With his mind now racing at a mile a minute, Jongin barreled upstairs, eyes wide and frantic. He could hear his heart beating like a drum in his chest, feel his breath coming out in ragged gasps, and sense his nerves spiking with energy abound. Upon bursting into his bedroom, the artist reflexively kicked the door shut, barely registering the slash of pain that traveled through his right foot from the sheer force of the kick, before sliding down onto the floor with his back leaning against the wooden door.

Jongin drew his long legs up against his chest and dropped his forehead against the top of his knees, hands clutching his head, while his breathing grew even shallower. As the seconds passed, the artist’s heart rate continued increasing at an incredibly alarming pace until Jongin was just about ready to rip the godforsaken thumping organ out of his chest and hurl it through the window, if only to stop this horrible madness that was enveloping his body and mind.

The artist forced his head up and anxiously scanned his room for anything that could keep him anchored, for even just one second.

But there was nothing he could grab onto.

There were only framed paintings, tall bookcases, hard edges, and sharp lines in Jongin’s bedroom. Any other time, this immaculate image would have filled the artist with immense satisfaction and pride, knowing that everything was in its place. As it all should be.

But now, this hauntingly sleek scene only brought forth dread and despair. The dark silhouettes seemed to taunt him, borders intensifying with every moment. Jongin’s heartbeat elevated even more and his movements grew more erratic as he hastily looked around, his body gradually beginning to rock back and forth in place.

It wasn’t until the artist spotted a floppy corner hanging down the side of his bed that Jongin’s breath suddenly hitched and he instinctively lunged forward, tripping over his long limbs in his desperation to nab the indigo blanket resting atop his bed mattress. Despite the heat of summer settling in, Jongin didn’t care whether or not it was too warm to wrap himself up like a burrito with the fluffy blanket.

All that mattered were its soft edges, smooth fabric, and squishy padding engulfing him with comfort and ease.

The artist haltingly crawled back to the entrance and settled back against the bedroom door, curled up like a ball once again. With the large indigo blanket securely wrapped around his tense body, its softness breaking up the harsh lines that otherwise surrounded him, Jongin was finally able to take a deep breath and slowly exhale.

Under any other circumstances, seeing the muted indigo color of the blanket would have exacerbated the artist’s palpable stress to an even higher level. The dark shade reminded him too much of the black tendrils that so often lingered around him, unwelcome yet unrelenting.

However, this time around, the dusky hue provided a calm and cool coziness that aptly cut through the burgeoning heat of early summer. No longer was he trapped in a fire of disorienting emotions, raging all around him. Although the smoke overhead still hovered above him, no longer was the artist choking and gasping for air, desperate for relief.

As his heart rate steadily slowed the longer he melted against the thick indigo blanket, Jongin mindlessly watched the orange-yellow sun set in the gradually darkening sky, reds and pinks bleeding into blues and purples. And by the time afternoon finished transitioning to evening, the artist was no longer quivering like a leaf.

While Jongin knew he was still far from actually achieving true tranquility, this respite from his body and mind actively working against him was very much welcome. He continued slumping against the door to his bedroom, but burrowed himself within the indigo blanket until only his eyes were left uncovered in between the soft folds.

Now that there was some semblance of calm in the atmosphere, the artist managed to let out a hollow laugh, slightly muffled by the indigo blanket.

Because Do Kyungsoo had somehow thrown him completely off-kilter with just a single thought. A single appearance in the excruciatingly aggravating and unnecessarily complex mind of Kim Jongin—artist extraordinaire.

Or more accurately, romance rookie.

Jongin couldn’t even begin to describe how ridiculous this entire situation was.

Yet every single thread of thought, every last line of logic, went straight back to Do Kyungsoo.

Park Chanyeol. Byun Baekhyun. Kim Junmyeon.

Heck, even Park Sojin.

All of these grievances, layered on top of each other, constantly biting at his ankles like ants in the soil, always led back to Do Kyungsoo. Without fail.

Jongin didn’t know why it had taken him so long to piece it all together.

No, that was a lie.

He did.

And his empty relationship history, blank as the expansive canvases that stood in his art studio, highlighted itself like a shining beacon.

As if it were something to be proud of.

Jongin’s face paled, the artist suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.

Part of him felt guilty towards Kyungsoo for reacting to this revelation in such an agonizingly visceral way.

After all, it wasn’t like the ophthalmologist was completely undesirable. It wasn’t a horrible crime to think so highly of the other man.

Perhaps if his dating history were more colorful, perhaps if he’d had more notches on the pole, the artist would be handling this with much more maturity and grace. Maybe then, he wouldn’t be crouched on the floor like a battered mouse, enveloped in growing darkness, with his mind in absolute shambles.

It was so silly.

Just because he had never dated anyone before, everything was suddenly collapsing all around him.

Everything he thought he knew, everything he thought he understood, no longer held water.

Only black ink and dark smudges.

Just what those cursed shadowy tendrils were made out of. 

And yet, when the image of Do Kyungsoo’s face reappeared in his mind, all of the tiny hairs on Jongin’s skin rose up like spikes, as if electrified. And the artist let out a sharp hiss of pain as he dug his palms into his arms.

If this was what romance entailed, then Jongin wanted nothing to do with it.

If this was the reward that people constantly chased after, centering their whole lives on finding that perfect special someone, then Jongin would gladly remove himself from the pool of eligible bachelors.

This was the worst he had felt in ages.

And that was including every terrible issue that had plagued him this past year, which ironically had led to this very moment.

Because if his muse hadn’t disappeared, if his color vision hadn’t faded, Jongin would have never met Do Kyungsoo in the first place.

However, even then, that thought was immensely terrifying.

Jongin couldn’t imagine how he could have coped these past few months without Kyungsoo’s unwavering support.

All of this…

Kim Jongin couldn’t have done without Do Kyungsoo.

Without his help, his expertise, or his care.

But…how could Jongin verify that this was real?

How could he be sure—absolutely certain, even—that he wasn’t going completely insane?

After all, this wasn’t how crushes were depicted in media. No sensible person reacted this way when confronted with the recognition of such deep emotions towards another human being.

Then again, the artist didn’t have the best examples of long-standing romantic relationships around him to reference or learn from.

Nevertheless, Jongin wasn’t stupid.

His pride would never allow it.

And he knew, despite not having a single speck of experience, that this wasn’t some kind of sick joke that his befuddled mind was playing on him. Even though the artist verily wished it were so.

While his ignorance and his lack of familiarity with romance had kept him sheltered from such a pivotal realization until now—and Jongin did not want to think about how long he’d been unknowingly feeling this way—there was no escaping the truth.

For better or for worse, Kim Jongin was—

No.

He couldn’t say it.

He wouldn’t.

Because how could this happen?

How could he fall prey to his worthless emotions?

How could he feel anything when his muse had abandoned him? Left him for dead? Completely deserted and vacant?

There was no basis, no logical explanation, absolutely no reason for him to have such an outlandish epiphany.

Yet…no matter how much Jongin tried to deny the intrusive thoughts…

No matter how much Jongin tried to pretend it was someone else’s youthful face, someone else’s soft hair, someone else’s big brown eyes staring back at him…

The artist could feel himself straying from his anchor once again. He could feel himself on the verge of tumbling back down into the deep bottomless hole below him.

Down, down, down like a raindrop free-falling without abandon from the stormy clouds up above.

So before his fingers could slip from the crumbling edge, Jongin pressed his right cheek against the soft indigo blanket and focused solely on his slightly irregular breathing patterns. The artist silently counted in his head until the tempo of his breathing matched the tempo of his counting. And then he slowly began letting his hands loosen up from where they had involuntarily bunched up the blanket between his fingers, until they were completely unfurled and limp.

He had to remain calm.

He couldn’t lose control like this again.

If he hadn’t been at home…

If he hadn’t been in the comfort of his own bedroom…

Jongin didn’t want to imagine the horrors that might’ve otherwise transpired.

But he also couldn’t run away from this realization, as earth-shattering as it was. He couldn’t hide from this forever. Life was not forgiving in this way.

Life was not forgiving…at all.

In two weeks, Jongin would see Do Kyungsoo again.

In two weeks, Jongin would have to look the ophthalmologist in the eye, knowing that other emotions would underlie his usual greeting.

In two weeks, Jongin would have to sit down in that black examination chair and pretend that everything was the same as it had always been. That nothing was amiss. That the recurrent pounding in his chest was induced by more than just nerves and frustration.

And as the thoughts continued materializing again, mounting one by one on top of each other, higher and higher, Jongin reflexively let out a shaky whimper.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t face Do Kyungsoo with all of this pressure weighing down on him.

He was… He was too much of a…a coward to walk in there so brazenly and smile at him like Kim Junmyeon did.

To giggle with him like Park Sojin did.

To latch onto his arm like Byun Baekhyun did.

To stick beside him at all times like Park Chanyeol did.

Jongin could feel his stomach twist into knots at the thought of displaying such cloyingly pathetic behavior—in public, no less.

He would rather drop dead.

To become what he loathed so intensely…

The artist refused to imagine such a ridiculous reality.

Yet when that same reality also involved the absence of emptiness, of misunderstandings, of perpetual isolation…

Jongin found his resolve disintegrating within him again, bit by bit.

He buried his face against the indigo blanket once more and closed his eyes before refocusing on the deep inhales and exhales escaping his chapped lips. The artist sat there, completely unaware of how time was passing, and just breathed.

Until he heard a familiar melody travel through his ears.

It was almost indistinct at first, just white noise that held no substance.

And then it grew louder and louder, gradually taking on a shape as the notes played one after another.

And then it morphed into a familiar voice, rich as chocolate and gentle as silk.

And then it verbalized into words, into lyrics that brought forth images of rolling ocean waves, vast night skies, and blinking fairy lights.

“Today, for the first time, I faced my honest heart.”

And as Jongin murmured the lyrics out loud, the artist’s voice broke at the end and a new tide of tremors surged through his body.

Because even if he were able to come to terms with this new development, in what world would Do Kyungsoo ever accept Kim Jongin?

Broken. Reckless. Imperfect.

There were too many issues, too much baggage attached to the artist.

And Jongin couldn’t punish Kyungsoo with an overwhelming burden like that. Like him.

Even so, despite of all of the artist’s numerous faults, Jongin wasn’t cruel.

He was lame. He was rude. He was selfish.

But Kim Jongin wasn’t cruel.

Another choked whimper escaped his lips.

The artist hastily chased the melody out of his head as his chest constricted, the black tendrils eagerly closing in and tightening their binds around him.

Do Kyungsoo couldn’t be the answer.

He just…couldn’t.

Still unable to fully comprehend what this all meant for him, Jongin somehow managed to pull his phone out of his pocket with shaking hands and painstakingly type out a single word before pressing Send. He then curled back in on himself, eyes screwed shut, as dozens and dozens of thoughts ricocheted around his brain like a defective pinball machine.

Help.

♈♈♈