Snow? Never heard of it! - 5. Chapter 5: Yellow Snow

Liam woke slowly, which was unusual. Normally, waking was an event—noise, light, responsibility arriving all at once. This time it came in pieces: warmth first, then weight, then sensation.
Rick was behind him. Not looming. Not pressing. Just there—solid, familiar, close enough that Liam could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against his back. One arm was draped loosely over Liam’s waist, hand resting where it had clearly decided to stay. Rick’s fingers traced small, absent-minded patterns along Liam’s spine, slow and deliberate, as if reading something written there.

Liam did not move. Moving would require acknowledging several things, including memory. The memory arrived anyway. Not all at once—thankfully—but in flashes: laughter cut short, instructions given far too calmly, the particular tone Rick used when he was enjoying himself, the moment Liam had realized running had been a mistake and laughing had made it worse. Also, soreness.

Not dramatic. Not alarming. Just enough to be noticed when Rick’s hand drifted lower, thumb brushing a spot that reminded Liam very clearly that consequences had been applied with enthusiasm.

Liam made a quiet sound before he could stop himself. Rick’s hand stilled.

“Morning,” Rick murmured, his voice low, still warm with sleep.

“I’m reconsidering several life choices,” Liam said into the pillow.

Rick’s chest shifted against his back, the unmistakable sign of a smile. “That’s normal. Happens after supervision.”

“You enjoyed that word far too much,” Liam muttered.

Rick’s fingers resumed their slow exploration, unhurried, unashamed. “You enjoyed giving me reasons to use it.”

Liam huffed. “I enjoyed parts of it.”

Rick leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to Liam’s shoulder, right where skin met warmth. “Good.”

There was a pause—comfortable, heavy, shared.

Rick’s hand moved again, more deliberate now, a reminder rather than a promise. Liam tensed automatically, then relaxed when nothing followed except Rick pulling him closer, chest to back, fitting together like this was how mornings were supposed to work.

They stayed like that for a while, neither speaking, neither rushing to get up. Eventually, Liam shifted just enough to turn his head. “You’re not going to start the day like this every time, are you?”

Rick’s hand gave a gentle squeeze. “Only when you misbehave.”

Liam closed his eyes. “I’ll consider it statistically.”

Rick laughed softly and finally withdrew his hand, replacing it with an arm around Liam’s middle instead. “Work?”

Liam made a sound of protest but got up anyway, because the day could start.

Rick stood at the snow-covered junction, waiting for a white car to pick him up. He looked at his phone again to make sure Liam wasn’t too far away.

There were only two messages from him today. No calling, no mental breakdown, nothing, which was totally weird for a day with a job interview. At least he had reacted to his “good luck” message with a kissing cat emoji.

He checked his screen again. The point with Liam’s picture on the map was almost there.

Rick read the messages again and made a mental note about how to start the conversation.

Liam (13:30): Elli is coming. We should go shopping. Update hamster wheel if u can
Liam (16:23): I’m on the way. See you in 15 min?

The last message was followed by his live location, which was what he always did because he got a bit nervous when he had to drive and think about where and when to pick Rick up at the same time, while discussing the shortest route.

Liam stopped in front of the traffic light, waving at Rick to jump in before the light turned green again. That was also something unusual, because Liam usually changed places with him, letting Rick drive.

“Hey, Liam,” Rick said before fastening his seat belt.

Liam didn’t look at him, fully concentrated on the people crossing the street before he could turn. “Hi, sweetie. How was your day?”

Rick made a quick assessment of the whole situation. Liam was driving in his casual, I-enjoy-driving-on-snow-covered-roads mode, looking calm, professional, and very hot. It must have been the way he had his usually messy curly red hair under control, a reminder that he definitely went to the job interview.

Rick talked about the annoying cases he had, and Liam listened like always, dropping questions when it made sense, asking about terms he didn’t understand. That was why he loved him—he cared even if he hated things like tax law.

They were almost home when Rick asked the inevitable: “So, how was your day? How was the interview?”

“Actually, good.” Liam shrugged his shoulder nonchalantly. “I answered the questions, we chatted a bit, and then one hour was over. I guess she liked me—the group leader. There is another interview next week, and in two weeks, I’ll know if the prof wants to get to know me or not. Presenting research and so on.”

Liam stopped the car, pressed the button to open the gate, and drove in. “What’s the plan today? Eating, then shopping?”

Rick nodded. Apparently, he didn’t need to talk more about his day.

Dinner was supposed to be uncomplicated. In Liam’s mind, it was supposed to be a controlled environment.
Not romantic. Not festive. Controlled.

A predictable sequence of actions that ended with everyone fed and no one crying, bleeding, or smearing unknown substances on the wall. That was the dream. That was the standard.

In practice, dinner was a shifting system with variables that refused to be modeled.

Liam hoped every evening that things would change, that they would learn to do things without being asked ten times. He was still positive it would happen one day, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

He was the one setting the table again. They never thought beyond plates and glasses, anyway.

Liam had accepted this cautiously, like a man who had been burned by optimism before, but he allowed himself to enjoy the little work already done. The apartment’s lighting adjusted itself smoothly as dusk settled, warm and efficient.

He placed forks and knives with their handles perfectly parallel. The napkins were folded into tidy rectangles.

Rick walked past carrying a pot and watched the alignment with amused tolerance. “If you angle the forks two degrees to the left,” he said, “the food will taste more cooperative.”

Liam didn’t look up. “Mock me all you want. It’s called standards.”

Rick set the pot down and kissed Liam’s cheek in passing, quick and warm. “It’s called you panicking in a productive direction.”

Liam pressed his lips together and moved the salt shaker exactly one centimeter.

Rick stirred the sauce with the calm focus of a man who had accepted long ago that the kitchen was only sometimes a kitchen and often a stage for Liam’s quiet control dramas. The kitchen smelled good—tomatoes, garlic, something warm that made the apartment feel less like a snow bunker and more like a place people could live.

The front door opened, a blast of cold air swept in, and then two small bodies entered the apartment like they were being released into freedom.

“Tadaaa!” Tiffany announced, arms raised, her hat crooked, her cheeks red from the cold and triumph.

Hermine followed at a calmer pace, scarf half-unwrapped, expression composed in the way Liam associated with someone who had already lived through enough group activities to know they were mostly chaos with snacks.

Rick looked up, smiling. “There they are.”

Liam turned, already scanning for wet gloves and snow clumps. His brain automatically catalogued potential mess: boots, coats, bags, kindergarten crafts of unknown stability.

“Tiffany, wash your hands,” Rick reminded their four-year-old daughter.

Hermine had taken her jacket, gloves, and scarf with her and was already in the bathroom.

Five seconds later, Tiffany was already sitting, legs dangling, hands folded on the table like she was attending a meeting. She watched Liam closely, not because she intended to interfere, but because she liked to know what people were doing and why.

“We did snowballs,” she declared.

Rick nodded solemnly. “Why did you make snowballs?”

Tiffany leaned forward conspiratorially. “So, the other group had… colored snow.”

Liam paused mid-napkin adjustment. “Colored snow.”

“Yes,” Tiffany said, eyes wide. “Like… rainbow! But not all rainbow. Just some.”

Hermine joined them, grabbing the water and ketchup on her way to put them on the table—an action that always made Liam briefly hopeful about the future, at least with their seven-year-old daughter. “It wasn’t probably rainbow,” she said. “That’s at least seven colors.”

Tiffany nodded vigorously. “No, it was. Pink! And blue! And there was green, and yellow, and brown, but I think that was an accident.”

Liam’s mind immediately produced a list of possibilities: food coloring, chalk, paint. Children plus snow plus paint meant future chaos.

He asked carefully, “Did the teachers do it?”

Tiffany shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe the snow wanted it.”

Rick smiled. “Sometimes snow has personal goals.”

Liam shot him a look that contained several unspoken warnings.

Rick picked up a spoon and offered Tiffany a taste of sauce. “So tell us. How does snow become colored?”

Tiffany accepted the spoon like it was a sacred object, tasted, nodded gravely, then said, “They said you can just… color it.”

Liam’s stomach tightened. “Color it how?”

Tiffany gestured vaguely. “You do stuff.”

Hermine rolled her eyes. “You pour color onto it.”

Liam exhaled. “Okay. That’s reasonable.”

Rick nodded. “Reasonable is boring.”

Liam turned back to the table. “Please do not inspire them.”

“I’m not inspiring,” Rick said. “I’m nurturing curiosity.”

Liam moved the water glasses into place and asked, “Did you touch the colored snow?”

Tiffany beamed. “Yes! It was cold!”

“That’s still snow,” Liam pointed out automatically.

Hermine stepped closer to the table, sniffed the sauce, then sat down, waiting for Liam to put some spaghetti on her plate.

Tiffany stood on the bench. “Can we make colored snow too?”

Liam opened his mouth.

Rick spoke first. “We can color snow yellow.”

Liam’s mouth remained open, but the words abandoned him.

Rick’s face was innocent in the way Liam had learned to distrust.

Tiffany blinked. “Yellow?”

Rick nodded. “Yes. Yellow is easy.”

Liam found his voice in a rush. “We are not making yellow snow.”

Rick turned his head slowly. “Why not?”

“Because—” Liam started, then stopped, because saying the reason out loud in front of a four-year-old felt like walking into traffic voluntarily. “Because it’s… not hygienic.”

Tiffany frowned. “But the snow is outside.”

“That doesn’t help,” Liam said.

Rick stirred the sauce again. “Some people make yellow snow without even trying.”

Liam’s spine went rigid. “Rick.”

Hermine lifted her head. “It’s pee.”

Liam froze.

Rick’s lips twitched.

Tiffany’s eyes widened. “Pee?”

Hermine nodded calmly. “If someone pees on snow, it turns yellow. That’s why you don’t touch it.”

Tiffany gasped. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s gross,” Liam said reflexively.

“But it works?” Tiffany asked.

Hermine shrugged. “Yes.”

Tiffany looked toward the balcony. “We should try.”

Liam reacted like an emergency alarm had gone off. “No, we should not.”

Rick served pasta into bowls with the serene patience of a man watching a slow-motion accident. “Why not, though.”

Liam glared at him. “Because we are not conducting bodily experiments on the balcony.”

Tiffany swung her legs faster. “But it would be science!”

Liam pointed a fork at Rick. “This is your fault.”

Hermine took a forkful of pasta and watched the adults like she was observing a familiar ritual. She was old enough to understand that parents were not always successful in getting what they wanted.

Tiffany’s mind had already moved past prevention into implementation. “We can do it now.”

Liam held up a hand. “We are not leaving the table.”

“But we haven’t even tried.” Tiffany pouted.

“Exactly.” Liam made his point by pushing the plate toward Tiffany. “And we’re going to keep it that way.”

Rick sat down and took a bite. “I’m impressed. You’re being very firm.”

Liam turned his head sharply. “Don’t encourage me sarcastically.” Liam didn’t look very happy with how things turned.

Rick swallowed. “I’m not. It’s just rare.” Rick thought it was entertaining, seeing Liam struggle between convincing the kids and remaining calm.

Tiffany looked between them, confused by adult subtext. “Papa,” she said, addressing Rick with full sincerity. “How do you make it?”

Rick met Liam’s gaze. Liam’s eyes narrowed.

“Well—” Rick pretended he was considering his answer.

“You don’t.” Liam cut in.

Rick continued anyway, because Rick enjoyed living dangerously. “Theoretically, there are methods.” Rick made a sphere with his hands presenting it as a snow ball.

Liam stared at him. “Rick.”

Rick shrugged slightly, still smiling. “It’s a simple concept.”

“Stop.” Liam begged everyone and no one.

Hermine chewed thoughtfully. “It is simple,” she agreed. “But you shouldn’t.”

Tiffany’s eyes lit up again. “So… it’s possible.”

Liam’s temples began to throb. “The question is not whether it’s possible. The question is whether we’re doing it.”

Tiffany nodded like she understood the distinction, then immediately ignored it. “We should do it.”

Hermine sighed. “Tiffany, it’s pee.”

Tiffany shrugged. “I know. That’s why it’s funny.”

Liam looked at Rick, helpless. “Please,” he said quietly, “fix this.”

Rick took another bite of pasta. “This is not a situation that can be fixed.”

“You started it.” Liam glared then he turned back to Tiffany. “We are not going to the balcony. We are eating dinner.”

Tiffany pouted for half a second, then brightened. “We can eat fast.”

Hermine’s eyebrows lifted. “We’re not racing.”

“We can,” Tiffany insisted, already shoveling pasta into her mouth with enthusiasm that ignored both temperature and dignity.

Liam reached for a napkin automatically. Rick watched him with open amusement.

Hermine ate at a normal pace, because she had learned that urgency was usually a trick.

Tiffany finished first, cheeks bulging slightly, then hopped off her chair.

“Come,” she said again, grabbing Hermine’s sleeve. “We need snow.”

Hermine resisted for a second, then slid off her chair with a long-suffering sigh. “It’s cold outside. I’m not gonna pee there.”

Tiffany turned, eyes wide, suddenly practical. “Then Daddy or Papa can do it. We can watch.”

Hermine nodded in agreement. “Yes. Boys can do it easier.”

Liam felt his soul leave his body in stages.

Hermine, meanwhile, had already contributed her factual observation and was now mostly interested in seeing what the adults would do with it. She leaned against the wall, arms folded, expression neutral.

Tiffany walked back to the table, climbed onto her chair again, and looked directly at Liam with the seriousness of someone requesting a demonstration at a museum.

“Daddy,” she said. “You can try. Just a little.”

Liam stared at her.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Rick, beside him, was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Liam turned slowly toward Rick. “You,” he whispered, “are going to fix this.”

Rick’s eyes shone with amusement. “How?”

“You’re going to tell them no.”

Rick tilted his head. “But you already told them no.”

“And they didn’t listen.”

Rick nodded thoughtfully. “So maybe the issue is not the word ‘no.’ Maybe it’s your delivery.”

Liam’s face went blank with disbelief.

Tiffany watched them, patient, then said brightly, “Papa can do it.”

Rick blinked. “Me?” He realized his own comment had come back around to bite him.

He looked at Liam as if silently pleading for rescue.

Liam stared back with the cold satisfaction of a man watching consequences unfold.

Tiffany leaned forward eagerly. “So. Will you try now?”

Liam considered for a second, then decided to rescue Rick. “Fine,” Liam said suddenly. “If we’re discussing it scientifically—”

Rick’s eyebrows shot up.

“—then we do it properly,” Liam continued. “Outside near the forest, like professionals, with structure.”

Rick stared at him. “Structure.”

“Yes,” Liam said. “We’re going shopping anyway. There is more snow outside. We perform, and the girls can… rate.”

Tiffany gasped. “Observe Papa and Daddy making yellow snow?”

Hermine’s eyes lit up. “Like an experiment?”

Rick leaned forward. “I’m listening.”

Liam squared his shoulders. “We make it a competition.” Rick grinned.

“Papa versus Daddy,” Liam said. “The one who makes the bigger yellow snow structure wins.” Then he grabbed his glass of water and drank it empty, trying to increase his winning chances.

Rick laughed outright. “You’re serious.”

“I am extremely serious,” Liam replied. “So, we clean up here first, make the shopping list, put on proper clothes, and go out.”

Tiffany clapped happily, took her plate, and walked to the sink. Hermine started cleaning up the table.

Rick shook his head, still smiling. “I don’t know what to do with you, and I’m not sure if you really made things better. It’s minus fifteen degrees outside.”

Outside, the snow fell patiently, thick and white and innocent, unaware of the reputational damage it was about to take.

Tiffany looked between her dads, hopeful and bright. Hermine pointed with her torch to the starting point. “Daddy, Papa, are you ready?” she asked again, as if this were part of their daily ritual.

Rick turned to Liam and murmured, “You realize this will end badly.”

Liam smiled thinly. “You’re afraid I’ll win.”

They stepped into the snow together, laughter trailing behind them.

The storm came. The snow piled. A few days later, the sun came. The snow disappeared. But it was a wonderful white time, one they would hopefully remember for a long time.