That quick kiss is all it takes to make J brighten, the faint cloud of self-consciousness giving way to sunshine. He knows now, as well as he ever could, that if there's anyone in the world, in any world, who won't judge him, it's S. That doesn't make him any less alert as he gives these gifts. It's been a long time since they exchanged Christmas presents, and this is the first year J hasn't been able to fall back on music in some way. Explaining why he picked things is a surprisingly vulnerable process, though perhaps that's more because it's been, all in all, a terribly vulnerable year.

"It's not a waste," he says, "whatever you do with it. But, ah, if it helps — if you need it to — I'm glad." He reaches for another present, feeling really very spoiled already, but enjoying that. There's an awkward squirminess to it, because he's really not used to getting many gifts, but he's getting a little bit more accustomed, bit by bit, to not having to watch their budget quite so closely and, anyway, he sometimes likes the feeling of being fussed over, as long as the context is positive. Even as he starts to unwrap it, he continues speaking. "Sometimes I just write down..." His hands fidget against the half-peeled paper, and he glances up, wrinkling up his nose. "The voice, you know. What it says. If I see it written down, sometimes I can see how stupid it is."

He used to write it all out as fact, blindly following, taken it all as a given. It helps now, gives some clarity, to try and find the lie.