Tenki ga ii kara, sanposhimashou!
Фанфик века! 
The kotatsu wasn't the only Winter fixture of the room. Kei had gone to the trouble of crafting a Christmas tree for the very occasion earlier in the month from carbon-steel and barbed wire. It still lurched in the corner with a star on top and a flashing ornament of a penguin in a santa-hat, continuing to inspire nightmares.
"That tree is freaking me out, man..." Majiru tugged on his uncle's sleeve to complain discreetly.
"And so well it should." Nozomu whispered in response. "This holiday itself is just a gimmicky, sociocultural relic of post-war occupation. It'd behoove you to cultivate a hatred of it."
Nozomu was by now clenching his knuckles white and felt an eyelid twitch. He didn't appreciate the habit of people speaking about him in the third person while he was still present, particularly family reminiscences on his swottier youth. But on the other hand, it also reminded him on some level of his imagined wake. After his cremation, he imagined that they would speak fondly of him in a similar fashion, with or without irony, for 40 minutes or so, swapping narrations of these very childhood memories, but then soon return to their grief as all the while he rested in eternal, spiteful peace. A thin smile curved slowly up towards his eyes at the thought.
Nozomu stood outside the circle, like a revolutionary reading from a manifesto. In his mind's eye, he saw himself, barricaded in a university in the 60's, in front of a red banner reading "TO HELL WITH THE OUTMODED KOTATSU, LONG LIFE TO TRUE FAMILY VALUES" in classical characters. He could almost feel the sweat beading on his forehead behind his headband.
"That tree is freaking me out, man..." Majiru tugged on his uncle's sleeve to complain discreetly.
"And so well it should." Nozomu whispered in response. "This holiday itself is just a gimmicky, sociocultural relic of post-war occupation. It'd behoove you to cultivate a hatred of it."
Nozomu was by now clenching his knuckles white and felt an eyelid twitch. He didn't appreciate the habit of people speaking about him in the third person while he was still present, particularly family reminiscences on his swottier youth. But on the other hand, it also reminded him on some level of his imagined wake. After his cremation, he imagined that they would speak fondly of him in a similar fashion, with or without irony, for 40 minutes or so, swapping narrations of these very childhood memories, but then soon return to their grief as all the while he rested in eternal, spiteful peace. A thin smile curved slowly up towards his eyes at the thought.
Nozomu stood outside the circle, like a revolutionary reading from a manifesto. In his mind's eye, he saw himself, barricaded in a university in the 60's, in front of a red banner reading "TO HELL WITH THE OUTMODED KOTATSU, LONG LIFE TO TRUE FAMILY VALUES" in classical characters. He could almost feel the sweat beading on his forehead behind his headband.