Stupid Touma
She doesn’t say it– not out loud– but with the way her cheeks puff outward and her eyebrows draw together, she is practically shouting as much. Leave it to him to keep them from being swept up in the current of her own making, even when caught off guard.
They both look at her– Touma and Santa, and she feels as if she might as well be facing a firing squad. But she straightens her back, and offers them nothing but an indignant sniff (despite the horror that flashes in Santa’s eyes, despite how unreadable Touma’s smile seems to be).
And she marches up the length of red carpet, offering no remorse and little apology as she sits down on his knee.
“It’s a little last minute, I know– but for Christmas..” Her gaze snags on the tiers of the tree behind them, massive in size and somehow still pungent with the smell of pine and snow despite being plastic and indoors.
“I want the person I love to trust me more.” Santa says nothing, and looks far more concerned about the fact that all her weight is being balanced on his frail knee, but it does little to deter her.
“I want him to tell me to do things that will make him happy, and I want him to feel like I’m strong enough for him to lean on.” She speaks as if it’s something simple, and perhaps in some respect it is– but it’s been Touma’s greatest asset and flaw for as long as she has been alive.
“That’s all, really.” She gets up, and to his credit Santa maintains his smile even when his discomfort is clear as day behind his half moon glasses. “And, oh!”
The beginning of an afterthought tumbles out of her mouth only after is halfway back to Touma.
“I’d also like one of those tarts from the really fancy bakery we passed on the way here, thank you!”
Despite it all, she is nothing but smiles when she tugs on Touma’s sleeve and pulls him forward.
“It’s your turn now, you promised!”
He really is her Santa.
He doesn’t say it -- not out loud -- but with the way his face goes red and his eyes grow wide, he might as well be shouting it to the world. Leave it to her to be the dam that stops the current entirely, giving them new direction without so much as a moment’s hesitation.
The real Santa looks like Touma feels, if all of his surprise were channeled into awkward discomfort and a need to get away. He does feel like he has to get away, but he also feels like he’s rooted to the spot, fingers twitching at his sides. Even when he doesn’t say anything, he’s making a list -- a checklist, things to remember for when they leave (he saw the way her eyes swept that bakery, before) -- and thinking, but not checking, twice, because his thoughts are like trying to write a novel in waves and sand.
He snaps out of summer and comes back to the present, tinsel and all.
‘W-well.’ He did promise. And when does he go back on his promises? (Not here, not now, and he balls one of his hands into a fist, but for seconds less than normal.) Santa’s eyes go wide when he approaches again, and he flashes a look of worry-sympathy at the poor man, looks over his shoulder -- and shuts his eyes, clears his throat, and offers out his hand.
Santa takes it, weakly. They shake, and that’s as good as it’s going to get.
‘No helping it, huh. Then, for Christmas -- I’d like some new pots and pans. A laptop computer would be good, too.’ Santa looks surprised at his straightforwardness; the man clears his throat, but lets Touma continue. ‘After that... I’d like the girl I love to be happy. And I want to keep her safe.’
He doesn’t look over his shoulder again,
But he does smile, and this time, more sincerely.
‘Or one of those “really fancy tarts” from the bakery nearby. Can you do that?’
Santa gives a tepid ‘o-ho.’ So... maybe that’s a yes.
