Chapter Text
Winter in Chicago is technically miserable. The steel and glass skyline curves along the lakeshore like the silver edge of a knife, and the water that makes the city glitter like a jewel in summer makes it almost too sharp to look at in winter. Snow and salt and mush line the streets, people are indistinguishable in heavy coats, hats, and scarves. Even the screech of the elevated train carries further in the dry air.
Wei Ying loves it.
He shouldn’t. He was born to the bright sun and humidity of Florida, but he moved to Chicago ten years ago and never looked back. Summer is boring—especially in Miami, where it lasts forever—and even though everyone else raves about it, he has always been a bit of a contrarian. There is something about winter air that burns his lungs and nips his fingers that feels like home. He loves fat snowflakes that fall in clumps and get stuck to his eyelashes. He loves cabled sweaters and wool hats and an excuse to drink hot chocolate by the fireplace.
Not that Wei Ying needs an excuse. He drinks hot chocolate all year long because it’s hot chocolate. It’s miraculous, when you think about it, how many things had to happen for modern man to have hot chocolate. It had to be fermented, then dried, then roasted, then liquified, then sweetened. Humanity was just so determined to consume chocolate. Wei Ying admires that kind of dedication.
“Only you would consider ordinary hot chocolate a modern marvel,” grouses Jiang Cheng, handing him the cup through the ticket booth window.
Wei Ying doesn’t even have to look to know it’s perfect. Jiang Cheng always gets him dark chocolate, extra hot, with whipped cream and, after Thanksgiving, a shot of peppermint. He is the best best-friend-not-quite-brother Wei Ying has ever had.
“Now, coffee...that’s a true miracle. The marriage of perfectly ground beans, the right temperature of water, the ideal brew time…” Jiang Cheng lifts his fingers to his lips and pretends to kiss them, closing his eyes in blissful coffee thoughts.
Wei Ying makes a gagging face and Jiang Cheng catches him. He sticks out his tongue and Wei Ying laughs.
“You can have your bitter bean juice, and I’ll just continue being happy drinking something that tastes good.”
Wei Ying sets down his cup and sells a group of teenagers Chicago Transit Authority day-passes for the L train, twenty-four exciting hours of riding the train, any line, only five dollars. He wonders what they’re planning to do, and spends a few seconds considering the options—movies, clubs, restaurants, shopping, theatre—but then he remembers. It’s Christmas Eve. No matter what they’re doing, it’s the same thing everyone is doing today: celebrating the holiday with the people they love.
Everyone except him. His family is gone and his best friend is leaving, heading home to Miami to see his family. This is just a statement of fact, he tells himself. It’s the same thing that happens every year, and he’s used to it. Even if he doesn’t have anyone to share Christmas with specifically, he’s working overtime holiday hours for big money, and—he checks his watch—it’s almost 8 am. He’ll get to see Him in a few minutes. The little things in life are worth celebrating.
As if summoned by a hornier realm of Wei Ying’s thoughts, He appears, dark hair visible first over the lip of the stairs, and then—the rest of Him.
“Not this again,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, but Wei Ying just shushes him, and because he is a good friend, Jiang Cheng obligingly steps to the side to give Wei Ying the full view of The Love of His Life.
He is always perfection, from the smooth skin, high cheekbones and thick eyelashes to the graceful smile that always seems to be hovering over his mouth. His hair isn’t quite black, more like rich, loamy earth, and it’s a bit long right now. A piece of it falls forward over his eyes, and he shakes it back with little huff. It looks silky soft, and Wei Ying dreams of tucking it behind his ear. As usual, The Most Wonderful Man In The World looks Wei Ying in the eyes and nods when he swipes his card through the turnstile, and as usual Wei Ying melts into a spring puddle.
The man walks away, violin case tucked under one arm, to wait for the next train, and Wei Ying catches a glimpse of a grey pinstripe suit under the heavy camel coat. He always wears suits. Beautiful, perfectly fitted suits. Suits that look like they were made by the nimble fingers of magical tailors. Wei Ying has no trouble believing that fairies come out of the trees at night to make this man’s suits. It’s a tragedy that they’re all covered up in winter.
It isn’t just that he’s the most handsome man Wei Ying has ever seen, possibly the most handsome man that exists. It’s that he’s friendly. It’s that he’s a musician. It’s that he’s kind, and always waits to board and exit the train last, careful to step around slower people. Wei Ying has watched in rapt fascination as his Future Husband extended an arm to a pregnant woman struggling on the platform stairs and lifted her heavy stroller with the other; when he bowed regally to a hunched grandmother and offered her his seat; and every time he’s winked at wide-eyed children. And he eats takeout from The Lake View, which Wei Ying happens to know is a very seedy bar that makes the most fabulous burgers in the city. Wei Ying can’t imagine anyone better.
“Are we done ogling the nice man now?” Jiang Cheng asks, one eyebrow raised, and Wei Ying sighs dramatically.
“I’m going to marry him someday.”
Jiang Cheng snorts unhelpfully. “That guy is way, way out of your league. Do you even know his name?”
Wei Ying does not. He knows his initials, LX, or possibly XL, depending on how much of a traditionalist he is, because several of his shirts have monogrammed cuffs. He is not going to admit that to Jiang Cheng.
“Names have nothing to do with true love,” he informs Jiang Cheng, who shakes his head but laughs anyway.
“Fine, fine. I’m sure you’ll be very happy with Mr. No Name who doesn’t know you exist.” Jiang Cheng gives him the patented All-Knowing Best Friend Look, the one with the narrowed eyes and slight frown. “A-Xian, come home with me for Christmas? You shouldn’t be alone.”
Wei Ying has answered this question half a dozen times already, and he forgives Jiang Cheng for continuing to use that horrible nickname, because he knows Jiang Cheng is genuinely worried about him. “Nah, I’m good. You know I hate Christmas without snow.”
Not exactly a lie, but he mostly hates how disappointed Jiang Cheng’s parents always are with him, for a different reason every time he visits. His dad is still disappointed that he broke up with Jiang Cheng a decade ago. When he sold his first book a year later, Jiang Cheng’s mom was disappointed that he wasn’t a failure after breaking up with Jiang Cheng. Then, when his second book was a flop and he didn’t sell anything else meaningful in the years since, it was disappointing that he was a failure, and Jiang Cheng was still friends with him. Wei Ying really doesn’t want to spend the holiday trying to guess what new disappointment he needs to smooth over.
He wouldn’t mind seeing Yanli, Jiang Cheng’s sister, who was always Wei Ying’s biggest champion, but he knows she’ll be busy with her herd of children, and anyway, Wei Ying secretly thinks her husband is The Most Boring Human Alive. The thought of spending any part of Christmas discussing the fastest route from Miami to Ft. Lauderdale with Zixuan doesn’t really strike him as an incentive to travel.
Jiang Cheng frowns like he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t. He knows the reasons as well as Wei Ying does. “Okay, well, I’m leaving this afternoon. Hopefully before those clouds dump snow. If you change your mind, I’ll buy your ticket.”
Right, because teaching middle school is such a lucrative career, Jiang Cheng can totally afford a last-minute holiday flight. Wei Ying resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Sure, sure, A-Cheng, I’ll let you know. Have fun! Tell Yanli I love her and kiss all the kids. Kiss Zixuan too if you want.”
He waves cheerfully as Jiang Cheng flips him off and jumps on the train right before the doors close. Wei Ying’s smile doesn’t exactly drop from his face, but he has to have a very firm talk with an errant stab of loneliness. He is not lonely. He is fine. Working over the holidays is fine. Dinner with his cat will be fine too. Maybe he’ll even write for a while.
Wei Ying’s shift is disappointingly over before His Intended comes back through the station, so he walks two blocks in the indecisive snow flurries to pick up a jalapeño burger with grilled onions and a decadent fried egg from their mutually favorite restaurant for Christmas Eve dinner. One benefit of living alone is that no one will complain about chili and onion breath.
Somewhere between the Sedgwick and Clinton stations, the weather makes up its mind and starts to snow in earnest. By the time Wei Ying steps onto his home platform, he has no choice but to stop and stare in awe at the blanket already on the ground, and the thick white sheet of snow coming down from the sky. He is, of course, promptly run into by irritated commuters who have no appreciation for the beauty of winter, but he doesn’t care. The snow is just for him.
Chenqing is waiting impatiently by the door, one paw raised in feline supplication.
“You aren’t starving,” Wei Ying informs her, and the cat disagrees mournfully, taking a spin through Wei Ying’s legs as he tries to set his bag down before checking the state of Chenqing’s bowl. Evidently, food that doesn’t fully cover the bottom is grounds for begging, and Wei Ying is a sucker for it every time.
He pours out a little more kibble and the big black cat falls on it, smacking her lips noisily the way she’s done since she was a wobbly, carrot-tailed kitten, found in a box by the trash bin on Thanksgiving Day three years ago. Wei Ying didn’t really like cats, but no one else would take her that first day, and within twenty-four hours, it was a moot point. The kitten slept curled up next to his neck and Wei Ying was hopelessly in love.
Wei Ying believes it is the mark of a truly great sandwich that it can be eaten an hour after purchase and still taste as heavenly as the first five minutes. He sets a Buddy Holly LP on his record player, changes into flannel pajamas, plugs in the Christmas tree, and pets Chenqing absently while he eats, savoring the numbing chili and gooey egg.
Come what may, do you ever long for true love from me?
The music, the peacefully purring cat, and the even-thicker fall of snow outside his window aren’t a bad way to spend Christmas Eve. Wei Ying makes another cup of hot chocolate, this one with a candy cane to stir, and it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t turn on his computer or write a single word on a piece of paper.
Love like yours will surely come my way.
It could definitely be worse, he thinks. He’s sure it probably has been.