It is a cold February night almost like any other. Soft snowflakes cascade gently from darkened heavens, drifting lazily upon the wings of chilly winds. Their translucent bodies glisten in the faint streetlights –pinpricks of stars that have fallen from the velvet sky above–, before their fragile forms dissolve upon contact mere seconds after. A casual but constant stream of people huddled together fill the damp streets –voices low and heads bowed–, their boots methodically clicking against the cold concrete as they hurry along to escape the cold winter air. The warm glow and gentle melodies from the stores along the otherwise dark streets enticing, drawing a few of those passing by into their midst like entranced moths towards a steady flame. The only difference today is how the unusually thick crowd is occasionally peppered with brilliant spots colours – splatters of vibrant reds, yellows, and pinks stark contrasts against the dreariness that normally characterises the season.

Weaving none too gracefully between the bodies of strangers, a flustered man tries to untangle himself from the unending sea of people. He finally stumbles onto a small path, releasing a small sigh of relief when he escapes the bustling throng, and into the city’s garden. He follows the trail to a non-descript tree, branches stripped by the harsh winter, and bare bark whitewashed by a thin layer of freshly fallen snow, but still proudly standing with outstretched fingers grazing the starless heavens while it awaits the kiss of spring. “I’m so sorry for being late,” his now numb lips struggle slightly to enunciate. “My boss insisted I finish up my work for the week, yes on a Saturday too, can you believe it? And I now remember how big a nightmare public transport is on holidays,” he continues, still somewhat breathless from manoeuvring the holiday crowd – every other word punctuated by a wispy puff that dissipates lazily into the stagnant air, but thankful that his speech is starting to flow more naturally again. Hakyeon sheepishly raises the small (and slightly wrinkled) bouquet previously hidden in the crook of his arm, almost as if a peace offering for his tardiness –for he knows how the other hates it when he is late–, its brightly coloured mixture of less conspicuous flowers framing half a dozen vivid red roses in the centre unnaturally striking against the almost barren garden. Hakyeon feels his fingers move to nervously readjust the beanie that sits lopsided on his mussed hair, suddenly self-conscious in anticipation of a reply. Receiving none, he lets an expression of mock indignation cross his features and releases an exaggerated gasp, eyes now twinkling with playfulness as he attempts to deliver a light hit as a punishment. “Not even a word of comfort to your boyfriend who braved all that to see you huh,” he teases, a full grin easily stretching across his face. “How ungrateful!” Without waiting for a response this time, he turns on his heels and heads towards the exit, calling out the words, “Let’s hurry or we won’t be able to make our reservation!” over his shoulder as the only warning before he starts off towards the next destination.

Hakyeon stands outside a quaint restaurant hidden behind the main street, nestled comfortably in a corner next to a (now closed) rustic bookstore. Its appearance is plain –some may even go so far to call it dated, much to Hakyeon’s chagrin– when compared to the usual garish décor of its more trendy counterparts. “But that is what makes this place charming!” Hakyeon retorts adamantly whenever a naysayer tries to argue otherwise, the finality in his voice usually prompting an abrupt end to what may have very well been the start of a particularly unpleasant argument. He waits patiently until an overworked but cheery server shows him to his usual spot – a cosy table for two near the back, hugged by full-length windows overlooking the restaurant’s small but well-kept private garden, and shadowed by the tender crinkling of lush notes coaxed from the grand piano behind them. He looks around, appreciative of how the quiet ambience is still present despite the full seating. He smiles happily, feeling the tension from his earlier haste evaporate into the soft echo of music. The adagio gradually gives way to the melody as it reaches a crescendo, the hum of each chord resonating within him, and prompting an involuntary shiver down his spine before the music plateaus once more, leaving behind a tingling that spreads to the tips of his fingers and toes before dissipating into his very veins, leaving him feeling strangely vacant yet surprisingly rejuvenated.

Hakyeon feels his gaze turn to the seat opposite his, and electricity surges through his body once more, causing his heart to flutter erratically against its cage. He feels like a love-struck teenager again – eyes slightly averted to his tightly clasped hands; palms sweaty in anticipation and nervousness; mouth dry and tongue swollen as he struggles to tame the torrent of words trapped in his constricted throat. He forces himself to look across the table anyway, a tinge of annoyance tugging at his lips as he wonders how his boyfriend of six years can still elicit a response he has thought was reserved only for youthful love. He resists the urge to hide his face as he feels a light blush spread –thankful for the thicker than usual layer of BB cream he has slathered on–, irritation long forgotten as he is struck with the realisation that this is probably what true love feels like. This time more resolutely chiding himself from falling into the role of a stereotypical drama lead, he turns away to signal a server, the brilliant smile that has found its way to his lips unwavering. The waitress who answers is an unfamiliar face, with hands neatly folded behind her back, and spine a little too stiff and straight. He fishes out a bottle of wine easily before whispering, “Help me pass a glass to Manager Seojun for allowing us to bring our own wine,” and finishing the request off with a cheeky wink. The server hesitates and looks over to her manager, her posture relaxing only when she receives permission to continue. She proceeds to remove the downturned glass opposite Hakyeon, only for him to move in to flip it around. “Fill both of them up,” he injects before looking across the table, a sly glint dancing in his eyes. “You aren’t getting away from drinking this time, Mister! I’ve been saving this bottle specially for this occasion!” His voice is firm, and gaze still trained across the table. The waitress looks rather perplexed at the situation, eyeing both sides of the table warily before swallowing her unvoiced concern. She fills both glasses up carefully, whispering a quiet, “Please enjoy,” before bowing a little too quickly as she takes her leave. Hakyeon pays no heed to the server’s behaviour, but waits for her to be out of earshot before continuing in a calmer tone, “You don’t have to drink much, Taekwoon.” He pauses, expression relaxing as he reaches for the crystal glass. “I just want tonight to be special that’s all, and you know how we only have alcohol for celebrations,” he lets the rest of his sentence drown in the viscous liquid, thoughts temporarily interrupted as he feels the silkiness pool in his mouth. He relishes in the initial bitterness stinging his tongue, waiting for his jaw to tighten slightly from reflex before swallowing, exhaling when the burn of alcohol disappears into his abdomen, leaving just a ghost of sweetness in its wake. “Besides, neither of us is driving today, and we don’t have to work tomorrow so don’t worry.” He swirls the liquid distractedly, leaving a glossy sheen of burgundy clinging to the glass, persistent until the first puncture evolves into a yawning gap that swallows the remainder, leaving the glass untainted once more. He looks up from his drink, unsatisfied at how the other wineglass is still untouched, and tries a different approach. He lets his tone fall a notch, baritone voice seamlessly complementing the gentle piano notes dancing in the background. He leans across the table, a smirk slowly forming, and whispers in a voice just loud enough to be heard above the ambient music, “You know how I’m more… Adventurous when I’m intoxicated.” He his chapped lips, balm worn off long ago by the biting wind, and his pulse a constant rhythm against the now mildly suffocating collar of his shirt. “It’ll save you some work later,” he teases suggestively, husky voice almost a purr. Hakyeon waits for a moment before leaning back into his seat in triumph, ignoring the disgruntled creak of wood from his sudden motion. He doesn’t wait for his smug grin to disappear before he signals to the server to take rest of the order.

Dinner goes by fairly uneventfully, and despite the warm buzz from his (overly) enthusiastic wine drinking, Hakyeon soon finds his skin rapidly cooling under the caress of the unrelenting winter chill. He wraps his wool coat tighter around his form, mentally kicking himself for skipping on thermal leggings. In his defence, he did try to squeeze into his black skinnies with said leggings, but after several futile laps of hopping around his room –and coming dangerously close to ruining his (and unsurprisingly Taekwoon’s) favourite pair of jeans–, he settled for vanity over practicality. “So much for hoping that looking hot in my jeans will make me feel somewhat hot as well,” he thinks a little sullenly to himself. Instead, he focuses on how his jeans snugly hugs his slender frame –especially accentuating his perky derriere–, and tries his best to keep his mind from wandering back to how the cold is steadily seeping through the fabric. He steals a glance next to him, complaint now temporarily forgotten, and heart rate a tad faster as he instinctively lingers on the balls of his feet with each step in attempt to elongate his legs. Mind preoccupied with maintaining his less than comfortable saunter, it takes a moment for Hakyeon to notice the heavy wool scarf curled around his bag’s handle. He stops sharply, eyes blinking in surprise before his features light up with an almost childish delight, and gratefully tugs it around his unprotected neck. Now nestled comfortably in the soft folds of the knitted material, he gratefully nuzzles into it, and feels the threads tickle his cold cheeks. He doesn’t hold back his ecstatic chuckle –the sudden sound startling the few passers-by who throw confused and irritated glances his way–, instead preferring to bask in the comforting scent of his lover. Suddenly, the cold doesn’t matter as much to Hakyeon anymore.

The sounds of boots echo in the now quieter streets – most people preferring to spend the rest of the night curled up in warmth at home than to brave the biting temperatures of Seoul’s winter nights. Hakyeon rubs his hands to alleviate the partial numbness spreading through his fingers, not wanting to voice his discomfort for fear of shortening the rare alone time he has been gifted. Between their jobs and other social commitments, it has been increasingly difficult trying to spend quality time together; frequent cancellations and last minute phone calls filled with apologises the new norm. Hakyeon would be lying if he didn’t admit he misses the days of blossoming romance, back when he and Taekwoon were almost inseparable – constant flurries of texts no matter how inane perpetuated their chain of intimacy, each message or call reverberating through the link that connected them, the vibrations a constant reminder of the other alongside their own heartbeats. He shakes his head when he feels a twinge of bittersweet nostalgia surface, forcefully halting its advance before the untimely floodgates of memories open, and very likely overshadowing a day that should be dedicated to creating its own host of joyous memories. Hakyeon inhales deeply, letting the cold dry air stifle the faded vestiges of days bygone, but only succeeds in marginally evening the palpitations in his chest. He looks up to the sky to clear his mind, and sees the sheer curtain of clouds part slightly to reveal a waning crescent peeking shyly from behind – its mellow glow almost warm against the cold air. He closes his eyes for a moment before exhaling slowly, his heated breath creating an amorphous cloud that lingers against his lips. He blows gaily sideways next, watching the trail of mist curl away from him, tail almost sneaking past his cheek before vanishing, leaving the remnants of his breath condensing on his lips. He pouts a little at his failed attempt, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with joy. “Almost got you,” he laughs light-heartedly, voice sweet and crisp in the almost silent night. “Too bad I don’t have the lungs of a singer and athlete, or you’ll be covered in a mist of my kisses by now!” He looks over, the last of his laughter still hanging in the air, and beams, “I’m getting a bit cold so let’s grab coffee, my treat!” He claps his hands once for emphasis, and starts towards the café nearby, leaving behind all incredulity at how a miser like himself would offer a treat of his own accord.

The café is the only establishment open on its street; its honey lights welcoming Hakyeon when he pushes the door open, and his senses are pleasantly met with the thick aroma of coffee mixed with the undertones of fresh bread and pastries. He eyes the cuckoo clock along the wall, a pang of disappointment evident on his face when he sees the intricate hands five minutes shy of closing. He heads over to the counter without so much as a glance at the menu, words already out of his mouth as he rattles off his order with practiced ease. The barista is a familiar face, already preparing the first drink before the cashier hands the receipt to Hakyeon. He waits patiently at an empty table –his usual spot unfortunately occupied–, enjoying the warm embrace of familiarity – the worn wooden furniture that feels sturdier than it looks; the panelled walls decorated with ceiling high murals, hand painted by a talented employee; the deep metallic ring of the antique cash register passed down from the owner’s grandmother; small glass bottles filled with stalks of lavender the centrepiece of each table, their uplifting scent refreshing against the hearty aroma of coffee. He absentmindedly runs his finger along the cracked wood, tracing the glazed rings of the ancient tree that was felled, almost as if willing his memories into the grooves of petrified wood, immortalising them for fear that they would one day disappear into the earth. He barely has time to reminiscence further before the barista calls his name, two steaming cups dressed neatly in cardboard slips in his hands. Hakyeon hurries over, a grateful smile on his lips as he receives the drinks. “So much caffeine this late?” The barista asks good-naturedly, an eyebrow arched in question. “There’s no need to wake early tomorrow, and the night is still young,” Hakyeon replies, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The barista laughs knowingly, but can’t resist a jibe towards his regular, “Knowing you, half a cup is more than enough to keep you awake for a couple of days, let alone this much coffee!” Hakyeon laughs good-naturedly in response, “For me maybe, but Taekwoon is pretty much immune to coffee so he’ll finish my share,” he tilts his head in indication, “Right?” He grins, and moves to take his leave, but not before calling out a string of thanks and compliments to the surprised barista. He shouts a “Happy Valentine’s Day!” just before he exits the store, leaving the somewhat perturbed man half-heartedly returning the greeting to the closing door, a slight frown apparent on his face.

Hakyeon ambles along leisurely, his cup of coffee an assuring warmth in his palm. A calm blanket of silence envelops him, its presence more peaceful than jarring, removing the need to fill the emptiness with clumsy and unnecessary words. He swirls the sweet liquid in his mouth, enjoying how it washes away the bitter staleness from the wine earlier. Its heat initially scalds him, the pain shocking his form dulled with cold from its languor, but gradually diminishes to that of an almost homely touch, leaving him encased in a cocoon of lingering warmth that subdues the frigid bite. Hakyeon sighs contentedly, and steals a glance beside him, the sight making his smile widen. Before long, he feels a fuzzy ball of warmth settle in his chest – an orb of light that is a product of not only the latte growing inside him, each pulse cleansing the pricks of fatigue from his muscles, and breathing a new life into his tired and cold limbs. He presses his tongue against the ceiling of his mouth, the acidic aftertaste and caffeine sharpening his senses in tandem, and he watches the last of his foggy stupor evaporate. He feels his steps grow lighter, and his mind drifts to how weekly walks with Taekwoon used to be a routine – they would always circle the park near their complex, preferring to start later in the night to avoid the main crowd, the peace and quiet conducive for light conversation as they walked off the bloat from their dinner. Even in summer, they would end their night walks with a cup of coffee each – Taekwoon subtly manoeuvring them to the nearest café, and Hakyeon noticing from the start, but playing along, making a fuss only when they have reached their destination, but too proud to ask for a decaffeinated version when placing his order. The cycle became one of the few constants in Hakyeon’s life, whose job in advertising necessitates constant travels. When Taekwoon got promoted to an understudy in a popular musical troupe, it became more difficult to align their schedules, and the habit soon fell apart due to a mixture of divergence and inertia. Hakyeon tips the cup against his lips, downing the last drops of his beverage before releasing a satisfied hum. He shakes the empty paper cup triumphantly, causing a hollow whistle of air to echo inside in the process. “Told you I can finish a whole thing by myself!” He smiles victoriously. “Sure, it only took me six years, but I told you that I’ll be able to do it one day!” He looks at the other cup, fingers moving to tentatively shake it; the heavy slosh of liquid inside more than enough an indicator. “Have you not been touching your drink?” He opens the lid, and looks incredulously at its contents. “Don’t tell me you need my help to finish it?” Hakyeon wiggles his eyebrows obnoxiously, knowledge that it is one of Taekwoon’s biggest pet peeves not lost on him. He tosses his empty cup into a trashcan nearby, replacing it with the now lukewarm cappuccino. Silence permeates the air once more, only occasionally interrupted by his sipping as he continues down the empty street.

Hakyeon finds himself back in the garden again, at the base of the same non-descript tree. He places the half-finished coffee on a nearby bench; the long curled limbs of the tree cast twisting shadows on him, almost hiding the slightly wistful faraway look on his face. He tugs at his leather glove, feeling the material slide easily off his hand. He stretches his stiff fingers before splaying them, ignoring the icy burn courtesy of a passing chill against his raw skin. He admires the simple gold band that adorns his left ring finger, its weight almost imperceptible from years of being accustomed, but the cool metal still reassuring against his skin. He fiddles with the band, its smooth surface engraved with three simple initials –J.T.W.– long imprinted into the memories of his flesh. He feels a lump beginning to form in his throat, pressure pushing against his windpipe as it grows to the point of suffocation, leaving him reeling from light-headedness and apprehension. Taking a few quick breaths in succession, he feels the tightness in his chest partially abate, and takes the opportunity to force out the words previously trapped his throat, “I love you, do you know that?” His words are earnest, but his voice falters. He can feel the seed of dread growing inside him, branches entwining every fibre of his being, threatening to imprison the voices desperately seeking escape. “I love you so much,” he tries again, but this time, the words prompting a series of painful stings at the back of his eyes, mirrored by the piercing burn from his heart twisting in his chest. “More than you will ever know,” he gasps, words beginning to slur as he fights a losing battle to maintain his composure. He grits his teeth, and rips the other glove off. It falls to the snow covered ground with a dull thud, landing just shy of the half hidden bouquet – vibrant colours now muted from snow and dirt; shrivelled and limp petals bleeding on the ground, life stolen by the kiss of winter. He shakily interlocks his fingers –metal bands clinking softly in contact–, and presses his clasped hands against his heaving chest. He stands with his head bowed and jaw clenched, body trembling as he stubbornly refuses to give in to the whirlwind of emotions screaming for release. There he remains, his hands gripping each other with whitened knuckles; a perfectly pristine ring rests against its scratched and marred counterpart, both weakly illuminated by the light of the moon.

“Why did you have to leave?”

A/N: Please don't kill me! /runs and hides/ Thank you for reading this to completion even though I've made you suffer through my awkward writing! I did originally plan this to be fluffy, but try as I may, I can't for the life of me write fluff naturally (To give you an idea of how bad it is, the easiest paragraph to write is the second to last...). Stylistically, I decided to experiment with something a little different again by focusing only on Hakyeon throughout the entire story. (All the actions, and most of the dialogue are Hakyeon's.) While there may be gaps in the picture, I tried to write a little more interaction and speech (This is probably the most speech I've written in a narrative. Ever. /flails/) from Hakyeon's end, along with the occasional use of Taekwoon's name to create a natural assumption of the Taekwoon's presence when reading. (I need to stop confusing everyone; I'm so sorry! /bows a million times in apology/ I just like experimenting, but my lack of writing ability impedes my creativity, and just, argh.) 

Spoiler (highlight to read): Yes, Hakyeon is delusional (I tried to leave hints throughout, so I'm very sorry if they're too subtle!!!), and the ending is intentionally left ambiguous.