PSL; [GOT THAT SUNSHINE IN MY POCKET]

[homesteader]

holiday nonsense.

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[homesteader]

[Achilles had never celebrated Christmas. Time and experience had worn itself too deeply into his old mentor's bones, growing into solidarity and cynicism, and settling there until the end of his days. And so Connor had never experienced the holiday in earnest before now, either — though of course he had been aware of it, how prevalent it had been in the city, the awning of buildings dressed with garland and flecked with decorative red holly, or storefront windows stuffed to the brim with holiday sales, perfect for a loved one. Yet it represented something alien and not his own, a pretty novelty at best, better observed but never participated in.

Yet time passes, inciting change in all things, even in Connor. The people of the homestead were eager to indulge themselves in the spirit of the festivities, bringing by an excess of food on Christmas morning, or presents wrapped neatly in simple brown paper, or with Connor finding himself trudging deep into the snow-laden forest, hacking down a tree for a household and dragging it back to their land with the aid of a horse and wagon. In the end, the subsumption via proximity was inevitable and absolute. This irony ran deep for a nationless man, but in his opinion, there was little actually to take offense to; the solidarity of the homestead, the tightness of community and the spirit of generosity, was hard to dismantle when met with eager faces, happy hearts, and the sincere want to wish him well and safe for the winter season.

It isn’t all so bad, anyhow. He does not have to share in the tradition by himself in this old house that still creaks stubbornly against the seasonal chill. He has Yazoo in another moment shared between them, the list growing ever longer. He is grateful for his presence, which dulls the sometimes lonely edges of this home; to look upon him in the warmth and glow of the hearth, the silver-haired man donned in wooly socks as though this is just as rightfully his home, clenches about his chest in a way that’s hard to describe. But it’s pleasant. It makes him feel rooted to the earth and safe, though Connor feigns vague irritation with his hands having dove fruitlessly into a box of ornaments.]

There is always something on top. It is the Christmas Star, a guiding light in the sky.

[He had asked, after all. A dark brow raises, and that annoyance is obviously paper-thin because his tone is teasing.]

And I would have given you the honor of putting it on the tree, but now I may reconsider, given those thieving hands.