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Crossroads is still asleep when Rocket invites him out.
Not a date- because it isn’t one. Rocket is very clear about that.
He doesn’t say lonely, because Rocket never does; instead he says things like “I think the walls are judging me,” or “If I stay inside any longer I might start talking to the furniture.” It’s his own dialect, and Sword understands it fluently. So he nods, says nothing, accepts.
Rocket can be lonely.
Rocket can also be commanding.
That’s how Sword finds himself awake at the asscrack of dawn, blinking grit from his eyes and leaning over a sink that hates him.
The water is ice-cold- winter does not believe in mercy- and he hisses as it nearly gets in his eye, jerking back with a curse muffled by sleep. The mirror gives him a look that says this is your life now.
Sisyphus has been squawking since Sword woke up. Or perhaps before. It’s hard to tell. The bird hops along the railing, feathers puffed, offended on a moral level. The irony is not lost on Sword; usually it’s Sisyphus dragging him out of bed at obscene hours, not the other way around.
“Don’t,” Sword mutters, scrubbing his face. Sisyphus squawks louder.
Venomshank, mercifully, is still asleep. Sword can tell by the snores- deep, thunderous things that rumble through the foundations of the already-rotting complex like a warning. The walls vibrate. Dust shifts. Sword pauses, listening, then exhales. Good. No interrogations. No commentary. No why are you up this early, fledgling.
He blinks-
-and suddenly he’s stepping out of the shower, hair damp, wrestling with an ancient hairdryer that wheezes like it’s on its last life. There’s a comb attachment snapped onto it, a small miracle Sword had to convince Venomshank to buy.
“You don’t need that,” Venomshank had said. “I can fix your hair.”
Venomshank’s version of “fixing” involved talons, enthusiasm, and the occasional bald spot. Sword still remembers the tears. He remembers them well.
The hairdryer lives.
Once dressed- joggers, a jacket that hangs a little too loose on his frame, boots tugged on while sitting on the edge of the bed- Sword steps into the hallway. Sisyphus swoops after him immediately, wings snapping the air.
“No,” Sword says, gently but firmly, stopping at the entrance. He reaches for his scarf from the rack, yawning so wide his jaw cracks. “You can’t come.”
Sisyphus squawks.
“I’ll be back.”
Squawk
Sword sighs. “I’m going on an…outing.”
Squawk
“With my boyfriend.”
That gets him a look. Flat. Unamused. Judgmental in a way only a bird can manage.
Sword rolls his eyes, wraps the scarf around his neck, and opens the door. Cold spills in like a living thing. “I’ll be back,” he repeats.
Sisyphus squawks again.
“No, I’m not coming back in the morning.”
Squawk.
Sword flushes. “You need to stay out of my business.”
The door closes behind him.
Outside, winter bites. Snow crunches beneath his boots, sharp and loud in the quiet hour. His breath fogs immediately, curling into the air like a confession he didn’t mean to make. Sword stuffs his hands into his pockets and exhales, long and slow.
It was going to be a long morning
He takes three steps.
Stops.
Freezes.
“Oh- no.”
Sword pats his pockets. Once. Twice. Thoroughly. His stomach drops.
“...I didn’t bring my wallet.”
He turns on his heel and sprints back to the entrance, fumbling the door open. “Sisyphus!” he calls, already breathless. “Fetch- fetch my wallet- please…”
Sisyphus squawks, triumphant.
Some mornings begin like this.
___
Crossroads is awake.
Not fully- nothing here ever truly is- but awake enough to breathe. Winter chatter drifts through the streets like smoke, overlapping voices and laughter scraping the cold air raw. Inphernals are already chattering throats still rough from sleep, bells chime when doors swing open, and somewhere a kettle screams its defiance against the frost.
Lanterns hang across the road in crooked strings, their light warm and forgiving, painting the snow gold instead of blue. Sword is grateful for them; the heat settles into his shoulders, into the hollow behind his ribs, like an old kindness he didn’t know he was missing.
He trudges through the streets with all the grace of someone who has been awake far too early for reasons that are not his own. His scarf is pulled high, his steps slow and dragging.
He yawns once. Twice. A third time without even bothering to cover his mouth. Snow crunches under his boots, loud in the quiet morning, and he weaves through the crowd on instinct alone.
People bump into him- shoulders, elbows, a basket once- but Sword barely reacts. He shifts, murmurs a vague apology that may or may not be meant for anyone in particular, and keeps moving. His eyes sting. His thoughts lag behind his body. He looks like someone wandering through a dream he hasn’t quite woken from.
“Wow,” Rocket says, materializing directly in his path. “You look like you’re haunting the place.”
Sword nearly walks straight into him. He blinks, focuses, then squints up at Rocket through heavy lashes. The world snaps into clarity a little too suddenly. He yawns again, jaw cracking softly.
Rocket tilts his head. “Did you sleep at all?”
Sword gives him a look- flat, unimpressed, edged with the barest hint of malice. “Why do you think,” he says slowly, mockery dripping from every word, “I might be tired.”
Rocket scoffs. “Oh, don’t start.” He sneers, rolls his shoulders, and turns away. “Whatever. Let’s go.”
He walks off like he fully expects Sword to follow.
Sword doesn’t.
Rocket makes it halfway down the street before the absence registers. He turns, annoyed- and stops short.
Sword is still standing there, snow dusting his boots, wearing a faint, infuriating smile. Not sleepy now. Calculated. Awake just enough to be smug.
“Oh, absolutely not,” Rocket mutters, marching back. He grabs Sword by the collar of his jacket and drags him forward through the snow. “You don’t get to look like that and not move.”
Sword stumbles easily, lets himself be hauled along. “Ow,” he says brightly, entirely unbothered.
Rocket releases him with a huff, hands waving as if to rid himself of the moment. “Anyway,” he says too quickly, “I saw this corner store over there that’s selling these little charms or whatever, and I thought maybe we could-”
Sword raises an eyebrow.
Rocket stops mid-sentence.
His mouth opens. Closes. He inhales, panics, and barrels forward. “I mean- not for me. Obviously. I just thought you might like them. Or- or Sisyphus. Birds like shiny things, right? And it’s winter and we’re already out and it’d be dumb not to look and- yeah.”
Sword watches him. Lets the silence stretch. Snow falls between them, soft and accusing.
His mouth presses into a thin line.
Then it curves.
“Sure,” Sword says.
Rocket flinches like he’s been stabbed. “Don’t ‘sure’ me.”
Sword laughs, real this time, a sound that fogs the air between them. “Whatever.”
They fall into step together, shoulders brushing now and then. As they walk, Sword’s gaze drifts- caught by a shop tucked between louder stalls, its window crowded and bright. Plushies fill the display: fat, round little things with stitched smiles and soft colors. Some are vaguely humanoid. Some wear armor. Some are… disturbingly familiar.
Sword slows.
There’s one with blue goggles. Stubby limbs. A shape that makes something warm flicker in his chest.
He stops completely, gently catching Rocket’s sleeve and pointing. “Can we go there after?”
Rocket follows his gaze, unimpressed. “Since when are you a stuffed-animal guy?”
Sword freezes. Flushes. “I’m not- I-I mean- not really- I just thought maybe we could look? Just to check it out. It looks… cool.”
He talks faster. Gestures vaguely. Digs his own grave.
Rocket stares at him, expression blank, long enough for Sword to consider fleeing the city.
Then Rocket sighs. “Sure.”
They stand there a moment longer, snow falling, lanterns glowing, secrets piling up between them like poorly wrapped gifts.
They were both terrible at this.
___
Sword suggests they split up to browse like it’s the most casual thought in the world.
Rocket agrees far too quickly. “Yeah! Great idea-”
He stops himself, clears his throat, visibly reins it in. “I mean. Sure. If you want. No rush.”
Sword gives him a long, unimpressed look.
Rocket smiles back, painfully innocent.
Sword turns on his heel and walks away before he says something unkind, boots crunching through the snow as he heads toward the side street. Behind him, Rocket immediately speed-walks in the opposite direction with the subtlety of a thrown brick.
Sword exhales through his nose, smiling to himself.
Rocket would like it. Probably. Hopefully.
He thinks Rocket likes fluffy things. Rocket pretends he doesn’t, but Sword has seen the way he lingers. Seen the way his hands hesitate before touching anything soft, like it might bite back.
A few steps later, Sword finds himself in front of the exact shop he’d clocked earlier.
He opens the door. A small bell jingles overhead, bright and cheerful, announcing him to the warmth inside. The cold peels off him all at once, and he relaxes without meaning to.
The place is… exactly what he expected.
Shelves upon shelves of plushies- fat, round, unapologetically soft. Little stitched faces grin up at him. They’re phighters, unmistakably so, rendered into ridiculous, harmless shapes. Armor and clothing simplified into felt. Weapons reduced to stubby accessories.
Sword drifts closer, eyes wide.
There’s Boombox, loud even in silence. Slingshot, smiling far too sweetly. Others he recognizes only vaguely- faces from Crossroads, rumors given form.
Then-
He stops.
“...awww,” Sword whispers.
There’s one that looks like him.
Small wings. His helm. Red accents. A dumb, soft little face that could not hurt anyone if it tries. Sword stares at it, stunned, then smiles despite himself.
“I didn’t know I could be that cute,” he murmurs, fond and embarrassed all at once.
He keeps looking.
And then he finds it.
Rocket.
The plush is round and solid, its surface smooth and well-stitched. It looks perpetually angry, little felt brows stitched low. Blue goggles sit on its head, slightly crooked. Even the prosthetics are there- carefully replicated on tiny limbs, softened but unmistakable.
Sword’s chest does something quiet and dangerous.
He picks it up. It’s lighter than it looks, fits easily in his hands. He turns it slightly, thumbs brushing over the seams.
Rocket would absolutely love this.
It’s too adorable not to!
“Like what you see?”
Sword startles, nearly dropping it. He turns to find an Inphernal standing nearby, horns curved back neatly, wearing what looks like a shop uniform. Probably a worker. Maybe the owner. They’re smiling, sharp and knowing.
Sword nods immediately. “It’s very cute.”
The infernal hums in agreement. “Yeah! Hey- tell you what- if you buy the blue one, I’ll throw in the red one too.”
Sword tilts his head. “The… red one?”
They point at the blush that looks like him.
Sword brightens so fast it’s embarrassing. “Really?”
The Inphernal nods. “Yeah.”
Sword grabs his plush without hesitation- then pauses.
There’s another Rocket plush on the shelf. Identical. Alone.
Sword looks between the two. The lonely Rocket. The Rocket in his hands.
“...oh,” he murmurs.
With a small sigh, he picks up the second Rocket plush. Then, after a moment’s thought, another of himself.
The Inphernal blinks. Then grins. “Matching set?”
“Yeah,” Sword says easily, without a hint of shame.
They move behind the counter. A price is named. Sword digs into his pocket, retrieves his wallet, and counts out the BUX carefully, placing them down with reverence. This is important. Tradition matters.
The Inphernal hands him a bag- cute, but small.
Sword hesitates. “Do you have… a bigger one?”
They tilt their head. “Why?”
Sword lowers his voice, conspiratorial. “The person I’m getting them for. I want it to be a surprise.”
The Inpernal’s grin sharpens. “Say no more.”
They reach under the counter and produce a much larger bag. “On the house.”
Sword beams. “Thank you!”
He grabs one of their hands and shakes it enthusiastically. The Inphernal stares at him, startled, then laughs. “No problem.”
Sword waves goodbye as he leaves, bell jingling cheerfully behind him.
Outside, the cold rushes back in. Sword exhales, breath fogging white, happiness buzzing quietly under his skin. He turns the corner, bag rustling softly at his side, already scanning the street for Rocket-
-and then he spots another store out of the corner of his eye.
A retail shop. Older. Practical.
Sword slows.
Stares.
Then grins.
Oh.
He’s not done yet.
___
Rocket hates mornings.
He hates winter mornings even more.
And he especially hates winter mornings where he’s pretending not to be doing something extremely obvious- like secretly trying to buy his boyfriend a gift without looking like he’s secretly trying to buy his boyfriend a gift.
He trudges through the snow with his hands jammed deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched, muttering under his breath like the cold personally wronged him. His boots scrape against packed ice, every step sharp and loud, and the chatter of Crossroads does nothing to soothe his mood.
If it wasn’t already painfully obvious, yes.
He is trying to get Sword a gift.
Or die trying. Which, frankly, feels more likely at this point.
He spots the charm store again after circling the same block twice, nearly walking past it out of spite. Lantern light spills from the windows, warm and inviting in a way that feels vaguely insulting. Rocket scowls at it, then stomps forward and throws the door open with far more force than necessary.
The bell above jingles violently.
“-Sorry,” Rocket blurts immediately, mortified, as the sound echoes far louder than it should.
The store owner- rocket assumes, is an Inphernal with sharp eyes, sharp horns, a cap on and a posture that says I’ve seen worse- looks up from behind the counter. They give Rocket a slow, measuring look.
Rocket clears his throat. Straightens. Pretends this is fine.
He wanders the store, hands clasped behind his back like he belongs here. Displays line the walls and counters: dangling charms shaped like stars, little food items, gears, symbols he doesn’t recognize but still somehow wants to poke. Everything is cute. Annoyingly so.
He stops at one stand.
There’s a charm shaped like a sword.
Rocket stares at it.
“...nah,” he mutters. “Too boring.”
“Too boring?”
Rocket freezes.
He turns slowly to see the owner standing behind him now, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, expression hovering somewhere between irritation and curiosity.
“I- no-” Rocket stutters immediately, hands flying up as he points vaguely at the display. “I mean, it’s not boring, it’s actually pretty nice, just- not nice enough for my-”
He stops. Grimaces.
“…lover,” he finishes weakly. “Which doesn’t mean it isn’t nice. It is nice. I just want something really good and-”
“Okay,” the Inphernal says, cutting him off with a raised hand. They whistle low, nodding. “Ohhh. It’s one of those things.”
Rocket exhales hard. “Yeah.”
The owner moves back behind the counter, leaning their chin against their fist, thinking. “So. What do they like?”
Rocket brightens immediately. “Well, he’s adventurous, but also kind of dumb, and-”
They snap their fingers. “I didn’t ask who he is. I asked what he likes.”
Rocket groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re killing me.”
He thinks. Actually thinks. “Okay. He has a pet bird. He… likes it. A lot. And his gear’s a sword, if that helps.”
The Inphernal’s mouth quirks upward. “Yeah. It helps.”
They straighten. “Come back in about an hour. I’ll have a few things ready.”
Rocket narrows his eyes. “That sounds suspicious.”
“Pay me 1,000 BUX.”
Rocket’s soul leaves his body.
“A thousand?” he yelps. “Are you insane? I’m not paying a thousand for what’s probably just a custom charm I could get down the street for-”
The Inphernal looks unimpressed. Slowly raises a brow. “Who said it’d be a charm?”
Rocket falters.
“I’ve got skills you don’t know about,” they continue calmly. “So relax before you blow a fuse and take out my storefront.”
Rocket opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Groans loudly, long and dramatic, then snarls under his breath as he yanks out his wallet. He slams a stack of bills- maybe half his savings- onto the counter and storms toward the door.
“This better be worth it,” he snaps over his shoulder.
The Inphernal calmly counts the money, smirking. “Go cool off before you kill someone.”
Rocket slams the door behind him hard enough to make the bell shriek.
Outside, the cold hits him full force. Snow crunches beneath his boots as he stalks down the street, jaw clenched, breath puffing harsh and white. He’s pissed. He’s freezing. And suddenly-
He’s lonely.
That Inphernal better come through. For Sword’s sake. Because if not, Rocket might actually lose his mind.
He slows, sighs, rubbing his hands together.
“…just in case,” he mutters.
A small stand catches his eye. Corn dogs.
Rocket’s eyes widen. His stomach growls traitorously. He grins, already reaching for his wallet-
Then he notices another shop nearby. Cute things in the window.
And another next to it.
Pet supplies.
Rocket stops.
Stares.
Sighs.
“...damn it.”
Looks like he’s not done yet.
___
They don’t mean to run into each other.
Crossroads is crowded now, properly awake, bodies moving in loose currents between stalls and storefronts. Snow is tracked flat and muddy in places, pristine in others, and the air smells like sugar, oil, smoke, and something fried that Rocket absolutely does not want to think about right now.
Sword steps around an Inphernal at the same time Rocket cuts across the street-
-and they collide.
Not hard. Just enough to jolt them both into a halt.
They blink at each other.
Sword is holding two bags. One is big. Suspiciously big. The other is smaller, clumped and misshapen, like it’s full of something soft and poorly contained.
Rocket is also holding two bags. One is bloated to the point of straining. The other-
Sword’s nose twitches.
He leans in slightly. Sniffs the air.
His eyes narrow.
He points. “Is that corndogs.”
Rocket jerks the bag back like Sword just tried to steal it. “What? No. Obviously not.”
Sword sniffs again.
Rocket talks faster. “It’s um. Something. Not corndogs. Why would I-”
Sword hums, unconvinced, then lifts his gaze to Rocket’s face with that quiet, knowing look that always makes Rocket feel like he’s already lost.
Rocket squints back, finally noticing Sword’s bags. “…What’s with those?”
Sword looks away, scratching the back of his head. “I went on a little… shopping spree.”
Rocket nods, immediately relieved. “Wow. Me too.”
They stare at each other for a beat, both very aware that they are lying through their teeth
Rocket clears his throat. “Hey. You wanna stay out a bit longer?”
He gestures vaguely toward a bench nearby, half-buried in snow, dusted white like it’s been waiting for them.
Sword glances up at a clock mounted above a storefront. His expression goes flat. “I promised Sisyphus I wouldn’t come back next morning again.”
Rocket flushes, heat climbing up his neck. “It’s not even close to the next morning, idiot.”
Sword considers this carefully. Hums. “Well. That is true.”
Rocket grins and turns toward the bench. “C’mon. You’re such an expensive idiot.”
Sword frowns, following him. “What does that even-”
Rocket’s foot slips.
It happens fast- ice hidden under snow, balance gone in a blink.
“-Oh shit-”
Rocket yelps, arms flailing, bags swinging wildly-
-and Sword drops everything and lunges.
He catches Rocket just in time, arms wrapping around him, boots skidding but holding. They stumble, but don’t fall. Rocket still ends up awkwardly horizontal, half-draped across Sword’s arms like he’s been scooped mid-disaster.
Rocket does not stop talking. “Okay, first of all, that was not my fault. Second of all, I had it-”
Sword looks down at him, expression blank. “You need to be more careful.”
Rocket scoffs. “Oh please. I’ve caught you like this more times than I can count.”
Sword flushes instantly, turns his head. “…That was different.”
Rocket smirks.
He leans in just enough to kiss Sword’s cheek.
Sword freezes.
Not metaphorically. Entirely. Like someone pulled the plug.
Rocket laughs- sharp and delighted- before finally righting himself and plopping down on the bench like nothing happened. Sword follows a moment later, stiff and red-faced, carefully reassembling his dignity.
They set their bags down in the snow at their feet. Without thinking, they shift closer- shoulders brushing, knees knocking softly together. The cold presses in around them, but neither moves away.
Rocket reaches down casually.
Scoops up a handful of snow.
Drops it straight down Sword’s collar.
Sword gasps, sharp and startled, as icy wetness seeps into his scarf. “Rocket-!”
Rocket giggles, absolutely unrepentant.
Sword retaliates immediately.
Both hands. A double scoop. Packed tight.
He dumps it directly onto Rocket’s head.
Rocket stops laughing.
Snow clings to his hair, melts instantly, drips down his neck.
Sword bursts out laughing, bright and helpless, the sound ringing through the cold air.
Rocket grabs him by the collar. “YOU-”
Sword giggles, breathless. “It’s revenge!”
“You dumped it in my hair,” Rocket yells, shaking him. “Do you know how long it took to do that today?!”
Sword’s laughter slows. He looks at Rocket- really looks at him now, eyes soft, unfocused, utterly sincere.
“You put all that work in for me?”
Rocket’s expression flickers. Dangerous. Fond. Unstable.
He’s about to fling Sword into the nearest snowbank when Sword suddenly stiffens, eyes widening.
“Oh-!” He points. “Chestnuts.”
Rocket turns.
A small stand nearby, steam curling up from a brazier, warm and fragrant, promising salvation in paper cones.
He turns to Sword.
Same stars in his eyes. Same hopeful look.
Rocket sneers. Groans. Sighs.
“…You’re safe for now.”
___
That’s how they end up here.
Sword, for the first time in… longer than he’d like to admit, actually paying for something.
He stands in front of the chestnut stand, steam curling up around his face, hands wrapped around two paper cones that are already warming his fingers. The Inphernal working the stand looks exhausted in the time-honored way of someone who’s been awake since before dawn and has said the same sentence too many times.
Sword had frowned at Rocket earlier. “Why can’t you buy it yourself?”
Rocket had rolled his eyes- hard, dramatic- and looked pointedly away. “I just… forgot some of my bills at home.”
Sword doesn’t believe him for a second. Rocket forgets nothing when it comes to money. But he doesn’t argue. He just steps forward, nods at the stand, and asks for two cones anyway.
The Inphernal blinks slowly. “…That’ll be-” They name the price with a tired sigh.
Sword pulls out his wallet, counts the BUX carefully, and hands them over. The infernal takes the money, scoops the chestnuts with practiced ease, and hands the cones back.
Sword gives them a small wave. They wave back, equally small.
Rocket is already heading for the bench by the time Sword turns around. Sword follows, snow crunching softly underfoot, the warmth of the chestnuts bleeding through the paper and into his palms.
They sit, and Rocket immediately grabs one.
He peels a chestnut from the cone, squints at it suspiciously, then hisses when the heat hits his fingers. “Oh- fuck-”
“Rocket,” Sword starts.
Rocket tosses it into his mouth anyway.
There’s half a second of silence.
Then Rocket makes a noise that can only be described as regret incarnate.
He coughs, chokes, hisses through clenched teeth, eyes watering as he spits the offending chestnut into the snow. Steam rises mockingly where it lands.
Sword stares at it. Pouts. “I paid good money for that.”
Rocket wheezes. “That’s-” cough “-that’s what you care about?!”
Sword laughs, bright and helpless, and slips an arm around Rocket’s shoulders, pulling him closer without even thinking about it. With his free hand, he pats Rocket’s back, gentle despite the laughter still shaking him.
Rocket glares up at him, betrayed, then turns away with a huff.
His eyes land on Sword’s bags.
He squints. “…You’ve been acting weird all day.”
Sword stiffens immediately. “You’re one to talk.”
Rocket snorts. “I’m not acting weird.”
“You absolutely are.”
Rocket opens his mouth to argue, then stops. Looks away. “Whatever.”
They go back and forth like that for a moment- deflect, accuse, retreat- neither willing to land the blow they both feel hovering between them. Snow falls quietly around them. The city hums on.
Finally, Rocket exhales. Long. Slow.
He slumps back against the bench. “Look,” he says, quieter now. “If you’re planning something…”
Sword’s chest tightens.
Rocket shrugs, not looking at him. “…I trust you.”
Something settles in Sword’s ribs, warm and aching and good. He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans a little closer, shoulder brushing Rocket’s arm, the heat of the chestnuts and Rocket’s presence blending into something steady.
Winter keeps moving.
And so do they.
___
Rocket gets up like he’s trying not to be suspicious.
Which, unfortunately for him, is exactly what makes it suspicious.
“Alright,” he says, brushing snow off his pants a little too deliberately. “I gotta go pick something up.”
Sword blinks up at him. “Okay. I’ll come with.”
Rocket just…stares.
Long. Flat. Assessing. Like he’s deciding whether to fight god or simply lie down in the snow and accept his fate.
“…No,” Rocket says.
Sword tilts his head. “Why.”
“Because,” Rocket snaps immediately, “I said so.”
Sword huffs out a breath, unimpressed. “So what, I just sit here and watch your bags and my bags while you go do whatever?”
“That’s not what I-” Rocket starts, then stops. Groans. Rubs his face. “Just- stay.”
Sword shrugs exaggeratedly and wanders over to Rocket’s bags anyway, crouching down to inspect them with open curiosity.
Rocket panics.
“Hey- HEY- don’t-!”
He lunges forward and yanks Sword back by the collar. Sword yelps, startled, stumbling upright.
“What the hell was that for?!” Sword snaps.
Rocket freezes.
Too late.
One of the bags has tipped over.
Sword looks down.
And blinks.
Inside are… perches. A small cage. Bags of food. Toys. Way more pet supplies than seems reasonable for anything.
Sword stares at it for a full second.
Then slowly turns around.
Rocket is standing there, rigid, hands half-raised like he’s been caught mid-crime.
Sword points at him, accusatory. “Do you have a pet bird you didn’t tell me about.”
Rocket’s brain visibly short-circuits.
“What- no- what-”
Sword steps closer, genuinely offended now. “I’m hurt. Deeply hurt. Our birds could’ve been friends. Sisyphus would’ve loved that.”
Rocket snaps. “I don’t have a fucking bird!”
Sword pauses.
Rocket gestures wildly at the spilled bag. “It’s for your fat bird!”
Sword freezes, hand still mid-air.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“…Um,” he says carefully, “actually, Sisyphus is pretty normal-sized.”
“That is NOT the point,” Rocket barks.
He drags a hand down his face and finally caves. “Okay. Fine. You win. Yes. The bag earlier was corndogs I was trying to hide from you.”
Sword gasps softly, scandalized.
“And these,” Rocket continues, gesturing at the supplies, “are for your dad. Because you constantly complain about how Venomshank complains about Sisyphus.”
Sword’s eyes widen. “What?! You were hiding it too? I thought you were just being weird!”
Rocket gives him a deadpan look. “I was being weird. On purpose.”
Sword beams anyway. “You were gonna get me another gift just now?”
Rocket scratches the back of his head. “…Yeah.”
Sword lights up. “I got you something too!”
Rocket blinks. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“And Mr. Zuka,” Sword adds proudly.
Rocket’s head snaps up. “You bought something for my dad??”
“Duh,” Sword says easily. “You always complain he says he doesn’t have enough gear, so I got him some wrenches. And other… gear.”
Rocket stares at him, genuinely stunned.
“And I got something for you,” Sword adds, smug now. “But I’m not telling you like you did.”
Rocket fumes instantly. “You don’t even know what else I got you!”
Sword deflates a little. “…Oh. That’s true.”
Rocket sighs, long and tired, already turning away. “Don’t get too excited. And don’t eat all the corndogs. They’re for me too.”
He starts walking back toward the charm store.
Sword watches him go, then looks down at the bag of corndogs again.
His eyes sparkle.
Oh.
This morning just got very good.
___
Oh, Rocket doesn’t just enter the shop this time- he invades it.
The door slams open hard enough to rattle the windows, the little bell shrieking like it’s filing a formal complaint. Cold air rushes in behind him, snow skittering across the floorboards, and Rocket storms straight to the counter with purpose carved into every step.
The store owner is still there.
Feet up on the counter. Chair leaned back at a reckless angle. Cap pulled low over their eyes, brim shadowing half their face. One arm folded behind their head like they’ve got all the time in the world. If this guy is sleeping, then Rocket is a saint.
Rocket slams his hand down on the counter.
The sound cracks through the quiet shop.
The Inphernal jolts, chair wobbling as they snap upright with a startled grunt, hands flailing for a second before they catch themselves. They blink. Once. Twice. Slowly scan the shop like they’re piecing reality back together.
Their gaze lands on Rocket.
Their face immediately sours.
“Oh,” they say flatly. “It’s you.”
“Yeah,” Rocket snarls, leaning forward, palms pressed into the counter. “It’s me. Where’s my miracle? Where’s my legendary, life-changing, one-thousand-BUX masterpiece?”
The Inphernal yawns- long, lazy, exaggerated- scratching at their jaw like Rocket isn’t vibrating with barely-contained violence. “Relax. I got it.”
They glance over their shoulder, then back at Rocket. “Been sittin’ here for a while, actually. You took your sweet time.”
Rocket scoffs. “That’s none of your damn business.”
A pause.
Then the Inphernal hums, conceding the point with a lazy nod. “Fair.”
They slide off the chair and crouch behind the counter. Rocket hears shuffling. Fabric dragging. Something heavy being nudged closer.
Then the bag appears.
It lands on the counter with a soft but unmistakable thud.
Rocket stiffens.
The thing is big- thicker than he expected, reinforced seams stitched with care. The fabric looks expensive. Durable. Something inside shifts slightly, like it’s settling into place.
Rocket squints at it. “…What the hell is that.”
“Your order,” the Inphernal says easily.
Rocket’s jaw tightens. “This is not a charm.”
“Never said it was.”
He stares at the bag. Then up at them. Then back at the bag again. “This was a thousand?”
The Inphernal’s mouth curls into a slow, knowing smirk. “Yeah. Maybe if you didn’t come in here ready to explode, you’d notice I sell more than trinkets.”
Rocket hesitates- and finally, reluctantly, looks around.
He hadn’t really seen the shop before. Not properly.
Along the walls hang scarves- thick, layered ones meant for real cold, woven with patterns that echo feathers, wings, constellations. Gloves designed for Inphernals who need dexterity without sacrificing warmth. Small protective charms sewn into hems instead of dangling uselessly. Gear meant to be used, not just admired.
His chest tightens.
The Inphernal reaches into the bag and pulls something free.
A scarf.
Deep red- Sword’s favorite shade. Threaded through with soft white fibers like down feathers, stitched with subtle gold accents that catch the light when they move. Tiny charms hang from the ends: muted bells that barely make a sound, and a small metal bird worked lovingly into the fringe.
It looks warm. Really warm. Built for winter streets and early mornings and someone who forgets to take care of himself.
Rocket’s throat bobs.
“…This was only a thousand,” he says again, the fight gone from his voice.
“End-of-season,” the Inphernal shrugs. “Plus you looked like the type who’d punch a wall if I upsold you.”
Rocket exhales hard and scrubs a hand down his face. “…Thanks.”
It slips out quiet. Unpolished. Real.
The Inphernal grins, sharp and satisfied. “Don’t get sentimental. Now get the hell outta my shop.”
Rocket snorts, flips them off out of pure principle, and grabs the bag. He shoulders it carefully- carefully, despite himself- and shoves the door open.
Cold air crashes into him again.
Snow crunches under his boots.
And the moment the door slams shut behind him, Rocket’s scowl breaks.
A grin splits his face- wide, crooked, bright as the lanterns strung across Crossroads. His breath fogs in front of him as he hugs the bag closer to his side.
Sword is going to love this.
And for once, Rocket thinks- maybe the cold isn’t so bad after all.
___
Rocket trudges back through Crossroads with the bag dragging at his side, its weight thudding softly against his knee with every step. Snow dusts his boots, gathers in the seams of the street like sugar left too long on a table. Lanternlight flickers over shop windows and sleepy Inphernals, the morning still young enough to feel private. His shoulders ache- not painfully, just enough to remind him he did something stupid. Something expensive. Something worth it.
He’s halfway through rehearsing a cool, casual greeting- something that doesn’t betray the absolute hemorrhaging of BUX and pride- when he spots a familiar shape on the bench ahead.
Red horns. Familiar posture. Zero dignity.
Sword is sitting exactly where Rocket left him, legs swinging idly, staring straight at him with unbroken eye contact while stuffing two corndogs into his mouth at once. Not hurried. Not guilty. Just… committed.
Rocket stops walking.
He feels something inside him snap. Not loudly. Just a quiet, final click.
Sword calmly pulls the sticks out of his mouth, lips shiny, expression serene. He drops the sticks into the snow beside the bench like evidence he refuses to acknowledge.
Rocket exhales through his nose. Long. Tired. Resigned.
He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t scold. Doesn’t even comment. Whatever lecture he had prepared dissolves into the cold air, unneeded. He marches over, drops the big bag with a dull thump at Sword’s feet, and collapses onto the bench beside him hard enough to make it creak.
“I got your gift,” Rocket says flatly.
Sword blinks, then looks at the bag. Then back at Rocket. His eyes light up in that way that always makes Rocket feel like he’s already lost.
“Wow,” Sword says, impressed. “That bag looks bloated. You really bought all that for lil’ ol’ me?”
Rocket stares at him. Really looks at him. The scarf crooked at his neck. The snow melting in his hair. The stupidly pleased curve of his mouth.
Then, without a word, Rocket reaches out, cups Sword’s cheek, and pulls him in.
The kiss is warm- unexpectedly so in the winter air. Soft at first, like Rocket’s checking something, then firmer, lingering. Sword makes a small noise of surprise before leaning into it instinctively, hand sliding up to grip Rocket’s shoulder and tug him closer. Their foreheads brush when they part, breaths mingling, fog overlapping like they were always meant to meet there.
Sword smiles, dazed and fond. “You know,” he murmurs, “there’s no point in waiting to exchange gifts later. We already both know.”
Rocket scoffs. “You say that like you were subtle.”
Sword ignores him entirely and reaches for his own bag- the suspiciously clumped one- and presses it into Rocket’s chest. “Look.”
Rocket hesitates, then peers inside.
He freezes.
“...What the hell.”
He lifts it out slowly.
It’s him.
Or…something like him.
A plush- round, fat, unapologetically so. Stubby limbs. Permanently angry stitched expression. Blue goggles perched just right. Blue horns on the sides. It’s absurd. It’s humiliating. It’s perfect. Nestled beside it is another plush- Sword, unmistakable, helm and all, smiling that infuriatingly gentle smile Rocket sees every morning.
Rocket doesn’t say anything.
He sets the Rocket plush aside carefully and lifts the Sword one with both hands, holding it like it might vanish if he grips too tight. His jaw works. His throat tightens. His eyes betray him first, glassy and bright.
Sword’s grin falters. “…Uh oh,” he says softly. “Do you not like it?”
“No,” Rocket blurts. “No, it’s- it’s cute.”
He turns his head away sharply, biting down hard on his lip. Tears gather anyway, stubborn, traitorous. Sword watches him for half a second before snorting.
“Oh my god,” Sword laughs. “So you do find me cute.”
Rocket snaps back around. “Absolutely not.”
Sword hums, clearly unconvinced, and reaches back into the bag. “I got matching ones too.”
He pulls out another pair.
That’s it.
Rocket breaks.
A sound escapes him- half sob, half laugh- and he lunges forward, wrapping his arms around Sword’s waist and burying his face against him. Words spill out in a tangled mess: thank yous, incoherent praise, muffled complaints about unfairness and how soft they are and how stupidly perfect this is.
Sword giggles, arms sliding around Rocket’s shoulders, rocking them gently on the bench like it’s instinct. He presses his cheek against Rocket’s hair, smiling so wide it almost hurts.
After a moment, Sword pulls back just enough to look at him. “So,” he asks softly, eyes shining, “what did you get me?”
Rocket sniffs, scrubs his face with his sleeve, and shoves the big bag toward him. “Here.”
Sword opens it.
The scarf comes out first.
Red. Deep, warm, rich like embers. His favorite shade. Feather motifs woven carefully through the fabric. Small charms stitched into the fringe- bells, metal trinkets, a tiny bird that glints when it catches the light. Sword’s breath catches.
“…Is this-”
His hands tremble as he lifts it higher, fingers tracing the stitching with reverence. He glances back into the bag, but his eyes keep snapping back to the scarf, like it’s pulling him in.
Rocket watches from the corner of his eye, arms crossed, pretending very hard not to care.
Sword drops the bag.
It hits the snow, forgotten.
“Oh,” Sword breathes. “Rocket.”
He tries to speak, fails, reaches immediately for his own scarf. Rocket grabs his wrist. “Later.”
“But- I love it,” Sword insists, voice cracking. “It’s so well-crafted- look at this, the feathers, the charms-”
His eyes fill up. His lip quivers.
And then Sword is crying too, clinging to Rocket like the cold might take him otherwise.
Rocket sighs, rolls his eyes, and wraps his arms around him anyway, holding him close as snow drifts lazily around them and lanternlight hums.
“Merry Christmas,” Rocket mutters fondly, pressing his chin to Sword’s head. “Idiot.”