Attending Fuckface Academy

by 4pollos

Toki Wartooth, a stoner skater boy with a terrible home life, falls in love with the lead guitarist of a grunge band, the beautiful and foreign Skwisgaar Skwigelf. Oh, and the other guys do some stuff, too. AU.

8. The Claus Conspiracy

This chapter is really long. Even the author's notes are long. But not without reason! It's the Christmas chapter! Do you know how fucking hard it is to write a Christmas chapter during fucking summer? Thank goodness these are not sentimental characters because there is, like, minimal levels of Christmas sentiment in this chapter. Related: I came very close to naming this chapter Jesus Christmas. I still think that's funny.

In other news (whoa, paragraph break in the author's notes for the first time), somebody drew fanart for this story, specifically for a scene involving Nathan and Pickles near the end of chapter five. It's glorious. Link's in the profile. Go look at it and freak out because I freaked the fuck out when I saw it.

Re: update schedule. Um. I was two days off from getting this out from the end of August and two weeks off from doing so before school started but that is because I started watching and fell in love with The X-Files to the point where I was spending twenty hours straight just watching the show. But I'm done with that now, so my fandom time can be more evenly spread out, and I'll start working on chapter nine, like, tomorrow. However, school has started up again and I'm in the IB program and that's rigorous etc etc etc. My goal when I started this story was to update once a month. Maybe I can update every two months. Who knows.

Sorry for rambling on so long. Sit back, try to feel Christmas-y in September, and enjoy the chapter.

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Coldness came early in December. There had been bouts, days that dipped below eighty, scattered throughout November, but the bouts stretched into weeks and the temperature lowered as the month turned over, consistently hovering around the mid-sixties with highs in the seventies. The weather had the born-and-raised citizens of Florida bundling up, though those that moved from up north (like Pickles) or from another country (like Toki) were content, even more comfortable, in the cooler climate. Toki's parents noticed the change of weather and clothing of the citizens and began to get a little loose with his punishments. Bruises started on his shoulders and moved downwards until they were ringing his wrists. His calves were battered with his father's latest favorite, taking a flat wooden board and beating them until Toki crumpled to the ground.

Toki had been fending off Skwisgaar since the weather got lower. It wasn't that hard, really, if he focused all of the pleasure on Skwisgaar as opposed to himself, indulging him and allowing him to forget that Toki really didn't want to unclothe as he came in Toki's hands. Toki suspected he was beginning to grow suspicious, though, Skwisgaar's fingers prone to playing with the hems of Toki's clothes even in casual conversation, and he was going to have to talk to him about it soon. He was embarrassed, mostly, convinced that Skwisgaar would break it off the second he saw the crisscrossing scars and bruises. There were many reasons Toki felt shame at the state of his skin, but he focused on a few major ones: he was sixteen years old and susceptible to the hand of his frail, older parents; the scars were ugly, marring what could've been an attractive body; they carried baggage, baggage that any sane person wouldn't want to deal with in a relationship. He'd have the talk eventually. Just not yet.

That's what he was thinking about as he rubbed his arms up and down the sleeves of his hoodie, pressing his thumb into a bruise from his father's own thumb around his forearm, feeling connected in a way that made sickness drop to his stomach like a stone in water. He was with his friends, waiting in the hallway outside of Dick's apartment for Dick to appear after knocking on his door a few minutes ago. It was around sixty-two degrees outside but seemed like it was half of that in Dick's apartment building and Toki was pretty sure the air conditioning system was malfunctioning, chilling the place instead of heating it. That was a common occurrence in the winter; Dick's apartment was in an unfavorable part of the town, the slums of the slums, and Toki felt exposed standing in the hallway with its peeling, yellowed wallpaper and carpet that looked as if it had never been cleaned. Pickles seemed at home, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette, but Nathan hovered on the fringes of the group, protective. Murderface was on edge though he had probably visited Dick's place more than any of them combined. Except for Pickles, who brushed dreadlocks back from his face and held the cigarette out from his mouth between two fingers openly, they are all shivering from a combination of unease and the cold.

"Goddammit, Dick," Murderface said, and he knocked on the door again. "I know you're in there." He increased his knocking, pounding on the door with the heels of both his fists, eventually leaning his forehead against it and letting his hands slide down when that proved to be futile.

"Maybe he's getting laid," Pickles said, taking a drag from his cigarette. He was holding his elbow with his other hand.

Murderface turned his forehead from the door to gape at Pickles and offered no response to him. Nathan chuckled in a mean way that Pickles joined in on, both laughing at the idea that Dick could get laid. Murderface growled and turned his head back against the door, which finally opened. Dick stepped aside as Murderface fell through the doorway, landing face down on the tile in the entranceway to Dick's apartment.

"Come in," Dick said, bowing and extending his arm like he was welcoming them into a mansion and not a shithole apartment. The guys stepped over Murderface, who stayed on the ground moaning about how much he hated his life for a few minutes, and into Dick's apartment. Toki had been here a few times before, but not often, and the only discernable change he saw was that Dick had gotten a new, somehow uglier couch, a huge, overstuffed floral monstrosity with a rip in the upholster that bled stuffing. Toki stayed near the door; Pickles went to the kitchen to rifle through the cabinets for no discernable reason and Nathan followed him. When Murderface picked himself from the ground he and Dick went into the kitchen area and sat at the two barstools Dick had behind the counters outlining the perimeter to the kitchen in lieu of an actual dining table, watching Pickles rearrange the refrigerator without much interest.

It was warmer inside of Dick's apartment. There was an independent heater on one side of the door that seemed to be the source of the heat. Toki stopped rubbing at his arms and moved a little bit closer to the kitchen, still keeping a safe distance. He couldn't imagine Dick actually preparing and eating a meal here, though there was foodstuff in the refrigerator and drawers, a bag that contained a half-fallen loaf of bread lounging on the counter. Pickles seemed satisfied with whatever it was he was doing and turned around, hopping up to sit on a counter in the kitchen and facing Dick.

"So, what is it for you today, boys?" Dick asked, but he was looking Pickles straight in the eye. Dick wore his sunglasses inside his apartment which made him seem like, well, a dick.

"Pills and coke," Pickles responded at once, voice tight.

"No marijuana?" Toki flinched at the way Dick pronounced it.

"We're going to my brother's after this," Pickles said. He didn't break eye contact with Dick, nor did he blink, and he took a puff from the cigarette in his hands to prove a point. "Best quality in the city."

"Highest prices," Dick pointed out. "You know I have a better deal."

"Your quality is shit," Pickles said, unabashed. He took another hit off the cigarette, holding his elbow with his arm again. His brows were furrowed, eyebrow rings glittering in the cheap fluorescent light of the apartment. He didn't elaborate on his point.

"I'll be right back, then," Dick said, removing himself from the barstool. Murderface went to follow him to the second bedroom in the apartment, where Dick kept his fairly extensive supply of drugs behind the walls and in plain boxes in his closet. Dick stopped Murderface with a hand up. "Stay here, William," he said.

Toki always thought that buying from Dick was too melodramatic of an affair, as they were friends outside of drug deals and all, but Pickles was serious about his substances. Dick's weed was the cheapest and the shittiest in the area that they were willing to drive for good drugs but he was seemingly pretty solid on the other stuff; Toki didn't really know, he didn't do coke or anything like that, only weed and pills. Besides, prescription medicine was hard to fuck up. Pickles sat on the counter and waited with Nathan close at his side, behaving like his personal bodyguard, Murderface's line of sight directed to the hallway that Dick had disappeared into. Toki hung in the negative space of the apartment, close to where a dining table should be but instead were two mismatched chairs with an expensive stereo between them, stacks of CDs resting both under and on top of an overturned milk crate. The walls of Dick's apartment, besides in the bedroom, were made of ugly brick that clashed with both the tile of the kitchen and entrance and the carpet everywhere else, but the brick was mostly obscured by posters, newspapers, pictures-anything that was flat enough to be pinned against a wall. Toki hated Dick's apartment, thought that Dick was obviously trying too hard in passing in his decorating style off as not trying at all, a judgment that Pickles hade made the first time they ever graced the place.

Dick returned with two plastic sandwich bags, one with a rainbow of pills and the other with a scant amount of coke. They were friendly enough with their drug dealer that he knew their regular order but they still had to go through this annoying, tense ritual. Pickles dropped his cigarette to the floor and eased himself off the counter, right foot landing on the cigarette butt and rubbing it into the tile. Toki thought he saw Dick roll his eyes but the sunglasses were too dark to properly tell. Pickles came forward and took the bags from Dick's hands, stuffing them down the pockets of his cargo shorts.

"Thanks," Pickles said, and he turned to leave. Toki turned his back to Dick as well, glad to get this shit over with. The group convened and began their joint exit.

"Hey," Dick called as them as they were almost out the door, "I'm having a Christmas party on the twenty-first. You guys should come."

"We'll be there," Murderface said. He was the last one to leave.

Pickles muttered about the "unpleasantries" of dealing with Dick the entire way down to Nathan's truck, which was a long trek down five flights of stairs as the elevator in Dick's building had been broken for as long as Toki had known the guy, that left Murderface wheezing and out of breath (as well as Pickles, to a lighter extent). Nathan and Toki took the stairs with ease, both of them in good shape. They passed some of the other residents of the building on the way down: a scary looking man holding handfuls of grocery bags and getting off on the third floor, a portly and elderly woman with three kids running between her legs in the lobby, a teenager with tattoos of flames running up her neck and licking her jawline on the way in while they exited. Toki was almost relieved to see that Nathan's truck was undisturbed in the parking lot adjacent to the building; they'd once come out to see somebody looking through the driver's side window.

They got into Nathan's truck and Nathan took off in the direction of Pickles's brother's neighborhood, which wasn't too far from there but a hell of a lot nicer, in the trendier, gentrified part of downtown. Pickles took the baggies of drugs from his pocket and stuffed them inside the glove box amongst empty cigarette cartons and soda cans. He relaxed in his seat and lit another cigarette, rolling the window down and letting his arm out. He was quiet in an eerie way that made the rest of the car quiet. The drive wasn't that long at all, just over a handful of minutes, but Toki hated drug runs and he hated being dragged on them, making the few minutes seem more like a few hours. He strummed his fingers against the door of the truck and looked out at the window.

Nathan parked in front of the curb a block down from Seth's place and fed the parking meter a single quarter, scowling. Nobody spoke as they walked down the block, into the building, and took the elevator to the seventh floor, where Seth, Pickles's brother, lived with his girlfriend Amber, who was five months along in her pregnancy. Seth's building was not a host to dubious denizens and Toki felt safer amongst the modern decoration and upper-class residents, but the stress exuding from Pickles kept the mood heavy. At least this building was heated. Freed from shivering, Toki walked with his hands in his pockets and head down. He watched his feet move across the floor, thought about how weird walking was in an abstract sort of way.

Pickles didn't bother knocking on Seth's door, only dug deep into his pocket for the key to it that he possessed. He pressed his ear flat against the door to listen for movement and, judging it safe, stuck the key in the lock and turned it slowly, cautious, quiet. He opened the door in the same manner and peered inside; from what Toki could see it was empty, shoes missing from the shoe rack beside the door. Pickles motioned for them to follow him and they did, infiltrating his brother's apartment. Nathan followed Pickles down a hallway and into a door while Murderface and Toki stayed near the entrance, on watch in case Seth returned. He did not, and Toki spent the ten minutes of waiting for Nathan and Pickles to return examining his nails, which were lined with dirt underneath from recent yard work and needed to be cleaned and cut, while Murderface carried on a conversation with somebody (Toki suspected Dick) on his phone. Nathan and Pickles returned in a flash of black and red as they ran past Toki and Murderface and out the door; Murderface and Toki scrambled to get out the apartment before Pickles closed the door and locked it. They left the building walking as quickly as they could do so without raising suspicion and once back at the truck Pickles stopped to wheeze, his hands on his knees.

When he had collected himself Pickles pulled the tip of another plastic baggie from his shorts, crumbles of weed evident inside. Through his wheezing he smiled, though it did not reach his eyes, and said, "Got my holiday shopping done." He stuffed the baggie farther down his shorts and stood up, stretching, before retrieving an inhaler from yet another pocket and taking a few puffs to ease his breathing. "Fuck, I hate this." Nathan rubbed Pickles's back in an appropriate and masculine gesture of sympathy and friendship.

They went back to Nathan's house after that as it was a Saturday and none of them had anywhere else to be. Pickles popped a few pills and collapsed on Nathan's bed, stating his intention to not move for a hundred years, laying facedown on the mattress. Nathan shrugged at Murderface and Toki and the three of them left Pickles alone, heading down to the basement. They stopped in the kitchen on the way there, grabbing a few bottles of soda and bags of chips, Nathan ordering a pizza and wings on his family's home phone. In the basement Murderface stretched out the floor, laying on his side, while Nathan and Toki took the couch, to play video games. Toki was always the best, racking up the most kill counts and screaming with victory as he won game after game. Murderface was a close second, Nathan a competent third.

"Goddammit," Murderface grunted. "Fuckin' schombies." On screen, he shot one through the head at close range, blood splattering his third of the television screen for a few seconds. Toki preferred to use the melee weapons and was working his way through a herd, relishing in the satisfying sounds of a baseball bat hitting a zombie's skull.

Nathan made some sort of affirmative noise to Murderface that turned into a growl as half of the herd that Toki had been working on turned towards him. Toki rolled his eyes; they were zombies, and zombies were fucking slow. His baseball bat slung through a row of zombie midsections, carving them in half, and he ran towards Nathan to help. Nathan used the heaviest gun in the game, also the noisiest, attracting what felt like every zombie on the map. Murderface had to join in eventually and, when the round ended, was a single kill behind Toki.

"Why the fuck are you so good at this?" Murderface yelled, throwing his controller at the floor (which wasn't that impactful, as he was on the floor himself) and rolling onto his back in defeat. "I'm done. I'm dead. I can't win."

"It's not about winning," Nathan said. He set his controller down and rifled through a bag of chips. "It's about killing zombies."

"Yeah," Toki he said, bouncing in his seat. He felt charged with energy from all of that killing. "Let's play again."

"Nah," Nathan said. As punctuation, his doorbell rang. "I think the pizza's here. We should get Pickles and eat." From the floor, Murderface nodded in agreement, and Toki was outvoted. He shrugged and tossed his controller into the couch behind him.

They got their pizza (Nathan paying for it and leaving a generous tip) and roused Pickles from the slumber he had fallen into, eating on the floor in Nathan's room. Pickles's eyes were glazed from his nap and the pills and he was out of it, smearing grease and sauce on his face as he ate, making Toki uncomfortable to look at him. He engaged Nathan and Murderface in conversation instead, huddled around the box of pizza while Pickles lolled about off to the side.

"Am-are we really going to Dick's party?" Toki asked, looking over the slice of pizza he held to his mouth at the other boys. Upon completing the sentence, he took a bite. He'd been struggling with his English the more time he spent talking to Skwisgaar, which had taken a dramatic increase since he received his cell phone. Thinking about it made him conscious of the extra weight in his pocket.

"We better," Murderface said, whipping his head back and forth to glare at Toki and Nathan. "I am, at leascht, and you guysch schould come too. I don't know why you all hate Dick-" Nathan and Toki laughed at this, of course, and Murderface rolled his eyes-"What'sch scho funny? He'sch not a bad guy."

"He's a little..." Nathan said, and he looked at Pickles like he was expecting Pickles to finish his sentence for him, but Pickles had his head against the wall and eyes closed, tongue rolled out of his mouth. "Ridiculous. Yeah, he's a little ridiculous," Nathan finished, without the aid of his friend.

"Whatever," Murderface said, and he shifted his weight forward as to grab another slice of pizza. "Scho is Schkwischgaar, and you like him."

Nathan shrugged, unable to come up with anything to refute that, and folded his arms over his knees. He was sitting Indian-style and it was amusing Toki in an offhanded way, though he didn't know if the origin of the phrase was American-Indian or India-Indian. Both seemed likely; maybe it was both. Maybe the phrase was offensive. He turned towards Pickles to ask him before realizing that Pickles was totally out of it.

"But yeah, we'll probably go," Nathan said, revitalizing the conversation.

After the pizza was gone Nathan drove Toki home. It was later in the afternoon, edging towards evening, and temperatures were dropping. Toki took to rubbing his arms again, pressing his fingertips deep into his bruises and feeling the pain crawl through his spine. He wanted to sigh and relax so deep he would meld with the passenger seat; the only one in the car beside the driver, Pickles still in catatonia and Murderface having left to hang out with Dick, he got the privilege of riding shotgun. He let Nathan ramble on about the death metal band whose CD he was playing in Toki's direction. Nathan's truck had heating but it was busted; Nathan was hoping his parents would give him the money to repair it over Christmas, which was twenty days away.

Toki smiled and nodded at Nathan before he shut the door to Nathan's truck, his hands holding his arms like he was freezing even though he was neutral in temperature. Nathan had an expression on his face akin to concern but he put the truck in gear and drove off without saying anything. Toki watched Nathan's truck disappear as he always did before walking up the steps to his house. His teeth were chattering and his skin crawling, not with the cold but with anticipation.

Something inside of his chest fell and floated to his stomach when he opened the door to see his father, standing tall and mouth set in a hard line, his hands holding a fireplace poker. He had been waiting for Toki and Toki knew this as soon as he saw him. Toki was within the boundaries of his allotted time out, had done nothing wrong, but his father swung the poker into Toki's side. Toki fell against the piles of shoes by the front door, one of his sneakers jamming into his side, and switched himself into a sort of comatose state, waiting for further punishment. His father dropped the poker, the metal making a loud sound against the hardwood floor, and stood, looking at Toki. Toki felt so small, like he was back in an eight year old's body in the Norwegian snow, waiting to be thrown into his punishment hole though there was nothing to be punished for. He didn't shut his eyes, only stared at the floor, waiting, waiting for something that didn't come. His father walked away after a few minutes. Toki sighed and closed his eyes.

He listened to his father's footsteps carry him to his study and it wasn't until the sound of a door being shut and locked did Toki pick himself up, putting a hand against the wall to balance himself. He went to his room, using either the wall or furniture to steady himself as he went, then collapsed on his bed. He rolled over on the side that didn't hurt and lifted his hoodie up to inspect the damage. His father had hit him with the long part of the poker, catching him between two ribs, and there was a narrow red strip that throbbed with pain. It would leave an ugly bruise, the red already blurring into a purplish tone. He covered it up and rolled onto his back, eyes fluttering shut. He covered his side with one hand and used the other to snake behind into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around his cell phone.

He had Skwisgaar saved as a contact but he also knew his number by heart. The mindless process of dialing it gave him comfort. He held the phone to his ear and willed Skwisgaar not to be busy, not to be practicing or at a gig or doing whatever it was he did when he's not with Toki. He made a noise of relief when the phone clicked and Skwisgaar's voice filtered through, a distorted Ja?

"Skwisgaar," Toki breathed, and he bit his tongue to keep from repeating it. Skwisgaar, Skwisgaar, Skwisgaar, I have so much to tell you, Skwisgaar, but now is not the time.

"Ams yous okay?" Skwisgaar spoke lower; Toki imagined him covering his mouth and the phone with a hand and sneaking off from whoever he was with, not willing to let them overhear concern over another human being. Toki's lips curled into a smile at the thought.

"Yeah," Toki said. He realized he was taking shallow breaths and remedied that. He retracted his hand to touch the pads of his fingers to the material of his hoodie over where his new wound lay underneath, then returned it, his palm pressing into the pain.

"Yous doesnt sound okay," Skwisgaar said. "Does you wants me to come over?"

"No!" Toki flushed with heat when he realized how quickly he had uttered that. If his side didn't hurt so much, he would've taken that hand to his mouth in horror at himself. "I mean, yes, but you can't. My parents."

"Yous parents," Skwisgaar repeated. Toki couldn't pick up any particular tone to his voice. There was a pause, and then Skwisgaar spoke again. "Well, ams you wantingks to talk? I's in a practice, Mark ams lookingks at me weird-"

"It's okay," Toki said. "Go back to yous practice. I just wanted to hear yous voice, is all." Toki smiled with a bit of malicious intent; he knew Skwisgaar would hate that, or at least pretend to hate it.

"Don't get sappies on me," Skwisgaar said, and maybe Toki was imagining it, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice. Skwisgaar tended to express his emotions better when it didn't involve eye contact. "Goodbyes, little Tokis," Skwisgaar said while Toki stewed in victory and fondness.

"Bye," Toki said. He hung up-he hated it when Skwisgaar did that first-and put the phone beneath his pillow. He kept it there when he was home.

He wanted to sleep until dinnertime but there were chores to be done. He forced his body to move and get dressed for his Saturday chores then went into the kitchen. Looking around to make sure his father wasn't anywhere near, he reached on top of the refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of painkillers his parents thought were hidden in a basket containing batteries and other various household necessities. He dug two out and swallowed them dry, not willing to sacrifice the time to get a drink of water, then put the bottle back. His parents didn't count the pills but Toki tried to take them solely under the circumstance of extreme pain. He pulled on the pair of sneakers that he had hit when falling to the floor, straightened the pile up by the door, and set out to do his regular chores as the sun began to set and the temperatures took the final plunge of the night.

He went to church the next day and his father preached, staring Toki straight in the eye when he began to talk of obedience and respect of authority. Toki didn't flinch or wiggle in his seat, only kept his hand clasped in his lap and envisioned the symmetry of his body, feeling his straight posture and the braid of hair trailing down his back, the line that separated his eyes and flared into the bridge of his nose. The church was growing fervent with holiday preparations, the countdown having begun, everybody itchy in anticipation for Christmas, including Toki's parents. Toki loved Christmas but saw it as something the church and his parents should not be allowed to touch. To Toki, Christmas was a selfless holiday of gift-giving and appreciation. He did not believe it to be possible of his parents to understand the cultural implications beyond the religious overtones. They talked of Jesus, his deeds and his death, but they didn't seem to learn anything from his humble teachings of love and peace. No, Toki did not flinch or wiggle when his father met his gaze, but simmered with anger, flames dancing around inside of his ribcage.

After church he met up with Skwisgaar, as were his plans for the day. Toki unbraided his hair on the city bus ride, untucked his shirt and unbuttoned it to reveal a t-shirt beneath it, arranging himself as she should be. They hung out downtown, sitting on the seawall and sharing a blunt, facing away from the water and towards the jogging path. The day was crisp, the air light and relatively free of humidity, the slightest of chills to nip at their noses. They laughed at the people jogging and at one point Toki inhaled far too sharply and started coughing, almost falling backwards, until Skwisgaar managed to compose himself enough to grab Toki around the waist with both arms and support him, both of their chests shaking, Toki's with coughing and Skwisgaar's with laughter. They made out in the most offensive way they could, leaning into each other, flipping off anybody that dared to make a comment or give them a dirty look. Toki was giddy by the time he got home, having taken a city bus after Mark collected Skwisgaar for practice and something called "band bonding time," and he glided through his Sunday chores, his thoughts elsewhere. On the way home from the date, an idea of what to get-or rather, make-Skwisgaar for Christmas occurred to him, his forehead against the grimy glass of the bus's window and eyes watching, but not taking in, the cityscape. He would have to implement Pickles's help.

He asked Pickles about it during lunch at school the next day. Pickles was back to his usual self after his near overdose during the weekend, stealing fries from Nathan's plate to eat and arguing with Murderface about the best era in modern musical history for drumming. Toki waited until the argument lapsed, Murderface rolling his eyes at something Pickles said and Pickles relaxing, crossing his arms in triumph, to address Pickles.

"Pickle," Toki began. "I need your help with something."

"Yeah?" Pickles turned towards Toki and raised an eyebrow. He wore a victorious smirk, leftover from his argument with Murderface. "What is it?"

"A Christmas gift for Skwisgaar," Toki said. He was met with a chorus of groans from the table, including Pickles. Nathan and Murderface both said, "Gay," Nathan with indifference, Murderface with disgust.

"Okay," Pickles said. He smiled through his groan and continued to smile, though the victory was gone from his eyes, replaced with interest. "What exactly are you plannin' on gettin' him?"

"A mixtape," Toki said. The collective table had no specific response to this.

"That works," Pickles said. He slammed his hands down on the table. Toki found Pickles's eye contact to be needlessly intense. "I can help you with that. Easy. Sure, Toki."

"Cool!" Toki chirped, jumping in his seat and beaming at Pickles. He had been wondering about what to get Skwisgaar, having figured out his gifts for the other guys months ago, and was happy to have it resolved. Something else popped into his head, another problem, dampening his joy. "One more thing," he said, addressing this to Nathan.

"Hmm?" Nathan had been preoccupied with a bag of chips, but lifted his head up when he realized Toki was speaking to him. He stuffed another handful of chips in his mouth as Toki continued to talk.

"Can Skwisgaar come with us to the Christmas party?" Toki asked. Under the table he crossed his fingers and his toes.

Nathan didn't say anything. He put down his bag of chips and rotated his head towards Pickles. They shared a look, their expressions changing in the subtlest of ways as if their faces were carrying on a conversation for them, and then Nathan turned back to Toki and picked his chips up again. "Yeah, sure, whatever," Nathan said. He stuck his fingers inside the bag and wiggled them around, searching for any remaining crumbs. "Tell him to get his own ride, though. I don't even know where he lives."

"I can tell you," Toki said. He felt like he might be pushing his luck, but it was worth it. "It's not too far from Dick's." Toki hadn't been to Skwisgaar's apartment yet, since he shared it with the rest of Fuckface Academy and slept on the couch (it was a two-bedroom apartment for a band with four members; Mark had one bedroom, Ritchie the drummer the other, and George, the rhythm, slept in the bathtub), but he knew the address. He had it written down in one of his school notebooks in case he needed it, scrawled in the corner of notes he was pretending to take and framed by his doodles.

"Whatever," Nathan said again, using his wrist to fix a stray strand of hair. Toki's smile somehow grew larger. He had won.

"Waschn't anybody going to aschk me?" Murderface asked. He slammed his hands on the table like Pickles had done earlier, drawing all attention to him.

"You don't have seniority," Pickles said, shrugging. He took another fry from Nathan's tray and ate it. He had his own fries on his tray, untouched, but seemed to prefer stealing Nathan's, draping his body across the table in every direction as he stood up at various points in the conversation.

"Bullschit! Toki'sch the one without any authority! I wasch friendsch with you guysch before him." Murderface was sputtering, his lisp sending spit everywhere, flying in the direction of Pickles's tray.

"Yeah, but Pickles and me were friends before you," Nathan said.

"It was friendship at first sight," Pickles said. He looked at Nathan and fluttered his eyelashes in this mocking moon-eyed way. Toki laughed. He would've felt some sort of secret envy bubble inside of him before Skwisgaar, but after Skwisgaar, he appreciated Nathan and Pickles's friendship for what it was worth. He only wished that his friends would appreciate Skwisgaar as well, but he knew he had to give some things time.

The entire school was alert with anticipation for the upcoming two-week break from school. The teachers had a hard time wrangling in their students and the students had a hard time caring about school in general. Toki daydreamed or dozed off in his classes, kept pulling the same average grades he always did, hung out with the guys before, after, and during school. One week turned into the next and then it was the last week before break, Christmas coming the next Friday, the Christmas party that Monday, and Toki was going to shopping with Skwisgaar that Saturday. Toki arrived to school the Friday before break feeling splendid, even with the upcoming break from school and whatever that might mean in regards to his parents, in his backpack a gift for Rockzo, whom he hoped would show up. Rockzo was flaky at best with his attendance without an approaching holiday.

Adding to Toki's increasing luck, Rockzo was indeed in Chemistry that day. They weren't doing anything in any of Toki's classes as far as he knew, both teacher and student having given up on the curriculum, his school transformed into an elaborate babysitting set-up. Pickles was lying across the lab table he shared with Nathan, his legs bent at the knees and calves hanging off the edge, while Nathan had his chair angled out at the corner. Pickles was high, his eyes rimmed red and staring at the ceiling, talking about how he hoped there were aliens and that the aliens were happy. Toki had been pretty involved in the conversation, discussing battle plans for intergalactic warfare with Nathan while Pickles warned them that they really shouldn't fight the poor extraterrestrials, they came in peace, dood, haven't you ever even fuckin' seen E.T., when Rockzo burst into the classroom, fifteen minutes late.

Toki doubled over in laughter and pointed at Rockzo as soon as he saw him. Rockzo had dyed his hair white and was wearing a cheap strap-on beard with a red jumpsuit underneath a pair of athletic shorts and black knee-high boots, some bastardization of Santa Claus. Pickles shot up and screamed at the sight, cowering in terror. The rest of the class sat in stunned silence until they joined Toki in laughter. Mr. Marshall looked up, eyes half-lidded in exasperation, sighed, and returned to whatever it was that teachers did on their computers while not instructing a class.

"Classic!" Toki said, wiping tears away from his eyes as Rockzo deposited himself in the seat beside Toki. Rockzo grinned at him through his fake beard. "I got you a present," Toki continued, his arms shaking as he suppressed his laughter long enough to reach into his backpack and give Rockzo the gift he had made for him in art class over the last week. It had been wrapped in newspaper; Toki hadn't had access to any proper wrapping paper. He would get some at the mall with Skwisgaar the next day, appropriate for the season and the level of friendship he felt for Nathan, Pickles and Murderface but not Rockzo, not really.

"K-k-thanks!" Rockzo screeched. He tore at the newspaper, unearthing a miniature sculpture of a miniature Rockzo posing on top of a comparably large pile of cocaine. He picked it up and turned it all around, examining it from every angle, even looking at the underside of the cocaine pile where Toki had signed his name and the date. "Dr. Rockzo k-k-loves it!" He said, and he pulled Toki towards him in a crushing hug. Rockzo was sniffling; Toki assumed that that was probably more from the cocaine and less from an emotional response to his gift.

"You're welcome, Rockzo," Toki said, returning the hug. After they broke their embrace and exchanged a grin, Rockzo flitted over to his group of friends, showing the sculpture off. Toki watched them fawn over it, feeling proud of himself, then returned his interest to Nathan and Pickles. Pickles continued to hug his knees to his chest and rock back and forth on the tabletop, wide-eyed gaze fixated on Rockzo, murmuring about demon Santa Claus.

"I think he took some shrooms," Nathan said to Toki as he tried to comfort Pickles and failed, chuckling every time Pickles mentioned what he was calling the Claus Conspiracy.

The rest of the school day occurred like molasses dripping out of its container, slowly and painfully, even if there was the pre-break excitement buzzing in the air. Toki dreaded breaks but the buzz was infectious, finding a home in him even if he didn't want it there, and by the time the last bell of the day rang, he was ready to sprint away from the school. He met up with Nathan, Murderface and Pickles out in the student parking lot. Pickles had mostly recovered from the shrooms and was grinning, something mischievous in his eyes.

"C'mon, Toki," Pickles said as Toki came into earshot. "Don't got all day. Gotta meet up with Sammy and them guys for the annual Christmas coke binge later tonight."

Toki fought the urge to roll his eyes until Pickles locked himself into Nathan's truck and busied himself with his phone. The rest of the guys followed Pickles's lead, buckling seatbelts and adjusting themselves, and then they were off, their break officially started. Nathan filled his truck with some of the better music—the music they unanimously liked, that infected their bodies with excitement—and sped away from the school. Toki craned his neck to watch the building, leaking students and teachers alike from every orifice, until Nathan turned right on the street towards his house and Toki could see the school no longer. His emotions were mixed and hard to decipher over the clamor of the music so he didn't bother, just turned around in his seat, and joined the car in growling along to the music and pantomiming the instruments.

The seconds of silence between the ending of that song and the start of the next allowed thoughts to creep into Toki's head. Specifically: the way he was beginning the break, the Christmas break, the most holy of times, in this unchristian manor. Satanic music, satanic friends, satanic sensations bubbling inside of him. Metal music sometimes led him back to sex, and given his newfound sex life, it had taken him there immediately: from an innocent brush of lips against skin to the feeling of a hard dick in his hand, he had memories to drawn upon to match the melody, to make his mouth wet with anticipation of things to come. His parents would be appalled, would beat him to within a quarter-inch of his life if they knew, and the realization hit him in the stomach hard as his father's foot kicking him while he was down. He knew the exhilaration that other kids felt at going behind their parents backs—Pickles and Murderface seemed constructed from the feeling—but in him there was only shame and trepidation, as if there was an apocalypse of his own doing approaching. He didn't fret on this for too long, however, as the music started up again, and all negativity dissipated.

Nathan parked in his driveway and they poured out of the vehicle. A brief stop in the kitchen as was their ritual, filling their arms with food, and then to the basement. Toki and Murderface sat on the floor while Pickles stretched over two couch cushions, his legs hanging off an arm, Nathan depositing his bulk in the free space. They bullshitted around for a few hours, alternating between television and video games, snacking, a typical Friday afternoon. Around four o'clock Toki looked at Pickles and Pickles looked back. They exchanged a glance and a nod and Pickles lifted himself from the couch.

"Gotta get some shit done with Toki," he announced to nobody in particular, walking from the basement and gesturing for Toki to follow. Toki did so, running a hand through his hair and fixing his shirt as he went. Behind them Nathan and Murderface switched from a movie they had been making fun of to that zombie video game they were fond of, making half-threats to each other and promising to kick some serious zombie ass.

In Nathan's room Pickles sat in Nathan's computer chair while Toki sat on the desk, body angled towards Pickles. Pickles slid a blank CD into Nathan's computer—Toki made a note to decorate it and the case he would be putting it in later—and rubbed his hands together, eyebrow rings catching the sunlight from Nathan's open window. Outside, a frat boy type went behind the house, a garden gnome in hand.

"Do you have any ideas about how you want this? What type of music and shit? Any songs?" Pickles asked, addressing Toki and taking his attention away from the frat boy and his gnome.

Toki shrugged. "Some songs," he said. He picked up an open notebook that Nathan had on his desk. In his neat cursive—the quality of the penmanship always threw Toki off—Nathan had written several half-songs over the page. Most of the lyrics were nonsense about murder, death, war, and blood in the abstract, though there was a curious nautical theme running through the words.

"It would help if you said which ones," Pickles said. Toki looked up from the notebook and closed it, putting it back on the table. Pickles relaxed in his chair. "Don't got all day."

"Well," Toki said. He bit his lip in thought. "I have more of an idea of the genres. Um. Norwegian black metal. Grunge. Death metal. Electronica." He smiled and sucked on his cheek, literally tonguing it. "Norwegian love songs."

"That," Pickles said, looking at Toki with his mouth agape and eyes wide, "is…well, Toki, I don't have words for it. It's you. I'll see what I can do." He shook his head and rearranged his face before turning his attention on the computer monitor. Toki shrugged and picked the notebook up again, going through the pages, while Pickles's fingers ran across the keyboard.

Every so often Pickles would pause and get Toki's attention to play a song for him, asking Toki's opinion. Toki went through Nathan's room and messed around with his shit, reading the dates on the tour posters or the summaries of the collection of books he kept (on subjects from fishing in Florida to medieval witchery) and gave Pickles his opinion when needed. It took them a few hours to collect seventeen songs (Pickles asked if the number seventeen meant anything and Toki said no, just that it felt like enough) and then a handful of minutes to burn and eject the CD. Toki held it in his hands, warm from the mechanical processes of the computer, and lifted his head to look at Pickles. Pickles had exasperation in every line of his face and stood still, knowing what was about to come as Toki put the CD down on Nathan's desk and took Pickles into his arms, crushing him in a hug. Toki had grown used to being taller than Pickles, he realized, as he expressed his gratitude into Pickles's dreadlocks.

"Yeah, yeah, you're welcome," Pickles grunted, extracting himself from Toki's grip. He adjusted his hair and his shirt then pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time. "Well, I gotta go to the annual Christmas coke binge," he said. He patted Toki on the forearm before leaving Nathan's room.

Toki was all smiles as he slid Skwisgaar's mixtape into a clear CD cover and then the CD cover into the pocket of his jeans. He stretched, raising his arms high above his head and basked in the reliable Florida sunshine. He looked out the window, taking in Nathan's street, the frat boys carrying several cases of beer from their car to their house, an overweight middle-aged woman mowing the lawn, her sweatshirt stained down the front. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt, Toki thought, and he was pretty sure that was a quote from a book or something. He would've asked Pickles had Pickles still been in the room, which he wasn't, and Toki had no reason to be there, either, so he left, returning to the basement.

"I gotta go, guys," Toki said, frowning. "My parents want me home," he tacked on for needless emphasis. Nathan shrugged and got up from the couch. If couches had emotion, that particular couch would've been relieved, as it slowly took its original shape from the hole that Nathan's bulk had left imprinted in the cushions.

Murderface threw his controller towards the basket that held Nathan's miscellaneous video game memorabilia (it missed and hit the wall instead) and stood up from the floor. He twisted around, his back making loud and unpleasant popping sounds, then cracked his fingers. "I better get going too," he said through a yawn.

"Well," Nathan said. He began to ascend the stairs. "Let's go, come on."

At home, Toki ate dinner with his parents, went through his Friday chore routine and avoided punishment, somehow. He never questioned the what, when, why, whereor how of his punishments, only noticed when they didn't happen. It didn't make him happy, or feel anything at all, except for a numb nervousness, maybe. He really tried not to think about it beyond the facts. Sometimes his parents struck him, sometimes with their hands or sometimes with foreign objects, sometimes they cut him, sometimes they beat him, it hurt and it sucked, he had scars mental and physical. Speculation would drive him insane, he had come to realize, and so he did not speculate.

When he had finished his chores he retired to his room. He closed the door behind him and dressed down to just his jeans then wriggled underneath his bed to receive the small amount of arts supplies he was able to hide from his parents. He kept a tiny selection of paints, markers and crayons, a single coloring book and a half-filled sketchpad in an old shoebox, inconspicuous as such a thing could be. He carried it under one arm to his desk while he fished out the CD from his pocket. He set the box down and sat at his desk.

He thought for a few minutes of how to decorate it—he wanted it perfect—and sketched out a few ideas in the next blank page of his sketchpad, past the picture of himself as a knight he had been working on for the last few weeks. When he felt satisfied with that he took the markers from the shoebox and got to work on the CD. Using the only sharpie he had he wrote MERRY CHRISTMAS 2012 SKWISGAAR FROM TOKI in block letters on the actual CD itself, using a dictionary to get his spelling right, underlining the words with cheery depictions of mistletoe. On the back of the cover he listed the songs, using a different colored marker for each title, and drew an elaborate frame constructed of what he considered an amalgam of their interests: bunnies frolicking alongside flowers across a sketch of sheet music, cigarettes and guitars running perpendicular across the lines and between the bunnies. Once satisfied with that he wrote A MIXTAPE FOR YOU on the front side of the cover and splashed a variety of doodles: hearts, stars, suns, flowers, knives, hammers, corpses bleeding from stab wounds, distended eyeballs, the usual. He signed his name in the corner and wrote PLAY ME along the bottom in a stylized thorny script. He felt satisfied with it by the time he was finished, certain that Skwisgaar would love (or at least tolerate in an appreciative manner) it. He put the CD cover in the pocket of the pants he was planning to wear to the party, hung those back in his closet, then went to bed. He slept with his phone under the pillow in case Skwisgaar (or his friends, he guessed, but mostly Skwisgaar) decided to call. Tonight, he did not.

Toki woke up and did his Saturday chores first thing in the morning. His father was out, but that didn't stop his mother from taking the scalding spoon she had been stirring into a soup and dribbling its contents down the back of Toki's shirt when he came in from outside to get a drink. Pinpricks of pain crawled the length of Toki's spine, droplets of soup leaving little burns. He didn't flinch or comment. He stood at the closed refrigerator, one hand still on the handle and the other holding an unopened bottle of water, and let it happen, felt the pain. His mother watched in silence for eighty-seven seconds—Toki counted them—before returning to the soup, getting a new spoon. Toki left the kitchen and went to his bedroom, pressing the heels of his hands into the palm of his eyes to prevent himself from crying. Burns fucking hurt.

He waited half an hour before he went to take a shower. He filled the time by laying on the floor, on his stomach, and attempting to make the next page of his sketchpad entirely black. He gave up in frustration at the white specks that refused to darken, having used half of his black marker, grabbed his clothes for the day, and went to the bathroom.

He wished the bathroom door had a lock, but like every room in the house that didn't belong exclusively to his parents, it did not. He perked his ears as he peeled his shirt off and looked in the mirror at his back. As he expected, hanging down his back and mingling with the existing scars was a trail of small red circles, the skin a little wrinkled, that hurt to the touch. He ran the shower cold at first, let the water hammer the pain out of his back, then hot, properly washing himself. It was nearing lunchtime and thus edging closer to his Christmas shopping with Skwisgaar, keeping him excited as opposed to depressed or pissed about the soup incident. He avoided looking at his back as he toweled off and dressed in the bathroom.

His mother served him the soup for lunch. It was good—beyond good, it was delicious—which made the entire situation worse, almost breaking Toki, but he finished his bowl. His mother didn't eat lunch with him, disappearing upstairs, and Toki was grateful for that. Something inside of him was getting close to spilling. He didn't know what or when, why or how, and like his punishment he chose not to think of it, only to force it down and try to forget. He washed his bowl and spoon and put them away before exiting the house and sitting on the steps, awaiting Nathan, who was serving as his ride to the mall where he would be meeting and subsequently shopping with Skwisgaar.

Nathan arrived a short time later, Pickles in the passenger seat. Toki climbed in the truck and looked out the window, not in the mood for conversation. He listened to Nathan and Pickles talk reminisce about previous Christmas break beginnings—"Hey, remember that time we stole some lawyer's car and crashed it off that old bridge?" "Yeah, I still can't believe we didn't get busted for that"—and watched what felt like the same building over and over again fly by outside the window. The temperature outside was on the cooler end of lukewarm, the sun in the cloudless sky keeping it from dipping below seventy-five, and Nathan wasn't running the heating or air conditioning. Toki felt mild in an unnerving way, too content, his brain going off places without bodily concerns to keep it at bay. His Saturday had, so far, had that sort of unnerving mild vibe, inappropriate for the season and the day's activities that he couldn't fight off no matter how hard he tried.

Seeing Skwisgaar waiting for him in the food court alleviated the funk. Nathan and Pickles dropped him off and drove away to hang out by themselves somewhere else; Toki intended to take a city bus home. Skwisgaar was hanging around by the doors to the food court, leaning against the wall in this perfect pinnacle of teenaged apathy that sort of turned Toki on, and he raised his eyebrows when he made eye contact with Toki. Toki smiled, all negativity leaving him at once, and walked towards Skwisgaar.

"Helloes," Skwisgaar said. He uncrossed his arms and grabbed Toki's hand. Toki had asked Skwisgaar about the handholding a few weeks ago, thinking it uncharacteristic of him the more he got to know him, and Skwisgaar had explained that it was a matter of pride, of showing Toki off. Toki delighted in that, if only that it meant he got to hold Skwisgaar's hand with frequently.

"Hi," Toki said, then went into his next sentence with enthusiasm. "I has an idea of what to gets for Pickle and Nathan but I don't really knows what to get for Moidaface yet. He is kinds of hard to buy for." He stuck his tongue between his teeth, thought about what to get Murderface for the umpteenth time, and failed. "See?" He said, like he had expected Skwisgaar to read his mind.

Skwisgaar looked at Toki, bemusement in his face, and shrugged. "I doesn't know Moidaface that well, sorries," he said. Toki shrugged back.

Christmas decorations hung from every surface of the mall, plastic red and green holly and bulbs rather ugly against the otherwise crisp beige and white, fluorescently lit decoration. Seasonal music played at a constant, low hum that made Skwisgaar grimace, though Toki was sort of into it. He dragged Skwisgaar up and down the mall to check out various holiday displays, bouncing with childlike wonder at it all, and Skwisgaar entertained him despite groans of protest. He drew the line at Toki seeing Santa Claus.

"You must be a part of de Claus Conspiracy," Toki said. Skwisgaar gave him and a look and Toki gave him an account of Pickles's last-day-of-school and mushroom-induced paranoia. Skwisgaar found it hilarious, stopping Toki in the middle of a crowded hallway and bending over with laughter. His laughter grew louder until it turned silent, body racking, as Toki tacked on more details of the day, from the intergalactic warfare to Rockzo's miniature cocaine pile.

Toki managed to reign in his seasonal excitement long enough to drag Skwisgaar into the dark novelty items store that hung at the back of the mall. "It ams like Hot Topic's older and more brutal brother," Toki explained as they stepped over the threshold. He went to the back, where they sold drug paraphernalia with vague names that allowed them to sell drug paraphernalia. "I want to gets Pickle a bong."

Skwisgaar picked up one in the shape of an ice cream cone and turned it over, looking at it from all sides, before putting it back. "I would think dat Pickles already has a zillions of dem."

"The governor ams making it illegals to sell dem in this state," Toki said. He frowned as he went through the boxes, trying to find one that represented Pickles. "Besides, I think he broke his old one." He lit up when he saw the perfect one, letting go of Skwisgaar's hand to grab the box.

"An octoganapause?" Skwisgaar said. He took the box from Toki's hands and held it close to his face like he was trying to figure out its hidden depth.

"Octopus," Toki corrected, though his accent made the word sound strange. He grabbed the box back and stuffed it under one arm, taking Skwisgaar's hand with the other. "Pickles totally looks like an octopus!"

"I guesses with dat hair anybody would," Skwisgaar said. His voice adopted an odd philosophical tone. Toki nodded along as if that statement was the most profound thing ever, making deep eye contact with Skwisgaar, then went to browse through more merchandise. He found skull-shaped candles that bled blood-red wax when they melted for Nathan and shot glasses in the shape of a pair of tits as well as some decorated with the Confederate flag for Murderface. He wished he could get more but the bong ate a considerable chunk of his budget (which was pooled for him by Nathan and Pickles, so he couldn't complain) and he felt that he owed more to Pickles than to the other guys. Toki carried his armful of items over to the cashier, a young woman with short blue hair and several facial piercings that smiled at Skwisgaar and Toki's interlocked fingers. Skwisgaar carried the bags without Toki asking him to.

They stopped at Hallmark so Toki could buy wrapping paper which Skwisgaar made him carry himself due to the "un-brutal, lame and babies" nature of Toki's taste in Christmas wrapping paper. Toki stuck his tongue out at Skwisgaar, who leaned in and mouthed it, not quite biting it, gathering looks from the people walking past them outside of Hallmark. They laughed and hurled empty insults down the walkway at anybody that dared to infringe upon them.

"What a good day," Toki said as they collected themselves and started walking again. There was still about an hour left to kill and Toki didn't want it to go to waste.

"Ja," Skwisgaar said. He crumpled his nose. "Even with this fuckingks musics." He scowled up at the ceiling. Toki leaned over and nuzzled under his jawline.

They ended up pressed against the wall of a fitting room like they did every time they came to the mall, Toki's friends' gifts dumped in a corner and spilling out of their bags, Skwisgaar's mouth hot and wet on Toki's neck as his fingers danced between the hem of Toki's shirt and the fly of his jeans. Toki moaned and grabbed Skwisgaar's hands, pushing it into his own pants, making noises of impatience that only served to make Skwisgaar go slower, tease more, his fingers snaking down the length of Toki's erection, all inside his jeans. A number of senses grabbed Toki in every direction—Skwisgaar's tongue moving into his mouth, Skwisgaar's hand finally grasping Toki's dick and pulling, Skwisgaar's other hand keeping both of Toki's pinned to the wall behind him, eradicating any possibility for coherent thought. Toki pushed forward with his hips and his hands, breaking free of Skwisgaar's grip and needling a hand between them, heading for Skwisgaar's cock, sighing when he got it into his hands. It felt important to get him off at the same time, or close to it, as Toki, so important, and Toki worked him as hard as he could and received in return. He broke their kiss and put his forehead in the crook of Skwisgaar's neck, shutting his eyes as he bucked his hips and came, his jeans pulled only just down his thighs and his cum spilling between them, getting on Skwisgaar's hands and both of their pants. It was not long until Skwisgaar came, their ejaculate mingling, and Toki lifted his head, their eyes meeting.

I love you, he thought, but it felt shallow in the wake of something sexual. He didn't voice it for that reason. There would come a time, but now was not that time.

Skwisgaar closed the gap and kissed Toki, soft and chaste, smiling as he did it. Toki lifted back and returned the smile, dazed. The novelty of a good handjob hadn't worn off yet. Every time he came it was a new, heartbreaking, mindshattering miracle, and he was totally amazed at Skwisgaar's ability to get him off, to make him feel so good, and it was totally amazing that he could do the same in return. They cleaned the cum off their hands and pants with a convenient handkerchief Skwisgaar had in his back pocket (though he insisted that it was some sort of fashion statement) and stayed in the fitting room for a few minutes, smiling at each other, nipping and touching.

"That fuckingks musics," Skwisgaar said, voice infected with fondness. "I could hears it de whole time." He looked towards the ceiling again.

Toki licked his Adam's apple and nosed along his neck. "Nows you cans associates it with the good memorski," he said. He had noticed that his English weakened the most in moments like these, happy and hazy post-orgasm trances.

Skwisgaar made a noncommittal noise of agreement and tugged at the hem of Toki's shirt as a signal that they need to get going. Toki flushed—he always did, when Skwisgaar toyed with Toki's clothes, reminding Toki that his skin was marred and ugly, unworthy, of the scars and the pain and the nastiness—and leaned back from Skwisgaar's neck. He wiggled away from Skwisgaar and collected the bags, carrying them all. Skwisgaar slid an arm around Toki's shoulders and they left the fitting room, passing a middle-aged man with five different flannel shirts in his arms on the way out.

They passed the rest of the time waiting for the bus and Mark (ever reliable Mark, who insisted that they rehearse every day, "probablies even on Chrissmast") sitting on a bench outside the mall as close as they could sit, their entire sides pressed into each other, arms on each other's lap so as not to get in the way. The bags of gifts laid at Toki's feet, the rolls of wrapping paper popping up between his knees.

"At least out here I ams away from dat horrible musics," Skwisgaar said.

Toki looked off and held a finger to his lips, making like he was giving the manner serious thought. "I don't knows," he said, drawing the words out. "I kind of likes it a lot." He looked back at Skwisgaar, face earnest, and Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. Toki scrunched his nose at him and pecked him on the lips. "I likes you more, though," he said, faces fractions of inches from Skwisgaar's.

"You ams so sappies," Skwisgaar said. His breath felt hot on Toki's mouth, smelled like Toki's toothpaste, presumably from the kissing earlier. "You ams de sappy king."

"That is the most mean thing you have ever said to me," Toki said. He pulled back and crossed his arms, pouting as a petulant child would, his cheek sucked between his teeth and face made up in a serious grimace.

"Yous baby," Skwisgaar said.

"Just kiddings." Toki leaned over Skwisgaar again and kissed him on the mouth, running his tongue across his lips but not breaking in between. He did it for three seconds—he counted—before bouncing back.

"Yous teasingks sappy baby," Skwisgaar amended. Toki shrugged without looking at him, smiling to himself. It felt like a battle he had won, just being with Skwisgaar, the back-and-forth nature of their teasing, the intermittent physical contact. A war in which he had been victorious. He understood Skwisgaar's source of pride in regards to the handholding, in regards to the entire relationship. They had everything to be proud of in each other.

The city bus rolled up in all of its environmentally unfriendly, gas guzzling and smoke belching ways. Toki stood up and collected his bags, leaned down to peck Skwisgaar on the lips and hold his gaze, telling him he'd see him at the party on Monday. Skwisgaar nodded and relaxed on the bench, knees falling open in a way that made Toki's heart contract, and Toki left for home.

Once home he went around to the backyard and stashed his friends' gifts in the shed that his father never used, among outdated lawn care equipment and bags of fertilizer. He wrapped them the next day before he went into the garden for his Sunday chores, using a roll of masking tape that was on a shelf in the shed and sitting cross-legged on the dirty floor while he worked. He hummed to himself, a Christmas tune leftover from Norway, and thought about the upcoming party, of tasting his own toothpaste on Skwisgaar's tongue, of the new bruises the size of his father's fingers around his ankle. When he finished the gifts he put them inside of the Hallmark bag, putting the other bags and used rolls of wrapping paper away with the miscellaneous shed items that he might or might not use one day in the future. He got up and dusted his pants off before going to work in the garden, the air on the cooler side that day and a harsh wind causing Toki's loose sweatshirt to flutter around his midsection.

He worked as hard as he could to maintain his dutiful son image, going above and beyond on chores, behaving as best as he could, going to church and play-praying, all out of the hope that his parents would allow him to go to the party. They liked to let him go places and then punish him for following up on it sometimes, and he was even hoping to whatever deity that didn't exist for that. He'd been so, so lucky lately, and he was so, so afraid of losing that luck. That did not appear to be the case, however, and over dinner that night his father reconfirmed his permission. Toki gave silent thanks over his salmon.

He called Skwisgaar before bed that night. Skwisgaar recounted a particularly horrible incident involving Fuckface Academy, a festival show, a goat, and George while Toki went around his room and made sure he was prepared for the next day. He laid out his clothes and double-checked the jeans for Skwisgaar's mixtape—it was still there and the marker hadn't smudged at all—with his phone cocked between his ear and neck, smiling as Skwisgaar went on about the goat, adding commentary and laughing when appropriate. He stripped and crawled into bed still on the phone, Skwisgaar's story shifting into something about catching Mark jacking off to soft-core porn, and fell asleep with that as his bedtime story. He woke up with the phone still on his ear and panicked, worrying that his parents might have come in and seen it, but figured that they probably would've woken him up and knocked his teeth out if they had. He took his phone from his ear and found that while Skwisgaar had obviously hung up he had also texted him, a rarity: U falls asleeps lyk a baybee. Gud nites babybees. Toki smiled; for Skwisgaar, that was an elaborate and romantic gesture.

He did his Monday chores, cleaning the kitchen, taking the garbage out, vacuuming everywhere there was carpet in the house, washing the windows and watering the plants, humming an American Christmas carol under his breath. His father was out on work and his mother shopping, giving Toki the house to himself. He expected Nathan at three in the afternoon and he killed the time between his chores and Nathan's arrival by doing some homework and reading from the dictionary. He took a shower, combed his hair out, and got dressed at two-thirty, got his gifts from the shed, triple-checked for Skwisgaar's mixtape, then resigned himself to the porch and waited. The temperature outside was in the low sixties, a gentle wind pushing around the permanently green tree leaves.

It was only Nathan that picked him up, wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and looking about as happy about that as Toki would expect him to. "Don't ask," Nathan grunted out, not meeting Toki's eyes, and took off in the direction of Nathan's house. Toki didn't ask, just deposited the bag of gifts between his legs, quadruple-checked for the mixtape, and reveled in the opportunity to sit in the passenger's seat.

Pickles was at Nathan's house, his body draped over the couch in the main living room of Nathan's house. Also in the living room was an impressive tree with presents underneath, twinkling with lights. Pickles had a plate of Christmas cookies sitting on his chest, misshapen and sloppily iced, and craned his neck to look at them as Toki followed Nathan into the main living room. Toki deposited his bag of gifts on an end table. Pickles offered Toki a cookie and he took it; despite the horrible ugliness, it was a damn good cookie.

"Made 'em myself," Pickles said, boasting. "They, uh, have weed in them." Toki shrugged; that was all the better.

"I guess we'll just hang here before the party," Nathan said. He sat himself down on a tasteful armchair. The fireplace in the living room, which stood where a television would go if the living room wasn't so formal, crackled with a small fire. Nathan, with his long hair neatly parted and ugly Christmas sweater, did not look out of place.

"Yeah," Pickles said, agreeing. Toki walked around and sat on the couch, next to one of Pickles's feet, as the other was hooked around the back of the couch. Pickles wasn't wearing shoes and his socks had reindeers on them, matching Nathan's sweater almost perfectly. "Since we're meetin' Murderface there 'n' all. And we're pickin' up Skwisgaar on the way."

"We are?" Picles shot Nathan a look. "Oh, yeah, I mean, of course we are, right." Nathan cleared his throat and looked at the fireplace. "I guess that's kind of brutal," he said. Pickles rolled his eyes and plopped a cookie in his mouth. "Burning shit at Christmas, I mean." He looked back at them. "Do you know how fucking hard it is to make Christmas brutal?"

"I don't think Christmas is supposed to be brutal," Toki said. "I think it's supposed to be a happy time for gift-giving and good food and friends—"

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any worse," Pickles interrupted. He looked at the ceiling with glazed eyes, the fireplace and Christmas tree lights casting strange shadows over his face.

Nathan chuckled then stopped, returning his face to its standard scowl. "I chopped that tree down myself. Well, with my dad, my dad was there. But I actually, like, killed it. I guess that's brutal."

"Brutal," Toki said, nodding in agreement. "I just don't think that's the point of the holiday, is all."

"Agree to disagree," Pickles said in lieu of Nathan. He proffered the plate of cookies to Toki and Toki took another one, a botched attempt at a Christmas tree with glowing green icing that instead looked like some sort of alien phallus, and ate it. While Toki ate his cookie, Pickles asked Nathan, "Do y'know if Charles is gonna be at Dick's?"

"No, he's not, he said he had, uh—" Nathan dug his phone out from his front pocket and checked something. "He said he had 'other obligations,' whatever that means." He put his phone back.

"'Kay," Pickles said. He bit a neon yellow stocking cap off an elf with a frightening face. Nathan kicked his boots off and relaxed further in the armchair, apparently dropping into a slumber.

Pickles and Toki got stoned off the cookies and stayed on the couch, talking bullshit stoner stuff as they went through their high. Toki got up to rekindle the fireplace and almost caught himself on fire in the process, making Pickles laugh so hard it woke Nathan up mid-snore, which proceeded to make Pickles laugh harder. After that they checked the time and realized they should probably get going, Nathan pulling on his boots again and Pickles taking his phone out to check his reflection in the front camera and fix his dreadlocks. Toki went into the kitchen, where he found Mrs. Explosion in the middle of baking, then went instead to the hallway by the basement to call Skwisgaar and tell him they were on their way.

Fuckface Academy lived in a shabby slum that reminded Toki of Dick's apartment complex at the fringes of downtown. The walls were paneled with dark wood and weathered, a rickety looking set of steps leading to the recently taped-up front door. Skwisgaar sat on those steps, looking angelic in an outfit of all white, and he got up when Nathan pulled up to the curb. Skwisgaar let himself in and sat next to Toki in the middle seat, not bothering with a seatbelt.

"Helloes," Toki said, leaning his forehead against Skwisgaar's. Pickles narrowed his eyes, still glazed over, and Nathan made a vaguely disgusted noise in his throat.

Skwisgaar moved his forehead against Toki's as an acknowledgement of Toki's greeting and spoke, directed at Nathan. "Nice truck," he said, and it was a little sarcastic. Toki snorted. Nathan made the same noise in his throat. Pickles narrowed his eyes further. Overall, it was a good representation of how the rest of the ride to the party, which was rather short, went.

Toki held Skwisgaar's hand tight as they walked to Dick's apartment, unable to stop himself from getting spooked at it. Skwisgaar stuck his nose up. "Even the place I lives in ams better than dis," he said, sneering at the peeling wallpaper. "Jesus Christsmast."

The door to Dick's apartment was unlocked. Skwisgaar and Toki followed behind Nathan and Pickles, Nathan opening the door first and letting loud and remixed Christmas music spill into the hallway. Inside the apartment were a few people—it wasn't the official time for the party yet—including Murderface, hanging out in the kitchen, chatting up a mousy girl and drinking something thick and yellow from a chipped jam jar. Dick was nowhere to be seen, probably in his bedroom doing lines of coke off a picture of himself or something. Nathan and Pickles went into the kitchen towards Murderface. For lack of better things to do, Skwisgaar and Toki followed. The mousy girl's attention turned towards Skwisgaar at once, her eyes trailing down from his eyes and stopping when she saw Toki and Skwisgaar's hands, her face reddening. Toki squeezed Skwisgaar's hand as Skwisgaar leered at the poor girl.

"Hey, you guysch!" Murderface was saying at the same time, clapping Pickles on the back with the hand that wasn't holding the jam jar concoction. Nathan sighed and blew a piece of hair out of his face.

"Where can I get me one of these?" Pickles said, pointing at the jam jar. "What is that, eggnog?" He stood on his toes to peer into the jar, lowering his nose to sniff it.

"It'sch like eggnog, yesch," Murderface said. He moved aside to reveal a plastic drink dispenser containing more of the yellow slosh and a row of red Solo cups. Pickles grabbed a cup and pumped some of the eggnog-like substance into it, then threw it back in one gulp and got to pumping some more.

"You want some?" he asked Nathan, who nodded. Pickles handed the cup he was holding to Nathan and got another for himself.

"I doesn't thinks I trusts dat," Skwisgaar said to Toki, tossing an aside glance. Toki nodded.

"Dick keeps better stuff in the cabinet," Toki said. "We can get some later." It was Skwisgaar's turn to nod.

Dick emerged then, wearing lens-less glasses in the style of ornaments. That reminded Toki to look around the room and observe, so he did so, turning his head around. There was a lot of mistletoe in odd places, like above the stove and suspended from the ceiling by a long string in the middle of the space between the kitchen and living room. Dick's stereo was blasting what Toki could only describe as dubstep Christmas carols and there were a few scraggly college-aged kids Toki recognized from previous parties thrown by Dick hanging around it and drinking eggnog slush. There were Christmas lights hung on the walls, lit up despite the fact that the actual apartment lights were also on, though Dick seemed to be in the process of going through and turning them all off as Toki looked around the room. He reconnected with Skwisgaar when the light in the kitchen went off, both of them raising their eyebrows. Skwisgaar rolled his eyes up and Toki followed along, seeing more random mistletoe above them. They kissed, a true kiss, deep and with tongue, forgetting everything else in the world but each other for a second. They separated when Nathan cleared his throat, unashamed.

They shot the shit with Dick while more people filed in until, eventually, the apartment was packed, people pressing up on Toki from all sides. Skwisgaar and Toki fought their way towards the cabinets and pulled out a bottle of vodka, giggling to themselves as they went off with it. They found a clear space at the end of the hallway that also led to the bathroom, Dick's bedroom and an office-type room that seemed to house nothing but junk; some chick and some dude were having sex on top of a busted amp, the door open. The hallway was narrow and Skwisgaar and Toki sat on either wall, their legs tangling between them. There was more mistletoe above them; they leaned in as far as they could and kissed.

Skwisgaar took a swig of vodka and passed the bottle to Toki. "So, Chistianmast," he said. His voice was elevated, Christmas dubstep and the couple on the amp's sex noises in the background.

"Christmas." Toki nodded. He had a residual high and the atmosphere of Dick's apartment was not helping it. The low lighting made everything feel so unreal, ethereal. "Is fucking awesome."

"You thinks so?" Skwisgaar leaned over their knees and took the bottle from Toki, drinking some and then separating Toki's lips with his fingers and pouring some into Toki's mouth.

Toki swallowed and nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You gives people presents and makes them happy and the whole holiday ams so happy! So happy. Happy happy happy." He was on the verge of tears.

Skwisgaar laughed, waving the bottle of vodka around like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Does your family celebrates it?" he asked, amusement thick in his voice. "Christmas trees and presents and Sandy Caws and—and—and milk and warm cookies?" The amusement devolved into laughter as he went down his sentence.

Something inside of Toki fell. "No," he said, soft. He took the vodka from Skwisgaar's hands and guzzled it. "My family celebrates it. Not like dat. With church. Lots and lots of church." He drank more.

"Yowza," Skwisgaar said. He took the bottle from Toki and set it down against the wall at the end of the hallway. He cupped Toki's chin with one hand and established eye contact. "Toki, ams you okay?" he asked.

Toki looked at Skwisgaar, then shook his head out of his grip. "Fine," Toki said. He said it hollow; it felt hollow. He shook his head again and took the bottle of vodka. "Abso-fucking-lutelies fine." He gave the vodka to Skwisgaar to drink.

Skwisgaar cocked his head and gave a peculiar look but drank from the bottle. "Well, I's never celerybraked it," he said. He licked his lips. "My mom ams was always busies."

"I's sorry," Toki said. He leaned forward and put his lips against Skwisgaar's, not quite a kiss, just a comfort. A mouth-hug, he thought to himself, then took Skwisgaar in an actual hug. Skwisgaar set the bottle down and returned it. They probably looked a little ridiculous, leaning over their own legs and hugging each other's shoulders, their heads buried into the other's necks, at the end of the hallway with mistletoe above them. Toki didn't care; Skwisgaar obviously didn't care, his grip tight, his lips kissing the fabric on Toki's shoulder. It was Christmastime—this was Christmas, to Toki. Caring. Giving.

He pulled back from the embrace and Skwisgaar looked confused at first until Toki pulled the mixtape from his pocket. "A gift," Toki explained, handing it to Skwisgaar. "For you. For Christmas."

Skwisgaar examined it from every angle as he tended to do with new objects presented to him. He took the CD from the cover and wore it on his finger, spinning it, then put it back. He read the back of the cover, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline, then looked at Toki. His face was serious, but not in a bad way, Toki assumed and-slash-or hoped. "Thank you," Skwisgaar said. He sniffled. "This ams de nicest gift I has ever gotten." He put the mixtape in the pocket of his own jeans and untangled his legs from Toki's. Toki looked at him; Skwisgaar kept talking. "Comes with me to de bathsroom," Skwisgaar said, offering a hand to Toki to assist him in getting up.

"Uh, okay," Toki said. Skwisgaar held his hand with a loose grip as he led him into the bathroom. Toki wondered how he knew that was the door to the bathroom; must've been a lucky guess. The door was unlocked and there was nobody in it. Dick's bathroom could only be described as sad, a small sink, toilet and bathtub looking lonely and desolate, the white of their paint chipping off in places and the blue of the tiles on the upper half of the wall the exact shade Toki would assign to the word melancholy. There was a single cream-colored towel folded over the rim of the bathtub. The bathroom was clean, at least, Toki thought.

"I was goingks to waits until de actual day of Crispmust," Skwisgaar said. His hands were on Toki's hips, steering him against the wall by the door. Toki had the presence of mind to reach out and lock the door while Skwisgaar's mouth moved up and down Toki's face. "I was goingks to comes inside your room and gives dis to you." His mouth kept moving down while his hand worked the hem of Toki's shirt up, almost like he was going to take it off. Toki let him push it up to reveal his stomach—there were no scars there, only the taut muscle of his midsection—but held it around nipple level with one hand, the other hand on Skwisgaar's face and eventually moving into his hair. Toki was starting to get an idea of where this was going. "I was goingks to do that," Skwisgaar said. "But I thinks dat dis ams de better option." He unzipped Toki's jeans with his teeth; Toki didn't even know that was possible.

Skwisgaar took his hands from Toki's hip them, rolling Toki's jeans and boxers down, freeing his hardening cock. The situation felt scandalous—they were in a bathroom at a party where Toki's friends were like ten feet away socializing and drinking toxic eggnog slush—and therefore exciting, cool and fresh air friendly to Toki's dick, and then—oh. That was not air. That was a tongue, Skwisgaar's tongue, trailing up and down and all around, everywhere at once, around his balls, fuck, he really didn't know this was possible. His hips rolled forward without his permission and Skwisgaar slammed the heel of his hand into Toki's hipbone, a warning. A warning indeed because then Skwisgaar was taking him into his mouth, working his way up the length of Toki's shaft, and this was the most amazing thing Toki had ever felt. Colors exploded on the back of his eyes and his hand wrapped in Skwisgaar's hair, he swore he found God, swore he felt God, he started to thrust. Skwisgaar kept one hand pressed into Toki's hip and used the other to work what he couldn't get in his mouth, switching between the base and Toki's balls, and it felt like both an eternity and a millisecond, and then Toki was coming the hardest he had ever came. Skwisgaar swallowed.

There were tears in Toki's eyes but he wasn't crying, didn't feel like he should be crying. Toki pushed his shirt down and put himself back in his pants as Skwisgaar came up, licking his lips. Fuck. "Fuck," Toki said, looking at Skwisgaar. "Fuck," he said again. "Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuckarooni fuckballs fuck."

"Fuckballs," was all Skwisgaar said. He was smirking, that bastard. Toki panted at him for a few seconds and then Skwisgaar was talking again, unable to shut up. "Merry Cristianmarbles,"

Toki looked at Skwisgaar, thick lips puffed with activity and hair knotted up from Toki's fingers, and then Toki pounced on Skwisgaar, assaulting him via tongue and lips and hands. He wanted to return the favor. He hadn't a slightest clue of how to do so but what he just experienced felt like a religious experience, the fucking pinnacle of Christmas. Skwisgaar stumbled backwards until his calves hit the bathtub, Toki kissing him all the way. Skwisgaar peeled his shirt off and tossed it into the bathtub. They sunk down, Skwisgaar's back against the tub, Toki's head moving down. It was a weird position to give a blowjob in, he recognized, almost laying on his stomach, but he got to work. He tried to do what Skwisgaar had done for him, licking, and repeated what elicited the most titillating of noises from Skwisgaar, which happened to be dragging his tongue underneath the shaft. He played with Skwisgaar's balls with one hand and then he took him into his mouth. It wasn't nearly as easy as Skwisgaar made it look and Toki felt himself coming close to gagging the farther he took him in until he was physically unable to go further. Skwisgaar had both hands in Toki's hair, strands wrapped around his fingers and tugging, and it hurt but hurt in a good way. In all honestly it was probably a sub-par blowjob, not nearly as sexy as Skwisgaar's had been, but Toki tried his hardest. Skwisgaar came on his face, which Skwisgaar seemed to like a surprising amount and also surprised Toki by how much he liked it. He licked some cum up to see what it tasted like. Disgusting, he noted, salty and undesirable, but he ate some anyway out of some weird mix of curiosity and obligation.

"We," Skwisgaar said, pausing to collect himself. He handed Toki the towel from the rim on the bathtub; Toki cleaned his face. "Will has to works on dat."

"Sorry," Toki said. He frowned. Skwisgaar reached a hand out to pause Toki in the process of wiping his cum off his face, looking at him. Skwisgaar was earnest, face uncolored by judgment or maliciousness, and Toki took the opportunity to take in the beauty of Skwisgaar's natural, plain face. It hurt, almost, that beauty.

"Don't worries about it," Skwisgaar said, voice soft. "You will gets better." He kissed Toki, which was sort of weird because they had both just had their mouths on each other's dicks, but the griminess seemed appealing in the moment.

"Okay," Toki said, breaking the kiss. He stood up and checked his face in the mirror, then wet the towel in the sink and washed his face off, still feeling unclean. Skwisgaar put his shirt back on and moved to stand behind Toki, wrapping his hands around his waist, dropping his chin on his shoulder. Privacy, Toki thought, and intimacy. He smiled at Skwisgaar's reflection, which smiled back, eyes crinkling. Toki tossed the towel in the direction of the bathtub, unconcerned about its future or its future user, and they left the bathroom holding hands.

They went into the main part of the party and found Nathan, Pickles, Murderface and Dick. Dick was sober; he was to drive them home in Nathan's truck, one of his friends to follow him and take him home. The other guys were pretty drunk, sitting in a strange combination on the couch, Pickles in Nathan's lap Murderface with his head in Pickles's lap, his feet in Dick's. Dick was staring at the retro television in front of the couch, the screen shattered from an incident involving Nathan and a football from last year, a plant growing inside of it.

"You," Pickles said, directing unfocused and watery eyes towards Skwisgaar and Toki, "totally look like you just got laid." As he spoke he dragged his hands across Murderface's face.

"Sort of," Toki said, shrugging and looking at Skwisgaar. Skwisgaar gave a one-shouldered shrug of agreement.

"That isch scho fucking grossch," Murderface groaned. He held his hands to his head, swatting away Pickles's and then covering his eyes. "Isch the room on fire for any of you guysch too?"

"No," Nathan said. His eyes lolled in his head. "But I think I'm in an aquarium." He pointed at the television like that would prove his point.

"I think it may be time to get you guys home," Dick said. He moved Murderface's feet off his lap and stood up. "That eggnog is…really strong. Unusually strong. I swear I did not make it that strong."

"Eggnog," Pickles said. He crossed his hands over his stomach, his heels snagging on Murderface's skin and dragging it down. "Eggnog."

"Yes, eggnog," Dick said. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at Skwisgaar and Toki, almost like he expected them to be voices of reasons, which was ridiculous in its own right.

Somebody came up and engaged Dick in conversation, drawing his attention elsewhere. Skwisgaar sat on the couch where Dick had and invited Toki to his lap; Toki sat down, leaning his forehead in against Skwisgaar's neck. Things were feeling kind of swimmy, like they were in an aquarium, and Toki didn't know if that was from the residual high, the vodka, the blowjob, Skwisgaar, Christmas, or a combination of all five. He might have fallen asleep on Skwisgaar—he didn't remember—but the rest of the party became a blur. The only memory that would really stand out as clear later on would be that of Murderface stripping naked, slapping his dick into a Santa hat and asking women if they'd like to sit on his lap. This was followed by Pickles shouting more things about the Claus Conspiracy and bursting into tears; the memory cut off at Skwisgaar developing a cramp in his side from laughter and Nathan tackling Murderface to the floor.

Toki became lucid again somewhere on the car ride home, feeling like he'd woken from a sleep as he lifted his head from Skwisgaar's neck and looked around the car. Dick was driving, Pickles curled up and asleep in the passenger's seat, Nathan sitting with one of his arms over the back of the passenger seat with that hand resting on Pickles's shoulder, Skwisgaar beside Toki, perfectly awake. Skwisgaar looked at Toki when Toki stirred.

"What a nights," Skwisgaar said. He shook his head. "Yous friends ams insane."

"I can hear that," Nathan said from off to the side. Skwisgaar waved his hand in Nathan's general direction.

"They ams great, though," Toki said, looking up through his eyelashes at Skwisgaar. "You can hear dat too, right, Nathan?" He leaned over Skwisgaar to look at Nathan while he said it.

Nathan made a noise in his throat and rubbed Pickles's shoulder to wake him up; they were outside of Nathan's house now, Dick stopping the truck. Pickles jerked awake and unbuckled his seatbelt, also coming into lucidity. Toki wondered if the eggnog was drugged and then wrote that off as ridiculous as he hadn't had any. Maybe it had been the cookies that were drugged—drugged with something else, that was.

"Well, Merry Christmas," Dick said, establishing eye contact to each of them. He lingered on Skwisgaar, a silent plea of please let me manage and-slash-or produce your band please laying underneath his words.

"Great party," Nathan said. He opened his door and got out. Pickles followed and then Skwisgaar and Toki, coming through Nathan's side. Dick got out as well, since it was Nathan's truck and his friend was waiting for him behind them in a stylish little black car, and gave them a little wave before he got in his friend's car and they took off.

"Wait a seconds," Skwisgaar said, stopping the group in the middle of Nathan's lawn as they walked towards Nathan's front door. He looked around at Nathan's house, the manicured lawn and standard two stories illuminated by the light of his neighbor's own raging Christmas party. "What de fucks am I doingks here?"

"Does you wants to spends de night?" Toki asked, eager. Skwisgaar as an extension to their group felt natural, so natural, foursome becoming a fivesome, and surely the other guys felt it too.

"Well, ja," Skwisgaar said. He shot a look at Toki like he was stupid.

"Cans he? Oh, please, cans he?" Toki looked back and forth between Nathan and Pickles, three seconds short of dropping to his knees and begging them.

Pickles looked at Nathan. The two began some sort of silent conversation while Murderface started to sputter. "Why the fuck doeschn't anybody ask me about thesche thingsch?!" He screeched, tearing at his own hair and shouting towards the starless city sky.

"Come on, guys, it's fucking Christmas," Toki pleaded. Beside them the frat boys' house was alight with decoration and music, apparently having a party of their own. Even the gnomes seemed festive—it appeared that they had put Santa hats on each of them. Toki hoped Pickles didn't see it.

"Sure, fine, whatever, I guess, okay," Pickles said. He sighed and fell into Nathan's side. Nathan helped put Pickles back on his feet and they went inside the house. Toki made sure to grab his gifts from the living room end table before they went up to Nathan's room. Nathan's mother had left three trays of Christmas cookies out for them—ones without marijuana, Toki assumed—and Nathan collected them.

In Nathan's room they dropped into their usual positions only with Skwisgaar at Toki's side beneath the windowsill. Toki opened the bag containing his gifts and got up to pass them to the proper person.

"Really, Toki," Nathan said as Toki deposited his gift beside him on his bed. "Really."

"I don't trust this," Pickles said as Toki placed his beside him on the floor by Nathan's bed. "Seems an awful like the Claus to me."

"Hey, Picklesch, look out the window," Murderface said as Toki put his gift in front of him on Nathan's computer desk.

Pickles got up and looked out the window, then promptly stumbled backwards and fell on his ass, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "Fucking—an army! An army of Santa Clauses! Oh, mother of all that is good—"

"Pickles," Nathan said. He nudged Pickles with his foot from where he sat on the bed. "Shut up."

Pickles closed his eyes and nuzzled Nathan's leg. Once he had calmed himself down he scrambled back to where he had been and opened his gift. "Toki, you really shouldn't have," he said as he pulled the bong box and examined it.

"Is that an octopus?" Nathan asked. He plucked the box from Pickles's hand; Pickles crossed his arms. "I see the resemblance. I think." He gave the box back to Pickles.

Toki nodded and made encouraging hand motions for Nathan to open his own gift. Nathan did so, unwrapping the candles without any particular skill. "Oh, man, these are awesome, thanks, Toki. Pickles, can I have your lighter?" Pickles gave Nathan his lighter. Nathan set one of the candles on the bedside table and lit it, then put the rest inside the drawer to the table.

"My turn!" Murderface said. He unwrapped his gift in a haste, getting wrapping paper everywhere. He pulled out the tits shot glass first. "Fuck yesch," he said. He pulled the Confederate flag ones out next. "Oh, man, oh man, Toki, man."

"You're welcome, you guys," Toki said. He beamed as he took in everybody looking at their gifts. Pickles liked his bong even if he pretended not to; Nathan watched the candle bleed red wax; Murderface felt his shot glass up. Beside him, Skwisgaar nudged Toki, bringing him to a kiss while everybody was distracted. Toki understood that as Skwisgaar's way of congratulating him.

"Hey," Pickles said, drawing Skwisgaar and Toki back to reality and speaking like he'd come to a great revelation. "Ain't the world supposed to end tonight? December 21st, 2012?" He looked up from his bond, which he had retrieved from the box, and around the room at its various members.

"Yeah, I think so," Nathan said, looking up from the candle. "Or, I mean. I hope so. That is like all I want for Christmas. That would be so brutal."

"Fucking yesch it would," Murderface said, nodding in agreement. He ran a thumb over one of the tits on his shot glass.

Toki and Skwisgaar exchanged a look. "Yeah, it would bes pretty brutals," Skwisgaar said. There was a pause in conversation as everybody looked at Skwisgaar, each evaluating the fact that he had just contributed to the conversation, before deciding that apparently that was okay. Skwisgaar looked mildly uncomfortable.

"Well," Pickles said. He placed his bong against the wall by Nathan's bed and laid down on the floor, curling his knees to his chest. "I'm. I'm gonna go to sleep now." He yawned. Nathan threw one of the blankets on his bed on top of Pickles and Pickles was off and asleep.

"Me too," Nathan said. He took off his sweater and tossed it at the foot of his bed, then his boots, socks, and jeans, worming his way beneath his giant comforter and rolling over. Murderface began to snore from the computer chair, his arms crossed and heavy boots up on the desk, new shot glasses lined up in front of him.

Skwisgaar and Toki looked at each other again, at a loss from what to do. "Ams you tired?" Toki asked.

"Noes," Skwisgaar said. He looked around at Toki's friends. "I thinks it ams because we ams not as drunks as they are," he said, waving his hand and explaining away the behavior as a result of the eggnog.

"Yeah," Toki said, agreeing. "We could go down to the basement and watch television or something," he suggested. The or something seemed to spark Skwisgaar's interest. They took their shoes off and left them under the windowsill in lieu of their bodies, walking as quietly as they could out of the room and down the stairs, then into the basement. They made out on the couch, Skwisgaar sitting and Toki straddling him, lazy and noncommittal at first but working up in a crescendo. Toki was really starting to get into it, Skwisgaar's mouth working his shoulder with the hem of his shirt pushed aside, his hands holding onto Toki's ass and Toki reaching a hand between them, until Skwisgaar moved his hands and nearly pushed Toki's shirt up.

Toki stopped, feeling like he'd been the victim of an electrical shock or a gunshot and jumped back and onto his feet. He took Skwisgaar's hand and held them together to prevent him from doing anything else. Skwisgaar snatched his hands from Toki and looked at him, his face a mixture of befuddlement and offense. Toki flushed and sighed. For one, that was a total boner killer, and for two, he didn't want to explain, not so fucking close to Christmas. Not now.

"De fucks?" Skwisgaar said after a few awkward and silent seconds.

"I…" Toki began, then faltered. He had no words. No excuse. No explanation. He sighed again. "Not now," he said. Vague terms, but it worked. "Not on Christmas. Or, well, close to Christmas. I'll explain soon, okays? Just…don't pulls my shirt up." He attempted a smile.

"You ams so weird," Skwisgaar said. He gestured for Toki to come closer and Toki did. Skwisgaar hooked his fingers on Toki's belt loops. "But I will gives you de benefits of de doubts, I guesses." He sighed himself and put his forehead against Toki's chest. "It ams late. We should sleeps."

"Yeah," Toki said.

He let Skwisgaar lower him down onto the couch. The couch was wide enough to fit Skwisgaar's skinny frame and Toki's brawny one with both of them on their backs, Toki using Skwisgaar's arm for a pillow and half-laying on him, his arm draped across Skwisgaar's chest. Skwisgaar used the hand that wasn't stroking Toki's shoulder to pull the afghan that hung on the couch down on them, pooling in their laps and not providing any particular warmth. It felt comfortable, though. It all felt comfortable. The world could end; Toki wouldn't care. Toki curled into Skwisgaar's chest and Skwisgaar put his other arm around him, turning his head to bury it in Toki's hair. It wasn't long before they fell asleep, their legs hooked onto each other like building blocks that were made to fit together.