But for every virtue there is a vice, and with the beauty that is the earth and the lands on it comes the vice that comes in the form of Park Chanyeol, a lanky, goofy fellow who knows nothing but chaos. Call Kyungsoo peace—though it may be up for debate—and Chanyeol is immediately chaos. They are at opposite ends, at different poles, different sides of the spectrum. Yet Park Chanyeol is an attachment to the earth, a burden Kyungsoo must bear as he creates masterpieces of his own.

In one instance, Kyungsoo spends three decades building the image of his dreams—beautiful, curved, subtle slopes painted a light green under a faint morning light, trees that bend so delicately to provide shade but also aesthetic comfort, and a stream running through—no, treading through the in-betweens in a way that only tickles your ears as you cup your hands under the crystal clear water. It is a picture of paradise that becomes reality; he had spent three painstaking years creating this exact architecture with his bare hands, until they were calloused, until he had nothing left to do but shed tears on the first day, watching as the remorseful rain splashed on the hills like a mother does over her child when she realizes he has grown up. He watched for days as little humans trickled in among the right places to convene, creating humble homes, having petty arguments, settling disputes with negotiations and distaste—but they are humans and they are beautiful, he thinks. He wishes he could mold them, too. He closes his eyes that night with peace upon his eyelids, his chest hollow with air and happiness, his breathing calm and regular. All is well.

But in the morning, he opens his eyes not because of the twinkling melodies of birds but because of a putrid taste in his mouth and an acrid odor pinching his nose; something is wrong, he realizes and he looks down into his picture of paradise that has oh so quickly descended into a picture of hell. And just in the corner of his eye he can see the back of Chanyeol’s head. He can pick out his cackling laughter among the swooning mourns of the trees, his mocks and his spiteful remarks sparked from sarcastic jealousy. Tears spill this time, not in light drops but in heavy, fat droplets that stick to the ground until it floods, until the burning ashes and the charred remains of his masterpiece is drowned in his angry tears.

Chanyeol is like that. Kyungsoo must be weary of him whenever he makes a masterpiece, for when it is too good, Chanyeol sniffs it out like a dog does for mischief and gallops over to hurriedly crush it to its “rightful pieces,” as he so often comments. Sighs are common in Kyungsoo’s mortal world, and so are Chanyeol’s biting laughter, the sweltering heat and biting smell that only comes after a good forest fire.