Toska - noun /ˈtō-skə/ - Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness.

At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.


It’s five o'clock and Jongin is sitting in a cafe. It’s Sunday morning and any other sane college student should be asleep at such a God forsaken hour. He should have the gagging taste of bitter, old alcohol on his tongue and a head splitting hangover; but instead he’s got one hand around a luke warm mug of coffee and another swirling around a Pirouette cookie like a straw. He observes the way the mountains of whipped cream flattens down and mixes together with its drizzle of caramel. Jongin is mesmerized by the smooth cream and with how much ease the cookie traverses through it. He eventually averts his gaze, though, from the ugly, burnt mess, and turns to the window.

There’s not much to see, just the same views. It’s always the same quiet college campus. It’s still slightly misted over and the faintest of light is streaming from the moon and the approaching sun, illuminating the sky in a gray of purple. It’s as if the world’s opacity has been lowered.

He doesn’t notice when the lower half of his slender wafer collapses into his Caramel Macchiato.

And Jongin’s thinking, or at least it looks like he’s thinking, but quite honestly he’s just some loser sitting in an empty cafe. The workers are nowhere to be seen. It’s a magnificent scene of loneliness, if anyone’s ever seen one. There’s no one there with him and there are especially no signs of living or of being coming across from his features. He’s just some teen sitting in an empty cafe with ten dollar coffee he doesn’t even like (it’s not that the place is even expensive, he just felt like paying with a ten).

The hand holding onto his mug twitches and his pinky taps the shallow bottle of sleeping pills sitting beside him (they’re prescription, so he says). Damn things haven’t worked since last December; just another thing to chalk up on the things gone wrong in his life. The pills go hand in hand with his crappy apartment, burnout friends, and his failing grades. He’s dangerously close to getting kicked out, too. He has class at two, which he knows he’ll never go to and twenty-four hours plus worth of assignments he has so conveniently put off but, of course, none of those things matter to him because he’s just some with no care in the world. But that’s only half the truth, he supposes: he’s an with only one concern to comment on, and that’s Luhan.

So Jongin’s waiting. At five in the morning. His hair’s a bird’s nest that hasn’t seen a brush in days because Jongin’s waiting. Waiting for Luhan to arrive so he can rearrange his hair for him with his nimble fingers and so he can relish in the attention Luhan’s willing to offer him. He’s been waiting every day for six weeks. And Luhan has yet to show up like he usually does. But that’s okay, because at some point he will come, hence the purpose of waiting and all.

As Jongin continues to think and sits contentedly in his booth of denial, morning approaches faster. The continually chilling porcelain of his mug stings at his hands and the display of caramel and foam horror in his cup has degraded into something more disgusting. Jongin looks away from the disaster and throws a lazy glance towards the window. He takes note that the campus is no longer dark and damp, but brighter. The opacity’s risen. The clouds have disappeared, allowing for the window’s painted lettering to cast shadows down onto his table. There’s a slight glare accompanying the ghostly visage that causes him to want to shield his eyes, too.

He doesn’t know where to look nor even what to do with his own body. He’s pathetic, to say the least. Just a child lost at the mall without his mother.

He proceeds to lie his head down on the table and covers himself with his arms, blocking everything. The window by his side, borders decorated by sharpie doodles, however, still adamantly rains light upon his person. It warms up his back and forearms. Everything about it is so overbearing and Jongin misses Luhan.

Because Jongin thinks (is sure) that the world was made darker just so Luhan could shine a little bit brighter. He knows it’s silly and childish to contemplate (and so did Luhan on multiple occasions), but it made more sense than anything else ever would. In his eyes, Luhan simply glowed. Whenever Luhan fluttered toward him, the sky would dim for just the briefest of seconds (and Jongin always noticed). Perhaps the radiance of the sky was also a contributor to the cause of his bitter emptiness in recent months. It was like the sun’s rays were mocking him and indulging in its own glorifying light. The one person who outshined it was gone, so no longer did its own envy dim itself down.

Jongin sighs again. Luhan and the usual graying of the clouds is missing; the scent of coffee beans and cinnamon is still all the same, although much more bitter and suffocating. They are overwhelming to his senses. Jongin has always been much too painfully aware of everything.

He takes another tentative sip of his macchiato, carefully maneuvering over the mountain of whipped cream and the clumps of soggy cookie. The sickly sweet chocolate hits his senses in a powerful burst and makes him cringe. He regrets not ordering his regular black coffee. How on Earth Luhan ever managed to enjoy two of these cavity causing confections a day always amazed him.

He has a theory about it, but he has a lot of theories. He’s not like his roommate Chanyeol, though, who believes that the government rigs shows like American Idol and such. No, he just has mind numbing thoughts.

Like how Sundays are magic because Luhan is, too.

It was probably a Sunday when they met. Jongin says Sunday because every other day doesn’t sound as right as it does on his tongue. Thursday sounds like a day for ice cream, a day too cold for Luhan; Monday feels like stress and misgivings, none of which Luhan caused; and don’t even get him started on Wednesday.

It was a Sunday.

Jongin was a bright eyed college freshmen with a slight insomnia problem brought upon by his new project. He doesn’t particularly want to do it nor does he know how to start-- which is how he finds himself in a coffee shop at eight in the morning. The bags under his eyes drag his face down to the table, its cool surface welcoming him.

Nothing about the cafe should remotely remind him about his grades or the responsibility bestowed upon him by his parents (who called him the previous night), but the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the rumbling of a coffee maker makes him jittery. He tries to drown out the too loud noises and his inner turmoil.

It’s just so hard, though.

His shoulders slump even lower, if possible, and he nearly collapses off the table. Nothing feels right. He has homework and projects piling on his plate and he can’t fathom how many sleepless nights he needs to accomplish them all. Sleep has become so foreign that it has become a habit to run away from. Something gets in his eye and they begin to water and sting. Really. Something’s in his eye. He twists his body over so he’s facing the window and out of view of any of the patrons coming in to get their daily fix.

He sniffs and bites his lip. A bar is probably a more fitting setting than a coffee place for a weeping college boy (too bad there aren’t any bars open in the morning). Settings don’t matter, however, when all you are is depressed and sleep deprived. Anywhere can become a place of self-loathing and disappointments.

He continues like that for a while-- sobbing silently. Wishing to maybe disappear for a little time.

It isn’t until Jongin feels another presence before him does he snap out of his thoughts and truly tastes the saltiness of his tears. He slowly looks up and there’s Luhan with his honey flavored locks and warm wrinkles thanks to years of smiling. Of course, at that point in time, Jongin hadn’t known his name or if he was actually there. Cause really, what sane boy smiles at a crying guy and continues to talk animatedly in broken Korean about God knows what because: Chinese.

Jongin doesn’t know who else ever would, but Luhan does and did-- talks Jongin’s ear off until he’s listening and hanging off his every word because there’s just something to the way words roll off his tongue. There is no visible accent, but it’s there just like the hints of softness that is in every one of Luhan’s expressions. He speaks in run ons and odd fragments, which Jongin finds so endearing. He loves the way he talks.

If Luhan noticed the tear stains, he hadn’t mentioned them. And Jongin’s glad to just listen.

Neither does Luhan  mention them the second time they meet, but instead asks about his life, his school, his major, things Jongin doesn't ever really care to talk about. Luhan’s the exception.

He never did (and still doesn’t) understand why Luhan would sit with him so early in the morning at some dumb cafe, but he thanks the Lord regardless. His most eloquent sentences are one word replies, yet Luhan still considers them important, as if worthwhile. So Jongin starts to dominate half the conversations, albeit in his limited words. It’s possible. Besides, he’d rather listen to Luhan’s voice than his own.

“What are you studying?”

“Literature. You?”

“Languages. All of them are just so nice, especially... how do you say?”

“Fun?”

“No. That’s not the word.”

“Interesting?”

“No. Not that either.”

“Hard?”

“Yes, but no. Something else.”

“Challenging?”

“No, but oh! I remember now: satisfying!”

Luhan’s eyes light up and he then goes on a tangent about the joys of new cultures, origins of words, syntax, diction, everything that makes him smile. Jongin decides that day that languages are special. Luhan promises to teach him some Chinese one of these days, implying that the second meeting wasn’t due to chance and neither will the next. Jongin looks forward to that day.

Honestly any day with Luhan.

Every day with him is so nice and soothing. Luhan injects him with air and it feels like his person is being lifted off the ground. Any insecurities or problems can be forgotten for an hour each morning before his classes. Same coffee shop, same place. So nice and relaxing, that sometimes he falls asleep on Luhan while his gentle hands run through his inked strands.

Sometimes, Jongin wonders if Luhan is even human, but, instead, perhaps an airy sprite that came from the mountains of China. Jongin would look further into it, however, the thoughts always escape his mind as his head hits the familiar surface (warmed up by his coffee) of the table and dozes off. The few seconds of consciousness Jongin sustains, before entering the welcomed world of dreams, he can feel Luhan’s doe eyes watching him with a spark of humor. Jongin never feels more safe than when he’s sleeping; too bad Luhan’s always gone when he awakes, bored by his lazing figure.

Jongin learns a lot about Luhan before he falls asleep, thankfully. The seconds feel like hours and the brief exchange of words are novels.

Luhan is no where near meticulous, always forgetting his change with the cashier. Luhan usually just tells the worker to keep it, implying it’s their lucky day, but Jongin knows better. He knows Luhan never retrieves his five dollars back because of the beautiful bashfulness that would befall him. Although Luhan’s face was always that snowy paleness that Jongin never knew could exist, his ears would become powdered with the softest of reds. (That unperturbed flush of his cheeks and baby skin was only for Jongin.) That familiar pastel of velvet which appeared when he brushed away Jongin’s array bangs and patted down his hair was his favorite color. And although Jongin is pretty sure he should be the one to care for Luhan and his ways, (rather than being groomed by the male who fills his cup with more sugar than the cane fields they come from) he loves the feel of the brush of his fingers and the delicious giggle that bubbles from him.

Maybe Jongin is too dependent on Luhan and the company he provides him. And if so, then he prays that Luhan is as obsessed with him as he is, too.

Luhan calls his infatuation cute, he hopes that’s good.

He’s holding Luhan’s hands, his calloused ones warmed by the others presence. He runs his thumb over the back of Luhan’s hand and enjoys the feeling of his skin against his, admiring the way their hands mold together and the dreamy look on Luhan’s face. He always wonders what he’s thinking about.

Jongin’s petty and wants to be the only object to consume Luhan’s conscious.  

Especially so when Luhan freely expresses his terrible habit of staring out the windows, watching the pedestrians and bike riders strode past the cafe.

Jongin watches him for a while, a pursed line gracing his lips at the golden haired male’s glazed over eyes. It’s like at any moment, Luhan might disappear, returning to a world where fantastic elegance and air is the norm, rather than here, with Jongin, in some hole in the wall cafe whose tables are decorated with the shadow of coffee cups and stains. Jongin won’t let that happen, though, he would never let Luhan leave his side. His hand desperately reaches out to him, clinging to the angel’s wrist to jerk him back to reality before his mind flew away, whether it be for forever or a second.

It’s like trying to catch an imp in mid-flight.

The familiar puffs of peppermint breaths, which are so much of Luhan’s laughter, fills Jongin with relief, but there’s still the lingering of fear invading his body. Luhan is a perfect, unmarred creature while Jongin is stupidly imperfect.

Luhan teaches him words that are impossibly hard to translate without a mouthful of descriptions. The first word he teaches him is yuanfen: a relationship by fate or destiny. Luhan proceeds to ramble on about other meaningful words, but all he can focus on is the first. He wonders if what he and Luhan shares is something that was predestined, binding them together.

Jongin begins to wonder if it’s too much to call Luhan his soulmate. He has no doubt that Luhan is his better half, but he is sure that Luhan is everyone’s better half. He is the perfection and beauty that artists strive for in their art. He is the melody that flows through the veins of dancers and the hops in their steps. He is the electricity that runs through the air and is so prevalent in the slight touches between humans. He is the static shock of it all. He is the scent and the stories and the essence in which encases each bound book. Luhan is the dream dreams dream of.

Jongin wants nothing more than to be as essential to Luhan’s life as he already is to his, but Jongin has long since stopped wishing for the impossibles. While Luhan is more evanescent than any sunset he could ever witness, he is the haze that destroys every scenic view-- the fogs which shroud the sea and mountains. He is the parasite. This is Jongin.

He is the disease: the infection and infliction. And this is all he’ll ever know and feel.


Perhaps his smitteness and yearning for Luhan is merely the same jealousy which possesses the sun. He thinks this and ponders it over the coffee the blond was so often taken with. He will never be like Luhan, he concludes. The beauty he had discovered, the gracefulness he had let Jongin-- plain old, going nowhere in life, Jongin --indulge in and witness would never be his to behold again. Jongin is fine with that, however, for he had never wanted it. He never had a need or use. No reason to dominate or control. All he ever yearned for in terms of perfection was and is Luhan.

He supposes Luhan ruined him as much as he saved him.

At times he thinks Luhan will never come back and although he hates to admit it, he’s not strong enough to deal with that reality. All he can think about is waiting and waiting. He’ll come back to the cafe every day. At least he has good memories there and they sort of outweigh the ache in his chest.

(it really doesn’t actually and makes no sense, but, then again, jongin never has.)

Jongin replays the memories, feigning ignorance towards the bad. Tries to ignore the feeling of the first time Luhan doesn’t show up: the almost nothing feeling, followed by a tremor of fear through his heart.

Brushes off the second time which is very much like the first, but more extreme.

Drowns the third with caffeine because it’s too damn near traumatic.

The fourth is barely a whisper because by then Jongin has stopped feeling much.

He just waits silently, like he is now. It’s not like he owned Luhan and nor were any of their meetings planned. It was just how it was. Every morning, at the break of dawn, Luhan would appear with guarantee. The two would share their special booth and Luhan would talk with a Caramel Macchiato nursing between his soft hands.

Jongin adores the special spark and clarity that Luhan’s eyes had when they spoke-- they were so clear he could see every detail about his eyes. He could probably draw out each lash, mix out the right maple brown, and pinpoint each of the tiny breaks within his iris. He remembers the first day he had seen those piercing yet gentle eyes and how they would gaze at him. If eyes were the windows to your soul, then Luhan’s was a door that beckoned him in.

Hours have past and Luhan still has yet to arrive. It’s not truly a day without Luhan’s presence. And Jongin might as well be reliving December 27th everyday for no time has past since Luhan’s been gone.

It’s seven pm, so the clock ticks. Jongin’s missed another whole day of classes. He gets up and leaves the cafe to return home. He leaves behind his bottle of sleeping pills because they don’t work anymore.