Archive of Our Own

In his room – up the stairs, first door to your right – there’s a dresser by his bed. In that dresser is a snuff box, tucked away in the second drawer, nested comfortably beneath the fabric of his clothes.

When Yuki gives him the okay, it’s where Ken goes first. Hurries upstairs and digs it out, flipping open the lid to the velour white interior.

The box is a jewellery box. A small thing, but durable. Tough enough to withstand a house collapsing on top of it, apparently, as it was one of the few items that – when a pair of officers came to the dormitory he’d been moved into a week after the incident – had been procured from the rubble and returned to him.

It’s… one of the few things Ken has left of his mother. Naturally, he cherishes it, more than nearly anything else he owns. He doesn’t think anyone in S.E.E.S. would ever pry or try and pinch any of the valuables inside, but still he keeps it hidden away in the same place, concealed by a mound of neatly folded socks. That much is a habit he first developed while living in the elementary dorms, but it makes him feel better, even now, to have it stowed somewhere only he knows about.

There, he keeps the meagre stash of jewellery Mom had safe. Doesn’t wear any of it, in part because he’s not interested in accessorizing, but also because it’s hers. Not that she had much; just two pairs of earrings, a single necklace, and the wedding ring she never wore but never pawned off.

It left a lot of unused space in the box – about half of it completely empty – which is why Ken started using it to store his money. After all, he’s not old enough to have a bank account in his name and it’s the safest place he could think of to put all the loose bills he doesn’t want to be carrying around everyday.

Plus, he didn’t have any of his own jewellery to fill it with anyway. He figured it’d be the next best use of the space. He keeps one half of the box reserved for his mother’s things, and the other for his own. Kept apart by the centre divider, neat and balanced on either side. Just as things should be.

What he has there is a two-year-long amalgamation of the allowance he got in the mail from his aunt every month and whatever birthday money was sent to him by the relatives he’s only met once as a baby. It’s a single wad of banknotes – about 20,000 yen, give or take – on his side, constricted into shape with an elastic band wrapped three times around the paper.

He doesn’t touch his stash often. It’s his emergency funds. For emergencies. Or for limited-time runs of Feather Swallow figures, because he’s not missing out on another one.

Today, though, he opens the box for neither of those two reasons. Rather, it’s for gifts. Gift shopping, more specifically, and for well… everyone. He pulls out the clump of bills and smooths them out, sliding them into the open pocket of his wallet.

If you asked him two weeks ago, Ken would say it was a stupid idea. Or, he wouldn’t say it, because Ken doesn’t just blurt things out like that. He might think it, though, or use different words expressing himself at the very least, because it just didn’t feel right to be celebrating right now. When Fuuka proposed throwing a Christmas party – complete with a big dinner and presents – that’s where his mind went. They had so much riding on their shoulders – the whole world, in fact – that it felt wrong to think about anything else.

No, it wasn’t stupid. It was just… hard for him to justify.

But Yuki was on board – the first to do so, actually – voicing his agreement with a placid “Hm. Might be nice.” And then Junpei gave in. And then Yukari rolled her shoulders with a smile, and Mitsuru hummed in assent, and eventually Sanada came around, too.

And maybe that makes sense. Everyone’s been in a mood. A bleak, black kind of mood. The dorm has been too quiet and too tense, and all that has been grating on Ken, too. 

It’s not like they could do much before New Year’s Eve, anyway.

That is to say it didn’t take long for Ken to warm up to the idea. Of celebrating, of taking a breather for a few days, of having something else to think about that isn’t the end of the world for a little while. 

Which naturally led to thinking about gifts. And buying gifts.

Ken can leave the dorm all on his own. Really, he doesn’t need an attendant. He’s well versed in navigating the station maps of Port Island and knows how to keep himself out of trouble. Still, because it’s something the whole dorm is doing, he figured it’d be knocking out two birds with one stone to go with somebody else to get their shopping done together. That it’d be nice to.

Yuki was the obvious choice in that department. Hence the OK he gave Ken, and hence why he’s dressed in his usual grey winter jacket when Ken meets him downstairs. 

He bounds for the closet, tugging off his coat from its hanger and sliding it over his arms.

“Are you ready?” Yuki asks, which Ken responds to with an enthusiastic Mhm! “We can pick up some lunch if you’d like. It’s almost noon.”

Ken glances at the overhead clock, confirming that it is in fact almost noon. Eleven thirty-five, specifically, which prompts him to realize that he hasn’t eaten anything today yet.

He zips up his coat, pulling down the cuffs of his sweater so they hang over his palms instead of letting the fabric bunch up beneath the jacket sleeves, then offers Yuki a small smile. “Um, yeah. I’d like that.”

—

In the midst of everything that’s happened over the last two months, Ken hasn’t really had the time to think about Christmas gifts. Or even Christmas at all. 

It all happened so fast. It was summer, then the first day of autumn, and then before he knew it the trees had turned colour, the leaves had wilted off the branches, the air dried out, and the permanent overcast that seemed to be a recurrent feature of Port Island’s winters fell over the coast again.

Still, despite the short notice, he’s done his best to drum up something in the week it’s been since they all agreed on the idea. Ken leaves the dorm equipped with a mental list (not a physical list, as to reduce the risk that he might somehow misplace it, and that somebody on the team would find it and spoil the surprise) of what he wants to get each of S.E.E.S.’ members.

Some ideas he has fully ironed out. Others were mere jotted-down pointers, more jointless profiles of ideas that have just been rolling around in his head like a load of laundry. In his defense, some of his comrades are definitely harder to buy for than others. Some feel impossible to buy for, like the seniors. And Aigis. And at this point, he’s second-guessing himself about his plans for Junpei and Yukari, too.

But Ken’s been told that it’s the thought that counts, and the most he can hope for is that that’s not just some platitude and is something his friends believe. The realistic half of Ken’s mind says they won’t be disappointed regardless, that they’re not hoping for anything big or impressive out of an elementary-school student running on short notice and a small budget.

The niggling little voice in the back of his mind, however, still strives to impress, to delight, to get something his… friends will actually enjoy or get some use out of.

In his eyes, it’s really the least he could do.

It’s a sunnier day outside, compared to the grey skies he’s used to seeing in December. It snowed yesterday, evidenced by slush lining the sides of the roads, and by the remaining frost cresting tree branches and rooftops in a thin sheet of white.

Iwatodai Strip is the first stop on the itinerary. Not that they had much of an itinerary, mind you. But Ken’s mental list necessitates a stop at Bookworms and the Sweet Shop, and he figures it’d be good to get it out of the way first instead of stopping on the way back when they’re already burdened with bags.

So he taps Yuki’s shoulder and asks, “Um, Yuki-san, can we stop here?” 

Yuki turns his head over to look at him, before a comfortable half-smile settles on his lips.

“Of course,” he replies, making a slight outward gesture with his hand, as if to tell him Lead the way.

So Ken does.

Despite everything, the strip still boasts decorations for the holiday season. The place has evidently been swept up since the last Ken visited, with string lights neatly lining the balcony railings. Along the sidewalk, the light posts have gained big festive red bows tied just beneath their lamp heads and the deadened trees have been embellished with red and white baubles.

Save for the festive decor, it looks and feels like the same Iwatodai Strip he’s known for most of his life. It’s a little surreal, given everything that’s happening. As if there isn’t a world-ending threat looming on the horizon. As if there aren’t bodily husks at every interchange, dotting the city, one slumped by one of the vending machines (a sight that makes Ken flinch, once he realizes it’s there).

The world seems to have this – knack to continue on, keep moving, like a big machine and its ever-turning gears. 

He clears his throat. Reminds himself that he has Yuki beside him, waiting for his direction, and moves his feet. With Yuki in tow, he heads up the spiral stairs up to the second-floor terrace.

“I figured it’d be nice to get Yukari-san some sweets,” he offers in explanation, the metal thumping beneath their shoes. “She’s always talking about this place.”

Though, because she’s always talking about this place, he figures he’s probably not the only one with the idea of buying her something from it. Still – more is probably better than less, right? Candy takes a while to go bad, anyway.

Up on the terrace, he finds a band of teenage girls crowding outside the shop, which gives Ken pause. He tries not to make a big deal of it – it’s a Sunday and, if the place is popular with Yukari, it’d naturally be popular with other girls of similar age. 

It’s just that crowds aren’t really his thing. That’s something he has in common with Yuki, however unflappable their leader appears to be. And while Yuki’s good at keeping his composure – something Ken admires about him – Ken still doesn’t want to put him in uncomfortable situations. He doesn’t want to ruin their nice day out together.

“We can come back later, o-or another day,” Ken stammers, glancing up at Yuki, though he can’t gauge his expression with his bang in the way. “It looks busy.” 

When Yuki does turn his head, though, his face doesn’t have that slight look of discomfort Ken was expecting. “If that’s what you want. But I think it’ll be better inside. I’m pretty sure they’re just hanging out outside.”

Ken blinks, but then nods at the reassurance.

“Excuse us,” Yuki says as he grabs for Ken’s hand. Ken startles, but quickly squeezes the appendage back, scooting behind Yuki as they pinch their way into the shop. Luckily, and as Yuki predicted, it’s not as busy inside, with the customers more dispersed along the aisles. He exhales a sigh of relief and looks to the signs hanging over each aisle for direction.

It doesn’t occur to Ken until he’s guided him to one of the rows that he’s still holding Yuki’s hand. When he does realize, he drops it like the contact burns him. Yuki doesn’t move, though, or say anything. He remains comfortably at his side and simply asks, “So, what do you wanna get her?” silencing any impulse on Ken’s part to apologize.

“Oh, um. You know Yukari-san better than I do, but –” he replies, rubbing his nape nervously, “I was thinking chocolate. I don’t know what kind she likes, though.”

Yuki’s expression is contemplative, one hand loose on his chin as his eyes trawl up and down the shelves.

“Hm… Well, milk chocolate is always a good pick. Yukari doesn’t like overly nutty flavours.” he says with a contemplative hum. “Oh. Hazelnut she likes.”

“Really? I like hazelnut, too,” Ken blurts. It gets a laugh out of Yuki, something small and surprised. He turns his head up towards him, where he finds Yuki smiling while picking out one of the boxes to check its label.

“We can buy extra, then.” he says, still a little mirth in his voice. Ken opens his mouth, something like the immediate No, it’s okay. We don’t have to on his tongue, before he closes it in place of a hesitant “Um, only if you want to, senpai.”

They could share. He’s pretty sure Yuki likes chocolate too. 

Ken refocuses his attention on what’s in front of him: an array of different candy bars and gift sets – a lot in heart-shapes and a few that look like flowers, all packaged in red and white and pink boxes. He wrinkles his nose at the display. Anything lovey-dovey is clearly not what he’s looking for, but he supposes it only makes sense. Christmas is a romantic holiday. 

Stubbornly, he leans down to the lower shelves, finding chocolate bunnies in gold-foil wrapping, petite-but-expensive gourmet tasting kits, and finally some more appropriate gift boxes. Yuki crouches down next to him, watches as Ken surveys for a variety pack that fills the checklist in his head.

“Does Yukari-san like dark chocolate?” 

“I don’t think she’s a fan of bitter flavours,” Yuki replies, then, grabbing one of the gift sets, “How about something like this?”

What he hands Ken is a white round box with a clear plastic cover and a sheer red ribbon laid overtop it in a cross formation. Inside are an assemblage of different browns in triangles, squares, and circles, with swirls and geometric patterns embedded into the surface. Some are lighter tawny shade, some a deeper hickory colour, some are tinged to be a little mauve or mulberry, with a few milky white chocolates spread in-between.

Ken checks the back of the box just to be sure, finding no dark chocolates, no walnuts or pralines or pistachios. “Yeah, I think this would be good.” he says, placing it into their basket.

It’s hard for Ken not to second-guess himself. It’s a habit he’s always had, and perhaps it’s only expected that it’d extend to gift-giving, too. It’s a satisfactory pick, even if he would’ve ideally found something similar in pink for Yukari’s favourite colour. It leaves him eyeing the box uneasily in the check-out line, as they shuffle between the winding maze of goodies piled on the partitions on either side of them.

Beside him, Yuki picks leisurely at different items on the shelves. Ken has never thought of him as much of a sweets guy, but he apparently enjoys browsing, if nothing else than as a means to occupy himself. There’s a bunch of cute little trinkets there on the racks, seated beside packs of gum and other novelty confectionery items.

Eventually, he picks up a small bag with a shiny silver label on it. “Do you like mocha?”

Ken’s brow furrows. “I don’t think I’ve had it before. What is it?”

“It’s kind of a coffee flavour. I think you’d like it.” Yuki explains, before dropping it into the basket without any further notice. The motion is so casual Ken jumps to the conclusion that it must’ve been accidental, but he knows Yuki well enough by now for it to quickly register that it wasn’t.

For a moment, Ken pauses to rectify with that, but he decides against saying anything.

After checking out, they head back downstairs to the first floor of the strip, where Ken silently shepherds Yuki into Bookworms. Unlike the Sweet Shop, Bookworms is practically empty inside, which Ken counts as a blessing. Disregarding his own aversion to crowds, Yuki can be kind of soft-spoken. While that’s something Ken appreciates about him more often than not, it does make him hard to hear in a busy shopping mall.

Bookworms is one of the few spots in Iwatodai Strip that Ken used to go to when he was a kid. Mom would take him whenever they had to buy new school books for Ken, if she needed something new to read, or simply to check in on the Kitamuras whenever they happened to be in the area.

Ken remembers disliking it back then. He was younger and a dusty bookstore with the heat turned way too high is hardly a kid’s favourite place to hang out while their mom made small talk with the old people working there.

But it wasn’t so bad, looking back now. 

He remembers buying his first Featherman R manga here. Making the routine trip every semester to buy his textbooks second-hand here. Getting off at the wrong station on his way home and running here, tears in his eyes, where Mrs Kitamura consoled him while Mr Kitamura rang his residence.

Since Mom died, he hasn’t come back much. Mrs and Mr Kitamura notwithstanding, he never liked the pitying looks he’d get from people he knew before the accident. He only stops by when he needs to.

Going in with Yuki reduces the threat of being cornered into an awkward conversation, so he feels a little more confident. He even offers Mrs Kitamura – tidying up the store, broom in hand – a tiny greeting wave on their way in that she smiles at. The aisles are narrow and the displays are messy in a way that vaguely itches at Ken, but they waddle their way through the store with the metal shelf danglers serving as their guides.

Ken’s rationale for this gift is simple: Fuuka usually looks up recipes online on their computer if she wants to make something. Rarely does she avail herself of the cookbook Aragaki left behind, a trait Ken initially thought was because must’ve been because she didn’t like the recipes in it or because they were – and forgive him for thinking this – out of her skill level, but he’s increasingly come to see as more of a respect thing.

But if she’s not going to use it, then surely she’d appreciate having her own cookbook to reference instead. It seems like a lot of work in Ken’s eyes, to go through the whole process of printing out or writing down recipes to bring with her to the kitchen every time she wants to make something new.

“They can be expensive, you know.” Yuki tells him, apparently catching onto his intention by virtue of where Ken stops in the aisle. Yukari’s gift was comparatively cheap – not even 1,000 yen – and they’ve got six more people and a dog to buy for. 

“I know. I brought my money with me.” he allays. Admittedly, he feels a little proud about it. Having savings is something adults do. Using those savings on the people he cares about is, in his view, a noble way to spend it.

Yuki looks at him. Tilts his head a little with a small smile. Then, he nudges his pocket, presumably where his wallet is given the distension in the fabric, and says: “Alright. But I have money too, just in case.”

Ken feels himself flush a little. He wouldn’t want to impose, but the safety net is reassuring. He has to fight himself to say it, but eventually he offers a sheepish “I’ll let you know,” in response, fiddling a little. He pushes in any of the books jutting out of their shelves as his hands feel for each spine. Some are a scratchy linen, some a smooth pleather feel, and others a nice suede that drags along the pads of his fingers. 

He doesn’t know what to look for. Again, just like before, he feels a little at a loss when it comes to the specifics. Ken doesn’t get to go to school everyday with Fuuka or Yukari or anyone in the dorm, so his window to get to know people better is smaller.

Not that he’ll blame it entirely on that. He knows he’s not the most – sociable, either. He doesn’t know how to talk to people the same way Yuki seems to. For all their similarities, Ken still feels like he has so much more to learn. Especially when it comes to talking to people.

Back at the task at hand, Ken figures home cooking guides are probably a good place to start. He mentally scratches out any of the foreign cuisine books. He extends that to any book focusing on meat dishes, since he’s pretty sure Fuuka is a pescetarian. Books with celebrity chefs plastered on them are probably also a no-go – they feel too tacky for her tastes, and Ken doesn’t remember seeing any recurring chefs on the occasions that he’s sat in the lounge while she’s watched her cooking shows.

When Ken reaches on his toes to the fourth-shelf, Yuki dismisses him with a wave of his hand and grabs the book in his stead, pulling out the blue-spined hardcover Ken had set his sights on.

Yuki does a once-over of the front himself before placing it into his hands. It has a plain, though (probably) cute cover. He doesn’t want to use the term grandma-esque, but it looks like the type of thing Fuuka would like. A doily pattern along the edges, a muted colour scheme. The title on it is written in clean white text –

Mastering the Art of Home-style Cooking: The Beginner Chef’s Cookbook

– which leaves Ken musing to himself. Is giving a book labelled for beginners offensive? He doesn’t want to give the wrong impression; he really does admire her dedication and has the necessary first-hand experience to say that she’s improved a lot in the months he’s known her for. Still, he’s pretty sure Fuuka herself would still say she’s still a beginner, and probably wouldn’t mind the title. He’s not really sure is the problem, and it’s different to call yourself something compared to when other people are doing it.

“I think you might be overthinking it,” Yuki says suddenly, popping the thought-bubble that had clouded over his eyes. Ken looks up at him, where he’s greeted with an easy expression as Yuki leans over his shoulder.

“She’d like this one?” Ken asks, just for confirmation’s sake.

“Mm,” Yuki hums in agreement, “I think so, at least. But it’s whatever you think is best.”

The second opinion is nice to have. Ken has a bad habit of getting in his own head a lot. He has the self-awareness to acknowledge as much, even if he can’t really stop himself from doing it. Whatever tell on his face prompted Yuki to interject, Ken’s glad he did.

With Yuki still hovering over his shoulder, Ken flips open the book. If he’s honest, it’s in some part to hide his expression. He’s not knowledgeable enough to be able to gauge the quality of the recipes in it, but the layout inside looks simple and neat, the instructions concise and easy-to-follow. There are pictures, too, which probably help. 

He flips the page over. There’s about a half-and-half split of Western recipes, too. Most of his time witnessing Fuuka in the kitchen has been her making bentos in the mornings before school, but a variety is probably – hopefully – good, right?

He thinks so. 

“How much is it?” Yuki asks, having stood up again in the time it took him to fan through the book. Ken turns the book around, where the price listed under the barcode in the corner reads ¥2500.

“That’s not too bad.” Ken mutters to himself. Definitely within his budget. He looks up to where Yuki’s standing, now with a comfortable lean and his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Um, do you need anything here, senpai?”

“No, I’m good.” he answers simply, straightening up. “Are you ready to check out?”

Ken nods at that. He tucks the book under his arm and pads behind Yuki between the mottled walkway. There’s a little brass bell on the wood desk where the register is that Ken has to keep himself from tapping, given Mr Kitamura is right there across from them, seated on the stool with a magazine in hand. 

He lifts his head up with a timid clear of the throat on Yuki’s part. “Ah, Yuki-kun,” he starts, pulling himself onto his feet, “you should’ve come said hi when you came in. I didn’t notice you were here.”

“Sorry, Kitamura-san,” Yuki says, rubbing his nape. With his other hand hovering over Ken’s upper back, he explains, “we’re out shopping together today, and I didn’t wanna disturb you.”

Which Ken appreciates.

While the man takes the book and flips it over to scan the barcode on the back, there’s a gentle ruffle at his hair from behind him. Not from Yuki, he finds out, but rather Mrs Kitamura, apparently done with her sweeping.

“Oh dear, you’ve grown since I last saw you.” she says fondly, “Don’t overtake me now, okay?”

Ken’s cheeks heat up at the attention as he fumbles three one-thousand-yen bills out of his wallet.

“It’s only a matter of time, Mitsuko-chan,” her husband replies, equally as fond, redirecting his attention away from Yuki at the check-out table. “He’s a growing boy. Aren’t you, er…”

“Ken Amada, sir.” Ken supplements automatically, with a slight bow of his head as he slides over the notes.

“Ken-kun.” Mr Kitamura finishes. There’s surprise in his voice as he says, “Ah, Ken-kun. I remember you.”

It goes concealed by the slant of his head, but Ken feels himself grimace. Admittedly, he was hoping otherwise. The Kitamuras are pleasant enough people, but their conversations do drone on, and it feels stuffy just interacting with them. Ken isn’t really sure how to go about it. His palms feel sweaty where they squeeze around the cuffs of his hoodie.

“You’ve grown so much,” Mr Kitamura continues, leaning down towards him. He suddenly grabs – not harshly, but still grabs – at the fat of Ken’s cheek and tugs a little, as if trying to gauge how much baby fat he still has on his face. Ken’s never liked being touched like that – really he thinks no kid would enjoy having their cheeks pinched at random, he really doesn’t get why adults do it – and so he bristles, then steps back on instinct. 

His impulse is to apologize, since he imagines it’s probably rude, but –

“We should be going.” Yuki butts in with. “We’d stay longer, but I promised him we’d get lunch at Paulownia,” he adds, and there’s this familiar airy chortle that rings forced to Ken’s ears, “it’s already noon, so.”

“Oh, yes, yes. I understand,” Mr Kitamura nods, hobbling back to his place behind the desk. He unfolds a small paper bag, placing the book flat on its side at the bottom before handing it over.

Which Ken accepts while gnawing at his cheek. He still says “Thank you,” since he knows Kitamura didn’t mean any offense, and offers a small smile when he glances at Yuki. His face is impassive as always, but his behaviour is unusually assertive. Enough for Ken to glean that he’s trying to hurry this up for his sake.

“Of course, dears. Have a good day. Stay safe out there,” Mrs Kitamura says. She’s certainly the more tolerable of the two, and gives a single pat to Ken’s shoulder for her send-off.

“You two as well,” Ken offers, bowing his head again before finally turning around, bag in hand. There’s a “Come back soon!” from Mr Kitamura behind them, to which Yuki responds with a wave of his hand.

It’s only when they get to the front that Yuki nudges him slightly, opening the door with a “Sorry about that.”

Which is what Ken was going to say.

“Oh, you don’t have to apologize, senpai.” It was probably awkward for the both of them, and he feels a tickle of guilt for putting Yuki in that position where he felt he needed to step in. “Sorry if I made it… weird. I’m not so good at that stuff.”

Yuki just looks at him, considering.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Amada.” he replies. As Ken passes the threshold out beneath the green awning of the bookstore, Yuki places a hand on his shoulder, which moves to rub reassuringly at his upper arm. “And just so you know, I wasn’t bothered, so don’t worry about it. I just want you to have fun today.”

Fun.

Ken pauses at the word. He’s not sure he’s even heard it out of Yuki’s mouth before. For whatever reason, it strikes him, like it was something to be argued over. 

That’s not what comes out of his mouth though – he shuts it down because it’s pointless to needle over, even if the word does itch at him. Instead a “But I –” jumps out of him, followed up with the more timid, more honest, “I’d… like you to have fun, too, Yuki-san.”

Yuki chuckles at that, giving a light tap to where he’d been rubbing before the two return to the busy sidewalk. “I don’t think you need to worry about that part. I am enjoying myself.”

Ken’s lip slants. There’s a tiny skeptical voice from the back of his mind telling him that Yuki’s just saying that to make him feel better, because Ken doesn’t know how that’d be the case. They’ve hit two stores and Yuki didn’t buy anything at either of them. He’s just been hovering at Ken’s side, pitching in with his commentary or assistance as needed. That certainly doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.

Still, it’s the warbling voice of a kid that steals his attention instead –

“But mom,” it cries, “I don’t need to wear all this stuff. It’s lame.”

– and derails their conversation as Ken turns to look. There, beneath the veranda outside Wild Duck, he finds the source of the voice: a kid bundled up in a thick winter vest as a woman – the boy’s mother, Ken can only presume – wraps a scarf around his neck.

And Ken stills.

“Now, now,” the mother coos. The kid, he guesses, is about seven or eight. He has dark grey mittens and a matching hat, while the jacket zipped up right to his chin is a dainty blue. It’s the scarf wound around his neck that stands out in all its bright orange glory. “It’s cold outside, dear. I don’t want you to get sick right before the winter break.”

“I won’t get sick,” the boy whines.

There’s a sort of budding discomfort that unfurls in Ken’s chest when he sees it. He’s not sure why.

After all, he’s watched his classmates get picked up by their moms and dads from school countless times, been to the park on Sundays where parents take their young kids to go play. He’s gotten used to being the odd one out over the last two years that it really doesn’t make sense why something so small, so commonplace, is bothering him.

But his world seems to narrow to that spot outside Wild Duck. He doesn’t pay attention to his periphery. If he did, he would’ve noticed that Yuki has stopped walking, too, having caught onto his sudden trance.

Before Ken knows it, he’s leaning down at him, his tunneled line of sight suddenly obscured by Yuki’s face.

“Hey. Are you okay?” he asks, as the world comes back into tune, widening beyond the strait scope where Ken had been staring. His eyes refocus on Yuki as he scratches at the back of his neck beneath his hoodie, along the baby hairs there.

“O-Oh, yeah. Sorry,” he flushes, squaring his shoulders, “I’m alright.” And he hopes it sounds reassuring, because he is – honestly – alright. 

“I just um, spaced out. But I’m okay, Yuki-san.”

Yuki raises an eyebrow at that. Just a little bit, barely noticeable.

“If you’re sure,” he says after a beat, “but if you need anything, let me know, okay?”

It’s then – before he can even respond with an Okay or try and apologize for worrying him – that Ken’s stomach rumbles. It’s a good break in the tension he’s brewed, even if it is a little embarrassing.

“I guess I um, need to eat soon,” he laughs weakly. 

Yuki chuckles, before standing up again and sliding his hands back into his pockets.

“Well, if we hurry, we can probably catch the next train. There’s a lunch place I think you’d like – I don’t think you’ve been there before.”

Ken smiles and gives him a hurried nod, sprinting over the few steps between them to return to his side. 

—

Once they’ve settled down into their seats, Yuki offers him one of his earphones. 

If it’d been two months ago, Ken probably would’ve declined. He doesn’t like to impose and knows Yuki likes to use music to relax whenever he has a moment to breathe, but he also knows Yuki wouldn’t offer if he didn’t mean it. 

So, Ken takes the bud and pops it into his ear, where a track on Yuki’s go-to playlist – comprised mostly of slower rock – is already playing.  They’re songs Ken doesn’t recognize by name, but is familiar with, now, by sound.

Ken likes Yuki’s music. It’s better background noise than the faint chatter in the back of their cart, but more than that, it’s just good music. It’s also stuff that Ken didn’t know much about before Yuki shared it with him, so there’s a comfort to hearing them that he doesn’t think was written into the guitar riffs and occasional lyrics.

The monorail line from Iwatodai to Port Island Station extends over the sea. Ken tends to sit closest to the window, so he can catch the view of the ocean as they pass over it. It’s nice, Ken’s always thought. The elementary dorms are closer to the school but, since moving in with the rest of S.E.E.S., he’s gotten to see it every day on the commute over.

He doesn’t tire of it, even after months of daily viewings. It’s easy to get lost in the way the sun bounces off the surface of the water, in how the refracted light dances with the movement of the waves. Catching it at noon like he is now makes it a little hard to look at – the glare’s just too bright – but it’s still pretty all the same.

With music playing and his face glued to the window, the world kind of tunes out. It makes him feel a little like a bird, being high up over the ocean with no solid ground beneath them. Just the familiar silhouette of the low islands on the horizon line, and the occasional fishing boats leaving white trails in the waters below.

Eventually, the monorail curves back towards land, and the illusion smoulders away as the shape of low-rise buildings edge into frame.

From here, Ken usually spends the rest of the ride imagining shapeless ninjas parkouring across rooftops or superheroes flying in the clouds above the island, but not today.

Today, he finds himself content just to watch as a light snow begins to haze over his view. Being right on the sea, it tends to snow often in Port Island. Early, too. It’s only the 13th and they’ve already had a few days of snowfall.

But Ken likes that about Port Island. Even if he’s good at hiding it, he’s still young enough to experience that childlike sense of wonder at the sight of snow. His impulse is to show Yuki, too, but his eyes are shut when Ken glances over, his head slightly drooping, and Ken’s not going to disturb his power nap.

It’s still drizzling out when the train comes to a stop. They step off at the platform together and take the escalators down into the terminal.

Ever since they set out, just an hour ago now, there’s been this distinct sense of – wrongness wriggling beneath Ken’s skin, a small but shrill voice in the back of his head that tells him that he shouldn’t feel as light as he does right now. But even with everything hanging over their heads, even with the husks dotting the concourse and outside pavilion, he can’t help but think:

It’s a better holiday season than last year, where he blocked out the date entirely and studied his way through his winter break. And it’s better compared to the year before that, where he slept through the day in his bedroom alone, huddled beneath the covers with the photograph on his dresser flipped over.

And he can’t shake the guilt of feeling that way. After all, the Lost are called that for a reason. They’re not just props dotting the city, they’re family members and friends, zombified husks wearing faces of people who were there but aren’t anymore. There are kids out there who will spend this year’s Christmas like Ken did these last two – alone, holed up in his bedroom with the lights turned off, trying to think about anything other than the hollow pit in his stomach – and how is he supposed to feel anything other than guilt in these circumstances?

There’s a part of him that he just can’t silence that tells him he shouldn’t be out buying gifts and going to lunch with Yuki, that they shouldn’t be celebrating anything in the first place. It tells him that he should be in his room or on the roof of the dorm with a broom in hand, practicing his technique and form, resolving himself for the worst the way he’d been doing just months ago, under different circumstances.

But it’s hard, too, for Ken not to want – to enjoy himself, to celebrate, to put down the world-ending weight hanging over their heads for a day or for a week. Yuki’s gone out of his way for him, and well… Ken’s past the point of pretending he doesn’t enjoy his company.

Quite the opposite; he cherishes it, really. If he was honest, it feels almost like a home of sorts. A living breathing sort of home, with two legs and a slight hunch and earphones permanently dangling over the front of his jacket.

Which is hard for Ken to come to terms with – the fact that he has someone like that in his life again, that he’s allowed to have that.

“So where do you wanna go, after lunch?”

It’s Yuki’s voice that drags him back to the present, pulling him from his mind to the smooth granite walkways beneath their feet and the bustling plaza around them.

Ken swallows the lump in his throat, deciding against telling Yuki about what’s on his mind, the enduring pit in his stomach. In a way, that’s an indulgence in itself. But he’s already worried Yuki a lot and, if the intent is to have fun today, the right thing for Ken to do is not bring up something so – heavy, and weird, and so uncomfortably sentimental. 

Not that Port Island Station is the place he’d want to do that, anyway.

“Um, I was thinking that the sports store there would be good.” he says instead.

“AthletiCo?”

Ken gives an affirming nod. “Yeah! For Junpei-san. And Sanada-san, maybe.” he replies. “I um, I don’t really know what to do for Mitsuru-san, still. Or Aigis-san, if she’s going to be back.”

“I don’t know if she’ll make it for Christmas, last I heard from Kirijo-senpai.” Yuki admits, subtly rubbing the back of his neck. “But we can still buy her something, if you’d like. I’m sure she’d appreciate a welcome home gift.”

For the holidays, the plaza is decorated with winding garlands along the railing over the sea and lit wireframe displays suspended between the marble columns. The cafè has hung up ornaments from the edges of the canopy where the outdoor eating area usually is, and the movie theatre has used the available space beyond its doors like a personal yard, putting up inflatable snowmen and giant baubles.

That’s another thing Ken likes about Port Island. It always looks pretty in December, with all its seasonal decor. This part of the city he’s much more familiar with, having grown up in a stooped townhouse just on the side streets behind the station. 

And well, it’s nice to be able to enjoy the sight again.

Though – being right on the monorail line, the area is usually a hotspot. Today isn’t any different. Just as Ken had been carted around on his Sundays off when he was a boy, there’s families speckled all about the square. Nuclear families of three and four queued up outside the box office, housewives talking to one another on the bench while their kids run around in their jackets, strollers of snoozing toddlers pushed along by their doting parents.

And the pit in Ken’s stomach grows, widens like the open maw of the earth ready to swallow him down again. It takes him a deliberate effort, but Ken doesn’t let himself get lost in it again. He pulls away from the sight and looks up at Yuki instead.

“What about you, senpai?” he pipes up with, hands clasping together in front of himself, where the line of his shorts would usually be. He’s not wearing gloves like Yuki is, but the extra fabric on his sweater allows him to make mittens out of the sleeves. “Any stores you wanna check out while we’re there?”

—

Right in front of the fountain at Paulownia Mall is a large flocked Christmas tree with a thick red ribbon tied around it. Ken always liked coming here when he was a kid for this reason alone. Mom put up a tree in their living every year for Ken to decorate, but it couldn’t compare to the sheer scale of the one at the mall.

His eyes must widen at the sight of it, because he hears a small laugh out of Yuki beside him.

“Maybe we should’ve put up our own tree at the dorm, if we were going to be celebrating.”

“W-Well, it was pretty short notice,” Ken mumbles abashedly, reeling himself back. Not that he really minds Yuki’s commentary, but he can admire the view while maintaining conversation, at least. 

Still, given the amount of poinsettias – artificial, for Koromaru’s sake – currently sprinkled about the dorm, he adds, “Fuuka-san probably would’ve liked that, though.” 

Maybe next year, Ken thinks. Next year, when they don’t have an existential threat to worry about, when they can dedicate more time and energy to throwing together a party.

The tree isn’t the only thing put up in Paulownia Mall for the holidays. Most of the shops they pass have at least something in the windows or framing the entrance, but Ken tries not to get too lost in the spectacle.

Even with Yukari and Fuuka down, that still leaves the majority of the group to buy for. Admittedly, when Ken first set out to draft up ideas last week, he had quickly realized that there were a number of people in S.E.E.S. that would be difficult to figure out gifts for.

Mitsuru-san being among one the top spots of that list.

For many reasons, really, but mainly because she had money. She could buy herself whatever she wanted whenever she wanted, assuming that there was something that wasn’t already catered to her by her personal staff. When he was trying to get something down for her, Ken had a few ideas:

1. A puzzle of some kind, for her to do in her free time. Mitsuru seemed to like brain teasers. Whenever she got stumped studying, she’d occupy herself with a crossword or game or, if she had the time and a willing partner for it, pull out the shogi board from the cabinet beneath the bookcase in the living room and play a match or two.
2. Tea leaves. Because Mitsuru seemed to like tea, enough to have a cup at her side more nights than not. She seemed educated on the matter, which Ken can appreciate given his many attempts at brewing the perfect cup of coffee.
3. A bookmark or some other kind of stationery item. For the primary reason that it’d be something Mitsuru could get the most use out of.

But nothing really stuck out to him. He didn’t like the puzzles idea too much, given Mitsuru doesn’t get much free time to begin with, and seemed content to spend it relaxing with a book in hand and a cup of tea on the table. 

Speaking of tea, he wasn’t quite satisfied with that idea, either. For much of the same reason that it was hard to think of gifts for Mitsuru in the first place. Even if Ken knew more about tea, he figured he probably wouldn’t be able to get her anything she hasn’t tried before. And even if he knew her favourite tea, there’s no guarantee that Ken would be able to afford any for her. 

Nor would that really be much of a gift, in his eyes, if she’s used to it being readily available to her.

The third option he’d more or less resigned himself to, even though he thinks it’s a boring gift. She’s always reading or writing, even if that’s just study guides and school papers, so she’d surely get some use out of a nice pen. Maybe a new set of highlighters. A bookmark for her leisure reading that would remind her of the people in her life.

He does have a fourth idea he’s been ruminating on, which is some sort of – decoration. Something small that she could keep on her desk or dresser. A souvenir. 

‘Souvenir’ is kind of a broad category, though. It didn’t really solve the problem of what specifically he could get her. At first, he figured maybe he could ask Yuki for that picture they took back in November of all of them together at the dorm, but that quickly soured out of his favour. That was the night Mr Kirijo died and well, if Ken was given a picture of his mom the night before the accident, he doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach looking at it. Especially when the wound is still so fresh.

So he flushed that idea down the drain. Besides, Mitsuru could get that photo for herself if and when she was ready to see it.

It’s on their walk to the lunch place, though, that Ken lurches to a stop in the middle of the wide mall hallway. Prompted into doing so by the sight of a particular storefront.

Timeless Treasures is the name. Ken’s only ever walked by it before and has never thought to go inside. Usually there were old grandfather clocks in the window; brass-framed hourglasses and armillary spheres and all sorts of ornamental kitsch and woodworked curios that Ken wasn’t especially knowledgeable of or interested in.

“Wait,” Ken says. His hand twitches up to pull silently at Yuki’s wrist. He turns over to look at Ken with a surprised expression on his face.

“Is something wrong?”

And Ken stumbles, momentarily. Belatedly, he releases the cuff and lets his sleeves bunch up in his palm again, fidgeting. “N-No, it’s nothing like that. I just… If you don’t mind, I’d like to check that place out. I know we haven’t eaten yet, but –”

Yuki’s eyes dart over to the storefront in question, before settling back on Ken. “Oh. Did you see something?”

Right on the money. 

“Um. Yeah,” he admits with a nervous chuckle. 

Yuki doesn’t look annoyed though, even though he must be hungry by now. He just bends forward and outstretches his hand in another small flourish, just as he did at the strip. “Lead the way then.”

So Ken does, again.

Timeless Treasures smells fusty on the inside, with a stale leathery scent that blasts them upon entering. The man behind the counter is – perhaps expectedly – an older gentleman, one with thick spectacles down the bridge of his nose. Despite the ring of the bell over the doorway, he luckily takes no notice as they walk in, too preoccupied with a conversation with another customer.

The something in question he saw in the window is a snowglobe. Yuki lingers about the shelves nearby while Ken nudges aside the clothes rack obscuring him to retrieve it. 

It feels heavy in his hands. Inside the glass dome is a mockup of Port Island, its rocky shore and the monorail line cantilevered over the water. It sits on top of a broad wooden base – painted and carved in the image of pine trees, snowmen, and wrapped gift boxes. Across it is engraved the words Port Island Station, and beneath that, December 2009. 

Belatedly, Ken realizes that something like this is probably well out of his budget.

Checking the tiny orange sticker on the bottom of the base reveals that yes, it is. Or well – he could afford it, but with the knowledge that he still has gifts to find for at least three other people, he really shouldn’t.

“What’s wrong?” Yuki asks, and Ken quickly flips the thing back right side up. 

“O-Oh, nothing.”

Yuki slides back the music box he’d been inspecting back onto its shelf, tilting his head. 

“Is something wrong with it?” 

“No, it’s fine. It’s just – well…” Ken chews his cheek, lip bunching into it as he does. He fights the urge to stare at his feet. It’s second nature for him to. Ken’s grown used to navigating the world with his eyes at the ground. It’s easier to bow your head out of respect, out of apology, when you’re already half-way there.

“It’s just too pricey.” he explains in a hasty murmur. “It’s fine, though. I’ll find something else.” Something more affordable.

Yuki’s face doesn’t quite screw up at that – frankly, Ken doesn’t know if it can. His brows do furrow, though. “Amada, I thought I told you I’d be happy to pay for your stuff.”

His tone isn’t scolding. Compared to his usual flat, matter-of-fact tone, the reminder is offered kindly, with a reassuring hand on Ken’s shoulder.

“But that’s your money,” Ken protests. “I – That’s not really me buying it. I’d feel bad handing Mitsuru-san something you paid for.”

Yuki blows out an airy chuckle. He buckles down into a squat, picking up the snowglobe from where Ken had set it down on the windowsill.

“It’d still be the gift you chose for her. I wouldn’t have thought of something like this, you know.” he says, flipping it around again to watch the white flakes inside fall. “It’s a very pretty snowglobe. I think Kirijo-senpai would love it.”

Ken still hesitates, hedging on the offer. Letting Yuki pay feels like an out. Part of being an adult is managing your money, living within your means, and while Ken knows he’s not an adult – that he doesn’t even have an income and, at eleven years old, wouldn’t be expected to know how to budget one – he’s always strived to be responsible. 

Even back when he was a kid – a kid kid – he’d check the price tag on something before asking his mother for it. He’d consider the additional tax that’d come when they scanned it at the cash register. She never told him to do these things, but Ken did anyway.

There’s a certain satisfaction that comes, too, with paying for things himself. A part of Ken feels proud when he thinks about handing his friends gifts that he, through the power of hoarding allowances and planning ahead, was able to purchase for them with his own money.

Another part of Ken recognizes that his friends probably aren’t expecting anything from him in the first place. It’s not like they – Yuki included – aren’t aware of his circumstances. Or his age – that would be kind of hard to hide, five months into knowing them. The fact that he had any money of his own at all probably wasn’t even expected, and when he thinks about it like that, Yuki’s offer makes more sense. 

For all Ken knows, he might’ve brought extra money already anticipating he’d be footing the bill for the day.

“I… I think she would, too,” he replies tentatively. Still, he’s taken a lot of Yuki’s time, and taking Yuki’s money is even harder of a leap, so he double checks, “I just. Are you sure?”

Because another part of Ken wants to accept it. Even if he wishes he could pay for everything with his own money, even if he hates to impose.

“I’m sure,” Yuki answers smoothly, with a kind expression on his face. “It’s really not a bother for me, Amada. I have plenty and nothing to spend it on. And I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.”

Ken’s eyes flit back to the snowglobe, still sitting in Yuki’s folded-out hands. He takes it hesitantly, casting one last long look before finally giving a murmur of assent. With that out of the way, Yuki pushes himself back onto his feet, patting his head once.

“This store’s pretty neat, huh?” Ken says, once that’s settled. Though it’s about as messy as Bookworms when it comes to organization. Ken finds himself pushing in different shelved items just so they don’t hang over the ledge, and recentring anything askew on the table displays so they sit straight instead. “I’ve never been in here before.”

“Me neither,” Yuki replies. “Hm.”

That’s the preface he gets before losing sight on that head of blue hair. Yuki disappears behind a rack of sherpa-lined aviator jackets, returning soon enough. 

“I was thinking, for Aigis.” he says, and then from behind his back pulls out –

“A doll?” Ken asks, confused.

“Yeah.”

The logic is lost on Ken. “Why a doll?”

Yuki exhales a chuckle. “I don’t know, really. It kind of looks like her, doesn’t it?”

It does. In a very kind of way. It’s more just a blue-eyed wooden manikin with thin blonde strands of yarn for hair. Too pale to be called yellow. 

Still, it’s so out of left field that it causes a grin to crack across Ken’s face. “What? Why do you want to get her that, Yuki-san?”

Yuki shrugs. “Maybe. It’s not the best Christmas gift, but I actually don’t know what to get her. She’s the only one I haven’t gotten anything for, yet.”

“I… couldn’t think of much either.” Ken admits, a little pleased to hear he’s not the only one struggling in that department. He looks down at a table, to an array of pleather cover books spread across. “I wonder if she’s okay. She seemed really messed up by all the stuff with Ryoji-san.”

And what could Ken possibly get her, to help her through that? It’s not like he knows Aigis very well, outside of Tartarus and Koromaru duty. She kind of… unnerved him, back when he first joined, so he didn’t speak much to her. And she never seemed to intrude on him, unless it was to remind him it was his turn to walk the dog that night or to notify him that dinner was ready, so that distance never really changed.

“Maybe a journal. Maybe she’d like somewhere to get out whatever she’s feeling.” 

But even Yuki couldn’t figure something out. So Ken flips through one of the notebooks, thinking. 

Aigis isn’t human, so a lot of the gift ideas that’d been percolating in his head for the rest of S.E.E.S. didn’t work when applied to her. She doesn’t really have hobbies. Or interests. And when it came to basic gifts ideas you might get someone, most crumbled once you thought about them for longer than a moment.

Something edible would be moot – Aigis can’t eat, and Ken’s pretty sure she can’t taste, either. Candles are also rendered useless for similar reasons. So are bath sets, because Aigis doesn’t really take baths and, even if she did, probably can’t use traditional soaps on herself. Ken wouldn’t be able to squeeze jewellery into his budget, but even if Yuki could, what use would Aigis have for a necklace, or a bracelet, or earrings? She always has a big red bow around her neck, her arms are cannons from the elbow down, and she can’t pierce her ears. Scratch that, she doesn’t even have ears to pierce.

But just because she’s not human, does that mean she can’t have human things? Ken’s seen her room once. It’s just one large charging chair besided by ammo crates and a rail spanning the length of it, stacked with rows and rows of the same school uniform. Outside of that one outfit, she only ever wore her red ribbon, and – on occasion – a blue sundress.

He’s never stopped to think about it much before. Maybe it bothers her.

Ken shuts the journal, slots it under his arm, and turns his head up at Yuki. “You know, senpai,” he starts, “maybe some new clothes would be nice for her. Now that I think about it, Aigis-san doesn’t have a very big wardrobe.” 

Yuki raises a brow. For a moment, he stops and thinks, reverse-engineering Ken’s suggestion in his head.

And, after a beat, a breezy smile spreads on his face. “You’re so smart, you know that, Amada?” he says. “I think that’s a great idea.”

The eatery Yuki shows him to is a nice soba specialty shop not far from the antique place, nested in a nook between two shops. Yuki was right: he’s never been here before, or even seen it before.

It has a somewhat retro vibe to it and is, like most of the places they’ve seen today, modestly decorated for the holidays. A few lights here and there, a wreath on the main entrance, and shiny tinsel hanging in arcs from the ceiling.

A few patrons speckle the place, but it’s quiet enough inside to make for a good pit stop between stores. Ken slides into a muted-red booth across from Yuki, happy to finally be sitting down after the long walk from Port Island Station to the mall. 

He plucks out a pair of menus from the metal condiment holder at the end of the table and hands one over. It’s shifted over with the winter season, with mostly hot soba and soup dishes the whole way down.

It’s noon, so Ken elects for a simple glass of water when a waitress comes by to take their orders. Often when they go out to eat, he’ll mumble what he wants to Yuki and Yuki will do the ordering for them, but today Ken asks for a bowl of tsukimi soba himself, rewarded by a proud half-smile on the opposite side of the table.

With Yuki, Ken doesn’t feel obligated to drum up small talk. A spell of peaceful silence falls between them instead, of which they both spend people-watching through the wall-to-wall window.

Eventually though, that uncomfortable itch that has been nettling him all day gets to Ken again. In an effort to distract himself, he turns to look at Yuki while his feet kick idly beneath the table.

“Are you not going to buy anything, Yuki-san?” he asks. Because they’ve hit three stores now, and, “You um, haven’t bought anything.”

Which, again, is the reason he asked to go together in the first place, but Yuki’s arms are as empty as they were when they set out this morning, sans the Bookworms bag that he’s been carrying for Ken since they got off the train. 

“Hm? Oh, that’s because I finished my shopping already.” he says. And so casually, too. 

Ken frowns. “What? But I thought you – I thought that’s what we were doing today.”

“We are,” Yuki replies simply, lifting the bag as if to present evidence of that fact. There’s something light – not amused, exactly – in his tone. Ken’s brow is still furrowed, however, so Yuki continues on, “I didn’t mean to deceive you or anything. You asked and I decided to come along. That’s all.”

“But –” Ken starts, uselessly. The waitress intercepts to deliver their two glasses of water, and the frustrated question falls off his tongue.

Yuki waits until she’s left their table. Then, as though he could tell what Ken was going to say next, though, answers, “I wanted to. Isn’t that enough?”

Ken doesn’t get it. Even after all this time, he finds that idea difficult to reconcile with. He feels himself pouting and pulls his water to his mouth to hide that, mumbling into the lip of the glass. 

“You could’ve mentioned that earlier.”

Yuki laughs in a soft exhale. “If I’m honest, I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” he replies soberly, “I know how you get sometimes, and I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I’m here on my own free will.”

Ken blows out a huff, though there’s no resentment in it. Frankly it’s – nice, to have someone who knows him as well.

It’s soba, so it doesn’t take long for the waitress to return with their two bowls. The steam billows up at him as he splits apart his chopsticks, bowing his head in thanks.

Ken doesn’t have soba often and has few places in mind he could compare it to, but it is – by his account – pretty good soba. There’s this slight nutty flavour to the broth from the buckwheat noodles that Ken likes, and the egg is well-poached. The meal is warm and hearty and soothes the hungry ache in his stomach.

As he eats, though, his gaze wanders back to the window, to the mall-goers outside it.

There was a reason Ken spent the last two Christmases cooped up in his room. No matter how much he’s tried to ignore it, it’s hard for his eyes not to drift to and linger on the sight of the happy families going about their everyday routines. It’s hard not to feel that same weird – discomfort from before. 

“You okay, Amada?” Yuki asks. “You’re kind of spacing out again.”

Ken snaps back into the present at the nudge, realizing that he’s left his chopsticks drifting in the bowl, listing against the side of it.

“O-Oh, um. Yeah, I’m okay,” he replies swiftly, snatching up his cutlery again, “just… got in my head a little.”

Yuki’s eyes linger on him while he eats. Ken used to find them unnerving, his eyes. Which doesn’t make the most sense, really. They’re a soft blue, almost grey colour. It’s hardly a piercing look – the colour’s too muted and too soft and even his pupils have this quiet, cloudy quality to them.

Still, even if they’re not quite sharp or keen like Aigis’, Yuki has always had this strange ability to see through him. It made him hard to lie to, and, back when Ken had a lot to hide, that scared him. 

That’s changed. Like a lot of things, that’s changed. 

Really, it’s actually sort of nice now, how easy he picks up on things. Like a safety net. Ken’s always found it a little difficult to talk to people. If it’s prepared speeches at school or idle chit-chat with classmates, Ken tends to do fine. It’s just… when it comes to talking about himself – how he feels or if he needs something – that really screws him up.

He doesn’t like to bother people, and that’s all it ever feels like: bothering. He always seems to get cold feet, or run off course, or stammer his way around apologies and courtesies, distracting from the point until it dissolves away.

But with Yuki, he doesn’t draw back from the scrutiny, or flinch from it. He knows Yuki is there, can feel his concern like a palpable presence, not a stifling pressure but a comforting weight. A touch on his shoulder, or hand, or even a hug, even though Yuki hasn’t moved from his side of the table.

“I just –” Ken starts, while picking idly at the closed seam of the upholstery. There’s a jumble of feeling in his chest, knotted together into one confusing tangle that Ken isn’t quite sure how to unwind. It’s too big for his body and burns hot from inside of it, like a painful cough trying to wrench its way out his throat.

“I wanted to tell you,”

Yuki looks up from his cup at him, setting it down on the ledge of the table with his hands still folded around it. 

With his attention caught like this, Ken’s breath hitches and the words scatter where he had so carefully collected them. But he picks up the pieces, faltering just a little as he continues:

“I haven’t really… celebrated Christmas like this in a while.” Yuki can probably imagine when exactly the last time had been, but still Ken feels the need to clarify. “Mom used to do all this stuff back then, too. We’d go around town and see the decorations. She’d take me to lunch or breakfast and bring me to malls and… all this stuff.”

She’d buy him gifts, too. Ken remembers opening up wrapped-up boxes she kept at the bed of the living room tree every year, toys and clothes and books, mostly. When he was seven, it was a second-hand DS alongside a few game cartridges. When he was six, it was this miniature soccer net and ball set that he could play outside their house or inside when it was too cold or busy out. Even further back, he remembers  – more faintly, with the edges of the memory blurred – the first Christmas she bought him boy clothes, a few new outfits for the new school year to supplement his at-the-time tiny wardrobe. 

“I don’t know why,” he mumbles, “I don’t think we had much money back then.” His clammy hands curl into fists, rubbing at the fabric of his sleeve. “I guess she just wanted me to… have fun.” 

“And did you?”

A soft laugh bubbles out of him at the simple question. Something fond and strange and raw. It feels like there’s some kind of worm in his ribcage, wriggling around behind his heart. It feels heavier and lighter and a little like it doesn’t fit in his chest at all. 

“Yeah,” he eventually manages. His throat feels watery, but his voice comes out steady enough despite the slipstream. “I did have fun.”

Yuki doesn’t chase that line of conversation. He just hums and takes another small sip from his cup. That’s another thing Ken likes about Yuki – he leaves Ken time to think, to linger, to collect his composure and string his thoughts into words. He doesn’t press him too hard, and when Ken’s ready, he’s there to listen.

“I’m – gee, this is gonna sound weird, but –” Ken starts, face warming a notch, “I’m saying all this because, well…”

He takes another moment to gather himself, sounding hoarse when he starts up again. “You… you said earlier you wanted me to have fun. And you’re not – you haven’t done any shopping, which is why I thought you came along in the first place. You’re just… here.”

“I am,” Yuki responds simply, his cup still raised to his chin, lip level with the edge of it. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah. It’s… nice, actually.” Ken exhales, eyes darting down to the surface of his own water before flitting back up. “It just – it reminds me of back then.”

And while he doesn’t quite say of her, there’s a small smile on Yuki’s face that tells Ken the message gets across anyway. The slight mirth in his eyes diffuses into a more warm, genuine sort of expression, visible as he plants down his drinking glass again.

“That’s a pretty big honour, you know.” he replies, “But thank you, Amada. It makes me happy to hear that.”

Ken swallows. It’s a thick, laboured kind of swallow because there’s just so much there he wants to say but he knows that, if he does, he’ll probably end up crying. He breathes out a small laugh, rubbing his cheeks with his sleeve just for good measure.

“I – You shouldn’t thank me. I should be thanking you.” he insists. His voice wavers, prompting another gulp as he looks down and off to the side to try and stop his eyes from burning to the point of tears. “It… means a lot to me to have someone like her around again. Looking after me like this.”

The sentence wanes into a mumble as he says it. Not out of embarrassment, necessarily, but because it’s hard not to get choked up while saying something like that. 

Because he misses her a lot. Because Christmas, more than any other day of the year, has been hard for him since she passed. Because he’s lived so long under the impression that he’d be alone for the rest of his life. Because it’s never once crossed his mind that he’d get a second chance, that he’d ever be able to be a kid again or with anyone.

But it’s how Ken feels. Open and honestly.

Yuki doesn’t try to hush him, but Ken still scrubs another pawed fist over his puffed up face and takes a long shaky breath to try and calm himself down. But then there’s a hand, extended from over the table to where Ken had perched his own, beside his bowl of now-tepid sobayu.

“Well. I’m just happy to be that person.” he says. 

And it clicks into place just how deeply Ken missed being taken care of.

—

After lunch, they make a quick shop at Croco Fur where Yuki picks up a gift for Aigis. The outfit he chooses – or rather, is steered into choosing by a very enthusiastic saleswoman – is a cozy oversized white turtleneck and a pair of high-waisted taupe slacks with enough space to fit her linkages. 

He looks to Ken for reassurance about his selection, which Ken gives a thumbs-up to despite not having any more of a clue about fashion than Yuki does. He thinks Aigis would like it, but he’s seen Aigis in quite frankly two outfits ever and one of them is Gekkoukan’s usual female uniform. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t have a preference.

Well, even if she does, he supposes there’s always the gift receipt if she doesn’t like it.

Afterwards, they head to AthletiCo as planned. Really, Ken had hoped to get something for Sanada-san that wasn’t fitness-related, but that hope fizzled out the longer they spent at the mall. 

Like Mitsuru, he didn’t have much free time and was wealthy enough to be able to buy whatever he needed whenever he needed it. While Ken thought about maybe getting him drawing supplies, or earbuds so he can listen to music while working out, or heck, maybe just some pyjamas or a pair of slippers, each of his ideas were swiftly knocked off the docket as soon as they were tried.

Though he knows Sanada likes to draw sometimes, he mostly keeps to simple doodles in the margin of his notes. He keeps a plain small pencil case and would probably end up forgetting about whatever sketch pencil Ken might buy him in favour of his usual mechanical one. That wouldn’t really offend Ken, but he’d rather get his senpai something he will actually use.

Earbuds are a fair shot, but even if he has Yuki’s help paying for it, something of any quality would be pricey. Plus, he’s never seen Sanada wearing any, so maybe he just doesn’t like them.

As for other gifts – well, those kind of felt lazy. Generic. Something you’d get your dad for Christmas, Ken assumes, not that he has any experience in that department. Pyjamas felt like a good choice since he’s pretty sure Sanada just elects for a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt for sleepwear, but that didn’t really sit nicely with Ken, either. For all he knows, gym shorts and a t-shirt is just Sanada’s preference. 

After walking around the mall for another ten minutes, scouring each storefront in the hopes that the same stroke of luck that helped him find Mitsuru’s gift would grace him again, Ken gives up. They were headed to AthletiCo anyway for Junpei, and really it was the safest bet for Sanada, too.

AthletiCo is pretty standard for a sporting goods store, Ken imagines. The front boasts a wide wall of running shoes next to a section dedicated to activewear and general exercise gear that they stop at first.

The problem Ken quickly identified when thinking up his mental list is that Sanada is used to this stuff. It’s what he spends most of his time on outside of his studies. Just as he felt with Mitsuru, Ken didn’t like the idea of buying him something that he’s used to just buying himself.

The difference there – and the fact that Ken has had to force himself to accept – is that Sanada-san is a pragmatic guy. Overtly so. Most of what he seemed to splurge on were clothes and exercise gear. Otherwise, he kept to a pretty spartan existence and didn’t have much in the way of other passions.

The second problem Ken identified, after accepting the results of the first, is that Sanada is way more familiar with this stuff than he is. Sure, he goes on a jog with Sanada every now and again and has been increasingly adding more exercise to his routine over the months to try and keep up with the rest of the group, but he doesn’t really know these things like Sanada-san does.

He knows what equipment or supplies he’d need. Might even have preferences for the brand and material, too, all of which is lost on Ken. 

“You okay, Amada?” Yuki says, pulling him back to the present with a light touch on his upper back. “It’s kind of a lot, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m good!” Ken reassures hastily. Though between the maze-like design of the place, the electro music bumping through the overhead speakers, and crowds of people dotting the area closer to the entrance where they are currently situated, “It’s – yeah. It is a lot.”

He steers between each of the narrow linoleum aisles, with Yuki following close enough in tow that Ken can still feel his presence as a constant behind him. Which he appreciates. The whole atmosphere of the store puts him on edge, and the displays they pass make him feel overwhelmed by the sheer amount of choice presented.

He extends out his hand from behind him, and Yuki takes it swiftly. “I assume this is for Sanada-senpai?” he asks.

Ken nods at that. He knows he wants to get him a new water bottle, since the one Sanada uses now looks pretty old. A noticeable amount of the cured paint has peeled off just in the months that Ken’s lived with him.

He figures metal would be best. Durable, insulating, and also what Sanada uses now. Though, in the interest of not staying in the more populated part of the store for too long, Ken doesn’t think on it for too long. He plucks out a red one – Sanada’s favourite colour, Ken presumes, given his wardrobe and equipment and everything else about him – and tugs Yuki along to the next section.

Alongside a new water bottle, though, Ken wants to get something that would help his senpai relax. He thinks Sanada needs that most, above all, more than the weights or supplements that Ken is sure he’s already stocked up plenty on.

“A yoga mat?” Yuki says, though he’s not sure if it’s in suggestion or if he’s confused by why Ken’s stopped.

Ken’s brain seems to have a knack for jumping to the worst of the two conclusions, though. 

“Oh, do you think it’s a bad idea?” he asks shyly, dropping his hand to fidget instead. “Yoga helps people relax, right? I’m not really sure. But Sanada-san works hard. I figured maybe it’d be good for him.”

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea, I was just surprised.” Yuki replies calmly. He places his hands on his hips, appraising the shelves in front of them. The overhead sign reads Active Wellness, and – alongside a small selection of variously coloured yoga mats – offers a lineup of foam rollers, compression socks and sleeves, rolls of kinesiology tape, and bolsters.

“You know, Amada, I’ve been thinking this all day, but you’re really thoughtful.”

Ken’s brain stutters to a halt at the compliment. He lights up, looking to Yuki bashfully. “I am?” he splutters, “…Well um, thank you, Yuki-san. I try.”

With a small hop, Ken grabs a black mat from the higher shelf, and shoots Yuki a proud smile in exchange for the fond one he offers Ken.

He leads Yuki deeper into the store. Luckily for the both of them, it’s quieter the further in you go, but that’s not why Ken heads there next.

Towards the back are smaller sections dedicated to different sports and sports-adjacent hobbies. Outdoor camping gear, tennis and volleyballs, fishing tackle, and, there, at the further end of the hall – baseball equipment.

Junpei was another one he was initially stumped on, too. His entry on Ken’s list simply said Something baseball, because while there are few things that Ken say he’s confident of, Junpei’s passion for the sport is one of them. He reads baseball manga for heaven’s sake – something Ken considered getting for him before realizing that he wouldn’t have a clue which manga Junpei has already read and which he hasn’t.

Which is why he’s here, standing in front of an array of bats, grooved white balls, helmets, mitts, and mock-up jerseys of famous players that Ken personally has never heard of.

“What are you thinking, Amada?” Yuki asks, picking up a wooden bat and aiming down the length of it like the barrel of a gun, “A new bat?”

“O-Oh, um. Well, um… Junpei-san seems a little lonely, is all.” he replies, realizing that that’s probably not the best opener for his explanation, given Yuki’s raised brow. Ken clears his throat as he wanders on over to examine the different-sized gloves.

“I figured that well – maybe he’d like someone he could practice with. I’m not really… familiar with a lot of this stuff. But from everything I know, all you need is a mitt to play a game of catch.”

Yuki puts down the bat, rubbing his chin as he meanders back to Ken’s side.

Ken flips one over. He figures that it probably wouldn’t be so fun or challenging with a little kid, but, “I don’t know if the message will get across, but I guess it’s my way of saying that I’d be happy to play with him. Or um, that I’d like to.”

Yuki offers him a contented hum. “You continue to impress.”

By the end of their trip to the sports department store, Ken is left feeling a little proud of himself. Which isn’t something Ken is especially familiar with. Still, with gifts for almost everyone in S.E.E.S. in arms, he feels – accomplished. If not a little fatigued.

“Can we stop at one more place?” Ken asks once they’re back into the mall’s main concourse. “I, er – there’s really just one more thing I have to get, if it’s not a problem.”

“Hm? Of course it’s not.” Yuki answers. He doesn’t have to tell or gesture Ken to lead the way this time – can’t, really, with the antique store bag weighing down his right arm – Ken does so automatically. 

And he lucks out. A small ways from the home goods store Ken had set his sights on earlier are a row of benches laid out in the centre of the hall. A sitting area for weary shoppers.

They’ve been doing a lot of walking all day. Even though they stopped for lunch, even Ken’s legs are a little tired. He can only imagine Yuki’s are too, especially considering the now three bags he’s been carrying on Ken’s behalf.

“Do you wanna sit down for a bit?” Ken blurts. “We’ve been walking for a while now.”

Yuki responds to the sudden question with a tilt of his head, kind of like how Koromaru does when he wants a treat. 

“Didn’t you say you had one more place you wanted to stop at?” he asked, puzzled.

“I, well, I do.” Ken stammers, eyes flitting wildly to the floor then back up at Yuki, before shying away with a turn of his head. “But you must be tired, right? So how about you just take a break out here while I go in.”

Yuki gives him a noncommittal hum while tilting his head at him again. There’s this slight upcurve at the ends of his mouth that feels knowing in a way that makes Ken itchy. He wrinkles his nose a little, realizing that he’s probably being incredibly conspicuous. “No, it’s not – egh. Just wait here, okay? I won’t take long.” he insists.

Yuki offers a placid half-smile at his ushering, slowly slumping down into the bench. Ken still doesn’t like the expression on his face, but he’s got Yuki to sit down and that’s enough for him. 

With that settled, he skips on over to the wide-mouth opening to the store. Being eleven years old, he’s never had reason to be inside a home goods store, but he knew from the outset what he wanted to get Yuki. He navigates quickly to the Tableware and Cutlery aisle with the hope that it’s far enough away from the window that Yuki can’t see what he’s up to.

There, he finds a wall of drinkware stacked on the store’s high shelves. He didn’t realize how many types of drinking glasses there were before now. Flutes and tumblers and snifters, cups of so many different heights and shapes that it leaves Ken wondering why there needs to be this much variety. 

That’s not what he’s here for, though.

Next to the glasses is where the ceramic and porcelain drinkware is situated. 

His thought process here is simple. Coffee is something he’s only ever shared with Yuki. It – the nights Yuki has spent downstairs taste-testing whatever new blend Ken wanted to try out, watching Ken fumble his way through trying a new technique, talking to him while they sit on the stools by the kitchen island, all of it – is special to him in a way that he’d never be able to adequately put into words. 

Naturally, he wants his gift for Yuki to be equally special. To represent, in some small way, how valuable that time has been and is to him.

Ken’s eyes trawl along the selection, over stout, circular teacups with ornate rims and matching saucers alongside tall, thicker mugs, typically emblazoned with some simple design or catchword on it. 

Matching mugs was what was written on his list. The difficult part comes in choosing a pair. 

He wants to get something Yuki would like. He wants something personal, special, for many more nights spent in the lounge together.

Sometimes, Ken feels a little embarrassed about how much it means to him. Sometimes, he has to remind himself that it’s just coffee, just something people drink for a daily caffeine fix to start their day or for an after-work kick. 

But he only ever started drinking the stuff because it reminds him of Mom. It was – is – a way for him to feel… connected to her, somehow, even if it sounds silly when he puts it like that. Just the smell of the stuff brought vestiges of those mornings before school, where he’d bound down the stairs of their quaint little townhouse for breakfast.

When he brews himself a cup, those memories just spill out of the steam like an unravelling film spool, running off across the floor.

Though, that’s not all coffee means to him now. Each night he spends in the lounge with Yuki adds another slide to that reel. Every cup he makes Yuki compounds into a blend a little bitter, a little sweet, but one that is homely and familiar and always served warm.

So – yeah. It means a lot to him. Too much to keep using the same plain white mugs that had stocked the dorm’s shelves since long before Ken started living there.

Which brings him back to the current quandary: picking the perfect set. 

Expectedly, there’s a sizeable chunk of tacky holiday-themed mugs on the display, too, which Ken initially brushes off and crosses out from consideration.

Initially.

Until a thought strikes him and he reels himself back for a double-take. A lot of them are tacky, which isn’t really Yuki’s style. And a mug shaped in the image of Santa looks too unwieldy for regular use. There’s a couple with penguins and snowmen and bells and boxes embossed in the ceramic that he doesn’t think would make for the best gift, either.

But still Ken lingers.

After all, it is a Christmas gift. For Christmas! And well, the more he thinks about it, the more Ken finds himself fond of the idea of a weird gaudy mug that’d only be appropriate to use once December came around; the more he finds himself thinking of not just many more evenings of coffee together, but many more Christmases together. More New Years and winter breaks and small holiday celebrations with the rest of S.E.E.S. together.

And the more he thinks about it, the more he finds himself situated in the future, in a kitchen not dissimilar to the one at the dorm, with patterned tiles on the walls, with snow blowing outside the window, with Koromaru curled up in the corner, and with Yuki seated at the island while he watches Ken brew them another evening cup of coffee.

His face warms when he thinks about it, and suddenly his objective shifts from finding new nice mugs that they could use everyday to finding something more – commemorative. Something that represents their first Christmas together, and something that promises a second, and a third, and a fourth.

What Ken settles on is a sturdy pair of green and red mugs with a Fairisle pattern baked into the enameled finish. Across each is a repeating chain of little blocky trees and snowflakes and reindeer, all painted in stark white.

It’s cute, Ken thinks. Homely. It makes him happy just to hold. As if he can already imagine them in the lounge and the smell of coffee in the air. As if he can already see Yuki with the green one – or the red one, Ken’s not picky – on the table in front of him while steam teems out from it. And as if he can see himself, holding the opposite one while talking about what he tried differently this time, or how his day at school went, or how he’s just… happy to be there.

While checking out, Ken makes a timid request to the lady at the register if she can stuff some extra wrapping paper in the bag, just to keep the gift hidden from Yuki’s keen eye. Just as he’s done with each of his purchases today, Ken folds and files the receipt away in the spare pocket of his wallet before taking the bag and thanking her.

He isn’t sure how long he was absent for, but it wasn’t long enough for Yuki to have dozed off in his absence. He’s awake in the seat where Ken left him, with hands in his pockets and his earphones pulled on. 

When he sees Ken approaching, he stands, earphones returning to dangle from his neck. 

“Did you get everything you needed?” 

“Um – well, yes.” Ken replies excitedly, “Though, do you think we can stop by the pet store on the way out? I don’t want Koromaru to feel left out this Christmas.”

—

With the extra weight from their shopping bags, they take the bus from Paulownia back to Port Island Station instead of walking the whole way back. Ken doesn’t bother daydreaming the return trip on the monorail line, instead opting to lean against Yuki’s arm and join him for a twenty-minute power nap.

Despite the fatigue and the considerable drop in temperature since they were last outside, the walk home from Iwatodai Station is nice. The snow is still light enough that, when it falls on Ken’s face, it feels like tiny droplets of water misting the skin. There’s a chilly breeze that stings at the tips of his ears and at times whips angrily at the back of his jacket, but it doesn’t bother him too much through his two layers. He keeps his hands snug in his overhanging sleeves, protecting them from the nipping breeze.

He looks up and to the side at Yuki, where the wind is coursing through his hair. Unlike Ken, he’s wearing gloves and has a thin scarf over his turtleneck, darker than his coat and tucked into the breast of it. 

He has this tendency, Ken’s noticed, to stand on the side closer to the road. On the trip to Paulownia, it kind of obscured any chance Ken had at gauging his expression, but he sees it clear as day right now.

And it’s peaceful. There’s a quiet, fond twinkle in his eyes as he catches Ken’s glance. He lifts his arm slightly, like a mother bird extending out her wing, and Ken finds himself fitting neatly against his side.

“Are you cold, Yuki-san? It’s kind of windy out.” he poses, the words accompanied by faint puffs of vapour. It’s even more visible when Ken exhales another Hooo just to see if his breath would spill into the air. 

“It’s not too bad,” Yuki responds. Though the skin on his face has been whipped red, so Ken’s not entirely convinced. It’s his turn to ask, “Are you sure?” which Yuki smiles at.

“Aren’t you perceptive,” he says, nesting his chin into the fabric of his scarf. “I’ll be okay. I was just considering making another stop before we head home.”

“Oh, did you forget something, senpai?”

Yuki chuckles softly. “It’s not that. I was thinking about stopping by the café for something warm to drink. If you’d like that.”

Which surprises Ken. After the long day they’ve both had, he figured Yuki would just want to head straight home. He’d been silently mourning the end to their outing today since they got off the train, so Ken feels himself perk up. A detour is a more than welcome suggestion, even if Yuki had told him he needed to hit Bookworms again. Ken’s just happy to get to spend a little more time with him.

And well… he could go for a warm drink, also.

The café Yuki brings him to is just on the opposite side of the street to Iwatodai Strip, about a ten minute walk from the dormitory. Despite the proximity, Ken hasn’t been here many times before. It’s fancier than Chagall, which is where Ken usually goes to get his beans, and he’s never thought to step inside under the impression that anything sold here would be out of his budget.

The store does smell great when they enter, though. It doesn’t have the same nostalgic effect that comes when he brews it himself, but Ken likes the scent of coffee all the same. Yuki stands with his head tipped to the side while he squints at the menu. “What are you gonna get, Amada?” he asks.

“Uh, I’m not sure, really. What are you having, Yuki-san?”

“Mm. I was actually going to go with a hot chocolate for today.”

“Really?” Ken’s voice lifts in surprise. He didn’t really think Yuki liked sweet things like that. But well… “I was gonna get a coffee, but I think I’ll have a hot chocolate, too.”

Yuki gives a nod of acknowledgement. His eyes fall to the glass cabinet, with an assortment of baked goods on display. Ken can hear him humming, a sound that makes him glance over in silent question.

“We could bring something back to the dorm,” Yuki suggests, still staring at the spread. “How about you go find us a table? I’ll order.”

Ken nods and darts off. There’s not too many occupied tables, so he picks the one closest to the heater with a good view of the slush-filled street outside. He hops into the tall barstool and unzips his coat just to reduce that stuffy, cramped feeling he gets while bundled up.

Between the two monorail trips, the walk to and from, the shops they went to and the lunch they had, it’s already half-past three. Ken didn’t even notice the time. It certainly hasn’t felt like four hours, but that’s what the clock over the doorway reads.

Yuki manifests not long after he sits down, boasting two cups and a large paper bag presumably full of pastries to bring back to the dorm. He slides Ken’s hot cocoa over the tabletop, which he takes with a slight bow of thanks.

The warmth of the cup is a welcome relief for his chilled fingers. He keeps both palms wrapped snug around the circumference of it as they make idle chit-chat. 

Ken asks what pastries Yuki picked out – butter croissants for Fuuka and Junpei, cream puffs for Yukari and Mitsuru, and doriyaki for Sanada – Yuki asks him if he’s all caught up and ready for the next semester, and the conversation forks off naturally from there.

When they’re just… talking like this, it’s easy to forget about everything going on. The question about next semester doesn’t even give Ken pause. That little voice in his head doesn’t interject to remind him that he has the end of the world to be worrying about, or that he should feel guilty for indulging like this.

Still, there’s one last thing Ken wanted to bring up, while he has the opportunity. 

“So, um, Yuki-san,” he starts, chewing on his cheek, “I was… thinking.”

“You’ve been doing that quite a bit today,” Yuki replies with a gentle expression, “What is it?”

“I… well,” Ken lets out a nervous exhale, “I wanted to ask you.”

He takes a deep breath. He’s been honest with Yuki this whole day. No reason to clam up now. 

“I um. I visit my mom a lot, right? And I always try to bring flowers if I can. I was going to go see her for Christmas, too, but I was wondering if, um…”

Beneath the table, he idly scrubs at the fabric of his pants, like he’s trying to dry the clamminess off his palms.

“You’d like me to come with?” Yuki guesses where he falters. Ken winces a little at the bluntness, even though he knows it’s just Yuki’s usual way of speaking. 

It’s just… it’s hard to ask someone, is all.

“I – I mean, yeah, that is what I was thinking…” Ken mumbles out.

But he can’t just stop there. As his brain catches up to what he’s just said, the words start to flurry out of him, ears turning redder than when they were outside in the cold. “It’s just that… my dad left us when I was really young, so it was only me and Mom. The only aunts and uncles I have don’t live anywhere close, either, so there’s not really anyone else who visits her besides me.” he scrambles to explain, and – worrying still that he might be coming off too strong, rectifies that statement with –

“That’s not to say you have to come with me or anything! I was just thinking… if you’re free. I know it’s not the most fun place to go, but we could do other things while we’re out. Like we did today.”

Yuki gives him a long, patient look.

“If you want to, then we can.” he responds, “But I’m okay, you know. If you want me there, we’ll pick a day and go. You don’t have to give me a reason beyond that.”

Ken blinks.

“R-Right,” he confirms with a stutter, “if you’re okay with it, then. Mom was always worried about me. I guess… I guess I’d like to show her that she doesn’t have to worry anymore.”

Yuki smiles at that.

“Then I’d be honoured to accompany you,” he says, flat but completely genuine. “We’ll pick up some flowers before we go.”

Ken feels a little like he’s glowing. He wonders if it’s showing on his face. He’s just not sure what to do with the warmth that spreads into his veins when he hears that.

“There’s um, one more thing I wanted to ask,” Ken mumbles. He has to force himself to put his hands around his cup instead of letting himself fidget. “Aragaki-san is buried at the same cemetery, isn’t he? I – I don’t imagine he has a lot of people who’d visit him, either.”

For a while, Ken didn’t know if it was his place to go visit him. He still kind of feels that way now. After everything that happened, it felt almost… disrespectful to grieve him. He wanted him dead for two years. He barely knew the guy. What right did Ken have to mope about his death?

“Did you want to visit him?”

It’s been two months already since that night. Still, on the occasion that Ken went to go visit his mom, he skirted around the part of the cemetery where he knows Aragaki was interred. He doesn’t know why, really. Maybe he just finds it hard to confront the reality of what happened, of what he wanted.

Or maybe it’s the fact that a part of him still wants to see Aragaki as some monster. Monsters don’t get their remains collected into urns. They aren’t laid to rest in a wall for their friends and family to visit. Monsters don’t get funerary flowers or plaques engraved with their names but he did.

Aragaki isn’t a monster and Ken knows this, but sometimes – sometimes he just wishes that he was. It’d be easier if he was.

“Yeah…” Ken answers after a beat. “I do. I don’t know what to bring, though. We’re all getting gifts for each other, so I… I’d like to get him something, too.”

He was part of the team, after all.

“Flowers aren’t enough?” Yuki says, and if nothing else, the suggestion makes Ken smile. Yuki has a way of doing that, despite the permanent deadpan quality of his voice. Or maybe because of it. Either way, Ken’s unease settles, making room for a breath of mirth.

“I don’t imagine Aragaki-san liked flowers much,” he replies with a small laugh. “But I didn’t know him very well, is the thing. Or at all, actually. I was hoping you’d have something to suggest. Something that isn’t flowers, preferably.”

“Hmm. I can’t say I knew him that well either,” Yuki says, turning the question over in his mind as he takes a pensive sip, “but he did like to cook. A homemade meal might be nice.”

“Oh! Do you know what his favourite food was?” Ken asks, his upper body jolting over the table. “That’d be a good gift, right?”

In response to his expectant gaze, Yuki just smiles. “You’d have to ask Sanada-san that. He did teach me how to make katsudon, though…” he muses. His finger traces a line over the lid of his cup. “Maybe we could make it together, to offer him.”

“Together? You’d teach me?” Ken asks, wide-eyed and agog.

“You’ve taught me a lot about coffee. It’s only fair, wouldn’t you say?” he replies simply. “I think it’s what Aragaki-san would want most.”

And Ken – well, Ken beams at that. 

“Y-Yeah, then. I think that’d be great.”

—

There’s a sigh from both of them as they finally step into the dorm, relieved at the warmth of the indoor space. It’s Sunday, but specifically the Sunday before exams, so there aren’t any of the usual faces dotting the downstairs lounge.

While Yuki unwinds his scarf and pulls off his gloves, Ken sets down his bags and kicks off his shoes. It’s after he’s torn off his coat and halfway through hanging back up in the downstairs closet that he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“So, Amada. How much do I owe you?” Yuki asks.

“O-Owe me?” Ken’s train of thought stutters, then takes a sharp ninety-degree turn off the tracks. Because really, isn’t Ken the one that would owe him, if anything? He did borrow money from Yuki, even if it wasn’t really borrowing and more like letting Yuki pay for a big fancy snowglobe. “What do you mean?”

“Well, how much did everything cost today?” he continues, zipping down the pocket of his jacket to extract his wallet from it. 

The pieces click into place from there. Ken stammers out, “W-Wait. No. You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t,” Yuki replies, ahead of the game. “But I wasn’t lying earlier. I have a lot saved up, and nothing to spend it on. I know you’ve worked hard to save, but –”

Ken opens his mouth in protest. It’s too generous. Sure, he does like to have something saved up just in case he wants something, but it’s not like he takes from his emergency funds often. The basic definition of a transaction is the exchange of something of value for something of more-or-less equal value. Losing something was an innate part of gaining something.

So it feels like cheating. 

“Look,” Yuki says, before Ken can get much of a word of any of that out. He crouches down on a knee, pulling Ken out of his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s hard for you to accept stuff like this, but you’re a kid, Amada. You shouldn’t have to spend your entire savings on gifts for other people.”

They had this same conversation at the antique shop. But that was when the cheat-code was only intended for Mitsuru’s gift – not the entire catalogue of purchases he made today. Ken’s brows screw up and his mouth twists in a petulant frown.

“I’d like you to keep it.” Yuki presses, unfurling Ken’s hand to place a wad of notes onto it. “For if you want something. Just… consider it my way of paying you back for today, okay?”

Ken looks down at his palm to the bills there, wondering if this qualifies him as spoiled. He certainly feels spoiled right now. His face heats up again as he finds himself staring blankly at the paper. His eyes flit to Yuki, smiling at him like it isn’t a problem at all.

“…Okay,” he says, slowly and carefully. Ken still has his pride, though, even if he’s not stubborn enough to argue with someone who he knows, really, truly, just wants the best for him. So he fumbles out a few of the bills, three of the thousand-yen ones, and stuffs them back into Yuki’s hand.

“But I’m not letting you pay for your own gift.” he explains with a sniff.

Yuki’s face is fond. “Alright,” he says. He chuckles, too, but the sound is just a weak puff of air as he braces an arm on the counter to pull himself upright. 

It couldn’t escape Ken’s notice even if he was looking the opposite way. He blinks, realizing once again that Yuki must be tired after their outing.

“Oh!” He spins to face him, extending out his arms as Yuki takes off his coat. “Let me take that, Yuki-san. I um… didn’t realize how long we were out for.”

Yuki does deposit his coat in Ken’s proffered arms, smiling thinly at his ushered words. “I didn’t either. Guess we were just enjoying ourselves too much, hm?” he says, with just the barest nudge of a grin.

“I–I guess so, yeah. But you should go rest. If you want to have a nap, I’ll come wake you when it’s dinnertime.” Ken offers.

To which Yuki hums a placated, gentle hum at. He concedes, but still turns his head to him to ask, “And what are you gonna do in the meantime, Amada?”

“A-Ah, well… first, I’m gonna go ask Fuuka-san if she has any wrapping paper to spare.”

After seeing Yuki off, Ken waddles back upstairs with his bags in arms. It takes two trips to get everything before he can shut the door, arms trembling from the strain and simultaneous excitement. 

The first order of business is to stuff most of what he bought under his bed, and the second is to prop up the rolls of wrapping paper Fuuka handed him in his closet.

The third is to set the pair of ceramic mugs on his desk, opening up the protective tissue paper it’d been swaddled in. It’s what he wants to wrap first. Not just out of fear that Yuki – who tends to check in on him more than the others – will peek inside his room and see what Ken bought him, but also because it’s –

Well, it’s special.

Holding it again still gives Ken this – feeling. A warm feeling, as if the cup already has coffee in it, as if he’s already taken a sip on a wintery evening in that not-dissimilar kitchen, as if Yuki is at his side and everything is okay.

He can’t wait to wrap it. Can’t wait to give it. Can’t wait to get use out of it, this year and the next.

Ken’s fourth order of business – when he remembers that he has the money Yuki gave him in his pocket that he should probably put away before he forgets – is to shuffle on over back to his dresser and pull out, from its second drawer, the jewellery box buried beneath his neatly-folded socks.

He still feels a little shy and a little bad about taking the money, but he supposes it was a nice gesture. It’s not like Ken has any income besides his allowance, and –

And it’s not like Mom would make him pay for stuff, either, when they would go shopping. Mom never expected him to have it handled, to have saved in advance, to check the price tags, or to fret over sales tax.

Ken swallows.

He opens up the jewellery box to a gushing wave of something seizing him. Something soft and sad and sentimental but warm and tender.

With shaky hands, Ken slides his usual elastic band over the wad of banknotes, slotting it into place across from his mother’s things. A smile wobbles on his face, and a wet laugh expels out from his nose.

I’ll be okay Mom, he thinks, and not for the first time. And he hopes that his reassurance carries, that she’s resting easy.

He wipes his eyes and swallows again. A little harsher this time as he clicks the box shut, then returns it to its rightful position, carefully concealed beneath the fabric of his clothes.