Sam doesn't like parties.
After four months of being roommates, you'd think Brady would understand that by now. But nope. There's word of a Christmas party going around, and he's intent on getting Sam to go. Or at the very least, out of their dorm room.
So he asks. And, of course, Sam says no, says he's got a Psych test that he just has to study for, and Brady thinks that for a guy with so many secrets, Sam has got to be the worst liar he's ever met. But he lets it go, and a week passes without further mention of it.
By then, of course, everyone's heard, and invitations have been sent out. Being the lowly freshmen they are, they don't get any, but Brady knows people (more importantly, he knows things about people), and scoring those two glittery envelopes is an easy feat. Getting Sam to accept it, though, well, that's another story.
"Dude, you know I don't do parties." Sam ducks beneath his bed and sighs. "Have you seen my Chem book?"
"That's exactly why you should go", Brazy retorts. He leans over his bunk to stare down at Sam, who's got his perky, little ass pointed up and out at him. He flushes, shakes his head at himself, and rolls back onto his bed. Slipping the neon green Chemistry book from underneath his pillow, Brady hums and pulls up a knee beside his leg. "How many parties have you been to since you enrolled?"
"Two", Sam calls out as he crawls further underneath their bed. "And they both sucked."
"Well, duh, that's because Tyler Giggins hosted them. I'll tell you what." He flips open the book and cocks his head to the side. "What you need is variety."
"Uh huh. And this party is supposed to give me that?"
"Oh, that and so much more, Samuel."
"How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?" Sam huffs, rolls out from under the bed, and slams a hand against the bed frame. The metal shakes, and a metallic ring bounces throughout the room. He stands, pausing before Brady's bed, and presses his fingertips into his temples. "Have you seen my book?"
Brady rises to a seated position and places the book behind him. "What's it look like?"
"Uh, kind of big, blockish, orange, like traffic-cone orange…" He trails off, eyes taking in the poorly-concealed book peeking out from behind Brady. Not even a second later, Sam's hopped onto the edge of his bed and begun reaching around him. "Come on, man, I have to study."
Brady rolls out of his reach, then stretches his arm upward. Sam, in turn, crawls into his bed and gets in his space, his arms on either side of him, locking him in with no means of escape. Not that he'd want to escape anyway.
It's two past seven, which means Sam has to yet to get dressed. All he's got on is a pair of Star Wars pajama bottoms. There's a tidy trail of hair crawling down his stomach, and his chest is bare, naked, and exposed for all welcoming eyes. And, well, Brady's always been very welcoming.
He gulps, blinks, and tightens his grip on the book, leaning back as much as the bed frame will allow. Sam draws closer, his face red and sweaty.
"Sam", Brady breathes, and some of the frustration latent in Sam's face eases away. "Just this one party. You don't even have to stay; just say you'll check it out. If you don't like it, then I'll promise I'll never bug you again."
Whatever remains of Sam's anger simmers out. The muscles in his face relax, and the veins protruding from the arms encaging Brady fall back beneath the skin. His face a bright hue of pink, Sam pulls away to rest on his knees. He swipes a hand over his face.
"Five minutes, okay? And if it sucks, I'm out, and you-you have to buy me pizza. And you have to watch me eat it."
And so a deal was made. And a pretty damn good deal, too, because either way, Brady gets to spend time with Sam. Sam, of course, doesn't see it that way, but Brady has the feeling that Sam doesn't get just how much of a catch he is.
The party rolls around, and, though he'll never admit it, Brady spends an hour searching for the black v-neck he once caught Sam eyeballing and a pair of blue jeans. There isn't much to be done about his hair, and he's still got those weird moles on his neck. But he looks good, and, more importantly, he feels good. Hopefully, Sam will feel the same.
"I still don't get what all the noise is about", Jessica teases, watching him fuss with himself in the mirror. "He's not even that cute."
"Oh, sister, you need to get your eyes checked." Brady pokes at a pimple, wonders if it's worth it, then, deciding it's not, reaches for some concealer. Peeling off the top, he dabs two fingers into the bottom and presses them against the pimple. "And it ain't just looks", he explains, slamming the case shut. "It's-God-I can't explain it. There's just something him, you know?"
Jess rolls her eyes. She picks up her pen and jots some notes in the corner of whatever Nicholas Sparks's book she's obsessing over for the week. Once she's finished, she lies spread out in his bed and gives him a knowing smile. "Brady, you've always had a thing for mystery. Remember Tyler?"
"Ah, ah, ah, that wasn't mystery, that was food poisoning." Brady shudders, turns around, and crawls up into his bed to lie beside her. "But it's not even about mystery. It's something else. Sam he...he's different."
Jess's smile turns sad. Her hand crawls through the clutter of papers and pens to tangle with his and pull it toward her chest. Pressing a soft kiss to their intertwined fingers, Jess snuggles into his side and releases a content sigh. "Tis the season", she murmurs quietly.
Not soon after, she falls asleep, leaving Brady to contemplate his thoughts. She's not wrong. Around this time every year, he always gets a little sentimental, and whomsoever happens to be his crush gets the delight of being deemed "The One". Jess has been there every time, being a reassuring but grounding presence as he gets himself more and more wound up. He'll admit it; the season makes him a little punch-drunk for romance.
But it's not like that this time. There's a wreath hanging on their door, sure, and there are Evergreens littered throughout campus, and maybe he is kind of longing for someone to hold and watch the Grinch Who Stole Christmas with, but it's more than that. Sam's more than that.
They arrive together, not hand in hand, but together nonetheless. Heads swivel, conversations come to a halt, and, somewhere, a record scratches. But a few quips and a couple of jabs has everyone relaxing and put to ease.
Well. Almost everyone.
But Brady's on a mission, and that mission is not Mission: Impossible.
Brady grabs Sam by the forearm and guides him away from the crowd, from the noise, to the back of the house, where it's just stoners and assholes that take themselves way too seriously. Somebody's passing out red cups, and Sam, to Brady's surprise, takes one with zero protest. Brady raises his eyebrows, to which Sam just smiles and shrugs his shoulders
"I do, on occasion, like to have fun", he says before tipping his cup back.
Brady gulps. He has some of his own drink, beer, it's beer, and laughs. "Well, all right then."
Sam shoves a hand in his pocket and watches over the people, and Brady turns to look as well. It's jollyful enough. Somebody's dredged up a one-eyed Santa and propped him up in the corner, and there's a record of what sounds like Stevie Wonder with bronchitis playing. There are trays of egg nog floating around, which Brady fully intends to help himself to, and resting over the fire mantle, someone's left a pair of antlers and a Santa's hat. Brady hums, snatches them off the mantle, and slips them into his back pocket before Sam can notice.
"So", he says, drawing Sam's attention back to him. He beams and gestures around the room. "Not horrible, right?"
Sam smiles into his cup. "Jury's still deciding."
"Right." Brady has some more drink, then takes Sam by his wrist and begins to navigate the halls.
"You know", Sam muses as they pass room after room of shitty Christmases. "If this place gets raided, we could get put on probation. Or worse, expelled."
Brady rolls his eyes. "We're smart", he tells him. "We'll figure something out." He guides them into another room, this one not as crowded, and pushes and shoves until they fall onto a large sofa. On one end, there's a couple making out, and on the other, the Makazelli Twins snorting lines off the table. Brady and Sam settle between them, kicking their feet up, tossing back their drinks, and looking forward to the TV playing a Spongebob Christmas special.
It's nice, in a weird, this is bound to go to shit kind of way. He's got a nice buzz going; nothing too strong but strong enough to keep him teetering on the edge of "This is beyond stupid."
And sitting this close to Sam, drinking when his tolerance has gone to shit, is beyond stupid.
Sam.
Brady looks to him out of the corner of his eye. In the months that he's known him, Brady hasn't seen Sam so much as glance at a bottle, but he's holding his drink just fine. It's like that with him. Just when Brady thinks he's got him figured out, Sam goes and does something to dislodge any and all conceptions he had about him.
"You're staring", Sam says, turning to face him. His face is hard, closed off, suspicious. "Why are you staring?"
Brady smiles lazily. He moves his hand to scratch the back of his head, misses, and leans forward before Sober!Brady can reemerge. "Well, I-", he hiccups and sways. "I can't help it. You're kind of pretty."
Beyond stupid, indeed.
"Uh." Brady blushes, shake his head, and claspes his fingers tightly around his cup. Beer sloshes up and over the rim like a dirty wine, and he stares. "Sorry. That's-that's weird."
"No, no, it's fine." The bite's gone out of his voice, and when Brady looks up, he finds the mistrust in his eyes has as well. "You just surprised me is all."
The moment lingers, stretching on like a dried, tacky piece of gum. Beside the, one of the girls making out pulls the other on top of her and starts moaning. Sam darts his eyes away, turning an unhealthy shade of red, and wraps an arm around Brady's shoulders. "Come on", he murmurs as he leads him away from the couch.
"Think they need a little privacy."
Brady snorts but allows himself to be lead away. "They're about to fuck in a room full of strangers."
He's about to say something else, something grandoisely funny that he'll cringe at in the morning, but his feet lose purchase of the floor and send him rushing towards the floor. Sam snakes an arm around his waist before the impact, but it's close enough to leave him clinging to him like a frightened kitten that's climbed too far up a tree.
"You all right", Sam asks, and Brady swears he could hear bells. Sam lips quirk up, and he snickers. Shit, he said that out loud, didn't he?
"I'm fine", he says; he doesn't relinquish his hold on Sam. "Just...guess I haven't had a drink in a while."
Sam frowns. Without another word, he guides Brady out onto the nearby balcony. The wind greets them with fierce kisses and sharp licks, whips hotter than the sun of the Sahara Desert. He's never had a green Christmas before. It makes him long for home a bit, for mornings speeding down snowy slopes and nights spent huddled beneath a blanket and choking down scorching hot chocolate. That's what Christmas is to Brady.
But then again. This Christmas, he's got Sam. And, sure, he's a few seconds away from spilling his guts all over the carpet, but he's got Sam's arms keeping him steady and grounded, and, well, that could be enough. If Sam wants.
Sam walks to him to the railing, and they sit down, their backs to the wood as they stare up and out at a Californian night sky. With the red, blue, and green lights covering the terrace like a cheerful spiderweb, it makes the sky seem to radiate with color.
"Nice night out", Brady says. His head's resting against Sam's shoulder. He doesn't remember putting it there, but that's okay. Sam doesn't seem bothered by it.
"Yeah." His voice is light and full of air, like this fact is surprising. Like Christmas Eve should be anything but nice.
"You sound surprised."
"Yeah, well." Sam sighs; his arms turn tight, and, without ever looking, Brady knows he's gone taut and guarded, prepared to retreat into his turtle shell if need be. "I just wasn't expecting a good night."
He's chiseling away. He's been chiseling away, all night, all semester really, and he's reached a point where there's sure to be resistance because there's sure to be something unpleasant underneath all that rock Sam's put up. Curiosity killed the cat, and Brady was never really a cat person anyway.
"Why not?"
He's pushing it. Just getting Sam here was a damn miracle; the fact that he stayed is mind-boggling. Asking for anything further would be selfish. But he can't help it. Because Sam, for all his secrets and all his walls, has never sounded so vulnerable, and Brady'll be damned if he doesn't try to get him to open up. He's quiet, and he aims for stoic and jagged, but Brady sees him, and he sees a soft, kind guy who maybe just wants someone to hold and talk to, too.
For a moment, he's scared he actually has gone too far because Sam hasn't said anything. But Sam, Sam who's always been full of surprises, just holds him tighter, presses closer, and whispers, "It's my first Christmas alone".
There it is.
Sam doesn't talk much about his family. A few mentions of a brother, a disgruntled reference to a father, but that's about it. From the way he almost always closes off after talking about them, Brady knows family must be a sore subject for him. With the dad, there's always something bitter and heavy buried something that Brady thinks'll take Sam years to unearth. The brother, it's all sadness and regret and longing, like he just got caught between whatever mess Sam had with his dad. Either way, they're both gone, Sam's gone, and Sam's longing, hurting, yearning.
Wow. If his shrink could hear him now, she'd probably shit herself.
Brady looks up at him. It takes a minute, but Sam eventually feels his stare and looks down to meet his gaze. Brady's going for the record of "Beyond Stupid", but he takes his hand Sam's hand in his, sinks his head into the meat of his shoulder, and says, "You're not alone. Or, at least, you don't have to be."
It's something straight out of a Hallmark movie. It's so cheesy, and it shouldn't work, but Sam isn't looking away, he's actually getting closer, and are those-yep.
Those are lips.
Good lips, too. Oh, yes, he likes these lips.
He inhales shakily, then reaches up and wraps his arms around Sam's neck, kissing him with the grace of a five-second old giraffe but the passion of a lifetime's lover. Sam hums and places his hands on his hips; his tongue licks at Bady's lips, and Brady parts them, moaning as he lowers a hand to bunch up the fabric of Sam's shirt. The other goes skyward to tangle in his hair, tight and trembling as he seeks out the sweet recesses of Sam's mouth.
Everywhere Brady twists and turns, Sam is there, kissing and biting and grabbing and holding, and it's all just so very hot and good, and, fuck, they haven't even gotten past clothes (not they need to cause, sweet hell, he could stay here forever and never tire of it). A whine rips from his throat, and he pauses, pressing his face into the skin of Sam's neck. Sam gasps, grabs him by his chin, and points his face up, and, yeah, Brady's eyes must be fucking with him. With the Christmas lights overhead, Sam looks like he's sporting a polychromatic halo.
A gay angel. His gay angel.
Brady giggles, and Sam frowns.
"What", he asks breathlessly.
Brady just shakes his head. He wraps a hand around one of the one's keeping his head upright and smiles. "You kiss pretty, too."
He's not making any sense. But it must make sense to Sam because he's smiling again, and, yes, Brady likes a smiling Sam, a smiling Sam is a very nice dude. Sam pulls Brady's lower lip between his fingers and chuckles to himself, his eyes light in a way Brady has never had the fortune to see.
It's nice. It's a nice moment. But this night's been doomed since conception; it's time for the curtain call.
Red and blue flicker across the brick of the building, and the sound of mountain boots echo throughout the hall. Sam's eyes widen. After a moment, his brain makes sense of what he's hearing, and Brady's does, too. Sam leaps to his feet and hops over the balcony. Brady stumbles to a stand and leans over, swaying as he watches Sam toss his arms out.
"Come on", he whisper-shouts. "I'll catch you."
Scratch the Hallmark, this is straight-up Disney. And he is all for it. Brady drunkenly maneuvers himself over the railing, then falls into Sam's awaiting arms. It's not even a minute later when the police have stormed onto the porch and begun barking orders. But by then, Sam and Brady have already taken off down the street.
They don't stop until they've got whatever amount of distance between them and the longue. It feels like hours have passed, but Brady's sense of time is fucked to hell, so it could just as easily have been six minutes. They collapse beside a mailbox, huffing and panting and listening for approaching sirens.
They don't hear any.
"I'll give it to you", Sam says breaths. "That definitely wasn't like any party I've ever been to."
Hell of an accomplishment. Brady is about to tell him so, but in that moment, the run's caught up to his stomach, and everything he's eaten today is meeting the ground.
The rest of the night's kind of fuzzy. Sam takes them back to their dorm, bribes the DA to keep it quiet, and, well, that's it. When he awakes, he's in Sam's bed, crawling beneath his pillow in search of asylum from his headache.
Once it's clear that the pain's not going anywhere, Brady groans and slowly but surely rolls out of bed. He slithers into the bathroom, turns on the faucet, and splashes water on his face. As he's rising to stand, he catches sight of Sam standing behind him in the mirror. Sam. Who's wearing a Santa's Hat.
Brady turns around, his eyes lingering on the hat.
Sam smiles; he ducks his head and shoves his hand into the pockets of his Thundercats pajama bottoms. "I, uh, saw you snag 'em last night. You dropped 'em when you, well, lost your stomach. Figured you'd still want 'em."
"Them?"
Sam tucks his lips in, attempting to suppress his smile. He crosses the room, removes his hand from behind his back, and dangles a pair of fuzzy, red reindeer antlers from his finger.
"Ah", Brady says. He allows Sam to place the antlers on his head but keeps his arms at his side, unsure of where else to put them or where they are to go from here.
From the looks of it, Sam's struggling just as he. There's a comfortable yet wide amount of space between them; a friendly amount of space. In all honesty, being Sam's friend would be enough. Because to be Sam's friend, that would mean to have his respect, his trust, his support, his love. And whatever he can get from Sam, Brady's willing to accept, be it platonic or romantic.
But Sam's offering more. He's a little nervous and maybe even a little scared. But he's offering. And Brady, well, Brady can't exactly refuse such a nice offer.
Brady steps forward, grabs Sam by the sleeves of his shirt, and presses their lips together. And Sober!Brady's not one to kiss and tell, but it's a good one. A very good one.
"Wow", Sam says once they've separated.
"Wow, yourself." Brady bites his lip and flips the collar of Sam's shirt.
Sam sneaks his arms around his waist. They walk back into their room, crash into his bed, and listen as someone begins playing Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer. Sam presses his lips against Brady's temple and whispers, "Wanna get some eggnog?"
Brady's stomach lurches. He wraps an arm around his middle and gives Sam a playful jab to his stomach. "You're awful."
Sam just laughs. "Yeah, I know."
It's not snowing. There are no Evergreens, and his family's a couple thousand miles away. It's too hot, his head hurts, and he's got a Biology test he's gotta cram for. But he's got Sam, and that, in all honesty, is the best present he could ask for.
Sam leans his head back and smiles. He brushes a thumb along Brady's cheekbone and blinks softly. "Merry Christmas, Brady."
Brady smiles up at him and snuggles as deeply as he can into his arms. "Merry Christmas, Sam."