Christmas Eve was the kind of festive chaos you’d never forget, mostly because you were still sweeping up sprinkles from the floor

What better way to celebrate than stuffing your house with everyone you knew? Baking, decorating, arguing over who had the best tree-topping technique—classic holiday fun.

Slingshot had been a frantic mess in the kitchen, guiding everybody loudly, while Medkit treated people who underestimated the danger of hot cookie sheets. By the end of it, the kitchen looked like a baking warzone, but at least nobody had burned the house down. Small victories.

As night fell, everyone found their corners to crash. The soft hum of the heater mixed with the twinkle of the tree lights, and peace (finally) settled over the house.

...

Until you woke up.

Shuffling noises. From the kitchen.

You sat up, squinting in the dark. Who in their right mind would be raiding the kitchen at—what was it now? 2 a.m.? Fatasses.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled toward the noise. Rubbing your eyes, you peeked around the corner, half-expecting a burglar or, worse, someone trying to "fix" leftovers.

It was worse.

Skateboard.

Fucking Skateboard.

There he was, bent over the fridge like some nocturnal cryptid, rifling through containers with the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy store. He froze when he saw you.

“...Uh.” He straightened, attempting to look casual. It wasn’t working. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Are you serious."

He coughed, clearly scrambling for an excuse. “Did I... uh, did I ever tell you I have a sleepwalking problem?”

You blinked at him. “Sleepwalking. That’s what you’re going with?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, a little too eagerly. “Totally unconscious. No idea how I got here.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “You’re literally holding a fork.” to which he just...sort of stared with a blank expression.

"...It’s a prop. For realism.” He quickly answered, carefully putting it down.

"Dude, just say your fat, jesus christ."