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It’s quiet outside.
Natsume sits by the window, his gaze tracing the silhouettes of gray trees, the washed-out cars, the concrete dissolving into mist. Dust motes cling to the dull glass; the sight of them makes his nose wrinkle.
He drags a fingertip along the windowsill. Damp but clean.
The edge of his sweater sleeve darkens with moisture. The sensation is almost insignificant, the fine threads brush his wrist and send an unwarranted shiver up his spine. A thin, ridiculous whimper escapes him before he can stop it, followed by a muttered curse.
“I hate this cold.”
An inquisitive hum answers from the library shelf behind him.
“I said I hate this cold,” Natsume repeats. “When it’s humid, it’s unbearable. How do you and Sora even survive like that? Just long sleeves and vibes?”
Outside, down on the street, a strange man passes by in shorts, swaggering down the street with exaggerated confidence, dog trotting obediently beside him.
Natsume’s brows draw together. Tsumugi laughs.
He has picked up a book, one of those foreign Christmas stories. It is about a magical train crossing the world, collecting good children and delivering them to Santa himself. Natsume has always thought it unbearably corny, even for its intended audience. His younger self would have dismissed it as bland and forgettable.
“Natsume-kun, you think twenty degrees is freezer territory,” Tsumugi says, dragging a chair from Leo’s desk. “Perhaps you’re the odd one here.”
What a peculiar word choice.
“Of course you would say that.”
Natsume shoots him a glare as Tsumugi sits, chuckling softly. There is something faintly nervous in the way he crosses his legs, eyes lowering to the book.
Natsume lets it slide.
Tsumugi turns each page with care, lingering on every illustration as if it were some masterpiece. Considering the book’s reputation, it probably is.
Natsume leans slightly over the plastic armrest of the chair.
Tsumugi’s gaze flicks toward him for just a moment, light as a snowflake brushing skin. His attention settles back on the page, calloused fingers tapping idly against the paper.
“I like the shading.”
Natsume hums, studying the compositions. The way light is rendered gives each scene a warmth he rarely encounters in the media he consumes. It is softer, gentler. Yet undeniably Western.
“You haven’t read this, have you?”
Natsume frowns instantly. He tries not to sound pretentious, overshoots, and ends up defensive, his voice pitching up.
“I have, idiot. Obviously.”
“How did you like it?” Tsumugi does not look up.
A beat. “Boring. And childish.”
Outside, the sky remains stubbornly gray.
A pitifully gentle sound escapes Tsumugi. “Aww. Where’s your Christmas spirit, Natsume-kun? I thought you would like it, since you've been drawing more and all...”
Their eyes meet, and something clicks shut between them. Natsume swallows the key.
“I…” He retreats, only now realizing how close he had been, scarcely a ruler’s length from Tsumugi’s face.
Tsumugi’s breath smells faintly of mint toothpaste.
“I left it with the Grinch.”
Chapped lips curl into a smile, poised delicately between fondness and mockery, never quite tipping into either.
Silence rebounds off the walls and presses into Natsume’s ears. Their breaths mingle, something soft and warm swelling in his chest, floating up until it bursts on the tip of his nose.
It steals the air from his lungs every time.
“Sure you have,” Tsumugi says, returning his attention to the book. Natsume curses himself. “You’ve never liked holidays. Winter break is too long and too cold. Summer break sends your blood pressure soaring, and then—”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
A bird darts past the window, scraping the glass and nearly crashing into it. Chasing something, perhaps. It drifts away as fast as it came.
“That’s you,” Natsume remarks, lifting a lazy finger.
Tsumugi laughs, full and sweet. “Come on. If I were a bird, I would at least fly properly.”
“I highly doubt it.”
“But it would be in my DNA, right?”
“Yours would be misprinted.”
Tsumugi laughs harder, leaning back and brushing his mouth with two knuckles.
Natsume tries and fails to suppress his own smile, hiding it behind the high collar of his sweater.
Tsumugi’s eyes narrow with mirth. They linger a moment too long, searching.
Another shiver runs down Natsume’s spine. He stiffens, catching himself before he gives anything away. His cheeks burn, while his fingers freeze as he rubs his wrists together between his thighs.
“You know,” Tsumugi says, closing the book, “you’d make a great candy cane.”
Natsume’s thoughts short-circuit. Is it an insult? He squints, grasping for some hidden meaning, some ill-advised attempt at flirting. Typical, but what?
Tsumugi covers his eyes with a hand, laughing like a teenager proud of a terrible joke. “Yeah because—” he snorts, “your hair and all...!”
“I’ll strangle you one day,” Natsume mutters, rolling his eyes as heat creeps all the way to the tips of his ears.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Tsumugi replies, dissolving into laughter again.
Natsume sighs and waits it out.
Still no snow.
He plucks the book from Tsumugi’s lap, bouncing it once in his hand before standing and returning it to the shelf beside an elf figurine Nito had insisted on getting.
“A candy cane...” Natsume repeats under his breath.
Tsumugi immediately bursts into laughter again, drawing a reluctant smile from him.
He is wearing that familiar mid-season button-up, the one he lived in last year. Natsume had given it to him for his birthday, chosen carefully to complement his hair. Blue layered over blue, edged in black. Elegant. He had imagined it framing Tsumugi’s neck when he tied his hair back.
Blue curls once brushed the nape of his spine. They had grown too long before he finally cut them, months ago now.
Natsume misses them. Misses the way Tsumugi would ask, almost sheepishly, for a hair tie during practice, clenching it between his teeth as he gathered his hair, eyes darting around as if expecting judgment.
Perhaps Natsume stared too long. Perhaps, lost among mixed signals, he failed to notice how obvious he was.
Tsumugi's laughter softens into something quieter, something warm. The sparkle in his eyes sets Natsume’s heart alight.
They both know.
Natsume turns away, hiding a complicit smile behind his collar.
He senses movement behind him, hears a quiet grunt, the crack of a stretch.
“You’re falling apart.”
Footsteps close the distance. Natsume drags his fingers along the spines of the books, plastic and leather alike, as the innocence of the Christmas story drains from the room.
Hands slide around his waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his sweater.
Tsumugi’s breath is warm against his right side. He leans in, presses a quick kiss to Natsume’s cheek—it tickles.
“That’s just the effect you have on me, Natsume-kun.”
Natsume laughs as more kisses follow, soft and chaste, at odds with the way Tsumugi’s hands wander beneath his shirt.
He shivers, and this time it has nothing to do with the cold.
The kisses fade, replaced by the light brush of fingers tracing the center of his abdomen, skimming over his navel.
Once. Twice.
“Stop,” Natsume says, laughing breathlessly as he flinches and nearly knocks his shoulder into Tsumugi’s chin.
“You’re so sensitive,” Tsumugi murmurs, curiosity coloring his voice as though he has not already mapped every inch of him.
“What a revelation,” Natsume exhales.
It is stupidly, embarrassingly sweet. Still, he cannot help the way his body responds to the phantom line Tsumugi’s fingers draw along his skin, warmth stolen from his hands and pooled elsewhere.
Then a finger drags upward, slow and deliberate, coming to rest at the center of his chest.
Natsume reacts immediately, a throb down to his core. Nipples harden, wrapped in warmth and teased gently, insistently.
The pressure at his back is both comfort and restriction. He grips the shelf.
“Is it good?”
Natsume nods.
He draws his legs together instinctively, heels lifting, thighs pressing in a futile attempt to quell and stoke the sensation simultaneously.
Laying ice on fire.
Oh. They will drown.
One of Tsumugi’s hands slides from Natsume’s hip to the front of his pants, fingers curling around the shape. He presses only slightly, just enough to promise more.
Tsumugi chuckles.
“Shut up,” Natsume murmurs. The tremor in his voice betrays him.
He reaches for Tsumugi’s hand, lifting it into his own, and turns to face him. Tsumugi releases him with clear reluctance. The sweater slips back into place over Natsume’s abdomen, cold fabric brushing heated skin and sending another confused shiver through him.
It barely matters. Standing face to face, the first thing Natsume faces is Tsumugi’s mouth, and he would not have it any other way.
A kiss, then another. Messy, clumsy, all tongue and breath and urgency.
They stumble back to Natsume’s bed. Tsumugi falls onto the mattress with a soft thud, legs parting as he props himself up on his elbows. He removes his glasses and places them on the bedside table.
“You’re looking at me like you want to eat me,” Tsumugi says, tilting his head now. Throat exposed, cheeks flushed... “I thought you were the candy.”
“You’re the sweet one here,” Natsume replies, stepping between his legs. His fingers trace the seam of Tsumugi’s pants.
He unbuckles the belt and tosses it aside, then does the same with the garment.
A quiet hum of satisfaction slips from his lips as his gaze flickers from Tsumugi’s crotch to the open, adoring smile on his face. He bites his lower lip and leans down, pressing over Tsumugi’s chest as he palms him with a hand.
“You’re going to give me diabetes.”
“... What happened to smiles, magic, and love?” Tsumugi asks, holding his gaze but not immune to the attention. “This is the magic for your—”
Natsume rubs his thumb over his tip, fabric still in the way. Slow.
“We’re going to do plenty of love,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry.”
Tsumugi exhales slowly, finally breaking eye contact in a futile attempt at composure. He never had much of it to begin with, and likely never will, anyway.
Natsume’s heart stutters with every breath. His own core aches for attention, but the waiting is intoxicating. Especially when it lets him do this, watching Tsumugi unravel under his touch.
He tugs Tsumugi’s boxers down and wraps his hand fully around his length. His palm moves in an unhurried rhythm; up and down, as he leans closer, savoring the way Tsumugi’s breathing stumbles, warm and uneven against his skin. When a faint whimper slips out, Natsume knows it is only the first note of many.
He swallows Tsumugi’s yelp with a kiss, sweet and sharp at once.
“Enough—Please,” Tsumugi breathes.
Natsume stops immediately. It would be a waste otherwise.
Tsumugi takes a moment to recover, breaths heavy, counting silently. Natsume knows the habit. He once mentioned it while they were writing Seven Days Prismagic: counting, he said, helped him calm down. Something his old psychiatrist taught him. Now he does it for every little thing.
“One, two, three, four...” Natsume whispers. Tsumugi looks at him—surprised, eyes half-lidded. “Out. Good.”
Natsume’s finger brushes Tsumugi’s sticky tip briefly. He chuckles at the gasp and the scowl he earns.
“Natsumeee...!” Tsumugi whines, melodic and helpless.
Long lashes. Freckles scattered across his face. Imperfectly perfect, fractured and mended with gold. The gold of his eyes.
Gold suits him.
“I’m going to the mall later,” Natsume says quietly. “I have an idea for your Christmas gift.”
“But you’ve said that three times already this month...” The weak frown stays.
Natsume’s breath catches at the perceived accusation. Since when did he turn into this?
Cold creeps back into his fingers, and he kisses Tsumugi again—hurried, grounding himself. It still amazes him how far they have come, a path so steep he cannot tell whether they are climbing or falling.
Tsumugi smirks anyway.
Then, without warning, he hooks his legs around Natsume’s waist and drags a rare yelp out of him as he pulls him down and rolls them.
“Where did that come from?” Natsume protests, pinned beneath him. “I... didn’t authorize this.”
Tsumugi kisses him softly, just a taste. The sensation makes his walls clench so hard he has to fight the urge to roll his hips.
Tsumugi hushes him. “Let me make up for the money.”
“Don’t say it like that—” Natsume snaps, already losing the fight as Tsumugi’s hands undo his pants. The cold alone steals his words.
It is not a favor. Natsume wants to give him everything. His space, his body, his time, his warmth. He wants him. Desperately.
He wants to spoil him, too, beneath the bitterness and the edge.
Tsumugi knows. He always knows.
“Let me rephrase, then... that came out wrong,” Tsumugi says, fingers brushing Natsume’s hood, then the swollen lips.
“Let me take care of you.”
He rubs ellipses with all four of his fingers, slow but pressing.
Natsume grips the sheets, then Tsumugi’s shoulder, fighting the instinct to draw his legs closed.
“You always do,” he whispers.
“So do you,” Tsumugi replies gently. “Relax.”
Natsume exhales. His jaw unclenches. His grip loosens. Every sensation flows at once, overwhelming, rolling in waves that drag him closer and closer to the edge.
The shore.
Natsume hates the beach.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if he would hate snow less. If only it came.
“Senpai,” he gasps. “Stop, stop, stop—fuck—”
Tsumugi freezes instantly. He watches him closely, alert and careful, giving him space to breathe.
“What were you thinking of getting me?” Tsumugi asks, trying to soften the moment.
Natsume's heart drums in his ears.
“A muzzle,” he grumbles. A necklace.
Tsumugi tests the waters again. Natsume wants to beg, to cry, to protest, but the words blend into breathless sounds as his thighs begin to tremble again—a finger slides in.
“Tight...” Tsumugi murmurs. “Does it hurt?”
The answer hardly matters. Tsumugi moves slowly regardless, deliberate, as though Natsume were made of porcelain. Every slow slide pulls a whimper from him. Every steady thrust earns a hiss or a gasp.
He adds another one. Natsume’s body clenches helplessly around them.
Another plea spills from his lips. His back arches, legs fluttering. He insists: “Stop, I—”
Tsumugi does not stop. Instead, he kneels and adds a third digit, rubbing fast circles over Natsume’s hood with his free hand, the sound slick and wet in the air. The sheets slightly damp beneath them.
Natsume’s thoughts dissolve. His pleas fracture into broken sounds, tears blurring his vision.
He meets each of Tsumugi’s movements with desperate eagerness, chasing the peak even as he rides it.
Tsumugi leans close again, pulls his fingers out, leaving Natsume's dripping hole sucking onto air.
Their mouths meet again, hungry.
When exhaustion begins to settle, Natsume pushes Tsumugi back just enough to take him in. Disheveled. Flushed. Unaware of the heart-shaped look in his eyes.
He wants revenge.
They switch positions again. Natsume pretends he did it himself—in reality, he knows Tsumugi conceded it. It only fuels the whisper of anger in his ear.
He straddles the other man and strokes his dick, slow and deliberate, drawing a low groan from him.
Without a word, Natsume sits.
He feels it all. Every small throb and twitch, the way his own body feels like sucking Tsumugi in—merciless and desperate. Jointed together as one. Everytime, the realization of this connection is the final push turning his brain and heart into mush.
He moves, supported every time. A hand at his waist, another steadying his thigh.
He feels tears prickling at his eyes.
“You’re beautiful...” Tsumugi breathes. “So good, Natsume-kun.”
Something flutters painfully in Natsume’s chest.
“Give me all of you,” Tsumugi pleads, losing his rhythm entirely. “Please.”
Natsume does.
All he wants is warmth. This warmth. The warmth of breath and skin and heartbeat. Lips pressed to his own. Fingers tangled together. The overstimulation drives him up there faster than anger ever could.
“Tsumugi, I’m—”
Tsumugi’s hand finds Natsume’s clit. Their hips meet again for a longer moment—still too short. Tsumugi leaves him feeling empty, but rubs him off. Natsume pumps fast on him.
They come together; in each other's hands, between wavering gasps and whines of each other's names.
Tsumugi's hazy eyes flutter shut in a moment of pure bliss, lips parted... ethereal, even now.
Natsume nearly collapses. His vision blurs into dark, blotchy colors.
He keeps himself up with a hand on Tsumugi's chest. The latter steadies himself, then notices the way Natsume drifts and acts immediately.
They separate slowly. Natsume wants to protest and say it is fine, just five more minutes sharing this, but Tsumugi does not listen. He gathers him up with surprising strength and guides him under the covers, muttering about vitamins, iron and salt.
“Later,” Natsume grumbles.
They lie close, Tsumugi taking the damp side without complaint.
“We should get a heater in here someday,” Tsumugi murmurs, wrapping his arms around Natsume. “You really are cold.”
Natsume scoots impossibly closer, and a soft, lulling laugh vibrates through Tsumugi’s chest.
As Natsume’s eyelids fall gently, his gaze flickers toward the window. The light outside is harsh, diffused by the clouds, and he can’t focus on it.
“You keep checking out there,” Tsumugi whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“I want snow,” Natsume blurts without thinking.
Tsumugi huffs affectionately. “You’d become frozen candy then,” his voice rasping like velvet, “A popsicle.”
The sky beyond remains a flat gray, but inside, the room is soft and warm. A heater might be more practical, a reasonable way to spend money... yet somehow unnecessary.
When Natsume finally catches sight of faint specks of white drifting past the glass, a wide grin spreads across his face. He props his head up to peek better—
Tsumugi presses him gently back down with a hand and another quiet kiss.
“We’ve got all the time to go out later. Rest now.”
Natsume giggles, a bubbling warmth stirring in his chest. He presses himself into Tsumugi, eyes closed, savoring the giddy anticipation of a child on Christmas Eve.
He doesn’t need a heater. Doesn’t want one. He wouldn’t mind freezing, if Tsumugi were the one keeping him warm.
“I love you.”
“... Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, for fuck's sake—”