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Chapter Text

After they brush their teeth clumsily in their tiny shared bathroom, Langa heats up soup and helps Reki to the couch, tucking him under too many blankets in that quiet, determined way he has, intensely focused on making sure Reki is warm enough. Reki’s kinda embarrassed at all the fussing, but he drinks the soup until it warms him all the way through his stomach, and then they cuddle among all the blankets and pillows and watch Christmas movies on Langa’s laptop. 

Everything is soft and comfortable, the screen smaller than the TV in their bedroom, the windows white with flurries, everything muffled by the snow. It’s kinda hard to pay attention to the movie, though, ‘cause Langa keeps tracing the lines of Reki’s palm, his fingertips ghosting over Reki’s skin in this way that makes Reki shiver. “Dude,” he manages, curling his fingers over Langa’s, squeezing clumsily, “you’re not even watching.” 

Langa glances up, his hair messy around his face. He’s smushed between Reki and the couch cushions, his body awkward and long-limbed, but he looks dazed and flushed and his fingers fumble to clutch Reki’s hand, too. “But I’ve seen this movie before,” he says. 

Reki chokes on a laugh, his cheeks itching. “Yeah, but I haven’t!” 

Langa tilts his head, a piece of hair falling into his face. “Am I distracting you?” 

His expression is so serious, not like he’s teasing, and Reki smothers another laugh, his heart squirming with that suffocatingly warm surge of affection for him, his sweet boyfriend, oblivious that the way he touches Reki’s hand gives him so many stupid, flustered butterflies. “Yeah, man,” he says, squeezing Langa’s hand again. “Just a little.” 

Langa’s eyebrows pinch a little, concerned. “I’m sorry.”

Adorable. He’s so adorable, and Reki’s so warm inside. “Nah, dude,” he says. “Don’t be.” 

He fumbles to hug their clasped hands to his chest, tilting his head on the pillows so he can grin at Langa, their noses so close that he can see every pore on Langa’s face, he can see the way the tension smoothes out of Langa’s forehead in relief, the way Langa nods. Their lips are close, too, and Reki’s body shivers pleasantly with the feeling of Langa puffing cold breaths on him, the way Langa shifts around, squirming closer to Reki to get comfortable. Reki’s still sick, his head stuffy and his skin fever-warm, but the sounds of Charlie’s Brown Christmas fill the living room, and their socked feet are tangled together underneath the pile of heavy blankets and the day feels soft, comfortable, a little blurry around the edges. 

“I was just,” Langa begins, and then pauses, his eyebrows furrowing as he gently pries Reki’s fingers away, opening up his palm again. “I was just admiring your hands, Reki. Because they...they’re so pretty.” 

His voice trips a little over the word and Reki can feel his face warming, the room suddenly smaller and stuffier, the heavy blankets on top of him making him flush all the way down his chest. “Hah,” he manages, trying to laugh again, but the sound gets stuck in his throat. “Ah, what?” 

“They’re pretty,” says Langa, and then he takes a breath. “And they’re really strong, too.  I’ve seen the way you use those wrenches to get the wheels off my board, your grip strength is incredible, and they’re still so pretty, like, like—” He fumbles a little, curling his fingers through Reki’s and glancing up, their noses bumping together and Reki flushes ‘cause he’s so close and so pretty and then Langa says, a bit strained and embarrassed, “You have freckles on your knuckles, Reki, I—I want to kiss every one of them.”  

“Ah,” Reki manages, his heart thumping, his face so flushed. “You—you can.” 

Langa blinks, and something like pure adoration colors his face, wonder and love, and it’s the same way he looks at the mountains, the way he gazes up at the S track all lit up with sounds and colors and the thrill of the race, and Reki’s throat swells up, ‘cause oh. He’s wanted—he’s wanted Langa to look at him that way for so long, and it’s just as overwhelming as he imagined, the weight of Langa’s love for him, the deepness and the fullness of all his feelings. 

“Reki,” Langa says, and his voice trembles a little, so full of love and he lifts Reki’s hand, pressing his mouth to Reki’s knuckles. It’s not the first time he’s kissed Reki’s hand this way, but it feels new, so new and good and overwhelming that Reki’s shivering again, snuggling deeper into the couch, as close to Langa as he can possibly be. I love you, he thinks, I love you I love you I love you,  and then Langa gives his hand a soft squeeze. “Reki,” he says again. “Can I...can I say more things?” 

“About—about me?” 

Langa nods, squirming against the cushions, snuggling closer to Reki until their bodies are flush together, their knees bumping cozily underneath the blankets. “I want to tell you all the things I love about you.” 

And, oh, Reki’s throat is swelling again, his eyes burning, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to speak, but he manages to say, “Uh—okay. Yeah. Uh. If—if you want to,” and he tries to hide how much he wants it, but his voice shakes a little and gives him away and he can see the soft, glowing adoration in Langa’s smile, the way he squeezes Reki’s hand. He’s so focused on Reki, all his attention devoted to the way he’s searching Reki’s face, the way he rubs his thumb over Reki’s knuckles, his hands cold and a little trembly in the most beautiful way. 

And then he says, softly, “You made snowboarding fun again,” and Reki’s throat swells so much he nearly cries. 

Langa’s mouth is soft on his cheek when he kisses him, just once, so soft and gentle as if the brush of his lips is a butterfly kiss, just his eyelashes fluttering over Reki’s skin, a soft kiss and a promise and then he’s whispering, “I loved going to the ski lodge with you and seeing how big your eyes got when you were taking everything in, and I love the warm feeling of satisfaction when I see how happy you are, and how you always get all bouncy and—and you move around so much, when you’re excited. It makes me excited, too. Reki, you make me fall in love with everything and it only makes me fall in love with you more and more, every day.” 

 “Langa,” Reki manages, choked up, overwhelmed and Langa squeezes his hand, kissing his knuckles again, and tears well up in Reki’s throat before he manages to swallow them down again. “I—fuck.” 

“You’re so wonderful,” Langa whispers. “Everything about you is wonderful. I thought maybe I would get to the top of the mountain again and feel nothing, the way I used to but then you started laughing everytime you fell and you made me forget everything else. You make me so happy. I couldn’t even believe how happy I was when you said you wanted to go again, and again and you just—you make all my memories full of color again.” 

His voice shakes, his hair swept away from his face with a dozen bobby pins and his eyes wide and blue and endless and Reki’s throat is so swollen. “Really?” he manages, and Langa nods, his exhale trembling, his palm sweaty when he clutches at Reki’s fingers. 

“I want to cherish them forever,” he whispers. “The memories? And you.” 

“Fuck,” Reki manages, his voice wobbling, and then he has to squeezes his eyes shut so he won’t cry and he wraps his arms around Langa, their bodies pressing so close together underneath the sweaty heat of the blankets that he can’t tell where he ends and Langa begins, and he muffles his mouth in Langa’s shoulder, the smell of the hoodie somewhere between his smell and Langa’s and the lovely, homey smell of the cabin. “Me too,” he mumbles, and Langa exhales again, curling his hands around Reki’s body, holding him close. 

For a while they simply hold each other, the movie playing gently through a monologue about the Christmas Star, Reki’s head full and blurry with the last traces of fever, and with all the emotion. He buries his face in Langa’s hoodie and thinks of the mountains, and the snowboarding, all the steps of Langa’s childhood they’ve been retracing together, carefully, breathing new life into old, faded memories. When Langa pulls back to press a small, shaky kiss to Reki’s hair, a thrill of warmth and love makes Reki shiver and he pulls back, too, mumbling, “We could come back here, y’know.”

“Where?”

“To Canada,” Reki says, fisting his hands in the back of Langa’s hoodie. “We could come back every holiday if you wanted or—or even to live, maybe, someday. If you wanted we could—we could have, like, our own family together.”

Langa doesn’t seem to breathe for a long moment. Then he pulls away further, pressing his body into the couch cushions and cupping Reki’s face and repeating, “Really? Really?” the way he did when Reki confessed, and his eyes are so wide that Reki feels flustered, the warm flush spreading up his neck again. 

“Well, yeah,” he says. “Don’t you—don’t you want that too?” 

He’s always wanted them to have their own home together, from the very beginning, a home where they could have a dog and their own kitchen and a big driveway for skating tricks and a garage for his workshop. They could spend endless days hanging out in the garage together, the fan whirring while Reki worked and joked around and Langa could watch him, perched on the edge of the workbench, wearing Reki’s hoodie the way he is now, and anytime he wanted, Reki could sidle up to him and stretch to press a kiss to his face, and it’s such a nice daydream that Reki feels all warm and flustered, and Langa—Langa’s eyes are shining with that hopeful, wonderful glow. 

“I do want,” he says. “Oh—Reki.” 

And then he scrambles up, sliding one leg over Reki’s body so he’s sitting on top of him, his hair falling forward into his face and his cheeks are all pink and Reki tries to swallow ‘cause—fuck. Langa’s limbs are awkward, and he’s too big to really be in Reki’s lap this way, but Reki grabs at his waist anyway, hauling him closer, wrapping his arms around him and muffling his face in Langa’s chest. 

He’s so warm. It’s enough to make Reki wanna cry again. 

“Is it okay?” Langa manages, embarrassment stifled in his voice, as if maybe he’s a little ashamed to have crawled so eagerly into Reki’s lap, but Reki nods hastily against his chest and squeezes him. Langa feels so good, so heavy and safe and he’s all Reki’s, they belong to each other, all their memories colored by the wonder of spending time together and he just wants to cuddle Langa in his arms forever. 

“Anything’s okay if it’s you,” he mumbles, and he hears the hitch in Langa’s breathing, and then the way he sighs. 

“Okay,” Langa whispers, settling more heavily on top of him, his soft arms caging Reki in so gently, holding him, their chests pressing together in their pajamas and Reki makes a muffled sound as his face presses to the warm space in between Langa’s neck and shoulder. He hugs Langa around the middle, squeezing him in that soft, soft sweatshirt until he feels dizzy, ‘cause Langa’s breathing in quick puffs against him, his hands coming up to fumble with Reki’s hair, smoothing it out of his face, up off his neck and Reki gives a shaky exhale, not a whine, it’s not but maybe it’s a little needy, ‘cause it feels nice. He tilts his head so Langa will brush away the sweaty tendril of hair clinging to his skin, and Langa smiles, a little. 

“Does that feel good?”

“Mm,” Reki manages, and then he remembers something, Langa ashamed over his cold hands, and he opens his eyes again. Langa’s pretty face swims into view, almost too pretty to be real and Reki swallows. “You—you have nice hands, too, y’know?” 

Langa’s cheeks tint pink, his neck flushed all the way down to the folds of the yellow hoodie. “Oh—really?” 

“Uh-huh.” Reki shifts, a little, tugging Langa even closer. “I kinda like—you know how you bite your nails sometimes? I think it’s kinda—it’s hot. I know it’s not supposed to be, okay, but I can’t help it and—and when your palms are kinda cold? Feels nice, like, when my skin’s warm.” He’s mumbling the last few words, but Langa’s eyes are wide in that way they get when Reki compliments him and it makes Reki feel flushed all the way down to his toes, smothered in the thick socks and the heavy, heavy blankets. 

“Really?” asks Langa, and there’s something strained and hopeful in his voice and Reki nods, feeling the flush crawling down his chest. “Are you—are you too warm right now? I can move.” 

“Ah—no.” Hastily Reki tightens his arms around Langa, holding him more snugly against him. “Stay.”

Langa makes a muffled sort of noise and snuggles down again, his thighs squeezing both sides of Reki’s body, so solid and real against him. The weight of him is so good, so comforting, that Reki feels himself sagging into the couch, closing his eyes as his head falls back against the pillows. Langa shifts, a little, and then he touches the collar of Reki’s pajamas. 

“D’you want to unbutton this a little?” he asks, softly. “If you’re too warm.” 

Reki opens his eyes, blearly, and tries to piece together the words. Everything is very warm, and Langa’s fingers feel blissfully cool when they bump against his collarbones, and for a moment he forget what Langa even said, but then Langa’s fingers twist hesitantly at the top button of Reki’s pajamas, and Reki’s breath sticks in his throat. Ah. Oh. Suddenly he feels wide-awake again, and he’s nodding so fast that his hair flops down into his hair again. “Yeah, yeah, if you—if you want.” 

Langa bites at the corner of his bottom lip, in flustered concentration, as he undoes the top button of Reki’s pajamas, and then the one below that. He pauses, glancing back up into Reki’s eyes. “Okay?” 

“Ah—yeah.” Reki nods, his cheeks itching, ‘cause wow, the way Langa’s eyes drag down to his collarbones, his eyes so wide, as if all his attention is hyperfocused on the sliver of Reki’s skin, even though he’s seen Reki shirtless a hundred times, yesterday even, and Langa’s hands are cold and a bit shaky as he smoothes the collar out of the way, staring in awe down at Reki. 

Langa adores him. 

It’s obvious, and it makes Reki feel so flustered he can barely breathe, and it’s also the most incredible thing he’s ever experienced, the same thrill as landing hard on the concrete after a wildly successful skating trick. Langa adores him, messy chaotic Reki, with his hair falling haphazardly into his face without his headband, his silly flannel pajamas rumpled and half-unbuttoned, his skin flushed with fever and with the overwhelming feelings thumping his veins. “Wanna kiss you,” Langa breathes, that focused look in his eyes again, as if he barely realizes he’s said it aloud and Reki squirms, coughing a little as he tries for a laugh. 

“M’still sick,” he says, and Langa drags his eyes back up to his face, a pout settling on his lips, and how can Reki say no to a face like that? He feels his resolve crumbling. “Well—okay, but not on the mouth, okay? ‘Cause then you’re gonna get sick, too.”

“ Reki,” Langa whines. 

Reki feels his ears burning. Does Langa really wanna kiss him that badly? “You heard me, dude.” 

Langa huffs, still pouting, and he shifts down Reki’s body a little, so he can touch his cold fingertips to the side of Reki’s neck. “But you have the nicest mouth,” he says. “It’s so pretty, Reki. And it’s always warm. And you make these little noises whenever I kiss you, so I know you like it, and you put your hands all over me, like you’re so happy and I can feel you smiling and I like when you—”

“Okay!” Reki blurts, hastily, and Langa touches the underside of his jaw, and Reki nearly whimpers at how nice it feels. He cranes his head to the side, instinctively, so Langa will touch more and Langa makes a soft sound in his throat, a sort of curious sound, and cradles Reki face gently with his blissfully-cool palm. 

“You’re sure I’m not too cold?” 

“Ah,” Reki manages, his whole body flustered, and then Langa mumbles something to himself, in English, as if he’s filing something away for later and then he moves his hand back to Reki’s neck, leaning down and brushing a feathery kiss against Reki’s chin, where his facial hair is prickly and rough. 

“Can I?” 

Reki feels the words more than hears them, and he’s nodding hastily, squeezing his eyes shut against the rising blush ‘cause Langa handles him so sweetly, as if he’s precious, and he knows Langa could never treat him any other way, it’s just his nature, a kind soul buried underneath layers of clumsiness and misunderstandings. Langa kisses his jaw, mumbling, “I like when you don’t shave,” and Reki feels hot, tilting his head back to give Langa more room, ‘cause his body hair is something he feels weird about, sometimes, but never when Langa’s kissing him. 

When Langa’s kissing him, his body simply becomes something to love. 

Langa nuzzles his nose at the underside of Reki’s jaw, where the hair is softer, more downy, and mumbles Reki’s name into his skin. It feels so good that Reki’s body relaxes more heavily into the couch, his head tipping back with a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh, feeling the brush of Langa’s lips against his neck, against his throat. The heater rumbles through the cabin, all the sounds muffled by the heavy blanket of snow and Langa’s palms are so wonderfully cold when he touches Reki’s face, sitting up slightly. 

His thumbs brush at a bead of sweat rolling down from Reki’s hairline and Reki makes a face, trying to catch his breath. “Sorry,” Reki huffs out. “For, like—sweating so much. I—ugh.” 

“Oh,” says Langa, rubbing his thumbs over Reki’s cheeks, “no, no, I—I like it.” 

“You—”

“Because it’s you,” says Langa hurriedly, and when Reki squeezes his eyes open, he can see that Langa’s blushing again. “I—I like everything when it’s you, Reki.”

It seems incredible, impossible, the way that Langa squints up his face and leans forward to press a kiss to Reki’s sweaty forehead, and Reki feels his skin itching with another flush, so warm, all over. Langa’s treating him so gently, and Reki has to swallow and fist his hands in the front of Langa’s hoodie and remind himself: Langa loves him, Langa loves him, Langa loves him. 

The insecurities still linger. Maybe they always will. But then Langa whispers his name again, “ Reki, ” and Reki swallows again, squirming, his body thrumming with the warmth and the yearning, kiss him love him kiss him love him, oh god you love him, and Langa begins peppering gentle kisses all over his chin and jaw, until Reki’s squirming again, overwhelmed with all the attention, all the affection. And, god, he can  feels tears pricking the corners of his eyes again as Langa pecks the edge of his mouth, the side of his nose, all over his cheeks, his palms callused and blissfully cool and then Langa’s whispering, 

“So good, Reki, so perfect, so amazing, you’re so beautiful,” 

and the tears are slipping down the sides of Reki’s face before he can stop them, and he whimpers, and Langa’s breath hitches. Then he’s murmuring again, “Reki, oh Reki,” and he’s kissing the tears again, his thumbs rubbing them away from Reki’s temples, and Reki lets himself cry, overwhelmed, so overwhelmed at the thought of being enough, just like this. He’s so sweaty and stuffy-nosed and incoherent, lying here on this couch surrounded by pillows and Langa’s perfect hands, and he’s nobody special, only Reki and Langa is still whispering these wonderful words to him, as if somehow only Reki is enough. 

“So good,” Langa mumbles again, kissing his temple, and then his damp eyelashes, and then his forehead and Reki half-laughs, half-sobs, lifting his arm to rub hastily at his nose. His face is damp with sweat and tears, but Langa sits up a little, pulling the sleeves of the hoodie down as far as they’ll go and wiping carefully at Reki’s cheeks. 

And when he’s done, Reki slumps, exhausted, against the pillows, and carefully Langa does up his buttons again, snuggling down into the space between him and the cushions. The movie has ended, so Langa reaches over and fumbles to put on another one, and Reki takes the moment to slow his breathing, tangling their socked feet together once more. The heater has made his mouth all chapped, and he allows himself to imagine kissing Langa, briefly, their mouths sweet and warm as they fumble with each other’s chapped faces, but then he shoves the image away and curls himself around Langa’s body instead, wrapping his arms around Langa’s soft waist. 

“Are you okay?” asks Langa, more of a formality than anything because he’s so damn polite and Reki manages a laugh, rubbing his sweaty hand on Langa’s hoodie. 

“‘Course I am,” he mumbles, his voice scratchy. “S’just...man. You really know how to fluster a guy.” 

“Only you, Reki,” Langa says honestly, and Reki laughs again, embarrassed, burying himself deeper in the swell of the pillows. 

“See,” he mutters. “Like that.” 

“Mm.” Langa smooths his hair back with both hands, tucking the loose strands behind Reki’s ears, and for a while Reki lets himself be cherished this way, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling as he struggles to get his breathing back to normal. Langa scratches gently at his scalp and brushes his cool knuckles over the flushed skin of Reki’s neck, petting him until Reki’s sighing again, his body going boneless against the couch. It’s good. Langa is always so good to him, and for the first time Reki allows himself to believe he deserves it, that this is real life, and not some dream he’ll wake up from if he dares to be too happy. 

Langa isn’t a dream. He’s shaky and awkward and imperfect, and he shuts down sometimes when the grief and the anxiety become too overwhelming, and he runs away from problems the same way that Reki does, but they always run back to each other in the end, and maybe that’s better than any dream, anyway. 

I love you, Reki’s about to mumble, but then Langa shifts, leaning forward to drop another kiss to Reki’s forehead. 

“Have you decided which movie is your favorite yet?” he asks, softly, and Reki thinks of Langa bundled in the car with his parents, watching old Christmas films on the DVD player as their van trundles through the snow. Maybe someday he and Langa will be the ones in the front seat, hands clasped on the gear shift, rumbling along the mountain roads for their own holiday trip, and maybe they’ll have a little family, too, wrapped up in blankets in the backseat watching Santa Claus come home. 

“Nah,” Reki whispers back. “Not yet.”

Time feels dreamy and unreal when Reki is sick. Morning blurs into early afternoon, and they drink more soup on the couch and then Langa draws Reki a bath, pouring in too much bubble bath and helping Reki into the bathroom, even though Reki protests. “I can walk, dude,” he says, as Langa wraps his arm more securely around Reki’s waist. “M’not a baby.”

“You’re sick,” Langa says. He helps Reki sit on the edge of the bathtub and then smoothes his hands over the sweaty hair on Reki’s forehead. “Put the pajamas by the door when you’re ready? I’m going to wash yours, too.” 

Reki shifts, ashamed when he remembers the pajamas he tore off by the front door, soaked down to the bone. “Okay,” he says, and then hesitates. “I, uh—I sorta ripped them.” It comes out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to, I just needed to get them off ‘cause, you know, you know the thing where my brain gets all frustrated and—I didn’t mean to ruin them. Can you, can you tell your mom I’m really sorry? Actually, scratch that, don’t tell her, I’ll just, I’ll just hide them in my suitcase and make something up or—”

“Reki,” Langa says, his forehead furrowing up, and Reki swallows down the words itching at his throat, all the protests and excuses and self-deprecating apologies. Langa squeezes his arms, gently, rubbing his thumbs over the flannel sleeves. “I can wash them, okay? And then we’ll, uh. We can try to sew the buttons back on. I know my mom has a sewing kit.” 

Reki pauses, hesitates. “You know how to sew?” 

Langa hesitates, too. “Well…” 

Of course he doesn’t—Langa’s terrible with his hands, he can barely hold a pencil but Reki thinks of his own mother, standing over his shoulder and showing him how to hold knitting needles, and he takes a breath, some of the shame receding. Maybe he’s messy sometimes, but he knows how to clean up his messes, so he says, “S’okay, man. I can probably figure it out, y’know?” 

The furrows smooth out of Langa’s forehead, and he nods, relieved. “You can figure anything out, Reki.” 

Reki clears his throat, embarrassed, but something warm spreads through his chest, too. He leans his head up and tugs Langa down by the front of his hoodie, and their noses bump together, and Langa makes a soft, surprised noise and god, his mouth is right there, and Reki wants to kiss him but he swallows back the urge, ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get Langa sick. Instead he tilts his head and kisses Langa’s cheek, and Langa makes this whining noise, screwing up his face. 

“Reki, please .” 

“Told you,” Reki mumbles, cheeks itching, releasing his hoodie. “Not while I’m sick.” 

Langa squints his eyes open, his face all creased up. “It’s not fair!” 

“You big baby,” Reki says, but then he can’t help himself, he tugs Langa down to kiss his cheek again, and then the frown lines in his forehead, mumbling, “my baby,” into the skin, and Langa shivers a little, clinging to his arms. When they finally pull away, his cheeks are pink, and he rubs his sweaty hands on the front of the hoodie, and this time he doesn’t complain.

“Come to the laundry room when you’re done?” he asks, and Reki nods, his face still flushed. A part of him wants to ask Langa to stay, to sit beside the tub while Reki washes his hair, to hold his hand and listen to his senseless rambling. Maybe someday they can do that. Someday they can have a bathroom they share, just the two of them, and if they want, they can sink into the bathtub together, with Reki’s head resting on Langa’s chest as they breathe in the steam, and maybe then the yearning feelings will finally ease. 

Or maybe they will only grow stronger. Reki kinda likes the yearning feelings, anyway, the way they press against his ribcage, the way they thrum through his body when Langa walks into a room, the way they flutter excitedly in his stomach when Langa wraps his arms around his body. He pulls his pajamas off once Langa leaves the bathroom, folding them clumsily and laying them outside the door, and then he climbs into the bathtub and lets out a long sigh as the hot water envelops him. 

He soaks in the bath for a long time. Slowly his head begins to clear, and it’s easier to breathe through his nose, and he drinks the tea Langa left for him, something minty that soothes his throat. Then, finally, he climbs out, wraps his head in a towel hat and dries himself off, creeping carefully into the bedroom. He’s gonna open his own suitcase to find new clothes, but then he sees Langa’s drawers open, the sleeve of a soft turtleneck hanging out, and he’s shivering from the bath and the sweater looks so warm and he can’t help himself. Clumsily he pulls on Langa’s clothes, rolling up the legs of the sweatpants and folding down the neck of the sweater. Everything smells like Langa, and Reki breathes in, a warm feeling settling deep in his bones. 

It’s like being wrapped up in Langa’s arms, and clumsily he pads down the hallway, searching for the laundry room connected to the kitchen. 

Langa’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, the top half of his hair pulled up into a sparkly Christmas scrunchie that probably belongs to his mom, and a bubble of affection swells in Reki’s chest. Langa’s wearing another one of his hoodies, a red one. “Hi,” Reki says, leaning against the doorframe, and Langa glances up, and then he drops his phone in his lap. 

Reki laughs, his cheeks going warm at the way Langa stares, his mouth parting, his eyes darting down to Reki’s thighs snug in the sweatpants and Reki’s waist soft in the oversized sweater. “Reki,” he says, and his throat sounds dry, his eyes so wide. 

“You’re wearing my clothes, too,” Reki teases, shuffling his feet a little, trying to hide the pleased blush spreading down his chest. “It’s only fair, right?”

Langa stares at him, his hands twitching in his lap, his mouth still parted. “ Reki. ”

“Hah—what?” 

Langa swallows, shaking his head a little, as if to clear it. “You—you look—fuck.” The curse is so soft, and Reki squirms, the flush warming his shoulders and his torso underneath the sweater, and then Langa fumbles to uncross his legs, staring up at him. “You look like—mine.” 

The last word is a bit stifled, as if Langa’s ashamed to admit it, his hands twitching again like he wants to reach for Reki but isn’t sure he’s allowed. The dryer is rumbling at his back, and the tiny room is cozy with folded blankets and baskets full of spare pillows and Reki wants to curl up on the carpeted floor with him, so he shuffles forward and clumsily scrambles to sit down. “I am yours,” he says, reaching for Langa’s hands, tangling their fingers together. “All yours.” 

Langa swallows again, glancing down at their hands, squeezing Reki’s fingers. His palms are clammy, but Reki likes it; the touch is familiar, so undeniably Langa, just like the awkward roll of Langa’s shoulders and the way he clears his throat before speaking. “All mine.” 

The pleasant flush warms Reki’s skin all over again. “Yeah, man.” 

“I like that,” Langa mumbles, rubbing his thumbs over Reki’s knobbly knuckles, staring down at them as if entranced. “You should wear my clothes more often.” 

Reki laughs a little, his cheeks itching, and wiggles a little to get comfortable in the turtleneck. It fits his body differently than his clothes normally do, tighter around the shoulders, the collar snug around his throat, but it’s still nice. And it’s even nicer seeing the loose collar of his red hoodie rumpled around Langa’s collarbones, messier than he usually looks, with the gear pattern loose over his skinny torso. 

“You, too,” he says, and then he untangles one of his hands to reach up and tug at Langa’s little ponytail. “And you should wear this, too.” 

Langa makes a face, and Reki laughs, thumbing happily at the sparkly scrunchie. “My hair was in my face,” Langa mutters, and then he tugs on the front of Reki’s turtleneck, pulling him closer until Reki’s settled in his arms, their chests pressed comfortably together, their arms tucked around each other, Reki’s cheek snuggled up on Langa’s shoulder. He kisses Langa’s neck softly, just ‘cause the loose collar of the hoodie leaves so much room for kisses. 

“S’cute,” Reki mumbles, closing his eyes, satisfied. “You’re cute.” 

“You’re cuter,” Langa mumbles, burying his fingers into Reki’s hair, stroking it carefully, rubbing his thumbs over the sensitive skin under Reki’s ears until Reki’s humming happily, cuddling closer, their knees bumping together. 

The dryer continues to rumble as they hold each other, and the room smells of linens and pine, and Langa’s fingers are fumbling in Reki’s hair, precious, the way he’s precious trying to write out a shopping list in his illegible handwriting, which only Reki can ever manage to read. “Can I ask you something?” Reki murmurs after a long while, when Langa’s scratching his stubby nails gently at the base of his scalp.

“Yeah,” whispers Langa, turning his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Reki’s cheekbone. “What is it?” 

“Did you like me all along?” Reki mumbles. “Or did you just...decide to give things a try when I confessed to you?” 

Langa shifts, his hands stilling. “Reki, I...I liked you for a long time.” 

Reki swallows, the warm feeling beginning to swell in his chest again, blooming in his cheeks. “Really?” 

Langa nods, against him, and then clears his throat. “I liked you from the beginning. When you skated over me that first day, I...I felt something in my heart that I never felt before. You were so bright, like the sun, I couldn’t stop looking at you, I thought about you all the time, what it might feel like to hold your hand, whether your palms were sweaty all the time, like mine. You looked so good in your DopeSketch shirt that I couldn’t think. I didn’t have words for all the things I was feeling, when I looked at you, and when I listened to the things you said, I...I wrote down so many of those things at night, when I got home. Slang and things. I wanted to understand you. I think at first I wanted to be like you, but then the feelings grew too strong, and I started to think about kissing you, and touching your body, and, and holding you close, and I thought I would die if I ever got to do those things, so I never said anything.” 

Reki’s whole body feels swollen with love, warm to the touch, so snug and safe wrapped up in Langa’s sweater and Langa’s arms. “Really? Dude. Since the beginning?” 

It feels impossible, that the whole time they’ve known each other, while Reki was hyped-up and jittery and excited over how much he liked his new friend, Langa had all these warm feelings buried deep down, too. It feels like a dream, but Langa nods, shifting again, so his thighs are pressed to either side of Reki’s body. “Yes,” he says. “The whole time. I think...I think you’re the first person I’ve ever loved.” 

Reki lifts his face, the blush warm on his cheeks. He pulls back enough to look at Langa’s face, the pink flush across his nose, the creases at the corners of his eyes, and he’s so lovely that Reki has to bite his lip against a smile. “Me, too,” he manages, his heart thumping warm in his cheeks, ‘cause he still hasn’t said those words yet, I love you, but then Langa’s leaning in, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, and Reki huffs out a breathless laugh. “Ah—be careful, dude.”

“I’m not good at being careful,” Langa mumbles, and Reki laughs again, cupping his face and smushing his cheeks and kissing his nose, then his forehead. 

“So reckless, dude.”

“You’re the one who went out in the snowstorm,” Langa says, and Reki gives a sheepish laugh, dropping his hands to squeeze at Langa’s thighs instead, and Langa’s breath catches, his eyelashes fluttering in a way that makes Reki’s whole body squirm, flustered. 

“You’re so cute, man.” 

“Stop,” mumbles Langa, and Reki rubs his palms over the outside seam of Langa’s sweatpants, tucking his thumbs into Langa’s pockets, just savoring the way he can feel all the tremors and jumps of Langa’s body underneath his hands, the way Langa breathes and moves and lives. He wants to slide his hands up under Langa’s hoodie, press his palms over his heartbeat, feel the bare skin thrumming with life, but then the dryer rumbles to a stop, beeping softly into the silence and Langa squints his eyes open, his face flushed. “Your pajamas,” he manages, and Reki hums, squeezing his legs one more time before they both twist to reach for the dryer door. 

The clothes that tumble out are soft-wrinkled and warm to the touch, and on one of the shelves they find an old sewing kit, and Reki settles with his back to Langa’s chest while he threads the needle, Langa’s arms secure around his waist. It’s a nice position, maybe one that would have flustered Reki a week ago, but now he just feels comfortable and snug, caged in by Langa’s bony knees, leaning heavily against his body so that he can feel the thrum of Langa’s headbeat. Langa hooks his chin over Reki’s shoulder, watching his fingers. 

“You really do have pretty hands,” Langa mumbles, as Reki picks up the pajamas, and immediately Reki drops them again, laughing, his chest suddenly itching with the compliment. 

“Dude. I’m tryna work.” 

Langa hums, nuzzling deeper into Reki’s shoulder. “I’m just watching.” 

A wave of affection rolls over Reki, and he laughs again, reaching up to ruffle Langa’s hair. “I know, honey.” Langa gives a sort of sighing sound at the pet name, and Reki feels warmer than ever, all fuzzy inside, and he snuggles close to Langa, tugging his hands tight around his waist. “Lemme find the right size buttons. Or, well, I guess they can be different sizes, right? No one’s gonna see me except you.”

“No one but me,” Langa mumbles, nodding into his shoulder, and Reki squirms a little, happy, ‘cause Langa sounds so deeply satisfied, as if holding Reki this way is the only thing he’s never needed. Reki fumbles to place the button on the right spot, pushing the needle through, but it’s easy to get the hang of it, just like knitting, or braiding his sisters’ hair, or fixing his mom’s vacuum. “I told you,” Langa says, again, after a while, squeezing his arms around Reki’s middle. “You’re good at everything.” 

A pleased flush rises on Reki’s neck. “Aw, shut it.” 

“It’s true.” 

“I was worried—” Reki starts, and then his fingers fumble, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to get the needle through the button again. “I was worried I wouldn’t be very good at this, y’know? Being in—in a relationship. I mean, maybe I’m not very good at it, I dunno, I just—I was worried, y’know, that you would find somebody who knew what they were doing, and then you’d leave me behind for them.” 

Langa puffs a breath into the space between them, tugging Reki tightly against his chest. “You really felt that way?” 

“I—yeah,” Reki admits, his ears warm. “Sorta.”

Langa buries his mouth in Reki’s shoulder, squeezing him, and then mumbles, “You’re the only one I want, Reki, I...you’re the only reason I want to be in a relationship at all. If it’s not with you, I don’t want it.”

The warm feeling spreads quickly through Reki’s chest again. “Ah—really?” 

Langa nods. The words thump through Reki’s body, the only one, the only one, and slowly he realizes it’s true for him, too. He can’t imagine wanting to spend his life with anyone except Langa, he can’t imagine wanting to brush his teeth next to anyone else or wake up with anyone else’s hair in his mouth. 

He puffs out a breath, sagging against Langa again, warm and content. “Me, too,” he says, and then he can’t help asking, “You don’t mind that I’m, uh—like, inexperienced?” 

Langa shakes his head. Another piece of hair falls out of his scrunchie, and Reki feels himself smiling, reaching up to tuck it behind his ear, clumsy in the small space between their bodies. “I’m inexperienced, too,” Langa says, softly. “And sometimes I get nervous, but I know that you’re nervous, too, so it helps. You make me feel...safe.” 

And that, in the end, is the word that helps Reki relax against his chest, a sigh dragging the last of the anxiety out of his body. Safe. He makes Langa feel safe. Langa, who has feel lost and unmoored since his father’s death, no home to speak of, Langa who has craved danger and adrenaline on racetracks trying to feel something, Langa finding a heartbeat again on the bunny slopes, smiling and holding Reki through the beginnings of their budding new love. So many things have made Langa feel reckless and unanchored and talented, larger than life, but it’s Reki who makes him feel safe. 

He curls his fingers around Langa’s, using his free hand to fumble with the pajamas again. He’s clumsy with the buttons, the same way he’s clumsy with their love but he’ll get better at both, over time. “You make me feel safe, too,” Reki mumbles, as Langa buries his mouth in his hair. “You make me feel like...like I’m coming home.” 

There’s a beat, a whisper of snow against the windows and a rumble of the heater overhead, and then Langa mumbles the word, too, in a voice softer than wind: “Home.”

In the cozy warmth of the afternoon, they video-call Reki’s family, all three of his sisters crowding into the tiny screen of his mom’s phone and demanding to see the snow. Reki’s laughing only two minutes into the call, his cheeks rosy and his side warm where Langa is snuggled against him, still wearing Reki’s hoodie, and if his family notices that Reki’s dark turtleneck is definitely not his own, the only hint is a small, secret smile his mom gives him. 

Reki feels good. His fever has faded, and when they call Langa’s mom, she says the roads should be clearer tomorrow. “I’m glad you boys have each other,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the corners in the same way that Langa’s do, a smile that has Reki squirming a little, pleased and flustered. “Don’t forget our tradition, Langa! You’ll have to share it with Reki this Christmas Eve.” 

“Uh-huh,” says Langa, cuddling Reki closer to himself, laying his head on his cheek. Embarrassed, Reki tries to clear his throat, turning his head to mutter,

“Dude, we’re in front of your mom.” 

“Mm,” says Langa, as if he doesn’t understand why this is a problem, turning to press a quick kiss to Reki’s forehead. His lips are chapped from the heater, and the soft press of his dry skin makes Reki flush, screwing up his face and snuggling deeper into the space between Langa and the cushions, as if somehow he can hide from the way Mrs. Hasegawa laughs. 

When the call is over and Langa has dropped the phone into the cushions, wrapping both his arms around Reki’s sweater and pressing his mouth contentedly to Reki’s head, Reki jabs his knuckles into Langa’s side, “What’s the tradition?”

“What?” 

“The tradition your mom mentioned, dude,” Reki says, squirming a little to wrap his own arm around Langa’s waist. “What is it?” 

Langa clears his throat, tucking his toes underneath Reki’s thigh again. “Oh,” he says. “Well, when we lived in Canada we would always bake cookies on Christmas Eve, to leave out for Santa. I mean—I mean, I knew Santa wasn’t real by then, of course. I—of course.” 

Reki feels himself grinning. “Of course.”

“Stop,” says Langa, his ears going pink.

Reki bounces on the cushions, propping his elbow against the back of the couch and grinning harder. “Aw, c’mon, man, tell the truth. How long did you believe in Santa?” 

“ Stop .”

“No, really!”

Langa rubs his hand on his shorts, making a face. His legs are long and pale curled up on the couch, smooth against Reki’s hand when he squeezes Langa’s knee, grinning and watching his face. Finally Langa mutters, “It’s not my fault. Nobody ever told me it was supposed to be pretend.”

“You’re so freakin’ cute.”

Langa makes another face, that adorable pinched-up pouting face that Reki finds so endlessly endearing and then Reki’s laughing, wrapping his other arm around Langa’s body, too, cuddling him tightly, leaning in to smush his mouth against Langa’s cheek. 

“So cute,” he mumbles into Langa’s blush-warm skin, “so adorable, man, you’re the cutest thing, I just wanna eat you right up.” 

Langa makes this flustered huffing sound and the laughter bubbles up in Reki’s chest again, so warm, and he kisses Langa’s cheek again, and then his nose and his forehead and his dark undereye bags until Langa’s whining, tugging on the back of his sweater. “Kiss me,” he mumbles, and Reki laughs again, breathless, trying not to look at Langa’s mouth as he shakes his head. 

“No can do, man.”

“You can. ”

“You’re gonna get sick, and then your mom’s gonna kill me.”

Langa huffs again. “Don’t care,” he says, like a petulant baby, and he purses up his lips into this little heart shape as if he’s somebody’s grandma coming to peck their forehead, and Reki’s laughing again, his heart all warm and squirmy and he crushes Langa in a huge hug, burying his face in the hood of his red sweatshirt. His heart is thumping in his chest, and if he keeps looking at Langa’s mouth, Langa’s pretty pale mouth with the chapped lips that Reki could soothe with his tongue—if he keeps looking at Langa’s mouth, he’ll end up kissing him for sure, and then they’ll probably topple backward on this couch and lose themselves in each other’s arms and they’ll never end up baking the cookies. 

So Reki scrambles off the couch, stretching out his hand to help Langa up, and Langa makes a face and stands up by himself and Reki’s laughing again. Langa hugs him, his hands tucked up the back of Reki’s turtleneck to press to the dip of his spine, and Reki’s laugh chokes off, his body flushing. Langa’s cold hands feel so good holding him, the skin dry against the damp sweatiness of Reki’s back, and he has to clear his throat a couple of times, clinging to Langa, trying to reign in his self-control so he won’t kiss him. 

Kiss him love him kiss him love him, his heart thrums, and Reki half-gives in, pressing a hasty kiss to the side of Langa’s neck before pulling away. 

“Can we bake the cookies?” he asks, clinging to Langa’s upper arms. Langa’s so soft in the hoodie, his cheeks pink, and his face goes soft when he nods, too. 

“My mom keeps all her recipes in the kitchen,” he says. “C’mon.” 

So they bundle themselves up in the kitchen as the sky grows dark and peaceful outside, and Reki fumbles to turn on the old radio until the cabin is full of the jingling bells of Christmas music, and they each pull on an extra pair of socks to keep their feet warm on the wooden floor. Reki finds another pair of the socks he knitted for Langa, the ones with the yeti design, and Langa stares at them for a whole minute after tugging them on, wiggling his toes.

“You’re so talented, Reki,” he says, that honesty raw in his voice, and Reki tries to laugh it off, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“It’s nothing, man! It’s just, like, I know how cold your feet get.” 

“You’re so kind,” Langa says, glancing up at him, their eye contact lingering. “You’re so good to me. I...I could never ask for anybody better.” 

 The kitchen feels so warm, as if the love is seeping into Reki’s body, filling him up inside with all these fuzzy feelings and when he tries to laugh again, it comes out all flustered. The music melts into something slower, a deep voice crooning over the words White Christmas and Reki’s chest itches to pull Langa into a hug, hold him close. He shuffles closer, wrapping Langa’s arm around his waist and leaning into him, and then he points to a paper bag left on the countertop. “Hey, did your mom ever drink the eggnog we bought her?” 

Langa leans against him, too, his cheek against Reki’s hair. “I don’t know. It should be in the fridge.” 

“Can I try it?” 

A bit surprised, Langa nods, turning around and opening the fridge, still clinging onto Reki’s waist. “Have you never had eggnog before?” he asks, reaching up to the top shelf and pulling down the jug, and Reki shakes his head, jiggling one of his legs. 

“We can drink it cold, right?” 

Langa nods. They find mugs with silly reindeer painted on the sides, and they clink their cups together clumsily before drinking, and even though the eggnog is chilly from the fridge, a warm, fuzzy feeling settles in Reki’s stomach. The sky is clear outside of the plaid-patterned curtains, and there’s something nostalgic about turning on the oven, the way it warms the entire kitchen. It reminds Reki of holidays with his mom, sitting curled up on the countertop as a child and pressing cookie-cutters into dough with his sisters. Now he’s the one mixing the dough, Langa’s hands pressing to his hips each time he lingers near, and it makes him feel all grown-up, his stomach tingling each time he takes a sip out of his mug. 

Soon he begins to feel all warm and light-headed, his hands a bit uncoordinated as he rolls the dough, and Langa molds himself to Reki’s back again, his arms around Reki’s waist. “You’re not gonna help?” asks Reki, laughing a little, and his voice sounds clumsier than usual, tripping over the words. Everything is a little blurry around the edges, and Langa hums, nuzzling into his hair. 

“Feels good,” he mumbles, and Reki snuggles back against him, tilting his head to the side to press a kiss to Langa’s jaw, and Langa shivers. And then Reki gets a closer look at him, the way Langa’s cheeks are splotchy-red, the color seeping down the pale skin of his neck and it dawns on Reki, all at once. 

The eggnog, the warm fuzzy feeling in his stomach… 

“Dude,” he says, another laugh swelling in his throat, “did that eggnog have alcohol in it?” 

Langa blinks, slow and confused. Reki laughs, his cheeks tingling. Langa looks so pretty like this, his cheeks flushed, his hair curling softly around his face, his movements slower than usual. “No,” he says, and then hesitates. “Well...maybe. Do you feel...drunk?”

It’s such a funny word in Langa’s accent, so unlike him, and Reki feels himself grinning, snuggling deeper into Langa’s arms, reaching up to touch his flushed face. “Just a little warm,” he says. “But your face is all red.” 

Langa touches his own face, as if he’ll be able to feel the blush and Reki laughs again, wiggling his toes in his socks. He kinda likes the warmth in his stomach, the safety of Langa’s arms wrapped around him, knowing that this, too, is something they can explore together, without worrying about a thing in the world. “I feel good,” Langa says, and he sways a little, on his feet, touching his mouth gently, and the warm feeling spreads up to Reki’s face, because oh, he wants to kiss Langa again, so much. Langa’s lips look so soft. They’re always so soft when Reki kisses him, so pretty and gentle, and Langa’s breathing always grows so heavy, so good, only for Reki, and why can’t he kiss Langa, again?

Langa glances up and meets his eyes and for a moment Reki’s so warm he can’t breathe. Then he shakes himself, a little, because right, he’s sick, he’s probably still sick and he shouldn’t be kissing his boyfriend...his pretty, pretty boyfriend who’s been begging for kisses all day...his sweet, caring boyfriend who has never denied him anything in the world…

Reki clears his throat. His head is all fuzzy, full of Langa. 

“Wanna kiss you,” he admits, and then clears his throat again. “But we shouldn’t, right?”

Langa’s eyes drift to his mouth. “We should.” 

“Langa.”

Langa squeezes his waist, and the radio lulls into the next song, something soft and pretty with lots of piano, and then he reaches up and touches Reki’s mouth, thumb brushing against Reki’s bottom lip. Reki’s face burns at the touch, and he has to swallow, hard, because oh, Langa’s beautiful cold hands, Langa’s pretty hands with the dry skin on his fingertips and the chewed-up ends of his fingernails, and then he’s catching Langa’s hand in his, pressing his mouth to Langa’s fingers. 

“You’re so wonderful,” he mumbles, kissing Langa’s ring finger, then his thumb. “So beautiful, you know that? Man. You’re so—you’re so precious to me.”  

Langa blinks again, and then he gives this soft sniffling sound, shifting against Reki. “Really?” 

Reki’s throat is so full, and he nods. “Let me finish the cookies, okay? Here. Drink some water.” 

He finds Langa a glass in the cabinet and Langa sips the water slowly, through a straw, still hugging Reki around the middle as Reki lays the cookies, carefully, on a sheet of parchment paper. They’re round little balls with a thumbprint in the center of each one, and watching the cookie sheet fill up gives Reki a sense of deep satisfaction, as if things are finally coming together. He’s cuddled up with his boyfriend in this cabin halfway up a mountain, baking Christmas cookies on the eve of the holiday, and they’ve been through hell and back together and somehow that makes everything seem just a little bit sweeter. 

He slides the cookie sheet into the oven, setting the timer so that nothing will burn, and then Langa tugs on the front of his sweater. “Dance with me?” he asks, softly, and Reki turns to him, sort of surprised. 

“Did you say dance?” 

Langa nods. Under the warm, glowy lights in the kitchen, he looks gentle and unraveled, his hair loose around his face, a precious sort of Langa only made for Reki to see, in the quiet evenings they share together. “It was part of the tradition,” Langa explains, and then he clears his throat quietly, tugging again. “I used to dance with my...with my parents.”

Reki’s throat fills up, and he nods, allowing himself to be tugged forward, until his front is snug against Langa’s, Langa’s arms wrapping softly around his waist. Langa lets his forehead fall against Reki’s, so that their noses brush together, and Reki has to swallow again at the thump of his heart, the way he can feel the warm thrum of Langa’s delicate, textured skin. “You’re so beautiful,” Reki whispers, because he can’t stop himself, and even though his body feels warm with embarrassment, he means the words with his whole being. 

Langa swallows. His arms cradle Reki, and then the music blurs gently into the next song, the soft piano filling the kitchen. It’s a new version of the song, but the notes are familiar all the same, and Reki feels something in his body relaxing, long and slow as he breathes out, wrapping his arms around Langa’s body. 

“It’s your favorite song,” he whispers, and in the glow of the Christmas lights, he watches Langa’s cheeks go pink. 

“It is,” Langa mumbles, and then his eyes drift closed, his beautiful eyelashes white against the blush of his skin. “You’re the only one who knows that, I...no one else...only you, Reki.”

Reki’s body is soft, boneless, as if the only thing in the world is Langa’s arms around him, swaying gently to the slow rhythm of the music, a deep voice crooning the opening words to Baby, It’s Cold Outside. He can feel the thrum of Langa’s heartbeat where their bodies are pressed together, the warmth of Langa’s skin when he slides his hands up the hoodie to hug Langa’s thin torso. Every bump of Langa’s spine nudges through the skin, and Reki rubs his thumbs over them, his throat full of Langa, of how wonderful it is to know him and to love him. He couldn’t have one without the other, he thinks, because the moment he knew Langa he loved him, and the moment he loved him, he yearned, more than anything, to know him. 

“I love you,” Reki whispers, into the quiet, and he feels the last of his walls crumble away.

Langa’s eyes flutter open, slowly, and for a moment they gaze at each other, the world nothing more than Langa’s tangled, pale eyelashes, the creases around his eyes, the thin blue veins visible through his undereye bags. Then Langa blinks, and then he blinks again, his eyes squinting at the corners, his mouth wobbling and he buries his mouth in Reki’s shoulder, holding him so tightly. 

“Reki,” he mumbles, “Reki, Reki. ”

Reki squeezes him, softly, so softly. “Wanted to tell you for so long,” he mumbles. “Since the first day we went snowboarding, you know? That’s when I knew for sure. I—hah. I think I loved you the whole time, but I was just, I was always too embarrassed to say anything.” 

Langa hugs him, burying his face deeper in Reki’s sweater, holding Reki so close to his heart that Reki can feel every throb and strain of his body, every shaky breath. Reki presses his mouth to Langa’s hair and holds him gently, swaying slowly, one of his hands coming up to tangle in Langa’s hair. Langa doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to, because Reki understands him on some level deeper than words, something in their bones, something in the life that thrums through their veins and he can feel the overwhelming love in their joined heartbeat, yet another thing they share. 

“Reki,” Langa mumbles finally, his voice strained, cracked along the edges as he lifts his face, the tears still damp on his flushed cheeks. Their eyes meet, and something like aching wonder passes between them as they cling to each other, their shared breaths puffing into the delicate space between them. “I...does it ever ache, for you?” 

“Ah,” and Reki’s exhale is a bit shaky, his body warm.  “You mean, like...here?” 

He wiggles a hand between their bodies and presses it to Langa’s sternum, over the bone, and he feels Langa’s breathing stutter, his face flushing. Langa nods, his hand coming up to hold Reki’s wrist, pressing his palm to his own heart, and Reki feels his body ache with that familiar, wonderful yearning, the ache that reminds him, every day, how much he loves him. 

“Yeah,” Reki says, a breathless laugh in his throat, “I feel it, too.”

And then Langa’s kissing him, and Reki melts into the touch with a sigh, all of his worries and fears crumbling away, everything falling away except for Langa’s hand on his back, hugging him close, and Reki kisses him like he’s never kissed him before, pure and whole, without worrying. There is no reason to worry, in this moment, because he loves Langa and Langa loves him, and they will still love each other even if Reki’s kiss is a little off-center, even if he bumps his nose against Langa’s while tilting his head, even if his hand is sweaty as it fumbles underneath Langa’s hoodie, the other still pressed to his heart. Langa’s lips are chapped and perfect, and Reki can feel the dip of his cupid’s bow as they fumble together, bodies overwarm from the eggnog, both of their hearts thrumming happily with kiss him love him kiss him love him. 

“Love you,” Reki whispers into the kiss, and then he whispers it again, kissing Langa’s cheeks and nose and the soft hair on his upper lip and then, when Langa whines, his mouth again, his sweet, sweet mouth. He nudges his tongue gently against the seam of Langa’s lips. “I love you, Langa.”

“Ah,” Langa pants, tilting his head and pressing his tongue to Reki’s, and then Reki’s panting, too, his body flushed underneath Langa’s hands, “me too, Reki, ah, I, me too.”

They kiss until neither of them can breathe, their hands tangling in each other’s hair, in each other’s clothes, arms wrapping around waists and socks bumping together, the room filling with the smell of cinnamon and sugar and the sounds of Langa’s heavy breathing, his hands pressing flat to Reki’s chest when Reki finally pulls away. “Love you,” Reki manages one more time, breathless, and he watches Langa swallow, his cheeks pinker than ever before. 

“Reki,” he says, and there’s a whine in his voice. “When you say that, my heart…”

Reki breathes a laugh, his face warm. “Mine, too,” he says, and he reaches up to tuck Langa’s soft hair behind his ears, brushing his thumbs over Langa’s pretty flushed cheeks. “Mine, too, Langa.”

Langa breathes out, wrapping his arms more securely around Reki’s waist again, and then Reki settles his head on Langa’s shoulder as the song changes again, a symphony of beautiful sounds in their beautiful home, the sounds of Langa’s childhood, of all his happiest memories, here in this very room. It’s precious to be allowed to share something like this with him, and Reki hugs him tightly, closing his eyes as they dance slowly, clumsily, around the tiny kitchen, the way Langa did with his family.

And maybe the tradition will live on, Reki thinks, holding him close, because maybe Reki is his family now, too.