I choke the brew cup with the sort of power I wish to acquire ubiquitously, and this slight reprieve from helplessness is magnificent, but this is a coffee shop in the middle of the mall, and it isn't time for my whimsical thinking, especially when a cheerful Lindsey is visibly bubbling across from me.

"Pete's just going to love what you got him!" she gushes, greeting the table with the underside of her cup a tad too forcefully, causing the other patrons to swivel their necks and investigate before returning to their pastoral lives that don't concern us.

My fingers chip away at the plastic lid in front of my petite nose (which Pete has called adorable far too much), and my reply is distant. "Are you sure?"

When Lindsey invited me to the mall, I had no intentions of buying anything, even if Christmas is around the corner, but when a little glass finch caught my attention in the dingiest thrift shop in the entire complex, it was hard to resist...so I didn't, and now that bird has me feeling queasy about Pete's reaction to come in a few days.

Nevertheless, it's in my bag, ready to be cached in widespread commercialism in the form of wrapping paper when we return to the cottage, and my fear will have to wait until Christmas morning.

"Of course I'm sure, Patrick!" Darker thoughts button up Lindsey's mind suddenly, shaken by my unease. "Why wouldn't he?"

"I don't know." I don't dare look at Lindsey, instead utilizing my hands to suck cuts into the lid of my cup like I've been doing for the past few minutes.

"You're going to spill your coffee like that," Lindsey warns, taking note of my nervous excursion.

"Then all the white girls would come to wipe it up," I jest as Lindsey gyres hickory within their whites, slightly disappointed and slightly amused by my joke.

"I love white people jokes," she opines, skin jointed in good humor. "You'd probably be the emo cousin."

Hardly offended, I revenge, "And you'd be the butterscotch grandma."

The woman shrugs. "I guess that's fair."

"I just remembered!" Lindsey yelps, and a few people turn at the commotion. "Ryan and Brendon are coming tomorrow!"

"Maybe they're finally an item," I speculate, pondering a topic that shouldn't be relevant yet somehow is.

"I'm assuming one of them is a flamboyant gay, correct?" My friend infers quite intuitively, flesh pulsating with excitement.

"That would be Brendon," I chuckle, vision leeching the inspiration from my coffee. "Have you never met them?"

"Nope." Lindsey reams her apple lips, symbolizing earnestness, and my concrete brows converge.

"I would've thought that Gerard introduced you to them at least once."

"He prefers for me to stay away from his friends," Lindsey confesses. "It's probably just a white guy thing, nothing personal."

"On the topic of white guys, Gerard's most likely the weed cousin," I diverge, our white people stereotypes throbbing with overuse. "Brendon's the gay cousin, and Ryan is the suburban mom."

"A lot of cousins, huh?" the woman giggles, swabbing her throat with the latte pressed between her carmine nails.

"That doesn't really matter, because you're being upstaged by a new mom — Ryan Ross."

Both of Lindsey's brows scratch higher on her forehead, astounded by her present status. "I'm a mom now?"

"Admit it — you know you're a mom."

My friend sips her coffee secretively, a tad of the sensation probing her switching eyes. "Probably."

"Well we'll see who wins the mom battle tomorrow afternoon, now won't we?" Intrigue pinnacles my lips, drawing a line from ear to ear as Lindsey's game stace frisks on her body.

"Ryan Ross is going down."

"We'll just have to wait to find out."

And then our lungs burst with comicality, but I'm not really sure why. I suppose we're just marveling at how absurd all of this is — assigning stereotypes to people, fretting about Christmas gifts, sitting in a coffee shop in the middle of the mall with no goals other than to enjoy ourselves by escaping our continuous labors — and with our circumstances, I can't ask for more.

"It's amazing how my first discussion with Ryan is most likely going to be about scheduling our duel," Lindsey gasps. "He'll be so bewildered."

"He probably won't question it, to be frank," I assure, marrying the coffee to my taste buds. "He's generally a docile guy."

"That's good, because not even I know what I'm talking about."

"Is everything all right over here?" a waitress inquires, raven tresses bedewing her wiry shoulders as they support an arm faithfully employed by a notepad.

When Lindsey spots my anxious frame shivering in my seat, she takes over the conversation. "Yep, everything's great." The woman squints to read our waitress' name tag, adding, "Alicia."

Alicia's lips cream with a smile, which is soon replaced by fascination at the sight of Lindsey's eyeliner, spun in a precise wing. "Wow, your makeup is fantastic!" she yawps, closing in on the other girl with unbridled infatuation.

"Um, thanks," Lindsey acknowledges, glancing jocosely at me.

"Yeah, no problem," Alicia replies, still fixed on Lindsey's cosmetics as the manager begins to become suspicious.

"Alicia, get back to work!" her boss yells, waving a rag in the air.

"Fine, Christa!" she calls back, then turning to us and sheepishly placing two candy canes on the table. "Merry Christmas, guys."

Lindsey's mouth willows in only a tad fake smile, responding, "You, too, Alicia."

Once the waitress departs, I fold myself inward and whisper, "She was a bit odd."

"I'm sure she had good intentions."

A pause.

"Anyway, shall we get home?" Lindsey proposes, slinging her purse over her limb and tossing out her empty coffee cup.

I collect my trash, remembering my glass bird, and nod my head. "Merry Christmas, Alicia!" I repeat on my way out, and the last thing I see is a toothy grin before we're cleansed by the winter air.

~~~~~

"Isn't it spectacular?" Lindsey gulps, gazing admirably at the newly manufactured Christmas tree with a spell torching her gingerbread irises.

"Quite." I deposit my gift, wrapped in a snowman's palooza, with the rest of its kind, selected by me with the most ambivalent judgment in a store that holds no meaning to my friends but is the only option for my grieving mind, and I am finally content with how the tree looks.

Homemade ornaments supple the evergreen, ranging from kindergarten crafts to Gerard's art show masterpieces, and it's evident that surplus love and care contributed to their forging. Many shapes and sizes sheathe the branches, tendrils of glass reflecting a magnificent kind of mirth, bulbs of different flavors contrasting with the chartreuse of its neighboring needles, gaiety of every proportion dancing in the woodland fragrance mixed with cinnamon and chocolate, and it's all so...nostalgic.

One ornament in particular stands out from the rest, fairly new and pristine, and as I examine it closely, I find it to be made by the familiar touch of Pete Wentz, and my name drips from its lustered surface onto my lot of presents below.

"Do you like it?" chirps a voice lined with buoyancy, humming into my neck like the crook of a juniper.

I pivot to face the silk prospect of my friend, and a cookie is promptly smothered within my teeth, a newborn from the oven. I remove it briefly to speak, saying, "It's beautiful."

"I'm glad you think that."

Gerard appears behind Lindsey, also locating a delicacy between her teeth as she smacks him away. "Pete and I made cookies," he informs her while deflecting a hit.

"Regardless, don't sneak up on me, Gerard Way!"

"Whatever, Lindsey," the lissome man scoffs in farce.

"Whatever, weed cousin," she bickers in defense.

"Suburban mom," Gerard mutters, hands belted to his hips as he analyzes the display of gifts under his masterfully decorated tree.

"Even Gerard knows his white people stereotypes," I murmur to Pete, now unwittingly bushed by his embrace and clothed in the memories of the fruit rows.

"You smell like a coffee shop."

And you, a strawberry field.

"I went with Lindsey to the mall and got a cappuccino while I was there," I answer absently and burnish a strand of crow to rest flatly on Pete's head.

"You should've gotten a pumpkin spice latte," my friend cerebrates, his laugh shaving grooves into my spine, and I laugh with him.

"Why?"

"It's my absolute favorite," Pete insists, scything a kiss into the tip my nose to distract me from the fact that he indulges in possibly the most mainstream drink ever, but then again, I'm not a hipster and shouldn't care.

I roll my eyes. "Are you a white girl now?"

"I've always been a white girl at heart." Pete clutches his chest, as if pledging allegiance to the sorority of cliché women.

I tussle his pitch coils, retracting with the ashes of flour cropping my fingers. "Ugh, shut up, you fool."

"Okay," Pete complies, but instead of remaining dormant, his lips sinew my own, escorted by an incomparable bravery suave with the aroma of freshly baked cookies, and the room is suddenly encrusted in applause.

"I hate you," I scowl, amputating our connection once I regain my consciousness.

Pete's eyes are pliant with mischief, and with the cinders of a taste on his lips, he kisses me one last time and purrs, "I know you do."

But before I can react, Frank stumbles in from the kitchen, shouting, "Well let's all have a great Christmas and enjoy some eggnog!"

And I just laugh.

~~~~~

A/N: *throws leaves in the air* fLUFF

also I'm really excited to write these Christmas scenes

current vibe: when my dad called me to ask what kind of grapes I wanted

~Darude sandstorm