No More Lonely Nights

It’s has been so long and, yet, looking at him feels fresh, new, as if seeing him from the first time.

He is sleeping, the moon beaming on him, silvering his pale skin like a dream splashed with little dots he knows by heart. Curled under the blankets, he looks so relaxed, so exposed and vulnerable, Minho wants for nothing but to take him on his arms, promise him to always be by his side, taking care of him, forever. It’s more the other way around, though. Awake, Jinwoo is always there for him, supporting his dreams, the shoulder who is there for him, the arms carrying him when he is too tired, to wasted by the world and its insincerity. Jinwoo is his hold up, the man Minho is always looking up to – the man whom his eyes are always in.

In his dreams, Jinwoo stirs. In his dreams, Minho is holding him, painting his sleep with kisses, closing his eyes next to him, his breathing swaying, lulling him like a lullaby.

With him pressed against his chest, Minho’s lips on top of Jinwoo’s forehead, his arms wrapping him with warmth, with assurance, keeping his safe, keeping him alive. Jinwoo turns around, his face is hidden on Minho’s clavicle, purring like a little cat. It’s like this that Minho likes him the most, unsure, unclear, eyes closed, sleepy-head. His hair is a pool of black ink that spreads all over his flesh, tickling his senses, the taste of his fantasies is all over his lips and he can touch his dreams with his fingertips – he builds them for Jinwoo with love and care.

Jinwoo’s hands are thrown over his back, his fingers dancing, thrumming on his blades. It’s dimmed and soft, his hands still asleep but Jinwoo is waking up.

His eyes under the moonlight are dark universes filled with fireflies tinkling, they are dazzling and stunning and they are on him, solely, looking at him half closed, long lashes brushing gently his cheeks, shadows colouring the white of his skin. And Minho wants to paint him with all the shades in the world; blue and golden like the sky in the distant horizon.

How long has it been since last time? He hugs him until there is no space in between. He holds him tenderly just because he has missed him – he has missed this: looking at him sleeping, brushing his hair off of his face, interlacing fingers, brushing the back of his hand, drawing in there his love, all that he means, talking about dreams. And even if he has seen him yesterday, he is never getting used to being loved by Jinwoo, that Jinwoo has chosen him over the world, that he wants to fight and to lose with him, that he is willing to give up everything just to kiss him goodnight.

Years have passed by and yet, when Minho looks at Jinwoo it is exactly the same; nothing but time has changed, his feelings, his love is just as strong as always, even with all that they have lived, all the shared memories, all the fights and the screams. They have fought together to build what they have now and he is not going to surrender – his heart has only surrendered to Jinwoo.

Jinwoo slowly blinks at him, fully opening his starry eyes like flowers blooming in spring.

“Minho-ya,” he half yawns and Minho tosses his hair affectionately, kissing it tenderly. “Morning,”

“It’s still small hours of the night, hyung,” he says, pushing his lips against Jinwoo’s forehead. He comes closer to him, legs entangled around his waist and Minho laughs; Jinwoo is only clingy in bed, whenever Minho wants to sleep, he rests next to him, tangling himself to prevent Minho to run away, back to his job, back away from their bed. And Minho likes him better like this – if he could, he would always be in bed with Jinwoo, letting the sleep fall on them like rain to the forest.

“Then, why aren’t you sleeping?” he wonders, his voice filled with all the things Minho wants to kiss.

“Because I was looking at you.” Minho doesn’t need to see how Jinwoo’s cheeks burn pink, flambeé, he feels warm against his chest and smirks at it. “Silly hyung, I’m always admiring you, get used to it.”

Jinwoo punches him but he doesn’t mean it – his fist doesn’t even reach him. He gives up before starting. He reaches his lips and kisses him determinately slow.

“I’m glad you are here,” he purs, hands tracing his bones, up to his nape, spelling his name very carefully. He bites his lips lazily, not really wanting, not hungry and Minho lets him do what he wants, playing with his hair, sketching his features with fingertips that are slow-dancing, travelling around the world that is Jinwoo’s body.

They do it slowly, sweetly. There is no rush, no urgency. Just the night, just their hands pressed together, mouths drinking the air between parted lips, silently wetting wet skin with fire tongues and mischievous fingers caressing bones that are melting under each other’s touches.

Jinwoo can hear Minho’s heart beating, a constant that is his home. A constant that reminds him of all he wants, of all that he loves. He draws, sloppy, Minho’s draws on his chest, sacred words, the love that he holds dear and that transpire through the colours of a blue rose that means impossible – and that Minho has inked it for Jinwoo, the impossible love that was real. Minho is sleeping, the night drew on him like gravity, his eyes close, smiling, hands holding him.