"You’re holding it wrong. Gifts should be placed with care, not slammed down like a brick." The elf grabs the gift.
"With care? You nearly dropped it on the floor! I’m not letting you ruin this."
The elf tugs harder, glitter scattering across the rug."Please, you’re all brute force and no finesse. Look at you—mask on and scowl ready. You don’t exactly scream ‘holiday spirit.’"
I push him back. "Holiday spirit doesn’t matter. Getting the job done does."
The elf smirks, refusing to let go. "Spoken like someone who’s never decorated a tree in his life. I should be the one to place the first gift!"
The ornaments above us sway, chiming faintly, as if the tree itself is amused by our fight. The gift thumps against the floorboards.
"You know… one: doors were invented for a reason. And two: you two are loud as heck." Both I and the elf jump.
Inside this crooked little house, Neo has already claimed the couch, lounging against the faded cushions. She has one leg crossed over the other, a half-smile tugging at her lips as she plucks a sugar-dusted cookie. "You two are acting ridiculous. It’s a box, not a crown."
I crouch low, my mask catching the glow of the firelight, and I press the gift firmly onto the floorboards beneath the branches. The ribbons curl tight, snapping into place as though the tree itself is accepting the offering. For a heartbeat, the lights dim to a faint glow, then they flare brighter, casting long shadows that dance across our faces.
The pile of presents is looking good, their colors synchronizing, as if the house has been waiting for this moment. The ornaments chime faintly, a sound too delicate to be natural, like glass whispering.
The elf scowls behind me, arms crossed, while Neo lounges on the couch, watching with the same bored detachment as before. My first task is done, and the tree—strange, crooked, and alive in its own way—seems satisfied.
"Finally." Neo stands up and walks to the door, looking at the map carved into her skin. Her sass is making me horny.
Chapter 35
NEO
The trample of our boots on frosted gravel marks our arrival at the next house. The night air is sharp, biting at exposed skin. Nox has a cigarette tucked between his lips its ember glowing faintly in the dark. Each drag lights his face in brief flashes, highlighting the annoyance still etched across his features. His shoulders are tense, every step towards the house heavy with reluctance. The cigarette still burning faintly on his lips, is a silent protest to being dragged into this. Yet he doesn’t turn back. He carries the gifts, the weight of them more symbolic than physical, because he knows it matters to me. That’s what softens the moment—the quiet truth that he’s here not for himself, but for me.
I shift closer; my breath lingers in the cold air as I lean in and press a gentle kiss against Nox’s cheek. The touch is soft but grounding, a quiet reassurance in the stillness of the night.
Nox’s expression softens, the edge of his usual irritation dulled by my presence. He slips his arms over my shoulders without a word, pulling me into the circle of his warmth, even if he’s as cold as night.
"You are so handsome," I tell him, my hand caressing his abdomen muscles, and he smiles at me, kissing my temple in response. Ice glances at us, unimpressed.
The next house looms before us, shutters drawn, the kind of silence that makes our footsteps sound louder than they should. Nox exhales slowly, letting the smoke drift like a sigh of impatience, before flicking ash to the ground and shifting the weight of the gifts in his arms. The house is hushed; the only sound is the faint ticking of a clock somewhere deep inside. Ice and Nox move like shadows, setting the gifts beneath the tree whose ornaments glimmer faintly in the dark. The glow is warm, almost protective, but it feels fragile—like a candle about to be snuffed out.
We walk back outside, the door closing with a soft click. The night is colder now, unnaturally still, as if the world itself is on pause. Then comes a sound—low and metallic, like a chain dragged across ice. Nox stops and steps in front of me, his cigarette hanging forgotten from his lip. Something stirs in the blackness between the trees. A shape too large, too twisted to be human. Its horns are catching in the moonlight, jagged and cruel, his eyes glowing like embers in the dark. The Krampus steps forward, its breath steaming in ragged bursts, its claws flexing as if eager to attack. The air grows heavy, pressing down on us, the festive warmth of the house behind us seeming impossibly far away. The creature’s growl rolls through the night, deep and guttural, rattling my bones. I clutch Nox’s arm, my breath sharp with fear.
The elf steps forward, his shadow stretching long beneath the moonlight. Each step towards the towering Krampus is deliberate, as though he has shed all fear.
When he reaches the creature, he turns to face us, his chin upward, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the night.
"This is over," he declares, the words echoing in the silence. "I was meant to be the next Santa." His eyes burn with a strange conviction, with no trace of the playful mischief one might expect.
The elf’s words cut through the air like a blade. Nox’s jaw clenches, his eyes narrow as the ember of his fallen cigarette hisses out in the snow.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Nox’s voice is low and sharp, carrying the kind of fury that makes the night feel even colder. He steps forward, shoulders squared, every movement radiating defiance.
The elf sneers, his tone dripping with venom. "You were never meant for this. You’re a mistake. I wanted to be chosen; you were in the way."
Nox’s fists tighten, his knuckles whitening. "Chosen? You’re nothing but a coward hiding behind monsters. You want me dead? Then stop talking and try to kill me."
"Oh, I tried… but you are a tough cookie."
The Krampus growls, his chains rattling as if feeding on the hostility between them. The elf’s smirk falters for a moment, but he stands his ground, eyes flashing with dangerous intent. The air between them is electric, heavy with the promise of violence. My hand hovers near Nox’s arm, torn between pulling him back and letting him unleash the storm that’s building inside him.
Instead of fear, a smile tugs at Nox’s lips. He slips a hand into his coat pocket and draws out the length of a chain, the metal links clinking in violence. He rolls the chain across his knuckles with calm precision, each loop tightening until his fist gleams with its cold steel.
