It is Tuesday; it is Wednesday. And finally - or already? - it is Thursday, and on Thursday, it is the 24th. The Christmas Eve.

Leo looks around the room in which he had spent his every Christmas in the past several years. At first glance, everything is as it should be, as it always was; He has his usual place at the table, with his usual view at the fireplace. He stares into the fire. It crackles and spits, its lambent light stealing away the velvet-black shadows dancing on the wall. The fire's hypnotic jig of joy is as much a celebration as theirs always was. It wanted to be alive on Christmas Day also. A pageant of smells fills the house; smells he could only associate with this day, this place. Thyme-filled turkeys sizzling on the oven foil, battling to take over from the lavender-scented candles and the sulfurous smell of crackers that wafted in through the windows. He can hear them snapping and exploding outside, as well as the welcome sound of the kettle boiling coming from the kitchen. It is bubbling and hissing in the background, which breaks him out of his trance, and he turns away from the fire.

On the other side of the room, in the very corner, a Christmas tree flashes and flickers with its dazzling lights, its design surprisingly decent, not as extravagant as it had been the last time. An angel is perched on the top of it, his golden halo glittering. He likes it; he always has liked their decor, but this year he finds it especially entrancing.

So, yes. Everything is as it should be, but only in the very literal sense: every thing. Not everyone. Not the one that he cares about the most.

But he smiles, and he eats all that they bring him, and he tries to enjoy himself, he does. And yet, every time his gaze wanders to his right and he sees the empty seat - why did they leave it empty? - his smile falters, and he has to force himself to look away. It is selfish; it is ungrateful. He knows. But he can't stop thinking about him.

"Look on the bright side, Leo," Scott pipes up at one point, mouth full of stuffing. "Without Max here, there's twice as much Turkey for us!"

Shirley slaps his arm, but he smiles. Scott, ever the unfaltering optimist. He liked that about him, and every time they would talk on rehearsals, giggling about one thing or another, Max would always say something along the lines of: "Alright, sunny boys. Enough of this happy-go-lucky schmoozing; let's get to the real stuff!"

That was Max - the realist - talking.

And him? He isn't sure. Most call him an optimist, though he never knew what led them to that conclusion. He had always thought of all that could go wrong before considering the positives, after all, but maybe that wasn't so much his personality as it was his anxiety. That almost makes him chuckle, because it reminds him, once again, of Max: "You know, Leo, if you weren't so anxious all the time-" he would stop, realizing that he had backed himself into a corner- "then you would probably be pretty much the same, just more naive, I suppose. You know, I feel like the only reason you still haven't been eaten yet is because sometimes you're too nervous to follow your idealistic worldviews!"

He had been joking then - at least to a certain degree - but he now realizes how right that perception was. He is somewhat of an idealist, a reluctant optimist, maybe. But 'a naive idealist' suits him just about right.

The next to speak is Shirley, partly as a response to Scott, partly addressing him: "But maybe if he were here, Leo would eat at least some turkey. That's right, I see you-" she points a fork at him- "you've been pushing the same one bite around for the past five minutes!"

He actually laughs this time, looking down at the bite in question, halfway on the way to his mouth. That makes him laugh harder for some reason, and he has to put the fork down, in fear of accidentally catapulting the piece of turkey into the air. The others burst into laughter with him, as Shirley has to set the cutlery down herself, just to rub her eyes. "You are children; all of you," she adds when they won't stop chuckling, and he has to smile again. The reason for his loitering wasn't as much a matter of lost appetite than it was of the many sweets he's had before the main dish, but he lets her have it. Shirley - the most reliable pessimist of them all.

As the evening proceeds and the jolly commotion dies down, everyone slightly drunk on the atmosphere (or eggnog), they move on to the living room, where extra chairs and armchairs were put so that everyone has a place to sit, but it turns out to be rather futile; Scott leans on the staircase's railing, using it as a barré for some ballet-like poses. Brian and Kevin took the sofa, but instead of sitting on it, they're sprawled upon it, each on one side while they fight over more space. Shirley doesn't occupy the chair as much as she's trying to fix its unstable legs, while Roger and Sabu stand a little off to the side, fussing over a table with snacks. He settles himself in an armchair, with Carmen leaning on its headrest, looming over him. They don't talk, but he does something to his hair - whether he's trying to style it or just messes with it he can't tell - which would have normally made him uncomfortable, but tonight he's strangely comforted by it.

So as he finds himself looking around that house once more, at those wondrous decorations - at those people, who always accepted him, always cared for him - he is suddenly hit by a wave of emotion he didn't quite see coming, but then maybe he should have. Today he is happy, but he doesn't think anyone can tell. It's under the surface and mixed with some residual anxiety; a rather rare combination, even for him. Usually happy takes him up and anxious brings him down, so in that mixture he's simply focused on the present moment. Which, he supposes, is what got him through the day without thinking about Max's absence constantly; it allowed him to enjoy what was given to him. But now that neutral state is wearing off, he can feel, and he doesn't fight it. Instead, he reaches up and grasps Carmen's hand tightly, still threading through his hair, and he freezes for a moment. But then he squeezes it back reassuringly, bending over to his ear so that only he can hear him.

"What's wrong?" he asks, voice soft and undemanding, just as if he were asking him if he wants another cup of tea.

But he just shakes his head in response, not sure what he wanted to express by the gesture anyway. Carmen seems to understand this, though, and places his hands onto his shoulders shortly, before giving them a little pat and walking to the centre of the room.

"Alright, folks, listen up," he annonces, "I think it's time for the big finish. Leo is getting tired, so maybe we should do the tour and call it a day. What do you say?"

"I'm not tired." He immediately sits up. "Please, don't miss out on anything because of me. I'll stay as long as you'll have me, just do what you would normally do."

"But that is what we would normally do." Carmen assures him, smiling. "So up with you. We're gonna just take a drive around the city, stop at Rockefeller and go back. Okay?"

So "okay" he replies, and as they get dressed and as they get into the cabs already waiting for them, his unease subsides slowly, replaced by feelings of warmth and safety.

I'm lucky, he thinks, I'm so lucky.


As they drive through the city, it turns out that he was, after all, tired. He remembers falling asleep somewhere around the Park Avenue Armory and when he wakes, the car comes to a stop. From the window he can already see the twinkle of lights, can already hear the people cheering. He looks to his left and Carmen is still next to him, giving a small wink as he unbuckles their seatbelts and holds the door open for him. As he climbs out, the cold air hits his face, acrid and sharp compared to the cab's dry heat.

Seeing his displeased expression, Carmen comes over to him and adjusts his scarf so that it covers more of his face. He laughs at his fussing, but Carmen just waves his hand and leads them onto the square.

He breathes in the smells, the very atmosphere, remembering how last year he'd been with Max in this very spot, giddy with happiness. Maybe that feeling will reappear, he thinks. Maybe it'll be the same, if he lets it.

With or without Max, it is still Christmas.

Letting his eyes adjust to the bright glare of the neons and colorful lights, he lifts his head into the wind. The tree stands as poised as a ballet dancer to show the world its grace, strength showing in how it remains so still even in the seasonal gusts. It has started snowing, too, and he lets the snowflakes melt on his face. It is as impressive, as breathtaking as always, but it's in that moment that he knows that his hopes won't come true. That indescribable feeling from last winter won't come back. Not if he doesn't.

"Makes one feel small, doesn't it?" he hears Carmen say beside him. He is looking up to the tree as well, his eyes shining with almost childlike fascination.

"Yes," he affirms, giving him a small smile, "it really does."

Carmen nods, and is silent for a while, when he asks: "Are you okay?"

He turns, startled by the question. "What? I - yes, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Carmen shrugs, never taking his gaze away from the tree. "You are quiet. Well - quieter than usual."

He feels himself blush at that and is grateful for his scarf. He huddles his face into it, looking down. "You know why," he can only mutter.

Carmen sighs, finally turning to him as well. His face is a mixture of sympathy and - he struggles to find a word for this - excitement? Mischief? He doesn't know, but it makes him slightly uneasy.

"You really miss him, don't you?" It is a simple question, one he knows how to answer, but he can't. Not because he would be unsure of his answer, but because the moment Carmen said it, it was both a relief and a blow. Relief that someone understood, or was at least close to understanding how much he really missed him. A blow because it was still hard to imagine more than the rest of the year without him.

And he is afraid that if he spoke, he would cry.

"Leo," Carmen says when he notices his silence and reaches out for him, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I know you miss him. Surprisingly enough, I do, too."

He nods against his shoulder, still unable to speak, but manages to keep his composure.

"It's okay," he says when he releases him, handing him a single sparkler which he takes, slightly confused. "Come on, light it up and make a wish. Who knows, it might even come true. When, if not today, rightl?"

He finds it a little amusing, but does as he is told. As the sparkles sputter around, he closes his eyes and wishes for the same thing he had that Monday on their office's sofa.

Come back, he repeats to himself; repeats it to the skies, come home.

When he opens them again, he sees that they've all gathered around him - Roger, Carmen, Shirley, Brian, Kevin, Scott, Sabu - holding sparklers of their own and grinning at him from ear to ear. Even Shirley is smiling brightly, which, he has to admit, is a little unsettling to see, but heartwarming nonetheless. So he beams back, though he isn't sure what's so wonderful about him having made a wish, but then Roger steps aside.

Everything crumbles.

His smile falls, as does the sparkler from his hand, going out with a hiss. His breath hitches; the heat drains from his skin.

It can't be. But it is.

Max's face comes from the shadows, features suspended between anticipation and joy. Seconds pass, his brain taking him in, unable to formulate a thought, at least not one based in any language. How the ground between them is erased he'll never recall, but one moment they are apart and the next they are morphed into a single being. Suddenly his defences are just paper, paper that is being soaked by the rapidly falling snowflakes. Before he can draw in the air his body needs he has melted into his form, feeling his firm torso and the heart that beats within. One of Max's hands is folded around his back, drawing him in closer, the other in his hair.

He can feel his own body starting to shake, crying for the missed time they will never have back, crying to release the tension of these four long months. Max is the first to pull his head back, and they look at each other - really look at each other. In that second he is overtaken by such an intense sense of calm that he believes, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he will never leave him.

"Stay," he whispers when he can speak. The only thing going through his head. Stay, stay, stay.

"I will," Max vows.


When they sit in the Upper East Side's living room again that same evening, everything is as it should be. Everyone is where they should be.

Shirley, Brian, Kevin, Scott and Sabu are all sitting on the floor, playing some card game that he's been trying to watch and understand its rules, but in the end he couldn't. He is still drunk on happiness - and now maybe on gin too, which Max made him drink to warm up - and he can't quite focus.

Him and Max share the sofa, the feeling of sitting next to him again so foreign yet incredibly familiar, and he is content. This time he really is. He is still cold, shivering from excitement that won't subside even after more than an hour, but he doesn't mind. Cold is good if you are warm inside.

When he looks at Roger and Carmen, sitting in the armchairs in front of them, they are as happy as ever, their hushed tones bright and careless. And yet, he can't help but see them differently; can't help but fight the urge to get up and hug them again. When Carmen told him what he did so that he and Max could be together, he had been speechless. He will be leaving for London on the 25th, he'd said, off to take Max's place, and returning in April. He already knew that he would miss him too, as well as Roger and the rest of the house, but Carmen had been insistent. He wanted to go; he had to go. He will go.

So he had already started thinking of ways to repay him instead.

But even as he sat there that night - this magical night that he couldn't imagine ending any better - he didn't believe that it had been a miracle. Instead, he believed in the love his friends apparently held for him; he believed in the love that he held for them.

Which was, after all, a miracle itself.


A/N: Thank you for reading. May your own Christmas wishes come true :)