Maybe it’s because their fingers fit perfectly against the hush of skin or the breath of night.

Maybe it’s because their whispers blend into the still of air or the dread of storms.

For it is tonight when they snuggle under covers, scream until their ears hurt and their throats burn in sore desperation—Jongin’s eyes crescendo in sparkling laughter.

Kyungsoo’s voice withers into the constellations of above. His fingers pirouette deep into Jongin’s collarbones, down his arms, onto his chest—twirls and digging fingernails, cautious in his steps.

Maybe it’s because Jongin’s frame matches that of Kyungsoo’s—small and bony; freedom bound by the cages of ribs.

Really, they both never knew why nights felt safer upon a bed of two, or why morning light burst brighter under a pair of shadows.

Kyungsoo has never felt this warm in ages.