If you were to poetically describe the state of the current world, you would perhaps say the following:

they say colours represent emotions –
love a bright red and melancholy a deep blue.
but colours are nowhere to be seen –
the cheerful yellow of happiness and
the whimsicality of purple have ceased to exist.
you could perhaps argue that black and white are colours,
but one consumes all and one doesn’t consume at all.

But the thing is, you wouldn’t attempt to poetically describe the state of the current world, because someone is bound to find out, and someone is bound to report it to the state. Either that, or one of the hundreds of drones and droids patrolling the streets and searching houses will find the slightest trace of creative expression, no matter how hard you try and dull the already flickering flame inside your bleak, bleak heart.

Washing machines are marketed with a: wash white garments in a single load and black garments in a single load. Do not mix. Whatever would you do with the greys? Paint swatches don’t exist anymore, and neither do pictures of paint swatches. The elderly faintly remembers days when their bedrooms were a nice pastel shade, and when the sheer idea of injecting flowers with monochromatic dye was preposterous.

Brides no longer have the option to wear unconventionally coloured wedding dresses – the majority resign themselves to white gowns, and the few stubborn ones walk down the aisle in glossy black. Lipsticks are a thing of the past, and individuals walking up and down the street will often pull strands of hair out of the coat of clear gloss on their lips. Apart from natural colours – namely trees, wild flowers, and food –, pigment present in eyes, hair, and skin is the only form of colour present in the world now. Unless, of course, you head Underground.

In every formidable dystopian government, an equally thriving underground community lives. It’s a widespread, intricate system of numbers and gestures and the word of mouth, and people who meet in the Underground often pretend not to know each other otherwise. For safety, of course. When a district of the Underground is stormed by the government, another one springs up almost immediately. The Underground knows how to stay alive, the blood within its veins white hot with a distinct mix of the will to survive and the desire to revolt. Individuals willing to venture Underground – for if caught, one is sentenced to life in prison – respect one another’s art, as creativity is what keeps each of them going.

Sehun, at the young age of 21, has been running about in the streets of the Underground since the age of 5. Most of the Underground’s inhabitants know him as the boy with a camera lens for an eye. His earliest camera had been a disposable one, and he had spun the knob at the top corner of the camera until it refused to budge anymore. A few months later, his father was arrested trying to bring another camera home for him. His mother, eyes bloodshot and puffy, finished her husband’s goal the next day.

Now, Sehun owns a Canon EOS 70D, and it’s been his most prized possession since the day he bought it three years ago. He leaves his camera with one of the Underground’s traders in exchange for providing the kindly man and his family with pictures of his adventures. There aren’t many photographers around – the bulk of a camera and the need to stay still in order to capture a shot increases the risk of being spotted, and being caught with any form of creative expression is a one way ticket to death row. But Sehun’s always been quick on his feet and even quicker in his mind, and photography is something he’ll fight to the death for.

When he’s wandering about Underground, he meets up with his best friend ever so often – Yixing, a composer. He likes to take pictures of Yixing when his friend works, piles of dog-eared papers by his side and chewed ends of pens clamped between his teeth. Sometimes he’ll hunt for Chanyeol and Baekhyun’s studio – they move locations on the regular – and sit between them, camera in his hands as he listens to Chanyeol strum the guitar and Baekhyun sing along to songs that Yixing had written.

He’s come to know the patrol schedule of the drones, and he’ll often venture out into unprotected areas and into the wilderness that skirt around town with his camera in hand. He makes a decent amount of money selling his prints that a developer helps him develop as long as Sehun gives him a small cut of his sales.

It’s during one of his trips into the forests when he meets Jongin.








Jongin is a dancer, trained professionally – well, as professional as it gets Underground – since the young age of 3. Whenever he’s not Underground, he has to try his hardest to walk without subconsciously turning his pelvis out, or with his toes first. He dances in the shower, and sometimes risks being captured when he dances up and down the streets. Passersby look at him with either amazement or fear, and he smiles exceptionally wide at those who have a terrified expression on their faces.

One of his sisters has been trying to get him to give up dancing for the past decade to no avail, but his other sister encourages him every chance she gets. His mother is pleasantly neutral about his passion, but she’ll remind him to try and stay safe whenever he heads Underground. He promises, every time, and seals it with a kiss on her cheek. But promises are meant to be broken, right?

His biggest barrier to dance is his father. When you have a family member working for the government, the thought of would he report me to the authorities if he ever finds out? would he be the one to sentence me to death? floats in and out of your mind on a daily basis. Jongin isn’t an exception to that, but he tries his best to think positive. His mood is a direct influence on his dance, and being able to dance with a light heart is definitely important to him.

He teaches for free in an Underground studio, to young dancers below the age of 18. They often bring him food as a sign of gratitude, which Jongin accepts happily. He makes a living off busking, and ever so often, a member of the older generations will whisper something about you’d make a phenomenal dancer on the grand stages, and Jongin will smile sadly. It’s a lifelong dream of his to be part of major dance productions, but the biggest thing he’s ever been a part of is the yearly showcase he choreographs for the kids he teaches. Maybe one day.

On the day he meets Sehun, he’s dancing barefoot in a small meadow. The grass is half-dead, some blades dried up and crumbling into pieces of brown underneath his feet. But Jongin doesn’t mind, as long as he gets to dance. When he hears footsteps that aren’t his own, panic shoots straight into his heart, and he’s poised to run when Sehun calls out.

“Wait! I’m not going to hurt you!”

Jongin turns around, and the first thing he sees is a sharply defined face, the piercing beauty offset with softness in the eyes. The second thing he sees is the camera.

“Oh,” he utters, relaxing completely. “Okay.”

“I’m Sehun,” Sehun says, stepping forward. “You dance really beautifully. It comes out great in pictures, too.”

The compliment has Jongin shifting about awkwardly on his feet. He doesn’t come into much contact with people his age – he spends too much time teaching, busking, and with his family to have a substantial social life. His one close friend, Junmyeon, is often too busy painting to spend much time with him. So when a pretty boy is mere feet away from him, earnestly praising him, Jongin is at a loss for what to do.

He settles for introducing himself and sticking out a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Jongin,” Sehun says, smiling and shaking Jongin’s hand.

“You’re a photographer?” Jongin gestures to the camera. “That’s nice. There aren’t many photographers about.”

“Yeah,” Sehun laughs, “it’s a hit or miss type of art. Do you want to see the photos I took of you?”

Sehun beckons for Jongin to join him, and Jongin steps up next to the photographer, noticing how Sehun is just that much taller. The cologne he’s using smells nice, too.

Images light up on the small screen. They’re breathtaking, the way Jongin’s lines and extensions are captured against the height and density of the trees all around him. There’s something else to the pictures, in the way Sehun’s passion manages to preserve Jongin’s own in a snapshot without forgoing a single drop.

“They’re beautiful,” Jongin murmurs, leaning closer to the screen. “Really.”

When he looks up, Sehun is smiling down at him. Jongin thinks the redness in his cheeks matches the red of Sehun’s sweater.

“Red looks good on you,” he mumbles, straightening and running a hand through his hair.

“Thanks,” Sehun replies, tugging on the hem. “It was a gift. I’d like to be able to wear it out of the Underground, but…”

Jongin nods quietly in understanding.

“I’ll have these developed,” Sehun says, “and I’ll give them to you the next time I see you. If you want them?”

“I’d love them.”








They hit it off instantly. When they’re out of the Underground’s streets, Sehun works part-time in a restaurant, and Jongin helps out in a local non-fiction bookstore. It turns out that the restaurant and bookstore are just a few blocks apart, and whenever Jongin has time to spare, he’ll head down to the restaurant and order a drink just so he’ll have a few minutes to spend with Sehun. Likewise, when Sehun’s done with his shift, he’ll drop by Jongin’s bookstore and wait until Jongin’s shift ends before heading to the Underground together.

Jongin’s dance studio fills up quickly with pictures that Sehun takes, some featuring Jongin dancing, others featuring Jongin laughing, and the rest featuring the two of them together. The pictures that Sehun had taken on the first day they met are framed up. The photographer goes through an amazing number of SD cards – his collection hasn’t seen so many new additions in such a short period of time. He’ll stay tucked away in a corner of the studio when Jongin teaches, and Jongin will accompany him on trips into unexplored areas of the forest. More often than not, they’ll end up perched on the peak of a hill, and Sehun will take pictures of their city below.

Yixing picks up on the lift in Sehun’s mood, and when it starts to rub off on him, he begins to write songs about first loves and the little things one treasures in a relationship. Sehun shoves him when he finds out, but doesn’t tell Yixing to stop. Likewise, Junmyeon starts painting in brighter colours and more relaxed lines, and tries to get Jongin to gift one of his paintings to Sehun whenever the dancer drops by. Jongin blushes horribly every single time and bolts from Junmyeon’s studio without bidding him goodbye.

They spend all their free time together, and it doesn’t matter what they do as long as they’re in each other’s presence. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that they’re more than a little attracted to the other, but even a genius can’t force them to do anything about it.

It’s a Wednesday, and Jongin spots Sehun hunched over a stall’s display.

“Hey,” he says, stepping up to Sehun’s side with a gentle hand pressed against the small of Sehun’s back.

“Hi to you too,” Sehun replies, before holding up a lens cap in victory. “I needed a new one – my current one’s broken.”

“I want to bring you somewhere,” Jongin says, watching as Sehun pays. They bid the store owner goodbye.

That’s when Sehun notices the paper bag in Jongin’s hand.








They’re beneath an abandoned stretch of highway, walking past concrete columns that have graffiti scrawled across their surfaces, and old, defaced advertisements printed on ashy walls on the other side. Between them, their hands are close enough to brush, but neither of them dares to reach out.

“I got you something,” Jongin blurts, and Sehun turns to his right curiously. The dancer’s got a hand in the paper bag, and after a moment of rummaging, he pulls out a soft, white jumper.

“You look really nice in sweaters,” Jongin mumbles, “and it’s starting to get colder, so I thought you could use another one. You can even wear this out of the Underground, so… I mean, if you want to, of course.”

Sehun plucks the sweater out of Jongin’s hand and pulls it on over his button-up. “Thank you,” he smiles, “it’s really nice. I'll wear it lots, I promise.”

He slides his fingers between Jongin’s and holds on tight. Jongin nearly drops his paper bag, and Sehun just smiles wider.

“What else is in that bag?”

Jongin shakes it slightly. Sehun hears clacking and clanging.

“Spray paint.” His eyes light up instantly at the thought of doing something illegal out in the open, almost devilishly, and Sehun’s pulse starts to thrum in response.

They find a nice stretch of mostly intact concrete. Although reluctant to let go of each other’s hands, they make do by replacing the gap with spray paint canisters.

“Managed to convince Junmyeon to get these for me,” Jongin tells him, uncapping a can of blue and spraying loops and whirls onto the grey canvas. “Took days of wheedling and whining, but I did it!”

Sehun (un)successfully gets green paint on his jeans, but thankfully avoids staining his new sweater. Jongin laughs at him, eyes crinkling and teeth showing, and Sehun is willing to empty a can of paint on himself if it means he’ll be able to watch Jongin laugh like that again.

Twenty minutes later, half the paper bag is empty. Cans are lying by their feet, having done what they’re intended for. Jongin’s got a can of yellow in his hands, and Sehun picks up another can of blue, spraying purposefully over Jongin’s yellow in an attempt to make green.

“Don’t ruin my art!” Jongin shouts, sprinting to another patch of blank wall.

Sehun simply follows, yelling back with a, “I’m expressing myself creatively!”

When the can of yellow empties out, Jongin turns towards Sehun and pulls the photographer in with a gentle tug on his collar. Sehun drops the can in his hand and meets Jongin halfway, lips pressing gently against each other’s before Jongin parts his and captures Sehun’s bottom lip between his teeth.

“Do you know what my favourite form of art is?” Jongin breathes out, dropping a kiss on the corner of Sehun’s mouth. “You.”

“Gross,” Sehun sighs, cradling the base of Jongin’s head and angling their faces for better access.

Someone’s foot accidentally brushes against the paper bag, and the crackling causes them to jump apart, startled. Which is a blessing in disguise, because Jongin spots the unmistakable shape of a drone headed right their way.

“Run,” Jongin whispers, the terror in his eyes contrasting heavily with his spit-slicked lips.

They bolt down the strip of road, falling into pace with one another as they sprint towards the trees. Sehun doesn’t know this part of the woods well enough, but Jongin does, and Sehun trusts him to get them out of there free of handcuffs and in one piece.

The drone is right on their heels, and Jongin slides underneath a fallen tree with the grace of an experienced dancer. Sehun joins him just in time – the drone flies over the trunk mere seconds later, the taunting whirr of its machinery bouncing off the trees and echoing heavily in the air.

“Trees insulate body heat well enough for the drone’s sensors to miss a human presence,” Jongin explains, peering out from beneath the fallen trunk. “Some people think that being blocked from view is good enough, but it really isn’t.”

“My sweater’s dirty,” Sehun laments, holding up an arm to show Jongin the smudges of dirt all down his sleeve.

“One perk of only being allowed to wear black and white,” Jongin declares, lacing their fingers together, “is the fact that bleach is readily available everywhere.”

Sehun rewards him for his revelation with a kiss.








When Jongin finally gives in to Junmyeon and brings Sehun around to see him, the first thing Junmyeon does is push a large canvas into Sehun’s hands.

“You and Jongin have been my muses for the past few weeks,” Junmyeon tells him, eyes wide and fingers clamped around Sehun’s wrists. “Please, take this.”

The painting shows two faceless individuals lying across train tracks, dressed in soft colours and with their fingers interlocked. Wild grass appears to the left of the tracks, and rubble appears to the right. One of them has ballet shoes on, and the other’s got a camera lying by his side.

“It’s wonderful,” Sehun voices, running a finger down the slight bumps caused by low-grade paint. “I’ll keep this safe, I promise.”

Junmyeon smiles and ruffles Jongin’s hair.








Yixing joins forces with Chanyeol and Baekhyun. They give Jongin a mixtape of all the songs they’d composed and recorded, and Jongin turns a bright red when he reads the lyrics.

“I apologise for my friends,” Sehun groans, having read over Jongin’s shoulder. He kicks Chanyeol in the shins.

“This mixtape is one of the best ones we’ve done,” Chanyeol argues, jumping back to avoid getting hit over and over again. “It’s raw and from the heart.”

Baekhyun grins and stretches out on their studio’s lumpy couch. Yixing pretends he’s got music playing through the old headphones clamped around his ears, but Sehun knows.

“They’re not wrong,” Jongin speaks up, waving the handmade lyric booklet.

“About what?” Yixing says, eyes still trained on his work. Sehun rolls his eyes and snaps one of the headphone's ear pads against Yixing's ear.

“Everything,” Jongin continues, voice trailing off.

The chorus in the second song is dedicated to the idea of falling in love, and Jongin thinks it’s hit the sweet spot. Chanyeol high-fives Baekhyun, and Yixing gives Sehun a wink.








It’s a cold day in winter when their district of the Underground is stormed by drones and droids, and Jongin manages to escape his studio with the framed pictures and Junmyeon’s painting. Sehun’s camera gets crushed to bits and pieces, but his collection of SD cards are safely clutched in his hands. Losing the camera itself isn't a problem – it's always replacable. 

Sehun doesn’t get to see Jongin much for the next couple of weeks, their parents too worried to let them venture back into the Underground until the government agencies have calmed down and eased off on the area.

They settle for dropping by each other’s work places, and Sehun’s even ploughed through a decent amount of non-fiction books while waiting for Jongin to spend a few precious moments with him. The new district that slowly rises hugs the border of the forest close to the highway, and if they go up high enough, they can catch glimpses of their amateur graffiti art on the walls.

Every day is a challenge they face, one of evading capture and of findings ways to do what they love. Jongin still dances on the street, and Sehun still takes pictures of the city, of disillusioned people clothed in black and white. It becomes a tradition for them to head down to the highway once a month, a single can of spray paint in hands, and decorate the dismal grey walls with love and joy that come out in the form of misted colour particles. Sometimes, Junmyeon joins them in an attempt to step outside his comfort zone, and there are times when Baekhyun will scrawl jokes about Chanyeol on pillars, much to the guitarist’s indignation.

Occasionally, when the drones have just finished a sweep nearby, Sehun will spend the night in Jongin’s studio. Huddled up in sleeping bags, they’ll trade stories about their dreams and aspirations, or regale each other with tales of their lives before they’d met. Now and then, they’ll dabble in the art of lovemaking, choosing to forgo the sleeping bags in favour of body heat and stifled moans of the other’s name. They’re careful to place love bites where they can be hidden – the red and purple contrast brightly (and dangerously) with their skin.

“I love you,” Jongin says one day as Sehun’s poised to snap a picture of a street dancer performing in a small alleyway. The shutter goes off, but the picture turns out blurry due to the tremble of Sehun’s hands.

“I love you too,” Sehun replies with certainty, turning to take a picture of Jongin’s resulting smile. It’s nothing short of wondrous.

He develops that picture on the same day, and he keeps it safe inside his camera bag.