Moonlight meanders onto Jongin's bony fingers, ricocheting into a mix of Sunday mornings and intrepid languor, maybe promising something much more instigative than the ashes stuck beneath his fingernails. He stretches and turns the sounds of his joints into the notes of another composition.

Jongin has his life set on a certain playlist: From Bach’s ever-defining arias to Mozart’s frenzied death. Press play, end, and repeat. Specifics to specifics. He doesn't own an agenda or even a calendar, but he follows the score perfectly down to the very last beat. Today, he's looking at Vivaldi and the seasons following his trail. It's February nearing its end, the final remnants of coldness bite bitterly onto the tip of his nose, clinging insistently as if knowing it would inevitably die away forgotten. By now he would’ve been seated on the stool in front of the piano that once belonged to his mother, working out the kinks of mid-winter wedged between his fingers. Except for today, he turns eighteen and he hasn't touched a piano in over four years.

But according to Chanyeol, as he shoves a newly printed gala flyer under Jongin's lashes, "There is more money in winning these than in making karaoke songs."

Jongin bristles, his headphones blaring the newest BoA single while his hands stop their mechanical transcriptions across the half-filled pentagram to look at the glossy print. There's a harsh whisper of, "No, thanks" and a scoff as its reply. Chanyeol gives in and drops the advertisement on the empty spot beside Jongin's thigh and drags his feet back to the crystal panels of a polished display.

Chanyeol works at a print shop near their neighborhood, just at the corner where the humble houses met with the main road. On clear days, the sunlight breaks through the dirty glass and bounces off the blaring white tiles, pushing the place into a state of perpetuity. It looks a little like a hospital room, sterile and impersonal – not unlike a failing marriage.

"Mom asks if you're coming over for dinner," Chanyeol mentions. It’s the fourth time he asks this week, and Jongin arches a silent brow at the query. "She says you've lost some weight. And I can't say that she's wrong, exactly." Chanyeol eyes the tip of the pen in Jongin's hand as it continues to draw another note, realizing that he’d lost his friend’s interest. "You should really close your windows sometimes too. You're going to catch a cold."

Jongin makes a noncommittal sound. He rarely listens.

Later in the evening, he walks with Chanyeol back home. Chanyeol waves him away as he steps through the neighboring door after the last-ditch attempt to make Jongin follow along. At the final decline, Chanyeol sighs in exasperation, shrugs him off and tells him to stay at home the following day.

--

Luhan -the local playboy and their third addition- comes into the room in an explosive gush, "Next-door neighbors, childhood friends always seeking each other out. It's bound to be!" right in the middle of Jongin and Chanyeol's current banter. It's midday and Jongin slumps back into his chair while Chanyeol throws a string of obscenities towards Luhan, sauntering back to the counter with his brows pinched. The pretty faced boy merely grins widely and drops in the seat right next to a skulking Jongin. " Chanyeol has baseball practice later. I have soccer practice later." Luhan offers a caramel which Jongin warily accepts, "What are you going to do?" he asks.

"I don't know," Jongin mumbles. The caramel is sweet against his palate. He bites into it harshly as he gives his friends another shrug. He regards the way Chanyeol and Luhan exchange a forlorn look, the sun breaking against the dust particles dragging across his sight. He blows a bit of air to watch the fragments dance.

--

Dusk alone in his house are tolerable compared to the days where he listens to Chanyeol ramble over forgotten school days, lukewarm afternoons at the baseball park and Jongin helping the practice by throwing the ball and then dodging terrified of Chanyeol's infamous A-swing. On days similar, the baseball player would say that he would remember the Jongin that would make love to a piano tirelessly (Jongin chokes on air, Chanyeol laughs.) What he means, he would clarify later, is that there was a Jongin who made it seem as though nothing was impossible, left skid marks all over the ivory keys. Someone whose palette consisted more of vibrant yellows and oranges rather than monochromatic grays. Did he remember the time when they were six, and Jongin had bawled over losing his pet cat during a rainy day? Jongin remembers the piercing cold on his skin, the winds hollowing in defiance, and how he’d never could find his cat again. To that, Jongin says it's an ending to an end, though he thought that there never was an actual beginning.

Chanyeol flares, "Wow, look at you. You sound like an old fart. You know, we're young, very young, and we're supposed to shine, not die." Jongin sputters at the harsh blow he receives on his shoulder. He rubs at the bruise as Chanyeol continues, "Your eyes should light up. Light up." Chanyeol makes a gesture. His eyes grow impossibly wide, "Light up!"

Jongin contemplates afterward on the indescribable radiance in Chanyeol’s irises. He thought of telling him about it, but then he remembered the kick to the shin he had received not long ago when he had praised the way he had styled his hair.

--

They would meet up in front of shop Chanyeol worked at nearly every day. Days melt into the pavement soundlessly, along with the memories they forged anew. They would thread a mesh to recapture the innocence that drifted from their present, perhaps hoping that they could bring it all back by tomorrow. Chanyeol liked opening wounds, almost as if he relished in holding the knife steady right over old scars. Only that, for the game, they couldn't be his own.

"I miss your playing at night," Chanyeol speaks with his mouth full, maneuvering the bun over his tongue with ease. They've spoken of it countless of times but, to Jongin, each time felt like a different cut, the makings of another scar. In retrospect, it could be like purging. Cauterize the wound by burning. Jongin cradles the conception with a joint lit between his lips, a twitch to his tired fingers. For this one he would have played Chopin's Op. 25, No. 5.
 

Chanyeol had stopped asking why he wouldn't.

--

Next time, Chanyeol takes the right earbud from Jongin's ear and plops it into his own. Warily, Jongin watches him inhale sharply, "Is this SNSD's unreleased song?" Chanyeol’s voice quivers and Jongin balks.

He gets yelled at down to the last second of six minutes. Jongin smiles uneasily and decides to stow away his phone in a place that Chanyeol will never find.

"Kim Jongin." Chanyeol had turned stern once he calmed down. "You're a masochist. There are tons of other jobs you can take. You say you can't play, but you sit here hours to no end filling score after score. You don't want to, but it clings to you, or maybe you're the one clinging to it--" and there's a fly that interrupts the rewinding speech. Jongin hadn't realized it then, but Chanyeol might have been so ing right.

But it didn't really matter. Jongin dreamed in standardized grayscale. The keys of a piano are white and black within the dull hues, so were the scores of music accumulating dust in the back room of his house, the one he tends to avoid. Now the keys feel cold and foreign to the pads of his fingers. If he issued a sound from one, the sound would be steely, sharpened and unfocused. It wouldn't be a wonder if he forgets how to play entirely. But he still stretches his fingers occasionally, and he makes a wistful melody from the ache blooming between them. For a moment, Jongin forgets just how to listen.

"Anyway," Chanyeol interrupts the suffocating silence, tone boisterous and easy, "Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

Chanyeol takes Jongin's confused silence as an affirmation. "Okay, so, I have a friend that wants to be introduced to Luhan. He's cute- like, really cute. Just Luhan’s type." He shifts his weight onto the other foot. Didn't he get tired from standing so much? "I want you to tag along. I don't want to be a third wheel, you know? This way we can pair up."

--

So Jongin finds himself tracing step after step towards the neighboring park the next day, following how the poppies bloom freely in the gardens he found as he paved his way. He breathed in the color and let it flow down to his lungs. Today, he thinks, today seemed like a good day to stain the ashes. He thought he could have roses instead, or an array of yellow daisies. He could settle for the color of the earth, a comforting hue of browns spreading through his stomach right to the tips of his fingers. There would be splatters of gray still but at least he could tell Chanyeol that he realized just when the leaves had changed into a deeper green.

He picks up a sound after an hour of walking. Jongin pauses mid-step to listen. It sounds to him like...a toy piano. Not only was it quaint enough, he recognized the tune as the melody for Sleeping Beauty. That's pretty good, he thinks. He wouldn't have done it before but today he follows the thread, grabbing onto it like he would a glass of alcohol, imbibing every nerve-numbing ingredient right into his cells until he's sure he feels nothing but-

A stranger sits comfortably on the playground, all crumpled, worn t-shirt and faded blue jeans. It's his back, slim and straight, which greets Jongin first. There are three kids surrounding him, two boys and a little girl with lovely eyes. The stranger plays for them, swaying lightly with the waltz as though he were a part of the tune. The sight washes a tide of newborn tinges and long forgotten school days. Jongin vaguely recalls a moment of recess. And so, does the drumming of Jongin's fingers follow the response to the duet.

Jongin draws a shaky breath peppered with autumn breezes once the harmony defines, contracts and releases. Exhale. Steady gaze. The music ends with his fingers suspended centimeters above his thigh.

When the stranger turns, it's the sun. It's nothing but gold and warmth and the beginning of another April. Gazes exchange and Jongin stands stock still in mild shock, wide eyes underlined with wonder. His throat constricts and he's unable to speak. He distinctly remembers the sound of his own piano, sharp and precise.

He vaguely remembers when Chanyeol told him about what his friend Suho said once. It was something about when you’re in love, that when you feel it everything seems to radiate color. Jongin wouldn’t really know about it- back when he was younger, he’d never stumbled upon the experience, more than sure that no one would ever fall in love with the timid, scrawny kid who did nothing more than play the piano for hours at the time.

Jongin grips his phone, chasing after the syllables eluding the heavy roll of his tongue. He understands now.

He's desperate to say something to save himself from the embarrassment of staring at the boy for too long, but an abrupt quip brings him back to reality,

"Were you taking pictures of me?"

". . .uh," Jongin flinches as soon as he catches the intensity of the blank gaze boring holes into him. "No?"

--

Jongin cradles his head while the same pointed gaze now regards him coldly. The boy has a pretty set of eyes. They’re dark like the dead of night and just as littered with the stars people tend to fall for. They're wide and relentless, a quality that went well with the harsh press of his plush lips. There is an unobtrusive silence between the two and it isn't awkward. It's subdued, expectant, like the introduction of what would be a well-played disaster. There's a Mister can we play again tomorrow in a child's voice. The boy's arms are folded across his chest. He's pale, his hair dark and lightly tousled. Black seemed to swirl around him (Jongin was sure it was just himself trying to personify the disdain) and he's missing his left sneaker but one quick glance to the ground in front of himself would answer the posed question of its whereabouts. The eyes on Jongin are unfathomable. There is still silence, but the words that are spoken next surprisingly remain soft-pedaled, "Damn ert."

Jongin doesn't catch his name at first. The shoe was back where it was supposed to be, back with the boy and his dirty, tattered jeans. It seems that time slipped past Jongin's fingers, trickling down the sinews of the air itself. When he checks his wristwatch, Jongin realizes that he spent eleven minutes trying, in vain, to clarify the misunderstanding. The boy though would have nothing of it. The rest of the remaining three minutes were spent with Jongin listening to a smooth tenor lecturing him over notions, like sense of privacy and overall prudence, and an "If I ever see my face somewhere it's not supposed to be I swear I will skin you alive and feed you to the dogs." He’s bright red, either out of embarrassment or anger, Jongin couldn’t tell. Suddenly, he feels like he wants to ostracize the situation further. Could the boy have possibly given a worse first impression? Jongin opens his mouth to retaliate and instead what comes out isn't his voice. It's Chanyeol’s, "Kyungsoo!"

But the boy had been glowing underneath the sunlight all along, hadn't he? Even when his pupils shift to look beyond Jongin's shoulder, and the shining scorn morphs into natural familiarity, they're like crystals with pieces of captured embers. The image finally flourishes when the boy smiles.

"Hey!" Kyungsoo had yelled back. Jongin stands again unmoving to watch the baffling scene unfurl. Chanyeol grins at Kyungsoo and from there, Kyungsoo was introduced to Luhan, the model soccer star whom everyone covets. He's not sure what to make of the sudden change, or how to better handle the uneasiness blooming in his stomach. Kyungsoo bursts with friendship when exchanging pleasantries with Luhan. It was so unlike the displeasure he had faced Jongin with just moments ago.

He feels green with a tinge of cobalt. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

--

Kyungsoo didn't bathe in sunlight. He was aubade. He laughed freely and liked openly. Jongin stares without noticing that he might have actually looked a little creepy. He hides the flush of embarrassment when Chanyeol nudges at him, whispering "Look at you, Jongin, getting to him first. You're a real player." and with a sudden laugh, Chanyeol introduces Jongin as Friend A. Chanyeol was Friend B. Kyungsoo beams and nods in acknowledgment. "But you can't really do anything. Kyungsoo likes Luhan, so you're just going to have to stick back and enjoy the ride."

Kyungsoo bows at a dazed Jongin and apologizes for his behavior. He was Luhan’s friend, and he didn’t mean to leave a bad impression. When Jongin comes to, he finds that Kyungsoo glows with every inhale. "Hello, Friend A," and smiles with every exhale.

Jongin doesn't say anything just as he’s given an inconspicuous glare anyway, his lips quirking out f their own volition. Kyungsoo looks a little endearing with his lips pursed in distaste. They were a vibrant peach color. His cheeks were still apple red.

It’s a breathtaking sight when hues bleed from the image, a wayward feeling immediately spider webbing up his arms and taking a nosedive right into his heart. He just wanted to know what he should do with all the sunlight accumulating thump of his erratic heartbeat.

--

A while after the introductions took place, Kyungsoo speaks animatedly to the three as they walk down the barren sidewalk. He points out the different routes they could take to see the festival that would begin the upcoming week. He says that he's never gone to one and he would like it if the trio could accompany him for it, despite that it’s a school day. They could all just skip, right? Seniors did that often. No one answers quickly enough before the boy's chuckles permeate the silence. He's dragging his fingers through his hair and Jongin's mind wanders back to seconds before, back what was probably the sweetest sound life could ever offer. However, though Kyungsoo didn't speak much to Jongin, there was a heart of a smile for the attention Luhan gave him. It seemed that even Luhan was taken up by the radiance, proffering compliments to his acquaintance's comely attire, the obvious nymph-like loveliness of his features. Kyungsoo looks embarrassed yet this there isn't any hint of color in his cheeks.

"Oh, ," It's Kyungsoo who swears quietly, making the group stop entirely. "I'm going to be late." Then he sprints off down the path and disappears within seconds. Jongin shifts his flabbergasted expression towards Chanyeol. In response, Chanyeol says, "He's going over there." Jongin was nearly sure Chanyeol had pointed randomly, but one look is all it took to have him seeing in gray again. There was a building with big bold letters on the side, reading Yeosu Music Hall.

"I have a performance," Kyungsoo states with the same glow. Jongin exhales sharply and turns in surprise. Since when was he back? For too long, apparently. Jongin meets with a sight that makes his heart plummet almost painfully. Kyungsoo had come back with an instrument case in his hands.

"Didn't Chanyeol tell you?" Kyungsoo asks, heaving the case over his shoulder as he peers at Jongin with curiosity nipping at the edges. "I'm a violinist."

--

"If I had told you beforehand, would you have even agreed to come." Chanyeol scowls at Jongin’s heated glare though the tanned boy knows that he’s speaking out of regret. Luhan and Kyungsoo are both feet away in front, pacing hurriedly towards their new destination. Jongin counts down the minutes with shaky breaths, hardened to the core and very, very angry.

"I would have thought about it," he hisses back, stubbornly stopping beneath the shade of a weeping willow.

"No, Jongin, you sure as hell wouldn't have. Can't you just, I don't know, accept going back just once?" Chanyeol pries, looking terrible with that pathetic scrunch to his face, the pleading look he keeps shooting at him to keep going.

“You never ing get it—“ the pianist starts, only to trail off when he feels warmth clasping around his wrist.

Chanyeol looks completely taken aback, Luhan gaping behind him, while Kyungsoo smiles up at Jongin.

Heart-shaped smile. He can’t breathe. Dammit.

“You have to come too.”

--

"I'll be going this way." Kyungsoo bids a temporary goodbye, disappearing behind double doors with a sign on top that read backstage. The lights inside the large atrium are dimmed but Chanyeol manages to find the way to their seats. It smells of quietude covered in dust. There are whispers of a past hissing beyond estranged lips:

"Is that Kai?"

"You mean the child prodigy—"

"Is it? He's so grown up now."

"Do you think he's going to start playing again?"

The rumors grate at his nerves. Jongin bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and even then, the pain wasn’t near enough to shut out the lingering echoes.

Did it even matter that Jongin dreamt in standardized grayscale? The keys of a piano are white and black within the matte hues, so were the scores of music that used to be the composition of his life. The sounds he perceives the most is the ticking of a nearby metronome. He wilts, while people like Chanyeol shone despite the darkness. Like him, they only need to look up and drown in an ocean of stardust. Those like Luhan let themselves be the canvas for the artists that judge him. Jongin sits between both, glancing furtively towards the stage, briefly wondering what interlude of the two might he be.

The plastic armrest feels cold and uneasy to the open palms of his hands. The gala begins. The spotlight shines for the person standing, instrument in hand, and for them, just a few feet behind, an accompanist on the piano. The program tells that Kyungsoo comes fourth. He'll play the Violin Sonata No. 9, the famous Kreutzer. Tensing at the prospect, Jongin lets the music die away.

“It’s all the same song? How boring…” Luhan mutters.

It felt like an eternity had passed when Kyungsoo finally steps forward. Both Chanyeol and Luhan let out a cheer that earns them a glare from the judges seated in the front row, just a few feet shy from the stage. Kyungsoo's clothes are different. He wears a starched shirt now, with formal pants and a confident smile toying on his reddish lips. He bows to the crowd and soon poses the bow over the strings of his violin. He glances at the pianist behind from the corner of his eyes. Jongin watches him inhale. Kyungsoo faces the crowd. It begins.

If Jongin remembered anything from this piece, it was the frenetic web of staccatos rising and unwinding into a breathtaking mania. Artificial light recoils onto Jongin's uneasy fingers, rebounding into a mix of balmy nights and nightmares. The sound corrodes and disperses, rolling vicious and daring all over the crowded hall. The pianist is glancing constantly at Kyungsoo in masked desperation. He couldn't keep up. Obliviously, Kyungsoo forfeited the score’s gentle radiance and choose to become a wildfire, belting the heat and speed of what could only be a prodigy.

When Kyungsoo plays, it's a paroxysm of brilliance. Jongin dreams in standardized grayscale, sure, and the keys of the piano are still white and black within the monotone hues. But still, he stretches his fingers more than once, makes a consonance out of the shining sounds the strings made. It reminds him of himself, and it’s easy enough to imagine not a stranger but Kim Jongin playing the accompanist. Even though he doesn't really remember how the keys felt against his fingertips, he could tell that, for an instant, he remembers just how it feels to listen.