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It’s an anomaly in and of itself that Vector doesn’t wake covered in sweat and panting. He cracks one eye open, then the other, and is greeted by the dim blackness of his room, as he always is. The faintest sliver of light trickles in through a crack in the curtains; he glares at it as if that will tug them together. Music is blaring downstairs, floating up the staircase to drift up under his door and make a home in his eardrums. Vector stuffs his face in his pillow and tries to drown it out.
It’s obviously futile. The pillows are high quality, of course, he lives in a swanky-ass mansion– but the thread count is no substitute for earplugs.
Biting out a yawn, Vector throws open his bedroom door and trudges downstairs without bothering to change. There’s a hole in the heel of one of his socks, and the hardwood stairs are cold to the touch. As usual, winter has come and brought all its frost and dreariness with it. It isn’t uncomfortable, even if Vector dresses only as warmly as he feels is necessary, which is to say not at all. His fickle body won’t ever warm him enough to thaw the bloodpump in his chest, no matter if he wants it to or not. He pushes that train of thought aside and stumbles downstairs.
He trails into the kitchen from the foyer, which opens up to the living room on the other side of the far counter. As he stands at the threshold and takes in the scene before him, he realizes dimly that today must be a holiday or something. Alit and Gilag are decked out in the ugliest sweaters he’s ever had the displeasure of witnessing, with small gold bells and tacky red ribbons hanging off the front. Merag wears a dress that reaches just below her knees and is cinched at the waist, with its shades of blue matching her hair. Vector begrudgingly has to admit to himself that she looks nice, or something.
Mizael has his hair half up in a braid twisted into a bun and half down around his shoulders, with something sparkly smeared over his eyelids in addition to his usual eyeliner. He’s wearing a sweater too, but it’s nowhere near as offensive as the other two; it’s just a knit cream-colored thing, with a loose and comfy-looking turtleneck and long, wide sleeves. Nasch and Durbe look the same as they always do, but Durbe has swapped out his regular attire for a crisp button down, and Nasch has discarded that godawful jacket and brushed his hair for once.
Vector suddenly feels very underdressed for whatever this is in his beat up, faded Heartland Academy hoodie and grey basketball shorts. He spins on his heel to make a hasty retreat back to his cave only to come face to face with the person he arguably wants to see the least on any given day, much less a “special” one like this. Surprise flickers through Yuma’s eyes for a moment, but it settles into warmth quick enough to make Vector’s hands go clammy. “I was just about to go wake you up!” He exclaims, and he loops his arm through Vector’s to drag him into the living room before he can even process what he just said.
Everyone looks up when he marches in with the final Barian in tow whose face is twisted into a scowl, not meeting any of their gazes. He feels weirdly exposed when Yuma releases him to flit towards the couch that only has room for one more, so he plops down into the last recliner still available. It’s the one without a built in footrest, because that’s what happens when you’re the last to show up.
He can tell that they’re all desperate to ignore his presence as they return to whatever dull conversation they were having, and quite frankly Vector is more than content to let them. He thumbs through his phone and tabs between forums he’d joined out of boredom as their voices fade to garbled background noise. They’re mostly for boring things, like one about radical politics he’s gotten banned from twice before for antagonizing people with purposely shitty takes. The others he frequents most linger at the top of the screen, and he clicks on one, opening the threads he’d missed while he slept.
An entire hour manages to pass before the rabble gets to the point it’s actively pissing him off. They’ve progressed to playing some game involving anonymous presents, and given his lack of interest in any of this, they’ve excluded him without a second thought. It’s not surprising in the least, but– he shoves his phone back in his hoodie and slips away to scurry back upstairs anyway.
With the door shut tight behind him and muffling the noise to a more bearable volume, Vector leans back against the wood and lets his shoulders slump. It’s not like any of them aren’t justified in having less than friendly inclinations towards him, it’s just, it’s just–
He exhales and grabs the carton of cigarettes on his nightstand and the red lighter beside it. There’s still a sunbeam dripping in through the curtains, and he yanks them open to douse the room in light. It feels foreign to see his sanctuary in such definition when he looks around. He should probably tidy up at some point.
The air is freezing when it pours in through the window, and it nearly makes his teeth chatter and instantly raises goosebumps on his exposed legs. Nonetheless, he taps out a cigarette with chilled fingers and sticks it between his lips, holding an ignited flame at the end and cupping his hand around it. He drops the lighter on the windowsill, and for a moment his mind goes blank, and all there is is the whistle of the wind, his body beginning to shiver, the familiar burn of smoke spilling into his lungs before he breathes it out. There’s the quiet buildup of ash at the end, and that’s it.
A knock at the door makes him jerks on reflex, and the ash falls on the windowsill that is no stranger to scorch marks anymore. Vector doesn’t feel like putting out a perfectly good smoke for whoever’s stupid enough to seek him out, so he just yells, “Come in.”
Yuma opens the door gingerly. Vector scoffs at his concerned expression before looking away. He doesn’t say anything, but he walks in to lean against the wall next to the alcove Vector likes to tuck himself into at times like this. Vector refuses to meet his gaze, but he can feel the weight of Yuma tracing his features with his eyes as he thinks of what to say. Despite himself, his cheeks begin to color faintly. The temperature has gotten low enough that he can blame the wind, but somehow, since everything eased into this repetitive everyday, Yuma has developed a flawless talent for reading Vector like a book. It frustrates the hell out of him, especially since he can’t do the reverse. Even if he could, though, Vector doubts he’d understand any of it.
“Aren’t you cold?” Yuma asks, and Vector grunts. His eyes are deep with worry and misplaced care and a simmering something that Vector can’t place. He doesn’t look at him, but Yuma has known him for long enough now to know that he’s still attempting isolation. Vector wants to grab his knife and gouge all of Yuma’s gross and mushy feelings out of his skull just so he’ll understand that it’s hopeless to fight it, so maybe he’ll finally leave Vector alone. The alternative is much more frightening to think about.
“No.” He says, then takes another drag, and that’s it.
Yet when Yuma reaches over and plucks the cigarette from his hand without a word to extinguish it on the sill, Vector doesn’t react. He just sits there, frozen, as Yuma leans over him to close the window. He squeezes in on the opposite side of the alcove, but it’s a cramped enough space already, so Vector’s toes poke into Yuma’s thigh from where his knees are pulled up to his chest. He notices, then, a small box clutched in Yuma’s hand, wrapped in shiny red paper with a ribbon tied around it. Yuma notices him staring and holds it out to him. “Don’t worry about giving me something in return, I didn’t expect you to know what Christmas is. I don’t think anyone except Shark and Rio knew about it until yesterday.” He says.
A prick of guilt resounds in his chest regardless, but Vector tentatively takes it. It’s not heavy, but it’s weighted with the promise of something inside. He plasters on a disinterested expression as he peels off the paper, feeling like he kind of has to admit to himself that just the thought of receiving something meant for him alone is… more flattering than it should be. He tries not to think about what else it means that it’s Yuma who’s giving it to him.
When he pops the lid off what greets him is a simple pendant inlaid with a purple stone, vivid in color and hung from a thin chain. He must be making a weird face, because Yuma rushes to fill his stunned silence, blurting out, “I only realized it looks kinda like the one you had before after I bought it, so I totally get it if you don’t want it, I just saw it and it reminded me of you, and there were only two weeks until Christmas and I wanted to get you something that wasn’t, um, whatever? But it’s totally okay if you don’t want it, I won’t be offended or anything–”
“It’s fine.” Vector cuts him off and bites his lip, trying to think of what to say that doesn’t make him look like an ungrateful asshole. He wouldn’t mind that with anyone else, but in the face of Yuma, who’s just given him something more thoughtful than anyone ever has in any life he’s lived, Vector feels anxious to thank him. “It’s nice.” He manages, stilted.
Yuma stares at him for a moment. Vector forgets to look away for long enough to see his face redden a fraction-- then quickly remembers himself and wrenches his gaze away. “You like it?” Yuma asks cautiously, almost nervously. Vector coughs awkwardly and nods. He tries to glance inconspicuously at him out of the corner of his eye, but Yuma clearly notices and a huge smile breaks out across his face. Vector is dumbstruck by how it lights up his dim room like the sun’s hanging from the ceiling. “Ahh, that’s good. I got it because it was almost the same color as your eyes, but I wasn’t sure if you would like it.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth Vector’s face flushes bright red, and he opens his mouth to say something then closes it once he realizes he doesn’t have any words. Yuma smiles and leans in a bit more into Vector’s space, setting off alarm bells shrieking in Vector’s ears when his face moves closer and closer to Vector’s, until they’re barely an inch apart and he can feel Yuma’s warm breath on his bottom lip and smell his body wash and–
Okay, sue him, he pussies out. Before they can meet in the middle he drops his head onto Yuma’s shoulder, struggling to restrain the organ in his chest now thumping wildly against his ribcage. For a moment Yuma pauses, then– wraps his arms around him as he shudders out a breath into the crook of his neck. Neither of them speak, yet the atmosphere has not been broken by his cowardice, and honestly, he isn’t complaining about being enveloped by Yuma’s embrace. His eyes slip shut only for a second as he focuses on the comforting movements of Yuma’s hand drawing steady circles on his back. Just, he thinks weakly, just give me some time, okay?
He hasn’t spoken, yet Yuma seems to hear him anyway.