And so autumn crept on in Greenwode, leaves turning and falling while teenagers navigated their complicated orbits. As November painted the town in muted browns, Yosuke learned new dances—how to dodge Karin and her Ratio theories in hallways, how to practice basketball when the court was empty, how to look busy enough that people might leave him alone. But solitude proved elusive in a world of determined adolescents.

The Mammoth filled with winter gear, and soon the boys traded their light jackets for plaid shirts and padded armor against the cold. Erik's new boots came from a catalogue, expensive and precise. Leon's were second-hand Dr. Martens, sturdy and already scuffed in the right places. Yosuke found himself somewhere in between—yellow suede boots that Pablo's father insisted on selling him at cost.

But no amount of winter armor could protect him from the virus that was teenage life. It spread through hallways and classrooms, infected lunch tables and locker rooms—this need to belong, to touch, to feel everything too deeply. He watched his classmates stumble through their days, all hormone-addled and heartbroken, fighting and kissing and crying over things that seemed at once monumental and mundane.

Worse still, he found himself catching their fever. His heart would race at the smallest things—Leon's laugh carrying across the cafeteria, Erik's encouraging smile when passing notes, Mia's knowing looks during science class.

When first snow fell, Yosuke stood at his window watching breath fog glass. Below, students threw premature snowballs, shivering dramatically. He pressed his forehead to cold pane, skin itching beneath winter clothes, wondering if there was any cure for growing up.

December was already proving itself memorable for reasons Yosuke hadn't asked for: his first kiss (if it counted), the growing certainty that he was both more dangerous and more naïve than anyone realized, and the slow, frightening awareness that something in him was waking up.

December twelfth arrived quietly anyway.

Yosuke woke early, weak sunlight striping the ceiling through dirty blinds. His first remembered birthday. His special day. He lay there for a while, waiting for it to feel like something.

It didn't.

Mostly he felt hungry. A little oily. Extremely thirsty.

"God morgon, sötnos."

Erik stood by the desk in sleep-soft pajamas, hair too neat for someone who claimed not to care. A wrapped package sat perfectly centered, corners sharp enough to draw blood. Silver ink spelled Yosuke's name in precise loops.

The gift felt accusatory in its perfection.

"You didn't have to," Yosuke said, already reaching for it.

"Obviously I did. Open it."

Leather. Real leather. The smell alone felt adult. Expensive. The pages were thick, almost stubborn.

"For organizing your thoughts," Erik said quickly. "So you'll stop putting everything in your pockets."

"I like having things in reach—"

A sharp knock cut him off.

Leon barreled in with newspaper-wrapped packages clutched to his chest, uniform wrinkled, hair doing that gravity-defying thing it did when he slept too hard.

"Oh shit—are we doing presents now? You totally said after breakfast—"

"Get in here," Erik said.

Leon dropped to the floor between their beds, knees up, arranging the packages with exaggerated care. The air felt heavier than it should have, thick with everything that hadn't been said since Halloween.

"What's sötnos?" Yosuke asked, fingers hovering over the paper.

"Cute nose," Erik said. "Winter air's giving you zits."

Yosuke touched his nose immediately.

"Oh man," Leon groaned, flopping back. "Please tell me you taught him the good stuff. Like cuck-howoud!"

Erik smacked him with Rolling Stone.

"Fa-an!" Leon shot back triumphantly—then stopped.

Yosuke had drifted. His attention snagged on details instead: the light on Erik's collarbone where his pajama shirt gaped, Leon's pulse visible at his throat, the sharp spearmint smell that made his shoulder blades itch.

Leon never brushed his teeth in the morning.

Had he done it today?

"Here," Leon said too loudly, shoving the packages toward him. "It's dumb. Totally last minute."

Blue mittens emerged, stitches uneven but careful. Then a CD case: birds of paradise, all impossible color and long tailfeathers.

"The mittens are from my aunt," Leon said. "She thinks I live at the North Pole. And the CD—uh. Rare field recordings. Thought you'd like it."

"I only have a tape player," Yosuke said softly.

Erik and Leon exchanged a look.

"That's why this one's last," Erik said, producing a larger blue box.

Yosuke recognized it instantly. His stomach twisted.

"These are expensive."

"We saved," Erik said flatly.

Leon shrugged. "Worth it."

The Discman gleamed alien-silver. When the birdsong flooded his ears, it pulled at something deep behind his ribs—something that wanted to answer back. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, both boys were watching him.

"Look at him," Leon stage-whispered. "All broody already."

"Fuck you," Yosuke murmured, smiling despite himself.

Relief flickered across Leon's face.

The rest of Yosuke's first birthday unfolded like a series of near-misses. He ducked into empty classrooms when he heard footsteps, took long routes between buildings to avoid well-wishers. The Discman became a perfect excuse to pretend he couldn't hear the chorus of Happy Birthday trailing him between classes.

At lunch, he claimed a corner table, methodically arranging his fries while watching Leon hold court with Calvin and the nerd gang about dungeon exploration, dice probabilities, and whether dragons counted as environmental hazards.

By last period, Erik caught his eye from across the hall and tilted his head toward the frosted windows — their private signal for escape.

The winter air bit through Yosuke's new mittens as they crossed the darkening campus. Erik filled the silence with careful observations about Nordic architecture and seasonal depression, his breath puffing white in the cold. It felt safe. Predictable. Right up until Erik checked his watch.

"We should head back," he said, too casual. "The common room has better heating."

"SURPRISE, SPACE CADET!"

The shout hit like a physical wave. Lights snapped on. Half the dorm crowded the common room. Justin started yelling "Surprise, Vam—" before Calvin elbowed him hard.

Yosuke let out a sharp yelp, instinctively backing into Erik. His heart hammered as he took it in — the scuffed coffee table, the ridiculous cake with blue-frosted swimming trunks and sixteen carefully placed candles, all those familiar faces grinning like he'd just walked into an ambush.

"Who made this masterpiece?" Calvin asked, already laughing.

"Leon's idea," Erik said, steadying Yosuke with a light touch. "Pablo baked."

Yosuke stood frozen for a beat, overwhelmed by the sight of his classmates — boys who usually passed him with nods or confused looks — all gathered for him.

Then Leon pushed forward with a knife and a grin. "And this," he announced, carving deep, "is the ass end. Birthday boy gets the biggest piece."

Laughter rolled through the room. Someone clapped. Boys shuffled closer, jostling for position. Cake was passed. Plates clinked. The noise softened into something warm and chaotic.

"I didn't expect..." Yosuke started, watching frosting disappear.

"What," Erik said, licking chocolate from his fork, "friends?"

"...any of this," Yosuke finished quietly.

Leon sprawled onto the floor, chewing thoughtfully, clearly riding the relief of it all going well. "Well, I'm technically eating your ass now, so I'd say we're pretty close."

A few laughs. Not as loud this time.

The silence that followed wasn't hostile — just uncertain. Leon felt it immediately.

"Hey, Pablo," he said too fast, sitting up. "Is Karin working tonight?"

Pablo shook his head. "Nah. Mall with the cheer squad."

"Cool, cool." Leon stood, brushing crumbs off his jeans. "I should probably... check on something. Happy birthday, Yosuke."

He was out the door before anyone could react.

Yosuke's face fell as he watched plaid disappear down the hall. That fucking coward. Even on the first birthday he could remember.

"Don't take it personally," Erik said softly, patting Yosuke's back. "Leon's just being... Leon."

Yosuke felt his face flush at the contact and pulled away. "Thanks for everything—the cake, the present. I should probably clean up..."

He retreated to the bathroom before anyone could stop him. Locking the door, he tugged down his shirt collar and twisted toward the mirror. Small, dark quills were pushing through the skin along his shoulder blades again. More of them this time. He watched, horrified and fascinated, as one broke through completely—revealing the edge of something fragile and wet.

A feather.

Oh God. This thing came from his body. Birds had feathers. Dinosaurs had feathers. Teenage boys did not. Heart racing, he dropped it into the toilet and flushed.

"What the hell am I?" he whispered to his reflection. Silence answered.

The knock made him jump. Erik's electric shaver slipped from the counter and shattered across the tile.

"Hey, you alive in there?" Erik called.

"Just a second!" Yosuke yanked his shirt up, scooping plastic pieces into the sink. In the mirror, another wet feather clung to his shoulder blade. He plucked it free and flushed again, hands shaking.

Erik lounged on his bed when Yosuke emerged, eyeing the broken shaver with mild annoyance. "Dad's fancy gift. Guess I'll look like a caveman now."

Yosuke tried to smile, but his eyes kept drifting to the door. Erik noticed—he always did.

"You know," Erik said, "for someone who just got a pretty expensive birthday gift, you seem more upset about what Leon didn't give you." He tilted his head. "His time, maybe?"

"I feel..." Yosuke searched. "Betrayed isn't right. More like... an afterthought."

"Last priority?" Erik frowned. "He saved for weeks for that Discman. We split the cost, but he picked the bird recordings himself. Spent hours at Record World finding the right one." He leaned forward. "Doesn't that count?"

"I value his company more." The words came out small but solid.

"Interesting." Erik's eyes lit with that familiar academic focus. "So what does Leon's company offer that pristine audio doesn't? He's chaotic, unreliable, gives people asthma, constantly disappearing—"

Yosuke felt the answer in his chest: the warmth of Leon's shoulder during movie nights, his pulse visible in his throat when he laughed, the way rooms felt fuller when he occupied them.

"I don't know," Yosuke said.

Erik accepted that, going quiet in a way that felt charged. After a moment of fidgeting with his perfectly aligned desk supplies, he added, a little too quickly, "There's a ski area up at Mount Baker. Since we're both stuck here for Christmas break... we could go. My treat. Dad always gives me more money than I know what to do with."

Yosuke blinked. This was Erik—the one who dismissed school dances as tribal mating rituals.

"No Karin-pining Leon to worry about," Erik added, then winced. "Just us."

Heat crept up Yosuke's neck. "I'd like that."

Erik's shoulders dropped. "Good." He stood, stretching. "I'll tell everyone you're processing the party through your superior introverted thinking function. Jung would approve." His smile flickered, quick and real.

His hand almost settled on Yosuke's shoulder as he passed.

"Thanks," Yosuke murmured, already reaching for his headphones. "For getting it."

"That's what friends are for, right?" Erik lingered at the door a beat too long, then left.

Yosuke turned up the birdsong on his new Walkman, but it couldn't drown out Leon's laugh—or the way rooms felt colder every time he left.

· · ─────── · 𓅪 · ─────── · ·

Sleep came like drowning. The room breathed around him, walls pulsing with heartbeat rhythm. Dream-Erik's fingers found his spine zipper, pulled it down with a sound like tearing silk. Feathers spilled out, each one tasting of orange Fanta, filling the air with carbonated snow.

"Your turn," Erik breathed, his accent thick as syrup.

Yosuke pressed Control-Alt-Delete on Erik's bellybutton, watching skin glow monitor-blue. Green text scrolled across his chest: "LOVE.EXE LOADING..."

Reality tilted. The bed became the common room table, and Yosuke wasn't Yosuke anymore—he was birthday cake. Blue frosting skin that tasted of confused longing, chocolate insides dark with secrets, those ridiculous swimming trunks still perfectly sculpted on his lower half, each fold rendered in buttercream.

"Birthday boy gets the biggest piece." Dream-Leon materialized with a tiny silver spoon, werewolf fur matted with vanilla extract. His movements carried that restless energy even in dreams.

"I saw him first." Dream-Erik produced his own spoon, Tin Man paint glowing like radioactive waste. They circled him like sharks scenting blood in water.

Each spoonful sent electricity through frosting nerves. Leon scooped from his shoulder—"Mm, tastes like confusion with notes of pine." Erik took a bite from his ribs—"Subtle hints of sexual awakening, paired with shame reduction."

"I'm not a cake! I'm a boy!" Yosuke tried to scream, but only frosting words emerged, sweet and meaningless.

They kept eating, arguing over who got the trunks portion, pressure building in his decorated lower half until the candles melted, frosting melted, everything melting into white-hot nothing—

"What the fuck, Joskey?"

Real Erik glared from the bathroom door at 5 AM, hair sticking up in unfortunate angles. "Do you need to change your sheets? Again?"

Yosuke squeaked—actually squeaked like a stepped-on toy—and dove under covers. His boxers clung with embarrassing evidence, not soaked this time but decidedly compromised.

"Then stop making those noises." Erik shuffled back to bed, muttering what sounded like an entire Swedish dictionary of profanity.

· · ─────── · 𓅪 · ─────── · ·

Down the hallway in room 32, Leon's thumbs moved mechanically over his controller. 4 AM. Street Fighter's blue glow painted his exhaustion in harsh relief.

You-ran-away. You-ran-away. Happy-birth-day-then-you-ran.

The rhythm matched his button combos. He'd told the cheer squad Yosuke was "like a nine-year-old," forced laughter while Karin's perfume made him dizzy. But Yosuke's face when he'd left—

You're-so-gay. So-gay-for-a-nine-year-old.

"Shut up," he muttered. Why had he made that stupid cake joke? About eating ass? Then Erik's fucking face, smug bastard. His character took a dragon punch, went flying.

Continue? 9... 8... 7...

Leon dropped the controller. Everything felt like running from something, chasing something else, never quite landing where he meant to.