They sung, their throats parched with cold. The hedgehog had worn his coat for too long, old, rustic, a piece of history in his life. The winter blew through, the weather was distraught with ice, as the other carolers had walked across the street, their melodies echoing in the long streets ahead of them, Sonic's fingers feeling arched, hollow, a collection of icicles inside his body.
They sung at more houses. They were rarely given any pay. Many of the houses shut their doors on them. Christmas spirit was only penchant about gifts and the economy, and nothing else.
He sipped his hot cocoa, as Vector, Espio, and Charmy had discussed why the few coins in their bucket wasn't enough to get them even some McDonald's. Sonic's coat was wrapped in the wind, a silhouette casted on the bright eyes of the cars, and his eyes shut, imagining the world frozen in a layer of decay, full of greedy monsters who only wanted the gifts, the money, the food, and nothing more. He felt Christmas was more than that, but as they say in Rome: "Jesus was actually born on September."
He saw a young, pink, bright hedgehog girl, skipping in the streets, her coat so long, covering her from her cute head and toes. Upon seeing this lady, he wanted to take off her coat, warm her with his heart, and show her the way, with the golden lantern inside of it. A small rabbit was with her, wearing a knit cap and a fluffy coat, carrying Christmas toys. There were many of them. He surmised that they worked in a foster home, trying to create a nice Christmas for all the boys and girls who didn't have a mom and dad.
Sonic asked the others to sing, as the snow gathered around them, a scenic snowglobe inside, and as the night had grown its bladed wound in the sky, as the stars have seared through the flesh of the night, they sang, they sang of Jesus, they sang of Rudolph, they sang of Frosty, and other known gods near Christmas day. They were remembered, in catchy songs created back in the 60s. And Sonic had tied his scarf around hers, a knit ribbon showing his love, his passion for a nice, kind woman who was only trying to help out the poor and forgotten.
"Thank you so much, but what was this all for?" she had asked.
"I've seen your face a thousand times," he said, "but every single of those thousand times, I had been reborn. I have gone through many deaths, and many revivals, seeing the beauty of your kindness, your face. Please, come and be with me. Be with me this Christmas. We'll have cocoa and wine. We'll dine and open elaborate shells of gifts. We'll cry, we'll shout, we'll watch the gods on our television screen. Come this year with me."
She restrained her hand to her chest, seeing this hedgehog so passionate, but she knew she had to be in the foster home. She couldn't be with him, unless he, himself, has promised to sing to the children, to give them a fresh dinner of multiplied bread and fish.
He couldn't try to have that crown of thorns on his head. He couldn't sacrifice himself for the love of so many.
His coat ripped and torn in the weather, the icy fingers pricking him. The toys were all packaged colorfully, like psychiatric pills, ready to be given to the children who had lost so much. The poinsettias were proudly displayed in the black soil containers, and the children, some were selfish and only believed in gifts, but some had their hearts glow in this winter season, where the gods of winter were allegedly born.
Rome had said that Jesus was born in September. But everyone is reborn on Christmas day, the pain of doldrums, the chains of society, it all melted away in the ice and snow, and they both drank their wine, watched as the bread and fish were consumed, and the carols continued to ring in their ears, as they held hands, and had borne another life, among the reeds of poinsettias, the laughter and shouting of children who were learning their way home.