Lazy Love

The fresh wind is messing with Jinwoo's long hair, spreading it like black ink all over the green span under him, the rolling fields of buds and daisies dashing the emerald scene with touches of white and yellow sunset. Like a painting, he is all definitive curves and gentle traces of oil over a canvas and he feels, for the thousand times, the urge to press his fingers on him, see the tangibility of his flesh, graze the texture of his movements, the reality of his presence – that he is not lost in contemplation at a work of art, the idea of beauty itself that Jinwoo embodies with the softness of his smiles, with the delicateness tangled with the sweetness of his voice, the way he has to say his name alone, as if something grand, reverent, and he wants to match it, be worthy of it).

Minho is looking down at him with so much love and something even more intense, his eyes darting to all the places of him that only he knows, his hands on his sides, holding him, the grass growing wild, veiling him, keeping it a secret, - keeping it to the land and the leaves and the infinite of the night that is creeping, colouring red and navy what was baby blue and pink.

Lips that taste like morning dew, cold and sweet and all to himself, all for him to take and remind later, under covers and blankets, with Jinwoo sleeping next to his heart: rewinding all the ways his hands are tracing his forehead, fingers intertwined, the smell of the meadows, the sound of the grasshoppers, butterflies sparking the night with hues impossible to capture, a of colour over his cheeks, tenders and ethereal, dragonflies slopping light that mirrors inside of his eyes, exploding like a Hanabi, swirls of gold and rivers of flooding love altogether, leading into the gracefulness of his smile, a mouth ready to be assaulted and conquered once more – one and a thousand times more.

The bonfire that was lit long ago still remains, brings the perfume of wood and the warmth of the dancing flames, is as hot as the sweat dripping from the creases of his heart, the ache he feels when they are like this, so close and miles ahead from the rest – noses bumping, a kiss on the lonely mole under his eyelid, drinking the breeze that is flavoured with fresh air and Minho’s name said in a puff of air. And his eyes are as luminous as all the stars that tilt up in the sky above them, opaquing with a long, impassible night, what they are about to commit – engraving their love over grass and solid ground.