beginning
PolychromeI
I don’t like it.
Yifan stares mundanely at the final result in front of him, eyes full of disapproval. If looks could kill and said mural was alive, it would already have withered into a pile of black and grey ashes.
He debates on even calling it a mural. Somehow, calling his masterpiece a ‘mural’ would do nothing but cause offence to the many, many legitimate murals all around the world. Perhaps a sketch would be a more appropriate term to describe it. Yes, a sketch... a rough sketch, that was it.
He surveys the array of colorful spray cans below him. Scattered in a disheveled row along the wall, the contrast of the cans’ purple against orange against green does nothing but hurt his eyes. For a moment he picks up a colored one, rotating it with slow contemplation; the friction of the metallic texture rubbing against his fingers almost tempts him to use a color that doesn’t fall under monochromatic shades for once.
Almost... but not quite.
He snorts, releasing his grip on the can in one swift movement. As it clatters to the ground with a loud ‘clank’ of metal against concrete, rolling away as though in disappointment, Yifan imitates the movement with his eyes and turns away from his 4th mural rough sketch this week.
It’s a miracle the neighborhood hasn’t run out of blank slates to graffiti on, really.
*
That is, until he is jolted awake about 10 minutes later.
“Look, a new drawing!” Someone screeches over the dead silence, successfully breaking the both the tunnel’s—and sleeping guy’s—tranquility. Yifan bolts upright in shock, heart palpitating and palms sweaty, before he realizes that he hasn’t been found after all and was in fact woken by an extremely rude, not to mention immature brat who could care less about interrupting someone’s slumber. How dare he? How ing dare he? In his rage, Yifan conveniently forgets that he is still concealed from sight. He peeks out ever so slightly from his hideout of boxes and steals a glance at the inconsiderate trespasser—no, trespassers—who come to disturb his peace.
“I could have sworn this area was blank on Monday,” said trespasser continues, voice full of excitement. Yifan suppresses a snort. He sounds like a kid who’s just found out that everyone’s fingerprint is different. “And now there’s a huge picture of... of...” He struggles with placing a term on the mural (yes, on further hindsight it is worthy to be called a mural after all), and the artist feels a wave of offence. Is his work that mediocre for someone to be rendered speechless at what it is?
“Scenery!” He finishes brightly, nudging his friend. “Don’t you remember, Baek? This wall used to be blank, so someone must have drawn on it! And the funniest thing is, it looks familiar. I remember seeing something like this on the other tunnel down the railway—”
“That’s nice, Yeol.” Trespasser #2, better known as Baek (or Byun Baekhyun, as Yifan cleverly makes out from the nametag pinned to his uniform) wrinkles his nose in clear distaste that suggests he finds said mural anything but nice. Yifan’s eye throbs in injustice. And what, he thinks haughtily, do these inexperienced little high school students know about being the Picasso of their generation? Before he can jump out of his resting-turned-hiding place and scream at these insolent people to go away and stop insulting his art, Baekhyun rubs his forehead tiredly. “Look, I really need to go. I have tuition in two hours and I can’t skip class anymore. Call me later, OK?”
For a second Yifan thinks he sees disappointment flicker through the other boy’s orbs, but Trespasser #1 just blinks and smiles a bright, toothy grin at Baekhyun, pushing him away gently. “Yeah, yeah! Don’t let me hold you up. Go on!” The shorter male simply laughs in soft exasperation, nods and starts walking back to the main street. As his back becomes smaller and smaller in the distance, Yifan transfers his gaze back to ‘Yeol’ in suspicion. Is he going to leave? Is he going to hang around and be a horrible nuisance? He silently prays for the first option.
But the boy doesn’t move. Rather, he stays rooted to the ground for what seems like forever, as though pondering on his next action. Yifan twitches in impatience. What exactly does he want?
Finally, he picks up a spray can from the ground. The artist freezes. Oh no. Oh no no no no no.
He can’t. Yifan lets out a strangled whimper as TRESPASSER-TURNED-CRIMINAL #1 happily spray paints a neon pink flower onto his majestic masterpiece, completely clueless to the pain being inflicted on the watching guy with each and every . My precious!
But he clenches his fist, nails relentlessly curling into his palm. He keeps his breathing stable. He glares at the oblivious vandal across the boxes while repeatedly sending lasers through his eyes. He is a controlled individual, who will not explode in a fit of rage simply because an ignorant high school student is breaking his sacred code of monochromatic art. The code he happens to swear by, the code he has never broken ever since he was but a child, the code—
The criminal begins to draw a heart.
“No,” Yifan cries, and emerges from his hiding place in all his unruly, matted-hair glory, knocking over a few cardboard boxes in the process. “Leave my mural alone!”
He roars with such intense rage that said criminal jerks in utter shock and turns around, eyes widened to such huge sizes Yifan never thought they could achieve. The boy drops the spray can immediately and takes a few steps backward, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—”
“You didn’t know?!” He is yelling now, and he doesn’t even know why, “WHO THE HELL DRAWS FLOWERS AND HEARTS ON SOMEONE’S BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS? BECAUSE I WOULD ING NEVER, AND YOU HAVE, AND—”
The shorter male is still gaping at him with a stunned and traumatized expression, and Yifan trails off after realizing how unreasonable he must seem. Granted, it isn’t the wisest choice to draw on someone else’s art, but then again the tunnel walls are public property after all. Neither does he have a clue about the sacred code. Ultimately, these factors boil down to him closing his mouth indignantly and fixating the other with a glare of death.
There is silence, then discomfort, then awkwardness.
Upon sensing that the latter isn’t about to break the quiet anytime soon, Yifan clears his throat. “You may go.” He waits patiently for said boy (or Park Chanyeol, as he once again spies off his nametag) to leave.
Chanyeol doesn’t move. Yifan’s eye twitches as he defensively maneuvers around the intruder, careful to pick up all the spray cans lying around them. The last thing he wants is for Park Chan-rude to vandalize even more of his beloved material. Just as he retrieves the last can, he hears a tiny voice.
“Why don’t you ever use colors?”
He stills, the can still gripped tightly in his fist. Then he chuckles—a cold, shallow sound that resonates through the suffocating air. “What are you talking about? I do use colors.”
“No. Colors.” Chanyeol looks frustrated, animating his hands wildly in an attempt to link words together. “I mean colors-colors. Red, blue, yellow? Green? Pink? All you use are the boring ones, those that are... lifeless. Black, white, grey—that’s what they always are.”
Yifan wants to laugh at his ignorance. How would a kid like him know anything about the colors he chooses to utilize? Despite himself, he lets the insensitive words get to him; it’s as though the boy knows exactly how to attack his weakest point. A stab of anger threatens to overpower his calm demeanor, and against better judgment he lets a loud snort slip from his lips. “And how would you know?”
“Because I’ve seen them,” Chanyeol retorts evenly, “your other works. You’ve been to almost all the tunnels in the neighborhood and spray painted in every single one. This is the last.”
Damn. Despite having known all along, he can’t help but feel a slight twinge of disappointment that this is the last tunnel. That just means he’ll have to move again, and Yifan really isn’t in the mood. For a brief moment he considers ignoring what the other mentioned about seeing his other works, but a sense of flattery and something in Chanyeol’s tone catches his attention. He looks at him, intrigued. “You could tell they were mine?”
A cheeky grin plays on the younger’s lips, and for a second Yifan is caught off guard—the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, the amused eye twitch and the way his mouth curls when he chuckles. What the hell? He thinks. Stop. He’s a kid. But he can’t resist keeping his gaze fixated on Park Chanyeol, and the infuriating way he wants to hear more of his voice. It’s deep, like his (or at least he likes to pride himself on).
“Well, yeah,” replies the bashful student. Yifan notices how his cheeks are blushing a light shade of apple red, and how he tries to hide it by avoiding eye contact. “I mean, they’re pretty distinguishable.”
He isn’t sure whether it’s a compliment or not. “Distinguishable?”
“They... haveyouraura,” Chanyeol blurts out in a rush, and almost immediately the flush scattered on his cheeks redden twice as much. “I don’t know why, but they just do. I just didn’t expect you to look... like this.” He gestures with his hands again.
Like this? Yifan still can’t tell whether what Chanyeol says is a compliment or not. “Is that a good or bad thing?” He finally asks in disbelief, not even sure if he wants to know the answer.
“Of course it’s a good thing!” Almost immediately the younger retaliates, then recoils upon seeing the smug look on Yifan’s face. “I mean, it’s not a great thing or anything, but it’s not a bad thing either, so—never mind.”
The older shrugs, then finally places the last spray can in his bag. He darts a look back at Chanyeol, who is looking strangely uncomfortable amongst all this. He can’t say he blames the kid. After all, what happened this afternoon is already more than he’s ever bargained for in his entire life. “Well, I should be on my way.”
He’s already walking away when that low, soft voice speaks again. “Will you still be here tomorrow?”
Yifan ponders this. Will he still be here tomorrow? There isn’t much of the tunnel left to be spray painted, not to mention he has to be on the lookout tonight for a new lodging in another neighborhood. The question ought to be, should he still be here tomorrow?
“Probably not,” he begins, and doesn’t miss the way Chanyeol’s shoulders slump discouragingly in disappointment, “but maybe.”
“Maybe?” The other blinks, suddenly looking as though he’s won the lottery. “So that means yes?”
Yifan tries not to smirk as he gives a careless shrug, continuing on his way out.
“No promises.”
*
Despite his disdain of the second option (which makes him feel more like a e than a plausible acquaintance), Yifan decides against lying idle indoors. He has more of the tunnel to spray paint before he moves. Besides, he reasons, the boy might not even show up.
Undeterred by such a thought, he pushes himself off the bed (read: rundown mattress) and successfully stubs his foot hard on the edge of its frame. The peaceful morning air is interrupted with a string of colorful curses as Yifan painfully clutches his wounded toe, jumping around on one limb and crashing into an entire pile of used, rusted spray cans.
He lies sprawled on the ground for a full 5 minutes, wondering exactly when his apartment converted into a full-out obstacle course.
*
To Yifan’s surprise (and very slight pleasure), the younger is already waiting for him in the tunnel by the time he arrives. Dressed in his uniform and curled up in a crouching position, Chanyeol has both hands propping up his chin, a bored expression on his face: cheeks puffed and lips unconsciously curled in a pale-pink pout. He twiddles his thumbs monotonously and doesn’t seem to notice the other’s entrance.
That is, until he spots a pair of worn-out sneakers and a black shoulder bag.
“Hey,” says Yifan.
“Hey,” echoes Chanyeol, and the artist almost thinks there’s a spark in his eyes when they meet each other’s gaze. Said boy manages a sheepish smile, “I might have been a little too punctual.”
“Hnng.” Refusing to acknowledge the fluttering butterflies in his stomach, Yifan gives a curt shrug and starts heading towards the end of the passage, spray cans and all. He hears Chanyeol, like an intrigued child burning with curiosity, hastily getting to his feet and attempting to catch up with him; they eventually fall into step, Yifan enjoying the rhythm of their shared pace a little—scratch that—much more than he should.
When at last they come to a blank slate along the shadows of the tunnel, he begins rummaging in his bag for a spray can, only to change his mind and empty all the contents of the vessel on the ground instead. The hollow ‘clink’s of metal against concrete resonates through the enclosed space, light rays reflecting off the variety of colors introduced to the monochromatic environment. Yifan bends over to retrieve a black spray can for himself and tosses a grey one to the watching student, who catches it with unspoken awe. Giving it a good shake, he starts spraying a few test on the wall.
“Try it.”
“Is...” Chanyeol’s eyes are wide, perhaps even wider than they were when Yifan first pounced on him for vandalizing his mural. His voice is meek. “Is it OK?”
The older tries not to smirk, shaking his head in amusement. Looks like the kid hasn’t entirely forgotten how someone exploded on him the day before. He motions for Chanyeol to come over, biting back a smile when the latter approaches slowly. Yifan doesn’t brush off the fact that Chanyeol’s actions seem almost... guarded, as if protecting himself from something—but what? him? —and can’t help feeling slightly bothered.
“Go on.” He watches as the boy hesitates before spraying a smiley face on the wall, attempting to add a pair of funky-shaped ears which strangely resemble... Chanyeol himself? Yifan can’t help but feel the corners of his mouth turn upwards; he is too cute. Still he gives a loud cough, and at once said student lowers the spray can self-consciously.
“Is it bad?” Chanyeol wants to know. He bites his lip tentatively, turning around to face the artist with large, worried puppy eyes. So adorable, Yifan thinks before he can stop himself. Then the thought that he just might be gushing over the actions of a mere high school student kicks in, and he swiftly conceals any sort of reaction by plastering a bland expression across his face.
“No.”
The younger heaves a sigh of relief, “Thank God. I—”
“I didn’t say it was good.”
“W-What?” Chanyeol’s eyes widen and he shakes his head, looking even more like a confused puppy. It takes countless repeated reminders that he is a respectful, decent human being who does not take advantage of innocent students and almost all of Yifan’s willpower not to launch straight at those pouting lips right then and there. “I think I did well! Really...” His voice dies down into a childish mutter as he crosses his arms, staring at the latter with what he fervently hopes to be a firm glare. Yifan snorts at how juvenile he’s being; at the same time, secretly pleased with how Chanyeol seems to crave his approval. Perhaps his twisted tendencies get a kick out of having someone look up to and treat him like he’s the best thing since fried chicken.
Positioning his spray can next to the boy’s drawing, Yifan attempts to spray a smiley face himself and scrawls a half-hearted ‘Wu Yifan’ below it. He glances towards the younger and feels his breath catch when the most radiant, genuine smile spreads across Chanyeol’s face—it’s not fair for someone to be this captivating, Yifan’s subconscious screams, but is drowned out nevertheless. Messily, Chanyeol writes his own name under his smiley. He darts a look at said artist; the raw happiness emitting off the student is infectious and more than enough to bring a stupid grin to Yifan’s face as well.
*
As the days go by, Yifan gets to know more and more about the younger. For starters, he’s 18—a mere 2 years younger than the artist. Yifan feels better: that doesn’t really make me a e. He also learns that Chanyeol majors in music, and despite repeated lectures from his family (“Will it get you a job in society? Will it sustain you for the rest of your life?”) to abandon such an unrealistic dream, doesn’t plan on giving up anytime soon. Although it seems like Chanyeol may be opening up to him bit by bit, the older remains vexed about how distant he comes off regarding personal matters; occasionally Chanyeol’s eyes glaze over during their talks of family and dreams (not that the other party really ever contributes except listen to him) and Yifan believes he sees a glimpse of who the happy-go-lucky student really is—the genuine Chanyeol beneath the built-up exterior of nonchalance, the Chanyeol who does such an excellent job hiding his true emotions, the Chanyeol who cares a lot more than he acts about the way he wants to live his life.
Then Chanyeol snaps out of it, and with a quick shake of his head it’s over.
A wave of nostalgia and déjà vu crashes over the silent watcher, and Yifan thinks he’s never witnessed a sight more heart-wrenching.
*
He isn’t sure when exactly it started. Maybe it’s the way Chanyeol is always waiting for him at the tunnel when he arrives, diligently spraying away at the walls—sometimes he attempts to write a message, and it’s always something ridiculously silly and positive like ‘if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain!’—but Yifan doesn’t mind so much. Not when Chanyeol looks this adorable when he’s focused and concentrating. Maybe it’s the way he laughs; when his right eye twitches and becomes significantly smaller than the left, making him look like a deranged mad scientist (whose lab has just exploded into flames, and convulses with laughter because that’s exactly what he wanted). Or the way he flashes his ultimate winning smile to reveal two pearly white rows of teeth, in completely perfect condition—sometimes Yifan catches himself staring for a extremely prolonged period of time at said younger’s pearly whites, and tears his eyes away at once. He wonders if the boy ever notices. Yifan has hated paying the dentist a visit ever since he was a child, so he isn’t particularly amused when Chanyeol doesn’t even need to because anyway, his teeth are flawless.
Then again, Yifan stopped attending his monthly dental appointments once he was given a choice, because he didn’t like the smell of the clinic.
Irrelevant, he decides. Either way, he blames the younger. Stupid Chanyeol. Stupid Chanyeol with his whimsical ways, always insisting Yifan try spraying something different for a change—people, animals, that was what he suggested. Why not? he reasoned, it’s not like you can’t. Yifan snorts. Up to this day, he still isn’t sure whether or not the seemingly innocent remark was actually a sneaky jibe on Chanyeol’s part, because he should know better than anyone that on a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being hopeless and 10 being Picasso) that Yifan is at least a -100000. And awarding him such a score, the artist hates to admit, is already showing incredible leniency.
It’s not as though he hasn’t tried to rid himself of such feelings. In fact, quite the contrary—he even managed to avoid Chanyeol for a full week and a half when these... emotions first came bubbling up his chest and pretty much causing light-headed giddiness whenever Yifan was around the student. Just a mere glance at Chanyeol would send his heartbeat accelerating like he was on the most thrilling rollercoaster ride in the world; even a soft, low sound from the boy’s throat would cause his palms to sweat uncontrollably and get all clammy. Chanyeol would unconsciously his lips, and at once the older would think of how badly he wanted to taste them, powerless in controlling his own thoughts. In horror, Yifan decided right then and there that he was not able to process these happenings all at once, quickly muttering an awkward goodbye to a blinking and oblivious Chanyeol before retreating back into the safe shadows of his home.
*
Yifan kicks a pillow lying at the end of the mattress. He considers the likely possibility that his hormones are simply going insane because he’s desperate for love and hasn’t dated in almost two years, and comes startlingly close to convincing himself that’s the case.
But it doesn’t add up, because despite the numerous flings he’s had across the span of these two years (and there were definitely a few individuals who were better-looking and more gorgeous than Chanyeol—like that tanned, seductive bronze guy named Jongin—and Luhan, a fellow Chinese with milky porcelain skin and innocent doe eyes), Yifan has never felt this strong of an attraction towards... well, anyone before. At least not to the extent where he wants nothing more than to cup Chanyeol’s captivating face in his palms, kiss the younger’s full pink lips over and over again till he whimpers in breathless pleasure and ravish him throughout the entire night.
Oh god—. Yifan curses in exasperation, banging his skull repeatedly on the floor. He needs to stop this right now before it drags on and gets any worse. He silently makes a promise not to go to the tunnel until he stops feeling these things for Chanyeol, pulls at the woolen blanket tangled mercilessly around his feet, and tries to fall into somewhat of a peaceful slumber.
*
Day 1. Yifan wakes with a start, making a frantic grab for his alarm clock and scans the time hurriedly. “,” he panics, “I’m lat—”
He pauses, gears rotating in his brain, remembering the previous night in its entirety.
Then Yifan falls back onto the mattress and resumes his sleep.
Day 2. Yifan doesn’t even bother to get up from bed; after all, why should he? It’s not like he has anything planned for the day. He gives a snobby sniff.
Day 3. Yifan spends it in bed.
Day 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Yifan continues to lie in bed, with the exception of getting up only to boil a packet of ramen so he doesn’t starve to death. Not a single thought is given to a certain brown-haired boy with funny ears and a deep voice and how he’s doing without Yifan. Nope. Not at all.
Day 9. Yifan begins to question if this was a good idea after all. He silently admits he does care about Park Chanyeol. He itches to leave the house and head towards the tunnel to see if that said student is still there waiting for him, but doesn’t.
By Day 10, he’s had enough. He has to see Chanyeol again. A part of him is nagging not to get his hopes up; besides, Yifan comforts himself, if Chanyeol doesn’t show up ever again, it’ll be for the better in the long run. In spite of how convincing he sounds, Yifan knows he won’t be able to shake off the disappointment lurking in the pit of his stomach should Chanyeol be absent.
He wakes early at 9 AM, tossing all the spray cans into his bag in a rush. The amount of spray cans seem much less than what he remembered: Yifan thinks he may have left a few (OK, plenty) cans in the tunnel when he bid a hasty farewell to Chanyeol, but that’s alright. He’ll retrieve them back by today.
With a small, barely noticeable spring in his step, the artist begins making his way to his destination.
*
*
Yifan pauses unsurely, eyeing the clutter of spray cans lying disorderly on the ground. For a moment he considers waiting around for the possible arrival of the boy, but thinks better of it. He won’t be coming back.
A bittersweet taste starts welling up in his throat, and then vanishes as quickly as it came. Yifan shakes his head. It’s for the better; he has to get moving anyway, search quickly for a new apartment somewhere else. He isn’t going to bother with some 18-year-old he may or may not have spared a thought about, nor is hopelessly attracted to.
He takes a determined step forward, fist clenching his bag, ready to pick up the rest of the spray cans and move on. That is, until he catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.
When he turns around to face it, everything stops.
Scrawled messily in bright orange ink on the tunnel walls is an entire collection of messages from Chanyeol—each one written more and more illegibly, all dated, as though said student grew increasingly desperate with each passing day of the older’s absence and missed him to the point where—oh god, Yifan can’t breathe. He can’t. It feels as though the world’s just ceased to rotate. He imagines Chanyeol with that frustrated expression crossing his features, brows furrowed and looking completely, utterly lovable. Then he snaps out of his reverie and starts scanning the messages one by one; filled with anticipation and hope despite the small feeling of trepidation building in the pit of his stomach. What if the last message was a goodbye from Chanyeol, saying he’ll stop coming? What if he never gets to see him again?
The idea of no longer being able to interact with Chanyeol is so horrifying, Yifan doesn’t even want to think about it. He debates on not reading them, but decides against it.
As he reads, the artist feels his pulse quicken and his breathing turn shallow.
12/10/14
Yifan:
Sorry—I can’t stay longer today! I have music practice, but I’ll be here tomorrow! :)
13/10/14
Yah! Where are you? Did you even come yesterday?
14/10/14
:-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( (He must have been bored out of his mind, Yifan thinks with amusement.)
15/10/14
Wu Yifan! I’ve been waiting for three whole days :( where are you?
16/10/14
You still haven’t shown me how you draw people, you know.
17/10/14
:-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-( :-(
18/10/14
You’re always here everyday. I’m worried, really. And I can’t contact you, because you didn’t even give me your number.
19/10/14
I’m going to believe that you’ve just been really tied up recently :) I’ll still keep coming everyday! I hope you’ll come back soon. Take care of yourself, arasso? Don’t fall sick or anything!
20/10/14
Wu Yifan.
I can’t believe you’re still not here.
When you come back, I’m harassing you for your number.
21/10/14
I’m coming at 3 today. Don’t be late!
His heart feels like it’s about to explode.
Letting his gaze drop from the last message, Yifan stays frozen to the spot. He blinks once or twice, attempting to process the words all at once. They’re just small, hastily-sprayed alphabets that should not have such an effect on him. Not even if they were written by Park Chanyeol.
He doesn’t quite know how to react (except check his watch: 10 AM and ignore the butterflies fluttering in his stomach to the best of his ability), heading into the shadows of the tunnel, eyes shining and a wide gummy smile plastered across his face.
*
Yifan glares at the empty tunnel. He grabs a spray can out of his bag and starts spraying an angry, jerky line of black across the walls, almost pulling his hair out in frustration. More than anything, he wants to hit himself for being so foolish. How could he have believed that a high school student would be interested in how a good-for-nothing like him spent his days? That he would wait around for Yifan despite the older having avoided him for 10 days straight?
. He curses under his breath, reminding himself never to take innocent, infuriatingly charming high school students up on their offers ever again. Chanyeol probably wanted vengeance and set him up for a pathetic little joke because he hadn’t showed up for the past 10 days. He should have known. He should just have searched for places of new lodging so he could actually get something productive done in his life for once. Better yet, he could have already moved by now. Why, oh why did he have to come and wait like an idiot for someone who had clearly forgotten all about the previous weeks’ happenings?
The more he thinks about it, the angrier Yifan gets. Hurling the spray can towards the ground, he kicks it with so much force that said can is sent propelling more than 15 meters away. Finally he snatches up his bag to leave, only for his impassive countenance to be met with a panting, flushed face.
Him.
Yifan’s gaze hardens at the sight of Chanyeol trying to catch his breath. He thinks he sees a glimmer of relief flash through the younger’s eyes, but ultimately his obstinacy refuses to acknowledge the person in front of him. Chanyeol’s eyes seem to be glistening with something else, as though with tears or some sort of liquid. He gives an inward snort of disdain. What, is he going to try and act like he was held up by something important? Is he going to come up with all sorts of excuses as to why he was so kindly planning to stand Yifan up? Play a stupid joke on him? Because no matter what a fool or how naïve he may be, he isn’t going to stand for it. Pushing past the gasping boy, he’s almost halfway out the tunnel when Chanyeol’s voice wavers.
“Please don’t go.”
He stops, and immediately resumes walking with even more resolve than before. That’s enough. He shouldn’t even have hesitated to leave in the first place; Yifan isn’t the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, definitely—especially—not over someone he met barely weeks ago. He’s two steps away from exiting when he hears a broken sob.
Chanyeol’s crying.
For some reason, that very sound tugs at his heartstrings. A flashback of Chanyeol’s impish smile when they first meet finds its way back into his memory and contradicts so much with how the latter looks now that Yifan can’t help but turn around to face him. As he slowly approaches the crouching boy who’s covering his face in his hands, he knows that he will regret this someday.
But for now... it doesn’t matter.
With a weary sigh, he sits down next to a still sniffling and teary Chanyeol. Said student makes a vague wipe at his eyes before turning to fixate his stare on him, eyes as big as he remembered. Yifan is unsure whether to laugh or take him seriously, for puppy-eyed, vulnerable Chanyeol is almost as bad as shy Chanyeol. So he settles for returning the gaze with just as much intensity as the other.
They stare at each other for a long while before Chanyeol finally speaks.
“I’m sorry.”
Yifan snorts again. It seems to be all he’s been doing for the entire day. “For what?”
“Showing up late.” There’s a tense silence between the two; for a moment Yifan ponders if he wants to call Chanyeol out on whether or not he planned to stand him up, then decides against it. Why should it matter to him? Even if he didn’t turn up, there wasn’t a reason for the older to be angry in the first place. It was mainly his fault anyway; he was the one who owed the boy a proper apology, having been supposedly missing for a good 10 days without reason, probably even causing Chanyeol to... worry?
Yifan feels the beginning of his cheeks turning scarlet and slaps his inner subconscious with extreme force. “It doesn’t matter.” He gives a bitter laugh, tone clipped, “I didn’t expect you to come, honestly.”
“I wanted to.” Chanyeol looks miserable. “I was held up... after school activities... they wouldn’t let me get away.”
So convincing, the taller wants to smirk in amusement but holds back in time. There’s a question burning in his eyes as Yifan looks at the distraught boy, failing to understand why exactly he looks like he would give anything to be here. With him. His heart warms significantly when he realizes that Chanyeol is sincere.
“Can I ask you a question?” His voice is quiet, unsure.
Chanyeol blinks and nods.
“Why...” Yifan struggles to find the right phrasing. “...Why did you write all those messages for me?”
He feels the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach return even stronger than before when Chanyeol takes a moment to register the words, face turning an intense shade of red immediately after realization. Chanyeol shuffles uncomfortably, “I—”
He pauses, trying to come up with an explanation. The student bites his lip so hard while trying to piece together a reply that he almost ends up drawing blood; it’s almost as if he’s facing a dilemma regarding what to say. Yifan remains silent, choosing to stare at the younger’s mouth instead. He hopes it goes unnoticed.
He’s beginning to notice how close they are. How he would be able to graze the surface of Chanyeol’s perfectly-shaped lips if only he leaned in a tiny bit nearer.
“I don’t know,” Chanyeol says eventually, sounding strangely conflicted.
“You don’t know?” Yifan echoes. His focus isn’t on the words. He gazes up at Chanyeol—Chanyeol, with his eyes innocently wide open, lips moist and slightly parted, looking exactly like a lost puppy; and feels his sight blur. Heat pulsates through his veins.
Chanyeol, who he’s avoided for 10 days straight.
Chanyeol, whom he just can’t get rid of his attraction to.
Chanyeol, who Yifan wants nothing more than to kiss right now.
So he does.
Yifan stretches one hand out to cup Chanyeol’s face snugly in the curve of his palm, bringing said boy’s lips to his own, the other placed possessively on the back of his neck as he pulls the student closer to him. He feels Chanyeol’s body heat spread over his entire anatomy and knows that the other does too, as from the breathless gasp of surprise let out by Chanyeol’s plump lips that are now parted even more. Yifan takes this opportunity to press his tongue against his lips, begging for entrance, and is easily granted access with a soft mewl; said student arches into him unconsciously as Yifan’s tongue roams the cavern of his mouth, causing a thrill to run down his spine and the artist moans as well, temporarily breaking the kiss. A blinding flash of heat overcomes his vision and he pins Chanyeol roughly onto the ground before hard on a patch of the smooth, porcelain skin of his neck, incredibly and utterly .
“Yifan,” Chanyeol whispers brokenly, and the parched sound of his name coming from the younger’s throat is more than enough for him to send a frenzied flurry of kisses down his navel, Chanyeol jerking in pleasure at the contact and unable to control the sensual sounds he makes; the sounds Yifan loves. His hot breath grazes Yifan’s cheek as the artist attempts to Chanyeol’s pants sloppily, failing over and over again in his rush.
Then something seems to click within Chanyeol.
“Yifan—we can’t—” He pants, and the older gazes up at him, orbs filled with unadulterated desire: Chanyeol feels himself shuddering at how dilated Yifan’s pupils are, and ashamed at how badly he wants this as well.
But he can’t.
So he gathers all his strength and pushes Yifan away, feeling his heart pang at the loss of contact, and doesn’t miss the lost—and hurt—expression that flickers over said artist’s face. “We can’t,” he repeats sorrowfully, almost as though speaking to himself rather than the older.
“I’m sorry,” apologizes Yifan, genuinely distressed, “I—”
“I-I have a boyfriend,” Chanyeol stammers out, and Yifan takes a step back as though he’s just been socked in the gut.
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