Work Text:
I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
"I thought we were doing something small this year.”
Hizashi stills mid-motion instantly. Mariah Carey becomes white noise. Dangling between his fingers, the ornament mourns for the tree.
.
.
.
Shouta’s watching him from the balcony again.
Speaking, too. New developments. Jazzy.
I don’t care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas Tree
Not particularly the kindest, he thinks; and certainly ones he would object to under the right state of mind; but what better way is there than to celebrate than with the person you love most?
Liars. That's who.
“Uh," he starts, voice a broken race-engine. His movement is jittery as he retreats back into the same show-and-tell. Shoving the ornament onto the tree like he hasn't been acquitted.
"Yeah," Hizashi coughs. Is there a cough drop in his pocket somewhere, perhaps? "Yeah! I thought we were doin' something small this year. I mean, I'm not really puttin' up a lot this time, y'know? Just bits and bobs here and there."
Days have passed since they’ve last spoken. Weeks? Months? Of not making conversation. Ideally, in a better world, he wouldn’t know exactly why they haven’t. It's not fun, knowing exactly why, contrary to the public's belief and rather nasty internet forums speculating on it.
"...Sure."
Bouquets of camellia or the freshly scented, vanilla candles with all their charming ambiance can't amend things as easy as the press and their tabloids make it out to be.
Come on, Hizashi. Just get this done with so you don’t have to be here too long, 'kay? You don't have to look. Or even respond.
“That ornament doesn’t go there,” Hizashi hears him say.
You've got to oversee 1-A in the morning, remember? Focus on the present. What's there?
His ugly, chartreuse sweater is pilling. Trembling fingers with flaky, green nail polish plunge through a loose hole when he reaches through the grey folds for his v-neck.
“Zashi?”
Tugging it down, Hizashi lets the fabric bounce back up again like some... sad old trampoline. Strings the culprit back where it’s now meant to be. Pop goes the weasel. However the tune goes.
Fingers snap.
“I said, that ornament doesn’t go there. Did you hear me?”
Whoosh. Here goes.
“Whydontweswitchthingsupthisyear?" Hizashi suggests.
Breathing shouldn't be heard, but it happens nonetheless.
"What?"
He sucks in a breath. "I said, why don't, we, switch..." Retry. Breathe in, out. Like a video game with all those select menu buttons. Click. Clack.
Hizashi's fingers tighten around a fake leaf.
“Why don’t we switch things--”
Clothing rustles. Footsteps. Green eyes peer down in panic at the oval display of red and yellow stripes; Shouta's favourite pair of colours. Hizashi's, too, in a way.
How could he think of placing it anywhere else? How could he?
“Never mind,” he says, snatching the ornament back from its right wrongful place, from the branch it’s looped through, hung down from. The noises draw to a close. He rubs at his neck. A difficult task, with the new addition to his throat. Hizashi can always make do. “You’re right. It doesn't go there. We shouldn’t change anything, just-- forget about it, yeah? Lemme fix that up."
He can already envision Shouta’s frown. Reaction. ‘No, Hizashi, we can’t just forget about that. I’ll lie, and say you’re a better guy than you really are in my own, Shouta infused, stoic way. I'll say we should talk about this. You'll dodge the question, because I know you. Better than anyone else can, ever will. Glare. Rare smile.
"Hold on, seriously, that cheesy script? Do you seriously think I would say--"
"Really?"
“Nothing needs to change,” Hizashi repeats, ignoring the first, fingers twitching at his sides. He stuffs the accused item back into the box. Some dust blows off the surface when they creak and bang against each other. Clink. Damn his imagination. “You’re right. Nothin’ at all! All good here!
Hearing isn’t the greatest gig everyone blessed with audio says it is.
No amount of cotton stuffed into his ears -- neither metaphorical or the kind he’d nearly gotten lodged into his ear from the q-tip he’d tried jamming into his eardrums a week prior -- is enough to replace the quiet huff that usually makes him feel relief.
“It’s okay if you want to, you know.”
Hah. Hizashi picks out another ornament, stowing it away when red fills his vision.
Of all the themes they had to pick for the rest of their lives -- it had to be the colour closest to what he sees every day through his lenses. Rose-coloured glasses. Optimism isn't something everyone can claim to have waiting on hand and foot like he can.
Because obviously, he's optimistic.
“Want to what?" Hizashi rummages through the mess, aha-ing when he's hooked his finger through another one. Blue. Thumbing at Shouta over his shoulder, he doesn't look back as he presents it. The bottom of it thumps against the back of his knitted sweater. "Hey, what say you on this? Does this seem any better?"
“It’s,” Shouta hisses, voice a husk in the afterglow of candles. They’ve dimmed, he realizes, having gone out in the past few hours. The ones behind him, he's not so sure. Maybe they have? Strong smells don't show themselves, so there's no fire to worry about. Just a non-existent smoke. Alright. “Okay. For you to want to change things. For things to be different."
"So that's a nope on blue." Popping the p, he passes a pitying look over the thing before it's chucked back into the cardboard. "Uh, what about--"
"You're not hearing me."
"How about green?" Hizashi asks, frantic, now. What happened to the silent treatment? 'Don't respond, you'll be fine'? Bold-faced lie. "Are ya tuned into green? Vibin' with it? I mean, you've always liked my eyes, and it's..."
Swoosh. Something like common sense swoops over him in his madness. Stepping into this stale-aired apartment with that embellishing the already green, plastic tree would be horrific. Jingle goes the keys, jingle goes the bell. Mood ruined.
"..Okay, never mind," he laughs. "Looks like grass. Not so festive if ya really think about it."
"Hizashi, would you please look at me?"
"Purple ain't good either." Shinsou's been keeping to himself in the General Studies department for ages. Holed himself up in the library to study what Hizashi suspects to be Hero Ethics theory. Hizashi had offered to take up the mantle before any of the other teachers could -- before Shinsou could lie and say he was fine leaving heroics permanently -- but dismantling it from the person who'd originally headed that department of Shinsou's ever-important learning is easier said than done.
Hizashi jingles the box, peering inside. "Actually, maybe purple's great. We could use purple. I'd have to run to the store to get more, 'cause this clearly ain't enough, but-- wait, ya wanted something small, right? Would that count? Could it--"
Step, step, step.
On instinct, Hizashi whirls back whilst grabbing at the ribbons around his neck, grey and chromatic iridescence shimmering on the fabric of the man that stares back.
The footsteps stop.
Hues like the surface sheen of an oil spill mock him in their colourfulness on the binding cloth, gritty texture scratching, blistering against his fingertips like it wants to lash out.
No one else is there.
Inexplicably, Hizashi must've known that already, because he doesn't react to the glimpse of Shouta he sees for just a moment. For just the slimmest of moments, before upon not seeing its owner, the capture weapon simmers down. Cools around him.
So not purple, he thinks, miserably.
“I know." It's so cold. He tugs at the hem. Wraps the folds of grey around himself, lets the hue sink in. "Would you just stop? Stop remindin' me? I know I can..."
"You know," Shouta interjects, shutting him up. "Would I just stop? Stop remindin' you? I know you can..."
Turning, if only to confirm the answer for himself, because mirrors aren’t to be trusted nowadays.
“I just wanted..."
"You just wanted..."
That American track -- All I want for Christmas, is it? -- is playing in the back. The radio still tuned onto that same station on frequency 98.1. Blown out candies remain around Shouta’s picture when he looks. Vanilla-scented. Wax melted.
Right there on the balcony ledge, just where he left it. Dust coats the surface of the picture frame with the most authentic smile there is.
Like snow, he thinks, a softness brimming to the surface despite himself. Then he stills, upon something else filtering into his ears.
And I just wanna keep on waiting
Underneath the mistletoe
Ah, damn Mariah Carey. Too many high notes, much too little time to appreciate the good things until they're swinging high on a roof.
Hizashi wishes the tears would come as easy as he can belt out an acapella of the same song.
Behind him, the box is still filled with ornaments and decor, and he's still accomplished absolutely nothing except established how useless he is at decorating.
Productivity is a-- sham. Of course.
"...I don't know, man," he sighs. "I don't know."
"I don't know."