13th of August

It had been two days since the escapade of mine that still leaves me gushed full of all these unimaginable things. 

You might be wondering where I'd gone for so long without writing to you and informing you of events, but to put it simply, I haven't been alone in that whole while. I wouldn't believe it myself had I thought of it earlier. I cannot believe me, the one basked in solitude and wallowing in the viscous waters of disorientation, had been thinking about being spared some free time. 

Nothing you cannot expect from Chinese-Canadian critics with obsessives ways of spending time with people they keep reminding they like. 

I definitely did not expect to find myself riding in his expensive and sleek car towards the Modern Gallery you and I had spent a considerable amount of your precious and limited time on with the engine's perfectly manufactured drone in the background. Let alone to have actually agreed to it and willingly directed him to the place as if I've been there just the previous day when it had been months. But what I would have never expected was to feel this bubbling excitement to show him to contrast it to diagnostic attitude, my mouth never shutting about it the whole ride to the point that he hand to lean over and hook my seat belt over it with a laugh once we hit a red light. 

I know you probably are wondering why I would bring him to see our claimed painting and reveal our secret. I am wondering about it as well with you. Maybe up there you have all the answers and you can share them with me. Tell me why I am losing my claws and sharp needles, why they are falling apart from the pores of my skin, like a stripped cactus or porcupine, welcoming myself to someone whose just interested that I am not falling as easily into one of his traps. 

But that wasn't what I was thinking then as I guided him towards the building, where he stopped to look up at the sign before looking at me questioningly and quickly retaining his casual expression,

"Galleries will be the death of us," he remarked before I nudged him. Without further adue, I glided through the gallery with a firm grip on his callous one, allowing him to stop at some statues and works of art on occasion. Yet soon acting with admitted impatience as I tugged on his hand with mine, my fingers gripping his thicker ones with a whined 'Yifan', getting a chuckle in return before he repeated my name in his favorite inverted fashion, 'Hyunbaek'. I won most rounds though as I rushed him through the aisles, halting however as the signs signaled that we got closer, 'Exhibit N', it read. I held my breath then and he glanced at me silently, yet I began on my route once again towards the 'P' section before those parted lips could form words. Walking slowly then, I passed 'Exhibit O' and approached the empty arch of a doorway to the work of artists with the last names beginning with the next letter in the alphabet. 

"You might wonder why I am bringing you for such work but.. I'll point it out to you," I said in the car once I got the seat belt out of my mouth and wiped my lips with his shirt for good measure as I leaned over. I wasn't nervous then. 

I exhaled then and let out the breath I was holding and in turn let go of the tall man's hand, walking in on my own as I could practically breathe in your presence from when we last sat against the far corner across from Porletzo's masterpiece. 

Instead of bitter feelings, I felt light and a bit hazy, it dawned on me how I've began neglecting you upon meeting someone else. Just like I swore was out of my capability. But you understand, right? I'm a fish moving backwards in a fast current and I've found a stick stuck in the mud independently and confidently and I'm holding onto it because it's straining to keep swimming. You could call it a break from the exertion, you could call it not knowing what the other side of the water holds anymore. 

I then feel the awful yet relieving wave of nostalgia being drawn back into the ocean as I relax once again and turn to the male but he is already looking in the direction that I am. I can make out the beautiful and odd mixture of colors in his eyes, matching his whole being in a way that makes me very much calm. 

"Once you see it, I want you to tell me what you think. I know you'll understand what I meant back at the diner when you see it," I said back in the car, sealing my lips as he prodded me to tell me more about what this kind of view could be and to spill where I was leading him to. Once he seemed recognized the root though, he turned to me shortly before maneuvering the car before I gave him the directions, I suppose his occupation requires him to know his way around. 

I turn back to the painting then as I regain my composure, he was still a couple of steps behind me and I waited for him to come over.

"I've been looking at it for ages and it never fails to just.. agitate me because it's just so queer and out of place. Almost carelessly strewn, even." I said with a small sigh as we pulled up in a parking space by the door, he looked up at me and I've marked it as the fifteenth time he's looked at me that way, yet only after he's seemed to have guessed the place.

I waited for him to speak and make those clever remarks about it and give me his diverse perspective of the mystery that we could never decode.

Yet he said nothing and he did not move. 

I gave him a couple of moments then as I supposed he needed to let the image sink in, to let it float around his head till he could finally give some assumption of its message. I could feel the minutes tick by as the few people here and there finished looking and left the exhibit after studying Panzoa, a blunt painting depicting the evolution of art which seems to be printed out of a textbook. "Almost pathetic, being in the same room as such an abstract and casual painting which holds more meaning!" you'd exclaim as we watched it be the more populated part of the exhibit. 

Glancing back, I notice he isn't even looking anymore and I raise a brow, reaching out to guide him closer towards our corner. It was momentary and I'm not sure if it was from my sudden grab, or if I was just imagining, but his hand was tense when I touched it. 

I remember wildly thinking maybe he could sense you, too. 

I brushed off the ludicrous thought and gave him an encouraging look before leading him towards the corner, convinced that he was still analyzing the piece in that strange way of his. I felt the need to prompt him, however.

"This is where I sat," I began a bit quietly, "inspecting the work to take it all in at once before I moved closer to the varying and the questionably deliberate carelessness in them. We'd-- I'd -- sit here for hours straight, just looking at it and wondering the behind the scenes story behind it," I was more bold then, "Who the artist was like, where he came from, why he had next to no information on his name, and just plainly what his only work meant. If he had only one, he must have made it count, you know?"

Exhaling, I skimmed over the work of art, "So much depth to one canvas, wouldn't be surprised if the walls extended all the way out to space behind it to make up for it," I said with a small chuckle. 

That's when I felt the unresponding figure withdraw his hand from mine. Yifan then scoffed cynically before commenting in an offhand manner, "I see nothing but a mess some guy made to sell it to paranoid people to consume with all their daft inquiries." 

His words are such a blow that my jaw is just slack for a couple of seconds, his extreme change in attitude stinging in the most unpleasant way as my face contorts into a frown, "You're calling me one of those paranoid people."

"Glad you could make that out," the man replies, looking at the painting I so treasured with those judging eyes and I felt something pierce a deep part inside of me. It shouldn't matter but it does; I broke out a hole in my walls of protection for him to crawl in and in that, I've inflicted pain on myself. 

"You're calling us pretentious for seeing something in someone's work that you obviously are just too ignorant to see, you just see the lines and diagnose them to guess what would be in between them," I say and try to keep from snapping at him and yelling and just regretting the moment holding his hand became something I vouched for because I just want to take him by his hand back to his car and drive back to M.A.G.A.S.H. to pretend this never happened. 

But another side of me is fuelling the argument, needing a reason to despise the seemingly flawless male that just waltzed into my life. 

He definitely gave me something to work with. "Oh, please, there is nothing between the lines, not even positive that there are lines, for crying out loud. So in fact you are all twice as delusional, if that makes you even more happy to defend your spots," the man retorts, rolling his eyes and I feel so hurt it is just preposterous. I just want to throw something over the painting so his traitorous look doesn't stain the painting next to which I found out how much I was just irredeemably in love with you. He's dirtying it with gaze and harsh statements and it infuriates me. 

"You asked to see this," I say in what I hope is an even tone even though there were so many things I could have said instead and spit back at him. I can't look at him anymore.

Yifan moves away now and I felt the urge to do something stupid like cry when he speaks. I can't recognize that voice anymore when his tone is so bleak,

"My mistake. This is not at all how I presumed you'd be. The last thing I'd expect." 

An apology is on the tip of my tongue because I'm so alone and I don't want him to leave, I don't want him to walk out of my life. I want affection and care and attention. It doesn't make sense that I have to dwell in such depths of desperation to get it. Why do people always leave me when I need them most?

I can't form a response and he's walking away, already on the boundary of our exhibit. I almost want to see if he's going to actually leave but I know he will. 

I knew it. Once I let someone in and show them the real me and what I have behind my cloak of asperity and bitterness, they are repulsed and just take it out on me how they were mistaken and how their efforts to break into me have all been in vain. There are cracks along the wall I've built, it's been abused and I've let it be, you can probably recall me telling you that when you begged for me to let you love me, not to have me, but just for me to acknowledge that fact. I've filled them in but they are still uneven, bumpy sides of the wall that are easily made out, like someone broke in and tried to leave with no traces behind. You weren't like that, you didn't make me hammer a hole into my sense of stability for you to get to me, you helped me pull out each brick and used them to create something beautiful- an archway into my very soul. Even as you left, it's still waiting for you to come back and leave that special trace that you leave everywhere you go. 

But now I realize, I hadn't broken up a hole to let Yifan in. He's used the very construction the both of us built together, taking advantage of how it needed someone, anyone, to cross it now that it understands that the perfect being that helped devise it has vanished from existence. 

I've showed him something personal out of this nagging urge to trust him and he's found it. 

Chanyeol, I could never find enough apologies to cover for it. I will always be fickle and will always need you guiding me.

Because I'm about to do something reckless.

"Yifan," I almost croak and I sound so hopeless that I feel bile working its way up my throat.

He doesn't even turn and I just want to fall apart then and there because I don't want to be the lame loser that everyone can't help but leave at some point. I want to be valuable and precious again like you always told me I was. I never wanted to be Byun Baekhyun the one that wards away all possible sources of affection and when he does find the perfect source, he is undeserving of it. I want to be attractive and appealing and have self-worth like I pretend I do. 

The man keeps walking till he's beyond my spectrum of sight and everything about me screams and twists just like before when he approached me with that friendly yet amused grin but this time, I want him to stay and not leave. I come to a conclusion that if I do not make him stay, I will burst into a fit of tears and self-loathing. 

With that in mind, I follow in his wake, not seeing him yet knowing he'd go through the same path we've taken upon entering. My heart throbs and beats frantically yet I walk slowly, afraid I might break into a run and scream for him to stop and please don't go. 

When I get to him, he's by his car, just standing there with his back to me by the hood where we stood hours ago side by side. I miss the closeness already.

He might have been waiting for me; out of pity, out of recognition that I have no ride back to my car, out of regret for snapping at me, out of anger that I brought him here. The possibilities are virtually endless but he's here and he hasn't left.

Had I still had grasp on a wisp of sanity, I would have stayed in the gallery by our painting, not caring that some man I've spent quite some time with has just practically called me delusional but even the mere thought of sanity has long departed. 

"Yifan," I call out again with a slight weak ring to it, as if he hadn't noticed that I had been standing behind him and been staring at his spine that bent over the hood a fraction so he could rest his arms on the glossy metal above the engine. His head hangs down so I cannot see what he is looking at or if his eyes are even open.

Had I still been sane and had a shred of self respect, I would have stopped playing the desperate card a long time ago, I would have been the mysterious and unattainable Baekhyun he probably wants me to still be. But I'm not. So I still persist. 

"Kris," I manage to muster and my throat feels raw because he isn't responding and I don't know what I can do to patch up the mistake I've somehow made that's torn the sails to our friendship and more when it was going so well.

The said man's shoulders shift a bit eventually and I take it as a start, stepping towards him and wanting so badly to lean against his lean back and inhale the musky scent I didn't realize I took note off as well as have his husky voice speak my name like he claims he likes or at least liked to. It's all so pathetic and painfully honest at the same time. 

"I'm sorry," I apologize quietly because I wish he'd turn around and look at me with those amused eyes like I was worth staring at. It's been a while since I felt like that again. "I really do feel sorry," I repeat, gaining the courage as his body seems to relax a bit to then press my forehead onto his upper back, "Stay," I say, finally voicing out what I want to say as I slip my arms around his slender waist, gripping onto the fabric of his shirt weakly.

Under my touch, I can feel a shallow rumble of his chest and his chest expand before giving out, closing my eyes as I'm confident he'll push me away. Though I expect it, I can never say I will ever be prepared for that kind of rejection. Yet what happens next takes me by absolute surprise, he shifts and I loosen my grip on him yet keep my arms vaguely around him, yet he doesn't escape their vicinity, instead he faces me and I lift my head to catch his eyes. No words could accurately describe the expression, like it was engulfed with fumes of disorientation and just a momentary sense of something being amiss in those once concise eyes; he seems regretful yet unforgiving at the same time. It almost chickens me out from trying before his arms then bring me back to him, and I am so startled and so expectant of them that I just fall to him in the most unceremonious fashion, fingers clutching onto the back of his shirt enough to crumple up the material but I don't care anymore and he doesn't seem to either. 

"Yifan," I repeat for the nth time today as I feel like crying out of all the emotions possible, burying my face in his chest as I want to keep him there with me for as long as possible.

This time, my name is called back as strong arms pull me close to his chest, "Baekhyun," he breathes quietly and I spare a glance at him before closing my eyes and clutching his shirt tighter.

"Sorry," I plead stupidly once again, planted against his disheveled shirt now as he begins to move. First, stepping sideways whilst still cradling me, then guiding me into the backseat of his car before shortly releasing me till I slide in after him, leaning all my weight onto his chest as his arms make their way back around me. At this point in time, I couldn't care less what was thought of me as I can feel a rhythmatic beating of the man's heart as I curl up close to him and it's been so long that I've felt the pulse of life from a foreign source so close and so intimately. 

"You have some chocolate on your shirt," I mumble, my fingers running over the small stain close to his collarbone before they slide over the left side of his chest over his heart, the erratic beat evident and strong beneath my finger tips. I can feel it skip a few beats then, taking it a sign as his anger subsiding, "Your heart is racing. You're still angry."

A dry chuckle rumbles through his chest and I glance up at him curiously, "Are you really going to list all the things you notice about me?" he inquires with a small exhale. 

"No," I reply honestly, drawling a bit, "Because I'd be ashamed as it's a small list. In case you haven't noticed, I'm pretty selfish."

"Well, you got your list on task, anyway," Yifan replies, his eyes never once leaving me, now cleared out from the fog and clear once again, "Except that last part."

"Me being selfish?" I ask distractedly, ready to refute it as I trace over the slope of his shoulders absently. I only now wonder how odd we must have looked, having a whole reunion right in front of the entrance.

"No," the male shakes his head before pausing, "Well, I wouldn't know too much about that. I was referring to me still being angry."

"Oh, okay," I breathe and rest my head against him once again because my heart is taking too much effort to beat at the moment. I'm struggling to get my pulse going as it clenches down so hard in my chest, the images of you in the corner and me abandoning you or the hallucination of you to run after ephemeral happiness and fulfillment. As I feel the unfamiliar heartbeat, I plead for it to lend me some strength and will mine to match its gradually slower pulse. 

I should be relieved that Yifan took me in and seemed to partially forgive me but it'd should spare the pain afterwards had he pushed me to the curb and made me walk home. I'd have a valid reason to hate him and shun him. 

But I'm selfish and greedy an it's not enough for him to be pulling me into a tighter embrace. 

"Baekhyun?" he questions after a while when my head starts spinning and I close my eyes.

"Yeah?" I ask vaguely, wondering if there was a Higher Court up there that was taking trial right now. You'd be there and telling me off for breaking my promises that I've numerously written down boldly in here. They'd wait for me to leave my body before punishing me with whatever laws they have there and frankly, they can do what they want. Perhaps even put me back on Earth as cruel as it may be. 

But I just wanted company, I just wanted someone that wouldn't leave, I'd beg before the court. 

You yourself were not sure that Yifan would stay, why do you act surprised when he leaves? Why did you seek momentary comfort and lie to your loved one? They'd refute and bang those big fists on the table. 

I don't know. I was just lonely, I'd whisper and find myself back on Earth, alone and deserted once again.

Huddled in my animated thoughts, I forget Yifan had asked me a question, I hadn't even heard it as I moved closer to him, a hand slipping down his arm from his shoulder blade. 

"You're thinking about something else," the said man states with slight bitterness and looks away, prompting me to finally perch my ears out and resurface from my thoughts.

"What?" I ask, clearing out my head before shaking my head a bit too severely, causing me to wince at the sudden movement. 

Yifan exhales, furrowing his brows then a bit suspiciously yet his words say something different, "It's fine." 

"Can you take me home?" I ask boldly then as he seems to internally question what is going on with me. 

This blows him out of the water as he just opens his mouth before closing it, sitting upright then and does the same thing with his mouth again, "I--" he starts before withdrawing his arms halfway, so that his palms rest on my hips, "I guess? I, yeah, I can."

He seems so lost and flustered at the same time that I muster up a small smile, thumping him on the chest lightly and earing a quirked brow to which I answer, "May you?" 

Still unsure of the drastic change, Yifan notices that his hands are squeezing my hips just a bit out of the pressure of my questions, quickly letting go of his grip as I let out a small chuckle, "I may," he replies, eyes darting over mine as if still confused yet he manages a somewhat amused expression. 

"Then I suggest we get on the road," I say, withdrawing my hands from his chest and sitting up, wearing a small grin. 

"So..." he drawls, still slightly awkward as we climb into the front seats, "Is it my place or yours...? I mean, no, where am I taking you?" 

I laugh then, head tilted back a bit because his stature boasts of confidence and looks superior yet by a simple question, he acts so unhinged. "Do you do this to everyone that asks for you to take them home? Let's hope not. It's awfully middleschool-like," I say, taking the chance to twist him about and make him feel how he's used to making people feel with his light teasing. 

He mumbles something under his breath in a foreign language, I'm guessing, or Mandarin as he starts the engine. "Well, frankly, I don't happen to know what to expect when you're like this," Yifan replies, shooting me a look which falters when I grin at him. 

"You know how I feel, don't you?" I say, sighing and then resting my head on the headrest.

His gaze skirts to me from where he was supposed to me looking, the rearview mirror, and he just narrowly misses colliding into the next row of cars as he pulls out. I buckle my seatbelt then, still aimed on teasing him though lightly now and he rolls his eyes, heading back on the road. "I really don't know where I'm going," the man admits, palms tapping the steering wheel, waiting for an oppurtunity to turn and enter the busy road as cars whizz past. 

"I've always wondered what type of place a critic would live in."

I learn that some critics, or one of them, live on the eighth floor of a complex building by the sidelines of town. I saw the coffee shop him and I met at on the way as well, like he said so. He said he would have taken the flat up on the very top had he not been a fan of taking the stairs, saying it just didn't click why people ride on clogged metal boxes, listening to faint, tacky music while trying to make small talk to get up where their legs could take them. Well, Yifan, not everyone has legs like yours, I would have said, had I not been out of breath by the fifth floor, swearing to myself at the absurdity of taking stairs.

Roughly after our stair decatholon, I probably look horrible and just not the confident I was back in the car (physical fitness, why must you ruin my fun?) yet Yifan is still looking so skeptical that I can't help but keep my mouth shut about how impractical his little habit is.

​Well, afterwards, when we get inside.

"How do you expect someone to have a marathon with you when they have to have walk one to get up here?" I ask after a small pant as we finally walk through the door to the end of the final flight of stairs, entering the fancy, carpeted hallway.

Yifan sends one of his elbows directly into my rib cage, not even looking my way yet I grin faintly because he's rolling his eyes in that way again. He's probably wondering where I got all this courage from, let's hope he shares the answer with me when he finds out and gets out of his unhinged state.

Upon the man typing in a memorised key code briskly, unlocking the door before holding it out for me to step past first, I can say that Yifan's place is spacious, to put it lightly. From the entrance, you can see a vast stretch of the living room, simple and clean, and with all the colors that are kind to the eyes. I kick off my shoes, inelegantly walking in with him trailing behind before shutting the door, hearing the faint click behind me of the door automatically locking as I look around, the only deep and dangerous colors are coming from the broad window, absent of curtains, causing it to leak in the weak light of dusk. He flicks on the light then from behind me, illuminating the place and killing the only bold colors from the window. Now I can see the little ornaments he has around, a small placque of some business, another minature model of a building, all certainly collected from the places he's critiqued and wrote about. On the tables, as expected, some pens and papers lying about neatly on tables, checklists and all.

"So," Yifan begins, coming over to me with his hands in his pockets, "Is this up to your expectations for someone of my profession?" 

Nodding my head, I then let out an airy chuckle, half because, damn, eight flights of stairs does something to you, "Very expected, actually, Yifan," I say, walking over to the beige couch, similar to the shade of his car, "It makes sense why you didn't like that painting. The place one lives says a lot about the said person." 

I am so daring at the moment that I don't even stop to think if he'll get angry at me again. He doesn't though, fortunately, he walks towards me once again, closing the distance between us, my arm grazing his just barely. "I could say the same about paintings," he replies after a while. 

I sigh quietly and shrug my shoulders, "Honestly, I didn't even like it before I saw it through someone else's eyes," I confess loosely, "I mean, it could have just been that it was the person." 

"Ah, I see," he says, and I can almost taste the curiosity in his tone yet he remains polite and seals it in.

In the silence, his hand removes itself from his pocket and finds my fingers, I find that I've been yearning for him to do so since I noticed them being tucked away. 

"So," I start speaking, lacing our fingers as I look up at him, "I can't really judge by just the living room. Take me on a tour?"

I meet his eyes when he looks down at me, cocking a brow at my initiative question, "It's nothing different, but I'd be glad to help my new guest." 

Smiling slightly, I follow him as he pulls me to follow him, guiding me through the rest of the rooms, which is so different from the open type of apartment I have. I didn't want to be rude, and looking around the place was nice, hearing his little tidbits on the kitchen's different climate and looking at more of the things he's brought home from work like a small statue of the Namsan Tower, and the typewriter he had to write the drafts of his reviews was admittedly cool, but I had hoped he had gotten my hint. 

When we at long last got to his sizeble room with modest closet against the walls, a single mirror on one of it's doors, all facing the grand center of the generously sized bed, I was practically tugging on his hand. I had stalled enough. 

I'm not even confident where I'm leading him to, but we find ourselves perched on the edge of the bed, him sitting down, leaning back on his arms slightly as I lean over with my back bent, hands on either side of his legs, forehead grazing his as I look into his eyes with determination, his looking back into mine with an intensity that keeps me there and urges me further. 

I then move and hitch my knees onto the bed to replace where my hands once were, hands on his shoulders to keep me steady both physically and mentally, watching as he sits up so he's free to use his hands, sliding them across the material of my shirt above my hips till he hooks them around me. He's waiting for me to make a first move yet also patient as to what I'll do, giving me time to make up my mind as to what I am doing. Caressing the curves of my hips gently as I stare back at him, I wonder if he can feel my heart race like I can feel his, I'm wondering how dwelling here, on his lap, will help the raging storm inside of me. 

I lean forward yet just to press my forehead against his, trying to ease it's throbbing as I hold onto his broad shoulders. It feels like eternity when he makes his move, taking his turn as he presses a tentative kiss against my temple once he pulls away, watching my reaction or lack of it as I pull him closer, as if understanding, he leaves another string of careful kisses on my cheek, chin and forehead. I close my eyes then, bracing myself for the inevitable even if I am not entirely in favor of it.

But it doesn't come. After his small kisses, he stops and I wait quietly before opening my eyes, he then kisses right between them, wearing a small smile. "What?" I ask, curling my lips into one of my own smiles, as my arms wrap loosely around his neck. 

"I really do like you, Baekhyun," Yifan murmurs and I chuckle quietly, not minding at all because he's kissing my face again in that soft way of his as if if he pressed harder, I'd be bruised. His lips then hover over mine, wavering for a bit before they retreat. 

"You can if you want," I say quietly because I owe it to him, I owe it to him for making me drag me here when he was obviously not even thinking about it, and I owe it to him because I was already counting down the days till he's disinterested just beforehand. 

Pausing as if thinking it through, he shakes his head slowly yet steadily, "I can tell you aren't ready," he replies quietly, "Just earlier you hinted me so." I remember it like it was months ago and I wonder what could have happened in such a short period  of time to make me okay with something so quickly. 

I then drop my gaze down at our bodies, mine sitting comfortably above his and can't help the small tug at my chest at how considerate he's being. "It's not my first, you don't need to be so cautious," I speak quietly, not just about the kiss but everything in general and when I look up, I know he gets the message.

"Baekhyun," he says in all seriousness, using a thumb to tilt my head up to face his properly, "I don't think you understand. I really do care about you. It could matter less whether or not I got to touch you, let alone kiss you if you aren't up for it. Even if I want to, it's not a matter of firsts or lasts. It's a matter of you."

I look into his eyes and  breathe out, as I touch the back of his neck lightly with my fingertips, "Why do you have to be so flawless? It's so hard right now to keep my borders and morals. So hard to keep back from the 'Do Not Cross' line."

His lips curl into a half-smile and he shrugs his shulders, "I figured I'd warn you by lashing out at you back there. You were supposed to run away and hide, you know? This was not part of my plan, believe it or not."

"I'm tired of running and hiding," I admit, not minding that he thought of me like that and too out of it to get angry at him, my fingers now stopping there motions as I continue in a daze, "I'm tired of hurting. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of feeling. I'm just really tired. So I stayed."

"So I'm your getaway then?" Yifan inquires quietly yet he's still smiling that small smile and he's still holding me in his arms just as firmly.

I nod lamely and rest my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes as my arms then fall so they're around the man's spine, "Sort of." I am reminded by how selfish it must be and how he must want to kick me out at that instant but I just can't be bothered to move, feeling the energy seep out and pool at the silky sheets of his bed. 

Instead of the hands that I expect to push at my chest so I tumble off the bed and to subsitute the legs that I picture kicking me out to the curb, warm lips are placed on my neck, and shoulders, on my bare skin and over the fabric of my shirt. Each making me sigh and sinking further into my haze and the fog of whatever he is doing and giving me. Affection? Pity? Sympathy or Empathy? 

"Yifan?" I ask vaguely, it's probably the gazillionth time I've uttered his name that day alone.

"Mm?" he hums against my skin, kissing the curve of my ear now so softly my grip on him tightens a bit. 

"Yifan," I say more firmly, pulling away because he's putting too much of care in what he leaves on my skin that it can only be one thing that he's giving me and it hasn't been available on my list till now.

He senses the question in my firm statement and he leans over to kiss my temple chastely, making me close my eyes all over again. The feeling is just too pleasurable and affectionate, his lips providing me with care and vanquishing my loneliness yet never quite passing the borderlines is just too much. I don't want to hurt myself or you or him, whose just been caught up in our web. But he's the only one I can contact and feel twice the pain with. 
He's the one that will walk away unharmed in the end of all this.

I feel the dire urge to hurt him. To prove to him that I'm not worth the effort.

I slowly draw my sword.

"I'm only using you," I lie, knowing that's not the whole truth yet he just kisses me on my chin this time lightly, "You are my replacement," I fib once again, earning another kiss on my cheek and this time, it comes with a small pause in between so I do not waste time to finally plunge into where the damage is the worst with my last lie, "I don't have any feelings for you." 

My sword has already punctured and stabbed him yet as he finds my eyes, uttering two syllables and gives me one last kiss along my philtrum, I feel the double edge of the blade go straight through me as well. I wasn't even aware my heart could feel pain that sharp.

"I know," he whispered, finally releasing the traitorous admittance.

And like that, our conversation crumbles away to dust. 

We lay enveloped in one another's arms, my head tucked beneath his. He leaves a couple of more soft kisses along my neck and shoulders as we both just savour one another's prescense. 

It occurs to me at that moment that I'm not the only one alone or hurting.

I'm just the only one inflicting that sorrow on other's.

"What if I fall?" I murmur somewhere along the lines between sleep and an awakened state.

"You won't know till you try," he whispers gently into my ear, the butterfly kisses like the sweetest lullaby as my eyes flutter shut. 

I fall asleep to the words, "But what if you fly?"