Winter is wrapped around his wrists and hanging on his skin, knit cloth spanning his backside and curled up fists encased in webs of fabric.  Fog in his eyes and clouds in his fingertips, mist outlining his long eyelashes and distance glistening in his expression.  He can grab at the sky but all he reaches is air, and recoils, folding into himself, body sending waves of heat into itself through arms hugged to chest.

     A table is set but it is only a dinner for one. Silverware beckons for grasp and whimpers metallic clicks and bangs against table as the wind pulls and hushes, whirling in eardrums and playing with light. Napkins are creased in quaint shapes, and he runs his fingers across white, across blank, across empty.

     Black sweeps into his vision and he blows it away, lets the breath tug his hair up and out of sight.

     “How do you go on living?” a voice inquires in his ear, slipping into the wind and easing a path into his eardrums, reverberating.

     “I really don’t know,” he moves the napkin, it means nothing when nothing will go into his empty stomach, when nothing will be his title, when he loses absolutely everything and becomes the word.

     “Do you plan to stay any longer?” the voice is faint.

     He does not respond, because the silverware is more important. It is shining and it is bright, like starlight, like happiness, like glee.

     Like Seunghyun.

     He was shorter, he was taller in his heart than he was in stature, he was overworked. Bags grew heavier under his eyes. Once he loved them; they were cute, they were a symbol of effort, of determination and everything the younger was.

     But it was heavier, and heavier.

     He had gone on until it was impossible for him to do so, the doctors said, until his smile had broken and so had his heart.

     A heart attack.

     “I just want to make you happy,” were his last words. He was writing a song. It wasn’t always his forte, it belonged to another, but it was special, it was for him.

     “Daesung, I love you,” that was what he had wanted to hear now. Only because he missed him, a fragile heart was being stabbed with a knife, a knife of substance, a knife that reminded him that he was not a fantasy, it was not imagination, his pain was real.

     “Seunghyun, I miss you,” was what he heard himself say now. The other Seunghyun with strong gaze and sharp features held him as he had cried. He was thankful; to the largest extent he could express.

     Though it was the younger Seunghyun that was dead, and now names were stained, and he didn’t know how much longer he could go on saying a name of another that shared it.

     “Is there any way I can help?” is what he had asked, voice deep yet reassuring.

     “I cannot call you Seunghyun anymore,” is what he had replied, and when he had left.

     He had understood; he always had.

     Names were not the only thing ruined; hearts were, too fragile to exist peacefully.

     Daesung missed him.

     Daesung was in love with him.

     Daesung was too fragile to go on without him.

     The silverware makes shrill noises on the ground, but it is abandoned now, because there is no more happiness in his world.