You don't know it yet, but you're loved.

Jamil groans, as he always did and always would. He brings his shaky hand towards the bottom of his pant leg before dramatically swatting it away. The sweat drips from his forehead and down into his beard.

"Are you stupid?" Wolfgang chastises, entering through the opened door of the shed. Snow as white as oblivion itself follows him inside. Upon approaching, the various cans and unfolded clothes come into view. "Zawadi told you to stop picking at that scab on your knee! And I keep telling you that if you'd just go outside, you'd forget it even exists!"

Jamil licks his lips, hand shooting for the rim of his pants to bring the scab into view. He winces as he is jabbed by the broom in Wolfgang's hand, a red spot blooming just below his knuckles.

"You're not very smart." His friend says as if he's not surprised. "No, you never really were. Come. I'm bringing you outside."

"I don't need to go outside." The bearded man moans as he thumbs the bruise on his hand. He can imagine it in his head like a stageplay: he steps outside and is immediately assaulted by bird poop. The wind gnaws at his fragile skin like it wants him dead and orphaned children point and laugh. Maybe he gets struck dead by lightning even. He shakes his head dramatically as he blinks the vision from his eyes. It was final, he was staying put. Wolfgang tries to figure him out. He tries to imagine what Jamil could be imagining in that paranoid head of his like a stageplay: The man steps outside and is immediately assaulted by bird poop. The wind gnaws at his fragile skin like it wants him dead and orphaned children point and laugh. Maybe he gets struck dead by lightning even. Wolfgang rolls his eyes and the vision disappears like a whirlpool. As if, he thinks.

"And what if Milla was out there?" Wolfgang motions to the outside with exaggerated frustration. 

"Your sister?" Jamil plays dumb.

"Oh, so now you can be normal about her, but when I'd ask you to stop describing your ideal wedding with her, it was an impossible request."

"When one's in the prime of their youth, thoughts of love cannot be tamed."

"That was only two months ago. You're pushing at least thirty. And besides, when did you become a poet?" Wolfgang replies with disgust as he swipes at Jamil's chair with his broom.

"Thirty is still youthful!" Jamil attempts to swipe back only to suffer more blows to his hand.

"I get it," his friend begins to think aloud, "If I had built myself my own house (well, shed,) to live independently, I would also be rather proud of it. However, you're no better than a teenage boy right now. If your parents knew how you were living, they'd ask for you back."

"They said their roof, their rules." The rebel points up at the ceiling. "My roof, my rules."

Wolfgang points out the door. "My family's backyard, my family's rules. Get up!"

He was moved with such swiftness that Jamil swore he blacked out for a moment.

"This is kidnapping." He quips. Wolfgang rolls his eyes and continues to drag him like a grown man's weight's nothing to sneeze at. His friend's family lives in the more backwater parts of the region, their fancy name only able to get them so far before people see their appearance and dismiss them. Wolfgang tells him all the time that his family only seems "fancy" to Jamil by comparison. According to the guy himself, they're at their wits' end. Jamil is not the first person Wolfgang's had to escort off of the premises but he is the first one his family's taken a liking to.

"I should call my lawyer," Jamil continues on.

"Lawyer? With what money, might I ask?"

"The money I stole from under your back pocket, of course."

"You stole from where?!" Wolfgang's hands fly to his backside and pat around in a flurry. His wallet is definitely still there, but Jamil, who was previously being dragged by the collar, is gone. Every time he falls for his friend's trickery, he wonders why they're still friends. Perhaps he's growing fond to his stupidity and his pigheadedness. Perhaps it's like a twisted form of stockholm syndrome. 

Jamil asks for permission to open the fridge and Milla grants it to him without hesitation. He thanks her, smile stretching across his face wider than she's seen in a while. To be fair, she hasn't seen Jamil himself in a while.

"Wolfgang's only annoying because he cares, y'know."

"Wolfgang's annoying because he doesn't know how to stop." The man replies as he browses through the milk and the eggnog and the red sorrel drink in a pitcher. 

"But he's not like your parents." Milla says while picking her nails and Jamil takes a pause, before continuing his search. And then he pauses again like he can't shake something off.

"Why did your folks take him in?" He asks.

"Because they couldn't have their own kids. Same reason they took me in. They're not even married on paper. They couldn't afford it."

"So I'm guessing they couldn't afford to legally adopt some kids or something? Besides, you two aren't kids, you're well into your 20s. It's more like they picked you up off the streets."

"You ask like it bothers you. You came off the streets as well." Milla smiles sadly. Jamil closes the fridge door and spins on his heels. He looks at her, fumbles over his words before they even come out of his mouth, and shrugs.

"I guess that's just how things work around this neck of the woods." He shrugs. "No one can ever afford to legally do, well, anything. Everything just comes from nothing. I wish I could just have something for once. I wish I could actually like my own family."

"I suppose that is a recurring theme." She purses her lips before approaching. "Listen, I get it. Between your parents and the lack of finances, your life has just never felt like your own. That's why you ran away. But Wolfgang has felt that way before too. That's why he's so hard on you. He gets it. And, well, if you think I'm going to be easier on you..." Her eyes dart around as if thinking of something before flicking Jamil in the head at a blinding speed.

"Excuse you!" He holds his forehead. 

"I get it too! So I'm going to be just as harsh as he is!"

Maybe, Jamil thinks, it would be easier to lie down in the snow and die.

"I think this should be enough." Wolfgang thinks aloud as he counts the pieces of meat he received from the butcher. The violent red seems almost like it would glow if placed directly in the sun.

"He's joining us for dinner, isn't he? It doesn't seem like he eats a lot."

"Trust me, he does. He just likes to pretend he's got a petite diet. What an idiot. As if anyone would choose to eat less."

"It would be nice to in some circumstances. Can't knock a man for trying."

"I can knock him for quite a lot, actually." Wolfgang bellows.

He walks with another man, quite older than him in fact, but they share the same dark skin, wide nose, and round ears. Their side profiles alone make it seem like they could be blood related. The other man, however, turns. His face is now visible and it's clear that him and Wolfgang share nothing aside from that.

"This is how you plan on spending Christmas? Getting hypothermia?" Lee, the unofficial father, questions Jamil as he spots him from the corner of his eye. It seems he is quite literally lying down in the snow to die.

"Jamil!" Wolfgang shouts as he hands off the meat to Lee, who barely catches it, and vaults over the wooden railing of the steps. Jamil shoots up in a panic.

"Not you again!"

"What do you mean not me again! Don't treat me like a stranger! And get up, what's wrong with you?!" His friend cries as he peels him off the snowy ground, his back now completely wet.

"I was being dramatic! I thought it'd be funny if someone found me like this!"

The younger man sighs. Despite being five years younger, he always feels like the babysitter. Especially with Milla, who is 27 but still tries to live out her youth. If Jamil could hear his inner thoughts, he would probably cry: 27 still is her youth!

Zawadi flips through her novels in bed, just as she always does, with her hair in her silky bonnet. The page reads:

"Lying does not suit you." Riley took a step forward.

"Well, Riley, you believe what you want to believe. Is that not your motto regardless? Hell, I remember when I told you that story about the gallows where--"

"No time to talk about gallows… let's talk about…"

"About…"

"About you."

"Me?"

"What you meant, yes."

"You love your rumors. Always reading into things."

"Bennett--"

"It's okay, I see how you think of me."

He sounded offended.

Oh gods, he sounded offended.

"....It is not from a place of damnation nor judgment."

"What're you reading?" Wolfgang asks, planting himself on the bed next to her. A shock runs up her spine as she loses his grip on the book and ultimately her page.

"What are you doing, sneaking up on me?!"

"Just wanted to let you know we're cooking dinner now." He cocks his head to catch a better glimpse of the book on her lap. "Is that the novel that fellow next door wrote for you last Christmas?"

"Actually, it was two Christmases ago."

"So, Christmas of 1959? I thought you would have finished it by now."

"I'm getting to it. It's got all sorts of stuff you cannot find in novels in stores."

"Really? Like...?"

"Well... you'll find out when I pass it off to you."

"You said that last Christmas too! I'm not a child!"

She couldn't tell him that he sometimes acted like one. She lifts her sheet up and throws her legs over the side of the bed. "So, cooking, huh? Should I come and help?"

"If you want to." He scratched the back of his head.

Jamil wasn't much of a cook. His parents always told him that if he played his cards right, he'd never have to touch a stove a day in his life. He knew how to boil broth at best.

"Jamil, the seasoned salt!"

"Right," he handed over a shaker full of white grains. "Here."

"Well, I meant the orange one, but I'll need to use this too." Lee comments as he sets it aside and sticks his hand out again. Jamil this time hands the one full of orange grains. He looks over his shoulder to see Milla straining milk into the sink. He turns back around to see Zawadi giving Lee a peck on his cheek as she begins to comb through the ingredients on his side of the counter.

"Red onions?"

"I'm aware you hate them, but this time I can make them in a way you'll love."

"You said the same thing about squash."

"You actually finished it that time so I'd consider it an improvement."

"I didn't." Wolfgang adds in, the horrible memory of the food plaguing his mind. He opens the fridge and notices how the unsalted butter is still unopened. "Hey, who was the one responsible for making the batter...?"

"I took a swing at it," Jamil chirps. "Smells good, doesn't it?"

"You used salted butter."

"To bring out the flavor!"

"It's supposed to be unsalted."

"What's the worst thing that could happen with some salted butter?"

Milla pulls the cookies out of the oven a few hours later. Well, they were more like squeezable, stretchable clumps with chocolate chips embedded in them. Wolfgang is staring holes into Jamil as the inexperienced baker steps forward and takes a large whiff. 

"I'm a genius."

"Yeah? How so."

"These are three dimensional cookies. They're round like cookies... but you can now perceive every inch of it."

Wolfgang opens his mouth to berate him, but the other three clap instead. It seems like they're recognizing some kind of hidden genius, or rather they're just being very nice. He decides to be nice to his friend too, offering small pity claps.

"This is lamb like I've never had before!" Milla comments as she licks her fingers. She brushes her hair out of her face every once in a while as she goes in for more.

"Are you a lamb expert?" Jamil asks, sarcastic.

"I've had a lot over the years. Back when I was traveling with my brother, he was always able to identify good food just by looking at it. He used to be a chef."

"Where is he now?"

Milla shakes her head. "I'm not sure. But I know I have a new brother now."

"Wolfgang, right?"

"Well, him... and you too, Jamil."

Wolfgang snickers while Jamil bites the inside of his cheek.

"Me...? A brother?"

"Yeah, of course! You're always here, so you're like my brother."

"Yeah, Jamil." Wolfgang chimes in. "You're the perfect brother."

Ignoring the dead look in his eyes, Milla turns to Zawadi, her perfect, non-blood related mother. "And speaking of perfect things, I've got you the perfect gift." 

"Oh? And where would that perfect gift be?"

Milla's eyes jot down and so do Zawadi's. She lifts her bum and slides her hand under to feel something on her seat, pulling it out from under her. It's a black bookmark with golden colored edges. It reads: "A book is like a dream you can return to".

"This is so cute... where did you find this?"

"The guy from next door, I asked him if he could take me to the bookstore in his car. I couldn't afford any actual books but I did find this."

"Christmas gifts, huh?" Jamil thinks to himself out loud.

"You technically already got yours, you know." Wolfgang responded.

"Huh? Did I?" 

"Do you really not know?"

His friend shakes his head.

"You're so... well, hopefully you realize sooner or later." Wolfgang grumbles as the rest of the table gently chuckles. Jamil looks around. 

Maybe I did get my gift, he thinks to himself.