saint nicholas wears porygon pajamas.
[ December 25th, 2015 (6:31 A.M.) ]
Between the incessant shrieking of his alarm in his ear and the knocking that’s making it sound like the old wooden door’s about to give way any second now, they’re racking up quite the cacophony for half past six in the morning.
She’s on her feet before his hand even hits the snooze button, squinting at the pale light filtering through the curtains. Her footsteps are quiet as she crosses the threadbare carpet, careful to avoid every squeaky floorboard. The sound of the latch clicking open and the doorknob turning has him rolling over; he checks the time on his phone, still too blurry with sleep to read the clock on the far wall, and buries his face in Beryl’s fur again, none too pleased with the numbers staring back at him.
A familiar voice issues from the doorway. “I dunno what you think you’re doin’ here, miss, holdin’ my very own roommate from me on Christmas mornin’--” It’s a declaration, sunny and clear and serious in a way that makes no effort whatsoever to hide the joke. “--that’s nothin’ short of a veritable fuckin’ crime.”
Deuce can only imagine what this must look like coming from the only person who feels comfortable enough to swing by Snowman’s apartment uninvited, standing at 5′5″ in his Porygon pajamas and glorious pink-streaked bedhead. He can’t see her response from this angle, but judging from the movements of her arms and the perfect lack of expression on her face, he’d guess it’s something not unlike ‘he’s my brother, asshole’.
Nick’s laughter as he pushes into the apartment does nothing but confirm. His presence warms the room, a bloom of laundry soap and cinnamon and cigarette smoke that isn’t his but feels like home anyway. “And I’m not? Come on, flaca, you know you love me.” She throws a pillow at his head that he doesn’t bother to catch. It bounces to the floor. He’s not wrong.
Deuce blinks and he’s there, perched on the end of the couch like a little bird with two boxes in his lap, bottleglass blue peering at him without any reservations. “Mira, you’re actually awake!” he crows, careful not to hit the Sylveon curled up on the cushion as he swings his legs up and over the side. “Qué pasó, chiquito? Jolly old man wake you up in the middle of the night? Wouldn’t be the first time, I guess--”
He has to laugh, despite how tempted he is to reach up and shove him off the sofa. “You’re pushing your luck, kid.”
“Who you callin’ kid, kid?”
This time Deuce really does push him, enjoying Snowman’s soundless laughter as he crashes to the floor.
Man, the downstairs neighbors must hate their guts.
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