Diakko decorating their Christmas tree/spending their first Christmas as a married couple🩵❤️
and also some…
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Finally… after so many years I have FINALLY participated in diakko secret Santa. It’s a miracle really. @onhirel , I hope you like your gift, I had so much fun with it. And big thanks to the lovely @lwasanta for hosting such a fun event, you keep the diakko spirit alive. Wishing everyone happy holidays 🫶🏽🎄
hello there! this is 1/2 posts for a secret santa event. My lovely lovely recipient is none other than my best friend, my favorite person in all of the tumblr verse, @punkrockmlchael . I have never written for Michael before, but I couldn't resist doing something special for you. Merry Christmas Roz <3 (Also stay tuned for your danny fic, i couldn't help myself)
Christmas had always made you stupid.
Not egg-nog-spiked, wearing a santa hat at noon stupid- just emotionally reckless in a way you can never quite prepare for. Christmas makes you nostalgic. It makes you sentimental. It makes you think about the past and the future and all the people who sit somewhere in between.
Which is exactly how you ended up here.
In Michael Clifford's kitchen. At eleven thirty at night. Wearing one of his hoodies. Again.
The hoodie is red, which feel on-brand for the season. It's too big on you, sleeves swallowing your hands, hem brushing your thighs. You've worn it so many times it smells like him permanently now- warm laundry detergent, faint cologne, something unmistakably Michael that makes your chest ache if you think about it too hard.
So you don't.
You're busy stirring hot chocolate on the stove, wooden spoon clinking gently against the pot, steam fogging up the window above the sink. Outside, Los Angeles pretends it knows what winter is. There are string lights on the palm trees across the street. Someone's playing a muffled version of All I Want For Christmas Is You somewhere in the distance.
Behind you, Michael is aggressively losing a fight with wrapping paper.
"Who invented this shit," He mutters, voice rising in pitch as the tape sticks to itself instead of the paper. "This isn't even paper. It's betrayal."
You snort before you can stop yourself. "You volunteered."
"I was lied to." He argues. "You said it was easy,"
"I said it was easy if you had opposable thumbs and basic patience."
He gasps dramatically. "Wow. So mean. On Christmas Eve."
You glance over your shoulder. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by crumpled paper and half-wrapped boxes. There's tape stuck to his sock. Another piece is somehow in his hair.
Your heart does that thing it always does around him- tightens, then softens, then settles somewhere uncomfortable but familiar.
"Do you want help?" You ask, turning back to the stove before he can see your face.
"No." He says immediately. "I'm a grown man. I can do this."
There's a loud ripping sound.
"I think." He adds.
You bite your lip to keep from smiling too hard.
You've known Michael for years. Long enough that the lines between friend, best friend, emotional support human, and something else entirely have blurred into something undefinable.
Long enough that spending Christmas together feels inevitable.
It started innocently. A few years back, you didn't have plans. Michael didn't either. Someone suggested Chinese takeaway and a move marathon. Someone else brought matching pajamas. Michael fell asleep halfway through Elg with his head on your shoulder, and you stayed perfectly still for an hour because you didn't want to wake him.
You told yourself it didn't mean anything.
You tell yourself that alot.
Now it's a Christmas tradition. Christmas Eve at Michael's place. Baking that goes slightly wrong. Gift exchanges that are too thoughtful to be casual but too careful to be confessions. Lingering glances. Almost.
You are very good at almosts.
The hot chocolate is done. You pour it into two mugs—his favorite one with the chipped rim and the dumb cartoon character on it, and yours that lives here more than at your own apartment. You top them both with marshmallows, then grab the whipped cream from the fridge.
“Michael,” you say, already knowing the answer. “Do you want—”
“Yes.”
You laugh, adding a generous swirl to his mug. “You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I know what I want,” he says confidently.
You hand him the mug and sit on the floor across from him, knees brushing. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends a quiet jolt through you anyway.
You hate how aware you are of him. Always.
“So,” you say, trying for casual. “How’s wrapping going?”
He lifts the present he’s been working on. It’s… misshapen. Lumpy. The tape situation is dire.
You tilt your head. “It’s very… abstract.”
“It’s rustic,” he corrects. “Handcrafted.”
“By a raccoon?”
He grins at you, wide and familiar and devastating. “You love me.”
Your mouth opens.
Closes.
“Yeah,” you say, too quickly. “As a friend.”
Something flickers in his expression—so fast you almost miss it. His smile softens, edges blunting just a little.
“Right,” he says. “Obviously.”
You look down at your mug, suddenly very invested in the marshmallows melting into the chocolate.
Idiot, you think. Absolute idiot.
Later, you end up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a blanket draped over both of you because Michael insists he’s “fine” but is also very clearly cold. The TV plays some random Christmas movie neither of you is really watching.
Michael’s shoulder is warm against yours. His arm is stretched along the back of the couch, not quite touching you, but close enough that you’re hyper-aware of every inch of space between you.
You could lean into him.
You don’t.
“Can I ask you something?” he says suddenly.
Your stomach flips. “Sure.”
He hesitates, jaw tensing, then relaxes again like he’s made a decision. “Do you ever… like. Feel weird about Christmas?”
You blink. “Weird how?”
“Like,” he shrugs. “It makes everything louder. Feelings and stuff. Makes you think about what you have. And what you don’t.”
Oh.
You swallow. “Yeah. I get that.”
“Yeah?” he asks, glancing at you.
You nod. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause. The movie continues on without you.
Michael shifts slightly, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “Sometimes I worry I’m going to mess everything up. You know?”
Your heart stutters. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” he says softly. “Just… if I say the wrong thing. Or want the wrong thing.”
You turn to look at him fully now. His gaze is fixed on the TV, but his attention is clearly elsewhere. There’s something vulnerable in the way he’s sitting, shoulders a little hunched, like he’s bracing himself.
“You’re not really the type to mess things up,” you say.
He laughs quietly. “You say that, but you haven’t seen my life inside my head.”
You want to tell him so many things.
You want to tell him that he’s safe. That he’s wanted. That whatever he’s afraid of saying, you’ve probably already thought it too.
Instead, you say, “I think wanting things is human.”
He finally looks at you then. Really looks.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
Something hangs between you. Unspoken. Electric.
Michael opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else—but then his phone buzzes on the coffee table, shattering the moment. He groans, dropping his head back against the couch.
“Saved by the bell,” he mutters.
You’re not sure whether you’re relieved or disappointed.
Probably both.
You exchange gifts at midnight, because that’s what you always do.
Michael insists you go first. You hand him a small box, neatly wrapped, a bow tied just right. He takes it carefully, like it might break if he’s not gentle.
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he says.
“You say that every year,” you reply. “And every year you get me something anyway.”
He smiles and opens the box.
Inside is a silver necklace. Simple. Subtle. The pendant is small, etched with a tiny star.
His breath catches.
“Oh,” he says softly.
You fidget. “I know it’s not, like—if you don’t like it, that’s totally fine, I can—”
“No,” he interrupts quickly. “No, I love it. It’s… I love it.”
He takes it out, fingers brushing over the metal like he’s committing it to memory. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
There’s a beat.
“Do you want me to put it on?” you ask, heart in your throat.
He nods.
You move closer, hands trembling slightly as you clasp the necklace around his neck. Your fingers brush the back of his skin, warm and familiar and too much. You linger a second longer than necessary.
When you pull back, he’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon.
He clears his throat. “Okay. My turn.”
His gift to you is… a hoodie.
You laugh when you open it. “Michael.”
“Hey,” he says defensively. “It’s a good hoodie.”
“It is,” you admit. It’s green this time, soft and oversized, undeniably his. “But you know I steal yours anyway.”
“Yeah,” he says, quieter. “That’s kind of the point.”
You look up at him, confused.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I just thought… this way, you don’t have to give it back.”
Your chest aches.
“Oh,” you say.
“Yeah.”
You sit there, holding the hoodie, suddenly aware of how many things in your life already feel like him. How natural it feels to be here. How terrifying it is to name it.
“You okay?” he asks gently.
You nod. “Yeah. I just—thank you.”
“Anytime.”
You both smile, but it feels fragile. Like you’re standing on the edge of something, unsure whether to step forward or back away.
You end up falling asleep on the couch.
It’s not planned. One minute you’re watching the movie, the next your eyes are heavy and the world is soft and warm. Michael notices before you do, shifting carefully so you can rest your head against his shoulder.
He doesn’t move after that.
When you wake up, it’s early morning. The sky outside is pale and quiet. The room smells like hot chocolate and pine.
And Michael’s arm is wrapped around you.
Not accidentally. Not loosely.
Intentionally.
Your breath catches.
He’s still asleep, face relaxed, hair falling into his eyes. He looks younger like this. Softer. Safe.
You stay still, afraid that if you move, this will disappear.
But Michael stirs anyway, blinking awake, eyes unfocused for a moment before they land on you.
“Oh,” he says softly.
“Hey,” you whisper.
There’s a long pause.
He doesn’t move his arm.
You don’t pull away.
“Merry Christmas,” he says.
“Merry Christmas.”
Your hearts are beating too loud. Too close.
Michael swallows. “Can I tell you something?”
Your voice shakes. “Yeah.”
“I think,” he says slowly, carefully, “I might be really bad at pretending I don’t feel things.”
Your chest tightens. “Michael—”
“I mean,” he rushes on, “I’ve been pretending for a long time. And I’m tired. And if I don’t say this now, I think I’m going to explode.”
You laugh weakly. “Okay.”
He takes a breath. “I’m in love with you.”
The world goes very, very quiet.
“Oh,” you say, because you’re eloquent like that.
He winces. “You don’t have to—”
“I love you too,” you blurt out.
He freezes.
“…What?”
“I love you,” you repeat, laughing and crying all at once. “I’ve loved you for years. We’re idiots.”
A smile breaks across his face—slow, disbelieving, radiant.
“We’re such idiots,” he agrees.
He leans in, giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
The kiss is soft. Careful. Like a promise.
When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours.
“So,” he murmurs. “Boyfriend?”
You grin. “Yeah. Boyfriend.”
He laughs, pulling you closer. “Best Christmas ever.”
You curl into him, warm and certain and finally, finally home.
And for the first time, Christmas doesn’t make you stupid.
