"Julien," I whisper against his neck, fingers tangled in his chestnut curls. My whole body curls around his. There's never been anything more natural.

"Finneas," he responds, his arms wrapping around my torso and pulling me against him, wiping away every inch between us. He still smells like himself — pine and Old Spice — unlike the sweatshirt he left behind the last time he stayed over. He tilts his head and begins to work his way down the side of my neck with his lips, tantalisingly soft, drawing out something I didn't know I had but am more than willing to give with each touch.

I exhale softly, my chest hitching as his fingers spread against the bare skin of my back. There's so much I want to tell him. Don't stop. Keep going. More. More. More. This slow pace is absolute torture.

"Finneas," he says.

"Julien."

"Finneas." More light kisses. More sweet, delicious torment. "Finneas."

I feel like an idiot, but my mouth is absolutely agape at this point. I couldn't close it if I wanted to; all I can do is tighten my grip on his silky hair.

And then my alarm goes off.

It's definitely one of those "oh, of-freaking-course" moments. Of-freaking-course my alarm goes off at the worst possible moment. Of-freaking-course I'm waking up alone in my room (in immense discomfort, mind you) after a dream like that.

Of-freaking-course that was a dream.

It's seven AM, and I feel ready to spill over. Physically, emotionally, I'm just done. I'm surprised I don't wake up like this more often.

There's a creak outside my door, sudden and jarring. "Finnie!" calls my mom. Her fist lightly raps the wood of my ancient door. "Oh, Finnie!"

My duvet flies to cover myself properly; the last thing I need this early is my mom barging in to see me . . . indecent. "I'm up, Mom!" I yell, praying to God she doesn't come in. "I-I'll be out in a second!"

There's a beat of silence. "Okay, well, hustle, honey! Your waffles will get cold!"

"Thanks, Mom—"

"They have extra whipped cream! I know you're all about that cream, always have been—"

"Yep! Yeeep! Thanks, Mom!" My face is burning.

"Oh, and if you do decide to use syrup, don't use too much. We're having the—"

"Understood, Mom!"

"Okay, Finnie! I'll see you downstairs, snuggle bunny!" Footsteps recede down the hall.

This. This is how I want to wake up. Every. Day.

There's more than just Mom and Dad's voices downstairs; I recognise the signature tenor of our neighbor, Mr. Gleeson, right before the back door squeaks open and shuts, and the voices stop. It's been our habit to host him and Julien for a breakfast once a week ever since his wife left years ago. Unfortunately for just about everyone, Julien is off to college and decided to spend the holidays with his mother. And so, we remain Julien-less.

I need to see him again, just as much as I hate the idea of seeing him again.

I'm still rubbing sleep out of my eyes when I trudge into the kitchen, clad in ratty pajamas. My hair is a spiky black mess, flying every which way, but I couldn't care less. It's freaking Christmas Eve, thank you very much.

"Morning, Finneas," Mr. Gleeson says. I can pick out his voice even with my eyes closed.

"Morning, Mr. Gleeson," I murmur, practically skating over to the fridge on fluffy pink socks my aunt gave me as a gag gift last year.

There's a laugh — a tinkling laugh that's nothing like Mr. Gleeson's. "Holy crap, do I really sound that much like my dad?"

I spin a full one-eighty and almost face-plant into the granite of the kitchen island. "Julien?"

Julien sits at the dining room table, dressed in a cute, loose maroon sweater that brings out the reddish undertones in his copper hair. His cheeks are less chipmunk-ish than they were when we were kids, but they still make his otherwise-narrow face look oddly round as he grins at me. A dimple I haven't seen in months greets me.

That grin. Those lips. "Hey, Finneas. I like those socks."

"You're home for the holidays?" I ask, though it feels more like sucking in a breath. One harsh, giant breath. "What happened to. . . ." I don't say "your mom".

The grin is a little smaller now. "She decided to take her kids to their grandparents', instead."

"Oh." Just where is everyone else? I need someone to be here, someone to make this less awkward. I'll take anyone.

"Yuuuup. . . ." He goes back to eating his waffles — a big old stack, topped off with melting whipped cream. I look away as a little dribbles down his chin.

"Oh, oh God," he says between laughs. "I'm such a klutz."

It's all I can do to force a small smile onto my face.

"So, um, I'm going to be staying with you guys tonight?" Julien says, clearly avoiding my gaze. When I don't do anything besides nod, he continues. "My dad apparently has been turning my room into an office, so it's a complete mess. Your mom offered up your room—"

My head snaps up, eyes narrow, heart pounding. He notices. The air is icier than before.

"—but I told her I'd be fine on the couch downstairs," he finishes rapidly.

"Okay," I murmur.

"Okay," he says, gives a relieved sigh, and slumps back in his seat.

"So. . . ." I don't know where to take this conversation. I should be taking it somewhere, right? "How's college?"

Julien gives me this tight, "I Appreciate You Trying To Make Conversation"-type smile. "Pretty boring, actually. I ended up switching majors."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, electrical engineering wasn't what I thought it was."

"Ah."

"Yep."

"So, what are you doing now?" It used to be so easy to talk to him, completely second-nature. Where did that go?

"Um, English, actually."

"Oh, really?"

He seems a little sheepish — a norm that thankfully hasn't changed. "Yep. A lot of beanies, surprisingly."

"That's cool."

"You think so?"

I don't know what I'm supposed to say in response to this — which sucks, because a year ago, it wasn't like this. "Um, yeah."

Then, he smiles. Oh, God, the way this boy smiles breaks me down and builds me back up every time. Since forever. It's sweet and subtle, maybe even aloof to some, but to me, it's the world. It's the Big Bang. It's my Everything.

"So, how's senior year?" he asks me, obviously wanting to find a new subject to fixate upon as much as I do.

"Great." What else do I say? This sad, lonely feeling suddenly taps me from inside my stomach. "At this point in the year, all my friends are suddenly focusing on prom," I say. It's a bit of a stretch — a lot of a stretch, actually — but I just need to remind him that the prom is indeed a thing. Was indeed a thing.

He winces slightly, even though he does a good job at passing it off as a swallow. I'm leaning against the island now, feeling more confident than I really am. "Oh? Um, yeah?"

"Yup." I toss my weight backwards and lean against the other counter, crossing my arms against the bitter cold of the morning. "Hopefully this year'll be fun. A great . . . last bash." I feel so confident in this moment. I've been needing to say this for a while. Why was I so scared before? Every part of me had recoiled, until just now. Why?

"Finneas, I. . . ."

I need it. The very prospect has me standing straighter. I need it. I need this apology. It's this immense hunger, taking over every inch of me. My whole body is on edge.

Julien drops his eyes to his lap where I'm sure he's wringing his fingers, his age-old habit. "I'm sorry," he says in a soft whisper.

"It's fine," I say, definitely meaning it less than I could. This wasn't as satisfying as I'd thought it would be. And my forgiveness doesn't actually feel forgiving. It's not fine. There's this burning resentment in my gut, resentment for Julien, for prom, for people who promise things and then slip away in silence.

There's a plate of waffles on the counter, topped with way too much whipped cream to be sane. Definitely mine. I pull out the drawer behind me, grab some cutlery, and snatch the plate off the counter. "Well, see you, man." It feels harsh. Bitter. I feel a little proud, and I feel a little sick.

Julien nods down at his own breakfast. "Yeah, see you."

Christmas Eve in the McIntyre house is usually dull. My mom spends the whole day baking; my dad wastes time "perfecting" the fire in the fireplace; and I ignore them both.

It's not even because I'm antisocial or because I don't want to "help out". The way I figure it, I'll be spending every single waking second with these people tomorrow. Might as well start off with a fresh slate.

Carly Rae Jepsen is my guilty pleasure music. Like, for real. I lay on my bed, already having exhausted the options of room cleaning and reading. YouTube is boring. Memes are boring. Everything is just . . . boring. So, I lay flat on my back, dramatically staring up at the ceiling as if there's something past it, something more than just sky, and listen about wanting to cut to that feeling (which totally sounds wrong out of context).

There are a few familiar raps on my door. Mom raps, Dad knocks. Some things never change.

Though, then again, some do.

"Yeah, Mom?" I ask, not even bothering to sit up.

"Finnie," she says through the door in her I Am Being A Stern Parent voice, "come entertain your guest."

I roll over onto my side and try not to groan. Seriously? I have to spend my Christmas Eve entertaining Julien now?

"Bring out the gimp," I say, just loud enough for her to hear.

As the door opens, I hear her fussy mutterings (most of what my mom says could be categorised as "fussy mutterings"). "Go on in, Julien. Also, if he's being stupid"—wow, do I feel eight years old again—"sit on him. Just like when you boys would wrestle! Oh, you remember that?"

"Very much so, Mrs. McIntyre," Julien says, laughing a little in his Julien Way, then steps through the door. Barefoot, hesitant. "Hi." His green eyes — they were always abnormally light, somewhat frosty, for green eyes — are scanning the room, greeting everything that isn't me. Swivel chair, unmade bed, sweatshirt he left here. I'm sure my face is bright red.

"Door stays open!" Mom cheers, somehow maintaining a little sense, then scampers down the hallway to go do her Mom Things of the Eve.

Julien looks so uncertain, a mirror image of him when he left for college in August, minus the new shortness of his hair. "So, this room hasn't changed much, huh?"

"Nope," I say, because it honestly hasn't. I can imagine Julien's college dorm now — a little frumpy, a lot of boy; too much beige and off-white to not look a little dirty when it's any time but morning; some cute college guy — probably bi or queer too, maybe even a foriegn exchange student from some exotic country — in the loft bed four feet away.

He was never meant for this, was he? For me? For us?

The realisation slows my movements, makes me indelicate, sluggish, as I sit up. "Welcome back to my humble abode," I say a little tersely.

Julien laughs a little, gives me that round-cheeked, too-dimpled smile, then sits down in my desk chair on top a few haphazardly strewn sweatshirts. "I feel so welcomed."

Okay. Touché.

"Finneas, this has been going on for too long." Julien crosses one leg over the other, a move I've seen his dad use when drunk and about to go on a serious rant about politics. He sighs once, a little through his nose — something I remember we fought about when he first went to kindergarten and got a cold; I hated the way air whistled through his clogged sinuses. "We need to talk."

I want to resent him. No, scratch that — I want to hate him. Even though I know he's kind of right.

So I play a little might what just be coy. "About what?"

He frowns. Having grown up literally right next to him, I can identify the look easily: unimpressed. "I mean it, Finneas."

My room grows ten degrees colder. Out my window behind Julien, I can see snow hitting the pane, some flakes softly glancing off and others sticking to the seasonally-redundant bug screen. I've never particularly enjoyed snow, even when it's in perfect time for the holidays, but thinking of Julien's childhood fascination with white christmases (and Bing Crosby, for that matter) gives me pause.

"Okay," I say. It feels like releasing a pent-up breath. "Okay, let's talk."

Julien and I sit in silence for a moment. I guess neither of us know where to start.

Finally, he says, "I'm really sorry about prom."

I find myself nodding a little, bobbing my head along to some unhearable rhythm behind his words. "It's cool," I say.

"No, it's not."

"You're right." I look at his bare feet, taking in the scar he got on the old trampoline he had, the way his toe nails are trimmed — something he does religiously to relieve anxiety, I know. "Actually, I'm still mad about that."

Waiting for him to interrupt me is torture. He doesn't — not surprisingly, seeing as he never really was the type — so I force myself to continue speaking.

"I li— Julien. I've. . . ." The words, the words that have been mulled over my tongue again and again, suddenly won't come. "Julien, I've loved you for years."

I wish he would nod, or cry, or even get up and just leave. Anything. Anything that's not just sitting still and taking it. "I love you," I press on, even though it feels like I'm trying to force open a barricaded door. A very, very firmly-shut door. "And it really hurt for you to just . . . brush me off like that."

Now he looks away. Now he looks hurt.

Good. I want to keep going. I want to dig claws into his skin and rake them down his sides again and again till his tears stain my shirt and he asks for me to stop. There's this anger. I've been so angry.

"To be disregarded. . . . You know what that's like, Julien."

It feels good to say something I know hurts.

It feels like I'm spitting venom, but it's unavoidable; I need to say this. And Julien needs to hear it.

My throat feels tighter and tighter as I continue. "Did you know I bought a tie for you? It was my mom's idea. She thought it would be cute if we matched, which is a total mom thing and all that, but I thought it would be cute, too, and it totally would have been."

He opens his mouth but says nothing. The ball is rolling now. I can't stop.

"And the flowers!" My throat was tight before, but I'm suddenly comfortable with it. With this. With finally giving him a piece of my mind, something I'm realising I waited way too long for. "We had laughed once about how it was dumb that we couldn't expect flowers. So, I got you daisies. These, these really pretty, really nice-smelling daisies. Like we used to pick down by MacGyver Pond? And then you didn't even show up."

"My friend needed me," he says quietly. "He. . . . It was a rough night."

"I understand that," I say slowly, measuredly, only sympathising a little, "but, Julien, you couldn't have called?"

Julien shakes his head, like I just don't get it. Which is . . . well. It doesn't make me feel fantastic.

"Finneas," he says, drawing it out, like he's been needing to say this, too, "I would give anything to be there. With you. I screwed up."

You did. "Prove it." My chin is tilted up, challenging him.

He's giving me that shy smile, that one he used to give me right before we would conquer my treehouse when we were kids. "For real?"

Julien looks unsure as he slowly gets up from the chair, but the time he's crossed the few feet over to the bed, he's totally confident. And then he's standing right in front of me, looking down, breathing visibly.

"For sure," I mutter, unable to take my eyes off him.

His hands are feverish against my skin as they slide to cup my cheeks, then grasp the back of my neck. My own hands mimic his, finding surface first on his face, then his shoulders, then his back. His lips move in sync with mine; there's not an inch of space between us. The fabric of his sweater is soft against my skin. Before I know it, my legs are wrapping around his torso.

"Finneas," he whispers against the side of my mouth. It sounds like an admonition. It sounds like a prayer.

I want to say his name, but all my breath has been stolen. It's just . . . gone. So I simply sigh against his slightly-parted lips, and he somehow pulls me even closer.

His lips press against my cheek softly. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," I murmur, which is a complete understatement. The biggest. As he kisses me lightly on the forehead, just once, it escapes me in a whisper: "Julien."

A/N - 

IT'S LATE, BUT IT'S HERE!

I hope you guys enjoyed this short story. This has taught me I need to prewrite stories before big holiday event-type things. For real. This isn't as Christmassy as it COULD have been, but . . . what ever is?

And that is my daily wisdom.