you remind me of home

Christmas has come early! Well, Christmas fic at any rate. ;)

Thanks to all those who provided encouragement and a special thanks to pluginxbaby for the quick beta. This was a departure from what I normally write so I appreciate any critical feedback people may want to give (especially on characterization and style).


Eve
PG // 1770 words // Untrue
Jon/Ryan, past Pete/Ryan


Ryan flies into Chicago on the Sunday before Christmas.

O'Hare is practically thrumming with the spirit of it: families rushing through its corridors with suitcases and gift-wrapped boxes tucked under their arms, and Winter Wonderland playing softly over the PA. Ryan's learned to travel light; he breezes past the irritated travelers by the baggage carousel, his carry-on luggage in hand.

It's Pete who's waiting for him when he exits at gate E11.

It's Pete who pries his bag from his hands and swings an arm over his shoulder, leads him out into the cold, blustery daylight before Ryan can even utter a word of protest.

"I thought we discussed this, Pete. I thought I was renting a car," he manages as he spots Patrick sitting in Pete's mother's wagon, a newspaper spread out over the dashboard and an ever-present cap. There's a security guard eyeing him suspiciously just a few yards away.

"Yeah, plans change." Pete rolls one shoulder in a shrug. "I wanted to pick you up from the airport. So I did."

"I already paid for the rental."

"So get a refund."

Ryan shakes his head in disbelief.

"I didn't invite you out here, Ross, just so you could go jetting off and leave me out in the cold," Pete laughs, but Ryan can see that the joke doesn't quite reach his eyes so he's gentler than usual when he says,

"You weren't the only one who invited me, Pete."


*


Ryan's rental car is a silver Mercedes C55, just like the one he drives back home.

He's nothing if not consistent.


*


Pete's house is strung up with holly and popcorn garlands. There's the scent of gingerbread wafting from the kitchen and a decorated spruce sitting in the living room. But Pete's sister is in Oklahoma, visiting a friend from college, and his father is still at work. ('On a Sunday night this close to Christmas?' Ryan wants to ask but holds his tongue.) Pete's brother is simply nowhere to be found.

Mrs. Wentz wears a tight smile all through dinner.

The three of them end up sitting on the over-stuffed couches afterward, making idle chatter and watching the Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer Christmas special on TV. Tiny white marshmallows float in mugs of hot chocolate clasped tightly in their hands.

It's after midnight by the time they decide to turn in, Ryan complaining about being tired from his (two-hour) flight and Mrs. Wentz yawning something about a Christmas Eve brunch with her girlfriends. Ryan allows himself to be shown to the guest room – which is strange but shouldn't be because Ryan's always stayed in the guest room when he came to visit.

(Or rather, Ryan's suitcase has always stayed in guest room, and in the morning, after he had his shower, he made sure to adequately rumple the sheets.)

Ryan's almost finished unpacking when a flicker of movement catches his eyes and draws them towards the doorway.

"I…" Pete stands there staring at him, clad in only a pair of his flannel pajama pants. "I was just on my way to brush my teeth," he says uncertainly, pointing down the hall.

"Alright."

"Alright," Pete echoes, or maybe agrees. He lingers in the doorway a few seconds more, however, his eyes flitting from Ryan to the white stucco ceiling to the burber-carpeted floor as if he has something yet to say and is searching for the means to say it. But, "Alright," he simply repeats more firmly after a moment or two longer. "Goodnight, then."

Pete's dark eyes are almost black in the dim light, and there's such an air of finality to his words that Ryan's heartbeat hick-ups in his chest; he can't help but avert his gaze. "Goodnight," he returns quietly, staring at the patterned shirt he's wrinkling in his clenching hands. Pete nods and closes the door behind him.

He's slipping into his own pajamas when Ryan hears footsteps pass his door again and freezes. The sound of padding feet doesn't stop outside of his door, though. This time it doesn't even pause.


*


It's been two months since it ended. Technically. It's been two months since Ryan said, his voice tinny and small over hundreds of miles and too-old telephone receivers, that maybe he and Pete ought to start seeing other people.

Ryan likes to tell himself it was nobody's fault. Time, space, distance – those were the culprits. Not the groupies whose bedroom eyes Ryan couldn't ignore or the shitty, fucked-up messages Pete would leave on his phone at four am. Those were symptom effects. By-products.

It had been doomed from the start; they both should have known. They got each other too well, were too much alike in too many ways. They were both good with words, attentive, and adored grand gestures. They were both shitty at understanding other people's feelings, selfish, and lived completely in worlds of their own making. It was stupid of them to let anything romantic between them get so serious. Purely stupid. Mutually destructive.

It's been two whole months since Ryan Ross put his foot down, put his pride away and let his brain rule his heart.

It's been two whole minutes since Pete Wentz finally managed to do the same.


*


The sidekick on his nightstand buzzes just as Ryan is nodding off to sleep in his bed. He reaches for it, though, and the message on its screen brings a warm smile to his face.

n, he types in reply, the filght was boring pete is pete c u soon


*


Everything looks brighter in the stark light of morning. Darker too, as though the contrast has been turned up and a world of grey has finally been rendered into crisp black and white.

Pete is sitting at the breakfast table with coffee and a newspaper when Ryan descends the stairs and enters the kitchen.

"There's some cereal in the pantry," Pete tells him as Ryan pours himself a cup Columbian free-trade from the carafe and slumps into the chair beside him. Ryan just yawns in answer and reaches for the half-empty box of Frosted Flakes that's already sitting out on the table. He scrubs a hand over his tired eyes, tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear (although, to be honest, they're all errant at this hour of the morning), and pulls over Pete's mostly empty bowl.

"So Jon invited me over for dinner tonight," Ryan says, his voice quiet and casual but his bleary eyes set firmly when Pete looks up at him over the top of an article on Barack Obama. Ryan's not sure what he expected, but it's not the small smile and nod that he receives.

It maybe should have been.

"Maybe," Ryan adds cautiously, licking his lips. "Maybe we could watch A Christmas Carol first? I mean, it's still early, right?"

"Nah." Pete waves dismissively. "The book will always be better."

Ryan nods quickly and ducks his head back down to his cereal. He should have known better, known that between them crisp would equal cold.

Pete watches the caramel locks of Ryan's hair fall back into his face and sighs. "Miracle on 34th Street?"

Ryan's head jerks in surprise but, "Yeah. Yes. Absolutely," he manages to reply. Pete sits back in his chair and shakes out the paper again, satisfied.

They sit for handful of minutes in relative silence, leaving each other to the crunch of cereal and the crinkle of turning pages, but when Ryan gets up to clear his plate, Pete reaches out to wrap a hand around his slender forearm.

"We're okay?" he says, schooling his face into a smile that won't reach his wide, honest eyes (but the effort is all there).

"We're okay," Ryan affirms, ruffling Pete's hair with genuine affection and maybe – just maybe – neither of them is lying. After all that's passed, staying friends won't be the easiest thing either of them has done. But then neither man has ever backed down from a challenge.


*


Ryan arrives at Jon's parents' house just after four with a pie in hand and snow in his hair, all wrapped up in a woolen scarf to stave off the cold. He tucks his bangs behind his ears and ducks his head as Jon's mother quickly ushers him inside. Jon's house is a split-level built in the 1950's, with wood paneling still lining some of the walls, and it feels more like a home than anywhere Ryan's ever known.

Ryan allows himself to be ushered toward the fireplace by Jon, who hands him a cup of eggnog and grins like it's already Christmas morning. And Ryan settles down onto the rug by the hearth, the firelight casting flickering shadows over his face as he sips from his mug and listens to Jon's brother and his girlfriend tell the ridiculously adorable story of how they met.

"Everyone should fall in love like that," Jon whispers in his ear when Mrs. Walker announces that dinner is served and story time unfortunately comes to an end, but Ryan shakes his head.

"Love's not meant to be that simple," he says, taking the hand Jon offers to help him up off the floor.

Jon clasps his shoulders and steers Ryan toward the dining room. "Or maybe you just overcomplicated it."

The meal is boisterous and warm and just everything Ryan's ever imagined the holidays should be. Jon's mother tries to push Ryan into having seconds and thirds and fourths until Jon's blushing and telling her to stop henpecking him, but Ryan grins and greedily helps himself to another serving of Turkey anyhow. ("Hollow legs," Ryan assures her.)

And at the end of the night - it's Christmas Eve so no one is staying late tonight - Jon walks Ryan out to his car like the gentleman his is (or at least tries to be).

"Tomorrow is Christmas. Are you...?" he trails off.

"Yeah," Ryan smiles. "Pete's mom is making chocolate-chip pancakes. It'll be nice."

Jon grins at him then too because it does sound nice. "I'm glad you came," he says, and places a hand on Ryan's shoulder.

And then they're kissing, tentative and slow like the first snowfall. They're kissing against Ryan's silver Mercedes, and Ryan brings his hand up to cup Jon's face and thumbs over the stubble he finds there on his cheeks before he pulls away.

"I'll come by after," he promises. "Tomorrow. Sometime in the afternoon."

And Jon's still warm, even in the Windy City, as he watches Ryan drive off into the clear, crisp night.