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i.
The lanterns along the street glowed like tiny little suns, scattering orange light over the snow. It clung to everything – the parked cars, the vending machines, even Ivan’s hair. The air shimmered faintly, not from heat, but from the illusion of it. Warmth, made from the colour of the lamps and the quiet, wrapped around them and the city. It was getting closer to midnight, and the temperature kept sinking well below zero, but the stillness made it feel almost tender.
Till had never seen the streets this empty. Even the usual hum of vending machines seemed muted, as if the city itself was sleeping under a thick blanket of silence. Their footsteps echoed softly –shff, shff– down the street, and the sound felt infinite.
Ivan walked ahead, kicking up clouds of snowflakes with each step, stomping his feet into the ground and leaving deep outlines of his shoes in the snow. He turned, grinning. His snaggletooth caught the streetlight, and for a moment Till thought he’d never seen anyone look so happy and alive.
He wondered if they would keep walking like this forever, with frozen cheeks and red noses, through a night that seemed to have no end. Maybe this was what eternity felt like – cold, quiet, and strangely kind.
“Come on, slowpoke,” Ivan called, his voice misted by the cold.
Till smiled faintly. He always did when Ivan looked back at him like that; as if he were the only thing in the world worth waiting for. A pocky stick dangling between his lips.
They had stopped at the convenience store earlier, where warm air and the smell of instant curry had clung to their coats. The clerk had been half-asleep behind the counter but had still managed a gentle eoseo oseyo. Ivan had made a point of buying every sweet Till glanced at (Pepero, MyChew, and even a small box of Choco Heim).
“You’ll get cavities,” Till had murmured.
“Only your smile can get me cavities,” Ivan had said, loud enough for the clerk to raise an eyebrow.
Till had blushed, which only made Ivan grin wider, and Till wanted to knock off that grin.
He opened his candy, popped the fizzy sweet into his mouth, and followed Ivan’s footprints into the snow. The fizz on his tongue felt like electricity: fleeting, bright, alive.
Till stopped for a moment and looked back. The store was still visible from here, lit by the pale glow of its neon signs all alone in the dark. Through the window, he could see the clerk still in the same place, tidying the counter under the harsh white light. The world felt impossibly far and heartbreakingly close, all at once.
Ivan turned around, his face catching the neon light, breath glowing faintly in the air. He stepped closer, too close, until his breath hit the side of Till’s neck. The metal buttons of his coat brushed against Till’s sleeve. Ivan reached out, brushing his gloved fingers against Till’s. It wasn’t a full touch, it was as if Ivan was asking him a question.
Even though the temperatures fell well below zero, Till’s chest felt warm in a way vending machines couldn’t manage. Maybe forever wouldn’t be so bad, if it was like this.
ii.
Their flat was small, but warm, and cluttered with things that mattered. The television played an old New Year’s variety show on mute, while their window was fogged by the steam from the kettle that Ivan adored for its funny gurgling noises.
Till lay on the couch, his head on a cushion, reading a worn paperback. Ivan sat beside him on the floor, cross-legged, next to a stack of unpacked moving boxes and their tiny, half decorated Christmas tree, trimming his fringe with nail scissors.
Till watched him from the edge of his book. “You’re going to make it uneven.”
“Then I’ll be symmetrical on the inside,” Ivan simply replied.
Till wondered how much sense that made, and came to the conclusion that only Ivan could come up with such nonsense. It made no logic, yet it made perfect logic in Ivan’s head. Till's lips curved, unwillingly, into a small smile. He set his book on the couch and slid down to the floor, gently taking the nail scissors from Ivan’s hand. Ivan closed his eyes, and put out a hum in satisfaction. If Ivan were a cat, he would definitely purr.
It wasn’t the first time Till had cut his hair. He gathered strand after strand of his coal-black fringe with familiar practice, trimming them with careful precision, trying to make the edges even. He could feel Ivan watching him through the strands of his own half-cut hair. His gaze had weight; heavy, unrelenting, almost devotional. Till felt it even when he didn’t meet it.
Sometimes Ivan would reach over without warning, brushing a stray hair from Till’s cheek, and resting his palm at the nape of his neck. Just like now, when his hands found their place on Till’s thighs, drawing small patterns with his fingers into the fabric of his sweatpants.
Ivan’s touch wasn’t always gentle. Sometimes, it was hungry, pleading, almost demanding, as though he was memorising something before it could disappear. Always afraid of losing something, something neither of them could name.
Till used to flinch at Ivan’s touch. He didn’t anymore.
iii.
The clock above the microwave blinked 1:07 a.m. in tired green digits. The snow outside had stopped, leaving the world muffled and pale. The kitchen light buzzed faintly – a single bulb flickering every now and then, as if it too were half-asleep.
Till was tapping with his foot against the kitchen floor, hair messy, wearing a hoodie that wasn’t his, with sleeves that hung too long on his arms. He stared into the half-empty fridge as if it were a philosophical question. Behind him, Ivan padded in barefoot, his sweater inside out, eyes heavy with sleep.
“Are you thinking of running away,” he asked, voice rough, “or just starving us?”
Till didn’t turn around. “Neither. I’m trying to figure out what can actually be cooked with four eggs, soy sauce, and half a cabbage.”
Ivan leaned against the doorframe, smiling like he’d found the whole situation charming. “That’s the spirit of Christmas.”
“It’s the twenty-eighth.”
“Then it’s the spirit of something else,” Ivan murmured, rummaging through a drawer until he found a single packet of instant noodles. He held it up, triumphant. “See? We’ll feast.”
Till sighed but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m resourceful,” Ivan replied.
He set the packet on the counter next to the eggs, squinting at the mismatched ingredients. “Alright, new plan. We’re making omurice.”
Till leaned against the fridge, with a facial expression of someone questioning all their life choices. “Omurice? At one in the morning?”
Ivan grinned. “The most romantic hour for eggs.”
Till rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the amused smile tugging at his lips. “You do realise we have no chicken?”
“Then it’s vegetarian omurice. See? Adaptability.”
The pan hissed as Ivan poured in too much oil. He swirled it around like a professional chef – or someone pretending to be one – and nearly dropped the ladle when a bit splattered onto his wrist.
“Jesus, that’s hot–”
Till stepped forward instinctively, taking Ivan’s hand. “You dumbass,” he said quietly, checking his skin. It was fine, barely red.
Ivan smiled, slow and crooked. “You worry too much.”
Till looked up. Their eyes locked for a moment, longer than necessary, and Ivan glanced at him as though he was about to say something, but Till then let go of his hand. “Well, someone has to.”
“Right,” Ivan said, clearing his throat. “Well, uh, rice first.”
He reached for the leftover rice container in the fridge, opened it, and sniffed. “It’s fine.”
“Isn’t it like three days old?”
“Adds flavour.”
Till sighed, but he was already smiling again.
The smell of frying rice and soy sauce filled the small flat, warm and oddly comforting. Till stood beside Ivan now, stirring quietly while Ivan hovered behind him, chin resting on his shoulder, looping his arms loosely around Till’s waist from behind.
“You’re too close,” Till muttered, halfheartedly.
“I can’t see otherwise,” Ivan said, his breath brushing against Till’s neck.
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t. You’re blocking the view.”
Till laughed under his breath. Ivan was way taller than him. “You’re impossible.”
“No,” Ivan replied as a matter of fact, “I’m in love.” Simple as that.
The words slipped out so easily that Till almost didn’t react. He only stirred slower, watching the rice turn golden in the pan, the sound of it crisping soft against the kitchen window.
When the eggs finally hit the pan, Ivan took over and immediately tore one in half trying to flip it.
It was a disaster, Till though.
The omelette was folded, barely, over the rice. The ketchup bottle made a soft glurp as Ivan drew a lopsided heart on top.
He turned to Till with mock pride. “A masterpiece.”
Till raised an eyebrow. “It looks like roadkill.”
“Eat it with love,” Ivan said when they finally sat down, sliding the plate across the counter.
Till took a bite, then another. “It’s actually not bad.”
Ivan leaned in, eyes bright. “Really?”
Till nodded. “It tastes like one in the morning.”
Ivan laughed – loud and warm and genuine. The sound filled their small kitchen, and something in Till too.
They shared that same bowl between them, legs dangling under the counter. Ivan insisted on feeding Till the first bites, making a mess of it. But the food was warm and actually not that bad, and they were laughing.
When they were done, Ivan took the fork and tapped it gently against Till’s wrist. “See? Told you it’d be romantic.”
Till smiled, tired and small and real. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m your idiot.”
You really are.
But Till didn’t answer. He only reached out, brushed a bit of rice from Ivan’s sleeve, and whispered, “Your sweater is inside out.”
The clock blinked: 1:40 a.m. The world outside was asleep.
Ivan rested his head on the table, eyes half-closed. “Let’s never move out of this place.”
Till glanced around – the one chipped tile, the flickering bulb, the rattling windows showing the snow yet again. “You’ll hate it after two weeks,” he said.
“Maybe,” Ivan murmured. “But right now it’s perfect.”
Till didn’t argue. He just reached out, brushed a few strands of Ivan’s cut fringe from his forehead, and smiled to himself.
Seoul kept glowing outside the cold window, indifferent and endless as always.
But their kitchen was warm enough inside.
iv.
Till watched a snowstorm unfurl outside of his living room window the whole morning. It stopped in the afternoon. By that time, his windowsill was covered in fifty centimetres of thick, cold snow. And Seoul was just as white and pale as his windowsill, while he was wrapped in a blanket and the smell of instant ramen on the couch table. Ivan lay half across his lap, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. Every so often, he’d glance up just to watch Till, him existing: the way his lips parted slightly when he read, the small furrow of his brow.
When Till noticed, he sighed. “You’re staring again.”
Ivan pursed his lips. He took his time to stare into Till's eyes. Unsettling. “Sometimes… sometimes, I’m afraid that you’re suddenly not going to be here, if I look away.”
Till let the words sink into his head. Ivan logic. He snorted, setting his book aside. “I won’t go anywhere, you know. You don’t have to keep looking to make sure.”
Ivan avoided his gaze, his snaggletooth digging into his bottom lip. He looked over Till’s shoulder. “The ramen’s ready.”
Till looked closely, and saw it then – something mismatched, something utterly wrong in Ivan’s face that he didn't like at all . He reached out, brushed his fingers through Ivan’s hair and leaned down to kiss the crown of his head. Ivan froze. It wasn’t much, but it was everything.
They ate in silence. The ramen cup was warm between their hands.
Till suddenly rose, unfinished ramen in one hand, and started rummaging with the other through their moving boxes that were still lined up beside their couch. A grin illuminated his face when he held up triumphantly what he was looking for.
“Wanna play Super Smash Bros?”
Ivan was smiling again. And Till liked him best that way.
(Till beat him, eventually. He won 89-70. And Ivan wasn’t even mad.)
v.
Ivan got Till out of the apartment at some point. They spent their evening walking through the city park, where the snow lay barely touched except for their footprints. Till turned his head every so often just to see the line of their treads engraved beside one another. Fairy lights hung from trees, the branches heavy with frost. Ivan bought two cups of sweet, steaming sikhye from a stall and pressed one into Till’s hands.
Till took a sip and scrunched his face. “That’s too sweet.”
Ivan laughed. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Till raised a brow. He knew what’s coming next. “Why?”
“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever had.”
Till groaned, trying to hide his smile behind the cup. “Shut up.”
Ivan leaned closer, so close Till could feel the warmth of his breath against his ear. “Make me then.”
Till didn't answer. In Ivan's eyes, he thought he saw something more, something Ivan wasn’t ready to say aloud. Something Till wasn’t sure he was ready to hear.
He turned away, letting the steam from the cup rise into his face like a veil. The fairy lights overhead swayed in the breeze, their glow softening into a haze. He could feel Ivan watching him as constant as the cold air biting at the tips of his ears.
Till tried to steady the restless twitch in his chest. He had always been good at running loops in his own mind, but tonight the paths kept circling back to the same place: the way Ivan settled something in him he hadn’t noticed was tense. The way Ivan leaned in as though drawn by something gentle, inevitable. And the way Till didn’t step back.
He hated how easily Ivan could shake him– and loved it, in the same slow, terrifying breath.
The snow under their feet gave a soft, muffled crackle as they started walking again. Till wasn’t sure if he moved first or if Ivan did. They fell into step naturally, in their own uneven, quiet way. How they’d been doing it for years.
Till glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Ivan’s expression was unreadable in the dim light: calm, thoughtful, a little softer than usual. It made Till’s heart stutter, just once, like a skipped beat he hoped Ivan hadn’t noticed.
It unsettled him, because it felt familiar, like something, a word, he had been trying to remember for years.
He looked away, pretending to focus on the drifting steam from his cup, but the real reason pressed against his ribs, on his tongue, against his lips, trying to escape. The lights blurred a little in his eyes, dangling and dancing above him. Till looked away, but he wasn’t sure why.
When he finally dared to glance back, Ivan was still watching him with that patient, almost tender expression, like he knew exactly what Till was wrestling with and wasn’t going to rush him through it.
Till swallowed, the warmth of the sikhye lingering on his tongue. He knew it meant something. He just wasn’t sure what it was yet.
Ivan didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t need to.
vi.
It was midnight when the snowstorm came back, thick and soundless and coating. Flakes clung to the window, tracing the glass, fast and harshly. The streetlight burned softly through the frost, spilling the amber light over their room – a small, human warmth against the cold outside.
But Till's attention was elsewhere. They were in bed, face to face, under thick covers, sharing the same space for breathing. Till moved his head closer until their lips were almost touching. Almost– when he brushed his over the outline of Ivan’s, not letting them settle fully onto his. Ivan whined beneath him.
“Stop teasing. How can you do this to me? You’re so cruel,” he muttered, his voice half a plea.
Till chuckled and pressed his lips against Ivan’s in a gross, sloppy kiss. Ivan moaned in satisfaction, biting at Till’s lower lip as if he was trying to get a taste of him.
“You’re so cute, Till,” he mumbled, his words spilling into Till’s mouth. “Sometimes I just want to eat you, so we can be together forever.”
Till snapped his eyes open the same moment he pushed Ivan’s face away. “Do you even hear yourself sometimes?”
Ivan looked up at him with those same hopelessly big, puppy eyes.
“No. Only you.”
Something flipped inside of Till. He opened his mouth, but realised there was nothing on his mind, and closed it again, like a fish. He probably looked ridiculous like this, but Ivan didn’t seem to care. Instead, he craned his neck forward and pressed a kiss against Till’s wrist. The warmth of it tickled, small and fleeting.
Only you.
He ran the words in his head, trying to figure out what they meant, what they could mean. Till’s chest tightened, overwhelming, almost disbelieving warmth of recognising something he had been chasing in other faces, other laughs, other hands.
Only me.
Till had spent so long searching for someone who felt like home, mistaking intensity for warmth, mistaking distraction for affection, mistaking almosts for the real thing, and never were they certainties. He’d wandered through people the way one wanders through dim rooms, hoping one door would open into something steady, something true. But it wasn’t there.
But Ivan– Ivan didn’t feel like a door he needed to open.
Ivan was the room he had entered without noticing a long time ago.
And Till said the only thing he could have: “I– I love you. You know that, right?” A whisper, at last, maybe a little too quietly.
But Ivan’s face still lit up like a Christmas tree. He laughed, short, breathlessly, before wrapping those absurdly long arms around Till and pulling him even closer. The movement had something childlike in it.
“I want to stay here forever with you. Can we stay here forever?” he murmured into Till’s neck.
Till didn’t answer. He only buried his face in Ivan’s soft hair, breathing in the faint scent of his shampoo and winter air. His hands moved slowly along Ivan’s back, drawing small, soothing circles.
Ivan truly brought out the worst in him.
vii.
Throughout his life, he has always seen them: couples, clutching each other's hands, looking in the eyes, lovely, being together.
Throughout his life, he always feared never meeting her. Never meeting him.
And for a longer time in his life, Till thought: Mizi was her.
But then he met Sua. He saw her and Mizi together. And Till realised a lot of things then. About himself too.
He understood that love doesn't have to be something pretending to be certainty, because it never is. It could be the hesitation, the repressed, dragged words, the silent comfort of another’s nearness. It could be simple, unannounced, without reason or design.
What he wanted was not the figure he had been chasing. Not the idea of love as he had been taught to imagine it. It was this – the quiet knowing, the ease, the way his thoughts came to rest when it came to him.
Till looked at Ivan. Ivan, who hogged the blankets at night. Ivan, who crooked him his customised smile, only for him. Ivan looked back at Till. And Till's stomach did that thing again. His heart fluttered a bit.
Ivan made a lot of things more bearable. Till was happier, for it in ways he never examined too closely.
Quite dashing, the way he is.
viii.
Ivan and Till are watching fireworks crackle faintly over the river. New Year's air was sharp and cold outside on the balcony, but the huge blanket they snatched from the couch was warm and shooting around them. The light turned the snow pink, then gold, then white again. They were breathing the same air, bracing in their noses, making them feel alive.
Ivan slid an arm around Till’s waist, pulling him close. His hands were cold, but his chest was warm where Till rested his head.
“Do you think we’ll still be here next year?” Ivan murmured.
Do you think we’ll be the same next year?
Till smiled. “Where else would we go?”
What else would we be?
Ivan exhaled, disguising his worry behind a laugh. “Just making sure.”
The karaoke machine inside was still on, mixed with the vibrant sound of laughter and voices.
Luka's footsteps approached the half-open balcony window. “How long are they gonna stand there – it's fucking freezing here; like, at least close the door or something."
A cork flew against the window, barely missing Luka, making him jump like a cat, startled.
“Ay, Luka, let them be – come here!” Hyuna swung the bubbly bottle around, shouting jubilantly, “Who wants champagne?”
Mizi's laughter was loud and clear as she said, “Hyuna, the floor! They just moved in here!” and Sua pressed her drunkenly pink cheeks further into Mizi's chest, a content smile spread out on her face.
Hyuna turned towards the TV. “Guys! You guys, the countdown is nearly starting– get your glasses here!”
Steps scuffed across the floor, glasses colliding in a bright clamor.
Ivan looked below. There was Seoul – vast and loud and colourful. Till looked at Ivan, at the streetlights caught in the edges of his face, fireworks and the night stars reflecting in his black eyes. Ivan looked over at Till. And Till saw it then. There was that same devotion, bright and unguarded.
There were universes in Ivan’s body.
Till sucked his breath. For a moment it felt like the whole city had paused to share their silence: two figures wrapped in a light made of carbon and copper, learning what forever might mean.
Maybe in another life, Till would have avoided his gaze, too scared of how much Ivan could mean to him, and turned away, ready to run back and leave him behind.
But this time, Till didn’t run away. This time, Till pulled Ivan by the shoulders and without any warning slammed his lips on Ivan’s – a sudden collision of everything he hadn’t said. Ivan’s eyes widened, and the world around them snapped back into motion. His insides felt like a burst of hundreds of emotions and thoughts at the same time.
A firework exploded right in front of their balcony – all fizzling and bright in every direction, ringing in their ears – and it felt like releasing the breath you’ve been holding for too long.
ix.
Say we never get to see it: bright
future, stuck like a bum star, never
coming close, never dazzling.
Say we never meet her. Never him.
Say we spend our last moments staring
at each other, hands knotted together,
clutching the stars, watching the sky burn.
Say, it doesn’t matter. Say, that would be
enough. Say you’d still want this: us alive,
right here, feeling lucky.