Trust me to make even Christmas depressing. This kind of came out a lot sadder and weirder than I meant. Oh well! Hooray, I'm finally graduated! I have a job! It's almost Christmas! Here's a pathetically angsty holiday special to celebrate! :D

Also I should probably note, this is meant to take place in that bit before Near knows about L.

Pretend

Christmas is always an odd time at the House.

Officially it's unaffiliated, and in everyday practice it's mostly a washed-out, carefully not-too-any-cultural agnostic. In private reality, of course, the individuals of the House span a wide variety of cultures and spiritual backgrounds. Due to both this, and to the fact that almost everyone under Wammy's roof has either lost, left, or simply never had family, writing the official House policy on the cluster of major holidays in early winter was something of a sticky issue. Preferencing one tradition over another was out of the question, but if they celebrated everything, the argument went, the students would never get anything done.

The compromise is that they don't really observe any major holidays. The rhythm of the House is not one of weather, or planting and harvest, or religions, or ages of life; it's one of curriculum. Terms, tests, projects, grade reports. There is no room is the curriculum for Easter or Halloween, for independence days or birthdays.

The sole exception is New Year's. That is when the term ends and the new one begins. Gifts are exchanged, everyone is considered a year older, the House is covered in lights and tinsel and paper lamps and filled with a motley variety of international treats treats, and there is no homework.

Of course, just because that was the official policy doesn't mean the staff and students keep to it very well. Many of the professors are known to assign less or no homework at all on the days of holidays they liked to celebrate, and Christmas is a major cause of transgression in this regard. Others teach sections that are obviously, if not explicitly, Christmas-related. The math class almost always gets assigned a project to determine the best route for a hypothetical flying vehicle to pass over the capital of every nation in the world in a single night, and the speed it would require. The literature professor manages to finagle the curriculum every year so that Charles Dickens is always covered in late December—and discussion of his famous holiday morality story always just so happens to land on the 25th. Constance finds herself unusually "at loose ends, and needing occupation", which is her explanation to Roger and the nutritionist for all the extra cookies and sweets that somehow sneak into meals and snacktimes.

All of this goes rather above Near's head. He knows about Christmas. He doesn't mind not having it. This Christmas is only his sixth, and he only remembers one from Before the House.

That was soon before Mommy had the baby inside her. And Mommy had been having one of her Loud Times, when she barged restlessly around the apartment, shouting and batting him out of the way if he made the mistake of being there, which he rarely did. Near had learned early that the best place to be during the Loud Times was in his room, playing silently by himself.

After the Loud Time would come the Quiet Time, when it was ok to come out. This Quiet Time had lasted longer than usual. Near always counted, remembered each one and how long it was. This Quiet Time had been twenty hours and forty-two minutes, which was five hours and eleven minutes longer than the longest one before that. And so Near made up his mind to do something very dangerous: he crept into her bedroom to check if she was dead.

She was not.

Mommy groaned when he prodded her face with the spatula, cracked open bloodshot eyes and demanded hoarsely, "What the hell are you doing?"

Dropping the spatula and scrambling back off the bed, that's what he was doing.

"Little shit," she'd grumbled, curling up and clutching her face with her hands before checking her watch. There was a long, creaking moment, as the rusty gears in her mind turned and calculated, then she abruptly shot up with a loud curse. Near had taken that as a cue to run for it.

"Christmas!"

A loud crash, as she apparently fell out of the bed, then staggering footsteps. With the quickness of long practice, Near slipped under his bed and watched as her socked feet halted in his doorway.

"Nate, dammit, you should have woken me up sooner. Yesterday was Christmas, you shit. It's your own fault you missed it. Friggin—" A cracking thump, as she punched the wall, followed by more cursing, and a kick to the side of the bed.

"Get out from there! We're leaving right now."

Near gasped and grabbed for the foot of the bed as she dragged him out by the ankle, but instead of kicking him, she dropped a sweater on him. "Get dressed! Dammit. Look, I'm sorry Nate," her tone abruptly switched to cajoling, hoarse and anxious. "It's your fault we missed Christmas, not mine. But Mommy's going to fix it, ok? Get your coat on."

Near had obeyed, quickly.

Ten minutes later, they had not left. Mommy was raging around the house, kicking over chairs and searching through the kitchen cupboards for his mittens. Near was certain he did not have any.

In the end she stuck socks on his hands and dragged him out into the snowblinding sunshine, fingers digging into his shoulder through his jacket, to the burger place at the end of the block. They'd had chicken nuggets and she'd yelled at the boy behind the counter when he said at first that they would just have to be happy with whatever toy was in stock, made them pull three boxes out of the back room so Near could pick. Near had chosen the little red car with the yellow stripes on the sides, because it looked the fastest, then Mommy had scooped it into her coat pocket and said he couldn't have it.

When they got home, he looked on in bemusement and no small amount of nervousness as Mommy dumped the contents of a box of fruit gummies on the kitchen floor, put the toy inside it, and tabbed it shut again.

"Here, Nate," Mommy said tiredly, pressing it into his tiny hands. "Merry Christmas."

Doubtfully, his eyes had shifted from her, to the box, and back.

"Go on. Open it up and see what Santa got you."

Near opened the box. There was the red car, still in its plastic wrapping.

"Well? What is it?"

He didn't like this game. He knew Santa didn't exist. And Mommy knew what was in the box. He had watched her put the car inside. Why was she asking him questions she already knew the answers to, which she knew he knew the answers to? Was he supposed to play along? The little boy slowly pulled the toy out of the box and showed it to her.

"Very nice," Mommy said in that strange, exaggerated honey-tone that many adults always seemed to have, that Mommy sometimes had when she was not having a Loud Time. "Do you like it?"

Near nodded. Of course he did, or he would not have chosen it. Mommy bent down to wrap her bony arms around him in a rare hug. Uncertainly, his arms came up to return the embrace. Then she gave him a curt pat on the back and stood straight again.

"Good. Go play with it, then," she sighed, then stumbled back to bed.

So Near took the car and played in his room by himself. It was not really any different from usual.

Christmas at the House is much less stressful, at least.

And there's less homework. Many of the older students and even the professors are lounging around, talking and relaxing and playing, even though it's only afternoon. Near observes Dex, Fallon, Hopper, and Gao sitting down for a game of Risk, something they usually only find the time to do on Saturday nights; and Moira is teaching Icarus and Kae to make paper snowflakes. It seems like everyone is finding time to lay off the studying a little bit, even with the end of term upon them.

Except Mello, of course. His door is shut, as it is most afternoons when he's not in class or the library. He's doing schoolwork, Near is certain.

Last Christmas, they went out and played in the snow, under Moira's watchful gaze. Mello had shown him how to build a snowman. The bottom snowball had turned out to be too big for the subsequent layers, because even with the aide's laughing help they had been unable to lift the properly-sized middle ball on top. In the end Mello had decided the bottom was Santa's belly and they could just put a head on him.

"Santa isn't real," Near had pointed out.

"That's not the point, Near. He's just part of Christmas. You have to pretend in the story for a little bit, because it's fun."

Near opens Mello's door without knocking, slooowly creaking it open little by little because he knows the hinge squeaks for the first four inches and it drives Mello crazy. Sure enough, after just three seconds of the drawn-out screak of the door the older boy glares up from his desk and barks, "What?"

"You're studying," Near observes, swinging the door back and forth a little. Reeak reak, reeeak reak.

"What do you want, Near?"

Near waits patiently, placidly for him to discern the obvious.

"Look, I don't have time to play with you. I have to study." Mello hunches back over his paper to do just that. His fringe falls over his eyes, blocking the irritation out, and Near has a sudden desire to just chop it off.

"Why?"

"Why do you ask questions you know the answers to? Exams are soon. I have to beat Dex and Fallon."

"Exams aren't for three days."

"That's soon. Now go away."

Reeak reak, reeeak reak. "…It's Christmas, Mello."

"Stop doing that! You win at being annoying, ok? And there is no Christmas at Wammy's."

"Why?"

Mello sighs in absolute exasperation, slapping his pen down to his desk with a smack. "Some things are more important than Christmas, Near."

"What things?"

"Things you'll know about when you're older," Mello says loftily. "Now stop bothering me and find something else to do!"

Near leaves the door ajar just so Mello will have to get up and close it.

He winds up back in the common room, playing by himself. No different from usual. Mello is right, there is no Christmas at Wammy's, so there's no reason to feel any differently about it than any other day.

There are many little cars to play with here, red and green and yellow and blue and his favorite, a black one with white racing stripes. Dumping out one of the puzzle boxes, Near sits next to the pile of scattered pieces, curling his knee up to his chest and resting his chin on his knee. He puts the black and white car in the box and shuts it.

For a moment, he pretends.

Then Near opens the box, and peers inside.