chapter 37- Breath in. Breath out.

The wind had quieted.
Even the Divide, ever murmuring, had gone silent.
As if holding its breath for him.

Ydoc's eyes flutter open—not like waking from sleep, but from music.
From that place inside the soul where memory doesn't need permission to hurt.

The world returns in pieces.

First: the cold.
Snow presses against his knees, numbing, wet, yet strangely welcome.
He shifts, and the soft crunch of it beneath him is real.
It anchors him.

Then: the warmth.
Not his own—no, his body feels drained, like the music hollowed him out and left only the shell.
But wrapped tight around his chest is a living furnace, small and shivering and full of something he doesn’t yet understand.

Froosta.

He’s still here.

Ydoc breathes in, the sharp air biting at his lungs, and he feels it all:
The tiny rise and fall of Froosta’s breath against his ribs.
The way his fingers twitch ever so slightly in Ydoc’s coat, as if afraid he’ll be pushed away.
The heartbeat—fast, nervous, hopeful—hammering behind that soft chest.

Why…
Why is he holding me like this?

Ydoc doesn’t move.
He doesn’t speak.

He just looks down, slowly, his black-ink eyes catching the slow fall of snowflakes.
Some land on Froosta’s head, melting into his hair.
Some drift onto Ydoc’s bare skin, where his sleeve had rolled back—
And there—
He feels it.

The snow.

The Divide.
The moment.
The now.

Froosta snuggles in closer, unaware of the shift inside Ydoc, or maybe fully aware, and choosing not to speak.

And still—Ydoc wonders:

Does he know what I am? What I did? What I might do again?

He lowers his hand slowly, uncertain, until it rests lightly on Froosta’s back.

The body beneath his palm is warm, gentle, and real.

He thinks, briefly, of the cabin in the woods.
Of the dream.
Of the sorrow it stirred.
That place felt like home, but it was empty. Abandoned.

And here—
Here is someone holding him like home.

Not because they should.
But because they want to.

Ydoc breathes out.
Long. Quiet. Visible in the air.

His fingers curl just slightly around Froosta’s back. Not a hug.
Not yet.

But not nothing.
                  ==--The Nature of a Hug--==

Ydoc doesn't speak.
The world has given him silence—and he accepts it.

Froosta remains latched to his middle, face buried in Ydoc's stomach like a child hiding from thunder.
His tiny nose is pressed just below the ribs, dangerously close to the heart, and his arms grip tighter with every breath.
One leg kicks once—a soft, twitching thump—like a puppy dreaming.

And his tail?

It vibrates.

Wagging not with rhythm, but with ecstasy.
A raw, uncontrollable tremor of joy.
As if Ydoc's body were a warm stone, and Froosta a cold creature sunbathing on it.

Ydoc stares forward.

Then, slowly, down.

This is a hug, isn’t it?
A good one. Tight. Honest. Real…?

His mind recoils—not from Froosta—but from the question.
From the memory.

When was the last time someone hugged me like this?

His thoughts drag back through the snow, into the house.
The lifeless one.
The one with no pictures.
The one that smelled like damp pasta and default vases.

Did… did Edwards ever hug me?

He should’ve, shouldn’t he?

The mind claws back. Desperate for a scrap.
An arm across the shoulder?
A hand gripping the back of his neck?

Yes—but those weren’t hugs.

They were handles.

Edwards touched to control.
To guide.
To hold Ydoc in place when words failed.
The warmth in it was strategic—like a leash dressed up in velvet.

Ydoc’s breath shivers. The air fogs before him.

But he remembers Ruby.

Ah… Ruby.

Last night.
The rain.
The flickering lights of the festival.
The gentle way she had pulled him in, one arm around the back of his neck, her cheek pressed to his.
Not claiming him.
Not controlling.

Just sharing space.

That hug felt…

safe.

Froosta’s grip tightens again.
He nestles closer, and Ydoc hears the faintest sound—a tiny exhale, almost a squeak.
The noise of someone letting themselves believe they are loved.

Ydoc frowns.

Then why… does this hug feel wrong?

His hand traces Froosta’s back—slow, contemplative.
He can feel the joy—the twitching muscles.
Froosta moves like a pet being stroked, like each touch draws pleasure from deep within.

But his back—

It’s cold.
Not cool. Not crisp.
Cold.

Like ice beneath the skin.
A chill that seeps up Ydoc’s arm and into his shoulder.

Perverse? No—not that. But… desperate.
Unhealthy.
Needy.

Ydoc doesn’t pull away.

He just studies it.
Letting Froosta cling.
Letting the cold sink in.

The warmth he gives is stolen warmth.
And Ydoc—
Ydoc is letting it happen.

Because what else is he supposed to do?

This boy—the Prince of Snow, this stranger—is holding on like Ydoc is the last piece of fire left in the Divide.

And gods help him—Ydoc doesn’t have the strength to say no.

===---Do We Hug Like This Often?---===

Ydoc shifts, just barely—his hand settling fully against Froosta’s back.
The cold doesn't leave him.
But it doesn’t hurt. Not yet.

He breathes in again. The snow lands on his shoulder. Time continues.
And finally,
he speaks.

His voice is low, quiet enough that the wind might steal it if Froosta hadn’t buried himself so close.

“Hey, Froosta.”

Pet pet.
His hand runs gently along Froosta’s spine. The fur is soft, fine—cold beneath, but yielding to touch.

Froosta lets out a sound. Not a word.
Just a hum—high and trembling. A sound like a kettle just before it sings.

Ydoc continues, a small bitter smile in his voice.

“Do we hug like this often in the past?”

For a moment, nothing.
Froosta’s breath stalls, like the question was more intimate than a kiss.

Then—
he nods, his voice a whisper lost in fur and breath.

“Your hugs… they were always warm.”
“Even when the wind screamed… even when the snow hurt to walk in…”
“There was never a winter that was cold, not when I found your arms.”

His tail sways slowly now, not wagging. More like a pendulum. Measured. Content.

“You used to say—”
“You used to say there was never a friend who went unloved in your house.”

Ydoc's fingers slow. Something pricks in his chest. Not pain—
Recognition?
Sorrow?

And then Froosta—
stops.

Mid-sentence.

He had been about to say something else. Another memory. Another truth.

But instead—
he grins.

A wide, unseen grin, pressed to Ydoc’s belly like a secret.

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

Ydoc feels the smile through the fabric of his coat.

And for the first time…
he wonders not just who Froosta is to him—
but what Froosta knows
that he won’t say.

    ==--The Warmth You Took--==

Ydoc lifts his hand, resting it at the crown of Froosta’s head—petting gently, the way one might calm a purring creature with too many secrets.
The soft locks of white hair part beneath his fingers, cold like powdered frost and sleeping ice.

He speaks again, tone soft, but carrying a bite of jest.

“You stopped talking.”
“That’s suspicious.”

Froosta mumbles something unintelligible, breath still pressed to Ydoc’s coat like he’s trying to soak in every last flicker of heat.

Ydoc raises an eyebrow.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll stop hugging you.”

Pet pet.
The fingers slow, teasing now.
He means it playfully.
But gods, it works.

Froosta squeaks.

“N-No! No, no—okay, okay—wait—um…”
His voice is dizzy, flushed, spinning in place like a child trying to balance a lie on a beam.

“…You used to…”
“Sometimes you’d—uh—you’d kiss me.”

Ydoc stills. Just slightly.

Froosta stiffens too.

“I mean! Just—just the forehead! Just—friendly! Like… like a brother! Haha… ha…”

A slow, cold blink from Ydoc.
His fingers, still in Froosta’s hair, twitch once.

The warmth is still there.
But something is shifting.
An unease curling in his stomach.

Kiss him?
He can’t remember…
That’s not the part that’s bothering him.

What is, is the way Froosta said it.

The tone.
The hesitation.
The lie.

Ydoc slowly lifts his hand. Brushing that white hair one last time.

Then—

Gently, gently—
He leans back.
Unhooks the arms.
Breaks the hug.

“Okay,” Ydoc murmurs, not unkind, but not warmly either. “That’s enough of that. We should get going.”

Froosta doesn’t seem wounded.

In fact—
he beams.

He steps back with that same fuzzy joy, tail twitching high, his whole frame lightly vibrating again.
But this time—Ydoc sees it.

Not just the movement.

The steam.

Like mist rising from a thawed pond, steam lifts off Froosta’s shoulders, arms, and back.
It rises in small trails, ghostly and curling in the air like the Divide itself is exhaling through him.

Ydoc narrows his eyes.

Gods… just how cold was he?

Froosta hops once—light, weightless.

He’s full of energy now. More than before.
Almost renewed.

Like a frozen star brought back to life.
Like the hug—that hug—was more than affection.

It was fuel.

Ydoc doesn’t say anything.
But a quiet brick sets in place behind his eyes.
The first of a barrier.
Not a wall. Not yet. But a slow, invisible line drawing itself across the mind.

He follows Froosta as the snowy trail begins again.
And though his hand is no longer holding Froosta’s…

He keeps it close.
Just in case.