A Friday night, and I walk home.

On this road, in this neighborhood, with these steps, everything is so foreign and far away.  And yet through all that, it's so instinctive to come home this way.  I've walked these stretches of cement hundreds maybe thousands of times already, but tonight, everything is different.

Because I'm not alone.

Tonight, I am not afraid of the pungent storm of gunshots and the ringing smell of rusted metal.  Tonight, I am not afraid of a lonely dinner with the newspaper that reeks of death and destruction.

Tonight, I have Jongin who walks beside me, step by step.   I can stand straight with Jongin here.  His waning shadow falls into rhythm with mine, and under the street lights, his complexion gleams - a reminder that even the strongest of people can be afraid.  I am not the only one who lives in fear.

Across his shoulders lies his white coat.  It's draped ever so carefully that it's nearly transformed him, makes him resemble an almost entirely new creature.  With his white coat, Jongin radiates a grander, prouder presence.  No troubles, no setbacks, no worries - just a magnificent, pure, shade of Jongin and nothing but.

It's strange, how much a piece of woven fabric can alter a person.

__

The room is quiet.

Jongin lounges on the sofa of my living room, legs extended across the distance, arms tucked behind his head.  A sated grin taints his lips.  He looks so relaxed already even though he's been in my lonesome residence for less than fifteen minutes.

I sit on the other side of the room, loading the film into my camera with a resounding click, emitting a struggling wave of sound in a sea of silence.  

"Should I take off my coat?" Jongin asks, already ing his snow-colored covering.

I hold the camera up to my eyes, observing him through the lens.  He shifts onto his side.  The room darkens as I watch and I don't understanding why he looks so different without the lights of the studio.

"No," I decide.  "You can keep it on.  Keep it over your shoulders, like a pair of wings.  Just like that."

Jongin laughs, softly, as if he's afraid that too much happiness will shatter the plaster-crusted walls around us.

"Wings," he murmurs.  "Haha.  I like that."