three-fifteen

Daehyun/Youngjae, Daehyun POV

When we were in that space between kids and adulthood, when we were in high school, I used to see you slouch as if someone boxed you up and told you you could only be that tall.

You were odd. You liked sitting in darkness and draped it over your shoulders with the 5AM radio, the blend of maroon dusk and dawn so breathtaking you woke up hours earlier to sit on the window frame to witness it. Days where I used to follow you and turned up in school early because I loved you, I often saw you perched on the window sill. Days where I used to see the sky bleed against the edge of your neck, I think perhaps you were trying to get out of the grid they drew for you. It seemed that way whenever you swung your legs out and I watched the blue night splatter onto one side of your jawline while the sun whispered into your other cheek.

The glass made it seem like you were moulded that way to fit two by eight squares, like you were small people. Small, as in, scrawled Fs and crumpled worksheets. Small, as in, withered voice and averted gazes. I liked how in the mornings you would spare a glance at me whenever I came into the classroom and turned back to the sky, as though you invited me into the coat you made out of darkness fibre.

Pale skin. Apple red lips. The seams of your eyelids seemed perpetually drawn with eyeliner though it was simply the clump of your lashes and how bleak your irises look. You wore midnight over your head and I told you straighten up only in the dead of nightfall, where you inhaled coalesced morning dew and the occasional city lights smeared against your uniform.

On rainy days, I stood by your side behind the closed window, strained glass, misery and awry enthrallment as the scarce neon melted onto the shimmering asphalt. I peeled off the deformed shadow of rain stitched to your skin several times in my head, never with my rough fingers.

Sleepless nights and dreamless nails. Sometimes, I sat near you because I was afraid you would fall. It was a nice juxtaposition, drawing a line between the sunrise breathed into your bones in your front and the obsolete night hiding away within the classroom walls.

Mime scripts. I tried to open up the box but they glued it shut with castigations and bloody crosses. When you were solemn I thought of snipping the skin of the sky and letting you hold it like a tablecloth. I didn't like when you lost your appetite so I sat with you under the hissing afternoon and bourbon seething white light. No blurred edge and soft buoyancy to the shadows. I said you were odd but you probably thought I was too.

The whole class thought I was for sitting with you. Mute boy with small hands and lovely lips. Snow skin. Charcoal eyes. They don't know how the salmon hue of four o'clock dusk simmers into the purplish blue black of hesitant seven. They don't know how beautiful you are.

In this classroom, you let me hold your hand once, when my mind shrieked and I wondered honestly if you felt the acidic burn of my finger's urges to intertwine with yours. In these four walls, I once scooped you off the window sill as you whined softly, slouching and lowering your head when your feet plopped gently onto the concrete. I taught you how to look up as I pressed you into the wall and lifted your chin, and I kept you standing straight with a long, tender kiss.

A/N: Sorry it's so random, I woke up and suddenly wrote this ><