A/N:

Okay, here goes. I should finish writing the next chapter of "The things that define me"-story, I just felt like writing something else. I blame my habit of procrastination.

I felt like writing something Christmas-themed, because you know, it's that time of the year again and a girl's got to vent somehow. It was supposed to be an one-shot, but when I reached over 5000 in word count and hadn't even come half way... Well, it's not gonna be a one-shot, 'kay?

Just read it and I'll see you on the other side.

Rated M because I've been told that if it were possible people would censor ME as a whole.
In other words; just to be safe and for future chapters.

I own nothing, all creds goes to Death Note's creators. Honestly, this is just a refined form of plagiarism.

I hate Christmas.

Go ahead, call me the Grinch or whatever; it won't change how I feel. That sickening cheer that people like to flaunt in your face, starting prematurely already in October, as if the actual month of December wasn't enough. Even the religious aspect of it is since long dead and gone. Sometimes I wonder how many fakes it, if there is indeed anything real, genuinely heartfelt, about it. If so I would feel no shame in admitting that I'd feel the same hatred, though out of pure jealousy.

Don't take me wrong, I still believe it's all fake, though I like to speculate, and this I do as I stare at the ceiling of my small darkened bedroom. It's more like a drafty closet, at least it has a door, allowing me to shut myself in and the voices, growing louder by the minute, out.

Guessing this year won't be an exception, my father should soon start his banging on the door, demanding me to attend the Christmas-eve dinner, where I'll last about fifteen minutes before being sent back to my room. With a cold chuckle I remember last year's catastrophic dinner; I'd entered the kitchen where my cousin, uncle and father sat waiting for me, told them that I was homosexual and turned around the same second as my father started demanding me out of his sight. Though in retrospect it actually was quite funny.

I hear the steps, weighing heavy with vodka, drawing nearer and finally coming to a stop outside my door, just as I feared that another boot-clad stomp would make the floor collapse. The frail door bucks in under the hard fist of my father.

"Mihael, get yourself out here right this instant!", he yells between the banging, "show your relatives some respect!"

Yes indeed, respect. In real life respect was given to those who deserved it, hard-working, honest people, this was not the case in the warped mind of my father. Asking him respect should be given to anyone who carried the name Keehl, even more if they happened to be your senior in any way, shape or form. I was at a constant loss, being the youngest heir of the name, desperately trying to keep my mind on the right side of the rabbit hole.

I sigh, knowing that if I'd make him break down the door – and mind you, he would – I would be far worse off than if I simply complied. As I get up from my bed and make my short way to the door I grab a black button up shirt, pull it over my shoulders and lazily start to button it up.

I cast a sideway-glance in the mirror and brush my fingers through my blonde hair to straighten out a few tangles. It has grown out quite nicely since last year, now it is shoulder length and perfectly glossy. After my outing last Christmas my father had taken the dull kitchen scissors to it, I guess that's what you get for being honest. He said it was both punishment and remedy for my foolishness.

Apparently it didn't work, I note to myself as I hide a couple of, to say the least, daring pictures of male models lying on my desk under my history book.

Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath I unlock and open the door, revealing my father's flustered figure. His hair had once been golden blonde like my own, now it has taken on a shade of gray, the kind that came with the ruthlessness of life and not necessarily with time passing.

"Why is your room so dark?", my father asks in a huff, the alcohol clouding his mind stinging my nose as his breath hits my face.

In response I just shrug, any answer would've passed him unnoticed anyway. I slide past him and make my way to the small kitchen, just wanting to get it all over and done with so I could return to my room to study, jerk off or simply sleep the night away.

The room has grown quiet as I enter before my father. It's way too small to be used as a dining area, but seeing it is the only room that isn't a bedroom it had to do. None the less it's small, not more than four square meters, and that's without the table and chairs that now occupied most of the space. I'm forced to climb over my cousin's lap to reach the vacant stool, squeezed into a corner. Blatantly I ignore the taunting pat my cousin plants on my right butt-cheek, wondering if he knows that it turns me on more than it annoys me, even if the thought of cousin-lovin' made me nauseous.

I've hardly taken my seat before it all starts.

"So you've decided to honor us with your company at last, now have you Mihael?", my Uncle Victor asks in a snide tone while examining the table-cloth, not looking too impressed.

He's the older brother of my father, the one who turned out "right". Right there you can see the distinct difference between them as they sit beside each other. Uncle Victor is dressed in a suit, well ironed and pressed, and sits straight in the chair, as if he doesn't want to touch anything unless necessary, a look of disgust hiding behind his stern face. My father, on the other hand, sits crouched beside him, humbled, dressed in an old sweater that has started to stray from its earlier pattern to make way for a new one made up by different stains, his face bitterly lined from constantly scowling. In the cold grey eyes of my uncle you'll find pride, in my father's you'll just drown in a fog of intoxication.

"I see your eyesight is as good as ever, uncle", I answer with an overly polite tone and bring a knee up against my chest.

"Mihael, behave!", my father yells at me and slams his fist on the table, his attempt of intimidation failing me as I cast a bored glare at him. My uncle chuckles lightly and waves a dismissive hand at my father.

"Oh, come now, Yuri", he says, "let the boy be."

My father mutters something, drowned by another sip of his drink. The table before me is set with everything my father could've mustered up for a feast; pickles, bread, a pitifully small stump of salami, butter and – of course – vodka. The only thing that strikes me as a rarity is a bowl in the middle of the table filled with small chocolate bars. My mouth starts to water as I keep my eyes on the bowl, thinking about the sweet taste of chocolate melting on my tongue. Just as I'm about to reach out for one of the treats my uncle speaks up again, and deep down I know I would end up missing out on the coco-goodness.

"Your father tells me you're going through a hard time in school, Mihael", Uncle Victor says pitifully and turns his face into a worried frown, "how come?"

The mocking wakes the familiar anger, coiling up inside my stomach, knotting and churning, wanting to break out. I look up at my uncle from under my bangs, our eyes clash for a moment. The air grows heavy.

"What are you talking about?", I ask, trying desperately not to growl, to sound polite, "I'm ranked second best in my school."

Beside me I can hear my cousin stifle a snicker, Uncle Victor gives him a disapproving stare and quickly he mutters;

"I'm sorry father."

My own father has retired from the conversation, deeply leaned back in his chair, watching me with a warning look on his face. He knows that if we shared anything, other than the name of Keehl, it would be the relentless pride. Even if he was unable to agree with my views or choices, he knew it was dangerous to taunt me for them.

Deep down he too hates having Uncle Victor and his brat over for dinner, getting his nose rubbed into his own failure, being pitied. But for my father pride, tradition and family are equally as important, and thus he carries on this charade each and every year. I suppose that if his drunken state hadn't been an everyday display, this would be part of the reason for it tonight.

"That is what I'm talking about!", Uncle Victor continues cheerily, as if he find the situation comical, "I hear that there's a Japanese boy that's ranking higher than you, what was his name now again?"

"Near", I grit through my teeth, feeling the lump expanding ominously from the inside, I feel like I could snap at any moment now, and that wasn't part of the plan.

"Ah, yes", he nods in recognition, "it's a pity that you don't seem to have any patriotic pride to even keep up with the foreigner."

"I did come first place in that writing contest", I try to reason.

"Yeah, because Near didn't enter", my cousin sneers from beside me.

I turn, wishing him to die for shooting me and my accomplishment down, his deep blue eyes bore into mine. His is like the ocean on a sunny summer's day, mine are like ice, or so I've been told. We didn't always hate each other, me and my cousin, as we grew up I loved him like an older brother. Him being my senior by two years he started to grow cold towards me as soon as he started school, not having time to play with me anymore. It was the pressure from Uncle Victor, and when I two years later started my academic career as well, the gap between us grew wider as we became rivals of greater success.

He graduated last spring, at the top of his class of course, but in a school wide perspective he was the runner-up after me. I suppose that contributed to his sour feelings towards me, after all I'm in the same situation regarding Near, and I am able to say I hate the white-haired brat.

"When are you going to stop throwing your life away with that nonsense, Mihael?" my father mutters disappointedly from his seat across the table and rubs a hand over his flushed face.

"I wouldn't be worried, Yuri", Uncle Victor says while leisurely reaching out for a pickled gherkin, "it's just a passing phase, all young boys need to rebel at some point. Surely Mihael will realize the futility of pursuing a career in literature soon enough, when the hormones in him even out."

With a sharp snap he bites into the salty vegetable.

"Just as he's bound to overcome his other perversities", he adds with his eyes locked with mine.

My father sighs and nods in agreement. Even though I know about him not accepting my sexuality can't help but feel a pang of hurt at the sight, betrayed by my own father that I like to think loves me, beneath it all. I feel as if I'm made of glass and that the anger and bitterness finally formed a fist, thrusting through me, shattering my perfect façade that wasn't good enough to begin with.

Enough with these pretences.

I stand up straight and raise my boot clad foot towards the table top, I'm not about to scurry away like an ashamed dog, having to awkwardly jump over my cousins lap. The table sways lightly under my weight as I step up, my father falls to the floor in shock as I walk right over the fine porcelain and scraps of food. Uncle Victor and my cousin get on their feet, though too shocked to go after me as I jump down from the table and make my way towards the front door, only stopping to grab my coat from my room.

The heavy door makes no loud clatter as I slam it behind me, I deem it slightly anticlimactic, but waste no time in recovering lost drama and make my swift way down the staircases, taking two steps at a time. I don't know why I'm rushing; no one would leave the warm apartment even to chase me down the stairs, if so they'd be fools. Just as they thought me a fool, for exposing myself to spend the night before Christmas out in the cold, in which less fortunate died in.

If I have to choose between death and turning back, I think, I rather die.

I hate Christmas.

A/N:

I see you made it to the end, or did you just scroll right through without reading it?

I've always liked the thought of Mello being Russian, though Keehl sound more German. More so I like him being an author on the side of being a bad-ass mafia boss, I think I'm not alone in feeling a kind of connection with him because of it. I mean we're all writers, right?

I have set a deadline at the 24:th, Christmas-eve, and will try to update regularly until then, just to keep the procrastination at a minimum. In any case it'll be finished by Christmas-eve, if not you have the full right to burn me hard and mercilessly in the reviews.

Reviews are greatly appreciated to prevent bad fanfic's, we all hate those.

ThePryn, over and out.