Title: a non-denominational holiday
Author: Neo
Genre: Romance
Rating: K
Summary: Sure, he’s a Shintoist and it’s actually just a hallmark holiday, but Christmas is Christmas and no one ought to be caught alone. Especially not Watanuki. [doumekiwatanuki]

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Author’s Notes: On the second day of Christmas…

This was fun to write. :D I’m actually sort of weirdly pleased with it, considering I haven’t written donuts in what I hope was a short while. It’s good to know I'm entirely not out of practice.

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Roaming the streets at night were monsters, and rather erratically around that time of year—either armies of manifestations of people’s greed and anxiety and depression or the few but the all-encompassing visages of purity and joy and, as ever, the snow. Winter break was a quiet affair; if he stayed calm he would elude them completely, return home and eat a quick meal and just relax, because the word “alone” had stopped being daunting long ago, especially since in the frightening senses of the phrase: he was never quite alone. Home was safe the way bomb shelters were safe: the threat of danger rattled the walls and windows but never penetrated them, and that was important.

That year would be the same, no doubt. Only difference was he bore a charm slung from his neck, beneath his scarf (Yuuko had insisted he walk home wearing it), and he went home from work instead.

No doubt, indeed, except—

Owing to the nature of the direction wherein his workplace lay, he bypassed the Doumeki family shrine, where a silhouette lingered entirely accidentally by the window; and it was when he was blocks away, prepared to go about his ritualistic December the twenty-fifth, that the silhouette saw it fit to move.

• • •

“I’m sorry,” were the first words that stumbled out of Doumeki’s mouth.

Unwittingly, to get a better look, Watanuki opened his door wider, his eyes wide and reminiscent of the sky outside, if it were starless. His home was white-walled, lightless, and Doumeki glimpsed a novel lying on the coffee table, overturned and spread-eagle. “You’re—what? Doumeki, do you know what time it is?”

“You’re awake,” Doumeki pointed out. His lungs stung from running, from the chill. His scarf fell rumpled over his broad shoulders.

“Never mind that,” Watanuki said haughtily, but his expression belied his alarm and fleeting concern. “What are you doing here?” He peered more closely at the erratic rise and fall of Doumeki’s chest, though the taller boy was adamantly breathing through his nose with soft, soft whistles. “Did you run? And what’re you apologizing for? More importantly, what are you doing here?”

“Sorry,” Doumeki repeated, and before Watanuki could retort (already he could spot the beginnings of a scowl, and the darkening of the vein that trailed cordlike beneath Watanuki’s hairline), he put a hand on Watanuki’s shoulder and gently nudged him aside, edging towards the apartment. “You’re alone,” Doumeki observed.

“What the—of course I’m alone,” Watanuki snapped, and it hurt the strangest way, that the words were automatic and altogether simple and—

“…not anymore,” Doumeki said, and years of noble upbringing were irreparably crushed underfoot when he darted past Watanuki, one hand lingering on his shoulder, the other reaching down to remove his boots caked with snow. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Wait—”

“You’re reading? I read that book. The ending—”

“Wait, I said—”

“It’s cold here—”

“Doumeki—”

“Make any food?”

“Doumeki.”

Doumeki stopped halfway to the kitchen. His back to Watanuki, his shoulders sagged; without turning, he spoke: “…I’ll leave. If you want me to.” He shifted his weight. “Sorry. But—” here, he just stopped “—sorry.”

He stared at the wall and patiently waited for the swift kick to the ass it would have taken to forcibly evict him from the apartment.

Instead, all he got was: “…but you don’t celebrate Christmas.”

Doumeki’s heart sailed over a few beats as he craned his head by increments to look at Watanuki, who just looked bewildered by the entire situation, looking right back.

“…neither do you,” Doumeki said.

“Obviously,” Watanuki said with a snort.

“…so mind if I not celebrate here?”

Watanuki just stared. “…but why?”

“I ran a long way,” Doumeki pointed out.

“…oh,” Watanuki said, and Doumeki discreetly, inwardly sighed with relief over the fact that the answer by its lonesome appeared to make sense to Watanuki. A bit. “…I don’t get it.” He rubbed his eyes.

“You don’t have to,” Doumeki said earnestly.

“Don’t be a jerk.” Watanuki scowled. “…And anyway, you’re lucky as hell I’m not kicking you out because I have no idea what you’re doing here. But. It’s Christmas.”

“…you don’t celebrate.”

“Are you trying to test me?”

“No. Sorry.”

Watanuki stared. Then he exhaled, scratched at his collarbone, and maneuvered back to the sofa, picking up his book. “…whatever,” he said. Then, “…Are you being serious?” Then, “Never mind, that was a dumb question.” He curled up on the cushions, adjusting the collar of his pajamas. “There’s food, but you’ll have to heat it up.” He pursed his lips. “…it was supposed to be for Monday.” Then: “…not exactly a Christmas feast or whatever. If you complain, I’ll kill you.”

“Good I’m not complaining, then,” Doumeki said, and it was oddly right, opening and sifting through Watanuki’s fridge (which, contrary to every other item in the flat, was filled to the brim).

“Your death would be messy,” came the response, followed by a turn of a page, “and hell to clean.”

“Never mind stowing the body,” Doumeki said, opening a Tupperware and sniffing it. “Where’s the microwave? Never mind, got it. You already ate?”

“Yeah.”

“More for me, then.” He paused, reclining against the counter, and stared at the darkish ceiling, listened to the sporadic flip of paper as Watanuki read. “Sorry for coming so late.”

“Quit apologizing. It’s getting annoying.”

“I’ll come earlier next time.”

There was a pause. “…next time.”

“Yeah.”

…there was silence, then the microwave beeped. Doumeki drew the plate out; it steamed lightly. He exited the kitchen, hesitated at the sight of Watanuki’s face stubbornly covered by the tome—and then smiled, slightly, and made a seat for himself on the couch where Watanuki’s outstretched feet didn’t reach.

• • •

Two years later the halls were blissfully empty of ghosts, and the ones on the streets lingered on the pavement, never by the doorway.

Watanuki cooked a feast that was rather decidedly not a Christmas feast, because, for one, he did not celebrate Christmas; for another, Doumeki ate far too much.