A/N: This one is Sonic/Tails, brotherly.
The hot chocolate was steaming, as they watched the snow drift from the sky, God's little flakes from the clouds. He was making a sculpture, a regular Michaelangelo.
He told him that it was time to get inside the house, before it got cold.
His shoes were like Mercury's stomping through the snow, hearing the crunching of the glass flakes. Stomp stomp. Crunch crunch. The marble had shattered apart upon his mighty footsteps, the child who thought he was God, the mighty Zeus of the lightning bolts that could sparkle up in the sky, His eyes wavering.
Hurry, he said.
The workshop seemed so warm inside. A sauna.
He had kept it warm, ever since his head injury. He wanted to help him, do anything for him. He thought he couldn't have a better friend than him, the one who cared so much, the one who loved so much, his smile so wide, so big, like a great chasm across his face.
Hurry, he said again.
The hot chocolate was mint, the rim covered with peppermint candy. He knew of his love of mint, the sweet taste so dissolving in his mouth, the taste of winter, the taste of the God's holiday mead.
He wondered if he could go back to those times, with his mighty shoes that allowed him to run as fast as his friend, traveling to the island of the lonesome, Circe the witch's island, the cyclops who ate the men like great bowls of wine. He could defeat him all, with his swift boots, his swift intellect. He was smarter than Odysseus. And he could think that Odysseus was much like his friend, a fable hero all in himself.
How's your cocoa, he said, grinning like the path he made in the snow.
Great, he said. The workshop was warming him, his bones no longer cold, frozen, the sins of winter melting away. He held onto his scarf, a nice shade of lavender, and had took it off, before wrapping it on his friend, the hedgehog who was so brave, so mighty, just as mighty as he was.
Be careful out there, he had said.
The cyclops who was shaped like an egg, with his mighty fleet in the sky, he figured he would have to give him a Christmas gift, one wrapped and endowed with a blue ribbon, a ribbon the same brilliant shade of cobalt like him.
It was a gift he would remember, for the rest of his days. How old was the egghead again? 40? He could be 50 for all he knew. He lived in '40s, did he? Did he see the Christmas where the plans fired great flaming shells in his city? Was it too rude to ask him of what he experienced that made him the man he was today?
The wind chilled him as he opened the door, the scarf blowing in the wind and rustling, the snow inching its fingers inside.
He drank his cocoa, silently, melting with the heat, the ice turning to water that dripped from his flakes of hair.
He was a statue in itself, created by the mighty God. His shoes could travel with him, but it was too cold for the little fox, as his feet stomped on the floor, creating wet puddles wherever he walked. Stomp stomp.