this chapter has been edited and i have added some important things.

Chanyeol has seen Yixing around.

He is that foreign kid, the exchange student who keeps his hood on while walking through campus a little bit faster than everyone else. He is the one who people won’t stop talking about, the reason for mean, whispered words based on things they know nothing about. He is the one who keeps quiet, the one who secludes himself in order to avoid confrontation. He is the kid with the sweet smile, the one whose dimple Chanyeol has seen only once.

No one really knows how it started but few people care. Little does it matter what painful thoughts go through some strange foreigner’s head before bed, for what reasons he cries every night.

Chanyeol is that popular kid, the one who keeps smiling. Everyone loves him and he tries to like everyone, even though he doesn’t really care about confessions and even though he would rather spend his time alone in the practice room than around a bunch of people. He is the kid who plays the guitar, piano, and drums, the one whose voice matches his face in terms of beauty. He is amazing and all, but although he appreciates the kind words and the praising messages, he doesn’t really care that much. He is, after all, the one who can’t stop watching a certain exchange student, the one whose heart hurts a little bit more every time he hears his so-called friends spit out nasty lies in order to gain his interest.

Yixing has seen Chanyeol around.

The first time was on a Wednesday. The week was far from over and Yixing tried to hurry home, but the sharp pain caused by a stone hitting his back caused him to turn around in curiosity. Not because he was stupid, but because he thought that maybe, maybe it had been a mistake this time.

“Hey, Chan-Ke! How do you spell ‘freak’ in Chinese?” was what hit him, and there was no surprise in that. Sighing in defeat for the third time that week, he turned back around before another stone was thrown, hitting the back if his head instead. “Hey! I’m talking to you, homo!”

He tried to ignore it, tried to hold back the tears that had already started forming. There was, however, no use to it. Adults shouldn’t cry, especially not because of petty things such as derogatory words, and stones are just a trifle compared to wooden canes and blunt blades. Yixing is an adult and so he shouldn’t have cried, but things aren’t always that easy.

“Why do you come here if you can’t even learn how to speak properly?” were the words that had him sob, hands shooting up to cover his face. “To hit on little boys? You filthy .”

A round of laughter travelled through the cold spring air surrounding them, entering the maltreated one to fill every corner of his shrivelled heart. His legs were running or so it seemed to him, while in reality they were dragged behind him as more and more stones hit his head and body.

It isn’t true what they said, what they will always keep saying - Yixing does know the language and he didn’t come here to hit on anybody, little boys least of all. He has been learning Korean for years, did for that purpose decide to follow his dream and study abroad. To find friends, to grow, to escape the achromatic purgatory that has until recently been his life. While he hoped that it would have been everything he dreamt of, that people would accept him with arms open wide, he is by now painfully aware of how stupid it was for him to ever dream at all.

“I said I’m talking to you!” someone shouted but he ignored it, as usual. The loud scoffs when he stumbled over nothing hit him harder than the gravel thrown but he kept on walking, wondering if he should just go back home despite there being no such thing. He walked faster, started skipping, but a large stone hit his temple, causing him to fall to his knees and scrape his palms. Perhaps he can pretend to have a home, he thought as he sprained his left wrist, suffer silently in the country which is his birthplace. If he returns there, he will at least not be surrounded by people who hate him for his ethnicity as well.

Knowing that this won’t end until he leaves, that people will for some absurd yet legitimate reason hate him until he disappears off the surface of this earth, he just sat there on the cold ground. His hands were bloody from gravel and although he has always been a bit scared of dying, he couldn’t help but feel a bit impatient while waiting for the ground to swallow him whole A fiery or maybe even icy place came to mind as he sat there anticipating, and although Hell doesn’t sound that nice by ear, he knew that it would be a relief from this. Not that he is convinced by faith or even particularly pious - he was just raised with values deriving from thousands of years of translations and transcribing, reared and indoctrinated by the help of canes and belts and the shrivelled pages of his custodian’s old Douay-Rheims.

“Guys, just leave him be,” were the words that had him freeze along with his snivels. The unfamiliar voice was deep but soft and although tears were already streaming down his cheeks, he couldn’t help but look up from under his hood. Turning his wet, puffy face around in order to see who had spoken, he was met with a pair of worried eyes, wide and beautiful enough to have him forget his troubles ten times over. The Alpha and the Omega seemed to fade in comparison, as did Aleph and Taw and all things imaginary.

“You okay there, kid?” his tall saviour asked, kneeling before him as if there weren’t any holes in his expensive-looking jeans. Mean words and disparaging laughter were already locked out of Yixing’s head by the time that stranger looked at him and smiled, bruises caused by stones forgotten like last year’s melted snow.

“I–I am,” he snivelled while wiping his face, too long sleeves rubbing over a stuffed nose and bloodshot eyes. He wasn’t okay, that was a lie, but the hand inviting his to grab had him unable to say no. It was, after all, the first time a stranger ever smiled at him.



Today is Friday, two months later. Seated on some bench outside the campus cafeteria, Yixing pokes his lunch with a finger sinking into cold, grey meat. It’s burnt and dry because he doesn’t like to stand in line, doesn’t like the contemptuous glances sent by whoever happens to notice him. They never hit him while still at campus, but eyes hurt more than fists for someone whose skin is already calloused and scarred.

Sighing deeply, he turns his gaze to the sky only to lower it back onto his pathetic excuse of a home cooked meal after a second. A few drops of rain soaks his food but he doesn’t really mind, not when he knows that it will end up in the trash. He is too fat, anyway, he thinks despite being thinner than most, disgusted by his own growling stomach. He might as well starve himself to death, he thinks when walking towards the trash bin, refusing to look around in fear of drawing anyone’s attention.

His hood covers his face and head, so the sudden shower doesn’t really bother him. Pretending in vain that his stomach isn’t hurting, he lets a stupid little tear drop to the asphalt and mix with the rain. It’s always like this nowadays, even if he doesn’t know why. Nothing bad has happened today, yet he feels his lips start trembling. Shoving his hands into the pocket of his hood, he fiddles with a bracelet which he has worn for over ten years. It’s not really a bracelet but it works well as one, and although it was never really his own to begin with, he wears it with pride now that its owner isn’t there.

The rain stops falling as suddenly as it came, and Yixing pauses, wiping his tears in realisation of how childish he is. Finally looking up, for a moment admiring the sky on which his gaze hasn't landed in a long while, he shuts his eyes and breathes the smell of wet pavement. Memories of catnip and secret friendship come back to him in this moment, and although he himself isn’t capable of smiling, he feels as if someone is smiling at him. Perhaps it isn’t that far away, the place which he will never reach. Maybe it’s right above him, he muses as he opens his eyes, wondering if that particularly heavy cloud is really a cat.



Just a short distance away, Chanyeol sits in the cafeteria with a detached smile plastered onto his face. People around him are laughing and joking, nudging his shoulders and playing footsie, all while complaining about morning lectures and overdue essays. It’s a beautiful day, but his mind is occupied to notice, filled with sweet melodies and images of note sheets that will eventually get discarded for the good of pure inspiration.

“Doesn’t he look a bit retarded?” he suddenly hears, the voice belonging to some girl who asked him out once or maybe twice without success. “I mean, has anyone ever seen him talk to anyone? I’m sure he’s got some kind of disorder.”

Following her gaze thr