Allegedly, Immortals Hate Christmas.

Romero Arden made a quick note to himself: Immortals hate Christmas. 

At least, this one did—cerulean glare and all. Even with the bob of white hair covering her left eye, Romero was certain the immortal, Sonel Qi, was glaring at him. Of course, that could be blamed on the Christmas hat that he’d not-so-gracefully plopped into her lap. 

Surely, the glare wasn’t for him, right?

Sonel’s next words completely debunked his theory, “Do not enrage me, Romero.”

With their cramped living space, Romero’s bedroom was no bigger than a storeroom—for that was exactly what it had been prior to the Ardens’ moving in. The space between Romero and Sonel was no more than four feet. The space between his bedroom and his parents’, even smaller, what with the lack of hallways and thresholds. Their house was a glorified attic. But, it was the most homely thing they’d ever resided in.

Romero’s own Christmas hat covered his cornrows. He looked over to where she sat on the floor. Sure enough, the cause for her rage was the red hat, but her narrowed sights pierced through him. Leave it to Sonel to get upset over Christmas. 

Romero shook his head, laughing, “For God’s sake, it’s a hat!”

“I shan’t indulge in—” Sonel held the hat by its fuzzy end, a look of disgust twisting her features. “—your pagan holiday.”

“It’s your holiday, too,” Romero insisted, rolling his eyes. “Weren’t you around at, like, its inception?”

“By Gods, no.” She shook her head. “I was vacationing when those fools started gallivanting all over Germany. Ingrates, I tell you.”

Of course, she’d missed it. Romero found it convenient that most major historical events took place when Sonel was on the opposite side of the world. What was the point of being immortal if she could only recount the boring, non-textbook parts? She hadn’t been much help with his History homework, that much was certain. 

The rise in steam engines? She was globe-trotting in some Egyptian sand dunes. 

The death of an infamous world leader? She was busy herding slaves on a Jamaican plantation—a fact that Romero refused to let her 'live' down. 

Just the day prior, Sonel revealed that she had been living in the wilderness when Yule—what he now knew to be Christmas—had sprung up. In her defense, she had thought it would be a one-time thing. A dud. Now, after however-many centuries, Sonel loathed its existence. A reminder to the know-it-all that one of her hunches was, in fact, wrong.

Despite the blank canvas of her face, Sonel’s body language was drenched with dejection, her shoulders slumping, the hat falling back to her lap, still under her scrutiny. 

“Ignore the hat.” Romero exhaled a sigh, nearing her. “Let’s get some hot chocolate.” He outstretched his hand.

Clasping her ice-cold hand into his—and earning an involuntary wince—Sonel arched a brow at him. “Is this another show of merriment?”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to wear that one.”

Sonel scowled. In the past, Romero would’ve thought that he’d upset her or that she was unhappy. But, apparently, scowling was typical with immortals. The sharp glares were commonplace. The blank expressions, too. 

Sonel was no exception — If anything, she was the worst of the bunch, struggling to show any emotion besides anger. 

For someone who’s lived for the last millenia, not a smidgen of festive spirit resided in her. Not a smidgen of anything for that matter. Immortals were devoid of feeling, after all. 

Romero hoped to change that. One piece of decor at a time. 

Once they were out of the bedroom, the duo had landed in the living room, with Romero slinking to his knees to the hatch in the floorboards. Lifting it revealed the only way out of his parent’s ‘house’: A makeshift step ladder leading into their diner.

His mother had hung up most of the decorations before. The overused couch was covered in green blankets to hide the way the seat cushions sunk into themselves, while washed-out Christmas stockings are strung up across the opposite wall. Ah, Christmas. Another piece of decor was a photo of him and his parents, clad in matching red and green attire. In Romero, it sparked embarrassment. But, what of Sonel?

Glancing over his shoulder, Romero gauged Sonel's reactions. The last few months revealed that Sonel’s facial muscles—though severely unused—weren’t entirely dormant. Rarely, the corners of her lips would twitch, as if to smile or frown or quiver, or a vein would spring up at the side of her neck, like a suppressed cough. 

Most days, Sonel cannot feel or emote. That’s the price of immortality. But, sometimes, her nose would crinkle with disgust or anger would cloud her blue-eyed gaze, and the bang covering her right eye could only do so much to hide that. 

On days like this one, Romero is reminded of the former: Sonel doesn’t react.

His hopes grew when she reached for a framed photograph of the Ardens—ugly Christmas sweaters and all—but even that is no match for the way her lips remain pressed into a thin line, unmoving. She set it back down.

With a defeated sigh, Romero led the way into the diner, trudging quietly down the staircase and gesturing for Sonel to do the same. His parents were out running errands, sure, but that didn’t make hiding the immortal’s existence any easier. 

“We’ll be quick,” he said, moving to the cupboards. “Green mug or red one?”

“Does it matter?” Sonel’s feet then landed—pounded, more like—on the kitchen floor.

Romero winced at the sound, but simply took both into his hands, opting to be quicker than he’d previously anticipated. From what he’d gathered, Sonel was a semi-retired warmonger. Best not to incite her rage. With that in mind, Romero wordlessly placed the cups on the countertop.

Not getting the memo, Sonel asked aloud, “What is it about Christmas that makes you so giddy?” 

Now, he’d set the kettle atop the stove, already filled with enough water for the both of them—and seconds, at that.

“Your eyes, mostly. They seem… excitable. But, you’ve also been vibrating with every breath. Even now—” Sonel jabbed a finger towards him. “—you’re practically bouncing from foot to foot.”

Sure enough, Romero found that he was mid-bob when she caught sight of him. He paused, straightening his posture and looked away, eyeing the mugs before him.

Usually, Sonel was under his magnifying glass, being studied like an amoeba or an insect. He had no clue that Sonel was capable of doing the same, of swapping her role as subject in favor of scientist instead. Now, with the tables turned, Romero felt vulnerable. Naked. If Sonel could feel, would she have felt the same?

What pulled him from his thoughts was a sharp whistle, shrill and stark against their newly-shared silence.

“I’ll get it—”

Sonel hoisted the steaming kettle by its sides—its handle promptly forgotten—and thrusted it towards him. “Here.”

Romero leaned away from her, ducking out of reach by a mere nanosecond. His hands lifted defensively. “C-Counter, Sonel! Put it on the counter!”

When she obliged, Sonel’s palms were a fiery red, skin blistering like a cheesy pizza trapped in an oven. “Where are the ingredients?” Without so much as a wince, she clasped the red mug, turning to face him.

Grimacing, Romero stopped her from passing the green one to him, hoping that her skin would peel into her own mug instead. “Uh, bottom shelf.”

She reached overhead for the hot chocolate packets and slammed the cupboards shut once she’d located them. 

As if it had been a trick of the light, her palms had reverted back to their usual porcelain glory. Some days—like that one—Romero forgot that immortality came with accelerated healing. Over the course of their friendship, Sonel had broken and bloodied herself more times than he wanted to count. But, you’d be none the wiser, considering just how quickly those injuries became non-existent, a figment of his imagination.

Immortal or not, her healing did nothing to quell his worries, evidenced as he smacked her eager hand away from the kettle. “Let me do it for you, Sonel.”

She handed him the packet and stepped backwards, allowing him room to fill her spot in front of the kettle. He did just that — First, pouring one of the packets into his mug and then, secondly, hesitating with Sonel’s.

“How do you like your hot chocolate?”

“I don’t.”

Romero shot her an incredulous look. “You’ve never had hot chocolate?”

“I’ve existed for hundreds of years,” Sonel deadpanned, though it felt more like she was scolding him within context. “Don’t be silly.”

“But, you said—”

“It’s chocolate served hot. The taste doesn’t matter to me. It shouldn’t matter to anyone, really.”

He poured the second packet into the red mug. “It should, though.” He took a spoon and lightly stirred his own mug. “Didn’t your… uh, humans make you hot chocolate? The ones before me, I mean.”

Sonel had befriended him after the death of one of her oldest friends: A ninety-seven year old, four-time divorcee and retired skater, Gladys Jamison. Sonel liked humans just as much as she should’ve hated them—of that he was certain—but the immortal herself didn’t seem to know it. Yet. 

Much to his dismay, Sonel answered his question with a shake of her head. “If the need arises, I simply order it in a cafe.”

“So, never homemade?” he pressed. 

Her blue-eyed gaze was still firm as it fell against his brown one. “Never homemade.” 

Romero placed the spoon on the countertop and took a quick sip of his. Where his mother preferred making it from scratch, he was content with adding water to a Swiss Miss packet. It was perfect as is. Hopefully, Sonel would think the same.

Once he moved his attention to her, mugs in tow, Sonel was seated on the floor. He followed suit, shuffling to sit beside her. “Here.” Romero outstretched the red mug. “Tell me if you like it.”

Sonel cradled the mug with both hands. The look in her eyes was pensive, studying the heat that rose from the hot chocolate in her grasp. Romero himself opted to hold the steaming mug by its handle, but to each their own.

“So,” he began, thoughts wandering back to her answer. “Why do you think that is?” 

Sonel tore her gaze from the mug. “Pardon?”

“Why…” Romero bit on his bottom lip. A feeling of unease soon washed over him, a timid contemplation creeping up from the back of his mind. Did she know? Did he want to know? Still, Romero found the words, mumbling, “Why didn’t they ever make you hot chocolate?”

Sonel arched her brow. “How should I know?”

“Ah, yeah, you’re right.” Awkwardly, Romero averted his gaze, lifting the mug to his lips yet again. “Well, why do you think they didn’t make you some?”

Like a cough suspended in a cramped room, the silence between them felt tense, commanding Romero to keep his gaze away and Sonel, surprisingly, did the same, locking her gaze to the steam. 

“Why did you make hot chocolate for me?”

Romero was mid-sip when the question resonated, soon pulling the mug away from his lips. “I thought you could use some.”

She shook her head. “I’ve told you before, Romero. There’s no point in making accomodations for me or providing me with comfort. I cannot feel.”

“Is that why they didn’t do it?”

Sonel held the mug by its rim, swishing the hot liquid around, watching the steam swirl and the hot chocolate spill. 

He frowned. “...Sonel?”

“I believe so,” she finally responded. “I reveal my immortality to all of my humans. Consider it a preface of sorts. It is futile to treat me as if I am a person, Romero.”

“You are a person.”

“I am nothing more than an empty vessel.”

His eyebrows knit together, confused. “Emotionally, yeah. I guess?” His words came with a touch of uncertainty. “But, you can feel heat. And taste stuff, right? Your hands work, your eyes work, too. Isn’t… Isn’t that enough?”

Granted, he’d never had to convince someone of their worth before.

Sonel’s face was devoid of emotion, though her words dip in volume, quiet. “Is my immortality not cause for hesitation?”

“No.”

“Why waste your ingredients on someone who has no need for it?”

“It’s not just ingredients, though. It’s a warm cup of hot chocolate. It’s supposed to be nice.”

“Tch.” Sonel rolled her eyes. “You’re better off sharing it with a mortal. A friend.”

He smiled to himself. “Well, I think of you as a friend, Sonel.” Judging by Sonel’s sideways glance, she had seen his smile too, and that only made it widen. “Sounds like a pretty good reason to me.”

Her gaze fell to the mug once again, her trademark scowl remaining. “It’s a waste.”

“Not to me.” Romero shook his head, still smiling. “It’s not— You’re not a waste to me, Sonel.”

The immortal fell silent. To his surprise, she lifted the mug to her lips. Not a breath would sound to cool the liquid nor any momentary hesitation. Instead, her sip was a gulp, swallowing nearly half the mug’s worth. 

Too bad he hadn’t caught much more than a glimpse of that. A familiar jingle yanked his attention to the door of the kitchen—and even beyond that, to the door of the diner just a few feet away.

“Rommy!” His mother’s voice peeled through the air, followed by a shuffle of footsteps. A pair… That meant his father was home, too. “You up yet?”

“I-In here!” he called back, scrambling off of the floor. “Just, uh, washing up!” 

Where Romero’s face had gone warm from anxiety, Sonel’s face was the same cool temperature as before, if the pale cheeks were anything to go off of. She simply rose from the floor behind him, mug still in hand, and jabbed her thumb to the staircase. 

“Yes, yes!” Romero whisper-yelled at her. 

He all but nudged Sonel towards the staircase, stopping only when she was halfway up, her drink spilling over the rim as she went up before him.

Sonel’s existence was something he hadn’t figured out how to explain. Worse, there was no valid reason why the fifteen-year old was hoarding a girl in his bedroom at all — especially not one who had existed long before much of the English language. 

Within seconds of the immortal exiting the diner, his parents entered, bundled up in coats and scarves up their eyes. 

His mother’s eyes were warm, arms immediately outstretching to envelop him in a hug. “You’re gonna love what we got you, Rommy!”

Her coat was damp and cold, and it was hell ripping himself away from her, barely suppressing a shudder. “O-Oh yeah?”

“Damn right,” his father interjected. “Now, we just gotta hide ‘em ya.” He reached overhead, ruffling Romero’s already matted cornrows. He wore his own hair as shoulder-length dreadlocks. Given their footlong height difference, Romero couldn’t reach up and return the favor. 

Romero’s mind raced with possible ideas. Money was usually tight for the Ardens. Hopefully, there was something he could sneak into Sonel’s hands. Lord knows she needed a sign that humans weren’t all bad, that she was worthy of more than just mere acknowledgement and the bare minimum. 

From what he’d pieced together, the humans she’d met before him were selfish, stingy assholes. He wasn’t like that. God, he hoped he wasn’t like that.

But, that stream of thought was abruptly cut short when his father planted one foot on the staircase.

“W-Wait!” Romero called after him. To no avail. His father trudged on, toting off with a few shopping bags in his mitts.

Romero clambered up behind him. When his head peeked up from the floorboards of the living room, his bedroom door was shut and his father had made a beeline to the room just to the left of it: His parents’ bedroom.

Which left Sonel Qi—his secret roommate—hidden away.

Romero stood outside of his door and turned the knob of the door as quietly as physics would allow, holding the door so it wouldn’t brush against the floorboards. 

Sonel was back in her usual spot: Plopped down on the floor, legs crossed yoga-style.

Something was amiss, surely, as she still held the mug to her mouth, taking tiny sips. She was nursing the hot chocolate. More like savoring it. Her pale skin was still a far-cry from his darker complexion — Notably moreso, with the pink hue that now stained her cheeks. Her eyes were lulled shut, closed off to him, to her surroundings. 

While Romero should’ve assumed that it was courtesy of the heat rising from the mug, he wanted to believe that there was something more: That Sonel had finally felt something. 

Here, at the very least, Sonel looked at peace.