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Jiyong wanted to make Christmas extra special this year.
Which was, frankly, ridiculous, considering the man had survived award seasons, fashion weeks, and no fewer than eight artistic crises this week alone without blinking. But give him ONE boyfriend, and suddenly he was pacing his penthouse like it was its own battlefield.
He had only started dating Daesung recently, if one could call it recent after years of casual flirting, accidental touches, and the kind of pretending that fooled absolutely no one except themselves. Eventually, something had snapped, tenderly, and they had stopped circling each other and simply… decided to step in.
So now there was a plan.
A foolproof one. In theory at least.
Get a tree. A real one, obviously—none of that minimalist nonsense. Bake the cookies Daesung liked, even though Jiyong didn’t actually know how. Cook dinner, something impressive but comforting. Invite his boyfriend over. Keep him there. Cuddle. Excessively. Shamelessly.
It had been hard lately. Their schedules barely aligned, reduced to fifteen-minute video calls squeezed between rehearsals and recording sessions. Jiyong mostly slept between time zones, inside private jets. Daesung’s life was no less consuming. Some nights, Jiyong lay awake wondering if they should pause, if this fragile, new thing deserved better timing.
Daesung, infuriatingly reasonable, had shut that thought down immediately.
“Don’t be childish, hyeong,” he’d laughed through the screen. “We’ll meet later. I’m not going anywhere.”
Jiyong hated that answer. They had just gotten together. The world could wait. Music could wait. He had waited long enough.
So he'd texted first, swallowing his pride.
Daesung-ah. Let’s spend Christmas together this year. Just us.
Daesung had replied almost instantly, too fast, like he’d in fact been waiting.
Of course, hyeong.
That single text had settled something warm and certain in Jiyong’s chest.
Which was why he now stood in his living room, surrounded by half-tangled fairy lights, a fully ticked-off grocery list, and a Christmas tree that was definitely not too tall for the ceiling.
Jiyong smiled to himself.
Daesung would be blown away.
~ 🎄~
Jiyong never did anything in halves. Not work. Not romance.
And Christmas was already a spectacle waiting to happen the moment he decided to care.
STEP 1: COOKIE MAN
The cookbook lay open on the kitchen counter like a personal challenge. Jiyong squinted at it, then at his phone, then back at the book, because naturally he didn’t trust either source on its own. The title promised Easy Holiday Baking for Beginners, which felt faintly insulting, but Daesung liked these cookies, and Jiyong was nothing if not committed to winning Christmas.
He tied an apron around his waist: designer, unfortunately, but sacrifices had to be made, and read the instructions aloud to himself as if invoking a spell. “Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy,” he muttered, poking the butter suspiciously. “Define fluffy.”
Jiyong was good with reading stage cues and directing performances, but this? This was what made him feel like an absolute child…the messy kind. Flour coated the counter, the floor, and somehow the sleeve of his sweater. There was sugar in his hair. An egg slipped from his fingers, hit the counter, and exploded. He stared at it in silence for a full ten seconds before sighing like the universe had personally wronged him.
“It’s fine,” he muttered to absolutely no one. “Everything’s fine. It can't be that difficult.”
The dough, unfortunately, did not agree.
It was… wrong. Too sticky. Too dry. Somehow both. He added more flour. Then milk. Then more butter, because surely butter fixed everything in life. But the dough became increasingly hostile, clinging to his fingers like it had developed abandonment issues.
By the time he attempted to roll it out, it fought back.
The rolling pin stuck. The dough tore. The cookie cutters refused to cooperate—stars came out looking vaguely aggressive, trees looked like abstract art, and one gingerbread man lost an arm in the process. He placed them on the tray anyway, whispering encouragement like they could hear him.
“You’re festive. You’re charming. You’re… definitely edible.”
The oven preheated with a cheerful beep that felt deeply undeserved.
Jiyong slid the tray in, set a timer, and leaned against the counter, smug despite the lack of preparation. This was going well. He wiped his hands on a towel that only made things worse. Daesung would understand what he was trying to bake, Jiyong hoped.
When the oven beeped again, and he opened to inspect, the suspicious smell hit him first.
The cookies had spread. They had melted into one singular, lumpy mass, edges browning aggressively while the centers remained alarmingly pale. It looked less like Christmas cookies and more like some geological formation.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
STEP 2: CHRISTMAS TREE FARM
Jiyong was not a quitter.
So the gradual next step was the main attraction of the party, the Christmas tree of course. He might have failed the cookies but he still had much more to help him recover the day.
The Christmas tree had arrived taller than expected, because Jiyong never learned moderation. He wrestled it upright with the intensity of someone negotiating with an uncooperative backup dancer, muttering under his breath as pine needles scattered across the floor.
Once it was finally standing, leaning, but artistic enough to justify his taste, he crouched down to address his two cats, sat on the couch, looking at him.
“Iye. Zoa. Listen carefully,” he said, pointing a warning finger. “This is not for you. No climbing. No biting. No crimes.”
Zoa looked unimpressed, Iye blinked slowly, as if they didn't understand what he was saying. They had never once cared about their Appa’s love life before. Jiyong stared at them with the cautious optimism of someone who foolishly believed that this year would be any different.
He had planned this. Visualized it. Warm lights. Dazzling ornaments. Something elegant enough to woo and soft enough to feel like home.
But the moment Jiyong opened the decoration box, Iye was inside it. Entirely. No hesitation. Zoa circled the fallen branches like a predator assessing structural weaknesses. Pine needles scattered across the floor, and Jiyong sighed, already tired.
“No,” he warned, pointing gently. “This is not for you.”
They blinked at him again. Then Zoa bit the tree.
Assembly took twice as long because every branch became a personal challenge. Iye attacked the lower limbs like they were sworn enemies. Zoa sat directly in the center of the tree stand while Jiyong attempted to screw it together, refusing to move even when lifted.
Once upright, the tree looked… decent. Slightly crooked, but charming enough. Jiyong stepped back, hands on his hips, smiling to himself.
Lights came next. He plugged them in to test: warm, golden, perfect. As he began wrapping them around the tree, Iye decided the wire was alive and must be defeated immediately. Zoa followed suit, leaping mid-wrap, tangling herself like a professional saboteur.
“No—no—wait—stop—”
The lights flickered ominously. Jiyong froze mid-step. They all stared at each other. And then the lights went out.
There was a long moment of silence before he groaned, sinking onto the floor. Zoa trotted away proudly, dragging half the string behind her. Iye jumped onto the tree base to inspect the ruins, tail swishing dangerously close to disaster.
Ornaments were supposed to be the easy part. But Jiyong knew Glass baubles were a mistake. He knew. Yet he still tried.
One ornament shattered when Zoa swatted it off with surgical precision. Another vanished entirely. Iye climbed the tree with alarming efficiency, perching halfway up and staring down at Jiyong like he’d just conquered Everest.
“Why are you all being like this? I spent money on this,” he told them weakly.
They did not care.
The final straw came when Zoa launched herself from the arm of the couch directly into the tree. Not enough to knock it over, but enough to send it wobbling and tilting.
Jiyong lunged, arms wrapping around the trunk just in time. He stood there, hugging the tree, breathless, covered in tinsel, while Iye sat smugly atop the branches and Zoa batted a fallen ornament across the floor.
Defeated, he laughed. He was able to make the tree stand again, slightly shorter this time, ornaments placed only above cat height, lights taped discreetly out of reach. A soft blanket was laid at the base as a peace offering. Iye curled beneath it, finally satisfied. Zoa fell asleep nearby, tail flicking lazily.
Jiyong collapsed onto the couch, staring at the result. It wasn’t perfect. It leaned. It glittered unevenly. Half the ornaments were missing. But it was still something.
And he moved on to the next step on the to-do list.
STEP 3: SAMGYETANG DINNER
Dinner was serious business.
Jiyong rolled up his sleeves and pulled up a recipe he’d learned from Youngbae: a comforting, homely stuffed Turkey, rich and warm and meant to be shared. Youngbae had sent the instructions with at least three voice notes reminding him not to improvise.
“Please don’t freestyle this”, Youngbae had said gently, “This is not Rap.”
“I won’t,” Jiyong had nodded solemnly to his phone.
Youngbae's recipe was as detailed as everything else about him, handwritten in a sheet in fact—brining times, exact temperatures, notes in the margins like don’t skip this and seriously, don’t rush. Jiyong read it carefully, then set it aside, rolling up his sleeves with dramatic resolve. He will get this one right.
How hard could it be?
The brine was first. Salt, sugar, herbs, citrus. He followed this part almost faithfully, except he eyeballed the measurements because measuring spoons were an insult to instinct. The turkey went into the brine bath with a soft splash, and Jiyong felt briefly accomplished.
Then he deeply exhaled, hoping the night was finally gonna turn up the way he wanted and forgot about the Turkey. Not completely. Just… longer than intended.
By the time he remembered, the turkey had absorbed so much brine it felt like it had gained a second body. He lifted it out with effort, water sloshing everywhere, the bird disturbingly dense in his hands.
“That’s probably fine,” he said aloud.
The seasoning stage was where Youngbae’s influence truly dissolved.
The recipe called for butter under the skin. Jiyong agreed. Generously, he added garlic next. Then more garlic. Rosemary. Thyme. Pepper. A little honey, because Christmas. A little chili, because balance.
At some point, it stopped being Youngbae’s turkey and became Jiyong’s personal interpretation of poultry.
The oven preheated. The turkey went in.
He set a timer, wiped his hands, and leaned against the counter, feeling proud. The kitchen smelled incredible, rich, buttery, festive. This was working. This was finally working.
Then the smoke appeared. Just enough to be suspicious. Panicked, he opened the oven, and fanned it with a dish towel, yanked the tray out, and stared in horror.
The turkey… looked over seasoned with too much gravy. The skin seemed crisp in a way that felt premature, like it had skipped several milestones. Jiyong grabbed some foil from a nearby holder, covering it hastily, bumping the oven rack in the process.
Hot juices spilled onto the oven floor.
The smoke alarm screamed betrayal.
“No, no, no—please—”
He waved the towel, opened a window, silenced the alarm, and texted Youngbae with one hand, Hypothetically. How brown is too brown? The reply had come almost instantly, What did you do!? Panic evident even through the screen.
The problem, it turned out, was the inside.
The outside looked ready to host a cooking show. The inside was not.
He carved into it carefully, optimism evaporating the moment he saw it. Too pink. Definitely not done. He stared at it like it had personally let him down.
Back into the oven it went.
Another timer. Another wait. Another smell, this time, even less hopeful.
When he finally pulled it out again, exhausted and lightly traumatized, the turkey had crossed into a new phase of existence. Not burnt. Not raw. Just… dry. So dry it absorbed gravy like it was trying to survive a drought.
Youngbae texted later. Did you follow the recipe? Jiyong had replied: In spirit.
And somehow, that felt like the most honest Christmas answer of all.
~ 🎄~
Daesung arrived with a bouquet, all huggable and unmistakably boyfriend-y.
That alone should have been enough to fix everything.
Jiyong heard the door unlock but didn’t turn around at first, still standing in the middle of his penthouse kitchen like a general surveying a battlefield he had very decisively lost. Flour dusted the counter. The turkey sat accusingly on the stove. Foil littered every available surface. One oven mitt lay abandoned on the floor, as if it had given up before he had.
He exhaled slowly.
“Hyeong,” Daesung called, gentle.
Jiyong turned. And Daesung froze.
The bouquet dipped slightly as he took in the scene, the chaos, the faint smell of overworked poultry, the abandoned cookie tray, the Christmas lights half-wrapped around a chair instead of the tree. And then his eyes landed back on Jiyong.
Apron crooked. Hair a mess. A small, stubborn frown etched between his brows. The unmistakable look of someone who had tried very hard and felt like he’d failed spectacularly.
“Oh,” Daesung said, voice caught somewhere between concern and awe. “Are you… okay?”
Jiyong swallowed, suddenly looking every bit like a grumpy old man. “It didn’t work.”
That was all it took.
Daesung could practically see the chain reaction unfolding in his boyfriend’s head. Jiyong hated losing, at anything. Jiyong was also famously helpless in a kitchen. The evidence before him was more than enough to confirm both. Daesung felt something soft and dizzy bloom in his chest. Something giddy and unbearably fond, sparked by the sheer sincerity of it all.
He set the bouquet down carefully, stepped closer, and took Jiyong’s flour-dusted hands into his own.
“I can see that,” he said, trying, and failing, not to smile.
Jiyong groaned, tipping his forehead into Daesung’s shoulder. “Don’t even bother. The cookies look like a war crime. The turkey hates me. Youngbae is never trusting me again. The tree—Zoa and Iye—”
Daesung laughed, low and warm, wrapping his arms around him without hesitation. “You look adorable, hyeong.”
Jiyong pulled back, scandalised. “This is not adorable. This is a disaster.”
“Which is new,” Daesung said mildly. “Having you like this. Not flawlessly perfect.”
That earned him a weak huff of laughter.
Daesung glanced around again, eyes softening. “You did all this for Christmas?”
Jiyong nodded, cheeks warming despite himself. “I wanted it to be perfect.”
Daesung leaned in and pressed a kiss into his hair. “You’re already perfect.” He gestured vaguely at the chaos. “This is just… extra nice.”
Something in Jiyong finally unclenched.
“Which part?” he asked quietly. “The cookies that look like a map? The turkey that died in vain? Or the Christmas tree that’s halfway to surrendering?”
“You,” Daesung said instantly, and the older flushed.
They didn’t clean.
That turned out to be the first good decision of the evening.
Instead, Daesung disappeared and returned with an armful of blankets and pillows, moving with the easy confidence of someone who had built many questionable blanket forts in his lifetime. Jiyong watched, bemused, as Daesung draped fabric over chairs and the couch, constructing a surprisingly sturdy little tent by the window.
Iye and Zoa observed from their towers, clearly exhausted from earlier chaos. Zoa padded over only to rub against Daesung’s ankles, purring, before wandering off again.
Jiyong scoffed. “Yah!” He glanced between the cats and his boyfriend. “Why are they well-behaved only with you? I’m the one who adopted them.”
“You’re the one who spoiled them rotten, hyeong,” Daesung replied, entirely unrepentant.
Jiyong had no defence.
STEP 4: ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU
“Okay,” Jiyong announced, already moving on. “Step four.”
Daesung blinked. “We had a step four?”
“Cuddling,” Jiyong said, like Daesung should have known. “Obviously.”
Before Daesung could react, Jiyong dragged him into the fort, crawling in with whatever was left of the cookies and the turkey, balanced precariously between them. Knees bumped. Blankets fell heavy and warm around their shoulders. Outside, snow drifted past the glass in lazy spirals, the city glowing softly below.
Jiyong leaned back against Daesung’s chest, the day finally slipping away.
“I really wanted to do this right,” he murmured.
Daesung tightened his arms around him. “You did.”
Jiyong turned his head. “But—”
“You did so much,” Daesung said gently. “This is my favourite version of you.” Then, grinning, “But hyeong, maybe stick to the studio next time. I’d rather not watch your million-dollar house burn down—”
He didn’t get to finish that sentence, before Jiyong punched his arm playfully. “Shut up!”
Daesung laughed, catching his wrist and pulling him closer in one solid embrace. Jiyong struggled for half a second out of habit, then gave in, settling quietly into the warmth.
They ate in easy silence, sharing bites, stealing heat, until the world narrowed to blankets, soft lights, and the steady sound of their breathing in sync.
~ 🎄 ~
They stayed curled together for hours.
This Christmas wasn’t perfect the way Jiyong had planned. It was chaotic. Messy.
But it was warm. And full. And just right. It was theirs.
And for once, Jiyong let that be enough.
This year, Christmas was truly special.