Work Text:
On the twenty-fifth day of December, a certain, typically peaceful beach domain was aflutter with life, each occupant employed in some merrily bungled holiday assignment. Of the four curses that lived there, none had celebrated a Christmas before, though the holiday was hailed in the country of their birth, but one among them, Mahito, held a novel enthusiasm for the season, and all were drawn into the festivities as a result, their human addition primarily in charge of explaining what the holiday actually was. An industrious and determined young woman, Y/N L/N had doled out tasks from the rooftop of the beach villa as she adorned its shingles with twinkling, colorful lights, a packet of plastic clasps held closed under one arm. She acted as consultant for all things holiday-related, but as these curses, this odd little family she had accidentally been inducted into, were proud and incredibly abnormal by human standards, the guidelines relayed by her for their tasks were made necessarily flexible. While she hung the outdoor lights, their strings tenuously connected to a portable generator, each of the others happily engaged in their own misinterpretation of their duties.
Hanami, a cursed spirit whose origins were closely tied to plant life, was put in charge of crafting a Christmas tree using their cursed technique which could create flora at will from pure energy. A tree of roughly two-to-three meters had been wanted to comply with the restricting ceiling heights of the villa, but this detail was not properly conveyed, and instead a towering pine tree exploded from the garden grounds within the inner courtyard of the villa, reaching proportions so large that the top of it could be seen only back a fair distance away from the structure. Being so massive, it received natural decorations provided by Hanami’s technique rather than the traditional artificial baubles of silver and gold ornaments, and in their place were swollen pine cones, pale blue juniper berries in woven garlands to give aromatic pleasure, and a star made of hewn bark was perched at the top. It was a natural wonder, a thing of beauty even if it did not precisely resemble the brightly lit trees celebrated in the world of humans, and it was quickly receiving a portion of snow-icing on its verdant branches.
The child spirit, Dagon, was responsible for this icy addition. Dependently attached to his beloved human who was out of the reach of his ungainly, legless body (which was incapable of climbing up onto the roof), he had wailed at the base of the villa until given a task. Snow was wonted for the holiday, and being master of all elements in the domain, the young curse set about trying to accomplish his assignment without having ever experienced snowfall before. Soft, fluffy flakes, ones not so geometric as those that crystallized in reality, fell like wisps of cotton from the sky, and being made of energy rather than ice, were only pleasantly cool to the touch rather than freezing, their weight similar to the origin of their model.
Jogo, who preferred his weather hot and dry, was no appreciator of the adjustments to the domain, but he found satisfaction in his own actions. A safe distance from the four beach chairs, those always planted in the smooth sands up from the shore, there now blazed a hot fire made by Jogo’s creation. Above it, hung from a spit, was a burnished old teakettle steaming with what the human girl had referred to as ‘hot chocolate,’ which was, according to Jogo, to be his first taste of human cuisine. Curses did not need to eat or drink to subsist, and, in fact, to engage in the act for those who could not transform their bodies to accommodate it was certain to be unpleasant, as in many cases there was no ability to digest what they consumed, but Jogo was undeterred. Prideful and ambitious future despot that he was, it was his intention to taste and spit out the cocoa as a wine taster, or perhaps to cough it up later as a fictionalized Roman in his opulent vomitorium. Even so, the drink would not go purely to waste, for there were three in the domain who could normally taste it, the youngest of them having expressed an excited passion for sampling it, and it was for this child that Jogo had truthfully built his cooking fire.
“Mama!”
An airy little voice, twice as high as that of her mellifluous father, rang out upon entering the domain. Two short legs clad in black tights moved stumblingly through sand and artificial snow, a single strapped shoe was yet clinging to one little foot, and a black crinoline dress tied with red ribbon sought to inhibit every bustling movement. Above the garment’s frilled lace collar was positioned a round, gleeful face with a button nose and two bright eyes — one the color of her mother’s, the other, the cobalt blue of her father’s — shining with childish vitality, and a curled mass of silver hair gave this darting creature an impression of wildness, like a playful vulpine kit chasing after its prey. It was not some frightened mouse or rabbit she pounced on however, but the supple leg of her mother, recently descended from the roof.
“And where have you been? Is your father really so interesting that you’d leave the rest of us behind all afternoon?” asked Y/N in loving and well-understood sarcasm after she had picked up her daughter, thoroughly kissing her giggling face until both were satisfied with their reunion.
“Of course I am,” interjected another lower voice, “Don’t act like you didn’t miss me too.”
With a smug grin, Mahito strode over, mussing the pile of curly hair atop his child’s head with one of his big hands, a kiss subtly delivered to Y/N’s cheek while the child held in her mother’s arms squealed in delight at his ruffling, round eyes squeezed tightly in laughter. The feeling of the kiss was cool, closer to a flake melting over skin than any of the snow Dagon had invented, and its familiar, wintry magic unfailingly produced a blush in its recipient. Y/N smiled in spite of herself, knowing the warm feelings of her heart were plain to see in her soul without needing to verbalize them.
“What did you two get up to this afternoon, anyway? And where’d she get that dress? That’s not what she had on this morning.”
“Papa stole it for me!” replied the little girl jubilantly, having none of her mother’s objections to generalized theft.
“Of course he did.”
Y/N sighed, but her adoring smile was very much intact.
“What? I can’t have her getting any silly notions about human morality,” said Mahito with cheer, his hands rested on his hips, “She's got a legacy to live up to. Besides, we got you something too.”
“You did?”
A conspiring look was exchanged between father and daughter before the latter grinningly vomited up a small silk pouch, its green fibers wet with thick globs of spit, but mercifully, the interior of the package had been unspoiled. Unable to put her fingers to her temple in exasperation as she often did, the young mother merely shook her head, repressing the urge to laugh only because she did not want it to be mistaken for her approval.
“Did you really have to teach her that?”
“Why not? It’s efficient storage,” Mahito argued, seeing nothing wrong with what his little treasure had done.
The child took after her father in looks as much as in ability, and could freely manipulate her body at will as much as he could. In this case, she did so for the transport of some smuggled goods presently being torn into by tiny, eager fingers. Sticking her tongue out in concentration — another of her father’s habits — the death painting yanked at the aperture of the silk purse until its mouth at last opened, three platinum rings of different sizes spilling out from inside. One the child fitted around her own chubby finger right away, but the other two, both much larger, were intended for other hands and were given over carelessly to her father.
It was then that the little girl caught a whiff of the cocoa bubbling over Jogo’s fire, and squirming with all her might, she escaped from her mother’s hold, scampering off towards the volcanic curse whom she had taken to thinking of as her personal attendant. Normally Y/N might have cautioned her daughter to temper her enthusiasm, knowing her excitable personality at times tested Jogo’s patience, but on this occasion, no words left her parted lips. She was too preoccupied with the sight of the shining rings that had been so unceremoniously deposited into Mahito’s hands, a flush of emotion diffusing in her cheek.
“What made you think to get these?” asked Y/N, her eyes not leaving the gleaming pieces of metal laying in the curse’s palm.
Mahito shrugged, a mischievous smile on his face as he observed Y/N. “It wasn’t just my idea…” he nodded towards his small one, who was in the midst of crawling all over Jogo, demanding a drought of hot chocolate before it was ready to be served, “She saw the parents of some human families wearing similar ones and thought we should have them too.”
“But you know for humans it doesn’t just mean—”
“I know,” the curse answered calmly, sliding one ring onto a particular finger of his human’s left hand.
Y/N’s mouth was pressed into a trembling line, the sanguine color of her face seeming to spread its heat throughout her body as Mahito pulled her against him, laughing loudly at her weak attempt to repress her reaction.
“Awww, are you gonna cry?”
“Shut up,” came the reply, but unlike in the past, it contained no bite, and was laughed through by a human who was quite obviously overcome with happiness. She swiftly kissed the smiling curse who had expected nothing less, sliding the leftover ring onto his finger. “So we really are stuck together forever.”
“Of course. I told you so months ago, but I guess you humans can’t help being a little slow, can you?” he responded playfully, looking pleased with himself as he threw his arm around her shoulders.
Around the fire, three curses and a death painting were engaged in what had become the usual level of mayhem, joined latently by Mahito and Y/N.
It had begun when their little menace had crawled up Jogo’s back, seating herself on his shoulder as the elder curse yelled swears at her, unsuccessfully trying to pry her off of him as if she were an especially stubborn leach. His efforts were (as always) in vain, for if she was pulled off of his shoulders, her elastic limbs stretched out to cling to his neck or back, if the lava in Jogo’s head began to boil over in frustration, she adapted her flesh to be heat resistant, and if the old curse lost his temper with a shout, the little girl only giggled in indefatigable amusement at his anger. Holding too great a familial love for the persistent death painting to harm her, there was no option for Jogo but to submit to her whims, which at present required him to toast marshmallows for her before she would permit them to be added to her mug of hot chocolate.
This request had also involved Hanami’s aid. At first coming over to intercede on Jogo’s behalf, Hanami had been swindled into creating twigs on which to toast the marshmallows by the crafty little girl instead. Crocodile tears had sprung from the large, entreating eyes, mumbled apologies for causing so much trouble were given along with the less than innocent comment, ‘I just wanted to celebrate with Uncle Jogo!’ until it was Hanami, not the rascally creature, who was plied by remorse. Not only were elegant wooden sticks for the marshmallows provided, but to entertain the hyperactive child, Hanami went as far as to create wooden dolls of each of the domain’s inhabitants for her to play with. These had additionally enticed Dagon, who tentatively approached her, his assumed rival for attention, with a cautious scowl, the full curse wanting to inspect the dolls but unwilling to ask for the privilege of playing with them. The animosity was mutual, and upon noticing his interest in her newly acquired toys, the small death painting smirked wickedly, picked up the doll made in Dagon’s likeness, and tossed it into the bonfire, earning a furious screech in response from the marine curse. It was here that Y/N intervened, picking her daughter up under her arms to prevent a scuffle from breaking out and instructing her to apologize.
“I didn’t do it on purpose, I just dropped it…” insisted the little girl peevishly, crossing her plump arms.
She was fixed with a doubtful, chastising look from her mother, which was an expression she had become intimately familiar with only days after entering the world.
“What did we say about doing stuff like this?”
The curly-headed waif gave a heavy, dramatic sigh before repeating the mantra she had been instructed to follow.
“We don’t manipulate family.”
“Good,” Y/N said, pleased as she set the girl down again with a kiss to her forehead.
The child received an approving pat on the head from Mahito, who had looked on all that had happened in ample amusement, and if Y/N had ever wondered what he would have been like as a child, she had long since gotten her answer. It was very convenient that Y/N L/N happened to have a special kind of love for troublesome personalities.
The petulant little creature then approached Dagon, grumbling a shame-faced apology that was readily accepted. Rivals though they were, Dagon had never had another young one like himself to engage with, and the two were inseparable playmates as often as they were childhood enemies. When she saw she was forgiven, the death painting smiled widely enough to change the very structure of her face, laughing as she wrapped her stretchy arms around her adoptive brother. The act of affection was returned, and in a show of good faith, she even handed over the doll made in her own image to Dagon, which he promptly delivered unto the cooking fire. Both snickered at this event, it being the expected outcome, and were each fascinated by the sight of the wood cracking apart amongst the flames.
Hot chocolate was next distributed to the youngest inhabitants simultaneously to avoid further dispute or arguments of favoritism, the mug given to Dagon serving the same representative purpose as those given to dolls at a children’s tea party, and the sweet drink was downed by his half-human companion as efficiently as possible so as not to inhibit their play. The cocoa that had been so plaintively asked for could never be as interesting as real activity, and the sticky-mouthed girl, marshmallow fluff clinging to her lips, next devised some new game with Dagon to thrill them both. It was harshly whispered, most of the words audible to those around them, though in Y/N’s case, her daughter’s mentioning to Dagon of a game of ‘fetch’ did not hold any significant meaning until the child approached her father for assistance.
“Up!” she shouted with a grin, jumping around at Mahito’s feet, the pair of them evidently sharing some understanding of his role in the game.
When Mahito picked her up, she transfigured herself into the shape of a rubbery ball, the still smiling face the only human-looking remnant of her, and in this rounded shape, her dress, tights, and singular shoe all fell away, her round body instead covered by a thick layer of silver fur.
Before Y/N could ask what on earth was going on, the balled up creature was hurled like a pebble from a slingshot out over the sea of the domain at a velocity that made her lips and eyelids ripple, the child squealing in the utmost delight all the while. Y/N shrieked too, though it was not positive emotion that compelled her to, and a panicked babbling fell from her lips until she saw that Dagon, the third participant in this game of fetch, had successfully caught her daughter far out in the ocean, this being the object of the game. The red ocean curse swam slowly back towards the shore with the furry child seated contentedly atop his head, each simpering with joy, while Y/N wondered how long it would be before her child gave her an anxious heart condition.
Mahito was also laughing, as usual, at his human’s unnecessary worry, and could not keep himself from doing so even knowing the result would be to win her ire for the next several minutes, if not longer.
“Little squirt's as much of a pain as her father,” muttered Jogo in exhaustion, though his faint smile betrayed his real feelings.
“Hey, give her some credit, Jogo,” said Mahito, sitting down in the sand and snow where he was soon joined reluctantly by Y/N, “She was only born a month ago.”
“That’s true… She wasn’t any bigger than this then,” added Y/N fondly, pointing to one of the untoasted marshmallows for emphasis of her daughter’s innocence.
«She requires a firmer hand.»
This interjection from Hanami was solely directed to Mahito, who more often than not neglected to discipline his near carbon copy. He shrugged, shutting his eyes and smiling indifferently. It was not in his nature to preach restraint, but he had recently begun to make some effort at it after his child’s pranks had come to include the adults of the misfit family as their targets.
“Yeah, yeah… But it’s a holiday, right? So why spoil her fun. Besides—” He gestured lazily to Y/N with a smile, one which contained a private joke and rekindled her affection much too easily. “—Anything that came from her can’t get into that much trouble.”
If his words had partially been meant to suggest his child was too much like her mother to willingly cause others pain, at least those others who lived in the domain, then Mahito was correct. The singular time the developing death painting had managed to harm Dagon, it had been in a minor accident involving the practicing of her transfiguration abilities, and was an event that lived in infamy in her memory. It was a rare occasion in which all had been truly upset with her, and she had wept profusely and sincerely, offering everything she could think of to ameliorate the situation as Mahito repaired the minimal damage to the other curse’s soul. Every one of her toys, her books, her DVDs was offered to Dagon amidst wheezing sobs until she was forgiven, and even then, she had been inconsolable for hours afterwards. It was something Mahito had found as perplexing as he had found it pitifully endearing, but Y/N understood that state of emotions in her offspring much better than he did, and had comforted her suitably.
“Not to mention, Hanami,” added Y/N with filial sweetness, “you fall for her tricks more often than anyone. That set of wooden dolls she had looked awfully new.”
Hanami gave a stuttering noise, and was thankful to be physically incapable of blushing.
«I… understood gifts were warranted for the holiday,» they replied awkwardly, to the receipt of much laughter.
A formalized gift exchange was performed closer to evening, some delay being caused by the need to bathe the small child whose skin was grimed by seawater, sand and marshmallow. This was given by Mahito, the only one able to entertain her sufficiently to sit still in the bath, while Y/N collected the girl’s dirtied clothes that had fallen into the sand and brought over a set of christmas pajamas to the bathroom for her to wear after she was clean again.
Soon all were together around the fireplace, a new addition to the villa’s reading room for this special occasion, and with the tuckered out little death painting relaxed after her bath, they altogether maintained some degree of collective peace. Hanami did not care for fires, and stood behind Jogo’s armchair, leaning over the tall, cushioned top of it as he lounged below with his single eye fixed on the flames. The little girl sat in her mother’s lap on the floor, Dagon at their sides, as Mahito handed out gifts wrapped in plain, unbleached paper, silly drawings of each of the intended recipients on the face of every present drawn by Y/N’s hand. Hanami disliked the wasteful, excess processing required for traditional wrapping paper, so these caricatures on brown paper were the preferred decoration for each gift.
The two children were the first to open their gifts, a train set and a seated bicycle to suit Dagon’s legless form, both of these presents coming with the expectation that they would be shared. Mahito’s provoking comment of, ‘Age before beauty,’ next led Jogo to open his gift from Hanami, though he made sure to shout his objections at Mahito first, dubbing the patchwork curse an, ‘Obnoxious whelp!’ among other offending epithets.
The opening of Jogo's present returned him to a good mood, it being a beautiful, handmade smoking pipe to function as substitute for the old one he already owned. Jogo, who, like the other curses, was unused to expressing gratitude or any other emotion deemed too ‘positive’ directly, thanked Hanami in his own way by complimenting the craftsmanship of the tool as an indirect compliment to its maker. After this comment, it naturally followed that Hanami should be the next to receive their gift.
Dagon had drawn Hanami’s lot earlier in the season, and being prone to anxious fits, had struggled inwardly for some time over what he could give the curse who had been caretaker to him almost from the time of his manifestation. This question was complicated by Hanami’s abstemious nature that abhorred materialism, and Dagon had only conceived of an idea one week prior when out on an excursion with Y/N, Mahito, and their little one. A pet shop had been passed by which had sparked the idea, one that now led Hanami to open a box containing a large terrarium, inside, several plants that had been native to the forest that Hanami had manifested in. They had been meticulously cared for, wrapped up only for the day to allow for the surprise, and Hanami, always so stoic, trembled with emotion in looking upon them. It was an irremovable facet of cursed spirits’ personalities to long for the places they had been created in, weaker curses never leaving those places, and though Hanami had relocated in pursuit of loftier goals than comfort, this piece of their home being brought to them moved them deeply, as did Dagon’s subsequent clinging to their side when he saw his gift was well-received.
Mahito would have been next to open a gift, but his daughter’s snoring called attention to a more pressing matter. She had fallen fast asleep in her mother’s lap, as she often did at the end of most days. Death paintings developed so rapidly while possessing physical bodies that sleep was even more essential for their health and growth than with human children. It was for this reason that the little girl’s rest took priority over the festivities, especially because she was a light and fitful sleeper very like her mother. In this case, Hanami and Jogo offered to put her to bed, and knowing a bedtime story would be given when the child inevitably woke up from being carried to bed, Dagon tagged along, wanting to listen, consequently leaving the two young parents on their own for the evening.
“It’s just a little something…” Y/N said nervously as Mahito unwrapped the paper enshrouding his present, feeling that what she had chosen for him would not compare to the ring refulgently glistening on her finger.
Inside was a hand-painted christmas card, its written contents a more intimate expression of love than the human girl could speak to out loud, and beneath the card was an old publishing of the Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe.
“I thought— Well, because you said that Giant From the Clouds was the first book you ever read, maybe it… would be nice to give you the first book of poetry I ever read,” she explained, squirming as the silver-haired curse gazed silently at the cover, “I added a few page markers to the works I thought you would like. It’s not my own copy, but it’s the same edition, so…”
Before further, unnecessary excuses could be offered, Y/N was tackled to the ground in a squeezing hug that left her breathless, her face turning purple as she fruitlessly gasped to Mahito that his hold was too tight. He slackened his grip only slightly, rolling about the floor with her ragdolling body in his arms as his nose nuzzled into her neck.
“So cuuuutee!!” he exclaimed childishly as he burried his face into her skin with as much force as possible.
Eventually, he settled for holding her more loosely against him, the pair of them sitting by the fire as she reclined against his chest with his arms still around her, but it required a significant amount of restraint in Mahito to keep himself from crushing her against him once more. His pointed nose was still nestled against her hair and neck, his soul pulsating with a feeling he had formerly thought himself incapable of to match Y/N’s own.
“I’m glad you liked it,” she offered quietly with a tender smile, feeling warm even without the help of the fire.
“I did, but you know, there is something I kind of want more…”
Mahito’s pinkish face moved beside hers, the lowered, limpid eyes drifting to a discarded sheet of wrapping paper, the crumpled center of it displaying a drawing of his daughter’s face. His meaning was clear, and it made Y/N’s heart thump in her chest.
“I’d been thinking about that too. She’s growing so fast, and I do think it would be good for her to have a sibling, but… She’s still so new to the world, and she’s not exactly used to sharing attention.”
“All the more reason she should learn to,” Mahito answered plainly, his own mind already having been made up, “Besides, you said yourself she was an easy baby.”
That much was irrefutably true; the death painting had been born so small that she had brought none of the maternal agony associated with childbirth, and the worst parts of infancy and toddlerhood had been cycled through so rapidly that Y/N had actually wished for a longer period of them rather than a shorter, the exhaustion from the earliest days of the death painting’s existence being savored nostalgically instead of lamented. The girl’s poor sleeping habits were the most straining of her troubles, but this too was by lengths more tolerable than in a human child because her father, who did not require sleep, could stay up with her at night to settle her back down while her mother rested. Remembering all of this, these precious memories that had come and gone too quickly, Y/N nodded with a soft smile.
“When would you want to start trying?”
In answer, Mahito grinned and transfigured his fingers into leaves of mistletoe, dangling them between himself and his human.
“How about now?”
✸✸✸
Y/N L/N turned over in her bed, bathed in the light of an October sun as she groggily awoke from sleep. There was no mistletoe before her face, no ring on her finger, and no curly-headed babe sleeping in a crib beside her bed, all these things the product of a dream already forgotten, but one lone piece of evidence attested to all that she had imagined while at rest. It was the warm, steady beating of a heart that wished to turn the happiness of her dream into a reality.