Archive of Our Own ^beta

A Corleone family Christmas was something that had to be experienced to be understood. But then, the word "family" carried a strangely elastic meaning for the Corleones. Sometimes it seemed to Tom Hagen as if most of Sicilian New York was family and they all appeared at the front door in the week leading up to the holy day, arms full of presents, faces beaming, voices chattering happily in Italian and English and bewildering fusions of both. The house overflowed with cousins and nephews and aunts and in-laws and godchildren. Eggnog was drunk, carols were sung, turkeys were basted, and a general air of magnanimous good will prevailed.

Tom was used to it, of course. It had been the only life he'd known since early childhood, certainly the only life he cared to remember. He had no more than distant recollections of his mother and none at all of his father, who had died before Tom learned to walk. His mother had raised him in a succession of cheap rented rooms in the company of a succession of "uncles" Tom alternately feared and despised. When he was seven, one of these men had made his mother an attractive offer not open to a woman with a clinging child, and Tom was abandoned on the streets of Brooklyn the following day. He could recall running along the sidewalk, calling for his mother, hopefully searching the faces of passing women, falling down and biting his lip furiously in a futile attempt to keep back the tears. And then he had looked up to see a shiny black automobile parked at the curb. A boy a year or two younger than himself stood by the car, busily devouring an ice cream cone under the sharp eye of a forbidding man in a double-breasted suit. The boy had unruly brown hair and a bluff, take-charge attitude incongruous in one so young. He lowered the ice cream cone and stared rudely at Tom.

"Hey kid, are you lost?" the boy demanded.

Tom had nodded miserably and wiped his streaming nose on a ragged coat sleeve.

The boy darted away from the car, evading the desperate clutches of his guard, and ran into the building opposite, bellowing, "Papa, Papa! There's a lost kid out here and his nose is runnin'!"

Years later, Sonny told him with a wink that he had only told his father because he thought the good deed might earn him another ice cream cone. Tom didn't care. He only knew that the man who came out of the building and picked him up in his arms had a soft, gentle voice and a clean linen handkerchief for him to blow his nose into. And he got to ride in the big car to a big house, sitting on the man's lap all the way, listening to that voice. He was still missing his mother, but by the time they got there, he wasn't scared anymore.

No trace was ever found of Tom's mother, despite Don Corleone's vast network of connections and informants. All Tom could tell his new family was his name, his age, his mother's name -- Kathleen -- and the fact that he was "German-Irish." He knew that was important. His mother had been so proud of it, telling him to hold his head up high, that he was better than "the dagos." Whoever they were.

He never regretted a moment of his life after joining the Corleone family. He had a new father he would have literally laid down his life for; a new mother who cooked the best food he'd ever tasted and called him her bambino bellissimo; two new brothers to pal around with (though he got into physical disagreements with Sonny on a regular basis, and Fredo frequently annoyed him); and only a year after this new and exciting life began, a brand new baby brother, Michael. And after that, a baby sister, Connie. Tom adored them all. He didn't even mind that after Michael was born, he became Mama's bambino bellissimo. He had to admit that Michael was pretty bellissimo, all right.

When the time came, the Don paid his way through college and law school. Tom knew who he'd be working for, and he had a very clear idea by then of the kinds of things he'd have to do. It didn't bother him in the least. He loved the family, his family. He would have done anything for the Don. He would have done things even Sonny and Fredo wouldn't do. They had nothing to prove.

After college, he moved back into the house. The Don suggested that he take a room in the old wing, away from the rest of the family, where he would have the privacy to study, and though he couldn't help being a little hurt by this, even saw it as a kind of demotion at first, he agreed that he needed the quiet. He attended law school at night and occupied himself with family business during the day. He had no desire to go out on his own, to make his own way in the world. His family was his world. Women and marriage were not yet a serious consideration, though he knew he'd be expected to marry someday. Tom didn't particularly understand women. He understood men too well. The day that fact became clear to him was the worst day of Tom's life. But he hid it, he thought, and worked that much harder for the family. They were all he needed, really.

And Michael was in the house, too, though his room was in the other wing.

Tom was part of the family. He knew that, he really did, but sometimes during the holidays when the house swarmed with blood relatives from far-flung places, Sicilians who looked at him with curious eyes, as if wondering what planet he had dropped from, he did feel like an outsider. That was why he preferred the quieter Christmas gatherings, like tonight. It was just the real family tonight, just his family. But it was plenty festive, nonetheless, because Michael was home from Dartmouth, his first extended visit home since Easter. He'd started in January because he'd graduated early, ahead of the rest of his parochial school class -- to the bursting pride of the entire clan -- and he'd been out of the country all summer, visiting in Sicily. He'd come home for a week in the spring, and again on Labor Day weekend, but Tom had been away on family business both times. He hadn't seen Michael in almost a year. When he saw him for the first time tonight, surrounded by the family, Sonny and Fredo pounding him on the back, Connie flinging herself into his arms, Mama dissolving into tears, the Don smiling and murmuring "My boy" as they embraced, Tom's stomach clenched. Michael didn't look any different. And Tom didn't feel any different, not even a little. All the hoping in the world hadn't done a damn bit of good.

But Michael greeted him the same way he greeted everyone else, with a loving hug and a kiss on the cheek. Tom was careful not to hold on too long.

He knew it wasn't entirely his fault. Michael got what he wanted. He was a Corleone, a real one. But maybe, maybe, Tom hadn't tried hard enough to stop it. And he knew why.

Before dinner was over, Tom was exhausted from the good cheer and the happy chatter, and from refusing to meet Michael's eyes across the table. Fortunately, the rest of the family monopolized Michael's attention, and Tom was relieved to let them do it. When Michael spoke to him, he replied amiably, civilly, in as brotherly a fashion as he could manage. The trouble was, he was having a hard time remembering what brotherly was.

He was determined not to draw attention to himself. He sat through dinner and dessert, adjourned with the rest of the men to the parlor afterwards for brandy and cigars -- Mama and Connie having retired for the night -- and stopped himself quickly when he realized he was drumming his fingers loudly on the table at his side. He raised thankful eyes to heaven when the Don announced that he was getting too old for these late nights, and the gathering at last broke up.

Tom made his way to his room, feeling tension drain out of him with every step. But after he closed the bedroom door behind him, he was suddenly restless. He kicked off his shoes and removed his necktie, but decided not to undress just yet. He sat down on the bed, then quickly got up. He paced around, straightening pictures, adjusting furniture, and then dug a law text out of the bookcase. It never hurt to brush up on things. He returned to the bed, propped a pillow behind his shoulders, and began to read.

He'd just managed to convince himself that he wasn't waiting for anything when the knock sounded at the door. A gentle knock, discreet and polite and meant for his ears alone.

Tom closed his eyes briefly. Then he put the book down on the nightstand and went to the door.

It was Michael, of course, in pajamas and a bathrobe, standing silent in the dark hallway. There was just enough light from the bedside lamp to let Tom see the familiar shy half-smile on his soft lips. It was harder to see his eyes, but maybe that was for the best.

"Hi," Michael said.

Tom sighed, and grasped the top of the door with one hand. "It's awful late, Mikey."

"Yeah, I know. I wanted to make sure everybody was asleep. Except you, I mean." The smile widened. "You looked like you'd be awake a while. Come on, Tom, let me in."

Tom hesitated a long moment before turning away from the door and sitting, not on the bed, but in the leather armchair next to it. He watched Michael shut the door quietly behind him and turn the key in the lock. When Michael turned back to him, Tom could see his eyes after all. They were just as they always had been, dark and soft and warm, like Michael's hair, like his mouth. His little brother's mouth. Tom looked away, steepling his fingers in front of his face.

He could feel the eyes studying him as Michael sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. "I thought you'd be glad to see me, paisan. I'm sure glad to see you."

Tom smiled without meeting Michael's gaze. "Sure I am. We're all glad to see you, at Christmas and all. You want a drink, Mikey?" He turned, fumbling in the nightstand drawer for the whiskey bottle he kept there.

"No, thanks," Michael said, and sat silently as Tom took a long, steadying pull from the bottle. He found himself pathetically grateful for the distracting burn of the liquor.

"Tom?"

Tom made himself cork the bottle and replace it in the drawer.

"You need a drink just to talk to me?"

Tom laughed shortly, without humor. "I like to drink. Sometimes it helps me sleep."

He looked up at Michael as he spoke, a mistake, because Michael suddenly grinned his rare and blinding grin.

"You know what I do when I can't sleep? I reach down here and..." Tom watched, frozen, as his brother's hand moved between the folds of his bathrobe to his flannel-covered crotch.

"Christ, Mike, stop it!" He lunged for Michael's hand, arresting its movement with an iron grip on the wrist.

Michael stared at him, and then down at the hand on his. Hastily, Tom released him and sat back in the chair, trying to breathe normally.

After a prolonged silence Michael said, "I got a girl now."

Tom let out a long breath. "That's good, Mike. I'm glad. That's just what you need."

"She works in the cafeteria at school. Her name's Janie, Janie Sullivan. She's Irish, but I make allowances for that." He smiled as Tom rolled his eyes. "You'd like her, Tom. She's a swell kid."

Tom nodded. "Nice Catholic girl."

"You bet she is. She won't -- well, I got her to do it once. But only with her hands."

Tom closed his eyes and sighed. "Mike, it's late and I've had it. Will you just get the hell out of here?"

Michael didn't move. He whispered, "I think about you all the time, Tom."

Tom felt a sudden pain, like a slow tearing deep in his chest.

"I get real homesick at school sometimes. You know how it is. I thought when I came home..." He let the sentence trail off.

They were alone, Tom knew that, and the door was locked. His room was far removed from those of the rest of the family, and everyone was in bed by now anyway. But he had a sudden horrifying mental picture -- Sonny walking in on them, or Fredo, or even...

He spoke softly. "The old man would kill us if he ever knew. He'd kill us both."

Michael shook his head. "No, he'd never do that." He paused. "He'd have Luca Brasi do it."

Tom stared at him for a moment, and then he began to laugh. He couldn't help it. He saw that Michael was laughing, too, his shoulders shaking beneath the terrycloth. For long moments, they giggled in the lamplight like schoolgirls.

When he could speak again, Michael said, "You know how much Pop loves you, Tom. He couldn't love you more if you were -- well, if you were me."

The laughter went out of Tom in an instant. "Yeah," he said, and looked away. "Sure."

Michael slid off the bed and knelt on the floor in front of him. "He'll never know. He didn't know before, did he? Who's gonna tell him?"

Despite himself, Tom grinned. "Not me, buddy."

Michael smiled and placed a warm hand on Tom's knee. When Tom didn't move, he slid it slowly farther up.

"It doesn't have to be anything much." Michael's voice was a whisper. "I mean, if you don't really want to. Remember what we used to do in the beginning? Remember how we used to kiss?" He pressed his lips to the cloth over Tom's inner thigh.

Tom remembered. Michael's unschooled lips on his, Michael's innocent tongue making cautious forays in his mouth, Michael's greedy hands roaming over him, Michael whispering to him, pressing, pressing for more until Tom couldn't keep himself from teaching him what more was.

He threaded shaking fingers into Michael's thick black hair and pulled his head up. "Bullshit," he said, and was amazed at the steadiness of his voice. "That wouldn't be enough for you now, Mikey. Hell, it wasn't even enough for you then. Nothing was ever enough for you. You just kept pushing and pushing. And I..."

Michael waited for Tom to finish. When he didn't, he said softly, "And you couldn't stop either, could you, Tom? You want me too much now. You want me even more than you used to. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, huh?"

"Absence makes the dick grow harder," Tom said flatly.

Michael smiled again. Tom considered asking him to stop smiling, to never, never smile at him again.

"That it does," Michael agreed. "But you love me, too, Tom. I could have pushed harder than hell, but if you didn't love me it wouldn't have worked. Because you've got scruples."

Tom wondered how he could make the word sound like a social disease. Because he was a Corleone? But no, he reflected, Michael had scruples too. Just not about the same things as he did.

Tom sighed. "For God's sake, Mike, you were just a kid. You didn't know --"

"I did know. I followed you to that place a couple times."

Tom stared at him. "What place?"

Michael made an impatient gesture. "You know, that place, that bar or whatever the hell it was. I watched from across the street when you went in. I knew why. I saw the other guys who went in."

It was a moment before Tom could speak. "Mike, I'm -- I'm not..."

Michael touched his hand. "I know you're not like them."

Tom searched his brother's eyes. "What did you -- what did you think when you saw me there?"

"I didn't want those fairies touching my brother." Michael's voice hardened. "You're too good for that. You don't need it."

Tom looked away. "You don't know what the hell I need."

"You need the family. You need Pop to love you. You need all of us to love you. We can give you everything, Tom, just like we always have. Right now you need me so bad you hurt. And you know I can make the hurting stop."

Tom shoved the chair back and stood. "And that's why you're here? Because you're such a prince of a guy? Because your poor pervert of a brother has a hard-on like a pool cue and you're gonna sacrifice yourself and help him out with it?"

"No, that's not --"

Tom gritted his teeth. "I know what you need, too, paisan. You need that little piece of Irish ass up at Dartmouth, that Janie. She'll come across for you before long, Mike, just you wait and see. You're just here because she hasn't yet. You don't need any fairies, and you sure as hell don't need me. You want it; you don't need it. Well, this town's full of whores, boy. You get it someplace else."

Michael had heard him out in expressionless silence. Now he asked calmly, "Someplace like where? That bar?"

Tom was shocked into speechlessness.

"Maybe I'm just what they need, huh, Tom? Maybe they'd like a nice fresh piece of --"

Tom slapped him, backhanded, across the face.

Michael reeled back a step, his head snapping to the side, but he recovered quickly, blinking only twice before looking Tom steadily in the eye.

Tom's lips parted at the sight of the ugly red mark on his little brother's cheek. He spoke in an appalled whisper. "Mikey --"

"Why don't you want me to go there, Tom?" Michael asked, and his voice was even.

Tom stared at him for a long moment.

"Tell me," Michael whispered.

Tom looked away. "Because I don't want those fairies touching my brother."

Michael smiled.

Tom closed his eyes. "Don't ever go there, Mike. Please don't. It's not for you."

"I won't," Michael said gently. "I don't need to."

Tom turned away, facing the wall, and tried to ignore the ache in his chest and the stinging sensation in his hand.

He didn't hear Michael step toward him, didn't know he was so close until his brother laid a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. Tom felt it through his shirt, burning like the whiskey he intended to finish off in record time if Michael would just get the hell out of his room and leave him alone so he could get drunker than a son of a bitch and rub himself raw thinking about Michael's hands on him.

"Don't cry, Tom," Michael said very softly.

Tom whirled around. "Dammit, I'm not --"

But then Michael's mouth was on his, so gentle, so sweet, and Michael's hands were in his hair and Michael's body was so close and so warm. Tom tried to remember why he wanted him to leave, but the reason, whatever it was, had slipped away from him and the need was all that was left. He choked back a curse and pushed Michael down onto the bed.

Michael stretched out full-length beneath Tom's weight, and Tom buried his fingers in Michael's hair and they kissed and kissed until Tom's lungs ached for air. Michael's hands were scrabbling at his shirt front, tearing away buttons, and he was sighing into Tom's mouth as they found the bare skin beneath. Tom raised himself on his elbows to let Michael push the shirt off his shoulders, and saw his brother's eyes, hot and black with need. No, he reminded himself. Michael was eighteen and his girl wouldn't put out. Tom closed his eyes and repeated it to himself. Not need. Want.

He got up and quickly removed the rest of his clothes, watching as Michael fumbled with the knot of his robe, then tossed the garment aside, raising his hips to slide quickly out of his pajamas. Tom's eyes traveled down his brother's body. Michael had lost a little weight -- weight he couldn't spare. Ivy League kitchens didn't specialize in Italian cooking.

Tom lowered himself onto him, and heard his own gasp of pleasure echoed from Michael as their cocks touched. He kissed Michael again, as slowly as he could bear. A little teasing was the very least Michael deserved.

When he raised his mouth, Michael whispered, "Please, Tom. Please."

Tom closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to Michael's throat, feeling the galloping pulse beneath the skin. The word "please" on his brother's lips had its usual effect; the effect, he knew, that Michael knew it would have.

"Anything, Mikey." His voice sounded like a stranger's, hoarse and weak and desperate. "I'll do anything you want."

"Please..." Michael was pushing his head down, down his body, and Tom went willingly, trailing kisses across the soft skin until he reached the thick, pulsing cock. Gently he licked the head, bracing Michael's thrashing hips with his hands. He kissed down the length and back up again, smiling at Michael's muffled curses. But before he could get down to serious business, his brother's hands were pulling him off. He stared up at Michael in surprise.

"I'm -- I'm gonna fall asleep on you as soon as I come," Michael gasped. His eyes were glassy, his face shiny with sweat. "I'm tired as hell. If you want it, we better do it together."

Tom blinked at him. "I want it," he said, and twisted around on the bed until his pleading cock was lined up with Michael's mouth. Then he waited, waited for an instant that seemed endless, until he felt the hard, hot suction. He buried his face against Michael's belly to stifle a shout. Michael hadn't forgotten a thing.

After a mindless moment, he remembered his own assignment and slid his mouth down over his brother's erection. It was impossible, now, to go slow, impossible to proceed with any kind of sophistication or finesse, not with Michael's mouth pulling at him, Michael's hands kneading his ass, Michael's legs wrapping themselves around his head. He simply sucked, hard, eyes closed, groaning in helpless delight around the flesh in his mouth as he felt, rather than heard, Michael's answering cries humming exquisitely along his own length. It occurred to him, somewhere on the far fringes of his consciousness, that at least they were in no danger of making too much noise this way.

Michael finished first, jerking his head away, leaving Tom's cock bobbing free, filling Tom's throat with bitter fluid that he choked down with difficulty, swallowing over and over again until the spurts died away and Michael went limp. Distantly, Tom heard him mutter, "Jesus Christ."

Tom released his brother's cock and guided Michael's hand urgently to his own. His eyes were squeezed shut and his breath came in pained gasps. "Mike..."

"Yeah?" Michael replied blearily, and then, "God, I'm sorry, Tom" as his fist closed over Tom's aching erection. He began stroking rapidly, then suddenly slowed and asked, "Tom?"

"Christ, Mikey, what?"

"You -- you want my mouth again? You need me to swallow it this time?"

"Baby, anything, just -- please..."

"Less of a mess that way," Michael murmured, and gamely reapplied his mouth to his work. Tom moaned and bit fiercely into a mouthful of sheet, rocking into his brother's mouth, trying not to push too deep, trying not to choke him, because Michael didn't usually... But it didn't matter. Michael pulled him in as far as he could go, throat muscles working furiously, and in a moment more, just a moment, he was flying.

When it was over, he rolled off and lay a long while without moving, his head pillowed on Michael's thigh. He was tired, drowsy, wrung out, but sleep somehow eluded him. He kissed the soft flesh beneath his lips, watching the tiny hairs stir with his breath and feeling Michael's own breath, deep and even in sleep, warm against his skin.

At last he sighed and sat up, gazing unhappily at the wreck of his bed. But Michael was right, there was no sticky mess to clean up.

Michael shifted in his sleep, disturbed by Tom's movement. Tom stroked the hopelessly rumpled dark hair back from his brother's face. Michael's lips looked swollen, but they were curved in a peaceful smile.

"Mike, wake up." Michael didn't, so Tom poked him in the ribs until he groaned. "Come on, kid, get up."

Michael's eyes opened. He stared blankly up at Tom.

Tom leaned over the side of the bed, fishing for his brother's robe and pajamas. "Time to get dressed and go back to your room." Finding the night clothes, he dropped them on Michael's chest.

Michael yawned and licked his lips. "How long did I sleep?"

"Not long. But you need to get back home now."

Michael cuffed Tom playfully on the arm. "I am home."

"Your home's in the other wing, remember? You want Mama to wonder why your bed hasn't been slept in?"

Michael sighed and swung his legs off the bed. "Yeah, okay." Tom watched him as he donned the robe. He didn't bother with the pajamas, stuffing them under an arm instead.

He started toward the door, but then turned. "Tom?"

Tom thought he saw a slight grimace on his brother's face. "Yeah?"

"Can I have a drink of that whiskey now?"

Tom regarded him steadily. "Mouthwash works better."

Michael gave him a sheepish smile.

Tom gestured at the nightstand. "Go ahead."

Michael opened the drawer, removed the bottle, and took a slug. "Grazie," he said, and coughed. "You always have good whiskey, Tom."

Tom sighed. "Mikey, go to bed."

Michael shrugged and set the bottle on the nightstand. He unlocked the door and had one hand on the doorknob when he said without turning around, "I've got two weeks before I go back to school, Tom. 'Night." He shut the door almost soundlessly behind him.

Tom turned off the lamp and crawled under the covers. He stared into the darkness and thought about how long he could have what he needed, and how long he would need it. The two figures didn't even come close to matching.