Jiyong sees an envelope clipped neatly on the cover of Seunghyun's lyric file and, he knows.

Seunghyun is never the kind to ever bother with checking the mailbox, less opening an envelope and let alone safe keeping one.

Jiyong doesn't inspect it the first day he notices it. Nor does he on the second. Or the third, either. But on the fourth day, he's uneasy, alone and sitting in the studio, unable to read the music sheets. The clock hand signals a quarter of an hour to midnight and Jiyong feels his pulse racing just thinking about infringing on his hyung's privacy.

The envelope still sits there, though, fast asleep on the cover page of Seunghyun's lyric file.

Jiyong walks over, his breath still caught up in his throat. His fingers are barely mobile when they reach to trace past the smooth felt like the surface of the envelope.

There's the military seal, printed next to the address of the recipient.

And then, Jiyong stops breathing. Registers the gravity of the situation. Withdraws his trembling fingers from its glossy surface. Collapses meekly onto his lyric chair and feels his vision blur , for a moment of two.

The letter held the effect of the Pandora's Box, only worse, Jiyong thinks bitterly. At least Pandora's box existed in the realm of fantasy. The letter only served to underscore the reality of a barely realised dream of supreme idolatry. Seunghyun is leaving. His hyung is leaving. His breath is leaving him. The inspiration behind his music; meaning behind his lyrics and the complementary base rap to his singing. The temperate of the room is all of a sudden, beyond freezing and Jiyong finds himself burying his face in between his drawn up knees.

He isn't hiding tears, no, not at all. The back of his tongue is merely salt with a thick afterthought of a severed union made to have last longer, longer than this at least, he thinks.

And just then, silently and gently, Seunghyun slides in, graces Jiyong with his presence, as if nothing's changed at all, and latches his chin on Jiyong's shoulders, arms girdling his waist, like a giant woollen jacket hugging over the younger. Jiyong draws in a sharp breath, eyelids fluttering shut because just maybe, behind closed lids, the swollen, puffy tear-drenched eyes would somehow look less conspicuous.

"Hey," Seunghyun says, husky voice halting Jiyong's train of thoughts.

When Seunghyun reaches for the open envelope, Jiyong doesn't even try to hide the blots of salty tears that he had unintentionally adorned it with; it was too late anyway.

It’s always too late.

"So you've read?"

Stupid question. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Jiying flits his wet eyelashes downwards, nods.

"I'm sorry."

Seunghyun sighs, weary and resigned. Any urge for Jiyong to fight back the tears from before had all thoroughly vaporised now. His hyung is a fighter. Seunghyun /always/ finds a way out of things - however ridiculously puerile or ostensibly futile his attempts were. To suddenly realise that Seunghyun's got nothing left to offer but the warmth of his touch; it's the kind of frightening novelty that makes one’s heart leap. That leap one takes when they’re midway through a dilapidated bridge bounded between two shores by a loosening thread.

By the time Seunghyun attempts to gently pry Jiyong's fingers from the envelope, the two blots of tears had doubled to four, and eight and, and —-

It isn't fair at all. They've only just begun mapping out their empire. Jiyong had intended for at least one more album collaboration with Seunghyun. The last time they had collaborated was five years ago. Jiyong had then insisted that another album collaboration is necessary because working with Seunghyun was an extraterrestrial music making experience altogether. They were almond and chocolate; Seunghyun's presence wasn't to accommodate