At first, there were strawberries.

And then, in the horizon, past the white, pillow-like, strawberry-strewn bushes that are actually clouds, he sees something move.  It’s a little too far away to recognize, even with light as bright as this, but he knows that it’s a creature of some sort, and it is galloping, flying, even.  It gets closer, closer, closer, and closer, until he can make out the unmistakable form of a majestic equine with a single tusk on its forehead, one that closely resembles that of a narwhal’s.

Unicorn.

And it gallops—no, flies, closer, his eyes sparkle with a mixture of wonder and confusion.  Only then does he realize the speed it’s approaching with, what with the mixture of dust and cloud and glitter it leaves in its wake; his eyes widen, and he instinctively shields his face with his arms (as if it’ll do anything to protect him from a horse running, or flying, towards him at infinity miles an hour).

But, merely inches away from his lanky form, it stops.  He hears it whinny, and its hooves scratch against the pavement; which is weird, because the last time he checked, there are only clouds, and clouds didn’t really make much sound.

Suddenly, he removes his hands from his face, looks down, and screams. I’m standing on clouds!  Reflexively, he jumps, arms quickly wrapping around any sort of anchorage—which happens to be the unicorn—that could save him from falling.  Naturally, the unicorn whinnies, but it’s not the type that earns him a kick afterwards.  The sound is closer to something like approval, as if the creature appreciated the odd embrace they are in.

Reluctantly, he looks up at the unicorn, face slightly twisted in a grimace as he pulls away.  He sees it smile at him, impossibly pink lips pulling up to reveal anthropomorphic pearly-whites.  That could’ve sent him fainting, but it’s its speaking that almost gives him cardiac arrest.
“Ride me,” it says, tuft of unusual, chocolate brown hair flying in the wind.  His eyebrows subconsciously crease, and his hold on the creature slightly wavers.

All of a sudden, the unicorn begins to seem farther away, and he realizes that it’s begun galloping—no, flying again.  His scrawny arms struggle to keep ahold of the unicorn’s muscular neck, legs helplessly scrambling beneath him.

“Ride me, daddy.”


-


Zhang Yixing wakes up to the smell of strawberries. 

A strangled sound builds up in his throat, interrupting the steady rhythm of snores erupting from his mouth and sailing through the cold morning air.  He snorts, body soon gaining mobility as he slowly becomes conscious.  Blinking away the last traces of sleep, his still-glassy eyes dazedly stare up at the ceiling—a wide expanse of white, textured permatex slightly chipping away to reveal ugly brown paint underneath; a faux crystal chandelier, one that looked a little too grimy to even be considered an effective artificial lighting, serves as its sole embellishment.  Yixing’s eyebrows furrow, and his eyes narrow.  He’s pretty sure he’s never had one installed.  He’s also sure he’ll never choose such a tacky model, even if his life depended on it.

He means to sit up in order to make sense of his surroundings, but the bed barely creaks under him as he is practically pinned down, torso deemed immobile by a weight on his chest, which is apparently caused by a figure sleeping next to him.  His immediate response is a sharp intake of breath, and once more, the distinct smell of strawberries hits him, followed by something else, something far more physical, hitting him on the head.

He groans, shifting uncomfortably. Hangover.

Memories of the night before begin to flash in Yixing’s mind, but they are all too quick and muddled to make sense to him; nothing but microsecond previews, meaningless imageries, bursts of color that dance in time with the merciless pounding in his head.

Ah, yes, dancing!

He remembers dancing!

He’s not exactly a genius, but it doesn’t take much for him to put two and two together: this stranger must be the beautiful girl he remembers dancing with last night.  A light flush comes across his cheeks when he considers the only possible reason why they’re sleeping on the same bed, then a smirk that’s bordering a little too close to ersion to be considered sane.  Did King Zhang Yixing just get laid last night?
He absentmindedly runs a hand through the girl’s chocolate brown hair, smirk reaching a point of permanence.  Uhh, yeah.  He just did.
Minutes roll by with Yixing grinning at nothing, petting the girl’s hair with one veiny hand.  He only pauses when the first greeting of sunlight finally pours in through the windows, landing right on his dazed face and causing him to squint.  He doesn’t intend to stop with the caressing, but his ring gets caught in some of the brown strands, and as he attempts to tug it away, a guttural sound emits from the stranger.

Yixing’s eyes widen.  Is it just him, or did her voice sound a little too… manly?

The more groans escape, the more Yixing panics.  His ring doesn’t seem to want to cooperate, only gathering more strands with every attempt of pulling away.  He only now notices how the girl’s head of hair collectively move with every tug of his hand; it gives him goose bumps.  The stranger continues to stir, then freezes.  Yixing freezes.

French tips reluctantly dance across Yixing’s skinny, clothed torso, testing, searching.  He watches with careful eyes, goose bumps now popping everywhere the surprisingly warm hand travels.  Eventually, it reaches the low collar of Yixing’s tank top, fingertips ghosting over the man’s collarbones before reaching into the material.  Reflexively, Yixing reaches out to stop the hand, but since his own is still stuck in the stranger’s hair, instead of pulling away empty, he tugs the whole thing along.

The whole thing.

Both he and the stranger freezes.  The latter looks up at him with absolute terror.

Yixing screams, pushing back the cross-dressed man with one hand and attempting to shake off the chocolate brown wig with the other.  Unfortunately, he only makes matters worse, pulling the man along as they both discover the chain that linked them.  Silence takes over the room.  They stare at the handcuffs.  They make eye contact.

A battle cry pierces through the air, and the pair begins their tug of war.  Yixing looks determined, but it doesn’t even take a second for the man in the red dress to bring him down, twisting his arm in one quick maneuver and slamming the former down on the mattress.
Yixing groans.  He thinks he broke something.


-


Hopeless minutes are spent as far away from each other as possible.

The two men sit on opposite sides of the bed, eyes bid to never land anywhere near each other.  Yixing has been mumbling to himself that it’s all just a dream.  He’s just asleep.  Soon, he’ll wake up in his cozy bed, and all of this will be gone.  The man in the red dress, on the other hand, has been hacking hopelessly at the handcuffs with some wooden decoration he found on the bedside table.  He would’ve worried about paying for it if it breaks—as if it hasn’t already—but it’s the least of his concerns.  Right now, what he truly needs is to get away.

Yixing is the first to break their unspoken truce.  He gloomily looks over, eyes glazed with misery and hangover. “Listen,” he sighs, and immediately, the other stops hacking away at the chain, looking up at him with timid eyes. “I don’t remember anything about last night.  So please… please help me on this.” He gestures towards their handcuffed hands. “Did you… do this?”

A clearing of the throat, then a sigh. “I-I don’t remember anything either.” He quickly adds, “b-but I didn’t–I didn’t do this!  I swear!”

Yixing chews on his lip, thinking. “What’s your name?”

“Junmyeon,” the man says with a bit of reluctance.

“Mhm,” Yixing nods, eyes