The moment the sharp office lights strike his eyes, Rude regrets taking off his shades. Blinking, he quickly wipes them on a sleeve and slides them back in place. The visual relief is welcome, but there's no escape from the jolly music and the chatter. The others have gathered around the spread of mismatched trays and bowls on their pushed-together desks, piling their paper plates with festive treats. Rude avoids them, retreats to the quietest corner he can find.
Why did he let Reno talk him into this?
Rude brushes off the thin scatter of snow that clings to his shoulders, stark white against the Turk suit. He rolls off his gloves, rubs his hands together. They're still cold. He was waiting a while.
His vision begins to blur. He removes his sunglasses and blows on them gently. Ever since he came in from the cold, his glasses keep fogging over.
"Hey, buddy. Figured you could use this."
Quickly, Rude slides his shades back in place. Reno has appeared at his side, dangling a white plastic cup in his thin fingers. The red wine's scent is spicy and rich, but it can't mask the eye-watering sting of hard alcohol. Veld must have brought the mulled wine. A Kalm tradition, he says. Every year, Reno insists on "improving" it with whatever he's carted up from below plate in that hip-flask of his. Calls it a groundside tradition. Nobody buys it, but Veld lets him get away with it all the same.
The wine's warmth radiates through the thin plastic of the cup. Rude's fingers prickle hotly, now that the numbness from the cold is gone. Reno settles down beside him, prattles about something or other between big gulps of his foul winter cocktail. A few flakes of snow are still stuck in his wild red hair from their walk back from the plaza. Let's go home, he had said, as if they were the magic words that would make everything better.
Reno doesn't understand. Not really. He tries, maybe wants to get it, but he doesn't. He doesn't do feelings. Attachments. Doesn't know how.
But what do any of them know about feelings? Rude knows jack shit, judging by the evidence staring him in the face. Oh, he knew he was accumulating feelings. Thought she was, too. Thought he would know what to do, when the time for doing came. So many thoughts, but what did he know?
Jack shit is what he knows.
"How's the drink? Need a top-up?"
Reno's drink is long gone. No surprise there. Rude hands him his untouched cup.
"Something wrong with it?" Reno reaches into his jacket and pulls out his hip-flask. "If you need something stronger, I've got just–"
"You drink it."
Reno eyes the plastic cup, hip-flask still wavering.
"You sure, man?"
Rude thrusts it toward him, spilling a few drops on his fingers. The one time Rude actually wants him to make off with his drink, and the guy hesitates.
"Take it."
Finally, for once, Reno does as he's told. Rude crosses his arms over his chest and stares straight ahead. A silence falls.
Turks have gravitated into smaller groups around the room, filling the space with chatter and laughter that seems at odds with their dark suits. Most of them are young like Reno. The strays Veld has collected over the years, the ones with nowhere else to go. Veld brings the music and the mulled wine, and keeps the office lit well into the small hours of the night. He's even got a tree this year. Lights, tinsel, ornaments, the whole shebang. It's pretty small, though. Smaller than the tree in–
Rude's vision has gone blurry again. With a huff, he snatches the glasses off his head and fishes around his pocket for the handkerchief. He blows on the lenses, then begins polishing them again.
"I think they're clean enough, yo."
"They keep fogging up," Rude mutters.
"Well duh, the way you keep breathing on 'em."
"That's not–" Rude stares at his glasses. The lenses are clear, but his vision is not. He shoves his shades back over his eyes.
"They fog up," he rasps. "It's what glasses do after the cold."
Reno sighs. "Okay, buddy."
He averts his eyes and fidgets with his plastic cup. The silence threatens to descend on them again.
"Oh, hey, want some snacks?" He points at one of the desks that has been commandeered for the night's refreshments. "I'll get us some snacks."
Rude's gaze wanders until it lands on Ruluf the rookie. One of Don Corneo's boys before he joined up, which explains a hairdo even wilder than Reno's. About Reno's age, too. They even share the same shabby way with a suit.
Ruluf is the one who found Rude by the tree in the plaza. The one who delivered her message.
Reno returns with a plate laden with cookies, all shaped like chubby people and animals. Some of the edges are too dark.
"Tried these before?" He holds up one shaped like a chocobo before biting off its head. "The rookie brought 'em. Says it's what they do for Yuletide where he came from." He points at Ruluf.
"Thought he was born down below."
"Nah, he's from some hicksville south of Junon. Parents moved here when he was just a kid, hoping for a better life. Poor bastards."
Questions drift through Rude's head. Does Ruluf still have family below plate? If he does, why is he here and not with them? If he doesn't, where did the half-burnt cookies come from?
Did he really let her go?
"Here," Reno says, raising the plate. "They're pretty good. Sweet but spicy, just how you like 'em."
The scent that wafts up to Rude's nose is a zesty blend of ginger, nutmeg, and something else he can't quite place.
"Well… It's how I like 'em, anyway." Reno picks up another cookie and stuffs half of it in his mouth.
Ruluf says something that makes Cissnei laugh. He hasn't looked at Rude even once since their arrival. Few of them have. Maybe they all know. Maybe Ruluf told them, or Reno. What was the message, Rude wonders as he scans all the faces that are studiously avoiding him. Rude got duped by an AVALANCHE spy. Rude got dumped by an AVALANCHE spy. Funny the difference a single letter can make. Not that the difference matters. It doesn't sound good no matter how you say it.
"Hey, did Ciss tell ya what she's planning to set up on the SOLDIER floor this year?" Grinning, Reno snatches up the last cookie on his plate. "It's pretty wild."
Rude sighs and looks away. Someone has brought in a TV and placed it on Freyra's desk. A black-and-white movie is playing on the screen, sound muted. It's the same feel-good Yuletide classic Veld puts on every year.
"C'mon, man, let's go over there and hear her tell it. I think you'll–"
"Not interested."
Reno's mouth opens and closes a few times, before he stuffs it with his last cookie. A silence settles.
It hadn't been a surprise. The timing, sure, but not the message. Rude had known it wouldn't work out. But that had been his brain talking. Funny how little the brain's conclusions matter when feelings are involved.
That word keeps sneaking in. Funny. Ha ha. Reno probably thinks it's all very funny. He rolls his eyes at lovey-dovey couples in bars. He laughs when movie characters confess their love. If anything surprises Rude about this whole sorry deal, it's the fact that Reno isn't laughing his head off right now.
Someone yells prank time! The Turks stir from their conversations and scurry among their desks, picking up carefully prepped bags and tools on their way to the exit. Rude, however, stays put. So does Reno. At the door, Cissnei turns and waves them over, grinning wickedly. Reno raises his plastic cup in acknowledgment, but he doesn't move. Cissnei tilts her head, frowning. Her eyes dart to Rude before she shrugs and disappears. Reno remains put.
"They're leaving," Rude observes.
Reno takes a sip from his cup.
"Guess they are, yeah."
"You should join them."
"Nah, I'm good."
Rude gives him a look. For the entire month of December, Reno has prattled on about his ideas for Yuletide pranks. Rude is certain he's been plotting them for far longer than that. Some people would say it's not a proper holiday without the tree, or the spiced wine, or waist-high drifts of snow on the ground. For Reno, it's the office pranks.
Reno squirms a little under Rude's gaze.
"Ain't feeling it right now," he says with a shrug.
There's another word that keeps sneaking in. Feelings. Attachments.
Rude never picked up any Yuletide traditions of his own. It's not a holiday on the island off Costa where he grew up. He doesn't even know what they're supposed to be celebrating, because he's never cared enough to ask. He comes to these parties for the food, the booze, the camaraderie. They're loud and rowdy and remind him of family gatherings back home. He hasn't missed a single year. Neither has Reno.
Rude always thought Reno did it for the office pranks, or maybe the booze. He's thought many things, but what does he know?
"Let's find the others. See what they're up to."
Reno lights up with a grin.
"That's the spirit!"
In the blink of an eye, he's halfway across the room. He pauses at his desk, grabs a couple of his so-called cocktails. By the exit he waits, beckons Rude over with a plastic cup. He still has that broad grin on his face. The sight of it tugs at Rude's lips, too.
That's the thing about Reno. Always moving, always darting from one affair to the next, yet Rude can't picture him ditching a fellow Turk in the snow. Reno will keep coming back, keep prodding and pulling, until he gets them both out of the cold.
Rude thought it was because the job came first. Never mind your feelings, Reno might say, gotta get the job done. Rude thought it was about the next raise or the next promotion. Lots of thoughts there in his head… but what does he know?
Jack shit, it seems.
There's no spring in Rude's step as he crosses the room, not yet. But at least his feet are moving. As long as he remembers to keep moving, he'll eventually get out of the cold.