Signals & Static

Synchronize

"So... we slept together."

Santa glanced up. "We did."

"And I liked it."

"Me too."

"I want to do more things like that. And not just sex. I mean us. I want more of... this."

Santa looked at him, really looked, as if scanning his face for metaphor he might miss.

"Do you mean... a partnership?"

Perth swallowed. "I mean dating. I mean being yours. If you want that."

A pause.

Santa tilted his head. "Would that require... exclusivity?"

"Yeah."

"Emotional disclosure on a regular basis?"

Perth laughed softly. "Yes."

"Predictable availability within reason?"

"Definitely."

"And the freedom to be entirely myself?"

"That's... the whole point, Santa."

Santa nodded once. Firm. Certain.

"Then yes. We are boyfriends."

Perth blinked.

"You said it."

"I labeled the data set. You made the emotional hypothesis."

Perth grinned and reached for his hand.

Santa didn't pull away.

⸻

Later that week, Perth's zine dropped publicly just a few printed copies at a local neurodivergent arts collective. "Signals & Static" had sketches of sound maps, fragmented dialogue, pages that read like sensory poems.

One panel had Santa's eyes drawn in pencil. detailed, unflinching.

Someone posted it on social media. It got shared.

Not viral. But visible.

A former colleague messaged Perth.

"So you're dating that guy from the group? Brave of you. Thought he didn't do feelings."

A past client replied.

"Love the art but... is it okay to use real people like that? Even if they're your boyfriend?"

Santa read the comments. He didn't flinch.

But he didn't speak, either.

For hours.

That night, they sat again in the fort. Lights low. Words slow.

"They don't see me," Santa said.

Perth nodded. "I know."

"They see a projection. An anomaly. A plot twist you're playing house with."

"But you're not a twist. You're the point."

"Am I?"

"To me, yeah."

Santa looked down.

"Sometimes I don't know how to be held and not disappear."

Perth crawled forward gently, knelt in front of him.

"Then I'll hold you until you remember."

"Even when it's loud?"

"Especially then."
________

After the post went live and comments surfaced, Santa didn't immediately react not with anger or shutdown, just... retreat. A subtle recalibration Perth hadn't seen before.

Santa's replies became sparse. Shorter. Punctuated with ellipses where there were usually full stops.
Their nightly rituals of shared tea and quiet music thinned.

He was still "there" but less with him.

And Perth, despite trying to give space, felt his nervous system thread tighter. That familiar voice crept in.

You're too much again. You showed too much. Made it art. Made him vulnerable. This is your fault.

He didn't say that out loud.

But Santa could feel the static.

⸻

Layla noticed before either of them said a word. After the weekly support session where they sat on opposite sides of the circle for the first time in weeks. she quietly asked them to stay back. No eye contact. No therapy tone.

Just Layla, soft-voiced and present.

"You're both processing this like it's a system error," she said. "It's not. It's just human friction."

Santa frowned, brows drawn.

"Friction implies instability."

"No," Layla replied gently. "It implies contact. And when systems touch, especially two that were never designed to merge... heat happens. Resistance. Feedback."

Perth rubbed the back of his neck.

"I shouldn't have posted that sketch. I didn't even think about the ripple."

Layla shook her head.

"Art is how you regulate. You externalize to understand. But Santa internalizes to protect. That doesn't mean one of you is wrong it just means the feedback loop needs recalibration."

Santa looked up at her then, quiet.

"Is that why I feel like I'm malfunctioning? Because the inputs aren't matching the output?"

"No," she said. "You're not malfunctioning. You're growing. You're navigating visibility. And that's scary. For both of you."

⸻

That night, Perth sent Santa a message.

"Can I send you a new draft of the zine? With edits you approve? We can co-author it."

Santa didn't respond immediately.

But an hour later, a file arrived. It was a PDF one of Perth's sketches annotated by Santa.

Blue lines. Precise notes.

"This is me. But this angle makes me seem passive. Could you redraw this with my hand touching the edge of the frame?"

Perth replied:
"Yes. Always yes. Thank you for showing me where it felt off."

That night, the tea was quiet again. But not distant. They sat together. Their systems learning to speak.

Not the same language. But a shared one.