The sun outside is bright and cheery when he wakes, peeking through the window dressings playfully and running it's warm fingertips over his eyelashes until he regretfully opens his eyes. As soon as he does, he groans, rolls away from the intrusion and curls in on himself. The sun outside is bright, but Tim can't remember a Christmas that's ever felt colder.

A few moments later he pulls his body, exhausted despite the hours upon hours of sleep it's gotten, to the headboard. He fumbles on the table between the two beds, letting his creeping hands seek out the familiar cardboard Marlboro box and clumsily retract a cigarette from inside. He inhales deeply as he lights it, tilting his head back to stare at the mass-produced painting above the bed. He almost lets himself wait for the sound of a bandmember waking in the other bed, but then, he doesn't want to get too hopeful.

Rancid are not on tour, nor are Transplants. It's just him, Tim, Lint, whatever fucking name he feels like hiding behind this year, in a rotting motel room with two beds. Why two beds seemed like the best choice, he didn't know. Maybe it was habit, maybe he was hoping for some company. Mix both and add a dash of impulsiveness.

Tim exhales slowly, watches the smoke curl in on itself in front of the muted scenery of the painting. He scratches idly at the crook of his right elbow. The scars have been gone from years, the drugs have been gone even longer, but at times like these he wishes that he could still feel the effects.

Jesse. Mike. Brody. Name after name after name, they all started to sound the same after a while. They'd all taken his heart, completely wrapped themselves around it and possessed him, and then they'd all beat down the door in their haste to get the fuck away from him. But somehow, one of the many had always been there on that fated day when families gathered together under their lighted trees, all smiles and hugs and egg nog. Not this year.

"Not this year...," Tim says out loud to the empty room, his voice scratchy from years of screaming into a microphone, years of drinking and smoking in excess.

No, not this year. This year, Christmas is fucking cancelled. Tim lifts his free hand, catching two fingers around the cigarette and taking a long, purposeful drag from it before retracting it from his lips. He lifts it to his eyes, staring at it for a moment before decisively plunging the burning tip against the inside of his elbow. He hardly even winces at the pain.

There's times when he knows it should have killed him, and there's times when he can't remember why he didn't allow it to.

Pushing the sheets back over his knees, he begrudgingly crawls off of the matress and ambles towards the tiny bathroom. The light inside is stark flourescent, concealing none of the imperfections Tim finds in himself as he showers. A body, weathered by the passage of time, having seen better days and too many drugs. There was a good goddamn reason he smirked when people told him he'd aged well. To him, it had been like hell. From the drunken, abusive father to the bitch calling from Australia to tell him it was over and everything in between. He'd put up with all of it, but right now he couldn't unearth a good memory for all the others in his mind.

He gets out of the shower, scrubbing his head vigorously with the towel despite the lack of hair, then quickly drying the rest of himself off. Pulling on the same pair of boxers he'd slept in, he makes his way to the window and stares out at the empty street, at the sun shining down futily and into the depth of his past. Now he knew why the holidays had such a high suicide rate. Too many reasons to reminisce.

Christmas, 1987

Lint yawned before he even opened his eyes. Stretching his arms out...the sheets were still warm, but the bed was empty. He relaxed back into the matress, keeping his eyes closed for a moment longer. The scent of coffee reached his olfactory glands, igniting his senses and causing a small smile to spread across his face. The sound of "Jingle Bells" being sung loudly and purposefully off key reached his ears next, causing the smile to spread to a grin as the noise came closer.

Jesse jumped on his stomach just as Lint opened his eyes, his voice crescendoing along with the chorus of the song as he tickled Lint's sides. Lint squirmed hopelessly, reaching for Jesse's hands in an attempt to dislodge them. Jesse turned his hands away from Lint's sides, grinning broadly down at him as he finished the song in a wavering, overdramatic falsetto then leaned down to kiss him briefly.

"Merry Christmas, Lint."

Christmas, 1990

Tim groaned as he woke, immediately curling towards himself and reaching up to grasp his head in his hands. He could hardly remember last night, but it must have been fairly impressive to give him this much of a hangover. Lots of scotch, he remembered that much, and...

Mike's voice reached his ears, sandpaper scratchy but soothing none the less. "How's your head?"

Tim groaned again in response, leaning towards the hand that gently ran down his stubbly cheekbone. Mike chuckled quietly, moving closer to him and pulling his head into his lap. His hands ran softly through the untreated mohawk as he leaned down to press a kiss to the side of Tim's shaved scalp.

"Merry Christmas, kitten."

Christmas, 1997

Tim smiled as he awoke, tugging the body in his arms minutely closer and inhaling deeply. The sheets smelled like Brody, the pillows smelled like Brody, Brody smelled like Brody but even more importantly, he smelled like Brody.

He nuzzled his face against the crook of her neck, planting light kisses along the impossibly soft skin as his fingers roamed over her bare stomach. Brody gave a groan of wakening, faintly disgruntled, but her arms tightened around Tim's neck. He lifted his head, grinning down at her as she opened her startling blue eyes.

"Merry Christmas, Brody."

Christmas, 2003

Tim glowers at the memories flitting through his head, letting his fist connect with the glass of the window, restraining himself just enough so that the window stays in tact. He tries to hate them, he tries his damndest, but despite himself he still loves each of them. He knows, if the opportunity came up, that he would gladly fall into any of their arms just to escape the consuming feeling of being alone.

Decisively, he pulls the window shades shut and flops back onto the bed, laying on his stomach and staring at the blank TV. If he keeps the blinds closed so that he doesn't see the decorations; if he keeps the TV turned off so he doesn't see the holiday specials, he can pretend it's just any other day and maybe then his head will shut up. Maybe then he can lead all the ghosts of the past to the door and bid them good-bye and good riddance. Maybe then he won't feel so fucking empty.

The minibar in the corner of the room beckons to him, but he shuts out it's allure in favor of staring at the floor and trying to figure out what, exactly, created each stain in the cheap carpeting. The burn on his arm stings incessantly, but he does his best to ignore that as well. Does his best to ignore everything, even the knock on the door. But the knocking doesn't stop, and it's even more demanding than the liquor or the pain, so he inevitably rolls off the bed to answer the door.

Pulling the door open, he's greeted by Matt's eternally expressionless face. He nods a bit in greeting, knowing that his own expressing is giving far too much away, but also knowing that Matt would be able to see all of it anyway. Matt returns the nod.

"Hey, man. Wanna go for a drive?," Matt motions backwards with his head to indicate the car parked behind him.

Tim glances at the car, blocking out the festively decorated, fake pine tree behind it, and nods. "Sure, lemme put on some pants."

Matt nods, following Tim into the room, leaning against a wall as Tim dresses. Tim doesn't bother asking how Matt found him, and Matt doesn't offer the information. They leave the hotel room in silence, climbing into the reconditioned Dodge. Matt turns on the radio, and Tim's thankful for the sounds of X blaring from the speakers. Thankful for Matt's prescence, his reliable presence, thankful for the warm wind blowing through the window as they head up highway 101. Slowly, but surely, a small smile spreads on Tim's face.

"'ey Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"Merry Christmas," Tim says, with enough heartfelt affection that it would have made him want to vomit only moments before.

Matt lets a corner of his mouth quirk up in a tiny grin as he looks over at his best friend of more years than he likes to think about. "Merry Christmas, man."