Work Text:
I. Snow in New York Knows Your Name
Inho never realized how lonely Christmas could sound until he heard it echo off skyscrapers.
New York in winter was a glittering orchestra. Car horns, laughter, jingles, steam hissing from vents.
People rushed past him with arms full of gifts, faces rosy from cold and excitement. He felt like a ghost drifting through someone else’s holiday.
He tightened his scarf against the wind that whipped down the avenue, carrying with it the faint scent of chestnuts and a memory he didn’t want.
A boy in a red coat, holding his hand under a falling snow.
A breakup whispered on a cold Christmas afternoon, both of them pretending they didn’t feel the world shift beneath their feet.
He shoved the memory away.
He was 38 now. He had a steady job, a reputation in his firm, a cat waiting at home who tolerated him on good days.
And yet.
When his mother called, her voice as soft as simmering soup:
“Inho-ah, please come home. I miss you.”
Something inside him cracked.
Something tender and old and homesick.
He booked a flight that night.
He discovered the mistake the next morning:
December 26th.
The day after Christmas.
He stared at the confirmation email like it had betrayed him personally.
He went to the airport anyway. Determined, stubborn, a little desperate and tried to explain the situation to the ticket clerk.
But planes were full.
And the city was swallowing every last empty seat like it knew he didn’t belong in the warmth of home.
So he did something uncharacteristic.
Something messy.
Something human.
He decided to take whatever flights he could, wherever they went, as long as they pushed him eastward.
Toward Seoul.
Toward the mother who waited.
Toward the version of himself he’d left behind.
He boarded a midnight flight to London with nothing but a backpack and the foolish courage of someone who wanted, for once, to be good to the people he loved.
Maybe even good to himself.
II. Layovers Are Where the Universe Hesitates
Airports at dawn had a color all their own gray-blue like old bruises.
Inho drifted through terminals like a man haunted by time zones. Warsaw blurred into Geneva, which blurred into Zurich. The fluorescent lights hummed the same lonely note everywhere he went.
He collapsed into a seat at Gate E17, exhausted to the marrow. Snow pressed against the high windows like it wanted to get in.
The board flickered:
Seoul — DELAYED
He exhaled, long and tired.
Then he heard it.
A voice like a familiar melody he hadn’t listened to in years.
“Inho?”
The world stilled.
Inho looked up.
And there, soft scarf, snow-dusted shoulders, eyes warm despite the cold, stood Seong Gihun.
A lifetime ago, they’d loved each other quietly, the way young men sometimes do without language for it, without the courage to hold on.
Now, at almost forty, Gihun looked like the sun after a long storm. A little older, a little worn, but bright in a way that warmed things Inho thought had frozen forever.
“What… what are you doing here?” Inho breathed.
Gihun laughed softly, as if the universe were playing some gentle prank.
“I work in Düsseldorf now. I was visiting coworkers in Milan. Got stranded by the storm.”
Inho swallowed thickly. “Of all airports.”
“Of all years,” Gihun added.
They sat together out of instinct rather than decision like gravity had finally remembered its job.
Inside the lull of delay and snow, they began talking.
Haltingly at first.
Then like old rivers remembering where they used to flow.
The more they spoke, the more Inho felt time peeling back like delicate wrapping paper.
He’d forgotten how Gihun’s laughter warmed the air.
How he listened with his whole face.
How his presence turned even sterile waiting rooms into something like home.
Hours slipped by softly, like snow landing on glass.
And somewhere between vending machine coffee and shared recollections of bad flights, Gihun asked:
“Inho… why did we end things?”
The question didn’t accuse.
It ached.
Inho looked down at his hands, the ones that had once known the shape of Gihun’s.
“We said it was timing,” he murmured. “But the truth is… I was scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of losing you before I even had the right to hold you.”
Silence stretched. Tender. Painful.
“You did lose me,” Gihun whispered.
“I know.”
“And I lost you too.”
The snow outside thickened, and the universe felt like it was holding its breath.
III. When Fate Gets Tired, It Uses Airplanes
At dawn, an announcement crackled through the airport:
“Two seats have opened on the direct flight to Seoul. First come, first served.”
Two seats.
Two men.
Two lives that once ran parallel and suddenly intersected again.
Gihun stood. Inho rose, almost instinctively following.
They stared at each other, caught at the crossroads of past and present.
“You going home?” Inho asked softly.
“Yeah,” Gihun said. “My niece waits for me every Christmas. Calls me her ‘Christmas Appa.’”
The gentleness in his eyes disarmed something deep in Inho.
They stepped toward the counter together.
Side by side.
As if they’d never stopped walking that way.
IV. Seoul Wears Winter Like a Prayer
They landed in Seoul under a sky brushed with pale gold. Christmas morning, quiet and clean and filled with the smell of possibility.
The air was sharper than New York, colder than Warsaw.
But it tasted like childhood, like kimchi stew simmering, like the beginnings of forgiveness.
When they stepped out of the terminal, snow greeted them like an old friend.
Inho’s breath trembled in the cold.
He hadn’t realized how much he missed this. The crisp winter bite, the mountains painted faint in the distance, the gentle murmur of Korean flowing around him.
He glanced at Gihun, who was staring up at the sky with that same soft wonder Inho remembered.
“You okay?” Inho asked.
Gihun nodded. “Feels like coming home twice.”
The taxi line moved slowly, tires whispering over wet snow.
Inho hesitated, then said quietly,
“We got… very lucky. Meeting like that.”
Gihun turned to him, the corners of his mouth lifting.
“We did. Or maybe we were overdue.”
Overdue.
The word wrapped around Inho like a warm scarf.
He took a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“What happens now?” he asked, voice barely above the hush of snowfall.
Gihun stepped closer just enough that Inho could feel the warmth of him despite the freezing air.
“We start by going home,” he said. “And maybe… after the holidays… we see where this goes.”
Inho felt something in his chest unfurl slow and fragile and full of light.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’d like that.”
Snow caught in Gihun’s hair, turning him briefly into something glowing, something celestial.
Maybe fate wasn’t cruel.
Maybe it was just patient.
And when Inho reached out, carefully, reverently and took Gihun’s hand,
it felt less like rekindling an old flame
and more like lighting a candle in a dark room
a warmth he had been waiting for
all these years.
Together, they stepped forward, feet crunching softly in the snow.
Back toward family.
Back toward old streets and familiar doors.
Back toward whatever future wanted them now.
Christmas morning glimmered around them like a promise.
And for the first time in years,
Inho believed in miracles.
V. The House That Waited
Inho’s childhood home looked the same: the pale brick, the small steps leading to the front door, the winter plants that stood dry and leafless but somehow still proud.
His suitcase wheels crunched over the snow as he approached the gate.
Beside him, walking slowly, hands in pockets, was Gihun.
They hadn’t spoken much in the taxi ride except for the occasional soft laughter at the radio’s cheerful carols. Their hands had brushed twice, accidentally, then maybe not accidentally.
When they reached the familiar green door, Inho hesitated.
“You okay?” Gihun asked gently.
Inho nodded, though his pulse carried a different truth.
“It’s just been a long time.”
“Your mom will be happy.”
“She’ll faint,” Inho muttered.
“Then I’ll catch her,” Gihun said with a grin.
The joke eased something in his chest. Inho took a breath and pressed the doorbell.
Footsteps shuffled inside.
Then the door swung open.
And there she was, his mother, smaller than he remembered, wrapped in a thick cardigan and slippers, her silver hair soft like threads of moonlight.
Her eyes widened.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“In… Inho?”
He tried to smile. “Merry Christmas, Mom.”
She pulled him into her arms before he could finish, tears warm on his neck.
“You came,” she whispered. “You actually came home.”
Inho hugged her tighter. “I promised.”
When she finally let him go, her eyes drifted to Gihun, who stood a little awkwardly with a shy bow.
“And you brought a friend,” she said, smiling with a mother’s intuition that glowed like candlelight.
Gihun bowed deeper. “Hello, Auntie. It’s been a long time.”
She blinked. Recognition hit like a sunrise.
“Oh! Gihun? Is that really you?”
“Yes,” he said softly. “I hope it’s okay that I… came along.”
She took his hand with a kind of gentle reverence.
“If you’re with my son, it’s more than okay. Come in, both of you. It’s cold!”
Inside, warmth greeted them: the scent of dried seaweed soup, pine candles, and fresh rice.
Christmas decorations dotted the shelves simple, homemade, a little crooked, perfectly hers.
As Inho slipped off his shoes, his mother softly touched his cheek.
“You look tired, sweetheart.”
He swallowed. “It was a long journey.”
She smiled knowingly. “I’m glad you didn’t make it alone.”
Inho glanced at Gihun.
Neither of them looked away.
VI. A Day Made of Small Wonders
Christmas afternoon moved slowly, like a gentle snowfall.
His mother fussed over them, placing more food on the table than three people could possibly eat: japchae glistening under kitchen lights, steaming mandu, warm bowls of soup that smelled like safety.
Inho watched as Gihun ate with quiet gratitude.
He noticed the way his mother kept sneaking glances at them both.
He noticed the way Gihun softened in front of her, respectful, gentle, familiar.
It had been years, but the dynamic returned as if it had been waiting in a box somewhere, dusted off just for today.
At one point, while Inho washed dishes, he heard laughter from the living room.
He peeked out to see Gihun and his mother looking through old photo albums.
Gihun held up a picture from their twenties. Him and Inho under a cherry blossom tree, smiling too brightly, too close.
“Oh,” Gihun said softly, “I remember this.”
His mother chuckled. “You two were inseparable back then. Every season, everywhere.”
Inho felt his throat tighten.
He turned back to the sink with wet eyes.
Later, when the sun dipped low and soft golden light entered the room, his mother retreated to her bedroom to rest.
The house grew quiet.
Inho and Gihun sat across from each other at the low table, nursing cups of warm yuzu tea.
Gihun spoke first.
“You have her smile.”
Inho blinked. “I do?”
“In the corners,” Gihun murmured. “When you’re not trying to hide.”
The words landed gently, like snow on open palms.
Inho looked down. “I missed this. I mean…”
He paused.
“I missed having someone who sees me.”
Gihun leaned forward just a little.
“I’ve always seen you.”
The room held its breath.
VII. The Niece Who Believes in Magic
The next day, Inho insisted on driving Gihun to his sister’s home.
“You said she’s waiting,” he claimed.
But the truth was: he wanted more time.
They drove through quiet winter streets, the city familiar in a way that pressed nostalgia into his chest.
At the apartment door, a small voice squealed,
“Samchon!!”
A little girl of maybe eight launched herself into Gihun’s arms.
Her hair was tied with red ribbons, her eyes star-bright.
Gihun lifted her easily, spinning her once.
“I missed you, princess.”
“You’re late!” she pouted dramatically.
“There was a snowstorm,” he explained.
She gasped. “A magic one?”
“Definitely a magic one.”
Then her gaze drifted to Inho.
“Who’s that?”
“This is my… friend,” Gihun said, stumbling the tiniest bit.
The girl stared at Inho with the bold curiosity only children possess.
Then she whispered to Gihun. oud enough for both of them to hear:
“He’s handsome. Like someone in a drama.”
Inho choked.
Gihun covered his smile.
Inside, the family welcomed them warmly.
They ate tteokguk and laughed at stories from childhood.
Inho watched as Gihun gently braided his niece’s hair, watched how her tiny hand curled around his sleeve.
He looked like he belonged in that moment, whole, happy, grounded.
And for the first time, Inho saw not just the boy he once loved,
but the man he could love now.
VIII. A New Year’s Promise
On New Year’s Eve, they met again.
This time on a quiet bridge overlooking the Han River, the city glittering behind them like fallen stars.
Fireworks were not yet exploding; the world held a collective inhale.
“You’re leaving soon?” Inho asked.
“In a few days,” Gihun replied. “Europe waits.”
Inho nodded, trying not to show how the thought scraped something raw inside him.
“But,” Gihun added, “I can come back more often.”
“Because of your niece?”
Gihun looked at him with a softness that unraveled everything.
“Because of you.”
The air felt charged, the kind of electricity winter holds when waiting for midnight.
“Inho,” he said quietly, “can we try again? Not like before. Not as boys running from our fears. But as adults who know what it means to lose… and what it means to choose.”
Inho closed his eyes.
When he opened them, they were shining.
“I don’t want to run anymore,” he whispered. “I want to stay. With you.”
The first firework cracked open the sky.
Gihun stepped forward. Their foreheads touched lightly, breath warm in the cold air.
No kiss.
Not yet.
Something deeper, an unspoken vow.
When the countdown reached zero, fireworks bloomed across Seoul, scattering bright reflections on the river.
And beneath them, two men stood together not as a reunion of past lovers
but as the beginning of something new.
Slow, deliberate, and infinitely bright.
IX. Two Suitcases, One Future
A month later, Inho opened his apartment door in New York to find a suitcase sitting in the hallway.
Gihun leaned against the doorframe.
“I transferred to the Düsseldorf–New York route,” he said casually. “Thought it’d make connecting flights easier.”
Inho’s laugh trembled.
“Only flights?”
Gihun stepped inside. “No. Everything.”
Inho pulled him into the apartment. Into his arms. Into the life he was finally ready to share.
Outside, New York snow began to fall.
Inside, warmth bloomed softly like the start of a long-awaited spring.