Notes: 2006 Christmas ficlet for Emily.

Fuck Santa, fuck presents, and fuck Christmas. Oh yeah, and most of all, fuck Justin! And I don't mean that in a positive, life-affirming way. This whole damn thing was his idea, but who's to do the dirty work? Me! It wasn't even a request, no. He didn't go, "Oh Brian? Could you maybe get us a tree today?" No! He fucking ordered me to go down to the garden centre. "By the way, Brian... You're getting our Christmas tree today." What the fuck?! Does he really think that simply because he came back, he can make me jump through fucking hoops? A little voice inside my head points out that I'm standing in the middle of a fake wood currently – so yeah, he can. Fuck!

It all began on the day he showed up on my – our – doorstep. Six months after he'd left me to become a grand artiste in New York... Six months after I'd made him leave. "I found an agent who said I could paint wherever I please, so I'm coming home." And that was that. I know I should have pressed the issue, but the truth is every other weekend and the almost daily phone calls and emails hadn't been enough. I'd missed him and was just too fucking glad to have him back to fight. Looking back now I realise that was the moment I handed over the reigns.

After hours of searching – or maybe just ten minutes – I finally find a tree that meets my expectations. The salesman, sensing a deal, babbles inanely about the tree being long-lasting, how it hardly sheds... And I care because? He's having it taken down and we arrange the delivery, and I'm just paying when my gaze falls on the ring sitting snugly on my ring finger. That was the second nail for my coffin – or rather that of the Brian Fucking Kinney legend.

He'd been back for two weeks – and trust me when I say we spent most of the time fucking – when he found them. The rings. Okay, I guess that had been partly my fault, cause I still hadn't quite managed to return them. Yeah, after six months. I'd been busy, now shut up! So he found them and decided we should use them. "I'm on to you, Brian. I know you picked that come and cuddle fight so I'd go to New York. You wanted to get married then. And I want it now. So deal with it." An hour later Emmett arrived, shaking with fear because of the golden gardenias Justin had wanted the first time around. He needn't have worried.

A month later, and six years after we'd first met – almost to the day – we tied the knot. It was a simple, yet elegant affair, and I only felt slightly sickened by it. Until we got to the part with the vows, that is, and Justin dragged it all down into the fucking sappy and ridiculously romantic gutter he frequents. You'd think I would storm off in total disgust at such a blatant display of emotions. Well, you seem to be forgetting that I'm a dickless fag. So I didn't run. I just brushed away his tears and proceeded to kiss him senseless. I mentioned coffin nails, yes?

"We could deliver it tonight, Mr Kinney. If you think someone will be at your home around 6 p.m." I merely nod. Oh yes, someone will be home. Someone who made it our home in the first place. That's the third nail. And just so you know, you only need four to secure a coffin...

It was the morning after he'd dragged me into this fucking marriage shit when I caught him on the phone, arranging stuff with a moving company. And when I tried to talk sense into him – like that's possible – he only shrugged. "You didn't sell the house, did you?" Well, I hadn't quite managed it yet... "Besides, I need better studio space, somewhere that you don't throw a hissy fit whenever I spill a little bit of paint..." Or a whole fucking can!

So, yeah. That's our home now. Britin, as he dubbed the poor house – what did it ever do to him? We still have the loft – just in case we get totally pissed at the club and... My cell goes off, and I swear I can hear him bounce. "Mom won the turkey duel! Deb's a little miffed, but we consoled her by entrusting her with desert..." And that, boys and girls, is the final nail. Family Christmas at our house. Complete with a cat fight over who would make the turkey. I've to say I'm kinda glad Jen won that battle. Deb always tries to drown the poor bird in some sauce or whatever she calls that stuff.

Everyone will be there, even Mr Drew Boyd. Yeah, Emmett and everybody's favourite quarterback have decided to cut the crap and just... "Brian? You got the tree, yes?" Yeah, I did, you little shit. I'm not suicidal. And I really want to get some tonight – especially since we've been doing it raw for about a week now. That's something the Stud of Liberty wouldn't have been able to do. So I guess I should just face reality and get myself a present – a headstone saying, "R.I.P. Brian Fucking Kinney. You won't be missed."