Hyuna folds the last of Junhyung’s t-shirts and puts them in the suitcase with a sigh, frowning at Junhyung. He looks up from the maps and lists of directions Yoseob and Doojoon have sent him, raising his eyebrows at her. “What’s wrong?” She looks away, pouting, shakes her head and continues to fold determinedly.

          “Probably thinking the same as me, hyung,” Dongwoon says from where the maknae sits on Junhyung’s couch. Kikwang lies quietly sleeping, body stretched out on the sofa with his head in Dongwoon’s lap. “That it’s ing bull to even take away your apartment. You got this with the money you made.”

          Junhyung smiles sadly. “With the job they bought me,” he corrects softly.

          The set of the maknae’s jaw echoes Hyuna’s pout—they’re both upset. Junhyung knows that they want to say a lot more than they think they should—he knows that as the youngest two, they understand the least about how it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t make sense or if it seems more unfair than it ever could be. He knows that Doojoon and Yoseob have told both Dongwoon and Hyuna to say as little as possible for Junhyung’s sake.

          He walks around the kitchen counter, into the living room, tugging teasingly at a lock o Hyuna’s hair as he passes her and the suitcases. He moves to sit down on the ottoman, across from Dongwoon. Junhyung nods his head toward Kikwang. “Trouble sleeping at night?”

          “Not really,” Dongwoon says quietly, worriedly. “I think he’s been waiting up for me.” His long fingertips dip into Kikwang’s hair, sliding through the strands and then down to Kikwang’s cheek. “And—y’know—things have been kind of crazy, so I’ve been getting back late and all.”

          Yeah.

          Yeah—Junhyung knows.

         

 

 

 

          Yoseob and Doojoon arrive in Korea the day before Junhyung is scheduled to leave it.

          Dongwoon and Hyuna are weighed down at the office again, and Junhyung can’t pick them up alone so Kikwang ends up going with him. The ride to the airport, with Junhyung driving Dongwoon’s car, is a little bit awkward, mostly just wordless. The few words that are exchanged between them are mostly about what time Doojoon and Yoseob’s flight is supposed to arrive and what gate they’re supposed to be coming out from.

          The traffic slows down, almost to a complete halt, when they’re just about to take the exit that leads them to the airport. Junhyung glances at Kikwang. In all honesty, he’s never thought much—not really—about the young man himself. He’s thought about the situation, he’s definitely thought about that plenty—worried about it plenty—but he never remembers actually even taking a good look at Kikwang. After all, Dongwoon introduced them at the club at a time when Junhyung didn’t have much space in his mind to worry about his dongsaeng.

          Which makes him a ty hyung—yeah—but then again, he’s been pretty much a ty everything, a ty human being in general, these days anyway.

          But, now—now—looking at Kikwang, Junhyung thinks that Dongwoon was just lucky Kikwang’s fees were based on time and not based on quality-of-product-in-relation-to-the-other-offered-products because Dongwoon probably would’ve been homeless if that were the case. He bites back a smile remembering how at first, Hyuna couldn’t stop staring and Doojoon even asked Dongwoon if maybe Kikwang is visually impaired in some way.

          Not to say that Dongwoon isn’t attractive—it’s just—Kikwang.

          Junhyung feels his fingernails dig into the steering wheel—

          He remembers how Doojoon teased Junhyung at first too.

          He remembers—

          “Junhyung-shii,” Kikwang says and Junhyung blinks, suddenly, “we’re moving.”

          Junhyung toes the gas (since moving doesn’t imply much in this case—just more inching along that’s probably going to make them late for Doojoon and Yoseob) and coughs, “Sorry.”

          “Don’t be,” the younger man says lightly, pushing glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

          He glances at Kikwang again, frowning. “And what’s up with the names? I’m your hyung,” he says.

          It’s Kikwang’s turn to blink. “Oh—oh, um—okay.”

          Junhyung looks out at the road. “Dongwoonie told me you’ve been really tired lately.”

          “I mean,” Kikwang says slowly, thoughtfully, “not—not really tired. Just—I guess—getting used to sleeping like everyone else.” His lips curve into an odd smile as he looks to Junhyung. “I’m usually up at night and sleep in really late. But Dongwoonie has to get up early so I’m trying to wake up the same time he does.”

          Oh.

          Right.

          It’s easy, extremely easy, to forget all of the little details and ramifications that came with what Kikwang used to be, what Kikwang used to do. Especially with the way Kikwang acts, with the way he looks, with the way he smiles and talks and laughs. Junhyung punches Kikwang lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t,” he says softly. “Don’t try that hard. He’s worried about you.”

          Kikwang looks down into his lap, stares at his hands. “He’s already done way too much for me,” he says quietly. “He still does way too much. Actually being awake—when he leaves, when he comes home—it’s the least I can do, right?”

          Junhyung sighs and punches the younger man in the arm again—harder this time, hard enough so that Kikwang actually makes a sound and stares, alarmed, at Junhyung. “Yah,” he says. “He’s with because you’re you,” Junhyung thinks, “and probably because you’re way too hot for him. But mostly because you’re you—not because of this weird- it’s-the-least-you-can-do thing you’ve got going.”

          Kikwang’s mouth open and closes. His eyebrows furrow, confused. “I’m too hot for him?”

          Junhyung shrinks in his seat a little. “Never mind that part,” he mutters.

          Kikwang laughs.

 

 

 

 

          When Yoseob first reaches Junhyung, the younger man kicks him hard in the shin. He kicks him, and Junhyung is about to double over and start hopping around in the most dignified manner he can manage, except Yoseob throws his arms around Junhyung and buries his face in the older man’s shoulder before Junhyung gets to do any of that. Junhyung can’t do anything but roll his eyes, smiling, and wrap his arms around Yoseob’s waist right back.

          “You mothering owe me ten years of my life,” Yoseob mumbles into Junhyung’s shoulder. “Ahjusshi’s actually an ahjusshi because of you. He has gray hairs.”

          Doojoon smacks Yoseob on the head with their passports. “Yah—I don’t,” he snaps. “And let him breathe. Hug Kikwangie or something.”

          Kikwang, who up until now had been watching the scene with a tiny smile, suddenly blinks his eyes, surprised, looking from Doojoon to Yoseob and then back to Doojoon. “What?”

          Yoseob grins, letting go of Junhyung, and tossing one arm around Kikwang’s neck. “C’mon, you,” he says, “let’s talk about how to feed maknae.” He drags Kikwang away towards baggage pick-up.

          That leaves Doojoon and Junhyung.

          “How’re you doing?” Doojoon glances at the other man, his own hands in his pocket, his carry-on backpack slung over one shoulder. They start to walk at the same time, a good deal of distance behind Yoseob and Kikwang.

          Junhyung breathes in deeply, shrugging his shoulders and meeting his friend’s eyes. “All right,” he says quietly, “Plane leaves tomorrow.”

          Doojoon nods, gaze shifting away from Junhyung momentarily. “Yeah—Dongwoonie called me. You packed? Passport, place to stay, all of that ready?”

          “Hyuna had fun packing,” he replies with a small smile as they reach the baggage belt. It hasn’t started revolving yet, and Yoseob and Kikwang go off to get trolleys. “And everything else is just waiting by the door.” He exchanges looks with Doojoon, things going between them without any words before Junhyung glances away and says softly, “There’s not much to take anyway.”

          Doojoon is silent for a moment, watching a few students traveling in a group walk by. “They really got everything?”

          “Just everything that they gave me,” Junhyung says simply, shrugging. “They froze most of my accounts and cards, but I still have one that I made on my own and a few cards on that. A few of my dad’s employees came and took two of the cars, but I have one left that’s all mine from that, too. And after I leave for the airport, they’re taking all the stuff in my apartment and putting it back up for rent.”

          “Have you talked to them since—”

          “There’s no point,” Junhyung cuts him off with a resigned smile. “I mean, my dad’s secretary is contacting me, but I know it’s just because my parents want me to consider my ‘options’,” he uses finger quotes and raises his eyebrows significantly at Doojoon. He snorts, looking to the floor. “I think they’re getting desperate—they don’t know that I’m actually leaving, but for now they’re trying to get me to come back.”

          Doojoon frowns. “But the press already—”

          Junhyung shakes his head. “It’s always easy to find a way out of that,” he says. “I’m pretty sure they’d love headlines of some wayward son coming back from his homoual meanderings back into the loving arms of his forgiving family or some other kind of bull. My mom’s trying to get my dad to just take me back and then figure things out from there, and I almost listened to her except she told me that I could do whatever I want with whatever guys I wanted as long as I got married with a girl that wouldn’t care.”

          Doojoon stares.

          “Yeah,” Junhyung says, looking away. “I know. They’re ing crazy.”

          “They’re still your parents,” Doojoon says quietly.

          Junhyung’s eyes wander to the televisions hanging from the ceiling. The evening news has come on and he reaches for his sunglasses while the baggage hall is still relatively empty as his face comes onto the screens. He nods his head upward when he catches Doojoon watching him. “Technically,” he says with a bitter smile, “they aren’t anymore.”

 

 

 

 

 

          It’s Hyuna who sees him off at the airport the next morning.

          She still has to go to work, so she can only go as far as the ticket and baggage check-in lines. Junhyung has to wear sunglasses again because his photo, videos of him, his family company’s logo, it’s all still being blasted across magazines and televisions and internet articles. He thinks that foreigners passing them would probably think they were a couple saying their goodbyes.

          “I feel like I’m about to go on Mission Impossible,” he says, grinning, elbow resting on the trolley.

          “Except it’s not impossible,” Hyuna laughs.

          Junhyung snorts. “I highly doubt he’s going to jump into my arms in a field of daisies.”

          “There aren’t any daisies in Japan anyway,” she shrugs. And then she reaches out and slaps Junhyung on both cheeks two times. “Yah—yah, oppa. Stop being so emo. It’s not even nine yet.” She pouts and puts her hands on her hips. “You got him once, remember? You got him once, so just get him again.”

          He smiles sadly, lightly hitting her arm with the back of his hand. “I’ll try.” Junhyung wraps his free arm around her shoulders tightly, pressing his face against her hair before she starts smacking his chest and telling him that he’s going to wrinkle her work clothes. “Be a good secretary to Dongwoonie, all right?” he draws away slowly and sincerely hopes that Hyuna’s eyes look moist because maybe her mascara is falling apart or something.

          She nods vigorously, biting her lip and trying to smile back, her small hands pressed against the front of her pencil skirt. “Yeah—I will.” Hyuna’s mouth finally manages a tiny smile as Junhyung starts up the luggage cart. “Bye, oppa.”

          Junhyung attempts a last smile—one that isn’t as sad—and pushes his trolley to the line for the eleven o’clock flight to Tokyo.  

 

 

He takes a taxi to the apartment building that he’ll be staying at—run by an old, Japanese woman that Yoseob apparently managed to charm to the point where she wanted to adopt him as her son without even listening to Doojoon trying to tell her (in admittedly terrible Japanese) that Yoseob already has a perfectly healthy pair of living parents back in Korea.

          She’s cheerful, plump and doesn’t seem to mind the fact that he’s just as terrible as Doojoon in Japanese, which means that he’s waving his hands all over the place (with as much dignity as he can retain) telling her his name and he’s the person Yoseob talked about. She sends her two sons, probably high school students, to help Junhyung with his suitcases despite him telling her that he can carry them just fine by himself (which he supposes probably didn’t work because she can’t understand him).

          His room is on the fifth floor, just a ways from the elevator—simple with the living room and kitchen separating two bedrooms across from each other, a bathroom inside of each one. The boys drop his bags near one of the bedrooms, bow and shake his hand, and leave after telling him (from what he can decipher) that he’s welcome to drop downstairs for dinner whenever he needs to.

          Junhyung collapses on the sofa and wonders if he knows enough Japanese to get himself to the nearest liquor store.

 

 

          The next morning, Junhyung stands in front of the apartment complex across from his own building—hopefully the right apartment complex since the corner Junhyung’s staying at is filled with apartments—a scarf around his neck, and his gloved hands balled into tight fists in the pockets of his coat, one of them clenching a small Post-It note with an address that he’s more or less memorized in the past few days.

          It’s a small complex, fairly ordinary with open-faced hallways, only covered by awnings. There are only three stories, and no elevators, and Junhyung thinks that at the very least, the third floor isn’t that high off the ground—meaning that in worst case scenario, if he gets pushed off of the railing, at least he won’t die. Even though, in his own opinion, if it reaches worst case scenario, he should throw himself off of the railing on his own anyway.

          He has to force himself to move forward and up the stairs before he starts shaking again and his feet start leading him back to the liquor store that’s luckily (or unluckily) actually a mere two blocks from his apartment building (as he found out on his way here). He spent the entire night sleepless and sober, tossing and turning in his new, unfamiliar bed—thinking of all the possible reactions that he’ll get when he knocks on the door.

          And that’s if he even gets a reaction—if the door is even opened.

          But he won’t know if he never tries.

          He pulls off one glove and the bare knuckles of his right hand hover over the door.

          Junhyung takes a deep breath and knocks briskly, firmly—clearly, two times.

 

 

 

In retrospect, he really does suppose that it could’ve gone a lot worse.

          Hyunseung could’ve kicked him or hit him or yelled at him or screamed at him or, like in the worst case scenario example, pushed him off the railing and down to his probably not death but most likely a broken leg or two. It really could’ve gone a lot worse, so when the door is opened and Hyunseung is standing in the doorframe, in a long-sleeved shirt that drapes over his slender body soft and warm and liquid, in sweats that are too long for him and cover his feet, it’s already going far better than Junhyung ever thought it would.

          It’s pretty good up until there, swimmingly well, and even better because Hyunseung looks healthy—he looks fine, even if a bit sleepy because it’s a Sunday morning and still early, his hair tousled this way and that, his eyes as round and endless and luminous as always, sleeves covering his hands because of the cold, thin arms wrapped around himself at the nippy winter air (rushing in because of the open hallways)—Hyunseung looks perfect. Perfect as always, perfect as he’ll always be—the kind of perfection that Junhyung knows he was keeping locked up in a tower, the kind of perfection that thrives so much more when it’s not with Junhyung.

          So it makes sense, makes a lot of sense—and is still a lot better than anything Junhyung could’ve hoped for—when Hyunseung’s eyes widen, just infinitesimally, before the door slams right in Junhyung’s face.

          Really, all things considered, it’s not that bad at all. It could’ve been far, far worse, and while this particular reaction hasn’t crossed Junhyung’s mind in the slightest, it’s only because it’s a reaction that’s so mild, Junhyung never would’ve considered himself lucky or blessed enough to have it.

          He takes another deep breath, staring at the door for a minute, before he steps over to the side, near the corner where the open-faced hallway turns because Hyunseung’s apartment is the very first one on the floor, and sits down on the cemented floor, back leaning against the wall, knees level with his chest because it’s warmer that way.

 

 

 

I don’t need anyone else

 

 

 

          Hyunseung thinks that he probably has the worst reflexes in the entire world—the entire world. Not just Korea, not even Korea and Japan, but the entire world, including every single itty bitty tiny country, every itty bitty tiny piece of land there is, possibly even including the ocean population and the space population and any population there might be anywhere else outside of this universe because Hyunseung’s reflexes must honestly really ing if the first thing he does when he sees Yong Junhyung after months upon months is slam the door in the other man’s face.

          He’s retarded. Jang Hyunseung is completely retarded and now all he can do is sit on the floor, back against his front door, wondering if Junhyung’s already gone back to wherever he’s staying. All he can do is sit there and wonder because why the didn’t the others text or call or message or email him about this happening—that way, at least Hyunseung wouldn’t have been shocked into slamming a door in the face of a man who’s just been ing disowned.

          In the face of a man who Hyunseung broke a promise to, and yet, still runs after him all the way to another country after giving up more than Hyunseung will ever be worth.

          He sighs and stands up, glancing at the digital clock attached to his TV. It’s already been two hours and he has errands to run before the day is over—errands to run, and then work to finish for Monday morning’s meeting. He hasn’t even changed out of his pajamas yet.

          Hyunseung runs a hand through his hair and stares at the door for a moment. He wonders—

          It’s a load of bull—a load of false hope, or maybe just too much hope, but Hyunseung decides that it can’t hurt, and at the very least, he’ll have another gauge of the weather so he can decide which coat he should wear on the way to the grocery store. He turns the lock, turns the door knob, and sticks his head out—

         

         

          Hyunseung grabs the nearest pair of shoes he can reach on his rack, toes them on underneath his sweats, and slips out the door, careful to keep the lock out so he doesn’t lock himself out of his apartment (like last week), and steps slowly, cautiously, towards the lump of winter clothing that he supposes would be Yong Junhyung. He squats down against the railing, across from the younger man, and takes a deep breath, readying himself for the situation that he never even prepared or practiced for because he never thought that Junhyung would ing chase him to Japan—

          Oh—

          Well then.

          Oh—oh.

          Junhyung is asleep.

 

 

 

Even if you already have another love

 

 

 

          He wakes up warmer than he knows he’s supposed to be.

          There’s a blanket around him—thick and large and white, made of something that feels between fleece and wool. There’s a blanket around him, and there’s a piping hot thermos beside him, a note attached to the top.

 

 

 

I can’t forget you

 

 

 

I’m out all day.

Go back and get some sleep.

 

 

 

I can’t turn back around

 

 

 

          Hyunseung stares, hand tightening around his keys as his steps slow down. He doesn’t understand—he doesn’t understand at all because he’s pretty sure that he made his note as clear as possible and even if it wasn’t that clear, it’s already pitch black outside, the streetlights are already on, it’s probably going to start snowing in literally five minutes, and yet—he doesn’t understand. Hyunseung doesn’t understand, but he is worried as and irritated and tired and he doesn’t understand.

          He doesn’t understand why Junhyung is standing in front of him, right next to the door of Hyunseung’s apartment, blanket folded over one arm and thermos held in the other.

          “I told you not to wait for me,” he says quietly, as Junhyung hands over the blanket and thermos. Hyunseung takes them into his own arms.

          “Thanks for that,” Junhyung says, his voice low and soft, not quite meeting Hyunseung’s eyes.

          “I told you not to wait for me,” Hyunseung repeats and thinks it’s personally remarkable how his voice is this steady when his insides feel like they’re being frozen solid by the snow that’s scheduled to fall any minute now.

          Junhyung doesn’t say anything, continues to stare over the railing and out towards the roads. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything any time soon, so Hyunseung turns away and faces his door—unlocking it and letting himself in, letting it slam shut behind him.

 

 

 

The moment my eyes began to burn

 

 

 

          “Really?” Hyunseung’s eyes follow Junhyung around the room as the younger man bustles around here and there—trying to piece together the separate sheets of paper that, when together, are supposed to form the portfolio he needs for tomorrow’s meeting. “Seriously? You won’t buy me a new car?”

          Junhyung ignores the older man, walks right past him as he sits on the couch in the middle of Junhyung’s living room. “It’s bad enough you already own a car,” he says absentmindedly because he swears—he swears, seriously, he does—that he put pages thirteen and fourteen near the stove, “and I have to worry about you turning yourself into a pretzel before you even get out of the parking garage.”

          “What does that have to do with you buying me a new one?” Hyunseung asks mildly, standing up off of the sofa and turning around to watch Junhyung jog back and forth across his entire apartment.

          “I know,” Junhyung says, looking underneath the bar stools at the granite island, “that you’re going to ask for something Italian, shiny, and fast—all three, of which, are completely unnecessary. I should just buy you an ambulance. So you can drive yourself to the emergency room.”

          He feels arms suddenly throw themselves around his waist, pulling him out from underneath the countertop and tugging him backwards. He hears Hyunseung’s laugh behind him, feels Hyunseung’s breath against the back of his neck. “Y’know,” the other man says and Junhyung feels a nose pressed between his shoulder blades, “I’m not that bad at driving.”

          Junhyung pulls the arms around his waist away and turns around so he’s looking at Hyunseung’s face. “Yeah,” he rolls his eyes, “you’re not that bad at driving. You just don’t seem to care if your passengers are flung from one side of the car to the other when you’re turning. And you seem to confuse one meter of turning space with one centimeter of turning space. But, I mean, other than that, nothing too bad.”

          Hyunseung raises his eyebrows and backs away abruptly, brushing past Junhyung and swiping his arm up and down behind the shelf that’s pushed against the wall. Junhyung watches him, confused, until Hyunseung walks back to the younger man, holding up two sheets of paper between their faces. Junhyung feels himself smiling broadly as Hyunseung gives the papers to him. “Thirteen and fourteen,” he says, grinning back.

          “Thanks,” Junhyung says softly, placing them down on the nearby coffee table. “How’d—”

           “Probably fell when you were moving stuff around trying to find the other pages,” Hyunseung says thoughtfully, as Junhyung puts his hands on Hyunseung’s hips and tugs the older man closer.

          “You know what I think is better than a new car?” Junhyung asks playfully.

          Hyunseung blinks. “Two new cars?”

          Junhyung laughs. “How about no car at all?” Hyunseung frowns. “How about you get rid of your car and I’ll just drive you around so that way I never have to worry about you turning into a roadside pretzel?”

          This time it’s Hyunseung who rolls his eyes. He pulls away from Junhyung, smiling lightly. “Yah,” he says, fingertips through Junhyung’s hair as passes towards Junhyung’s room. “You worry too much.” Junhyung watches the older man walk slowly down the short hallway and into the bedroom—a few seconds passing before Hyunseung appears again in the doorway, leaning to one side with raised eyebrows and a grin. “I can take care of myself.”

 

 

 

The moment my heart was captured by you

 

 

 

          Junhyung knows. He knows that—he knows that Hyunseung can take care of himself. He knows that, despite everything, Hyunseung is more than capable of taking care of himself—can function absolutely fine without Junhyung anywhere near him.

          He crosses over to the other man, pinning Hyunseung against the doorframe with Junhyung’s own body. Hyunseung tips his head up and their gazes lock, Hyunseung’s eyes waiting. “I know you can take care of yourself,” Junhyung says because he does know—knows perfectly well. He smiles softly, sheepishly, hesitantly. “It’s just—I can’t.” He runs his thumb lightly over Hyunseung’s cheek. “So—I kind of need you to stick around. I can’t even find thirteen and fourteen without you.”

          Hyunseung grins. “I told you,” he says, “I’m really not that bad of a driver.”

 

 

 

I have no regret

 

 

 

          Junhyung stares up at the ceiling through the darkness.

          He hates sleeping nowadays. He hates dreaming. He wants nightmares—wants terrible nightmares where he’s killed over and over again in every horrible way imaginable. He doesn’t want these dreams—doesn’t want dreams that replay useless memories of Hyunseung finding pages thirteen and fourteen, doesn’t want dreams that remind him of how, again and again, he was always telling Hyunseung how he needs to stay for Junhyung, how Junhyung can’t live without him, how Junhyung needs him—

          And how it all led up to making Hyunseung so sick—so terribly, terribly ill and hurt and diseased and pained—

          He doesn’t want dreams like that. He doesn’t want to dream of cheeky smiles and clueless grins and round, endless eyes and undecipherable remarks and awful driving and slim hips and pale necks and small lips and bright laughs and warm arms. He doesn’t want to dream of things like that and wake up to a reality where he doesn’t have them anymore—where he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to get any of it back.

          Compared to that—

          Nightmares are better.

 

 

 

I chose you

 

         

         

          “I swear to God, we didn’t make him do it,” Doojoon’s voice says—over speaker phone as Hyunseung mixes bimbimbap for himself. The cell phone is precariously balancing on the salt and pepper containers. “And I swear to God, I don’t understand why you can’t just believe that he’d go after you on his own. You’re the reason he—”

          “Doojoon-ah,” Hyunseung says, taking the spoon out of the bowl and scraping the rice off. “Hearing that I’m the reason he was disowned isn’t really the greatest thing in the world.”

          Doojoon sighs. “Can’t you think about it from his point of view? That maybe he’s doing this because he thinks you’re worth it?”

          Hyunseung stares into the bowl, his hands gripping the edge of the countertop. “Well—I’m not,” he says quietly. “If he has to chase me to another ing country in order to find me, then I’m clearly not worth it.”

          There’s a short silence on the other end, and Hyunseung hears voices conversing before Doojoon’s voice returns, just as softly, and says, “It really doesn’t matter if you are or not, does it? He thinks you are, so hear him out, okay?”

         

 

 

I don’t need any words

 

 

 

          It’s been a week and a half.

          Hyunseung’s been counting.

          It’s been a week and a half since Junhyung first stood in front of Hyunseung’s doorstep, and it’s been a week and a half since Hyunseung has seen him. None of the others back in Korea (or wherever Doojoon and Yoseob are these days) have called him saying anything else unless Hyunseung calls them first which clearly means Junhyung is still somewhere in Japan. He’s still somewhere in Japan and after a quick message to Dongwoon, nobody has heard neither hair nor hide from Junhyung and to say that Hyunseung is worried would be an understatement.

          He manages to get the address of where Junhyung’s staying from Dongwoon without leading the maknae to think that anything is in the least wrong (because that would spend Dongwoon into a panic attack, which would probably send Hyuna into a panic attack, which would probably lead to Doojoon and Yoseob flooding Hyunseung’s inbox again).

          It happens to be near Hyunseung’s apartment and he knows the woman who owns the building, so on Thursday night, he wraps himself up in complete winter wear, and heads out across the street to assess whatever damage might be done, and hopefully, it won’t be very much damage at all so Hyunseung can prove to Doojoon and the others that Junhyung probably just needs a good disillusioning that’ll send him back to Korea to reconcile with his family.

 

 

          Okay.

          Okay—

          This doesn’t necessarily mean anything—it’s absolutely no reason to panic, to assume, to think of useless scenarios that probably aren’t even true. Just because the Japanese ahjumma tells Hyunseung (in such frantically fast Japanese that even Hyunseung has trouble understanding) that that Korean young man staying up on the fifth floor hasn’t come down in a week and a half, except to and from to buy alcohol—this doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad. Not really.

          And just because she even gives Hyunseung the spare key to Junhyung’s apartment in the case that he might not be fit to answer—this doesn’t necessarily mean anything either because—yeah. It doesn’t—doesn’t necessarily mean anything particularly bad.

          No reason to panic.

          Hyunseung isn’t panicking, is perfectly calm, as he plugs in the key and turns, hearing the resounding click as it fits into place. He pushes down the tab above the handle and pulls the door open.

          He pulls it open and closes it behind him carefully, taking a look around.

          It’s dark.      

 

 

          Junhyung is on the couch—lying on his side and surrounded with bottles.

          Sake bottles, soju bottles, beer cans, wine bottles—some empty, most half-empty, none that are still full, no cups or glasses, no food, and Hyunseung can only let out a relieved sigh that there isn’t anything in here that could get Junhyung arrested. He clears a space on the coffee table, pushing the bottles to the side, and perches lightly on the edge, leaning down and taking a close look at the younger man’s face.

          His eyes are open.

          Barely open, half-lidded and clearly drunk, but open.

          “Drinking yourself to death?” Hyunseung whispers and his voice is toneless because he doesn’t know what he should be feeling right now—doesn’t know, doesn’t have any ing clue, if he should be angry or irritated or sad or shocked or surprised or devastated or furious or hurt—he doesn’t know.

          Junhyung shakes his head slowly against the cushion of the sofa. He blinks heavily—once, and then twice. “Not,” he sighs, like every breath takes too much energy to take, “to death.” And then suddenly, his lips curve up into a tiny smile—bitter and humorless. “Just—just—to make it not,” his voice stumbles over the words, “so it doesn’t—hurt so much.”

          Hyunseung slaps him.

          Across the cheek that isn’t pressed to the couch, hard enough to make a noise, hard enough to make Junhyung bolt clumsily up into a sitting position, but not hard enough to leave a mark.

          The younger man’s eyes are wide, an abrupt kind of temporary soberness shocked into him.

          “When was the last time you ate?” Hyunseung says in a voice barely above a whisper—he doesn’t know why he’s suddenly breathing as if he’s just run a marathon.

          Junhyung still looks frozen. “I—I—don’t know.”

          Hyunseung stands up. “Go take a shower. Put on your pajamas. I’ll make you something and then you’re going to ing sleep even if I have to knock you out.” He heads to the kitchen without looking back.

 

 

 

You might say it’s too late

 

 

 

          Honestly, he knows he should just go back to Korea.

          Junhyung knows that even though he didn’t expect Hyunseung to jump into his arms, he does know that there’s no reason for Hyunseung to want him anymore and everything that’s happening just proves it more and more. At the most, Hyunseung just wants him as a friend, is just worried about him because he’s Hyunseung and he’s not about to stand by and let Junhyung drink himself to death, starve to death, or become an insomniac for life.

          But he doesn’t want Junhyung as more—he doesn’t want Junhyung the same way Junhyung will never stop wanting Hyunseung.

          And it hurts.

          It hurts too much and nothing helps—alcohol numbs it slightly, so slightly that Junhyung, regardless of what it might’ve looked like to Hyunseung, has actually been mostly sober for the past day after giving up on the tiny relief that alcohol provides before sending him to sleep.

          And that’s always the worst.

          Sleep is always the worst—Junhyung hates sleeping, hates dreaming.

          He pads out of the bathroom, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, barefooted because he can’t remember where he put his socks after unpacking. Hyunseung has his back turned to Junhyung, standing at the stove in the kitchen, steam rising towards the ceiling—visible by the bright lighting. Junhyung quietly walks into the living room, gathering the empty bottles into his arms.

          “Hey.”

          Junhyung turns, blinking.

          Hyunseung’s left the kitchen, stepping toward Junhyung with a frown. “I was going to get that,” he says, and reaches into Junhyung’s arms, taking the bottles away from him one by one. “I thought you were still changing.”

          “What—no, it’s fine—” Junhyung reaches back out to retake the bottles, but Hyunseung’s already spun on his heel, heading back for the kitchen. “Hyunseung-ah—”

          But the older man is already arranging the bottles on the kitchen countertop, biting his lip thoughtfully at them, eyes moving between the alcohol and the trash can and then the recycling bin. He turns his head slightly, glancing at Junhyung. “You should eat,” he says, blinking, and pointing to the steaming bowl of ramen at the other side of the kitchen, spoon and chopsticks all in tow.

          Junhyung can’t do anything but stand there for a moment, staring at Hyunseung’s back as the older man continues to sort the bottles, figuring out how to dispose of the ones made of glass, the bigger ones, the smaller ones, and the cans. He bites his lip and shuffles towards the countertop, picking up the ramen bowl and moving it to the dining table. He’s hungry, he’ll admit, but right now he’s too nervous to think of eating.

          He’s too nervous, but he smells the ramen, smells the broth, watches the steam rise, and before he really realizes, his hands are taking up the chopsticks and holding the spoon to his lips. His mind is completely blank while he’s eating—he doesn’t even think he’ll remember how the noodles moved from the bowl into his stomach when he finishes because the few minutes it takes for him to inhale the food pass in a blur.

          When he finishes, he stands up, bowl in his hands, and walks into the kitchen, placing it in the sink and trying his best to edge around where Hyunseung is bagging the bottles into separate bags depending on whether they’re glass or cans. He stands there, for a moment, just watching Hyunseung move here and there silently, and wonders if maybe—just maybe—as fleeting thought that Junhyung knows he should’ve done better to restrain—he just wonders—just hopes maybe, maybe—he wonders—

          He wonders if Hyunseung missed him too.

          He wonders even if Hyunseung didn’t miss Junhyung as much as Junhyung missed him, he still wonders if maybe Hyunseung at least thought about him—at least once.

          It’s stupid, he knows.

          He knows it’s stupid to wonder—to hope—that Hyunseung would spend maybe just a moment remembering, missing, someone who treated Hyunseung as horribly as Junhyung did. He knows it’s stupid, but a terrible part of him still wishes Hyunseung did—still hopes that Hyunseung did.

          It’s stupid.

         

 

 

But for me, it’s just you

 

 

 

          “All done?” Hyunseung glances back at Junhyung once with raised eyebrows, walking back to the sink and peering in. Junhyung nods, hands in his pockets, standing in the middle of the apartment because he doesn’t want to think about how Hyunseung’s done all that he’s come to do—he’s made sure Junhyung’s alive, patched him up, fed him, and after putting him to sleep, the older man is going to leave and Junhyung will be alone again to wake up from his dreams.

          He pads to the sofa and sits down on it, head leaning back and looking upwards towards the ceiling. “I’ll sleep a little later,” Junhyung lies, because he knows that the dreams will be twice as clear tonight, and he’ll just wake up in the middle with twice as much pain. He closes his eyes against the bright light and waits until he hears the sounds of Hyunseung leaving.

          He waits—

          But the sounds never come.

          The sounds of fading footsteps and the sounds of boots being pulled on, a scarf being wrapped around a neck, gloves being worn—the sounds never come.

          Instead, Junhyung just gets something warm and heavy draped over his head and face, and he opens his eyes to darkness—reaches up and feels a towel dropped on him. He pulls the towel off and stares at Hyunseung sitting across from him—too close to him—on the edge of the coffee table. Junhyung blinks, towel in his hand, confused.

          “Your hair’s, like, dripping into the sofa,” Hyunseung points out. He flaps his hand a little bit, motioning for Junhyung to sit up straighter. The younger man straightens, lifting his head from the back of the sofa, because right now he’s too dumbfounded to do much of anything else.

          Junhyung dries his hair mechanically, hastily, just to get it over with, and hangs the towel on the armrest when he’s done. “It’s late. You should go,” he says and ignores how there’s a stab of pain in his chest as his lips form each word. “You have work tomorrow, right?”

          “I can take a day-off,” Hyunseung says softly.

          “I’m not tired.” Junhyung looks down, and then back up again. “It’s fine.”

          Hyunseung stands up, sighing. “I mean, I’ll leave if you want me to—”

          It’s instinct.

          That’s the only way Junhyung can explain it, because he doesn’t know any other way—he isn’t sure it can be explained any other way. He can only think of it as pure instinct, when he hardly feels himself think or feel—when his arm snaps up by itself, when his hand grabs Hyunseung’s wrist, when his fingers dig so tight into Hyunseung’s skin that the older man almost instantly tries to yank his wrist away because it hurts.

          “No,” Junhyung whispers. “I’m sorry—I’msorry. “ He loosens his grip immediately when he realizes that in the morning, Hyunseung’s wrist will probably be purple if the younger man keeps holding on. “I just,” he senses Hyunseung sitting back down and Junhyung lets go of him, “I don’t—sleeping—it’s not—not something I like to do these days.”

          Hyunseung watches him for a moment, looking simply back at Junhyung with a colorless sort of expression—maddeningly undecipherable, and making Junhyung’s nerves taut enough to rip. It’s utterly silent between them and Junhyung is completely clueless. He’s frozen and he feels like he’s groping blankly through pitch-black darkness, knowing that he could fall off a cliff and into the ravine at any second but continuing to hope that he’ll keep his balance on the ledge.

          The older man stands up then, and Junhyung tips his face up, unable to take his eyes off of Hyunseung’s expression for even a moment. “C’mon,” Hyunseung says, reaching out and tugging at Junhyung’s shoulder, “put on your coat.”

           Junhyung stares as Hyunseung walks to the entryway, picking up his jacket off of one of the kitchen chairs as he passes and shrugging it on. “What?” Junhyung asks, bewildered, as he gets to his feet slowly. “Are you—are you leaving?”

          “Come on,” Hyunseung repeats, not really looking at Junhyung as the older man continues to pull on his gloves and wrap his scarf around his neck. “Put on your coat—we’re going out.”

          The younger man stumbles forward blankly, robotically scrambling for his jacket and winter wear, pulling it over his pajamas and wondering if maybe he should remind Hyunseung of that tiny part—the part where Junhyung is still in his pajamas and if they’re going out somewhere (where they hell are they going?), then maybe Hyunseung should give Junhyung like eight-point-five seconds to put real clothes on because currently, Hyunseung is just continuing to ignore Junhyung for the most part.

          And that just confuses Junhyung further.         

 

 

 

          Hyunseung doesn’t take Junhyung anywhere.

          Not really.

 

 

 

          He just leads Junhyung down the apartment and outside to the small, yard behind the building, fenced off as part of the ahjumma’s property. The snow is coming down in heavy clumps, and it only takes a few seconds of following Hyunseung through the ankle-deep snow before Junhyung already sees the snowflakes piling in the crevices of his coat and the tips of his damp bangs.

          Junhyung stays slightly under the broad awning that stretches around the back of the apartment building, watching still completely confused as Hyunseung pads out towards the middle of the small yard and bends over, gloved hands reaching down into the snow. In all honesty, Junhyung is more than completely confused—he’s utterly and totally at a loss as to what’s happening and he has half a mind to just tell Hyunseung outright that they should go back in because Junhyung just took a shower and doesn’t want to freeze to death.

          He’s about to step forward and call Hyunseung back in when the older man turns around—

          And a wad of snow hits Junhyung in the face.

 

 

 

I know our love is wrong

 

 

 

          It’s silent.

          Junhyung supposes that silence might be the better option out of all the possible reactions he anticipated. He’s thought about all the potential scenarios that could play out—whether it involves screaming or shouting or tears on his mother’s part or even throwing furniture on his father’s part. Compared to all of that, this silence is a lot better. It’s better, but it’s dangerous—it’s giving Junhyung hope. It’s making him hope, and he knows that’s just going to hurt him more.

          The silence continues on for another painful minute, before Junhyung’s father folds his hands on top of the dinner table, jaw so tight that Junhyung can see his father’s throat contracting. They meet eyes. “Junhyung-ah,” his father says slowly, and there is terrible restraint in his voice, as if he almost doesn’t want to say it but he has nothing else to say if he doesn’t, “maybe—maybe you shouldn’t—maybe it’d be better if you don’t spend too much time with Doojoon-shii.”

          Junhyung stares.

          This part—

          This, he hadn’t expected.

          “It’s not,” he says in complete and utter disbelief, “it’s not contagious or anything, Appa. It’s—Doojoonie—he’s halfway around the world most of the time these days anyway and—”

          “Then maybe you shouldn’t contact him too much,” his mother cuts in tersely.

          Junhyung can’t believe this. He expected shouting and fighting and screaming but he hadn’t expected any of this, and it hurts. It hurts so much more than when he imagined chairs and lamps and wine glasses being hurled towards his face. He’d braced himself, prepared himself for anything that might’ve happened so that nothing would surprise him, but he supposes that he was being too optimistic.

          Imagining that insults and flying furniture to be the worst of it was just too optimistic.

          “What does talking to him have anything to do with it?” he snaps and suddenly his voice is rising in volume. “What do you think we talk about?”

          Junhyung’s father sighs. “Don’t raise your voice,” he says grimly. “We’re not saying anything, Junhyung-ah. It’s just—think this over. Be reasonable. I’m only trying to suggest that maybe—maybe you should think about branching out your contacts into more than just Doojoon-shii and his—his,” his father and his mother exchange glances, “new translator. Your assistant director seems nice. Son Dongwoon, right?”

          “He’s gay, too,” Junhyung says flatly.

          His mother frowns. “You can’t just assume those kinds—”

          “He has a boyfriend,” Junhyung cuts her off, still in that same flat tone because if he tries to inject any real emotion into his voice, his heart is just going to start aching too much to continue. “He’s gay, Umma. I’m not assuming anything.”

          His parents exchange glances again.

          His father heaves a greater sigh this time. “Junhyung-ah,” he says wearily, “you’re not gay.”

          Junhyung feels his mouth fall open. “But I am,” he says.  

          “It’s just a phase, honey,” his mother says, sounding just as tired as his father. “You were with all those girls before, so it’s ridiculous that you decide to be gay all of a sudden,” and she puts air quotations with her fingers around the words “be” and “gay”. She frowns, taking a sip of her water. “You were never like this before you started spending so much time with Doojoon-shii and Dongwoon—”

          “You were telling me to spend more time with Dongwoon two seconds ago,” he says loudly, heatedly, still completely in utter disbelief, “until I told you he was gay.”

          His father stands up suddenly, the chair clattering backward. “You’re not gay, Junhyung-ah,” he says in a quiet voice. “And that’s final.”

 

 

 

          Junhyung does it before his thoughts catch up with what’s just happened—he does it before he even fully registers the clump of snow melting from his face and onto the front of his jacket before falling to the ground. He scoops up as much snow as he can fit into his gloved hand and runs at Hyunseung at the same time that the older man seems to figure out what Junhyung is intending to do.

          But Junhyung gets there faster.

          He launches the snow and it hits Hyunseung’s back, despite the older man trying to dodge to the side. There’s a peal of laughter as Hyunseung whirls around while simultaneously grabbing some more snow into his own hands and Junhyung has barely enough time to widen his eyes before he’s scrambling backwards in the snow as fast as he can so he’s out of range.

          Regardless, though—regardless of how the cold snow comes into contact with Junhyung’s shoulder, knocking him breathless because he’s almost forgotten how good Hyunseung’s aim is—regardless, the smile is already spread large and wide across Junhyung’s face as he digs his fingers back down into the snow and gets ready to throw another one at Hyunseung.

 

 

 

          His face turns automatically as his mother’s hand stings across his cheek. He doesn’t want to look down at her face because he can hear her crying—he knows that there are tears streaming down her cheeks and he doesn’t want to see that. He doesn’t look at his father either, even though that’s a little bit harder with the way that his father’s voice is bellowing across the room, roaring at how ungrateful Junhyung must be to say something like that to his parents—to dare insinuate that it’s their fault he’s gay, that there’s no such thing as being born this way because his mother has done nothing wrong and how dare—

          “Umma,” he says quietly, and wishes that maybe if she reached out just halfway—maybe if she looks at him first, then he’d be able to look back. “I’m just me. I didn’t—it’s not—it wasn’t supposed to sound like that,” he tries to explain, as his mother’s shoulders continue to tremble in front of him, while his father collapses back into his seat and covers his face with his hands. “I just meant—just—I’m just me,” he tries again because for some reason his own eyes are starting to feel too hot, too sore, too raw and his voice shakes. “I can’t change,” and his voice falls into a whisper as he can’t stop himself and reaches out for his mother’s arm, “I’m sorry.”

 

 

 

I can’t give up

 

 

 

          Hyunseung’s hood has fallen off his head, and his scarf has come undone almost entirely, hanging on to his neck and shoulders just barely as Junhyung continues to pelt him with snowballs that hardly look like spheres at all—more like shapeless mounds that Junhyung has hardly enough time forming because Hyunseung is even faster than he is at recuperating ammo.

          It’s dark, but even through the darkness, through the furiously falling snowflakes, Hyunseung’s eyes are liquid and bright and their gazes connect more than once when they hurl the snow at each other. They meet eyes more than once, more than just a few times, and every time Junhyung looks at him, he’s surprised not to see even an ounce of anger—even a tiny bit of frustration or disappointment or hatred. Absolutely nothing, and whereas at another time, in another situation, Junhyung would think about this deeper and longer—right now, adrenaline and cold rushing through him, he just laughs as Hyunseung almost trips trying to throw two snowballs in a row at Junhyung.

          He walks over slowly after Hyunseung continues to lie flat on his face in the snow for over a minute, making it quite clear that the older man isn’t planning on moving until Junhyung does something about it. The younger man laughs again as he kneels beside Hyunseung, nudging the other man’s side with his fingertips. “Yah,” Junhyung snorts, “yah, if—”

          Hyunseung tugs Junhyung down to join him in the snow before Junhyung can finish.

 

 

 

          His mother steps back, almost knocking over the chair behind her. Her eyes are wide—as round and huge as they can go—as they take in Junhyung incredulously, shocked and furious and disbelieving. “Don’t touch me,” she whispers, backing away even more from Junhyung’s outstretched hand.

          Junhyung’s arm stops in midair.

         

 

 

 

 

I can’t let you go

 

 

 

          He lies there in the snow with Hyunseung behind him, and both of them are breathing and panting so hard that they can see their breaths puffing out visibly above them in the darkness. He turns slightly as Hyunseung flips back over onto his back and looks at Junhyung with the barest hint of a smile ghosting over his lips.

          Even in the darkness, Hyunseung’s eyes glitter liquid and dark, the light dancing in his eyes as they gaze back at Junhyung. Even in the darkness, Junhyung can still make out by the faint light coming from the far off streetlights—he can still make out the flushes of pink blooming in Hyunseung’s cheeks. The snow has dampened Hyunseung’s hair the same way it’s kept Junhyung’s from completely drying—the older man’s bangs are slick and soaked against his forehead, stumbling lower into his eyes and tipping against his eyelashes.

          No matter how accurate and crystal clear Hyunseung is in Junhyung’s dreams, the younger man still doesn’t think that his imagination ever does Hyunseung justice. And he thinks it’s because the last Junhyung saw of Hyunseung before his dreams started was while Hyunseung was tired and sick from Junhyung—a Hyunseung that’d grown frail and weak and weary with shadows beneath his eyes and an ill-colored cast to his face.

          Whereas this Hyunseung, the Hyunseung right before Junhyung’s eyes is a Hyunseung that’s found a way to heal back to the beginning—back before Junhyung came in and turned his life into something nightmarish and dreadful. The Hyunseung that Junhyung is looking at now—that Junhyung can’t stop looking at—this Hyunseung is one that’s stitched back everything Junhyung’s torn apart, patched up the wholes that Junhyung made, pasted in cement in what Junhyung’s cracked.

          This Hyunseung has learned to live without Junhyung.

 

 

 

My lips—cold as can be

 

 

 

          Junhyung’s parents’ house—the main building of their estate—it’s always warm. It’s always toasty in the wintertime and cool in the summertime. When it snows outside, it’s so warm indoors that the maids and housekeepers and chefs go around in their lightest uniforms and Junhyung’s mother and father go around in clothes that they could wear in early spring.

          But as Junhyung packs, as Junhyung refuses to listen to the pleas of his mother and ignores the stony glances of his father, as Junhyung decides that nothing they say—nothing they threaten him with is going to stop him anymore—as he picks up his keys and heads for the door—

          He realizes that he’s freezing.

 

 

 

Are even more blue

 

 

 

          “What?” Hyunseung says, blinking, as he sits up and slaps some of the snow that’s caught onto his shoulders.

          Junhyung blinks back and sits up too. “What?”

          “You’re staring,” Hyunseung raises his eyebrows.

          The younger man smiles quietly. “It’s nothing.”

          It’s cold but sitting there in the snow, just his coat on, no hat and no scarf, thin gloves—Junhyung doesn’t feel it at all. He doesn’t know why. He has absolutely no idea why, for some reason, he’s sitting in the middle of what will probably be at least a foot of snow tomorrow morning, and yet, he feels warmer than ever.

          Hyunseung frowns, looking Junhyung up and down. “I probably shouldn’t have made you go out here while your hair was still wet. You’re going to be sick.”

          “I’m fine,” Junhyung says softly.

          He’s more than fine. He’s so warm that if he didn’t know any better, he’d think he was in front of a fireplace.

 

 

 

I cry out to find your warmth

 

 

 

          When they go back inside, when they’re back in Junhyung’s apartment, the heaviness of all of the snow in the folds of his coat suddenly weigh down on him and everything suddenly seems ten times more exhausting to do. With the rush of the heater hitting him the moment they step into his apartment, Junhyung abruptly feels like he needs to sit down because his head is spinning and why is he so tired?

         

 

 

I call

 

 

 

          Hyunseung manages to steer Junhyung into the bedroom, pushing him onto the bed and pulling off his socks since there’s not much to be done because he went out in the snow in his pajamas with just a coat over. He knows he should do something—he knows he should keep talking, should stay awake, should say something to Hyunseung because the moment Junhyung lets his eyelids close (and they’re begging to be closed, right now, they’re pleading mercilessly), Hyunseung will leave and Junhyung won’t know when he’ll see him again if ever.

         

 

 

Even though I call for you

 

 

 

          He fists Hyunseung’s sleeve when the older man pulls the blankets up to Junhyung’s neck. Hyunseung blinks down a few times, surprised, his eyes stretching open wide and his eyebrows going up. “Yeah?” he whispers, and right now Junhyung can’t even be sure if this is still real—he thinks he might’ve fallen asleep outside in the living room and Hyunseung brought him here which means that this is already a dream.

          This has to be a dream, because now Hyunseung is taking his hand off of the blanket and touching Junhyung’s hair, brushing his bangs—still a bit damp from the melted snow—lightly to the side. “Yeah?” Hyunseung whispers again, a little bit softer this time, gentler (because this is a dream) and Junhyung knew this would happen—he hates his dreams because they’re all like this. “Need something?”

          It’s a dream, right?

          It’s a dream, so Junhyung can say whatever the he wants and it won’t change anything—won’t matter, won’t affect anything, won’t bring Hyunseung back, won’t fix anything, so Junhyung doesn’t have to watch his words. He doesn’t have to say something appropriate and restrained because it’s a ing dream (it’ll always be just a ing dream) so he doesn’t. He doesn’t bother in his dreams.

          “Can you stay?” Junhyung murmurs, and because it’s a dream, he takes one arm from beneath the blanket and puts it over the hand Hyunseung has in the younger man’s hair. Junhyung steers the older man’s hand onto Junhyung’s cheek.

          Hyunseung’s (dream-Hyunseung’s) eyes widen again, but his hand doesn’t move away from where Junhyung’s holding it against the younger man’s face. He stares at Junhyung for a moment (in disbelief?) before a nervous smile, a hesitant smile, curves his lips infinitesimally and he sighs a little. “Sure—yeah, okay.”

         

 

 

There’s no reply

 

 

 

          Hyunseung’s thumb over Junhyung’s cheekbone lightly before he slowly, carefully, slips his hand out of Junhyung’s and away from the younger man’s face—almost hesitantly, as if making sure that it’s okay with Junhyung first. Junhyung watches the older man stand up and cross to the doorway, flicking off the lights.

          Junhyung closes his eyes.

 

 

 

I’ll wait for you

 

 

 

          It’s just a dream.

          In the morning, he’s going to be alone again.