PSL; [GOT THAT SUNSHINE IN MY POCKET]

[homesteader]

holiday nonsense.

Comments

[velvetshot]

( Yazoo can't quite pinpoint when the homestead began feeling just like that — just like home. Some part of him suspects it might have something to do with Connor: he's been kind to him, patient with him, he's weathered the worst of Yazoo's attempts at savage coldness, and yet he's always there with a hand outstretched when the Remnant needs him most. Connor may not know it, but that day out on his ship changed Yazoo's life for the better. It helped him see that there might be more to his existence than the barren wastes of a dying world.

At present, he's helping to decorate something called a Christmas tree. The fire spits in the hearth where it casts the room in a pleasant, amber glow, and each time Yazoo glances towards the window he finds himself all the more grateful for it. The weather outside is frightful: ink-dark and cold enough that breath plumes white with it, but the Remnant turns his back to the window as his thoughts wander to that night when Connor found him wandering out in the snow.

Life is better now. He's warm, comfortable, the air is heavy with spiced wine, and there is a plate of 'festive' treats sitting on a side-table just waiting to be eaten. A small smirk touches his lips as he watches Connor rummaging through the ornaments: )

Have you lost something?

( The question isn't as innocent as it sounds. Yazoo pulls a golden star from beneath the fold of his thick shawl, which he's wearing draped over a loose white shirt to keep away any tendrils of cold that sneak in under the doors. With his hair in a loose bun, his expression amused, and his feet in a pair of thick woollen socks, it's almost as though he truly belongs there. )

I assume this goes on the top.

( He holds it between his finger and thumb, the tail-end of an eyebrow lifting a little way. )

Although I can't imagine why.

[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.