licking cyanide

Translations & Whatnot

uberchrome — Fri, 15 May 2015 17:34:17 GMT

Hi!

Due to technical problems with my lj account (that is, i'm so stupid i forgot my password and now i'm stuck accessing my account in my phone), I haven't been able to post new updates here. However, when I check my inbox for messages, I'm shocked (and flattered) to receive messages asking for my permission if they can translate my fics.

Now, I'm a pretty chill person and I'm not too tight when it comes to sharing my love with the boys. This post is a go-sign for anyone interested to translate to please go ahead provided that:

a) you message me after you translate. linking isn't mandatory, but it makes me feel all gooey and fluffy, just sayin'.

b) you link back to the original source (i.e, uberchrome@lj or onetaotrees@lj)

So, that's it! :)
I hope you have a bright day ahead and God Bless!

ᵔᴥᵔ h e y ᵔᴥᵔ

uberchrome — Sat, 06 Jul 2013 04:27:21 GMT

chiki bang bang
chiki bang bang
chiki chiki bang bang

1/5th of my full name is jullien, but i like being called lien. either way is fine.

i disturbed earth's peace by crying for the first time on the winter of '97

i'm the oldest out of my siblings which automatically makes me bossy.

i literally live in the middle of the dessert and i'm buddy buddy with camels.

i'm from the philly tho~

i harbor a grudge against cats.

♥ at this point i can stop talking but no. uhm i made this lj and my other community just to spew out .... uhm.. what resembles fics .. and surprisingly, people understand them so yay for you. first off, i'm kyungsoo biased or i was kyungsoo biased because junmyeon happened. i doubt people would be interested in me, but i figured this is my lj and this is my post so i might as well say what i want. uh, i like to read, a lot. i devour anything i could get my hands on. i appreciate things like history, fashion, architecture, any other form of art (but sadly, i can't art). also, people with interesting things to say. this is really difficult for me, so if you have any questions, feel free to comment down below :) oh! and if you're too shy you can shoot anonymous, anonymous [here] and [here]

♥ shindong is my spirit animal

♥ hannigram is otp.

♥ if you're not tired of me yet, just.. find me in these places.
twitter // tumblr // listography (in which i list down things i would most likely forget) // instagram

♥ have a good day!~

drabbles; set two

uberchrome — Mon, 20 May 2013 16:57:24 GMT

i. drunk
chankaisoo | angst, romance | 1, 339 words

-

hearts don’t break.

they beat out of rhythm, causing you to feel like nothing will ever go right again. kyungsoo’s heart is brimming with powerful emotions after another. he recognizes pain, agony, love and betrayal. he just never knew it would hit him this hard.

the image of jongin kissing taemin is seared into the folds of kyungsoo’s mind. everything had been vivid then: the brightness of taemin’s shirt, the reds of jongin’s face as he leaned down to plant a hungry kiss on taemin’s face, the darkness of jongin’s hair when the slender fingers of taemin’s hand knots itself into the black strands. but now, every little thing passes by kyungsoo in blurs and whispers.

“the night is beautiful.” chanyeol exclaims, trying to veer kyungsoo’s train of thought away from the tragedy they witnessed earlier. chanyeol’s voice is deep, husky with all the feelings he keeps gulping down in kyungsoo’s presence. it’s always been like this. they’ve always been like this.

“i don’t know. or care. i feel so cold.”

helping kyungsoo is one of chanyeol’s favorite habit. shrugging off his jacket, he drapes it over kyungsoo’s shoulder. it burns on places were chanyeol’s skin grazes over kyungsoo’s. chanyeol scolds himself for his unholy thoughts. Kyungsoo is obviously hurting. now’s not the perfect time to let his fantasies about kissing kyungsoo senseless overtake him.

on the rooftop of this building where chanyeol lives, the city seems alive. it pulses with flickering lights and pedestrians heading somewhere and nowhere at the same time. looking down from this height, kyungsoo can fool himself into believing in fairy tales again.

but then he remembers the smile on taemin’s face and kyungsoo thinks that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t the main character of this story.

a breeze sways strands of chanyeol’s caramel hair to the side. kyungsoo stares at chanyeol.

drunk on lights and agony, kyungsoo’s knees quiver with The weight of burdens he can no longer carry. beside him, chanyeol is observing him intently, vacuuming kyungsoo in a vortex of memories about jongin being too late or too tired or too sad for kyungsoo so he had to run into chanyeol’s open arms. kyungsoo lets out a whisper. “i wish i loved you instead.”

it felt like eternity trapped in a nanosecond. chanyeol coughs, peers at kyungsoo through thick lashes. there’s something warm about chanyeol; a distinctive quality causing laughter and smiles to follow his trail. “yeah. i’d be lying if i say i don’t think of that. but you’re with jongin for a reason and you two have always figured it out in the end and there’s love in your eyes when you look at him and i can’t compare to that because—”

“tonight, it’s you that i love.” chanyeol is silenced by the softness of kyungsoo’s lips against his.

“kyungsoo, no. you’re just hurt and you’re not thinking straight and i’m—”

“shut up and love me too.” tears taint kyungsoo’s eyes. they fall down to his cheeks like shooting stars hiding wishes that’ll never come true. rushing feelings pushed chanyeol into using his lips to wipe kyungsoo’s tears away.

chanyeol knows he shouldn’t have been so happy, shouldn’t have been so surprised to be touching kyungsoo like this after years of simply holding his hand. but he blames the way the moonlight lands on kyungsoo’s face for everything he does tonight.

“i already love you.”

/——/

tonight, kyungsoo is aggressive.

he kisses chanyeol harshly while chanyeol tries to pretend that kyungsoo isn’t crying. it’s wet and awkward and hot, but this is the only thing he can give kyungsoo.

kyungsoo tastes like spearmint and soju. sobs vacate the spaces groans failed to fill. under the starless expanse of indigoes and twinkling lights, kyungsoo and chanyeol are all traveling tongues and prodding fingertips. they’re matters that shouldn’t have existed, lips that shouldn’t have touched.

instead of thinking about kyungsoo’s pain, chanyeol focuses on licking the mole behind kyungsoo’s ears, on scattering lovebites over kyungsoo’s skin like dandelion seeds over a fertile field. fabrics are discarded, and mouths find their way back to each other again. there’s only so much chanyeol can do to ease the pain.

he knows kyungsoo still orbits around jongin, even when he’s in chanyeol’s atmosphere. when they kiss, chanyeol tastes jongin lingering on kyungsoo’s tongue.

“make me forget.” kyungsoo pleads, large eyes digging holes into him.

and chanyeol does.

he sucks and bites and kisses and groans when he should. fingernails carve half-crescents into chanyeol’s arms and he holds kyungsoo in a way that jongin never held him before; reverently, adoringly, as if kyungsoo is made out of expensive porcelain.

And just like that, they descend into the night.

/—-/

“what kind of surprise is this, chanyeol?” kyungsoo walks forward with chanyeol’s hands blocking his line of sight. “can i look now?”

“wait, just a few more steps to go.” chanyeol huffs.

it’s the morning after the steamy encounter. the horizon had been ribboned red and orange with sunlight when chanyeol lead kyungsoo blind.

“it’s a surprise.” chanyeol said.

“can i open my eyes now?”

chanyeol drops his hands, allowing kyungsoo to soak in the familiar surroundings. the expression on kyungsoo’s face is one of disgust.

“why are we here?! this is jongin’s place. i thought you’d surprise me! surprises are supposed to be make me happy, you know.”

chanyeol rests both hands on kyungsoo’s shoulder, leaning down until they’re eye-to-eye. kyungsoo sees a battle raging in chanyeol’s eyes. “this is your surprise. this will make you happy. it’s jongin, remember? he makes you happy.”

“but you do, too.”

it takes all of chanyeol’s might to not fall to his knees and then runaway with kyungsoo. god knows he wanted kyungsoo so badly. “i know, but not as much as jongin does. look, you’ll get through this. jongin loves you too much for that. i do, too. but i’m just….. not.. the one for you.”

chanyeol stares at kyungsoo. he inhales and gulps down love.”i wanted to be. goddamnit. i could have treated you better, loved you with all i can but shit kyungsoo. it’s insignificant if i place it beside what you feel for jongin. i can’t compare, you see. and i’ve been trying for three years but this is all i can do. i’ll never be more than a shoulder to cry on at three a.m. i’m just your best friend and i’m sorry for hurting you because i tried to be more than that.”

/—-/

the sound of the door creaking open is heaven to jongin’s ears.

after realizing what he did last night under the clutches of a few bottles of liquor, jongin immediately said sorry to taemin and rushed home. only to find it empty.

dark rings bore witness to every hour jongin spent awake, searching for kyungsoo in places he could have disappeared to. jongin stops pacing when kyungsoo comes inside, along with his best friend, park chanyeol. jongin runs and engulfs kyungsoo in a tight hug.

“are you okay? you’re not hurt aren’t you? why do you look so-” the words on his lips run dry upon seeing the reddish violet marks on kyungsoo’s neck. kyungsoo’s lips are pink and swollen, his eyes refusing to look at jongin. he gets the gist of it.

“you bastard!” jongin yells, shoving chanyeol against the wall. he prepares his arm and swings it forward, but it wasn’t chanyeol’s cheek his knuckles connected with. it’s kyungsoo’s. bones collide with soft flesh, kyungsoo sputters out crimson liquid at the edges of his mouth.

“jongin. stop. leave.” kyungsoo orders.

“but this bastard just-why did you get in the way? let me at him-“

“I SAID LEAVE, DIDN’T I? GO, jongin leave me alone.” jongin flinches back when kyungsoo yelled. kyungsoo never raised his voice like this before.

silence falls in love with jongin’s lips as he glanced at kyungsoo and chanyeol. without saying another word, jongin pulls kyungsoo close and hugs him again. “i’m so sorry. i can’t leave you.”

ii. mason jars
chansoo | romance | 0347 words

-

kyungsoo is very much like a butterfly.

when chanyeol thinks about kyungsoo, he envisions butterflies: vivid and fragile, splashes of colorful wings fluttering out of his reach. as a child, he’s always been fascinated by them. scraped knees and bruised palms are a few of the consequences he got from being too close, too reckless to think he can keep them all in clear mason jars.

sometimes, luck flies his way and his mason jars are occupied by bright tenants with wings as delicate as a whisper.

kyungsoo is smiling in front of him. he’s all pink lips and white teeth and the prettiest color of rainbows. he’s talking about his latest project; some rich dude commissioned him and kyungsoo is over the moon about it. chanyeol listens to every word, the stresses of kyungsoo’s voice and the widening of his eyes. this is kyungsoo when he’s excited. chanyeol knows this. just like he knows kyungsoo’s favorite record and that he likes the word and because it sounds promising. chanyeol smiles and replies at the right time, fascinated by the way kyungsoo’s hand paints pictures in the air.

butterflies don’t do much in mason jars. there isn’t enough room for them to show off their beauty, but chanyeol keeps them sealed anyway. pretty things are amazing. and they’re his now.

in the middle of their conversation, wind chimes create delightful sounds and kyungsoo stops talking. chanyeol sees light in kyungsoo’s eyes and he doesn’t have to turn to know that kim jongin is here. it’s as if something has been switched on inside kyungsoo when jongin is within touching distance. all of a sudden, his smile spreads wider, reds dot his cheeks and he feels like a different kyungsoo. jongin walks to their table and plants a kiss on kyungsoo’s lips. kyungsoo looks down, fighting off a harsh blush.

chanyeol remembers an afternoon where he tripped and the jar broke; scattered shards and lid on the ground. his butterflies flutter away, leaving bleeding colors for him to stare at.

yes, kyungsoo is very much like a butterfly.

iii. dancing clouds
baekyeol | 529 words

A glowing end of a cigarette stick captivates Park Chanyeol.

Staggering in his balcony, Chanyeol approaches Baekhyun. He stands beside the shorter guy, elbows planted on the cold, metal railing. They remain like that for a while: Baekhyun precariously balancing the cancer stick between rough fingers, gazing at the skyline and Chanyeol using his eyes to roam around the intersections of Baekhyun's face, the u-turns and stoplights, the hazards and the infinite signs carved into Baekhyun's jawline. Baekhyun exhales, dancing clouds escape.

It's Chanyeol who speaks first, and Chanyeol who will one day, speak last. "I could never have taken you as the smoking type."

"Does that bother you?" Baekhyun asks in a tone implying he doesn't really care.

"No, it's okay. I just thought you didn't look like someone who smokes." The tobacco's stench bothers him, but Baekhyun's shoulders isn't tensed anymore, so Chanyeol keeps his mouth shut.

"Enlighten me, then. What kind of look should I have to be qualified as a smoker?"

"I don't know, Mr. Byun." Chanyeol says; his line of vision trailing faraway. In the distance, orange lights flicker off, cars veer home, the noise lessens. In the distance, the whole world is preparing to go to sleep. "Sad, maybe. You don't look sad to me."

Baekhyun inhales. Baekhyun exhales carbon dioxide interlaced with smoke and puffs of dilemma. "But I am sad, though."

Like the moon pulling tides, Baekhyun's confession tugs Chanyeol's lips up to a smile. "Aren't we all? We're all bleeding, damaged. Some are proudly showing off bruises, others have theirs buried layers and layers underneath."

Baekhyun takes another long drag.

11:16 P.M.

"Mr. Byun, don't you think you should try to stop smoking for now? At least for three days? That might be the cause of your potential death." Eighteen floors beneath them, little shops are closing. Calling it a night.

Baekhyun looks over the railing, holds his breath and drops the cigarette: thin, pale stick ablaze in the air, leaving ashes in its wake. Tonight, it seemed like eternity is marked by embers. The pulsing glow inside his glass house; his cigarette's end. They can burn, melt and shape abstract nightmares into something Baekhyun can touch, wreck into oblivion. He runs a hand through his hair. "I can also jump from here and bam! Hello death, nice to meet you. The fall might extend to three pages long. I can also die in a fire inside my glass house when I work. A thief can break into my house and strangle me if I catch them. Someone from the past might harbor a vendetta and decide to have me killed and--"

"And you're being paranoid, Mr. Byun." Chanyeol doesn't know how he does it, just that Baekhyun is trembling and they're both aware it isn't from the cold breeze, but he's already behind Baekhyun, patting the shorter guy's hair. Chanyeol leans down, fitting his head into the knob of Baekhyun's spine. "Don't think too much into it."

Baekhyun hears, but doesn't listen. Speaks, but doesn't mean a single letter of what he says. "Okay. Okay. I'll be okay, right?"

When Chanyeol breathes into Baekhyun's neck, Baekhyun felt immortal.

iv. ft. princess sehun
sesoo | 575 words

"i refuse to believe this." sehun shakes his head, colorful chalk powders cascading down to his shoulders. it's called chalk dyes, sehun informed kyungsoo earlier when he barged inside kyungsoo's place. barged because he'll never be welcomed here. "you simply wiggled your bon bons and snagged kai! i always knew you were a little whore."

the affectionate tone interlaced in sehun's voice diminishes the insult into dust. kyungsoo sheepishly grins at sehun, pretty pinks scattered all over his cheeks and painting his lips. sehun looks at the wide eyes and finds a place someone like kai can get lost in.

"i didn't really shake my bon bons, sehun. what are bon bons anyway? do you eat--?"

"balls, kyungsoo." sehun rolls his eyes. "balls."

"he did not even see my balls yet!"

"yet? you mother father, you're totally planning on it!" sehun accuses in a voice which makes kyungsoo think that sehun can actually be a fourteen-year old girl trapped inside the nearly emaciated body of a grown man.

kyungsoo sighs, slumping down his bed with a groan. it's as if his spine has been anchored down by the weight of his problems, questions he can't always provide an answer to and gravity, of course gravity.

dust motes dance under the sunlight streaming through his windows. kyungsoo's room is bathed in golds and yellows, but what he's currently feeling is warmer than all the sun's shades combined. and yes, this has everything to do with the boy with coffee skin and pretty hands and a childish smile that can make kyungsoo forget which planet he's in.

"i really like him." kyungsoo admits, draping his forearm over both eyes. "i mean, he's really cute, yeah. but like, it's something more than that. jongin is really sweet and funny and warm like you know how when you wake up and remember it's saturday so you can go back to sleep again and snuggle deep into your blankets? jongin gives me those feels. all tingly tingly and fuzzy and--"

"i am one cheesy adjective away from puking on you."

"don't be such a drama queen. let me have my moment. this fanfic is kaisoo, not kaisoo ft. princess sehun."

"but i thought i was a queen. you said i was a queen first."

kyungsoo sits back up, leaning against the wall. "that's not the point. the point is that i like jongin and i don't know what to do after that."

deep dents form between sehun's raised eyebrows. he stares at kyungsoo and wonders how it is scientifically possible for one person to be this naive. "isn't it obvious? you ask him to hang out and you guys date. see how it goes and if you're still interested, you bang bang that ass and voila! as much as i hate you going out with hottie patootie kai, i just want to see you happy. ooops--no don't hug me."

"but how?!" fingernails fall victim to kyungsoo's teeth. nibbling on his nails is his tell tale sign of nervousness. "is there a wiki guide for that? how can he be my boyfriend? do i have to pet him? how many times a day will i have to feed him?"

sehun grips kyungsoo by his shoulders and murmurs. "it'll be okay. just relax. don't think too much, you'll get wrinkles. just think of it as applied.... well, whatever shit you're writing on the internet. real life isn't any different."

[note:- this is my version of burying things i can't stand seeing anymore. r.i.p.
-and the final one is supposed to be in kouhai noticed me which isn't very original for a sequel. but i give up so yeah. i salvaged that one ;;
-here's to hoping my next update will be decent :)]

masterlist

uberchrome — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 05:25:56 GMT

hi there. my name is lien and i am
a princess // human-mandoo // butt-lover.
entries are 100% fics [if i can call them that]
please don't directly click the cuts because of reasons.
have a nice day! (〃^∇^)ﾉ

ordered chronologically;

red riding hood's first love
kai/kyungsoo; pg-13; ~3,000
Not every tale that begins with a Once Upon A Time ends with a Happily Ever After. Red Riding Hood can tell you that

93 steps
chanyeol/kyungsoo; pg-13; ~6,000
to find his way home, chanyeol counts ninety three steps. after kyungsoo, home is an arm's length away.

the bottom line
kai/kyungsoo; nc-17; ~24, 500
some secrets are better off kept, kisses undelivered, scars hidden.

60 seconds 초 면 충 분 한 story
luhan/sehun; pg-13; 3, 415
sehun walks to the east, luhan to the west.

190 mph
sehun/kai; pg-13; ~12,000
some people are made out of stardust, some of rust.

kim jongin's guide to loving oh sehun
sehun/kai; pg-13; ~7, 600

sehun isn't atlas & kings have scars that have never bleed.

senpai noticed me
kai/kyungsoo; pg-13; ~6, 100
kyungsoo is a fanfic writer and kai ships kaisoo because of reasons.

getting layd
kris/lay; pg-13; ~1,700
falling in love with yixing isn't logical.

9.6 m/s²
sehun/luhan/kai; pg-13; ~12,000
misery finds company, but really, what happens after that?

memorizing mnemonics
kai/kyungsoo; pg-13; ~1,700
kyungsoo is head over heels for jongin, enough said.

drabbles;

+ set i
+ set ii

kim jongin's guide to loving oh sehun

uberchrome — Sun, 10 Feb 2013 06:20:52 GMT

title: kim jongin's guide to loving oh sehun
pairing: i don't know, don't you get sassy with me.
length: oneshot // 7.5k
genre: angst, romance
note: this is sad and boring and long, & the list is based off her poem
Summary: sehun isn't atlas and even kings have scars that never bleed.

kim jongin's guide to loving oh sehun;
[ a depressed individual ]

i give him a reason to get out of bed every single morning

the day before yesterday, it was because the water heater in sehun's bathroom was damaged. sehun had to rap exhausted knuckles against the sharp wood of jongin's door just to get his kind neighbor to bring a worn-out casserole and fill it with tap water before letting the stove's fire heat it to a reasonable temperature. february's chills and raindrops made itself known outside of jongin's window. he shut it close.

when the pitter-patter of droplets against gravel failed to reach the confines of the room, jongin experienced a desire to barge the windows open, just to slice the thick fog of silence suffocating him because oh sehun refused to part his lips to say anything. sehun produced a pack of cigarettes from somewhere in his jeans, and jongin accepted it.

he did not bother letting sehun know he doesn't smoke, which is why jongin perched the cancer stick between his lips, took a long drag out of it, he raised his eyebrows when his neighbor smiled at him; a mischievous child yet to be punished for a juvenile crime. they stared at each other while waiting for bubbles to rise and smoke to hover over the water.

silence, unlit cigarette sticks, a few feet and unfamiliarity separated jongin and sehun. sehun was unwilling to initiate a conversation, and jongin is too draggy to start one.

heat and time and the water finished boiling. with the help of jongin, sehun carried and poured the hot water on his bathtub. sehun murmured thank you. jongin replied with a grunt that could have meant 'welcome' or 'don't bother me again'. sehun did not let jongin stay inside his apartment long enough to decode his reply. he ushered jongin to the door and slammed it shut (in the most polite way possible).

jongin went back to his own place and realized it's his first time conversing with his neighbor. he only knew sehun's name because it was engraved in gold on his door. why, jongin doesn't know. just that sehun smelled like baby lotion and had the emotional capacity of a rock.

yesterday, it was because jongin discovered a hole on his wall while cleaning his desk. and when he peeped through one eye, sehun's neat room greeted his iris. the furniture consists of shades ranging from trunk-brown to soil-brown and jongin decides it's too melancholic, so he knocked on sehun's door three times to inform him about the hole.

after two minutes' worth of heated argument, jongin decided to be the bigger person and fixed the hole himself because sehun told hi h was the one who found it, therefore he's responsible for it. while jongin tried and failed, and tried again to cover said hole up with flimsy paper and tape, sehun's husky voice echoed on his mind. the voice had no right to be in his brain in the first place, but jongin didn't bother letting it get away by channeling his thoughts differently. oh sehun has a very nice voice. a voice that made jongin think of vanilla ice creams with chocolate syrup and rainbow sprinkles on top.

today, sehun uses his knees because for some reason, his arms feels like jellies and just as incapable of knocking. when jongin answers the door with his lazy, caramel eyes and just-as-caramel skin, sehun asks for his name. when jongin inquires why he might need that, the younger informs him that he hates him and it's only logical to know the name of the person you hate.

jongin introduces himself without imploring for a name in return. before leaving, sehun smiled and jongin spends his whole day wondering if it was meant to be friendly or taunting or somewhere in between.

ii Act like his phantom limb;
be there when he needs you,
and leave when he doesn't

the day before yesterday, jongin had dragged sehun's staggering frame tipsy with alcohol and spicy kimchi to his room. last night, sehun used an actual hammer to hammer the thin wall separating him from jongin, and like a spell, jongin burst through his room, wanting to know what the fuck rattled sehun's pea-brain for doing that at e-fucking-leven in the evening. sehun had wordlessly dragged jongin by the collar of his cheap shirt out of their building, darting through the city's illuminated maze.

jongin whined, groaned and complained like a rag doll as his converse-clad foot scraped the road's concrete. sehun's hold remained painfully tight. he only pursed his lips shut when they stopped in front of a run-down bar that looked twice as old as his frail friend, joonmyun. joonmyun is in his thirties, so that's saying something.

as they placed their orders, sehun informed him it's treat because it's been six months since he hated kim jongin so this is a half-year celebration. sehun told jongin its his treat. and as the tyrant sehun with his neat hairstyle and pristine clothes talked to the balding bartender, jongin wondered where sehun gets his money because he looked like he's in his late teens and he's not even going out of his house. sehun's smile is more intimidating behind beer bottles and glowing neons.

and in this light, sehun was like atlas; the one who carried the burden of over seven billion people on his shoulders.

they drank and drank some more, but jongin made sure to leave a bit room to be sober enough to guide both of them back home.

yesterday, kim jongin woke up with a sharp feeling ricocheting back and forth the walls of his tender brain. his breath smelled like beer and unholiness when he opened his mouth, so he closed it immediately. something reeked of vomit and when he peered down his shirt, he recalled sehun's episode of puking the contents of his stomach into what he thought was a garbage bin on the street. jongin did not know if he should have been offended that sehun mistook his shirt as a trash can or not.

he observed sehun's sleeping figure and decided to not be offended. after all, jongin himself had been too tired to haul his anchored limbs back to his own apartment and treated sehun's wooden floor as a bed. as his own way of saying thank you, jongin raided sehun's kitchen until he found two cups of noodles--because they're the only thing he can cook well since they don't require touching the stove or knives and cutting boards that could potentially end in a wildfire.

he had been looking at the stove while waiting for the water to boil when he remembered a morning like this, not too long ago. it had been february's coldness instead of august's warmth waiting outside the walls, and sehun had knocked on his door while asking for a favor. they'd been strangers then. and they're still strangers now, but jongin concluded that their mini-conversations made them less-strange. he was curious as to why sehun bothered him instead of solving the problem on his own.

the sound of ruffled sheets and creaking floorboards caused jongin's head to turn until he saw sehun's indescribable face and his eyebrows, lips and eyes forming a scowl. just as he was about to greet sehun good morning, sehun started lashing out, eliciting a worried response from jongin. sehun kept on screaming words jongin can't understand, throwing everything in his reach, hazel eyes looking at jongin, but not really seeing him.

jongin tried to calm him down, but left when sehun sent something flying in jongin's direction. it was only when jongin felt his cheeks with his left hand when they both realized it was a broken glass and its shards left a ribbon of red on jongin's soft flesh.

jongin departed; the heart-breaking sound of sehun's cries acting like the background music as a trail of blood dripped down his neck. they should have been tears, but kim jongin does not cry. not anymore.

today, sehun pokes the paper-covered wall with his index finger and slips a rolled-up note on the new hole. it took jongin two hours in the shower, and then three more minutes of sweeping his floor clean to find the rolled paper. he reads it, smiles, and tucks it in a box along with a cigarette stick pressed flat on its edge.

i'm really sorry for what happened. i wasn't in the right state of mind, because well-- my psychiatrist says so.
i have problems, you see. i mean, we all have problems, just that mine might be worst than the rest.
i don't want to talk about it, if you want to know more, don't. but i feel like i owe this to you.
dinner tomorrow night? i'll cook and it won't be just noodles because i'm not like someone i know

iii. Go to Hallmark and buy him
as many cards as you can with your allowance or salary

the day before yesterday, kim jongin received his salary from one of his part-time jobs. he's had more job than a sane person would like to admit. sometimes he's a cashier, a waiter, a dancer, and every once in a blue moon, he babysits for a little boy whose family lives a floor below him. jongin actually earns enough from being a waiter to cover for his expenses, but he prefers running around, doing menial tasks just to have more money. and maybe he won't admit it to himself, but he takes delight in treating sehun to something, no matter how insignificant it might seem. sehun doesn't ask for anything, and maybe that's why jongin feels like it's his mission to give sehun everything.

right after paying his bills, rationing some for his monthly food and other necessities, and giving the landowner his monthly rent, he headed off to hallmark to buy all the cards he can. they range from cheesy humor, to romantic ones, to the ones with cats and penguins with party hats in front, cards with dancing elephants and red ribbons, and even ones with gingerbread houses.

when he arrived home, he began signing each and every card with his initials.

yesterday, he slid the cards through sehun's door. there are thirty-six of them. when jongin slipped the thirty-fifth card, he takes the last one behind his back before knocking sharply on sehun's door. when he footsteps traveled to his ears, jongin turned and ran to his apartment.

today, jongin hides the thirty-sixth card inside the brown shoe box. now, the cigarette and note aren't lonely. the thirty-sixth card is a 'get well soon' card, and sometime between the day before yesterday and yesterday, jongin replayed sehun's laughter, the way he'd tilt his head to the right when he's thinking deeply, and how he'd stick out his tongue out a bit when he's amused again and again in his mind until his nerves processed them and explained everything to his heart.

it is only when it started beating rapidly and tingling with such foreign sensations that jongin realizes he likes sehun. and he doesn't know how, or when, or where, or why it happened, just that he's sure it's 'like' because when you like someone and they're depressed, you don't send them get well soon cards.

when you like someone and they're depressed, do what jongin does. he sits down on the floor, mouth adjacent to the hole in the taped paper as he calls out sehun's name. sehun answers and walks closer. when jongin feels like sehun is close enough, he tells sehun he hopes he'll feel better.

jongin doesn't feed sehun plastic sentiments in the form of cards that have been sent to over 25, 000 people every year

iv. Dig a hole in the backyard and give him a shovel
then step back as he rips his sadness in handfuls and bury it in the hole

the day before yesterday, sehun entered jongin's apartment, under the guise of being too lonely and needy. over a cup of bitter coffee, sehun told jongin he just came from one of his monthly appointments to his psychiatrist, yifan (but sehun said he's more cuckoo than his patients. because who the fuck lets a stuffed alpaca sit beside them in their office?) without as much as a side comment, jongin stood up slowly, disappeared somewhere, and came back to the living room holding two shining shovels in his hand.

wordlessly, in the same way sehun dragged him to a dingy bar, jongin handed sehun a shovel and when sehun took it, jongin grabbed sehun's free hand, towing it outside of the building. between the entrance and the empty lot filled with some kind of industrial soil, jongin was encouraged by the gentle caress of september's breeze and the avid whisper of the wind as they swayed the branches of leaves in red and gold and swirled like thin helicopters around jongin and sehun. jongin finally asked sehun why he was always alone.

sehun kept quiet until the both of them started injuring the ground with sharp metal and vigorous arms. halfway through digging, sehun told jongin the reason he's almost always alone is because he's aware that he's a ticking time bomb. he was meant to self-destruct and there's no use damaging anyone surrounding him.

when jongin asked why he was talking to him, sehun simply called jongin a bastard.

yesterday, jongin and sehun went back to the spot they dug. there's a notebook and pen on sehun's lap. as they sat on the ground with the afternoon skies around them, jongin instructed sehun to write down whatever was burdening him because jongin felt like he's so much more capable than that yifan dude who can't even cure sehun after years of treatment. sehun wrote and jongin told himself to not get captivated by the way sehun holds the pen between the tangle of his fingers.

jongin discovered what the deal was about when his eyes landed on ripped pieces of paper inked with sehun's messy scrawl. he read and then he wanted to know why we let hearts break inwardly instead of ripping that blasted organ out of our chests and into the atmosphere for naked eyes to see; each crack caused by old agonies, battered tissues one touch away from giving out, short and lengthy scars etched by all the 'you're not good enough's collected from the lips of the ones we loved, thorn-adorned splinters acting as souvenirs from the adventures we all went through that made us who we are. he longed for sehun to see this, to know he isn't the only one suffering. but he gulped down words and kept them in as sehun buried each paper one by one;

i'm fucking sad and i don't know if that covers it.
when i was nine years old, i saw how my mom killed my father.
then she blasted her head off with the same gun in front of my eyes.
i thought i was blind because i couldn't see anything after that. it turned out that my eyes was just covered with blood.
whose, i don't know. the police never told me.
my uncle and who took me in told me they loved me.
they gave me their wealth and i'm hiding in this place now.
i hated them after that because my mother had at least told my father 'i love you'
a million and one hundred eighty nine times before she pulled the trigger.
my neighbor's name is jongin and he is annoying and he smells like chlorine.

today, kim jongin runs a shaking hand through sehun's soft hair. everything else is steady; jongin's heartbeat as sehun's head rests exactly atop his chest, sehun's breathing (inhale, exhale), the constant circular motion of the ceiling fan above. he closes his eyes and tries hard not to think of yesterday or the day before that. he tries to forget how the great wall of china comes crumbling down to dust with sehun's words. with lids tightly shut, he ignores the concept of ticking time bombs and things killing you from the inside out, how everything was created to be destroyed.

he takes a deep breath and reminds himself he shouldn't be melting into sehun's bones and clinging to his heart, but here he is; plastered to sehun. the grain of his being flowing to the ivory-skinned boy, merging with his foundation

v.Cook a romantic dinner for two
play a recording of you saying something important
again and again until the needle scratches

the day before yesterday, jongin spent two hours badgering his close friend, kyungsoo to teach him one delicious meal. then he spent the rest of his day in kyungsoo's kitchen, observing the shorter guy as he juggles ingredients in his hands, placed pasta sticks to a casserole, little things that jongin can't even understand so kyungsoo told him to write everything down because it's easier that way.

jongin did.

yesterday, he invited sehun over and watched with dancing eyes as sehun ate the soggy spaghetti jongin deliberately prepared. the pasta was overcooked and the sauce hadn't been stirred properly, hotdogs weren't sliced thin enough, but that didn't seem like a major setback for sehun who had never tasted a home-cooked meal in his life. each bite fueled the already-wide grin on his face, and he looked at jongin's plate with longing eyes when his was swiped clean. jongin was more than happy to gently push his plate to sehun's direction.

jongin's own stomach was growling, but there was nothing new to that. even if he ate, it'd still be difficult to swallow. he settled for watching sehun devour his food as if his life depended on it. jongin's did.

today, jongin calls sehun through the hole in the wall. sehun arrives with a series of complaints about the time, grumbling about how people need their sleep and just because you cook delicious spaghetti doesn't give you the licence to disturb individuals who need their beauty rest. sehun flattens his ears against the wall.

jongin repeatedly says 'you're loved. you're important. you're wonderful' again and again until his tongue grew weary and sehun starts believing it.

vi. Fill the bathtub with roses and hot water
light some candles
remove his clothes one by one

the day before yesterday marked the anniversary of their first meeting. jongin stopped by a flower shop after his shift. this isn't a sudden decision, or a momentary impulse. this was the result of five hours twisting and turning in his bed, grasping pillowcases to bring out a solution for sehun. a reward, if you will. because sehun's room isn't that melancholy anymore.

there are polaroid pictures of him and jongin captured in the streets of cheongdamdong, hongdae, and other hideouts in seoul. the background varies; a dim alleyway, a sunlit park with merry strangers, carnivals with their neon lights and colorful rides, a calm river someplace outside the city. the clothes change too; sometimes they're light undershirts, others layered. the only thing that was constant was the identical mirth glowing behind dark eyes, faces pressed against each other, and unbridled happiness tilted lips can't express enough.

sehun learned to show other expressions, too. along with the falling of autumn leaves and greetings of winter's snowflakes, a smile blossoms on his face, sometimes he'd crack a joke or two, leaving behind vines entwining itself on jongin's heart. other times, he'd teach jongin lessons they both didn't need to learn. laughter worked like a warm blanket on chilly nights. hugs subdues hidden tears. feelings are better off felt than explained.

when the bouquet of red roses were in his hand, jongin fixed his thoughts on the flower's freshness, not the fact that they'll wither and lose their beauty some day.

yesterday, jongin and sehun made love. porcelain-frail and caramel-toned skin glowing underneath the candles' golden lights. plucked blood-red petals flirting with sweat-covered thighs. groans followed moans and names dissolved like the droplets of liquid aroma mixed with tub water and body fluids. fingers pressed against spines, massaging the sadness out of them. mouth covering lips, transferring as much love as the other can handle. need and passion translated into echoes caused by flesh smacking flesh. sehun writhed underneath jongin's arms as every term of endearment were exchanged.( i need you, i want you, you're everything, you're so special. i can't believe you're mine. i more than just like you. )

but never once did they say 'i love you'.

today, jongin hides a rose petal and molten candle on his shoe box

vii. Take him rollerblading at night

the day before yesterday, sehun gripped the hem of jongin's gray shirt while trying to balance himself. jongin reached out to take sehun's hand in his, guiding the both of them carefully. when sehun finally got the gist of it and the sleeping city's street lights turned red, jongin and sehun drifted through lanes loitered with sluggish cars with just as sluggish drivers. sehun turned and rolled away. jongin made sure to let sehun be happy, but keeping him close enough like a satellite. the wind bit, the road felt uncomfortable, and the city's glow blinded him.

when they arrived home, heaving and red, sehun hugged jongin, gushing about how he never had that much fun in his life before. jongin grinned and planted a kiss on sehun's lips, telling him that it's the perfect way to end a perfect day.

sehun said it's all poetic bullshit. jongin kissed him again.

yesterday, kim jongin's throat woke him up. clenching, aching, pain overlapping against pain. he staggered to his bathroom and avoids making a ruckus. he learned from experience that even the slightest noise resonates to sehun's room. awareness is the last thing he needs as the beginning of bile rises to his throat, through his mouth and out to the toilet bowl. jongin closed his eyes, concentrating on keeping his voice from getting louder.

tears took the place of the strangled sobs he forced his vocal chords to hold in. by the moisture on the side of his eyes, it's clear to jongin that suffering has to make itself known. when it all stopped and all that remained was a burning feeling behind his sternum, he opened his eyes and what he saw pulled the floodgates of unshed tears open.

kim jongin watched as blood stained the whiteness, along with remnants of the last food he ate. he knew what this meant. hematasis, it's all coming back and it's worst than before. his wrist watch informed him it's 6:17 A.M., and he allowed the tears to fall; not because everything inside him hurts, but because inside his body, there's a clock that runs on a different time, counting his months, week, days, hours ticking down to the nanoseconds.

the pain doubles. everything intensifies; from the surface of pain to the line of acceptance. there's a cloud of misery in his world now. because he finally has a reason to fight for a battle he'll never be able to win.

today, kim jongin brightens up sehun's room with an ear-splitting grin and a heap of DVD's in hand. sehun fixes his couch and turns the lights off; doing everything out of new-found habit than anything else. they decide on a cheesy rom-com flick (jongin likes throwing popcorns at the glib male leads and sehun likes laughing at that). like clockwork, sehun nestles his head on the crook of jongin's shoulder, and jongin intertwines their fingers together from under the heavy blankets while watching the bright figures dance on the screen.

actually, it was just sehun who watched. jongin's too occupied glancing at sehun and memorizing everything before condensing them in phrases; soft hands, smells like baby lotion, protruding collarbones, tongue slightly sticking out when serious, three lines between creased brows, ticklish in his hips, his hair the same color as angry, rain clouds.

viii. Be patient
Things like these take time

the day before yesterday, sehun experienced one of his 'i'd like to be by myself' moments, and really, it's all fine by jongin. as sehun obliviously sleeps in his room, jongin compiles papers after papers and begins writing. both of them knew jongin's fascination with creating lists; grocery lists, schedules, red things he sees on a particular day.

but then three hours seemed to be sehun's capacity to keep jongin at bay.

sehun knocked and entered jongin's living room along with the hint of twilight on the other side of jongin's window. sehun came equipped with a thin book and a steaming mug of coffee he didn't make for jongin. jongin understood and resumed to scribbling furiously on his notebook. sehun was close enough to notice the thin bones sticking in the middle of jongin's wrist and the hollowness of his cheeks, vacuuming pity out of sehun. he wasn't sure if it was pity, or love, or worry, or a little bit of everything. raw emotions were new and caught him red-handed.

but he's sure that whatever he felt was strong enough to ask jongin if he's okay. jongin smiled and it didn't reach his eyes. he asked if sehun was okay, when the other nodded, jongin whispered that everything is okay.

something in the way jongin slurred his syllables alerted sehun.

yesterday, sehun's knocks against jongin's door went unanswered. thinking that jongin might be out somewhere, he headed back to his own apartment. meanwhile, jongin clutched for his phone. shaking fingers fumble to speed dial kyungsoo. lying down on the coldness of the floor, jongin pleaded for help and kyungsoo could only reassure him with the words; i'll be there quickly, hang on.

had sehun peeked through the flimsy hole, he'd have witnessed jongin gasping and lying helplessly in a pool of his blood.

today, it's jongin who barged into sehun's room and before the younger could utter anything else, jongin engulfs him in a tight hug. he lets his deprived arms and desperate breathing do the talking. there are a dozen of questions suspended in the air. questions without sufficient answers and understandable reasons

ix. Wait until there's a full moon
Trace his scars; for each one revealed, tell him you'll stay for another year
tell him that if he only had one scar, you' d stay forever

the day before yesterday, kim jongin cried on his friends kyungsoo and joonmyun's shoulders for the first time. this appeared as a surprise to the pair, considering how secretive and quiet jongin can get. kyungsoo, being the one with the sensitive heart, cried along with jongin, their muffled sobs soaked in by the trusted walls of joonmyun's kitchen.

joonmyun diverted his gaze from jongin's trembling lips and stretched knuckles to stop seeing the pain. but unfortunately, joonmyun can't block out his ears to stop hearing jongin as he cried out, hyung, I love sehun, hyung. I finally understand now, hyung. why some cancer patients go through chemotherapy even though death will just catch up to them. I thought it was silly hyung. cough. why couldn't they just accept their destinies like me, right? you know i thought it was stupid so i didn't go through treatment years ago and just let it consume me. now i wish i fought it. hick. everyone dies i know that, hyung. but i wasn't really aware of having reasons to live.

i told you about sehun, right? you know hyung, he sticks his tongue out when he's pondering over something. i like the way his fingers curl on mugs and i shouldn't even like that. i mean, it's stupid and little and really. stupid stupid. it's also stupid how he smiles and blushes like a girl. acts like one, too. but you know what's more stupid how i would go through chemotherapy if it meant i get to see him be his stupid self at least for one more day. if these medicines and tubes can give me one more chance to hear him whine about the weather. he keeps telling me that the rain is annoying. he is, too. but i won't mind having him around. just one more week, one more day, hyung. i finally figured out what it's like to be alive.

kyungsoo told the frail jongin that even if he had forever to live, he still wouldn't have enough of sehun. jongin laughed bitterly, muttering about the infinite chances hiding in 'forever'.

yesterday, jongin and sehun made love on the rooftop of their building, atop soiled blankets and underneath the moon's silver glows, surrounded by dim lights and ten o'clock darkness that won't reveal the secret of these young lovers. kisses were given and bites taken. as jongin explored sehun's body, his lips uttered words too quiet to be heard.

when their gasping bodies gave out, jongin lied down beside sehun. and aside from the noise of the traffic in the distance and their sharp breathing, no other sound could be heard. but it's been two years since he found the empty space in the wall, two years since he started to get addicted to sehun's scent. jongin had already mastered the art of listening to the words sehun didn't say.

jongin mumbled a number (twenty-six). jongin told sehun he had twenty-six scars. he'll stay for twenty-six more years. sehun began talking about years and decay and happy-ever-afters. jongin grabbed sehun's hands with fingers as cold as the moon's surface. with the help of his dried lips and pleading eyes, jongin changed the topic to the big bang, the start of everything, of origins and great beginnings. jongin talked of worn-out 'once upon a time's, never touching the gold-engraved 'the end's.

today, sehun surprises himself and jongin when he began skimming through a newspaper he claimed to have bought across the street. details about job advertisements and hiring never escaped sehun's dark eyes. he tells jongin about his decision to go out to the real world and do something for himself. he thanks jongin and tells him he can't have done it without his help. now, sehun says, i'm gonna live forever.

jongin smiles slightly, wishing he could tell sehun the same thing.

x. Find mars
Label it

the day before yesterday, sehun showed up front of jongin's doorstep, wearing paint-splattered clothing and a frown on his face. adorned with a string of protest about this painter he's working for. his name is luhan and according to sehun, he would have shoved luhan's ugly face against his palette if only he didn't need the painter's money and the job.

two tablespoons of sugar were added to the cup of coffee jongin's making for sehun. edges of the light curtain sways in the wind. dust motes spiraled in an invisible path lit by the sun's rays. there are spots on the wooden floor that shone too bright. trivial little things like these filled the distance between them; a distance that can't be quenched by curious conversations or excited footsteps. nor can this distance be measured by feet or meters, because sometimes the words 'too far' begins making sense and more often than sometimes, no one could still understand.

in his usual, drowsy tone, sehun spoke of art, what the real world is like. he mentioned something about the streets being too polluted, the cars zooming too fast, pedestrians walking too slow, rain clouds being too heavy; the never ending stream of surprises waiting for him at every intersection. jongin perfected the role of a listener as sehun painted pictures with his lips and vibrant eyes that had enough energy to fuel both of them.

and one minute they were two people inside a musky living room, talking about every-day happenings and the weather. then the next, jongin envisioned himself to be inches, miles away. in a place blessed with cyan skies guiding him as he shuffled forward, carrying a black cage in hand. deprived of any sort of knowledge, the jongin in his mind opened the cage with moist hands. he thought the liquid was his tears.

tears that dripped down after another as something moved inside. a splash of colorful feathers folded too tight against each other, as if time itself clipped its wings. it was undoubtedly captivating, but jongin didn't have enough time for reverence as the beautiful creature stretched its wings to fly away. away. away. away until it became a dot of chrome against the calm skies.

away. away. away and away until jongin was left to question it's existence in the first place.

yesterday, sehun treated jongin, just because he wanted to. it was their first official date, in a sense. maybe it wasn't. jongin was sure that they've been out to the cinema, the park, and even some coffee shops before. but things felt different now, as if jongin was given a new pair of glasses that sharpened his vision. sehun's smile seemed more vivid in a moving sea of people. his eyes brighter as the screen's light hits them in the cinema's darkness.

even his other senses heightened in sensitivity. his ears would catch sehun sigh and gasp and wheeze during appropriate scenes. when sehun's lips touched his, jongin could appreciate sehun's spearmint taste on his tongue, how it lingered like a ghost even after sehun pulled away. sehun's flesh alerted him before, but now it electrocuted him; as if there was an uncontrollable power supply in sehun's fingers.

each whisper, each wink, each smile, each word, each glance, each kiss was tucked into a rusted suitcase in jongin's mind. a suitcase that had never been opened before simply because was nothing to keep inside. a suitcase of nothingness now brimming with splintered fragments of a man whose tongue peaks out when concentrated, whose nose scrunches timidly when disgusted, whose voice raised goosebumps on the back of his neck, a man whose kisses were bullets shot straight to jongin's heart.

today, sehun's cheek is against jongin's chest. skin glued to skin by the thin layer of sweat compelled by hours of love-making inside sehun's neat little room. jongin tries his best to not lean down and kiss the runaway strands of sehun's hair--and fails miserably. he brings out his phone and speed dials kyungsoo while running his other hand through sehun's hair, which he had previously gripped, caressed and kissed earlier.

when the ringing stops, indicating that kyungsoo answered, jongin gushes to tell his friend that he finally gets the character, eri asai from murakami's book, after dark. his voice duets with sehun's breathing; he informs kyungsoo he understands the word 'desire' and 'freeze' now. eri asai went through self-induced comma and no one around her saw reason in that. she had everything she want, didn't she? why would she close her eyes to the world?

it takes jongin one look at sehun to realize the answer to a question he's been pondering over for months. if given the chance, he'd have slept through all his life like eri, even though he's hedged by the rope of fortune.

once upon a time, he shares to kyungsoo, we come across a particular stage when we think everything is just the way it should be. and just this piece of our lifeline, just this droplet of a moment in an ocean of moments could have us hoping that we can close our eyes and preserve what we have in the present. to keep it in our own pandora's box.

kyungsoo calls him a shakespearean ignoramus who's high on coke and prose. jongin laughs because kyungsoo doesn't get it. because no one does and no one will.

jongin isn't intoxicated; he's dying.

those are two very different things.

x. Make it say: we were here

the day before yesterday, jongin felt his internal hourglass tip. the sand grains of his seconds slithering closer to the end by each belch his throat produces to accompany the bile flowing out to the toilet bowl. and then there's the crimson liquid that was supposed to be keeping him alive, but even that attempts to escape from him. a voice in his mind instructed him to get on with it; he should be used to the pain now. and then another murmuring to go ahead and cry, because even kings have scars that never bleed.

these voices were drowning in his desire to yell out sehun's name.

yesterday, jongin received a message from sehun saying that he'll be home late because he's invited by some of luhan's friends for dinner. this strip of normalcy in sehun's life pushed jongin on edge, and this time, he did not even dig his weight against the ground to stop the force, even just by a centimeter. he got up and did what he planned to do, all the while telling himself that death isn't solid; you can't grasp it or hold it or shove it to another room or get down on your knees and beg for it to please wait because you need more time to appreciate someone's hoarse laughter and corny pick up lines.

death is like the air that followed jongin as he rummaged through his drawers, bringing out his carefully hidden shoe box and a stack of papers held together by a thin string and what's left of his sanity. the rhythm of his breathing and his footsteps getting closer to sehun's room served as jongin's companion. left, right, legs, please don't give out, left, right until he's in front of sehun's coffee table.

and he timidly placed the papers and box down, something hot and warm --were they tears? welled up behind his eyes. maybe it was because he's conducting his own little burial and no one was around to watch him grip pieces of himself and leave them on the table; a letter, never-ending papers containing lists and a box full of souvenirs. then a thought materialized and he scampered around for a pencil and paper.

he wrote with a compliant heart and a brain that told him to go on and write because this is what's best for sehun. kim jongin scribbled a list on a torn notebook page. a list that he didn't want to make, but he had to. a list that no one can pull off the same way he did, but maybe they can do better

today, sehun comes home wearing smile and a shirt that isn't his because his gray ones were drenched by some unsuspecting stranger. his limbs and head hurts as if they've just been stepped on by a buffalo. it's his first time staying out of his house and away from jongin overnight. it feels nostalgic and euphoric at the same time. he expected to come home to a pair of open arms, waiting for him and maybe some warm toast and fried eggs for breakfast. jongin's cooking skills surprisingly improved after episodes of sehun pretending that jongin's oily meals were god's latest miracles after rice cookers.

the smile, however, fades from his face little by little as he caught sight of a brown shoe box (that isn't his) and some papers (that surely isn't his) on his coffee table. he opens it and takes the items out one by one; a molten candle, a pressed rose petal, cigarette stick, a shard of glass, movie tickets, a damaged wheel of some roller skates, a torn paper with a little hole that fit perfectly on sehun's index finger.

today, kim jongin listens to the roaring of the angry waves below him. and another; the sound of loneliness. he's high enough for the sea's foam to be pools of white. with eyes open and dry, he lets his last thought be the three volatile raps of his neighbor's knuckles against his door. his right foot inches forward, half in the open air; there's oh sehun's deep voice yelling at jongin to fix that goddamned hole because he was the one who discovered it. by the time jongin takes a deep breath, he rewinds back to sehun's job-searching and later on, his complains. kim jongin spreads his arms out and lets himself fall, knowing that sehun will be okay.

today, sehun forces himself to read the wrinkled paper on top of the box. after, of course, absorbing jongin's letter written with words like; hematasis, metastasis, cancer, the end. as he finished with the first one, sehun thinks it's the perfect time for someone to barge into his door and yell 'time stops, the world ends' because that's exactly how he feels right now;

Kim Jongin's guide to loving oh sehun; [a depressed individual]

i give him a reason to get out of bed every single morning

ii Act like his phantom limb be there when he needs you, eave when he doesn't

iii Go to Hallmark and buy him as many cards as you can with your allowance or salary

iv.Dig a hole in the backyard and give him a shovel then step back as he rips his sadness in handfuls and bury it in the hole

v. Cook a romantic dinner for two play a recording of you saying something important again and again until the needle scratches

vi. Fill the bathtub with roses and hot water light some candles remove his clothes one by one

vii. Take him rollerblading at night

viii. Be patient. things like these take time

ix. Wait until there's a full moon, trace his scars, for each one revealed, tell him you'll stay for another year; t tell him that if he only had one scar, you'll stay forever

x. Get a telescope and find mars

xi. Label it

xii. Make it say we were here

xiii Don't tell him you love him, show it

(notice that there aren't any periods on the lists, these thoughts are endless)

tomorrow, sehun will wake up to the groaning engines and incoherent chatter composing the seven o'clock street noise. an unwelcomed noise, perhaps, but it was inevitable because he forgot to close his windows shut last night. he'll instinctively grab a plate and his spoon and fork before going out of his house to knock on jongin's door. the echoes his knuckles against wood cause and the lack of reply on the other end will remind him of jongin and his absence. he'll feel his knees give out beneath him tears follow suit, even though he doesn't think it's physically possible for a human to have this much tears leaking out of their sockets. he'll loiter on fast-paced highways, trying to find pieces of jongin in a stranger's wrist, the way that girl sitting by the park bench squeezes her eyes shut, a man's hip as they sway when walking.

tomorrow, sehun will pour his hate out on luhan because the stupid chinese bigot didn't allow him to take a day off to nurse his broken heart. sehun will accidentally-on-purpose put too much water on luhan's tea and not enough sugar because there's nothing in the world luhan hates aside from that. he'll get forty-three minutes' worth of scolding from the passionate painter, and forty-three minutes is more than enough for sehun to be frustrated to the point of bitch-slapping that nagger across the face. he'll leave luhan's studio, worrying that he'll lose his job. but later on, luhan will show up in his doorstep, eyes on his feet and heart on his sleeve as he mutters I'm sorry.

tomorrow, sehun will impose self-loathing. he'll fuel the fire of his self-hate using jongin's multiple lists and letters. he'll reprimand himself for being so selfish he didn't notice the signs of jongin--gosh, jongin practically turned transparent in front of his eyes. sehun will tear the polaroid pictures down and pry his sheets off in a fit of rage. a rage that'll kill itself like arson in an abandoned warehouse. when seconds quenches the fire, the ashes of what we have beens, what we should have beens, what we never will be, would manifest on him. his fingers will fumble to tape back the pictures and put them back properly, like a suspect hiding evidences of his crime. he'll be secretly hoping that doing this would bring jongin back, would return the kisses and childish pillow fights, the nasty name callings and hardcore lovemaking.

tomorrow, doors will open for sehun. tomorrow, a hand would flip the page of a thick book. a book that happened to be about sehun's life. a story without end, but a story nonetheless. a story with chapters meant to be finished to introduce a new one.

tomorrow will come, maybe with the sun's greeting or the heaven's drizzle. maybe with yesterday's regrets or today's mistakes. with a potential lover or mortal enemy. maybe with a broken water heater or a surprise hole in the wall.

either way, tomorrow will come.

f i n

note: written for clap13times amp; i am so not writing sekai again.
i actually didn't have a concrete plot /sobs/
& this is so not my forte. what is up with me and falling people.
but i hope you enjoyed reading ;}

senpai noticed me

uberchrome — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 05:52:40 GMT

title: senpai noticed me
genre: crack, fluff, romance
pairing: kaisoo
length: 3.5k
note: this is some shitastic writing. unedited. excuse.
summary: kyungsoo is a fanfic writer and jongin ships kaisoo because of reasons unknown to humankind.

The only reason why jongin frequents the coffee shop by the corner of the main street is because he’s sailing on two ships. Now this might seem confusing, but it isn’t.

Kim jongin ships KrAy—that means EXO M’s kris and lay for all of you living under a rock. His friends baekhyun and chanyeol ships them too, so jongin doesn’t think rooting for two chinese men to bang up and have babies is that weird. After all, any self-respecting teen living in the twenty-first century would confess to having a mother ship. It’s sort of the trend right now, like iPhones and Galaxy Notes, blogging and fanfictions, teen pregnancy and divorce and—you get his drift.

The second reason why jongin hauls his drowsy ass every seven a.m. (without fail) to this little vintage-themed cafe is because he ships KaiSoo—that means him and kyungsoo, the ever-majestic fanfiction writer he has a crush on ever since jongin first read one of kyungsoo’s work at this writing community. After two hours’ worth of stalking—a few clicks and scrolls here and there—jongin discovers that kyungsoo has a habit of stopping by every morning in this cafe before getting on with his life.

“Come on, just because his writing is amazing and he sounds cool doesn’t mean that he looks cool. For all we know, this kyungsoo might turn out to be a midget, or a shrek-look-alike,” chanyeol had put in his two cents during one of jongin’s ‘let’s fanboy over do kyungsoo’ moments. Jongin would have pointed out that shrek is an ogre and an ogre isn’t a midget, but he figures that it isn’t worth his saliva to try to drill sense into chanyeol’s half-baked brain. If jongin didn’t need chanyeol’s monthly rent for the apartment they’re sharing, then he would jubilantly have kicked chanyeol’s prying and noisy ass down the old stairwell of the building.

Come to think of it, jongin would voluntarily lock himself in jail if it meant never having to see, or smell, or listen to park-fucking-chanyeol ever again. He once did—last summer and can jongin just tell you how unholy their toilet seats are?

“What part of that perfection is shrek-like to you?” jongin had made sure to shove his iPad up chanyeol’s face once he discovered that kyungsoo’s tumblr has a ‘/tagged/me’. It goes without saying that jongin spent thirty minutes downloading each and every picture of kyungsoo to his iPad, mobile phone, laptop, and an external hardrive (you never know what might happen). But he liked those pictures, of course, and then proceeding to go on anonymous to tell kyungsoo ‘you’re so cute! Not to mention that you seem really nice and friendly and can you marry me plz’. To which kyungsoo had replied a modest thank you with a wink, a wink that pushed jongin out of his bed because he can’t contain the amount of feels radiating through the screen, reaching out to his heart.

Moving back to the present, jongin flicks his plastic toy watch to reveal the time. Two more minutes before kyungsoo would grace the dingy walls of the shop with his sparkling brown eyes and raven hair and porcelain skin and such heavenly features that makes jongin want to take up ‘english’ as his major next year because that way, he’ll have enough knowledge on how to mold kyungsoo’s perfection into words. Heck, he might even write a novel dedicated to kyungsoo’s eyebrows.

Door chimes starts moving to create a pleasant sound; one that announces the arrival of a new customer. Except that this one isn’t new to jongin and he’ll never get used to kyungsoo’s modest entrance. Don’t even ask jongin why he describes it as ‘modest’, he just thinks kyungsoo has a quiet aura surrounding him.

jongin hides behind some sort of house plant as his gaze follow kyungsoo. Kyungsoo grins and walks and places his order. jongin notices that beige is a good color on kyungsoo, it emphasizes those dark eyes and hair while toning his ivory flesh. Okay, so maybe jongin could also take up fashion designing as a course, too. In order to create a clothing line for kyungsoo—with the clothes’ shades ranging from apricot to mocha to mud-brown to you-can-remove-any-piece-of-fabric-off-now.

Four unoccupied wooden tables and a few antique figurines separate jongin from kyungsoo, but he thinks it’s fine because he could still have a whiff of kyungsoo’s out-of-this-world scent. Jongin identifies ocean breeze, dandelions, fried oil, and expensive cologne. A weird combination, yes. But it’s kyungsoo’s so jongin can’t see why he can’t enjoy it to the last air molecule.

Kyungsoo receives his order and jongin’s heart clenches like a used-up tissue paper when the waiter’s hand accidentally brushes kyungsoo’s arm when he puts the cup down. jongin swears that the waiter did it on purpose, but who could blame him? Everyone was at mercy of kyungsoo’s awesomeness.

They go on like that, just as they’ve been doing for three months; jongin stealing glances, kyungsoo sipping his coffee oh-so-adorably while reading something on his phone, and kim joonmyun—the owner shaking his head by the counter because he can’t believe that two idiots are always in this cafe during this particular time, but never conversing. Had joonmyun not been in his early thirties, he’d have banged their heads together until their screws are in the right place.

—

It’s kaisoo and not some shitastic name like ‘kyungin’, or ‘jongsoo’ because ‘kai’ is jongin’s hotter, sexier, better, and overall delicious counterpart, and he thinks that it’s what kyungsoo deserves.

Kai emerges when jongin puts on his vans 106, sweatpants, and signature plain t-shirt with some characters on them. Kai is often surrounded by adoring eyes or cold, clear mirrors reflecting his limbs as they pop, lock, drop, step, and all that shindig along with the music. Kai isn’t drowning from a flood of overflowing feels because that’s jongin’s job, and the only expression that kai has is either ‘take me to bed’ or ‘go holla’. Dumbing it down, kai is the coat of hotness that’s hiding a lovestruck jongin underneath all that glistening flesh.

“All right! Good job today, guys! Just a few more days before the competition!” Their dance teacher, eunhyuk claps his hands together, indicating that it’s time for them to clear out or else they’ll be banned in the studio for a week. Hyoyeon, Kai’s groupmate, explains that it’s because donghae needs some one-on-one time with their instructor. Probably because he’s such a klutz. Taemin rolls his eyes and tells hyo that eunhyuk is doing donghae and they have some sort of fetish with mirrors, which is why no one dares touch them. Kai leaves the both of them blabbering as he fishes for his phone and checks for kyungsoo’s profile.

When a ‘story update!’ pops up and he finds that it’s from kyungsoo, jongin could have kissed every inch of the dance studio’s mirrors and not get grossed out.

—

Kyungsoo’s username in every writing community he has ever been a part of is ‘tablowme’. He likes tablo and the rest is pretty much self-explanatory.

He can’t recall what got him writing fanfics in the first place. All he can remember is that his nose has been buried in between book pages after book pages ever since he was a small kid, and as times change and his body parts mature, he finds his face stuck in between albums and photobooks, magazines and fat encyclopedias that he later refers to when writing. It starts out as small and harmless, the way most things go. But as he feeds his fascination in the music industry by befriending other fans and skimming through blogs and fanfictions, kyungsoo wakes up one day to find out he’s dug a pretty deep grave for himself and he can’t find the strength to rise from it.

So he makes the most of out of the situation and fulfills his fantasies with reblogging pretty edits and learning the hard ways of fanfiction. Kyungsoo writes and writes, puking up words through his fingertips. He’s always been this huge daydreamer, you see, so twisting his brain cells to adjust to literature was pretty much easy-peasy. Somehow, it wasn’t just him who thought he was a genius. Comments after comments after subscriptions and recommendations kept coming his way, and kyungsoo recognizes a blessing when he sees one.

So he writes from dawn to dusk, until his eyes turn bloodshot and he came to the point when he can’t remember the last time when he didn’t write. Passionate and horny about the singers kris and lay, kyungsoo aka ‘tablowme’ uses his free time to write. Stretching his arms overhead, kyungsoo takes a deep breath before clicking the ‘post to journal’ and ‘update chapter’ button. Two accounts are for bosses, you see. He gets up from his bed, goes to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee while telling himself to calm down because the comments will somehow come, and besides, there’s just one user that he can’t wait to get feedback from.

It takes at least ten minutes for a new notification to come, and kyungsoo’s veins surges with a feeling of satisfaction and contentment when he reads his secretly-favorite fan’s comment.

onetaothree: this just blew my mind (pun intended). Why did you let Lay lie to Kris? Do you srsly want to kill me with angst, author-nim? This is amazing, like always. Aklhfdjshafk I can never stop shipping kray bc of you. I’m sending you the bills of my check up because diabetes. I swear kris and lay were born for each other and I’m glad that you can see that too. Looking forward to more! Thank you for your hard work! God bless you ;)

tablowme: thank you so much for reading! And god bless you too, my child.

Onetaothree: you’re welcome ;)

—

“Hyung, can I ask you something?” jongin looks up from his phone with his dark eyebrows knitted together,a comical expression on his face. “What if the person you like called you ‘my child’? What does it mean?”

“It means,” his friend breaks away from chanyeol’s possesive grip. Jongin resumes to his phone but listens to baekhyun as he says, “that you’ve just been offspring-zoned, duh.”

—

Kyungsoo loathes going out of his house. The only time he does that is when he needs his morning coffee, or when he’s going to school. But since it’s their summer vacation, kyungsoo can’t see why he should be forced to go out in this brilliant, dazzling, ethereal summer afternoon with the birds chirping in trees brimming with young and fresh leaves. It’s obviously the perfect day to stay in.

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?” Sehun asks, gripping kyungsoo’s thighs with his sharp fingernails; kyungsoo likes to think that sehun’s fingernails are actually bullets drilling holes into his flesh, but maybe that’s just his imagination going wild. “You need to accompany me here! It’s just a dance competition, it won’t hurt or kill you, I promise.”

“Why don’t you go alone? I’m your cousin, not babysitter.” Kyungsoo moves his legs until sehun’s filthy hands are off him. Goodness knows what sort of things he’s touched.

“Because there’s this hot dancer named Kai and oh my gosh! He’s just pure sex and I can’t go alone. If you come with me, I’ll buy you one of those albums that you want,” sehun is just that desperate.

“Any album?”

“Any.” Sehun confirms, watching kyungsoo’s will waver in his eyes.

“Call,”

—

It’s cramped and hot, a not-so-large hall spewing with sweaty and excited bodies rubbing against each other in the dim light. Kyungsoo is being pushed here and there like a rag doll, each shove reminding him why he never should have agreed in the first place. This is what the real world does to you and it’s not pretty. He stares at the group dancing before him with their sequined shirts and sparkling pants and all kyungsoo could conjure are thoughts of home and warm coffees and thick blankets. He should have been in his room now, typing away on his laptop or spazzing with some of his online friends who understands what it’s like to not go out. Oh the horror of the real world.

Just then, sehun yells ‘kai! We love you kai!’ and kyungsoo’s cheeks morph into twin cherries, especially when sehun embarrasses himself by dancing in the spot manically. The scene awfully resembles the one in the drama ‘Reply 1997’, where the fangirl started dancing along, but kyungsoo believes that sehun should be banned from here because he’s not that cute and this place isn’t that large, so naturally, all eyes are trained on sehun; irises asking ‘what is up with that dude?’ especially when he does a few robotic moves and kyungsoo literally face palms, cursing sehun’s future children’s grand children’s great-great-grand children’s.

‘Please stop, you’re embarrassing,’ kyungsoo whispers and when sehun raises kyungsoo’s right hand along, the latter wishes he’s kept his mouth shut or disappeared like a puff of smoke or prayed he hadn’t been born. Sehun yells, “we love you kai!”

And when kyungsoo’s eyes sweep over the stage and connects with his eyes, kyungsoo is suddenly thankful for sehun and his mother for giving birth to him and god for not making him disappear like a puff of smoke just yet because the guy whom sehun called ‘kai’ is on fire and he is staring at kyungsoo. Him. Do freaking kyungsoo.

In the dark and middle of chaos, kyungsoo grips his own arms and hands just to make sure that his flesh and bones and muscles aren’t melted. Kai has his hair brushed back and his skin tone reminds kyungsoo of coffee and oh god, can he have some coffee now. When kyungsoo keeps on staring—and he’s sure that he’s tomato red right now—kai grins at him while doing a series of body waves.

Kyungsoo finally understands the allure of ‘magic mike’ and he thanks the heavens again because he’s a dude therefore the closest to ‘ovary explosion’ was tingles all over parts of his body that shouldn’t have tingled.

Kai winks at him before walking away and kyungsoo wonders if it’s possible to get pregnant from that.

—

“Hyung! Senpai noticed me!” jongin jumps up and down, droplets of sweat flying off every direction. Backstage, dance crews are thumping each other, their own way of saying congratulations. Eunhyuk’s group was one of the few who made it to the semi’s, but that’s not the only reason why jongin is on edge tonight.

“Is that internet slang for something?” baekhyun turns to chanyeol checking himself out in the mirror because who else can he ask.

“It means that he knows I exist! Kyungsoo knows I exist!” jongin starts pumping his fist in the air, and baekhyun restrains himself from fist pumping jongin in the face for being jongin.

“Finally! I was wondering how many reblogs and likes of his selfies would it take for him to notice you,” chanyeol chips in, and normally it would have annoyed jongin but not tonight. Jongin smiles at chanyeol and everyone in the room could tell that at the state jongin is in right now, he’d have been able to kiss the ugliest man alive.

Love drives people stupid, and sometimes stupid gets them in trouble.

—

Three days later, kyungsoo is biting his lower lip repeatedly while staring at the infuriating blank page on the screen. He bites his lower lip again and skims his teeth through them, as if it would help him claw inspiration and a story idea out of his wrinkled brain. Toasted inside his favorite comforter with only his hands sticking out to rest against the keys, kyungsoo is alone again. But unlike last time, he is so not in the mood to be alone because he freaking wants to write a new Kray fanfic, but he doesn’t know what to write about.

Not even rereading all of the comments he received or rereading onetaothree’s comments lifted his down-trodden spirit up. He longs to let something out, but he feels like a toddler being shoved into the pilot’s chair and getting asked to fly to beijing or new york or fucking antartica. Nothing just make sense. Kyungsoo starts biting his nails out of frustration, and he’s aware that it’s not attractive, but really, which part of him has ever been attractive? He groans and rolls around and groans again.

But then kyungsoo remembers a boy with coffee skin and sparkling eyes and he goes back to his laptop to puke out more or less twelve thousand words.

—

“Hyung, can you please punch me in the face?” jongin approaches baekhyun because he hates chanyeol, what more do you want. Without as much as a second thought, baekhyun brings out his fist and sends it flying against jongin’s nose. Something cracks, but instead of fighting back, a smile appears on jongin’s face.

Baekhyun worries that he’s punched jongin a little bit too hard, it fractured what’s left of jongin’s brain.

“I’m not dreaming! Hyung, senpai really noticed me and we will be married,” with that goofy grin still on his face, jongin jumps around the room like a fifteen-year-old white girl. Screw english or fashion designing. As jongin rereads tablowme’s new story, jongin settles for studying chemistry to teach kyungsoo what they have between them. Or maybe biology because reproduction. No, no, what about history? To let kyungsoo know what they’ll make. Psychology isn’t that bad too, kyungsoo should have a firm grasp on how crazy he drives jongin.

Determined to keep his feels intact, jongin rereads his favorite part of the story again, because he knows there’s something between those lines.

Coated by the cold darkness, Kris could only press his lips together. His eyes are glued on Lay dancing in front of him, limbs gliding along with the invisible notes and raw beats. Kris imagines that if hearts could fly out of our ribcages, his would have been scampering towards the stage where Lay is.

Reasons, lights, melody, the crowd, everything just disappears and it’s just him and Lay who looks at him with adoring eyes that can never rival kris’s love. So, Kris thinks, this was what must have drove Romeo to take his life or Kate Middleton to marry a balding prince. Because they’ve met the person who could make you feel like everything and nothing at all make sense.

—

Onetaothree: wow! You’ve surprised me again, authornim! This was really good and heart felt and your previous works are majestic but there’s something different about this one. It feels like I’m feeling what lay feels and thank you so much for writing this piece of perfection. I hope to read more inspired fics from you! Godbless ;) —your child.

—

jongin flicks his plastic toy watch to reveal the time. Two more minutes before kyungsoo would grace the dingy walls of the shop, except this time, jongin is determined to do something about it New found ourage bought by baekhyun and chanyeol’s nagging and his previous eye contact with kyungsoo, jongin waits three tables away instead of four and joonmyun stops wiping the counter because the dark-skinned customer looks like he’s finally grown enough balls. And like a drama-gone-wrong, joonmyun would love to see how shit would go down.

Kyungsoo arrives. The door chimes sound. Jongin smiles and looks at kyungsoo. Kyungsoo stares back, feeling like the man before him isn’t the same man he saw a few days ago. Something is different but he doesn’t have time to analyze the situation because the man speaks.

“Hi, my name is jongin. Kai, on stage.”

Kyungsoo nods because what else can he do. He moves his tongue inside his mouth slightly just to make sure that it isn’t glued down. Jongin smiles again, and kyungsoo swears that jongin should get arrested for being able to smile like that. It isn’t fair that someone can just smile and rain down pleasant sensations and blushes on a stranger, right?

Kyungsoo moves away, heart thudding as if it wants to break free and kill kyungsoo then and there.

Jongin stares at kyungsoo’s back and recites, “Kris imagines that if our hearts could fly out of our ribcages, his would have been scampering—”

“What,” Kyungsoo turns, pale complexion turning paler. Wide eyes going wider. “How do you—”

“Because they’ve met the person who could make you feel like everything and nothing at all make sense,” jongin walks closer. Joonmyun grabs the popcorn he ordered his assistant, minseok, to make earlier. As joonmyun munches, jongin just gets closer and closer. The other guy seems to be rooted on the spot.

“It doesn’t make sense—,” kyungsoo tries looking at everywhere but jongin. Sweet, yes. Adorable, yes.

“Because One.” A smile

“Tao,” jongin leans in closer

he pecks kyungsoo’s cheeks. “Three.”

fin

note: sorry because not written properly.
p.s. 'tablowme' is an actual tumblr url
& onetaothree is my new twitter because yes.

the bottom line [1 / 3]

uberchrome — Sat, 02 Feb 2013 19:45:07 GMT

Title: The Bottom Line
Pairing: ot12, really
Part: 1 / 3
Genre: Romance, Angst, Action
Summary: Kim Jongin is finally out of the asylum and Kyungsoo is a roamin' catholic

prologue; omerta

ground zero;

the point of destruction

To Kim Jongin, home is just an abstract idea. Home isn’t fighting over who gets the remote control or Friday movie nights or heartily-prepared meals. Twelve years of living in the outskirts of foreign towns and borderline insanity taught him that strangers are safer than friends, that the dark isn’t something to be scared of rather, something to embrace for its protection, and the lengths that people would take just to obtain money is enough to make one lose hope in humanity.

He should know this better than the rest since the only thing he’s good at is operating behind shadows and smiles.

But even though home is something Jongin can’t imagine himself having, the closest to the idea would have to be Sehun and his family. Oh Sehun, along with his underlings Jongdae, Tao and the deceased Minseok, ruled nearly half of South Korea’s underground society. They reigned quietly, under the veneer of respect and high intimidation, that even the police left them to their own devices. Admiring the gold-and-pink-coated horizon, Jongin could only be thankful for the unbreakable bond connecting him to others.

“As you could tell, Sehun still likes to keep it low,” Jongdae acts like a narrator of a children’s story book as he drives them closer to Sehun’s humble house. Jongin rolls the tainted windows down. His eyes looming over the familiar garden in front of them; a haven for white roses to grow perfectly. Sehun has an attachment for those things, including bottle caps and rubber ducks, HB pencils and peculiar things no one cares about. The thought of Sehun makes Jongin wish for Jongdae to park faster so he could finally see Sehun after years of separation; marked by lonely nights and unsent letters.

The car stops. Jongin violently opens it and runs as if it would kill him if he doesn’t. It probably will; considering how much his hands strain to hold Sehun in them and his eyes to take in the features he’d grown to love. When you long for someone, even your body makes it obvious.

Jongdae turns the engine off, shoves the key to his pocket and follows Jongin, taking his time because Jongin and Sehun are probably engaging in a make-out session he has no desire of witnessing. He’s three years older than Jongin, but all of them in their familia knew Jongin was the most experienced one out of them all. He walks inside Sehun’s white-washed house to see his boss and friend hugging each other fiercely like wrestling predators.

“Welcome back,” Sehun utters, and this is when Jongin smiles. The smile that Jongdae calls ‘Sehunnie smile’ because it only emerges whenever Sehun is within grasping distance. Jongdae’s dull eyes studies their boss as he makes himself comfortable in the beige couch. Deprived fingers linger over oblivious skin as Jongin and Sehun talk. Behind the glimmer of Sehun’s eyes and the heart-felt words coming out of his lips, Jongdae could catch something that Jongin doesn’t—and he feels sorry for the younger.

Jongdae wishes he doesn’t know how much Sehun means to Jongin, and how much Jongin doesn’t mean to Sehun.

༺

Kyungsoo is kind and relatively safe.

D.O. and Kyungsoo are two different people, living in the same body, covered with the same clothes and surrounded by the same people.

Kyungsoo is the one with a marvelous childhood composed of munching on lemon drops and wasting Friday nights with revisions for exams due next month. Kyungsoo cooks foreign dishes he can’t pronounce well, keeps his shirts color-coordinated and ironed, helps out his friends who can’t solve stuff on their own, and occasionally, Kyungsoo goes out for strolls on warm, sunlit parks and carefully maintained art galleries. Savoring the beauty in things, in every shape or form. Kyungsoo is etched with dorky actions and gum-showing smiles coming from a heart that can never love too much.

D.O. on the other hand, works for Luhan as his right-hand man. The most trusted in the family. D.O is the one with bitter experiences marked by the number of times it took for his face to be shoved against concrete and marble until he grew callous enough to flip the tables and give back the harsh punches. D.O’s eyes are as sharp as an eagle’s and just as able to see things from afar. D.O doesn’t believe in retaliation or apologies.

The man who walked inside Tomaso’s Casino and straight up to the third floor was D.O. A camera strap hangs loosely on his right shoulder. Dressed down in jeans and a gray shirt, D.O opens the fourth door to the right—a room he and Luhan usually visits to collect monthly increments from a group under their protection who lives off by being corrupt gun dealers. This little fraud and business is only one in hundreds that Luhan runs—but tonight, he sends D.O for a specific task.

“D.O,” Taemin greets, radiating a youthful aura through thick lips and dewy complexion that even the dimness can’t hide. D.O will miss him. Windows are closed, which might explain the stale feel of the air interlaced with strong, Italian tobacco, and something sharp—ethanol and chlorine. Polished wood, brass, heavy dark curtains decorate the room. D.O thinks it’s the perfect setting.

“Is there anything we could help you with?” Minho—the one in charge—speaks up, his voice suspended somewhere between surprise, annoyance and intrigue. The extravagant suit suggesting he’s off to somewhere top-notch. D.O feels sorry for whoever Minho has to meet.

“Come on, loosen up. I’m here for a silencer. Steyr GB,” D.O brings out a gun from his pocket.

Minho stares at its stainless steel exterior and asks, ‘The Austrian Piece, right?’ before walking away to retrieve something from one of the mahogany drawers on the right side of the room. They weren’t alone. Two men D.O recalled to be Kibum and Jinki were talking to themselves beside Taemin.

Nice and easy does it.

Minho reappears a few seconds later, cradling a black cylinder wrapped in now-transparent gun oil in his hand.

“Let me try it,” D.O instructs, eyebrows raised as if daring Minho to refuse.

Minho wipes the tube, tossing it to D.O’s waiting left palm. D.O loads the gun in the same way he does everything: quickly, efficiently, perfectly and without any unnecessary movements. He clicks the tube in place within the blink of an eye. It echoes throughout the walls. Contrary to popular belief, you don’t do it slowly, sensuously. You use light and fast pressure, a half turn, and it clicks like final jigsaw pieces.

The cold metal now weighs heavier in his hand, feeling more comfortable and balanced. A silencer works by dispersing the blast of gas slowly, weakening the recoil. D.O asks, “Now let’s see if it works.”

A Steyr GB has no safety catch. In order to fire, you need to pull a projected pressure of fourteen pounds. D.O flicks the gun in his hand, lifts it up to Minho’s face until the gunpoint is parallel to the space between Minho’s eyebrows. He pulls the fourteen pounds before Minho has a chance to react.

It wasn’t quiet; the shot was as loud as a teenager slamming a door shut with fueled rage. Not quiet, but quieter than it could be. Minho went down like that, tall legs giving out beneath him as he crashed backwards on the floor. Blood spurts out and seeps through fabric. Too bad, the suit looked professional. Savile Row, maybe?

Pin-drop quiet.

Not even Kibum had the courage to let another word fly out of his active mouth. They stare at him in shock and D.O didn’t waste another minute. He aims and shoots. Aims and shoots. Aims and shoots. Almost-muffled gunshots going off tediously like clockwork. The casino’s racket beneath them acted like soundproof walls, diminishing bangs after bangs. There’s an allotted eighteen rounds for a Steyr GB. D.O confirms that none of them gets wasted as he releases them into his victims’ chest until nothing came out. “Well, that wasn’t that quiet at all. But it seems to work fine.”

The low groans fade. Limbs stops struggling on the ground. The only breathing D.O hears is his and he smiles, reminding himself to get rid of the gun in a garbage bin on the road. He uses the Polaroid camera slung on his shoulder to take snapshots. When he gets out of the room, the merry sounds and loud catcalls of the casino drowns out his retreating footsteps as he disappears in the dark.

You see, when Kyungsoo gets hurt and trampled, D.O happens.

༺

Evening visits the skies, bringing with it the velvet indigos and white, promising stars twinkling in the distance. Jongin, Sehun, and Jongdae are inside Sehun’s modest kitchen. The chipped cupboards, unused stoves, and appliances inside the room did not change, even if the people in there did.

It’s nearly impossible to make up for memories unmade during two years. Nearly impossible, but Jongin still tries. Arms wrap around thin waists with his chin nestling against bony shoulders; Jongin tries. Fingers interlaced with pale fingers, Jongin tries. It’s almost comical watching Jongin act around Sehun. One glance wouldn’t betray the fact that he’s a trained assassin since his actions suggests childishness and fluffiness. Jongdae gags inwardly.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. I’ve been thinking about it lately because I know you’re going to be out,” Sehun speaks with a tone Jongdae grew to loathe. He throws Jongdae a look that has the latter scampering out of the room. “Jongdae must have told you what happened to Minseok.”

Jongin nods.

“It was Luhan’s right-hand man who personally did that. Did Jongdae tell you all the details?”

“No, just what they did.”

“You should know. What you’re going to do has something to do with all this.”

Sehun’s chosen tools for story telling was a hot mug of cocoa and two wooden chairs facing each other over the dining table. They almost looked like normal guys who talk about normal things on a normal day. Jongin’s gaze is glued on Sehun’s hand as it moves along with his lips, forming words that summarizes what happened: March 22. 10:32 P.M. Minseok was doing one of his monthly rounds over Cheongdamdong. You know, they have the greatest stash of heroin and steady cash. Everything moves fast there, and Minseok knew that. So did Luhan’s man D.O who was waiting for him outside of one of the joints. Minseok was unsuspecting. He was shot nine times and if it wasn’t enough, D.O ran over him with an Aston Martin. He did it out in the open. With people watching. Witnesses said that Minseok’s body looked like a nicely-pressed shirt after the car was done with him. And you know the police, what we do is something they don’t dare butt their noses in. Jongdae probably didn’t tell you this, but three days later, they left Minseok’s body in front of Jongdae’s doorstep, wrapped in a large red ribbon. Well, what’s left of his body, anyway.

“You’re hiding something,” Jongin states when Sehun stopped to inhale deeply and stare at the window.

“What gives?”

“Everything. It isn’t like you to just talk about this calmly, even though you’re Mr. Po-po-poker face.”

Sehun laughs dryly. Jongin continues. “And since incidents like this don’t happen to us, I’m shocked that you haven’t reacted yet. Done something. Anything. We’re practically family. We don’t just sip lukewarm chocolate two months after one of our own got murdered. Brutally so.”

The crickets' song outside the window failed to be heard over Sehun’s unnerving chuckles. “Exactly. That’s what mannoia expects us to do. React. Take action. So that’s what we’re not going to do. Jongdae and I planned this for months. We took care of everything while waiting for that one vital instrument to carry out the mission that just might be mannoia’s downfall.”

“What were you waiting for?”

“You.”

༺

The rhythmic beating of the stereo pounds against the walls of D.O’s ears. If asked, he’d have requested for Acri’s Sleep Away or Chopin’s Mazurka in C minor to play as the background music in his office. But he isn’t asked and he isn’t the capo—Luhan is and Luhan has a bad taste in music. D.O dislikes that about his Chinese boss. Only loonies would listen to some crazy rap music sung and meant for people half their age.

“This is good,” Luhan comments, shuffling the Polaroid pictures capturing the condition of four people splayed out on the ground; a thick layer of blood covering wounded, soft flesh. D.O nods even though he already knows it. Of course, they’re good. He was the one who did it, after all. “I take it Jonghyun wasn’t there?”

“Gone. I made sure he wasn’t in the scene. It’d be tragic for all of them to die at the same time. One must remain to grieve,” What made D.O’s speech as lethal as the weapons he owns is the complete indifference in his attitude. People assumes D.O is fearless. He isn’t. Luhan thinks that D.O’s lack of apathy is the secret ingredient to the killer persona.

Luhan, having a penchant for mismatched furniture, transformed his office into something resembling a room identical to Alice’s wonderland. D.O sits down on a love seat patterned with pink hearts. His friends Baekhyun and Chanyeol decides it’s the perfect moment to bolt the door open. A noisy entrance accompanied by lion-like grunts and heated shoving and cries of "D.O can you kill Chanyeol so that I can DJ at his funeral?" Or "Luhan, do you remember the restaurant we ate in last week? The fancy one with the fancy French name? Baekhyun wants to be medium rare’d."

Nonsense conversation, typical snide remarks, Luhan’s smiles, the way D.O wrings a joke dry, Chanyeol’s shoulders as they convulse in laughter, Baekhyun’s attempts at threatening Chanyeol causes the thin cloud of seriousness clinging to the walls to subside. Somewhere between Luhan’s ‘I’m giving Chanyeol a k9 for his birthday” and Baekhyun’s barely audible muttering, the D.O facade wears down until Kyungsoo reappears with his goofy snorts and gum-showing smiles. Because moments like this seems so concrete, Kyungsoo feels like he could just reach out a hand to hold the liveliness between his fingernails and palms.

“What do you call a sleep walking nun?” Kyungsoo asks, bringing out immediate looks of panic and eye rolls.

“Have mercy on yourself, Kyungsoo,” Baekhyun cries.

Kyungsoo waves it off; a flake over his shoulder. He goes on, “A roamin’ catholic.”

Silence.

Luhan looks down on the floor, leather shoes rubbing against the Persian rug. Chanyeol bites his lower lip. Baehyun drapes a hand on Kyungsoo’s shoulders like a mother would. “No, just no.”

༺

Times like these makes Yifan sympathize with old people; their longing for open spaces and familiar faces.

Times composed of transparent glass and ringing phones with humans sounding like robots waiting on the other end, crossed-out agendas and crumpled post-its. With his lower back already aching by sitting for hours, Yifan refrains from snapping his head to the right in order to yell at the middle-aged woman and her baby to 'keep it down because god freaking damn it, I’ve just had a long day at work and I still have three more stops to endure so can you please make my life easier by stuffing that baby’s mouth with a cloth or something. Also, just because you have a child doesn’t excuse you for not taking care of yourself woman. I’ll gladly give you a shower set if we’re friends and if I’m filthy rich.'

Yifan diverts his attention to his hands, as to not feed that nagging voice inside his head—the one that nitpicks on microscopic details regarding every one and every thing that has ever graced this planet. Lay’s the lone human being who’d sewn himself a blanket of immunity against that voice.

Yifan is unfashionably resting on a cramped train with strangers when he wonders about them; which of these people has a home to go to, which one doesn’t. He looks around, thinking that maybe the girl with the messy bun and lazy eyes has a lover waiting for her at the next stop, and the guy dressed in all black is a painter—a hypothesis encouraged by the liquid yellows and reds underneath his fingernails. Conversations are exchanged through whispers behind cupped hands, Yifan wants to know if they’re talking about things that really matter (i love you’s, you’re beautiful, what’s next morning’s breakfast), and not just the trivial things every one fidgets non-stop about (debts, bills, sales, did you hear the winner of last night’s soccer match?).

The shrill cry of the baby beside him earns dubious looks. He ignores them.

The train, like time and every thing else, drags on forward. Yifan looks down at his wristwatch—which is rude enough to remind him he still has half an hour to spare before arriving home to Lay and his marvelous cooking. Yifan makes a mental note to tell Lay that if the whole police investigator thing doesn’t work out, there are hundreds of restaurants that would hire him.

༺

When the alarm clock and its constant rings failed to wake Jongin up, nature takes it upon herself to do it. Nine o’clock sunlight peeks through the slit between the binders, hitting Jongin’s closed eyelids with scorching light until they slowly blink open. Fuck, was the first word that he uttered under his breath on his second day as a free man. Sluggish thoughts and the faded sense of reality which always occurs the first few seconds of consciousness. He unwillingly parts with his bed as he waits for everything to make sense.

His name is Kim Jongin. He’s twenty-three and he kills for a living. Yesterday, he got out of the mental asylum he’s been confined to for two years—connections and strings were pulled to decrease the length of his stay there. He works for Sehun alongside Jongdae and Tao (where the fuck is he now), above tens and hundreds of people behind cashiers and bars, smuggling ammos and drugs, grenades and things slapped with fraud all over the surface. He lives in a nice and totally not-ostentatious house owned by their familia. And today, he’s going to see Oh Sehun who’s going to brief him about his first, and possibly grandest, task for the year.

By the minute he’s got it all sorted out, his teeth has already been brushed to lodge traces of the toast and coffee he had for breakfast, got his fingernails cut, worn a proper dress-shirt and trousers, covered his feet with socks and leather shoes. Ready.

༺

“I don’t understand your fascination with the mafia. Why would you want to involve yourself with them? Others just leave them alone. I don’t see why you shouldn’t do the same,” Yifan sneaks up behind Lay who’s engrossed in the avalanche of printed papers on his wooden desk.

Lay holds up two pictures and concentrates on them. Yifan’s previous remarks for the past hour dismissed like flies. Seven minutes of staring and sighing, the tall blonde man retreats to the soft couch, venting frustration under his breath. This is what a normal weekend is composed of: delicious dinner to be followed by a few minutes of making out before Lay would get too impatient and go back to attend his cases. Being in love with a private investigator is never easy, but Yifan does his best to get through it.

“Why didn’t the police did anything regarding the Kim Minseok case? It says here that there were a handful of eye witnesses who identified the suspect since it was done publicly. Why didn’t you get the suspect arrested?” Suspecting words slice the haze of silence. Yifan’s left hand clenches to a fist out of instinct.

“Leave it Lay, don’t bother yourself with that. The case has been closed.”

“But you’re a part of the Seoul National Police! I’m sure that you have the authority to look through this! Why didn’t you do anything?”

“There are some things that are better left untouched. Questions left unanswered. Give it a break, Yixing.” Heaviness stains Yifan’s voice as he speaks. He departs to their bedroom, leaving an enraged Lay behind. He knows that if he stays, Lay would prod the details out of him. Details that would anger his lover to the point of action.

༺

Lit mirrors against the wall, two strangers holding onto brushes, papers and photographs scattered over the couch and coffee table, Sehun’s brows knitted together; these things greeted Jongin when he arrived in Sehun’s house—otherwise known as their secret hideout.

“What’s going on?” Jongin sits down beside Sehun.

“This is how we’ll conduct your mission,” Sehun turns to Jongin, their faces so close to each other. Sehun smells like book pages and roses. A weird combination that Jongin finds intoxicating. “I’ll explain the details to you while Sungjong and Woohyun here take care of you. All you have to do is shut up, sit down and listen. Try to not interrupt, please.”

That explains the odd, waiting pair. Jongin walks over to them with a curt nod. Girly guy ushers Jongin to a tall chair, one that directors might use while filming.

Sehun fills him in as the pair maneuvers their hands over his hair and face, touching his features and examining Jongin as if he’s an antique that’s about to get displayed in a museum. “Jongdae and I arranged everything. We made sure that there won’t be any loopholes or blind spots in what you’re about to do. You might think of it as a suicide mission, but if you succeed, and I’m sure that you will, then familia Mannoia would be history.”

This time, the feminine guy is alone with blunt scissors in his hand and a thin comb on the other. After hushed whispers with his partner, he begins parting Jongin’s hair in sections. Running the comb over. Pause. Cut and swipe. Sehun goes on, “Minseok’s murderer was named D.O, after asking around about him from trusted and some not-so-trusted people, we discovered that he’s the second in charge of the familia after Luhan. Looks like he’s also a big deal. This is who you’ll kill.”

Through the dark veil of cascading chunks of hair, Jongin could see Sehun handing him a picture. It’s of a man looking sidewards, the angle betrays the fact that a hidden photographer took it. The guy has a haystack of black hair framing a small face with soft features; upper lip a little bit too puffed, thick eyebrows cast over large, dark brown eyes that look like a child’s—trusting and innocent. The one in the picture seems like he can’t even hurt a fly, or ant, much less shoot someone nine times.

“Peculiar little thing, isn’t he? Don’t be deceived, though. That is D.O,” Sehun goes on talking confidently. The hands on Jongin’s hair are gone. They were now fussing over opening bottles and pouring contents over a plastic bowl. “While you weren’t here, D.O started to work for Luhan. We don’t know where he’s from, just that he rose like an eagle over Seoul, assassinating certain individuals that were too important for their underlings to handle.”

“He’s a hitman too,” Jongin nods, more to himself. “Is he better than I am?”

Sehun raises an eyebrow, watching as the two men applied some mixture on Jongin’s hair. “You’ll have to find out for yourself. This is where your mission will begin and end. With D.O. Kill him, sabotage their familia, and bring Luhan to me. I’ll deal with him myself.”

Whenever Sehun is hiding something, his lips would twitch to the left. Jongin knows this, just like how he knows almost all of Sehun’s quirks and habit. Sehun’s lips move to the left, but Jongin doesn’t ask anything. “You make it sound easy, why would this be a suicide mission?”

“Because,” Sehun stares at him straight in the eye. “You’re going to be joining their familia. They’ve never seen you, which makes you the perfect ally. No one knew Kim Jongin. But it’s cool since you won’t be him anymore. You will be Kai. And Kai, would avenge Minseok and save all of us.”

༺

Mirrors never lie. They might distort or change your perspective, but they’ll never lie. The cold glass in front of Jongin shows him a man who looks like he should be sashaying down a runway somewhere in Europe, not fidgeting in a clean bathroom somewhere in Seoul. The brushed-back chocolate hair and shaded brows, layered clothing, hid traces of the easy going guy underneath. He looks and feels different. Jongin turns his body to the side, then tilts his head, as if doing that would help him locate evidences of the person he used to be.

He takes a deep breath and leans forward. This is it. Kai. Not Kim Jongin. Kai. Going to infiltrate enemy ground. Kai. Kill D.O

For a second, he stops in his chant and wonders if what he’s about to do is worth it. Then he hears Sehun’s voice somewhere beyond the door and it strengthens his resolve. This is what he was meant to do. This is what will make Sehun happy and he loves Sehun. Enough to do something that could potentially put his life in great danger. For Sehun.

He smiles. The reflection follows. Kai follows.

༺

Two days later, Yifan whispers the dark deeds of the mafia to Lay’s ear as the later drapes an arm over Yifan’s bare chest. Six in the morning finds the two of them tangled in pillows and limbs, above white sheets with creases caused by heated bodies, struggling lips and wandering fingers. Somewhere between Lay’s passionate kisses and volatile pleading, Yifan sighs and tells him all about the two rival families Blanco and Mannoia—who they are, what they do, and what the authorities don’t do about them.

Yixing’s sharp gasps reminds Yifan why he hid it from his lover and best friend for five years in the first place. Having been surrounded by a family with officials devoted to justice, Yixing somehow inherited a portion of let’s fight for what is right gene, causing him to seek for retribution and fairness in the dirty alleyways of Seoul. Yifan spends half of his life wondering whether or not he should love this about Yixing.

“I can’t believe this. You’re just letting them get away with murder and smuggling and devious crimes,” Invisible fumes slithers out of Lay’s ears and nose like a train preparing to embark.

Yifan trails kisses from Lay’s temple to his lips, then down to his sensitive neck. “You have to understand. Some things work unplanned, and not following the status quo could put everyone in danger. If only you knew.”

One thing that Lay can’t be with Yifan’s warmth so close to him is calm and coherent. Deciding to interrogate this certain, blonde man when he’s not having unholy thoughts, Lay smiles and accepts the invitation on Yifan’s mouth. A kiss there, a quick whisper here, a lick on the underside of his wrist, trails of love bites on his chest. Things like these has Lay scorching like skies on a July sunset.

“What? What did I do wrong? Why are you staring at me like that? Are you okay?” Yifan inquires after he sees Lay’s eyes glistening with tears.

“Nothing, it’s just..” Lay takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“What for? I didn’t do anything spectacular yet neither did I buy you anything lately.”

“No you dummy,” Lay reaches out his hand to trace the outlines of Yifan’s hard jaw. Lay takes his time, fingertips resting on defined bones as if he’s trying to commit it to memory. Lay likes how the reading lamp’s yellow lights hit Yifan’s face in just the right angle; emphasizing his golden hair and brightening his eyes. “Thank you because you’re here. I know that I’m not really the best person to be with, but I’ll have you know that I appreciate how you try to adjust so that we don’t have to fight. Thank you, Yifan. Thanks for calling my office every three-thirty just to tell me you miss me. Thank you, I love you.”

Yifan blinks back something like tears. 'I love you, too' he thinks, but locks his lips with Lay instead of letting them dance around the atmosphere. He never said those three words. But sometimes, when he stares at Lay smiling at him, Yifan knows that he knows it, even if the universe can’t grasp how much that love is.

༺

Jongdae struts down Seoul in the sea of unfamiliar faces while digging his fingernails against his palm because he can’t recall whether Minseok smelled like thyme or baby lotion.

He shivers and hugs himself even though the weather man said that it’d be in high thirties today. Liar. Maybe the weatherman is accurate, and the coldness in his marrows is just brought by fear. Jongdae isn’t scared of knives or kidnappings, threats or committing murder. He wouldn’t be in this business if things like that pulls him undone. What gets him on edge however, are t-shirts that are slowly losing the scent of its owner, journal pages that’d never get written down. Sometimes, death isn’t as scary as losing evidences of your existence.

He walks and walks, looking straight ahead until he arrived in Sehun’s house—where he realized that he could have saved himself all the trouble by taking his car instead of walking for half an hour. The defensive side of his brain reasons out that what he did was a good thing. Less pollution for mother earth. More exercise. Better environment, more fresh air. Other names for unhindered stupidity and excessive bullshit.

Jongdae’s eyes land on the built of a man who looks like Kim Jongin (but not really) as he walks around Sehun’s rose garden. “Jongin?”

“It’s Kai,” he grins and Jongdae mimics it.

“So you agreed, huh.”

Kim Jongin—aka Kai saunters closer to Jongdae and Jongdae could tell it was Kai because there’s a rehearsed cocky grin plastered on his stupid burnt face, and his hands aren’t shoved in his pockets anymore. Kim Jongin is reserved and can’t live without hiding his hands on his pockets as a habit. A stupid habit perhaps, but it was still Kim Jongin’s habit.

“It wasn’t like I had a choice. Come to think of it, it’s not like we have a say on anything,” he sighs as if he’s traveled the whole world and witnessed every misery it held. “My father was a Mafioso too. He worked for Sehun’s father here, but I was born in Japan and grew up there. I only went back when I was sixteen, and that’s when I was introduced to this universe.”

Sunlight makes the leaves on the garden appear dewy and fresh; it captures Jongdae’s attention as he leans closer to touch it. “I know that, you don’t have to tell me your history.”

“I know you know,” Kim Jongin slips both hands in his pockets, figuring that there’s no need to be pretentious around Jongdae. “Tell me something about Minseok.”

“He’s your friend, too. You know Minseok.”

Jongin bends down to inhale a whiff of a white rose’s petal. Sehun takes really good care of them. “He is, but I didn’t know him as well as you did. Don’t forget that I didn’t see him or you or anyone for two years. Tell me something about him.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask,” Jongin chuckles. “If I’m gonna go and do the equivalent of hanging my neck on a rope, then don’t I deserve the right to know a few stuff about one of the people I’m doing this for? I might be gone for more than a month, depends on the situation and strategy. So tell me something to remember him by.”

The melody of the birds’ songs and the rustling of leaves as they’re swayed by the wind interrupts the silence between them. Jongdae squares his shoulders before answering, “Minseok. Last year, he defeated more or less fifty men by himself in a room. Arm to arm combat, sort of like the dorky, human baozi version of Jackie Chan.”

“Big things are what makes us heroes, not humans. Tell me something small.”

“Erm, he hates cutting his nails. It’s the only feminine fetish he has. I hated those long fingernails. I once cut them short when he was fast asleep and when he woke up and saw them, he didn’t talk to me until they grew back again. Silent treatment for two weeks.” Jongdae shakes his head. “And now…. If I have one more chance with him, then I swear to the heavens that I’d let Minseok keep those cursed nails uncut forever and kiss them every single day of it.”

The birds keep on singing, the leaves on rustling. This time, no words shatter the silence because Kai knows he’s a part of a fire department that can douse a burning house, but never recover what was burnt down.

༺

“What’re you working on?” Chanyeol asks, but thanks to the toffee he’s chewing, it comes out as watch-ar-youu-er-ing-ern?

Kyungsoo doesn’t look up from what he’s reading on his phone, but he still replies because he hadn't been raised to be rude. Even if his sometimes-annoying, chihuahua-resembling friend deserves the cold shoulder. “Files about this guy named Kai. Last week, I’ve been hearing his name in some shops and casinos and got curious. Turns our he’s just released from a mental asylum because what he did was too psychotic and dangerous for prison. I wonder what he was sent in for.”

“Maybe it was mass murder or something. What have you got so far? And what are you planning?” Television lights reveal Chanyeol’s face and his snoopy-pattered pajamas in the dark. If you don’t understand the line ‘a child in an adult’s body’, feel free to come see Park Chanyeol.

“I’ve been asking around and all people tell me is that he’s an amazing hitman, but I don’t think he got sent to an asylum because he was busted. I’m curious because we could use an extra hand around here. We’re fine but it won’t hurt to have someone with me whenever I’m collecting incentives or debts or lives. You and Baekhyun have it easy, all you two ever do is to collect vigs from loansharking. And avoid making Luhan mad . . .. “ Kyungsoo trails off, losing Chanyeol somewhere between extra hand and debts.

༺

When word about Kai circulates through the thick walls of a high-end restaurant, twirling down to the wide, filthy streets with their rocky grounds and flickering street lights, Sehun knows he’s done his part quite well. Step one was to make ‘Kai’, and the second was to get his name familiarized in the same circle where familia mannoia comes lurking around. Now all they have to do is to devour the bait, and the rest is another chapter in the book.

As a self-proclaimed reward for the hours poured into working and polishing their plans, Sehun steps inside ‘Haven’—a particularly light and cozy coffee shop sporting unbelievably fluffy decorations such as stuffed animals beside the cashier, blackboards where menu lists are scribbled in pastel chalks, and the gayest out of them all: Kim Joonmyun who owns the place. If you ask Sehun, he’d tell you that Joonmyun must be in his forties, considering how he’s been running this place since Sehun was just an elementary kid with an awkward bowl haircut and an undying love for sugary drinks.

But no one ever asks Sehun because one look at Joonmyun and people assumes that the old fart is still shaking his bonbons in his early twenties. Their naivete is infuriating and incoherent and it drives Sehun crazy to the point where he makes it his life mission to proclaim ‘Kim Joonmyun is forty-three years old’ every single time his feet would rest on Joonmyun’s property. And that’s what he does now while inhaling the sweet scent of coffee and something like strawberries that perpetually clings to the wooden walls of the shop. “Kim Joonmyun is forty-three years old and has prostate cancer!”

A stuffed elephant flies to Sehun’s face. Customers chuckle at this childish display before attending their orders, going on with their non-miserable lives. Seeing Joonmyun’s annoyed face reminds Sehun why he cherishes this little shop so much. He could have gone to a fancier cafe, with owners who control themselves from flinging stuffed animals in your face and actually look like their real age, but Sehun doesn’t. Like a devoted fan, Sehun goes out of his way every Saturday night to drive for twenty-five miles just to visit Joonmyun. This place, in general.

“I already prepared your drink, I knew you’d be here. You look really happy today, it’s creepy to be honest.” Joonmyun shares.

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Sehun mumbles, walking past the counter to shove Joonmyun’s shoulder’s playfully. An avocado-flavored bubble tea waits beside the cashier, he grabs it with a smile before bending down to fit himself in the mini-cubbyhole under the counter. Wearing loose sweaters, casual jeans and a pair of Converse shoes while being squeezed under the counter of a cafe he considers gay, is out of character for Sehun.

Joonmyun knows who Sehun is and what he does right now, but they’re both aware that Joonmyun still sees the child version of Sehun. To Joonmyun, Sehun is eternally frozen at twelve—when he blushes over tiny things and adored white roses. The young Sehun who was connected to the hips of another young boy, who loved the red roses Sehun can’t stand. “How’s life, Sehun?”

“Good,” The avocado flavor of his drink spills over his taste buds. His tongue is now infiltrated with the sugary taste of heaven. “Joonmyun, do you think he’ll be able to find me?”

“Joonmyun, do you think he’ll be able to find me?” Oh Sehun, eleven years old and proud of discovering this wonderful hiding place, mischievously inquired.

“I’m sure he won’t. Maybe he will. I don’t know. Do you want him to find you?”

“No no! This is hide and seek! I would lose if I’m found.”

“I’m sure he won’t. Maybe he will. I don’t know. Do you want him to find you?” Joonmyun echoes the words of thirteen years ago. Every time, they seem to follow that script, that particular conversation they had before discovering that Sehun’s friend left for good, and Sehun changed for the worst. Started to hunt instead of hide, counted victims instead of seconds, drained hope instead of grasping for them, kissed strangers instead of lovers, grew white roses and promised himself they won’t ever be stained red again.

Joonmyun stops punching in cash when Sehun’s reply didn’t go like ‘No no! This is hide and seek! I would lose if I’m found’, instead he hears a whispered. “Yes, I want him to find me.”

༺

There are things that you can get used to easily: waking up to be greeted by sunshine and trees, having the opportunity to see the person you love everyday, sleeping whenever the fuck you feel like because no one’s around to scold you, being surrounded by walls without CCTV cameras operated by drowsy guards who are really just waiting for you to throw a fit or injure yourself so they will finally witness some action spicing up their otherwise monotonous lives.

Kim Jongin could get accustomed to drowning cups of coffee into his system before getting on with his new life as ‘Kai’. As hours morph into days and days into weeks, Jongin slithers back into the familiar routine of visiting Sehun’s house, coming out of the blue unannounced. He might have the Kai persona, but four in the afternoon calls out to Jongin’s nerves to sneak up at the second floor of Sehun’s house—an old habit the years withheld from him, and now Jongin is determined to appreciate every single second out of this stolen moment.

He climbs up the stairs with extra caution on his footsteps, conscious of how Sehun dislikes being disrupted when he’s playing. It takes fifteen steps to from the end of the wooden stairwell to Sehun’s music room. A short distance he’s more than willing to cover carrying his heart on his throat.

The melody of caused by pressed piano keys after another has Jongin coming undone. He’s as helpless as the keys underneath Sehun’s fingertips which keeps urging on a series of notes and raw harmony. Jongin wants to believe there’s a recorder inside of him, capturing the emotions through Sehun’s music that he never gets a chance to see through his eyes or hear through Sehun’s lips. Jongin wants to treat Sehun like the last air molecule inside an oxygen tank.

There are things that you can get used to easily, and caring for someone who might as well be a statue isn’t one of them. He slides down, with his back against the wall. He loathes how the empty space indicates there should have been another body beside him, sort of like how air bubbles can tell there’s still space in something that’s drowning. Sehun should have been closer, except that he isn’t and there’s nothing Jongin can do because you can never modify a statue or teach it how to love you back.

༺

It was D.O who discovered Kai five days later.

Revealed by the bleeding neons and yellows spreading throughout the dirty gravel, D.O sees Kai piercing the ozone layer with his cloud of smoke. It’s obvious in the awkward way in which Kai nestles his cigarette between his fingers that he’s new to what he’s doing. Strangers with even stranger faces drift past them like waves in the sea, but all D.O could register was the tanned man’s stillness in a place where everything was in constant motion.

D.O approaches Kai with an extra stiffness in his shoulders. He clears his throat. Kai turns. D.O finally understands his cousin who fangirls over superficial idols, especially when he inhales tobacco and heavy cologne. “Aren’t you feeling hot? It’s like above thirties tonight.”

“Not really, I feel cold inside. I’m Kai,” he smiles, but it comes out as a smirk and D.O doesn’t know what to make of him. Kai thinks that the pictures didn’t do any justice to D.O’s squishiness.

“I know. I’m D.O, but of course you already know that,” D.O smiles back and it’s only because he swears Kai’s smirk is contagious. Around them, cars zoom past with their dangerous fumes, people walk with even dangerous motives. It isn’t until D.O hears honking in the distance when he remembers what he originally came here for. He doesn’t look at Kai when he speaks, “You’ve got something I want.”

“Everyone wants something from me. I’m Kai,”

“Shut up or your name would be the last thing you’ll ever say,” D.O falters when Kai trains his chocolate eyes on him. “Let’s just talk about this some place else. I’ve got a proposal to make.”

༺

Beforehand, Sehun had made sure D.O knew where to find Kai and Kai would be right there. D.O’s lips move in the dark, and Kai knows that the gears are turned on; this is the point of no return. D.O dragged them into a dim attic inside an atramentous club, the beating walls alerting Kai to raise awareness. This is enemy ground and D.O is his best chance of survival.

“Were you listening to anything that I said?” D.O asks and stops himself from pouting because that is a Kyungsoo thing to do. Exposing his soft side to strangers is never good, even though they’re hot and pleasetakemehomerightnow strangers.

Kai moves up from D.O’s lips to his eyes, to realize that they’re both inside a cramped room and practically interchanging the same air molecules. His thoughts aren’t about capos or whether or not switch blades are better than swiss army knives, but on D.O’s cheeks and how they resemble soft, pallid lily petals—and where the fuck did he even get that idea, he doesn’t even like lilies. Kai doesn’t take the tiny gun behind his back to shoot D.O, it isn’t a part of the plan. The plan was to infiltrate and slowly break their family down, so thoughts about gunshots are temporarily banned. It takes Kai a while to reply, “No, I wasn’t listening well, but you mentioned something about proof, loyalty, and no invitations, right?”

“I did. What I wanted to tell you was that Luhan’s interested in you. But I’m sure that you know how things work around here, Kai. In order to be a made man, prove yourself,” D.O fishes for something in his pocket before producing a photograph. Kai wonders what’s up with mobs and their pictures. He takes it anyway. “That’s Lay. A detective. Normally, our family’s got a good grip on the authorities, but some of our associates reported that this guy is snooping around and asking questions he has no right asking. Luhan has this motto, you know, he keeps telling us that little snowballs would roll and turn into bigger snowballs that can cause trouble.”

Kai studies the sharp contours, determined eyes, the clean haircut. Lay. “The point is?”

“The point is, Lay is a small snowball, and Luhan wants you to melt him before it turns big.” Moving in closer despite the cramped space, D.O catches Kai off guard with a grin. “Get him down with a bang and you’ll go up with a whisper."

part two; one shot

The Bottom line [prologue]

uberchrome — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 20:22:13 GMT

title: the bottom line
pairing: kaisoo, kray, baekyeol [ot12]
rating: NC-17
genre: romance, action, angst
part: prologue / 3
summary: you can't decipher the bottom line from here.

Omerta;

the code of silence

A million other worlds exists inside our little planet. The Cosa Nostras however, are in a different league of their own. A home for the wrong truths and the right lies. Thousands and thousands of relationships are getting tangled in grounds brimming with suspicion, treachery, and blood spilled over concrete. History of the Mafiosos are written down in brown aging paper, but just because they’re finalized in ink doesn’t make them factual.

Right now, in the midst of the rapidly advancing technology, in the corners of places where people gather, in the creases of a stranger’s memory—who have no idea who they were behind glib speeches and deep-set eyes that seemed too enchanting too decipher, there hides a group of individuals competing for a certain rank. Elusive beings who camouflage their crimson sins and dark deeds with secretive smiles.

They’re still here.

Yes, the mafiosos.

༺

Having been born to a family with an intimidating history, it’s second nature for a man like Kim Jongin to witness life fade out of his victim’s eyes after shooting them unmercifully once, twice, thrice, a hundred times too many. Underlings, business partners, connections, and friends meant nothing to him but his current allies and future enemies.

Heavy rain falls fast; unmerciful towards pedestrians scampering about the streets with their bright umbrellas in contrast with the dark and gloomy skies. Raindrops create their own melody as they meet gravel, concrete, fabric and skin; letting nothing remain dry. Jongin wanted to believe he was like rain in a way. But that childlike fantasy only remained in his head for a very short while. His two years in an asylum shattered all positive notions he had about the world, leaving bitterness to poison the walls of his mind.

People are rushing to go under sheltered places. Jongin remains rooted to where he is, allowing liquid to soak through his clothes and flesh. He smiles. The odd feeling in his cheeks reminding him how long it's been since they've expressed bliss. But then again, it wasn't like he had much to be happy about.

The tires of a black Mercedes Sedan screeches to a halt in front of him. He gets inside and makes himself comfortable, all within two seconds. He knows that Sehun doesn’t like waiting. And he doesn’t want to wait for Sehun, too. The car smells like citrus and upholstery overpowered by something like rusted metal. Jongin suspects it’s got something to do with guns and blood.

The chauffeur, wearing a proper tuxedo, fixes the rear view mirror until it’s in the right angle for Jongin’s gaze to meet his. “Welcome back.”

Leaning his head against the seat, Jongin groans. “Wipe that stupid smile off your face.”

“Nice to see you, too.” Jongdae replies, hands gripping the steering wheel as he maneuvers the car smoothly down the busy road. Once again, Jongin wonders how his friend Jongdae could do that effortlessly while they’re driving in the speed of light—that’s what he thinks, anyway. “I could see that you haven’t changed at all. Still the grumpy and burnt Jongin.”

“You changed,” Tanned fingers point to Jongdae’s reflection. The laugh lines that were once prevalent near Jongdae’s mouth are now fading. There are dark rings underneath dull, dark brown eyes that used to be blazing as if there was fire behind his pupils. His friend looks like he’s thirty-two instead of twenty-two.

Jongin doesn’t miss Jongdae’s hands as they tighten around the wheel, his jaw as it turns taut, and the anguish in his voice as he speaks, “They killed him. They killed Minseok. Two months ago. Shot him nine times, dragged him to the middle of the street, and then ran over his body with a car back and forth. Back and forth. With witnesses, of course. You know that the familia mannoia likes putting on sick shows.”

Lips pressed tight against each other, neither of them bothering to utter words out. Jongin lets the low rumble of the engine beneath him break the silence. Muttering sorry won’t cut it. After all, this is what they signed up for: heaps and heaps of dirty cash stained with violence, respect earned through intimidation, losing the ones you love, and having to constantly look over your back to make sure there aren't any knives digging in there. When Jongin asks his next question, he’s looking out of the window as the street lights blur past them. “And Sehun? What did he say about it?”

Jongdae chuckles, the kind of chuckle you’d most likely hear from a cartoon villain.

“An eye for eye, Jongdae. An eye for eye.”

part one; ground zero

Getting Layd

uberchrome — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 18:23:37 GMT

Title: Getting Layd
Length: One-shot
Pairing: KrAy (Kris / Lay)
Genre: Fluff, Humor
Summary Kris is a big fan of logic and math and science and facts; big fat facts with big fat reasons coupled with bigger and fatter logic. Falling in love (and lust) with Yixing isn't logical.

Kris is in love with Yixing.

Not a question, or an exclamation, just a statement: something he's sure of he could put his life in the line for it. Yixing is unaware--which is unbelievable, considering how many signs and accidentally-on-purpose flirty brushes Kris sends his way. But that's how Yixing has been, and would always be; dense with just a tiny bit of cute, a pinch of smart, and a bucketful of sexy.

Usually, people would start spewing out 'it's not love, it's lust', or 'you're just horny' whenever Kris would mention this fact about his feelings for Yixing over a hot cup of cocoa, or a strong bottle of suju. And whenever they do, Kris would combat it with a cheesy yet disturbing line of 'While it's true that I think about fucking the daylights out of him in the kitchen countertop or in sunny beaches, you should remember that I spend three fourths of my day making sure that he's okay.'

It would usually shut their traps up, and Kris would shake his head because really, all this explaining is getting tiring and he can't wait for the time when Chanyeol and Baekhyun would inquire about something interesting like, idontknow, 'when are you off to in your next honeymoon, Kris?'

Somehow, that time seems like forever away. Watching Yixing practice their song's routine had Kris sweating like a pig--and an unflattering one at that. There's always something about following Yixing's fluid limbs as it glides in synch with the beat that makes Kris want to--excuse him--shove everyone out of the practice room, lock the door behind him, grab Yixing, rip his clothes off, and teach him a choreography that even their song mama can't live up to. (hint; it'd be their bodies smacking together with the musical accompaniment being their shredded groans and whimpers).

"Can you pass me the water?" Yixing asks.

"You have feet, right? You can go get it." Kris snaps and regrets it when it dawns on him that if he keeps on being the queen of bishes and smart ass comebacks, he's never going to get layd (lay, laid, layd, see what he did there?). So he mumbles an apology in the hopes that it's enough to atone for his previous comment. Maybe it'd get lost somewhere in Yixing's marvelous mind. "Here, make sure to drink alot. I'd hate it if you'd like, die of thirst or something. Take care of yourself. I'm always here for you, regardless or not you wipe that unholy sweat on--rolling cheeseballs, I can see your nipples!"

"Uh, thank you?" yixing takes the bottle from Kris's hand with raised eyebrows, and a hundred or so words in his tongue along the lines of you're creeping me out. stahp, in the name of love. "Uhm, it's not my fault if it's hot in here, and I have to practice, and my nipples just want to be appreciated."

"What."

"What." Yixing echoes, shaking his head.

"Drink up." Kris commands. "All that thirst is slowly drying up what's left of your brain."

Yixing forcefully twists the cap open while grumbling why are you so mean to me, what did i ever do to you, you bastard with a thousand names under his breath. Kris hears, but doesn't reply--he's too occupied with watching Yixing's adam's apple bob with every gulp. Queue the not-so-unfamiliar stirring in his gut and the blood rushing down to parts of him that should just be dubbed as 'parts' because this fic is supposed to be PG-13, but seeing as how Kris can't contain his frantic language and supposed-to-be-censored thoughts, let's hop on the NC-17 train.

"Are you okay?" Yixing asks with a few droplets skimming over his pink lips.

"No," who would be okay when they're like, sexually frustrated and alone with the reason of that sexual frustration inside a warm room? Kris wonders. His eyes roam around the practice room; over the mirror walls and uber clean floor, then to the large door that looks like it's begging Kris to walk to it. He follows his own advice and mentally talks to that inanimated object, then turns to Yixing. "I'll be going first. Do you have your keys?"

"Yeah,"

"Good, cause I won't be opening the door for you if you forget them again." With that, he starts jogging to the door, crossing his fingers in front of him. Kris isn't a firm believer in the divine, but as he leaves the building, he finds himself praying; God, I hope Yixing didn't notice the boner. it would have been awkward.

- - - - -

If you ask Kris (not that you did, he's just assuming that you want to know. If you don't; he's going to tell you anyway) how he fell in love with Yixing, he'll tell you that it took him three days to love Yixing, and four more years to fuel that already-dangerous fire of love.

Yixing doesn't even try to seduce or lure Kris; it just happens and that's what makes everything so frustrating--the fact that Yixing doesn't try. All he ever does is go out there and be Zhang Yixing. You know, the dude who takes his fully-charged mp3 for a long bus journey, yet ends up leaving his headset back home.

Kris is a big fan of logic and math and science and facts; big fat facts with big fat reasons coupled with bigger and fatter logic. Falling in love (and lust) with yixing isn't logical. It's like taking a (excuse him again) massive, mind-numbing, earthquake-triggering, painful dump at a public restroom; something that's a bit on the embarassing side because you know you're dead meat once people find out it's you, something dirty and secretive, yet physically and emotionally light--almost as if a huge weight is being lifted off your shoulders. (which isn't true, kris thinks, because really, when you're taking a dump it doesn't go out of your shoulders. stupid freaking idiom).

He's replaying scenes of Yixing's touches and cute moments in his mind, an embarassing and juvenile blush staining his cheeks in the dark. A thick blanket is wrapped around his body. His eyes are shut, and he's obviously pretending to be asleep. (Jongin says that kris is a horrible actor, but since Yixing hasn't found out this little trick of Kris yet, Kris decides that Jongin is just lying and he should win a Grammy for his acting skills. they're grammy's right?)

Twisting doorknob. Doors barging open. Heavy footsteps that could obviously belong to no one else but Yixing fills the silence residing in their little dorm. Kris remains with the charade--snoring lightly with tight lids--and waits for the familiar sound of Yixing crawling to his own bed and moving his pillows.

it isn't until ten minutes later when Kris hears Yixing's steady breathing when he himself finally falls asleep.

(you see, even overgrown freaks display love in their own freaky ways that only they can understand).

- - - - -

"Have sex with me," Kris blurts when the scent of Yixing's shampoo (which smells like citrus, some floral shizz, and temptation) invades his nostrils, tickles his lungs, and moves his heart. (don't forget the groin).

"Write me a poem," Yixing replies and he doesn't even blink or give kris the which-mental-hospital-did-you-escape-from look. He talks back as if he's been waiting for Kris to say this for years. okay, maybe he is. "And I might consider it."

"I don't do mights. I want a solid yes."

"Fine. Write me a poem and mights won't be the only thing you'll do." yixing winks.

That night, Kris drinks two bottles of alcohol and when he's batshit drunk, he grabs a pen, a paper and lets his heart slither out of him through his fingertips. Kris spills feelings on a scrap paper because he's a fucking majestic writer once he's drunk enough. He decides to write a free verse (since that's the only thing he can pull off well).

- - - - -

i.
you were hoping for something overly sexual.
passionate, fiery, erotic, maybe?
don't even try to deny, your lips would be calling out my name anyway.
lies shouldn't be mixed with them.

ii.
i love you.
these are words that i've rehearsed in front of the mirror
as often as I check myself out.
these are words that i want you to hear,
but these are also words that refuse to leave the chambers of my heart
once you're close enough to touch.

iii.
the moon is beautiful isn't it?
you're like that as well.
(pale, alluring, something that I can't take my eyes off)
you're luna.
can i be your neil armstrong?

iv.
i want to stop writing and ask you if this is enough
for your lips to finally meet mine, for your back to arch towards me,
but i'm having fun, you see.
words.
i've got a lot of them and a million happens to be about and for you.

v.
why am i doing this.
this shit doesn't make sense.
really, it's scattered and messy and terribly unorganized.
just like the way i love you.

vi.
okay, i'll stop.
but just one last thing;
you have to admit that i'm kind of a great lover, right?
(and that the sweetest things are hiding inside the parenthesis).

vii.
you've reached the end of your trial period
to get the full version, please enter the serial code.
(Kr!$ d0-m3-n0w)

the rest of the poem can be found in the crook of yixing's neck,
the length of his spine, and the space between his collarbones
written in flesh-tinted ink with the aid of Kris's lips.

- - - - -

Kyungsoo likes Kris when it's Tuesday because Tuesdays are Kris' good days. He'd take Kyungsoo and Jongin for a movie, or even crack a funny joke or two (tuesdays are the only days when his jokes are funny. others are just plain corny). It's Wednesday and he's totally not expecting Kris to barge in on him and Jongin vacuuming each other's tongue in his kitchen.

"Guess what?" Kris jumps, separating Jongin and Kyungsoo's shoulders with his arm. "I just got layd."

fin.

9.8 m/s²

uberchrome — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 02:27:55 GMT

Title: 9.8 m/s²
Pairing: SeLuKai (Sehun / Luhan / Kai)
Length: One-shot
Genre: Tragedy, Romance, Angst
Summary: Sehun is trapped in a makeshift wonderland. Luhan keeps on chucking scientific equations out of the window. And Jongin, good old Jongin, oozes sex appeal and tension as comfortably as a teacher might sprout out historical facts to a detached crowd.

In a floor between tall, looming skyscrapers and herds of street vendors—yelling out rollback prices and a list of vegetables that could make nutritionists proud—Luhan could be found living with Sehun. Though it’s not exactly living, but more of like Luhan trying to live while Sehun borrows life from him with the help of an imaginary tube between his bluish veins and the underside of Luhan’s wrist.

Their relationship is what psychologist or biologist or, whatever-they’re-supposed-to-be-ist might call a parasitic relationship. A symbiotic relationship wherein one benefits (Sehun), while the other suffers (Luhan). As Luhan waits for the elevator to halt on their floor, and then finally groan open, he realizes that no one had arranged for things to be this way.

Ding, somewhere above him, the elevator signals. He steps out into the bright corridor that’d light his way to the apartment he shares with Sehun. The white plastic bag he’s clutching makes a rather annoying sound; he timidly ignores it by walking faster. He doesn’t run, Luhan never runs. His father once told him; when you run, you fall and when you walk, you don’t. Since then, Luhan’s done nothing but stay on the safe side with the only bump on the road he fell for being Sehun.

Twelve years’ worth of painting, polishing his skills, and learning some more had Luhan accumulating a large sum of money in exchange for his commissions—that have, by the way, garnered praises from the four corners of the world. And even with the knowledge that he could have lived anywhere in this earth, this twenty-four-year old decides to just situate himself in the artistic area of Hongdae—where rain falls like death’s tears and university students treat it as their muse.

Once he made his way inside, Luhan shrugs off the wool trench coat his manager insists he wears (you’re good looking, says Suho coupled by an intense glare, you don’t have to fit right into the artists-are-messy-cliché. this is real world and the real world is filled with eyes that would judge you even on the clothes you wear, especially on the clothes you wear). Luhan detests squabbling, so he simply nods every time Suho lands on his doorstep, carrying crisp bags with designer labels he can’t even pronounce correctly, ranging from Armani, to Burberry, to Chanel to Yves Saint La-whatever. But, of course, he draws the line whenever leopard prints and unflattering cuts are bought up.

“Welcome home,” Sehun appears behind Luhan, standing on tiptoes to rest his chin against the platform of Luhan’s shoulder. It doesn’t fit perfectly, and Sehun’s bones dig into Luhan’s skin as his arms wrap around the latter’s neck. He follows the routine and mumbles a yeah, I’m home under his breath, causing Sehun to snuggle against him tighter.

Human flesh and rough breaths are supposed to be warm, yet as Luhan kisses Sehun and waltzes them to their bedroom, he keeps on shoving the fact that Sehun’s too cold to be normal out of the pockets of his mind. His lips respond to Sehun’s, and Luhan knows he isn’t supposed to think of this, but he does and he ends up comparing their intense kisses and shredded moans to someone doing CPR.

Sehun’s head rests against the wrinkled sheets carved by their heated bodies. Luhan doubts if it’s really true that only one of them should survive. What scares him wasn’t the fact that he might die, but the truth that he doesn’t really care. Well, not anymore.

—

To cool off, Luhan would struggle with lifting buckets of acrylic, a cluster of paintbrushes, and bottles containing tap water into the living room. There’s scarcely a white space here—since every inch is either illustrated with murals of cities, of sunlight, of trees, and things that normal people take for granted. Luhan brings the outside world into the walls of his place with the aid of blended colors and crying water patterns. Thanks to the genius resting on Luhan’s fingertips, Sehun sees the real world without having to be there.

Sehun is thirty-six steps away from him, and dying to know stuff about New York. So, like always, Luhan guides different brush sizes, dips them in the colors that seemed vivid in his mind, and starts to outline the New York Skyline Luhan had once visited when he was eighteen and a struggling art student (this was before he met Sehun).

There’s a long chain of zeroes in Luhan’s bank account which translates to him being able to withdraw a specific amount and fly off to Manhattan, or wherever. Whenever he’s up for it.

Sehun, on the other hand, will never be able to do that. Luhan paints the cities Sehun’s never going to visit into the crevice of the hard wall; an artist striving to breathe life into the craters of the cold moon.

—

“I have no words for your shit,” Luhan exclaims. Baekhyun chuckles beside him, because it’s the closest thing to a compliment he could get from the doe-eyed man. The two close friends—one a painter, the other a photographer—stare at the thong of people composed of swishes of satin and lace, strings of pearls, tuxedos donned with pristine neckties, and women who wore lipsticks the color of their escort’s blood.

Inwardly, Baekhyun nibbles on the truth that this is where he and Luhan belongs: in the midst of heavy-scented mistresses, plastic smiles, and insincere laughter that has gathered to witness beauty as it’s showcased in wooden frames and fluorescent lights. Even at the young age of ten and eight, these two had known that they wanted in life. What they wanted where halcyon mornings and wasted nights spent sharing slurred kisses with dashing strangers they don’t even know the last name of. They wanted fame and prestige and to create something that would last forever, now here they are with the world at their feet.

Baekhyun steals a glance at Luhan, pity scraping through his heart upon seeing the dark circles under his childhood friend’s once-vibrant eyes. Years ago, one could have used these adjectives to describe Luhan; amazing, perfect, flawless, untouched, pure, and innocent. Presently, they had all withered down to; abused, torn, exhausted, drained, and a hundred and fifty nine more words that could sum up Luhan after Oh Sehun was done with him.

“You’ve really made it big,” Luhan reverently sighs, eyes taking in the glossy photographs displayed on the pristine boards. Baekhyun nods. He takes in the appreciation from Luhan’s lips and stores it in a secret compartment of his heart; messages from people that matter are important.

“So did you,” Baekhyun exclaims, fingers pointing at Luhan’s well-sculpted jaw. “Luhan, a well-renowned contemporary painter with works featured in magazines and galleries in Paris, Milan, and Tokyo and in other art capitals where they’ve been highly acclaimed.”

Luhan elbows Baekhyun because he doesn’t know if he’s mocking him, or simply being playful. “Wow, twelve years of hard work, huh.”

“Let’s toast to that.” Baekhyun stands up, tilting his head to the direction of the exit. “My treat.”

“I can’t. I have to look after Sehun.” His lips are saying one thing, but his eager eyes are whispering another. An internal battle between conscience and need.

“Okay, I understand.” Baekhyun doesn’t.

He’s still mulling this over while Luhan excuses himself to disappear into the blurred lights. He wonders if silent companionship is enough to prevent the ember threatening to burst into arson inside Luhan’s nerves. With Sehun, Baekhyun perceives that Luhan would never be able to unleash his true potential. Sehun holds him back, just like he always had.

He gets on with his life, talking to glassy-eyed critics and curious visitors inside the intricately decorated hall. It isn’t until he comes across a man with a messy stack of blonde-hair resting nearly six-feet tall when Baekhyun stops. The stranger is examining Baekhyun’s favorite piece—a snapshot of a bright fire taking its toll on an abandoned warehouse—with eyes containing a hidden spark in them, as if they’re dangerous enough to pierce through anything. And sure enough, as the stranger heard Baekhyun’s approaching footsteps, he fixes his gaze on Baekhyun’s face. Baekhyun sheds bright red and hopes that the stranger can’t read his mind. His thoughts are embarrassing enough as it is.

“Hello,” The stranger has a deep, husky voice that makes him think of sex and kitchen countertops.

Baekhyun forces out a smile, waiting for the alphabet and words to start making sense again before replying. “Hi.”

—

Luhan fell in love with the Sehun who showcased scars and bruises while carrying a knapsack filled with unsolved problems and hidden secrets. They met on a particularly chilly night (by accident), and happen to stick beside each other since then (on purpose). By the time that their second year together glided around, Sehun was still the same, and Luhan was much worse. They’re having their typical fight again.

“But I want to go out! I want to live! I want to see the sun! I don’t want to be trapped here!” Sehun yells, sputtering out hate and agony as sharp as the bones protruding from his shoulders.

“You can’t, dear.” Luhan chokes out, arms locked around Sehun’s waist in a poor attempt to keep his wandering soul home. “You can’t. It’ll hurt you. It can kill you, remember those times you’ve tried? Please don’t. I don’t want to nearly lose you.”

“Damn this disease.” Sehun continues fighting. Luhan holds on. After eight minutes of strangled cries—that morphed to broken sobs only an exhausted soul can produce—Sehun calms down at last.

“We can go out later at night, when the sun’s down.” Luhan reassures Sehun with a pat on the back. They both know that no amount of SPF could protect Sehun from the harsh rays of the sun and the vile reactions it can cause to his skin. Goodness knows how much they’ve tried.

“Okay,” Sehun lets himself get dragged to the couch by Luhan. He stares at the walls, Luhan at the window. Tears well up at the corners of Sehun’s eyes upon seeing Luhan’s effort and an iloveyou starts to bubble in his throat, but he locks his lips shut because somewhere along the fights, broken plates, spoilt dinners, and lack of understanding, a thick wall of invisibility had started to block Sehun from Luhan. Saying those words won’t change a thing; they’re too far gone to ever hear, much less listen to the other.

Neither of them knew the right words to say, so they breathed in oxygen and breathed out empty hearts and empty lungs.

—

Three weeks later, heavy rain falls in rhythm with the footsteps sloshing against the puddles. Rain always gets people rushing; to get their laundry in, to get off the road, to get inside the house, to be protected from the liquid dropping by to dampen everything. Luhan escapes by being in a place where he’s supposed (not want) to be—on the seventh floor of the company’s building. Inside Suho’s office, to be precise.

“How’s my favorite painter?” Suho affectionately ruffles Luhan’s hair. Luhan scowls.

“You mean your only painter?”

“Fine by me if you want to degrade yourself.”

“I’m well, the same.” Luhan replies, long fingers tapping systematically against the Suho’s mahogany desk. If there’s one thing that Luhan could never picture himself to be: it’s Suho. His manager slash self-proclaimed friend is constantly surrounded with inked papers and neatness and schedules to follow it actually makes Luhan think of tornadoes and disasters.

Suho hands Luhan a piece of paper. Luhan reads it; it’s a list of some of his paintings.

“Robert Dunley, from New York is curious about you. You know him right?” Suho asks.

“The owner of the large chain of galleries in Europe?”

“Yes,” Suho confirms, loosening his tie. “He saw your work and would like to purchase some of it to sell.”

Luhan doesn’t have to hear anymore; he knows the whole business. Some art gallery owner’s going to commission his paintings for a high amount, and sell it off in his gallery for an even higher amount. Artists create; people like Suho and this Robert guy sells. “Sure, whatever. It’s your job anyway.”

“There’s a teensy-weensy problem. He wants you to be there. You know, to visit and to talk to potential clients. He seemed to be pretty enamored by your work.”

There are flashes of greens and heavy skies along busy streets leading to superb buildings in Luhan’s mind. New York, with all its brilliant, dazzling beauty translates to being the water that can quench Luhan’s thirst for adventure. But Sehun’s empty orbs pierce through him. He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“There’s a difference between can’t and don’t want. You should know better.” Suho advices, and before Luhan could utter a comeback, the door slides open.

Luhan lets his gaze rest on the newcomer, and even allows it to linger more than what was polite. Strangers aren’t supposed to be striking and intimidating. They aren’t supposed to make you want to sit back down because your knees feel like two twigs incapable of holding your anatomy upright. And most of all, strangers shouldn’t have the ability to cause you to gulp the second they open their lips to speak.

“Old fart, I’ll be going now.” The stranger with sun-kissed skin (a far cry from the ivory white Luhan’s been used to) tells Suho. Suho laughs, the term shrugged off like dust on his shoulders. Suho has his guard down and Luhan’s gaze flies back and forth between his manager and the dashing stranger, trying to figure out the link between these two.

“Take care,” Suho says, but the visitor might have not caught it, for he slithered out as easily as he came in.

“Who was that?” Luhan tries to hide the curiosity behind a question.

“Kim Jongin, my cousin. He’s a freelance curator who happened to stop by Seoul to be a guest for this private museum.”

“Oh, where does he usually work?”

“Anywhere, you can place him in a garbage dump, and he’ll scrape his way to the top. People like to call him a chameleon because Jongin can be anywhere and look like he belongs.”

Luhan smiles and nods, trying to lodge the dust of envy swirling in his lungs. Not that long ago, he was once a free spirit with no ailing lover slowing down his progress.

—

“And his name is Chanyeol and gosh! He has the most adorable voice ever! You’re going to love him!” Baekhyun shares with exaggerated hand movements. Luhan’s eyes are wide open. He doesn’t look like someone who’s been suffering from over-the-top fangirling by his best friend for over an hour. Looks can really be deceiving.

“What happened then?”

“We went for coffee after the exhibit, and he’s such a sweetheart!” Baekhyun places his hand over his heart and sighs. “I think I’m in love.”

“That’s what you said about yoga guru- Kris last time,” Luhan makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “Look how it turned out. I hope that this Chanyeol isn’t really a wanker who can’t even stomach the thought of getting below the belt. Oh, and let’s also wish that he still doesn’t live with his mother.”

“Things like that don’t happen twice.” Baekhyun huffs and looks around the restaurant. Couples are leaning close to each other with their elbows resting on covered tables and glistening silverware. This is comfort to Baekhyun; classy Italian restaurants situated in the heart of the city with their melancholy violin music playing in the background. Luhan says he likes this place because of the delicious food. Baekhyun’s just here to appreciate the waiters’ rear. Now that is a very fine piece of art.

The utensils smacks together as Baekhyun eats his ravioli. He only stops when Luhan sighs. “I’m tired.”

“I’m tired—I want to go home, or I’m tired—of everything in my life because I am not perfect like Baekhyun?”

“Of everything, and not because I’m not you. I don’t know. I just feel exhausted.” Luhan looks down on his untouched food (made romantic by the chandelier’s yellow lights). “I don’t think I can quit either.”

“You never try.” Baekhyun whispers and Luhan doesn’t reply because it struck a chord, nerve, or whatever’s left to be struck.

You never try. There’s a difference between can’t and don’t want. You should know better. Phrases and sentences left by his close friends and relatives before keeps on ringing in his mind. Luhan can’t find the cancel button to stop the noise. “I don’t want to try. I don’t know what to be or how to live if I’m not with Sehun now.”

“Preferred adjustments.”

“Excuse me?” Luhan asks, taking a sip from the glass of ice-cold water. It moistens his tongue and throat, and it’s exactly what he needs.

“Preferred adjustments, like in photography. I have a personal favorite when it comes to adjustments, like the shutter speed, brightness, etc. I’m guilty of using it almost all the time.” Baekhyun shares with a modest smile. “But it’s not practical and not really advisable. Like no matter how much I want to use that when taking pictures in dim light, it won’t work. That’s why I have to make adjustments to get the desired effect. You don’t always have to like the things that will benefit you.”

Again, Luhan stays quiet and remains like that until he arrived home.

—

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The annoying grandfather clock Luhan keeps in their bedroom clicks and ticks. Sehun cringes whenever he hears that irritating sound and Luhan knows this. But then again, Luhan also hates not seeing Sehun eat, and Sehun knows that. Years spent being together must have made them immune to the others’ qualms and nagging.

Sehun feels like his organs are getting soft, and half of him is disappearing. He mentally tells himself to fight and this is all just an illusion—his psychiatrist said so You’re still alive. You’re still alive. Your name is Sehun and you’re allergic to sunlight (solar urticarnia—as your doctor likes to call it). You’re clinically depressed and Luhan’s in love with you. Or was. Or still is; it doesn’t really matter. You’re alive and they always tell you that’s what’s supposed to matter He chants like a ritual while watching Luhan’s naked back. They remind him of valleys with peaceful surroundings, and it captivates like a trance.

He gets up, makes his way to the living room and stays statue-still. His sad eyes rake over the walls; at the beautiful scenery captured in acrylics and watercolors. He stumbles to the triangularly shaped, pretzel-like tower and runs his fingers through its length. “Paris,” he whispers, mind rewinding back three years ago when he was a wayfaring teenager who liked to visit bookshops at the dead of night. Luhan used to love accompanying Sehun during bleak evenings. He’d sketch everything from the skies to elves’ sharp shoes; anything that Sehun would come across. It made Sehun want to recite his favorite quotations, much to Luhan’s delight.

Sehun would utter poetry while sitting on a wooden bench of an abandoned park. Luhan, with eyes twinkling like the stars above them, would animate Sehun’s imaginations using dog-eared scrapbooks and an HB pencil.

They used to be happy, Sehun wonders what happened. Maybe somewhere along the way, they’ve stopped trying and gave in to the strands of fate that had tangled itself in their necks and lifelines. Sehun looks around the colorful room again and again until it causes his head to hurt and his eyes to be bloodshot. Because everything that’s in here is everything that he’s never going to experience. And if, for the first time, you consider other’s feelings aside from your own—you’d come to the conclusion that these are also things that Luhan wants for himself.

Maybe if he wasn’t so sick, Luhan would have loved him more. Maybe if he stopped despising food and medication so much, Luhan won’t be that disappointed. Maybe he should have just sucked it up and continued with his prose and sonnets. Maybe if he wasn’t such a failure, Luhan would still be holding his hand.

But somehow, he doesn’t think so. His hands are now too busy clutching razor blades, holding onto cigarettes; letting go. Sehun breaks down to cry.

—

Days blurred to weeks, and then to months and the next thing that Luhan knew, his exhibit’s waiting around the corner. Suho’s a mess covered in sharp suits that moves around the city with plans in mind and people to meet. Staff members scramble frantically inside the gallery Luhan frequents eager to please critics and visitor’s eyes. The week before an exhibit is always the most nerve-wracking; everything just has to be perfect.

Of course, following the rules of nature, it’d be the most important one who’s the least concerned. Luhan smiles at the message Suho’s sent him regarding the venue, the theme, the setting, swirling down to the hand-picked guest. Three fifty-nine in the afternoon finds Luhan opening the door of his apartment after a tiring day in his studio. He’s greeted by the sickly-sweet scent of roses and tulips. Luhan walks forward, and what he saw made him want to run (for the first time).

In the farthest end of the living room where the balcony is, Sehun stands. Luhan and Sehun are separated by scattered rose petals and pages of Luhan’s old scrapbooks resting on dried paint. Luhan’s never seen Sehun like this—he’s wearing nothing but white jeans, and he’s perfectly under the sunlight with phrases scribbled using a black marker nearly covering Sehun’s exposed skin. Looking closer, Luhan reads; hands, smooth jaw line, voice, toes, easily angered—and he understands (they’re the things that Luhan hates about himself.)

“What are you doing? Get back inside immediately! You’ll get rashes.” Luhan remarks and moves closer. But it also causes Sehun to take a step backwards, edging closer to the low railing. He shakes his head; no.

By the time Luhan reached the center of the room, Sehun’s already one inch away from unhindered air.

“Get back here,” Luhan runs, and that’s when Sehun smiles at him—in a way that he’d never smiled before; freely.

“Please,” Sehun begs at the same time he flung his body to the open air. “Live.”

“No!” Luhan closes the gap, but Sehun’s too far down to be reached. He always had been. Watching Sehun fall triggered Luhan’s memories.

When he was in ninth grade, his science teacher had told him, in a clipped tone, that n the absence of an atmosphere; things fall at the same speed Luhan disregarded science then, and he crept back to the safety of his easel and colors. Now, he wishes that he at least listened in hopes that his teacher might have mentioned something about stopping things from falling—if there was ever a way. There comes that stern voice again A free-falling object has an acceleration of 9.8 meter per second square.

Sehun fell aimlessly, life slipping through his loose fingertips, hair dishelved by the air as it guides him through gravity’s eager hand. It actually didn’t matter how fast, or slow, or hard. Sehun’s fall was like a car crash: quick, agonizing, beautiful, and something that everyone wants to witness.

But there’s nothing else he could do. He can’t go back thirteen years earlier, or even three to save Sehun’s life. Luhan leans against the railing where Sehun lastly held on to, then let go of along with the reasons and memories. Thinking was something Luhan never did while looking at Sehun’s disfigured body lying on the sidewalk meters, inches, feet, and lightyears from where he’s standing slumped.

He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone. He lets the words play on a loop in his mind as they police came barging in, flashing their ID’s and badges like they’re proud to be in possession of it. He’s gone. He’s gone. Gravity couldn't get him fast enough. It continues even as Baekhyun and Suho and Jongdae comfort him using fragile words and warm blankets that can’t even heat him down to the core. Men in uniforms had asked him questions he can’t recall answering. Maybe they gave up trying to pry details out of him, or maybe they finally figured it out themselves. Either way, Luhan’s glad they evaporated away from his apartment like flies in a clean place.

Luhan shifts in his bed—he can’t even remember how he got here, has it been this late already?—and he can’t picture Sehun free falling. Closing his lids, he could see the Sehun two years before in his mind’s eye, when he still liked to read poetry and talk about things Luhan tries to understand. When I die, Sehun had told him as he pressed a rose petal to the ground, I want to die alive. Luhan understood, or at least he thought he did as he had sealed it with a curt nod.

The rumpled sheets and empty space where Sehun’s body should be makes Luhan wish he could time travel back to that time just to tell Sehun ‘darling, you never really lived. You were dead even before you killed yourself.’

—

“I’m expecting a new Hermes bag once you return. I’m tired of all the Gucci.” This is Tao’s version of saying goodbye to a friend who’s just lost a lover, and is now determined to cool off to the Europe of everyone’s dreams.

“Grab me something French. A maid costume, preferably. I found out that Chanyeol likes French stuffs, so I’ll give him something French for our fourth monthsary.” Was Baekhyun’s request.

“Just come back alive. But I won’t mind if you give me a new watch.” Jongdae chips in.

Their frivolous requests reminds Luhan of Grimm’s version of the Beauty and the beast; about the daughters and how their needs reflect their personalities and differences. Except of course, the vintage setting of the fairytale is incomparable to the state-of-the-art interior design of the Incheon airport where Suho had arranged his flight and schedule. First to Amsterdam, then down to the warm alleyways of Rome, and finally to the romantic dusk belonging to Paris where another exhibit will be held. Suho planned everything from start to finish in the hopes that Luhan would get inspired to paint more—leaving Suho extra dollars in his wake. In Suho’s galaxy, it’s always about business. The arrangement of Sehun’s funeral almost a year ago involves business, and even strategizing a way to let Luhan take a breather means business.

“You know you could just give me a call, right?” Luhan smiles, hands tight on his luggage. It’s the only one he bought. Pack light, leave lighter.

“I hope you understand that cracking country codes is a pain in my beautiful ass. I’ll just email you. You do know how to email, right?” Baekhyun asks, earning a light chuckle from Jongdae. But it doesn’t mean that Baekhyun’s funny, it just happens that Jongdae seems to laugh at everything.

“I’m a painter, not a provincial nugget.” Luhan bites back as he starts to walk to the direction of the check-in department with a slight wave of his sweaty hand.

His friends wave back, all of them silently wishing Luhan good luck and get well soon (emotionally) wishes because Luhan has always been an expensive doll you could see in one of those toy stores; waxy with the look of something that would shatter at the slightest touch of clumsy hands.

“Now let’s hope he trips into a dick,” Baekhyun quips, and because it’s actually funny, Tao joins Jongdae’s chuckles.

—

Amsterdam took his breath away after days of traversing the streets of de Wallen—the oldest area of the town. He basked in warm cafes nesting in front of quaint canals while listening to the delightful sound of old men grumbling and conversing in Dutch. The sound of the foreign language tickles something in him, and maybe that’s what leads him to be in such a good mood as he sets his easel and palette down the balcony of his hotel room overlooking the Oude Kerk on a particularly inky dark night. With each stroke, dip, and splatter of a brush comes a whisper of gratitude for Suho and his infallible ways. The fresh air did him good.

Rome was ethereal. The comforting breeze seemed to be his guide as he talked his way with conversational Italian to the Trevi Fountain. The neoclassical atmosphere lifted his spirits and injected inspiration to the tip of Luhan’s fingers and veins.

Paris, unfortunately, was a catastrophe that triggered another misfortune the moment Luhan threw a coin meant for the fountain water to catch. Too bad that his direction was too off, and it landed on the head of a particular stranger—with a face that didn’t turn out to be that strange the moment it closed in on Luhan with a scowl.

—

Luhan finally dug the name through the pool of his shallow memory. “Kim Jongin?”

The named stranger turns, picks up the coin Luhan missed, and successfully tossed it into the fountain. He squints his eyes at the porcelain-skinned man who called out his name, as if doing that would help him place this man in his rightful place. Jongin is aware that he should know this man; he’s definitely seen him before—but not enough for his face to be remembered easily.

“My name is Luhan. I’m the painter managed by your cousin Suho. Also, I am sorry.”

At this, Jongin tosses his head back and draws out careless laughter; the way Luhan introduced himself sounded queer. Queer isn’t normal, and therefore Jongin thinks it’s nice. With hands stuffed in pockets to regain heat and grinning lips, Jongin takes a step closer to Luhan. “It’s cool. Now, Luhan, if you don’t mind; what did you wish for?”

“My life to change.” Luhan replies bluntly, thinking that he’s got nothing left to lose and why not strip bare, right?

A pair of leather shoes belonging to Jongin walks a few feet closer; far, but not too far for Luhan to not smell the ocean-like aroma Jongin’s cologne emits. There’s a mysterious glint veiled by Jongin’s chocolate eyes, and it should have served as a warning signal for Luhan to start getting the hell out of the plaza, but he ignores it and lets Jongin speak with a voice as warm and soft as the croissant Luhan had for breakfast. “Tomorrow. The Louvre. 6 P.M. Let’s see if we can make that come true.”

Jongin left with a confident smirk on his face and a quarter of Luhan’s heart with him.

—

Kim Jongin, it turns out after six weeks of scheduled meetings and surprise visits, is a successful bachelor who oozes sex appeal and tension as comfortably as a teacher might sprout out historical facts in a boisterous classroom. Kim Jongin is like mystery coated with sparkling teeth and secretive glances. An unsolved equation behind rosy cheeks and short, handwritten letters.

Luhan, it also turns out after hours of getting tangled in sheets and breathing out eager groans, is a man who won’t mind having to nitpick the details out of Jongin’s flesh one by one. He finds the letters romantic, and Jongin’s cunning ways even more so. He normally goes for the submissive type, but he’s unable to choose (much less think) once his naked body is trapped between Jongin’s toned arms. Reasons, time, places, people, they all start to blur and get thrown into a bowl of crazy once Jongin’s lips are sucking on Luhan’s neck under the golden light of a four-star hotel facing the Eiffel.

Jongin thrusts and commands; grunts and moans. Luhan writhes and clutches at headboards for his sanity to not leave him as Jongin’s tongue flickers on his sensitive spots. Jongin does to Luhan what the moon does to a darkened sky.

But then after a round or two, or three, or four or more, these two would lay side by side; their flesh touching but never in intimacy. They talk as sweat and bodily fluids cling to their skin; a reminder of what they’ve done and what they’re probably going to do again. With an arm behind his head, Jongin would share about his job; what he does, how he does it, and about how it sometimes bore and fascinates him. He asks Luhan if it’s possible to feel the opposite things at the same time. Luhan answers with a peck on Jongin’s temples and a muffled ‘well, you make me smile and then wish you’ve been sodomized by Satan in the anus, so I guess what you’re saying is possible.’ There’s sadness in Luhan’s eyes that Jongin knows painfully well. Sometimes, he’d look at Luhan and the pain in them reflects his own.

They continue like that; some nights, Luhan would recreate Jongin’s competent back in the shades between caramel and apricot on his easel. On mornings they’d go out for coffee, and some fresh bread while swinging their hands back and forth as they examine the gallery Luhan’s works will be exhibited in. Jongin would instruct people, long fingers emphasizing his authority as it glides around the room, and he’d always leave Luhan in the side, thinking about how convenient Jongin is.

“What is the cure for sadness?” Luhan asks, tracing the Orion on Jongin’s forearm.

“There is no cure for sadness. You can take the pills and write your feelings out in a journal and that sadness might ease a little; it may even stop consuming your life entirely, but it won’t completely disappear. Sadness will always knock on your door, no matter how hard you try to prevent it from getting in.” Jongin passionately replies. It comes to Luhan that maybe, just maybe, he’s been sleeping with someone that’s made up of broken fragments like he is.

—

Jongin dropped the three words after watching an opera followed by a fancy dinner. Luhan’s half-undressed when Jongin’s plump limps open to voice out the words Luhan’s been dreading. “I love you.”

“Bullshit, you don’t mean that.” Luhan falters, doe-like eyes skimming through everything in the room but Jongin.

“I do. Maybe you just don’t want to believe it. I love you, whether you believe it or not. I saw your calm, sleeping face. Yeah, like in those dramas, but fuck. My heart leapt out of the walls of my throat and I haven’t been able to catch it since.”

Luhan gives his knees a break and slumps down on the bed, maintaining a distance from Jongin. “The last person whom I told I love you to died.” He has no clear idea what he’s trying to say, but he says them anyway because it seemed to make sense to him.

“So did I. His name was Kyungsoo and I loved him in a way that I could never love anyone else again. He killed himself by means of overdose, but that doesn’t stop me from loving anyone again.” Jongin shares with eyes rougher than his voice. Luhan wants to know if that’s how he looked liked the afternoon of Sehun’s death.

“Mine was Sehun and I loved him, but stopped after a few months. I don’t know. I don’t remember. He was dead even before he jumped off the balcony nine floors from the ground. I don’t want to talk about it.”

And they didn’t.

—

Eventually, Luhan drifted away. He stopped with the phone calls and visits. Icky paints and thick brushes bought him temporary comfort. His phone rings with calls from Jongin. It rings and rings and Luhan ignores it until they stop coming. The bluish ghost of sadness, who finds its way into the beds of lonely humans again and again, had been desperately sent away by Luhan’s cold fingers. But, the lingering afterglow still paints the walls of his room with melancholy.

The exhibit’s tomorrow and Jongin’s the assigned curator; it’d be his job to converse with people, to tell them about the paintings and analyze the meanings behind them. Luhan doubts he’s strong enough to just stand there and listen to Jongin’s musical voice talking about feelings and reasons.

Half of the sun is nearly on the horizon, and Luhan pities it through the window walls.

“You’re so beautiful, too bad that not everyone’s around to witness you.” He whispers with bloodshot eyes, wondering how he started to be so morose, so sad, and so difficult. The room smells like vanilla, not of Jongin. Luhan groans. Well, what the hell did he expect when he started seeing Jongin? Of course, it would turn out like this. It was bound to. Of course, this is the city of love and we're two lonely people.

Maybe, he argues with his inner thoughts, I just stuck around long enough to see if he’d turn out to be different, or he won’t feel anything at all. Leaving was the right thing. It was the right thing. But when did he start loving me? The second he came up with the question, he runs his hand through his hair. There’d never be an answer for that.

—

Luhan sought after the protection of the empty room in the gallery; hands fumbling for the cigarette pack in his trousers and the lighter inside his shirt pocket. His back carries pats of strangers who congratulate him on his commissions and paintings. His hands are too tired from shaking foreign ones too much, so after he lights his cigarette, he precariously balances it between his dry lips and takes a long drag out of it.

The bridge of his nose is massaged by his left index finger and thumb; Luhan is alone in the dark. The butchering of foreign language still catches up to his ears, but they’re all burned by the fire of his thoughts. He instructs himself to not think of Jongin, but that bastard kept on creeping on his thoughts with that suggestive smirk, and sensuous voice.

“And this,” Jongin had caressed the edges of Canals and Canters’ canvas in a slow and smooth way with eyes trained on Luhan—who had been doing his best to act like he didn’t want to be here—to serve as a reminder of the way he touched the older atop silk sheets and soiled pillowcases. “Had been inspired by the allure of the Netherlands. As you could see with the colors and styles used, the artist”—pointed glare at Luhan—“was under the trance that could only be cast by the beauty of a foreign place to the point where he just had to depict a worn out caterer walking down the banks of Oude Kerk.”

By the time they came across the fifth painting, Luhan decided he has enough of Jongin’s not-so-subtle-messages and looks. At present, he shakes his head, trying to figure out how many minutes he’s got left before people, reeking of Parisian high-life, would notice his absence. He’s hoping that they’d just be captivated, buy, and then get done with it, like a grand, but awfully boring, runway show.

Clouds of smoke flies around him. Wondering if it’s possible to choke on nicotine, tobacco, death. Tantalizing oceanic cologne overpowers cigar scent, and Luhan curses everything; down to the squeaky clean marbles to the worshipped galaxies. The obvious wearer says. “Your works are stunning.”

“ I know.” A shrug and marginal wave.

Jongin sits beside Luhan and it makes the latter question “I don’t remember inviting you to sit beside me.”

“You didn’t even get invited in my bed, but look at how that turned out.” Jongin quips, and then regrets it upon hearing Luhan crack his knuckles. He tries to stop him with “You’re too gay to punch.”

“Oh yeah? Let’s see.” Luhan threatens, leaving no opportunity for Jongin to answer. Knuckles kiss hollow cheekbones. Jongin laughs bitterly. It hurts like hell on the spot where bones met another flesh, but Jongin pretends like it doesn’t. There are a billion things that you have to be honest about; this one isn’t necessarily on the book.

“I finally figured you out,” Jongin’s eyes are trained on Luhan’s. The tilted head, lips stretched between grinning teeth, and raised brows had Luhan feeling like one of those Rubik’s cubes he loved solving. Jongin’s expression mirrors that of his own when he sees the sides with all the right colors. Jongin’s eyes scream at last. “You reminded me of myself.”

Luhan keeps quiet and continues with his cigar, bothering to lend an ear to Jongin. A quarter of him, much to his disappointment, would love to fuck the living daylights out of Jongin then and there while the remaining part tries to act like he’s got everything under shaky control.

“They say that misery finds company, yet they never tell us what happens after that, don’t they?” Jongin shakes his head, dust particles orbit around him like the sun. Well, maybe he’s the sun. On times that Jongin’s with Luhan, he always serves as the sun that light up a side of Luhan he never thought was there. Someone caring, indifferent, but definitely absorbed when it comes to things he’s passionate about. Sehun never bought this out of Luhan, and having things like that out in the open makes Luhan despise Jongin for making him vulnerable.

Jongin continues, arms crawling up to encircle Luhan’s neck. “Our similarities bounded us close, our differences even closer. We both had a jarful of shadows belonging to the people we’ve loved and lost, and we let that affect us when it shouldn’t have. Let them rest in peace; let’s live the life that they never get to finish. Fuck, I sound like I’m proposing.”

“You’re so gay,” Luhan chides, but his head finds comfort in the crook of Jongin’s neck. Footsteps and the clickity-clack of heels against marble fill up the empty silence as Luhan holds his breath for Jongin’s words.

“Like I said, I figured you out, or so I thought. I kind of had the feeling that you’d go off into the sunset when I told you I love you, but I said it anyway because you just had to know that. I learned a lot of things, Luhan. Being a twenty-three year old, self-supporting dude, I have to know things. But the most important one I’ve learned not from the mouth of a professor, but from the lips of an old lover.” Jongin kisses the bridge of Luhan’s nose—where it’s starting to turn cherry red, reminding him of reindeers and Christmas. “I learned that no matter what happens, you don’t give up on the ones you love. That’s what you’ve been doing. With that Sehun guy you told me about, with me once I told you how I felt. You gave up when you shouldn’t have. Maybe if you didn’t give up, that Sehun guy would still try to find the strength to live, but ironically, I’m glad you gave up because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here with me. I wouldn’t have been able to kiss you and familiarize myself with your body. I won’t be able to fall in love with you.”

Luhan gulps and nods. Everything that came out of Jongin’s lips were arrows that struck straight through his heart; making him bleed of the things he tried to deny and avoid.

“I won’t give up, and won’t let you either.” Jongin declares. Luhan doesn’t reply, choosing instead to press soft lips against plump ones and reach out his hands to grip the stardust that fell on Jongin’s raven hair. It closes the heated air and tension between them. And that, my friends, is good enough for Kim Jongin.

—

True to his word, Jongin doesn’t give up and it resulted in them doing things together, as if they’re connected at their fingertips. They went to places together; London, Seoul, Jeju (where Baekhyun and Chanyeol’s wedding were held). They laughed together; after Jongin introduced Luhan to the Pororo world. They dined together; in flashy restaurants, and in their own kitchen once their house was built. They cried together; on nights when they should mourn for their deceased loves, and difficult times. Luhan and Jongin nearly did everything under the sky together, except one thing.

And that is, to die.

Wrinkled hands clutch the cold marble urn containing the ashes of Kim Jongin. The wind ruffles Luhan’s gray hair, as if reminding him of the number of years they’ve spent together. Luhan’s eyes have sunk in; he’s old. old. older. With a smile on Luhan’s face—years had taught him to appreciate the little things and not dwell on we-still-might-have’s—he opens the lid, and gently tips it over.

You don’t give upon the one’s you love, Jongin had told him after a month and a half’s worth of observation.

But it took Luhan four decades to fill in the rest like a cloth’s finishing touch. And the ones you love would also hold on. There are people in your life who were placed to be trial, and other people meant to be the ‘real thing’. Jongin was, and always will be, the real thing for me.

He’s sixty-nine now and he’s got no regrets as he observes the salt-and-pepper color of ashes flirt with the invisible air. As he watches it fall, Luhan recalls a particularly sunny day decades ago, when someone he used to love free-fell.

Lu Han smiles. Nine point eight meter per Second Squared; the acceleration of gravity Things, he observes while emptying the urn no matter how light or heavy, will always come down at a certain speed. Somehow, this warms up the chambers of his heart, down to the spaces between his ribs. Sehun, or Jongin, or anything else that falls, will always kiss the ground with the same acceleration.

F I N

hoped you enjoyed! even though this is ;A;

comments will be loved ;)

Memorizing Mnemonics

uberchrome — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 09:55:31 GMT

Title: Memorizing Mnemonics
Genre: Fluff
Pairing: KaiSoo (Kai / Kyungsoo)
Length: Oneshot

There are three things that Do Kyungsoo can’t stand: Kim Jongin, examinations, and Kim Jongin disturbing him during examinations

There are three things that Do Kyungsoo likes: Pororo marathons, the sleeping Jongin, and 9’s scribbled in red on his test papers.

There are three things that Do Kyungsoo uses to study: Reviewers, highlighters, and mnemonics.

There are three things that Do Kyungsoo will learn a week before the examinations: He is prone to choking on noodles, Kim Jongin is a bastard, and he, himself is in love with said bastard.

There are three things that Do Kyungsoo can’t stand: Examinations, Kim Jongin, and Kim Jongin distracting him during examinations.

Now, before you start to get into the conclusion that this certain owl-eyed nineteen year old is a geek; listen up. He doesn’t like studying, per se. He just simply admires the collection of ‘9’s scribbled in red on his test papers. Do Kyungsoo looks forward to seeing these welcomed digits.

Apparently; his dorm mate, Kim Jongin doesn’t share the same sentiment. What with his records of skipped classes and butchered marks, Kyungsoo is painfully aware that the raven haired boy isn’t smitten by pretty 9’s the same way he is. Kyungsoo doesn’t mind that, not at all. He thinks that everyone should just get on with their lives and live happily ever after in a land composed of kisses and marshmallows.

Yet again, Kim Jongin doesn’t think like that.

That irritates Kyungsoo more than anything else in the world combined.

“And it hurts, and it hurts so bad.” Shinhwa’s melodic voice trembles then halts off completely when Kyungsoo slams the radio. As if deciding that it wasn’t enough, he holds the noisy music box in his arm and slings it out of the window.

“That is so much better.” A smile graces Kyungsoo’s lips and he squares his shoulders before getting back to his paperwork.

“Did you just throw it out of the window? Hedwig, that was my jam!” Jongin stops lip-synching and opens his eyes. There’s a look of unhindered disbelief in those dark pools.

Through gritted teeth, he exhales. “My. Name. is. not. Hedwig.”

“You have his eyes, though.”

“So, that doesn’t make me Hedwig.” Kyungsoo reasons and avoids looking at Jongin because man, sweat and Jongin is not a holy combination.

“It does.” The younger jumps on his bed and reverently strums an air guitar. Kyungsoo worries about him sometimes.

“It doesn’t-oh, get out. This is stupid, you don’t make sense.” Kyungsoo grabs Jongin by his thin wrist and tows him outside their dorm. “Go be stupid somewhere else.” he orders and slams the door shut in front of the bewildered Jongin.

Leaning his head against the doorframe, Kyungsoo looks at his left hand (the one he used to touch Jongin) and calculates how long he can go without washing it. Forever suddenly seems like a good idea.

you’re being ridiculous, he chastises himself and tries to get back to work (without using his left hand, of course)

—

In the beginning, there was only Do Kyungsoo, his line of 9’s, Friday movie nights, a large kitchen and a dorm room all to himself. He was happy, stress-free and his heart was complete, thank you very much.

But suddenly, certain tanned and lean eighteen year old decided to move to his university and rent a dorm; of course Do Kyungsoo’s dorm is the only one that’s free for sharing. Against his personal feelings, Kyungsoo complied and Jongin moved in, causing Kyungsoo to wonder whether he has killed a king in his past life to deserve something like this.

So now you have Do Kyungsoo, Kim Jongin, decreasing grades, pororo Fridays (Saturdays, everyday), a half-burnt kitchen, and a cramped dorm decorated with Jongin’s used sweaters, socks, and shirts. Kyungsoo with his washing machine, laundry detergent, and fabric softeners isn’t far behind.

Ladies and gentlemen; May I present two teenagers.

One indifferent and the other in love.

—

Contrary to the cliché “I didn’t know when I realized that I was in love” excuse, Kyungsoo had known the exact When. Why. What (the fuck) Where, and How of his feelings.

It happened on a Tuesday night (October 31, 9:32 pm, to be exact). Kyungsoo knew the time because the clock was beside the large television where Pororo figures were dancing. Earlier, Jongin had proposed a Pororo marathon with Kyungsoo in exchange for cleaning his room along with the living room. Thinking that it was a fair deal and that it won’t hurt anyone, the older had agreed and that was how they ended up getting burrito-ed in warm sheets on the couch.

“Jongin, I want to sleep now. I’ll go ahead.” Kyungsoo had excused himself when it was halfway-over, but just as he was about to wave goodnight to his dorm mate—whom he begrudgingly developed a soft spot for—he found Jongin’s head swooping down to his neck with his eyes closed. That tyrant, seriously. Sighing, Kyungsoo stared at the slumped Jongin instead of going back to snore the fatigue away in his own bed.

Jongin was snoring slightly but Kyungsoo did not mind that. His broad jaw line, warm eyes, calm expression all makes up for it. Lord, lead me not into temptation. He had chanted while his lips involuntarily moved closer to close on the younger’s own pinkish ones.

Oh my god, I’m in love, aren’t I? If possible, his eyes got even wider and he had pulled away from doing a playful kiss on Jongin (he really should cut it down with all the Korean dramas). A slight drool slid off the side of Jongin’s mouth and he whimpered. Kyungsoo had never seen anything as sweet and he felt a fraction of his heart getting sliced open to accommodate the frail and haughty eighteen-year old. There’s now a special place in Do Kyungsoo’s heart for Kim Jongin.

What he didn’t know that time was that it won’t just be a fraction. As leaves change colors and season transition along with moods and moments, Kyungsoo’s heart would be scraped to make more room for Jongin and the strong feels that he gives him.

—

“Class dismissed. Just go and actually study something for the examinations next week.” Mr. Bae waves his hand off dismissively and Kyungsoo shuffles out of the classroom along with other energy-drained students. His mind is already swarmed with studying and memorization techniques to try out this time. Being too engrossed on his thoughts, he doesn’t notice it when an arm rest on his shoulders until a booming voice yells earth to babysoo in his ear.

Park Chanyeol. The loudest half-human half-dog in their class. He’s also one of Kyungsoo’s confidant and the lover of a certain man named Byun Baekhyun. So far, he’s the tallest dude that Kyungsoo has ever seen.

“Oh hi, Chanyeol.”

“Sup,” Chanyeol greets in his traditionally enthusiastic tone. “Hey, what’s bothering you, man?”

“Exams.” Kyungsoo answers while trying to keep up with his friend’s lengthy strides. It’s not a really easy feat but he tries.

“Try mnemonics. Baekhyun, my love taught me how and it actually helped me a lot.” There goes the Cheshire grin that he’s known for. A couple of students walking around them maintain their distance. On behalf of his friend, Kyungsoo’s blood starts to boil because of their sensitivity. Chanyeol is actually one of the kindest and modest people that Kyungsoo has ever met.

“Would you, really? That would be great-“

“Chanyeollipop!” From Mars, the sound of Byun Baekhyun’s voice reverberates. Kyungsoo automatically steps away because he knew all too well what would happen if Baekhyun and Chanyeol are within touching distance of each other. Sin, that’s what.

As if proving his point, a disgusted groan escapes his lips when Baekhyun and Chanyeol start to suck each other’s face right in front of him. Don’t get him wrong, he likes Chanyeol and his weird ways. He also likes Baekhyun and his meticulous methods. But it’s not exactly appetizing to witness his best friends do something that should have been done with the lights off.

“Maybe next time, when you’re not trying to vacuum Baek’s tongue out of him.”

—

According to Wikipedia, mnemonics is all about associating words and terms with a visual aid or an easily-recognizable phrase for memorization. Like ‘Roy G. Biv’ for the colors of the rainbow; red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. The smile on Kyungsoo’s face as his fingers scroll down the Wikipedia page is nearly identical to Chanyeol’s manic grin whenever Baekhyun is near. If he pulls this off well, this can actually be helpful in his grades.

“Hyung, I’m hungry. Let’s go out to eat.” Jongin huffs from the couch, breaking Kyungsoo’s concentration.

“Not now, Jongin. I’m busy.” Kyungsoo doesn’t look up from the rectangular screen. He manages to sound like a loving mother with too much to do and so little time.

“But you’ve been glued to that screen for three hours and seventeen minutes!” With arms flailing at his sides, Jongin exclaims and tries to regain his pride. “It’s not like I was keeping count, or anything.”

His incoherent mumbling made Kyungsoo smile and shuffle out of the desk. Kyungsoo looks around their untidy living room and sighs. He knows that he should just keep on saying no and get on with his studying so that he and Jongin can clean the house later but he doesn’t. On the couch, Jongin is slightly puffing his lips out (he tends to do that when he’s upset) and they both know that Kyungsoo can’t resist him when he does that.

“Okay, where do you want to go?”

—

“What do you think of the ramen here?”

Kyungsoo, having been engrossed in recalling Lemark’s theories for Environmental Science, replies in shock. “The theory of need!”

Jongin has an urge to bash his own head against the table, but he stops himself because it would be embarrassing to do that in the middle of a ramen restaurant. Being with someone like Kyungsoo is a lot harder than it looks. “Hyung, relax and enjoy your meal. You’re not going to die if you don’t memorize that stuff.”

“But the exam is on next week!” Kyungsoo deadpans.

“And your food is on the table, so eat.” Jongin’s voice turns authoritative as he points to the steaming bowl in front of Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo complies and starts stuffing food down his throat.

“Be careful, it’s going to burn your—“

“Hot! Hot! Help! Hot!”

“Tongue.” Jongin finishes and hands the wailing Kyungsoo a wad of tissues set on the table. Then it dawned on him that Kyungsoo burned his tongue, not spilled a drink. And Kyungsoo must have been desperate because he didn’t realize what it was that the raven-haired boy gave him until he tasted cotton and dryness on his tongue. Sheepishly, Jongin hands him a glass of water. “Sorry for that, Hyung.”

“It’s okay.” Once he’s drank enough and his tongue doesn’t feel like they’ve been flat-ironed, Kyungsoo comforts Jongin. “You know what? Let’s just eat.”

It’s a habit of theirs; eating quietly. Do Kyungsoo had always been under the belief that eating is an art and one should learn how to appreciate it. Because of this stubborn belief, he somehow bought Jongin to the good side and taught him that couches weren’t made to act as tables and one should never eat a full meal in front of the television. Jongin smiles when he remembers all those painful moments of pinching and pillow fights just to get Jongin out of the couch or his bed. From under his eyelashes, Jongin steals a quick glance at Kyungsoo who’s heartily devouring his meal like it’s going to be taken from him any minute by now.

“You’re cute, Kyungsoo.”

Heat races from the base of his neck up to his ears and cheeks but Kyungsoo hardly feels because his throat suddenly tighten, causing him to choke on a string of noodle. Jongin hands gently pushes his water to Kyungsoo and Kyungsoo takes it with a trembling hand and gulps it all down. Jongin just called me cute. Jongin just called me cute. Jongin just called me—

“You keep on choking. I take back what I said; you’re not cute at all.” The tanned boy nestles against his chair comfortably, a hint of humor in his eyes. But Kyungsoo mustn’t have caught that, for the look that he’s giving Jongin makes Jongin want to get down on his knees and make silly faces just to have Kyungsoo smile again. He looked so heartbroken that Jongin’s hands almost reach up to cup Kyungsoo’s face in them. Almost.

“I am cute.” Kyungsoo laughs shakily and he avoids eye-contact. A cold bucket washes over Jongin because the last time that Kyungsoo laughed like that was when he failed something last month. Kyungsoo laughs like that when he’s hurt. Jongin wanted to apologize but it was already too late because Kyungsoo had moved on to a different topic.

Jongin wonders when he’s ever going to get his message through Kyungsoo without the other misunderstanding it.

—

The first mnemonic phrase that Kyungsoo learned was when he was cooking lunch in the kitchen. A flower-patterned apron is tied around his waist and he feels at ease, knowing that he’s surrounded by pots, pans, and various recipes. Humming Shinhwa’s hurt under his breath while trying to get the perfect taste of the spaghetti sauce; Kyungsoo recalls the evidences of evolution: Fossil records, Embryological development, Radioactive dating, Biochemistry, and Genetics.

Just then, Jongin steps out of the shower. His hair is soaked, body damped, and everything about him screams temptation. Kyungsoo looks away and gulps. At once, everything went Fuck Everything downRight Bloody and Gore.

It probably doesn’t make sense but slowly, Kyungsoo realizes that some things that gets fucked end up dead and fossilized. Everything humane or remotely mammal starts as embryos then they develop. Mr. Right won’t always be the one you’re dating and seeing your original genetics donor (parents) doing the deed is pretty Gore.

“Jongin?” Kyungsoo looks back at Jongin who is now towel-drying his hair. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

Kyungsoo doesn’t say anything and while stirring the orange sauce, he thinks because fuck everything down right bloody and gore.

—

It’s just five more days before the first day of the examinations and Jongin has done nothing so far but stop to stare at Kyungsoo whenever he’d see him around the campus. That’s what he does anyway, regardless of the conditions and time. He’s been creeping on Kyungsoo ever since they started to dorm together and by now, Jongin knows stuff about Kyungsoo that the older probably doesn’t know about himself. And maybe he won’t fully admit it but he can’t deny the fact that Do Kyungsoo and his wide eyes intrigued and endeared him.

“Luhan-hyung! Who is that?” It’s Sehun and Jongin doesn’t really like Sehun (he thinks he’s too spoiled and bitchy), so he lets the stuck-up seventeen year old be and continues looking at Kyungsoo as he sits outside; under a large tree, reading his notes. Kyungsoo looks particularly good today.

“That’s Kyungsoo. He’s a year above us.” Honey-haired Luhan replies in accented Korean.

Jongin’s ears prick at the mention of Kyungsoo’s name and he leans in closer—discreetly, of course. Having another guy ask about Kyungsoo is suspicious.

“Oh, he looks cute.” Sehun compliments and there’s a buzzing feeling in the pit of Jongin’s stomach. It stirs his insides and makes his fingers clench involuntarily.

Of course, Kyungsoo is cute. He’s actually more than that. Jongin thinks but he doesn’t let it on. He appreciates Kyungsoo’s cuteness but having others ogle and take an interest in Kyungsoo makes Jongin see red. Maybe he should start blocking Kyungsoo from being seen by others? That would work.

“Is he single?” Sehun digs his grave deeper. Jongin considers buying a black mask for Kyungsoo to wear (that is, after burying Sehun alive).

“I guess. I never saw him with someone other than his friends and Jongin. Maybe you should go ask Jongin.” Luhan suggest and Jongin is preparing himself to commit a homicide.

But then Sehun bounces in front of him, and he’s all rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, and shiny hair that it nearly causes Jongin to squint. His smile is blinding and it sickens Jongin to the core. He really can’t stand this clingy guy, but then again he remembers one of Tao’s golden rules (one of which he keeps on reciting until Jongin memorize it); know your enemy.

So, he plasters a smile and speaks through gritted teeth. “How can I help you?”

“I was wondering, can you set me up with Kyungsoo?”

Jongin surprises even himself upon hearing the words that glided out of his lips. “Sure, it would be my pleasure.”

—

It wasn’t like he was going to give up Kyungsoo that easily.

Jongin might not be a genius, but he’s smart enough to know what to do with Oh Sehun and his infuriating infatuation with Kyungsoo—which seemed to grow every day, much to Jongin’s disappointment. Sometimes, he would mentally give himself a pat in the back for not choking the life out of Sehun whenever this caramel-haired boy would see Kyungsoo around and go all isn’t he adorable oh my god, can I just marry him already or why are you so perfect Kyungsoo.

Every day, Jongin has to remind himself that he’s doing this in order to get Sehun farther away from Kyungsoo. He tries, and God knows how much he tried. The first attempt was to supply Sehun with not-so-nice things about Kyungsoo (they might be negative, but Jongin still finds them adorable), hoping that it would turn Sehun off.

Unfortunately, the plan backfired, leading Sehun to spazz harder about Kyungsoo, calling his imperfections cute and unique.

When Plan A failed, he proceeded to plan B which involved him badmouthing Sehun on Kyungsoo.

“I have this classmate who picks his nose in public,” Jongin had tattletale one night.

“Really? That’s not very nice.” Kyungsoo had shaken his head, and continued to rummage through the desk covered with papers and post-it notes.

“I know right! His name is Sehun and he has a lisp.” There was something in Jongin’s voice, but Kyungsoo couldn’t put a finger on it at that time.

“That’s too bad; I hope that people don’t tease him because of that.” He had sighed and looked at Jongin in a way that made the younger look down on his lap out of shame. Whenever Sehun’s back is turned, Jongin’s voice would always be the loudest when it comes to imitating the way that Sehun says thienth, clath, and theth. Having Kyungsoo stare at him sadly did not make Jongin guilty about his juvenile attitude. No, not at all.

Seeing as how Kyungsoo is too occupied to pay attention to plan B, Jongin started to formulate plan C.

—

Kyungsoo is trying his best to rise from a sea of notes, terms, definitions, and mnemonics. Examination week had always been the hardest part of every semester for him. There are times, like when he’d highlight a passage in a book, when Kyungsoo would wonder why he’s trying this hard in the first place. His major course is medicine, and it’s not really a necessity to study the different layers of soil.

After all, you don’t really need to learn where to O horizon is placed when you’re conducting a heart surgery or something. It’s not vital, but he still tries hard just because he can and why not aim for the top when you have a chance, right?

Although this man might be busy with school work, he’s not the type to block out his surroundings. Just because his nose is buried in between pages of a thick book doesn’t mean that he doesn’t notice how Jongin’s been a bit of fidgety around him lately. Kyungsoo doesn’t like it. It makes him feel uneasy.

Did he mention that he finds it annoying how Jongin keeps on murmuring Sehun, Sehun, Sehun?

Kyungsoo is grieving over this while dropping Jongin’s favorite biscuits on his cart. It’s Friday and Friday meant grocery shopping. Jongin would usually accompany him (he’d always be the eager one), but when Kyungsoo asked earlier, Jongin refused saying that he’s got a few things he needs to work on. Jongin looked concentrated over a single piece of paper that Kyungsoo hadn’t bother pointing out that the paper is blank and just walked out of their dorm quietly.

A force bumps against his cart, and when Kyungsoo looks up; he wishes that he hadn’t. It’s a guy with a cart-full of goods. His tongue looks like it can’t be shoved back in his tongue. And there’s a cheesy grin that tells Kyungsoo that this guy is the Sehun that Jongin keeps talking about. People like him are remarkable.

“Hello! You must be … Kyungsoo, right?” the guy named Sehun is a little bit too bubbly for Kyungsoo’s liking.

He nods, unsure of what to make of Sehun. “I am, did Jongin tell you about me?”

“He did! I feel like I know you personally already.” Sehun laughs and Kyungsoo laughs along just to be polite. “My name is Sehun, by the way.”

Kyungsoo starts to walk slowly, hoping (not really) that Sehun would follow him. He did. “Oh, so you’re the one that Jongin keeps on telling me about.”

“What did he say about me?”

“That you’re nice, and really funny plus a great friend.” Kyungsoo lies. He doesn’t think it would be appropriate to mention the nose-picking thing.

“Not really,” Sehun blushes and tries to be modest. Much to Kyungsoo’s disappointment, Sehun keeps on opening up new topics to talk about as they wheel their carts forward, pausing to get an item here or there. Sehun isn’t really Kyungsoo’s cup of tea; he’s too noisy, too optimistic, too everything for Kyungsoo. If he wasn’t Jongin’s friend, Kyungsoo would have made up a ridiculous excuse just to get out of here immediately.

Truth be told, Kyungsoo isn’t normally like this. He’d be polite and respectful, but somehow, he can’t bring himself to show any form of sympathy towards a person who Jongin might like. Call him bitter, jealous, or even possessive; none of that will matter. Jongin might like Sehun, so Kyungsoo might not like Sehun.

—

Even when he arrived home three hours later, Jongin’s gaze is still fixed on the empty piece of paper. He probably wouldn’t have noticed Kyungsoo if he didn’t remark. “I bumped into Sehun today. Literally.”

As if saying a magic word to break the spell Jongin’s been blinded in, his head snaps up and here comes the onslaught of questions after questions. “Where? How? Did he say anything to you? Did he do anything to you? Tell me he didn’t. What did he tell you? How long have you been together? Are you within touching distance? Tell me you didn’t touch him.”

Kyungsoo wishes that his cheeks aren’t as red as they felt. He’s appalled, thinking that Jongin felt strongly for this Sehun person. He spat out his answers, shocking himself and Jongin. “Don’t worry. I didn’t touch him. He was the one who did most of the talking, and I don’t think that you have to worry about your boyfriend. He seems to be really fond of you.”

With a rage hot enough to burn down their dorm, Kyungsoo storms off to his room. He leaves behind a startled Jongin who stares at his back as if it’s sprouting embers.

—

“So only the only similarity between Lamarck’s and Darwin’s theory is the theory of acquired traits and the variety, is it right or wrong?” Baekhyun peers over Chanyeol’s shoulders to look at his boyfriend’s notes.

“I’m only sure about Lamarck. I’m not sure of Darwin’s. I wondered if I copied it wrong. I probably did.” Chanyeol shrugs. Baekhyun snuggles against Chanyeol’s arm affectionately. Kyungsoo imitates gagging noises in front of them.

“You’re making me sick.” Kyungsoo whines, slamming his head atop his notebook.

“Did anything happen?”

Chanyeol leans closer. “No offence, but you look like a wreck.”

“It’s Jongin,” Kyungsoo confides. “There’s this guy whom he might like.”

“This is a serious symptom of a Jealous Housewife.” Chanyeol imitates an old man’s speech and Baekhyun laughs, just like he always does. “The only cure would be to fuck Jongin as soon as possible.”

“Cut it you two. I’m just worried, that’s all.”

“Worried that someone might get Jongin first?”

“He has a nice ass.” Baekhyun chips in.

“I don’t know what to do. What if Sehun gets him first?” Kyungsoo groans and shakes his head. He can’t believe he’s saying this. “I shouldn’t be bothered, right? I should just concentrate on studying.”

It’s at this moment when Baekhyun rests his head against Chanyeol’s shoulders that Kyungsoo hears the smartest thing he’s ever heard Chanyeol said. “So? Having perfect marks can’t compare to having someone to come home to. You might be the highest, but what’s the use if the person you want to share the joy with isn’t there?”

No one spoke after that. Baekhyun and Chanyeol went on with studying, and Kyungsoo kept on staring at the window. Outside, the wind keeps on flirting with the branches, shaking its leaves like it had just discovered something sacred. Everything is more vibrant under the warm covering of the sunlight. Inspired by Chanyeol’s words and the truth behind them, Do Kyungsoo makes a decision that may or may not determine his relationship status.

—

His plan is to seduce Jongin. That’s one of those things that are easier said than done.

He’s never had a to-die-for-body, but Kyungsoo doesn’t mind as he enters their dorm after running outside for more than two hours. Sweat makes the light gray cotton shirt he’s wearing cling to his glistening skin. Hours of being under the sun somehow made some parts of his skin redder, and he’s breathing heavily.

Jongin is aware of all that when he looked up from his book.

“You’re studying?!” Kyungsoo isn’t able to mask the surprised look on his face.

Jongin would have been offended, but not really. “You’re working out?!”

“I just need a little break before studying again. Tomorrow’s the first day, right?” He walks and plops down beside Jongin on the couch.

Jongin nods and tries his best to not ogle at how Kyungsoo looks right now. He gulps when he feels a hot stirring in him that he shouldn’t feel towards his dorm mate. Kyungsoo sitting beside him doesn’t make things any easier. “Do you need any help?”

“N-no, I’m fine. Thanks.” Jongin shouldn’t have stuttered but he did, and it makes Kyungsoo smile slightly.

“You’ve got a piece of paper on your hair.” Kyungsoo’s hands reach up to take it off Jongin’s hair. When fingers brush against strands, Jongin shivers. He could feel Kyungsoo breathing near his ear and it fills his mind with thoughts that would be considered rated. He wanted to kiss the daylights out of Kyungsoo more than ever.

That night, Jongin didn’t sleep. I should have kissed him when I got the chance.

That night, Kyungsoo fell asleep with a smile on his face. At least I’m one step closer.

—

Relieved sighs, muffled conversations regarding the answers, flipped pages, scraped chairs, and eager footsteps echo inside the classroom. This was a scene that would be found anywhere in the world. More often than not, the first few minutes right after the exam are probably the most nerve-wracking moments one could ever experience.

I was wrong in the multiple choice, the fifth question.

I wrote the correct answer but I replaced it because I wasn’t too sure.

Mr. Bang is pretty tight when it comes to essays. I hope that he’d be a bit okay this time.

I seriously think I might flunk this one.

Those lines trail after retreating students. Kyungsoo leans comfortably against his chair, thanking God for Chanyeol and mnemonics. He’s pretty sure of his answers for both the Environmental Science and English exams. With the aid of mnemonics, and associations; he’s pretty much memorized all the much-needed terms and facts. Like how in English upbraid would remind him of braids and other severe hairstyles like Mohawks and how teenagers with Mohawks would be scolded. Upbraid means to be rebuked or scolded.

“I’m famished. Let’s go grab something nice to eat.” Chanyeol, accompanied by the loyal Baekhyun, offers. His bag is already slung over his shoulders.

“Let’s get something fancy to celebrate, even though it’s just the first day. Rewards can never hurt.”

Kyungsoo was about to reply when a painfully familiar voice calls out his name.

—

“Where’s Sehun?” Jongin never thought that he’d ask this question, but what with the clingy dude’s absence after the exams he can’t help but get curious. It’s unusual for Sehun to not bug him.

“Oh, he left.” Luhan replies, shoving a pen in his bag. “He’s going to confess today to that Kyungsoo person. He kept muttering about being too late or you taking a long time. Says he’ll do it his way.”

Luhan’s reply caused Jongin to bolt out of the class as fast as he can. Luhan stares at the scattered stationary that Jongin left behind, awestruck at how love can move Jongin to do something like this. In the ten months that he’s known Jongin, the younger had always been a bit secretive in a way that he keeps himself mostly to himself.

And it really doesn’t take a genius to realize that the way Jongin acts toward Kyungsoo is questionable. Luhan knew how Jongin felt; he’s a classic observer. He just chose to not react when Jongin got closer to Sehun to drive the mousy-haired boy away from Kyungsoo.

And now the universe decided that it’s the right time for these souls to find rest in each other. Luhan fixes his things, and goes out of the classroom, completely glad that he has at least witnessed a messy love story unfold. He crosses his fingers, wishes Jongin good luck, and reminds himself to buy a box of tissues for Sehun.

—

I really like you, Sehun’s blurted confession drew a huge, question mark on Kyungsoo’s mind.

After politely asking if he could have a private time with him, Sehun walked them to the quiet part of the campus grounds with hands that shook behind his back. Kyungsoo’s hands are shoved in his pockets, and his eyebrows are raised, asking a question that needs an immediate answer.

“I think that you’re really nice and adorable and really really amazing. I probably don’t know you that well, but if you’d give me the chance then I’d like you better than I do now. I’m sorry if I’m saying all this in a rush, I just feel really nervous because I’m, you know, saying this stuff. Oh god, this is really embarrassing.” Kyungsoo thinks that Sehun’s words can rival the speed of light. Is he a part-time rapper?

“So, what do you think?” After three minutes worth of fidgeting in place and brief glances, Sehun finally asks the frozen Kyungsoo. The older doesn’t reply. He’s puzzled, shocked, with just a hint of giddy because it’s his first time hearing something like this.

“I think that if Kyungsoo doesn’t say a thing, I’ll buy him a diamond ring. Because you know, I think I love him.” It’s Jongin and he’s panting heavily, as if he just ran from Pluto and back. He walks toward Kyungsoo and Kyungsoo wishes that Jongin would stop because he might hear how loud his heart is beating.

There’s also a tribe of eager butterflies, fluttering against the walls of Kyungsoo’s stomach, that are threatening to burst out if Jongin does as much as smile at him.

“What is this fuckery?” Sehun quips, and for the first time, Kyungsoo agrees with something that Sehun says.

“Look, the reason why I got closer to you is because I don’t want you to go anywhere near Kyungsoo.” Jongin explains, and Sehun is starting to hear the sound of jigsaw pieces snapping together in his mind. The reason why Jongin’s always trying to paint Kyungsoo in a negative light for him, why Jongin’s tone turns softer when he’s talking to Kyungsoo, why Jongin is always eager to go home right after classes all contributes to the scene unveiling in front of him.

“Oh,” was all Sehun could say. And he feels like he’s been thrown a bucketful of acid, but Sehun doesn’t mind.

“You’re really nice, Sehun.” Kyungsoo stammers. “But I kind of, sort of, really like Jongin too, even though he’s not as nice.”

“I don’t mind. As long as Jongin takes care of you, it’s fine.” Sehun shuffles away, smiling a sad smile. He thinks that the atmosphere is getting tense and that he’s emotionally unstable. Have you ever dropped a hammer on your toe? Sehun’s heart hurt like that, except that it’s a million times worse. He needs to talk to Luhan about this.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“He’ll be fine. Now, worry about me.”

“Yes, I should be worried about where you’ll get the money to buy that diamond ring.” Kyungsoo teases, elbowing Jongin’s side. Jongin smirks then stops. He looks at Kyungsoo and squints.

“You have something on your lips.”

Kyungsoo’s fingers fly up to brush them. He can’t look like a mess in front of Jongin. Wait, I’ll get it. Jongin whispers, halting Kyungsoo’s wrist with his hands, trapping Kyungsoo’s lips with his own.

Kyungsoo had always imagined what it would be like if he and Jongin ever kissed. He thought that he’d feel magic smoking beneath his limbs; sort of like what Cinderella must have felt while dancing the night away with Prince Eric, or how the Beast felt when he’s released from the evil spell. It wasn’t like the movies, neither. No fireworks, no electric shocks, and even the butterflies died down.

As Jongin promised forever to him using soft flesh, all Kyungsoo could feel was comfort. It was so natural like breathing he wondered how he missed it. It’s almost like Jongin’s lips were meant to be there. And for Do Kyungsoo, this feeling could beat any fairy tale ever written.

—

I’m eternally lost. Lost and all alone, and it’s your love that leads me home.

The speakers are set in a low volume, and Jongin likes them that way. He also likes how light the newly-purchased curtains are against the morning sunlight. The fresh air streaming from the window isn’t that bad, too. It makes this moment perfect. It’s one of those memories that would be remembered even when his hair would turn salt-and-pepper gray.

Kyungsoo is half-naked and his back is facing him. Jongin allows himself to fall into the temptation of engulfing Kyungsoo’s skin. His long and thin fingers trace series of letters against the flesh protecting Kyungsoo’s spine.

“WYBMF? Is that what you’re tracing? Is that a term in mnemonics or?” Kyungsoo mumbles, still not looking at Jongin. It’s the morning after their first session of love-making, and Kyungsoo’s cheeks and ears are as red as Santa’s hat.

Kyungsoo feels the pressure of Jongin’s fingers leave his back, only to be replaced by his lips. Jongin traces WYBMF again and again using his lips, as if doing that would tattoo those letters permanently on Kyungsoo’s fair skin. “I guess it’s the shortcut for Will You Be Mine Forever? WYBMF is easier, don’t you think?”

“I think Will you be mine forever is easier to memorize.”

“So, will you?”

Kyungsoo turns to look at Jongin straight in the eye. He’s a tangle of scarlet cheeks and quivering lips accompanied by a clumsy tongue, but he somehow managed to make Jongin’s heart move in ways he never could have thought it would. “I will.”

—

There are three things that Kim Jongin can’t stand: Missing episodes of his favorite shows, when Kyungsoo purposely cooks his least-favorite food, and examinations.

There are three things that Kim Jongin likes: Kyungsoo’s eyes, Pororo nights, and Kyungsoo’s mouth on him.

There are three things that Kim Jongin uses to study: mnemonics (thank god for Park Chanyeol), highlighters, and coffee-stained notebooks.

There are three things that Kim Jongin learned a month after the examinations: Kyungsoo is prone to walking in on him when he’s showering, memorizing mnemonics isn’t as easy as Kyungsoo makes it out to be, and that Kyungsoo is the one Jongin wouldn’t mind spending forever with.

—
Fin