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Gale struggled to pry his eyes open, sleepily staring at the pale gray ceiling of his room. The air was cool, the blanket was warm, and part of his consciousness was already sinking back into sleep when a slow, almost lazy thought surfaced somewhere in the depths of his mind.
Today is my birthday.
Sixteen.
The thought barely had time to settle before his body instinctively curled deeper into the covers, eyes fluttering shut again. It was too early—too soon—to deal with that fact.
Except it wasn’t early.
A glance at the dim light filtering through his curtains told him it was already well past noon. His room was quiet, undisturbed—nobody had knocked, nobody had called for him, and that was just fine. The later he woke up, the less of this day he’d have to live through.
The older he got, the more he hated this day.
When he was little, birthdays still carried a faint sense of magic—balloons, cake, the illusion that, for one day, the world revolved around him. But childhood had a way of cushioning reality, softening the edges of things that were always broken. Now, there was no escaping it.
His father’s drinking and gambling had chipped away at their family for years, and as Gale grew older, he lost the luxury of ignorance. The tension in the house thickened with each passing year, filling the air like cigarette smoke—stale, suffocating.
And with every birthday, he felt himself drift further from whatever expectations his father had for him.
Not that those expectations had ever been clearly stated.
It was just a feeling. A quiet, dull certainty that he wasn’t enough. That he was somehow wrong. That he was failing at something he didn’t even understand.
Gale had spent years trying to be the son his father wanted. He pushed himself harder, excelled where he could, seeking approval in every small achievement. Like any child, he craved his father’s love, his attention, his pride. But no matter what he did, it was never enough.
And so, every birthday became another grim reminder of his failure. Another year older, another year further from what he was supposed to be.
Another quiet testament to his inadequacy.
So yes, he would have preferred to spend the day alone.
Not acknowledging it. Not thinking about it. Not giving it the weight it didn’t deserve.
Ideally, he wouldn’t even leave his room. He’d stay wrapped up in his blanket, burrowed in the safety of his bed like a cocoon, shutting the world out completely.
He’d sleep. Then wake up for a little while, just long enough to drown himself in the endless churn of social media—mindless scrolling, meaningless updates, a steady flood of information that blurred together until nothing felt real. Then he’d drift off again, slipping back into the comfort of unconsciousness.
That would be the perfect birthday.
Just him, his bed, and the sweet relief of oblivion.
But he knew that John—his best childhood friend—was bound to come up with something.
And even if Gale decided to hide under the blanket and ignore reality, John would still drag him out—by the scruff of his neck if necessary.
Right on cue, the silence of the room was interrupted by a dull thud—something hit the window. Gale frowned but wasn’t surprised. A second later, another thud, louder this time.
With a heavy sigh, he dragged himself out of bed and shuffled to the window, already knowing what he would see.
Of course, John.
He stood below, head tilted back, grinning widely, another snowball clenched in his hand.
“Happy birthday, blondie!” he hollered so loudly that Gale’s eye twitched involuntarily. At the same moment, the snowball flew upward, and Gale instinctively recoiled.
“What an idiot…” he muttered under his breath, but the corners of his lips betrayed him by twitching upward.
“Hurry up and get dressed! We have a packed day ahead!”
Gale exhaled heavily. With slow, reluctant movements, he unlatched window and pushed it open just enough for the cold air to slip in, nipping at his skin.
Tilting his head slightly, he rubbed his face tiredly and muttered, “And what exactly have you planned?” His voice was thick with sleep, laced with quiet suspicion.
John smirked, watching his friend stand at the window, his hair hopelessly tangled from sleep, mouth slightly open, eyes still drowsy and unfocused.
“Surprise.”
Gale tensed.
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Tough luck!” John shrugged lazily, tossing the snowball up and catching it again. “Get your ass moving, you’ve got five minutes. If you’re not outside by then, I’m climbing in and dragging you into the daylight myself.”
Gale squeezed his eyes shut and counted to three, reminding himself that homicide was generally frowned upon. Especially when the potential victim was your childhood friend—a relentless extrovert with an uncanny ability to turn even the most peaceful day into complete and utter chaos.
He knew John far too well to doubt that he would actually climb through the window.
______ જ⁀➴ ______
The birthday ritual at home was brief and sparse. As always.
His father shook his hand—dryly, without unnecessary emotion. His grip was firm, calloused, unfamiliar. A worker’s hand, not one used for tenderness. The touch felt foreign, unnatural. Almost wild. This was probably the only time of the year his father touched him. And even that small gesture sent an involuntary shiver down Gale’s spine.
"Be a pride to your family," his father said.
Gale gave a short nod, his face impassive. But inside, there was nothing.
So, that means right now, I’m a disgrace?
His father always had a way of making him feel out of place. Like he didn’t quite belong. And he did it effortlessly, almost absentmindedly, as if it was second nature.
His mother handed him an envelope with money. That was the custom in their family, and Gale had no complaints. He understood: she worked two jobs, barely had time to keep up with his interests. It was better to receive money that he could use for something practical rather than end up with some meaningless trinket he wouldn’t know what to do with.
The economics of gift-giving in low-income families.
But along with the money, she also brought something else.
A pack of his favorite chocolates. Gale felt his lips twitch into a small, involuntary smile. A rare indulgence. A simple pleasure. Something sweet, fleeting, but undeniably comforting.
Who in their right mind would refuse chocolate, especially when it made life just a little more bearable, even for a moment?
But as soon as he noticed his father’s expression, the smile vanished. His father’s displeasure was obvious. Gale could practically see the gears turning in his head, the unspoken judgment lingering in the air.
Maybe it was the packaging—soft pink and lilac tones, a delicate, almost feminine design.
Oh, come on, Dad, it's just candy.
But his father frowned, as if even this harmless gift was another disappointment.
Gale didn’t wait for any comments. He grabbed the envelope and chocolates and retreated to his room, closing the door behind him before his father could find the right words to ruin the moment completely.
A few minutes later, his mother appeared in the doorway.
She walked over, her steps quiet, then gently tugged at his elbow—he’d shot up like a weed recently—before leaning in to place a quick, warm kiss on his cheek.
"Happy birthday, son."
Gale smiled, dipping his forehead to touch hers for a fleeting second.
"Thanks, Mom."
If it weren’t for her and his grandmother (now just a memory, a void in their home), Gale probably wouldn’t have known what human touch felt like at all. He would have recoiled from people like the devil from holy water.
…If not for them, and John.
Trying to explain to John that Gale wasn’t a fan of being touched was an exercise in futility. He would listen, nod, pretend to understand… and then promptly drape his long arms around him anyway, nudge him with his legs at the movies, or press his foot against Gale’s under the school desk just to be annoying.
Gale would complain.
But in truth, John’s touch never felt the same as others. It was different. Lighter. Calming. Safe. And, deep down, Gale didn’t mind it. Not really. Maybe that’s why John never stopped.
Gale exhaled, shaking his head, forcing himself out of his thoughts.
John was waiting.
He threw on his jacket, headed downstairs, and stepped out into the biting cold.
There, leaning lazily against his father’s old car, was John.
Of course, he didn’t have his own car. At seventeen, he hadn't earned one yet—bad behavior had cost him that privilege.
Gale eyed him and the car, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, wow. A whole automobile," he deadpanned.
John snorted. He was used to Gale’s dry humor.
Gale had spent months teasing him that someone as reckless as him had no business operating heavy machinery—that trusting John with a car was like giving a flamethrower to a toddler. But Gale had stopped joking about it pretty quickly.
Because unlike John, he didn’t drive at all.
And a car, no matter how old, was freedom. Especially in winter, when even a couple of blocks could feel like a journey across the frozen tundra.
"The carriage awaits," John announced, bowing dramatically.
Gale climbed into the passenger seat with an almost regal grace, as if stepping into a luxury vehicle rather than an old rust bucket.
John huffed out a laugh, shaking his head before sliding into the driver’s seat.
"Where to?"
Gale hesitated. For some reason, the question caught him off guard.
"Honestly… I don’t care."
John pressed his lips into a thin line, unimpressed, "Come on, don’t be difficult. Pick a place."
Gale thought for a moment.
"Want to go to the movies?" John suggested.
"I do."
John smirked, started the engine, and the car rolled forward.
______ જ⁀➴ ______
They picked some flashy, high-budget blockbuster—one packed with explosions, over-the-top chase sequences, and ridiculous shootouts, except in space, which at least added a little novelty for Gale. Still, if it were up to him, they’d be watching something thought-provoking, something that actually had substance. But there was no reality where John would sit through a documentary with him, so compromise was inevitable.
Gale had always believed movies should be watched properly—alone, in silence, fully immersed, without distractions. He liked giving them his undivided attention, absorbing every detail, analyzing every frame.
Watching a movie with John?
It was the complete opposite.
John never shut up. He whispered incessantly, made sarcastic commentary, and let out quiet little snickers that made it painfully clear he wasn’t taking any of this seriously. He had zero regard for personal space, leaning in way too close to murmur something about the hero’s stupid outfit, his breath warm against Gale’s skin. His hand repeatedly invaded Gale’s popcorn bucket without permission, and every so often, he nudged him with an elbow or pressed his knee against his, shifting in his seat like he physically couldn’t sit still.
And the strangest part?
Gale let him.
No—more than that. He played along.
Because, truthfully? He couldn’t care less about the movie.
He liked this.
The dim glow of the theater, the flickering light from the massive screen casting fleeting shadows on John’s face. The sweet, syrupy taste of soda, the satisfying crunch of popcorn between his teeth. The way their knees bumped together because John sat like he owned all the legroom in the world, sprawled out in a way that forced Gale to fight for space. And since the guy on his other side was just as inconsiderate, he had no choice but to sit there, stiff and proper, like a nun in a Catholic school.
He liked their hushed laughter, the whispered exchanges, the playful nudges. The way they’d momentarily freeze whenever an annoyed Shhh! cut through the air—only to dissolve into muffled giggles moments later.
It was easy. Familiar.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Gale realized he had forgotten how good this felt.
If he had been alone, just one irritated look from another audience member would’ve been enough to make him question his entire existence. He would’ve been paralyzed with embarrassment, rewriting his personal code of conduct on the spot, swearing to never make a sound in a theater again.
But with John?
With John, he simply didn’t care.
They managed to keep their antics somewhat under control for about ten minutes—until a guy a few rows ahead, one arm draped over his girlfriend’s shoulders, finally had enough. Without even looking back, he casually lobbed an empty soda can in their direction. It clattered onto the floor between their seats.
John, completely unfazed, leaned forward slightly and flipped him off.
The guy barely reacted. He turned his head just enough to glance at them—brief, unimpressed—before lifting his hand and lazily returning the gesture. Then, without a second thought, he shifted his focus back to his date, as if they weren’t even worth acknowledging.
Gale felt a sudden, uncontrollable urge to burst out laughing. He barely managed to stifle it, pressing his fist against his mouth—they had already made enough noise as it was.
By the time the credits rolled and they shuffled out with the crowd, Gale was almost certain that the entire theater hated them.
And honestly?
He couldn’t bring himself to care.
Because this—the jokes, the shoving, the whispered commentary, the easy warmth of John next to him—this was the best part of the night.
______ જ⁀➴ ______
As soon as they stepped out of the theater and the crowd dispersed into the night, Gale instinctively glanced around. Somewhere in the shuffle, he had lost track of John.
Before he could call out, something cold and compact slammed into his shoulder with a soft thwump. The sudden impact made him flinch, a sharp breath escaping his lips.
He turned his head, already knowing who the culprit was.
John.
Standing a few feet away, smirking like a devil, his hands already cupping another snowball.
Ironically, their first meeting had also started with a snowball—though back then, it wasn’t a game. Gale had been playing alone, minding his own business, when a group of neighborhood kids suddenly turned on him, pelting him with snowballs out of nowhere. It wasn’t playful. It was an ambush. A cruel, thoughtless attack that left him cornered, breathless, and covered in cold, wet slush.
And then—John.
A boy he’d never spoken to before, stepping into the fray like it was the most natural thing in the world. Without hesitation, John had scooped up a snowball and launched it straight at the head of the ringleader. A perfect hit.
The leader yelped, clutching his head, and the rest of the pack hesitated—just long enough for John to cross his arms and give them a look that said, Go on. Try me.
They didn’t.
One by one, they scattered, leaving Gale there, stunned and shivering, staring at the boy who had, for some reason, decided to help him.
Now, years later, John—his best friend—was throwing snowballs at him.
Gale exhaled through his nose, pulling his beanie down tighter over his ears as he turned to fully face him, eyes narrowing.
"You don’t want a war, Bucky," he warned, voice slow, measured. Though, truth be told, he was relieved—at least it wasn’t an angry mob of filmgoers seeking revenge for their running commentary.
John only grinned wider.
"Too late, blondie—war’s already started!"
And just like that, it was on.
The next twenty minutes were pure chaos.
They tore through the snow-covered park outside the theater, ducking behind benches, diving for cover behind trees, launching snowballs with reckless abandon. Gale even managed to land a near-perfect shot that almost buried itself in John’s mess of curls—almost—but the bastard was fast. Quick-footed and unpredictable, dodging with a cocky laugh that made Gale want to throttle him.
Eventually, breathless and covered in a fine dusting of snow, Gale stumbled back, raising both hands in surrender.
"Alright! Enough! I can’t feel my damn hands anymore!"
John, still armed, rolled another snowball between his palms, feigning deep consideration.
"Sounds like a you problem," he teased, his expression all-too pleased.
Gale shot him a withering glare.
John held his gaze for a moment longer, then—with what he clearly thought was an incredible display of mercy—he huffed and let the snowball drop back to the ground.
"Fine," he said, brushing the cold from his hands. "But only ‘cause I don’t wanna listen to you whine about frostbite."
Gale scoffed, still trying to shake the numbness from his fingers.
"Generous of you."
John shrugged. "What can I say? I’m a humanitarian."
Gale rolled his eyes, but despite the chill, despite the damp snow clinging to his clothes, he felt lighter. Warmer.
Like maybe—just maybe—this birthday wasn’t a total disaster.
______ જ⁀➴ ______
After racing through the snow like a couple of overgrown kids, John suggested they grab something to eat—partly to rest, partly to warm up, and partly because, according to him, food just tasted better after "active winter fun."
They ended up in a cozy little café, ordering hot chocolate and what John dramatically declared to be the most delicious pizza in the entire world.
After demolishing the pizza—John, as always, eating like he was in a race, and Gale picking at his slices with meticulous precision—they finally settled into the slower part of the meal.
Gale curled his fingers around the warm mug, letting the heat seep into his skin. Across the table, John leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Admit it," he said, smirking. "Without me, you would've spent the whole day cooped up at home."
Gale lifted a brow. "I probably would’ve watched a couple of documentaries on TV… instead of wasting my time on those brainless action movies you love so much. You know, the ones that exist purely for the flashy visuals."
John made a dramatic gagging sound. "Ugh. Boring."
Gale just shook his head and took a slow sip of his hot chocolate.
A few minutes later, when the waiter brought out dessert, the table practically transformed into a holiday spread. In front of John sat a slice of warm pecan pie, golden and fragrant, topped with a scoop of vanilla sauce that was already melting at the edges.
Meanwhile, Gale had been presented with what could only be described as a mountain of chocolate-drizzled ice cream.
Picking up his spoon, he took the first bite and let out an almost indecent sigh of satisfaction. John felt a shiver race down his spine as that sound of satisfaction left Gale’s lips, every hair on his body standing on end.
"Oh my god… yeah. That’s exactly what I needed."
John nearly choked on his laughter. "Wait, Buck, explain something to me. You were literally whining half an hour ago that your fingers were about to fall off from the cold. And now—" he gestured wildly at the giant bowl of ice cream, "this is what you needed?"
Gale, already going in for another spoonful, barely spared him a glance. "Bucky, this is completely different. You don’t understand."
John let out a groan. "Yeah, sure. In the middle of winter, after the snow, after the frost… ice cream? Buck, you’re not a man, you’re a goddamn alien."
Gale only shrugged, entirely unbothered. He was clearly in his own world, enjoying every second of his dessert. John shook his head, but the fond amusement tugging at his lips was impossible to hide. Seeing Gale genuinely happy was worth any amount of weirdness.
"Where's my gratitude, though?" he pressed. "I single-handedly dragged your hermit ass out of your cave and into society."
Gale, without a hint of remorse, scooped up another spoonful of ice cream and very slowly put it in his mouth.
"Thank you," he said, deadpan.
John rolled his eyes. "Oh screw you."
Gale chuckled softly, and before he could think better of it, he lifted his spoon and tapped Bucky lightly on the forehead.
Not hard. Just playfully.
But for some reason, that moment—small, insignificant—lingered longer than it should have.
John stilled, and Gale’s hand hovered in the air for a second before he finally pulled it back. Their eyes met, and suddenly, the air between them felt… different.
Something warm, something unspoken, passed between them.
And then, startled by it, the moment was gone.
John looked away first, suddenly very focused on his pecan pie. Gale returned to his ice cream, but it didn’t taste as sweet anymore.
They liked each other.
Or at least, each hoped so.
But between them lay the weight of years—years of easy friendship, of unspoken understandings, of routines so ingrained that neither dared acknowledge, not out loud, that something had changed.
And yet, it had changed.
They both felt it.
Both too aware, both too afraid to be the first to say it.
______ જ⁀➴ ______
“Buck, do you trust me?”
John's voice was laced with mischief, his fingers drumming impatiently against the steering wheel of his dad’s battered old car. The streetlight above them flickered, casting shadows over the playful smirk stretched across his face.
"No. Absolutely not. Especially when you say it like that." Gale crossed his arms, eyeing John with suspicion.
John grinned. “Well, that’s too bad! Because we’re going to the end of the world!”
Gale arched an eyebrow, unimpressed but already resigning himself to whatever chaos John had planned this time.
Thirty minutes later, he was shivering in the middle of nowhere.
No streetlights. No houses. No signs of civilization—just an endless snowy field stretching beneath a dark winter sky. His boots crunched against the packed frost as he wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck, narrowing his eyes at John, who was standing a few feet away, grinning like an idiot.
“Okay. Be honest. Did you bring me out here to freeze me to death?” Gale asked, voice laced with suspicion.
John gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest. “Buck, please. Do I look like the type to commit murder?”
Gale deadpanned. “Yes.”
John laughed, then gestured grandly to the sky. “Relax, drama queen. I brought you to the best planetarium in the world.”
Gale followed his gaze upward—and the words caught in his throat.
The sky was endless. Deep, velvet blue, untouched by city lights, scattered with stars that burned like tiny diamonds. Orion, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia—all sharp, all bright, all so close it felt like he could reach out and brush his fingers against them.
It was breathtaking.
He barely noticed that John had turned his head, watching him with quiet satisfaction.
John looked at him like he was seeing him for the first time.
Like Gale was something rare, something breathtaking.
His big eyes gleamed with quiet awe, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks flushed from the cold. Stray strands of blond hair peeked out from under his beanie—the one Gale was holding in place with a gloved hand to keep it from flying off his head, which was tilted too high, too open to the sky.
Then, suddenly, Gale turned to look at him.
And—fuck.
It was like every nerve in John’s body lit up at once. Like someone had flipped a switch inside him.
Because Gale was happy.
And it wasn’t just a small, fleeting smile. It was pure, it was unfiltered, it was shining. His gray eyes glowed, his expression was so unguarded, so openly enraptured, that for a second, John couldn’t believe—couldn’t fucking believe—that he had put that look on his face.
And God—he wanted.
He wanted—what? To move closer? To touch? To brush his fingers against pale skin, to tuck those stray golden strands behind his ear? To look into those impossible gray eyes and admit the thing that had been clawing its way up from the depths of his chest for so long?
That he had stopped looking at Gale like a friend a long time ago.
John wasn’t afraid of much.
He could throw himself into a fight without hesitation, push the speed limit on an empty road just for the thrill, piss off the wrong people without a second thought. He could take a hit and laugh it off, land himself in trouble and charm his way out like it was second nature.
He was reckless, impulsive—someone who didn’t bother thinking about consequences until they were already looming over his shoulder, demanding to be dealt with.
But this?
This scared the shit out of him.
Because Gale was his best friend.
The one person he trusted. The one person who actually knew him—knew all his bullshit and still stuck around.
And what if he didn’t need all this?
What if this—this gnawing, burning, too much feeling bubbling under John’s ribs—was nothing but a burden to him?
Gale was closed off, quiet, distant in a way that made him impossible to read sometimes. And what if he liked things that way? What if he didn’t want anything more?
What if he didn’t even care about all this messy, stupid, overwhelming shit that came with feelings?
What if John messed everything up?
What if Gale looked at him differently?
What if he never wanted to see him again?
John wasn’t sure he could handle that.
Because the idea of losing Gale—of him pulling away, closing off, disappearing from his life—felt like someone taking a crowbar to his ribs and prying them open.
He wasn’t afraid of much.
But the thought of ruining this?
Of losing him?
That scared him more than anything else ever had.
“Well?” John asked.
Gale swallowed, forcing himself to sound unimpressed. "If I’d known you had a thing for stargazing while turning into an icicle, I would’ve dragged you to the planetarium more often."
The complaint lacked real bite, and John knew it.
"The planetarium?" John scoffed, bumping his shoulder against Gale’s. "Come on, that place is dead. Empty seats, fake constellations, some guy droning on in the background?" He tilted his head back, eyes reflecting the endless stretch of sky above them. "But out here? This is the real deal. The sky’s alive."
Gale shook his head, just enough that John wouldn’t catch the look on his face. Because—damn. It was alive. It was incredible.
And not just the sky.
John had done this for him.
Something about that realization lodged itself deep in his chest. He wanted to say something—something meaningful—but words failed him.
John was still looking up, his dark curls ruffled by the wind, his breath visible in the cold air. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, as he laughed under his breath.
“Damn…” John whispered. “It’s really beautiful. I never really got what you saw in all this, but… I think I get it now. A little.”
Gale turned to him, studying his profile. It was rare—so rare—to hear John talk like this, with a kind of quiet reverence. Usually, John spoke like he was sure of everything. But right now, there was a softness to him, a respect for the unknown, and damn… Gale liked that honesty in him.
He liked the way John tilted his head back to see the stars better.
The way his blue eyes caught the faint glow of starlight, turning them almost silver.
The way his grin stretched wide, showing too-white, too-sharp teeth that made him look like some mischievous winter spirit.
The way his body radiated warmth, even in the biting cold, like he was a human furnace that Gale could just—just press into.
For a split second, the thought was almost too strong.
Gale wanted to close the distance.
To step into that unspoken space between them, to feel the heat radiating off John’s body against the winter chill. To press close, to bury his face in the curve of his neck—not for any grand reason, just to know. Just to see if the scent clinging to John’s skin was the same cheap deodorant Gale had smelled in the car or if, underneath it, there was something else—something distinctly him.
He wanted to find out if John's skin really was as warm as it seemed, if he was immune to the cold the way he carried himself like a walking furnace, like he could melt the frost in the air just by existing. Or if, beneath it all, the wind still bit at his skin, stealing his warmth away little by little, the same way it did to Gale.
He wanted to know.
Wanted to touch, just to feel, just to understand.
He wanted so much.
And that was terrifying.
Because what if he is imagining things?
What if John doesn’t feel anything like this?
If Gale confesses—if he lets it slip, even for a second—there will be no taking it back. No pretending it never happened. No rewinding time and going back to the way things were.
And if John doesn’t feel the same?
Then it won’t just be rejection.
It will be the end of everything.
What if, in chasing after more, Gale destroyed what they already had?
How could he live without John? Without his teasing, his chatter, the way he distracted Gale from the darkest thoughts in the world? Without the way he had to touch Gale somehow—an arm slung over his shoulders, a nudge of his knee under the table, fingers idly messing with the sleeve of his sweater?
Without that effortless comfort that only John ever gave him?
What if he ruins it?
He couldn’t risk it.
So he swallowed it all down.
"It's really great."
John shot him a knowing look, but said nothing.
“Amazing.” Gale’s voice came out softer than he intended.
John exhaled, then rubbed his hands together. “Okay, let’s get out of here before we catch pneumonia.”
Gale huffed, wrapping his scarf tighter.
“The stars were here before us, and they’ll be here after us.” John grinned, bumping their shoulders together again. “We can look at them anytime. If we want to.”
And that made Gale feel warm.
______ જ⁀➴ ______
The world outside was coated in frost, the city lights growing brighter as they drove back, reflecting in the windshield and casting flickering gold and silver patterns against the glass. The open fields and endless sky had faded behind them, replaced by familiar streets and glowing signs, the distant hum of life returning as they neared home.
And Gale was here. With him.
In this small pocket of warmth and quiet, in this sealed-off little world where their breath filled the car, where the dim glow of the dashboard painted soft shadows over John’s face, where the steady hum of tires on snow mixed with the faint murmur of the radio.
If only there was a way to hold onto this moment.
To trap it, like an insect in amber.
To make it eternal.
To preserve it in a glistening, golden droplet—something Gale could keep forever, something to prove that once, in this world, there was a place where he had felt like this.
If only he could keep this feeling.
Warm. Light. Dissolving fear and doubt like snow melting in his palm.
To stop time.
To lock it in place.
To always hear John’s quiet chuckle, to always see the way he squints into the road, to always smell that ridiculous, familiar scent of his cheap deodorant.
If a massive meteor were to crash into the Earth right now—right here, where they were driving along the quiet hillside road—and in the blink of an eye, everything they knew was reduced to nothing…
If their bodies, the car, the road, the very hill itself were shattered into drifting atoms, dissolving into the universe, indistinguishable from the stardust they once came from…
Gale would die a happy man.
Because he would be with him.
But, of course, that wasn’t going to happen.
Instead, tomorrow would come.
Relentless. Inevitable.
A day like any other. A day filled with worry, with noise, with the slow suffocation of routine.
A day that would drive him mad.
But right now…
Right now, he had this.
This car, rolling steadily through the frozen world.
This warmth, cocooned between them in the small space of the cabin.
And John, at the wheel, quietly humming under his breath—oblivious to the fact that, in this moment, he was the only thing anchoring Gale to the earth.
Time is relentless.
It slips through his fingers like sand.
Tomorrow, everything will go back to how it always is.
But then John turned to him, flashing a smirk.
"What’s on your mind?"
Gale quickly looked away.
"Nothing."
But John kept staring, his expression knowing, his lips quirking just slightly at the corners.
" We need to hurry and get home on time—otherwise, this carriage might just turn back into a pumpkin."
Gale exhaled, sinking deeper into his seat, burying his nose in the collar of his jacket, pretending to be more interested in the snow outside.
But really, all he could think about was how ridiculously good it felt to be here.
With John.
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It was late when they got back to town. The streets were hushed under a fresh layer of snow, muffling their footsteps as they walked side by side. The streetlamps cast a soft glow over the white-covered pavement, and tiny snowflakes drifted lazily through the cold night air.
John felt... strange. A mix of calm and something else—something restless, thrumming just beneath his skin. It had been a good day. A really good day. And not just because it had been fun, but because Gale had enjoyed it. Because, for once, John had managed to make him happy. He didn’t always know how to do that, didn’t always know what Gale needed. But today? Today, he’d gotten it right.
And now… now something felt different. The air between them was charged with something unsaid, something weightless but heavy all at once, like standing on the edge of a moment that hadn't quite happened yet.
John glanced at Gale. His beanie sat slightly askew, stray blond strands peeking out, dusted in soft white. His gray-blue eyes shimmered under the streetlights, catching the glow like frost on glass. He looked… beautiful. More than that—his. Or he could be. Maybe.
If John just—
He didn’t even register when he stepped forward. It wasn’t a decision, not really. Just instinct. Just a wish. Just—
Gale suddenly lifted a hand to brush the snow off his nose.
BAM.
Their foreheads collided with an audible crack. A sharp jolt of pain shot through John's skull.
"Ow, shit!" John groaned, immediately clutching his head. "Buck, do you break bricks with your head in your spare time?!"
Gale blinked, dazed, then—laughed.
John took an instinctive step back, rubbing at his forehead. That laugh—light, easy, unbothered—hit him like a second blow.
He didn’t get it.
John felt relief and disappointment crash into each other, twisting into something bitter in his chest. Good. It was good that Gale didn’t get it. That he didn’t notice the half-second when John had leaned in. That he didn’t see what had nearly happened.
John forced a smirk. "Alright, blondie, get inside before you freeze whatever brain cells you have left."
Gale arched a brow. "Not worried about yours?"
John scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Don’t even have anything to freeze."
Gale chuckled, shaking his head, and turned toward the door.
John watched him go, exhaling slowly as the warmth of the evening drained from his body, leaving only the cold night behind.
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Gale stood there, his back pressed against the door, his breath coming too fast, his pulse hammering in his throat.
He knew.
He knew the second John hesitated, the moment his gaze lingered a little too long, the way the air between them thickened with something unspoken. He knew when John's usual confidence wavered—just for a fraction of a second—but enough for Gale to feel it.
And he panicked.
Because they were standing in the middle of an empty street. Because his windows were right there, his neighbors, his parents. Because his father was inside.
If his father ever found out… No. He couldn't risk it.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want this. God, he wanted it. Too much. He’d dreamed of this—craved it in ways that made his stomach twist. But not like this. Not here. Not in a place where fear clenched around his ribs like a vice, where every breath carried the weight of the worst-case scenario.
What the hell, Bucky? He squeezed his eyes shut. You had all day alone with me. You had a thousand better moments, and you pick the one where we’re standing in front of my homophobic father?
He groaned softly, running a hand through his hair.
He wanted this. He wanted John. But he wanted it his way. A way that felt safe. A place where he wouldn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder, wouldn’t have to brace himself for a fight, wouldn’t have to think about what people would say, or what they’d do.
A place where he could just feel.
He exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his forehead, where the lingering ache from their collision still throbbed faintly.
A grin pulled at the corner of his lips. Maybe fate decided now wasn’t the time.
But there would be time.
He stepped toward the window, peering out through the glass. John was already gone, swallowed by the night. The street was empty, quiet.
But the sky… the sky was still the same.
The stars still hung above the houses, steady and waiting. And maybe—maybe—one of them, his star, was waiting too.
Waiting for him to gather his courage.
Waiting for him to do this right.