Sometimes there is no next time, no time-outs, no second chances. Sometimes it's now or never. The sun is long set, but the moon is still barely peeking its head out from behind the clouds. The streets would be dark if it weren't for the streetlamps every few feet lighting up the path where they walk, close but not close enough.

The air is chilly, enough to see their breaths, and Yixing gives a pleasant laugh to whatever wry joke Jongdae has cracked again. His hands are gloveless, despite Jongdae's protests, though he swears it's simply because he misplaces them and not because he didn't like them (Jongdae spent hours trying to knit them together for Christmas, and Baekhyun's snide comments about how hands have five fingers, not four, did not help.) but Jongdae has a feeling Yixing's just trying to be gentle about it.

The cars are sparse and it's this that makes Jongdae realize it's starting to get late. The cold begins to seep into his lungs, chilling them like the menthol cigarettes he hides in his pencil bag for when he's too stressed to finish a drawing in time for a deadline and the world feels like it's going to crash down around him at any moment.

Yixing's speaking again and Jongdae quickly tilts his head towards him to listen, smiling as he nods along. It's about the studio he's transferring to in Changsha again, and though the expression on Jongdae's face stays the same, his insides drop in a familiar fashion and he curls his fingers tightly in the pockets of his puffy jacket. 

"It'll be so nice to teach at home again. The building is so spacious and the mirrors are so tall. It's in the rural area too, so the scenery is nice and easy to dance in," he gushes, beaming, that too deep dimple practically threatening Jongdae with his life.

"You know, Seoul's pretty big too. There's a lot of studios here," Jongdae offers half-heartedly, as if he hasn't played out this argument several hundred times before. Yixing gives him a look before laughing quietly.

"It is. You could get lost in Seoul." Yixing hums a soft tune to himself, aimless as he swings his hands softly while they walk. Jongdae's eyes drop down to them, and it takes everything not to reach out and grab them.

"No you can't. Because I'm your guide, remember?" Jongdae chuckles, bumping shoulders softly with the other. The touch alone warms him throughout, to the tip of every toe, and he barely keeps from shivering. 

"My handsome tour guide, yes, I remember," the older brunette laughs, reaching up to gently pat Jongdae's head, cold fingers rustling through the younger boy's dark black hair, making it more unruly than normal. The compliment is empty and that makes Jongdae ache, but the touch is full of so much fire he can't help but lean towards it like a lost puppy in need of love.

"Handsome, huh? I don't quite think that's how I introduced myself." There's laughter between them both, gentle and kind before Yixing shrugs, a humored grin on his thin lips.

"Well between you and your very talkative rude friend, I give you the title," Yixing nods.

"His name is Baekhyun, you know." Jongdae can't help but snort.

"Is it?" Yixing asks with such an earnest expression that Jongdae busts out laughing.

"Whoever said you were nice.."

"I never claimed to be nice," the boy continues, grinning a bit and pushing his hands into his pockets as they walk. Jongdae nods in agreement, still chuckling quietly to himself.

They walk in silence for a while, until Yixing's apartment is only three, two, one block away. It's too soon when they're standing at the door and Jongdae stands behind, watches Yixing fiddle in his backpack for his keys.

"Yixing," Jongdae starts, and Yixing lifts his head curiously, just a bit of a tilt. Jongdae stares right into him, right into everything and takes a deep breath. There is no second chances in the world. "Have a safe flight."

Yixing blinks for a moment before smiling, and there's a hint of sadness to it, but Jongdae assures himself he's grasping for straws at this point.

"I will, of course." He pulls his keys from his backpack, forgets to zip it up, and turns to unlock the door. As he pushes it open, Jongdae softly pushes his hands into his pockets and drops his eyes.

"Goodnight, Jongdae," Yixing speaks pleasantly, as he always does, the tone that wrenches Jongdae's heart with every accented syllable of Korean that falls from his lips.

"Goodnight, Yixing," he responds, pressing the pads of his fingers into his legs, as if that will cement him to the ground because he feels like he's about to disappear. And in a way, he is; Yixing will leave in the morning and Seoul will be uninteresting again. Yixing is Jongdae's muse, his inspiration, his light, and the art block will hit again, harder, darker, longer. He feels lost. The sound of the door clicking shut has his shoulders hunching slightly, nose wrinkling and a hand reaching up to fist his hair.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, that was your only chance and you blew it...Now he's gonna leave. Way to go Kim Jongdae, you ing moron," he croons at himself weakly. His stomach has never felt like more of a pit.

"You are kind of a moron," Yixing hums in soft agreement, nodding solemnly, as if he'd just commented on an art piece.

Jongdae nearly jumps out of his skin, eyes wide as he has to keep himself from stumbling backwards, dropping his hand. Yixing stands there, leaning against the shut door, hands in his pockets, an amused expression on his lips.

"Very unaware of your surroundings," he continues, eyes crinkling pleasantly. "In all sense of the word." Jongdae feels his mouth go dry and he flits his eyes elsewhere, looking at anything but Yixing, face redening by the second.

"Ah. Rudolph." Yixing reaches out to poke the other's nose, invading his space far too quickly, and Jongdae's pretty sure he's gone into overload, insides frying. 

"Why didn't you go inside," Jongdae mumbles weakly, trying to laugh it off and push at Yixing's hand, but the dancer twists to lace their fingers instead. Even through his gloves, Jongdae can feel Yixing's icy fingers, and instinctively, he squeezes firmly.

"I'm waiting for you to say something," Yixing shrugs, blinking at the other, unbothered. "You still haven't said it."

"...Don't turn on your cellphone in the airplane because it might crash?" the flustered artist supplies, a lump growing in his throat. Yixing's lips press together in a thin line, and Jongdae can't help the giggle that escapes as the other judges him.

"You have one chance. Right now, Kim Jongdae. It's now or never."

Jongdae's giggle dies out and he stares straight at the other, and it's like his lungs have collapsed. He can't find the air, find the words to say it. To say anything. Yixing watches him kindly, but firmly, and as a car passes, breaks the silence, Jongdae tugs ever so softly at his hand.

"Don't go," he whispers, quiet, gentle.

"That's not what I want you to say." Yixing shakes his head.

Jongdae's lips are so dry. "I need you to stay," he tries again.

"Why?" Yixing's words are firm, and he stands tall, stares straight; doesn't even tilt his head listfully.

Jongdae feels his lips tremble and it's like white noise, pure static through his brain.

"Because I love you," he whispers, and though it's lost in the wind, carried away to melt into the nightscape, Yixing hears it. With a soft smile, the dancer tilts his head again, nods, closing his eyes. He takes a deep breath before opening them again, gently reaching for Jongdae's other hand.

"There you go, moron," he whispers quietly, leaning up to kiss the other's cheek gingerly. Jongdae feels like he's dreaming and the world comes to a halt. Electricity crackles from the skin that Yixing touches, and he turns to catch his mouth quickly. It's an afterthought, but Yixing tastes like a fresh canvas. Like something Jongdae wants to cover with his soul and turn into a work of art. A piece of himself.

When they break, the clouds of their breath mingle between them and Yixing lets out a soft, breathy laugh.

"Wow, that took you forever.." he giggles, and Jongdae lets out a whine, stomping his foot slightly.

"You could have given me a sign. Any sign!"

"I gave you plenty of signs." Yixing turns to push his door back open, but his hand stays tightly laced with the younger boy's. "You just didn't take your chance."

Jongdae wants to whine and stomp some more but his soul is being tugged firmly in the direction of Yixing, and he's inspired to follow. Their shoes are forgotten somewhere in the hallway, jackets shedded along the way, and when they hit the bed, they're barely in their shirts anymore. Jongdae's hands roam taut muscle, map every vertebrae, and they dance in a way he's never imagined.

He paints Yixing's back like a canvas and Yixing dances with him against the sheets.