It was the night before Christmas and Max couldn't catch a wink of sleep because his mind was too busy racing and because his Howie Jr.'s feet were in his face. To make matters worse, the portly little boy snored like a freight train. It was a nightmare having to share a tiny bed with another person. Max didn't even want to know how his sister Beth was fairing with Stevie and Jordan.
Max craned his head to spy his clock on the desk next to his bed, noting that it was well past midnight. You think he would've fallen asleep from boredom by now, but the truth was he couldn't even if he tried. Even if his cousin wasn't hogging the bed right now and kicking him in the shoulder every now and again.
Last night had been all sorts of bad, what with his recital turning sour in the blink of an eye and his dad having to pull him off of the other boy who had been telling the other little kids that Santa wasn't real. When they got home things only seemed to get worse. Max had been looking forward to decorplace the Christmas cookies with Omi and watching Charlie Brown with his family, but his parents were too busy preparing for their relatives and Beth was complaining about wanting to go to her boyfriend's house.
Omi tried cheering him up and his father attempted to reassure him, but despite their best efforts Max couldn't come to reason. They had a tradition for years and it had all been ruined by uncle Howard and his rotten children. Stevie and Jordan were the main reason Max tore up his letter to Santa. Perhaps he'd been foolish for believing in him in the first place
Max was at that age where he began to figure out that Santa wasn't real and all those presents from "Santa" over the years had actually been signed by his parents. He knew it was silly, but a part of him still wanted something to believe in even if it seemed childish. The arrival of his cousins, however, had made that kind of hard.
Still, Max laid there in his bed with Howie Jr.'s feet occasionally nudging into him as he thought about Santa soaring through the cold winter sky, delivering presents to all the little girls and boys soundly asleep in their beds. This peaceful image seems to lull Max into a gentle sleep and he nods off to the wispy hum of wind and Howie Jr.'s beastly snoring.
Sometime later during the night Max had roused awake from an odd dream that he could only half remember. He yawned deeply and rubbed at his eyes to coax some alertness into them. This time when Max looked over at his clock it was a quarter to five and, thankfully, Howie Jr. had stopped snoring by this time. Max figured he could easily fall back asleep if he tried immediately.
Unfortunately, Max's bladder decided it was a nice time to start acting up and the boy silently cursed himself for drinking too much egg nog the night before. Max lazily rolled himself out of bed, making sure as not to wake Howie Jr. up and padded over towards his door. Out in the hallway, Max tiptoed his way to the bathroom, being extra nimble so he didn't disturb any of the others.
He shut the bathroom door behind him with a soft click, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light. Max held his hand up in front of his face to filter out some of the light until the harsh fluorescents no longer stung his eyes. He took care of his business shortly soon after and went to wash his hands in the sink, knowing that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again.
Max looked at his tired and weary expression, noticing the dark circles forming under his eyes, and sighed heavily to himself. To make things even worse, Max's stomach conveniently started to growl with hunger. Max hung his head back as he begrudgingly exited the bathroom and made his way down the stairs.
Since he knew he wasn't going to fall back asleep for quite some time, Max figures he could sneak a glass of milk and a couple of cookies Omi had made. Not the crappy store bought ones his mother ignorantly purchased after the fact. He wanted the real thing or none at all.
As Max tried his best to tiptoe to the kitchen, something caught the corner of his eye and he slowly turned towards the figure hunched over by the Christmas tree. Max's breath caught in his throat, hoping against hope that maybe it was Santa Claus and maybe he wasn't a fool after all. He stood frozen to the spot on the floor and watched in rapt awe.
It wasn't until the figure turned to him and began to speak that Max felt like an idiot once again.
"Hey, sport," his father called out softly to him. "What are you doing up so early? Not trying to spy on your presents are you?" his father teases with a faux frown.
"I had to go to the bathroom," Max explained in a hushed tone, blinking bashfully as his dad approaches him. "And then I got hungry for some of Grandma's cookies."
"Cookies, huh?" Tom inquired, squinting at his son as if analysing his answer. "Well, Omi does make a nice batch of cookies… I guess I can trust you."
His dad grinned widely at him and Max returned it with a sleepy, lopsided one. Max was growing up fast, but his father still treated and teased him as if he were a kid from time to time. Which Max didn't mind at all. It reminded Max of simpler times and he loved the fact that his father was capable of channeling that character trait so naturally because, by all rights, Tom still saw Max as his little boy and not the man he was gradually becoming.
"How about you get us a couple glasses of milk and a plate of cookies and I'll light us a fire?" Tom suggested, cupping the side of Max's neck affectionately.
Max nodded up at his dad with a big smile, giddy that his dad wanted to spend some time with him and without the interruption of uncle Howard and his clan. Tom gently scooted Max off towards the kitchen, smiling warmly when he noticed the extra little spring in Max's step. It made Tom wonder how much Max had been starving for affection since their relatives showed up.
Max returned with two glasses of milk and a plate of cookies, which he balanced cautiously on both of the glasses. Max baby stepped into the living room, focused on not spilling anything as his father stoked the growing flames. Tom heard Max's uneven gait and turned to him, chuckling softly as he watched Max's balancing act.
Tom trotted over to help his son, lifting up the plate of cookies and grabbing one of the glasses of milk as well to lighten the load for Max. He set them down on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa, beckoning Max over to sit beside him near the fireplace. Max sidles up next to his dad and the two of them settle in with some milk and cookies by the crackling fire.
"Think you got everything you asked for this year?" his dad asked, dunking a tree-shaped cookie in his glass of milk.
"I dunno," Max shrugged, taking a bite out of a soggy snowman. "I hope so…"
"You hope so?" Tom echoed incredulously, looking down at Max. "You sent your letter to Santa, didn't you?"
"I tore it up and threw it out the window," Max confessed.
"Why?"
"Because it was stupid," Max replied, pouting. "Even if Santa was real, he wouldn't give me anything anyway because I haven't been the best son," Max admitted with a tinge of guilt.
"What are you talking about, champ?" his father consoled, setting down his glass to turn his full attention to his son.
"I'm always causing trouble for you and mom. Like at my recital… like at dinner last night with Stevie and Jordan," Max gushed, nibbling methodically on his cookie.
"You're mom is just a control freak when it comes to making appearances, you know. She wanted every little detail to be perfect and it just simply wasn't," Tom reassured, curling an arm around his son to comfort him. "Nothing that happened last night was your fault."
"Do you really mean it?" Max asked, looking up at his dad with a hopeful gaze.
"I don't know," Tom said meticulously, playing with Max's curls thoughtfully. "Did you really mean it when you said you hated all of us?"
"No… I was just really mad at Stevie and Jordan for embarrassing me in front of everyone," Max professed, hanging his head down as if recounting the incident.
"I know, Max," Tom replied with a solemn tone.
He pulled Max in closer to him and bent down to kiss his son on the top of the head, burying his nose into Max's curls to smell the remnants of fruity shampoo. Tom reached his arm around further to wrap it across Max's torso and gently stroked his thumb across his narrow chest affectionately.
"You're a good boy," his father stated, mumbling into his curls. "You're a good son and I'm proud of you. You are my greatest accomplishment, Max. Never forget that."
Tom brought his hand up to lay it against Max's forehead, steadying his son's head as he plants an even bigger kiss to the top of his head. His dad disentangled them and ruffled Max's hair playfully to get the boy smiling again and it worked. Max could feel himself glowing with a newfound warmth, and it wasn't because of the fire.
"Definitely a bigger accomplishment than that Howie Jr.," his dad cracked with a wide, mischievous grin, snickering like it was a secret just between them. Max lets himself laugh as well, loving the way his father's face glows from the firelight. "Now eat your cookies."
Max bent forward to grab a couple of cookies from the plate and promptly shoved one in his father's mouth. Tom sputtered a little in surprise, mumbling hysterically as he took a bite and tried to stuff it in Max's mouth in return. Max tumbled to his back on the couch with his dad trying his darnedest to pin him down to give his son a taste of his own medicine. Literally.
Max is slapping futilely at his dad to get the cookie away from his tightly pursed lips. The moment Tom starts to tickle him, Max loses the ability to contain himself and giggles madly as prodding fingers exploit the weak spots of his sides and neck. Max attempts to stifle his contagious giggles so he doesn't wake the others and, conveniently, his dad is there to help him by cramming the half eaten cookie into his mouth.
"Stop it!" Max giggled around his mouthful, which came out muddled and incoherent.
"What's the matter, champ? I thought you liked Grandma's cookies," Tom chuckled, force feeding the sprinkle covered star to his son.
"Stmmph!" Max chortled.
The frosting from the cookie as he took a bite smeared across his lips and partially on his left cheek when the rest of it crumbled and fell on the floor. Max chewed through his mouthful until he could breath again and all giggling stopped when Max noticed the way his father was staring down at him.
"What?" Max asked with wide brown eyes.
Tom swiped his thumb across Max's bottom lip and scooped up the frosting on Max's cheek, collecting it on his index finger. Max watched as his dad licked the frosting off of his fingers, hoping his father was going to say something to make this less awkward. Tom sits back, climbing off of Max and looking pink faced as ever and Max wondered why his dad looked so flustered all of a sudden.
"That's enough horseplay," Tom decided, scratching idly at his beard. His face felt incredibly warm and it wasn't because of the fire.
Max noticed the change in his dad's posture and got his elbows underneath him to raise himself up. He wiped away the remnants of frosting off his face and straightened himself up.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, buddy?"
"Do you think Santa's real?" Max inquired timidly.
Tom looked over at his son and regarded him with a thoughtful gaze, eyes squinted.
"He's as real as you want him to be, kiddo," Tom said, copping out with a noncommittal answer.
"Yeah, but, do you think he's real?" Max reiterated, biting into another cookie and taking a big gulp of milk.
"Sure… I mean, I believed in him when I was around your age," Tom concurred, studying the lines of Max's face in the orange glow of the fire.
"Why not anymore?"
"Well, I guess when you start to mature you just decide that believing in stuff like that is childish and you have to grow up sometime," his father explained, trying to word it as delicately as possible. "Not that believing in Santa is a bad thing. It's better to have something to believe in, than nothing at all. Wouldn't you agree?"
"I guess," Max relented, beaming when his dad gave him a warm smile.
They went back to snacking on their milk and cookies in relative silence, unconsciously moving closer to each other. Max supposed his dad was at least right about one thing. It was better to believe in something.
When they finish half of the plate and most of their milk, Max can feel himself getting somewhat drowsy once again, knowing that his full stomach was to thank for that. He felt himself nodding off, resorting to leaning against his dad for support as his eyelids became heavier. Tom gently shakes his son to rouse him awake.
"Come on, let's get you to bed," Tom murmured into Max's ear, attempting to scoop the boy up into his arms.
"I don't wanna sleep in my bed," Max whined, half asleep and clinging to the front of his dad's shirt.
"Oh? Why not?" Tom questioned fondly, anxious to hear what Max had to say.
"Because Howie Jr.'s feet stink and he sounds like a bullfrog," Max answered truthfully with his eyes closed shut. "Can we just stay here? Please?"
Tom sighed, wanting to get back to his own bed next to his wife, but Max looked far too relaxed and peaceful to disturb or even attempt to move. He let Max settle into his lap, curling in on his side to nestle into his dad's chest. Tom pulled the knitted blanket from the back of the couch, wrapping it around them and maneuvered himself so that he's in a more horizontal position.
"Sure thing, sport," his dad assured, kissing Max's temple.
Max burrowed himself further into his father, making it a point to snuggle his body as tightly as possible to his dad's. It's a bit cramped on the couch for the both of them, but Tom figures it's a reasonable sacrifice to accommodate his son's needs. He can't remember the last time him and Max were this close and it made him realize just how much his son really needed him.
"You know I love you, right?" Tom asked, murmuring into the side of Max's soft, warm cheek.
"I love you too, dad," Max mumbled back drowsily, turning into the contact of his dad's beard.
"Maybe we could watch Charlie Brown after everyone leaves," his dad suggested, before adding, "Just the two of us. How does that sound?"
"M'yeah," Max slurred, going completely boneless in his dad's arms before finally drifting off into a deep sleep.
Something about the whole situation made Tom appreciate what he had and it really opened his eyes on how much more time he should be spending with his son before Max grows up and decides he doesn't need his father anymore. It felt like he was given a second chance, a redemption at bonding with his son. Max wasn't a bad kid and he certainly wasn't a disappointment. He just needed his father to reassure him that he was on the right path. That he could believe in whatever he wanted without looking like a fool.
Tom pulled Max closer to him with the intent of never letting go.
"Love you, son," Tom whispered, kissing Max on the cheek one last time. "Love you…"