Work Text:
Third of December.
It’s that date all over again.
Why does the big 12, with the little 3 tucked neatly beside it, have to stare at Gyuvin everywhere he goes? It follows him like a shadow he never asked for—glowing at him from his lockscreen, blinking at him from the corner of the television screen on the news channel, even taunting him at the convenience store where he’d simply wanted to buy milk. The date was printed so large on the digital sign behind the counter it felt almost personal. As if the whole world had conspired to remind him of today.
That number.
That date.
This day.
He shuts the door behind him, keys still cold in his hand, when that tune—that tune—spills into the hallway. Soft at first, then unmistakably clear. The song that made the third of December feel like a wound, something freshly opened every year no matter how much time has passed. Why did his neighbors have to play that song now, of all days? As if each note was a hand pressing into his ribs, twisting, tightening, making it hard for him to breathe.
Every step he takes feels like walking through snow barefoot—freezing, numbing, then burning. And that heavy, aching, clamping pain in his chest rises again, the one that makes him want to clutch at his shirt because maybe, if he presses hard enough from the outside, it will quiet the hurting inside.
Or maybe the song isn’t even real anymore. Maybe it’s so deeply carved into him, so entwined with this date, that he doesn’t need to hear it to feel it. Maybe the memory of it is enough to undo him.
Gyuvin isn’t Heather. He doesn’t even have his own Heather. But God, he feels like the main character of that song sometimes—the longing, the aching devotion, the way a whole life can feel like it exists in the background of someone else’s. He relates so much it’s almost embarrassing. So much it hurts.
He wishes he were Heather.
He wishes the man he loves with everything in him—the man whose name fits perfectly on one hand, one letter for each finger, as if even the universe wanted it to be easy to hold—would finally look at him. Really look. Even though it’s pointless. Even though it’s foolish. Even though it’s him.
He wishes Ricky would look at him the way he looked at Gunwook that day.
The thought alone brings the burn behind his eyes again, sharp and sudden like being hit with a wave in winter. It was winter, three years ago. Snow falling in soft, quiet sheets. The cold biting at everything. And Gyuvin… Gyuvin had only one thing to offer Ricky.
His warmth.
He’d always prided himself on that, oddly enough. That he ran warm, that he could be a heater for someone he loved. So when Ricky’s fingers brushed against his that night, it felt natural—maybe even fated—to take his hand. To wrap their fingers together. To give Ricky what little warmth he had to offer, as if that was enough.
If this was the only way he could keep Ricky warm, then Gyuvin would give it all. In that moment, that was everything he had. Everything he could ever give.
And he loved him. Oh, he loved him so much it scared him—even then, even before he understood how deep and destructive that kind of love could get.
“Hey, Qubing, aren’t you cold too?” Ricky had asked him that night, voice soft, breath visible in the glow of the streetlights as they sat on an old bench just outside campus, stubbornly determined to steal a few more minutes before heading back to the dorms.
Gyuvin remembers the way the snowflakes landed on Ricky’s hair, melting instantly because Ricky ran warm, always warm.
“Not really, no,” he had replied, trying to sound casual, unaffected.
But inside his head, the truth was louder and messier:
Because you’re warm, Rick. Because your hands are warm.
Because your fingers feel like something carved to fit perfectly against mine, like whoever shaped us decided we were meant to be held together. Like it’d be nearly impossible to let go.
And for Gyuvin, it was. It always was. Letting go of Ricky’s hand felt like letting go of safety, letting go of home, letting go of the one warmth in winter he’d chase even if it froze him in the process. He didn’t know why it scared him so much. Maybe it was the cold clouding his senses. Maybe it was the night making him braver and weaker at the same time.
Or maybe it was love. Just love.
But for Ricky—letting go was easy. Effortless. As natural as exhaling. Like nothing would change. Like Gyuvin’s heart wouldn’t crack like the forming ice in the nearby fountain. Like there was nothing sticky, nothing binding, nothing pulling Ricky back to him with the force Gyuvin wished existed.
But then Ricky—in the way only Ricky could—swept away every fear without even knowing.
Because the moment warmth left their joined hands, it returned again, suddenly, unexpectedly, pooling in Gyuvin’s lap.
Ricky’s sweater.
Ricky had given him his sweater.
“Qubing, you should wear this,” he’d said before Gyuvin could even inhale enough air to protest. Ricky’s hands moved quickly, gently, like he was afraid Gyuvin might break or shiver or stubbornly refuse help he obviously needed.
“Your nose is turning red. Like Rudolph,” Ricky added, laughing—that tiny giggle he always tried to hide behind the back of his hand, the one Gyuvin secretly lived for. Snow fell quietly around them, world dim and hushed, and for a moment it really did feel like they were the only two people alive.
The sweater was red—Ricky’s favorite color. The color that made him glow.
It wasn’t even the soft cotton Ricky preferred; it was polyester, slightly rougher, a little scratchy at the seams. But Gyuvin couldn’t care less. Because it was Ricky. A piece of him, wrapped in fabric.
And he gave it to Gyuvin. Freely. Thoughtlessly. Like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the most precious thing Gyuvin had ever held.
He brought the sweater close, hugging it against his chest instead of wearing it, cradling it like a blanket, like a fragile piece of warmth that might vanish if he didn’t hold it carefully enough.
It smelled like Ricky. Like his laundry soap. Like the way his room always felt. Like something Gyuvin wanted to bury his face into and never let go of.
There was care stitched into it. Ricky’s warmth lingering in every fiber. An unspoken offering that Gyuvin wanted to interpret as love even though he knew better.
Still, in that moment, elated and dizzy and barely breathing, Gyuvin let himself believe it.
Ricky, Ricky, Ricky. Every thought repeated his name like a prayer, like a confession, like he could carve it into the night if he said it enough in his mind.
He wanted to bask in this feeling forever. The cold didn’t matter. The snow on his skin didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the warmth of Ricky’s sweater in his hands. It was the closest thing to Ricky he’d ever be allowed to keep.
Only a few days had passed since that night when Gyuvin finally decided what he wanted to do for Ricky. The thought had been looping in his mind ever since—almost embarrassingly tender, almost too much.
What does Ricky need?
Or, more accurately, what does Ricky not have?
Ricky had everything, really. Or at least, he seemed like someone who did. But still, Gyuvin wanted to give him something. Something small but warm. Something that would stay with him when Gyuvin couldn’t. Something that felt like love without ever saying the word out loud.
A scarf.
A beautiful red scarf that Gyuvin decided—on a whim or maybe on instinct—to make with his own two hands.
Surely Ricky would like it. Gyuvin hoped he would. And though it was nearly impossible to hide what he was doing from his roommate, Gyuvin somehow managed. He always found ways when it came to Ricky. He always would.
He quietly wondered sometimes what Ricky’s reaction would be when he finally held the finished scarf. When he noticed the unmistakable shade of red Gyuvin chose for him. When he saw the tiny strawberry Gyuvin insisted on stitching at the very end, half-joking at first but then stubbornly determined because, “so Ricky would know it really is for him.”
Because that mattered to Gyuvin.
Because Ricky mattered to Gyuvin.
The scarf was supposed to take weeks. That’s what the tutorials said. That’s what common sense said. But Gyuvin flew through it. Not because it was easy, but because every stitch felt like giving something of himself. And that was enough motivation—more than enough. He pricked a finger or two along the way, hissed under his breath, but he kept going. He didn’t mind the small sting. The only thing that truly mattered was finishing it for Ricky.
Lately, Ricky had been going out more—preparations for school events, extra activities, the chaos that comes with December and the Christmas season. And then there were finals, looming and merciless. Everyone was busy. Ricky, especially, moved like someone with a dozen things on his mind and not enough hours to do them.
It left Gyuvin with plenty of quiet pockets of time to work on the scarf. Thread. Loop. Pull. Think of Ricky. Wonder when he’d come home. Pretend he wasn’t waiting.
But it wasn’t all distance and missed moments—they still went out when they could. Little nighttime escapes. Late dinners at places they’d never tried. Wandering malls and buying things neither of them needed. Sometimes they just stepped outside their dorm because being anywhere—even nowhere—was fine as long as they were together. That was their constant. That was their happiness.
Then came the third of December.
Ricky had tapped him on the shoulder that morning, eyes bright with that excitement he rarely showed. “Do you want to go to the early Christmas party at the university tonight?”
Of course Gyuvin said yes.
It was Ricky asking… how could he ever say no?
And besides, the party would be the perfect excuse. The perfect moment. The perfect reason to finally give Ricky the thing he made while thinking of him every single day.
The scarf.
The red scarf with the tiny strawberry made carefully, delicately, and embarrassingly full of love.
At the very least, Gyuvin thought, it would keep Ricky warm in the cold. At the very most… maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d realize. Maybe he’d look at the scarf, then at Gyuvin, and see everything Gyuvin had yet to say out loud.
When they arrived at the party venue, it happened almost instantly—so quick it almost felt like lightning was formed. The moment they stepped into the room, Ricky’s hand slipped away from his, casual and thoughtless, like habit breaking itself. And just like that, Ricky was gone. Pulled into the crowd, swallowed by noise and light, moving toward something Gyuvin wasn’t meant to follow.
It felt automatic. Too automatic.
Shen Quanrui truly was a light—a brightness Gyuvin had been lucky enough to stand beside. But tonight, that light moved too fast for someone mortal like him to keep up with. Ricky glided through the room with ease, weaving between people as if he were made of motion itself, as if gravity bent for him. And Gyuvin stood there, helpless, watching him slip further away.
But what Gyuvin learned that night was that even the fastest light could be forced to stop.
Because Ricky did stop. Completely. Suddenly.
All because someone had walked into the room.
And Ricky—Ricky, who always looked so unreachable—was looking at him with an expression Gyuvin had never earned, never received, never even been close to touching.
Park Gunwook.
The name alone made Gyuvin feel like he was standing on shaking ground. Of course he knew him. How could he not? Ricky spoke about Gunwook often—not in obvious ways, never openly gushing, but always enough for Gyuvin to notice. Enough for Gyuvin to remember. Enough for Gyuvin to pack those mentions away like tiny shards he hoped would never cut him.
Ricky talked about Gunwook the way Gyuvin talked about Ricky—softly, unknowingly, like affection slipping through the cracks.
It hurt.
God, it hurt.
In Gyuvin’s vision, Ricky was always the clearest thing in the room, always in sharp focus, painfully beautiful in his own light. Everyone else blurred into nothingness behind him. But tonight, because Ricky’s gaze was pinned on someone, Gyuvin’s gaze followed too. He hated how instinctive it was, how inevitable it felt.
Ricky looked at Gunwook like he was an answer. Like he was hope. Like he was an angel. Like he was something crafted by the heavens.
And the worst part—the part Gyuvin couldn’t escape—was that Gunwook looked at Ricky the same way. Because eyes don’t lie. Eyes can break you long before actions ever do.
They were both testing the ground between them gently, carefully, like they were walking on glass. Afraid to step too hard, afraid to fall too fast. But Gyuvin could see it—they each held the other’s hand, even if only in their hearts. If they fell, they would fall together. And they wouldn’t get hurt.
Not like him.
Not like Gyuvin who stood on the sidelines, clutching a red scarf he had poured his entire heart into, every stitch laced with love Ricky would never know. A scarf for someone who would never see him as anything more than a friend. Maybe not even that tonight.
Alright, he loved Ricky.
He loved Ricky so much it hurt to breathe, hurt to stand, hurt to look.
But why… Why was he putting himself through this? Why was he choosing this torture? Why was he loving someone who had already begun loving someone else?
A single thought whispered through him, fragile and cruel all at once:
Because it’s Ricky.
And for Ricky, Gyuvin would always hurt if he had to.
Has there ever been a moment where Gyuvin truly thought about himself? Really, honestly, truly thought, “I am happy simply because I am happy”—without Ricky’s name threading itself into the feeling, without Ricky’s face tinting the emotion red?
He tries to remember.
He tries so hard.
But it feels like Shen Quanrui has made it painfully easy to become the axis of Gyuvin’s world—the subject, the center, the gravity pulling every thought toward him. Gyuvin knows it’s unhealthy. He knows devotion shouldn’t feel like this—shouldn’t feel like gripping a red scarf lined with invisible thorns, hurting himself just by holding on. Maybe that was why the scarf was such a deep shade of red—because something in Gyuvin must bleed for it to feel real.
In the middle of the room, beneath the warm lights and floating laughter, Ricky and Gunwook looked flustered and happy. Meanwhile, Gyuvin felt his own gaze dim, like someone had turned down a switch inside him.
Gunwook laughed at something Ricky said, bright and unguarded. Ricky smiled back, equally warm.
They looked good together. So good that it made something in Gyuvin twist.
For a split, ugly second, Gyuvin wished Gunwook were dead.
Not seriously—not in any way that would ever alarm anyone—but in that dramatic, pathetic way heartbreak whispers when it hits too hard: Why him? Why not me? Why can’t I be the one Ricky chooses instead?
And then it got worse.
Because Ricky had a gift. A neatly wrapped one.
Not for Gyuvin. For Gunwook.
Gloves. Soft-looking gloves. Something Ricky had clearly picked with intention. Something meant to keep Gunwook warm.
A gift.
From Ricky.
It made Gyuvin’s stomach drop so fast he almost swayed.
The sweater suddenly felt different in his memory. Less precious. Less intimate.
Maybe Ricky only gave it to him because he looked cold. A spur-of-the-moment pity offering, not something chosen, not something meant.
Gyuvin hates himself instantly for thinking that. It was still a piece of Ricky. Still warmth Ricky placed into his hands. Still something Gyuvin treasures more than anything he’s ever owned.
But still… Ricky liked Gunwook better.
That truth was sharp. Sharp and cold. Sharp enough to carve him hollow.
He wishes—god, he wishes he were Gunwook.
Park one-of-a-kind Gunwook, standing there shining under the lights as if he were built to match Ricky’s brightness.
Then someone shouted from the crowd, interrupting Gyuvin’s spiraling thoughts.
“They said if two people meet underneath the mistletoe, they should kiss! Gunwook, Ricky—you both should definitely kiss!”
A kiss. Of course. Everyone around them erupted in teasing and laughter, pulling the spotlight tighter around the two boys at the center.
A kiss.
Ricky would never kiss Gyuvin, even as a joke, even under a thousand mistletoes.
Why would he? Who was Gyuvin to him anyway? A roommate. A friend. A convenient warmth when needed, but never the chosen one.
And Gyuvin—poor, heart-open, self-sacrificing Gyuvin—couldn’t bring himself to watch Ricky kiss someone else, even if it was just on the cheek, even if it was just for fun.
So he walked away.
Away from the spotlight.
Away from the main characters of this scene.
He walked like a bystander quietly exiting the frame of a story he would never belong to—going off to complete his own lonely side quest while his heart tore open in the empty hallway behind him.
Gyuvin prepared a card and set the handmade scarf gently on Ricky’s bed.
One last Christmas gift. One final, foolish offering he would ever allow himself to give to someone this precious. In truth, it might have been the only gift in his entire life that mattered this much. Because it was for Ricky. Because every stitch had been made with a kind of love he could barely admit even to himself.
He placed the simple card on top.
“Merry Christmas.”
No confessions. No hidden messages woven between the lines. Just two words that were small enough to hide all the things he could never say out loud.
He stepped back. The quiet of their room settled around him, soft and merciless. And in that silence—fragile, dimly lit—Gyuvin let his tears fall, each one slipping down like another goodbye.
Now it was the third of December again.
Cold. Nighttime. Of course it was.
Ricky and Gunwook had been together for a long time now—happy and warm in all the ways Gyuvin used to dream of being. If Gyuvin claimed he wasn’t bitter, it would be a lie so flimsy even the wind outside could tear through it.
The only pieces of Ricky he still received were occasional updates—messages sent randomly, photos forwarded without much thought. And because Gyuvin was a fool to the very end, he welcomed every notification, every ding, every picture. Even when it hurt.
Today’s picture was the worst of them all.
Ricky and Gunwook standing in the snow, a bright Christmas tree glowing behind them. Their hands intertwined—fingers linked so naturally, as if they had always been meant to fit like that. As if no one else had ever stood in that space beside Ricky.
It used to be Gyuvin. Used to be his hand warming Ricky’s. Used to be his place beside him in the cold.
But not anymore.
Now the only reminder Gyuvin had of ever being close to him—the only proof that he hadn’t imagined all that affection—was the red sweater folded neatly at the foot of his bed. Ricky’s sweater. Ricky’s warmth. Ricky’s kindness. The same sweater Gyuvin clung to for nights when the ache was too heavy to swallow.
He no longer wished he was Gunwook. No longer wished he was Ricky’s Heather, the special one, the chosen one.
He simply wished, just once, that he had been loved.
He wished he knew how to treat himself better than this.
And more than anything else—Gyuvin wished it wasn’t the third of December.
♡