There’s snow falling around them in tiny specks, not really as people interpret snowflakes with intricate designs and “one never the same as another.” Heechul is like a snowflake, Hankyung muses. He’s not the same as anyone else, he’s not unique in the way everyone else is. He’s got his own sense of thinking and state of mind, and everything about him is just so Heechul; the way he knows weird facts, the way he speaks with a sharp tongue that just rubs salt into wounds created by insults. Heechul is Heechul and no matter how practiced, no one would be able to imitate him.
They’re in a garden, it seems, surrounded by flowers fresh and alive and sweet-smelling, despite the snow crunching under their feet and collecting on their eyelashes. Despite the harsh cold that turns their breaths into puffs of smoke and their fingertips and toes numb. Heechul’s lips are the same color of the red dahlia bush behind him, and Hankyung reaches out to touch them. The petals are soft and warm, and the Korean’s hand brushes against Chinaman’s as he mimics the action. Jolts are sent through their bodies.
To keep warm, they decide to huddle together, shoulder to shoulder holding hands and walking as if attached at the hip, sharing body heat. They’re walking along the bushes of violets and chrysanthemums and hydrangeas, the snow imprinting their tracks in white, contrasting the hues of dark green and bright reds and purples and yellows.
The garden led to an ocean, the sky lit as if it’s early morning and the waves are crashing against the shore with a calming sound, and Hankyung closes his eyes and breathes in the salty sea air. It’s not as cold, they’re warmer now, and Heechul’s face lights up like a thousand Christmas lights on high voltage. He toes off his socks and shoes hurriedly, rolling up his pants before running into the water and kicking around, relishing in the feel of sand between his toes, water licking at his feet and the feeling that he’s moving but he’s standing in one place.
Hankyung follows suit, but not as excitedly, not as energetically, as Heechul. He slides his hand down the other’s arm until they clasp, not really meaning to but happy he did because Heechul grips back, grinning at him before running down the shore, dragging him along and laughing as though the funniest joke in the world had been whispered in the wind and blown through his ears and Hankyung missed it. He smiles anyway, because Heechul is being a Heechul that he’s never seen before, and he quite likes it.
The shore suddenly drops off and they didn’t realize it; before they know it, they’re falling and Hankyung lets out a scream before they drop onto a fluffy cloud. He always thought the cartoons would never be real, you’d just fall through them before they’re just water particles, not made of marshmallows as Hankyung thought as a kid. But this is their own perfect world, where it’s just them running and falling and popping bubbles that are appearing out of nowhere as they sit cross-legged on a cloud that feels like cotton candy. Heechul presses his lips against Hankyung’s cheek before he gets up and steps off the cloud, and Hankyung sits for a few moments, fingers grazing lightly over the spot Heechul had kissed, before rolling off the cloud himself.
He lands softly in a field of flowers that has a shack smack dab in the middle of it. Hankyung gets up and walks towards it, nudging the door open with his elbow to find Heechul laying on the bed, sleeping. He crawls in next to him, between him and the wall, and lays his arm across the other’s waist. Sleep weighs his eyelids, all the running and falling finally coming to him, and as he fades into a slumber his fingers are drawing made-up Chinese characters on Heechul’s bare chest, his skin like flower petals.