***GABE***

Christmas morning and I'm so stupid, counting only on my Gryffindor underwear and a Santa hat to keep me warm as I dart around the apartment to finally put together my gift for Harris. I wish I could help try and fix up the communications problems going on in this 'verse, but I know nothing about the tech involved. Nothing about how it really works, anyway. And until then, with no internet and no Netflix - and not enough DVDs in the collection because all our friends have managed to pilfer most of them - there's been precious little for me and Harris to do. Especially given that we've still got a memorial service lined up for TJ the day after Christmas. I haven't even had the heart to do much more than lie in bed crying most of the last couple of days. It's funny, I went into winter break thinking that'd be the time when Harris and I would finally just cut loose and have an entire day of sex as our excuse to keep warm. But no, I'm just not up to it right now.

What I am up to, though, is using my newfound powers for good. Not that I didn't already, but I'd just like to see if I can fine-tune them well enough to really entertain my man. I'm forever thankful that he's every bit the fanboy I want in my life, because if there's anything for us to have in common without it being hella creepy, that would be it. Well, aside from us being both boys who like boys. And other genders too, in his case.

But above all, my sweet little boyfriend is a fanboy, so I know he'll appreciate the gift I give him this year. For one thing, it'll include a little of his gift to me - the Gryffindor panties are the only ones I don't think he's seen me wear yet. Somehow I've gotten it into my head that having a leaping, roaring lion emblazoned on my crotch is even more extremely on the nose than the near-literal trouser snake on this pair's Slytherin counterpart. For another thing, it'll also include another favorite fandom of his, one he grew up with almost as closely as he did HP.

If, of course, I can actually pull this off.

Amazingly, I've been able to find a staple gun in a drawer in the kitchen. So weird that Annie can't keep us well-stocked with good food - except cherry tomatoes; she must really be all about those antioxidants and shit - but tools? Perish the thought of us living without them in this little apartment. Little enough that the noise this thing makes could wake up Harris all too easily, but that's a risk I'm going to have to take in order to pull this last-minute decoration off.

Now my next question is: after stapling what I need to staple, can I apply the paint around it properly without turning the lights on? Especially since it's not just, like, a general swath of new paint over this section of the wall. I have to actually see what I'm doing...and nope, I can't in the dark. Harris could do it if he wanted to, because one of his extra perks to having Dark warlock powers is night vision. But since I now have a power that would make me a Light Ice warlock if I were a human, night vision isn't a gift the universe will give me. No matter what holiday it is.

Luckily, Harris does nothing when I turn the light on, even. Is he still asleep? Somehow, I doubt it, given his tendency to be the first one to wake up between the two of us. And his tendency to be the first to try and get me off every morning.

I've said it before, I'll say it again. I'm dating a dog whom nobody neutered.

Once I get the new decorations in place, I kneel behind the side of the couch, the side facing the window. Satisfied that I've managed to hide my six-one Santa-stripper-looking bulk behind the furniture, I wrap my fingers around the string of light and turn on those closest to my skin. The lights turn on further up and down the string as I focus my energy, traveling closer to the wall - then retreating as I lose tiny bits of concentration. It's almost dripping off my forehead like sweat, and I'm finding myself reflexively wiping it away - which, of course, only makes it worse.

Eventually, though, I figure out how to get the job done, making the lights turn on and off as exactly on command as I can. Which is when I casually lean over the couch and, with my one free hand, gently push the remote control off so it falls on the floor to wake Harris up.

Harris steps out of the room, rubbing his eyes as he looks around the room. Thank God he didn't turn the lights on, because if so, it's all too likely he would've seen me right away. As it is, I duck as quickly as I can, then peek around the corner of the couch and look up at the wall. Target light, on...right at the spot where I painted the letter "M" on the wall.

Annie's going to hate us when she checks in on us next time. Which will probably be tomorrow, right before TJ's memorial.

The light blinks on the "M." Can I make it even brighter, the better to attract his attention? Nothing for it but to try., and so I do. The extra brightness only lasts about three seconds, but that's just enough to get him to turn around and peer more closely at the wall. "That's odd," he whispers. "When did we...ohhhhhhhhh shit! Oh my God, are you kidding me?"

I'm so tempted to leap out and catch him in the midst of his Stranger Things-induced freakout, but I have to try and spell out the whole message. "E." "R." "R." "Y." "F." "U."

"You can come out now, Sweaty Elf Boy!" Harris calls out to the entire room, despite its near-emptiness. "No fucking swearing on Christmas, huh?"

Fine. All right. I give up.

I climb up out of my hiding place, the lights flashing up all over as they connect from the wall to me. They're still wrapped around my chest and stomach, twinkling merrily around my muscles. Drawing on my memories of one of my favorite Questionable Content strips ever - pun not intended - I sing one of the few tunes I can actually carry: "'Jingle balls, jingle balls, jingle-'"

"Holy shit!" Harris runs into my arms and clings as tightly to me as he can manage. "How the hell are you not frozen solid? Here, here, let me..." He lets go long enough to strip down to his own underwear, then resumes the embrace, dialing up his body heat.

"Dude, I'm okay!" But I make no physical effort to disentangle myself from him. Not when I'm already feeling so good and toasted like the Parmesan bagel that's my baked-good Patronus. His, I'm pretty sure, is this chocolate-caramel donut you can only find at Dunkin'. Chocolate because he's nuts for it, and caramel in reference to his ultimate DC-based ship.

"Why would you be so naked, though?" Harris asks me.

"Why the bloody hell not?"

He kisses my chest, cutely nuzzling the lights aside for unfettered access to my nipple. "Turn the lights on."

"You mean...?" I blaze up all the lights still wrapped around me, enough to bathe him in a ROY G. BIV glow. Yes, of course these Christmas lights are rainbow-colored. I understand they're far easier to find here than in Prime, so of course Annie couldn't resist supplying us with these. Unfortunately, she forgot to supply us with a tree - natural, artificial, aluminum, or otherwise - so they've been sitting unused in a cabinet above the sink, right alongside our coffee mugs.

"I mean the house lights," he says, running to turn them on himself. They're now a lot less impressive, the lights wrapped around me and stapled to the wall, but they still shine very brightly as long as I keep my own powers going. I swear I'm starting to turn white with all this light pouring out of me. It's like it was always waiting to come out and play, for years, and now that it's finally gotten its chance, it's really reveling in its newfound freedom. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, so keep John Green away from it or he'll use it in his next book. "Wow," Harris breathes as he gets a full look at the Stranger Things alphabet lights. "How'd you do that when you couldn't see shit?"

"Staples, spit, and prayers."

"'Bout time you find something else good to use spit for, eh?"

"Except we don't use spit for what you're suggesting."

"I do when I'm...dancing with myself!" He sings the last words in a pretty damn good Billy Idol accent. At least one half of this couple is a good singer. I'm just glad he's not so crude as to mime jerking off. Or, knowing his high horniness, actually do so until I'm forced to (reluctantly) slap his hand away from his junk. Which means I'd have to likely slap his junk too, and depending on how much of a chub he's got at the moment, he might actually be into that. I wouldn't know, because so far I haven't really explored his kinks all that much. We've been pretty content with playing vanilla. Just a dash of fudge. No lemon or strawberry.

"Want me to bring it to its full potential?" I ask.

He smiles broadly and saunters back to me, wrapping his arm around my waist. "Spell out your full message, sweet cheeks," he says, his fingers flicking the waistband of my underwear and getting close to mine.

"As you wish." I let the light travel away from my body again, playing its way up and down the wall as it settles on each letter from the Upside Down. It takes about forty seconds or so, but finally, I spell it all out. "MERRY BLOODY CHRISTMAS HARRIS." Yes, I switched swears. Just like everything else connected to this little project of mine, why the fuck not?

"It's good to know there's still the little things in life to appreciate," he says after giving me a kiss on the cheek.

"While we can," I whisper before his lips silence mine fully. At least until I pull away from him, short of breath - and not in the sweetly dizzy way that usually tells me we're about to play to orgasm.

"What's wrong?" he asks as I lie on the couch, facing the wall. The lights are all blinking, all of them, but only for a moment before they all fade away.

"I'm just..." I shake my head as he sits next to it, stroking my hair gently. "I just wish I could've saved TJ. All this was my way of distracting myself-"

"And showing your man a good time?"

"Mmmmm...that too."

"Shit, you're hyperventilating." His hand moves from my head to my shoulder, and his other hand finds its way to my chest. No tweaking my nipple, though, as much as I lowkey wish he would. But there's still that persistent warmth of his seeping through my skin on both sides. "Breathe, Gabe."

"Kiss me again? It might help."

He has another idea. "When was the last time you cried?"

"After we came back from Peppermint HQ?" Though I can't be sure.

It amazes me how strong he is, able to drag me into his grasp despite my advantages of four inches and twenty-five pounds. "Let it out, baby. Don't hold back."

Sharing a dream with Alex numbed my pain for a bit. So did setting up the lights. I'd take anything else as a distraction now. Coffee. Chicken wings. Leg day, which I've been neglecting for a while because I haven't been to the gym since the start of the current catastrophe.

But now, all I can think about is how much TJ deserved better, and we still can't properly honor him for another day.

And how cruel it is that just when I finally find a blood connection on the other side of death, I lose him, most likely forever.

The tears come, falling thick and fast on the upholstery. "I'm so alone," I whisper. "Why am I so alone?"

"You're not..." Harris says, but he cuts himself off rather than belabor my point.

"I just talked to Alex again," I say. "In my dream last night." Though he's quiet now, Harris' hands remain in place, gently radiating love and warmth into my physically and psychologically chilled shell. "You know what he said? He said God is real, and a real asshole."

"This is an actual shared dream?" he asks. "Just sounds a little out of character for him if it is."

"It's what he said. Paraphrased." I look up to see tears forming in his own eyes. "I mean, he also said..." I wipe my eyes before he can do that to me. "He also said he met Jesus, though. And Jesus was super cool. But God? Not so much."

"I...actually fully believe that, I'm gonna be honest."

"Is that what we've gotta fight against?" I look past him and stare up at the ceiling. "Someone so unstoppable? Why do you think I stopped believing? The less power he gets-"

"What are you talking about?"

Okay, he's right, I'm sounding a little less hinged than I thought. Call it grief, call it cynicism, call it what you want. "I'm stuck in some kind of hero's role, and every time I try to get out of it, I can't. Dying didn't stop it. Nothing will. And when everything you believe, or not believe in, is all turned upside down-"

Harris' touch tightens on my shoulder. "You're not the only one feeling like that, I bet."

"You too? You're not showing much disillusionment."

"Who says I'm not feeling it, though?" His head approaches mine, so his voice lowers as well. "I may be a peppy piece of shit most of the time, but that's because I'm just naturally vivacious. Trust me, I feel awful just as much as any of the rest of us do." He pulls on me again, and pushes himself back and up as well. Now he's holding me from beneath. Were I in a more receptively erotic mood, I'd say he wants to reverse-cowboy me. "But I'm not talking about myself. I'm talking about Alex."

"Huh?"

"You said you got that news from him in your dream last night. Alex was more of a believer, am I right?"

"Not devout, but yeah, compared to me-"

"Yeah," Harris says. "You're not the only one reeling, I bet. Hell, who's to say Alex isn't the atheist now instead of you?"

I nod, eliciting a very brief giggle from him as my hair rubs his smooth chest. "Wouldn't be the first time we've found ourselves switching bits and pieces of our personalities."

The thought that creeps into his mind, for some reason, is a picture of a scene I'm pretty sure I've told him maybe once: that Alex and I once wore matching red suits to cosplay as Panic! at the Disco in the "I Write Sins, Not Tragedies" video. "Twindividuality," he says.

"Something like that." I let myself relax, though the tears still stream from my eyes. I almost wish I could just sob away, but I don't really have the energy for that right now. The quietest cry, a soft ebbing of what little strength I have right now. Then I can sleep and be fully awake and aware tomorrow when we're all at the memorial.

"Hold up, Gabe, you're crushing me!"

"Oh shit, sorry!" I jump to my feet, and a second later, so does he. "You all right?"

"Mm-hmm."

I'm actually pretty well awake now, thanks to this shock to my system. Enough that that erotic reception I was talking about earlier is returning, bringing me to my knees-

"Let's get back to bed," Harris says when he sees what I'm picturing. "And, uh, get those lights off. And that Santa hat. I don't wanna give it a stain that'll never come out."

"I thought that was the sticky shit that came out of your fingers."

He chuckles as he unwinds the lights from around my chest, then leads me back to the bedroom and lies back on the mattress. "Have I told you I've learned to make lube out of that shit?"

"Only a dozen times, you hung-ass Dark horse."

Morning, mourning, or otherwise, some things never change. The little things in life.

Wherever you are, Josh or Jesus or whatever you call yourself now, don't look at me and my man right now. Just smile and bless us like I'm sure you've always secretly been doing.