AN: A Christmas fic, in two parts. Mostly fluff and probably non explicit slash. Merry Christmas, everyone!

“That bloke’s like vegemite,” my dad grins, and the punch line scrolls across my mind before he gets it out.

“A little bit goes a long way?” I finish it, grinning into my beer. There are two guys behind the bar, and we’re talking about the shorter one. I can’t blame him though. It’s Christmas Eve and the hotel bar’s deserted- We’re probably the first customer’s they’ve seen all night. A little enthusiasm goes a long way, though, especially with a voice like that. The other guy, though. I glance over my little sister’s shoulder to where he’s cleaning glasses behind a row of taps. Taller, fairer and with a face that’s almost perfectly symmetrical. An even tan and light coloured eyes. He’s pretty, but he’s not gorgeous. There’s nothing about him that really stands out, but Christ.
We’re waiting for my mum and my brother, trying not to talk politics until there’s a few more people to act as a buffer zone, making do with drinks and a large dinner menu in the meantime. We’ll end up eating here tonight- tomorrow’s Christmas and none of us are in the mood to brave last minute shopping crowds by leaving the Hotel grounds.

By the time the other two arrive, my little sister’s on her second (illegal) run and coke and my dad and I are on to altruism and foreign policy. Is it wrong that I’m more cynical than a fifty year old man? We leave our stools by the window and move back to a covered balcony with cushioned seats and a specials board within sight. I have to read the menu to my mother because she’s forgotten her glasses, and just as I’m trying to pronounce “chorizo” Vegemite comes outside with the man-from-behind-the-bar. I’m going to blush.

There we go.

They bring over glasses and a bottle of water, condensation beading around the outside. One of them hands a wine list to my father- I’m not sure which, too busy staring at the table to look up, and i will be until they go away. Attractive people are intimidating, and I’m cursed with fair skin and a blush that comes as easily as a fake orgasm for a hooker.

Or something.

We order (I’m sticking with the steak sandwich) and Before we’re halfway done it’s time for another round of drinks. My mother’s been making eyes at the pokies, so I volunteer to go to the bar before i start on my “Pokies are the tool of the devil and a government who’s turned on its own people” speech. Of course, this means I have to stand there like a fool trying not to turn bright red while man-from-behind-the-bar pulls me a Tooheys Old and asks if we’re from Sydney (no), Uni (yes), and Course?

“Um, Chemical Engineering.”

“Cool. I’m over at UTS doing Journalism.” He grins and sets the second of five drinks on the tray. “Name’s Paul.”

“Oh, Uh. Mitchell.” I have to pause to think of something else to say. “Are you from here, then?”

“Yeah. Well, Cronulla. I’m not racist though.”

I blink, a little taken aback. Ever since the riots people seem to feel the need to tack the “I’m not racist” disclaimer to the end of any sentence that even comes within four feet of mentioning Cronulla. It’s a little disturbing, especially when you’re not anglo. I think Paul must pick up on that, though, because his grin falters a bit and he hurries to set himself straight.

“Not that- I mean, I wasn’t-“

“It’s okay. You meant Muslims, not Asians. Can I get those drinks, now?”

-------

I leave the hotel relatively early, hands stuffed into the pockets of my jeans and with half my mind taken up with trying not to trip over my shoelaces. It never really occurs to me to stop and tie them together. My bag hangs low over my shoulder, every step a comfortable ‘thunk’ against the back of my thigh. My parents and siblings are back upstairs, the Victoria’s Secret fashion show keeping the happy for another two hours or so. The bus stop is only another block away- an inner city block, so hardly any distance at all. Still, Surry Hills is home to both boutique stores and half way houses- if the drunks don’t make you feel uneasy, the retro mannequins would do the job.

The hotel my family had had dinner in was still open, two people smoking on the balcony and a few wait staff hanging around by the bar. It and the convenience store opposite were the only places open Christmas Eve, though neither seemed to be expecting many customers. The only person wandering the street was a man with a beanie and no shoes, stark white bandage on his foot the cleanest part of him. I shifted my gaze to the ground as we passed each other- the asphalt was preferable to meeting his own guilt inducing gaze. It made me think of relocating homeless people during the Olympics.

“Oh, we don’t have enough money to increase your welfare payments,” says the government. “But we do have enough to enforce the mass exodus of anyone unclean from the city centre.”

The bus shelter shines up ahead, a testament in aluminium to the tax payers’ efforts.
The next bus is in an hour and seventeen minutes. Christ Almighty. I’m not hanging around here until then.
The pub’s just down the road, its doors still open and music still playing. Paul the not-racist can put up with me, I decide, and head back the way I came.

Vegemite’s at the door when i walk in.

“Back already!” He seems a little lost as to why, exactly, i am back already, minus the exclamation mark. I sigh and shuffle inside.
“There’s a hours wait on a bus. Could I...” I drift off, a lot less certain about making them let me stay here until my bus comes than I was two minutes ago.
“Oh, hey, yeah! No problem, man! We were gonna close in, like, twenty minutes anyway. Stick around for a drink!” I nod and claim a stool by the bar.

TBC: Christmas Day.

*waves to people*

TBC, Christmas Day!