Arty shouldn't be here.
If anyone were around to care, they would pause and note that this kid doesn't fit. He's too young, scruffy, shifty-looking, etc. to belong in this apartment building. He's a boy with moppy gingery hair that someone tried (and failed) to tame, clothes worn somehow lopsided, and wet sneakers that track slush and mud behind him.
Definitely not someone who belongs in here. Such a mess he's making,
But no one is near to bother to stop him or stare, and so Arty finds himself padding quietly down the empty hall to the door of one of the apartments. He checks the number twice, and then knocks.
Arty doesn't care if he doesn't fit here - he was invited, thankyouverymuch.
(So there.)

"Come in," says Keye, and then swings the door wide himself, grinning hugely under his own mop of hair, which is green for the moment and stinking of aerosol.
If you looked very carefully, you might notice a thread of hysteria behind that smile, just a note of desperation, but it's minimal and quite well-masked by the green hair and ornament earrings (not ornament-shaped, mind you, but actual little ornaments with earring hooks attached) and the wide grin and the lumpy present in one hand.
"Merry Christmas!" and, grabbing Arty in a one-armed hug, he shuts the door (damn neighbors) and gestures generously to the living room in general. Have a seat or...or whatever!
"I got you a present," he adds somewhat shyly. It's nothing so spectacular as the last one, but...it's a present.

"Merry Christmas," Arty echoes, looking a touch bewildered, but not displeased. He returns the hug, then wanders a few paces in, looking cautiously around. No unfriendly ghosts seem to be about, so he grins and ventures further in. He ends up sprawled on the couch.
"A present?" His eyes are wide. "Really? Thanks!"
Presents are fun (but he really wishes he'd thought to get Keye a present, too. Sadly, this didn't occur to him until it was too late).

Keye nods rapidly, entirely untroubled by the lack of present-reciprocation, and places the poorly-wrapped package carefully on Arty's chest.
"Open it, open it!" he says eagerly. "I mean...well, it's nothin' special. I just--made it but it's nothin' magic, it's just...well, it's not that great, I mean...just open it, huh?"

He sits up a little straighter, turning the package over in his hands.
"Okay," he laughs. "Okay. I'm opening it."
He'll just tear off a corner here, to make the anticipation last for a -- ha, no he won't. The wrapping paper is torn off all at once, with a flourish.
Arty's not known for his patience.

It's a scarf.
It is overly long, white with sparkly threads run through it, and just to clarify, it isn't pretty. It is uneven and lumpy, and narrow in some places and wide in others...
To summarize, it's homemade by someone with little prior knitting experience and a hand tremor.
Tangled in that mess is a pair of earmuffs, which are (thankfully) storebought.

"All the time when I see you, you look cold," Keye explains.

Arty lets the lumpy mess of fabric unfold by itself, just managing to catch the earmuffs before they fall to the floor. He hooks them around his neck, preoccupied with the scarf. Just look at all those interconnected twists and loops of yarn... mesmerizing, aren't they?
The knots, the unevenness - they don't bother him in the least. In fact, he doesn't seem to have noticed.
"Wow..." The kid toys absently with the gift, grinning. When he's had enough of looking it over, he winds it loosely and sloppily around his neck, and looks up. "It's really warm. I don't think I'll be cold in this."
He gets up and wanders over to Keye, with the express purpose of hugging him.
"Thanks."

Keye is exceedingly relieved by this--Arty likes it and it's warm (he really was worried about the kid being cold, you see).
"I'm glad you like it," he says contentedly, and returns the hug when it is given.

Arty doesn't appear to be about to let go anytime soon.
He gives an extra sqeeze, his eyes shut.
"Wish I'd gotten you something, too," he says guiltily. "I didn't even think of it..."

Well, bending like that is a little weird, so Keye squats down to be on a more even level.
"Aw, kid," he says softly, "Don't worry about it. You came over to hang out with me, which means you obviously care, and that's all I really need. So we're good."

"Yeah?"
Arty lets go, stepping back and fidgeting with the ends of the scarf, a sheepish grin on his face.
"Okay, then." He cocks his head to one side."If you're sure. I bet I can still find something, though."

Unperturbed, Keye seats himself on the floor and stretches his legs out in front of him.
"Well, I wouldn't complain if you got me somethin', kiddo, but you don't have to. I'm good to go with what I got."
That being companionship.

"Heh. 'Kay." He nods, slowly. "Well, we'll see."
Arty sits on the floor in imitation of Keye, only he crosses his legs as if sitting at a campfire. He's still absently fingering the knitted fabric, tugging on it, adjusting it.
Keye gives the best presents.
"So. Whatcha up to, lately?"

Keye is grinning in a silly way that suggests there will be a fallout from this, in that he'll probably end up knitting yet more crimes against the craft, and probably give them to innocent people to boot.
"Oh, not too much. Just...well, I guess you could say I'm tryin' to relax. A little. Vi seemed to think it was a good idea, though I might be, uh...takin' it in the words and not the real meaning, or however that thing goes."

"Why'd she say that?"
He wrinkles his nose. It's nothing new that Violet seems to think she knows what everyone else is supposed to do, or he'd say as much.
"What're you doing different?"

"I'm just tryin' to take advantage of this break between last semester and next. Not workin' too hard, even takin' a little break from magic." He shrugs.
"She said it...well, I guess she's worried. I mean--I guess I been having kind of a hard time, and she said I needed a break. And she's smart, so..."

Up go the eyebrows.
"Well. I guess that sounds like a good idea," he replies grudgingly.
He makes a habit of not taking her (or anyone's) advice as it's given. Other people may be smarter than he is, and may actually know better than he does - but he never assumes they're right just because of silly reasons like that.

"Better than going crazy 'cause of workin' too much." he replies solemnly. He'll take any advice that he thinks will prevent him from losing it.
Except, you know, actual therapy.

"Why you givin' me that look?"

"What look? I wasn't giving you a look," Arty protests, suddenly the wide-eyed picture of innocence. "I was just thinking. Maybe it showed on my face."
A pause.
It is followed by babbling.
"I was thinking, why'd you have to listen to Vi? I mean, sure, maybe resting's a good idea. But you don't have to listen to her just 'cause it's her."

"Well..."
God, how to explain? He spreads his hands wide, looking oddly serene, meditative.
"I don't always listen to Vi, for one thing. I do think about what she tells me. It does matter that she's her though--she's my friend. I know she wants to help me. That means I can trust her. She's been real good to me."

"She's nice and all..."
This is said with a certain amount of reluctance built in. She may be nice, but that doesn't mean Arty lets her tell him what to do.
"Iunno. I just - get tired of listening to her. She's not any older than me or anything but she thinks she can make me do stuff."

"You get in a lot of trouble, Arty. She probably worries about you. She doesn't mean anything bad by it."
Sure, it's easy to advise giving the benefit of the doubt here and now, but when it's Keye under the scrutiny, it's quite often a different matter.

He grimaces faintly and shrugs a shoulder, fidgets with the scarf to tuck it closer to his neck.
"I wish she wouldn't bother." He smirks. "It's not like I really pay attention anyway."

"Well maybe--"
His face is full of a caught-halfway confusion. He doesn't know whether Arty should listen to Violet or not, let alone whether it's even his business.
"I worry 'bout you too, y'know," he finishes weakly.

Arty frowns at him for a few moments, seeming to be chewing on the inside of his cheek.
"Well, you know,... you shouldn't."
In this case, it's not that he doesn't like being told what to do. It's that he doesn't want to disappoint by not doing as he's told.

"How come?"
Having seen the boy bruised and unhappy, Keye doesn't think it's an unreasonable question.

"...'Cause. I don't need you to."
Hmm, what excuse shall we use today?
"I get enough of it from Vi. Don't you start."

"I didn't say you needed..." he bites his lip, focusing his half-blind gaze on the patch of floor between his denim-clad knees.
"Just that...well, you are in trouble a lot. So I do anyway."

He sighs through his nose.
"Not anymore," he insists. "I haven't gotten in a lot of trouble since,... um,... well, since I died, anyway."
That rather tops any other trouble he could get into. Dead is dead. A dislocated shoulder, a scuffle, a snowball in the face - definitely not as bad as death.
Or Death, for that matter.

"Well, uh..."
He grins sheepishly; that's true. There's not much that fits more perfectly into the category of trouble than death itself.
"Well, yeah, but...you've still been havin' problems."

"Everyone's got problems."
The boy shrugs, very near to being cheerful for some reason.
"But mine aren't gonna kill me or anything, so I'm okay. So no need to worry."

"What if they do one day?" Keye tilts his head, frowning. "What if you underestimate some disagreement, or piss off somebody powerful by accident, or..."
Or just do something stupid.
Or anything really. Accidents happen.

"I'm not going out looking for trouble on purpose," Arty says reproachfully. "I'm being careful."
He even forced himself not to go to Enrique's apartment and throw a rock through the window on Halloween. And that took restraint.
"If that stuff happens, it doesn't matter what I do, so there's no point worrying about it. Okay?"

"Well...well, I guess."
Not much he can do about it anyway. His single eye glistening, he nods slowly, and clasps his hands together.

Arty stares at him, blinking as if he doesn't believe what he sees. Then, inch by inch, he transfers his gaze to the floor.
"I'm being careful," he insists again, twisting the end of the scarf between his hands.

"It's okay, I believe you," he says slowly, because it's that inevitability that is scaring him--the fact that if something bad is going to happen, there's nothing he can do about it anyway.

"Yeah?"
The boy looks up, doubt written all over his face.
"...Okay."

"Yeah." Again that slow nod.
"N-not that it's my business in the first place. I guess that's what you want? For people to keep out of your business?"

"I... guess so?"
His forehead wrinkles, and he bites his lower lip.
"It's just, I don't want people hovering. I don't want to be worried about that much." Arty lets his lip slip out from between his teeth (yes, he's been talking over it). "I don't mind being worried about a little bit, though."

"Well you let me know if I start hovering, okay? 'Cause I wouldn't wanna do that." he looks up again, and it's a strange juxtaposition, that rather light tone of voice mixed with an expression of utmost seriousness.
"I don't like botherin' people. I just like makin' sure they're safe and happy."