Acacia Flowers

It is only for the show, he knows it is. And, yet, he can't help but notice all of his fingers warmly wrapped over his puffy cheeks, taste the colour of his eyes that are staring straight at him - deep brown, like forests and falling leaves, like old places he used to hide when he was only a kid, - his breathe, caught in between, hot and sweaty, tickling his nerves, grazing softly his nose. Of course, Seunghoon would do it, and he should know, better than anyone else, that all of this, this display of affection and care and fake love is just that, fake, for the public eye. And he wishes for him to stop messing up - messing with his heart, that's it, to stop coming so close to his soul, brushing it gently with smooth smiles and filling it to the brim with laughter and delight.

He hopes that he will keep it short - lively and sweet, but nothing more behind, only a bit of pretence to stir up the audience, skin-ship for the fans to cheer and see. Not that he longs for it as much as they might - for his hands to hold his, for his lips to brush past his hair, leaving a trace of his balm all over his head, for the way he is watching at him to never end (intensely, with intend, all solely in him, for him). And he swallows harsh because he is this close, this nearby that he can count the heartbeats straight from his ribs, drawn his bones with butterfly wings.

But Seunghoon doesn't stop, not when he has the crew waiting, watching them hungrily, scrutinising their every move - and he won't fail to amaze them, to come up with a plan to make them all fill the room with laughter. And he will fall, again, like every day, for whatever prank he has in store, for whatever trick he will put off. And despite it all, Seungyoon will still hope and pray for what is happening right now to happen between shared sheets, behind a closed door where he can keep him next to him - so close that his shadow will blend with his, that his air will be his.

He wants to have him in all the ways he dreams off - to fit him in bits and pieces, tug him, pin him under his collar bones. He wants him just like that - just as he is, with all the teasing and the joking, the mocking and the rather familiarity of his presence that falls on him like whirlpools of fire and desire and the comfort of knowing him by heart.

And when Seunghoon pulls him in - into his embrace, his head bouncing over his blond locks, he knows exactly what is about to come next. He reciprocates, mirrors his act and puts a happy face for the public, to make him proud to be the talk of the town - even if only for an hour, he will thank him and Seungyoon will be bathed by the grace that comes from him, buys his attention by following his lead, by doing what is expected, to become the counterpart of Seunghoon’s show.

And he will let him go, get away with whatever he wants - get away with every part of his heart, allow him to keep it for the rest of eternity because, honestly, it hurts so much to be like this (pretending to be more, that his daydreams are happening but only half-way, only on-stage) that it doesn’t matter any-more ( because there is nothing he wouldn’t give Seunghoon, he has him all, has him tangled around his fingers, around his soul, entangled to the bones, to the very core). He will let him go with whatever he throws at him, he will bite every bait, every time, even when he is fully aware of the meaning – of the lack of it, that it is only fan service (hollow and vain and futile, an arrow straight to his sentiments, blunt and sharp).

Seunghoon touches his hair indolently, nerve-wracking, just a tiny spark of his fingertips among his skin and he has him lusting all over, craving for all that could be – all that will never be his, a phantom of a kiss, words dying like pressed flowers between his lips (where they will always belong). Because this is all he will ever get – moments under dim, flashing light, among the curtain calls, never tangible enough to keep, never long enough to memorise, to swallow it hard, write it down on a song. It is playful and joyful and idle, all depending on Seunghoon’s thoughts, on his mind – and he has such a wonderful mind, he loves it so very much, appreciates it the most because it is what makes him who he is, standing over the rest of the world, confident and loud, outspoken and sincere, filled with light and love. Seunghoon is wondrous, he has known that for the long haul, since the beginning – since the first meeting, - he has so much to give away, caring and loving, diligent and hard-working and he always manages to make him laugh – to fill the room to the brim with his existence, he makes it throb, makes it good and right and wonderful. He is all that he longs for, all that he desires – he is in the air he breathes and in the dreams he dreams off and he is the essence of his core, the blood running under his flesh, the colour of the sunset that paints his days. He leaves him breathless and panting and exhausted since he is a wild force that drives him to continue – and he never stops, not even when he is not around, Seungyoon lives through the shared memories, the instants that are padding his head.

And let's not start with how handsome Seunghoon is - if he dwells on it, Seungyoon won’t shout up, won’t be able to stop, to catch up with all the emotions he stirs in him with just one look, with one sentence (and he is already sold out).

What else does he have to do for him to notice? He can’t be more blunt or obvious, can he, he wonders. He has thrown all the hints but Seungyoon has been dodging them, ignoring the flare inside of his cheeks – tinted scarlet within his proximity. He has been loud and boisterous, crystal clear and, despite of his best efforts, nothing has worked his way – he has pulled the trigger but bullets go missing, aiming at the sky that is Seungyoon only to be hurt in return (only for Seungyoon to be left unscathed, unaffected). He has been unmoved by his attempts, by all his trials and resolutions, indifferent to his words and actions as if he was fireproof.

Seunghoon can’t come up with more excuses and lame jokes, he has exhausted all his resources, he has no more ideas – he has laid all his baits, waiting for Seungyoon to come, for him to pick it up (pick up the crumbs of his love, collect them until he will shape it as his heart. So far all have been futile, useless, and even Minho has noticed – Minho and his scattered head, who is always on clouds have seen it blooming, burgeoning and has taken pity on him, has talked about it and, yet, Seungyoon, intelligent and always observant, hasn’t gotten the memo, hasn’t even blinked at his proximity (he has matched his pace and moved accordingly as if a dance long practised as if it was part of the choreography). And he can’t be this close and, yet, so distant, with so many stars beating between them, keeping them apart – the air swirling, the taste of strawberries and sugar all over his senses, drowning him in the sea that is his eyes, the richness and vastness of his voice lulling him, cradling him like a child, soothing his mind and his racing heart.

And, yes, he has been pinning for years now, waiting for an opportunity, building up his courage, his bravery – but it hasn’t been enough, Seungyoon has surrounded himself with fences and defences and nothing he says bothers him, he is impermeable, unreachable, far away. And he is not getting it – he is always dodging, shunning him, elusive (bullets fired to never hit home). What else is there to be done? Until when will Seungyoon don’t get it? He has been straightforward, always direct – he is not one to beat around the bushes anyway. All this he is doing – fan-service, skin-ship, being always around him, taking care of all of his needs, tending to him in spite of everyone else, - he should see through the net – that he is not doing it with anybody else, that this is for him, only to be closer to his heart.

It is so tiring, so infuriating – it is breaking him, wreaking bones to dust, until he can stand still until he cries out at night only to get to hear his voice.

He can feel the perfume from his hair tickling his senses – sweet, marshmallowy, like the taste of his lips if he closes his eyes and daydreams. If he pays attention – and he always does – he can reckon the throbs of his heart – and he counts until ten and lets his breath go. If he dares to cross the line – to dive in and stop caring, stop thinking, - he can indulge his mind, reach his mouth and let go of all the fears – he won’t budge, won’t go away, will hold onto him until he is kissing him intently, intensely, until there is no more space between them (until his beginning is his end). But he is scared to push him hard – to frame him into a position where he doesn’t belong (Seungyoon belongs to him). He wants to turn their friendship, flip it so it might be – something new, something wonderful, something that only happens under the sheets. And he prays even when he isn’t a believer – even when he doesn’t know how to ask for this grand favour, that the universe will allow him Seungyoon, to be worthy of his company, of his love and affection, for Seungyoon to pour over him all of his feelings and emotions. And every minute is fading away, agonizing, pulling him into a reckless abandonment – to forget that there is a here and now, to get lost in this instant, thrown himself into this borrowed heaven that is feeling him around like butterflies and fireflies over his skin.

He is so done with all this push and pulls, done with all the crap he makes him do just for the fun – just to mess him up, break his heart in all the right parts, in all the wrong ways and with all the force of true pain. He is done, and he has to put a stop to it – to Seunghoon playing with his feelings, stealing all that doesn’t yet belong to him already. And he will do the only thing that there is to halter Seunghoon – he is going to drag the joke to the edges, make him feel weary bones. He will hate him later but that’s good – that’s what he deserves, but, at least, he will have it pressed in his memory (the shape of fingers crawling under his shirt, his mouth agape, ready to bite). He won’t try it again, he won’t come closer – he will loath the sight of him, but Seungyoon can deal with this burden (in the end, he will be free). And he can resign, go solo if needed – if it is too much to keep them going. But he needs to stop this, kill this love that has been blossoming like acacias creeping on him like vines and vices, tinting his cheeks with it colour – red and flustered.

He tracks Seunghoon back home, finds him slouching on the cough, Haute jumping around his legs, leaping happily, bouncing just as he feels like doing whenever he spots Seunghoon from afar – like running to him with all of his might. He goes all mushy and wooed any time he sees him – he can’t hold it still, his feelings overwhelming him, spreading like butter, evenly, all the white noise of broken records playing out his songs (every verse he has ever written down, his lines embossed right into his core).

It has been kismet that has brought them together into the same group, destined and gloomed and cursed – because this is not what he desires, what he needs, what he longs and cares for. He wants more – more touches and soft words and forehead kisses peppered with love. Because since then his sentiments had overgrown his heart, had expanded consuming the air in his lungs, the blood running in his veins, every part and bit of him that belongs to Seunghoon who treats him only as a friend – a tool to play with and he is so glad to be his toy (to be fooled and messed around if that means been the cause of his laugh).

There is nothing much to do – he sits next to him and nestles his head over his shoulders because they have been built up to match like this, perfectly (because Seunghoon is the one who fights against what is obvious – that acacias bloom for him inside of his chest whenever he sees him). He is not afraid – he has left it behind, has run away from it (has left all that is not Seunghoon out of his mind, he has poured it down with songs and alcohol). He feels fizzy, a bit dizzy – but his perfume is intoxicating, his presence does trickle to his senses, sends shivers down his spine. And he is OK, he is ready to get shoot, to be hurt so bad it will bleed red, so he fires and kisses him.

And feels his lips being kissed in return.

There is no pain, no when Seunghoon is encircling him with his arms, pulling him in, pulling him closer. The air escapes from him to Seunghoon but, even when his lungs are emptied it’s not suffocating – it is for other reasons that are shimmering on his skin and that feels like Seunghoon’s hands tracing his skin, sneaking under his shirt, revealing what lies behind.

“It took you long to come to me,” he smirks, curling all over Seunghoon, taking all the space.

“Actually,” he says, brushing his curls away, “it has been you the one to come. Though I never thought you would,” and there he goes, acacias blooming on his cheeks again – and he pinches them, makes him laughs and it is all great because he is here, where Seungyoon wants him to be – right in his bed, right next to him, with no back exit to escape from a love as big as Busan oceans (as the love that beats inside his heart for him, reaching to him like tides and waves, drowning him with an affection that is mirrored, that shines in his eyes while kissing him good-night).