A week later, Youngjae takes Daehyun out for coffee. They sit across from each other, tucked in a booth in the corner by the window. It’s noon, but the sky is grayer than dusk and all they can see is dark umbrellas passing by in the gloomy street outside. Daehyun is smiling shyly into his hot chocolate, and Youngjae feels a kind of gravitational pull coming from him that he just can’t resist. The folded, dripping umbrella by Daehyun’s feet is fire-truck red. Youngjae thinks he wouldn’t mind spending all the moments of his life like this.

They find that they don’t really know how to talk to each other about things other than music. They stumble through conversation, skimming just the surface, and look more at each other’s reflections in the window than directly at each other. Really, there are so many things to talk about, so many things Youngjae wants to learn about Daehyun, but he doesn’t know where to start, or if he should. It’s quiet in the shop, as if the rain has stolen away the sound from the rest of the world. Daehyun’s voice is low, chin tucked to his chest, like he’s afraid of disturbing the peace. It’s nice, Youngjae thinks, whatever this is, this warmth blossoming between them like young flowers tentatively unfurling at the first calling of spring. Daehyun, to Youngjae, is spring itself, bright and rosy and so, so gentle.

Sometime between Youngjae’s second blueberry muffin and Daehyun’s first cheesecake, their ankles interlock underneath the table, but Youngjae isn’t even sure who made the first move. He splits his third muffin and shares it with Daehyun, remembering the other time they’d divided one between them, the way they’d sat next to each other on the creaking piano bench, thighs pressed together, exhaustion pulling their eyelids over their eyes. Daehyun looks at him, and Youngjae can’t help but catch Daehyun’s infectious smile, cheeks bunched and full of spongy muffin. He thinks—hopes—they might be remembering the same thing.

There’s a lull in their conversation. They gaze at each other, searching for something neither of them knows how to find. Daehyun sighs in content, chest and shoulders rising and falling, and the tiny breath whispers across the space in between them like dry leaves skittering over the sidewalk in autumn. Youngjae leans closer, sets his elbows on the table and his chin in the palm of his hand and doesn’t pretend that he’s not staring at Daehyun, because Daehyun is so beautiful that there’s just nothing Youngjae can do to stop himself. Youngjae remembers that they’ve got only a few more months left, and yet he still has six hundred and fifteen cranes to fold. He thinks about the joyful amber in Daehyun’s eyes, the way they welcome Youngjae in as if they’ve been waiting for him for far too many years. He thinks about how the stars aligned just right for Youngjae, in a tipsy haze, to pick Daehyun as the one to whom he will send his cranes, and then for Daehyun to seek him out for a term project when all he had was a name and a recommendation from his professor. Youngjae thinks about how he has never wanted someone else so much in his life. And then—

And then Youngjae reaches into the bag by his side and pulls out a dwindling stack of what had once been one thousand three-by-three sheets of origami paper, and sets it on the table. He unclips a pen from the pocket of his canvas bag and slips a solid colored square of out of the stack. It’s a pinkish red, deeper than coral with a purple tinge, and Youngjae thinks there’s no better color for this moment than this one. He uncaps the pen and scribbles out the first thing he can think of. He only realizes the trembling in his fingers when he reads over what he has written and finds that the letters are all slightly off, slightly tilted, not quite his own handwriting. But he has to finish what he'd begun, so Youngjae starts folding the corners in. First horizontally, then vertically and diagonally. A kite next, then the edges folded in, unfold, turn, refold, unfold. He his lips and doesn’t dare to look up at Daehyun. Corners to the top, fold the edges in again, turn, fold, fold, turn, fold, crease. Youngjae has folded three hundred and eighty-six cranes for a boy, and he’ll fold six hundred and fourteen more. He sets the finished crane on the table between them, and pushes it across toward Daehyun. Amaranth stains the polished wood of the table in the reflection.

“You sent them,” Daehyun whispers. In the buzz of the café, the hissing of the rain pouring outside, Youngjae barely catches the words. What he hears, though, isn’t surprise. He chances a glance at Daehyun, is met with molten brown and sunshine and spring.

And Daehyun—Daehyun looks at him as if he’s the most amazing person in the world. As if Youngjae himself had hung up the stars and the moon and planted the flowers in the soil. He takes the crane delicately, pinching the wing between his forefinger and thumb to bring it closer, but doesn’t unfold it. Youngjae imagines Daehyun gently picking up each of the last three hundred and eighty-five cranes day by day, wonders what Daehyun had thought the first time he had found one in his room.

“Thank you,” Daehyun says, and before Youngjae can ask what Daehyun is thanking him for, Daehyun is standing up and leaning over the table. His fingertips flit lightly over the skin between Youngjae’s cheek and jawbone, and his lips, soft and warm and insistent, press against Youngjae’s.

Everything, Youngjae thinks, is just right, just like this.

.

“You’re not surprised,” Youngjae says later, quietly. They’re outside, huddled underneath the awning of the same coffee shop they’ve just left. The rain has not let up even slightly, and pressed against the cool brick wall, hands clutched together, breathing the same damp air, it’s as if they’re the only ones in the world.

Daehyun says simply, “No,” and Youngjae isn’t surprised either, really.

They stay like that, unmoving, watching people rush past, feet splashing in puddles, and cars speed along the road, throwing water on the sidewalk. Daehyun’s hand, fingers intertwined with Youngjae’s, is growing steadily colder, and Youngjae’s breath begins to fan out in a fog as the wind picks up and early February rumbles around them. The forecast claimed that the rain is due to change to snow in the late evening, so Youngjae squeezes Daehyun’s hand and reaches for the umbrella hanging from his wrist by the strap.

“Let’s go.” Fiery red amidst a sea of black and gray, hips bumping, shoulders brushing. Just right.

Their feet lead them on campus and into a practice room, into their practice room, and they sit at the piano bench, playing footsie with each other and the pedals. It’s silly, but Daehyun is grinning and Youngjae is laughing and sometimes (many times) they kiss, and it’s the most incredible thing Youngjae has ever experienced. Daehyun is incredible. Youngjae makes sure to tell him so, vows to tell him every day from this day onward, how much Daehyun means to him, how much happiness he brings.

.

#386: Hi. I like your smile.

a/n: credit for this image goes to sRAINIE! she made the cranes herself and took the picture as well! i love it <333

Happy birfday youngjae bb hope you get all the daehyun you want! <3333
-Jess