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Christmas was coming.
Winter followed Jean like a second shadow—time inching inevitably towards the coldest, cruelest months of the year. Sure, he was past who he’d been, but that didn’t mean Jean was free either. Years at the Nest clung to his skin in oily trails, dirtying every month into something he’d rather forget. December was no exception.
Christmas had meant something to Jean, once. Bright memories blurred under years of darkness, winter vacations spent breaking bones and bleeding. He’d almost forgotten what a real holiday was. There were no deserved vacations as a Raven, no rest for a man who’d been sold to the devil.
Christmas had never been celebrated—until it was again.
“What are you getting Jeremy for Christmas?”
Jean tore his gaze away from the window. “What?”
Alvarez slurped her mocha and gave him a look. “Jeremy? Christmas? You know, that holiday capitalism pushes on us every year?”
“Christmas,” Jean echoed. His eyes slid from the snowflakes on cafe windows to the line of stockings under the cash register. “Christmas, yes.”
“A gift,” Sara reminded him. She forked a piece of his quiche for herself, waggling it in his face. “You’re getting him one, right? Because I know he’s getting you one.”
Jean plucked at his napkin. The idea of Jeremy giving anything more than what he had already made Jean’s stomach clench. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?” Sara’s lips pressed thin. “Jean, Jeremy started making shopping lists back in September. He turned on Mariah Carey the second Halloween was over. He’s made us all stockings. What do you think?”
Jean dropped his napkin and scowled. Panic squeezed his throat tight. “I don’t know Trojan tradition,” he snapped. “Maybe I thought you all were like that.”
“Maybe you’re purposefully oblivious,” Sara corrected him. “You don’t see me wearing a dumb Rudolph nose to practice, do you?”
Jean thought back over the last couple of weeks. “No.”
“Rhetorical,” she muttered under her breath. “Anyway, you’re getting him a gift. It’s only right, since he’s getting you one.”
When was the last time Jean bought anyone anything? “I don’t know what to get him.”
“Figure it out,” she said flatly. “It’s not like you have a whole team of people to get ideas from, or anything.”
Jean sat back in his chair. He should have expected Jeremy would go the extra mile—the man had been trying to eke conversation out of Jean for months. He’d figured the chatter was Jeremy’s haste to become allies. He hadn’t considered Jeremy using their interactions to give him a gift.
“Right,” he muttered. “I’ll do that.”
**
The trouble with knowing Jeremy Knox was that he was a giver. A gentleman. An offerer of seats and spare change. He gave compliments and advice as easy as breathing; he smiled like he knew no sadness. Night terrors couldn’t linger with his singsong greeting every morning.
Even with Jean’s initial effort to keep to himself, he knew too much. He knew how Jeremy liked his coffee (sweet); he knew Jeremy preferred citrus over chocolate. He knew Jeremy was the eldest of five children, and that he majored in business. He knew his favorite color was red.
He knew how Jeremy smiled, bright and dimpled. He knew how that smile made him feel— something terrifying, a bird trapped in his chest that ached to fly free.
Jean swallowed hard. How could he give a gift better than that?
“Don’t overthink it,” Laila suggested. She’d found him studying in the library’s third floor and, as Trojans were wont to do, helped herself to an empty seat. “He’ll be happy no matter what you give him. It’s just Jeremy.”
That’s the problem , Jean thought. He thought of all the time Jeremy had spent at his side, watching his back, calming him after an episode. Jeremy gave so much; it was only right for Jean to give back. He wanted to. But how?
“Start easy,” Laila said. “Go for homemade things first. Jeremy loves stuff like that. Like, do you know how to bake?”
Jean thought back to the Nest’s kitchen—further, to his grandmother’s home. He could remember lavender and flour, her gnarled fingers guiding his. “Vaguely.”
“Start there,” Laila said. “I’ll even help you out, if you want.”
“Why?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Because we’re friends?”
Jean blinked. His heart squeezed in on itself, tripping behind ribs.
“Right,” he made himself say. “Okay.”
“Saturday,” Laila told him. “Come over after practice. Sara will be there. We’ll make him something good.”
“Alright.” He looked up from his textbook to Laila’s smile. “I’ll be there.”
Baking was a disaster.
There was no better word for the mess in Laila’s kitchen. Flour coated every counter top; egg white dribbled onto the floor. The sink drain was clogged with lemon rind. And the smell.
Alvarez stuck her head in. “Is something burning?”
“It was ,” Jean muttered. He nudged the pan. Black cement glinted under the oven light. “Not anymore.”
Everything had been going so well. Cutting the dough was easy; patting the layers was fine. Jean hadn’t even complained over all the zest he had to grate. But—
“Are—are those lemon bars?”
“They were,” Laila sighed. “And then Jean went ahead and turned the oven up—”
“It’s easy math,” he snapped, feeling himself flush. “If it takes a half hour at 350 Fahrenheit, then at 450—”
“Oh my God, no, no.” Alvarez waved her hand. “Stop. Don’t say anymore. I can see it perfectly.”
“Like you’re one to talk.” Jean scowled and threw down his oven mitt. “You can’t even make eggs—”
“That was one time—”
“You’re both useless gays,” Laila butted in loudly. “Useless gays who’re going to help me clean this all up. Right?”
Alvarez wrinkled her nose. “I only wanted to grab Gatorade—”
“Right?
Jean looked up and glared. Alvarez rolled her eyes. “Right. Fine.”
Cleaning took almost an hour. Jean’s fingers turned to prunes in sink water. Laila had to mop the floor twice to get everything up. And the oven— well.
His hands worked frantically with the steel wool. What was he going to do?
“Don’t look so miserable.” Alvarez nudged his shoulder. Lysol rolled off her gloves in eye-watering waves.“I’m sure you’ll think of something else.”
“Yes. Socks.”
“Uh, no.”
“A gift card,” he tried again.
“To what, Exites? I’m already doing that.”
Jean grit his teeth. “Then what do you suggest ?”
“Something you wouldn’t buy for a stranger?” Alvarez sniped. “Come on, Jean. It’s like you haven’t given a gift before.”
Jean’s fingers curled tight around the sponge. “I haven’t,” he hissed.
Alvarez froze. The steady rhythm of Laila’s mop slowed to a stop.
“What?” Alvarez whispered.
Jean swallowed. His stomach pinched painfully, strangling him from the inside. “I haven’t,” he repeated. “I’m—”
Property. Property didn’t get gifts. Property didn’t get an allowance to give them. Who would want a gift from him, anyway?
“Jean,” Laila murmured. She was by him in an instant, hands resting beside his at the sink. “Jean, we’re sorry. We didn’t think.”
He grit his teeth. He could feel a tsunami of something ugly rushing up inside, bitter and heavy. He wanted to be sick.
Property. He was nothing but—
No.
You’re not , Jeremy had told him. He’d found him awake so many times, crouched out in the hallway. You’re more than that, Jean. You’re more to me.
Carefully, gently, Jean set down the sponge. He took one breath, two, and turned to look the girls in the eye.
“I haven’t,” he whispered. “That’s why I need you to help me out.”
Alvarez bit her lip. Laila’s hand rested on her shoulder, her brown eyes solemn.
“Help me,” Jean murmured. “Please.”
**
After the day he’d had, a nightmare was no surprise. Jean felt his demons rush over him the moment his body relaxed, the thick, cloying waves of old poison choking his lungs. The Nest had been so dark —oil-pitch blackness that soaked through skin and gnawed at bone. Sometimes it felt too easy to let that darkness bleed out of his pores and smother him again.
Stop.
The moment his eyes opened he was up. He couldn’t stay there, where the space was too narrow and the night blanketed the ceiling corners. He didn’t even put on shoes.
He slipped into the dorm floor lounge—blessedly empty, for once—and went through the motions. Every light switch was flicked; the teapot, he set to boil. He pulled his red mug from the communal cupboard and plucked lemon chamomile from the open tea basket. He took deep, steadying breaths.
More , Jean told himself. I’m more than that.
Even if he didn’t believe it, at least someone did.
“Jean?”
The last piece to the pattern slipped through the door. Rumpled from sleep, fluffy in Trojan sweatpants and an old shirt, Jeremy looked soft enough to make Jean’s heart ache. He winced at the fluorescence but made no move to turn any off. He was familiar with Jean’s pattern—almost as familiar as Jean himself.
Jeremy didn’t waste time with small talk. He took one look at Jean and pulled his own mug from the cupboard, a second packet of chamomile close behind. Then, settled for the wait, he turned to look up at Jean.
“It’s been a while,” he said. His sleep-chafed voice sparked light under Jean’s skin. “That counts for something.”
“I suppose.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Jean stared out the lounge windows. Moonlight poured down over dorm rooftops like upended quicksilver, dyeing the world into shades of grey. There wasn’t a soul outside.
“There isn’t anything to say.” He pressed his fingers to the glass, savoring the bite that centered him. “It was just.. more of the same.”
“Still,” Jeremy said. “If you ever do, I’ll always be here to listen.”
Always. The sparks under Jean’s skin snap brighter. Always was a terrifying concept, a prediction that encompassed not just Jeremy, but Jean, too. Always said Jeremy wasn’t going to leave him. Always said he wouldn’t let Jean flounder in the dark, ever.
Always had once sheared the will from Jean’s bones—always in the Nest, always under Riko. Now, something new glowed from within.
I’ll always be with you.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Jeremy tilted his head. He was sheer white beneath the moon, blonde hair and eyelashes lit like a gleaming, midnight star. A sun , Jeremy thought. A midwinter, midnight sun.
“Anytime,” Jeremy replied. His voice slid buttery-soft over Jean’s skin. “Anything for you.”
The bird trapped in Jean’s chest began to sing.
**
Christmas was coming.
Jean felt the oncoming tide of last-minute buying beginning to tug him back. He didn’t have many people on his list—a record three for his first year—but he hadn’t had time to think about gift-giving once the Baking Disaster passed. Christmas was coming, and with it, finals.
He’d studied day and night. Jeremy had even cancelled practice once so everyone could study more. Weeks of frantic work blew through Jean’s fingers up until his last final on a Thursday. He tore through it with an abandon that only the truly gifted or the truly damned could attempt.
But now finals had passed. Classes were over for three weeks. He was free—
Free to do last-minute shopping, anyway.
A sunflower mug for Laila; a pair of wildly-patterned knee-socks for Alvarez. He’d even bought some tea to restock the communal basket. The bags bounced against his hip in a satisfying rhythm, jostling in time with his pounding feet.
There was just one gift he still needed to buy.
“It’s almost seven. You sure you’ll be here in time?”
“Yes,” Jean huffed. He turned a corner, narrowly avoiding another shopper, and pushed on down the sidewalk. “I’m almost done.”
“ Jeremy?”
“Will be taken care of.” He didn’t admit he was wandering around hoping for inspiration to strike, but by Laila’s sigh, Jean figured she knew anyway.
“ We can cover for just a bit ,” she told him. “But be here before eight-thirty. That’s when ABC starts the HP movie marathon over again.”
“I’ll be there,” Jean promised. Store after store blurred past him—knick-knacks and art supplies and shoes. He could feel his eyes beginning to glaze. “I just have to—”
Wait.
He stopped. Walked back several feet. Looked through the window.
There , settled into a glittering display of silver and gold earrings, was a single pair of studs. Jean’s mouth went dry.
“ Jean? Hello?” The line crackled. “You okay?”
“Fine.” He paused, eyes flicking from the display to the shop hours. Ten minutes left until closing. “Laila. May I call you back?”
“Are you sure? I—”
“Yes.”
The line went quiet for a moment. “ Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” Jean repeated. Warmth bloomed between his ribs; his mouth quirked in spite of himself. “I’ll be there by eight.”
“We’ll leave the door unlocked .” The line crackled again and went dead.
Jean took a deep breath. This was it. He’d finally found the perfect gift.
He slipped his phone into his pocket and stepped inside.
**
“My ass aches,” Alvarez announced. She stretched in front of the TV, arms splaying over the Sorcerer’s Stone credits. “Can we open gifts now?”
“Already?” Laila raised her eyebrows. “I mean, I guess.” She looked over at Jean and Jeremy. “Guys?”
“Sure,” Jeremy chirped. Between his red sweatshirt, rosy cheeks, and the ridiculous Santa hat on his head, he was a giant, cozy-looking red ball. Jean wanted to squeeze him. “Whatever you want.”
“Jean?”
“Yes,” he echoed. “Whatever you’d like.”
“I’ll get them,” Alvarez said. She slid off down the hallway in her socks before anyone could protest. On screen, The Chamber of Secrets opened to its first scene.
Jean sank back into the couch. Between Jeremy’s warmth on his right and the heavy scent of sugar cookies and cinnamon in the air, he’d almost fallen asleep. A tiny twinge spiked in his gut at the sight of Alvarez’s return, his gifts tucked in her arms. He clasped his hands and willed himself to relax.
Jeremy’s hand brushed his elbow. “You good?”
Jean watched Alvarez stack the gifts in a pile on the floor. He nodded.
They went in a circle: Alvarez first, then Laila, Jeremy, and Jean. The Chamber of Secrets became a low hum against the rasp of ripped paper and tissue, snapped folds and peeling tape. Laila, having opened Jean’s mug first, beamed brightly.
“I was just thinking I needed a new one,” she confessed. “This is perfect, Jean. Thank you.”
Warmth burst in Jean’s gut like a sweet fruit. He swallowed, fingers grasping the soft nub carpet, and tried to keep his smile tampered. His insides fluttered gently.
“You’re welcome,” he murmured.
When his turn came, Jean took care not to rip the paper or ruin the bow. The others looked on, smiles splitting open as the last layer revealed—
“ Baking For Dummies .” He looked up to Alvarez’s crooked smile. “Apt.”
“I couldn’t help myself,” she admitted. “Let’s try again sometime, yeah?”
Jean chewed his lip. He couldn’t help how his fingers roved over the cover and thumbed through the pages.
His first gift.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s.”
Alvarez opened his gift on the second round and immediately pulled them on. Jeremy tucked his Exites gift card under the cover of Jean’s book, toothy smile gleaming bright. Jean’s second gift, courtesy of Laila, was a t-shirt emblazoned with the California flag.
“Everyone’s got to have something,” she told him. “It’s how you gloat to everyone when we travel.”
“Merry Californiamas, Jean,” Jeremy chirped, and they all laughed.
Jean’s mouth twitched. The shirt was obnoxious and ugly, but it was his.
And then it was the third round.
Laila unearthed a pair of earrings shaped like hummingbirds, courtesy of Alvarez. Her girlfriend pulled out a navy blue hand-knit scarf. Then, it was Jeremy’s turn.
Jean slid his hands under his legs and willed himself to relax as Jeremy picked the box up. He’d hardly had time to wrap the thing before coming over, and as a result, the paper was wrinkled with sloppy folds and loose tape. Jeremy slid one thumb over the label.
“Jean?” He paused to meet Jean’s eyes. “This is yours, right?”
The box looked pitifully small cradled between Jeremy’s palms. Jean swallowed. “Yes.”
Fingers poked and prodded. Layers that Jean had thrown together fell away underneath Jeremy’s touch—folds peeling away with gentle, deft movements. Jean watched, transfixed, as the box lid came into being by the TV light.
The cashier had startled when Jean burst inside and motioned for the window. Those ones, he’d told her. Could I get them? Please? His self-consciousness, constant from the moment he became a Raven, had been nothing at that moment. He hadn’t cared how flushed he’d been, rumpled and bright-eyed from the winter chill. He’d had to have them.
Are they for your girlfriend?
The way his fingers had paused on the counter; the way his heart had stuttered in his chest.
No. He’s not..
Oh. A boyfriend, then.
Jeremy flicked back the lid. He stopped.
No, Jean had told her. It was the truth. Jeremy wasn’t that to him. Not yet. There were a thousand steps to take before something like that could be true—if Jeremy wanted it to be true at all. The bird in Jean’s chest couldn’t fly free just yet, but Jean didn’t mind.
“Oh.” Jeremy blinked; his mouth parted, soft lips forming an o. One finger trailed over two golden studs embedded in cotton.
Always, Jeremy had told him. I’ll always be here for you.
Jean was okay with waiting. Now, he had all the time in the world.
“For you.” Jean cleared his throat. “Because you’re.. Captain Sunshine.”
Because you’re my midwinter sun.
“Oh. Oh, but I—” Jeremy set down the box. His smile gleamed through the half-light like his nickname-sake, brilliant and sweet. “These are great. Wait, let me just..”
Jeremy plucked the studs one-by-one and pushed them into his ears. He sat back and beamed. Two twin suns gleamed in his ears, shiny-golden.
“What do you think?”
Jean tugged on the carpet. He could feel the light in his chest fizzing again, a spark begging to be set free. The warmth of it flowed from his head to his toes.
He smiled. “They suit you perfectly.”
“They’re perfect,” Laila agreed, and frowned. “But didn’t you..?”
“Yeah.” Jeremy looked to Jean’s gift, his smile bending crooked. “Yeah. Open yours up, Jean?”
The box wasn’t much bigger than Jeremy’s studs. Jean cracked open the lid carefully—and sucked in a breath.
Oh.
The bracelet was simply made—black leather cords woven into a braid, with a hook clasp locking them together. A silver crescent moon nestled in the bracelet’s center.
“It’s like we planned it,” Jeremy said. He leaned his cheek on one bent knee; his eyes twinkled. Jean flushed under his gaze.
“How did you..?” He shook his head. “Why?”
Blue eyes locked with his. “You know why.”
Jean stared at him. His heart beat a wild rhythm behind his ribs; his palms felt sweaty against his jeans. Jeremy stared back with his soft smile and warm eyes, cheeks visibly pink in the half-light.
Every sun needs a moon. They’ll get lonely without one.
“That’s gay,” Alvarez muttered. Laila jabbed her in the side and hissed a shut up, oh my god. Jean felt himself flush all the way down his neck.
Always, always. They had nothing but time.
“Merry Christmas,” Jeremy murmured. The suns in his ears twinkled.
Jean slid his bracelet over his wrist. The moon’s weight pressed right over his pulse, a cool stone against his warm veins. He bit down on a smile.
“Merry Christmas, Jeremy,” Jean said. And for the first time in forever, it truly was.