Standing Right Outside Your Door
Author: Mokuyoubi
Pairing: Panic GSF, mention of Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 30,900
Summary: Christmas-y AU. “Brendon,” Frank said slowly, “you’re not really considering making a life-changing decision based off a Will Ferrell movie, are you?” Brendon is an elf, tired of living at the North Pole, so he escapes to the least Christmas-like place he can think of…
AN: Thank you to behindthec for betaing and making me smile a lot in the process…Any mistakes left are down to my stupidity…Thanks to my Muse for pretending to be excited about bandom and role-playing Spencer with me when I try to make him too nice… Title comes from the song "All I Want For Christmas Is You." Because I'm cheesy, but not that cheesy.

Chapter


There was a fire crackling merrily and the whole house smelled of pine and orange. The windows were slowly frosting over, delicate etchings creeping inward from the corners. Snow fell, soft and silent, blanketing everything.

Brendon hated snow. He watched it swirl and eddy outside his window, drifting to the ground growing ever higher. It was almost to his windowsill. He knew when he woke in the morning it would be past his front door, and he’d have to climb out his bedroom window and ski into work.

When he was younger he loved playing in it, making snow angels and (to his parent’s infinite dismay) snow demons. His team had always been the best at snow ball fights (it was difficult for them not to be, with Pete doing all the planning and building insane forts, and Frank charging into the fray, pelting people indiscriminately with a shriek that terrified the other team’s players), and Brendon had been a fucking artiste when it came to building snowmen.

He could ski the most dangerous slopes and he’d put those fucking Olympic skiers to shame. Not to mention the fact that he could figure skate like a pro. It was just…that sort of thing sort of lost its appeal after twenty-two years straight of nothing but.

He sent a text to Frank snows not letting up you should just spend the night, and dont forget the hard liquor. if i have to drink another cup of eggnog, im gonna make the werid al song a reality

The phone buzzed back a second later. trying to seduce me, Urie, you charmer? I raided Pete’s cabinets, be there in ten. p.s. I’m not watching ntmr b4 xmas again; its never gonna happen, you freak.

pizzas almost ready, htfu, Brendon sent back.

Frank’s only response was one of the little cartoon pictograms flipping him off. Brendon smiled despite his bad mood and turned to his movie collection. Getting things shipped up here was ridiculously expensive and the paperwork was a pain in the ass, anyway, so most of Brendon’s movies had been appropriated from work. There were always leftovers—accidental doubles, last minute switches from the nice column to naughty, or the realisation that the intended recipient was way too young for the movie they had requested.

They usually ended up sorted into boxes in one of the storage rooms, never to be seen again, and Brendon thought that was just a big waste. Patrick was happy to look the other way, but Brendon had been lectured more than once by the big guy about how it was the principle of the thing.

The door burst open, letting in a rush of cold air and a small flurry of snowflakes. Frank stamped his feet on the welcome rug and slammed the door shut behind him. His arms were full of glass bottles of liquor and plastic bags filled with junk food hung from both wrists.

Frank was still dressed in his (altered) uniform. He’d made his leggings by taking an old pair of Patrick’s green ones and Pete’s red ones and turning them into a strange checkerboard pattern. Greta had donated one of her skirts to the cause, and Frank had raised them hem a few inches. He said he was challenging the gender stereotypes, but Brendon thought he was just trying to give the big guy an aneurism. Frank had been written up so many times for uniform violations that they’d just stopped bothering.

“What are we watching?” Frank asked, spreading the shit out over the coffee table. He kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the couch, on Brendon’s side, too, just to be a bitch.

Brendon shrugged and held up a copy of Elf he’d recently ‘borrowed’ from the line. “You a fucking freak, Urie,” he said, and then, “but at least it isn’t Tim Burton.” Brendon threw the empty case at him, and put in the movie.

Frank let Brendon curl under his arm and they drank Pete’s homebrew (made from whatever fruit he could get his hands on, and the rum that was supposed to be rationed into the nog, but far stronger) straight from the bottle, passing it back and forth between swallows. Half a bottle and two frozen pizzas later, Brendon was feeling slightly less annoyed about the snow.

“This movie’s bullshit, yo,” Frank muttered around a mouthful of caramel corn.

“Shut up, I like Will Ferrell,” Brendon said. “And I swear to god, if you get going like Patrick about fucking inaccuracies…how is Hollywood supposed to know?”

Frank rolled his eyes, which sort of rankled on Brendon’s nerves. He was in a shitty mood anyway. “Besides,” Brendon said, “I mean, I sort of like the idea.”

“What idea?” Frank asked slowly. “Bringing some freakish giant orphan here?”

Brendon poked Frank hard in the stomach. They weren’t that short. “We aren’t that short,” he said. Frank laughing uncontrollably wasn’t really unnecessary, especially since he was shorter than Brendon. “We aren’t,” Brendon protested. “Maybe Patrick…Pete…you—ow,” Brendon laughed, rubbing his arm where Frank had punched him.

“You’ve got, like, two inches on me, fucker,” Frank said.

“Anyway,” Brendon continued on, undaunted, “that isn’t what I meant. I meant the leaving part.” Frank stared at Brendon unblinking. “What, seriously? We hate it here.”

“I don’t hate it. I love you and Pete and Patrick and Greta and everyone. Just. The job blows,” Frank said.

“The job, the weather, the perpetual Christmas cheer and the perpetual douchebaggery and stupid rules about what we can and can’t do with our own goddamned lives. I bake cookies for a living, Frank.”

“Really good cookies,” Frank said earnestly.

“I wanna do something else, Frank,” Brendon snapped. “I don’t know; dance, sing something other than fucking Christmas carols, interior decoration, fuck, I don’t care, I could cut people’s hair for a living if it wasn’t here.”

“Brendon,” Frank said slowly, “you’re not really considering making a life-changing decision based off a Will Ferrell movie, are you?”

Brendon’s lips twisted into a scowl and he hid his face in Frank’s shoulder. “No,” he said petulantly.

Frank kissed Brendon’s forehead and ran soothing fingers through his hair and Brendon tried to relax and be content. He’d been content, he thought. Maybe. When he was very little, and life at the North Pole had seemed magical, the possibilities limitless. He wanted to get back there. He was old enough to know he’d never be perfectly content, but this feeling, like his skin was too tight and he was slowly being suffocated, snow pressing in on all sides—this he couldn’t take.

They cuddled up together in Brendon’s bed long after midnight, tipsy and drowsy and so full of pizza and chips and popcorn and candy that it hurt. Frank fell asleep right away, drooling a little on the pillow. He was the greatest best friend Brendon could ask for, but sometimes Frank just didn’t get it.

Outside the window the multicoloured glow of the lights decorating the eaves of Brendon’s house cast soft spots of colour over the room. “Frank,” he whispered, not expecting an answer. “I’m so unhappy.”

It took him ages to fall asleep.




Once the idea had gotten into Brendon’s head, he couldn’t seem to get it out. October was just ending, which meant things were really gearing up in town. The streets were filled with skiers and sleds and children playing. Everyone was bustling around like crazy people, and Brendon was churning out about six dozen cookies every half-hour, like clockwork.

Usually work got his mind off his problems, because he was so busy, but now he just found himself getting distracted, making stupid mistakes. He’d had to throw out five batches of burnt cookies and he’d decorated another batch all wrong. Greta kept giving him sympathetic looks, and finally told him she’d cover for him if he wanted to head home early.

Brendon didn’t go home. He knew if he went home, or talked to Frank, he’d eventually get over the feeling. Except even if he wasn’t completely distracted and miserable, he wouldn’t be happy, either.

So instead of going home, Brendon went to Pete and Patrick’s. Their home was at the very edge of Christmastown. It was Santa’s not so subtle way of trying to get rid of them, or at least ignore them. He didn’t really like anything that didn’t jive with his idea of Christmas, and two gay elves definitely didn’t jive. Except Pete loved Christmas, and was totally oblivious to Santa’s attempts.

Pete and Patrick worked out of their home. Pete was in charge of keeping track of the state of Illinois’ naughty and nice children. Patrick was always working on new versions of old Christmas songs. He arranged them and sang them. Brendon had used to work with him, because he loved to sing, until he got sick of singing the same things all the time, and besides, he didn’t feel the lyrics anymore.

Brendon brought some cookies because Patrick loved them, and Pete loved anything with sugar. Patrick took one look at him and seated him in front of the fire with a mug of doctored hot chocolate.

“I want to leave Christmastown,” Brendon said.

Patrick and Pete shared a look. “We were wondering when you were going to say anything,” Pete said. Brendon felt his jaw drop.

“So here’s the plan,” Pete continued. “I’m going to lend you Sally.” Sally was Pete’s pet reindeer. She was the runt of her family, and when Pete had asked for her, the stable hands had gladly let him take her off their hands.

“Are you sure she can handle it?” Brendon asked.

“Don’t underestimate Miss Sally. She’ll be good for one run, and she’ll be coming back without your extra weight. Which, since you’re a stick, is pretty unsubstantial, anyway,” Pete said, dodging Brendon’s half-hearted punch.

“I’ve got some money set aside, too,” Pete said.

“Money?” Brendon asked, agape. “How, why, what for?”

“Because he’s a corrupt idiot,” Patrick said in a fond way.

Pete shrugged, grinning. “Whatever. Sometimes the naughty kids send bribes to get put on the nice list.”

“Seriously?” Brendon said. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or horrified.

“Seriously,” Pete said. He went to his desk and came back with a jingling sack. “Most of it is in coins, cause the kids don’t have a lot of allowance since they’re, you know, naughty.”

“But why?” Brendon asked. “What good does it do you?”

“It helps when my friend wants to run away,” Pete said, smirking. Brendon bit his lip on a smile. “Anyway, I’ve managed to save a whole hundred and seventeen dollars.”

Brendon felt his eyes go wide. “Wow.” That seemed like a lot. Like, in movies, people got happy about getting a hundred dollars, right? Well, they seemed happier about thousands and millions, but they were definitely happy about a hundred. That should be okay.

“You guys are so awesome,” Brendon said. “Thank you so much.”

“Do you know where you want to go?” Patrick asked.

Brendon had thought about this. A lot. For longer than he’d been unhappy, Brendon had wondered about the rest of the world. He’d made a mental list of all the places he’d like to visit, if he was ever able to leave. Now, he’d narrowed that list down to places that were as different from the North Pole and Christmastown as possible.

“Yeah,” Brendon said, “I think so.”




There was a kid laid out spread-eagle in the sand. At first, Jon thought he might be hurt or something, but when he drew close, he could see the boy moving his arms and legs back and forth. He was wearing some sort of Christmas-elf costume and the sand all around him was filled with sand angels. Jon had to take a picture or seven.

The boy sat up, though he couldn’t have heard the camera clicking. When he spotted Jon, he sprang nimbly to his feet, dashing over. “Hello,” he said brightly. He took Jon in, head to toe, and said, “You’re the first real person I’ve met, and you’re shorter than me!”

There wasn’t a lot Jon could say to that, so he nodded his agreement. The boy smiled so wide it looked like it hurt. “I was worried everyone would be giants,” he whispered. “I’m glad you’re not. I’m Brendon.”

Jon might have found Brendon a little ridiculous, in a charming sort of way. “I’m Jon.”

“Oh, I’m very pleased to meet you,” Brendon said. “I thought maybe no one lived here.”

“No one does live here,” Jon said. “You’re in the middle of the desert. I’m just out here on a job.” He waved his camera illustratively.

“Oh.” Brendon wrinkled his nose. He was probably the palest person Jon had ever seen and he was burning over his cheeks, forehead and the bridge of his nose. “I thought this was Las Vegas.”

“You’re just a few miles off,” Jon said. “Twenty minutes west.”

“Oh,” Brendon said again. It was sort of adorable, the way he kept saying it. His face brightened again. “Thank you.”

“You might wanna put on some sunscreen, too,” Jon said. “That burn’s probably gonna peel.”

Brendon blinked in polite confusion. “Burn?” he repeated.

Jon didn’t know what the kid’s game was. He seemed sincere enough. Jon rummaged through his pack for his tube of sunscreen and handed it to Brendon. Brendon took it and stared at it blankly. “Thank you,” he said.

They stood in an awkward silence for a second. “You, uh, put it on,” Jon said, gesturing helpfully.

“Oh. Oh!” Brendon flipped open the lid and squeezed some into his hand, rubbing it between his fingers.

Jon bit his lip on the sudden urge to laugh. “Here,” he said, scooping it off Brendon’s fingers. He rubbed it gently over Brendon’s face. Brendon’s eyes fluttered shut and he turned his face upward.

“Thank you,” he said, when Jon had finished. “Twenty minutes that way?” he asked, pointing. Jon nodded. Brendon smiled and began to march off with a jaunty wave. Jon watched him a few minutes, frowning, then jogged after him.

“Where’s your car?” Jon called.

“Oh, I don’t need one,” Brendon assured him. “Twenty minutes isn’t far.”

Jon was used to weirdoes—there’d been plenty in Chicago and even more in Las Vegas. This guy seemed like the harmless sort. “I meant in a car. It’s like, twenty miles.”

“Is that far?” Brendon asked, brow furrowing.

Jon didn’t manage to contain his laugh that time, but Brendon didn’t seem hurt by it. He smiled brightly in return. “It’s far, especially out here. You can’t walk that far in the desert without lots of water and a compass, and like, survival skills,” Jon explained. He hoped it was implicit that he didn’t think Brendon had any of these things.

Brendon twisted his lips up considering. “Look, how did you get out here?” Jon asked.

“A friend lent me a reindeer,” Brendon said. “But I think she got confused when the weather got so hot, and I sent her on home. I guess I didn’t think this through very well.” He shrugged and gave Jon a self-deprecating grin. “But I was so excited. There’s no snow anywhere.”

“No,” Jon agreed. “There really isn’t. A reindeer, huh?”

“Oh.” Brendon looked at him. “I meant, horse.” He made a funny, fake laughing sound and flapped his hand dismissively.

It occurred to Jon that maybe he hadn’t brought enough liquids with him this particular trip. He could just be hallucinating the whole thing. If he wasn’t, though, he’d feel awfully bad about leaving the kid in the desert.

“I’m heading back into town now. I can give you a ride.” He could already hear Spencer’s lecture in his head.

“Really?” Brendon asked, perking up. “Thank you so much.” His entire face just lit up, and Jon thought Spencer’s lecture was worth it.

Brendon was excited by everything. Jon had forgotten to be impressed with cacti and the rainbow of colours to be found in the desert rocks, but Brendon was like a child. He kept pointing out things that no one else might find interesting, and Jon kept finding himself taking pictures, utterly entranced.

“Where are you heading?” Jon asked, when they finally make it back to his pickup.

Brendon shrugged. “I don’t know. Las Vegas. I want to play in the casinos, and sing in the shows, and all that.”

“Do you have a place to stay?” Jon asked. He shouldn’t have been concerned, but Brendon seemed sweet and innocent, and Jon wasn’t a dick. Someone like Brendon shouldn’t be left alone in Vegas.

“Oh, no, but it’s alright,” Brendon assured him. “Pete gave me, like, one hundred dollars!” He stated the sum like it was something impressive and not something that could be gambled away in less than a minute.

“You don’t have some place to stay?” Jon asked. He could just imagine the expressions on Spencer and Ryan’s faces if he brought this kid home.

“It will be okay,” Brendon said. “I have faith.” Like that mattered at all.

Brendon began flipping through one of Jon’s portfolios, making humming noises of approval, and Jon turned on the radio. Brendon was delighted by every song that came on, whether he knew it or not.　

“You have so many songs here,” Brendon said. “At home our radio only played Christmas songs.”

Jon frowned in confusion. “All year long?” he asked.

Brendon nodded wearily. “I just stopped turning it on. But Patrick has a really awesome record collection—a lot of times we’ll all get together at his place and listen to music all weekend. But this is even better.”

“I like your photography, too,” Brendon said. “Are these all your pets?”

Jon chuckled. “Yeah. We have a lot of them. I’m more of a cat guy, but my roommates are dog people.” He shrugged. “Luckily they’re nothing like regular dogs and cats. They don’t fight at all.”

Brendon smiled, flipping to a picture of all the animals cuddled, dozing together in a strip of sun slanting through the window. “We’re not really allowed to have pets back home,” Brendon said. “I mean, some people get them, but they’re not supposed to. I always wanted a dog, but I wouldn’t be able to take care of it right.”

Jon privately thought that Brendon’s home sounded kind of horrible.

When they hit the edge of town, Brendon went silent, drinking everything in with wide eyes. “This is Las Vegas?” he asked.

“This is it,” Jon said. He wasn’t sure what there was to be impressed by. Out on the edges here the hotels were dirty and the casinos were lacklustre. Few tourists came out this far from the heart of the Strip.

“You can just let me off anywhere,” Brendon said. “I want to do everything.”

Jon waited until they were out of the dodgier part of town. When the low slung, mostly abandoned buildings gave way to narrower streets lined with boutiques and strip malls, he pulled over in a parking lot.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Jon asked. It was Vegas, so his outfit might not be that big of a problem, but the kid was still weird enough that he was going to draw some attention, and it was probably going to be the wrong sort.

“I’ll be fine,” Brendon assured him, “I know what escalators are.” And with that odd proclamation, Brendon hopped down from the cab of the truck. “Thanks for your help, Jon. I’ll see you later.” He waved cheerfully as he trotted off.

Jon watched him go with a strange feeling in his chest. He started the truck up and inched it up alongside Brendon, rolling down the window. “Hey,” he shouted. “Look, if you need anything, call me, will you?” He leaned over the passenger side, holding out his business card.

Brendon hesitated, just staring at it for a second, before stepping close and taking it. He gave Jon a smile that made Jon’s heart do something funny in his chest. “Alright, Jon Walker,” he read.



“I need to find a new dive,” Ryan muttered into the bar top. “This place is too cheerful.” He hadn’t written anything all afternoon.

“If you call my place a dive one more time…” Mark said, flinging his rag in Ryan’s direction. On stage some touristy, wannabe diva was belting out “Believe.” It could have been tragic, it if wasn’t so hilarious.

“I need angst,” Ryan said. He contemplated the half-full page of lyrics he was working on. “And absinthe.” Mark slapped a bottle on the counter and they shared quirky smiles.

Ryan hadn’t really meant to turn the place into his regular haunt, but it was conveniently close to campus and to Spencer’s job, and he got cheap booze and free entertainment, so it sort of happened. Spencer never let him hear the end of it.

James came over out of costume, sliding onto the stool next to Ryan and laying his elbows out on the counter. “When we gonna get you up there?” he asked slyly, cutting his gaze to the stage.

Ryan snorted into his cup. “God, that kid is insane,” James said, looking off toward the dressing rooms. There was a guy in an elf costume, pestering Danny dressed as Celine.

“What is he doing?” Ryan asked.

“Collecting autographs,” James said. “He’s like, fucking serious about it, too. Definitely a weirdo.”

Well, as if the costume didn’t give that away from the start. Danny went into the back and the kid started up on one of the Tinas. Ryan could never tell them apart. Mark frowned. “Hey, kid, what the hell are you doing?”

The boy came over. “You won’t believe all the famous people here,” he said in a loud whisper. “I mean, I knew that Las Vegas was popular, but this is just amazing. And did you know, everyone in my hometown thinks that Elvis is dead, but I’ve seen him eight times since I got here! And I only got here this morning. He must be, like, really busy, because he’s been all over town. You’d think someone would notice he isn’t really dead.”

Ryan hid his grin in his cup, watching the bewildered exchange of looks between Mark and James. “Look, kid, you’ve got to quit pestering the performers.”

The kid had the decency to look honestly contrite. “I’m sorry,” he said. He was sort of cute, for a freak. “I’ve just never been out of my hometown before.”

Ryan couldn’t resist. He had to know. The kid had to be from Ohio or somewhere equally as boring. “And where’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, the North Pole,” the boy said. And it wasn’t that Ryan didn’t appreciate a little hyperbole here and there, but he still rolled his eyes at the expression. “No one cool and famous ever goes there.”

Mark scowled. “Hey. Either buy something to drink, get up on stage, or get lost.”

The kid’s big brown eyes went wider and his pretty, full mouth dropped open a little in surprise. He had the most amazing lashes, Ryan observed, in a dimly shocked sort of way. “Me?” he asked. Then his face split in a ridiculous grin. “Get on stage?”

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Ryan whispered. He and James shared gleeful looks. It was usually the ones most excited about getting up on stage that sucked the worst.

“I’ll go help him get ready,” James offered. “Come on kid.”

“I’m Brendon,” the kid piped up helpfully.

“Great. Let’s go.” James grabbed Brendon’s arm and led him off towards the back.

Probably one of the biggest reasons Ryan came back was the fact that before six every weekday, the stage was open to amateurs. There was generally a steady stream of tourists that trickled in for the lunch special, and there was nothing better than lonely, overweight housewives and drunken frat boys getting done up to look like drag queens, then getting on stage and embarrassing themselves. Maybe Ryan enjoyed a little secret schadenfreude. Or not so secret.

James came back out after two other tourists had taken their turns—a Parton impersonator and a painful Mariah Carey. “That kid is fucking insane,” James repeated, sitting down heavily.

Ryan arched a pointed brow and struck a listening pose. James shook his head. “When he realised he had to do it in drag, he got all excited and started telling me about challenging gender norms and how it would piss off Santa.”

“What the fuck?” Ryan asked, laughing a little. “It’s barely November.”

James shrugged. “Maybe he came to town hoping to get into one of the Christmas shows.”

Brendon came out on stage to a few catcalls and whistles, and Ryan could maybe understand why. He was wearing slinky dark blue sequined gown that hugged his body, showing off a slender, compact frame and probably one of the nicest asses Ryan had ever seen, on a boy or a girl. His makeup was dramatic and perfect—dark shadow around the eyes making them pop, colour high in the cheeks and deep maroon gloss that made his lips look even fuller and more kissable.

“At least he’s nice to look at,” Mark mumbled. It seemed to be the general consensus of the crowd. Several of the guests and the regular performers who were hanging around before their shifts were commenting on it, whispers crossing the room.

Brendon went to the microphone, practically shaking with nerves. “Um. They didn’t have the song I wanted to sing, which I think is really sad, because if this is a bar for drag queens, they should totally have this music. So anyway, they said I could play it myself.”

“Oh, god,” one of the regular boys said.

Brendon went to the piano, sweeping his skirt beneath him carefully, and positioning the microphone. He laid his fingers over the keys and took a deep breath, and when he began to play, Ryan fell a tiny bit in love. The melody wasn’t really familiar, but Brendon played it beautifully, fingers darting gracefully over the keys. When he started to sing, Ryan fell the rest of the way. His voice. Rich and clear and equally lovely on high notes as on low, and tinged with melancholy, sometimes a little growly or raw, but perfect.

A pleased murmur went through the boys and Danny jumped up from his seat to climb on the stage and grab another mic. Brendon gave him an encouraging smile and when he went into the chorus, Danny harmonised with him.

“You guys know this?” Ryan asked.

“Are you kidding?” James said, laughing, eyes fixed on Brendon. “It’s “Wig in a Box,” man.” Which, okay, Ryan might have been able to guess from the lyrics. Hedwig and the Angry Inch,” James said, when Ryan gave him a confused look.

Maybe Ryan had heard the title in one of his classes at University—Gay and Lesbian Lit, or something. More of the boys got on the stage just in time for Brendon to say, “Okay, everybody!” They finished the song together, to cheers from the crowd.

There were calls for an encore, and Brendon graciously complied, going into “Chain of Fools,” and then doing another cover from Hedwig, ‘Wicked Little Town,’ which maybe gave Ryan chills up and down his spine. He wanted to hear Brendon’s voice sing everything.

When Brendon came back from backstage he was dressed again in his little elf costume. He’d mostly washed off the makeup but there was eyeliner clinging to his lids and a faint sheen of colour over his lips. Ryan felt a little sick to his stomach with guilt at how attracted he was to Brendon. It didn’t make things better when Brendon claimed the stool right next to Ryan and smiled at him.

“Do you sing, too?” Brendon asked him.

“Um. No,” Ryan said.

Brendon leaned over to look at Ryan’s notebook. Ryan normally wouldn’t have allowed it, but he was frozen. Brendon’s chin was hooked over Ryan’s shoulder casually, like Brendon just always randomly touched strangers. Ryan wouldn’t have been surprised, given the kid’s behaviour thus far.

“These are really good, though,” he said, voice close to Ryan’s ear.

Ryan shuddered and pushed him away. He shut the notebook and tucked it against his chest. “They aren’t anything special,” he said, and glared.

Brendon frowned and leaned back. “I’m sorry,” he said gravely. It made Ryan sort of want to touch him.

“You should stay for the show tonight,” Danny said, coming up and slinging an arm over Brendon’s shoulder.

“Maybe you could go on stage with us,” James suggested.

“Oh,” Brendon said, “that’s so kind of you, but I really can’t stay all that long. I have to gamble. I’ve been in Las Vegas almost an entire day, and I haven’t even gone to a casino yet!”

Danny and James frowned at each other. “But…you could come back later.”

“Oh, yes,” Brendon said. “I like singing very much. And you don’t know what an honour it is, to be allowed to perform on the stage as so many of the greats.” He sounded so serious about it. So sincere.

“Yeah,” James agreed softly. If James wasn’t calling bullshit, he had to hear the kid’s sincerity, too.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Ryan mumbled, more to himself than to anyone, but he didn’t miss Mark’s concerned look. He shoved his notebook in his bag and shoved a few bills on the counter. “See you guys later.”

Brendon gave him another smile, this one a little strained around the edges, and waved goodbye at him.



Spencer hadn’t planned on staying in Vegas this long; he and Ryan had had this very carefully outlined plan of escape after high school. Except then life had happened, and it turned out that they actually liked living in Vegas.

He knew a lot of his co-workers hated their jobs, he knew the turnover rate was ridiculously high. He actually liked what he did pretty well, though. Being a croupier could blow, he supposed, if you weren’t doing it right. But Spencer knew how to treat his players, and since the house didn’t make them pool tips, he got to take home a nice sum every night.

He was good at what he did, too, which meant his bosses were happy to let him have night shifts. Those always brought in the best tips, and gave Spencer plenty of time to go to classes. He made more working four days a week than most people did in a month’s salary. Plus, he got to see some strange and downright hilarious things.

Like, for example, some kid dressed as a fucking elf, who was totally not old enough to be in the casino sitting himself down at Spencer’s table. His other players had just departed and he was considering changing the rules of the table when the elf-kid took a seat in the centre, placing two stacks of 5 dollar red chips in front of him.

Spencer eyed him for a long moment, pursing his lips. “I'm sorry. You have to be at least 21 to play.”

The boy gave him a winning grin and held up a Nevada State ID that proclaimed him to be twenty-two. Spencer eyed it dubiously, but shrugged. It wasn’t his place to question things unless someone had an obviously fake ID, and this one looked okay. “Sorry about that, sir. I'm required to check.”

“Buy in is fifteen dollars, payout is 2:1,” Spencer explained. He ran his finger across the rules, and added, “This table is soft 17. I trust you know the rules of blackjack?” He arched a brow.

The boy shuffled in his seat and nodded his head. “I try to get twenty-one, right?”

Spencer gave him a tight smile. “That’s right,” he agreed. “Let’s play.”

He meant to deal the hand in silence, really. He never started conversations. If the guest was chatty, he kept his comments polite and detached. But he was curious. “Are you in a show?” he asked.

The boy stared at him in disbelief. “I did sing in a drag show earlier,” he said. “How did you know?”

Spencer faltered a bit before laying down the next card. He had to bite his lip hard. “Lucky guess,” he said dryly. “Are you in the show at Cheng’s?” Spencer didn’t think that they were already doing a Christmas shows, but since Ryan had forbid him from going to any drag show except the one at The Mansion, he couldn’t really say for sure.

“Oh, no,” the boy said. “I'm planning to get a job at the Cirque. But today's my first day in Las Vegas and I wanted to do the most anti-Christmas thing I could think of, and Pete said something about hookers, but eww no thanks. So I figured singing in a drag show and gambling are good in a pinch.”

The rule was they weren’t really supposed to talk to the guests. Of course they couldn’t be rude, and they had to respond when spoken to, but conversation was frowned upon. Except, Spencer couldn’t not comment on that. He fought back on his initial response of laughter and said, “Anti-Christmas?”

“Oh,” the boy said, expression grave. “I hate Christmas.”

“But,” Spencer said, and paused. “Your costume…is this some kind of performance art thing?”

The boy frowned. “No,” he said glumly. “It's my work uniform. I don't have any other clothes except my PJs.” He leaned over to whisper, tone excited, “After I win big in the casinos, I'm going to buy a pair of blue jeans. I've heard they're really comfortable!”

Spencer twisted his lips in annoyance. Either the guy was some frat boy on a dare, or just plain crazy. “Yes, sir,” he said blandly. “There's nothing like blue jeans for comfort and versatility.”

“I've seen in movies that there are entire buildings with nothing but different kinds of clothes, and you can buy them in colours other than red and green.”

Yeah. Definitely a frat jerk, then. “That's true, sir,” he said. “Many different colours. And sometimes even patterns. Would you like to hit or stay?”

The boy scrambled to look at his cards. “Um… Hit?”

Spencer laid down another card for the boy and another for himself. The boy stayed. “Player has 18 Dealer has 22. Congratulations, sir,” he said, paying it out.

The boy made a face. “Sir sounds silly. You can call me Brendon—” He leaned across the table to read Spencer’s name tag. “Spencer. You know, you're way nicer than I thought you'd be. The dealers in the movies are always big jerks who are trying to cheat people out of their money.” He gave Spencer a huge smile that Spencer found he wanted to return out of reflex.

Spencer scowled instead. “Yes, well. Sometimes movies can be misleading.”

“No lie,” Brendon said earnestly, taking his payout and leaving a chip for Spencer. “Especially the ones about Christmas. They have all these weird ideas about how awesome it must be at the North Pole, and about how Santa’s just this happy, jolly guy, but actually he’s kind of a jerk.”

Spencer was more than a little curious about this guy’s weird obsession with Christmas, but he was annoyed enough not to say anything. He just made a small humming sound. He dealt the next hand and asked, “Hit?”

They played a few more hands like that, with Brendon going on about all of the ways Hollywood had done wrong by Christmas and Spencer making polite sounds in response. Brendon won a few and lost a few, but every time he tipped Spencer out. Then, he stopped talking abruptly.

“I’m sorry,” Brendon said. “I’m starting to sound like my friend Patrick. We all get annoyed at him when he goes on about it. I guess you probably feel the same way about me. I don’t think I’m very good at making new friends.” He looked so pathetically sad that Spencer, inexplicably, felt his heart clench. “Anyway, thanks for putting up with me at all.” He took his winnings and left a neat pile for Spencer, then waved as he walked away.

And Spencer maybe felt like a huge dick.



Brendon bought some amazing jeans. He’d felt a little silly at first, because the shop girl told him he was shopping in the girl’s section. But the jeans there were really cute. They had gemstones and glitter on them. He thought of Pete and Frank telling him to fight the power, whatever that meant, and decided it meant buying girl’s clothes if he liked them.

He’d hit a mini-jackpot on the slot machines, so he decided to spring for a couple pairs of jeans, three new shirts and a pair of tennis shoes, too, which where were awesome. As soon as he got a chance, he was going to have a ritualistic burning of his uniform.

There were lots of things to do on The Strip. He saw a Cirque show, finally, which he knew was going to be awesome. He and Pete had watched one of their DVDs, and Brendon could totally bend and flip like that. He knew as soon as he got the chance to audition, they’d put him in the show, too. Except he’d tried to tell them that at the show, but no one had listened. But, there were like, five other Cirque shows in town, so he figured all hope was not lost.

He had dinner at a place near the strip that promised all he could eat shrimp for 99 cents. Admittedly Brendon didn’t know a lot about American currency, but he could tell that was cheap.

What was most surprising was the heat, though. He’d known it would be hot in Las Vegas, because it was a desert. But living in the North Pole hadn’t prepared Brendon for real heat. He’d started feeling weak and sick in the late afternoon. Going into air conditioned places helped, but Brendon didn’t think he could last another day walking around in the heat.

Also, Vegas wasn’t at all what Brendon had been expecting. He’d seen lots of movies with it—he really loved the Ocean movies especially. They’d made it seem so glamorous and full of potential. It was pretty, on the surface, but after spending just one afternoon, he sort of got the feeling that he’d seen everything Vegas had to offer.

Brendon really wanted to do was go back to The Mansion, but he was too drained to walk all the way back. The guys there had been so nice, though. And the boy with the notebook had maybe been the prettiest person Brendon had ever seen, until Spencer the dealer. Maybe Las Vegas just had really pretty people. The showgirls were certainly nice to look at, if in a fake way.

Maybe Brendon was just too used to Christmastown, where almost everyone was nice, but Las Vegas didn’t seem all that friendly a place. Besides Jon, who’d been like, Greta level nice. That was rare, even in Christmastown.

And so, okay, maybe heckling performers wasn’t the best way to make new friends, but the weird looking dude on the street corner had totally been faking his magic tricks, and Brendon wasn’t down with that.

Not that Brendon’s magic was all that impressive, as far as magic went. Like, he couldn’t conjure things up like the Leprechauns, or fly like the cupids. He couldn’t teleport or freeze time, or any of that handy stuff. He could, however, cheer people up like a champ, and make children sleep. Also, he could float, but that wasn’t very impressive when he couldn’t propel himself. And the making it snow thing might be cooler someplace like Vegas, but in Christmastown, where it snowed all the time anyway, Brendon didn’t really get the point.

The point here was that at least Brendon wasn’t some charlatan trying to cheat people out of their money. The people didn’t seem to appreciate his help, and Brendon had seen enough movies to know that when you heard the police sirens, you ran.

It was late by then, anyway. The city was still bustling with activity. In fact, it seemed busier now, but Brendon was ready to sleep for a whole day. Throughout the day, Brendon had been keeping an eye on the different hotels. There were some relatively inexpensive ones right off the main strip.

A man bumped into him on his way in the door and didn’t even apologise, and Brendon just thought, for a brief moment, how nice it would be to be at home on his couch, cuddled with Frank. But he wasn’t ready to give up yet.

“Can I help you?” the woman at the desk asked and she smiled like she meant it. That was a start, right?

Brendon reached in his pocket for his money and found it empty. Frowning, he checked the other side. “Um. Just a second,” he said, smiling, embarrassed. He stepped aside and went through his shopping bag, but the money wasn’t in there, either. “There was a guy,” he said to the woman. She looked back blankly.

Maybe. Just maybe it was time to admit defeat. Brendon pulled out his cell phone, selecting Frank’s number and hitting the call button. There was silence for a long moment then a strange beeping noise. A recorded message came on telling him the number was unavailable from his current location. He tried twice more, then tried Pete’s, Patrick’s and Greta’s numbers, all with the same response.

Brendon blinked back tears, sitting heavily on one of the chairs in the lobby. “Well, shit,” he said glumly.



Ryan was the first to get home, which wasn’t entirely unusual. He put down pet food and took Hobo and Boba out for a walk. His head was a little bit of a mess and he had hoped that being out in the night with the dogs, alone, would give him a chance to clear things up. It didn’t. He couldn’t get his mind off the kid from the club—Brendon.

It was just—Ryan wasn’t usually the sort of person who did the whole ‘love at first sight’ thing. He was pretty sure he still wasn’t. He just needed to convince the ache in his chest of that, and everything would be fine. Right now, though, he just felt sick.

He hadn’t wanted to watch the movie, but all afternoon and evening, Ryan couldn’t get Brendon’s voice out of his head. It was maybe a little desperate, but he hoped watching the movie would fix that for him.

Instead, he ended up mostly zoning out through the first half of the movie, daydreaming about Brendon singing the songs. Which was maybe twelve different kinds of ridiculous since the songs weren’t even sexy. Well written though. Ryan might have been feeling inspired to write, but he refused to pick up a pencil, though his fingers itched for one.

Spencer came home, left his bag by the door and Ryan moved forward enough on the sofa that Spencer could fit behind him. “Good movie,” Spencer said, kissing Ryan’s cheek in greeting. He wrapped his arms around Ryan’s middle, holding him tight and close and Ryan just felt worse about the whole Brendon thing.

“It’s boring,” Ryan said, and switched the output to television. The news came on softly in the background.

“What’s up?” Spencer asked, and Ryan could hear the frown in his voice.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, hiding his face in the sofa.

“Yeah,” Spencer said, “that convinced me.” His kisses moved down the curve of Ryan’s neck where he mouthed over the top of Ryan’s spine.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Ryan said.

Spencer squirmed closer and stopped kissing. He rested his chin on Ryan’s shoulder and pressed their cheeks together. “I could cheer you up. There was this kid at the casino today—couldn’t have been more than eighteen, but he had an ID, and it looked okay, but he was—”

“Honeys, I’m home!” Jon came in from the hall and grinned at them. “Sorry. After party went late and the mother of the bride was fucking insane. She wanted pictures of every single dance…”

Jon knelt in front of the couch, giving Spencer a quick, smiling kiss. “Hey,” Spencer greeted lazily and happily.

“Hey, babe,” Jon said to Ryan, and kissed him more slowly. “What’s with frowny face?”

Spencer sighed heavily. “We’re just going to have to cheer him up.” He and Jon shared a devious look. Normally it would have gotten Ryan excited.

“No, guys,” he said. He pushed at Jon’s chest and twisted in Spencer’s grip. Jon scooted back and Spencer let him go easily. Ryan sat at the opposite end of the couch, drawing his legs up to his chest and hugging them.

Jon and Spencer shared another look, this one wary and concerned. “Okay,” Jon said calmly. He rummaged through his bag and came out with his digital camera. “You guys have to see this.” Ryan loved Jon insane amounts, for so many different reasons. One of which being Jon’s ability to just let things go until Ryan was ready. “There was this crazy kid out in the desert today.”

“Everybody and their crazy kids today,” Ryan muttered.

Jon arched a brow at him. “I was telling him about this kid at the casino today,” Spencer explained. “Kept talking like a freaking alien, or something—about how he’d never worn blue jeans and never been to a shopping mall, and his ID was for Las Vegas, but he said that today was his first day here.”

Ryan felt himself relaxing a little, listening to Spencer talk. It felt normal. And Ryan still loved him, and Jon, still wanted them both. This Brendon guy hadn’t changed that. It was just some weird crush, or something.

“You always get the crazies,” Jon commented, putting his hand on Spencer’s knee and leaning in for a long, sweet-looking kiss.

“Yeah, they’re attracted to me,” Spencer muttered wryly. Ryan flipped him off and Jon bit down hard on Spencer’s bottom lip. Spencer pulled back, laughing. His smile was still the most beautiful thing Ryan had ever seen, tied with Jon’s face when he first woke up in the morning.

“Anyway,” Spencer said, “that wasn’t even the weirdest part. He kept going on about Christmas, about how much he hated it, except he was wearing this weird elf-costume.”

Ryan felt his heart drop again because what were the fucking chances? Jon’s mouth dropped, and he slowly tilted his camera so Spencer could see the screen. “What the hell?” Spencer demanded, snatching the camera out of Jon’s hand and holding it closer. “What the hell, Jon Walker?” Ryan didn’t want to see.

“He was just in the middle of the goddamned desert,” Jon said. “I found him making snow angels in the sand, and then he asked if he was in Las Vegas and I told him it was twenty minutes, he just started walking. He didn’t have a car, or bike or anything. I asked him how he’d got there and he said reindeer.”

“Seriously,” Spencer said, a lot of his previous humour gone from his voice. “What the hell?”

Jon shrugged. “Maybe, I don’t know, he’s one of those crazy religious freaks that live out in the mountains. Maybe he escaped?”

“A Mormon?” Spencer asked. “I think they’re up in Utah.”

“Dude, they could live in the mountains down here, too. Doesn’t have to be Mormon. There are lots of different freaky religions. It’d make sense how he just showed up in the middle of nowhere, and why he didn’t act like a normal human being.”

“Maybe,” Spencer allowed. “Shit. Now I feel like an asshole.” He held out the camera for Ryan.

“I don’t want to see it,” Ryan snapped. He knew he’d been a bit too much of a bitch by the looks that got him. He wasn’t going to get out of it now. They’d want to know what was up. “I mean.” He sighed, shoulders slumping.

The doorbell rang, at least delaying Ryan’s confession. “I ordered pizza on the way home,” Jon said, springing to his feet.

“I’ll help you get it,” Spencer offered.

Ryan knew they were going to talk about him, and wasn’t surprised when it took them five minutes to come back with three boxes. He’d got them all beers and he sat resolutely watching the news—something about sports, and really he couldn't care less, but focussing on it gave him an excuse not to say anything.

But neither Jon nor Spencer pushed, taking their beers and cuddling up at the other end of the sofa. Ryan noted that they’d left a space for him, if he felt like joining. He loved them ridiculous amounts. But apparently, that alone wasn’t enough for him. He’d always known he was a greedy bastard, but this was taking things too far.

The news switched to an entertainment piece on Criss Angel, which made Ryan roll his eyes so hard it hurt. It was another one of his showy street performances, geared to generate You Tube buzz, like somehow being the greatest magician meant being the most talked about one.

One of the audience members was talking, and it took Ryan a second to understand what he was hearing. “This guy started heckling him, saying it wasn’t really magic.”

“We thought it was just part of the show,” another girl said, “but then he went over and tore the paper off, so that everyone could see there wasn’t really any glass.”

“Awesome,” Jon said gleefully. He nudged Ryan with his toes to share a grin.

The screen cut to a video, the reporter speaking over it. “The heckler, an unidentified young man, then proceeded to perform several of Angel’s own tricks, from levitating himself and others, to rendering Angel himself invisible.”

So, Ryan shouldn’t have been surprised to see that the video was of Brendon. He’d finally changed his clothes, and looked really good in his skinny jeans and sparkly yellow and pink t-shirt. The shot was a looping video of Brendon levitating several feet off the ground, higher than Angel had ever done, outside of his stupid, obvious building float.

“Several audience members remained sceptical, calling it a publicity stunt. Angel refused to comment.”

“That was…” Spencer said, disbelievingly.

Jon nodded. “Yep.”

Jon’s phone began to vibrate on the coffee table, skittering towards the edge. He caught it and looked at the number. “You know that?” he asked, showing it to Spencer. Spencer shook his head. “You?” he tipped it towards Ryan.

“What the hell sort of area code is 777? I thought that was, like, forbidden from use, like 666, and numbers that start with 555. Like, fake,” Ryan muttered, glaring at the number.

Jon shrugged. “I dunno.” He flipped open the phone anyway. “Hello?” His eyes went wide. “Hello, Brendon.” He held the phone out from his face and hit the speaker phone button.

“I’m so sorry to call you,” Brendon was babbling. “I know it’s awfully late, and I don’t understand how things work at all, here, but I really thought it was going to be different from this. I even set aside some money so I could get a room to stay in for the night, but then there was this man who ran into me in the lobby, and I thought he was just drunk, but when I went to get my money, it was gone, and I think that guy stole it, but when I tried to tell that to one of the guards at the hotel, he just laughed at me.”

“Yeah,” Jon said, tone sympathetic. “Stuff like that happens a lot, unfortunately.”

“Well. I remembered that you said I could call you if I needed something, and I feel really bad about this, Jon. I tried to call my friends from home, but I can’t seem to reach them. My phone keeps telling me that the numbers are unavailable, and…”

“Brendon,” Jon interrupted. “Give me a second.” He pressed the mute button on the phone, and Ryan knew what he was going to say before he even said it. “Guys.”

“You gave him your phone number?” Spencer asked. “He’s insane!”

“Yeah, but Spence, you can’t tell me that you think he’s dangerous. He didn’t know how to put on sunscreen, or that you couldn’t just take off walking through the desert without water or anything. We can’t just leave him alone in the middle of the city without any money and not knowing how to handle himself,” Jon argued.

“It isn’t our job to do anything,” Spencer said, but his tone said that he was already letting Jon convince him otherwise. “And what if this is some sort of scam. Don’t you think it’s weird he met both of us? What if he’s been scoping out our place and this is how he gets in?”

“Seriously, Spence, sometimes you’re too suspicious for your own good,” Jon said affectionately. “Do you really think that?” He scooted closer, using his best puppy dog eyes, laying his cheek on Spencer’s knee.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Spencer said, “is that I don’t like the idea of some freaky stranger sleeping in our house. Even if he wasn’t a big weirdo, we just met him. Jon, I seriously don’t know how you’ve managed to stay alive this long, with your weird propensity for bringing home complete strangers from shows and shit, after hearing a sob story about how they don’t have any place to stay.”

“I am still alive,” Jon said. “Which means I must be an excellent judge of character, Spencer Smith. Besides, I seem to remember a couple certain someones who took me in, when I came out to Vegas and my place to stay turned out to not so much exist. I think that turned out pretty well…” He batted his lashes and ran a teasing finger up Spencer’s thigh.

Spencer shoved his head away, but cracked a grin. “Okay, fine. But when he slits all our throats in our sleep and steals all our shit, I reserve the right to say I told you so.”

They both turned to look at Ryan. He felt like he was cheating on them when he just said, quietly, “It’s fine with me.”

Jon gave him a sweet smile and unmuted his phone. “Hey, Brendon, I talked to my roommates. Why don’t you come stay with us?”

“For real?” Brendon asked, voice high-pitched and excited. “Oh, Jon! This is, you don’t even know, I was starting to get really scared.”

Jon shot Spencer a you’re worried about this guy look. “Where are you at, Brendon, I’ll come get you.”

Chapter Two