(New Year's/Christmas chapter inspired by lyrics from "Last Christmas" by Wham!)

nsfw 18+ (near end)

*̣̥☆·͙̥‧‧̩̥·‧•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥❅‧̩̥·‧•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥‧·͙̥̣☆*̣̥

Christmas creeped up on you this year. Between the weeks at your internship and avoiding Miguel, things have been all over the place, just when you thought things were starting to line up.

So you were alone on Christmas and you're alone on New Years Eve, both for the first time. You've got your headphones on, blasting, nostalgic Christmas music.

Standing in the kitchen, you roll out cookie dough, finding yourself thinking about Miguel. Everything. From his annotations on your essays, to the blood on his bathroom floor.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Why can't he confide in you? But blood isn't a simple secret, it's bigger than you, you know that.

Yesterday, you saw him coming up the stairs, one foot in the hallway, your own in your doorway. You look back, catch a glimpse of him down the hall; his hair is wet and messy from the snow, his cheeks pink from the cold.

You hurry into your place before he sees you. He's only left with the slam of your door.

I keep my distance, but you still catch my eye.

"I thought you liked me, now you won't even talk to me."

Last week, he cornered you in the hallway. Your keys were deep in your bag.

"I'm busy, Mig. Been so busy." Your cheeks feel hot, consequence of your lying.

Your back is now against your door. He's so close to you, looking down at you, head tilted. He looks beautiful... and threatening. But you're stubborn and you don't trust anyone anymore, especially not your blood-thirsty neighbor.

"I mean I thought we were getting somewhere, Y/N."

You did too.

"I did too. I just- I gotta go, Miguel. I'll... talk to you later."

****

You sit on your fire escape, legs hanging down, headphones on your neck, still playing music. You watch the snow fall down, snowflakes swaying before gracefully adorning your coat. You lift your arm to look at the tiny, beautifully delicate shapes melting on you.

You listen to the cars, the rumbling sky, the party music above you, the muffled voices. You're okay being alone–

"Hey,"

"Jesus! What the fuck! Who— God, you scared me, asshole!" you throw a handful of snow that's collected on your thighs at him. It pathetically hits his knees.

It's him, standing on his side of the fire escape in front of his window. He looks down at you, sympathetically.

"What do you want? Why are you looking at me like that?"

He straightens his face out. He looks straight forward, eyebrows furrowed, hands in his pockets. He looks stiff, cold like he was the first day.

"Figured you'd be home for Christmas."

"I am home." You turn away, looking down at the alley below.

"Home, home."

"My mom was out of town. No point making the trip."

"Hm," he drops down, legs hanging off the metal floor. He's feet away, but it's intimate; you're both looking down at the alley, at the the busy street, city lights glowing on your faces, snow falling on the two of you.

You turn to look at him. He's not soft like he was a few weeks back, when you somehow unwrapped his outer layer. His mind is busy, somewhere else. You stop being angry with him for a second, you empathize. Maybe he has a job to do, and maybe you're just not meant to know that part of him. Just let yourself enjoy what parts of himself he does want to share with you.

"I got you something, Y/N," he mutters, still looking straight forward. "Was gonna save it for when you weren't so mad at me, but... Christmas was days ago."

He pulls a box out of his right pocket. He reaches out, places it gently in your hand. It's small, wrapped beautifully in blueprint scraps. The small tag reads, "For Y/N." His handwriting is just like the annotations on your papers years ago. You smile down at it.

"Why would you do this? I am still mad at you. And I didn't get you anything."

"I know. Jesus, just open it."

It's ear plugs. You laugh, then roll your eyes.

You nudge him with your elbow.

"Asshole. Is this you asking me to turn a blind eye?"

"Blind ear, actually."

You glance up, unamused, which Miguel finds amusing.

"But yes, exactly that."

He nudges you, "Look under it."

You lift the tab beneath the ear plugs.

It's a necklace. The charm is your initial in Old English font.

"Let me help," he suggests. You nod, still stunned from the gesture. He lifts his weight on his biceps, and sits closer to you. Music is still bleeding from the headphones around your neck. You place them beside you.

Tell me, baby, do you recognize me?

You look up at him. The crimson in his eyes highlighted by the city lights. You never know with him, you're always searching for stable footing, for an understanding of why he acts the way he does, but despite all that, you feel like you know him.

Well, it's been a year, it doesn't surprise me.

Does he know you? The old you he shared a class with isn't the person you are now.

And after all these years, will this new version of yourself be willing to let him know you, even if it means you'll end up betrayed and hurt again?

Now I know what a fool I've been

You want to stay mad,

but he's looking down at you like that, and you're okay with getting hurt if it's by him. He looks down at the box in your hands, and gently pulls the necklace out.

He holds eye contact with you, as he puts his hands around your neck and clasps it under your hair, his eyes still on yours.

You look down at the initial resting on your skin.

You look back up.

"Merry Christmas, Y/N."

"Merry Christmas, Miguel."

He keeps one hand at your neck, his thumb softly stroking your jaw.

But if you kiss me now, I know you'll fool me again

He kisses you, his warm lips clinging to yours, warmth you appreciate as the snow shrouds you two.

****

You're sat on his couch. It's 11 pm, one hour closer to the the new year.

He opens his window, looks outside at the snow, then turns back at you over his shoulder. A smile tugs at his lips.

You look down at the drink he's made you. It's sweet, like you asked.

He hovers on the window frame, biceps flexed as his weight rests on them.

He turns around finally, facing you, his back against the window.

"Aren't you gonna join me?"

He answers by slowly walking to the spot beside you. He sinks into it.

He slides his fingers in between yours. Slowly, his warm, muscular hand eases into yours. It feels good.

"You're so confusing," you sigh, throwing your head back, the alcohol taking over. "Sometimes, I swear I know you, then you do these, I don't know, things and you completely throw me off and I don't actually know who you are, or what you want, and there was a point where I thought I did."

"Things," he whispers to himself.

"The blood, Mig, my nightmares, your eyes– you're different. I just want some answers–"

"And I'm sorry... I can't... give you all of the answers you're looking for."

"Why can't you trust me?"

"Why can't you just trust that I'm doing the right thing? That I'm doing what I have to, and trying to protect you all at the same time."

You exhale.

He throws his head back against the couch. He turns lazily to face you.

You look back down at his hand in yours.

"I'm trying to give you what I can. Could that be enough?"

He says it lowly, squeezing your hand. Your fingers move against his, you turn your hands over so you're on top, fingertips feeling his calloused palms.

You feel his eyes on you, watching you feel his skin, attentively.

He sighs. You turn, look up at him. His cheeks are pink. "The alcohol getting to you?" You whisper, leaning closer up to his lips.

He nods, pulling his hand from out of your grasp and to the hair in your face. He brushes it back gently.

Your face is flushed. You slowly lift your thigh across his lap, now stradling him.

He rests his hands on your hips, heavy breathing against your neck as his hands explore the expanse between your thighs and hips.

You find yourself moving against him slowly, craving pressure.

He buries his face into your neck, pushing and pulling your hips gently against his.

"We can't keep doing this," you break from his lips, hips unfaltering.

"Doing what?" he speaks onto your lips, breathless, drunk from lust.

"Avoiding each other when we're sober, and making out when we're drunk."

His lips are cold from the drink, you can taste the rum on him. You suck his bottom lip playfully, you feel him smile.

"Last time, swear," he smirks, before kissing you greedily.

✧❅✦

To be continued... ;) 

This is my last post of 2023!!! WOwwww 2023 was so beautiful and enlightening, and I've learned so much about myself and my love for writing and it's all been heavily inspired by Miguel and all of you beautiful people! You have no idea how grateful I am for all of your support and the growth I've been able to have on this platform omgggg <3 Thank you for being here udhffskfdkjsodsif I hope you all have a wonderful New Years full of love and good food. Take care of yourselves ('⌣'ʃƪ) ♥˖◛⁺ ⑅