Disclaimed.

He gingerly rubs the specks of ice from his nose.

The roads are lined with trails of snow, tinted by the festive lights hanging from the narrow shop roofs. The once regular tinkle of the store bells is absent that night—the streets are deserted, with the visitor density concentrated in front of the town hall. Children pursue each other playfully in the plaza with candy canes in one hand, stockings in the other.

He wears his stockings on his feet.

The frosty wind blows his messy black tresses into his eyes, and he blinks twice in a feeble attempt to clear his eyesight. He adjusts his worn out cap so that his hair is pushed back by the rim, but he is exposed to yet another annoyance as the breeze nips at his forehead and his burgundy eyes. Clicking his tongue in irritation, he grasps hold of the rim of his cap and quickens his pace, keeping his head down.

Nonetheless, he reassures himself that being outside on a day of less than sympathetic weather is far more enjoyable than being holed up in a building constructed of falsehood.

He is not fond of the unpleasant, throaty carols and the artificially constructed mood of the orphanage—his 'home', which has never successfully clawed into his heart with its apparent welcoming belonging. It is to the point where he deems the flaky, navy-blue door of the building as his only means to escape the forced reality.

The snowflakes nip at his bare fingertips as he holds his thin collar around his neck, in an attempt to escape the icy winds. The glass doors along the alley are closed for the night, unwelcoming to potential—and during the holidays, usually non-existent—customers, let alone shabbily dressed, penniless orphans.

Nevertheless, he continues to walk along the frozen alleyway, even as his eyes continuously search for specks of warmth within the stores.

His eyes scan the buildings which he passes by—signs with bolded, fancy letters, green and gold tinsel framing the glass windows and doors, Christmas trees and mistletoe in white paint on the glass. They all celebrate a very merry Christmas, and he can only cringe and move on.

It is then when he stumbles across what he has been looking for. Within the line of deserted shops marked with their less than genuine greetings, there is one building that glows in gold—it is the first store that still has its lights on, and the boy can already feel the heat within emanating. It causes him to slow down in his steps, and eventually halt. The boy peers through the glass window of the shop, where on the other side, intricately crafted dolls and robots are displayed among platforms of different heights. Within the building, even more assorted toys are assembled along the various shelves, and the boy notes to himself that the variety of toys in the store could provide something for almost every child.

Unsure if the lights were on because the owner was merely spending Christmas alone in the shop, he cautiously pushes the door open.

He hears the sound of a tinkling bell from above as a burst of warm air hits him in the face.

"I didn't expect a visitor today, of all days," an amused, yet warm, baritone voice calls out from the back of the store upon his entrance, and soon the boy is face to face with a fair-haired man with a smile. To the young orphan, he realises that this simple shopkeeper's welcome is far more genuine than the forced grins upon the faces of the orphanage carers.

The boy, after some brief hesitation, bows his head slightly in recognition.

"So, what's a young boy like yourself doing out in the cold at night?" The shopkeeper asks, as he pours steaming liquid into two Styrofoam cups at his disposal. "I know it's Christmas, but it's hardly reason for anyone to catch a cold."

The child's quiet reply belies a childish meekness.

"…I just wanted to get some air."

The shopkeeper looks at him knowingly, before handing him a warm cup from one of his hands.

"It's hot chocolate. It'll keep you warm," he reassures the boy with another smile.

The child cautiously accepts the cup with his two hands, and the heat emanating from the cup is pleasurable to his freezing skin. He brings the cup to his lips and almost immediately, the tasty sensation swarms his mouth.

"So, kiddo, what's your name?" The shopkeeper asks him before taking a sip from his own cup.

He does not hear the shopkeeper's question. Instead, his eyes pause at one of the toys placed on the highest shelf—he cannot explain why he is unable to draw his eyes away from the red and grey robot which, at first glance, is nothing special amongst the other vibrant, inviting toys beside it. All he knows is that he desires it, and it is certainly not a petty, childish desire, easily erased, but an object that he earnestly wished that he had sufficient funds to purchase.

But of course, he is a boy living in a state next to poverty, and he regrettably knows that his wish is impossible.

The shopkeeper notices his mental absence and repeats his question, finally capturing his attention. The boy still maintains his gaze on the robot as he mumbles his name.

"Natsume."

"Natsume? That's a nice name. Call me Izumi-" The shopkeeper pauses, as he finally notices the boy's concentrated gaze on the shelf behind him, rather than on him and what he himself is saying.

Izumi cannot help but be amused at Natsume's enraptured state.

"Do you like it? I created it about three weeks ago, give or take."

It is this that finally allows Izumi to succeed in grasping the boy's undivided attention.

"You made the robot? By yourself?" He asked incredulously, staring at the sheepish man in wonder.

"I'm a toy maker, Natsume. And these," Izumi motions to the entirety of the store, "are my creations. So, are you interested in the robot?"

Natsume wants to say yes, that having the robot would somehow make his Christmas happy, but his fingers unconsciously move towards his pockets—which he knows, are completely empty, and always have been.

He admits the truth. "I don't have any money."

Natsume expects the man's cheerful disposition to vanish immediately upon his admittance that he is not a capable customer. However, Izumi remains calm as he walks forward and places a reassuring hand on his small shoulder.

"Well, when you get older, and you work hard to earn the money, you will be able to buy it. But until that happens, I'll save the robot for you. I'll be waiting, Natsume."

Enamoured by Izumi's promise, he nods as he returns the now empty cup of hot chocolate to him, feeling unusually refreshed. He mutters a quick 'thank you' before dashing out of the store, with a brand new and inexhaustible determination evident in his expression. Natsume thinks to himself that his flat pockets will no longer be empty as time passes, and as he takes one last look at the small corner store, he sees Izumi stroking the hair of a brunette child around his age.

Natsume feels that he can hear the rich notes of 'Deck The Halls' toll throughout the town.

Izumi watches the boy leave his store with a smile, as he feels something tug on his shirt.

"Daddy, who was that? And why are his clothes so thin?" His young daughter asks him, with eyes full of youthful curiosity. She is confused as to why her father appears proud at that very moment.

"Mikan, that boy is a future customer. I'm certain that he'll return, someday."

A/N: This marks the beginning of a collaboration between Jess and I. I do hope you enjoy this.

-Theo.