"Ryan's experienced alot of depressing Christmases. This is one of them."
Oh, the angst. First fic, ever. This is what you call a one-shot, no? Note that Ryan's around thirteen here. Just 'cos want him to be.
Drinking, crying, plates in the face. Oh, merry Christmas, Ryan. I do hope you have a really happy new year. Like hell he will.
He's so gonna kill Theresa. It had been her idea, the tree-trimming, the carols singing, the general Christmas spirit that had beeninfiltrating his mind for the past month. She'd got his hopes up way too high. Made him think it could actually be a Christmas worth rembering. Yeah, for her it'd be, all right. Her mom never got drunk on Christmas and set the fucking tree on fire. As a matter of fact, he seriously doubted that Theresa's mom ever got drunk. She was probably too busy being... well, a mom.
Unlike his own mom. She'd made an effort, he knows that. Stayed sober for almost a month. Bought a tree. Plastic. She'd even thought about inviting Trey over for Christmas, which Ryan had luckily talked her out of. Not that he didn't want to see his brother, 'cos he did, alot, but Trey and his mom are never a good combination. They are like oil and water. No, oil and matches would be more accurate. Things blow up when they got together.
So she'd decided to bring over one of her boyfriends on Christmas Eve. Yeah, okay, Ryan'd thought. He could handle one boyfriend. After all, his mom had promised him she wouldn't be drinking. Very much. As a matter of fact, she'd only kept two bottles of whiskey in the house! Happiness ensued. They had only gotten half way through the turkey, before his mom suddenly and with no warning at all broke down in tears. Ryan's first reaction had been anger. It probably was the boyfriend's fault. Eric, wasn't that his name? He'd probably been fucking with her mind through the whole dinner. Ryan hadn't really listened that close, since half of it had been sugar-talk and sexual references that were supposed to go over his head, but, well, didn't. So in order to keep his dinner safe and sound his stomach, he'd tuned out the conversation and concentrated on the Christmas Special in TV.
And then his mom'd started crying. "What the fuck did you say to her?" he'd snarled at the boyfriend, Eric-something. The boyfriend had pissily told him to watch his fucking mouth. That had been a mistake. You did not tell Ryan Atwood to watch his mouth, unless you were his mom, which that guywas definatelynot. So he'd told him to shut up and leave. Then his mom had tried to calm the waters, but it'd been way too late. The stupid son of a bitch she called her boyfriend was already way too busy smashing his plate into Ryan's face. It hadn't really hurt, actually. Just a light smack on the nose, not even hard enough to flip him off his chair, and then alot of food running down his face. It had pissed him mightily off, of course. He was ready to fight to death. Then his mom had stepped in. She'd shoved him out of the door.
He, Ryan, her son. Not the boyfriend. She had actually shoved her youngest son out of the door and closed it after him. Then the yelling and punching and crying started inside the lousy house of trash, so loud and so violent that Ryan actually was kind of glad he was not in there. Except that, well, he wasn't. He wanted to defend his mom. But he couldn't, since she's actually locked the door, too. He'd pounded on it and tried to punch through it, but all he'd gotten out of that was bleeding knuckles.
So there he is, sitting on the doorstep, smoking a cigarette. On Christmas Eve. With food all over him. He looks like a fucking bum. Not that he cares. He can hear loud jingles from Theresa's house next door. Somebody, probably Arturo, is singing Jingle Bells with a slight change in the lyrics. He's pretty sure he hears Theresa laughing.
A part of him wants to go over there, knock on the door, ask to come in. No, wait, not ask, beg to come in. He really doesn't want to spend Christmas on his own fucking doorstep. But then there is the other part, the proud part, that keeps saying that he doesn't care. He isn't gonna ask them for help. He can take care of himself. How stupid of him to believe in Christmas, anyway.
Slowly, he gets up. He's not gonna sit here all night. Maybe Trey iss still home. He's pretty sure he won't get the door shut in his face by his own brother. He can always hope.