On his eighteenth birthday, Chanyeol spent the night.

                I found him sketching lazily on the field, his movements languid, his eyelids drooping.  There was a strange grayness to him, a look of sadness that I only came to realize when I was up close.

                “Happy birthday,” I said quietly, pressing a kiss into the skin just below his hairline.

                Keeping his eyes on the sketch, he replied his thanks and laid his charcoal on the grass beside him.  “What do you think?”

                The sketch was practically identical to the tree before us; the only difference lied in the feeling of desolation that emitted from the paper, a certain heaviness that I hadn’t quite been expecting.

                “Wow.”  That was all I could say for a while, and we both stared at the drawing until I found my voice again and cleared my throat.  “It’s really… It’s really sad and—and weeping.  It’s really great, Chanyeol.”  I nodded as if I were confirming my own statement, but whether I was reassuring myself or Chanyeol I wasn’t exactly sure.  I suddenly missed his fat willows, the way his leaves appeared to wave in the air, smiling happily—it was as if he had taken all his previous sketches and the life out of the leaves, had suffocated the willow until it stood miserably in the dirt, its leaves hanging drearily.

                “Thanks.”  He finally looked at me and pointed at the gift in my hands, grinning.  “Is that for me?”

                I brightened at the change in his mood and placed the sketchbook in his lap.  Due to my lack of gift wrapping skill, I had only tied a ribbon on it.  “I noticed you’re almost done with your weeping willow one, and now that you’ve got it down, you can start fresh in a new book.”

                All at once, he was in my arms, him whispering a thousand “thank you”s into my ear.  He pulled back, picked his charcoal up, and flipped to the first page.  “Stay still.”

                “What?”

                “I’m drawing you.  At last.”  He glanced up at me every few seconds, eyes filled with concentration.

                “Oh.  I’m flattered.”  For some reason, a nagging feeling hit me in the gut, and the sketch of the willow seemed to glare at me from where it lay on the grass.  “Hey, Chanyeol?”

                “Hmm?”  He was completely immersed in his sketching.

                “Can you promise me something?”

                “Okay.”

                “Promise me that whatever happens—now, six months from now, twenty years from now, whatever—we’ll always come back to this tree and meet again.”

                He stopped and squinted at me.  “Are you expecting something to happen?”

                “What?  No, I just want to know that in the event that something does happen,” I took a breath, “we’ll always have the willow.”

                “Okay.  I promise.”  With a small smile, he began to sketch again, repositioning my face when I shifted.

                “Why are you so intent on drawing me?  I’m sure there’s a ton of other stuff that you can draw.”

                “So if something ever happens or whatever,” he gave a mixture of a scoff and a laugh, “I’ll never forget my first love.”

                I let out a frustrated sigh.  “Still?”

                “Hey, I’m the birthday boy.  I do what I want.”  He stood his ground on the sidewalk, thumbs hanging on the bottoms of his backpack straps, legs unmoving, faking confidence.  I could’ve seen him shaking from a mile away.

                With another sigh, I closed the door and locked my car.  “All right then, let’s go, birthday boy.”

                “Hey.”  He poked at my rib, to which I didn’t respond.  He poked harder.  “Hey.”

                “What?”

                “Can I stay at your place tonight?”  His eyes pleaded for agreement, his smile carefully practiced to be adorable and persuasive.

                “Why?”

                “Because now you won’t get arrested if I do?”

                I couldn’t help but let my lips twitch into a smile too.  “What are you going to tell your parents?”

                “They’re out of town.”

                “On your birthday, of all days?”

                “We celebrated in advance.  They don’t really care anyway.”

                “Oh?”

                His grin grew suggestive, seductive almost.  “I’m all yours.”

                “Chanyeol?” I whispered into his hair, drawing the covers over his exposed shoulder.

                “Yeah?”  He nestled himself closer against my body, running his fingers up my back.

                “Do you trust me?”

                Peeking up at me, he arched a brow questioningly.  “Was the past hour not proof enough?”

                “Well, you won’t even get in my car.”  I twirled a lock of his hair on my finger slowly.

                He was the frustrated one this time, and he flipped onto his side, his back to me as he let out a huff.  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.  If you don’t get it, fine.  Just stop trying to get me to comply.”

                “Why don’t you just admit that you don’t trust me anymore?”

                “Good night, Kris.”

                I gritted my teeth, still unable to let the subject go, but I shut off the light and pulled him into me silently, brushing my lips against his neck in apology before letting my eyes close.

                He was right.  He was right in that I hadn’t understood.  But I understood clearly when I awoke to a mouthful of Chanyeol’s forearm as he thrashed wildly in his sleep, whimpering incoherently.  I understood when I held his arms down, leaning in closer to hear him properly.  I understood as I lied awake in bed hours after his nightmare had died down, his words ringing in my ears.

                “Don’t let me die.”