Snow turned the shabby bus station almost magical. Leon hovered by his duffel, shifting weight like he was dodging invisible punches.

"So! Christmas break, dudes." His voice cracked. "Gonna be totally rad." The grin looked painted on, too wide.

Yosuke pulled out his wrapped gift.

Leon's eyes went huge. "Ooh, mystery present!" He grabbed it, shaking it near his ear. "Heavy. Flat. Plastic case..." He felt along the edges. "PlayStation game?"

Yosuke tried to keep his expression neutral.

"Wait." Leon's fingers traced the shape. "This size, this weight..." His eyes narrowed. "Mortal Kombat 3?"

Yosuke's poker face crumbled.

"DUDE!" Leon yelped. "That's like, way over the ten-dollar limit! That's at least thirty bucks!"

Yosuke shrugged smugly, remembering the expensive Discman.

Leon practically threw a flat package at him. "Here. Don't open it till Christmas, house rules." He stepped back, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "It's nothing special. Just thought it might, you know. Cheer you up or whatever."

"Thanks." Yosuke's throat tightened. His first real Christmas present.

The bus doors wheezed open. Leon grabbed Erik in a quick hug—all back-slapping and masculine performance. "Dude, try not to turn Christmas into a sociology lecture, okay?"

"I make no promises about commercialization," Erik said dryly.

Leon turned to Yosuke, hesitated, then pulled him into an awkward hug too—arms too tight, lasting a beat too long. "You're gonna have an awesome Christmas, space cadet. Totally awesome." He clapped Yosuke's shoulder twice. "We're gonna hang out so much when I get back. Like, all the time. You, me, and Erik. The three amigos, right?"

Even Yosuke could tell something was off. Leon's grin stretched too wide, his voice pitched too enthusiastic. He was trying too hard.

"Right," Yosuke said carefully.

Leon climbed the steps without looking back. Through the window, he pressed his face against the glass, making ridiculous expressions until the bus rumbled away.

"Still up for skiing?" Erik asked, snow collecting on his perfect coat.

Yosuke watched the bus disappear. Skiing—trusting Erik to catch him if he fell—felt easier than trusting Leon to act normal again.

─────── · 𓅪 · ───────

Two days later, the dorm was weirdly loud with nothing in it—radiators ticking, the vending machine coughing. Leon was in San Francisco, and Greenwode felt like a television someone had left on mute.

Erik had ingredients spread across the kitchen counter with laboratory precision. "My granny's gingerbread recipe. Danish, technically. She said proper gingerbread was the difference between civilization and chaos."

Yosuke perched on a high stool. "Your granny sounds intense."

"She was." Erik demonstrated kneading—just until the dough held together. "This is how civilized people bake."

Yosuke stole raw dough despite Erik's warnings, then eyed the molasses jar. Before Erik could stop him, he scooped a spoonful straight into his mouth.

Erik actually shuddered. "Oh god. That's disgusting."

Yosuke grinned, teeth stained dark brown. "Maybe that's too much sugar."

Erik sighed and handed him the cookie cutters. "Make yourself useful."

Yosuke sorted through trees, snowmen, stars. One star had a bent point. Erik noticed immediately, taking it to press it back into symmetry.

"You really think I'm ready for skiing?" Yosuke asked.

"You'll be a natural. You've got the build."

Yosuke held up the man-shaped cutter. "Like this? Very symmetrical?"

Erik picked up the snowman—three uneven circles stacked like a soft accident. "You might end up more like this."

It was almost a laugh. The real kind. Something warm bloomed in Yosuke's chest.

"Fan!" Erik spun toward the oven. Smoke curled out. "The first batch."

The gingerbread men were bordering on black. Erik looked defeated. Yosuke broke off a leg and bit down.

"I like them this way," he said. "They taste real."

Outside, fat snowflakes drifted past the window.

"Oh! I want to experience snow in my hair. How fast do you think they melt?"

Erik followed his gaze, then turned off the oven. "If you're going to ski, you need to understand snow texture." He paused. "And no tongues."

"No tongues?"

"Don't try to catch snowflakes with your tongue," Erik said flatly.

Outside, Erik walked carefully, avoiding puddles, snow, mess. Yosuke watched him step around winter like it might stain him.

"That's how you kiss too?" Yosuke asked suddenly. "No tongue?"

Erik froze. His head snapped up. "What does that mean?"

Yosuke shrugged, already wishing he hadn't said it. "Nothing."

They walked in silence past decorated windows. Finally Erik spoke, voice quieter.

"I've never done that. Kissed someone."

Yosuke nodded. "Me neither."

"No surprise there," Erik scoffed—but his voice caught. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders tight despite his perfect coat.

Outside Miller's, mechanical reindeer jerked through their programmed motions. Christmas music leaked from speakers.

"It wasn't always like this," Erik said, stopping at a storefront. "Christmas. Used to be fun. Before gift cards and stock options."

"Your family doesn't do presents?"

"We're not the homemade sweater type." His laugh was sharp. "Mom invited me to see her new family. Stepkids. Probably get actual gifts."

"They... replaced you?" Yosuke asked, frowning.

Erik kicked at a clump of snow. "Dad married his work. Mom says he cheated; Dad says she imagined it. Last thing she told me was, 'Never marry someone pretty.'"

They stopped outside Burlington's. A mannequin wore the kind of expensive sweater Erik favored.

"Sorry you're stuck here," Yosuke said. "With just... me."

Erik didn't answer. He looked very small beneath the falling snow.

Best friends weren't supposed to let each other be lonely. The way Yosuke's heart went stupid-fast whenever Erik smiled at him, the way his skin prickled when their shoulders brushed—surely that was just what closeness felt like. Normal. Human.

Without thinking, Yosuke pulled off Leon's mittens. His fingers trembled as he reached for Erik's hand. He just wanted to show Erik he wasn't alone, that someone could stay.

Erik's hand was cold in his. For one perfect moment, snow caught in Erik's eyelashes. His breath fogged between them.

Then Erik went stiff. His whole body locked like a trap snapping shut.

He yanked away like Yosuke's touch had burned him.

"Don't," Erik said, too sharp, too fast. He grabbed his own hand and pressed it to his chest like he had to keep it there. His throat bobbed. His eyes didn't focus on Yosuke at first—just past him, scanning the street.

Yosuke froze with his bare hand hanging in the air, stupidly open.

"I feel things," he blurted. His voice came out thin. "Right now. With you—" He swallowed. "I just... I got these feelings for you."

Erik flinched at the for you.

"No." Erik's voice cracked. He raked his fingers through his hair, scattering snow. The careful mask was still there, but something raw shoved up underneath it. "You shouldn't— not with me. It's not—"

"Not right," Yosuke finished.

Erik's face twisted. He looked angry for half a second, then the anger slipped and what replaced it was worse—panic trying to pretend it was fury.

"Don't touch me like that again," Erik said, trying to make it sound like a rule, like a boundary.

But his body betrayed him: shoulders too high, breath too quick, pupils blown wide. His hands shook at his sides.

Yosuke stood there, heart kicking against his ribs, confused in the stupidest way—because it had been such a small thing. A hand. Just a hand. That was what people did in Christmas movies.

"Why?" he asked.

Erik's jaw worked. He looked like he wanted to answer and also like answering might make him throw up. His eyes flicked down to Yosuke's bare fingers—then away, fast.

"Because I'm supposed to guide you," Erik said, voice pitching hard into control. "Be professional. Not let you—" He stopped, swallowed. "Jesus Christ, you don't even understand what you're asking."

"Then explain—"

"NO." The word exploded out of him, loud enough that a woman with a shopping bag glanced over. Erik straightened, yanking his coat straight with shaking hands. "My hands are mine. My body is mine. You don't get to just—" His breath hitched. "Don't."

The last one came out quieter. Worse for it.

He backed away, steps too quick in the new snow. It wasn't a walk. It was retreat.

"Ever," Erik threw back over his shoulder.

Then he was gone, footprints stretching longer with each step.

Yosuke stood alone in the gathering dark, streetlights flickering on, his bare hand burning with cold and something else that felt like shame.

Not right.

The words echoed in his head, mixing with older fears—not normal, not human. In his mind it all became the same sentence: You're wrong. You're disgusting.

Through the store window, the mannequin kept staring in its perfect sweater. Tinny Christmas music leaked out, singing about peace and joy while something inside Yosuke's chest turned to ice.

By the time he pulled the mittens back on, his fingers had gone numb. The wool felt rough.

Wrong. Not right. Never right.

─────── · 𓅪 · ───────

The microwave hummed lullabies to abandoned leftovers. Erik stirred his instant noodles in perfect spirals while Yosuke murdered his own bowl.

They ate in silence thick as cotton. Erik cleared his throat twice—almost-words dying in the air.

Back in their room, they performed their nighttime ballet of avoidance. Erik claimed the bathroom for exactly four minutes. Yosuke sat on his bed, monitoring shadows under the door.

Leon's wrapped present caught moonlight at the sill. Leon was probably sprawled on his childhood bed right now, arguing with cousins over PlayStation controllers.

"We should skip tomorrow," Erik said into the ceiling. "There's not enough snow."

"Whatever." Yosuke watched snowflakes dance under streetlights, each one perfect and cold. Like Erik's hand had been.

Sheets rustled. "Actually, I've been thinking." Erik's voice went clinical. "You're progressing well academically. Perhaps the formal mentorship has run its course."

The words crystallized like frost between their beds. Of course—reclassify the relationship, maintain safe distance.

"Sure," Yosuke said flatly. "Whatever you think is best."

Erik's lamp clicked off with finality.

"Goodnight then."

Yosuke didn't answer.

The silence stretched until Erik cleared his throat again. "About earlier..."

"Perhaps I was negligent, allowing you to form... attachments." Erik's voice cut through the darkness. "That's on me. You're going through a lot, trying to find yourself. It's natural to confuse that with... other feelings."

Yosuke's chest compressed. So Erik had already diagnosed him—confused child grasping for comfort.

"I'm not confused," Yosuke said, voice steady as his hands weren't.

Silence stretched between their beds. The radiator clicked.

"You're still recovering, relearning how to be a person," Erik continued, his voice going gentle. "That's what I've been trying to provide. But boundaries exist for good reasons. In many ways, you're younger than your chronological age."

"So you think I'm... broken?"

"No!" Erik said too quickly, then sighed. "However, your lack of understanding does leave you quite... scrambled."

"Scrambled. Like scrambled eggs?" Yosuke's voice fractured. His heart shattered like brittle stone. He breathed out a wet keening sound, then clutched his knees beneath the coverlet. The words carried through the silence, muffled and wet. "Message received. Not right. Not comfortable. Not friends. Got it."

"Yosuke—"

"Goodnight, Erik."

The lamp died, leaving them in darkness.

Yosuke lay still, finally understanding. Erik was the broken one, a tin man with a flawless surface who'd rather dissect feelings than feel them. The knowledge sat in his chest like swallowed glass.

At least now he knew what not right meant. It meant him.

─────── · 𓅪 · ───────

The TV played some animated special about misfit toys while Yosuke hunched deeper into the couch, mechanically eating popcorn. Their Christmas spread from Miller's looked sad on the coffee table—chocolate Santas, candy canes, Danish cookies. Everything perfectly arranged, just like Erik wanted.

Erik had spent the whole morning cleaning like he could wash away the awkwardness. The dorm reeked of pine disinfectant now.

Yosuke's skin prickled, those quills trying to push through. He pressed harder into the cushions, forcing them back. Stupid to think Erik actually wanted to be friends. It had all been an arrangement—the perfect class representative helping the weird new kid.

"More popcorn?" Erik's voice was careful, too nice.

"Sure." Yosuke kept his eyes on the TV.

Three presents sat under their plastic tree. Leon's, something from Pablo, and a large package from Erik that had appeared overnight. Yosuke hadn't bought Erik anything. Told him not to. He'd made a gift instead, rolled up drawing hidden behind him in the sofa.

Erik opened his predictable gifts—cards from relatives, socks, gift cards arranged in precise stacks.

"Your turn," he said.

Leon's gift was a massive canvas—Yosuke rendered in stark black and white charcoal with a bandana and martial arts pants, falcons wheeling overhead. Pure heavy metal album cover.

"Oh my god," Yosuke snorted, the first real laugh in days.

"That's... certainly something," Erik said, almost grinning.

Pablo's gift was a worn copy of "The Stand" with a note: "Since you liked my horror comics. Don't read alone."

Then Erik's package. Brown leather unfolded in Yosuke's lap, white fur lining catching the TV light. The SKULL logo stretched across the back. The jacket from The Mammoth—the one he'd been staring at for weeks.

"I've seen how you look at it," Erik said awkwardly.

"You said it was too expensive for me." Yosuke's fingers traced the perfect stitching.

"It's no big deal. I owed you a better Christmas."

Yosuke slipped the jacket on. The weight settled across his shoulders like armor. In the window's reflection, someone else looked back—not Erik's project, not the space cadet who needed looking after. Just himself.

"Thank you," he managed.

"Actually..." He pulled the crumpled roll of paper from behind the couch. "Here."

Erik took it with polite confusion. The paper unfurled to reveal his own face—rendered in colored pencils with careful, exact strokes. Each eyelash drawn individually, lips anatomically correct, the cable knit of his sweater forming an obsessive pattern. But it was the eyes that made Erik's fingers tighten on the paper—blue curves that somehow captured everything he tried to hide.

"Oh," Erik said softly.

"The collar's kind of wrong," Yosuke said quickly. "And I couldn't get your hair right."

Erik carefully rolled the portrait back up. "It's very... technical."

"Whatever." Yosuke sank back into the couch, leather creaking. "Just something to do during study hall."

Erik nodded, already gathering wrapping paper into neat piles. Always cleaning up, always trying to fix things with price tags.

On screen, the misfit toys found their happy ending. Outside, snow kept falling.