“About what happened earlier,” Yixing starts, pausing over his words, unsure of how to do this.
    

    He’s not even sure why he had agreed to accompany Jongdae back to his apartment after their impromptu snowball fight, but he had, and now here he is.
    

    Jongdae stops in the motion of unlocking his door, glancing over his shoulder at Yixing, and Yixing takes in his askew beanie, how the cold outside has turned his nose red, hair curling against his temple from underneath his hat, scarf still wound around his throat, eyelashes long and dark as he blinks at him.

    Unbeknownst to Yixing, Jongdae is doing the same thing, drinking in the pink dusting the tops of Yixing’s cheeks, the scarf hanging loosely around his neck, revealing the sharp lines of collarbones, dark hair curling in a bang over one eye, the lines of his arms and waist hidden underneath his huge coat that swallows him.

    And Jongdae is looking for something, something Jongdae thinks he glimpsed earlier.

    And then Jongdae is turning away again, and Yixing can't finish his thought.

    The lock on the door clicks open, and there’s no plausible reason as to why that sound sends both nervousness and anticipation surging through Yixing’s stomach.

    Jongdae swings the door open.

    “Come on in,” Jongdae says, not waiting to hear Yixing’s reply as he moves into the apartment.

    And Yixing should be saying no.

    Should be saying, “I’ll see you later.”

    Should be saying, “I have to run.”

    But he’s not, and he doesn’t know why.

    Instead, Yixing is following Jongdae through the door, heart pounding in his chest, a drop of snow that has melted sliding down the back of his neck from his hair.

    It’s the first time he’s seen Jongdae’s apartment, despite being invited over numerous times.

    There’s a small living room directly in front of Yixing, a coffee table full of magazines and school books in sight.

    Yixing steps further inside, gingerly making his way past several pairs of shoes that clutter the entranceway.

    It doesn’t escape his notice that some of the shoes look too large for Jongdae.

    Jongdae is trying to clear the mess in the living room, still swathed in his winter clothes, grabbing items from where they’re thrown over the couch.

    As Yixing moves further inside, more of the apartment comes into view.

    It looks like a kitchen lies to the right of the living room, and a few other doors are closed to the left.

    There’s a small end table to the right of the front door, lined with picture frames and other knick-knacks.

    Yixing waits patiently near the front door, waiting for Jongdae to finish cleaning up, and leans closer to look at the pictures.

    The first one is of Jongdae and the boy that Yixing recognizes to be Chanyeol, the pair of them posing comically in front of a building, holding each other by the waist and laughing, and Yixing’s eyes linger on the image a beat longer than he means to.

    Another photo is just of Jongdae, noticeably younger, a graduation cap perched lopsidedly on his head, a diploma clutched in both hands, kitten-lipped smile aimed straight at the camera.

    Yixing blinks at the picture because something is different and he can’t quite put a finger on it.

    He glances quickly at the present Jongdae, who’s shoving a bunch of empty beer bottles behind a couch cushion, and then back at the frame, and he realizes what it is.

    The younger Jongdae has glasses.

    “He must have contacts now,” Yixing thinks vaguely, eyes moving to another picture.

    This one is of Jongdae and who Yixing assumes is his family, a younger boy and girl that look like Jongdae on either side of him, his father and mother behind them.

    A brief, familiar pang of homesickness flits through Yixing’s gut, and he moves his eyes back to the living room.

    Jongdae is still moving around the room, and Yixing realizes that he hasn’t removed his shoes yet, so he slips them off, ignoring how his socks aren’t matching, one blue and the other green.

    Against his conscious, Yixing shuffles closer into the apartment, moving past the entryway and into the edge of the living room, still clad in his coat and scarf and gloves.

    “I should get going,” he says, the words he should’ve said two minutes ago finally leaving his mouth.

    Jongdae looks up from straightening the coffee table, a small frown creasing his forehead right between his eyebrows.

    Yixing clenches his fingers into fists inside his coat pockets.

    “You just got here,” Jongdae argues. He moves over to the window on the far wall, peeking out between the blinds.

    “And it’s a blizzard out there right now,” he adds, and now 

    Yixing frowns, also moving to look out of the window.

    Jongdae isn’t lying.

    The small snow fall that had been occurring earlier has transformed into a blustering winds, sheets of snow-type of storm, snowflakes whipping past the window, the street lights outside barely visible, and Yixing steps back, feeling the cold even through a pane of glass.

    This is not good.

    “Relax Yixing,” his brain says, almost sarcastically. “You’re inside a warm apartment, with food probably, in the middle of a blizzard. Stop thinking so much.”

    Yixing sighs, nevertheless still slightly on edge for reasons he can’t seem to think of right now.

    Jongdae grins at him, a kitten-lipped smile just like in his high school graduation photo, and Yixing feels his stomach dip.

    “Do you want something to drink?” Jongdae asks, fingers tugging at his scarf. “I have coffee?”

    Yixing sighs again, his own hands moving to remove his own winter clothes, vaguely noticing that Jongdae’s socks are pink.

    “Sure,” Yixing answers, fingers fumbling on the knot in his scarf.

    Jongdae disappears into the kitchen, and Yixing throws his scarf onto the back of the couch, still a little too cold to remove his coat and gloves.

    He sits down, foot tapping against the floor, listening to the sound of a coffee grinder start up, feeling his pulse rush through his veins, heart working a little too hard considering the situation.

    Just friends, that’s what Jongdae had promised him outside.

    Yixing forces himself to relax, forces his muscles to unwind, force himself to settle back against the couch.

    It’s easier thought of than done.

    So Yixing focuses on the snowflakes blowing past outside, Jongdae having pulled the blinds open.

    It’s all white, white, white, and it helps blanket the thoughts that replay over and over in the back of Yixing’s mind, covers them up neatly with a numbness that comes with the cold and the white, like the blank spaces between the lines on a piece of notebook paper, like the fresh coat of paint Yixing had just recently smeared over the walls in his tiny bathroom, like the feeling you got when you could just lie down and cover your face with your blankets and let sleep drag you down and away.

    The sound of the coffee grinder stops, the silence jarring Yixing out of thoughts of snow and forgetting, and he straightens from where he’s slumped against the couch, tugs at the collar of his coat, the fabric too tight around his neck.

    Jongdae pads back into the living room, two steaming mugs gripped between slender fingers, and settles down on the couch, far enough away for Yixing to feel okay.

    “Here,” Jongdae says, handing over one mug, paint chipping around the edges, a fat, painted panda decorating the face of the cup.

    “Tao gave it to me as a Christmas present last year,” Jongdae explains, noticing Yixing’s eyes on the mug décor.

    Yixing nods, unsure of what to say next, and takes a sip of the coffee.

    It’s a little bit too strong for his liking, but Yixing swallows the sip anyways, eyes averted as Jongdae leans back on the couch, letting his head loll against the headrest.

    It’s quiet for a half a minute as the two drink, the only noise the howling of the wind outside and the faint sounds of traffic through the storm.

    “So,” Jongdae finally says, breaking the awkward silence, and Yixing turns his head barely to glance at him sideways, “have you ever seen Lord of the Rings?”
 

Sehun opens the door to his apartment slowly, his head aching from the amount of crying he had accomplished on the way home, avoiding the glances of strangers on the subway.