Chapter 45 – Before the Snow Falls
The first thing Seungho heard was snoring. Faint. Muffled into the pillow. Rhythmic in a way that should have been annoying but had, over time, become something closer to holy.
The second was the whir of traffic below, far away, as if the city had respectfully lowered its voice.
He turned his head.
Haneul was starfished across the bed, blanket wrapped around one leg, the other thrown over Seungho’s thigh.
His braid was a mess—half unraveled, one ribbon tangled in Seungho’s necklace. His mouth was slack with sleep, lips parted just enough to drool the tiniest wet spot onto the pillow.
Seungho, warm beneath the covers, watched.
Longer than he should have.
Something ached in his chest. Not pain—just pressure. Like memory trying to surface.
He brushed a strand of hair back and kissed the corner of Haneul’s forehead.
“Happy birthday, Sky.”
A groan.
Then—a kick, sharp and sudden, aimed directly at Seungho’s face.
He dodged it by millimeters.
“The fuck—”
“’S too early to be sentimental,” Haneul mumbled, eyes still closed. “Try that again and I’ll break your mouth.”
“You love my mouth.”
“Mmm. Not at six-fucking-thirty in the morning.”
Seungho snorted and rolled out of bed.
“I’m making breakfast. Sit up or starve.”
“I choose starvation,” Haneul called, already flopping deeper into the blanket like a sea creature burrowing for warmth.
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Ten minutes later, the kitchen smelled of batter and salt.
Seungho stood over the stove shirtless, soft charcoal pajama pants slung low on his hips, one hand frowning into a skillet as if it had personally offended him.
The bacon sizzled angrily. Steam coiled up from the pancake batter.
He moved with deliberate focus—spatula in one hand, mug of coffee halfway to his lips in the other—as if he were assembling something dangerous, not just breakfast.
He didn’t hear Haneul at first.
Only noticed when bare arms snaked around his waist from behind, a cold nose pressed teasingly between his shoulder blades.
“You’re trying to seduce me with food,” Haneul murmured, voice rough with sleep and still smiling.
“You’re trying to seduce me in your underwear,” Seungho replied without missing a beat.
“I was born seductive.”
“You were born with too much attitude.”
“And you like it.”
Haneul hooked a finger into the waistband of Seungho’s pants. The gesture was light, confident, familiar in that way only mornings like that allowed.
Seungho set down the spatula and turned, pinning him to the counter with his hip.
One hand slid low, gripping the curve of Haneul’s thigh.
The other moved up his back, slow, firm—like tracing something memorized long ago but never quite explained.
His eyes flicked to the long end of Haneul’s braid, the swell of his mouth.
“You smell like sleep and sin,” Seungho said.
“You smell like need,” Haneul replied, voice brushing his collarbone like a dare.
They didn’t speak again.
Seungho kissed him—hard, open, claiming. One hand spread flat over the small of Haneul’s back, the other gripping his ass with enough force to leave a message there for the rest of the day.
Haneul gasped.
The bacon hissed, a sharp snap of sound.
Seungho bit his lip and growled against it.
“Breakfast first.”
“You were the one groping me!”
“You started it.”
“You loved it.”
“More than I should have.”
They broke apart, panting, flushed, amused—charged like live wire tucked under skin.
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They didn’t speak much while they ate—just glances, shared smirks, knees bumping under the table. Haneul stole bites from Seungho’s plate and pretended it was part of the ritual. Seungho rolled his eyes but didn’t stop him.
Later, by the door, it felt colder. The sunlight cut sharper. Their jackets were on, shoes laced, the city beginning to hum.
Seungho pulled Haneul’s scarf tight, adjusting it like a soldier tightening armor.
Haneul rolled his eyes but let him.
“Meeting’s at six. Velvet after. You’d already be there?”
“I’m the birthday boy, skyscraper. I’ll own that party.”
Seungho lifted a brow.
“And after?”
“Somewhere special, you said.”
“The most special,” he said quieter now. “No press. No schedule. Just us.”
Haneul snorted, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder.
“Sappy.”
“You love it.”
“Shut up,” Haneul muttered, but there was no heat in it—only fondness, a flicker of nervous joy.
Then he stepped forward and pulled Seungho into a kiss—slow, lingering, fingers curling into the lapels of his coat like he wanted to hold that exact second hostage.
“You act like a stern daddy sometimes,” he mumbled against his lips.
“And you act like a brat.”
“Balance.” It was light, playful, but beneath it something trembled—a note gone sharp and aching.
Haneul turned toward the door, grabbed the handle, paused, and looked back.
“Don’t forget me tonight.”
It should have been a joke. It almost was.
But it landed like something else. Something older.
Seungho held his gaze and said, quiet and certain, “Not even if I died.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
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The club breathed like something alive.
Heat rose in waves from the floor, curling around bodies like silk. The bass thrummed beneath skin, heartbeat-synced. Glitter dripped from chandeliers. Smoke machines spilled fog across heels, stilettos, boots, paws, hooves—every creature that danced there became myth.
And that night, Haneul was a god turning twenty-one.
He strode into the chaos like he had been born from it—already grinning, half drunk on energy before the vodka hit his lips.
Fox mask. Silver, gold, sapphire glint across the sharp planes of his face.
White ears twitched atop his head. His tail swished, fluffy and mischievous.
The leather shorts—tight enough to incite prayer—gleamed under purple lights.
He wore plush white boots, sharp makeup, and someone (probably Hyacinth, of course) had added a pair of glittering wings to his back, stark white against his exposed shoulders.
He looked like he had stepped out of a fever dream—and he owned it.
“Holy fuck,” someone muttered.
“If sin were a male,” Hyacinth crooned from the bar, “he’d look like that and smell like snowmelt and heartbreak.”
“God, I wanna sin!” another drag queen shouted. Laughter erupted.
Haneul winked, blew kisses, swiped a glitter vodka shot from someone’s tray without asking.
“Don’t mind me,” he purred. “Just your annual fox apocalypse.”
The music blared. Phones flashed. The crowd howled.
Upstairs, Cha Yul stood at the balcony railing overlooking the main floor.
His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp. He was in a deep plum suit, three buttons open, cocktail in hand.
He watched Haneul like a man watched his favorite storm roll in.
Pride flared behind his smile. His voice was low when he said to the staff beside him, “Look at him. Fucking wildflower on fire.”
He raised his glass as Haneul hopped onto the counter.
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Spotlight. Silence.
Only the thrum of the crowd’s hush remained. Haneul kicked the boots off his feet and stood barefoot on the bar, drink raised, breath catching.
The wings shimmered. The tail twitched.
And he held in one hand a crumpled piece of paper—creased, worn, delicate like skin that remembered grief.
His voice cut the air like memory.
“Lovely leaves have all been shed from the mountain ahead of me…”
He paused. His eyes scanned the crowd. He smiled—small, intimate, something almost shy beneath all the sparkle.
“Longing for the empty mountain, white snow might fall upon the river…”
Someone sighed. The silence tightened.
“Before the snow falls, I would love to see you.”
Another pause.
Then Haneul blinked rapidly and lowered the page. He pulled out his phone, scrolled, found the contact—“Skyscraper.”
He hit call, tapped speaker.
Ring. Ring. Click.
“Hey,” Seungho’s voice came through, hushed but clear, a little breathless.
He was walking somewhere—sharp-soled shoes on polished floors.
“I’m on my way in. Can’t talk long. But—”
“Just listen,” Haneul said.
He lifted the page again. His voice was unsteady, but it didn’t waver.
“Every year I read this poem and think... maybe I was the river. Maybe I was the one waiting. Always.”
He exhaled—slow. The mic picked it up. So did Seungho.
“And this year I thought—if you never came home again…”
The crowd stilled.
“…I’d still leave the door unlocked.”
Seungho was silent.
Somewhere on the call, his heart was falling through his ribcage.
In the club, someone murmured, “Why before the snow? The snow never forgets…”
“Yeah,” someone else said. “Isn’t it water that remembers everything?”
Haneul lifted his glass. His smile trembled now—bright and cracked.
“Then—until the snow forgets.”
He closed his eyes and breathed. “That’s how long I want to be with you, Skyscraper.”
A hush so thick it might have collapsed.
Then Seungho’s voice, hoarse and low, like something had snapped loose:
“…I love you.”
He hadn’t meant to say it. Not yet. Not over the phone. Not before the villa. Not like that.
But it was out now.
And Haneul froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. The crowd turned to static. The wings fluttered behind him.
“You what?” he choked.
“I said I love you,” Seungho repeated. “I should’ve said it a long time ago.”
Silence. Then—
“YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING IDIOT,” Haneul yelled. Everyone startled. The bartender dropped a glass.
“You DON’T just call someone and say that RIGHT BEFORE A PARTY! What am I supposed to do with my FACE now, you bastard?! I’m wearing BOOTS with NO SOUL and a TAIL, and now I’m— I’m—fuck—I love you too, you skyscraper freak! YOU BETTER FINISH THAT DAMN MEETING AND GOT YOUR ASS HERE OR—!”
The call dropped.
The room erupted—cheers, laughter. Haneul slammed back his drink, red to his ears. The wings on his back glinted as he jumped down from the counter, laughing, flushed, tail swishing.
Hyacinth wiped a fake tear. “Love is such a little bitch.”
Cha Yul smiled from above, heart full, glass raised again.
But the lights felt brighter now.
And somewhere in the air lingered the scent of smoke—not yet real.
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