The Warrior of Light warily looked at the flimsy board.

"Are you certain that this is secure?"

Dusting off his hands, Squall pressed down on the makeshift sled once more before he checked the railings, making sure the pieces were fitted snugly together. "It's safe."

" … and what is this supposed to accomplish?"

The gunblader removed the blockades at the front and back of it as he stood up—he sighed in all his candid glory and crossed his arms against his chest, arching his brow at the frown on the apprehensive man's face that threatened to cast a shadow over his eyes, his foot tapping impatiently. When he received no further response but a more skeptical expression, he scoffed, loaded Lionheart into the sled, and slid in without much further ado.

His companion widened his eyes. "Surely, you are not going to go down this icy hill in that … thing."

" … well, this thing is the fastest mechanism available." Squall shrugged. "And it's not that bad, either."

"How imperiling."

"Suit yourself."

Just as the younger being was about to push off, he felt the other's hand on his shoulder.

"Wait: I have decided to go with you."

"Then, climb in, and don't keep me waiting."


"What is this … hot chocolate?"

"It's a drink that's made by mixing chocolate and milk together—then, it's topped with marshmallows."

" … does it … does it aid in increasing one's defense or offense?"


"Will you drink it?"


"Perhaps, I shall have a goblet of this myself."


"What do you want?"

Stepping forward, the Warrior of Light reached out his hand and settled it on the other's, curling his fingers around it as he stood in silence; he watched his breath crystallize in the cold, waiting for a reaction, to feel a slight pull or a word of inquiry amidst the awkward hush, a demand for explanation, perhaps. Yet, Squall did not withdraw his hand, albeit there was an initial stiffening of his form, and taking the lack of action as an affirmative, the former tightened his grip—the mollification of the rigidity allowed his mouth to quirk upwards while he applied a diminutive pressure once more.

The gunblader arched his brow.

"I think I am supposed to say 'Merry Christmas' next."

"Well, say it."

"Merry Christmas."

Squall unsuccessfully combated a tug of his lips.

"Merry Christmas."