He placed the wine down and let himself sink onto the couch, the glass settling onto the side table with a faint, crystalline clink that reverberated softly in the quiet room.
The cushions dipped under his weight, warm and familiar, yielding with a gentle sigh of fabric and foam, enveloping him in their worn embrace as if they remembered the shape of his exhaustion from nights before.
He leaned his head back, neck arching against the armrest, the cool leather a counterpoint to the lingering steam from his skin.
Just for a moment.
His eyes grew heavy without warning, lids drooping under an unseen pull, the edges of his vision softening as fatigue wove through him like threads of mist.
The room blurred, outlines of furniture and shadows merging into indistinct hazes, the amber light from the hallway fading to a distant pulse.
And somewhere between waking and sleep, he felt warmth touch his fingers—
so faint, so familiar that his breath stilled, caught in his throat like a held secret, the sensation blooming from his knuckles inward, a subtle heat that defied the night's chill.
A boy's laugh, light and muffled, echoing from the recesses of his mind like wind chimes stirred by a forgotten breeze.
A hand tugging his wrist, fingers curling with insistent gentleness, pulling him forward into unspoken invitation.
The feeling of someone leaning close during winter, the brush of wool against wool, breath mingling in shared clouds that hung suspended in the frost.
A voice, soft and filled with a warmth he no longer had in his life—
"Wei… your hands are freezing again."
The words wrapped around him, low and intimate, carrying the cadence of care long absent, each syllable a tether drawing him deeper into the haze.
And Cheng Wei drifted into sleep,
quietly,
as snow continued falling outside, flakes accumulating in silent layers against the sill, their descent a lullaby the world sang just for him.
Like it had been waiting for this moment, the season pausing its relentless cover to allow the veil between realms to thin.
Snow drifted around him in wide, unhurried flakes, the kind that belonged to winters long gone—large, feathered crystals that caught the light and lingered before surrender, transforming the air into a suspended veil of white—and Cheng Wei found himself standing in a soft, glowing whiteness that felt strangely familiar, as though he had stepped into a memory he had not visited in years, the ground beneath his feet yielding like fresh powder, pristine and unmarked.
The air was cold enough to sting, a crisp edge that nipped at his exposed skin with delicate precision, yet he felt no discomfort; instead, a quiet warmth pressed against his side, the warmth of someone standing close enough that their sleeve brushed lightly against his own, a fleeting contact of fabric that sent a subtle current through the space between them, hinting at proximity born of habit.
He turned, or perhaps simply shifted his attention, the motion fluid and dream-slow, guided by an instinct deeper than will, and there, half-shrouded in winter light, stood a boy whose features the dream refused to reveal, his form etched in the diffused glow of a sun that filtered through unseen clouds.
His face remained blurred by the haze of sunlight reflecting off snow, a shimmering distortion that softened edges into suggestion, as if the memory itself was protecting his identity until Wei was ready to see it again, holding back the clarity like a gift wrapped in frost.
But the details around him—the movement of his scarf in the breeze, a crimson woolen length fluttering lazily like a banner in repose; the faint outline of his smile, a curve implied more than defined; the gentle certainty in his posture, shoulders relaxed yet assured, as if the cold held no claim on him—felt achingly real, tangible in their half-formed intimacy, stirring echoes in Wei's chest that resonated like half-remembered melodies.
A hand appeared in front of him, palm-up, warm in a way that did not belong to winter at all—calloused yet tender, radiating a heat that cut through the freeze like sunlight on ice, veins faintly visible under skin flushed from the chill. Wei felt his own fingers respond instinctively, as if following a pattern carved into muscle memory, extending without thought, bridging the gap with a natural ease that bypassed the dream's haze.
The boy wrapped his hands around Wei's with a care that suggested this was something he had done many times before, enveloping them fully, palms pressing close to share the core of his warmth, rubbing small circles with his thumb—slow, deliberate strokes that traced the ridges of knuckles and the hollows between fingers, trying to bring warmth into fingers that had always been too cold, the friction building a gradual bloom of heat that spread upward, chasing away the numbness with patient insistence.
"Wei… here."
The voice slipped through the air like a soft breath, familiar in tone and rhythm, warm with a kind of affection Wei had not tasted in years—low and unhurried, carrying the subtle lilt of laughter held in reserve, wrapping around the space like a shared scarf. It wasn't loud; it didn't need to be.
Even in a dream, he recognized how it curled around his name with a tenderness that belonged entirely to winter days shared long ago, days of bundled walks and sidelong glances, where words were secondary to the press of presence.
Snowflakes fell between them in slow spirals, lazy descents that wove through the air like threads of silk, settling briefly on the boy's hair before melting into dark strands—tiny jewels dissolving into wetness that caught the light in fleeting sparks, leaving behind only the subtle sheen of moisture.
Wei lifted his gaze, trying to see more, trying to grasp the full picture—the eyes, perhaps deep and knowing, that must have held entire conversations in their depths; the shape of his smile, full and crooked in memory's half-light; the expression that must have lived on that hidden face, a mix of mischief and quiet devotion—lifting his chin with deliberate slowness, willing the blur to part.
But the dream blurred the boy each time Wei got too close, the features dissolving into soft focus just as recognition teased the edge of awareness, as if memory insisted on offering only pieces, never the whole—fragments of scarf fringe, the arch of a brow, the rhythm of breath—enough to ache, but not enough to resolve, leaving Wei suspended in the exquisite torment of almost-knowing.