Frost

i know why the caged bird sings

Christmas and New Year's have never been a big thing at home. In fact, he couldn't remember a time he celebrated either.

He could remember being promised, once. When he still had that locked up hope in his chest, like a caged bird wishing to fly.

Back when he still believed it when his mother told him that everything will get better.

He had sat by the window, leaning against the cold glass in his cheap shorts and hand-me-down tee. Knees pressed against his chest, and eyes searching beyond the glass for a sign of his mother on the snowy streets.

The table was set in the only way he knew how to set it, and a candle burned instead of a christmas tree. A drawing lay next to the candle, drawn in a bright crayon with a steady hand. A woman and a little boy, holding hands and smiling happily under a yellow sun. He had signed his name, too, neatly at the bottom where the grass grew sparser.

Outside, the weather got worse as the wind howled and snow pelted the windows. The glass frames rattled, shaking. Sometime after 10, the electricity went out, plunging him into real darkness, his only light source the dying candle.

And still he waited.

He fell asleep there, by that window, waking up the next morning. The candle had gone out, and the dinner had gone cold. There were flies feasting on the food, and a muddy footprint on his drawing.

His mother's snores came from the only bedroom.

Now, he couldn't sleep. Everyone had gone to bed by now, crashing on the couch or in the bedrooms, but Yeonjun couldn't sleep.

Kai stirred a little as he got out of bed, and Yeonjun tucked him in before walking out to the living room, grabbing a bottle of soju from the fridge.

It was cold in his hand, calming down the fever taking over his body. Shutting the fridge, he cracked it open, walking to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room.

He took a sip, wincing at the taste, as he leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching the cars race down below, all hurrying somewhere. Where were they rushing to? Did they have kids at home who waited for them like he had waited? Would they hurry more if they did?

Yeonjun drank some more, burning up as he sat there, knees to his chest like he was small again. He wasn't hopeful now, but rather bitter. Bitter that so many beautiful moments in his life had to be ruined by the nagging voice in the back of his mind, the ticking clock counting down.

His phone lit up – a message from mother dearest. Yeonjun swiped it away mindlessly, chucking the device away.

He reached for the soju bottle again, but it was empty. How was it empty already?

A hand passed him another one.

Yeonjun's blurry sight doubled for a moment, before coming back into focus. The hand was still there, patiently holding out an unopened soju bottle.

He looked up, squinting into the darkness, trying to make out past the shadows of the night. "W-who..."

There was no answer, just the green bottle being pressed into his hand, his fingers reflexively curling around it.

And then the back-hug.

He remembered it clearly, clearer than anything else that night. Because the moment he felt a body settle against his, felt the arms loop around his waist and a head fall onto his shoulder, the tension drained from his body.