Happiness

Questions exploded in my mind again... Other people? Impossible. Normally, there were only three kinds of people Jason came into contact with: those about to die, those already dead, and those who were not human at all-demons with something resembling human thought.

Oh, right, Ash was an exception, but they never had time to talk. After all, if Ash actually appeared in front of him, he would immediately sort him into the first category, then turn him into the second. So... it could only have been that demon he fought...

No matter how hard I thought, I never imagined it had anything to do with that television program that had aired a few nights ago.

...Two people... love...

He tightened his arms around my waist, his mask resting against my stomach, holding me so tightly. That last sentence had clearly been phrased as a question, yet he had said it with such certainty.

I could no longer describe how I felt. It was as though my heart, wrapped in layer upon layer, had finally shattered along that last tiny crack, exposing its softest core. I bent down and gently kissed the top of Jason's head. His short hair prickled against my face, sharp and ticklish, as though the tingling reached all the way into my bones.

Mm.

It seemed late-night television did have something good to offer...

Jason thought so too. He pondered it. Although he did not understand, his powerful memory had still absorbed every scene that had played back then. He decided to follow this beginning and continue with the rest of the process.

...(Lights out.)

What good could possibly come out of late-night television?!

I clutched the sheets resentfully and decided, with rather a lot of teeth-grinding, that Jason would no longer be allowed to watch television after eight.

I lay on my stomach on the bed. Jason lay beside me under my blanket, gently stroking my back the way I did, offering a compliant sort of comfort.

As for me, apart from feeling wrong all over, and wrong in other respects too, I also felt a sort of defeat and bewilderment mixed with confusion and helplessness. It was like the obedient, honest son I had raised so well had suddenly... turned into that classic sort of teenager.

I stared at the curtains. Outside, it was already broad daylight, but the curtains were drawn tightly shut, with only a few stray rays of sunlight slipping out through the corners.

The entire room felt incredibly quiet and peaceful. Hoping that peace could last a little longer, I closed my eyes and sank into a deep sleep.

Autumn gave way to winter, and Christmas soon arrived. This was our first Christmas since both of us had regained our freedom, and I decided to make a proper occasion of this memorable day.

I got up early to arrange things, decorate, and wait for Jason to bring back the Christmas tree.

Breakfast was smoked salmon and dill cream cheese toast towers, and foie gras seared in truffle butter with caramelized apples. I also tried making traditional Italian Christmas panettone, a fruit bread studded with raisins, candied lemon peel, and almonds. We made gingerbread man cookies together too.

It always snowed on this day. The heavy snow had fallen from last night until this morning and had only just stopped. Outside was basically a vast expanse of white, broken here and there by glimpses of dark brown tree trunks.

Jason took the broom out to sweep away the snow again, even though I told her it would snow again tonight.

He swept the fluffy white snow to either side, exposing the pale cobblestones, like scones with far too much icing sugar scattered around them.

Before long, mischief got the better of me. I slipped out through the back door and, while Jason was not looking, quietly packed a snowball and hit him in the back of the head. Snow scattered everywhere, some falling into his collar. Jason seemed to lag for half a beat before turning and chasing after me.

I darted back and forth along the path he had just cleared, suddenly finding a knack for nimble movements. His freshly swept path made things easy for me. I dodged left and veered right, making him look rather clumsy as he failed to catch me for ages.

I laughed and giggled, circling a tree with him on my heels. It was an apple tree we had only planted that autumn, but when we bought it, we had hoped it would bear apples the following year, so it was not small.

Then his foot slipped, and he landed on his backside in the snow. I kicked the trunk, sending snow showering down, and even I failed to escape. Both of us were covered from head to toe. I laughed, completely failing to notice that a certain tall, silent figure had already stood up and was slowly approaching me.

I instinctively shrank my neck, but Jason only took my hands in silence.

I was not wearing gloves, and my hands were already red and icy from the cold. He, on the other hand, always wore gloves, and his body temperature was consistently quite high. Once he took off his gloves, his hands were dry and warm.

He tucked my hands inside his unzipped coat, then cupped my face and ears to warm them.

"Why are you so good to me?"

"You make me look so mean and childish..."

Despite saying that, I shamelessly pushed my hands into the innermost layer of his coat and buried my face in his chest. It was soft, solid, and broad enough to muffle my voice when I spoke.

He hesitated before his voice entered my mind.

"Not mean... you're good..."

We did not have lunch, only a few simple snacks. After eating, Jason went out. I understood: this was his time to prepare his present, and mine too.

I closed the box, covered it in beautiful wrapping paper, and tied a brightly colored ribbon into a bow.

Then came dinner, with roast turkey as the centerpiece. To be honest, turkey was tough and dry. Whether boiled or roasted, however many flavorful spices were added, only the surface took on any flavor; the thick, dry meat inside still tasted of nothing. But since a certain someone was a traditionalist, the dish still made it onto the menu.

But since I really did not like the taste all that much, I also made filet mignon as a second main course.

The marinated turkey went into the oven, with the chopped vegetables set above it so they would be easy to add later. Cream of mushroom soup was bubbling vigorously on another burner.

The mushrooms in the mushroom risotto were ones Jason had gathered in autumn, which I had dried using what I learned from a book.

Then I pulled the turkey, which had already begun changing color, out of the oven and arranged potatoes, broccoli, snow peas, and baby corn around it. After sprinkling everything with olive oil, black pepper, and salt, I put it back in.

I ladled out the cream of mushroom soup. This kind of soup actually tasted worse when it was too hot and needed to cool a little, so I garnished it early with a little parsley and set it on the dining table, beside the portioned-out mushroom risotto, covered with a lid.

Then I put the seared steaks into the frying pan. Moisture from the steaks sizzled in the rosemary-scented butter. Meanwhile, I opened the oven. The roast bird's skin had turned an enticing light golden brown. Whatever it tasted like, at least it smelled good. It went onto the largest platter, accompanied by the roasted vegetables, and was placed in the center of the dining table.

The steaks had developed a perfect crust in the pan. I wrapped them in foil to let their residual heat continue cooking them.

I wiped down the oven, making sure none of the roast bird's smell remained, then put the lattice-topped apple pie on a baking tray. In the meantime, I quickly tossed together an avocado and shrimp salad with butter-toasted croutons.

Then I simmered some mulled wine with spices and dried fruit.

Jason came back on time, bringing that distinctive smell of the cold inside with him. Then he added wood to the dwindling fire, took off his coat, and gave me a hug.

Without my noticing, it had grown completely dark outside. I realized with a start that I had spent over five hours making dinner.

After dinner, we sat beneath the Christmas tree beside the fireplace, with only the crackling of burning wood around us, accompanied by the low sound of the television.

We began exchanging gifts.

A wooden box, its smooth surface free of even a single splinter. Even the box showed how much care had gone into it. I gently opened it. Inside was a pair of gloves that looked like deerskin, finely made, even with a little design detail: turned-back cuffs at the wrists.

I put them on. They were very soft and fit very well. Their maker seemed intimately familiar with the shape of the wearer's hands. They fit snugly without feeling bulky.

I thanked him sincerely. "Thank you for the present. I love it, but I'm still going to wear these gloves to sneakily make snowballs and throw them at you."

I was half joking, but he nodded, as though he had given me the gloves precisely so I could do that.

My gift to him was a wool scarf with very tight stitches-a little too tight, making it somewhat stiff.

The red scarf was huge, unusually wide even compared with someone of Jason's size. I had actually wanted to make a sweater, but my lack of skill had resulted in this instead.

To give him this surprise, I had spent the past month or so living very cautiously. Before, he had basically stuck to my side for sixteen hours a day, but since moving into my bedroom, that had become twenty-four.

Heaven knew how much effort it took to knit a scarf and hide it under such close supervision.

But clearly, I had succeeded. I noticed his delight in the scarf. He immediately wrapped it around his neck, covering his face too. I folded it down a little to reveal his masked face.

He loved it, just as I had expected.

The living room lights mingled with the firelight on his face, making it look exceptionally soft. His slightly overlong hair was tied with a hair tie and hung over his shoulder, his whole being filled with the details of home. In a slight daze, Jason thought he resembled the bright moon he had gazed at countless nights before. He was not the moon, yet he was the moon.

He was not the moon, because he would not simply hang high above, leaving him to speak of his troubles alone as a child, never receiving a response, able only to clutch his broken mask and struggle to swallow all his hurt.

Yet he was the moon, a moon fallen in pieces into the human world, whose warmth he could touch. This moon would answer his silence, catch his clumsiness, and turn all that loneliness no one knew about into the dancing flames in the fireplace, warm and gentle, burning through the long winter nights.