SIX


Friday morning begins with a dainty drizzle of rain and few blustering claps of wrathful thunder. Then, the clouds part to reveal an astonishingly blue sky, the colour so clear and pure that its beauty goes unmatched by anything else. Birds fly peacefully through the air, flocking in neat formations, putting on a show for the whole city to see. They circle and swirl, feathers fluttering in the warm breeze, until they eventually soar towards the trees to hide amongst clusters of green, exhausted.

Jaehyun yawns as he rolls out of bed, toes and fingers tingling as they are spontaneously exposed to the room’s gelid temperature. He quickly yanks his sheet off the bed and tosses it onto his feet, trying to sustain heat whilst he comes to his senses. He blinks and rubs his eyes continuously until his vision is no longer so outrageously distorted, unhurriedly ridding of any chunky remnants of his slumber from the creases in his face.

Another yawn, followed up by the weakest of moans, slowly creeps out past his lips, disturbing the eerie silence. Something about the constant quietness is unsettling, as though there is an imbalance, a disturbed aura of sorts. It makes Jaehyun shiver, bumps rising all over his flawless, fair skin.

Through squinted eyes, he turns his head and stares out his window. The sill is covered in a light sprinkle of dust and the glass is dirtied by curious handprints, each containing a memory, embodying a person’s thoughts. He remembers – all too distinctly – the time he has spent gazing out at all the other buildings, pouting as he discovers just how identical, how monotonous they all appear. Only on stormy days is the view of any interest to him, when the rain splatters vociferously against the glass and the thunder rumbles so loudly that it’s almost as though the buildings around him are shaking, crumbling down. He loves hearing vicious wind and watching as it attacks everything in its path, whilst he remains bundled up in masses of pleasantly soothing sheets, a cup of tea in his hands.

Today though, the clouds have swiftly disappeared and left an abundance of sunshine in their place. The sparkling rays and splendid stretch of blue bring with them countless smiling faces and the refreshing sound of joyous laughter. But, Jaehyun still feels uneasy and dreads that the day’s events may not unwind well. He fears that the protest will end with a bang far more alarming than any thunder he has ever heard in the past.

Jaehyun dresses casually, in a pair of black ripped jeans and a khaki t-shirt that is just a few sizes too large. The jeans cling to his legs marvellously, outlining the strong shape of his thighs and the tautness of his backside. He has toned calves, too, and sharp ankles that cop a slight chill each time he takes a step, jeans lifting a little. The shirt – embellished with a few trendy holes and tears – does not do his broad shoulders much justice, and hides his bulging upper arms. Fortunately, it does show off his slender wrists and exquisite hands; fingers that are thin, yet powerful, accustomed to tightly grasping a pen or pencil for consecutive hours throughout the day. There are some callouses and scars – and a subtle dent – but these are faint, hardly perceptible. Most don’t focus their attention on his hands. They are far too preoccupied with his majestic facial features or are all too caught up in wondering how somebody could look so impressive right after rolling out of bed.

The auburn strands dangling just above his twinkling eyes are starting to fade, and his roots are beginning to become more prominent. It will only take a couple of months more for his whole head to be painted black once again, a lovely natural colour that makes his skin tone more elegant, dazzling. It is with dark hair that he looks most handsome. It makes him seem classy, preserving an image of professionalism and maturity, the perfect appearance to represent such an established newspaper.

“Could you move any slower?”

Doyoung leans indifferently against the wall, smirking smugly as though he knows something that Jaehyun does not. He is barely recognisable, in an oversized sweater and torn, daggy blue jeans. Across his chest are colourful block letters against a pale pink, which are seemingly random, forming words that have absolutely no relevance to one another. His shoes are evidently new, the white on them glowing so brightly that they reflect sunlight, and his hair flops messily over his eyes. This is the first time in months that he hasn’t worn his hair styled up, that he hasn’t dressed in a button down shirt and tight-fitting suit pants. Seeing him like this is somewhat invigorating, albeit a little bizarre.

“What in God’s name are you wearing?” Jaehyun questions, his words partially disrupted by gentle giggles. He cups a hand over his mouth, attempting to remain silent.

Doyoung frowns and bats his eyelashes. “I’m trying to fit in,” he responds, tugging angrily at his sweater and tapping a foot, “a guy in a business suit would look pretty out of place at a protest.”

“Can’t a person look sophisticated and care about the world around them?”

“Shut up,” Doyoung scoffs. His eyes roll dramatically and he his head towards the door, impatient. “Let’s go.”

The streets are teeming with groups and individuals heading towards the event. Like last time, the people come in all shapes, sizes and shades. They dress in all kinds of fashion, from sporty to chic, from black leather to flimsy white. Most hold boards above their heads, or at least smaller signs; words printed onto cardboard in hundreds of colours make the sight beautifully vibrant. Everyone shouts boisterously, yet peacefully; without aggression. Jaehyun and Doyoung try to fit in, wishing to seem inconspicuous.

Jaehyun feels unnerved, but he holds up his façade as best he can and yells along with the crowd. The veins stretching across his neck bulge and pulse, growing more prominent the more he exerts his energy, and his cheeks redden considerably. His lips become terribly dry, whilst his eyes grow damp, filling with swarms of uncontrollable emotion. He blends into the hoards of protestors physically, and for a moment, his mental state matches theirs, too.

A voice sounds out. It is stronger than most, and loud enough to slice through the wild whoops and strangled screams. “Hey newbie, over here!”

Standing unsteadily atop a red car is a shorter man, his hair slick and freshly silver, his clothes billowing and unparalleled. His ear-piercings are all gorgeous, drooping diamonds, all of which glisten magically, transforming into wondrous rainbows as light strikes them. It is hard not to gawk at this man’s chiselled features.

Beside him is Taeyong, with his fairy-tale face and slender dancer’s body. He has fallen still and silent, dragging his attention away from the passionate protestors to gape at Jaehyun. He seems extremely shocked by the journalist’s presence, but not displeased by it.

“Glad you could make it, kid.”

Jaehyun’s eyebrows furrow as he approaches, and Taeyong springs off the car to greet him. “Don’t mind Yuta. He has been quite excited about you coming along. He takes pride in seeing fresh faces at his events.”

Jaehyun chuckles uneasily and gives Yuta a kind wave, fingers wavering. Yuta grins, revealing a set of splendid white teeth that are enough to make Jaehyun smile, too.

“I’m surprised you came alone,” Taeyong exclaims, searching around for a companion.

Confused, Jaehyun spins in a circle, eyes frantically looking for Doyoung and his funny pink sweater. He sees a man who is tall and skinny, like a human representation of the Eiffel Tower. He notices that there is a family in attendance; their matching red outfits are hard to miss. He even spots a woman protesting with her dog, holding the ball of fluff above her head as though she is worshipping its existence. However, there is no sign of Doyoung, no indication that he had ever even come.

“Uh, yeah, well I thought it was invite only,” Jaehyun jokes, uncomfortable under the interested gaze of such a beautiful being.

There are so many questions he wants to ask and so many things he needs to say, but Jaehyun is so worried about his best friend that he has momentarily forgotten how to speak.

Two men huddle together, whispering, sharing secrets. One of them is taller than the other, with slim legs and wider shoulders. The second seems softer somehow, as though his body is light and delicate. They are both sporting very similar outfits – hooded sweatshirts, surgeon masks and caps jerked down to conceal their faces – that make them undoubtedly suspicious.

Doyoung observes them from afar, maintaining distance to maintain caution. He watches through hooded eyes, eyes that catch every single movement in the same manner that his ears are able to catch every important detail. He is the lawyer and they are the suspects, the people whose guilt he needs to prove. Today is all about honing his skills.

Edging closer, Doyoung begins to comprehend full sentences rather than lone words. At first he believes he may have misjudged the two shady characters, but as their conversation unfolds, their intentions become clear. They are not criminals and he can’t condemn them in his court, but they are up to no good and he might just have the power to muddle in their plans.

“Do you think the other journalist is here already?” the taller male asks. Despite his above average height and sturdy upper body, his voice is velvety and sweet. There is a deepness to it, but it is comforting.

“If he’s as serious as I am, I’m sure he’s been here as long as I have. Now, all we have to do is find him.”

The taller of the two shakes his head in opposition to such a comment. His tone is doubly serious when he finally starts to speak again. “No, you need to focus on the story. I’ll seek out this other guy and do my best to obtain additional information. If I find a way to distract him, I will.”

The two separate after a quick hug. Its an abrupt gesture, and yet it is full of meaning and emotion. It is an expression of support and encouragement, something shared between friends who would willingly walk through fire for one another. Doyoung understands such a bond, because he is lucky to have experienced it himself. He hopes that Jaehyun is okay, and that he can see through this strange man’s ploys.

The shorter male is left standing alone, head down and arms wrapped around his body as though to secure it. Surrounded by so many fervent people, he seems vulnerable, shrinking further into himself with every passing second. His figure starts to vanish, so Doyoung has to open his eyes wider to locate him once more.

With an exasperated sigh, Doyoung steps between the dubious fellow and a ginormous man who continuous to bump into him. He shields the slighter male, creating a safe space, a shield to build trust. “Need some help?”

As the man lifts his head to reveal extraordinary doe-eyes – adorned with spectacularly thick lashes – Doyoung feels his heart jump a few times. Only once before has his chest ever tightened like this, like an unbearable weight has landed on top of him and refuses to budge. Breathing suddenly hurts intolerably, so much that it would be easier just to stop.

“I’m not really used to being around this many people,” is the reply, in a tone so shy and frightened that Doyoung wants nothing more than to wrap the man up in a bundle of of fuzzy woollen blankets. But, he makes no move to offer words or gestures of comfort, remembering that this person is not as innocent as he seems.

Doyoung shakes his head, ridding of any irrelevant thoughts to focus on the task at hand. “You don’t really seem too fussed with the whole protest scene.”

“I didn’t come here to join in, but I am interested in everyone here. Though, it’s admittedly difficult to talk to anyone when it’s so noisy and crowded.”

“I know some of the organisers if you’re interested in meeting with them,” Doyoung lies, teeth grinding as his jaw becomes stiffer. He hastily searches the crowd and upon spotting a seemingly reliable figure – a young guy in a white buttoned shirt and perfectly ironed brown pants, his bright blonde hair combed backwards tidily – points a confident finger. “See that boy over there? His brother is an organiser.”

The man jerks his mask off and grins enthusiastically. “Seriously? Ah, thank you so much…um…”

“Doyoung.”

“Doyoung…thank you so, so much.”

Smiling from ear to ear, the man darts off, disappearing into the sea of rowdy bodies. Desperate, Doyoung calls out after him, elevating his voice to beat the sounds of those pumping their fists in all directions. “Wait, you didn’t give me your name!”

Though the response is faint, Doyoung hears it clearly. “Kun!”

Jaehyun is even more handsome when he’s flustered, with a light trace of perspiration shimmering around the base of his neck, hair curling just marginally as it dampens. His cheeks are red like ripe cherries, both from the heat and his effort to blend in with the crowd as they scream until their lungs are ready to explode. And his eyes – oh, his eyes – shine brighter than the sun, glow in all colours of the rainbow, sparkle like a cluster of dazzling crystals. They are vivid and amorous, and at the same time they are like stupendous black holes mighty enough to anyone in. Taeyong can hardly control himself; he is so close to falling into those chocolate brown eyes, to falling into those voids full of intelligence, curiosity and emotion.

If this young man – his smile as sweet as candy, his laugh as superb as a choir of angels – had been studying absolutely any other profession, Taeyong thinks he could have been friends with him, or maybe something more. He imagines that Jaehyun must be captivating and whimsical, and that conversations with him must be full of wit, love and his beaming face as he listens intently. He must be kind and gentle, and every moment spent with him would be full of significance. Taeyong wishes he had no knowledge of Jaehyun’s true intentions, so that he could be honest and sincere, willing to welcome him with affectionately open arms. But, he must remain heedful and must put extreme thought into every little thing he says or does, or the situation could head downhill at a distressingly speedy pace.

Thankfully, Taeyong does not have to work too hard or worry about avoiding the journalist’s appealing gaze. The crowd has become disconcertingly rowdy and their actions are no longer calm or harmonious, but a concerning combination of destructive, quivery and buoyant. There are scuffles between friends, strangers and families, as though an enormous catastrophe has set them all off, forcing them into a violent frenzy. The smiling faces and passionate shouts have vanished, and what had been a totally controlled protest mere seconds earlier now looks like a horrific scene from a zombie film. There’s an undeniable outbreak and nobody is safe.

Taeyong acts without hesitation and grabs Jaehyun by the wrist, yanking him as breaks into a panicked sprint. He doesn’t look back – not even as Yuta screeches warnings in the distance – but he can hear Jaehyun’s heavy, bothered breathing and the somewhat hypnotic rhythm of his shoes slapping against the disproportionate road. It is like he is being pursued and he wants to escape, but he can’t let go; he won’t let go. He must persevere, must keep on running with his fingers entwined with those of the enemy.

“Where are we going?” Jaehyun yells between breaths. The tiredness of his tone makes Taeyong think of inappropriate images; a very hot and bothered journalist, a man with a robust chest dotted in sweat that tastes as good as his rich eyes look. Taeyong coughs, clearing the congested words caught in his throat and ridding of the scenes overtaking his mind.

He slows his pace to take a sharp turn, before coming to an abrupt stop, shoes kicking up a bunch of greyish dirt. “We’re already here.”

‘Here’ is – to any average person’s eyes – a dark alleyway with cobblestone buildings and a path of mismatched colours. But to someone like Taeyong, who has explored every inch of the area and has uncovered its endless secrets, it is a place of magic and prospect and liberty. The ground is not simply inconsistent due to age or poor craftsmanship, but because each stone has been placed by someone different. It is a path created by the wishes of New York’s citizens, who have written their desires in messy scrawls across the back of the stones. The stones come in various colours and shapes; those wished upon by children have been painted, some with delightful little handprints and others with adorable stick figure creations. The walls of the skyscrapers – those that inflict such ghastly darkness upon the alley – are covered in many holes, all filled with letters to loved ones, to anonymous characters and to those who are no longer alive. People enjoy reading the heartfelt notes and some even like to replace them with their own. Taeyong is one of the few people who takes time to respond, to give people hope.

During the day, staring directly upwards from the centre of the alleyway provides a remarkable view, granted it isn’t overcast or raining. Wedged between the cobblestone buildings is a beautiful blue, which contrasts against the dullness on either side and often illuminates the artwork down below. As massive white clouds float by – like fairy floss being tugged by on a piece of string – they cast dancing shadows along the walls and pretty patterns over the peculiar stones.

In spite of the chaos in the streets, the alleyway is quiet and its mysterious messages whisper to Taeyong. He drops Jaehyun’s hand gently and paces further into the inviting blackness, palm running over the bumps and crevasses of the cobblestone. He inhales the musky scent surrounding him as though it’s a drug he can’t get enough of, and lets his head fall back in ecstasy, sunshine heating his cheeks.
“I’ve never brought anyone here before,” Taeyong says softly, eyelids fluttering shut, “hardly anybody knows it exists.”

Jaehyun takes a couple of thoughtful steps forward. His expression is one of wonder and awe, eyes filling to the brim with inquisitiveness, lips curving into a gorgeous grin. “I suppose an alleyway is the last place someone would go off exploring on their lonesome.”

“Unless that someone is me,” Taeyong responds, laughing lightly. He pushes his shiny white hair out of his eyes and gazes over at Jaehyun, whose presence makes his heart skip a beat. He knows he shouldn’t be so happy to share this magical spot with a man so eager to expose him, but he can’t help it. Jaehyun is so unbearably beautiful, with his masculine figure and cutely rounded cheeks. It’s difficult not to stare.

“You’re so unusual,” Jaehyun mumbles.

Taeyong smirks. “How so?”

“Around so many people, you have this tough persona which almost makes you seem unapproachable. But here, like this, you’re so quiet and soft. And there’s something different about your eyes.”

“I am tough,” Taeyong exclaims. He puffs out his chest and cranes his neck, stiffening his posture. And then, he lets his act shatter. “But only when I have to be. I have a reputation to uphold, you know? People have a set image of me in their heads and now I’m sort of used to acting the way they expect me to act. Here is one of the few places that I can let my guard down.”

Jaehyun an eyebrow, his expression suddenly sceptical. “Is protesting a part of your reputation maintenance, too?”

“I don’t do this to impress anyone. I do this to help people and to encourage others to fight for a just cause,” Taeyong explains, plucking a letter from its covert position, “I started planning these events after Yuta inspired me. He and I might be incredibly different in regards to day-to-day life, but we share the same beliefs about equality and whatnot. We work past our dissimilarities to benefit others.”

The journalist plays dumb. Taeyong barely notices. “What you guys do is amazing, but isn’t it quite dangerous? Aren’t you putting a lot on the line?”

“You’re right. After today, I’m going to be more careful with my decisions. My dancing means a hell of a lot to me and I’d hate for all of my time and effort to go to waste.”

“That’s admirable,” Jaehyun says, nodding in understanding. He smiles again.

“But that’s enough about me,” Taeyong states huskily. A sudden grumble erupts from his throat as he creeps towards Jaehyun, like a lion stalking its prey. The journalist backs up against the wall uneasily and flinches – startled – when Taeyong’s hands come to rest on either side of his head. He leans in eagerly, close enough to feel the other man’s warm minty breath blow against his skin. “I want to talk about you.”

Taeyong wants to appear intimidating, his eyes capable of expressing threats on their own. He needs this man to believe he has been caught out and that he’s in a decent amount of trouble. He wishes he could make his body bigger, buffer and brilliant, scary enough to match the furious tone he is prepared to use if things don’t go his way.

But, for some reason, he is inclining his chin and pursing his lips instead. No words can come out, because there are a pair of marvellously supple lips pressed against his own.