meh

It was a young boy’s room.  Trophies piled on a dusty shelf, posters covered the baby blue walls, and the natural disaster of strewn clothes covered half the floor.  The fan hummed above them on the bed, spiraling a soft wind to battle the scorching heat of the evening.  A wooden drawer-dresser with a mirror on top faced the bed, a third of its drawers open, clothes spilled out from the edges. 

­­­­­­­Dongwoo rested his head on Howon’s chest, staring at the mirror across them.  He watches Howon breathing, his head laid back, gently tilted to the left, a mess of jet black strings draping over closed eyes.  Peace washed over his face, a blanket of serenity covering him that dissipated spontaneously when it wasn’t just the two of them.

It’s hypnotizing, looking into the clear glass, trying to find meaning for a life he never bothered to question.  He lets his fingers play with the hem of Howon’s shirt, peeling the shirt off and then covering him back up, slowly and repeatedly in a trance, as if he’d find some answers written on the skin beneath. 

Howon shifts his head, now to the right, and tucks his chin in the softness of Dongwoo’s sandy hair.  The more Dongwoo lets himself think, the less it makes sense to him.  He had never thought beyond the moment; it was always his habit to live in the now, and let the future run its course without his care.  But the future meant Howon leaving, going off to serve his duty, his country, all too soon and in the close break of dawn next morning.

Dongwoo understands why—or at least, he thinks he does.  Howon was a proud man now with the fighting spirit of a wild animal, and his pride pulled him by the reigns, always leading his actions before his thoughts.  Of course, Dongwoo admired that side of him; yet he despised it at the same time, because now he has to let him go.  He has to dig him out from under his skin and out of his veins, claw him away from the farthest corners of his heart, and freeze it in time and hopes of a safe return.

If he returns at all.

His eyes turn to tainted glass at the thought; hazed, murky, and etched in a sadness that stemmed from his core. 

“Stop it Dongwoo.”  

His voice slow but reprimanding, in the same control Howon always had over him.

For once, Dongwoo thinks he’s right, and decides to agree with him.  Then he also decides that he has to imprint himself in Howon’s memory, like a tattoo too dark and thick to be erased, like a reason for him to come back, to keep his promises and make his wishes come true.

Dongwoo exhales in a long, heavy, sigh, and Howon finally opens his eyes now.  He could feel the slender fingers wandering in the trenches of his chest, and the weight of Dongwoo’s leg on top of his reminds him that they’re still here. 

Soon, he finds Dongwoo’s fingers playing and tugging in the hair trailing down his lower abdomen, gliding past the left side of his pelvis to his thigh.  The hand rests gently on his thigh, the thumb pressing in slow circles through the fabric to his skin.

It stirs the urge in Howon to cry, to let his ego burst and dissolve, to let himself simply crumble under Dongwoo’s touch.  He closes his eyes, letting his head sink back in the pillow, his muscles relaxing into the soft mattress.  The bed stirs, and he feels the heat of Dongwoo leaving his side, only to scorch his chest with palms rubbing into the skin under his shirt.  He feels them roughly colliding with the dry tips of his s, and it makes him frown, his arms blindly finding their way to rake in Dongwoo’s hair. 

He doesn’t want to see him yet, so he keeps himself in the darkness, letting his other senses take over.  Dongwoo lazily pulls up Howon’s shirt, letting the cool air hit with his chest, waiting until he shudders in anticipation, and then comes a subtle push of his hands to the back of his head. 

Dongwoo obliges, opening his mouth, breathing heavily on top of the left side of Howon’s chest before his lips graze over the protruding lap of pink skin.  He darts his tongue to the tip of a , giving Howon a small taste