, because I think you’re going to have a great Christmas.” And all Elijah can do is nod, as Santa hoists his sack back over his shoulder and walks quietly back out of the room. He just sits there, staring after the myth himself, and it takes everything you have not to run in and hold him. But you can’t ruin the magic, so instead you turn and bury your face in Calum’s chest, and even though you’re crying, it’s not because you’re sad. Calum kisses the top of your head, and you turn around just enough to see Elijah’s laid back down again. And maybe it won’t be so bad, after all.

ashton

For some reason unknown to anybody, but most of all you, your children had sat you down a couple of weeks before Christmas - yes, you were held to court by a five and a six year old - and told you and Ashton explicitly they were cool with a quiet Christmas morning this year. Instantly, you’d assumed they were up to something - and you still do, but there’s nothing sinister they’re probably up to, so you both agreed to the terms offered to you, and that was that. Now they’re both in school - Ella started this year, following Jack to the same primary school you went to what really doesn’t feel that long ago - they’re so hooked on the idea they’re ‘big kids’ now, and you’re not at all going to deprive them of that. You may remind them they’re your babies on an almost daily basis, but if they want to start being a little more independent at home, you’re not going to stand in their way. “They’re almost definitely up to something, aren’t they?” Ash asks you a couple of nights before Christmas, when they’ve excused themselves from dinner to go and take the plates into the kitchen and then go to their room, and you just nod, wondering what on earth your little ratbags are up to. But they’re positively angels in the days leading up to Christmas, and you can’t find any reason to suspect them of anything save your parental instinct, which you guess you just have to shelve. They’re in bed at a reasonable time on Christmas Eve, after painstakingly leaving out cookies for Santa and carrots for his reindeer on the bench, and you check them enough to know they’ve actually gone to sleep. “Maybe we’re just overly suspicious,” you say to Ashton, and he just laughs. “I mean, you can never be too careful, can you?” he asks, and you can’t argue. 

You know making the move was a big decision for them, and while it seems they’re going to have a big future (you’ll fight anybody who disagrees), it wasn’t easily done. 

You’ve been watching since day one, when Luke, your childhood best friend, invited you to the very first band practice, so when the opportunity arose - you didn’t just take off on a whim, but accepted a year studying at a nearby university - you jumped at it. 

Nobody’s been more excited than Ashton, both when you broke the news over Skype and throughout the whole lead-up to it, and that makes you even happier.

To anybody who’s spent time with the two of you, it seems almost unthinkable that you’re not a couple, but because of the whole travelling constantly and trying to kickstart a global career thing while you study for your degree, it hasn’t been that easy.

You’d like to, and you’re fairly sure he would, too, but if you can’t be there giving it 100% with each other, you’ve both just never been game enough to try it.

But now, things might be different. 

You were supposed to go over in January, but when you’d realised they’d all be spending Christmas together in the house they’d bought, changed your mind and managed to get a last-minute flight in just days before Christmas.

The best part is that only Luke knows.

You watch the streets roll past as the taxi driver weaves their way through the thick traffic, claiming a short cut that really takes no less time than the normal route, and realising this will soon become home to you.

What a thought.

The taxi pulls up and the driver helps you get your bags out of the back, and then you pay them and they leave, and you’re left standing in front of a house you’ll also soon be calling home. 

It’s surreal, actually, but you’re so excited you can’t even articulate it, and so you shoot a quick message to Luke as you make your way up the path to the front door.

Once you’ve got a confirmation reply, you press the doorbell, and hear Luke’s distinctive voice calling out for Ashton to grab the door. Sneak.

Ash opens the door curiously, but his face  completely changes when he spots you, mouth gaping and eyes widening.

“B-b-but... you were... January... holy shit!” he practically shouts, grabbing you and pulling you into a tight hug. “What the hell, Y/N!” 

“Merry Christmas?” you say tentatively, and he laughs, holding you closely. 

“What’s all this ruckus?” Michael’s voice comes, and you peer over Ashton’s shoulder to see him appear in the hallway. “Hey, who ordered this kid?” he adds, a grin appearing on his face as soon as he spots you. 

“Mikey!” you call, and Ashton lets go of you as Michael comes over, slinging one arm around you as he squeezes you. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks fondly, and you just shrug slightly, beaming from ear to ear.

“I HEARD Y/N’S VOICE!” Calum is practically screeching, and you hear the sound of his footsteps rapidly thudding across the floor upstairs, flying to a halt at the top of the stairs as he ducks down to find your face. “There you are, you sly little shit!” 

He takes the stairs two at a time, not even waiting for Michael to move as he envelops you both in his arms.

“Oh God, you smell so good,” he says, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, and Michael hits him.

“If you could stop being so fucking weird for at least five seconds, that’d be awesome,” he laughs, as both of them withdraw and separate the tangle of limbs from around you.

“Let me get your bags,” Ash says, changing the subject as he ducks past you and grabs them off the step, pulling them easily into the house. “I didn’t know you were coming, or I would’ve made the spare room--”

“Already done it,” Luke says, and you don’t even need to look at him to know he’s got that smug smile (but you do anyway).

“Lukey!” you squeal, running and throwing yourself into his arms.

“Of course you knew!” Michael and Calum chorus, and Ashton’s just shaking his head, taking your bags to the spare room.

Eventually, you all manage to make your way to the lounge room, sitting cross-legged between Luke and Ashton as the five of you talk non-stop, cutting across each other and changing the subject every couple of minutes. It’s like nothing’s changed at all. 

Luke goes to get you something to eat after a few minutes, and Michael and Calum do that strange disappearing thing where they’re no longer around but you can still hear them, and they’re probably getting beer or something.

And suddenly it’s just you and Ashton.

“I’m still impressed Luke managed to keep it quiet,” you say, and Ash laughs, nodding in agreement.

“You know, he’s been looking like the cat that got the cream lately, I should’ve known something was up.”

“He probably would’ve spilled it if you asked him, although I did make him pinky swear over Skype.”

“Whoa, pinky swear?” Ashton asks, holding up his hands in mock surprise. “No, no, no wonder he took it so seriously!” 

But he’s still smiling, and the way he looks right now - content and ever so happy - makes your heart sing.

“I’m glad you came early, though,” he adds a few moments later, shifting slightly so he’s looking right at you. “It wouldn’t’ve been Christmas without you.”

“Well, who’d’ve made you guys wear your cracker hats all day if I wasn’t here?”

“It’s not Christmas without the Cracker Hat Police,” he says, nodding solemnly as you laugh.

The truth is it wouldn’t have been Christmas if you hadn’t been able to see him - the others too, but mainly Ashton. Your history’s long, but you’ve always managed to sneak in even a couple of minutes together each Christmas, so that, coupled with the idea it’d be the first time the boys have been away from their families, sold you.

“Really, I’m glad you’re here,” he repeats, and he’s still smiling but his eyes are a little warmer, and the air begins to spark with that unspoken chemistry you’ve always known.

“So am I,” you say, dropping your gaze for a moment. “And I’m glad you’re happy.”

“You kidding?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I couldn’t have asked for anything else for Christmas.”

And you don’t know if it’s the long flight or the Christmas spirit or just the fact you’re both here together, but you find yourself replying before you’ve even thought it through.

“I could,” you say, and then you lean in and bring one hand up to gently cup his face, kissing him for the first time.

And his fingers are cool as they graze your face, brushing your hair to one side slightly as you pull away, opening your eyes to gauge his reaction - and the most genuine smile you’ve ever seen on him speaks volumes. 

“You make a very good point,” he says, and that smile’s changed now, and you never want to see it leave his face. “Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he says, and then he’s kissing you again, and this moment could not get any better.

And you don’t know how long it’s been, but suddenly there’s a loud noise, and you pull back in surprise, opening your eyes to see the other three standing in the doorway, arms raised in celebration.

“Finally!” Luke’s yelling, grinning like the bloody Cheshire Cat, and Michael and Calum actually high five.

“I told you it’d be within a week of Y/N moving here,” Calum says smugly, and holds out a hand to Michael.

“Did you bet on this?” Ashton asks incredulously, but he laughs a moment later, and even though your cheeks have gone bright red, you shuffle in closer to him, placing a hand on his leg as you survey your best friends’ reactions.

“It wasn’t so much a case of if as it was when,” Michael says, like he’s explaining the most obvious thing in the world, and Ash just shrugs.

“Alright, alright, I get it,” he grins, turning away from them and back to you as he brings his lips to yours.

And it doesn’t feel weird at all to know that this, too, is your new home. 

Even before September, you’d tried to organise to have him come back down, but things just hadn’t been set in stone and he hadn’t been able to make any certain commitments, and eventually the weeks had wiled away to the beginning of December, and finally to now.

The whole time, he’d been saying he’d be there - “of course I’ll be there, babe, you know me” - but it seems that nothing’s come of it, and you’re not willing to badger him any more.

I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me.

You’re not mad - or you’re trying not to be, anyway. You know he’s busy, you know everything’s happening for him now more than ever before, but you can’t help but wish he’d just tried that little bit harder.

Michael’s over there with Calum, but Luke made plans ages ago, and Ashton managed to get last minute tickets to spend a few days with his family. You just don’t think it would’ve been that hard, but you’re not willing to fight over it. 

Christmas Eve comes and you sit by the tree, backlit by the tree lights as you watch the sky outside darken. Luke came to visit, and has only been gone about an hour, but you haven’t really moved since he did, because what’s the point?

He seemed fine, but you wonder if he was trying to be particularly fine to keep things peachy. You don’t think you overreact, but they all know you’re quite an emotional person, and he seemed to make almost a point not to mention anything. 

Just before Luke had come, you’d been talking to Calum on the phone, and taken a little solace in the fact he’d actually sounded like he was regretting it, which you’d not picked up on before. 

But it didn’t change the fact he’s not there with you, and having to end the call so he could go and have brunch with Michael hadn’t helped much. You stay where you are, sitting on the floor with your knees pulled up to your chest and wondering if this a sign of anything, or you’re just feeling particularly sensitive at the moment. 

Ash texts you, asking if you want to come looking at Christmas lights with him and his little siblings, but you say thanks but no thanks, not feeling up to sustaining some kind of socially acceptable front, especially not around kids. He adds candy canes to the offer, but they just don’t tip it enough for you.

It’s been about half an hour when there’s a knock at the door, and a small part of you wonders if that’s Cal, coming to surprise you after all - but it’s just your brother, dropping off his half of your parents’ present. He offers to stay, but you tell him it’s fine. 

I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.

It’s the quietest Christmas Eve you can remember in some time, and you distract yourself with a bit of television - there are quiz show specials and seasonal episodes, and they fill in the few hours before you can acceptably go to bed. 

You’ve just brushed your teeth and are turning all the lights off when there’s a second knock at the door, and now you just frown, because who the fuck calls at this time of night?

Switching the lights back on, you go out to the hallway and head towards the door, wondering if it’s a Christmas murderer or something. That’s all that makes sense.

But you pull back the door fully, not really feeling like playing dumbass games, and so when your gaze lands on a certain six foot tall figure with unmistakeable hair, you don’t really react at first.

And then Calum shifts a little and the light hits him and you slacken slightly as you realise what that means.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

And he laughs, that sound that feels like light and love and home, and takes a step forward so he can wrap you tightly in his arms.

“Get the hell off me,” you protest, and he just holds you tighter, turning his head to one side.

“I told you I’d be here,” he says, stroking your hair gently, “you didn’t actually think I’d miss Christmas, did you?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know what you’re doing on the other side of the world?” you reply gruffly, but your eyes are beginning to fill with tears, and you uncross your arms so you can grab onto his sleeves instead. “You’re an asshole.”

He laughs again, rocking gently from side to side. 

“I love you,” he says, pulling his head back to try and catch your eye, but you rest your head against his chest instead.

“No comment.”

“I know you do.”

And he’s right.

No alarm sounds, because it’s Christmas morning and you’re living the dream by having them all turned off, but something primal wakes you up at a fairly decent hour of the morning anyway, and as you turn back from discovering it’s not even 9am yet, you feel the figure next to you shift slightly.

“Merry Christmas, babe,” comes Michael’s sleepy voice from beside you, an arm groggily feeling for you and completely missing.

“Merry Christmas, love,” you reply, saving him the effort as you snuggle in beside him, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek.

Now you’re ‘adults’ (emphasis on the inverted commas), things are pretty swell, and Christmas is definitely one of your favourite times of year. You’ve got two places - an apartment in Sydney, and another in LA - and are just fortunate enough to enjoy a flexible lifestyle you really didn’t expect to find so soon.

After a slow wake up, which is code for Michael drifting back off to sleep with one arm still hooked around your waist and you flicking through the channels as he softly snores, you manage to drag yourselves out of bed and downstairs.

You’re home in Sydney, meaning you’ll be able to see both your families as well as spending time together, just the two of you, and this means the pile beneath your tree looks somewhat more substantial than it would have back in LA.

As Michael fixes himself a cup of coffee, you go over to the tree, beginning to peer curiously at the labels. There’s been a massive one underneath it for a couple of weeks now with your name on it, and he knows you’re just dying to get at it. 

“Alright, alright, just let me get some caffeine in my bloodstream,” he says, and you take that as an invitation to separate it from all the other presents and drag it to a prominent position in the middle of the living room, sitting cross-legged in front of it and waiting expectantly.

He really doesn’t take that long, but it feels like an eternity before he finally re-emerges, holding a large mug in one hand. You feel like he’s purposefully walking slowly over to you, skipping the couch and coming to sit on the other side of the box.

“Okay, go for it,” he says, taking a drink, but there’s a smile on his face you’ve learned not to trust.

One thing people should know about you  - you’re not one of those people who carefully unwraps paper and peels off the sticky tape. You’re a ripper.

You grab a loose edge of the paper and tear it off, revealing a brown, cardboard box. Side-eyeing your smirking boyfriend, you open that one to reveal another one, and within that one, another.

You’re quickly catching onto the theme of the game here, and you don’t appreciate it.

There’s just no fucking end to it. A box that started out probably able to fit a desktop monitor and hard drive in is now twenty-three boxes deep, and still going.

If this were a cartoon, there’d be steam rising off your head and shooting out your ears, but it’s not, so you’re just a little red in the face as you discover box after box after box. 

Michael, meanwhile, is taking the utmost pleasure in your frustration, hardly able to drink his coffee in between the laughter at your huffs and frowns and muttered asides it’s probably best he can’t quite make out.

“You just shut the hell up over there,” you grumble, pulling out a box now about the side of a photo frame, and opening it to find yet another.

The floor is absolutely littered with empty boxes, strewn across the room as they’ve been discarded with annoyance and contempt, and you add to it as you pull out another box and throw the outer one to one side without looking.

Michael actually has to put his mug down from laughing so hard as you decide to start throwing the empty boxes at him, instead, not even bothering to dodge them as they bounce harmlessly off his shoulder or his knee. 

But you’re down to a box about the size of pocket watch now, and although you’ve kept up your torrent of sullen abuse and are just about ready to smack him one and leave in a huff, you open it up and find a small, square box, perfectly wrapped with a bow on top.

You pull it out slowly, resting it in the palm of your hand as you still throw the other box at Michael, but if you were paying any attention, you’d have noticed that while he’s still grinning, he’s stopped laughing, and is instead watching you intently.

Tugging at the ribbon causes it to give way easily, and you reach out and lift the lid of the box, one last time--

“Oh, shit.”

--and reveal a beautiful, sparkling ring staring back at you.

Of course.

And suddenly you’re the biggest idiot ever, because of course, but you can’t even process this thought as you just stare down at the ring, eyes beginning to sting at the corners.

And then there’s a slight movement in front of you, and suddenly the box is gone from your hands, and you look up to see Michael on one knee, holding the box open in front of you.

“Even though any normal person would probably have killed me long ago,” he says, unable to wipe the smile from his face, “you’re still putting up with me, and God knows why. You’re the only person I’ve ever loved and you’re the only person I ever want to love, and nothing that’s happened in my life would be worth it without you.”

There are tears streaming down your face, but you’re frozen, unable to even reach up and wipe them away or cover your mouth that’s slowly falling open.

“Y/N, you’re everything to me. Will you marry me?”

And you can’t really talk, but you manage to nod your head, up and down and up and down, and it’s not really possible but he smiles wider anyway, and reaches out to take your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger with hands that shake.

And you are engaged to Michael Gordon Clifford.

“Oh my God... oh my God,” you say slowly, and then he’s stood up and is pulling you to your feet, and you’re fairly sure he’s crying too but it doesn’t matter.

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

And he pulls you in for a kiss, and you kiss your fiancé back like you never have before.

You’re packed in a tight little throng of people, all anxiously waiting for the doors to open to allow you to file in and take your assigned seats, and as a few people try and squish past you, you step closer to your husband and take his hand. 

Luke looks down at you with a smile, and you beam back, squeezing his hand tightly.

“They won’t be long,” he says, and you just nod, leaning your head against his chest. He may be a giant string bean of a human, but he’s excellent height to lean against (he’d also argue you’re a great height to serve as an arm rest, but you digress). 

Sure enough, the doors open a couple of minutes later, and you duly follow the crowd into the hall, locating your seats - front row - with the help of a friendly usher, dressed as an elf. 

Oh, Christmas.

You and Luke idly chat for a while as the hall continues to fill, the sounds of shuffling footsteps and hasty apologies as people do the awkward wriggle past people already seated to get the middle of the row and rushed greetings as acquaintances pass each other. 

The room quietens when the lights go down, and just about silences when it darkens, save for a spotlight on the curtains in front of you (but there’s always that one person that doesn’t think they’re whispering as loudly as they are).

Another little elf appears in the spotlight, emerging from between the curtains, and makes a quick announcement, letting you all know what you’re about to see and some general courtesies - no flash photography, no calling out.

You look over at Luke, but he’s already got his phone out and set to record, and you knew he was good for something.

The elf retreats and the curtains pull back, and a nativity scene you’ve both helped put together is lit up, taking up most of the stage. As a voiceover starts to narrate, little actors come out on cue, looking a little like deer in headlights.

The narrator introduces Mary and Joseph, the parents to be, and you feel a rush of excitement as you see your little boy toddle out, dressed in a costume you’ve been trying to get just right for weeks now, bringing the same confidence you’ve both been encouraging him in since he got the part.

He walks purposefully, stopping exactly on the spot he was told to, and recites his lines perfectly.

“That’s our little boy!” you can’t help but exclaim excitedly, and though Luke’s trying to hold the camera as still as possible, you can’t miss the smile that lights up his face.

Mary and Joseph fail to find a room at the inn, but are offered a stable, and head that way to welcome their new baby: little Jesus.

The children sing ‘Away in a Manger’, and you’re sure you can hear your son’s voice ringing out above the others’, blessed enough to have inherited his father’s vocal ability. 

When the angel appears over the shepherd and their sheep, you feel another little pang of excitement, as your little girl tells them about the special baby that’s just been born. She’s not quite as confident as her twin brother, and seems to struggle a bit in remembering her lines, but she gets there, and you’re so proud it hurts. 

The rest of the play takes off without a hitch, and your attention is split between your twins, heart bursting with pride as you watch what feels like months of hard word finally come to fruition. 

When it comes to an end and the tiny kindergarten cast take their bows, you and Luke both jump to your feet, cheering and clapping your son and daughter. After final bows, they bring the lights up, and both the twins immediately run to the front of stage and jump down when they spot you, as do many of the other children.

“Mummy!” your daughter cries, running over to you, while Luke grabs your son and throws him into the air.

“You were amazing, sweetheart!” you enthuse, kissing her before wrapping her in a giant hug. “You looked beautiful, you were the most perfect angel I’ve ever seen!”

Once you let her down, she runs to Luke and your son to you, and you practically squash him in your arms, also showering him with kisses.

“You did it, baby, you were fantastic!” you say, and he’s wide-eyed and beaming, on some kind of post-performance high.

“I remembered it all, Mummy!” he’s saying, and you hug him again.

“I knew you would, I knew you’d be able to do it!”

A teacher offers to take a photo of the four of you, and then the night’s finally over, and you exit the hall with the last of the audience, you holding your son’s hand while Luke gives your daughter a shoulder ride. 

As you leave the school building and start walking across the carpark to the car, you take Luke’s hand with your spare one, smiling across at him.

You’re happy, you’re relaxed, you’re relieved, and you’ve never been so proud. This is what Christmas should feel like. 

“How did we get so lucky?” you ask him, and he just chuckles.

“No, I’m the one who got lucky - first I got you, then I got two little versions of you,” he says, and you’re surprised you don’t just explode right there and then, burst into tiny pieces of ‘this is what life should be’.

“I love you, Mr Hemmings,” you say.

“And I love you, Mrs Hemmings,” he replies, smiling from ear to ear as he leans in to kiss you.

The other is Ashton, who is presently wrestling with one of those small containers of silver sugar balls - cachous, food aficionados would argue, but you stick with little silver thingys. 

Why exactly you decided to try and do anything remotely food-related is presently beyond you, as you’re strongly fighting the temptation to resort to using your teeth to open a tube of icing, but you’re also too determined to quit halfway through.

You decided to forgo the actual process of trying to bake biscuits, and risk setting your entire apartment on fire, and settled instead on gingerbread houses, pre-cooked walls that only need assembly.

Should be simple, right?

“Who in the fucking fuck of fuckdom invented this asshole?” you grumble, throwing it down at the bench top and glancing over at Ash, who has successfully opened the container and is now eating some of them in response. 

“Somebody who knew you’re not gonna be able to make a house half as good as mine.”

“Dream on.”

He rolls his eyes, reaching over and taking the tube of icing, and removing its cap with a swift motion.

“Don’t wanna hear it,” you say, quickly snatching it from his hands, and that’s a very genuine expression of thanks and he knows it.

“Alright, so that’s big icing, little icing, silver things, other shit, walls - we good?” he says, counting things off on his fingers as he looks over them in order. 

“C’mon, I’ve gotta make a better house than you, let’s do this!”

Taking the thicker icing, which is supposed to bind the sides together, you look over at him, holding it like a weapon.

“And... let’s go!”

He grabs his at the same time, and you start piping it along the edges of one wall, starting to try and bind them together. It takes a little bit of effort, by which you mean far too much, but eventually it’s an almost complete shape, and that will more than do.

Glancing across at him, you see Ashton is struggling a little more with the structure of his house, and it makes you far too happy.

“Going for some abstract architecture are we?” you ask, and are further delighted by his distracted grunt of, “shut up.”

You don’t really know what gingerbread houses are meant to look like, so you just let your imagination guide you, and by that you mean you stick random blobs of icing and sweets wherever you want. 

You’re vaguely aware of Ash grumbling away beside you, and your periphery shows you bits keep falling off and refusing to co-operate. You can’t help yourself but giggling, and he shoots you a dark look that only makes it funnier.

“This was a stupid idea,” he mutters.

“Yeah, ‘cause it was yours.”

“Oh my God, shut up.”

You cackle away as he throws a piece of gingerbread into the sink, but his composure starts to slip a little as he smirks a bit. 

“You stupid shithead,” he’s grumbling, as a sweet slides off the roof for the third time in a row, and apparently out of frustration, hits the bench with his fist.

Not only does it send all of his upright walls crashing down, but it sends yours down, too.

“What the fuck, Irwin!” you shout, and he freezes for a moment. 

Then he starts laughing, and you don’t know why it’s absolutely hilarious, but it is - like the last bastions of a desperate, vaguely hysterical man.

Picking up a jube that recently met its demise, you look over and hurl it at him, as it hits its target square in the middle of his cheek. 

“Did you just...?” he says slowly, and as he turns to look at you, your throw another one at him. “You did not.”

“Bring it.”

And it’s on. Sweets are flying through the air at a rate of knots, and you’re not doing too badly until he grabs you with one hand and a tube of icing in the other hand.

“Ashton... Ashton...”

“It’s way too late for that, Y/N,” he says, and just like that, you’re being transformed into a living, breathing gingerbread decoration. 

You can feel the layers of icing against your skin, and he squeezes the last bits of the tube out, trailing it down to your mouth. When it’s completely empty, he scrunches it up, dropping it on the counter lightly.

“I’d still eat you any day,” he laughs, and you bite back your immediate response to lean in and kiss him. 

You’re not complaining, of course. It’s been a struggle sometimes, especially as Calum’s schedule’s picked up, but you’ve managed to spend every Christmas together of the five years you’ve been dating together so far, and you weren’t about to give up on that now.

He’d flown in earlier in the week, and after the initial media bubble, you’d just been hiding out, holed up together without a care in the world.

It’s been almost two months since you returned from LA, where you’d spent almost a month over with them, and it just amazes you how you’ll never quite tire of gazing at him, revelling in the fact he’s right there. 

He’s just put the tree up, and is resting on the couch as you come back in, carrying the boxes of decorations.

“It’s gonna be so lit,” he says, as you set down a box of lights next to him, and you roll your eyes liberally.

“Who gave you the right?” you ask, and he grins, leaning his head back to look at you upside-down. 

“You love it,” he replies, and you swoop in and peck him on the cheek.

“Don’t remind me.”

He rights himself again as you bring the boxes over to the couch, having a momentary rest on the end of the couch.

“Alright, babe, how we doing this?” he asks, giving a little stretch as he scoots to the edge of the couch. “Do you want to just pass them to me, since you’re the vertically challenged one here?”

“I feel so attacked,” you complain, but a moment later nod your head, adding, “we will go with that, though, because otherwise you’re going to have to put my cause of death as an overzealous tree.”

Calum laughs as he gets up and goes over to the tree, cracking his knuckles and stretching his arms as though he’s getting ready for a big marathon. 

“Alright, I’m good, hit me,” he says the next moment, taking a stance like he’s about to land the best catch in cricket you’ll ever see.

“We’ve been over this, love, you’re not co-ordinated enough,” you say, and he pouts.

“My girlfriend, the buzzkill.”

But you soon get to it, sorting through the boxes to find little matching sets and instructing him on precisely where he needs to put them from your spot on the sofa, cross-legged.

“Little weird ones we got in New York,” you say, handing him a pair of silver baubles with your caricatures etched into the surfaces. “He really struggled with your hair, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause nobody can get this perfection down,” he says, giving his head a little toss as he approaches the tree. “Next to this reindeer? And the other reindeer?”

“You’re learning!” 

“I’m not just a pretty face,” he says, stretching up briefly to loop one over a branch.

Unanimously, he adds, “yes I am,” as you say, “yes you are.”

True love. 

“These ones Liz got us,” you say now, handing them onto him. “Remember? That was the first year we got this place.”

“How could I forget?” Calum smiles, leaning into kiss you as he takes them. “The sink broke and we set fire to the chicken about ten minutes before the boys got here.”

“Good times,” you laugh. 

“I’m making an executive decision,” he says, turning to face the tree and placing them artfully. “Huh?” he adds, turning back to you with an expectant look, and you hold up all your fingers on both hands.

“Ten out of ten, Mr Hood.”

He gives a little mock bow, and you look down to see the next set of decorations. Your heart races a little, but you play it cool, picking them up as you check your phone briefly. 

“Okay, last ones,” you say, giving one to him as nonchalantly as possible.

“What’s this one?” he asks, and you give a little shrug. “This looks new, I don’t remember it.”

Taking the green bauble, he turns it over in his hands to find intricate silver lettering, hand-piped to spell ‘Baby’s First Christmas, 2017.’

His brow furrows a little, and when he looks up at you, questions written all over his face, you just hand him the next one.

Red, with gold writing: ‘Y/N & Calum: Mummy and Daddy-to-be.’

And that’s it.

Calum’s mouth drops open, his jaw slackening and dropping a little as it hits him.

“Are you... is this real?” he asks, his voice hoarse and disbelieving. 

You can only nod, heart beating rapidly in your chest as you take in his reaction. You’ve only known a week or two yourself, and with how busy he was before he left, you thought this would be the perfect way to break the news to him when you were together again.

“Seven weeks tomorrow,” you tell him. 

He’s still holding a bauble in each hand, standing almost frozen in front of you.

“Can you say something, please?” you whisper a couple of moments later, unsure of how to take what you’re seeing. 

“I... we’re going to have a baby?”

And the purest smile spreads across his face, and you push yourself up from the couch and practically jump at him, feeling his arms tighten around you as he lowers his head to the crook of your neck, his breath hot.

“Oh my fucking God, babe,” Calum breathes, shaking his head slightly. “We’re having a baby!”

You just clutch him as tightly as possible, heart filled to the brim with love. 

Loosening his arms on you, you follow suit, and he’s looking at you with that smile he can’t fake, right up to his eyes.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips - and then he all but releases you, squatting down. 

Calum brushes a hand across your stomach, which obviously hasn’t started to show yet, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

“And I love you,” he says, pressing another kiss to your top. 

Standing back up, still smiling that smile that won’t fade all day, he lifts his hands to indicate the two new baubles.

“Shall we?”

You walk to the tree, finding two free spots right at the front of the tree.

“Here?”

“It’s perfect,” he replies, handing one to you, and you simultaneously slide them onto the branches, positioning them side by side, bright, sparkling indicators of your future.

Or at least, better than Michael.

You peer out at the scene before you, muted blues in the air and white snow everywhere, and it’s still as a painting; but you know better than to think that means anything.

Seconds later, there’s a tiny flash of bleached hair, and then a ball of freezing, compacted snow grazes the top of your head.

Attack.

“Lousy arm, Clifford!” you shout, ducking back down as another one whizzes overhead, and hastily scraping together a handful of snow, trying to mould it into as close to a round shape as you can manage. “Try harder!”

There’s a muffled snort, and then silence again, and a quick survey tells you he’s gone back into hiding. 

You crouch down again, continuing to add to the mass in your hands, and listening closely for that telltale crunch.

It comes a couple moments later - the sound of snow underneath him as he tries to move as quietly as possible - and you rear up and back into view, hurling it with as much force as possible.

It’s almost comical, the way it unfolds - the top of Michael’s head appears, followed by his eyes, which widen just in time for the snowball to whack into him, sending him tumbling out of sight again.

“Oh, yeah, they call that a victory!” you crow, jumping up with your hands in the air. “You like that one, Clifford, huh, you like it?” 

You’ve always been an excellent sport.

A hand raises slowly, as he gets to his feet, bits of snow stuck to his face and beanie and what’s visible of his hair.

“Okay, hang on, hang on, give me a second,” he says, and you nod innocently.

You grab a tiny handful of snow from beside you and throw it at him anyway, getting him on the shoulder.

“It slipped!” you protest quickly, grinning. 

“Yeah, I bet it did,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Any-- oi!” he cuts himself off, as another small but of snow accidentally ends up flying towards him. 

“I think it’s ghosts.”

“I think you’re a fuckin’ ghost,” he grumbles, and you know you’ve got to be winning, or else he wouldn’t be acting like this. 

“Well, I’m a ghost who’s still kicking your ass, so I’m alright with that.”

“Okay, shut up, shut up,” he says, brushing down his jumper. “How’s this: final round. You, me, nowhere to hide, no nothing, just us, snow, and my eventual victory.”

“Oh, you’re on,” you say, the competitive glint in your eye. “I love beating you when you’re being cocky.”

You make a great show of disassembling your barricade, picking the trestle table up off its side and casting it behind you, using your foot to shove snow forward.

“Alright, five minutes of snowball stockpiling, now!” you call, crouching down and beginning to grab snow from all around you. From your peripheral vision, you can see Michael flying into action, too, and just grin more to yourself.

The alarm starts screaming from your pocket and that’s all the signal either of you need.

“DIE!” you scream dramatically, hurling a snowball right at him.

It’s an all out bloodbath, except that it’s technically bloodless. Snowballs begin to fly through the air with a ferocity that’d suggest to the casual viewer there are far more than two people there. Nope. Just two incredibly competitive people, who’d rather eat their hands than admit defeat. 

“Give up!” he’s shouting, ducking and weaving and throwing snow at you as though he’s basically aiming to knock you out. 

“Never!” you shriek, failing to dodge one and being splattered with freezing snow, making its way down your top, much to your horror. 

He cackles at your reaction, taking the opportunity to peg another three in quick succession, and you can feel yourself starting to falter.

No!

You scramble back to your feet, picking up another snowball, but just as you go to throw it, he hits you again, and the snowball goes wonkily to the left, landing uselessly in the snow.

Michael starts to advance, annoyingly unrelenting as he continues throwing them at you, while your legs begin to give way.

I will not give up...

But nor will he. 

“Come on, Y/N, don’t make this easy,” he calls, grinning that annoyingly smug grin of his, and you grab at the ground beside you, sending a spray of snow spattering through the air. “Cute,” he laughs, and you want to punch his stupid face.

“I’m just being - ah! - nice to you!”

“Uh huh,” he says, hitting you in the head this time, and in your scrambling movements, you fall backwards, landing on your back in the freezing snow.

The victory that lights his face up is disgusting, and he drops the last snowball, reaching you and leaning down with that damn grin. 

“What’s that?” he says, cupping a hand to his ear.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, really? ‘Cause, you know, it sounded like I just kicked your ass.”

“Nope, nuh uh, definitely wasn’t that,” you say, shaking your head defiantly, and he lowers himself to his knees, straddling you as his breath hits your face.

“We must be hearing different things, I’m so sure that’s what I’m getting,” he says, and just as his face is mere centimetres above you, you grab a handful of snow and throw it at him, getting the side of his head.

He reacts jerkily, eyes widening in surprise before landing on your already laughing face.

“You shit!”

“Love you, baby,” you reply sweetly, and in reply, he leans down and kisses you.

The boys wrapped up shows a few weeks ago, and while they’ve been writing and recording here and there, they’re definitely winding down for the holiday period. 

You’re not complaining at all about this, because it means you’ll have more time than ever with Luke. It feels like so long since you last got to spend a decent amount of time together, just the two of you (and by ‘decent’ you mean a couple of days, uninterrupted). It’s going to be perfect.

When you first arrive, it’s impossible to ignore the shadow of paparazzi stalking you everywhere you go together, nestled closely against Luke’s side as the two of you try and walk as quickly and purposefully as you can without breaking into a run, but after a couple of days, either they slow down a bit, or you just get used to it. 

It’s indescribable, being back by his side; and what makes it better is that he seems just as happy being back with you as you are with him. 

“I love you,” he murmurs over and over again - when he becomes up behind you while you’re in the kitchen and wraps his arms around you, when you’re laying on him on the couch watching a movie, when he opens the fridge and there’s still leftover pizza there - and you’ll never get sick of it. 

The festivity in this beautiful city builds and builds, but although there was a small amount of snow when you first arrived, it’s just been holding out on you. It’s not that big of a deal, and Luke’s apartment still has beautiful views overlooking more city than you’ve ever seen out a single window before. 

Christmas Eve comes by and the city buzzes more than ever before, illuminated long after the sun goes down by the glow of multicoloured lights, decorating houses and balconies and shop fronts and any available space.

You fall asleep resting on Luke’s chest while the third consecutive Christmas film plays, his arm heavy and comforting around your shoulder. It’s the first time you’ve spent Christmas away from your parents and your siblings, but it doesn’t bother you as much as you thought it would - when you’re with him, you’re home.

You’re happily asleep when you hear a faint sound.

It sounds like your name, but you can’t be sure, and you roll over slightly, choosing to ignore it.

“Y/N!” 

Okay, that was definitely your name.

“Hm?” you mumble groggily, rolling the other way and trying to open your eyes.

“Babe!” Luke’s voice comes, but he sounds... excited? “Come on, come on, open your eyes!”

You manage to force them open and make out his vague shape, standing by the window. It comes closer, as he quickly moves to the bed and launches himself at it, kneeling on the edge of the bed and leaning down to kiss you.

“Get up!” he insists again, and you roll your eyes as much as you can. 

“Fine, fine,” you groan, pushing yourself upright but unable to stop a smile at his early morning enthusiasm.

He beams, grabbing your hand and practically dragging you back towards the window.

“Look!” he says, jabbing a finger at the window and poking the glass there. 

So you do. You look outside the window, and see the same city that was there when you last looked out it, yesterday. 

“Lovely,” you say, giving a small yawn.

He laughs.

“No, babe, c’mon,” he says, coming up behind you and sliding his hands around your wait, crossing them over as he squeezes you gently. “Look.”

You cross your own arms over, resting your hands over his as you stare out the window, watching small, white, soft flecks spin lazily past the windo--

“Wait,” you say suddenly, and he gives a far-too-satisfied smile, squeezing you again.

“Right?”

“Is that snow?” you ask, turning your head to look at him, and he just grins. “Holy shit!” 

“I’m dreaming of a white christmas,” he starts to sing, unable to keep the laugh from his voice.

“It’s snowing! It’s Christmas! It’s snowing on Christmas!” you practically explode, your excitement taking over far more strongly than you’d ever expected it would only moments after waking up.

He releases his hold on you and spins you quickly so you’re facing him, wrapping an arm around your waist again to pull you closer to him.

It’s been like the perfect end to the shitstorm that was 2016 - a slow domino effect of things fucking your plans right up, starting with severe weather patterns right where you were supposed to fly, and including riots blocking streets and worker strikes at the airport.

Long story short, you’re staying with Michael for a bit.

Except that they just had to go on and be finishing up the last leg of their tour right through winter, when a cold snap was streaking through and the weather was just becoming increasingly terrible, and, not wanting to stop somewhere and be away from the only family you had in the entire country of the U.S.A, you were stuck by his side.

It hasn’t been terrible, you have to admit. You and Michael have always been close, and since the band blew up and he became ultra-famous, you’ve missed being able to spend as much time with him. Plus, you can still remember the little midget putting on Saturday night specials with a pint-sized plastic guitar and a hairbrush sticky-taped to a broom, so being able to watch him actually do his thing is nothing short of magical.

But there’s only so much you can do.

You’re not the type of person who’s cut out for this sort of lifestyle, long-term. You like what you know and you know what you like, and being cooped up in a tour bus with four overgrown children and a handful of extras at almost all times isn’t usually on that list.

Granted, you’ve adjusted alright, but you’re ready to call it a day now.

The next stop on the tour is Boston, and you’re half asleep when the bus pulls in and somebody loudly announces land in sight (it’s probably Calum).

There’s a great clattering of feet and excitement, but you’re enjoying where you are and you don’t feel like moving, so when a hand gives your shoulder a quick shake, you mumble something to your brother about catching him up later, and the fact you have a phone. There’s a quick tut, but you’re not shaken any more.

You doze back off quickly, and with the boys gone, it’s easy to fall into a deeper sleep, catching up on the rest your body is pretty desperate for now. 

It’s a couple hours before you open your eyes again, woken by a faint thud somewhere, and instantly you know something’s wrong. You rub at your eyes as you look around blearily, eventually clearing them enough to see nobody around.

“Mike?” you call, rolling awkwardly out of your bunk and landing on your feet, looking one way up the length of the bus, then the other. 

You can’t quite work out what’s different. It’s a little dim inside, but you’re not really that used to full sunlight, given you’re usually travelling at weird hours to get to shows and soundchecks and events and bars. But it just feels... dull.

Yawning, you stumble over to a window, and pull back the curtains - that explains the dim light, right?

No.

As soon as you open the curtain, you’re greeted by a big fat wall of nothing. 

It’s kind of white, grey, from the bottom to the top of the window and probably past it, and you just stare at it, brain refusing to process what you see.

“Huh?”

You stand there dumbly, vaguely hearing some noise behind you but honestly unable to work out what’s happening.

“Y/N?” a voice calls, a couple of moments later, and it’s like you move in slow motion, turning your body but not your head until the last minute, managing to tear your eyes off whatever’s there.

Ashton’s standing there, looking just as sleepy as you feel, and watching you with a slightly puzzled expression.

“What’re you doing?”

“Uh... I don’t know,” you say cautiously, jabbing a finger towards the window. “I just... can you look at this?”

You step back as he shuffles over, rubbing the back of his neck until he reaches you. You steal a glance at his face as he takes it in, and are kind of pleased to see a twinge of confusion cross his face.

“Is that... what?”

“I know, right?”

“Is that snow?” he asks, and you turn your face back to it. 

“Oh, right. Snow.”

You both stand there, looking as though you’re trying to decipher some piece of modern art. 

“Well, that’s weird,” he says after a few moments, breaking the silence as he walks to another window, and pulls back the curtains to see the exact same sight. “Yeah, okay.”

Ashton crosses to the other side of the bus, and opens those curtains to see something that more closely resembles what you expect to see out a window, but even this view is white and icy.

“The fuck,” he mutters under his breath, moving a long a little more and trying the door. 

He pushes down on the handle and pushes the door outward, and it moves about a centimetre, then stops, meeting too much pressure on the other side. Frowning, Ash jiggles the door a little, clearly trying to move it, but there’s nothing he can do. And then the penny seems to drop, and he pulls the door shut again.

“Well,” he says again, turning back to you, “I’ve got good news and bad news. What you want first?”

You just shrug, looking between the two sides of the bus.

“The good news is it’s snowing outside, and it’s really pretty. Like, it looks sick. The bad news is we may or may not be snowed inside this bus right now. By which I mean. We are.”

He flashes you a bracing grin, unsure of what you’re going to do.

On one hand, you love snow. You don’t get much back home in Australia, so it’s always slightly novel to see it falling like there’s no tomorrow over here, but on the other hand, you suffer from a mild form of claustrophobia, and being stuck in that bloody bunk is basically you pushed to your limits.

Ashton knows this.

“You right, Y/N?” he asks when you don’t respond, tilting his head a little as though trying to catch your expression. 

“Jesus,” you manage to say, feeling your heart taking off and your breathing quicken.

“Oh, shi-- hey, hey, sit down,” he says, moving quickly over to you and putting an arm partway around your shoulders, guiding you back to the bench seat under the window. “It’s alright, it’s all good, it’ll be fine,” he adds, trying to reassure you.

You can sort of hear him, but you don’t know what he’s saying, slightly aware of him reaching over your head and pulling the curtains closed again. You know you don’t need to, but you can feel the panic rising already, manifesting itself through little tremors that start to take over.

“Hey, Y/N, Y/N,” Ashton says, crouching down and looking into your eyes, “look at me, look at me, it’s all good.”

He puts his hands on your shoulders, and the feeling brings you back to the present moment a little more, pulling your gaze up to meet his.

“It’s going to be okay, it’ll be fine, we’re just going to wait here until it’s over and we can get outside.”

You know he’s just saying it to stop you hyperventilating and probably passing out on him, but there’s still something incredibly soothing about his words and his voice, and you focus in on that, trying to hear him over the thumping of your heart.

“There’s-- okay, there’s no signal, but as soon as there is, we’ll text Michael and let him know what’s good. Until then, we’re gonna hang tight and relish the fact this bus will never be this quiet again,” he adds, flashing you a grin.

You try and smile back, but it probably looks more like somebody’s trying to strangle you.

“We’re alright,” he smiles, “we’re safe. Everything’s good. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

And that’s the most comforting thing of all.

“Keep looking at me, Y/N, stay with me. Or I’m gonna get really bored. You’re doing well, you’re doing great. Just keep breathing with me, okay?” he asks, that boyish smile popping up again, and you think you might just be able to do that.

“Sorry!” he calls, dashing past and half-dressed. “I may have just-- I spilled-- hang on, I’ll be, like, five seconds!”

“Uh huh,” you reply non-committally, rolling your eyes lightly as you sit down on the couch and pull out your phone.

Parties just aren’t really your thing. In this friendship, Calum’s the social one - you’re just his friend. Seriously, so many people probably know you as ‘Calum’s friend’, and that’s pretty much the way it’s always going to be. So no, you don’t want to be heading over to somebody’s house who you’ve probably only met in passing once or twice, invariably ending up the most sober person in the room and spending the entire time wishing for a way out.

It’s not even that you hate drinking, it’s just you don’t tend to enjoy yourself surrounded by strangers; it’s not your thing. If it were a bunch of people you’re both friends with, mutual friends, then there wouldn’t be a problem, but you’re just not the type of person who can totally let their guard down around people you don’t know. 

But he really wanted to go, and when you tried to talk him into just going by himself, he did that stupid stubborn thing, refusing to go anywhere if you weren’t with him, and so you reluctantly agreed, not wanting to be the reason for him missing out.

Some days, you think, it’s blindingly obvious you’ve been in love with him for years.

“Sorry,” Calum’s voice says, a little out of breath as he reappears in the doorway, “I had to grab another jumper. What d’you think?”

He motions down to himself and the utterly hideous Christmas sweater he’s wearing, then looks back up at you, a grin you can’t help but copy on his stupid face.

“You look utterly disgusting,” you reply with a smile, and he gives a little mock bow.

“Then my outfit is complete. C’mon, Y/N,” he says, grabbing his phone and keys off the table, “let’s go.” 

It’s only a block or two away, so you start walking, not bothering to wear a jumper since, you know... it’s summer, and you can already see he’s starting to feel warm. It may be dark, but it’s not like it’s cold. 

When you arrive, it’s exactly as you thought it’d be - loud music, lights flashing, and people everywhere you don’t recognise. Your throat feels a little tighter as you hesitate by the front door, but Calum, who’s already pushing through the throng of people there, looks back and flashes you a quick smile, reaching back to take your hand.

You let him guide you through the mass of bodies, collectively smelling like alcohol and tinsel, and he ducks through the living room to get to the kitchen, which is a little less densely populated.

“It’s alright,” he says, the music quietening as you get further away from it, “we’ll only stay for a little bit, promise. There’s so many more people than I thought there’d be!” he adds, head turning at a loud sound from the hallway, and moments later two guys sliding to a miserable halt on a boogie board. “Definitely only a bit,” he says, laughing. 

But he keeps hold of your hand as he goes through to the kitchen, and you make no move to drop it, warm and comforting amidst the assault on your senses the rest of the house is providing.

A couple of people in the hallway in front of the kitchen recognise him, and stop for a quick chat, but even then, he doesn’t let go, bidding them a quick goodbye. A few moments later, they head out towards the front, and so do a few others nearby - somebody’s probably trying to set off fireworks or something equally stupid, you decide. 

You’re expecting Calum to either follow them or head to get a drink from the kitchen, but he does neither; a few seconds later, he tugs on your hand, and you turn back to face him from where you’d been looking for clues from the front door.

“Hm?” you say, hoping he wasn’t talking to you while you zoned out.

“Look,” he says simply, using his free hand to point upwards, and your gaze travels towards the little arch that leads to the kitchen to land on a small bouquet of mistletoe, tied delicately together with a red ribbon. 

No sooner have you looked back at him, wondering why he pointed it out, than he pulls you close, the hand not holding yours landing on the small of your back, and your heart instantly begins beating so hard and so fast you’re not going to be surprised if it ruins the moment and bursts out of your chest.

But it doesn’t, and the next moment, he’s lowered his head, and Calum Thomas Hood is kissing you, and you are definitely kissing him. 

Holy shit.

He’s smiling, and only smiles wider when you pull away, releasing your hand so he can brush at a few stray strands of your hair. 

“Five year old Calum just got his Christmas wish,” he says, his voice low and clear and utterly melodic.

Best boyfriend.

He’d gone off to get a jacket while you’d danced around the living room, singing a song about how victorious you were, and if you hadn’t known better, you’d almost have suspected him of rolling his eyes at you.

But he’s in a fairly good mood, and even indulges you in a little duetting in the car as you make your way to the tree sale. 

“If you could keep your eyes on the road for more than ten seconds and not kill us, that’d be great,” he says at one point, but you just beam across at him because tree, and he says no more. 

There’s only one more car in the carpark when you arrive, pulling some Fast and Furious shit as you attempt to drift into an empty parking space (far, far away from the other car) and fail miserably (even more miserably when you tried to do the “I’m flying, Jack!” shit from Titanic on the back of a ute and promptly fell over and concussed yourself the moment it started moving). 

But you manage to bring the car to a stop, and it’s almost straight in the space (by which you mean it’s at a less than forty-five degree angle, and that you count as an utter success).

“I’m driving back,” he says, the moment you’re both out of the car, neatly swiping the keys from your hand, and you go to argue but he cuts you off. “I’m taller, I’m less likely to kill us and the tree, I’m driving,” he says, and you huff and cross your arms and sullenly admit that he has a point but that doesn’t mean anything.

Your mood is quickly lifted once more, though, as you round the corner and spot tree after tree. You can tell Michael’s grinning without even needing to look at him, so you grab his hand and begin actually running towards them, unsuccessfully trying to drag your giant of a boyfriend behind you. It lasts a couple of seconds, and then you stop, turning back to glare at him.

“Oi, hold it,” he says with a laugh, dropping your hand. “Just slow the fuck down for two seconds, I’ve got it.”

He comes up beside you, then moves a little in front of you, crouching down. He doesn’t need to say anything. You know the rest.

Grinning from ear to ear, you take a small run up and literally leap onto his back, catching his shoulders with your hands and easily securing yourself as he straightens up.

“You’re right, this is much better,” you say appreciatively, ruffling his hair, bright even in the darkening nigh, and he just laughs.

“You always write me off, and I always tell you, I’ve got some good ideas,” he says, and then you whack him (lovingly) on the head, and he starts running.

It probably looks absolutely insane - this six foot man with festively coloured hair running across a carpark, carrying a giggling mess of an ‘adult’ on his back, but you don’t care. Christmas is your favourite time of year, and the fact you’re able to spend it with him makes it all the more special. You couldn’t care less what anybody thinks.

You and your faithful steed reach the rows of trees in no time, and he stops to let you slide down his back, feet landing easily on the ground.

“Thanks, baby,” you say, smiling innocently up at him, and he just shakes his head. 

“Alright, go find the most badass tree around,” he says decisively, and you take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers together, as you start exploring.

He’s just looking at them like they’re trees, but you provide the necessary commentary - “too short. Probably has crabs. Looks like an accountant called Steve. Already part bald. Would probably eat the cat. No. No. No.”

You round the end of one row with a bit of a huff. This is generally the best place to find trees, and you’re not feeling overly optimistic, so far. 

“Don’t sulk, it’s gonna be here somewhere,” Michael chides gently, tugging on your hand, and you don’t reply, eyes still scanning the small forest, when suddenly - you spot it.

“Holy fuck, that is the most beautiful tree I’ve ever seen in my entire life!” you shout, trying to break into a run and forgetting about the old ball and chain. “Mike, move, move, come look at it!”

You drag him a few paces down to stand in front of it - tall, majestic, good hair, basically Michael in tree form. Beautiful.

“Well?” you demand, turning to look at him, and he shrugs.

“I dunno, looks like all the others.”

“You fucking what now?” you practically explode, but he’s already laughing, unable to keep his composure.

“Chill, chill, I’m kidding,” he grins. “It looks good, way better than Steve the fuckin’ accountant. Wanna take it home?”

“I’ll take you home,” you respond absent-mindedly, not even thinking about what you’re saying. “You really like it?” you add, looking up at him. “It’s not just for me, you know, it’s gonna be our tree.”

“I love it,” he assures you, “it’s perfect. Just like you.”

He leans down to kiss, and you stretch up on tiptoes to meet him, reaching up with your hand to gently cup his face.

“I love you, shithead,” you say fondly, pecking his nose, and he laughs. 

“Don’t I know it,” he replies.

“For the last time, Xavier, get up,” you say in a low voice, trying to simultaneously get the brat on his feet and look as though you have absolutely nothing to do with him. Varying levels of success.

“But he said--” comes the prolonged whine in way of reply, and you bite back a word that’s far too advanced, and way too inappropriate, for his eight years.

“We’ll talk about it in the car, just get off the floor!”

He regards you with a half-opened eye, almost as though he’s trying to work out if there’s any merit to your argument (there is - there always is, thank you), but then a moment later he’s back to screaming again, and fratricide has never been so appealing.

People are starting to swerve around you, taking a wide berth around the tables that surround you, and you’re sure your face is just as bright as his as you finally get down to his level, grabbing his arm with one hand.

“Xavier Daniel, this is not a discussion. Get off the floor right now, or I’m going to write to Santa right now, and you’ll have enough coal for the rest of your lifetime,” you growl, mentally awarding yourself ‘most caring older sibling’ medal as you do so. 

“What would it matter?” he cries, with all the theatrics of a year twelve drama student, flopping over onto his back and staring up at the lights overhead. “You heard him, you heard that kid say it - he’s not real!” 

And even though he’s being a little shit and causing far too much of a scene for a Tuesday, you can’t help but feel bad for him. Sure, he’s a pain, but he’s your kid brother. He’s only just turned eight, and for all of those years, never has his belief in the old fat man in the red coat faltered; until today, when some little snot holding a skateboard he wouldn’t even know how to ride decided to yell at Xav, tell your little shithead, that it’s all just a fabrication. 

As soon as you’d heard it, you’d hoped he wouldn’t, but a quick glance down and his face was already frozen, processing exactly what he’d heard; and it had all been downhill from there.

You’d been tempted to ditch your brother and grab the other little shit’s skateboard and crack it over his head, but something told you that wouldn’t solve your problems, so you’d stayed put with the one that was being rapidly created in front of you. Skateboard Twat had hung around for a bit - salt, meet wound - but eventually he’d cleared off, probably realising he wasn’t going to get any further escalation from his target, who had now lost the capacity to speak in actual words.

You look down at Xavier again, and even though his face is red and blotchy from the spectacular performance he’s just put on, he looks sad, and it hurts you.

“C’mere, you little booger,” you say, letting go of his arm and taking him into a gruff hug. “Look, Xav, don’t worry about that kid, alright? He’s an idiot, he wouldn’t know how to do up slip-on shoes.”

“But is it true?” he interjects in a little voice, and you wave a hand dismissively.

“What’s truth, anyway?” you ask, adding a dash of philosophy to today’s discussion. “It doesn’t matter what that kid says, it matters what you think. Of course he’s real, you know he is.”

“You have to say that,” he retorts, one cheek slumped against your chest, “I’m your brother.”

He might be a pain, but he’s definitely your brother - only your own flesh and blood would argue against what they actually wanted to hear, purely for the sake of arguing. 

“No, I’m-- I mean, yes, you’re my brother, but I’m not just saying it,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “Look-- hey, excuse me!” you call out, as somebody walks in your general direction.

It’s a guy - tall, probably about your age, maybe a little older. He looks a little vacant, but his head whips around as you call out to him, eyes landing on the two of you a moment later as a small smile curls up one side of his mouth, most likely a polite reaction.

“Sorry, sorry to interrupt you, can we just ask you a quick question?” you ask, straightening up a little where you kneel as Xavier continues to slump against you.

“Course,” he replies, smile widening as he approaches the two of you. 

“Thank you so much,” you say quickly, before giving Xavier a little nudge into a more upright position. “This is my little brother, Xavier - Xav, this is...”

“Luke,” he supplies quickly, squatting down to an even level. “Hey Xavier, how you doing?”

Your brother turns his head enough to take in the stranger’s face, then gives a little shrug, turning himself a little better as curiosity takes hold.

“Luke, my brother’s having a bit of a Christmas dilemma, and we were wondering if you could shine some light on it for us,” you say, smiling despite yourself. Of all the people that could’ve walked past, he seems quite nice; and, hell, he’s cute, too.

“Hit me.”

“Well, we’ve been shopping today, and Xavier overheard something that made him a bit unsure,” you say, nudging Xavier again to make him continue.

There’s a pause, in which Luke looks kindly at Xavier and Xavier fidgets a little, and then he speaks.

“Is Santa real?”

His voice is small and vulnerable, and for all the crap you give him, you realise he really is only a kid. Your eyes flick up to Luke, praying he’s not somehow related to Skateboard Twat.

Luke looks thoughtful, dropping the smile a little in favour of a deeply contemplative expression for a few moments.

“Wow, that’s a really tough question,” he says, after a short pause. “But I don’t think I can answer that for you,” he continues, and your heart drops a little bit. “You see, Xavier, that’s not something I can just tell you. I can say yes, he is, or no, he’s not, but that doesn’t really matter, does it?” 

Xavier’s eyes are staring directly at the man before him, who speaks as though he’s imparting great wisdom, and all you can do is wonder where he’s taking this.

“The real question is whether you think he’s real. He can’t be real if you don’t believe in him - but if you do, then of course he is! Do you believe in Santa?” he asks, and after a few moments, your brother’s head dips up and down a few times. “Then of course he’s real - how could he not be? Never doubt what you believe in, and don’t let anybody make you doubt that, either.”

Xavier’s still nodding slowly, probably trying to take in what he’s being told.

“So... you believe in Santa? Even though you’re a grown up?”

“Xavier, I believe in Santa because I’m a grown up!”

“And he’s still real?”

“He’s realer than he’s ever been.”

Your little brother stares for a few moments longer, cogs still turning, and then finally - finally - that smile returns to his face. 

“I knew it!” he shouts victoriously, completely contradicting the circular conversation you’ve been trying to have with him for the past God only knows how long - but that’s not the point, you suppose. “Thank you!” he says, leaping off you and throwing himself towards Luke.

“Xav!” you call instinctively, but Luke reacts quickly, loosely wrapping one arm around your brother. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright.”

Xavier lets go, suddenly bursting with childlike energy once more, and you and Luke get to your feet as he goes to grab the jacket he threw forcefully towards nothing in particular, now a completely different child.

“Holy shit, thank you so much!” you say, turning to Luke. “I thought we were actually going to die here, I never thought I’d get him out of it.”

“It’s nothing, don’t mention it,” he replies with a light chuckle, eyes travelling from your brother to you. “Some kids can be nasty, huh?”

You just roll your eyes, still not completely out of your Skateboard Twat rage. 

“Is there anything I can do to say thank you?” you ask, checking the time on your phone. “Seriously, you have no idea how grateful I am to you right now.”

“It’s fine, it’s honestly fine,” he says, but you push back - hey, he’s got a nice face, alright?

“Let me get you a drink - I don’t know, a coffee? Do they do festive ones? Christmas stuff?” you realise your offer wasn’t as well thought through as you’d hoped, but luckily, he sees the humour in it.

“Alright, why don’t we go and see if Lily’s on the corner has anything in?” he says, smiling. “My brother said they did this gingerbread thing last year and it was probably the best thing he’s ever tasted in his life, so it’s probably something we should try, if they’ve got it.”

“Sounds good,” you say, unable to stop yourself smiling back, and you turn to find Xavier to stop yourself either blushing or just staring at his face, to be honest. “Xav, c’mon, let’s go. I’ll get you a hot chocolate,” you add, and that’s all it takes to get him bounding up alongside you.

Once he’s put his jacket on, the three of you start walking, and even just the thought of it makes you smile again.