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Seungho doesn’t hate Christmas, but that doesn’t mean he likes it either.
The unbearable music blaring from every store speaker, the nauseating blend of gingerbread and eggnog and peppermint sent to choke him. People smile too much. That makes him sound bitter, but it’s true. Everyone either dons an ‘I’m-convincing-myself-I’m-happy smile,’ or the ‘I’m-pretending-to-like-my-family smile,’ or the one he sees the most: ‘I’m-trying-to-sell-you-something smile.’
Not that he’s much of a gift giver, anyway. Each year, Kim curates a catalogue of potential gifts, and about two days before Christmas he skims his finger down the list and blindly picks whichever gifts it lands upon.
Other than that, the trees aren’t so bad. The lights are sometimes nice.
That’s why Seungho ignores the huddle of carolers as they creep down his street each year. Christmas caroling is one of the many traditions he forces himself to tolerate. It’s simple—he either tolerates it or he’s forced to uproot his life and move to a new neighborhood. Kim has repeatedly talked him out of the latter, though four Christmases ago, he half-considered it.
Their presence was heard before it was seen; the soft, distant sound of a choir, a whisper amplifying into something more sinister across the snow. He was horrified when he first saw the green and red mob meander towards his doorstep. Reindeer antlers and Santa hats and one of them had a fucking tambourine. With their rosy cheeks, they stood in the snow and sang for ten dreadful minutes before trudging onto their next victim. He would’ve told them to fuck right off if he hadn’t been too stunned to speak.
Seungho texted his realtor three times that day and only Kim could talk him down.
The next year they came, it wasn’t as bad. Now that Seungho was prepared, the gaggle of carolers lost their terrifying edge. Their singing capabilities were their only saving grace. Despite being a nuisance, they could hold a note and harmonize, and that was enough for Seungho to sulk on the couch and avoid any windows until they passed on. This was the silent agreement they’ve made over the years—they make their singing sufferable, and Seungho pretends he isn’t home until they leave.
So, this year, when a horrific sound pierces through his windowpane, Seungho knows their fragile truce has been broken; war has been declared.
The closest comparison Seungho can draw is the sound of a mating cat. Somehow both high-pitched and guttural, the strangled noise forces its way into Seungho’s ear until the hair on his arms stand on end. Gone is the gentle harmonizing of ‘Silent Night,’ and instead an ear-piercing ‘Jingle Bells’ has found its way to Seungho’s doorstep to trigger his fight or flight.
He swears the sound makes him black out for a moment because one second, he’s sitting on the couch, and the next his hand is on the doorhandle, a bundle of expletives ripe on his tongue. It’s surrounding him now: the bone-chilling screech, the cracking of notes. It provokes something violent within him, and with his chest puffed with air, he swings the door wide to release the verbal lashing.
“Will you all shut the fuck—”
And then Seungho sees him.
Dusted in a thin layer of snow, gumdrop lips puckered in an ‘o’ around a note, rosy cheeks and nose bitten by the cold. Beneath his pom-pom beanie, tufts of black hair poke out to brush his eyebrows and golden eyes, chin tucked loosely beneath a poorly tied scarf. A packet of sheet music held up by mittens nearly masks the fuzzy reindeer sewn into his sweater.
All reds and whites and golds, he's the most adorable yet alluring young man Seungho’s ever seen in his life.
And then he hears him.
The note punches Seungho in the face, an awful ringing sound that reverberates in his ear canal until it rattles his bones. He stares in horror as this beautiful cherub of a caroler assaults his hearing and deals psychic damage. A conflicting war of wanting to claw his own ears off or ask this man to keep singing rages within him until a caroler intervenes.
“Nakyum,” she says with a gentle pat on his back, “the rest of us have stopped.”
“Oh!” Nakyum straightens his back when he realizes, and a bashful flush joins the cold nipping at his cheeks. “I’m sorry, noona, I didn’t hear.”
“I don’t think this man wants us caroling here today,” she says in a kind tone. “It’s best we move onto the next place.”
“No.” The word involuntarily slips from Seungho’s lips.
The girl looks over at him in surprise. “No? But didn’t you just—”
“Continue,” Seungho says, and his eardrums throb preemptively.
“Are you sure?” she asks before giving a wary look towards Nakyum as if to a lethal weapon. “Really, we don’t wish to bother—”
“I’m sure,” Seungho says. And each time he talks, he never removes his gaze from the caroler in the pom-pom beanie and reindeer sweater. “I want to hear him sing.”
The girl’s eyes widen further, but a delighted, bashful expression passes over Nakyum’s face that twists and gnaws at Seungho’s heart.
Nakyum rummages clumsily through the sheet music with his mittens, excited eyes shimmering like lights. “Which one should we do next, Heena?”
“Ah…” She rubs a gloved hand at her neck, bewildered. “How about you pick one?”
“I get to pick?” Nakyum looks up in astonishment. “You’ve never let me pick before.”
“Well…” Heena gives a nervous glance in Seungho’s direction. “Lots of firsts today, yeah?”
Once Nakyum picks a song and whispers it to the other carolers in the huddle, Seungho mentally prepares himself, steeling his nerves to handle the onslaught.
It’s even more horrifying than he expects it to be.
He does his best to dissociate, to zero in on the movement of Nakyum’s lips, the way they stretch and circle around each note, and if he concentrates hard enough, he can detach that grating noise from the beautiful lips they’re coming from. It has a 2% success rate.
But despite the sound numbing Seungho’s senses, Nakyum looks positively joyous. He rocks side to side with the first song, forward and backward with the second. He does a little better on the third, unbearably worse on the fourth.
And somehow, in some sick, fucked up way, Seungho’s disappointed when they close their sheet music to move onto the next house.
“That’s it?” Seungho asks. “Where’s the rest?”
“We sang every song,” Heena says. “We don’t have any more.”
“Then repeat some.”
After a long look at Seungho’s face, she follows the line of his gaze and her brows lower.
“No,” she says. “We can’t.”
“Heena,” Nakyum says in surprise. “Don’t be rude.”
“You’re one of those freaks, aren’t you?” she asks in a low voice to Seungho. “One of those sick masochists who get off on this?”
“Heena!” Nakyum exclaims in shock.
“I’ll pay you.”
Heena crosses her arms, the sheet music crinkling against her coat. “We do this for free. We don’t accept donations.”
A caroler pipes up from the back. “Wait, but we just accepted a pity donation from—”
“I’m not taking money just so you can ogle my little brother while he sings,” Heena says.
Nakyum’s back straightens at the words. A look of confusion precedes a look of realization followed by a look of embarrassment, a bright explosion of pink as he buries his chin deeper into his scarf. His eyes flit up to meet Seungho’s, and when they do, they hastily dip to the ground again, ears reddening. His mittened grip tightens around the sheet music.
“We’re leaving.” She turns to herd the group down the walkway towards the next house, and she doesn’t turn around when she mutters a begrudging “Merry Christmas,” into the snow.
As the herd of carolers shuffle down his icy walkway, one hesitantly stays behind. The pom-poms bounce when he turns his attention towards Seungho.
“I’m sorry for my sister,” Nakyum says once they’re out of earshot. “She isn’t usually like this.”
Seungho shrugs off the apology. “Is this your first time with the group?”
“You could tell?” Nakyum asks, and holy hell, Seungho could tell. “My sisters wouldn’t let me join until this year, and it still took a lot of convincing.”
Seungho contemplates lying, telling him he’s a natural born singer, but the lie tastes like bile, so he opts for an honest “I’m glad they let you join this year,” instead.
Nakyum’s eyes focus on a button of Seungho’s shirt as he nervously fidgets with his outercoat. “Me, too.”
“I’m Seungho, by the way,” he says. “You didn’t ask, but I thought you should know.”
“I’m Nakyum.”
“I know,” Seungho says. “I wanted to make sure we exchanged names so this wouldn’t feel so forward.”
Nakyum’s brows knit in confusion. “What do you—”
“What’re you doing after this?” Seungho opens the door wider to provide an inviting view of the fireplace. Subliminal messages, or whatever. “I’m sure you’re cold after caroling all—”
“Nakyum!” Heena cups her hands around her mouth to shout across the street. “What’re you still doing over there? Come on!”
Nakyum motions that he’ll be there soon with a mitten-covered hand.
“So?” Seungho asks as he leans against the doorframe.
“I—ah—” Nakyum burrows his chin into the scarf again to find the right words, and before Seungho can stop himself, he unravels the fabric from around his neck.
“Give me this—you’ll freeze to death,” Seungho mumbles. “Who the hell taught you to tie it this way?” He re-wraps the scarf around Nakyum’s neck until it’s properly secure and snug around him. “There. Better.”
Once Seungho’s gaze sweeps from his scarf to his face, he notices the vibrant color of Nakyum’s cheeks, four shades deeper than previously. A gleam of sweat dampens the fringe along his forehead. Seungho fights the urge to relish the heat of him beneath his palm.
When Nakyum finds the courage to speak again, his voice is shaky. “I—we have six more houses to sing to.”
“And after that?” Seungho cocks his head.
The sound of Nakyum’s nervous swallowing makes him want to rip the scarf off again just to watch what his throat looks like.
“I don’t have any plans after that.”
“Nakyum!”
“Leave him.” Another caroler grabs Heena as she makes to cross the street. “We’ve gotten told to leave every house we’ve visited so far because of him.”
“But he—”
“This is for the best, Heena.”
“Please, let him stay over there.”
“I’m begging you.”
The other carolers nod and murmur in agreement, and Nakyum frowns as he watches the betrayal occurring across the street.
“It hasn’t been every house…” he mumbles into his scarf.
“Why don’t you stay here with me until they’re done then, hm?” Seungho hopes a nonchalant crossing of his arms disguises his eagerness. “Better than waiting out here in the cold. It’s for the best, like they said.”
“But I wanted to practice my singing—”
“Then practice for me.” The words nearly don’t come out as Seungho’s fingers curl in protest.
“Really?” Nakyum asks, eyes wide and bright. A warm smile lights up Nakyum’s face until it sparks a fire some place deep in Seungho’s chest.
Heena was right: he’s a sick, fucking masochist.
“Really.”
With a bounce of his pom-pom head, Nakyum follows after Seungho into his home, snowflakes melting on his skin. And as Seungho watches him unlace his snow-packed boots, he realizes it’s the first time he’s had company for the holidays in ages. Chest full of foreign warmth, Seungho guides Nakyum towards the kitchen to make him hot chocolate and it only takes one adorable whip-cream-dipped nose for him to decide his truce with the carolers has been renewed.
Seungho doesn’t hate Christmas, but he likes it a hell of a lot more when there’s a beautiful pair of lips “singing” Christmas carols on his couch. And he might even love it when those beautiful lips soon become too preoccupied to sing.