“You looked so smug,” Seungho said, low, thumb brushing across Haneul’s cheek—smearing snow and dirt, a touch more intimate than any threat. “So proud of surviving me. But here you are. Alone. Drunk. Covered in vomit and snow, on your knees again.”
He leaned in, voice almost a purr. “Fitting.”
Haneul’s whole body shivered, not from cold.
“Tell me, Snowdrop,” Seungho whispered, voice dipping to something old and private, “did you dream of me, after that day?”
Haneul swayed on his knees, breath steaming in frantic bursts, eyes unfocused but burning. For a split second it seemed he would collapse right there—lips parted, cheeks aflame, chest shuddering with each ragged breath. But instead, he lurched up, scooped a double handful of snow, and smacked it square into Seungho’s face.
The sound was beautiful—wet, cold, pure indignation.
“—Pfhh—!” Seungho blinked, stunned, slush running down his jaw. Before he could recover, Haneul grabbed another fistful, hurled it at his cheek, howling—a banshee’s shriek ripped from somewhere wild.
“DIE ALREADY!”
He lunged, arms flailing, hands scrabbling at Seungho’s boots. The Fire King toppled backwards in genuine surprise, cloak tangled, massive body thudding into the snow. Before he could right himself, Haneul was on him—clambering onto his chest, shoveling armful after armful of snow into his face, throat, collar, babbling curses through gritted teeth.
“You… stinky—” more snow smashing onto Seungho’s belly.
“Arrogant,” a fresh scoop slammed to his chest, his jaw, as if Haneul could bury a mountain.
“Smug bastard!” he snarled, slapping the pile like building a burial mound.
He patted it down, wild-eyed and deranged, cheeks burning red, braid swinging madly, breath pouring out in little clouds. Nothing seductive or measured—just wild, animal justice, the raw, ridiculous strength of a body that refused to be beaten, not even by shame.
For a heartbeat, Seungho just lay there—beneath him, snow trickling down his neck, eyes wide with shock and wonder, watching Haneul’s chest heave with exertion, lips bared like a wolf cub defending its kill.
His lip twitched. He started to laugh.
At first it was rough—disbelieving, edged with pain and surprise. But then it broke open, deep and ugly and rich, laughter torn from his belly like something starved for years. His chest shook, the sound rolling through him as Haneul shrieked and shoveled more snow into his collar, each hit more ferocious and triumphant than the last.
Haneul froze, hands full of snow, eyes flicking wide. He’d never knew the Fire King could laugh like that. No one did. The sound, thick and ragged, cut through his rage, througheverything. Haneul’s whole body jerked at the sound of that laughter—raw, deep, cracking through the night air like a forbidden spell. He leapt back as if stung, magic flaring with a startled burst, snowflakes erupting like starlight around him. Eyes wide, mouth open, staring as if he’d just heard a god howl.
It only made Seungho laugh harder.
“You’re insane,” Seungho choked out, crimson eyes slitting with honest joy. “Utterly fucking insane… You thought you could bury me,” he teased, voice low and liquid, eyes gleaming. “With snow.”
“What the fuck?!” Haneul yelped, voice shrill, teetering between curse and plea.
Then he lobbed one last snowball—clumsy, desperate, pitiful—a wet thump against Seungho’s shoulder as the Fire King doubled over, laughing so hard steam poured from his chest, melting ice where it landed. Haneul didn’t wait to see what came next. He just turned and crawled away—on hands and knees, boots squeaking, braid trailing in tangles, muttering curses into the blue dark.
“Gotta find the… the straw mat… the warm… clan jerks… stupid drunk bastards… fuckin’ vomit king…”
Not words. Just memory, survival, pride. And Seungho—half-buried in a snow-grave, cloak soaked through, chest trembling with laughter—just watched. He’d hunted assassins, broken warlords, watched men crawl at his feet. But never—never—anything like this.
Precious. Baffling. Infuriating.
Mine, something deep inside him whispered, though he dared not say it.
He stood, fire flickering beneath his skin, drying frost from his throat. He watched Haneul stagger, weaving through snow and shadow until the boy finally collapsed near the river, arms curled beneath his head, chest heaving. He could go to him—wrap him in furs, drop him on his mat, watch him sleep and breathe in the scent of snow and stubbornness. But he stayed. He waited.
His voice cut through the clearing, sharp as a blade but soft enough for only Haneul:
“You keep crawling away from me, Haneul. But you always leave a trail.”
The snow glowed—a map of escape, melted prints, glowing frost, the flare of magic Haneul couldn’t hide. Even drunk, even half-dead, he made it too easy.
At the riverbank, Haneul’s knees sank into the ice, hair stuck to his cheek, eyes fixed on the moon as if it held a promise. He swayed, fingers shaking, as if he might pray, or vomit, or both.
