Minseok teaches him to exist in all the ways he hadn’t dreamed possible. It starts the day Baekhyun, excruciatingly curious, asks how Minseok makes his fingernails such a color, how he keeps his skin and hair glowing without any thick makeup or glitter involved. The older boy is radiant even when he’s not performing, glowing with compliments and his own pride, and Baekhyun trips over silk and fallen stars as he enters Minseok’s tent that afternoon. 

He stares on, transfixed, as the older boy delicately tints his nails a bright red, as those small fingers and hands wrap around his so easily -- Minseok’s skin is velvety against the calluses that mar Baekhyun’s. Delicate as the piece of hair that falls against his forehead, Minseok paints the younger’s nails with precision, his satisfied grin crashing into Baekhyun like a wave.

“Pretty color, right?” Minseok’s blowing on his fingers, lips glossy and petal pink, just like Baekhyun had noticed the first night he’d been here, the first night he’d been held in his life. “Your fingers are pretty, too. Probably from all that piano.” 

His mind races with the realization that such gentle people exist, that there are boys who are softer than all the women he’d ever met and taught and feared. Despite the new environment and duties, despite the way his mind still rings with fresh memories of drunken nights and glittering jewelry, Baekhyun feels at home when he’s sitting here, knees touching Minseok’s as rain serenades the walls around them. 

“I saw the ringmaster putting a balm on his lips,” Baekhyun tries to count the colors painted across Minseok’s eyelids and fails, getting too distracted by his thoughts in the end. “Do you use the same? I’ve never seen anything like that for men. I didn’t know it was allowed.” 

Minseok searches his face for something Baekhyun can’t quite place, lined eyes widening even further, and goes completely still. Fearing that he’s done something bad, Baekhyun instinctively moves further away from him, the friction between their legs completely gone in an instant. But then Minseok is smiling, hands moving to cup Baekhyun’s cheeks fondly, and he is boiling over once again. 

“This isn’t the real world, Baekhyun,” Minseok’s fingers move to brush over his lips delicately, and Baekhyun feels like he might be sick. His vision is blurred by the older boy’s presence, by the electricity that clouds his bloodstream. 

Touching is something he’d never been allowed, something he’d never grown accustomed to; Minseok never hesitates to let his gaze and hands linger where they so please.

“What do you mean?” Baekhyun asks it against the fingers on his lips, realizing just how alive human contact makes him. He can’t believe he’s gone this long, doesn’t think he ever will again, not when he knows the warmth he’s capable of feeling. 

“Rouge and balm and glitter makes you stand out. They’re good. There are no rules of that kind here,” Minseok’s hands are gone, and Baekhyun leans forward, vying for more of the older’s affection. “Our only job is to perform well.” 

An entire world that runs on the thought of shining brighter than others, on being the center of attention -- it sounds foolish to Baekhyun, for he’s aware that standing out can make you a target, can make you seem odd and soft-hearted when it’s best not to be. It can take away dreams and warm beds and friends, he knows. 

But now there is a boy sitting in front of him, smelling of spices he can’t name and adorning himself with everything beautiful the world has to offer, and Baekhyun wants to stand out, too. 

“If there are no rules, can I try?” he’s cautious when he asks it, knowing far too well that it isn’t best to ask for favors, but then again, nothing Minseok has ever done has been something he can understand or predict. 

And then there are soft hands on him again, painting his cheeks the color of a spring carnation and his eyelids as red as the wine they all sip at night, just enough of a difference from his tanned skin to make him feel as though he must be glowing, to match the soft scarlet that rests upon the bow of his lips.

Outside, he hears the shouts of other performers as they pass by Minseok’s tent, smells the kitchen’s firing up, the smoke and the fire and the spices that dance through the air. Despite the rain outside, there is no stopping a night of entertainment. Nothing stops the music from playing, the dancers from dancing -- this he has realized. Baekhyun lets Minseok’s fingers sketch out the curves of his eyes, lets them carve his cheekbones with an artist’s hand, so steady and focused that it’s reminiscent of his composure on the trapeze, controlled and graceful. 

“Do you get scared?” he has no business to be asking this as a lowly piano player, but Minseok has never shown him anything but kindness, and he’s so, so curious. “All the way up there, with only a net under you, jumping. I get scared just watching Yixing walk the tightrope.” 

Minseok’s voice radiates warmth when he responds, and Baekhyun’s heart soaks it up like much needed sunshine. 

“That’s rather cute,” he drags his pinky across the outer corner of Baekhyun’s eye, cleaning up his canvas. “And, no, Kyungsoo has never missed a catch. I trust him, and the girls I catch trust me, and we don’t get scared. At least, that’s what we all tell each other.” 

He giggles and it registers like tinkling bells in Baekhyun’s mind -- Minseok’s laugh is the sound of the wind chimes that promenade across his students’ porches, of porcelain tea cups meeting polished tables.

This pampering must be done, after so many minutes of gentle admiration and explanation, after all the lingering touches that stain Baekhyun’s cheeks and lips. But, no, there’s much more, Baekhyun realizes, when Minseok dips his fingers into a soft pink oil resting on his vanity, when he stands and wraps his fingers between each strand of Baekhyun’s hair, when he lets blunt nails meet Baekhyun’s scalp. There is so much happening, so many sensations and emotions he hadn’t realized he’d missed out on, and Baekhyun belatedly realizes that he’s on the verge of tears.

It’s too much all at once -- Minseok’s voice and touch and reassurance is soaking into his skin, leaving him coated with longing for more, with a want for constant affection. It’s addicting. 

“Next time you wash your hair, come back,” Minseok ignores the pearly pink tears in the corner of Baekhyun’s eyes, if he even notices them at all. “I’ll put more in. It’ll make your hair soft and you’ll smell like roses.” 

“Thank you,” and it’s only been a few days since he’d arrived in this chaotic place, but there are flower buds taking hold of his chest, and he likes the way Minseok makes them bloom. “Thank you so much.” 

The older boy says nothing, simply releases one hand from Baekhyun’s hair from his delicate grasp and collects the shimmering powders and creams he’d just used. They’re piled into Baekhyun’s lap, and it’s silently understood that they’re for him to keep. Never has he received a gift like this, never so casually, never without any pretenses or demeaning words thrown along with it.

He isn’t sure how to react to this moment, so instead of forming a complete thought, he just leans his head back against Minseok’s remaining hand, closes his eyes, and hopes that this feeling of comfort will last long after the older’s doting has ended. 

--

Baekhyun, 

I hope this letter finds you well. Junmyeon has informed me of your employment and thanks me for the recommendation. I hope you are able to stay at the circus. Yerim misses your lessons dearly, but I know you are destined for something greater than teaching showtunes to a spoiled girl. 

She pleads to come and see her tutor, and I am nothing if not a fool for her. Expect us both in a few months when I have finished production for my current show. 

Stay healthy in the meantime,

Cho Kyuhyun 

-- 

Dear Mr. Cho,

I will write you of everything I experience. I would not be here without you, and so I will make sure to appease Yerim’s curiosity with all the fantastical things I see and do. 

Enclosed is a drawing of what the tent looks like, and a small story detailing the night I met the performers -- I think she will like Song Qian best, or maybe the mysterious Park Chanyeol. I cannot be sure of a young girl’s heart, but I know they both captured my attention when I arrived. Send her my wishes for health and peace.

I will never be able to thank you enough, 

Byun Baekhyun

-- 

He soon learns that it is hard to tell of all he does, if only because each second holds a thousand words, each movement an entire novel. The constant chatter and activity both on and offstage form a melody that plays through his mind over and over, chords chaotic and all-consuming -- but only for a moment. Each frantic scream and acrobatic trick lasts no more than a second before it’s erased by the warm thrum of a cheering crowd, drowned by a familiar swig of alcohol and Song Qian’s giggles against his shoulder. 

Tonight, he tries to memorize the smoke that holds him captive backstage, tries to think of ways to describe the frantic drumming that surrounds Chanyeol’s entrance into the ring. Yerim will undoubtedly like their untouchable prince of the circus best, he decides -- he is tall and arrogant and Baekhyun hasn’t seen him converse with anyone besides the ringmaster. Not that he’d tried. Minseok had warned him to avoid him altogether, citing just how many years Chanyeol has been here, just how much the ringmaster adores him, just how little he cares about the other performers. 

Even so, Baekhyun can’t help but watch his straight teeth when he talks, follow the movement of his judging eyes as they avoid any contact, note the dip of his collarbones and the width of his shoulders. He knows his young student will feel the same sort of bewitchment for such a man, for such talent, for such beauty. 

Ordinarily, Baekhyun opts to leave after his and Yixing’s tightrope duet, following Minseok and Kyungsoo back to a different tent with different people and different pleasures each night, abundant with drinks and foods and languages he only hopes to understand. In those moments, he takes Song Qian’s hands so softly, twirling her around the room with him, dancing to the drunken humming of other performers and musicians. The world is nothing but faint light cast by oil lamps, his conscious completely barren spare the heat of her head leaning on his shoulder. Each day he realizes it more -- for contact, for praise, for affection, he is insatiable. 

After they dance, Baekhyun finds Minseok’s reassuring touch and Jongin’s unyielding gaze in a familiar corner, makes himself comfortable amongst them both. He disregards the excited cheers that always drift from Chanyeol’s performance, Minseok rolls his eyes when the tallest performer is mentioned, and then Sehun and his assistant, Boah, make their way past too, smiles reaching their eyes in a way that makes Baekhyun stare after them both. 

But tonight is different; he will not leave. Tonight, he will search for the perfect prose to encapsulate the way Chanyeol glows under those orange lights, the way the fire he handles dances around him as if it’s trained. Tonight he will write to the niece of his benefactor, and he will make it all sound magical. 

Thinking of Yerim’s tiny hands struggling to keep up with the notes, remembering her delicate lace dresses and kind words, he thinks that there wasn’t only dirt and dust in his past. Maybe a part of him misses playing silly tunes for hours on end, watching his students light up when familiar melodies waltz through their sitting rooms. While he’ll never miss the gnawing hunger and aching hands, there are people that glimmer like lost jewels in the murky water of his youth. 

His thoughts are drowned out by the crowd, and Baekhyun’s blurry eyes capture the chance from normal white lighting to an ablaze orange, covering the entire crowd with a faux sunset. 

Ringmaster Junmyeon is shouting something, but Baekhyun isn’t focused on him, only on Chanyeol’s broad frame, covered in sweat and glitter and silk. Expensive, Baekhyun thinks -- he looks priceless, untouchable, otherworldly. It makes Baekhyun feel warm and uncomfortable, choking on the dark red cloth that barely covers the chest in front of him, at the rubies that adorn his wrists and clutch his neck. 

Then he’s moving, strong and swift, flip after flip across a beam that’s far too high for Baekhyun’s comfort. In an instant, the net below him is in flames, and Chanyeol’s engulfed too. He must be burning alive, the pianist thinks, but he’s far too fast, graceful in a dastardly way, and he avoids the flames as if he can predict their every movement, as if they part for his leaps and stunts. In only an instant, Chanyeol is on the floor, and he waves to the crowd, ignoring the embers that circle him, ignoring the shocked yelling from the audience. 

Baekhyun cannot believe his eyes -- Chanyeol’s hands and red sleeves seem as though they are on fire too, but he’s unbothered by it all, smiling into his next flip, into his next step. He shimmers and glows along with the fire he controls, a fallen star shooting across the ring, leaving trails of ash and glimmering smiles with each step. Baekhyun’s throat has completely dried, his normal breathing pattern having stopped the second it seemed as though Chanyeol would become a catalyst for the blaze. 

Before he can fully map how the tall boy’s strong arms raise in pride at his last feat, there is heat burning into his own arm, though not nearly as hot as the fire that crackles against Chanyeol’s skin. He turns, shocked, fearing that he’s stepped too close to the curtain, that he’s visible to the audience -- it must be the ringmaster here to scold him. 

Instead, his fearful eyes meet lined eyes and thin lips, his entire body shrinking under a smoldering gaze that he’s only ever seen in passing.

“You’re sweating,” Sehun’s voice is as scratchy as the clothes Baekhyun arrived in, his touch as smooth as the silk that sits upon his shoulders now. “Are you nervous just from watching?” 

“I’ve never stayed to watch Chanyeol perform, and I didn’t realize how close he gets to the fire. It’s fascinating. Well, truly, it’s terrifying.” 

There is no more heat seeping into his arm, only warm puffs of air from the taller’s breathing -- Sehun is impossibly close to him, lips feather-light against his flushed cheek. Baekhyun’s head dances like Chanyeol’s body, teetering around flames and embracing the smoke that rises from them. Everything in Sehun’s presence is off putting, overwhelming, and stimulating in a way that Minseok never is, that no one has ever been.

“Have you ever watched my performance?” his lips pull away, and now Baekhyun can see the clouds in his eyes clearly, can only hope to count the stars that lie beyond them. “Boah and I work hard to train the animals; I hope you worry about my safety too.”

“I have only seen some parts of--”

“You can tell me later, if you’re planning on entertaining yourself with drinks and songs as you usually do. Tell Minseok it’s time he lets someone else share your company for a night.” 

He is lost for words, enthralled with the way Sehun’s lean legs slink away from him, disappearing among the curtains and ropes around them, the only indicator of his presence the burning imprint of lips against Baekhyun’s cheek. The crowd erupts, louder than ever before, and Baekhyun has missed Chanyeol’s final stunt, only catching his bowing figure as multicolored, shimmering lights start their promenade across the ring and into the crowd. Just like that, all the air has escaped from Baekhyun’s lungs, the crowd’s anticipation crawling its way out, too. 

Sehun’s sudden appearance, the way Baekhyun’s heart fluttered at the slightest trace of affection -- he knows he yearns for the something that swam in Sehun’s eyes, knows he’d do whatever it takes to dive in again. Sehun was far too close, and Chanyeol is too hard to describe in words. His head hurts.

--

“I want to write to a former student, but I can’t find the words to describe anything here. It’s all so different.” 

Minseok’s painted fingers wrap around his flute of champagne, and Baekhyun can only watch as he sips from it, ignoring the soft-spoken words in favor of nodding his head along to the faint thrum of chords from the other side of the room. 

“I have never met anyone like the people who perform here, and I know she hasn’t either. I’m at a loss. There is no way to describe, well, anyone, I suppose.” 

He hopes the older boy didn’t pick up on his word choice, on the way his eyes flickered to the entrance of the tent as he spoke, searching for a tall boy who dances with fire. He can’t articulate Chanyeol’s being, no matter how many times he replays his movements in his mind, no matter how many times he thinks of the night he’d arrived, of the gaze that pierced through his drunken stupor. 

“That’s easy,” Minseok sets down his drink, thigh rubbing against Baekhyun’s as he settles back into the corner of the couch, head sleepily resting on the younger’s shoulder once again. “I’m sweet and talented, your favorite. Jongin is, generally, annoying -- and Song Qian is a darling. Kyungsoo is too smart to be here. Chanyeol is an awful brat. I could go on and on, but you know all those words, so I’m positive you can finish for me.” 

Baekhyun stays silent, suddenly feeling squeamish about Minseok being so close to him, his body heat searing and his tone wounding. The trapeze artist may be the person he is closest to, may be the source of his glittering cheekbones and newfound confidence, but there is a constant fear of being nothing more than a plaything, a project, for him.

His entire life, no one has spared genuine affection for his sake, help coming only as a transaction, and, even as he feels Minseok’s head go limp, almost asleep, against him, his heart jumps with the thought of being thrown aside on a whim. In moments like this, when Minseok’s words aren’t pillow soft, when he’s tired and tipsy and brazen, Baekhyun fears that there may be no affection hiding in his heart after all. But he will do anything to keep the attention he’s received, to lock it deep inside his heart and swallow the key -- he will do anything to feel this uncomfortable warmth, to soothe the terror of loneliness that makes his fingers tremble with a phantom cold. 

“Sehun talked to me earlier,” Baekhyun whispers, unsure if the waves in his stomach are from his residual fear or this new excitement, even as they inundate him completely. “His lips touched my cheek. I can’t be sure if it was on purpose.” 

Minseok wakes up quickly.   

“It was intentional, I guarantee,” worriedly, his eyes search Baekhyun’s face. “He flirts and flirts and flirts. Song Qian has no patience for him, and I know she’s only waiting for the day where she can yell at him -- do you want her to make him stop?” 

Suddenly feeling a lot less special, Baekhyun stills, slightly dejected. Until today, he hadn’t realized that lips were that soft, even if they belonged to a boy -- youth spent working and fearing never let him experience things like infatuation, never allowed him to act on any sort of physical affection he’d yearned for, and he certainly hadn’t expected him to receive it from someone of the same . 

“He flirts with everyone? Even, you know, me --” Baekhyun sees the way Minseok’s shoulders slack at his question, watches the older rub his eyelids drowsily, orange eyeshadow moving to his fingertips. “I have never seen --” 

“I already told you,” Minseok smiles in a way that makes Baekhyun feel comforted, safe, and he likes the way the older’s face is getting closer, too. “This isn’t the real world. Anyone likes anyone. Our only job is to perform well.” 

“Have you kissed someone?” Baekhyun tries his very best to remain neutral with his tone, though deep down, his pulse is bursting with curiosity, with the thought of what Minseok’s lips would feel like, what artwork his closed eyelids would unveil. “I mean, since you came to perform here?” 

“I’ve kissed boys and girls and people who don’t call themselves either,” Minseok shrugs at his own words, leaning away from Baekhyun once again. “There are no rules, Baekhyun. Do what makes you happy.” 

“What if,” Baekhyun’s mind is filling with too many images, overrun with thoughts he’d never watered -- now they bloom unprompted. “What if kissing someone like Sehun would make me happy? At least, I think it would.”

Even now, in this dim light snuggled close to Minseok, he can picture what he looks like to others, can imagine the sharp lines of his cheekbones and chin, can imagine the blush and glitter that illuminate him. In his colorful, soft clothes and vibrant makeup, Baekhyun no longer feels like a scampering fool in the dusty streets -- he might even be pleasant to look at. 

And maybe he hadn’t ever had time to think about lips brushing against his, much less enough time to picture the face that he opens his eyes to, but now, it could be anyone. The possibility makes his heart soar, lifts a burden he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

 “You are smart enough to know what you want,” Minseok says it gently, as tender as the small finger that brushes a piece of hair off of Baekhyun’s forehead a second later. “Entertain his affections, if you want, but don’t give your heart to someone like Sehun -- you’re much too good for that, trust me.” 

It makes Baekhyun laugh, the fondness in his tone; Minseok is like no other in his life, so sweet and so patient, so willing to bring out the best side of him, even if he pesters and whines along the way, even if he has a long way to go before he can glimmer naturally in the same way as the older.

“I don’t plan on giving away my heart,” he flushes, remembering the feel of Sehun so close, at the way his brain had screamed for more. “I just want to see what makes me happy.” 

And he’s proven correct when, two glasses of champagne later, Baekhyun’s dance with an acrobat girl is interrupted by a hand on the crook of his elbow, gentle and nearly limp, a clear indicator that the perpetrator is inebriated as well. 

“Can I dance with you?” 

Sehun’s words are slightly slurred, but it only makes them sound sweeter to Baekhyun’s muddled brain, and he melts into a nod, soft as satin when strong arms find his hips and lead him toward the edge of the group. He can’t do much but feel the awkward sway of their bodies together and memorize the melody of the song from the phonograph in the corner, head dizzy from the mumbling voices of the other dancers and Sehun’s own humming. 

Being in his arms feels like unlocking the door to a secret room, a treasure trove of new emotions and hopes, a glimpse into a future that finally makes sense. When they drift over to the corner, fairly out of sight, and Baekhyun’s lips are covered with another’s for the first time in his life, he breathes heavy through his nostrils, self-conscious and elated all at once, completely overstimulated. 

“Have you never been kissed?” Sehun laughs a little when he pulls away, breath warm against Baekhyun’s face, making his cheeks even pinker than before. “That’s cute. Makes me want to kiss you more.” 

The taller boy makes no attempt to kiss him again, though, taking a moment to study the complexities of Baekhyun’s facial structure, to run a thumb under his eye delicately. 

“Minseok knew that you were pretty, and he made you prettier. Don’t let the ringmaster see you all glittered up, he might just make you play piano where you can be seen better.” 

Sehun’s look doesn’t convey love, but rather blatant interest, raw fascination. Baekhyun knows that there’s something in Sehun’s gaze that promises to make him feel alive in even the coldest of nights, something that guarantees to engulf him with eager lips and heated touches if he lets it. And so he allows Sehun’s arms to envelope him once again, this time moving his lips softly against the taller boy’s, envisioning the first fireworks he’d ever seen, tasting all the wine he’d ever dreamed of, drowning in nothing but silk and lace. 

--

Dear Mr. Cho and my dearest Yerim, 

I am still searching for words to describe my new life. They elude me. 

I wish I could tell you more interesting observations, but the only thing that comes to mind as of now is the following: everyone here owns at least four outfits, and all of them are so bright my eyes hurt when I tell them good morning. Sometimes, I fear I’ll go blind before I can get any better at the piano.

Also, during the third performance last week, one of the magicians, Kim Jongdae, proposed to a dancer after the final bow. I do believe Yerim might’ve cried if she’d seen it. (The ring is as gaudy as you would expect!) 

Best wishes for your health, 

Byun Baekhyun

--

He doesn’t give up on catching the flames that surround and interact with Chanyeol’s figure in prose, opting to watch him as he walks by, to study him while he performs, to sketch the outline of his figure properly in the lamp light of his crowded musician’s tent. Sometimes, he trods the way over toward the performer’s single tents, past Minseok’s, and slips into bed next to Sehun, relishing in the body heat and now-familiar touches, if only to think about his future and his writing in a place devoid of other eyes. 

That night, he’d sat, enthralled, as Chanyeol ran through his routine easily, attractive smile and intense eyes as dazzling as the orange flames around him. That night, Baekhyun had felt Sehun’s hands hold him steady, had thrown his head back and hoped that the usual festivities were in full swing, loud enough to cover the sounds of his stuttering breaths, of Sehun’s gratifying murmurs in his ear. 

Even as he settles into that drowsy heat Sehun gives off, feeling satiated with the physicality he’d so craved and adored, Baekhyun can’t stop his brain from supplying adjectives for the boy who fears no flames.

In the end, he wiggles out of Sehun’s touch, ignoring the rough cloth of the sheets as they steal back the comfort he’d just recieved. He squints into the darkness, looking for his journal, determined to find a fountain pen in the clutter of Sehun’s vanity, mind racing with the only word that will convey Chanyeol’s existence to Yerim.

Chanyeol is captivating. 

That night, he mumbles an excuse about needing to read more sheet music and stumbles from Sehun’s tent, shocked to find a muddy wasteland waiting for him outside -- the rain had never made it so miserable outside, and he’d been too lost in his own satisfaction and ponderings to realize it happened at all. 

Tucking his journal under his armpit and hoping for his shoes to refrain from sinking into the slosh all around him, he puts his head down and dashes into the storm, rain hitting him like the cold pangs of hunger he’d once felt, wind whipping him with a veracity similar to the exhaustion that plagued his youth. In this labyrinth of grey nothingness, there is nothing for him to focus on, no direction for his eyes to follow -- if not already, he will soon be lost in the midst of a violent storm. An orange flicker gleams over his left shoulder, and he spins to locate it, hope flaring in his chest, sending up sparks he knows will cut through even the darkest of clouds. 

“Hello?” Baekhyun’s voice is lost to the wind, his own tone unfamiliar when coupled with the howling chorus and torrential drumline currently performing. “Hello?” 

And so he runs toward it, favoring his chances with barreling into a tent or someone with a lamp rather than stay in this void until sunrise -- he knows it takes no effort to die of pneumonia, and that fear alone pushes him forward with a strength he wasn’t fully aware he possessed. 

By the time he arrives within a few feet of this mysterious glow, his eyes are barely open, squinting against the downpour. But what he can make out is clear -- Chanyeol is standing tall against the winds, and his hands not only hold fire, they welcome it. The taller’s entire palm is covered in a coppery, molten substance, the flames sitting on his fingertips steadily fighting off the rain, face florid in the waning light of this fire. 

Baekhyun screams, fear and disbelief climbing their way through his throat, and suddenly the light is completely gone, and there is only a scorching hand pressed against his mouth, suffocating him and silencing his cries. The taller boy is closer now, nose pressed against his forehead, and Baekhyun is stumbling away from him in fear, entire body trembling. 

“Stay quiet, and I’ll get you an act,” Chanyeol’s face dances across his vision, as radiant as the moon, as bright as the fire that kissed his fingertips seconds earlier. “No more background music and sharing with other musicians. Your own room, your own costumes, your performance. I promise. Just forget everything you’ve seen.”

--

hey..... lol 

i know it's been a really long time, but family stuff + school just got out of control! i am really really sorry, and hopefully i'll be back to posting regularly as summer gets into full swing and i have some more free time! 

i hope this was ok :( love u guys! 

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