It's a fine evening, even if it's almost December and therefore evening comes much earlier than it should, and even if classwork this semester has been a startlingly crushing wreck for certain people, one of whom has been Kazuo. (There are many people in the apartment who are geniuses in academic fields. Kazuo is ... not. And tries to keep up anyway.)
This particular fine evening, it is not classwork that is crushing Kazuo.
After all, all he was doing was sorting through the mail, getting rid of the pointless bits and going through bills and notifications.
And stalling on one particular letter. Handwritten! ... handwritten terribly. In hiragana. Not in Usagi's handwriting, which would usually be the first suspect.
Surprisingly, this month's academics have been crushingly wrecking Mamoru: it probably has something to do with working with cadavers, which makes it rather less surprising. That's why when he comes over to look over Kazuo's shoulder, he's eating with a spoon directly out of a pint of caramel chocolate toffee ice cream. "Who's that from?" he asks guilelessly.
It is apparently from someone who pieced together the appropriate seasonal courtesies out of phrasebooks and then translated them out of kanji anyway, or something. Or who memorized them out loud rather than who to actually write them.
An explanation is given in a moment, but not before Kazuo takes his life in his hands by reaching over and redirecting one spoonful to claim it himself. (Or trying to, anyhow. The way Mamoru protects his chocolate, success is not guaranteed.)
Then he says, blankly, "My grandmother has decided that the New Year is a family holiday."
Given the expression on Kazuo's face-- or the particular flavor of lack of expression-- Mamoru actually lets him get away with the ice cream theft, though his hand absolutely stays in contact the whole time. There's a hint of amusement at what it looks like at the corners of his eyes, just for a moment, and then he blinks at the response. "What? Ooh, is she coming here? Can I foist hostessing off on her? Or--" his eyes light up further. "Is she inviting us there? Do we get to *not be here*, do we get to be *not here* with just us guys going?"
Then he freezes, the next spoonful paused, expression stricken. "Or. Oh. Does she just want you and your dad to go."
Kazuo's blank expression actually breaks at the tone of Mamoru's last few words, and he half-turns his head, eyebrows twitching up as he acquires a small frown. It is not a 'stop doing that' frown. It is a 'how is the world misbehaving to cause Mamoru to look like that' frown, which is answered a moment later.
"No," Kazuo says. "She's threatening to come here. As in. Here. As in, expecting a guest room. We might be able to head her off by suggesting we visit there instead. If there's time. I'm not sure she isn't about to barge in the door tomorrow. Or tonight."
And Mamoru remembers that muscles are not the enemies of bone and skin, and therefore moves normally once more, relief palpable. "Oh! Oh. Well, she can have a guest room, but you can also tell her what I, of course, would never be rude enough to tell her because it would be an imposition, that I personally am dreading this new year's party and would rather get away from the city. Then she can have the idea to invite us there herself."
Kazuo gives Mamoru a long look. A very long look.
"You're looking forward to my having to call her to try to head her off before she leaves, aren't you. It's your new spectator sport."
Mamoru shakes his head first, then slows and nods contemplatively, and then frowns and shakes his head. "Only a little. I'm actually a lot more interested in actually getting the hell away from holding a new years party this year. If we actively have something else planned, something that looks like it trumps friends, then nobody will be disappointed in me for canceling fun. I can call her. I can make it sound good."
Kazuo sets the letter down in favor of using that hand to rest on Mamoru's shoulder. "I can call her," he says quietly. "Even a little less stress on you might make a difference, just now."
Mamoru takes the hand on his shoulder as an invitation to lean in and affectionately thump his head against Kazuo's shoulder, then straighten up again. "I think it might be less stressful for me to call her than for you. I would only just tell her we were actually planning to go out of the city for the holiday but hadn't settled on a destination yet, and ask where she thought we might go. Hint, hint. She goes overboard on you, but I'm fairly certain she'd like to win us over unnecessarily first." His mouth crooked up sideways. "Besides, I like her. And the whole thing is something else to think about."
He looks down at his ice cream, melting a little, and offers it to Kazuo. "If it wouldn't actually stress you to talk to her, then go for it. But even if it's just a little-- please, if she *does* fill you with dread somehow, let me run interference. This is the kind of social wall I am good at."
Kazuo accepts the melting ice cream solemnly, only to (if he can also acquire the spoon) offer it back to Mamoru piecemeal. "If it's something else to think about, then by all means, I will yield the negotiations to you. If nothing else, with you she is likely not to start by declaring victory. Thirty-seven times."
Mamoru's happy to accept one mouthful, while Kazuo's talking, but then he redirects the spoon toward Kazuo's mouth after. "Thirty-seven. Did you actually count? Because I'd believe that you did and she did. I think the argument might float better anyway coming from the nervous overworked traumatized med student who actually owns the apartment on paper, anyway." He does wait until Kazuo has swallowed before asking, "Does she believe in magic or should we be relatively careful?"
"Technically, I counted the number of times she asked the same question immediately after getting an answer she didn't like," Kazuo replies dryly. "It seemed a reasonable extrapolation." And applies himself to being subjected to sugar.
The follow-up question makes him somewhat more thoughtful. "I'm not certain. I think she would say no, and besides, that magic was a scheme to dupe people into harming themselves. I think some of the things she sees as normal facets of the world, other people might think of as magic. I'm not certain she has been exposed to what we do."
"Then we should be careful? Or just be ourselves and not make a big deal out of anything?" Mamoru ventures. "And let her ask if she wonders. I think she's the kind of person who would. Ask, I mean."
"If we're spending time with her," Kazuo says, "I suspect being ourselves might be the better plan. Fewer people being flustered. Less suspicion being generated. And less likelihood that she'll expect us all to be nefarious poisoners or our own evil duplicates or the like."
Apparently, in Kazuo's head, this is a concern.
"... I don't think Zoi's poisoned anyone recently," Mamoru says, "yeah. And I think I want to put the rest of the pint back in the freezer. And then I think I want to call her, if that's okay?" He shifts his weight. "I don't know why I'm worried about her shaking my hand when I literally haven't been worried about anyone else I've met on purpose in so long..."
"Because you don't ordinarily shake the hand of steamrollers in human form," Kazuo mutters, and takes the ice cream back to settle it in the cold.