Wonshik loses track of what exactly they do next, but sometime later he finds himself and Taekwoon holed up in his bedroom, clothes discarded somewhere else in the apartment. His room is still as embarrassingly cluttered as always—but right now, Wonshik couldn't give a damn. Taekwoon's warm breath spills delicately over his clavicle, Wonshik's arms wrapped snugly around Taekwoon's broad frame. Their bodies are achy and tired and Wonshik is fairly certain he's still shaking, but none of it matters in the least at that moment. Wonshik grins into Taekwoon's hair. He knows he's found heaven here in this man, this Jung Taekwoon that came to him so fatefully.

Wonshik had never thought in his twenty one years of life that the act of making love could be… such a connecting experience. Sure, Wonshik had a few girlfriends back in high school and one in his first year of university, and he'd kissed them and messed around with them and lost his ity to his second high school sweetie but never before had Wonshik ever felt so connected to another human being during . Wonshik hugs Taekwoon tighter.

"What time is it?" Taekwoon mumbles into Wonshik's bare chest.

Wonshik glances over at his old digital alarm clock with its obnoxious red numbers. "About eight in the evening," he whispers back.

"Is it still snowing?"           

"I don't know,"

Taekwoon curls into a tighter ball, bringing his knees up and brushing firmly along Wonshik's shins and thighs. Wonshik shudders, drawing in a calming breath and inhaling the scent of Taekwoon's dark head. "Okay," Taekwoon sighs.

They're warm like that, all cozy under Wonshik's comforter, snuggled together like—well, like lovers. Wonshik likes it. He decided that at the very moment they first pulled the blanket over their tired bodies. There aren't many things in life that Wonshik decides he likes right away, but Taekwoon just happened to be one of those things, just like street art. Wonshik closes his eyes and from behind his red eyelids he can see thousands of murals of Jung Taekwoon blossom from his hands and a can of paint, thousands of sketches rustling in a sketchbook and thousands of words scrawled haphazardly on café napkins or receipts or newspaper margins. Wonshik is amazed at how little time it took him to fall madly in love with this other man. From two weeks ago until now, Wonshik hadn't the slightest clue how hard he was going to fall until he hit the figurative pavement and found himself wrapped up in a blanket with Taekwoon.

"Taekwoon," Wonshik susurrates. "You know I love you."

Taekwoon nods. "I know,"

Carefully, they find each other's lips, Taekwoon unclasping his hands from Wonshik's waist to brush the hair out of his face instead, letting his pale fingers rest gently on Wonshik's cheeks. Taekwoon hums softly into Wonshik's smile, a delicate yearning melody that he's never heard before. Wonshik lets his eyes slide open, Taekwoon's own shut eyes dangerously close and slightly out of focus. Behind Taekwoon's blue tinted lids, his eyes look this way and that, and Wonshik finds it oddly endearing. "Wonshik," Taekwoon murmurs suddenly. "I need a piece of paper."

Taekwoon throws the covers off the both of them, and as Wonshik slowly sits up in bed, Taekwoon helps himself to rummaging through Wonshik's papers to find a blank sheet and a pen. His form is beautiful and pale in the dim evening light from the window as he hunches on the floor over the scrap of paper he found, scribbling out the melody on his mind.

"What are you writing?" Wonshik asks, running a hand through his hair.

"I don't want to let this melody go," Taekwoon says, messily scrawling out a staff and jotting down the notes in his head.

Wonshik scoots to the edge of his bed, the comforter falling the rest of the way off his frame. He swings his legs over the side. "You can write from your mind just like that?"

Taekwoon nods, his fingers tapping on a ghost piano, plunking out notes only he can hear.

They both fall silent, Wonshik returning to simply watching Taekwoon compose. His eyes take in every aspect of Taekwoon's body, from the mole on his shoulder to the beautiful bend of his knee. Taekwoon sweeps his black bangs off his forehead with elegant fingers and Wonshik peers closer at the concentration burning in Taekwoon's gaze. It's beautiful—Wonshik doesn't see that kind of concentration very often. It' a loving, violent, razor-sharp kind of focus, the kind that goes down in history or is labeled as "genius". Wonshik wonders what's going on in Taekwoon's mind as the pen slips across the paper. A soft hum starts up again and Wonshik listens contentedly.

"What do you think?" Taekwoon asks after his humming trails off and dies.

Wonshik sighs. "It's beautiful,"

Taekwoon stands up, stark in the moonlight and pale as fine china. "It's yours,"

"You're kidding," Wonshik wraps a hand around Taekwoon's wrist as he climbs back into Wonshik's bed. Taekwoon shakes his head and pulls the comforter over them.

Taekwoon doesn't say anything afterward, burying his face in Wonshik's chest again. Methodically and rhythmically, Wonshik combs his fingers through Taekwoon's short black hair. "Tell me about yourself," Wonshik whispers. He wants whole-heartedly to hear what Taekwoon's life has been like, to hear what his inner thoughts are, so he can make a decent stab at pegging why Taekwoon is the way he is. It's so mysterious to Wonshik, who's just about the same on the inside as he is on the outside. Someone like Taekwoon is such a puzzle to Wonshik, all guarded emotions and clipped words. Wonshik encounters a tangle in Taekwoon's hair.

"I'm twenty four," Taekwoon begins softly, sighing into Wonshik's collar bone. Wonshik is surprised that Taekwoon is talking, but he forces himself to shake the surprise. "I have both parents and three older sisters; I grew up in Seoul and played soccer and did taekwondo. I hated life and school so much, like any other student, until I got accepted at the art university." Taekwoon shakes Wonshik's hand off his wrist and wraps both arms around Wonshik's torso. "Also, I compose trip hop."

Wonshik's eyes light up at the mention of the hip hop subgenre. He would have never guessed that that was something Taekwoon was interested in.

"I was trained in classical piano, but I never really liked it," Taekwoon continues, his fingers curling against Wonshik's back. Taekwoon shrugs. "I suppose I like it better now, but you know how kids are growing up. I never wanted to practice."

Listening to Taekwoon talk, a knot forms in the pit of Wonshik's stomach. "Are you okay with talking right now? Because you don't have to."           

"I'm comfortable," Taekwoon's voice is muffled by Wonshik's skin. "I'm fine."

Wonshik bites his lip. It almost doesn't feel right to hear Taekwoon talking, like the universe is tipped out of balance. Wonshik can't deny he likes it, though. Taekwoon's voice is incredible—although it's soft and gentle now, Wonshik is reminded of what it sounded like just a while before they snuggled into Wonshik's bed. It had been jagged and desperate and loud. Oh, so loud. Not quite screams but too raucous to be shouting, and Wonshik was impressed by the sheer capacity of Taekwoon's lungs. Wonshik had worried they'd irk the neighbors or get caught or in the very least, lose their voices. "You can stop any time you like."

"Write a rap for me," Taekwoon says, pulling a topic out of left field yet again. "To go with your melody. Tomorrow we can go to my studio."

"Are you serious?" Wonshik can't tell if the knot in his gut just dissipated or tightened. He swallows dryly. From the tone of Taekwoon's voice, Wonshik can tell that going to his studio is not something many people have done (if any at all). Taekwoon hums a positive response, but Wonshik is a little too wonderstruck to fully comprehend it.

Taekwoon falls silent after that, and Wonshik assumes he's run out of things to say. He still runs his fingers through Taekwoon's hair, and after what seems like an eternity, Taekwoon's easy breath evens out into a sleep-like rhythm. Wonshik allows himself a tiny smile, studying Taekwoon's close face with soft eyes. He glances up at the clock, and outside his room, he can hear the front door open and shut quietly. Wonshik can tell it's Hakyeon, back from his "laundry" run, and Hakyeon's low footsteps make their way into the other bedroom and another door shuts. After a while, Wonshik himself drifts off into sleep, warm from Taekwoon's arms and wrung exhausted from every second of the day's happenings.