Alex Russo found herself in her room, music blasting, door locked. And painting mistletoe. Again.
She hadn't studied it recently. Years of being trapped under it had given her plenty of insight.
That's why she found herself here. Those years of captivity…confused her. Her thoughts weren't coherent now. And that was the point.
. . .
The first year was pure innocence. Discovering the plant hanging above her as she bounded upstairs from the substation to let Justin into the apartment, she felt very confused. She let her brother in and inquired about the "green and red thing" hanging from the ceiling.
Justin, being eight and his usual smart self, replied with an undetectable awkwardness. "When two people step under it- it's called 'mistletoe'-they have to kiss each other."
"On the lips?" the six-year-old asked, blushing.
Also blushing, her brother mumbled, "Usually. But we don't have to. Unless you want to?"
"Ew, no! Boys have cooties!"
So Justin planted a kiss on his sister's cheek and walked away quickly.
They both avoided the mistletoe the next few years after that.
. . .
Three years later, Justin was going through a box of holiday decorations. Upon finding the mistletoe, he asked Theresa if he could put it up this year. After gaining permission, he pushed a chair near the door under the hook where the mistletoe had hung over the years.
After perching on its peak, he looked straight up to admire his work.
The door swung open, bringing the chair down along with Justin himself. While falling, he noticed Alex walking into the apartment.
"Justin? What are you doing on the floor?" she asked, coming to a stop.
"Very funny, Alex. I fell after you slammed the door into my chair."
"Yeah, it was funny. Come on, dork." She moved closer to her eldest brother to help him up, but he protested to no avail. Once he was on his feet, he pointed upwards.
Alex's eyes widened. Mistletoe. Before she could figure out how to get out of it, he leaned down and kissed the top of her head, just to prove there was an easy way out.
Looking flustered, Alex walked away quickly, this time leaving him behind.
. . .
She looks into the wild eyes of her brother. His hair is matted from the sleet that pours down five Decembers from their last kiss.
He had walked in as she walked out of the apartment, a wild look in his grey eyes.
And he kissed her. She pulled back immediately and tried to decipher the look in his eyes. Nothing. They were guarded.
He winced as her right palm makes contact with the skin on his left cheek.
She ran to her room, locked the door and blasted the music so she couldn't hear his apologies.
He stayed outside her room all night.
. . .
They still aren't back to normal two winters later when Alex asks Justin to be her fake date to a party. He reluctantly agrees; no one knows them there.
They return home at two in the morning, both slightly intoxicated.
The night had been nearly all hand holding, dancing all to close, and Alex rejected several guys that asked her to dance by introducing her 'date.'
This was the closest they had been in two years.
The silence in the apartment is deafening. It's too quiet.
"Alex…" he starts, but her lips lock fiercely against his. He pulls away reluctantly, the moral side of him emerging dominant.
She looks around, bewildered. And then she points straight up. She blames it on the mistletoe.
But Justin knows her better than anyone. He knows that isn't the real reason. There could be something logical. Like…well, mistletoe. Or her drunken state. Or…no. He forbids himself to think like that.
. . .
Things are different. Over the next year, they grow closer. Much closer.
And then the inevitable happens. Justin is accepted into a college in Massachusetts. He lives there now.
Alex spends too much time to herself, locked in her room, usually crying as she paints mistletoe. Like now.
Justin called yesterday. He won't be coming home this Christmas.
Alex stays up late that night and takes down the mistletoe Max put up. He pretends not to notice.
Jerry and Theresa are concerned. Who is this boy who is making their daughter so upset? They don't suspect it's their eldest son. They understand Alex and Justin are closer. Were closer.
Alex vacates a permanent stop on the Russo's bright orange sofa when everyone has fallen asleep. She watches mindless TV as she tries not to think.
Her cell phone rings. Justin.
She lets it go to voicemail with the other six messages he's left at this later hour.
She doesn't understand what is so important. Briefly, she guesses it's something about his girlfriend. She pushes the thought away.
The house phone rings. Justin. Again.
Max wanders out of his bedroom to pick up the phone when Alex ignores it.
He mumbles something to his older brother before hanging up and looking his sister straight in the eye.
"Justin's here."
. . .
He walks in silently with his things and looks at her.
She refuses to make eye contact.
"Alex…" he says, confused.
She holds up one finger- one minute. Yes, he will allow this. He sits next to Alex and checks behind him. Max has gone to bed- they are finally alone.
"Why…why are you here?"
Justin inhales deeply. "To surprise you."
Startled, Alex turns on him. "And why, may I ask, did you think I would like that?"
"Don't…don't be mad. Max called me a week after I came up for Thanksgiving. He told me about…" He pauses, unsure of how to phrase this. "Your condition." He swallows nervously before continuing.
"I tried to call you every night, but…you never answered."
She looks away, fully aware of her brother's daily calls. Every night. 8 o'clock. She turned her phone off before that so she wouldn't have to decline the calls.
He already suspected this.
"I lied to you, Alex."
Now, she looks up, still not meeting Justin's eyes.
"What?" Her voice cracks due to the tears that are close to leaving her brown eyes.
"I thought that if I told you I had a girlfriend, you might move on. I thought we shouldn't do this. Telling you that was as hard on me as it was on you. Alex, I'm sorry."
"I…don't understand."
"I don't have a girlfriend. "
Instantaneously, they leaned into each other, their lips meeting.
If anyone asks, they'll blame it on the mistletoe above them.
If anyone objects, they're wizards, aren't they?
And their excuse with appear with the flick of a wand.
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