The metal was brown with age and wholly bent, paint peeling like wilted flowers. Its arrival at every subsequent station brought strained screeches and sharp jolts that seemed to unnerve the battered seats and send the handrails wagging helplessly

Such a beautiful person – if he reached out he could almost trace his beauty – whose warmth was intrusive and stubbornly close. That was when he realized that Myungsoo was brushing a tear away. But it was a futile act: the tears were the vestige of a forgotten motivation. 

When he inched closer, Sungyeol was suddenly reminded about how soap dramas had always been one fat lie. Strangers did not kiss. Acquaintances were no exceptions either.
 
Myungsoo was an indication of that.
 
Instead, he turned to the windows and breathed onto it. Blew hard enough for it to fog up until there was no more pale light flitting through, dust particles no longer visible. With his index finger raised, he ran careful streaks through vapour.
 
Don’t cry. 
 
When he smiled, Sungyeol thought that maybe touching the moon was impossibly possible and real.
 
 
 

☂

 

The smell always stuck, the sheen of sweat collected at his brows an unappreciated accompaniment. Sunggyu would raise his arm in a bid to shoo tiredness away, armpits darkened from sun and effort.

Reform was a route he often trekked and it was sufficient – he forced himself to believe so, there was nothing else to hold onto – as long as he was achieving something, reaching somewhere.
 
Be someone.
 
His dependency on familiarity was something more than just a consolation. It was a drive or perhaps – always – something more. The oil fizzled, golden remains afloat (like he was), as though in assent and there was a wry smile on Sunggyu’s face. He needed to become something more.
 
More, more, more.
 
Being Kim Sunggyu was never enough.