Jiho's never had much sense of colors.  It's all just an all encompassing world of nothing, no colors, no shades, black and black as far as he can see.

This is his world, this is what he's grown to love, and in the confusing times of day and night and in between, years and years of learning his way around, learning the limited world that has been gifted to him at birth, he learns about touch, the roughness of the world, the textures that make up the things he can only imagine.

His hands are his sight, teaching him what's what, supplying a feel for his mind to build his world over.

Jiho's learned to move around, he's had to adapt his whole life, he moves against the rush of noise, it still makes him recoil at times, how loud and busy life falls to his ears.  Sounds confuse him more often than not, they leave him disoriented, stranded in his world until he can refocus himself.  Those moments when he feels lost are never pleasant but Jiho is learning to avoid them.

-

He hates carrying his books around, his clunky and stale smelling books.  He struggles with them, with the extra volume of it, modifications to make it easier for him, braille bumping along his fingers, words that linger on his lips.

They're too heavy sometimes, when he has his long days, too many classes right after each other and giant books on bumpy theories he needs to learn.

Jiho lugs them around campus, trying to stay out of people's way, circling around obstacles, people rushing to their own classes.  He can hear the desperation as their feet tap tap tap away in quick beats, running late with no hope of making it on time.

He gets lost in his own world, mind racing into places he thinks are real, that he would be able to see.  Jiho makes up his own colors, swirls of what he thinks are pleasant, pinks and purples, yellows.  He knows the colors, the theory of them, but can only give his own visual to them.  

He wonders if colors are as magnificent as he makes them out to be, if they're as bold, as pretty, as burning as the ones deep in the creases of his mind.

There's no footfalls to back up the person he bumps into, he collides into a solid warmth.  He's the one at the disadvantage here, he loses his balance, stumbling back when his hand drops his books.

He never falls, there's warm fingers going for his wrist, soft and inviting, pulling him up.  He's dazed, gaining his footing, he tries to duck for his books but the hand on his wrist holds him back.

“Hey, are you ok?” 

Jiho nods slowly, sometimes he forgets that he can talk, is so caught up in his own world that he forgets there's a world shut off to him, how he still has a presence in it, even if he can't see.  

“I'm sorry, here let me help.”

They're syllables dripping with honey, sweet tones, heavy and sticky with it.  It sinks deep to his stomach, coating his guts, running down his veins.  It's pleasant, soft and strong, shaking down to his bones.  Jiho shivers with it, the way it wraps around him completely.  In this feeling of protection, warmness, something that just feels good.

He can feel eyes on him, boring down his own, searching for something, an indication, anger, maybe even a sparkle of life.  Jiho's never seen that on anyone, he knows he doesn't have it in him either.

“I've always wanted to learn how to read braille,” he says, slow and steady like he's afraid of scaring Jiho away, “is it hard?”

He laughs because it's a stupid question, he laughs because it's not, it's the easiest thing out of all he's done in his life.  He laughs and laughs and in the end he thinks he's alone until he feels the heavy press of his books against his chest, gentle and searing where his fingers press against Jiho's chest for a second.

“It's the easiest thing I've done,” Jiho answers.
-

His voice rattles against his skull all night, ringing loudly against the student activity, the street noises, the drip drop of the rain.  It's a light sound that makes him sleepy, lulls him into the best sleep he's ever had, the kind that falls deep in his bones and wakes him up entirely too energetic the next morning.

He only has one class that day, in an early morning slot that leaves him with enough time to get something sweet to eat.

He always pretends to be looking over the displays, as if he can see the delicious cakes topped with syrupy fruits and decadent frosting.  He never knows what's on display, he smudges his fingers against the glass for no reason other than for the few seconds where he can pretend he is normal.  

He always orders the same thing, something he knows from trips with his mom is always at any bakery.

He thinks one day he'll grow tired of vanilla cupcakes, but for now he still pretends he can see the different color frostings on them, the toppings that always surprise him when he takes a bite.

“That's a raspberry tart,” someone says next to him, “will you like some?”

Jiho jumps back a bit, fingers sticking to the glass before he can separate properly.

“I wasn't looking at that,” Jiho says, stomach settling once he recognizes the voice.  He hears a little cut off laugh at the joke, almost forced, polite.

“Would you like some help?” the boy says, “it's my job, in case you're wondering.  I can tell you what we have.”

All miserable thoughts of losing his vanilla cupcake are gone when he hears the list of sweets, things he has never known of but he can bet look as delicious as they sound.  He settles on a chocolate chip peanut butter brownie, practically drooling when he goes up to the cash register to pick it up.

“I'm Taeil by the way,” he says, Jiho can hear the clatter of the plate hitting the counter, “and this one is on me.”

He's already got his wallet out, can feel the heat rise to his cheeks and he shakes his head, “No, come on, you've spend like forever describing everything you have, take the money.”

“Just tell me your name,” Taeil says in response, “and where you're sitting so I can help you carry this.”

He follows quietly after Taeil's footsteps, he realizes that the shop must be empty when he hears nothing but the machinery in the back running.

“I'm Jiho,” he says when he sits, “and thanks for everything.”

There's a tiny humming noise that he suspects is supposed to be a response and then the chair next to him being pulled back.

“It's nice to see you again,” Taeil says, Jiho can hear a smile.

“Likewise,” he deadpans.

-

Taeil says the whole city is drowning, it's been raining for days, Jiho only has the patter of drops falling to go with, he smiles anyway when Taeil sighs about it.

“I don't know how to swim,” Jiho says quietly, peeling an orange as his gaze goes through the window.

Taeil laughs, entirely too loud in the library and earning a shh!

“Let's get out of here,” Taeil says.

-

His hair is limp when they make it to a bus stop, Jiho can hear the cars unsticking from the rain slicked roads, roars of engines too fast and the quick steps of people running from the rain.

“Too much running,” he says out of breath, holding on to the edge of bus shelter and wheezing.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Taeil says, voice gone quiet against the rain, “should've waited it out.”

Jiho shakes his head, holding on to his books but almost dropping them when he feels a mouth bump against his, soft and too hot, his cheeks heat up with it.  It's tentative and unsure but not necessarily unwelcomed.  He switches his books to one hand and reaches for Taeil's arm, holding on too tight, digging his fingernails too deep into the warm skin he finds.

Taeil hisses into his mouth, and Jiho apologizes, words messy and pressed to chapped lips.  Taeil them away.

-

When Jiho lets himself think about it, he thinks he can pinpoint what color Taeil's voice is.  A bright sunny yellow, entirely too sunny for the world to have, but something that gives Jiho warmth.  A golden honey that sticks to his bones when he's shy, almost uncertain, unaware about how his voice gets people hook line and sinker.

His laugh is a rosy blush, playful and delicate and full of toned down passion, passive and entirely too pretty.  Jiho thinks this is what colors must be.  When Taeil reads him something he's written, talks to him about his day, croons his name when Jiho doesn't even realize he's dozed of.

Taeil presses kisses to the corner of his mouth, the bridge of his nose, the lines of his lashes as anchors, little declarations that I'm here, I'm here now.

It's entirely overwhelming when Taeil sings for him.  A color so rich and pearly and heavy with emotion, Jiho wants to hear it forever, bottle it up and keep it in his pocket for horrible days to come.  He can hear the underlying honey tone of insecurity but Jiho falls harder for it, the tremble on big notes, the smoothness of the words he stretches out, the melody of it all.

Taeil says he can't sing forever, that he's not cut out for it.  Jiho always laughs, pressing his mouth against Taeil's shoulder, fingers gripping at his sides, threatening to break out in tickling hands and Taeil's laughter wheezing out of him.

-

It's entirely something different when Taeil's voice drops, low and sultry.  A shade of something metallic, copper-like.  His voice is too hot against the crook of his shoulder and neck, lips pressing into the skin, soft when Taeil's breath hitches, fingers going up to curl with Jiho's.

“Are you sure?” he whispers and Jiho imagines that the uncertainty in his voice is a watery blue, too thinned out, almost not there.

His hands go to push at Taeil's shoulder, pushing at it until he backs off, body heat gone and Jiho smiles, eyes unfocused but fingers going up Taeil's neck, under his jaw, he cups his cheek, fingers splaying over the hot skin.  His fingertips touch all he can, the line of his nose, the shape of his eyes, the bow of his lips.

He can feel eyelashes fluttering close, hair curling around ears.  The room is quiet, maybe if Jiho focuses enough he can hear the sun beating down outside.

Taeil says it's silly when he mentions this aloud and he laughs, but it sounds choked.  He's tensed and Jiho just smiles deeper, dopey and with too much teeth.

It's the first time he's seen Taeil's face like this, has never bothered to do so.  Taeil had been nervous when he brought it up, asked why Jiho was with someone like him, someone so unimpressive.

The answer had been lengthy and it had resulted in a quiet Taeil until Jiho had demanded to see him, hands already going up to his face.

He hadn't expected to be so distracted, with Taeil's body warmth on him, his mouth insistent.  But he manages and he stops at the corner of his eyes, pressing a bit before dropping to his lips.

“You're beautiful,” he says, hands going behind his ear, “just like your voice said you would be.”

Taeil is quiet for a bit, the room buzzes with no noise until there's shift in the bed, springs creaking and then a sigh, almost relived.

“I don't know how you even like me,” Taeil confesses.

“It's the easiest thing I've done,” and Jiho laughs, bringing Taeil closer to him.