Though J knows deep down that S won't judge him coldly — that, if he were to laugh, it would be fond and teasing and warm — there's always that small part of him waiting to be mocked or to discover he's a disappointment, just barely present enough for him to be palpably relieved at S's expression when he pulls the cat free of its wrapping.

He thinks he might actually flush a little, pleased and sliding closer again, looping his arms around one of S's. "I thought," he explains, "that Franz could use a friend more his size." He also thought that, given how happy he's been to receive such things, S might like it too. Little toys like this have been scarce in his life, and it's an odd point of pride and comfort to have some now. As absurd as it sounds to his own ears, it's wonderful to be secure enough not to feel a complete fool for buying a plush toy instead of something more practical. That day on the boardwalk is a fond memory for him for a number of reasons, and Franz is a constant reminder of it, of the simple loveliness of being frivolous for an afternoon and feeling so cherished. "But he'll need a name."