The day isn’t ending. Throwing the room into hues of crimson and umber, the sun is setting; yet to disappear; its residence in the sky clear in unapologetic tones of yellow and gold. This day isn’t ending, and Zitao isn’t leaving.

It’s a naïve thought. Both are inevitable, but Zitao wishes, prays that this time, the sun won’t set; time continuing into an endless dusk where he won’t have to worry about the morning to come.

And Zitao would make himself at home in the warm, burnt filters of sunset, basking in its glow; live his never-ending day in the sweet embrace between night and day.

But the sun carries on descending, colours deepening and shifting hues into a darker spectrum and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Maybe it’s funny. That it’s at this moment that Zitao wishes his fictional ‘power’ was real. Bestowed unto him with no real purpose, made a part of his identity, built into the very persona that will no longer be his in a matter of hours.

The dainty, rose gold hands of his watch don’t slow or stop, no matter how hard he tries. Because those hands have never known what it’s like to hold someone in them or be held in return; to have something in their grasp that means the world, is so treasured and precious that its life may not be the same if it lets go. They aren’t afraid of the late hour – they keep striding on steadily, welcoming the hour as a good friend, someone they see often and acknowledge with a warm smile and a nod.

His watch isn’t afraid. But Zitao is.

It’s a kind of pain; fear; sadness that grips him with each belonging he tucks into his suitcase. He’s done this before so many times it’s a meaningless ritual by now, but this time there’s more permanence; knowing that the dust that’s gathered around where his picture frame sat on his desk will be dusted away afterwards; that the barren hangers where his clothes used to hang will soon be draped with the clothes of someone else.

So Zitao stands idly, regarding his half-packed suitcases and willing the tears he feels b in his eyes to cease. For a fleeting moment he thinks maybe he could keep them from spilling the same way he could prevent the sun from setting, but it’s a hopeless aspiration, because he can’t control those things.

And it seems that he can’t control the way his feet lead him to Junmyeon’s room, either, because that’s where he finds himself moments later, eyes damp and lungs heavy.

And it’s Junmyeon, with those ever-deep, fond, caring eyes who welcomes him like he belongs there, because he does.

Junmyeon’s room has been basically his for a long time, and his heart has been Zitao’s for much longer.

Because with the way that Junmyeon treasures Zitao, regards him with such adoring gazes, touches him so comfortably, softly, caringly, is heart-wrenchingly genuine, smattered with unrestrained hints of love, and Zitao envelops himself in it, requites it, with lingering eyes and touches that are not in the least bit subtle. Because everyone else would have to be blind not to notice, and ‘subtle’ has never been a word in Zitao’s vocabulary.

But this time it means so much more. It’s not just a tender embrace during a concert; a reassuring intertwining of hands whilst Zitao cries after an award show. This time, when Junmyeon brings him into his arms, cradles Zitao’s head against his temple, there’s an unavoidable sense of the very thing that Zitao fears most – finality.

A tentativeness in his hands as he maps out the surface of Zitao’s skin, committing it to memory in case he loses it; a silence in which no words are said because he’s saving them; picking out the best ones in his mind to put to use because there’s limited time to use them – this is the last page of the book and he can’t afford long, poetic sentences or dramatic monologues because he’ll run out of space.

Zitao doesn’t like it one bit. He imagines there being more pages. Maybe if he writes really small he’ll be able to get more down, make it fit, say all of the things he’s ever wanted in that confined space, and maybe that way he won’t reach the back page – and there won’t be an ending. A story can’t end without an ending, right?

Zitao doesn’t want this to end; makes it clear through his unrelenting grip on Junmyeon, the way he bends to bury his face against Junmyeon’s neck, his breath shaking as it hits Junmyeon’s skin, inhaling deeply, exhales shallow, wanting to keep Junmyeon’s scent in his nose, his taste in his mouth, never escaping, never mellowing.

“Kiss me,” are the first words Zitao chooses, unsteady and half-there, followed by: “like this isn’t the last time.” The words are heavy, heavy as Zitao’s eyes on Junmyeon’s, heavy as his heart in his chest, heavy as a suitcase he can’t bring himself to pack.

Junmyeon knows that. Junmyeon knows that if he were to go into Zitao’s room he would see the bag on the floor less than half-full, other belongings in the room slightly out of their usual place because Zitao had picked them up then set them down again, not ready to pack them up yet. Because Junmyeon knows Zitao better than he knows himself.

And so do Junmyeon’s lips as they press against the familiar heat and softness of Zitao’s, kissing him in that memorized way that he knows comforts Zitao. It’s the way he kisses him when he’s homesick, when he’s crying backstage after a big concert, when he’s hurting.

It’s the kind of kiss that tells him it’s okay.

Things will get better.

It’s not over.

“I’ll love you, always.”

And as Zitao falls asleep in Junmyeon’s bed, in Junmyeon’s embrace, he dreams of a morning where his suitcase stays unpacked, the tear tracks on his skin disappear, the warmth of Junmyeon’s lips on his never fades.

But he can’t control those things.