By the time the plane lands, he's nearly vibrating with excitement and nervous anticipation.

He doesn't really remember how the city looks from an aerial view because it's been, what, six years since he left, and he's never paid attention to how the ground looks as the plane takes off. He's normally too busy trying not to hyperventilate and praying that the plane doesn't shatter into hundreds of tiny little pieces midflight.

Kyungsoo's never been one for flying.

This time, though, he's not hyperventilating. He's doesn't feel like he's about to throw up - he's not jolting at every little shudder that reverberates through the plane as it slowly descends past the low-hanging clouds. He's not staring in mute terror at the ground below, slowly creeping up to meet him.

Instead, he's pressed up against the tiny airplane window, so close that his nose is distorted against the acrylic and he can't see below. He angles his head down, pressing his forehead up against to the glass - he looks at the road beneath him, with little fingernails of color cruising along. He wonders which highway this is - how often he'd traveled on it, how often he'd passed by six years ago without realizing he'd see it again from several thousand feet up.

The man sitting next to him peers over his newspaper - the New York Times, but Kyungsoo isn't interested in what it proclaims. His eyes are stern, unyielding, behind horn-rimmed glasses, and his eyebrows are thick and intimidating. Kyungsoo's convinced that he's being judged. It's not like he can blame the guy, really - he'd been literally pressed up against the window, and his hands are shaking.

Back in high school, Chanyeol had always told him that he'd looked like a golden retriever on drugs whenever he'd gotten excited. Of course, Chanyeol had looked like a Chihuahua on crack just about all of the time, so Kyungsoo told him he really wasn't one to talk.

Then, Chanyeol would get all upset and pouty and Kyungsoo has no idea how someone so tall can look so childish, but Park Chanyeol can somehow pull it off extremely well, and so Kyungsoo'd feel obligated to apologize and then offer to buy him ice cream or something. Then Baekhyun'd ask why he was only treating Chanyeol, he wanted ice cream too, and besides, Kyungsoo'd never treated Baekhyun before. Then Sehun would play the "cuteness" card and Jongin would sidle behind him with his beautiful smile and dark eyes and somehow Kyungsoo would find himself paying for four adolescent boys plus himself.

Then Joonmyun would come and offer to pay for half, except he'd probably end up paying for everyone's because he was soft like that. It wasn't like he couldn't afford it, either, because his parents were rich as hell and apparently didn't know that four thousand bucks per month was not a normal allowance, thank you very much.

So they'd go to some ice cream parlor and order superlarge dipped waffle cones with all the toppings they could get just to annoy Joonmyun. They'd take their cones and walk a block or two to a nearby park, where they'd sit on wooden benches and enjoy the feel of sunlight on their faces. Sehun would wolf-whistle at every girl that passes. Baekhyun and Chanyeol would squabble over who had the best flavor of ice cream (what are you talking about, fruit flavors make the world go 'round, and mint tastes like toothpaste - who the hell wants to eat toothpaste?).

He'd had the best friends back then.

Kyungsoo hasn't talked to Chanyeol in person for over six years now. They'd emailed back and forth a ton during the first year that Kyungsoo had been away, but communication had slowly trickled away over time. Baekhyun, on the other hand, had kept a steady stream of questions over the years, mainly pertaining to Kyungsoo's love life (or lack thereof), and fed Kyungsoo with gossip from back home at the same time. It wasn't very informative (or desirable, in some cases), but Kyungsoo supposed it was better than nothing - at least they still remembered him.

Outside, there's a slow patter of rain as drops lazily slide down across the window. The cabin door hasn't opened yet - he can see the flight attendants fussing with it, if he cranes his head and leans over Judging Businessman's lap.

When the "seatbelt" light dings off, Kyungsoo immediately jumps up. The ceiling's too low, so he slams his head against the compartment and ends in an awkward sort of half-crouch. Judging Businessman hasn't moved (and is still judging), but he doesn't care because the plane is on the ground, and it's not just any ground - it's ground near where he'd been born, where he’d first learned about the world and how to talk, where he’d first learned how to love, where he'd lived the first two decades (or so) of his life.

He ing loves this ground.

Judging Businessman folds up his newspaper in neat halves, then fourths, then eighths. He glances first at the people in the isle (pressed up right next to his chair, too, to which he glares at them judgingly for) and then glances at Kyungsoo.

"Is this your home?" he asks, stern. His voice is deep and resonant and reminds Kyungsoo a bit of Chanyeol's.

"Yes," Kyungsoo replies quickly. He bites back the "sir" that tries to make its way through his lips - don't call random people on planes "sir," he scolds himself, because that's not creepy at all.

Judging Businessman doesn't seem to notice, though, and smiles. He still looks vaguely judgmental, but it's softer somehow, so Kyungsoo smiles back. "You back from college?"

Kyungsoo nods, and then pauses. "Well, kind of," he backtracks. " More like a job search and study abroad than anything."

The people in the aisle start to move forward, jostling against each other, stopping to open a compartment overhead and yank out their carry-on bags. One woman two rows down loses her grip on her bag, and it hits the seat underneath with a squeak and a thud. The woman curses, and the man standing beside her taps his foot impatiently. Kyungsoo idly watches as people file out - the first two rows, the second, the third, until the people in the row in front of them carefully shuffle their way out from between the navy blue seats.

Judging Businessman finally stands, laptop bag in hand. "Well, I hope you enjoy your time back home," he says. He brushes off his suit, turns towards the isle - he inclines his head towards the old lady opposite, motioning for her to go first, and then steps out after her.

Kyungsoo wonders where his home is, and why he came here.

(When he steps out of the jetway, he sees Judging Businessman again. He's taller than Kyungsoo thought he was, and his blond hair contrasts that of his companion's - a slightly shorter (but still ridiculously tall) young man with jet black hair, a crisp black suit, and shadowed eyes that make him look like some kind of serial killer. Judging Businessman's got one arm slung over his companion's shoulder and they're both smiling and joking and when Kyungsoo passes by, Judging Business waves at him.)

His father is waiting for him at Ground Transportation, all grey hair and glasses and beaming smiles. When he sees Kyungsoo, he shouts "Hey, kiddo," halfway across the room (the security officer standing nearby with a partially-chewed cigarette starts and stares) and Kyungsoo's torn between throwing his head back in laughter and running, dragging his poor rundown carry-on behind him, or turning red with embarrassment and slinking away.

Six years ago, he would have taken the second option. Six years ago, he would have been so embarrassed at his dad - told him to "stop yelling, people can hear" and furtively stolen glances at the surrounding people, making sure they hadn't taken notice or anything. He would have wanted to die, and hopefully get less embarrassing parents when he gets reborn.

Now, though, it's somehow more endearing than annoying. He shifts the handle of his bag so he can wave, and yells "Hey, Dad!" back, right before he takes off running.

His father catches him in a giant bear hug that shouldn't work because Kyungsoo's now a good four or five inches taller, but somehow does. He smells like old leather and blackberry jelly and Mom's favorite lavender air freshener and home. Kyungsoo's almost forgotten what home smells like.

They stay like that for what may have been a minute, what may have been an hour, what may have been a century - in each other's arms, grey-white mixing with black, scents of lavender and blackberry and cedar and ink all painting out a mural of Kyungsoo's life. When they break apart, there's a lump in Kyungsoo's throat and film over his father's eyes.

"We've missed you, kiddo," his dad says.

"I know," Kyungsoo replies. "I've missed you too."

It's a twenty-five minute drive back to the house, forty if it's rush hour. It's around two in the afternoon now and no one if up and about, so the drive is smooth and Kyungsoo spends half of the time regaling his father with stories of college and living by himself and half of the time staring out the window, drinking in all of the sights he's almost forgotten about.

The neighborhood's a left turn off of a busy street (Kyungsoo'd forgotten how annoying it was to wait for cars to stop coming, to just stay in the middle of the road and crane your neck to see if you can make the turn before the next car comes). His father points out everything - do you remember this house, where your friend from kindergarten used to live? They moved four years ago - there's a family with four elementary-school aged children now - and Kyungsoo listens and looks and tries to remember everything he's forgotten.

The house seems a bit older, a bit smaller. The front door's a darker brown than he'd thought - he distantly recalls his father talking about a paint job from a few years back, and guesses that the roof's probably the same shade now. As soon as his father parks the car, Kyungsoo's already out and on the front lawn, just staring at the house.

"Don't you want to come inside?" his father asks, laughing. He's got his keys in one hand and the day's mail in the other, and it looks exactly like how Kyungsoo's forgotten. He suddenly wishes that he had a camera with him, just to take snapshots of the little things that he rediscovers here.

"I love this house," Kyungsoo says dreamily, and frames a photoshoot in his mind.

His father just laughs at him. "You'll love it even more when you go inside."

His mother is waiting inside, right at the door. Her hair is still black, although it's streaked with silver, and she's wearing a pink apron with cupcakes on it that he's pretty sure he mailed to her two years ago. The first thing she says is "Take off your shoes, you're tracking grass in, I just vacuumed today," and Kyungsoo reflects that some things never change.

Then she embraces him - throws her arms around his neck and pulls her down to her height - and murmurs "oh, we've missed you so much," into his ear and Kyungsoo realizes that, just maybe, some things do change.

"I missed you too, Mom," he says as he pulls away.

She wipes her face on her apron (Kyungsoo winces a bit, because he didn't remember the apron being that blindingly pink when he'd ordered it), muttering about boys and how they grow up too fast. His father stands behind her and smiles indulgently. She clears , and when she looks up, her eyes are dry and sharp and exactly the way Kyungsoo remembers them to be.

(He'd never been able to forget his mother's eyes. When he was younger, he was convinced they could stare into his soul and pull out all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He'd never had the guts to keep secrets from his mother until Jongin, really.)

"That Chanyeol boy called today," she says briskly, as if nothing had ever happened, as if Kyungsoo had never left for six years. "He'd asked if you'd still be free to meet at 10 in the morning tomorrow. I told him to let you have your sleep - you've got circles as big as those of raccoons, see."

"Mom," Kyungsoo starts exasperatedly, but she bursts out laughing and cuts him off with a wave of her hand.

"Of course I didn't, honey," she says, still laughing. "I would never do that to you or your friends, you know that. You're all so big now, too. I'm sure you can make your own decisions. Oh, Baekhyun called, too. He said that you never ended up buying him anything, so he'll tag along and you better pay. He's such a nice boy, that Baekhyun," his mother adds.

"You still talk to him?" Kyungsoo asks. He's not sure if he should be surprised or not.

His mother shoots him a Look - the same one she used to give him when he asked about things like puberty and math and where babies came from. "You never talk to us about things, you know," she sniffs.

Kyungsoo had brought Baekhyun over to his house once during seventh grade, and he had immediately got along splendidly with Kyungsoo's mother based on a mutual love of gossiping (about Kyungsoo). Baekhyun had spent most of the playdate (in which Kyungsoo had been planning to show off his new Wii, complete with Wii Sports and Mario Kart) sharing embarrassing stories with his mother. Kyungsoo had never invited Baekhyun over again.

He throws his hands up in the air. "I thought you wanted to know about my school work, not my personal affairs!"

His mother shoots him another Look. "Don't be stupid, honey," she says. "Your father and I always want to know if you're taking a nice boy or girl to bed with you."

Kyungsoo feels his entire face turn hot and facepalms as both of his parents erupt into raucous laughter. He wonders if it's possible for his parents to get more embarrassing, and then decides he doesn't really want to know.

One thing Baekhyun had completely left out of his emails to Kyungsoo was that, apparently, he and Chanyeol were a "thing" now. He also had conveniently not mentioned that Chanyeol was now ridiculously infatuated (or, as he liked to put it, "in love")and worshipped all of Baekhyun's ideas, one of which included meeting in a high-class sushi place instead of the nice, normal cafe (that served food that was actually cooked, thank you very much) that Kyungsoo had envisioned.

"Just so you know, I'm not paying for this," Kyungsoo says, staring at Baekhyun's neat little dish of about six rolls of rice and seaweed covered by suspicious multicolored rubbery things masquerading as food. The menu had said that the entire thing had cost about $48, not including tax or tips.

Baekhyun shrugs. "I know. I'll get Joonmyun to pay for it," he replies noncommittally.

Kyungsoo stares at him in surprise. "He still pays for you?"

Last thing he'd heard, Joonmyun was working in his father's multinational company and doing pretty well at it, too. He didn't think that Joonmyun would have time to pay for all of Baekhyun's little whims anymore.

Apparently, his "surprised" face still amuses Chanyeol, because he promptly bursts into giggles and points in the general direction of Kyungsoo's eyes. Surprised, Kyungsoo stares at him instead, which causes Chanyeol to dissolve into even more giggles.

Baekhyun ignores his convulsing boyfriend and just shrugs again. He picks up one of the sushi (covered in some yellow-orange gooey substance that looks more like moldy toothpaste than anything) and pops it into his mouth. "It's not like he has anything to do with the money," he says, but the food distorts his words so it sounds more like "ishnot like sheaas anyshing todo wishle money".

"How come you get to chew with your mouth full but you always tell me not to?" Chanyeol whines.

Baekhyun looks at him (it's remarkably similar to his mother's Look, Kyungsoo reflects). "It's because I'm civilized and you're a caveman," he says in a way that somehow sounds insulting and endearing at the same time.

Chanyeol backs down. Kyungsoo's convinced that he's absolutely smitten and vaguely wonders how anyone can be smitten with Byun Baekhyun.

(Because I'm beautiful, , the voice in his head that sounds like Baekhyun responds. Kyungsoo tells it to shut up.)

"Oh yeah, Joonmyun said that he wanted to come today, but he's in Dubai or something, so he can only send his greetings, so you're gonna have to wait for the money," Chanyeol says offhandedly.

The waitress - young, slim, with black hair in a ponytail so tight it stretches her entire face back - comes to the table with a glass bowl of red, slimy cubes, and puts it in front of Chanyeol.

"Anything else I can get for you?" she asks.

Baekhyun waves her away. "We'll call someone if we need someone," he says imperiously.

Kyungsoo wonders if he's always been this supercilious, or if it was just less evident in high school.

"Oh, Sehun sends his regards, too," Chanyeol says. "He says he'd like to be here, but he's still in school."

Baekhyun sniffs, finishing off his second sushi. "I doubt it. Last I heard, he was a frat boy. He's probably partying all day and having way more fun than us boring old men."

"No, he says it's actually kinda boring," Chanyeol counters. "Says that their parties are all really loud music and really bad beer. Not even the girls are any good. He said that we're better."

"Of course we are," Baekhyun says, completely ignoring his previous statement to the contrary. "We're better than any stupid frat boy party."

They fall silent. There's a hole in the conversation, now - a dark, graceful hole, because there were six people once upon a time but they've only kept track of five so far.

Kyungsoo glances up, and catch Baekhyun and Chanyeol exchanging a look. He's never been one for fancy words and sidestepping and fencing, the back-and-forth of verbal combat and debate, and so he clears his throat and pretends it's not awkward.

"So, what about Jongin?" he asks, deliberately casual. He glances down at his cup of green tea, blows on it - it's already almost room temperature, though, and takes a sip.

There are two twin intakes of breath, sharp and expectant, and it's like the entire restaurant falls silent to the blood rushing behind his ears and the dull clap of his heart.

"What about Jongin?" Baekhyun retorts, nothing less than pleasant. His voice is deliberately casual, too, except there's a note of strain, familiar from days of adolescence and the embarrassment of liking random girls (and guys). He's hiding something, Kyungsoo knows.

"I haven't heard about him yet," he says, just as pleasantly. He doesn't think this is verbal sparring - not yet, at least - because he's told himself so many times that he's not one for verbal sparring and passive aggressiveness. He'd much rather be outwardly aggressive, he thinks. "What's he doing nowadays?"

(Once, when they were in tenth grade, Baekhyun had told Kyungsoo that he was really good at lying to himself. Kyungsoo ignored him and pretended that had never happened.)

"Well, he went into dance, I think," Baekhyun hedges.

Kyungsoo knows this - he'd been tracking Jongin on Facebook, on twitter, on Tumblr; seen all of his posts, all of his updates (got into so-and-so studio, so excited!; practice is difficult, but i'm bettering myself; thanks to everyone who came to support me; ah, so tired, it's hard to stay on top of the crowd), until one day when he just faded away.

Kyungsoo had considered making alternate accounts, just to talk to Jongin without the mantle of Kyungsoo - without the pain of recognition, without the added burden of "oh, I knew you, we used to be friends". He'd never had the guts to do it, though.

Sometimes, like now, he wishes he had.

Baekhyun's carefully avoiding Kyungsoo's eyes, staring directly at his plate. Chanyeol, on the other hand, is staring directly at Kyungsoo, his eyes pleading. He's never looked so much like a puppy in his life, and yet somehow Kyungsoo doesn't find it entertaining.

"Heard anything more about him?" he asks Chanyeol. The tea is bitter and tastes like his mother's herbal medicines, but he takes another sip because it's something to do.

"Jongin hasn't forgotten you, D.O.," Chanyeol says slowly, softly. He's using an old nickname Kyungsoo had forgotten, hadn't remembered existed. It touches some part of him - some fifteen-year-old part, young and confused and wondering why he'd liked guys, why he wanted to date his best friend instead of the girls at the school. He shivers and has to fight the urge to pull his thin jacket tighter over him.

"I know," he says, and pretends it doesn't come out more like false bravado than anything.

"He'll call you," Chanyeol says, almost whispers. "He missed you. We all did."

There's something in the back of his throat, choking off his words, his thoughts. His head hurts, his chest hurts, and if he were less realistic and more romantic, he'd say his heart hurts.

He's not romantic, and he is realistic, and so he chalks it up to stress and a generally lack of sleep and surprise. Biological functions - safe and impartial.

"Okay," Kyungsoo forces out. It's still a whisper.

Chanyeol smiles, reaches over the table and grabs Kyungsoo's hand. "I'm glad you're back, D.O.," he says, still quiet, and squeezes his hand lightly. His hands are cold. Kyungsoo shivers again.

The call comes a day later, early in the morning, when Kyungsoo's sitting at his desk (his old desk, in his old room - everything was almost exactly the way he'd left it, except dustier and more organized and smelling of laundry detergent and pollen). He's got a computer open and is looking through a (college) friend's website when his phone rings.

He picks it up single-handedly, flips it open without paying attention. It's an unknown number - he hopes it isn't another telemarketer or something. "This is Do Kyungsoo," he says. He holds the phone against his cheek in one hand and scrolls down the webpage with another.

"Kyungsoo?" a voice asks - deep, but not as deep as Chanyeol - slightly scratchy but melodic, beautiful, strange and familiar at the same time.

Kyungsoo freezes, right hand still on his touchpad. A GIF of a sparkling cat plays on his screen, but he doesn't notice.

"Jongin?" he asks, breathless, hopeful.

The person on the other side laughs - a dry, jaded chuckle that quickly breaks off into a cough. "Yeah," he says, "but maybe not the one you remember anymore."

They meet in a cafe - the one Kyungsoo had planned to meet Chanyeol in at first, actually. He arrives before Jongin does and sits in a chair, feeling awkward.

It's  beautiful day outside - highs around twenty-four degrees Celsius, and everyone is in bright pastels and denim shorts. The people in this cafe are just as bright - a group of teenage girls giggle in a corner as they share a giant banana split.

The waitress comes to his table - an enthusiastic, perky blonde with a clipboard and the top buttons of her uniform undone. Kyungsoo smiles politely at her and orders an iced Americano. She asks him if he's waiting for his girlfriend and leans forward slightly, wiggling her eyebrows. He smiles blandly back and says he's waiting for a former boyfriend, actually. Her smile immediately goes from coquettish to somewhere between indulgent and superior and she backs off.

At first, he doesn't recognize Jongin when he comes in. He's wearing a black leather jacket - one of the things he's scorned in high school - and he's wearing sunglasses, wide and black, that obscure half of his face. He looks thinner, hunched over, like he's carrying the weight of the world around his neck.

The last time Kyungsoo had seen him, he had been positively glowing with energy, with hope. "Even if I don't make it big," he'd said one night when he was lying outside on Kyungsoo's front lawn, looking at the stars and twisting a silver necklace around his fingers; "even if I don't make it big, I'll be okay."

Kyungsoo had sat down next to him and combed bits of grass out of Jongin's dark hair. "Why?" he'd asked. "It's the experience that matters, not the results?"

Jongin had laughed. His laugh back then was full and rich and it was the best thing Kyungsoo had ever heard. Someone could've made a ten hour remix of it, put it on Youtube, and Kyungsoo would have listened to it all the way through.

"No," he'd said. "It's because there's so much more you can do with life than live in regret, you know?"

He thinks about that Jongin, and then he looks at this marionette, and he wonders what could've happened while he was gone.

"Hello, Kyungsoo," Jongin says. He walks up to the table, sits across from him - sits slowly, gingerly, like he's afraid that chair's going to attack him.

(Perhaps he's afraid Kyungsoo will attack him.)

"You look...different," Kyungsoo replies, and forces a smile.

He can't see Jongin's eyes through his sunglasses, but he can imagine, so he thinks that Jongin's appraising him, with his dark youthful eyes and a quirk of his lips.

"How're things going?" he continues. "I haven't heard from you in a while."

Jongin laughs. It's the same jaded chuckle from over the phone, but it sounds so much harsher in person that Kyungsoo flinches a bit.

"It's fine, I guess," he says, slowly, as if he's rolling each individual syllable across his tongue like so many pills. "It's life, you know?"

"I guess," Kyungsoo says uneasily. He shifts in his chair - the plastic squeaks underneath him.

Outside, a couple pass by the window. He watches them as the girl stops, pulls at the sleeve of the guy. When he turns around, she points at something in the window display - probably the little teddy bear holding the toy windmill, smiling, eternally blissful. She laughs, the noise cut out by the glass pane. The guy rolls his eyes at her, but there's hints of something tugging at the corners of his mouth. The girl says something that sends her into bouts of giggles and causes the corners of the guy's mouth to lift, to smile. He responds back, and then loops an arm around to her stomach. The girl laughs silently, throwing her head back and covering as her shoulders shake with mirth, and swats the guy's arm away with her other hand. He joins in her silent laughter, and they walk away, his arm on her shoulder, her arm on his waist.

Kyungsoo remembers a time when life was like that - when he could walk around with the person he loved, do simple things, stupid things, and just enjoy life with someone at his side. He remembers a time when life wasn't about success or failure - rather, about living in every day and every minute and enjoying it all, even when it wasn't particularly enjoyable.

He remembers passing notes in precalculus to alleviate the droning boredom of the teacher. He remembers being lab partners and over-titrating just to see Jongin sigh in exasperation as the solution blossoms bright fuchsia. He remembers writing stupid, sappy love poems that earned him a C from the teacher but a smile and a "you're so cheesy, Soo," from the subject of the poems.

Now, he's sitting in a café with yellow plastic chairs and childish butterfly lamps - where there's a stupid teddy bear holding a toy windmill in the display case and a twenty-three year old broken man, with sunglasses that cover his face and a beaten-up leather jacket, sitting across from him. There's an iced Americano in front of him that's slowly melting, a slushy grey-brown concoction that's unappetizing at best.

Six years ago, the man across from him was a seventeen-year-old boy, beautiful and graceful with dark eyes and an easy smile. Six years ago, they would have made fun of the plastic chairs and played "who can bend them the most without breaking them". Six years ago, they would have admired the butterfly lights; called them "inspiring" and "artistic" and "reminiscent of childhood", like old stuffy art collectors. Six years ago, they would have both ordered ridiculously sugary, creamy concoctions with unholy amounts of fat and calories and not cared a bit. They would have stolen sips from the other's cup and teased each other for the insane amounts of sugar and say that it tasted like crap, but it wouldn't matter because they would have secretly thought that it was actually delicious and polished off both cups.

He wishes he could bring that back.

Even more so, he wishes that he could bring that Jongin back.

"Jongie," he starts, using a pet name he'd almost forgotten about - "Jongie, do you remember when we used to come here, every Saturday afternoon?"

The broken man sitting across from him stirs, raises his head a bit. "Maybe," he says (rasps, like a music box played for too long and not cared enough for).

"Do you remember," Kyungsoo continues, a little bubble of something not-quite-hope rising in his chest; "do you remember when we used to talk about designing our own café?"

Jongin's forehead wrinkles in a way that makes Kyungsoo think he's furrowing his brows. He sits up straighter in his seat. "With pastel colors, right?"

Because it had been the day before Easter, then, and everything - the menu, the clothes the children wore, the gel clings on the window - were all bright pastel. Jongin had thought it was the best thing ever, so Kyungsoo told him that when they made their own café, they could have everything in pastel all of the time.

Kyungsoo nods. "And we'd order the stupidest things from the menu, and talk about - "

" - how we'd improve them in our own café," Jongin finishes. There's a spark in his voice, a hint of life that wasn't there before. "We had a lot of chocolate on that menu, didn't we?"

Kyungsoo smiles ruefully, nods. "But it definitely would have been better that way. Do you remember our designs for lights and a playscape for kids?"

"With leaves to slide down and logs to climb in and ladybugs all over the place because you loved them and wouldn't leave that idea alone," Jongin completes. He's smiling now, and Kyungsoo thinks that if he takes off the sunglasses, he'd almost look like the Jongin from six years ago - the one who he'd loved and left behind, the one who'd had such hopes and passion for dancing and performing, the one who talked about everything so animatedly and made the stupidest hand gestures that Kyungsoo could never help but love.

"You designed that," Kyungsoo accuses, grinning, "because you wanted to play on it yourself, didn't you?"

"We were such kids back then," Jongin says, and the smile slides off his face like water on wax paper.

"We can still be kids," Kyungsoo says, quietly, hopefully.

Jongin pauses, lowers his head, stares at his fingers. He's wringing his hands - a habit Kyungsoo never remembered him having six years ago. His fingers are thinner than Kyungsoo remembered, and more calloused.

"Do you think so?" he asks. His voice isn't any higher, any softer, but it almost sounds like the plea of a child. They were all children, Kyungsoo thinks inanely - only Jongin was a child who'd had to grow up too fast, too soon, and it had broke him, like a music box that hadn't been allowed to stop playing.

"Of course I think so," Kyungsoo replies. "We can be children again - we can make a café, with the playscape and the menu full of chocolate and beautiful lights that other kids would be entranced by. We can still be kids, Jongin."

He leans over on his chair. He starts gesturing emphatically, points to the lights on the ceiling - "we could have those as birds and flowers, too, so it would look like a garden". He points at window, because they'd talked about having stained glass once, with purple and orange and green flowers because that would've been so cool. He points to the display case - talks about all of the plastic cakes and tea set models they could put in there, and he hears himself get louder with each passing word. He talks about their cafe and pretend he’s talking about their life.

"Remember, Jongin?" he says, and ignores the fact that he's half-shouting now and the other customers in the café are shooting him furtive glances.

If this is what it takes to bring Jongin back, he thinks resolutely, then so be it.

He stops, breathing harshly, staring at the friend lover stranger man sitting opposite him, and wills him to respond.

But Jongin doesn't smile. Jongin doesn't join him in pointing out what they can improve on, what they had spent so many hours dreaming of six years ago. Jongin just laughs his raspy, broken laugh again, and Kyungsoo swears he feels something in his chest crack.

"Of course we can't be children again, Soo," he says, and his smile is more bitter than yesterday's green tea, filled with broken glass and shattered dreams and unmistakable silence. It's the saddest thing Kyungsoo's ever seen. "It's too late for that."

"But why?" Kyungsoo asks, voice raising, scrambling to stand, to grab Jongin's hand, to shake some of that life back into him - "why is it too late? It's only been six years - we can still find our old blueprints, right? We can still come to this café and make fun of their drinks and try to decide what kind of syrup would go best with what coffee, can't we?"

"Six years is a long time, Soo," Jongin says. He's hunched over again, his leather jacket pulled taut around him like a shield, like a deterrent from childhood dreams and hopes. "I told you, I'm not who you remember me to be."

"No, you are," Kyungsoo says, almost hysterical; "Chanyeol's the same, Baekhyun's the same, Joonmyun's the same, Sehun's the same - you're the only one that's changed, Jongin! You don't have change - "

"Chanyeol's infatuated," Jongin interrupts, his voice hard as steel and sharp as diamond. "Chanyeol can't see past his boyfriend now. Baekhyun can't see past himself, either. Joonmyun's trying to head a company at twenty-four - do you think that's easy for him? Sehun's gotten lazy - he thinks he can use his brilliance for everything. And you - " his voice softens, with some bastardization of pity, of affection - "you've gotten soft, Do Kyungsoo. You've never been an idealist before, have you."

Kyungsoo stares. In the background, he hears the clock ticking softly, slowly, and murmur of customers as they go about their business (but they're not, because everyone's staring at the two of them - at the angry man and the broken man, like some kind of two-person play that's all to real), but all he registers is Jongin's voice, soft and scratchy - "you've never been an idealist before, have you?"

Kyungsoo realizes that, perhaps, he's better at lying to himself than even Baekhyun had guessed.

Jongin hoists himself out of his chair, pulls his cap lower down in his head. "Thanks, Soo," he says, his voice still soft. "It was nice to see you again."

He leaves the café in four quick strides, as swift and silent as a god of death.

Kyungsoo's standing. He feels his legs shake and he sits quickly into a chair. His vision blurs, because all he sees is Jongin and all he hears is Jongin's destroyed voice, telling him that he's never been an idealist, that they'll never be children again, that all of Kyungsoo's hopes and fantasies were never destined to become anything.

"Hey," someone says. "You okay?"

He looks up. It's the blonde waitress from before, except now she looks sympathetic instead of flirtatious. She's not smiling anymore. Somehow, that makes her look kinder.

Kyungsoo shrugs. It feels like his shoulders are weighed down with stone, though, so he stops and just slumps forward more. "I guess."

"Well, it's too beautiful of a day outside to be moping alone in here," she says, and flashes him a bright but genuine smile. "Why don't you go outside, go to a park or something? Call up some of your friends. I’m sure you’ll find someone else someday."

Kyungsoo forces a smile at her, but doesn't (can't) say anything.

He feels like crying.

credit where credit is due

thanks to toxicology and Corrupted-Rainbows for editing and being generally amazing

possibly subconciously added things from anterograde tomorrow (changdictator) and the models and music universe (drainbamage954). if you haven't read those, go read them. they're amazing.

and sorry for the length

it was serious brain vomit

yeah

i'll go now