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Squidward hates the snow. It puts him on edge; the unnatural way it sinks through the depths of the sea, all the way down to Bikini Bottom. And the cabin fever, don’t even get him started on that.
It’s probably concerning how severe it gets for him. Squidward ruminates on this phenomenon, his mind slinking away from him. He’s supposed to be painting. It’s a new idea for a self-portrait that came to him in a dream, and this morning when he woke up he felt so inspired he barely even dressed himself before he was in his studio setting up his easel. Now he thinks it might be too abstract after all, and the snow, well. He can see it coming down through his window, a perfect sheet of white outside that makes something in the back of his head itch.
Maybe he should submit himself for a psychological case study. “The Effects of a Winter Storm on a Middle-Aged Squid.” It’s probably not the most interesting aspect of his psyche. “The Effects of Living Next to Spongebob for Most of Your Adult Life.” Squidward snorts. Now there’s a unique angle. There’s something to be gleaned from that.
Speak of the little yellow freak and he shall appear. Squidward catches a flash of his neighbor through the window, and he’ll readily admit that he’s a nosey cephalopod at heart, so he stands and pulls his chair around his easel to get a better view.
Ah. He’s putting Christmas lights up on the pineapple. It’s a bit early in the year for it, but Squidward has been wondering when the holiday cheer would sink its claws in. Spongebob is hopping precariously on a ladder, no starfish in sight to help, but Squidward doubts he’ll fall. If he does he won’t break anything. Squidward isn’t nearly lucky enough for that.
There’s a bespoke snowman in the front yard already. The sheer level of whimsy makes Squidward want to hurl. It makes him want to put a curtain up and pretend his neighbor doesn’t even exist. But the itch…
He’s downstairs and pulling on a coat and boots before he’s even sure what his grievance is going to be. Think, Squid, think. The cold hits like a piano falling on his head when he opens his front door. It’s great for his general mood, obviously.
“Spongebob!” He shouts. To be heard over the whipping wind, and also because the mere presence of the sponge tends to induce a volume level that’s not achieved in any other aspect of Squidward’s life.
Spongebob whips around, his shocked face quickly brightening into pure joy. “Squidward! Are you here to help me decorate? Oh, I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist getting into the holiday spirit! Patrick is being a grinch this year, so I thought I was going to have to put these lights up all by myself!” Spongebob yells cheerily.
Squidward opens his mouth, and then closes it. Tartar sauce, now he’s intrigued.
“What’s wrong with Patrick?” He finds himself asking against his better judgment. His tentacles are going stiff, but a riff in the Patrick/Spongebob dynamic could be very relevant to his life. It often is, unfortunately.
Spongebob sighs. His expression seems to close off a little. “We had an argument. I don’t know why. Pat just has such complex emotions, you know? There’s a lot going on with him.”
Squidward tries to process any of these words and comes up short. He decides that it really isn’t his business, actually, for his own sanity. The longer he looks at Spongebob’s sad expression, the itchier his head gets. Maybe it’s icicles forming on his wrinkles, but in any case, he feels bad.
He sighs, long and drawn out and weary. Musters all his good will. He is not a Scrooge. You will not catch him being visited by three ghosts. “Do you have another ladder?”
That’s how he ends up stapling Christmas lights to Spongebob’s pineapple for an hour. It gets much easier after all his appendages go numb. He doesn’t even feel it when he staples his tentacle on accident.
“Are we done yet?” He complains for the sixth time in probably just as many minutes.
“Squid don’t be silly! We still need to double the amount of lights!” Spongebob says brightly.
Squidward stands in waist-deep snow and contemplates everything he’s ever done to lead him here. His karma can’t be this awful, he thinks, and then realizes that yes, it probably is.
Spongebob bursts into his signature laughter. Squidward stares at him lengthily until eventually he just has to join in. The snow does very funny things to him. Spongebob’s laugh is so annoying, and so infectious. He calms down after about a minute.
“I’m kidding, obviously,” Spongebob says. “I really got you with that one.”
Squidward laughs again. “Yeah, you really did,” he says. He’s feeling…happy, maybe. Satisfied with the manual labor he just did, the evidence of his craftsmanship, apparent on the pineapple house in front of him. They did a good job with the lights. There’s a wreath on the front door. Maybe he is in the holiday spirit after all.
“So…” Spongebob starts. He looks hopefully at Squidward, a deceptively tiny smile on his face. “Do you wanna come inside for hot chocolate? Oh, and we can do holiday gift-wrapping. Oh! And bake Christmas cookies! And—”
“Spongebob!” Squidward interrupts. Spongebob pauses, mouth still agape, like the sound of his voice will start back up as soon as Squidward allows it. “The hot chocolate sounds nice,” Squidward says.
Spongebob closes his mouth. Nods approvingly.
The pineapple is cozy. Spongebob has already decorated the inside, so it’s festive. There’s the tree, garishly wrapped in mountains of tinsel and multicolored lights, mismatched baubles and ornaments hung on what looks to be every branch. There are a frankly astounding amount of wreaths for one living room. And…yeah, even more tinsel. Everywhere. Squidward has to move some aside to sit on the couch.
It manages to feel comforting. That might also be the fire, finally warming Squidward’s frail and freezing body. Great Neptune, he doesn’t want to think about it being unattended in here while they were outside that whole time.
“Do you think the Krusty Krab will be open tomorrow?” Spongebob calls from the kitchen.
Squidward snorts. “If Mr. Krabs thinks that even one customer will hike their way through this snow for a krabby patty, then yes.”
“Oh that would be so fun! Making a snowstorm krabby patty…and the rest of the time hanging out with my best pal Squidward! It’ll be like when we worked overnight, but less terrifying,” Spongebob says.
“Fun is not a word I would use to describe that. Soul-crushing, maybe,” Squidward quips. “He probably won’t even pay us.”
Spongebob gasps as he enters the living room, a mug of hot chocolate in each hand. He’s shed his winter layers for a more relaxed festive pajama set. “I don’t work at the Krusty Krab for the paycheck! Being a part of the Krusty Crew is probably the highest honor I’ve ever been given.”
“That makes one of us,” Squidward mutters. He takes his mug from Spongebob. It has a kitten with huge eyes on it that he tries his best not to look at. Spongebob always gives him this mug, but that cat creeps him out. He takes a sip of his hot chocolate while Spongebob sits down beside him. It’s very good, but Spongebob has always had a knack for making sweet things.
Now that they’re both here, sitting together on the couch with their mugs, the shadows of the fire flickering lazily in the dim lighting, the vibes are kind of odd. It gets like this between them, sometimes. Squidward recalls the last time he felt this weird stomach feeling around Spongebob and takes such a big gulp of his drink that he thinks he burns his throat.
It was New Year's Eve. Almost exactly a year ago, then. They were at Patrick’s party. Both had a couple glasses of fizzy drink of undetermined content. They were in the bathroom, alone, just talking. Squidward didn’t remember then, and he certainly can’t recall now, how it ended up that way. Maybe they got a little carried away by the end of the night. Things happen on New Year’s Eve. Squidward Tentacles can not be held liable for the things he does on New Year’s Eve, okay? That would be ridiculous. And for the other times before that, he still refuses to be held liable. He’s merely a squid.
He remembers when he saw Spongebob the next day, and Squidward pretended like nothing had happened, and like he didn’t remember. He felt shamefully guilty about it all, and then Spongebob had looked so bummed, and Squidward just felt…inexplicably sad. Melancholic. Nearly wistful.
He feels a thread of that wistful feeling unspooling in him now. Squidward could follow it to the other side of the couch. A string tying him to the eternal pain in his side. From one rib to the other. He’s surely not old enough to be this sentimental, even in his own head.
Spongebob is sitting quietly for once in his life, staring at the contents of his mug, so maybe he feels it too.
“Hey, Sponge?” Squidward says gently.
Spongebob’s eyes flicker up to his. Questioning but never pushing. Content to weather Squidward’s harsh words, his indecision, his contradictions. All because he, astonishingly, just likes spending time with Squidward. That’s what it’s all about, Squidward has to keep reminding himself. That’s all you can ask for.
“Can we do some gift-wrapping?” Squidward asks.
Spongebob’s eyes light up. It’s about that, too.
So, yeah, there might be some truth to Squidward’s psyche fracturing just a bit during the winter months. Or maybe it’s the prolonged sponge exposure. Maybe the snow is a metaphor or something. Maybe Squidward just hates himself for most of the year.
It’s difficult to be mad at himself when he’s actively making out with Spongebob on top of discarded wrapping paper, in front of the fireplace. He can blame it on covertly slipping something fun into his own hot chocolate later, if he needs an out. Spongebob sighs happily into his mouth and suddenly he loves this time of year.
Oh barnacles, Squidward’s starting to believe in the magic of Christmas. There’s something deeply wrong with him.