He feels fall all over his skin.

Under his feet rusty foliage is crumbling, a canopy of brown splashing dust like little diamonds. The wind swirling, slowly singing, brushing his cheek and putting blush into it, cream and cherry like a spring morning with flowers all in bloom, a mismatched patch of soft white and pink, its taste feeling like ice-cream.

It has been long since then, though, since sun stretched until late, everything fresh and new, birds chirping and his hands held: skin again skin.

He plunges his hands now, deep inside his pocket, shivers with the cold blow that brings leaves where the last straws of sun crashes in gold, orange and autumn hazelnut. His flesh glows under this final sunshine, porcelain and hues of rose. Beautiful in its quietness, he wants to stop and stare.

Because it doesn’t matter how long he glares at Jinwoo, he feels always anew, every shade and shape changing under the atmosphere, under the fading light and the decadent night descending upon them. He is always different, always remaining the same – kind, quiet, always polite, always present. He has never drifted away from the person he was, even after all these years, even after all the falls and ups and downs, Jinwoo is evergreen, like a subtle, gentle spring.

His fingers tangle around his bones, tips slowly drawing circles over his pulse, smooth and assuring, crispy loops on his wrist, delicate and tender, it rubs away the chill – it makes him shiver but there is another meaning to it.

Jinwoo giggles watching him. And he smiles, more than that, open and big, looking at him – at his liquid eyelids, the amber burning inside of his pupils, fireflies twirling inside them, alive, aflame, his lips trembling while chuckling, his lovely freckles glittering as if he was made of stardust and wonderment (and he knows t