He isn’t thinking much today. He isn’t thinking at all, he mumbles, spinning his empty glass, the remaining bits of ice clattering, glass against glass, cold under his hand. It’s rhythmically and sedating, like a lullaby – he wants to sleep; his head thumbs constantly, reminding him of the name that is still on the tip of his tongue bathed in soju, a name he wants to forget; the reason after his last shoot – a name he has never loved but was his nevertheless.

He doesn’t fall asleep, though, not when, with half-closed eyes, he sees him. He blinks, allured, but the creature at the far end of the room is still there, as lovely as before – he tries to see him clearly, he focuses his gaze on him until the edges stop moving, becoming more defines; he hasn’t drunk that much after all – lying to himself is his second nature, he has drowned in alcohol all night long - the dim light falls over him and he is painted in golden hues that feel like slumber - Minho bates his eyes but he is not dreaming (his heart stutters and it's itching, beating fast against his ribs).

He stands up and stumbles, the stools on his way are annoying and so he pushes them aside vehemently – he only trips over twice and it isn’t that embarrassing and the person he is interested in isn’t watching - he has his gaze fixed on his phone and Minho wishes that he could become one - so he is alright. He hasn’t fallen face down to the ground (he has fallen down for an angel, though, just one glance and he was kneeling in front of him, admitting all he has kept it secret to the world).

He shouldn’t be doing this but, in this place – dark and somber, with a title he can’t spell –, nobody knows him; he is just a boy in love carrying  his heart on his sleeve, beating at the same pace as this other boy does – murmuring his unknown name, colouring his skin. – In this bar, wooden floor and expensive liquor, the smell of leather from the couch blended with the perfume of the dusky chandelieres that comes from above; it’s all unreal, as if in a movie – he turns into the main character of this night and so he will get that boy; he is the star – even if he is rejected, he will try until the end - there is nothing to lose and, fairy enough,  he won't remember. 

He is celebrating – he is celebrating that he is single and, therefore, he can bring this man home. He can try. He can fail miserably; it doesn’t matter because now he can and he will – to fall flat epically, that’s it. He should be crying but, rather, he laughs loud and obnoxious; he doesn’t care, he shallow another glass of burning soju and lets it taste sinks into his soul, erasing the bits that are left of her – her pretty face is blurry, where her eyes blue? Did her perfume smell like flowers? Was she pretty? He can’t remember - he doesn't want to reminicent her, that girl he has push and pull into his existence only for his own sake, he wants to focus only in this boy who is more beautiful than any women, far more graceful than she ever was, for sure -, for now she is a dot in his life, a stain at most, annoying and bothersome, someone he can't delete totally, someone for whom he doesn’t cry because she never meant more than nothing to him (he knows it’s cruel but, in the end, she was only a friend playing pretence, a façade she didn’t know she was keeping in place until she did; he should feel sorry, he should be worried, but he can't, his only preocupation now is to get to know this person who shines in a corner, oblivious at his failing attempts to catch his attention, she is left totally forgotten).

Minho stares at the angel in front of him; he soused but he is still gorgeous – the room spins but he is the axis, the constant that balances him; he is alluring, Minho wants to sing to him all the love songs in the world. – He sits next to him and watches him intently – doe like eyes painted with the colours of the universe, lips like strawberries, juicy, glossy, ready to kiss, a nose that is just perfect, crafted by the hands of a God and he has been blessed to be allowed to contemplate such a masterpiece, to breathe the same air, to loop around him like a earth to the sun that he is, so shiny, so gleaming, so beautiful, blinding; he feels like dancing under the moon, the rain washing away all the sins he wants to committee tonight with him in his arms.

He looks at him and waits until he notices – it takes him five seconds that have paused Minho’s heart; he snickers at him, all his features, comb-over, are even more captivating than a dream and, has he ever dreamt about him before? He looks familiar, like someone he used to know - the lyrics of an old song, the face of a wasted photography, bleamed face he can't recognize but that brings something to his empty mind filled with alcohol and all the stars that hang inside his orbs (he wants to get drunk of him, to kiss his lips until becoming numb and freeze).

Minho thinks about all these pickup lines that he has heard - from Seungyoon - and that are embarrassing - girls use to snort at them and leaving his friend broken and humiliated -but, right now, with this angel standing in front of him, smiling nebulously familiar, like smoke clouding his eyes, he thinks they are alright – in the end, he needs to say something.

“My name is Minho but you can call me the love of your life,” he says, introducing himself. He laughs, his eyes crackling lovely, creating wrinkles he wants to smooth with his fingers; the sound reverberates like bells and he is in love, again.

“I’m Jinwoo” he replies and even his name is graceful; every crumbe of him is heavenly. He must be really an angel – a red-haired one with gleaming eyes and pale skin the same tone as a milkshake (Minho wonders how sweet it will taste under his touch) –. Jinwoo smiles at him and there is a hint of something known and his name reminds him of someone else, someone who was his flashpoint – the one who helped him realize, for sure, that he was into boys after dreaming about him for months. His name is Jinwoo, too, and Minho finds it amusing. He laughs, cracking up, his hands hitting the table and his companion stares at him, curiosity sparkling his already starry orbs. He finds it adorable, nearly as much as the other one is - the one he loves -.

“You even look like him!” he starts, looking back at him absorbedly as if studying all of his features, as if trying to memorize them - he does, he scribbles them inside his head until he knows them by heart, and even then it wouldn't be enough -, “But he is more beautiful” he then confesses, after scrutinizing him up to every single detail – there is a lovely mole in his eyelid and another one that begs to be kissed right under his rose lips (Minho bites his own, showing up his teeth).

“Who are you comparing me with?” he asks, already interested – Minho finds it cute that he isn’t mad at it, to be related with a stranger by a stranger.

“Kim Jinwoo” is his only answer – as if it answered anything at all, but this Jinwoo in front of him smiles the biggest and Minho’s heart beats painfully. Kim Jinwoo, his classmate, innocent and lonely, with a charm that can't be compared.

“Oh, he must be very pretty then,” he comments, giddying with surprise. Minho nods, remembering all that is beautiful in the world and that is owned by him alone. Kim Jinwoo is the embodyment of grace, he is made by stars and Gods have crafted him at their likeness; he is so perfect that words can describe or express it and he has his chest and mind – but Minho has never told it to anyone; that he is in love (irremediable, irrevocably, secretly).

“He is. But you look alike him” he says, dazed, his head resting in his hands, contemplating him entirely, solely – and his cheeks are blushed in soft red.

“Are you calling me pretty?” the man teases him, jokingly. Minho knows he is not serious, but he is – how can he not when this person looks exactly like the one he truly adores?

“Absolutely. Even if he is slightly prettier than you are, this is the highest compliment you could ever get, I swear” and his promise only makes him smile again – and it is as if heaven itself was unfolding in front of his eyes.

“I’ll take it, then” he accepts it gratefully, his sight still fixed on him, amazed, entertained – as if Minho were not a bother at all, as if he found him amusing, and thinking about it makes Minho proud of his own achievement (he can say he has been with him for more than five minutes and this is more than he was hoping for. Maybe, in the end, he does have chances to bring him home and do all the things that are lingering inside his mind right now).

“I take you, then” he smirks, totally sold to Jinwoo – he can’t help it to be absolutely smitten, under a spell, he doesn’t care, he only wants this person to spend the rest of his life with him.

“I thought you had a girlfriend?” is what he replies and Minho is, for a moment, taken aback. But he lifts his head from between his crossed arms, where it was resting to better contemplate him without the world spinning around and stares into his eyes.

“I did, but not anymore. So I’m free to fall in love with you” he singsongs, embarrassingly – it’s a miracle that Jinwoo happens to find it cute when Minho falls, literally, i