[m] Almost Christmas means it wasn't Christmas

Christmas. Every December, like clockwork, his mother would vanish into thin air, leaving him grappling with a silence that seemed to consume the very walls of their home. As a child, he sought refuge in Alastor’s house, but after they took in that guy, Ruìsāng found himself increasingly drawn to the numbing embrace of his workplace, anything to escape the hollowness of his own house that would stretch on until January.

Yet, each year upon her return, his mother’s promises of change hung in the air, as fleeting and insubstantial as winter mist. Promises that dissolved like morning frost under the sun’s warmth.

This year, however, was different. Vince’s unexpected invitation had sparked something in Ruìsāng—a flicker of something akin to hope, or perhaps just the desire for a change. He hadn’t even considered the option of refusing, instead asking for some favours at work to secure the day off. Now, his apartment, usually a mirror of his mother’s turmoil, was in a perfectly tidy state. The Mawile dozed on the couch, while the Vulpix curled up in one of the kitchen chairs.

The intercom's ring sliced through the quiet, pulling a grin onto Ruìsāng’s lips. Sauntering over, he responded with a smooth, “Merry Christmas, Bǎobèi. First floor up. Door’s unlocked,” his voice a blend of anticipation and ease. He buzzed Vince in, ended the call, and pushed his own door open, leaning casually against the dinner table. His red eyes openly awaited Vince's arrival.

Vince hadn’t specified his preferences for the evening’s meal. Ruìsāng was now faced with the challenge of impressing with a recipe untried.

Between Vince and Ruìsāng, a lot had happened. They’d met through a texting mistake, which bloomed into… more. That first, asymmetrical blind date had been the catalyst, igniting a connection that Ruìsāng had thought would flicker out after maybe one more night. Yet, Vince had reached out again, and despite all odds, Ruìsāng had rushed to his side.

Now, standing at a juncture, Ruìsāng found himself harbouring a deep appreciation for Vince. But he wanted more than just shared traumas; he craved something he could not — or would not dare — name. Well… He craved to pin Vince against a wall, searing his own name into Vince’s consciousness with a fervour he would not forget. But those desires were best left for later.

For the time being, Ruìsāng wrestled with a yearning he couldn’t quite articulate, even to himself. It was a pursuit of something. Something… good.

His phone rested in his grasp as he fired off another message to work. He put it down and turned his attention to the door just as Vince stepped in. Today, Ruìsāng wore something different from his usual casual wear—a white button-up shirt hugged by a black vest.

A cheeky grin curled the corner of his mouth. “There’s my prince,” he greeted Vince. He moved towards the other, his left hand reaching out to relieve him of one of the bags. His bandaged right hand, raised awkwardly, kept him from taking the other as well.

“How’s Christmas treating you?” Ruìsāng inquired, his hand lingering near Vince’s, while he himself stayed just a bit too close. His eyebrow arched curiously.

When the bags were pulled out of reach, Ruìsāng couldn’t help but pout. “My left hand is perfectly fine,” he reassured, his tone light yet tinged with a mock indignation. His hand, deliberately left close to Vince’s, seemed to hover with an air of innocence.

The response he received, however, was not the merry tale of holiday cheer he had half-expected. Instead, it was a story that made Ruìsāng internally question Vince’s choice of friends. But rather than delve into that, he saw an opportunity.

“Then it seems like I should take your mind off of other people,” he suggested, his voice lower as he deliberately invaded Vince’s space. He leaned in just a little more, red eyes focussed on the gold in the other’s.

“My Christmas?” he inquired, his voice feigning innocence while his fingers remained tantalisingly close to Vince’s hand. In a fluid motion, he made another grab for the bags. “Just got a whole lot better,” he admitted.

Ruìsāng was going to need his hand later, according to Vince. A sly grin that unfurled across Ruìsāng’s lips. Vince’s cheeks flushed a captivating shade of red in return. “I sure hope so,” Ruìsāng replied, his voice just a little lower. Thoughts of what might transpire later that evening danced tantalisingly in his mind, wanting to find out just how much Vince had been thinking about that pretty mouth of his. But for now, he reminded himself, he needed to exercise a semblance of restraint. After all, he could behave. Probably.

As Vince’s words hung in the air, Ruìsāng’s grin broadened. “It sure is,” he echoed, his mind drifting back to their first encounter. Vince had been a bundle of nerves then, a shy figure at the bar with an endearing smile. Now, though still tinged with a hint of shyness, Vince had a new certainty in his desires that only added to his allure. Perhaps it was this evolution, or maybe other, deeper reasons, that made him more attractive.

Finally, as one of the bags passed into his hands, Ruìsāng’s curiosity piqued. He delved into it with childlike eagerness, his eyes lighting up at the contents. Vince mentioned he’d send over a recipe soon. A dish steeped in nostalgia, possibly from Baesin. Ruìsāng wondered if it might be a familiar creation.

Upon following Vince into the kitchen and learning of the dish, Ruìsāng’s face lit up with recognition. “Ah! We call it ehm— Xīnqí. I’ve used it before,” he said, his grin widening. He recalled assisting Chief with the dish and later exploring it during his university days. The process, involving days of fermentation, had been tough, but its results undeniably rewarding.

“What’s the plan?” Ruìsāng inquired, eyebrows raised in curiosity. With Kimchi as the key ingredient, there were many possibilities. If they’d go with some type of bowl, Ruìsāng would get a chance to show off.

In Ruìsāng's world, permanence was a rare commodity. Aside from Alastor, his life was filled with transient interactions—brief, bright encounters that flickered and faded like stars at dawn. Acquaintances from the bar and elsewhere flitted in and out of his life, none leaving a lasting imprint. He kept them at arm’s length, neither knowing nor caring for the details of their lives, just as they remained oblivious to his.

Yet here was Vince, standing in his living room. Ruìsāng found himself smiling, genuinely and without reservation, as Vince talked about a dish from his homeland. The kitchen counter, now cluttered with groceries, exuded a sense of domesticity that felt alien yet strangely alluring to Ruìsāng. The idea of a ‘normal’ life often felt like a far-fetched dream, a jest, and yet, the ease with which Vince fit into the space around him made it seem almost attainable.

When Vince gestured towards the fridge, asking for permission, Ruìsāng chuckled warmly. “Make yourself at home, please. I don’t mind,” he responded, his words echoing a sentiment that surprised even him. He realised he was less afraid of the thought of Vince staying than the possibility of him leaving, and that realisation in itself was terrifying.

Vince outlined their culinary project for the evening—a stew, but thankfully not one that demanded hours of simmering. As Ruìsāng looked over the recipe Vince sent over, he nodded in approval. “Alright. Easy,” he smiled. Curiosity flickered in his eyes as he asked, “Have you made it before?” He was intrigued by the notion of preparing a traditional dish for Vince, though he wasn’t sure how well Vince would do in the kitchen himself.

“So I don’t remember how much I’ve told you besides doing a business major,” he began, “but I am in my last year of hospitality management to open up a restaurant. I’ve finished my commercial cooking and culinary courses, so I should be able to make this with my eyes closed,” he said, his grin reflecting pride. “Cooking is something I learned to do when I was very young. I’d like to think I’m good at it now.” Which was why he had offered, of course.

Vince’s mention of the dish came with an admission of lacking skill in the kitchen. His explanation, touching upon expectations of having a wife or staff to cook, drew an amused raise of Ruìsāng’s eyebrow. Before delving into his own extensive cooking experience, Ruìsāng paused to listen as Vince spoke again.

It was true, Vince knew little of Ruìsāng. He had mastered the art of concealing his true self, maintaining surface-level interactions to avoid the pain of eventual detachment. He had shared fragments of his current experiences with the monster with Vince, yet never ventured into different terrains of his life. It was a protective mechanism, a shield against the temporary nature of relationships he had come to expect. However, there was a growing sense within Ruìsāng that Vince might actually want to understand the man behind the facade.

“That is still a long way off, but you are welcome wherever I end up,” Ruìsāng responded with a playful wink, his smile briefly giving way to a more contemplative expression. “Let’s make it together. It’s never too late to learn how to cook,” he encouraged Vince.

“And it’s not too late to learn more about me, either. I’m not—” Taking a deep breath, Ruìsāng prepared to venture into uncharted territory. “I do not share often. But there’s no better time than today,” he admitted as he leaned back against the counter, arms folded.

“My parents didn’t speak the common tongue, so I grew up speaking Fènghuáng at home. My mother—she was different back then, kind and sweet, but out of place here. I remember she introduced me to school as Sū Ruìsāng, leading everyone to call me Sū for a while,” he shared, a soft smile playing on his lips as he recalled a bittersweet memory.

“I met my best friend when I was just a toddler. I didn’t speak the right language, and he was—well, a bit odd. But we clicked, and we’re still very close. He’s why I play the guitar. He’s a musician, too, and I think the two of you would get along. I… would like for you two to get along.” Ruìsāng continued. “Custody was taken away from my parents, and I ended up in foster care for a few years. It was returned to my mother when I was twelve. My father wasn’t around anymore, so that’s how this all ended up,” he explained, gesturing around the place.

Vince’s comment about keeping his fingers intact drew a chuckle from Ruìsāng. He seemed enthusiastic to help out, however, which Ruìsāng counted as a win. It would be nice to do together. “If you like it today, let me teach you how to cook properly,” Ruìsāng offered. “Unless you’re still waiting for a wife to do it for you,” he added, his grin broadening.

As Ruìsāng narrated parts of his life, he was aware that he was only skimming the surface. This was an initiation, an opening gambit in revealing his true self. Today was about giving Vince a glimpse, a silhouette, of who Ruìsāng was beneath the layers he had so meticulously constructed. He sought to draw back the curtains, even if just a fraction, and gauge the impact.

Vince’s reaction, a mix of happiness and curiosity, was reassuring, but Ruìsāng's smile faded as he corrected Vince's assumption about his childhood. He couldn’t allow the past to be sugar coated. “It… It wasn’t good. My father wasn’t a good man and foster care wasn’t easy,” he confessed.  He didn’t want to downplay it. While he had no intention of getting into the specifics today, Vince wanted to know him, so he had to know why he pushed people away and didn’t share

“Things were hardly ever permanent, so I learned not to attach, not to share, and simply— not to care. It has been a very long time since I’ve tried to share anything with anyone, so… It…” He paused, scoffing lightly, shaking his head as he met Vince's gaze once more. “It isn’t easy, but with you, I want to try,” he admitted. He opened his mouth to add to it, but the words were stuck in his throat.

It terrifies me.

Vince’s aspiration to learn more than instant noodles elicited a reaction from Ruìsāng, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “Those are the worst,” he confessed, clearly baffled by Vince and Alastor’s preferences for such culinary monstrosities. “I’ll teach you. I’d like to keep you healthy for a little while longer, and it’ll be fun,” he agreed with a nod. It would be a nice way to spend some time together. So… domestic.

As Ruìsāng navigated the unfamiliar territory of opening up, Vince’s reactions were encouraging. There was no hint of disappointment, only a genuine delight in whatever Ruìsāng was willing to share. This encouragement was a balm to Ruìsāng's inhibition, assuring him that his efforts were not only appreciated but also valued. It spurred him on, fueling his willingness to continue sharing bits of himself.

The warm touch of Vince’s hands enveloped Ruìsāng’s, drawing an involuntary smile to his lips. He was reminded to take slow steps; not everything had to be revealed at once. The gentle pressure of Vince’s hand against his cheek prompted Ruìsāng to lean into the touch.

I’ll be here, if you need me, I’ll be here.

No one ever was. But for once, Ruìsāng believed the words.

“I’m not. I want to,” he responded to Vince. “I…” he paused, gathering his thoughts, working up to something within the chaos of his mind.

“I like music, good food, travels, I prefer places without too many people, and I—” His voice faltered momentarily, his jaw tensing as he wrestled with the next admission.

“And I would really like to kiss you right now.”

Ruìsāng chuckled in response to Vince’s remark about finding a friend with some cooking skills. The words Vince spoke were met with an easy nod from Ruìsāng. “I’ve always liked it, so we can make it work. We’ll just pick some days and some recipes, make you a culinary chef before you know it,” he replied, his grin spreading with genuine enthusiasm. Then, with a playful glint in his eye, he added, “And if all else fails, you can always convince me to be your new wife.”

The moment Ruìsāng spoke, it was as if time paused. Vince’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise before he swiftly bridged the gap between them. Ruìsāng’s eyes fluttered shut, his hand instinctively reaching to Vince’s lower back, drawing him nearer. His breath hitched in his throat. In this embrace, Ruìsāng sought something beyond the words he’d always lacked — a need for closeness, for a touch that would say more than his words ever could.

“Like that,” Ruìsāng whispered, his breath mingling with Vince’s, their proximity unbroken. “Exactly like that,” he murmured again, his lips seeking Vince’s once more. They would soon have to pull away, lest he give in to the overwhelming urge to lift Vince onto the countertop. This need felt almost like a physical force. The unspoken words lodged in his throat felt like a rising tide, threatening to drown him if he didn’t find some outlet, some way to express them.

The simplicity of everything, the straightforwardness of it all, was like a refreshing breeze to Ruìsāng. A small, cautious voice in the recesses of his mind hinted that it might be too good to be true, that something might shatter this still. Yet, in the present moment, he embraced the ease. The invitation to teach Vince to cook was just that—an open, genuine offer to spend more time together, accepted without the usual back-and-forth of playing hard to get. It was … easy.

Ruìsāng couldn’t help but laugh when Vince playfully suggested braiding his hair and dressing him up, followed quickly with a preference for Ruìsāng just as he was. “It’s alright, bǎobèi. If a dress is your kink, we’ll see what we can do,” Ruìsāng quipped back, his tongue peeking out teasingly. “Though I’m told I look good in braids,” he added with a nod, although braiding was a skill beyond his repertoire.

Touch was Ruìsāng’s language, his way of expressing what words often failed to capture. The press of his lips against Vince’s, the guiding hand on Vince’s lower back, spoke more than his words ever could. Feeling Vince smile into the kiss, Ruìsāng mirrored the gesture.

“If you want to make it to the market today…” he began, intentionally creating a sliver of space between them, a momentary retreat to suggest restraint, “then you should pull back.”

Yet, in an act of defiance to his own words, Ruìsāng spun them around, pressing Vince against the counter, invading his space with an intensity that left no room for escape. It was a clear message— fuck the market.