He’s not an idiot. He knows Gihun won’t kiss him tonight. He’ll kiss Jungbae like he does every year, fondly and squarely on the cheek. The unconditional warmth between the two friends will spread through the crowd, a sacred reminder of why they all fight so hard for this life.

Gihun will kiss Jungbae’s cheek and they will all cheer, they will all drink, and they will all remember what it is to feel joy.

Gihun will tell the story of how their settlement was founded, recount the sacrifices made, and remind them all to look after one another.

“Trust and protect each other,” he’ll say this year like he says every year, his hand over his heart as he meets the hundreds of eyes that look up at him. “We’re all we have.”

Gihun won’t kiss him. Won’t even think to.

Junho hasn’t said a word to him about the warmth that writhes in his chest when he’s near, that glows almost painfully when Gihun lowers his voice to speak just to him, when he resolves disputes in his calm, decisive way; always so fair, so principled, building a future Junho will not live to see.

Junho hasn’t said a word to him about the ticking clock inside his body, either, the inevitability the medicine of this collapsed world is unprepared for.

He remembers, before the world went under, a doctor matter-of-factly telling him he’d be lucky to have twenty more years.

He’d been ten. He’d been terrified.

The countdown has stuck in his mind since, haunting his steps more with every snap of teeth too close to his skin, every bullet that whizzes past his ears, every year that brings him closer to his thirtieth birthday.

He turned twenty nine a month and a half ago.

He’s running out of time.

He wishes he’d kissed Gihun on his birthday. He’d planned to, before it all fell apart. He’d had the gloss in his pocket and everything.

He wishes he could kiss him tonight. Instead he’ll have to watch Gihun kiss Jungbae for what might be the last time.

He encourages Cabbage into a canter, urges him on until the buildings blur around them, until they’re going too fast for anyone else to interrupt their return to the stables, to Gihun.

He’s working when they arrive, mucking stalls of all things.

He could be doing anything on his birthday but he’s here doing the type of manual labor they usually have to draw straws for.

He could live in the mansion on the hill but he doesn’t; he had it repurposed as their school and hospital and visits it daily.

He could kiss anyone he wanted in the entire settlement and they’d be thrilled, but he won’t. He’ll kiss his oldest friend like he does every year.

Junho would have liked more time to admire the wiry strength in his arms, the cinch of his waist where he’s tucked in his shirt, the fit of his worn jeans—but Cabbage comes in too hot, trampling gleefully over the element of surprise.

Gihun straightens and Junho does too, preparing to deny that he’d been close to ogling him outright, but Gihun’s eyes light with joy, not suspicion or disgust.

“Cabbage!” He shucks his gloves and tugs the handkerchief down, revealing the rest of his face to Junho, handsome and faintly lined.

Cabbage trots forward and thrusts his nose into Gihun’s hands, seeking his affection the way Junho wishes he could.

Gihun is generous with his touch but it rarely lingers, never scratches the itch festering under Junho’s skin, is scarcely ever more than a hand on his arm or a hasty embrace after a near-miss, so tight it hurts.

Stop it, he scolds himself. You are not jealous of a horse.

“Did you have a good time patrolling with Junho?” Gihun guides the horse’s head to his chest, rubbing his fingers in fond circles over Cabbage’s wide, velveteen jaw.

Junho watches as he sneaks him a cube of dried fruit from his pocket. Scoffing, he swings his leg over Cabbage’s back and dismounts. “Isn’t it against the rules to give rations to the horses?”

“Don’t turn me in,” Gihun plays along, widening his eyes innocently. “It’s my birthday.”

Junho smiles. He can’t help it. Gihun always makes him smile.

He passes over Cabbage’s reins. “Happy birthday, Mr. Seong.”

“Gihun,” Gihun corrects, guiding Cabbage to water. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’ve been taking care of you since we lost your brother.”

It’s been years, but the mention of Inho’s death still makes a sharp ache radiate through Junho like he’s trying to breathe with a broken rib.

“He’s breathing fast,” Gihun observes, resting his hand on Cabbage’s flank. He turns to Junho and frowns. “You both are. Did something happen?”

“No,” Junho assures him. There is justice in the world today: everything has been peaceful for Gihun’s birthday. “He just missed you.” I did, too.

Gihun visibly relaxes. His hair is down around his shoulders today, soft and dark and touched with silver around the temples.

He’ll put it up once the party starts, warmed by the company and what passes for alcohol worth drinking now, and there will be no one but Junho to admire the exposed curve of his neck, the lovely flush that will color it.

“What are you doing here?” Junho asks. “Don’t you have a party to plan?”

Gihun huffs a breath and turns back to Cabbage, guiding him to his stall and the hay there. He takes the saddle off, then everything else, hangs it all up and out of the way. “I’m here because of the party.”

“You love parties.”

“I love other peoples’ parties,” Gihun’s voice is muffled as he leans down to brush bits of cold mud from Cabbage’s legs. “Mine just feels so…indulgent.”

Junho scoffs. “You don’t even accept gifts.”

Gihun has always been so self-sacrificial, so untouchably humble. Junho wonders when the last time was he took something for himself, refused to let it go, held it tight against his bones like he needed it to survive.

He has his hope. His love for the settlement and the people here. His belief that their way of life, their fragile truce with death, will outlast the horrors outside the high fences.

He has his friends. He’s universally adored by the entire community and the neighbors they trade with in the spring, but Junho knows he goes to bed alone.

He pictures the gifts waiting for Gihun under the floorboards in his room, protected by cold earth and worn wood, and his heart begins to race with the warm, slick fantasies of how Gihun might respond.

“You’re—still going, aren’t you?” He means to sound casual, maybe glibly curious, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even sound hopeful. He just sounds…desperate. Pathetic, like he had on his birthday.

Gihun lifts his head to look at him through the curtain of his hair but Junho suddenly can’t meet his eye. He hides behind Shadow’s bulk just like he used to when he and Inho first arrived at the settlement with nothing but their spent guns and bloody clothes.

She’s drowsy but she’s happy to see him; she always is. He gives her nose an absent scratch and she mouths at his sleeve—no wonder Inho’s shirts were always weak at this particular seam.

“Junho.”

Gihun’s voice, suddenly sober, suddenly close, sounds from just behind him and Junho bites his lip at the frisson that trails its fingers up his spine.

The feeling is cold in his stomach at first but ignites when he turns and Gihun is right there, close enough that he could reach out and touch him.

“I’ll be there.” Gihun says, soft but firm.

With Shadow on one side and the stall wall on the other, Junho is trapped. Gihun becomes the only thing he can see, becomes his whole world, his warm dark eyes the center of it all.

He has survived another year. It has not left him unscarred, has not left any of them unscarred, but here Gihun is, here he is, here they all are, assembling soon to watch Gihun waste his birthday kiss on someone who isn’t him.

“Junho…” Gihun begins, and the surge of delusional courage drains to Junho’s feet. “About your birthday…”

Junho swallows. He feels the phantom sting in his eyes again, remembers waking up alone but for the shame that sank its teeth into him and tore out bloody chunks.

What has Gihun heard? Everyone has been talking about it. He must know by now what happened, how Junho cried when he was called away, how he made a scene.

He won’t drink tonight. He might not drink ever again. It was fucking humiliating to out himself like that, to spill his guts in more ways than one, but at least Gihun hadn’t been there to personally witness him fall apart.

Still, he must know. Even if it doesn’t involve him directly, Gihun knows about everything that goes on inside these walls.

Junho pictures the council reporting to him about the disturbance, discussing it, discussing him, and the miserable heat in his face intensifies.

“Is there…something you wanted to say to me?”

Junho’s breath freezes in his chest. Gihun looks at him hopefully but there’s something nervous there, too, like he expects this conversation to go badly.

Leaden shame makes Junho’s stomach sink and he drops his eyes. He knows what Gihun wants to hear.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words are bitter and thick on his tongue. “I…it was stupid. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

Gihun’s expression shifts towards confusion, then enlightenment, his lips parting. He sighs a little laugh, smiles at Junho, and through his hurt he feels his heart lift. “Oh, no, that’s not what I—”

The radio at his belt chirps.

“Man of the hour, come in.”

It’s Jungbae.

Gihun’s birthday is the only day of the entire year that Junho doesn’t like Jungbae.

He pictures his face, flushed with alcohol and affection as Gihun kissed his cheek last year and feels a vicious knife’s twist of envy in his gut.

Gihun flashes him an apologetic smile and lifts the radio. “I’m here.”

To Junho he adds, “Let’s talk about this later, okay?”

Junho bites back a protest, stung by the dismissal, by Gihun choosing Jungbae over him again, by the unfairness of having to part when they’d just reunited.

But he nods stiffly and leaves Gihun behind, wreathed in the fragrance of hay, and goes to make himself useful.

…