It was a secret, not because he wasn't proud of his skill, but mostly because no one ever thought to ask.

Maine can knit really damn well.

It was a skill he acquired in his early teens, something his guidance counselor had suggested to help him with his fidgety hands and tendency to bottle up anger, tension, and any other negative emotion until he snapped.

Maine liked to think he was a patient person, but a bent locker and a case of bloody knuckles didn't support his opinion very well.

His guidance counselor had sat with Maine – then Mark – hunched in on himself in the too-small chair, intently looking out the window with his newly bandaged hand sat protectively in his lap. He was wearing the biggest hoodie he could owned and would have preferred to have his hood up, if only to get the feeling of Ms. Dion's eyes on him to go away.

"Mark."

Mark cut his eyes to the woman. She was a small, round woman with a kind face weathered with age in such a way that it made him think of his grandmother. And, just like his grandmother, he couldn't disrespect her either, so he turned his body to face her, looking her in the eyes as she spoke, even if her gaze made him want to squirm with guiltiness.

"We've talked about this, Mark."

He knew they had, though it was really Ms. Dion who had done most of the talking. Mark was not a chatty person, though some people took his lack of interest in inane chatter as rudeness or being stuck-up, so it was no wonder why his classmates seemed to take it both as a personal insult and a challenge to get on his very last nerve.

They got what they wished for, a lot, but never seemed to be able to take the hint that it wouldn't be very long before his fist changed direction and didn't strike a desk, a locker, or a door next time.

His classmates weren't very bright.

"Do you want to talk about it this time?"

No, no he didn't, so he shook his head, voicing a 'no ma'am' for respect's sake.

Ms. Dion pursed her lips, frowning in thought. After a moment, she sighed, "You really need to find a positive way to vent your emotions, and if you won't talk to me then we're going to have to find something else..."

Mark watched her think with a look of apprehension. He was sure he wasn't going to like what she suggested.

"Have you tried joining a sport?"

He hated being right sometimes. No, sports weren't really his thing. The coaches (all the coaches) had tried to recruit him for ever sport they had: football, basketball, baseball, soccer. Hell, even the cheerleading team wanted him to help lift the other members into the air, but Mark didn't enjoy group activities, would much rather be by himself or choose a small group as company, and sports teams didn't reflect that. Besides, if he wanted to work out, he could always go for a run in the park.

Ms. Dion took his silence as a negative, which it was, before waving a hand through the air, seemingly shooing the suggestion from the room. "No, no, never mind that was a terrible idea. I don't think you need anything that fosters such a competitive and potentially violent spirit." She tapped her fingers against the desk for a moment before pausing, spinning her desk chair around to rummage in a bag behind her. "Wait just a minute, I have an idea."

And that was how Mark got his first set of knitting needles and skein of yarn.

He didn't get away with destroying school property, however. He had to spend his afternoons cleaning all of the lockers as punishment, but he also got to eat his lunch in Ms. Dion's office so he could practice his knitting. It wasn't such a bad trade.

The first thing he ever made was a lumpy forest green scarf. It was too short to wear comfortably, had holes from where he had dropped stitches or accidentally stitched two together, but he remembers it as one of his proudest achievements.

He had given the scarf to Ms. Dion just before winter break. She had loved it, saying that it would be a lovely present for Mister Stubs, the stuffed polar bear she kept on a beanbag chair in the corner of her office.

Mark loved knitting, loved the way he had something to occupy his hands, kept his mind busy yet strangely blank at the same time. Sure, it was frustrating at first, the movement of his large fingers awkward and uncoordinated on the needles, but he eventually got the hang of it.

He continued to knit long after high school, long after Ms. Dion passed away and he went to her funeral, seeing her lying in her casket with the blanket he had knitted her tucked around her, per her request.

Mark had to excuse himself after that, going home and tucking his knitting needles under some old clothes in the back of his closet.

That was a year ago, one year since the passing of a woman that was like family to him, and he hasn't picked up his needles since.

Until today.

Maine's room was a mess, boxes over turned, contents lying in piles on the floor, clothes thrown everywhere, yet he couldn't find them.

Maine had stopped going by Mark a few years after high school, when he had gone to college and made friends that practically adopted one another. State names became a joke among them when C.T had introduced them to Wash (David Washington) and Wyoming couldn't stop cracking jokes at Wash's last name, South joining in with a cackle, before Florida had calmly mentioned that her last name was Dakota, so she really had no room to laugh.

After that, they all had shiny new nicknames given to them for various reasons.

So Mark was now Maine, and Maine was growing more and more frustrated as his search continued to bring him nothing.

He did not have time for this.

It was the first day of fall and, even though the leaves had yet to change, Maine knew he needed to start working now or else nothing would get done in time.

Maine made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat when what he thought were his needles were actually an old pair of chop sticks from some meal he couldn't remember having.

He really ought to clean up more in here.

At last he finds his needles, hidden in his closet under a shirt that was too small for him now. One was a little bent, but a little bending had it back to its original shape again.

It had taken a long time for Maine to work up the motivation to start knitting again, the loss of Ms. Dion making looking at the objects a painful task, but he had to get them out again, if only because some of Ms. Dion's last advice started playing in his head again:

'Do everything with heart, Mark, and you'll never truly fail.'

Now he's finally found a reason to.

The hot days of a faux-autumn turn into the crisp days of a real one. The leaves catch the last rays of the summer sun before swooping down, chasing the shadows of winter. It's the night before Christmas, and Maine is just about ready.

He has knitted a dark blue sweater with a snowflake patter across the chest. Its matching scarf has a large snowflake at each end with white tassels to accompany them. The gloves are the same shade of blue, but each finger and thumb are white, a white hood attaching to them to change them into mittens. The hat had the same blue and white pattern, ear flaps and tassels on either side, and a fluff pompom on the top. The future owner of these pieces would love that touch, but he would love the way his name was knitted into the fabric of the hat even more, snowflakes dancing around the name 'Florida'.

Maine smiled. It had taken a lot of practice to shake the rust off of his knitting, but it had paid off.

Now all he had to do was give them to him.

Maine hung back towards the edge of the party, drinking eggnog and watching as some of his friends danced around the coffee table, singly loud, horribly off key Christmas carols.

Maine didn't know everyone at the party, but everyone knew at least one another person.

Wash was talking with a man wearing a mistletoe as a hat, dark black braids pulled back and tied with a bow like he was a present. Wash laughed at something the man said, before scowling and turning such a bright pink that Maine wasn't sure how he hadn't burst into flame yet.

C.T was wearing a dark green sweater with reindeer prancing around her waist. She had brought her boyfriend with her, a man with a Mohawk and a name that Maine wasn't interested in finding out. Maine didn't trust the man very much, but Connie was happy, so Maine let it be.

York and North were talking in the corner, York introducing North to a man that Maine had met earlier in the evening named Delta. North was using one hand to hold the hand of his son, Theta, while he used the other to shake Delta's hand. Theta was looking behind his father's leg, curious about the stranger, but too shy to do anything about it for now.

Theta, North, and South were all wearing matching antlers, though South would take hers off when she thought no one was looking, only for someone to plop them back on her head, the bells jingling with the movement. It was a different person every time. South eventually just grumbled something nasty under her breath while she got some of the spiked eggnog.

Wyoming was talking to a man that Delta had brought, someone named Gary. They eventually left the living room and went up the stairs. Maine doesn't want to think about what that means.

Church, a man Maine met through Carolina, was talking to a tall, happy looking man that Maine imagines should not be eating as many sweets as he was – he seemed the hyperactive type. Church was rubbing at the bridge of his nose, glasses nearly falling off his face, but he didn't look angry, just exasperated with a touch of fondness. It was a strange look on Church, but looked like it made an appearance frequently when he was around the other man.

Carolina was speaking to three woman. One was a doctor, one a pilot, the other a general. Maine was not sure how she knew these women, but she seemed to enjoy their company, chatting easily with them over a bowl of popcorn, which they somehow started throwing at each other rather than eating.

And Florida was smiling easily, watching as everyone enjoyed themselves and chatted about the gifts they had gotten.

But Florida hadn't gotten a gift from Maine, not yet.

Florida had been disappointed when it was Maine's turn to hand out gifts and there wasn't one for him, but the look was quickly replaced with a smile, Florida saying that Maine coming to his Christmas party was all the gift that he needed.

Maine still felt guilty any way.

It was getting late, the designated drivers starting to go around gathering their drunken friends, waving goodbye as they made their way carefully down the icy driveway towards their homes.

It wasn't long before it was only Maine and Florida left, Florida busying himself cleaning up some of the mess now so he'd have less to do in the morning.

Florida turned around when he felt someone watching him. "Maine? Need something?"

Maine had his arms behind his back, the present he had stashed in the coat closet when he had arrived resting in his hands.

Florida walked closer to Maine, noticing his uncharacteristic nervousness. "You okay? You know you can always talk to me, right? I'd never turn away a friend in need."

Maine just nodded, before shoving down his embarrassment and putting out his hands towards Florida.

The present was neatly wrapped, the paper cut evenly and the bow topping it off. Maine was better at crafts than others might believe.

Florida was stunned, his eyes darting across the box, then to Maine's face, then down to the box again. Florida smiled shakily, "You wanted it to be a surprise?"

Maine nodded again, gently placing the box into Florida's hands.

"Thank you, Maine."

Florida opened the present carefully, trying not to tear the paper. When he got the last piece off and the lid removed from the box, he paused, looking down at its contents.

Maine, for a moment, was worried that his present had disappointed the other man, but those worries were shattered when Florida set the box down carefully on the coffee table, before wrapping Maine in a hug.

"They're beautiful."

Maine froze, not expecting the hug from the small man, before reaching down and returning the embrace.

They eventually parted, taking a step back.

Florida went back to the box, looking at each piece individually, before settling on trying on the hat.

Maine thought the hat made him look adorable.

"Did you make these yourself, Maine?"

Maine shrugged, looking down at the carpet.

"They're really well done."

The corner of Maine's mouth ticked up into a smile.

"But now I feel cheap, I don't think my gift could ever compare to the loveliness of this."

Maine opened his mouth – to say what, he wasn't sure – when suddenly there were lips against his in a quick, chaste kiss.

Maine was sure his face was on fire.

Florida cleared his throat, suddenly looking shy, a discarded piece of mistletoe in his hand. "I, uh, found it while I was cleaning up. Someone must have brought it since I don't condone unsolicited kisses so I understand if you want to file a complaint against me and I'll respect your decision if you decide –"

Maine shut him up with a kiss, one slightly longer than the last, before whispering 'it's fine' against Florida's lips.

Maine wasn't sure what was going to happen between the two of them after this, but he'll be sure that whatever it is, he'll put all of his heart into it.