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It’s gentle and chaste—a press of plush lips against plush lips, a hesitant caress. It’s nothing, and everything at once. Ricky’s fingers run across Gyuvin’s face, thumb gliding on his cheekbones from the wetness gathered there. He can’t tell if Gyuvin’s crying, or if it’s just the snow turning into liquid on his skin, but Ricky doesn’t dare look. He squeezes his eyes shut, as tight as he can, engraving this moment into the folds of his brain, focusing solely on the boy in his arms, whose breaths form the rhythm of Ricky’s heart.
Ricky and Gyuvin seem to always be running out of time. It's never stopped them from loving, though.