‘What?’ Donghae says, faintly. He’s standing in the doorway, staring at Hyukjae with wide eyes, and Hyukjae’s chest is restricting so much from panic and love and fear that it feels like he can’t breathe. Donghae’s eyes dart from the flowers in Hyukjae’s hand to the box of chocolates, and back to Hyukjae’s face again.

‘These- these are for you,’ Hyukjae says shakily, holding them out.

‘What?’ Donghae says again, and it’s barely more than a whisper.

‘I-’ Hyukjae says it again, clearer this time, although the bouquet is quivering in his hand between them. ‘I love you. I- I’m in love with you.’

Donghae points at his own chest, as if there might be some mistake, as if Hyukjae might have driven there to confess to some other Donghae, and not the one standing there in his fluffy blue pajamas with messy hair and round eyes.

‘Me?’ Donghae says. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you idiot,’ Hyukjae says, and he wishes Donghae would take the flowers or the chocolates or that he’d ask him in, or do something, because Hyukjae is pretty sure he’s going to start to cry right there in the hallway if Donghae leaves him hanging much longer.

‘I-’ Donghae says again, and , now his voice is shaking as well, and he’s still looking so shocked that Hyukjae can’t tell if he’s happy or if he’s angry or-

And then Donghae is pushing the bouquet aside, flinging his arms around Hyukjae’s neck and holding him so tight that Hyukjae staggers. His own arms come up to clutch at Donghae, flowers and chocolates dropping forgotten to the floor. They sway there, Donghae in his slippers and Hyukjae in his best clothes.

‘I love you,’ Hyukjae says again, muffled by the soft blue of Donghae’s pajamas. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken me this long. I love you, and even if you don’t feel the same way, I had to tell you.’

‘,’ Donghae says, sniffling. ‘Do you have any idea- I thought you’d fallen for someone else.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Hyukjae says again, pulling back to peer into Donghae’s face. ‘Can we- can we go inside?’

Donghae realizes for the first time they are in full view of everyone (or at least they would be, if everyone else had not gone home for Christmas) and he steps back into his room, holding the door open for Hyukjae. Hyukjae scoops the flowers up and tries to straighten the crumpled bows.

‘Since you picked them, I hope you like them,’ he says. Donghae takes them as carefully as if they were made of glass, tipping all Kyuhyun’s pens and pencils out of the jar on his desk so he can fill it with water. Reverently he places the bouquet on his bedside table.

‘I love them,’ he says, fervently. It’s still the same ugly, wilted bunch of flowers with mustard coloured bows, but somehow, because they’re especially for him, they’re beautiful. Hyukjae blushes and stares down at his damp socks. Usually he’d