__

The hair changes frequently, Chanyeol noticed. One month it was jet-black, the strands adorning the soft features of his face like a curtain, then others it was as yellow as the sun, like the colour of bananas, glinting like the piercings he often wore. Then sometimes it was simply left as is, and Chanyeol could see his original hair colour of dark brown, peeking from the roots, waiting to be colored once more.

“What is the point—“ Chanyeol said, swiping his large hand over Baekhyun’s hair, taken aback when it feels like velvet on the surface of his palm, “—of changing your appearance every now and then?”

“It’s okay to be jealous when you’re a plain, boring person,” Baekhyun simply retorts with that soft voice of his, his hand moving quickly to paint on canvas, the heavy smell of acrylic washing over the room.

“I’m far from plain. I’m the campus’ smartest, and son of the wealthiest scion amongst the world leaders, and if anything counts as plain at all, it’s you,” Chanyeol bares his teeth, but Baekhyun thought he just sounded point-blank narcissistic. Baekhyun doesn’t reply, and this usually means he’s trying to make Chanyeol think about what comes out of his mouth sometimes—and it works.

Chanyeol looks away. Neither of them were very social people, so more often than not, they stayed inside their dorm room, and this meant that they unintentionally easel out some sort of conversation with each other. Though their voices were bitter to each other, at least both of them knew that the bitterness was mutual.

“Look, it’s a valid question. I don’t know these kind of things. I don’t come from—well, wherever you come from. We don’t dress like peacocks,” Chanyeol crossed his arms. He asked the question earlier with the intention of being annoying, but now that Baekhyun fought back, Chanyeol had sparked a curiosity. It was something that he genuinely did not know.

“Because, when I put colours on my hair, there’s a certain probability that someone would notice it and compliment me on it, and it’s human nature to seek validity from others that you’re worth something,” Baekhyun says, “And because the majority of the human race doesn’t realise that it’s only the memories and perspective of the person that matters to the brain, I try and look pretty because it’s more solid and edible than trying to prove myself that I’m also a pretty person on the inside.”

Baekhyun sets his brush down, before gathering his hair into a bun. It was a colour that Chanyeol couldn’t really recognize—this sort of creamy, strawberry-blonde complexion that perfectly matches his skin, and Baekhyun pulls the hair tie from his wrist and locked the strands in one place. His eyes pored over Chanyeol, before he shook his head disdainfully.

“But whatever, you know? I don’t think you care about that. You probably only care about capitalism and how physical attributes would attract working-class customers like me. You don’t care what it looks like, as long as it satisfies you. I don’t think you’re even human.”

__

Baekhyun’s thoughts flew to his parents.

He doesn’t really remember them.

They were a vague blur; he remembered that one of the last times he saw them was at the wedding—Chanyeol had insisted, out of courtesy, that Baekhyun should invite them to their marriage. They did attend, taking two seats at the front row and took their time to be primly dressed. But Baekhyun could never forget their expression—how, as they watched the wedding, disgust was the only thing displayed on their faces.

But now, seven years later, Baekhyun could understand why, and thoroughly regretted his sorry actions.

Baekhyun chewed his nails on the ride, hiding his face behind his hair. He just wanted to get it done and over with, but he knew this was slow torture arranged by his ex-husband. Chanyeol simply sat there, bouncing on his seat, chuckling and giggling about how excited he was to meet his former in-laws. Baekhyun knows that he’s doing this on purpose—it was payback to Baekhyun’s pettiness.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering to do this when the arrangement’s ending in a few weeks’ time,” Baekhyun muttered, “After the deal ends, you’d have to tell them it’s over again.”

“You know why we’re doing this, Baekhyunnie,” Chanyeol sang, “You’re smart enough to figure it out.”

And Baekhyun is. He knows that this is just one of Chanyeol’s games. And Chanyeol loved nothing more than playing games—it was one of the factors why it all came crumbling in the first place.

The limousine stops by the suburbs, at the far outskirts of town. At this point, Baekhyun had gone incredibly pale, his mind conjuring every single memory he had of his parents, and the bad ones were knocking him like a hammer. He exhaled sharply, staring out of the blackened window, facing the former home he had spent some of his life in.

“Go on,” Chanyeol smiled, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

Baekhyun took deep, stuttering breaths, opening the door and getting out, making sure to slam it loudly against the car. He bit his lip, glazing his eyes over the white-washed house, its wall cracks filled with fern and plant growth—almost like a crumbling structure.

They’ve never moved. Chanyeol had pulled up government records and found that they haven’t vacated their residence—the bastard probably had records of Baekhyun too, since he was a creepy and snoopy . He would’ve kept track of Baekhyun for the last seven years.

Baekhyun swallows as he steps over the cement path, walking past the overgrown garden. He places his feet at the porch, looking back at the limousine waiting for him in front of the house—he could just… not do this. He could just walk off and run away. He could figure something out to bribe Chanyeol out of this—except the man would do anything to make him suffer, and there was no getting out of this one.

Holding his emotions down, Baekhyun curbed his path to go right round the back, heading towards the garden. Each step was making him suffer—each second was slow torture to him, and he could physically feel every single moment weighing down on his body. He was about to turn away, relieved, telling Chanyeol that perhaps this was no use and they should just forget about all of this—before the clearing is visible and he stops by two perfect headstones placed next to each other, and Baekhyun's fists crumpled.

“Hello, mother, father,” Baekhyun breathes out calmly, but he couldn’t stop the tears spilling out of his eyes.

__

Minhyun had laid on his stomach on Jongdae’s bed for the past three hours, loudly singing every single folk song and nursery rhyme he could come up with, swinging his yellow digger in the air. Jongdae sits on his desk, shoulders hunched and eyes focused, his fingers typing away at his thesis. Eventually, the child reaches his end of patience and grumbles, rolling around on the bed.

“Dae-dae, I’m bored,” Minhyun calls out. The older man didn’t seem to notice him at all, still typing, and Minhyun huffs before he crawled off from the bed, promptly hitting Jongdae’s back with his digger.

“DAE-DAE, I’M BORED!” Minhyun shouts impatiently, clearly seeking attention from the adult. Jongdae sighs and turns around in his office chair, adjusting his glasses.

“You can go and play with my figurines,” Jongdae points at the cabinet. Minhyun crossed his arms angrily and shook his head.

“No. I don’t like them anymore,” Minhyun blows a raspberry. Jongdae sighs, knowing that the child would start to act persistently difficult. Minhyun obeys nobody but his own father.

“Well, nevermind. I’m a little busy right now, Minhyun, just hang in there and I’ll take you to a walk around the block or something,” Jongdae says, like his offer was the most exciting thing in the world. Minhyun huffs loudly and turned his head away, pressing his lips together into an angry pout, before he looks down and his thumb.

“I want Daddy…” Minhyun murmurs, suddenly feeling upset. He tugged onto Jongdae’s sleeves, burying his face on the man’s clothes, trying to seek for some sort of comfort, “Dae-dae, when is Daddy coming home…?”

Jongdae sighs, pressing his lips together. He picks the child up, plastering him onto his chest. Minhyun hasn’t cried yet, but he started his sniffles and he was rubbing his face against Jongdae’s chest, whimpering. Jongdae hugs him and hushes him, his hair.

“I don’t know, Minhyun. But just be patient a little longer and I promise he’ll come and collect you, okay? Cheer up, buddy. Get rid of the sniffles.”

Jongdae bounces his leg and rocks him a little, causing Minhyun to giggle. He did this for a while, placing Minhyun on his knee before raising his leg up, and the small child lights up with laughter, chirruping “again, again!”

“No more now, I’m tired,” Jongdae laughs, ruffling Minhyun’s hair. The small child groans disappointedly, pouting.

“Hey, don’t be so down. Look—what have I got here?”

Jongdae leans forward to the shelves on the wall, pinching a folder by the tip of his fingers. He retrieves it and re-adjusts Minhyun on his lap, opening the folder, and Minhyun claps with excitement.

“Photo album!” he shrieks with delight. He struggles to pick up the pages, and Jongdae does it for him, turning the page delicately, Minhyun poring over the photos.

The first, clearly marked out by a dazzling hair colour, was Baekhyun in his college years, in his form of a young adult. There was something about him that gave off this mysterious, attractive aura that made him seem radiant, his eyes half-lidded and his gaze simultaneously soft and intense. He had a bottle of alcohol in one hand (Jongdae shortly recalls that the photo was taken at a party), whilst the other arm wraps around a boy with round glasses, grinning from ear to ear, his hair curled all over the place, recognizable as Jongdae.

“It’s Dae-dae and Daddy!” Minhyun cackles, pointing at the photos ecstatically. Jongdae chuckled fondly. There were quite a few pages similar to the first photo, taken at different poses or split seconds after.

They turn the page over and this time, it was only Baekhyun, and Jongdae remembers taking the picture. Baekhyun had all of his piercings in and the most offending shade of red in his h