The Longest Night

On a heavy Christmas Eve, Lin refuses to leave Sunny alone, sparking memories that lead to a breaking point and an embrace that reshapes their bond.

The city outside had draped itself in a thin, grimy layer of festive lights, but in Sunny’s apartment, the light felt suffocated, pressed down by the sheer, heavy fact of Christmas Eve. It wasn’t a holiday; it was a deadline, an anniversary of absence etched into every glowing window across the street, every distant, muffled car carol. The air inside smelled of dust and the faint metallic tang of old radiator heat, a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness that used to cling to every surface this time of year.

Lin, in a move Sunny hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t asked for, and couldn’t quite protest, was methodically unrolling a bright blue sleeping bag on the living room floor. It was absurd. A pop of primary color against the muted, worn carpet that felt like a splash of cold water in the face. “What are you doing?” Sunny’s voice was hoarse, a whisper against the hum of the fridge.

Lin didn’t look up immediately. He smoothed a wrinkle from the synthetic fabric, his movements precise, almost ritualistic. “What does it look like?” He finally met Sunny’s gaze, and there was an unshakeable resolve in his eyes, a stubborn certainty that brooked no argument. “You’re not gonna be alone tonight. Don’t even start.”

And Sunny couldn’t. The words, the arguments, the carefully constructed walls he’d spent months reinforcing, they all felt flimsy, paper-thin, against the quiet, undeniable force of Lin’s presence. It was a strange, unsettling thing, this unsolicited care. Like standing too close to a fire you didn’t ask for, the heat both a comfort and a threat to everything you’d kept frozen.

The pizza arrived twenty minutes later, lukewarm and smelling faintly of processed pepperoni and cardboard. It sat between them on the coffee table, a prop in their strained tableau of normalcy. Lin picked a slice, folding it in half. Sunny watched the grease seep into the crust. He picked at his own, not really tasting it, just feeling the rough texture on his tongue. The silence was thick, not quite comfortable, but not entirely suffocating either. It was a silence filled with unspoken things, with Lin’s steady breathing, with the faint crackle of the ancient heater.

Every now and then, Lin would glance at him, a quick, assessing look that Sunny tried to ignore. He felt transparent, exposed. Like Lin could see the hollow ache behind his ribs, the frantic scramble of his thoughts. He kept his gaze fixed on a loose thread on the carpet, tracing its path with his finger. The weight of winter, the title of the story he’d started in his head, pressed down on him with actual physical force.

“You okay?” Lin’s voice was low, a rumble. Not a question that demanded an answer, but an offering. A space. Sunny just nodded, chewed. The pizza, suddenly, tasted like ash.

He remembered Christmas Eve from two years ago. Not last year’s blur, but the one before, when she was still… here. His mother, humming off-key carols as she wrestled a huge, lop-sided fir tree into its stand. The house had smelled like pine sap and cinnamon and the faint, sweet scent of her perfume, a mix of lilac and something sharp, almost citrusy. He could almost feel the stickiness of the sap on his hands, the rough prickle of pine needles on his skin.

She’d always made too many cookies. Gingerbread men with misshapen smiles, sugar cookies dusted with glitter, little shortbread stars. The kitchen counter, usually neat, had been a glorious disaster of flour and sprinkles and half-eaten dough. He could see her, flour smudged on her cheek, laughing at his attempts to frost a reindeer that looked more like a bewildered dog. Her laugh had been bright, full of life, echoing through the small apartment, filling every corner.

He remembered the ritual: Christmas carols on a scratchy old record player, the same worn-out album every year. He’d known every crackle, every slight warp in the vinyl. She’d made him wear the ridiculous reindeer antlers. He hated them, but he’d worn them anyway, for her. He’d helped her hang the tinsel, a shimmering silver waterfall over the tree, catching the light from the flickering bulbs. Each ornament had a story, a year, a memory attached. His first hand-painted ceramic star, a tiny glass bird from a trip to the coast, a faded photo in a plastic bauble. Now, they were all packed away, sealed in cardboard boxes in the back of the closet, like buried treasure too painful to unearth.

The ghost of that warmth, that scent, that sound, pressed in on him now, suffocating him faster than any silence. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, a sudden, sharp ache blooming in his chest. He could almost hear her voice, slightly off-key, singing about a silent night, a holy night. The irony of it, in this apartment, now.

Lin cleared his throat. “There’s… hot chocolate in the cupboard. If you want some.”

Sunny opened his eyes. Lin was looking at him, a soft, almost hesitant expression on his face. He wasn’t pushing, just offering a small, mundane distraction. A lifeline made of powdered cocoa and milk. Sunny shook his head, unable to speak, the phantom carols still ringing in his ears.

They finished the pizza in silence. Lin collected the empty box, crumpling it with a soft *thud*. He seemed to understand that Sunny just needed to exist in this quiet, heavy space, without demands. He sat back down on the sleeping bag, leaning against the wall, pulling out his phone. The low glow illuminated his face, casting shadows under his sharp jawline. He wasn’t scrolling mindlessly; he seemed to be reading something, his brow furrowed in concentration. It was a quiet kind of companionship, the kind that didn't ask for anything, just *was*.

The hours crawled by. The Christmas lights outside blinked relentlessly. Sunny watched a flake of paint chip from the ceiling, mesmerized by its slow, deliberate journey to the carpet. He tried to think of anything but Christmas, anything but her. He thought of his geometry homework, the complex equations that made his head hurt, but even that felt too simple, too easy to solve compared to the unsolvable equation of his life. He thought of the empty space on the wall where a family photo used to hang, the faint rectangular outline darker than the faded wallpaper around it.

Eventually, the quiet lull of the apartment, combined with the sheer exhaustion that had been clinging to him for weeks, began to pull at him. He found himself drifting, his eyelids heavy. Lin, sensing it, whispered, “Get some sleep, Sunny.”

Sunny mumbled something in reply, he wasn’t sure what, and stumbled towards his room. He didn’t want to go, didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts in the dark, but he couldn’t bring himself to stay. He wanted to escape, but there was nowhere to go. He lay on his bed, the familiar scent of old laundry and desperation clinging to his sheets. His mind replayed snippets of the day, of Lin’s quiet insistence, the warmth of the sleeping bag, the half-eaten pizza. It was a strange comfort, knowing Lin was just in the next room, a solid, breathing presence against the crushing emptiness.

He must have finally drifted off, though sleep was a fractured, uneasy thing. The apartment felt colder now, despite the heater whirring softly. The city outside had grown quieter, the festive hum replaced by the dull thrum of late-night traffic and the occasional distant wail of a siren. He dreamed.

He was in a vast, sprawling market, brightly lit and bustling, the air thick with the scent of pine and roasting chestnuts. Christmas music, slightly distorted, played from unseen speakers. People, a countless sea of them, flowed around him, their faces a blur of festive cheer and hurried intent. He was small, smaller than he was now, a child lost in the swirling crowd. He called out, a tiny, desperate sound. “Mom?”

He saw her then, a flash of red scarf, the familiar sway of her coat. She was just ahead, her back to him, moving through the throng. He reached out, stretching his hand, his fingers brushing against a stranger’s coat. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at his skin. He pushed through the people, his small legs pumping, his breath catching in his throat.

“Mom! Mommy!” The sound was torn from his lungs, a desperate, childish plea. She was still there, a vibrant red against the muted browns and grays of the crowd. He was gaining on her, just a little. He could almost touch her, almost. He felt a surge of hope, a fragile, brilliant thing, blooming in his chest.

And then, she turned a corner. Just like that. Dissolved into the festive crowd, absorbed by the swirling mass of strangers. He ran faster, screaming her name, the sound lost in the cacophony of bells and laughter and holiday chatter. He pushed and clawed, but the crowd was a wall, an impenetrable, unyielding force. He was utterly, terrifyingly alone. The cold claw of despair gripped his heart, squeezing it tight.

He woke with a guttural gasp, his body arching off the bed. His lungs burned, desperate for air, as if he’d been underwater. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the room. Sweat, cold and clammy, plastered his hair to his forehead. He thrashed, tangled in the sheets, disoriented. The dream was still vivid, the terror a living thing, crawling under his skin. He could still feel the crushing weight of the crowd, the chilling emptiness of her sudden absence.

His breath hitched, turning into a ragged sob he tried to stifle. The room was dark, suffocating. He needed out. He stumbled from his bed, his legs shaking, pushing through the oppressive quiet of his own room. He needed… something. Anything.

He careened into the living room, a ghost in the dimness. His eyes, still wide with lingering panic, tried to adjust. He tripped over something, his knee hitting the coffee table with a sickening thud. A sharp jolt of pain, but he barely registered it. The dam, holding back months of controlled grief, months of silent, solitary pain, finally broke. A raw, choked sound tore from his throat, and the tears came, hot and relentless, streaming down his face.

Before he could even fully process the collapse, a shadow detached itself from the sleeping bag on the floor. Lin. He was there, instantly, a blur of movement. Sunny barely registered his approach before strong arms were around him, pulling him close, anchoring him against a solid, warm chest. It was sudden, firm, and utterly overwhelming.

Sunny gasped, his body stiffening for a fraction of a second in shock, then collapsing against Lin. He buried his face in Lin’s shoulder, the rough cotton of his t-shirt abrasive against his wet cheeks. The scent of Lin—a mix of clean laundry, a faint hint of something spicy like woodsmoke, and a deeper, musky smell that was just *him*—filled his nostrils, a grounding, real presence against the phantom terrors of the dream. He clung to Lin, his hands fisted in the back of his shirt, knuckles white.

The sobs tore through him then, deep, shuddering, wrenching sounds that he hadn’t allowed himself to make in over a year. It was a primal, ugly sound, and he felt a desperate shame, even as the release was utterly consuming. Each sob ripped through him, leaving him hollowed out, aching. He felt like he was unraveling, every carefully wound thread of control snapping, one by one. The grief, a monstrous, hungry thing, was finally devouring him whole, and he let it.

Lin didn’t say anything profound. No platitudes, no empty reassurances. He simply held Sunny, a solid, unmoving anchor in the storm. His arms were tight, protective, a physical barrier against the chaotic world. Sunny could feel the steady beat of Lin’s heart against his ear, a slow, rhythmic thrum that was the only real sound in the universe. He felt Lin’s hand come up, gently stroking his hair, a soft, repetitive motion that slowly, incrementally, began to soothe the frantic edges of his panic.

Then, a whisper. “Sunny.” Just his name. Uttered low, a rough, tender sound. Not a question, not a demand, but an acknowledgment. A recognition. A simple, profound statement of presence. He said it again, a breath against Sunny’s temple. “Sunny.” And again. “Sunny.” Over and over, like a mantra, a quiet invocation. Each repetition was a thread, weaving itself around Sunny’s broken pieces, gently pulling them back together.

The physical sensation of Lin’s body against his, the warmth, the pressure, was overwhelming. Sunny felt the heat radiating from Lin, a stark contrast to the internal cold that had gripped him. He was aware of every point of contact: Lin’s arm around his back, pressing him closer, the other hand in his hair, the solid wall of his chest. It was an embrace that transcended friendship, transcended mere comfort. It was a raw, visceral act of holding, of bearing witness, of *being there* in a way no one else had been for him since…

He continued to sob, the tears soaking Lin’s shirt, his body shaking uncontrollably. But now, amidst the devastation, there was something else. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor of something tender, something fragile, beginning to take root in the space between their bodies. It was the terrifying intimacy of absolute vulnerability, of being utterly broken in someone else’s arms, and not being pushed away. Not being judged. Just held. The world outside, the oppressive weight of Christmas Eve, the ghost of silent carols, faded into a distant hum. All that was left was the raw, open wound of his grief, and the grounding, undeniable presence of Lin.

Lin’s grip tightened, if possible. He shifted slightly, pulling Sunny further onto the sleeping bag, onto his lap almost, so Sunny was draped over him, his head tucked under Lin’s chin. It was an instinctive, unthinking movement, making a safer, softer space for Sunny’s collapse. Sunny felt the warmth of Lin’s inner thigh against his, the solid strength of him. He wasn't just being held; he was being cradled. And in that moment, in the aftermath of the nightmare, with the last vestiges of his control finally shattered, Sunny understood, with a terrifying clarity, that this was something utterly new. Something dangerously, irrevocably tender. Something that had nothing to do with friendship, and everything to do with a quiet, undeniable bond that had just been forged in the crucible of his deepest pain.