It was December 24th. Static and unchanging, the sky was just as gray as it had been three days before. The clouds still hovered over the city, their bellies swollen with moisture and ice crystals. The thunder still rumbled, shaking the sake bottles on the shelf.

There were six of them, a motley bunch. The cellist sat on the ground, with his back against the wall. He was wearing a white shirt, tucked into a pair of black slacks. The scientist was slumped in a wooden chair, sleeping. Her green sweater was too long in the arms, lending her a strangely youthful appearance. The two female military officers were asleep on the couch, their hair colors clashing as they nestled against the other's shoulder. Both were clad in the colors of their workplace, khaki with orange shoulder emblems. The blue-haired psychologist sat next to the two, her legs drawn up in front of her. She was dressed entirely in white: white lab jacket, white formal shirt, white pencil skirt, and white stockings. The artist was spread-eagled on the floor, wearing a leather jacket, tight black T-shirt, and jeans. All were close friends, having known one another for thirteen years. The group had only planned to be there for a few days, but days had turned into several, and those several days into a week. The weather had only gotten worse and worse, going from cold to cold and rainy, and then to cold, rain, and hailstones.

The cellist pushed himself up to standing, walking the short distance to the window. He brushed aside the curtain, staring out into the deluge. Nothing had changed. The gray sky moved the gray clouds, dumping their gray rain and their gray hail onto the gray everything else. It was a world of gray, where everything was the same.

A second reflection appeared in the glass. The artist had come over to join him. His jet-black hair was tousled, giving most people the impression that he had just woken up. Of course, that was usually the case. The two stood side by side, staring out into the downpour.

"I think my flight's cancelled," murmured the artist.

The cellist sighed. "If anyone tried to take off in this weather, it would be a nightmare." His breath fogged the windowpane. "Do your parents know you won't be back today?"

"Not yet. I still need to call them. They'll need to stay with Sakura for another day."

"Your kid?"

"She'll be sad that her parents won't be home for Christmas, but there's not much I can do."

The cellist released the curtain, hoping it would fall shut; instead, the stiffness of the fabric and the bearing rods held it open. "Want me to grab you a beer?"

"Sure, why not," said the artist. He walked over to the wall, sliding down to rest with his arm over his eyes. "I think I need it."

The cellist walked over to the mini-fridge, pulling it open. As far as he could remember, it had been stocked with nothing but ice, snacks, and more beer than one could drink. He pulled two cans from the rack, popping the tab on one of them. He took a sip, moving the drink around the inside of his mouth before swallowing.

He padded back to the small group, tossing the beverage to the artist. He snapped his tab and took a deep draught. "America makes a fine cup of coffee, but you can't beat Japanese beer," he said, nodding in approval.

There were joint yawns from the sofa. The officers had both woken up, and were rubbing the sleep from their eyes. One stood up and stretched, her red hair falling down her back. The second simply yawned again, brushing her purple bangs out of her face.

The redhead looked at the shoulder of her jacket, delicately giving it a sniff. "You know that this is going to smell like you, right?" she said, looking at the woman on the couch.

The other officer gave an impish grin. "It smells better than that fabric softener you use, Asuka."

Asuka sighed, pressing her palm to her forehead. "It's not that bad, you know." She looked out the window, surveying the skyline beyond. "Besides, it keeps me warm enough for that weather."

Misato reached around the psychologist for the blanket, childishly wiggling her fingers as it gradually proved to be just out of reach. "Rei, could you pass me that blanket?" she whined, plastering her best cute-enough-to-make-one-want-to-tear-out-someone's-spleen smile over her face.

The psychologist expressionlessly picked up the blanked and dropped it on Misato, before returning to her earlier position. Misato proceeded to pop her head out of one side, giggling like a schoolgirl.

The cellist looked over. "Misato, you're the most cheerful thing in this room. Perhaps even outside," he added, looking out the window. He finished his drink, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

"Yeah, I know," said Misato. Then, brightening again, she said, "Throw me a beer, will you?"

The cellist grimaced, turning on his heel back to the fridge. Extracting a third can, he walked back to the sofa, holding the can above her head. "Promise not to chug?" he asked, smirking.

Misato flashed her smile again. "Promise." The cellist lowered the can to her hands. There was a soft crinkle of aluminum as she took the can from him, followed by the sound of somebody chugging a beverage as fast as possible. He sighed, turning away towards the black-haired artist, who was finishing his beer. "Pass, Toji," he called. The artist grunted an acknowledgement before crumpling his beer can and tossing it in the cellist's direction. The can slapped into his hand. He turned and threw the empty container onto one of the mounting trash piles on the table, followed by his own.

Asuka had collapsed back onto the couch, her jacket drawn around her. Misato was covered in a blanket, her hands wrapped around the empty beer can and two red spots on her cheeks. Rei was as impassive as ever. The artist was still against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. The scientist was groggily coming to, gradually sitting upright. She got up from the chair, stretching her arms. She yawned, loudly.

Asuka looked over with interest. "Sleep well?" she inquired.

The scientist looked over, still sleepy-eyed. "I slept in a chair. What do you think?" She brushed a few strands of short, brown hair from her face, inclining her face towards the cellist. "Shinji, could you grab me a coffee? I'm wiped."

Shinji nodded, turning towards one of the cabinets. He pulled out a can, tipped the liquid contents into a mug, and placed it in the apartment's microwave.

Toji pushed himself up from the wall again, moving over to the scientist. "You don't look so good," he murmured, draping his arms over her shoulders. "Tired?"

"I'm fine, you know that." She turned her head to the left, enough for a brief peck on the cheek from her husband. "Are we going back today?"

He sighed. "I'm afraid not. Weather's still bad." The artist nodded towards the window. "I'm going to call my parents, see it they'll stay with Sakura for another day."

She sighed. "Weather wasn't this foul when we were kids. It was summer all year round."

The artist grinned. "Pool weather all year, right?"

"Boys looking at you in a swimsuit weather all year, more like," retorted Asuka.

"Braggart," chuckled the scientist.

"Oh, come on," scoffed Asuka. "By the time you were seventeen you were getting as many boys as I was."

The scientist laughed, nestling her head into the artist's shoulder. "Jealous?"

"You wish," chuckled Asuka.

The microwave dinged. And everything stopped. Perfection, achieved in one moment of serenity.