Work Text:
He told the taxi to stop there. He paid and got out, music and laughter filling his ears. This wasn't a traditional festival in Kazimierz, but who cares about traditions now? It was a brilliant business idea to create a festival out of thin air and attract people to revel in shopping malls. Workers, clutching their meager wallets filled with hard-earned money, strolled past each freshly decorated window. There were colorful lights and mistletoe. The warm light showcased products, and the music and advertisements stirred passengers' hearts. Buy it, buy it, buy a gift, and present it to your beloved. Purchasing was the expression of love.
He didn't believe that love and concern could be expressed through gifts, but at this moment, he did stop the taxi to buy a gift. It was Christmas, and the craft store had a promotion.
He didn't go in, not for now. Once again, he had drunk beyond his digestive enzyme metabolism capacity. The drunken dizziness and nausea almost made him unable to stand, forcing him to bend over and hold onto a lamppost. Fortunately, the accumulated ethanol didn't destroy his sanity and sharpness. Someone approached him.
"Still work during Christmas? How busy! " the person said, like a casual passerby, with a tone of concern, but it didn't exceed the level of concern between strangers. The person was dressed normally, standing beside him with arms crossed, watching his embarrassment, without reaching out to help.
That's good. If the person reached out, he would feel uncomfortable.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Oh, my lord, isn't it the same for you? Even during the holidays, we have to run around for a meal." The person replied. After a few years, the mocking tone remained, seemingly asking for trouble.
The dizziness and nausea seemed to ease to a level he could endure. Kuranta straightened up again. He looked no different from the Kazimierz workers who had stopped by here before and after, as long as you ignored the longsword at his waist and the armor on his arms. A tired face transitioning from youth to middle age, an expression that had lost interest in everything, a silent demeanor as if losing his soul. The only bright color on his face was the unnatural blush on his cheeks, the result of excessive alcohol intake. But anyone who entered society knew that this suit-and-boot attire indicated that drinking wasn't for personal entertainment but for work. Such was the present era, the urban landscape, where every facet of life could seamlessly integrate with work, and commerce permeated every dimension.
He walked towards the shop window. It was a feast for the eyes, deliberately designed lighting enhancing their appearance, making them more beautiful and enticing than their original form.
"buying a gift for someone, my lord?" The person and his voice once again approached him.
"None of your business," he replied.
"So heartless, my lord," the other person responded, "just a few years after you abandoned me, have you already found someone new?" he sighed dramatically, shaking his head.
He remained silent, scrutinizing the products and their price tags in the window. After a while, the person beside him said, "Well, actually, I know who you're picking a gift for... Ah, I know how to please kids, Do you want some advice?"
"Not necessary," he said. He had already made his choice earlier, and now he was confirming the prices and discounts. He turned around. The night, the colored lights, and the alcohol were not deliberately designed, yet they made the person before him more beautifully and charmingly than he remembered.
"Do you need something?" he asked. A few years ago, if he met one of them seeking him out, he would have asked, "Do you need any help?" Later, the words would change to, "I'm sorry, I can't help." At this moment, he hoped the person had nothing to ask for help because... he truly couldn't help them with anything.
He saw the "stranger" lick his lips, revealing a smile he was familiar with as if to bring him back to the past, back to the dark forest, the rippling water, back to countless nights in the wild, untouched by city neon lights. He knew what was coming; he should stop it. He didn’t.
The kiss was brief and light, compared to the ocean waves of passion they once shared, like a drizzle.
The kiss was short, light, and compared to the passionate waves they once had, it was like a gentle drizzle. The Sarkaz gave this swift, sneaky kiss, grinning slyly, and said to him, "Don't hit me, my lord, it's tradition—you're standing under the mistletoe!"
He looked up. It wasn't real mistletoe, just a plastic imitation. It wasn’t a tradition, not in Kazimierz, and not even in Laterano.
He grabbed the other's collar, and kissed him back, equally swift and shallow as a drizzle. Then, he turned and left.
Buying the pre-selected item didn’t take much time. But for someone waiting outside the store, it must have felt long. When he emerged, the "stranger" who had taken advantage of the "tradition" to kiss him was nowhere to be seen.
Now, whether it was the cold wind, the metabolism of the alcohol, or something else, he no longer felt the dizziness and nausea that had tormented him on the way here. He decided to walk home. Leaving the bustling commercial street, the road gradually became quieter, eventually leaving him the sole pedestrian. He seemed tired, stopping to rest on a bench by the roadside. He gazed at the bright light cast by the streetlamp for a long time before finally making a new move—he took out a letter from his briefcase.
There is no wax seal, no words, just a vulgar heart drawn on it like a love letter passed between middle school students. Not long ago, during that kiss under the mistletoe, Toland had slipped it into his briefcase.
His fingers tapped on his knee. He chuckled.
(The End)