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🎄💌❄️
It starts at 11:30 p.m., which is already too late to be making decisions.
Martin knows this.
Seonghyeon knows this.
Neither of them says anything anyway.
“We should cook,” Martin announces, sprawled dramatically against the counter, wearing his bright red Christmas sweater, one socked foot hooked around Seonghyeon’s ankle like a claim.
Seonghyeon glances at him, unimpressed but fond. “You said that last year. And the year before that.”
“And every year,” Martin says cheerfully, kicking his foot just enough to bump Seonghyeon’s calf, “we survive.”
“That’s not the standard.”
“It is for us.”
Seonghyeon exhales, long and theatrical, like a man accepting his fate—but his lips are already twitching. “Fine. But if something catches fire, I’m telling people you forced me.”
Martin beams and leans in to kiss his cheek, quick and smug. “You love me.”
“I do,” Seonghyeon says easily, not even hesitating. “That’s the problem.”
The kitchen is warm and bright and already leaning toward chaos. Fairy lights frame the window in soft gold loops, reflecting off the glass where snow drifts lazily past. The tiny Christmas tree in the corner blinks unevenly, one string of lights threatening to give out at any moment. From the speaker, an overly sentimental carol remix plays—one Martin insists on singing wrong on purpose.
“It’s *fa-la-la-la-la*,” Seonghyeon corrects.
Martin gasps. “Don’t stifle my artistic expression.”
“You’re changing the lyrics to be about pasta.”
“It’s thematic.”
They’re both wearing aprons. Neither of them remembers putting them on.
Seonghyeon moves with fake confidence, pulling ingredients out of the fridge like he has a solid plan. Martin trails after him, mostly getting underfoot.
“Okay,” Seonghyeon says, tapping the counter like he’s about to give a lecture. “You chop. I’ll handle the stove.”
Martin salutes. “Yes, chef.”
He does *not* chop well.
Two minutes in, Martin is squinting at the cutting board, knife paused mid-air like it personally offended him. “Why are onions so… emotionally violent?”
Seonghyeon laughs, the sound soft and warm, and steps in behind him. His arms slide easily around Martin’s waist, familiar and sure, hands guiding his grip.
“Here,” he murmurs. “Slow. Like this.”
His chin brushes Martin’s shoulder. His voice is low and patient. It’s deeply unfair.
Martin exhales, leaning back into him on instinct. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“Being hot while teaching me things.”
Seonghyeon smiles against his neck and kisses the sensitive spot just below Martin’s ear. “I literally can’t turn that off.”
Martin melts.
The onion does not survive.
The pan on the stove starts sizzling louder than it should. There’s a faint, suspicious smell.
“Is it supposed to be that color?” Martin asks, craning his neck.
Seonghyeon peers into the pan. Pauses. “…No.”
Smoke curls upward.
“Oh no.”
“Oh no.”
They spring into action like they know what they’re doing. Martin grabs the spatula. Seonghyeon reaches for the heat. Martin bumps the counter.
The flour bag goes flying.
It’s dramatic. Excessive. Almost beautiful.
White powder erupts into the air like it’s been waiting for this exact moment, coating the floor, the counter, Martin’s hair, and Seonghyeon’s sweater. Silence falls.
They stare at each other, frozen.
Martin blinks. “I think we summoned a ghost.”
Seonghyeon stares for half a second longer—then bursts out laughing. Full, unrestrained laughter, bending forward slightly like he can’t help it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Oh, I’m ridiculous?” Martin scoops flour and flicks it at him.
It lands square on Seonghyeon’s chest.
There’s a pause.
“…Okay,” Seonghyeon says slowly, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve chosen violence.”
The next five minutes are absolute chaos.
Flour handprints appear on cabinets. Martin shrieks as Seonghyeon chases him around the island. They slip a little, laugh harder, collide and cling to each other just to stay upright. At one point, Martin tries to escape and gets caught around the waist, lifted just enough to make him yelp.
“Put me down!”
“No.”
They end up pressed against the fridge, Martin pinned, Seonghyeon hovering over him, both of them dusted white like badly decorated cookies.
Martin grins down a little at him, breathless. “Still think cooking was a bad idea?”
Seonghyeon cranes his neck up and kisses him. Soft at first. Then deeper. Flour smears between them, warm hands at Martin’s waist, familiar and steady.
“I think,” Seonghyeon murmurs against his lips, “you’re a menace.”
“And you’re obsessed with me.”
“Hopelessly.”
They give up on the food soon after.
Takeout pizza and pasta are ordered. The kitchen remains a disaster, and neither of them cares.
They sit on the floor while they wait, backs against the cabinets, sharing a drink. Martin’s head rests on Seonghyeon’s shoulder, fingers loosely intertwined, thumbs brushing absentmindedly.
Outside, distant fireworks crackle early. Snow drifts slowly past the window.
Martin hums along to the music, softer now. “This is my favorite Christmas.”
Seonghyeon presses a kiss to his hair. “You say that every year.”
“Because,” Martin murmurs, smiling, “you keep being in it.”
The clock ticks closer to midnight.
“Ten seconds,” Martin whispers.
They count together, quietly, foreheads touching.
“…Three. Two. One.”
Fireworks burst brighter outside, filling the sky with light.
“Merry Christmas,” Seonghyeon says, kissing him slowly and surely, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Merry Christmas,” Martin replies, laughing softly between kisses.
Their food arrives minutes later. They move to the couch, wrapped in the same blanket, legs tangled, eating straight from the boxes. The tree lights blink lazily beside them.
The kitchen can wait.
They’ve already got everything they need.