8 Seconds

The air is impregnated with the sweet smell of the fall, the melancholic hues painting the sky and the road with leaves that die and sizzle under his feet; the lonely music of a lonely day. But, overall, his essence warms his heart, his light perfume still lingering on the coat they had shared, on the scarf he had put around his neck and that keeps his summery skin melted on the fabric, mixed now with his own flesh, leaving traces of touches never done, like the of a brush on a morning azure, when the sun is high, brightening his smile.

Just like him, the twilight that tints the sky remembers his heart of him and, with a beat out of rhythm, he giggles, because thinking about him is beautiful, because his mere memory brings back all his joy, as if all happiness lived in his eyes and in his core, diluting the emptiness of a day passed without him by his side.

He presses the coat around his chest when the cold wind blows at his direction, and he trembles under the night that is coming, itching his skin like ice flowers and he misses him, his hands warming his, secretly holding inside his pocket, pressed together as dried flowers, fingers brushing palms, tickles all over his spine with his smile all over his face, colouring the most amazing and beautiful view, the one he misses the most right now. 

He hears the hustle just coming at his back and, even before seeing  what is happening, he feels it; a throb in his heart and his voice running with the wind.

“Seungyoon-ah” he shouts, jogging to catch his pace, his arms surrounding his shoulders suddenly, his cheek resting on his collarbone, the hollow space under his neck where it fits just perfectly. His weight on him is familiar, his breath against his skin, walloping his hair slightly, his locks grazing his cheeks, overwhelming him with his reassuring essence. All about him is calm and compose, all about him is precious, simple and graceful; he is beautiful beyond words, not a single lyric can make justice to the person he is; the one he loves the most.

Jinwoo’s lips graze his skin when he frees him from his wrapping limb  and Seungyoon is amaze at how good a single smooch, caste and pure and accidentally, can be, how it turns his heart on fire, pulsing fast and agitated, as if composing a rap instead of the ballads he works on. Then he holds him, all, not caring about been in the middle of the street, just his arms around him, his matching coats blending under the pale light, his hands on him, hugging him tight.

He counts slowly “One, two, three” until eight before he lets go and the coldness greets him once more, missing again the warmness that is entirely his, that belongs only to his skin.

His eyes shine, staring at him, piercing his thought and his mind – all them are about him, all of them appertain to him anyway – and he wonders what is it that Jinwoo sees, what he has that has turned him into someone special, into his one, someone who calls him best friend. 

“You are precious” he says and Seungyoon’s face burns, all paleness replaced with fierce, shyly scarlet, because this is not true, the precious one here is Jinwoo. “You are precious to me” he stresses, pitching his childlike cheeks, poking at them graciously; his star like eyes closed in a smiling crescents.

On the bus back home he sits next to him, his hand resting, forgotten, on his lap and his sight lost on the window’s view. Seungyoon glances at him; taking him all in between squints, from his autumnal silky hair to the manner he is ruining his shoes, wearing them halfway. To hush his heartbeats, the bold blood that make him shiver, running beneath his flesh and bones, young and wild and screaming his name, he turns the music on, opaquing with it blast the throbs and the splash but then, as if realizing what is he doing,  Jinwoo turns to face him, taking away one of the earplugs and pushing it inside his own ear.

Seungyoon has been working on that song for so long and nobody was supposed to heard it, not yet, still not finished but, between all the people in the world, Kim Jinwoo is the last one who should listen to it, not when he has written his feelings to him, singing them to the night, in between the rocky streams of the guitar and the drums beating like thunders. But Jinwoo only smiles, enjoying it, his fingers tapping on his leg at the same rhythm as the song, as if it meaning wasn’t reaching his mind at all.

“It’s great Seungyoon!” he says once it’s all over, proud and honoured and he wants to die, here and then because he has never looked more appealing, he has never felt this urge to kiss his lips and rub away a smile that is the sun in the sky. But under the hustle of his own beats he can hear Jinwoo’s, how his hands tremble and how his voice doesn’t sound as usual, a little weak and unsure and he is domed because Jinwoo, the innocent, naïve and beyond nice Jinwoo, now knows the truth under his heart.

When his fingers lock around his he thinks he is dreaming. The hem of his sleeve, brown like the covered streets, meets his own, and it’s warm in a way he has never felt before; it’s a heat that comes from his core and that is spreading all over his body and he melts into it, not able to hold himself because he knows his flustered feelings, what he means to him now and, still, he is holding his hand as if it was a treasure.    

He doesn’t need words to understand this wavering feeling that rushes toward him. He has always known, he has always seen the way it was, the truth that Seungyoon tried to conceal under promises of friendship and some other lies. He doesn’t need to tell him, but it was a beautiful song, a confession he wasn’t expecting at all.

It’s when he reaches his stop, leaving this spot where his leg brushes his, that he mutters the courage to face him and brushes with his lips his own, as in a phantom of a kiss, tasting slightly the flavor of Seungyoon, like strawberries and spring. 

“I love you too” he whispers, just before stepping out of his sight, only for him to hear. And Seungyoon’s heart beats louder than the music that bursts from his phone, but the smile on his face doesn't dissolve, permanently drawn there, until he will see him tomorrow again, and those eight seconds on his arms will turn into something else.