what the hell would I be, without you (johnny/ten)
what the hell would I be, without you
Johnny/Ten | PG | 2.8K words.
For Megs, the love of my life ❤️
Ten mentions offhandedly that they should save up for something. He doesn't mention what it is they should be saving up for, but Johnny can tell he doesn't mean saving up for a new heater or for another week of groceries.
He means saving up for something indulgent, like new running shoes that don't have holes in them or a new pair of jeans that aren't ripped at the seams. Or maybe something even bigger, special.
Johnny can rattle off a hundred different things he wants to experience with Ten, all of them big and special. But Johnny knows they require too much sacrifice, too much bargaining with what little they already have. Saving up is hard, especially when each month leaves them with barely enough.
But Johnny doesn't voice this; he just smiles at Ten, says, instead, "Sure. Should we get a jar for it too?"
It's supposed to be a joke, but Ten looks at him, childlike, innocent, like it's the greatest idea Johnny's ever had.
They don't talk about it again. Or rather, they don't have to; the empty pasta sauce jar-THE TEN AND JOHNNY FUND-says enough.
When the weather reaches below zero, their apartment feels even colder.
It gets so cold at night that sometimes Johnny lies awake, stunned that three sweaters, two pairs of sweatpants, socks and a thick comforter later, he's still freezing.
"There's no point in fixing it anyway," Ten had said, staring forlornly at their broken heater, "The heating bill would just be another thing to pay for."
So their heater stays broken.
Ten crawls into his bed one night when his teeth won't stop chattering. Ten feels like a human-sized marshmallow when he presses himself face first into Johnny's chest, bundled up in two of Johnny's sweaters and thick grey sweatpants.
"Has winter always been this cold?" Johnny says when Ten settles in, "The bus I was on earlier was warmer than our place."
Ten's response is muffled against Johnny's three layers, "Anywhere is warmer than our place."
"Well, good thing love will keep us warm then," Johnny jokes, draping his arm and leg over Ten's small frame.
"Don't be gross," Ten says, but there's a smile in his voice, something languid and slow and uncontrollably fond.
It turns out it's not much of a joke, because Johnny wakes up that morning feeling warmer than he has in a long while.
It's funny, Johnny thinks, how they manage to talk about money all the time without actually talking about it.
They talk about how to pay for rent, for bills, about when their next pay cheque comes in to cover for groceries. But they never talk about how it feels to always be on the edge of hunger or how it feels to walk to work for forty minutes in a blizzard, because they're short on bus fare. Or how it feels to always want (and want and want) but always making sacrifices for something they need.
For one, Johnny wants a new jacket, one that doesn't let in sharp, cold air that chills him down to his bones. He wants snow boots so he doesn't have to come into work everyday with soaking wet feet. He wants to eat absolutely anything other than a cheese and bologna sandwich for lunch. He wants to be well fed when he doesn't have lunch. For Christ's sakes, he wants a heater that actually works.
Johnny wants options, not just one or the other.
But he doesn't realize how much he wants (and wants and wants) until he looks at Ten.
Ten comes home from work one evening, snow clinging to his hair. Johnny watches him from their wobbly kitchen table as he settles in, putting water in the kettle for tea. Ten seems distracted, absent, like he's somewhere far away.
"Hey, you know Sicheng, my co-worker?" Ten says. Johnny hums in acknowledgement. "He's a dancer and he's really good. He says he gets trained at the dance studio down the street from where we work."
There's a heavy pause before Ten says, quietly, "It would be nice to get lessons."
With Ten, Johnny wants a lot. He wants to smooth out the tension in Ten's shoulders when he's calculating how to pay for expenses each month, when he thinks about what they have to sacrifice. He wants Ten to smile more, genuine and bright, like he did the first time they met. He wants Ten to stop carrying so much of the burden on his shoulders, to stop stressing for the both of them. He wants Ten to grow, unhindered and unashamed, away from the guilt and the worry they've conditioned themselves to feel when they spend so much as a penny over their budget.
Johnny wants and wants and wants.
But. (There's always a but.)
"You know we can't afford that," Johnny says before thinking. He's heard it so many times before that it's become the logical thing to say in most situations. Ten tells him all the time that they can't, that the budget is air tight and there's no room for anything but bills and food. But this isn't like most situations. This time, Ten is the one suggesting, not refusing.
Maybe that's why Johnny says it. Maybe he's hit with a sudden realization that he wants and wants and wants, but he can't do anything about it, not for himself, not for Ten.
"Yeah, sorry, I was just saying that it'd be nice," Ten says. He doesn't look at Johnny. He doesn't sound agitated or angry. He doesn't even sound slightly annoyed.
Johnny thinks it would hurt less if Ten would just yell at him, cry, get angry, everything Johnny feels, simmering below the surface. But this Ten (his Ten), the one who's safe, kind and warm, keeps it together for the both of them, for when Johnny feels too tired to get out of bed. Ten does it all with that sunny smile that makes Johnny's heart rattle in his rib cage.
"I'm tired," Ten says suddenly, "I'm going to bed."
Johnny doesn't mention that it's only seven, that Ten hasn't made his tea.
Johnny doesn't mention that it hurts all the same.
This time, they really don't talk about it. Ten doesn't bring up the dance lessons again and he carries on as he always does, giving Johnny a lazy smile in the mornings before he's off to work.
It's early December, but Johnny can already see balconies decorated in Christmas lights. They've never really bothered with decorations, but sometimes, Ten pulls out the tacky wreath Johnny had found and hangs it on their door to mirror their neighbors.
When Ten comes home from work, Johnny is in the middle of laying down blankets, pillows and bedsheets on their living room floor.
"What are you doing?" Ten asks as he hangs up his coat.
"Remember when we were kids, we would scatter pillows around and pretend the floor was lava?" Johnny says, laying down the last blanket, "Well, instead of lava, we can pretend our floor is a barren ice land." It's not far from the truth, Johnny thinks.
Ten raises an eyebrow at him, "Okay?"
"Our floor is so cold, Ten, it literally hurts my feet," Johnny deadpans, "Now stop being a party pooper and come join me on these fluffy clouds of warmth or you shall die a frozen death!"
"How are you older than me?" Ten says, shaking his head, but he's already jumping from one pillow to another.
Ten decides shortly after that they should make their own Christmas decorations ("I'm getting tired of that stupid Christmas wreath. It's just sad."). So they sit side by side, knees knocking against each other, surrounded by all of the pillows and blankets they own. Ten cuts up little snowflakes while Johnny makes paper angel chains.
"Hey, I-I just wanted to say sorry for the other day," Johnny stutters out in an awkward string of words, "I didn't mean to shut you down like that. We should consider it. I mean, put it in the budget. It wouldn't hurt."
The last part is a lie. It would force them to rearrange everything, allocate money in places Johnny knows will keep them hungry for weeks.
Ten knows this too. He doesn't look away from his paper snowflake and shrugs, "It's not a big deal. There's too much to worry about anyway. It wouldn't be worth it."
Johnny frowns, "I just, you know, want you to be... happy."
Ten looks up from his snowflake then and stares at Johnny, features suddenly softening. It makes Johnny's ears burn.
There's a warm, distinctive lilt to Ten's voice when he says, "Don't be ridiculous, Johnny. I am happy. Don't stress about it. You're making your angels sad."
Ten smiles at him and playfully sticks a snowflake in his hair. Johnny lets out a small laugh.
Johnny learns the hard way that good things don't last for long. It's like a side effect of living the way that they do; that no matter how hard they try, life keeps dealing them shitty hands, over and over again.
Long story short: Johnny slips and fractures his wrist.
When Ten finds out, he worries and he hovers, of course, despite Johnny's protests and half-hearted swatting. Johnny lies and says he's fine, because he doesn't like to make a fuss. Making a fuss means blowing things out of proportion, means getting riled up for nothing, means eventually having that hushed conversation about how they're going to manage.
Johnny mostly wants to avoid the hospital. Not because they're bleak and sterile, but because a trip to the hospital means another expense, something they can't worry about, not now, not when his hours are being cut at work and their electricity bill keeps going up.
But when the swelling doesn't go away, Johnny realizes belatedly that the pain isn't going to either. So Johnny has no choice but to let Ten drag him to the hospital.
(Johnny doesn't miss Ten reaching into the jar before they leave).
It's not a big deal, Ten says to him over and over again on the bus ride home ("We'll figure it out, okay? I promise."). But Johnny suddenly feels so angry. He tries not to, tries not to take after a father with a nasty temper.
But when they come home and Johnny finds the jar empty, the anger boils over.
They didn't have very much in there to begin with. They pulled from it occasionally to pay for miscellaneous things, but never until it was empty. A hundred and sixty-two dollars and twenty-three cents, Johnny recalls. All of it gone.
Suddenly, he hates that stupid fucking jar. He hates that they were naive enough to think they could save up. He hates this stupid apartment and how cold it gets in the middle of the night, hates how wobbly their kitchen table is. He hates the way they live, always exhausted, always hungry. He hates and he hates and he hates.
Ten knows and he tries, "Johnny, this isn't your fault. It's okay."
"Stop!" Johnny snaps, "Just stop. How is this okay? This cost us almost half of our rent! Where are we going to find that kind of money again?"
"I know-" Ten starts, but Johnny shakes his head. There's a panic washing over him; he feels it in waves, static filling up his ears like his head is underwater.
Johnny picks up the jar, runs his fingers against the flourishes in Ten's handwriting.
It's terrifying how quickly he feels it. One second, Ten is trying to placate him, whispering soft reassurances and the next, all Johnny sees is redredred as he throws the jar across the room. There's a sickening shattering noise that startles Ten so much, he flinches when Johnny takes a step forward.
It's like a switch flicks off in his head when he sees the look on Ten's face. They both grew up like this, with the yelling and the fighting. The surprise and fear on Ten's face reminds Johnny of all the reasons why he left home.
Suddenly, he imagines Ten storming out, leaving him alone in the space they worked so hard to create for themselves. Johnny's anger doesn't disappear, but the guilt attached delivers a blow to his gut. He feels sick to his stomach.
"I-" Johnny says, but his voice cracks and his hands tremble.
Ten is the first to move. He doesn't leave; he doesn't pack up all his things and go. Instead, Ten wraps his hands around Johnny's and squeezes.
Johnny squeezes back to say I'm sorry.
"You're all I have, you know that right?" Ten whispers in the dark that night when they're lying in bed, layered up and hidden under the covers.
"Yeah," Johnny breathes out, "I know."
Johnny doesn't say, I need you. Please don't leave.
Christmas rolls around unceremoniously.
They agree to no gifts this year, which makes Johnny's skin prickle with guilt.
Ten says it's fine, that gifts don't matter as long as they're together. But the funny thing about guilt is the way it manifests itself into little tics that Johnny doesn't notice right away, like when he worries his bottom lip every time Christmas is mentioned or when he spaces out in the middle of dinner. Ten catches on and raps Johnny on the knuckles every time Johnny gets too distant ("Worry wart," Ten would say with a soft smile).
On Christmas morning, Ten greets him in the kitchen and shouts "Chocolate dinosaur cups!" before Johnny can rub the sleep from his eyes.
Johnny blinks at the contents scattered on the kitchen counter and raises an eyebrow.
"I may or may not have taken these ingredients from work," Ten responds, sheepishly, then pouts when Johnny gives him a skeptical look, "Don't give me that look, Johnny, we had extra, okay?"
So that's how they spend their Christmas morning.
Johnny ends up doing most of the work, because Ten takes it upon himself to film the whole process, zooming in on Johnny's hands as he breaks the chocolate into small pieces, on his face, on the both of them as they add the chocolate into the pot.
They don't open presents on Christmas morning, but Ten's laugh rings through their small apartment and Johnny finds that he doesn't mind all that much.
On New Year's eve, the farthest they venture out is their balcony.
They sit on rickety lawn chairs, waiting for fireworks that people set off every year, bundled up in so many layers that Johnny can barely move.
They don't say much. Johnny makes a passing joke that he feels warmer out here than he does in their apartment. Occasionally, Ten recaps the year with stories that Johnny's heard before, but make him laugh all the same. Somewhere below, Johnny can hear people shouting excitedly.
The air feels crisp and cold and it stirs something in Johnny's chest when he looks over at Ten, swallowed up by his scarf, nose red from the cold.
"So," Johnny starts awkwardly, "I asked around and Hansol, my co-worker, you've met him before, I think. Um, he said there's these free dance classes at some community centre on the other side of town. It's far, but I can walk to work for the next couple of weeks if that saves you enough bus fare to get there. I can even pick up more shifts if you need me to."
Johnny pulls out a flyer from his pocket, the one that's been sitting there neatly folded since early December. Johnny realizes it's too dark for Ten to even read it, but Ten takes the flyer anyway.
Johnny can barely make out Ten's face, but he sees a glint of white, can imagine the soft edges of Ten's face, curling up into a grin.
"Think of it as a new year's resolution," Johnny rambles on when the silence feels too heavy, "To do things you always wanted to." To make you happy is what Johnny doesn't say.
"You have to come with me," Ten says suddenly, sitting up in his chair. The movement startles Johnny. "New year's resolution, we do things together."
"Wow, clingy," Johnny says. It earns him a half-hearted punch to his shoulder.
Johnny laughs, nodding, "Okay."
"Okay?" Ten asks. Even in the dark, Johnny can see Ten's eyes light up, bright and expectant. There's a warmth that floods him suddenly, blooming from his chest (Well, good thing love will keep us warm then).
"Yeah," Johnny says, softly. Ten grins.
Two minutes until the new year and all Johnny can think about is how they're going to pay for this month's rent, about how many hours he has to work for the next couple of weeks just to make ends meet.
One minute until the new year and Johnny suddenly feels scared, the fear constricting his chest.
"Are we going to be okay?" Johnny whispers into the dark as they hear the first firework go off somewhere in the distance.
Thirty seconds until the new year and Ten reaches out, interlocks their fingers, squeezes.
It's the new year and the sky explodes, a technicolor of lights and sounds.
It's the new year.
They'll be okay.
Johnny/Ten | PG | 2.8K words.
For Megs, the love of my life ❤️
Ten mentions offhandedly that they should save up for something. He doesn't mention what it is they should be saving up for, but Johnny can tell he doesn't mean saving up for a new heater or for another week of groceries.
He means saving up for something indulgent, like new running shoes that don't have holes in them or a new pair of jeans that aren't ripped at the seams. Or maybe something even bigger, special.
Johnny can rattle off a hundred different things he wants to experience with Ten, all of them big and special. But Johnny knows they require too much sacrifice, too much bargaining with what little they already have. Saving up is hard, especially when each month leaves them with barely enough.
But Johnny doesn't voice this; he just smiles at Ten, says, instead, "Sure. Should we get a jar for it too?"
It's supposed to be a joke, but Ten looks at him, childlike, innocent, like it's the greatest idea Johnny's ever had.
They don't talk about it again. Or rather, they don't have to; the empty pasta sauce jar-THE TEN AND JOHNNY FUND-says enough.
When the weather reaches below zero, their apartment feels even colder.
It gets so cold at night that sometimes Johnny lies awake, stunned that three sweaters, two pairs of sweatpants, socks and a thick comforter later, he's still freezing.
"There's no point in fixing it anyway," Ten had said, staring forlornly at their broken heater, "The heating bill would just be another thing to pay for."
So their heater stays broken.
Ten crawls into his bed one night when his teeth won't stop chattering. Ten feels like a human-sized marshmallow when he presses himself face first into Johnny's chest, bundled up in two of Johnny's sweaters and thick grey sweatpants.
"Has winter always been this cold?" Johnny says when Ten settles in, "The bus I was on earlier was warmer than our place."
Ten's response is muffled against Johnny's three layers, "Anywhere is warmer than our place."
"Well, good thing love will keep us warm then," Johnny jokes, draping his arm and leg over Ten's small frame.
"Don't be gross," Ten says, but there's a smile in his voice, something languid and slow and uncontrollably fond.
It turns out it's not much of a joke, because Johnny wakes up that morning feeling warmer than he has in a long while.
It's funny, Johnny thinks, how they manage to talk about money all the time without actually talking about it.
They talk about how to pay for rent, for bills, about when their next pay cheque comes in to cover for groceries. But they never talk about how it feels to always be on the edge of hunger or how it feels to walk to work for forty minutes in a blizzard, because they're short on bus fare. Or how it feels to always want (and want and want) but always making sacrifices for something they need.
For one, Johnny wants a new jacket, one that doesn't let in sharp, cold air that chills him down to his bones. He wants snow boots so he doesn't have to come into work everyday with soaking wet feet. He wants to eat absolutely anything other than a cheese and bologna sandwich for lunch. He wants to be well fed when he doesn't have lunch. For Christ's sakes, he wants a heater that actually works.
Johnny wants options, not just one or the other.
But he doesn't realize how much he wants (and wants and wants) until he looks at Ten.
Ten comes home from work one evening, snow clinging to his hair. Johnny watches him from their wobbly kitchen table as he settles in, putting water in the kettle for tea. Ten seems distracted, absent, like he's somewhere far away.
"Hey, you know Sicheng, my co-worker?" Ten says. Johnny hums in acknowledgement. "He's a dancer and he's really good. He says he gets trained at the dance studio down the street from where we work."
There's a heavy pause before Ten says, quietly, "It would be nice to get lessons."
With Ten, Johnny wants a lot. He wants to smooth out the tension in Ten's shoulders when he's calculating how to pay for expenses each month, when he thinks about what they have to sacrifice. He wants Ten to smile more, genuine and bright, like he did the first time they met. He wants Ten to stop carrying so much of the burden on his shoulders, to stop stressing for the both of them. He wants Ten to grow, unhindered and unashamed, away from the guilt and the worry they've conditioned themselves to feel when they spend so much as a penny over their budget.
Johnny wants and wants and wants.
But. (There's always a but.)
"You know we can't afford that," Johnny says before thinking. He's heard it so many times before that it's become the logical thing to say in most situations. Ten tells him all the time that they can't, that the budget is air tight and there's no room for anything but bills and food. But this isn't like most situations. This time, Ten is the one suggesting, not refusing.
Maybe that's why Johnny says it. Maybe he's hit with a sudden realization that he wants and wants and wants, but he can't do anything about it, not for himself, not for Ten.
"Yeah, sorry, I was just saying that it'd be nice," Ten says. He doesn't look at Johnny. He doesn't sound agitated or angry. He doesn't even sound slightly annoyed.
Johnny thinks it would hurt less if Ten would just yell at him, cry, get angry, everything Johnny feels, simmering below the surface. But this Ten (his Ten), the one who's safe, kind and warm, keeps it together for the both of them, for when Johnny feels too tired to get out of bed. Ten does it all with that sunny smile that makes Johnny's heart rattle in his rib cage.
"I'm tired," Ten says suddenly, "I'm going to bed."
Johnny doesn't mention that it's only seven, that Ten hasn't made his tea.
Johnny doesn't mention that it hurts all the same.
This time, they really don't talk about it. Ten doesn't bring up the dance lessons again and he carries on as he always does, giving Johnny a lazy smile in the mornings before he's off to work.
It's early December, but Johnny can already see balconies decorated in Christmas lights. They've never really bothered with decorations, but sometimes, Ten pulls out the tacky wreath Johnny had found and hangs it on their door to mirror their neighbors.
When Ten comes home from work, Johnny is in the middle of laying down blankets, pillows and bedsheets on their living room floor.
"What are you doing?" Ten asks as he hangs up his coat.
"Remember when we were kids, we would scatter pillows around and pretend the floor was lava?" Johnny says, laying down the last blanket, "Well, instead of lava, we can pretend our floor is a barren ice land." It's not far from the truth, Johnny thinks.
Ten raises an eyebrow at him, "Okay?"
"Our floor is so cold, Ten, it literally hurts my feet," Johnny deadpans, "Now stop being a party pooper and come join me on these fluffy clouds of warmth or you shall die a frozen death!"
"How are you older than me?" Ten says, shaking his head, but he's already jumping from one pillow to another.
Ten decides shortly after that they should make their own Christmas decorations ("I'm getting tired of that stupid Christmas wreath. It's just sad."). So they sit side by side, knees knocking against each other, surrounded by all of the pillows and blankets they own. Ten cuts up little snowflakes while Johnny makes paper angel chains.
"Hey, I-I just wanted to say sorry for the other day," Johnny stutters out in an awkward string of words, "I didn't mean to shut you down like that. We should consider it. I mean, put it in the budget. It wouldn't hurt."
The last part is a lie. It would force them to rearrange everything, allocate money in places Johnny knows will keep them hungry for weeks.
Ten knows this too. He doesn't look away from his paper snowflake and shrugs, "It's not a big deal. There's too much to worry about anyway. It wouldn't be worth it."
Johnny frowns, "I just, you know, want you to be... happy."
Ten looks up from his snowflake then and stares at Johnny, features suddenly softening. It makes Johnny's ears burn.
There's a warm, distinctive lilt to Ten's voice when he says, "Don't be ridiculous, Johnny. I am happy. Don't stress about it. You're making your angels sad."
Ten smiles at him and playfully sticks a snowflake in his hair. Johnny lets out a small laugh.
Johnny learns the hard way that good things don't last for long. It's like a side effect of living the way that they do; that no matter how hard they try, life keeps dealing them shitty hands, over and over again.
Long story short: Johnny slips and fractures his wrist.
When Ten finds out, he worries and he hovers, of course, despite Johnny's protests and half-hearted swatting. Johnny lies and says he's fine, because he doesn't like to make a fuss. Making a fuss means blowing things out of proportion, means getting riled up for nothing, means eventually having that hushed conversation about how they're going to manage.
Johnny mostly wants to avoid the hospital. Not because they're bleak and sterile, but because a trip to the hospital means another expense, something they can't worry about, not now, not when his hours are being cut at work and their electricity bill keeps going up.
But when the swelling doesn't go away, Johnny realizes belatedly that the pain isn't going to either. So Johnny has no choice but to let Ten drag him to the hospital.
(Johnny doesn't miss Ten reaching into the jar before they leave).
It's not a big deal, Ten says to him over and over again on the bus ride home ("We'll figure it out, okay? I promise."). But Johnny suddenly feels so angry. He tries not to, tries not to take after a father with a nasty temper.
But when they come home and Johnny finds the jar empty, the anger boils over.
They didn't have very much in there to begin with. They pulled from it occasionally to pay for miscellaneous things, but never until it was empty. A hundred and sixty-two dollars and twenty-three cents, Johnny recalls. All of it gone.
Suddenly, he hates that stupid fucking jar. He hates that they were naive enough to think they could save up. He hates this stupid apartment and how cold it gets in the middle of the night, hates how wobbly their kitchen table is. He hates the way they live, always exhausted, always hungry. He hates and he hates and he hates.
Ten knows and he tries, "Johnny, this isn't your fault. It's okay."
"Stop!" Johnny snaps, "Just stop. How is this okay? This cost us almost half of our rent! Where are we going to find that kind of money again?"
"I know-" Ten starts, but Johnny shakes his head. There's a panic washing over him; he feels it in waves, static filling up his ears like his head is underwater.
Johnny picks up the jar, runs his fingers against the flourishes in Ten's handwriting.
It's terrifying how quickly he feels it. One second, Ten is trying to placate him, whispering soft reassurances and the next, all Johnny sees is redredred as he throws the jar across the room. There's a sickening shattering noise that startles Ten so much, he flinches when Johnny takes a step forward.
It's like a switch flicks off in his head when he sees the look on Ten's face. They both grew up like this, with the yelling and the fighting. The surprise and fear on Ten's face reminds Johnny of all the reasons why he left home.
Suddenly, he imagines Ten storming out, leaving him alone in the space they worked so hard to create for themselves. Johnny's anger doesn't disappear, but the guilt attached delivers a blow to his gut. He feels sick to his stomach.
"I-" Johnny says, but his voice cracks and his hands tremble.
Ten is the first to move. He doesn't leave; he doesn't pack up all his things and go. Instead, Ten wraps his hands around Johnny's and squeezes.
Johnny squeezes back to say I'm sorry.
"You're all I have, you know that right?" Ten whispers in the dark that night when they're lying in bed, layered up and hidden under the covers.
"Yeah," Johnny breathes out, "I know."
Johnny doesn't say, I need you. Please don't leave.
Christmas rolls around unceremoniously.
They agree to no gifts this year, which makes Johnny's skin prickle with guilt.
Ten says it's fine, that gifts don't matter as long as they're together. But the funny thing about guilt is the way it manifests itself into little tics that Johnny doesn't notice right away, like when he worries his bottom lip every time Christmas is mentioned or when he spaces out in the middle of dinner. Ten catches on and raps Johnny on the knuckles every time Johnny gets too distant ("Worry wart," Ten would say with a soft smile).
On Christmas morning, Ten greets him in the kitchen and shouts "Chocolate dinosaur cups!" before Johnny can rub the sleep from his eyes.
Johnny blinks at the contents scattered on the kitchen counter and raises an eyebrow.
"I may or may not have taken these ingredients from work," Ten responds, sheepishly, then pouts when Johnny gives him a skeptical look, "Don't give me that look, Johnny, we had extra, okay?"
So that's how they spend their Christmas morning.
Johnny ends up doing most of the work, because Ten takes it upon himself to film the whole process, zooming in on Johnny's hands as he breaks the chocolate into small pieces, on his face, on the both of them as they add the chocolate into the pot.
They don't open presents on Christmas morning, but Ten's laugh rings through their small apartment and Johnny finds that he doesn't mind all that much.
On New Year's eve, the farthest they venture out is their balcony.
They sit on rickety lawn chairs, waiting for fireworks that people set off every year, bundled up in so many layers that Johnny can barely move.
They don't say much. Johnny makes a passing joke that he feels warmer out here than he does in their apartment. Occasionally, Ten recaps the year with stories that Johnny's heard before, but make him laugh all the same. Somewhere below, Johnny can hear people shouting excitedly.
The air feels crisp and cold and it stirs something in Johnny's chest when he looks over at Ten, swallowed up by his scarf, nose red from the cold.
"So," Johnny starts awkwardly, "I asked around and Hansol, my co-worker, you've met him before, I think. Um, he said there's these free dance classes at some community centre on the other side of town. It's far, but I can walk to work for the next couple of weeks if that saves you enough bus fare to get there. I can even pick up more shifts if you need me to."
Johnny pulls out a flyer from his pocket, the one that's been sitting there neatly folded since early December. Johnny realizes it's too dark for Ten to even read it, but Ten takes the flyer anyway.
Johnny can barely make out Ten's face, but he sees a glint of white, can imagine the soft edges of Ten's face, curling up into a grin.
"Think of it as a new year's resolution," Johnny rambles on when the silence feels too heavy, "To do things you always wanted to." To make you happy is what Johnny doesn't say.
"You have to come with me," Ten says suddenly, sitting up in his chair. The movement startles Johnny. "New year's resolution, we do things together."
"Wow, clingy," Johnny says. It earns him a half-hearted punch to his shoulder.
Johnny laughs, nodding, "Okay."
"Okay?" Ten asks. Even in the dark, Johnny can see Ten's eyes light up, bright and expectant. There's a warmth that floods him suddenly, blooming from his chest (Well, good thing love will keep us warm then).
"Yeah," Johnny says, softly. Ten grins.
Two minutes until the new year and all Johnny can think about is how they're going to pay for this month's rent, about how many hours he has to work for the next couple of weeks just to make ends meet.
One minute until the new year and Johnny suddenly feels scared, the fear constricting his chest.
"Are we going to be okay?" Johnny whispers into the dark as they hear the first firework go off somewhere in the distance.
Thirty seconds until the new year and Ten reaches out, interlocks their fingers, squeezes.
It's the new year and the sky explodes, a technicolor of lights and sounds.
It's the new year.
They'll be okay.