Hey people.

I have a ton of oneshots on my computer that I've never ended up posting, so I decided to just go ahead and post them all in a little collection of oneshots.

This is not a story. Each chapter is a separate oneshot and not related to the next.

Reviews are always appreciated!

Title: Happy Holidaze
Summary: Semi-AU. Four days, four songs, four very odd couples, and a whole lot of eggnog. A very overdue holiday oneshot.
Inspirations: Christmastime, life, things that happened to me around the holidays.
Pairings: Meant to be vague/ambiguous/you take a guess
Disclaimer: Originally posted on the Clique Fanfic community on Livejournal. Song lyrics property of their respective bands. All characters and settings property of Lisi Harrison.

December 23rd—Christmas Eve Eve

"Keep quiet, nothing comes as easy as you. Can I lay in your bed all day? I'll be your best-kept secret and your biggest mistake."

It's Christmas Eve Eve—the best night to have a holiday party—but you are stuck at home, forced to work the room at your mother's annual holiday dinner. A holiday dinner for all of her friends, not yours.

You glance in your wall-length mirror and position your feathered headband just so. A night spent with a bunch of geriatric socialites or not, you must look fabulous.

A quick application of some Jemma Kidd gloss in Blair Waldorf-red and you are ready to make your entrance by strutting down the grand staircase. You tread lightly across your plush white carpet—would your mother suspect anything if you 'accidentally' spilled a spot of grape juice on it and were forced to dye the whole thing purple?—and skip out your bedroom door, not bothering to turn out the lights.

Heads turn, as always, as you click down the glossy wood steps. Your amber eyes skim the crowds as you try desperately to find somebody remotely your age to hang out with. No, not that wannabe Ellie Neufeld, with her whore-rific B-cups. Brittany Foster from the grade below you won't do either. But wait—over there, by the spiked punch bowl? Could it be? Brown eyes lock with your amber orbs, and your wonderings are confirmed: Todd Lyons has returned from that boarding school in London. The one all the bad boys seem to end up at.

You pause at the edge of the crowd, not wanting to seem too eager to meet up with your new choice friend of the night. You graciously scoot your way through the multitude, saying hello to an old family friend here, accepting a compliment from your father's business partner there. You coo and gush over Kevin Ambrose's 5-year-old daughter while simultaneously flipping off poor Ellie. In a classy way, of course.

You surprise yourself a little when you find that you have ended up at the spiked punch bowl. You pretend to busy yourself with pouring a glass of the punch, but you don't even take a sip. Instead, you look up and feign surprise.

"Todd Lyons," you declare, cautiously sniffing the mystery drink before casting it aside. "You've filled out nicely. What are you, a sophomore now?"

"Freshman, actually," he mumbles, blushing all the way to his scarlet roots. His voice is a few octaves deeper than you remember it.

"You're lying," you gasp. He shoots you a shy smile. You smirk back at him. "Well then, freshperson, we've got quite a lot of catching up to do."

And so you lean in and give that poor sucker the best kiss of his life, no mistletoe necessary.

Best kiss of his life so far, anyway.

December 24th—Christmas Eve

"And bending over backwards just to try to see it clearer, but my breath fogged up the glass. So I drew a new face and I laughed."

This is nuts, Dylan Marvil thought to herself, silently shaking her head. I will close my eyes and when I open them Josh will be sitting next to me brooding over his Coke and rum like always.

But unfortunately, when Dylan opened her eyes, Josh was still up on the stage at the Westchester Country Club, much to the delight of his soccer buddies.

"This one is for-hic!-Dylan," Josh hiccupped into the microphone. "I can't be-hic!-lieve I've lived fourteen years with-hic!-out her."

"Moooom," Dylan moaned, hiding her rosy face behind her tanned palms. "It's your Christmas Eve dinner. Make him stop."

"Oh, Pickles," Merri-Lee chuckled. "Just let the boy have his moment. It makes for good entertainment."

"Yeah, at my expense," Dylan grumbled, sliding down in her velvety seat.

"What's your favourite love song?"

"I don't have a favourite love song, Josh."

"Favourite hate song, then?"

Dylan giggled.

"Fine. I like that one by Jason Mraz."

That was vague enough for whatever Josh was planning, right?

Wrong.

The exact song that Dylan liked by Jason Mraz—the only one, really—began playing on the speakers as a sweaty-faced Josh gripped the microphone.

"Well you dawned on me and you bet I felt it, I tried to be chill but you're so hot that I melted," Josh crooned into the microphone.

He was awful. His singing skills were no better than Patrick Stump's were on the Live in Phoenix album. The soccer boys were falling out of their seats laughing. And everyone in the Country Club's ballroom had their glances cast Dylan's way, trying in vain not to snicker at her bright red cheeks.

But the thing was he knew every word. He had every single word to 'I'm Yours' down, memorized perfectly. And he was singing it because—and only because—Dylan liked the song. Because it was her so-called favourite.

Dylan sighed. So what if Alicia and the others thought that Josh was a bad influence? After all, all the boy wanted for Christmas was a 'handy-j'. But her friends didn't understand Josh like Dylan did. It was not the perverted, desperate aspects of Josh that she concentrated on, but the sweet, little things like this. The way he tried so hard for her.

"Our time is short, this is our fate, I'm yours Dylan," Josh stuttered, still going at it.

Dylan gave her boyfriend a watery smile as she raised a manicured finger to flick away a mascara-black tear.

December 25th—Christmas Day

"'Cause you've got Hawaii and I've gotten no letters from you. I should stop whining because it's only been a day or two…"

It's Christmas Day night and here she sits on her grandmother's couch, far away from home and the mess under her Christmas tree.

The smooth, emerald-green plastic of her Sony Walkman Slider slips between her thin, pale fingers as she halfheartedly watches The Soup's 2008 Clipdown, Part One. She occasionally presses a silver button or two on her phone, just to make sure she didn't miss the vibration of a new text.

He is her best friend. He knows every secret, almost every private thought, all those little things about her that others missed. She likes to think that maybe he listens to that song that reminds her of him, or that he uses that shampoo just because he knows that she likes how it smells.

He is also her boyfriend. It was, as she likes to tell others, unexpected but inevitable. But the thing is, for all that trouble, he doesn't even act like it.

She texted him today—a mass text, but a 'merry Christmas' text no less. She's been waiting all day for his reply, whether it be a simple 'you too!' or better yet, a phone call. She thinks you should be with the one you love (or like) on Christmas.

But there's nothing. Not a text, nor a call. Not even a message on her facebook wall.

It's Christmas Day night and she is surrounded by so many elegant people and extravagant presents, and yet, she feels so alone.

The phone slips through her fingers and clatters to the hardwood floor.

"Merry Christmas, asshole."

December 26th—Boxing Day

"Fell out of bed, butterfly bandage, but don't worry. You'll never remember, your head is far too blurry."

I haven't seen Layne in exactly six months. Exactly. Half a year ago today, we were both running around at my younger cousin's birthday party, something I invited Layne to almost every year. That's how close she used to be with my family.

Things change, I suppose. But not this. The way we can go crash on a couch in Panera Bread after an hour of fighting the masses at the Westchester and talk about anything and everything. The way we fall into conversation so easily even after everything around us has distorted.

I press the 'skip' button on my scratched iPod shuffle. "Do you remember this one?" I ask, a coy smile on my face. Her green eyes light up as she begins to belt out the opening words to Fall Out Boy's 'A Little Less Sixteen Candles, a Little More Touch Me'.

Sure, I haven't seen Layne in six months. But I suppose that's what makes it all the more special.