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- on you -

He is lurking on his Instagram feed again, looking for his face, his smile. His eyes are aflame under the sunshine, the wind cradling his hair, dark chocolate, a proud expression all over his features. He remembers the words he said back then, when he took the picture, capturing him again – like always, he is unable to stay still, his camera itches to cage him in pages of silk, compress his features in mitted pixels. 

His fingers linger on the screen, feeling the coldness from the glass, tracing slothful patterns over dots that represent him, that configure his shape - but that isn't him, frozen, halted on a moment, unreal. It’s nothing like the original one, but it’s what he has and he needs to learn to be contented with that – with collecting his pictures, keeping them between his flashing card, a sight to hold only at night, when nobody is around to see him sigh, witness his loneliness that is born out of despising and all that he wants and that it’s only shattered moments together, passing smiles that mean more than just a pose for a photograph.

His heart sinks while scrolling down. He ought to stop, but can’t, entranced by his face, the name that belongs to his lips. He wants to see more – wants to see him through the lenses of someone else, belonging to another camera that isn’t his one. It hurts and, yet, he can’t tear his eyes from the displayed image, captivated by the way his eyes shine, how he holds the world on his shoulders, how he looks at him, holding his hand with so much love that pains him deep, claws on his skin, ripping. But the other person is blurry, pixelated under his sight because he can only see Minho, all his glance can focus in – all that his heart can contain and cares about is Minho, anything else is irrelevant, wiped off from his mind, slipping like fog and drew on a sunrise, dissolving into the daylight, shredded, faded memories that pertain to someone else. He stares at him and imagines that he is the one by his side. 

He scrolls down to analyse another of his pictures – another of his works since he takes great pride in the photos he shares about Minho, and they are all, by his standard, his best pieces, even if the background is ugly or unfit, he gleams through it, makes all around shine with his inner fire, the energy he radiates and that spread everywhere, covering all the corners, all of his lenses. Besides, any landscape is beautiful as long as Minho is in there, over the years he has become his favourite place, with his eyes on him, always searching, always longing, craving to be reciprocated, but it’s impossible, not when Minho looks at Jinwoo as if he holds all the stars in the world: as if he is the answer to all the questions. And Seungyoon can’t hate him – as much as he tried, Jinwoo is precious, even under the veil of jealousy, he can’t scrape out all that he means, all the joy he brings to Minho.

He closes hastily the application and turns the screen off, slings it out of his reach and tosses in bed, covering him with blankets; darkness falling on him, narrowing his view to a tunnel of nothingness where he can breathe because Minho is not present to take his gasp away – where his heart is at ease, safe, away from thorns that craft him into someone he isn’t, that he loathes being (a person able to hate, to wish ill upon someone that should be dear to him). But curiosity takes the best out of him and, in a wimp, he takes the phone in, under the cave he has made out of wool and fabrics, cocooning under it. 

An update, shinning, new, ready to be seen, is waiting, flashing on the screen. Seungyoon peeps into it, glimmering eyes tracing the lines of his face, following his shape until he is all he sees: until Minho is all over his head again. It’s another of his pictures and, as usual, he has tagged him, put his name under the image he has taken a few mornings ago. It’s funny how he pours all his love into the photograph he takes of him and how much he fails to recognise it – even when he knows him so well, can point out his works from anyone’s else.

Seungyoon views the world across his lenses, the camera hanging on his neck, ready to capture any moment, a second to behold. He sees through them, a universe that belongs to him alone, putting into it new shades and hues, painting it with a veil of mystery, fantasy, with a determinate optical device he can shape it as he wants, hand-loomed it. With one click he catches it into a myriad of fragments that build up the sky, all the scenery, Minho – because he is in all of his pictures, he is Seungyoon’s world (but Minho is someone’s else), his creativity.

He outlines his silhouette by heart, presses "like" a thousand times, collects screen-shot, keeps it save and sound inside his phone – inside of his heart, where Minho belongs, where he loiters inside of his particular recollections album, all his artwork displayed like an open field. 

Seunghoon finds him like this: kicking sheets and a mess of tears.

“Minho again?” he wonders, sitting by his side, rubbing affectionate his curly hair. At least, he knows his emotions, they are no secret – he has sharp eyes, able to see between his concealer, among his lies, direct to his core as if reading him out. “Seungyoonie,” he says, tiredly. It’s not the first time unearthing him, tears rolling down like waterfalls of broken feelings. Seungyoon cocoons deeper under his shield of sheets, grabs them from the hem, pulls them closer, covering his face, ashamed. “Hey, babe,” his voice is so gently, despite all the times he has said it, he would do it again – would do anything for his friend, would kick Minho out of his head if that would bring him solace, peace, - “do you want to go out with me?”

And Seungyoon nods, accepting his offer out of pity and sympathy – out of all he owes Seunghoon, all the times he has been a balm, his comfort.

He drags him to the dance floor and forces him to make a fool out of himself, moves outdated, mismatching the songs, but Seunghoon laughs while watching him, clicks on Seungyoon’s camera, catching the glimpse of him, hands up, hips swaying, swirling around like a kid.

As he exudes adrenaline, Minho fades into shadows, steps out of his system, mingled with another shoot of alcohol that helps to breathe him out. He shakes out the shrews that still carry his name, drowns them with a glass that burns his throat, puts a stupefied smile on his face, erase any trace of shy demeanour. He is having the time of his life – though he will regret it when morning comes, headache and bedridden for a week long. But, right now, with Seunghoon’s hands tangled on his waist, slow-dancing in the same spot, he doesn’t care, he throws his head and laughs to the ceiling, the lights bright, flashing on his eyes like stardust.

At the other end of the bar, there is a man smiling at his antics and Seungyoon, drunk as hell, finds it cute for some unreasonable reason. He is not like this, the type to initiate a conversation with strangers, to flirt blatantly – and badly; - that is more Seunghoon’s style – to carry one-night-stand home that will be kicked out by sunrise. He is the handsome one, the one able to break the ice and the heart and get what he wants: Seungyoon is the broken one, whose pieces are all over the place, who needs a shoulder to cry, to mumble Minho’s name against the night. But he feels the rash of confidence, maybe because Seunghoon is with him, encouraging, maybe he has too much to drink, but he bites the bullet and moves to where he is seated on.

He misses the weight of his camera around his neck because this boy is lovable and cute. Round face, shining eyes, reminds him of a puppy he wants to adopt – but that’s a line belonging to Seunghoon.

He falls fully on the ground before reaching him, headbanging, collapsing with all the force of tequila and vodka. It would be embarrassing if he was barely concious, but he is clouded by a welcoming nothingness, mind lifted, sponged with alcohol and selective memory, jostling over Seunghoon who, too, topples with him in a mess of stools and limps. In the free fall, though, the camera collapses, breaking down, all shattered glasses and plastic strips covering the floor.

“I’m never going out with you, hyung,” he pouts, the sun colliding on his skin, eyes puffy and red-rimmed. He shoves his head against the pillow, tumbles and fumbles.

“As if I forced you into drinking,” Seunghoon sighs, laying next to him on the bed. “There wasn’t a need,” he adds, mindfully.

“Yes, it was,” Seungyoon sulks, rubbing his face on the silk cover of his cushion, totally embarrassed. “I wanted to forget and have fun,” he explains at the edge of tears.

“Ok, ok,” Seunghoon pats his shoulders, brushes his worries away, “the only irreparable damage you caused was on your pride and your camera,” he says, showing him the remains of the device. It is broken, useless, all black bits, unfitted. He peeps at it, devastated, sighs at the destruction he caused.

“I’ll need to get a new one,” he heaves loud.

Luckily, the memory card is intact, containing all of his works, Minho, all that is beautiful. He takes it out carefully and saves all the pictures.

He looks at them with affection, gets lost into them, into the shape of his love that is contained between pixels and shades. He slides through them, most of Minho, some of the bare landscapes and unnamed cities and then, nearly at the end of the pile, he finds something strange: a picture of him.

Darkness makes it difficult to discern the place, the light was ty, and it makes it all grainy and gloomy, but it is him. He checks the date: it’s from yesterday so it must be from the club, taken by treason by Seunghoon. At the other end of the bar, on a stool, there is a blurry man, indistinct but cute – Seungyoon opens Photo-shop and sprinkles some magic to the picture, adjusting the light, making it more stable, viewable.

Indeed, the man is unbearable cute; a pity he couldn’t make it to talk with him, too drunk to articulate anything coherent, though, so maybe making a fool out of himself was for the best – he shakes his head, scattering the thoughts gathering in his mind.

He goes to his favourite shop to buy a new camera – still mourning his perished one, the one that has been by his side since the beginning, the one that has captured his blooming love, turning him into art.

There is another boy inside. Seungyoon glances at him with a sudden hit of reality: it’s the one from yesterday, the veiled person he restored before – the one at the bar, the one he has a spinning memory of wanting to impress because he was cute and lonely like his heart. He feels his cheeks burning with shame but smiles at the room as if nothing.

“Bohyun-ssi, this camera is the best for a beginning. But,” says the clerk, looking at Seungyoon, smirking, “if you need help with the settings or anything, Seungyoon, here, is an expert,” and points at him with a movement of his head. Bohyun beams at him, gleaming, grinning – Seungyoon wants to dig a hole in the ground; he is too adorable, he radiates joy and happiness, shinning like a bonfire. He feels trapped, set up – not that he has anything against this Bohyun that seeding warm to his heart.

“Little I can help without my camera,” he pouts at the salesman, who snickers at his comment.

“I’ve heard something,” he jokes, laughing gently at Seungyoon – and he remembers that he is, too, Seunghoon’s friend and was there with them: when he has broken his lenses and his pride. He is smirking at him as if knowing something that escapes Seungyoon – a private jape, a wit he can’t grasp yet, - but Bohyun is glancing at him so intently, so adorably – nearly begging, - that he can’t resist. “I’ll give you a discount,” says the manager, waving them out, after securing a deal between his costumers.

The new camera is lighter, has many more features than the old one and Seungyoon can’t wait to get to try them all, to photograph Minho – to collect his pictures again and his fingertips itch to click on the button, capturing the world in a frame (trapping his world in a frame for only him to contemplate).

He wants to run home but there is a tugging sensation walking next to him and, when he turns around, finds that the Bohyun boy has been following him. He raises his brow, inquiringly.

“You said you would teach me,” he explains, grinning. He carries a camera, too, and looks at it with expectant eyes, waiting the moment to put it to use – to learn how. Seungyoon has to comply – because he has said so; because Bohyun is too adorable to resist (like a puppy he wants to keep). There is something special about him, hanging around his aura, the way he carries himself, how much happiness he exudes, how he is fogging Seungyoon’s thoughts about Minho, replacing his broken heart with prospects and new opportunities.

He finds that Bohyun is very thrilling to be with. He learns quickly, shows a natural ability, picks nice backgrounds, coordinates the colours, uses greatly the lenses he has. He is also pliant to work with, he adapts to his requirements, claims the challenges – and is very easy to photograph, Seungyoon discovers himself with focused on him, his camera ready to film him. Bohyun is also very nice and amiable, born in Busan like himself and so they get lost talking about common ground and places. It is such a coincidence but Seungyoon dwells into it, enjoys the company, the shared conversation and hobbies. It is nice to meet a new acquittance, even if he was the man he was failing to flirt last night – and it’s so kind of Bohyun not to mention it, Seungyoon is forever grateful.

The more time he spends with Bohyun, the less he thinks about Minho – and the less he cries and sulks, pouting at the screen, looking dejected, cursing at Minho’s boyfriend holding his hand. It is easier to breathe and his heart is like a sea – calm, wavering quietly.

Bohyun doesn’t reject his advances, on the contrary, he encourages them, helps them to happen. In a month, he intertwines his fingers with Seungyoon, as if an accident, bumping their palms together while walking. He stands close to him, feeling the warmness that he radiates and that is constantly melting the ice of Seungyoon’s feelings – the ones he frost waiting for Minho, the ones that are blooming again, a late spring blossoming in autumn, under red and orange skies and Bohyun’s smiles.

Two months have passed by and Seungyoon’s camera is now filled with Bohyun – for pleasure, not for work, and he looks so ethereal, so beautiful, he is amazed that he can capture him like he is, feeling like home.

There is a fluttering sensation inside his chest whenever they meet – like butterflies’ wings caressing his ribs, hummingbirds singing and it feels nice how rose his cheeks turn when Bohyun greets him with a kiss, or how delicious it is to be shaken by a hug. Bohyun is a touchy person, very close and very intimated and Seungyoon likes him a lot. Not only aesthetically – he is so pleasant to observe, much more delicate and lithe than Minho, iridescence, captivating. Where Minho is all edges and swag, Bohyun is sweet, a flower under the sunshine and Seungyoon stops by to enjoy his fragrance, the get drunk on his essence. Seungyoon enjoys outing with him to explore the country, to take pictures of the scenery – of Bohyun unawareness, being silly and fun, with his face bathed by light and his eyes shining like stars. Or rolling down the hill, leaves tangled on his hair, petals covering his skin, putting hues on his bare flesh like a modern painting. Or when he traps his lips with him, kissing him thoroughly, a hand on his collar, the other ready to click on him, to capture his surprised expression, the pink on his cheeks.

Minho is now only a friend – just like Jinwoo, who is still holding Minho’s hand. He doesn’t feel the heartbreak, the loneliness, all the ache has faded away, replaced by Bohyun, who cuddles with him, their shared dogs barking joyously, running on the park while they lay down on the grass, letting the sun caress his eyes – and Seungyoon clicks again, picturing his smile in his head.