December is icy wind cutting through thin-but-fashionable jackets and white snow turning into gray slush under the feet of everyday life. Christmas is annoying jingles in every store and taking display cases home for a kiss under the mistletoe. Working on Christmas used to be bittersweet because Yixing made extra money but had no time to buy presents. Now it's bittersweet because he has no one to buy presents for.

So after the rush of couples on romantic dates, after his manager and coworkers leave, he stands in the deserted cafe and stares at the falling snow outside, wondering if he too should leave.

As he wipes the counter one last time, he thinks of what's waiting for him in the apartment: an emptiness just like this, but a bit more depressing. He throws the rag into the sink and washes his hands. The warm water makes him realize how cold he is- his numb fingers tingle as if coming back to life and he waits for it to spread to the rest of him.

A sudden twinkling of the door bell shocks him and when he turns around, he's met by a tired looking man. Snow is melting in the man's black hair and his cheeks are rosy from the cold, but his doe eyes seem to be missing something. He looks like a beautiful doll that belongs on the dusty shelf of an antique store, so out of place under the cheerful and cheap fluorescent lights of the cafe.

“Are you still open?”

The glassiness in his eyes reflect the emptiness in Yixing's life and he finds himself saying, ”Yes, but there's not much left. What can I get you?”

“Coffee, please,” the man says as he settles into- crumples into- a seat near the window.

Yixing leans over the counter, reaching for the coffee pot and smiles, happy for once that he forgot to dump it out when cleaning up. He fills a chipped mug and walks over to the man, whose fingers absently toy with a keychain. Yixing spots the name “Luhan” printed on it, a slight smudge on the corner.

He sets the cup down. “Merry Christmas.”

The man, Luhan, tears his eyes away from the snowflakes dusting the sidewalk and looks at him as if surprised to see him there. “Huh?”

“My treat,” Yixing clarifies.

“Christmas is supposed to be this happy holiday,” Luhan says, staring back at the snow. “But look at us. It's pathetic. You- what's your name?”

“Yixing.”

“You, Yixing, you're working by yourself. And I'm here, drinking coffee by myself.”

And Yixing decides it's fate that led him to stay late so this stranger can have someone to talk to. He latches onto that idea quickly, hungry for the feeling of importance. “We're not alone. Not really,” he offers.

The other man takes a sip of the coffee. “You know what I've realized? Whenever someone dies of cancer in a book or movie, people always say it's cliché. They want to watch others die from more interesting and unique ways. Isn't that sick?” Luhan chuckles bitterly and Yixing doesn't reply. “But when it happens in real life, people cry and talk about how he was a fighter. They turn him into an inspiration, a lesson.” His voice remains flat, his eyes remain blank, but there's a slight tremor- a low rumbling before the avalanche. “Why can't we just keep him as a normal boy who cried when he was in pain, who wanted to give up but wanted to live and then died anyway?”

Yixing stares at the snow and tries to see what's so mesmerizing about it.

“I miss him,” Luhan whispers to the cup of stale coffee.

“What's his name?”

“Minseok.”