beklemmt | 긴긴 어둠 속을 지나 다시 찾아온 하얀 겨울

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긴긴 어둠 속을 지나 다시 찾아온 하얀 겨울

The strangest thing to J — at least, the strangest sometimes — is how normal it all is. It catches up with him sometimes, the thought fluttering up out of nowhere, that he shouldn't still be alive to celebrate another Christmas in Darrow with S. But he is. In spite of everything, himself included, he is. Another birthday, another anniversary, another Christmas. Soon another new year.

It would be a lie to say it's that simple, that he never takes it for granted, that he never even wishes it away. As happy as he often is, there are still days when it feels to him like he'd be better off no longer existing, like the world would be better for it. There are still days when it's nearly, nearly too much, waking up from the millionth nightmare or getting hit with some horrifying image — memory or imagination, sometimes it's too hard to tell them apart — when he's just trying to shower or cook dinner.

He's wary, too, of the coming weeks, remembering how hard it hit him last year, how bad it got before he had any real understanding of how far he'd spiraled. He's not sure awareness will be enough to keep it from happening again, and that gets exhausting. He doesn't really know what's wrong with him still or why it never goes away. It's hard to accept that it may always be like this, but, at the same time, he can't pretend some magical cure will arrive all of a sudden, a Christmas miracle to restore his mind to a more peaceful state. In any case, he was an anxious child before he became a haunted young man. If nothing else, at least he's fairly certain he can't ever get as bad as he did before, if only because there's no one here to poke and prod him into murder.

Which should be a sobering thought for Christmas morning. It should slow him down, drag him down. Instead, it throws the gray morning into relief, reminds him of how vividly, if groggily, alive he is. S is warm and solid against him, entangled together in sleep. J usually sleeps later, drowsy even as S prepares for work many days, but since coming here, Christmas is exciting again. Much of the money he gets from the city, he puts into helping pay for expenses, but it's more than enough when they're sharing the bills, enough he can actually set aside funds to buy S presents. He has one, too, that he's been eager to give, trepidatious about handing it over even as he knows S will love it, because what if he doesn't? It's enough to make him stir early, though at least this year he didn't get up early to bake what turned out to be some overwhelmingly salty desserts. He made cookies last night, not needing to surprise S this time, and he used sugar, so they actually taste like cookies. Instead, he can lie in, watching S for a few moments, soft in sleep.

He doesn't want to wake him. He probably shouldn't just lounge here, tucked against S's side, staring at him. It's probably creepy, no matter how long they've been together. It's just that he's beautiful. Everyone's a little messy in sleep, but S is relaxed, too, sweet, and the fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks makes J want to kiss him awake and let him sleep all morning if he likes, all at once.

He settles halfway between, leaning close to press a gentle kiss against S's cheek before he draws away. There's no point in disturbing S when he could enjoy the chance to sleep in instead. When he wakes, J decides, he'll have tea ready, the lights on the tree switched to flickering life. Sometimes he has trouble handling that the rest of his life will undoubtedly be riddled with the same inconsistency and dread and horror as it has been thus far. Right now, glancing at S from the doorway as he pulls a sweater around himself, it makes him oddly proud to have survived this long.

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Christmas, to S, has always felt like something that's theirs. At least for the last several years it has, since the first winter they spent in their studio, when they first confessed their feelings to each other and spent the holiday in the haze of a new relationship. It feels like always, or like something that was much longer ago than is actually the case. They were so young then. Everything seemed so much simpler, even when it wasn't really at all. Still, however easy it may be to miss that time, S doesn't wish for it, mostly. What they have instead is more than worth it. They've been through hell and somehow, he thinks, wound up closer for it; the life they have here is one they never would have been able to have otherwise, and not just because of how catastrophically it all ended.

None of this is new, of course. On Christmas, though, it's hard not to be somewhat preoccupied by how fucking grateful he is, by how lucky they've been, even before he's fully awake, blinking in the silvery winter sunlight that filters through the blinds. J's side of the bed, he discovers quickly, is empty, but still warm; he can't have been gone for more than a few minutes. It's been just a few more by the time S manages to pull himself out from under the warmth of the blankets, wandering out of the bedroom and down the hall in a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants, smiling to himself at the sight of J moving around the kitchen.

There are presents under the tree, some of which he knows are for him. Cliché as it may be, though, this is all he could ever really want or ask for, the best gift of all — the fact that this is his life here, this is what he gets to wake up to.

"Morning," he murmurs, voice still a little rough with sleep, as he comes up behind J, wrapping his arms around J's waist and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Merry Christmas."

J hears him approaching, S's footsteps quiet but not so much that he doesn't hear it over the sound of the kettle hissing as he sets it back down. There's a pot of coffee on that J will work his way through over the rest of the day probably, but he knows S gravitates more toward tea these days, and he has a cup brewing, freshly poured, as S comes up behind him.

Leaning back into that embrace, he closes his eyes, a soft, contented little groan in his throat. Just the sound of S's voice is enough to get under his skin, and it feels nice just to be held. He settles his arms over S's, smiling sleepily. "Merry Christmas, darling." He doesn't want to turn around quite yet, enjoying the press of S's chest to his back, feeling cozy and safe like this, but he wants to see S, to kiss him. It only takes a moment for that to win out and for him to twist around to look at S, hands coming up to cup his face, thumb stroking over his cheek as J takes a few drowsy seconds just to drink him in. S looks so good like this, sweetly rumpled with sleep and not entirely awake yet. J caves all too quickly, tugging him gently closer for a kiss.

"You didn't have to get up yet," he says, soft against S's mouth. It's not a complaint, not even a reproach, though J sees no reason not to take advantage of a day off, no matter what that day might be. He also sees no reason to be anything less than happy to have S with him right now. Good days, bad days, everything in-between — he still hasn't gotten over the thrill of these moments, the simple, intimate domesticity of mornings in the kitchen of their own home, of speaking in tones too hushed for anyone else to hear even though they're alone. Again he runs his thumb slowly over S's cheek, nose brushing S's. "But tea will be ready in a few minutes."

Generally speaking, there are few things S enjoys as much as mornings like this. It doesn't even have to be a holiday for that to be true, just quiet and warm and intimate, the kind of morning where everything feels right and the rest of the world may as well not exist. There's just the two of them, safe and peaceful, tucked into this space they've made a home. Instinctively leaning into the familiar touch of J's hand at his cheek, S turns his head just enough to press a kiss to his palm, lazily affectionate, arms still draped around J's waist. They have gifts to open, and there's the tea J mentioned and probably coffee as well, the scent of it distinct, but he doesn't want to move away quite yet. Everything else can wait a few moments longer. This is something worth savoring.

"I know I didn't," he replies, still hushed in turn, giving J a sleepy, lopsided smile. "I wanted to." Easy as it might have been to stay in bed for a while longer, he would rather be here. A few minutes out of bed and that tea will be enough to wake him up more, anyway. "You didn't have to get up yet either, you know. But thank you for getting tea ready." Normally he's the one who gets up first, which he's fine with. It just makes sense, really; of the two of them, he's the one with a full-time job to head to most mornings. There's nowhere to rush off to today, though, nothing that requires his attention but his boyfriend. "Ah, can I do anything?"

It seems like everything is in progress already, and he isn't sure if he would actually want to eat quite yet. Still, offering seems like the very least he can do.

Thumb brushing over S's cheek in the wake of that kiss, J nudges forward, nose brushing S's. It's a perfect moment, he thinks, small and simple and contentedly hushed. There's something nice about the routine of ordinary days, the mornings he pulls himself out of bed just to see S off, to try and have breakfast with him before he leaves; somehow the consistency of it has become soothing to him. But having this chance just to linger, to relish S's company when they're both still sleepy and at ease, it feels like the first gift of the day.

"Not a thing," he says. "Except what you're doing now. This is nice. I figure we'll make food later, yeah? So just drinks. Cookies, if you want them." That's more his style, admittedly, but they go well with a hot drink, and he's pretty pleased with how they came out this time. Rather than pulling away to grab one for S, though, he stays where he is, one hand raised to trace his fingers through S's hair as he steals another kiss. They have time — this morning, as much as they want, but every day after as well, time to luxuriate in each other's presence. He'd like to think he's doing okay these days, however nervous he might be about January and February. Sometimes he loses sight, not of where he came from and how he got here, but of precisely how miraculous this is. They shouldn't have time, but they do, and he intends to enjoy it. He's developed a stronger appreciation for quiet beats, for moments where nothing significant happens; he knows he missed too many before, that he forgot their importance. He lost his way, but his road always leads him back to this man. "Ah, you're so cute."

He could move away, get the drinks in question, retrieve the cookies J made last night. There's no rush, though, and S doesn't want to pull back yet, savoring this instead, this small, warm moment of peace. Perhaps it's overly sentimental of him, but as far as he's concerned, Christmas is a time for that. Biased though he may be, he thinks it's especially so for them. This is a time of year that will always remind him of being young and falling in love, letting him feel what he'd been trying not to for so long. They've been through so much since then, more than he would have thought possible during that first Christmas they spent in their studio. That's all the more reason why, he thinks, if he wants to stand here in the kitchen kissing his boyfriend for a little while before they move over to the tree to open presents, he might as well do so. He gets this all the time, sure, but that doesn't make him appreciate it any less.

"Mm, you're the cute one," he says, a sleepy, teasing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "And yes, cookies. Food later." When they're more awake, they can figure out an actual meal, but for now, if J isn't hungry yet either, it can wait. Leaning in, he kisses J again, the corner of his mouth and then his cheek, lingering close to breathe him in deep. "Ah, there should be more holidays. I like not having to go anywhere in the morning."

He likes his job, and he doesn't mind at all being the only one of them who works. Still, he would be lying if he said he didn't vastly prefer this.

Maybe it's silly, how much S still makes his heart flutter, or maybe it's just right. Either way, he does, and either way J leans into him, thankful that he does. It's just that, when he's still enough and quiet enough to take it in, it's a little overwhelming; he becomes keenly aware of how utterly precious S finds him, and it leaves him in awe. On his better days, at least, of which this is mercifully one. On the others, it make him doubt he's worth the trouble.

Right now, he drinks it in, letting himself soak up the affection. He turns his head, nuzzling against S's cheek like a sleepy cat, brushing a kiss against his jaw. He was cold, he realizes distantly, and either didn't notice or didn't pay it much mind. Being held like this, he's far more comfortable, though that also means part of him just wants to go back to bed, to curl up together under the covers. "Do you want me to make some?" he asks, as if that's at all a rational question. "Holidays. I could invent a few." He eases back just a little — enough to kiss S on the lips again instead, slow and soft. "You could say they're Korean and no one would know any different. Then you could stay with me in the morning like this."

He used to spin dreams all the time, vast, arching fairytales of ambition and excitement. These feel more manageable, more comforting. There's nothing at stake, just an idle fantasy of sleeping in together, rather than alone, which they get twice a week as it is.

It's a ridiculous prospect, of course — improbable, impossible. Even if anyone were likely to believe them, S would never actually do it. They need his job, and that's even setting aside how much he likes being able to work somewhere with music, and having a place, now, where they can both play a little. Right now, though, in the hazy warmth of Christmas morning, when he's still a little drowsy, it's easy to get caught up in the idea of it. Certainly it sounds appealing, especially with the way J leans into him, and infinitely better than heading out into the cold every morning. With a contented hum, S nods a little, just enough that he doesn't have to pull away, idly tugging at J's shirt.

"Mm, yes," he decides. It's just a fantasy, of course, but that's all the more reason to play along with it. There's nothing at stake here, and nothing wrong with the way things have been. His mornings aren't usually as leisurely as this, but they still get plenty of time together; he still comes home to J every evening, still gets to fall asleep and wake up beside the man he loves. That alone means the world. "Make some up. What should our holidays be?"

Mostly, he's curious now to hear what J comes up with, what sort of story he might concoct. Really, given the nature of this place, how people come from different times and places and realities, it might well be believable after all, more so than he initially thought. He still doesn't care all that much about inventing a realistic, plausible fake holiday. That's still not the point.

J blinks slowly, considering this. "늦잠 자는 날," he murmurs after a moment, flashing S a smile. "To celebrate the foundation of Seoul. Or 귀여운 강아지들, the birthday of Sejong the Great. Say it in Korean very seriously and no one will know the difference."

Of course, S would, and J knows better than to think S will pull this sort of a trick. Really, if J were working or still in school, he likely wouldn't either. Once in a great while, the temptation to have a day off might end up too strong, but for the most part, he was always too intent on proving himself to slack off much. And S isn't the kind to do that, and it's not like he dislikes his job or as if they don't get plenty of time together. Still, it's fun to imagine S saying these things. He'd get away with it if he did, though J suspects that's as much due to S himself as people he works with not speaking Korean. S is the kind of person people simply trust, and he lies much better than anyone would guess.

He brushes S's hair back from his eyes, kissing the corner of his mouth. "내 남자친구가 제일 예쁘다. A very important holiday to honor our ancestors. A week of solemn prayer at home, very serious, and then a big party, also at home, not so serious."

"Ah, those are good ones, yes," S says as solemnly as he can, the effect of it likely nullified by the unmistakable fondness in the way he looks at J. It's all ridiculous, of course, and endearingly so, the kind of fantasy that reminds him of when they were children first in a relationship together. Every part of building a life together was fantastical then, to some extent. Any future they shared would have involved a lifetime of secrecy. In between times of the thought of that making him utterly furious, though, it was fun to scheme about things they would never do but could have. J always had a way of making him smile, even at his very lowest. S has often wished that he could do the same, but now isn't the time to think about that.

It isn't as if it's difficult to draw a smile from him right now anyway. Aside from the part of him that's always a little nervous before exchanging presents, hoping J will like what he's picked out, this is, as far as he's concerned, a perfect morning. He leans forward a little after J kisses him, returning the gesture, just as soft and brief, too affectionate to resist.

"Very important. 내 남자친구가 제일 예쁘다, that's very necessary to commemorate."

"Obviously," J says, mock-solemn. "Can't offend the ancestors." He'd meant, of course, that S is the prettiest, but he can't help it if it gets to him all the same when S looks at him that way while saying it, all that love in his expression. No one has ever looked at him the way S does — not in any sense, in the entire time they've known each other, actually, even when they were just kids — and he's fine with that. He doesn't need anyone else to look at him and see what S does. As long as S keeps looking, he's content with this.

More than content. Right now, he's what he could reasonably describe as blissful. There's a sleepiness clinging to him, the warmth of his affection and S's arms only encouraging that, and it's the sort of moment that feels right. Everything is where it ought to be. He's wrapped up in S, and that's all he needs. He ducks his head, pleased by the way S plays along, though that's nothing new, and cuddles into him, burrowing his face against S's shoulder. He smells like home. "Tea's probably done," he murmurs. He should take care of that so S's tea isn't too strong, too bitter, but he likes where he is too much to draw away quite yet. Besides, soon enough they'll go and sit to open their presents. He's just getting warmed up now so that he's nice and cozy when they do so, that's all.

"Like we don't already do plenty of offending them," S replies, his mouth curling into a wry smile against J's temple. Truthfully, he has doubts as to whether or not that's actually the case. There are certainly people who would want him to believe it's so, but he just can't see why it should matter that much. He loves who he loves. If people from generations past and hundreds of years ago really are out there somewhere — and he doesn't know if he believes that, either — then he thinks it would be stupid for them to be hung up on something as ultimately trivial as the gender of people in a relationship together. He's happy and he's loved and he loves. Anything else is and should be utterly irrelevant.

Although he hums in acknowledgment when J says the tea is probably done, S doesn't yet make any move to pull away. It feels too good just to be close like this, even if it is hardly a rarity. This is still a special occasion, after all, and the ability just to be here, taking their time, with nowhere else to be and nothing else to do, is too sweet not to savor. "Mm, I guess we should get that," he relents, which seems like enough of a start. "Go sit, open presents."

As far as J is aware, his very existence is supposed to be offensive, so it doesn't make much difference to him if ancestors or gods or whatever agree. Though there's so much about himself he'd still change if he could, those parts, the immutable fact of his parentage and his sexuality, he accepts as they are.

S does, too, which is all that matters. J can feel him smiling, and it leaves him smiling in turn, fingers tugging a little tighter at S's shirt. He nudges his nose against S's jaw, letting out a put-upon whine that's more feigned than anything else. He's still in awe of the idea of having much in the way of presents and of having things to give, even if he's always nervous about them, and he wants that part of it. Still, he's warm and content right now, and if he moves away he'll still be content, but he'll be cold.

"I guess," he echoes. "Unless you don't want your presents."

"Mm, no, I want them," S replies, teasingly thoughtful, with a slight shake of his head. "And I want to give you yours." For him, that's the more important part anyway. Opening presents is always nice, and he's always curious beforehand, never any good at guessing what J might give him since they never used to be able to do so much for holidays. The real thrill, though, lies in watching J open his gifts. S would have done all this and more sooner if he could have, but since he couldn't then and he can now, it's impossible to resist the temptation to make up for that a little.

He knows J wouldn't have expected more back then, and S has gone without money far too long to spend very frivolously now or go beyond his means. Still, he can do something special for a holiday. It feels good to have that chance at all.

"Doesn't mean I feel like moving, though."

J laughs quietly, lifting his head and kissing S, light and lingering. He's made up his mind now. One of them has to be the first to move, and he can do that. He wants to give S his presents, wants to see how pleased he'll look, how fond. Every moment of happiness he can give S — maybe it's selfish, too, as much as it's for S's sake. It helps him to see that he can have a positive effect. Making S happy reminds him he's not a lost cause. He needs that more often than he'd care to say.

Reaching for S's waist, he turns them around, pressing S against the counter in his stead. "Want me to carry you?" he teases. He doubts they'd get very far if he tried. He'd do it, though, just to make S laugh, though he's pretty sure their downstairs neighbors wouldn't find the thud they'd make, falling down, very funny. "Come on, grab your tea, and let's go." Reluctant though he is to pull away, he does so, reaching for his own mug, hands curling close around the warm mug.

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