Wedges of sunlight streamed in from the opened glass windows. They shifted and illuminated and bounced off the pale blue walls. They passed through the disco ball in fade rings of amaranth and goldenrod and zaffre. They shone the typeface on Jeonghan’s secondhand chemistry book and swayed the ballpoint pens Seungcheol had stored in a mug. They toasted the white comforter and the feathery pillows and the unmade bed. They clawed their markings in the bedroom as shadows, columns of black stretching and scaling up the Bon Jovi poster, the medium-sized beige closet, the Statue of Liberty model they had assembled from slabs of firm cardboard and pieces of dark wood.

The air was filled with heat and moisture and silence, settling over the bedroom like a thick, suffocating blanket. The heater gurgled booms and clangs as it exhaled torrid gusts in the corner, its surface subtly dented due to sheaves of paper deposited atop it, scribbled with complex equations in blue and enlightening answers in red. Layers of plaster peeled away from the thin walls, where Seungcheol slammed Jeonghan against so many times the dust from the rooftops plummet down in silver threads. The floorboards creaked and quivered with the slightest rattle of the bed, and they groaned noisily in pain whenever it vigorously shook, limbs thrown over the edges, the heat from their bodies spiraling upwards, “More, please, more.”

An oak door was swung open, its overly varnished surface glistening. It made way to a teal-washed bathroom with cracked teal tiles and opaque windows with teal shutters and a teal shower curtain suspended over the teal bath tub. The air was different; hydrangeas and smoke and vanilla soap wafted in it, combined to make a scent that was similar to a grandmother’s house if it were ablaze. The closet was always set downwards, for Jeonghan enjoyed sitting there with a stick of half-burnt cigarette between his fingers. Seungcheol installed mini pots of hydrangeas near the sink due to a strike of inspiration at a nearby IKEA. They used to share a bar of French vanilla soap when the only income they had was from their small acoustic gig at the corner of Fifth and Lex, but the ventilation of the bathroom was damaged and cheap French soap did not smell all that bad, so the scent stayed—along with the memories.

In weekdays, they would shower together. Jeonghan’s excessively priced shampoo and Seungcheol’s honey-infused one stood next to each other in a cabinet of wrung metals attached to the wall. They would brush each other’s teeth and laugh in foams of white and kiss each other’s necks in the tiny space. They would wipe the towels over the other’s skin slowly, lingeringly, utilizing it as an excuse to trail their fingertips over every taut muscle, every bulging vein, every curve of the bone. Then they would scramble to the bedroom, the floorboards creaking and wavering, bits of fur clinging to their toes, their arms flinging articles of clothing on their body before the clock strikes eight.

A staircase stemmed upwards, linking the floors in a construction of rickety wooden steps and risers that nearly fell apart and a handrail laminated with sweat. The fifth step was where Jeonghan liked to sit on most, biting on the eraser of his pencil and scribbling away in a small notebook and trying not to think of Seungcheol too much between the minutes. Most of the nights Seungcheol’s feet clambered up in exhaustion, undoing his tie and popping the buttons of his dress shirt and his eyes glowing at the promise of meeting Jeonghan at the top. The staircase was not a compelling sight, the handrail was too slimy to slide down on, and the random heaves and screeches often woke them up at night. What do you expect, Jeonghan had said when they first moved in. Seungcheol had been a novice in the unexplored realm of home listings, and Jeonghan was blooming in the field of science, and the Big Apple was high in spirits and low on affordable fancy townhouses.

The kitchen colonized most of the ground floor, all yellow and warm and messy. The massively sized window allowed the light to pour in, reflecting on the cupboards and the island and the spinning stools which were crafted by Seungcheol’s strong, calloused hands, repeatedly honed and polished and perfected in his father’s workshop just outside the city. You don’t have to do it, Jeonghan had insisted. The professor spared me some money, I got a big bonus, you don’t have to do it. But Seungcheol knew that deep down, the idea of building necessities from scratch for—and only for—their new collective abode made Jeonghan shriek in delight. He had covered Jeonghan’s eyes in a lace blindfold and led him to the new kitchen and unknotted it open. Look around, he had whispered as Jeonghan’s orbs took in the view. I made these for you. A broad smile was painted on Jeonghan’s face.

Both of them liked to cook, unlike ordinary, mill-about New Yorkers. Dots of brown oil speckled the stove. The counter was uneven due to the amount of pressure they applied on cutting their onions and mixing their dough and shredding their greens. The brass color was faint on the knobs of the cabinets, fingerprints roaming all over. Cutlery and silverware and unused china were kept above the stove, squares of colorful Post-Its with scrawny writings pasted around the handle, on the back of the spoon, on the flat side of the knife: This is a gift from Auntie Jooyeon. This is a present on Seungcheol’s 23^rd birthday. This is what Jeonghan bought at the grandfather’s store across the street.

In weekends, they would descend the staircase in their socks and shorts and concoct mugs of hot, sweet tea or warm ginger ale. Throw in a sprinkle of variety, and they would heat up the macaroni schöttel Seungcheol brought from work or dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets Jeonghan liked in a supermarket. They would sink in their respective stools and rub their feet together under the island, engaging in a day-long conversation with topics ranging from the manicure-obsessed colleague at Jeonghan’s lab to the falling prices of imported goods to the newly opened recreational island off the coast. Throw in a splash of perennial, and they would lace their fingers at the center of the island and give an occasional squeeze or a tickle of a fingertip. When cerulean tinged the sky and stars showcased themselves unafraid, they would silently climb back upstairs, hand in hand, all the other noise in the townhouse being drowned by “I love you”s exchanged in soft whispers and with chapped lips.

The sitting room was small, smaller than any of the other rooms in the building. The walls were washed with salmon and the small chandelier was dim and the cheap fur carpets Jeonghan had purchased in SoHo obscured the wooden floor. It was home to a mauve couch, serving as a seat for the guests and a makeshift bed for Jeonghan and Seungcheol to make love on; a slim TV mounted against the wall, presenting either Listings Around the Globe or Let’s Learn Physics! or Hi-5, because Jeonghan thought their songs were catchy and Seungcheol liked the color scheme of the studio; and a coffee table draped with white linen and propping stacks of scientific magazines and fliers of newly designed apartments. When they first moved in, Jeonghan and Seungcheol had danced in here, imprinting their footsteps and the marks of their lives, starting anew. When the days rolled by, Jeonghan and Seungcheol fought at times and cuddled together and soothed each other when work was tough and life was mean. When the months passed, Seungcheol carried a heavily drunk Jeonghan on his back and Jeonghan accompanied Seungcheol in slow strides when he just returned from the hospital. All is well when we’re together, they said, muttered, promised. And we’ll be together. No matter what.

And when the end of the year approaches, the townhouse was emptied, the furniture were wheeled away, and every trace of a couple inhabiting their hectic, vibrant lives together were replaced by coats of grey paint and recently cemented marble floor. Jeonghan once stumbled upon the townhouse after a long day at work, craning his neck up to peer at the brick monument of tangled destinies and heavy hearts and morose breakups. Seungcheol once purposely ambled towards the townhouse, determined fists and jutted-out lips, a flyer and a staple in hand, leaving after making his mark on the building: a paper of FOR SALE attached to the windows, waving slowly, sadly in the wind.

something short and refreshing to write. this is written for ai for her birthday, which is today! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BAE! ( and binx, if you're reading this, yours is in the works! )

sending thank you your way, Ilasion, Oh_Pauline, MKris1106, sabine, SeventeenMinwon, twinklingpaopufruit, MissAndrogynetic, sabotenworld, jeongcheol_fanfic, pumpkin486, angel1209, and evyilkesrobots for upvoting! also thank you so much to all of you readers for your heartwarming comments! they continuously make my day and hopefully i can update more frequently to repay your love!