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Time is funny. It feels like not too long ago, Theo was spending Christmas Eve with his mom in their apartment. Rolling cookie dough on the counter and getting flour all over his pajamas.
Now he’s spending his Christmas Eve stumbling around black out drunk with his best friend who can only be described as what he imagines a Ukrainian vampire would look like.
“I told you,” Boris protests into his ear, breath hot against Theo’s skin. “S’no point putting out food for reindeer that don’t exist.”
Theo just ignores him, continuing to lazily throw carrots onto to the ground in the front yard. He stopped believing in Santa years ago, but there’s something comforting in still going through the childish rituals. Or maybe he just needs to go to bed.
“Theo,” Boris groans and he feels a cold hand tug at his wrist. “Is fucking freezing out.”
“Fine.” He tosses the rest of the carrots and then turns to head back into the house, tripping over the front steps.
This cycle he has with Boris, this constant dance of being stupid, getting fucked up, and then-
It’s nauseating, it’s exhausting. He can’t get enough of it.
He’s not a big fan of pain killers. He prefers a lucid acid trip over the way oxy makes time flick in and out of existence, disobeying the rules. He’s standing in the yard throwing frozen carrots to the ground and his head swims, he blinks, and he’s on the couch with Boris kissing the side of his neck like it’s normal. Like what they have- whatever the fuck they have- is normal and not some fucked up push and pull of terrifying and exciting. But aren’t those feelings really just one and the same?
Theo tries to keep his eyes open as Boris weaves his hands through his hair. His heart beat feels too slow and too loud. His limbs feel too heavy and every time he sucks in oxygen it feels like his chest is getting smaller and smaller. But that last part is mainly because of the boy hovering over him.
“Theo,” Boris murmurs and the way he says it, voice thick with booze and scratchy from cigarettes, makes him wonder if this is all just some opioid-induced dream because the boy he’s looking at surely can’t be real.
He tries to speak his name back, like they’re reciting an oath, but his mouth feels like cotton. He raises his hand up instead, bringing it to Boris’ face, tracing the bridge of his nose, tapping his lips. A smile slowly pools across Theo’s face like warm honey and Boris leans down to kiss him again and he lazily moves his arm from his face to the back of his neck to bring him in closer. He tastes like hot chocolate and vodka and he smiles against his lips, fingers stretching upward to grab onto the other boy’s curls.
Boris pulls away, lips wet and shining and his eyes gleaming. “Imagine,” he says and Theo can’t tell if he’s trying not to laugh or trying not to barf. “Imagine if Santa comes down chimney and sees us.”
A laugh bubbles its way out of Theo’s throat and soon he’s shaking with it, lips stuck in a trembling smile even as the laughing turns into gagging turns into twisting away from the other boy and vomiting over the side of the couch.
Time tilts again and when it goes back into focus they’re both on the floor of Theo’s bedroom. There’s something sharp and minty in his mouth and he reaches for it blindly, getting a reddish slobber all over his fingers.
“Is candy cane,” Boris explains, propping himself up and wiping Theo’s fingers off on his shirt. “You taste like puke.”
“Who woulda thought?” he slurs and Boris giggles, fucking giggles, and Theo tries not to just die right there because they’re drunk and they’re high but Christ all fucking mighty what are they doing? Boris can’t just kiss him and touch him like he matters like he’s someone Boris would choose over and over and over again no matter what and then act like it never happened the next morning. He looks up at Boris, his pale face, jet black curls, blown pupils. He sits up, chewing the last bit of his candy cane and swallowing it.
“Where are you going?” he asks as Theo staggers to his feet.
“Home.”
“You are home, idiot.”
Frustration pricks him slightly. “Then out.” He just needs to get away. Away from Boris’ warm lips and hands.
“It’s two in the fucking morning, Potter.” Theo opens his mouth to respond but trips, barely catching himself with the door handle, closing his eyes as he sways, attempting to steady himself. “You can’t even walk.”
He doesn’t bother to respond. He just grunts in annoyance and stumbles to the front door, fumbling around in the darkness until he hears the doorhandle click. He steps back out into the cold and slams the door behind him, clumsily falling on his butt and sitting on the front stoop.
He wonders what would happen if he were to stay out here all night. He wonders if Boris would just shrug his shoulders and light another joint and call it a night. He could probably freeze to death, if he stayed out here long enough. If it was a white Christmas, maybe Boris would wake up the next morning to find his body mummified in ice, buried deep under the snow.
Christ, he really needs to sleep. If he’s asleep when he freezes, maybe he won’t be able to feel it.
“Potter,” someone behind him says. He ignores him. He’s exhausted. He’s so fucking exhausted of Boris only wanting him when he’s too hammered to tell up from down. Maybe that’s why he does it, cuz when they’re fucked up, it’s easier for Boris to pretend Theo’s a girl.
He feels a cold hand on the back of his neck, pressing against his pulse point. “Not frozen,” Boris says dumbly and Theo lets the barest hint of a smile flash across his face. Boris sits down next to him, trembling slightly from the cold.
He wants to kiss him again. He wants to kiss him until his lungs are screaming for air and his pulse is thundering in his ears. He wants to kiss him until he’s the most powerful drug running through him, overpowering the rest.
There’s soft hair on the side of his face and he realizes that Boris is resting his head on his shoulder, letting his soft fingers dance delicately over Theo’s. “Merry Christmas, Potter,” he says, accent thick. He feels lips against his neck, just under his ear and God he could die a happy man if he died right here, if him and Boris froze together, their lips and hands fitting together like icy puzzle pieces.
“Merry Christmas,” he mumbles back. He doesn’t turn to slot their lips together like his whole body is aching for right now. He just exhales, his breath a plume of smoke in the December night air, and tries to focus on the warmth of Boris’ hand in his, of the warmth of this moment even though the he’ll wake up tomorrow colder than before.