Navy, bluish-black danced across his vision, morphing in and out and shaping to the invisible curve of the man’s eye lids. The smell of the damp ground was refreshing, a mingled metallic taste of rich soil and clean water. The scent wafted up to the second floor of the small white house as it was battered up from the dirt by the rain. The cool breeze that danced lithely between the droplets brushed his skin like soft fingers on his cheek. Goose bumps crawled along his clothed limbs where his left side was subjected to the comforting warmth of the heater and his right side was embraced by the cold weather. The only discernible sound above the natural percussion was the few cars that rumbled by every so often and the pitched ticking of his alarm clock.

 

The sweeping gust across his face had his eyes fluttering open to the sight of the open window. For some strange reason, it made him think of a dog door with the way it swung upwards to greet the clouds. Tiny pellets of water tapped against the glass, warping the view of the dim street outside. He was on the second level but the view was simple. A short driveway bridged the front door to the curb and poked between the two brick walls that guarded the front garden. It was a usual sight, it was his home. But with the colourless monotony of the grey street, the grey yard, the skies; even the rain was sad.

 

The man had tried his best to fall asleep but when one sense was closed off, the rest magnified to the point that he was overwhelmed. Now that he could see, the pretty imaginings he’d conjured were quashed by a lifeless reality. All of it was a harsh reminder that cut into him with each click of a droplet against the glass.

 

A short but echoing clatter caught his attention and he looked down to see his 2B pencil rolling away on the floor. Its path curved but became caught against the leg of the desk beside the window. The man had fashioned himself a seat on the frame because the usually bright sky seemed more conducive to his work. Now it was hidden and stealing away the inspiration he more commonly felt on the soft cushions that propped him away from the uncomfortable wooden ts.

 

The man groaned as he folded himself in order to grasp the pencil and return to his position. He was not quite as comfortable as before but he didn’t mind. The man tapped the pencil to his pursed lips and stared down at the page he had forgotten in his lap. It was riddled with scratches and grey marks of the instrument between his fingers that looked paler in the dim light. The scores pulled together and curved into so many shapes that all formed one larger one. His eyes were drawn first to the hair that was scribbled into a haphazard faux-hawk style. Below it was a single, oval-shaped ear, the other only an assumption with the angle of the drawing. A slim nose tapered to the right of the ear in a subtle sphere as it centred the two eyes, one slightly larger in its greater visibility. Those were slim but big and spoke more with their etched lines than the man could with words. The rounded jaw line brought his gaze back down and across the page where it darted just above to the small but plump lips. It was a hard thing, to see them set so permanently in a frown where the man was more used to their smile.

 

The man took a deep breath and continued to scratch into the paper. It perturbed him to see small dimples form in the white where salty liquid changed its texture. He sniffled and drew a finger across the underside of his eye, feeling a course of anger when it came away damp. He had promised himself to stop this. To stop drawing this face, to stop crying at the sight of it. The man had promised himself to forget. But he hadn’t. He had broken that vow on more than one occasion and each time he felt his anger simmer until it boiled up into a devastating depression. The man’s eyes darted to his wall where countless drawings covered it in a mess. So many smiles, so many faces; all drawn on the same set of eyes, the same nose, ears, hair, lips.

 

He cursed them and looked out the window again through blurry eyes but all it did was distort the different shades of misery into squirming blobs. The man felt some spec of self-loathing that kept quiet in the back of his mind begin to swell into the majority of his brain and it hitched his breath. He held his head back, leaning it against the window frame, and held his eyes open, hoping to dissipate the tears he begged to be rid of.

 

He reached out into the open air, stretching his arm passed the window and out into the waterfall from the roof. The icy water made him wish his whole body could be submerged and become numb the same way his fingers were as he watched them move in the cascading water without feeling them twist and curl.

 

The man’s head snapped around as he glanced wildly about the room. The wind and rain had whispered to him in a familiar tone that some part of him wished was real, another part did not. He fixed his eyes on every part of his surroundings in order to be sure that it really was the weather deceiving him. It was.

 

The man turned back to the drawing and held his cheek, sighing with an inordinate amount of melancholy. His entire body was tight under the weight of his heart that felt as heavy as a sumo wrestler. He could feel his chest trying to expand, his heart pushing to break from its confines with hope each time he swelled with a breath. It had been quiet lately, returning to its usual self and the man had naively believed that he could be over with its tricks. Now it was ramming into his ribcage and begging for freedom away from the torturous mind it was connected to.

 

A laugh echoed through the bare grey room and the man’s breath hitched. He searched the room again but heard the laugh once more, ringing painfully in his ears and bringing up unwelcome tears. He was more than alone and that’s what hurt the most; not that he was crazy but that the pain that had been allowed to fester was introduced to him in the first place. He cursed at nothing, just hoping for the hallucinations to go.

 

He needed a distraction. The man forced himself into his mind, delving purposefully into his memories to escape the rain that only intensified all the pent-up negativity he carried in his chest. He skimmed across the more painful ones but landed in the worst one of all. He was completely aware of his true surroundings yet the memory was so pointed and vivid.

 

“Um, sorry, excuse me can you help me?” The man steps back, surprised that his attention is called for. He didn’t expect to look approachable but this baby-faced man is speaking to him, just him. He looks into the man’s eyes and feels a warm intensity.

 

“Uh, yeah.” He curses how unsure he sounds but steps forward until the man gestures for him to join him under the umbrella. It’s bright and red and casts a red glow across both their features.

 

Those features, the ones he draws so often that they’ve burned into his vision whether his eyes are open or closed.

 

The man wonders if this baby-face guy would notice that he is blushing in the tinted light.

 

“I’m looking for a café called ‘Coffee Lab’.” A look flitters across the guy’s face before he continues, slightly puzzled. “I am in Hongdae right?”

 

How silly that question had been with the large sign that read the district's name right above their heads.

 

The man nods enthusiastically. “Yes, Coffee Lab is just down this street here.” He points along the way the man had come, to the left of them and then curls his finger. “And then you turn right. It’s just along the alleyway you’ll find halfway down, it isn’t a long street.” They both smile brightly, a pleasant contrast to the rain clouds above.

 

There is a short silence but when the man goes to return to his seat at the bus stop, the baby-faced guy keeps him still with a hopeful spark in his chocolate irises. “I hope I’m not interrupting your plans to ask this,” the guy bites his bottom lip and smiles sheepishly, “but I was wondering if you might want to have coffee with me.”

 

The confidence of the other man still poked at his heart, causing the man to wince at a memory so loved yet so hated.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Oh, Yoo Youngjae.” He smiles proudly at the response, like his name was a trophy even if only he knows the importance of it.

 

“I’m Himchan. Kim Himchan.” The man holds up his hands clasped together with his index fingers pointing outwards, mocking the most well-known tag line of modern cinema. Youngjae’s laugh rings out and the echo is cut off by the humid air but it warms the man nonetheless, he wanted to hear it more.

 

A flash of red through the globs of grey brought his yard into focus. His heart all but stopped and Himchan held his breath, disregarding the pain of no oxygen. He watched the taught circle of red amble down the side-walk, away from him, towards an unknown destination. Himchan in a deep breath when the figure wandered out of sight. Of course it wouldn’t be who he thought, that person would have at least taken a second look, given some sign of recognition. He sighed heavily until there was no breath left in his lungs.

 

The memory continued abruptly. Himchan’s vision was washed in that face once more but it was not the shy smile he’d just seen. There was a frown and lines pressed deep into to his forehead. Despair. That’s what that expression was.

 

“I’m sorry.” He says but Himchan doesn’t hear. He’s fixed on those lips and can’t understand why they won’t smile. “I tried Himchan, but…I just can’t.” What is he saying? Himchan looks up and finally catches on. He’s being broken up with.

 

“Excuse me?” His heart stops and his chest is heavy. His throat is thick and it is hard to breath.

 

“I have to g-go Him-“ Youngjae doesn’t finish and Himchan doesn’t want him to.

 

Another hitched breath caught Himchan off guard and he glanced across his lap, taking in the drawing and his shaking fingers. The man swallowed hard before he curled his fingers around the paper and relished in the crushing sound as he scrunched it into a ruined ball. He flattened his palm and watched it slowly unfurl. As the grey slashes became visible, he let the ball roll off and watched as it bounced from the window sill and down passed the first level of the house. The rain forced the paper open like a blooming flower and Himchan watched as the lead ran from the page in streams of swirling black.

 

He was immediately attacked by regret and he couldn’t tell which was rain or tears that dripped down his cheeks as he stretched out the window, too late to save the drawing. He collapsed with his stomach against the frame and cushions, choking out breaths as he tried to swallow the humid air. Himchan couldn’t keep Youngjae from his thoughts no matter how hard he tried. The image was burned to his eye lids, the laugh on replay in his ears and the warmth of their lips meeting forever tingled Himchan’s own.

 

The man drew the pad of his forefinger across his bottom lip. Several timed clicks pulled Himchan’s attention to the desk where his clock told him the sun would be gone from the sky and the street lights would soon tint the grey orange. Himchan stood with a groan and dragged his body to the bed where he flopped onto his back. He could see the glow of the lamps outside shining onto his roof. Himchan let his eyes blink closed as he took a deep breath. His entire body relaxed into the mattress and his mind wandered with fatigue.

 

“Himchan?” His lids were too heavy to open but the voice was too familiar to dismiss – he hummed. “I miss you?” He didn’t understand why that was a question as well. Was he asking if Himchan felt the same?

 

“I miss you too. So much.” He couldn’t do more than whisper to the voice.

 

“I love you as well, you know.” He hummed again, happily this time and his lips.

 

“I love you too. Still. I never stopped.”

 

“Did you mean it?” The voice sounded hopeful, expectant.

 

“Mean what?” Himchan felt his brow crease and he could hear the voice’s frown.

 

“When you said you’d be okay?” There was a pin prick in Himchan’s chest, like something was trying to get in without him noticing. He shook his head, feeling the pillow shift below.

 

“No.” The voice sighed and the sound made Himchan want to hold him, to see the owner of the voice and see him smile.

 

“Himchan?” His name was spoken so softly he might not have heard it if the voice hadn’t been in his ear. The man nodded this time and could feel the breath ghosting his cheek before it settled above his mouth. Himchan felt his lips purse as another set pressed lightly against them. It was something he had dreamt about. Those lips and the way they moved on his, their slight pressure and smooth curve.

 

“Youngjae.” His breath was unanswered as the lips lifted when a cool breeze flew in from the window and brushed against him. He wasn’t sure what the pain in his throat meant but it didn’t matter, not when it had become so easy to sleep. Himchan swam again in the navy-black of his head. The tapping of the rain became a lullaby that cut out his sense and cradled him as he drifted into the dark.

 

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