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It’s Christmas Eve, and Replitwo still isn't sure what to make of it. What to think, how to feel, what to do; though, he’s been reassured countless times now, to the point of merry monotony, that he doesn't have to do anything. He doesn't even have to be there, usually.
However, it's hard to be anywhere else with Sora gripping and guiding his hand so tightly this year, taking him – somewhere.
He knows they appreciate his presence, even as precarious as it is, during such a precious time of year. They treat his efforts and participation just like any other glittery and giftwrapped present left under a tree, like he's any good at it. Like he's any good at all.
They claim he's getting better at it.
And maybe he is.
He used to think they just pitied him. That they attempted to involve him because it was the right thing to do, the just thing to do. And it seemed that half the heart behind such an absurd holiday was loving those deemed unlovable; helping those that wouldn't even admit they needed, or wanted, a hand. Replitwo didn't want their sugar-coated sympathy. Then, he figured, maybe they’d just thought it was funny. Taking someone like him and forcing him into some ugly, ill-fitting sweater, talking all big and grins about its part in some treasured tradition.
Tradition.
Tradition, condition, training –
The callouses curled around his wrist are achingly familiar, but from an intimacy shared with someone else.
He must be getting better, since the need to chew right through that grip and run away is damn near completely gone. Gone and replaced by a glare so soft and awkward, it works a snort out of Riku keeping a quick pace beside him. He knows, now, that it's not pity. Or sympathy. And any mockery to be had was never meant maliciously. Maybe it was, early on, at the very start, but there's no way of knowing for sure. Sora had been an awful liar, once; and though Replitwo had inherited the sight of all his easy tells from Riku, they were all keyblade masters now.
Somehow.
And Sora can lie if he needs to.
Or even just wants to.
Replitwo can't help the squeeze of sad, selfish pride that brings to his heart.
Still, he would really like to know where exactly it is he’s being taken to, and so late at night. He has a hunch, since he knows his way around this castle just as well as those leading him, if not even better; they're on their way to the gummi hanger. Then from there, they’ll probably head to Halloween Town, to eventually, inevitably, end up in Christmas Town. If there’s anything they can potentially proclaim as a true tradition of theirs, it's that: making it to Christmas Town every year. The place has its…charm, but personally? He much prefers one over the other. Even contemplated making Halloween Town his home, once or twice. But, that’d been before –
“Aren't we going to get there a bit early?” Replitwo huffs, all the while Sora drags him around yet another corner of the castle.
“Actually,” Riku starts, and he can hear the sly little smile in his voice. “We might be late, if you don't hurry it up, Rep.”
He bares his teeth at the both of them, but the threat flies right over their heads, already too full of sugar plum faeries or – whatever the fuck.
He doesn't run without a reason to run.
A good reason.
❄️❄️❄️
So, he wasn't wrong.
They do go to Halloween Town. Or, moreso through it; saying some quick hi-byes! to their friends on their way to –
an eerie and unfamiliar part of Christmas Town.
‘Christmas Town a Little to the Left’ Sora had proudly declared. Though, it isn't exactly to the left – Replitwo would just call it the unpopulated outskirts of Christmas Town. It's calm here, and quiet; the snow having long since settled, undisturbed, into a still silence, and any visible, flickering light comes from a night sky full of natural, distant stars.
He’s never been here before, but…
The hill they're leading him to reminds him of the one back in Halloween Town. The one in the graveyard with a seemingly shy, tucked away top. That's his favorite hill, and he knows that, if coaxed correctly, that top uncurls. This hill looks more like the whipped and frozen mid-drip top to an ice cream cone, and probably doesn't move.
It's surreal, the similarities.
“Riku, Riku! What time is it?”
Replitwo’s gaze slips away from the icy hill, his attention snared by Sora’s sudden, excited outburst instead.
He never could read a room.
“Hm,” Riku’s response is much more appropriate, much more subdued, as he fishes a gummiphone out of his pocket. “Eleven fifty-five.”
A respectful tone for such scenery.
Immediately broken by some more cheering and clapping from Sora.
“Yes! We’re just in time!”
“Just in time for what?” Replitwo huffs, the hot and agitated air of his breath puffing steam up between them. It's cold, obviously, but he isn't cold. Reckons that none of them are, what with the odd change in their attire. He’s been privy to the privilege of ridiculous, world-specific camouflage spells for years now; grown quite comfortable in various forms of bodies and fits, but this – this is new. Like the spell got confused or something, torn between the typical, haphazard and tattered fashion of Halloween Town, and the plush and cozy coats of Christmas Town.
“Ghosts.” Sora says with a grin, and it's weird not seeing the fangs that had been in there just a few minutes ago. The intense shadow around his eyes stuck around though, and gives his grin an intense, almost sinister edge beneath the white, pillowy brim of his hat.
“Ghosts.” Replitwo parrots, unenthused.
He already has his fair share of ghosts, so why the fuck would they bring him here for more? Sure, some ghosts are fine, circumstances and situations depending, but what kind of ghosts would haunt a place like this? And why? What interest could he have in some random souls sulking about Christmas Town – what interest could those souls have in him? None.
“Yes, ghosts! The ghosts of Christmases passed.”
Replitwo’s ear twitches in irritation.
Not the one normally situated on the side of his head, but one of the ones he always grows in Halloween Town.
“You just have to trust us on this, Rep.” Riku, ever the earnest voice of reason, and also rocking a remaining pair of stubborn wolf ears, attempts to soothe his hackles.
Sora might lead him astray, but Riku?
Replitwo sighs and turns to face the snowy replica of that hill again.
He counts the silent, passing beats of a minute. Nearly makes it to a minute and a half, but then stops when the wind spontaneously picks up. Picks up and kicks up a little flurry of fog and snow, particularly thick up at the very tippy-top of that hill. He squints, not that it does much, while the bell apparently attached to his collar now jingles in the breeze. By the time the sudden gust settles back down, he’s sure there’s flakes all throughout his fur, but that doesn't matter. Nothing matters, actually – not anymore.
Not now that there’s a figure standing atop that hill, just as striking and startling as the first time he’d seen it.
He whips his head around, heart hammering, but he's alone. Sora and Riku must’ve slipped away while the short-lived storm could cover up their tracks.
He turns back around, slowly.
He half-expects the figure to be gone, by the time he looks back up again. Despite the weather, he’s started sweating where possible, like his heart is just as confused as the magic that’d made his costume; he’s excited, and he’s terrified.
The climb up that hill feels like the blink of an eye, and two hundred and six shattered bones.
He looks like Sora, except the shadows continue all the way up into his hair, just like they should. He looks like Sora, except his eyes aren't blue like water, but gold like fish. He looks like Sora, except in all the ways he has to tell himself he doesn't.
Replitwo blinks, hard.
And his voice cracks and trembles, like a thinly frozen lake.
“How?”
“Tch,” Vanitas flicks his head to the side and shrugs. “Does it matter?”
Yes. Yes, it matters. All at once, it is the only thing that matters; because the second Replitwo figures it out, he will not rest until he can recreate it, and do so permanently.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't know.”
For the first time that night, Replitwo feels cold.
“You've never disappointed me, could never -”
“That's a lie,” Vanitas cuts him off, and he feels the chill all the way down to his toes. “I disappointed you when I died.”
Replitwo closes, opens, then closes his mouth again, swallows, and shuffles on the snow. He was disappointed that Vanitas died, he wasn’t disappointed in Vanitas. And that's not even right – he was crushed. But, before he could form a proper, coherent argument, Vanitas snorts.
Replitwo wants to catch the trail of his breath and keep it in a jar.
“You look like a goddamn sled dog.”
He glances down at himself and – oh. Ah. He isn't wrong. The getup the magic had given him does involve quite a few straps and buckles, coupled with the collar, ears, tail…and an obscene amount of plush trim. There’s only so much weight the matching set of black coat and pants can carry, especially considering the claws he’d kept from Halloween Town, too; accentuated by red and purple ribbon wrapped up around his knuckles and arms.
He should be offended, but instead, he’s fighting the urge to beg Vanitas to tell him to mush.
So long as it means he can take him back home.
“Can I – ?” Replitwo starts, then stops. “Will you – ?” He tries again, hands hesitantly breaching the distance between them. But he’s afraid. Afraid that a mere brush of his fingertips might break whatever spell this is, or shatter whatever illusion’s at play here. He's afraid that Vanitas won't feel it. He's afraid that he won't feel it.
“I’ve never seen you so fucking scared before.”
“That's a lie.” Replitwo whispers before he can catch himself. He'd been so, so scared in those last few minutes together, and those first few minutes apart.
Vanitas blinks, and for a second, seems caught completely off guard. But then he laughs, and it's like the dull and broken chime of some old, forgotten bells. It's beautiful, and it's haunting; a selkie’s song ringing off snowcaps. Replitwo bridges the gap between them with the press of his palm to the curve of Vanitas’ cheek.
It feels –
The sky above them explodes into streaks of festive atmospheric streamers, technicolor shades of greens and reds setting the mood for a desperate, searing, and inevitably fleeting, kiss. Vanitas condensates in his hands, through clothing and skin alike. He's melting, like freshly fallen snow under the first rays of the sun. Replitwo's never asked for anything for Christmas, he's never once written to that Santa Clause guy – but now he just might.
He’s been relatively reasonable this year.
Some might even say good.
Good enough to turn this ghost of Christmas passed, into a Christmas present.