Tequila Sunrise

The sun cracks amid the layers of blueish, nearly translucent curtains, beaming slowly over him, painting the sheets in shades of golden purple, eyes gently opening to the welcoming, dim light. It is so warm inside, so comfortable it pains him to have to let go of it, the hands tightly grasping at his side, the mouth closed in a lovely, sleepy smile, the fluttering lashes casting shadows above his neckline. He brushes his hair, feels the thickness of it growing under his palm, the colour fading. His fingers move, drawing circles on his temples, lazily towering next to him.

With the little sunshine falling on him like watercolour, he looks so tender, ethereal and unreal and he needs to feel him, put a hand to cup his cheek, sense the thumbing beneath the skin, tumbling under his fingers like rivers of purple. The sky is painted in tequila sunrise and the air taste just like him - bitter-sweet.

It has been though to get to where they are now but, watching him, his chest swaying, lethargic, it seems as if it has always been this quiet and peaceful - and he caresses his cheek tenderly, fingers bending to his curves, following the lines of his contour, tracing him with golden memories raining into him like dripping honey, amber and sugary.

With morning rushing in, he is made out of stars and constellations, dim glows sparkling on his skin as if silver and gold, colouring him as if underwater, the ocean catching light within wavering seas, capturing it and turning its reflection into a myriad of shades exploding among the surface, gleaming, shimmering, dust that lit up under his touches, never brushed off but living in him forming little design. He is so calm like this, with the beginning of the day raising, his eyes closed to the wonders that he sees, his breath warm against his bones, his nose bumping into the creases of his blades where it nuzzles and takes nest and he bends to kiss the tip of it, the lonely freckle that stands, stark and brown, among the tanned flesh and the soft cheeks.

It has been so long, too complicated to manage a day together with Minho being too occupied with his music and him with his own job. It has been a constant puzzle of stolen moments, of quick glances in between, surreptitious kisses in dark halls while passing by, a phantom of touches when he was asleep and Minho came in late, sneaking in to not wake him up – and Jinwoo would pretend just to give it to Minho, a moment of happiness, a moment of peaceful contemplation, of his eyes falling on him, enthralled with the dark shapes and lines under bed-sheets, his face a perfect opal, pearlescent. And Minho would place a kiss on his lips, softly, just a breeze that would break his heart, longing to trap him in between his arms, capturing him by his side – not letting him go, stopping the pretence and telling him to stay the night (to stay until the sun-cracked up again and found them snuggling together as it was meant to be). But Minho would fight and resist, not wanting to bother, to intrude into his sleep so Jinwoo would press his eyes tightly and fight it shy up, not risking s clash that he was meant to lose anyway.

But a part of it is over now, no more waking up early to the sun rising up, to the sound of Minho's steps trying to keep it quiet not to disturb him - and Jinwoo would smile at the blank figure waiting, leaning into the door frame, watching him stir in bed, tossing blankets around just to snatch a glance of his beautiful face (to have a kiss and a morning bless).

It is like snuggling with sunshine: the warmth that irradiates and that spreads from all over the bed, the physical comfort, bones smoothed over by gentle hands running all over knots and dotes, the gleam of his smile that rivals the light pouring from outside, rivers of melted gold that paint him in bronze, the lush of his hair auburn like fall in winter, the faint smell of clovers and fields, the kindness that follows the spoor of his fingertips under his lashes, as if a fire burning beneath his skull, the perfume stuck in his head, spreading like a bed of roses. There is only one explanation and he finds out with his eyes wide open: Jinwoo is here, his fingers buried in his skin, flesh over flesh, tracing the silhouette of his love, drawing among draws, sketches of ink and doodles without colour.

He has seen the horrors in his soul, the terrors filling his dreams, the patchwork of scars all over his mind and, despite it, Jinwoo has embraced him all, all of his failures and mistakes and every crawling bit, falling apart. He has taken him, loved him, even when he no longer cared, even when he hit his lowest and he couldn't see himself reflected. Jinwoo has been there, has taken his hand and carried him back home, back to his arms, back to the sound of his love, the taste of his words over his skin, the texture of his brown eyes watering him, warm coffee spreading its wonders to him. He has helped him heal, he has mended the emptiness of his heart, filling him with something great. He has traced the injuries left behind by glory and success and pain has smoothed them until they became blurred, silver lines etching among his skin. He has become all the colours that were fading before – and he has promised to be always near his heart, beating along his pulse, thriving within his life and Minho needs to stop recalling, overflowed with memories, instants dam with his presence, with his existence changing him for the best, sharing a journey, a fate.

Jinwoo’s smile feels like white snow, pure, sincere, a morning bliss just for him to see. He smiles only for him, smiles at all that he means, all that he represents – all the happiness he is, all the joy he brings into him, the chemistry that pulses between them, the synchronization of their own music. And he had known, long before tagging along, that it was Jinwoo or nobody, that Jinwoo was the one that completes him, that made him a better person. And he stares back, mirroring all the love that is found in his eyes, pupils blending with the sunshine, mellow, shimmering like morning stars, beaming, amused, at him, his pupils following him, falling on Minho like a flower shower, raining sweet and caring and longing. He still has his fingers buried under his skin, feels it calming, reassuring his heart-beats, tracing colourless lines that conform the outlook of his collarbones, counting the pulse that thumbs below and that is calling for him to come home – for Jinwoo to curl against his bones, nestling right by his side, arms thrown to capture his body, press him to his ribs, lips dancing over the silk of his flocks, gracing them with reverence, with love.

“Come here, hyung,” he says, rubbing the blank space between them, the cold sheet that makes him shiver, his lacking presence that feels so distant, so far away. From above him, the shadow of a giggle slump, downing straight into Minho, dropping right to his chest where it huddles, gathering with the rest of Jinwoo – with the shine of his eyes, the tint of his lips that gleams, inviting, the colour of his flesh, the consistency of his hands on him, dangling around his hips, the flavour of his voice, his mouth agape, saying his name like a prayer, like something wonderful. He circles it, inviting Jinwoo and he leans in, giving in to Minho, to his loving arms stretched to receive him, fingers curling around his figure, gently lacing him for all morning to come. He fits just right, his shape adjusting to the curves of Minho, his bones and angles blending in perfectly, the piece that was missing and that is now home, the morning pouring down to him with golden rays that are tainting him in new shades. "Let me be with you," he whispers, his voice trailing over his hair, wind cradling it and Minho gets lost into the sensation of it, sinking his fingers into the immense sea that are Jinwoo's dark flocks swirling around the tips of his hands, brushing them delicately, so smooth, slick under his palm and Jinwoo sighs, leans into him, his head bumping with his chin, the freckle of his nose just above Jinwoo's skull, nuzzling at it, the taste of his shampoo spreading to overwhelm all of his senses - clovers and ginger and something that is entirely Jinwoo, something that only belongs to them. The flavour overtakes his mouth, lips gingerly touching the surface, feeling strands of maverick hair tickling him, feeling lightheaded, the gossamer of sleep dissolving into the touch of Jinwoo's hands on his lap. 

It only takes a second for Minho to fall asleep, all peacefully breathing against Jinwoo’s neck, the air cooling his veins, the blood running underneath, Jinwoo’s hands dancing over his back, drawing patterns to keep the nightmares at bay, to keep fears and worries away – even if just for a moment, to keep Minho happy in here, with him, this first morning of a new stage where Jinwoo doesn’t have to run and time is no longer a luxury they can’t spend (Jinwoo can stay in here all day long, nowhere else better to go, nowhere else he wants to be but with Minho). And morning slowly gives away to afternoon, the sundown, bathing them in red and silver, Minho snuggling on top of him and Jinwoo softly kissing his closed eyes, caressing every inch of his skin, lacing his fingers with his, mumbling all his love into a song that sounds like a tequila sunrise.