Joyous tunes bleat out of the broken radio on the windowsill as heavy, harsh snow beats down on the shed’s thin walls. Many of the broken bulbs of the Christmas lights you had begged him for bang against the cracked pane, the blanket he has wrapped around himself provide just enough warmth, and Denji still feels like shit.

It‘s not Christmas yet, no matter how many times you ask, and he’s sick. Deathly ill, even. He hadn’t even earned the cold in a beneficial or smart way, like taking down one last Devil for the holidays or saving some hot chick from falling into a lake or whatever.

Instead, Denji had gotten sick by spending hours upon hours trudging through the bleak, snowy streets in search of an open store or bakery for you. Most of the things Denji had found were in trash cans or packages on people’s doorsteps. A doll here, a train car piece there, Denji took what he could before coming back to the shack and setting everything up like he’d seen in magazines or tv commercial displays in store windows.

Despite his endless complaints, Denji didn’t want Christmas to suck for you this year again, even if he didn’t have two notes to rub together. You had talked his ear off all year about how excited you were for the holidays and how much better they must’ve been before your parents had “left”. You were too young to remember how Christmas was when your parents were still alive, but Denji had tried to assure you you weren’t missing much.

“Don’t eat all of the food up, I can’t go out until the snow dies down,” Denji sniffs, opening his eyes to look at you wearily. His head throbs as he struggles to stay awake long enough to finish the countdown until the green and red day of reckoning with you.

You mumble some sort of reply as you break off a stale chunk of bread and hand the bigger pieces to Pochita. The Devil curls up on your lap, chainsaw pointed away from you, as drool forms on the side of his mouth as you hand feed him.

Freeloaders, the both of you.