Jongin yawns boisterously and rolls onto his side, arm flopping against the mattress, an empty, cold space. His fingers feel around for a moment, groping here and there, fiddling with the sheets. And eventually, he opens his eyes and slowly turns his head. He is alone, the sunlight filtering in softly from outside, forcing its way past thick bamboo blinds. A section of his torso is exposed to the warmth, whilst his toes are gelid as they poke out from underneath the strewn sheets, wiggling. There is a missing presence, an absence of heat pressed to his side. Kyungsoo is nowhere in sight.

With a sigh, Jongin inches his way out of the bed and lets his legs sway over the edge, torpidly lowering until his feet stick to the floorboards below. He squints through exhausted eyes and gains his bearings, blinking rapidly. His old room greets him; exerts from antique newspapers plastered to the wall, a bedside table sitting on a prominent slope, a scattered array of Winston’s tattered toys. It is all so familiar and yet at the same time, it is foreign, a very detached memory that Jongin can hardly recall enjoying. It has been a long time since he considered this room his own.

He pushes himself up and dawdles out of the room, rubbing his eyes vigorously to rid of any chunks of sleep left behind to stain his beautifully smooth skin. His lengthy lashes stick together and he pulls them apart carefully as he wanders into the kitchen, not relying on his obscured vision to lead him, but the scent of fresh tea and sweet pancakes to draw him in the correct direction. It wafts around his figure, wrapping his body up and tugging him closer and closer.

Kyungsoo peers up from his breakfast and grins. ‘Look at what the cat dragged in,’ he hums, raising his eyebrows at Jongin’s father, whose chin is dirtied with maple syrup.

Jongin smiles tenderly and waddles over to the frying pan, only to see that it is entirely empty. He whimpers and pouts his plump lips, attempting to seem cute in front of his company. Kyungsoo shrugs and returns to his meal. His father absentmindedly sips at his steaming cup of tea, averting Jongin’s needy gaze.

‘You guys seriously didn’t leave me anything?’ Jongin asks, his tone full of disappointment as he flicks the pan’s handle in irritation.

His father swallows and places his cup down, flinching as it collides against the table with a solid thud. ‘Kyungsoo was going to prepare breakfast for you too, but I told him you wouldn’t be out of bed until lunchtime at the earliest and not to bother.’

‘It’s true,’ Kyungsoo mutters, mouth stuffed.

‘But dad…’ Jongin whimpers.

‘You’re a grown man. You can make your own breakfast.’

Kyungsoo chuckles and rises to his feet. ‘It’s okay, sir. I don’t mind making up another batch. It’s honestly the least I can do for Jongin.’

Jongin crosses his arms and smirks smugly at his father, who returns the stare with a deadly grimace; brows furrowed and knitted together amongst wrinkles in the centre, lips contorted strangely and ears burning a bright red. They look at one another like this, unmoving even as Kyungsoo flutters about the kitchen, cooking up a storm. Jongin only breaks away when he notices the blur of pink in the corner of his eye, an adorably dotted apron dangling over Kyungsoo’s slender frame. His mother’s old apron, something he has not seen since he was small.

He is struck with a series of flashbacks, unclear images filtering through his mind, sounds and scents attacking his senses and trying desperately to yank him back into the past. He can see his mother, youthful and gorgeous, singing and dancing joyously around the kitchen. He can see his father with a sly smile, typing energetically and letting his genius pour out through the typewriter. And he can see himself, reverted back to his childhood, reaching up at his parents with animatedly grabby fingers.

Jongin clutches at his chest, fingernails scraping bare skin. His heart is beating madly, threatening to burst at any moment, and his lungs are aching as he suppresses the sudden desire to scream. Breathing is rough and painful. Toes curl inwards, scraping against the floorboards. Arms wind affectionately around a neck dotted with sweat. A chest presses warmly against another. Kyungsoo holds Jongin, refusing to let go even as his pancakes start to burn.

Jongin inhales deeply as he sets foot on campus once more, Kyungsoo strolling just ahead of him, occasionally clapping his hands and swaying his hips. The aromas drifting around are so different here, less fresh and natural. They embody the city’s main elements - gases, mixed bodily odours and Starbucks coffee – and contrast strongly against everything he had been breathing in a mere few hours earlier. The only thing calming him is Kyungsoo's perfume, a smell so delicious and soothing that Jongin breaks into a jog, needing to embrace it, wanting to be extremely close to his source of happiness.

Kyungsoo snorts as Jongin pounces onto his back, bucking his hips and begging for a piggyback ride on the way to the dorm. He is heavy, compiled wholly of tanned, taut muscle, so Kyungsoo’s legs immediately buckle under the weight. He huffs and tries to steady himself, but this is terribly futile. The two topple to the side, bodies thwacking against the pavement.

There is a lone second of silence before they burst into laughter, the seriousness of the morning disappearing. Kyungsoo rests his head against Jongin’s hard chest, vibrations of amusement, constant childish giggling, spreading through each of their bodies. People pass them by and dare to glance at them in confusion, many sporting judgmental expressions or turning shrewdly to whisper to the person beside them, but the two men don’t make any move to get back up. They laugh, if at all possible, harder and harder with each minute that zooms past.

By the time they finally disperse, heading towards their separate dorms, Jongin’s mood has skyrocketed. He smiles and clicks his heels together as he jogs towards the entrance, and takes each step up the staircase with a different bounce and slight wiggle. There is no part of him that cares if he is caught, no part that stresses over the thought of people eying him strangely as he walks on by. He is elated, no amount of philosophy he has learnt intricate enough to describe the emotions flooding through his system.

Apparently this swarm of excitement is tiring, because he collapses onto his bed the moment he sets foot into his dorm. With a boisterous yawn he topples backwards and lets his head sink soothingly into the fluffed pillow, his vision quickly blocked by the rising tufts of white on either side of his face, like clusters of clouds swallowing him whole. He feels at peace, falling into the deepest of slumbers and not startling awake until his alarm goes off the following morning with a series of terrible radio tunes.

Slender fingers swiftly flip through aged pages, hasty and yet wary at the same time, making sure not to damage the piece of literary genius. The words flicker by speedily, phrases blurring together to create single statements, images moving slightly like a movie in slow motion. There is a smell that wafts up from the brownish paper, a pleasing combination of faint scents belonging to those who have also explored the text and the typical aroma of a well-read book, stale and oddly somehow sweet. Jongin breathes in deeply and smiles, closing the book and returning it to its place on the shelf, wedged between two bizarre titles he has never heard of before and will likely never hear of again. He wants to place it elsewhere, because he knows that very few people will be lucky enough to discover it here, but he is not one to ruin a perfect display. the spine once more, he his head and tilts backwards, peering out of the aisle to spy on Kyungsoo.

The shorter male sits seemingly calmly at a table, in the middle of a British student with spiralling blonde hair and a mysterious young man with beady eyes. Though the latter steals glances at the endless s