Work Text:
A world inhabited by both fae and man alike is not one for the faint of heart. The reaches of society formed upon a tumulus; the birth and death of all darkness accumulated under the pathways we now walk. Fairies pull themselves up from the hallowed earth on which mankind trespasses and with them bring tricks, tokens of the old world, only tangible to those who bear them, and sicks them on humans like rabid dogs. The penance they pay.
And Wonsang, a shining example of this penance, tasted butterflies on his tongue.
They were sweet like nectar, or honeysuckle depending on the species. The type of sweetness from a cake with too much frosting or an adoring relative you can’t remember ever meeting. A sweetness not wanted, not by him.
Who's to say what really brought it to fruition? Mother always told Wonsang to keep away from the woods, the ones skirting the road he took to school that were all he knew of skyscrapers, thick with moss and uprooted trees. Her warnings were made in vain. Not much can be done to curb a young boy's curiosity, not when it calls out to him by name. That’s what she blames it on - the forest, the day he returned home far later than a nine-year-old should, covered in scrapes and bruises and burning hot to the touch. Wonsang can remember hearing her cry into his fathers' arms when the hex manifested, saying that their children's disobedience cursed their bloodline. Easier than believing it’s hereditary because then the blame is hers to carry.
From then on whenever Wonsang uttered a word of thanks or bashful phrase there they’d crawl from his throat and he’d splutter, a kaleidoscope erupting into the gentle sky. Classmates played games to see who’d coax the most butterflies from him, which compliment would send him stumbling over his speech and into a swarm of swallowtails. “How strange,” they’d croon, dancing off the schoolyard and leaving him to worry over creatures not native to this environment.
The first time he said “I love you,” a goliath birdwing scraped its legs across his gums and left a bitter twinge of grapefruit in its wake.
Wonsangs heart lay barren on his lips, heavy and swollen from the burden. Blush could be brushed off but he couldn’t contain monarchs whenever he said hello to the pretty boy across the hall, or a mirage of red admirals from the touch of a hand. Always parched, arid, breathing growing more uneven with every caterpillar nesting in the leaves of his milkweed lungs. A gift to those who knew him, knowing no emotion could be hidden under the guise of calm, but a curse to the one who bore it.
Why me?
Often, he looks in the mirror, face flushed from hours of coughing after a phrase too earnestly spoken, and wonders why he not be blessed in the way others had. A girl a few miles from here spat gold and diamonds with every word. His brother, the pride of the family, sang with a voice of silk that bent the will of the most stubborn of men. Through luck and luck alone, the Unseelie watched them stumble into their pixie rings and took pity, granting them fame and fortune and every prideful thing in between.
“But if I am just slightly too emotional, I’ll fuck up the entire ecosystem.” He splayed fingers through his hair and grinned, and his reflection wavered, not used to being looked at for this long. “I’m like an. . . an invasive species. Or a parasite.”
Fae wrung splendors from the souls of man, velveteen puppets and playthings to suit their wiles. A long time ago, when Wonsang considered himself an outgoing and bright child, he held no qualms about the nature of these beings. But with every taunt, bruise, every visit to the nurse so he needn’t see his classmates, his dreamlike optimism came unwoven. Wonsang hated having to obsess over where people’s intentions lie. He hated feeling comfortable in his skin, hated noticing when his voice was too loud for the occasion.
Wonsang loved his personality, and his gift in theory, but only on anyone except himself.
One day he swore off speaking entirely, the day the moths appeared. Brought about during an argument with a friend, over something no longer important. The inevitable destruction of companionship born from circumstance alone. Tone too bitter, too honest, screaming in pride and then nearly biting a peppered moth that crawled over the gap in his teeth.
“Ooh, that’s new.” The friend crossed the room in only two strides and plucked the moth from his lips, pinching its wings between their thumb and forefinger. “Guess I know you mean it.”
3pms anger became 4pms regret. Sensibilities return all at once, a wave of disappointment crashing into Wonsangs chest, making him stumble. “I’m sorry, I- I swear I didn’t. Just please don’t hurt it.”
They never changed face, never even considered hearing his plea. Without a moment’s breath, they crushed the moth in their hands and stormed out, the door left open but the possibility of ever walking through it again was long gone.
Yeah, Wonsang didn’t speak much after that.
Moths weren’t as sweet as butterflies. Their wings shed dust which coated Wonsangs mouth and sometimes, the lingering resentment led them to halt right at his throat, hiding with choked back tears and thoughts unsaid. So many times he suffocated on his emotions, or more so the remnants they left behind.
Bitter. Bitter, so bitter. His chest filled with bile and a hundred bugs throwing their fragile bodies against his ribs pleading for escape. A curse.
After Wonsang graduated and moved a city over to go to college, he kept to himself, only speaking to those who already knew him. At work, at home, sitting alone in the park down the road and etching silly doodles onto the rain-damaged picnic tables. These were designs and characters he drew often, a strange fondness found in the lines of paper - or, in this case, on splintered wood. He breathed life into them, spoke through their likeness, without ever having to open his mouth. Lonely at times but oh so much better than the alternative.
". . .Hello?"
Wonsang almost fell back in shock, clutching his pencil with a white-knuckled grip. Yet what really surprised Wonsang wasn’t the sudden intrusion, rather it was who he saw when he looked up. The pretty boy from across the hall.
For the half-year Wonsang lived in that apartment, his nerve barely stood strong enough to say ‘ hey!’ or ‘ good morning!’, let alone muster the courage to ask his name. The days he spent avoiding people finally caught up to him by making him completely socially inept, apparently.
There were a few moments in his memory, vivid as a picture, where they'd crossed paths and exchanged the usual small talk you're forced to endure so your neighbors don't hate you. A quick complaint about the stress of exams, or an apology when bumping into each other in the halls. Never a name, never anything to pair with that face, that voice. Wonsang wondered if this is normal, slowly building the confidence to ask for the bare minimum of someone's name, or if he is just stupid.
When his and Wonsangs eyes met, the confirmation of recognition clicked in their brains, and the boy smiled so widely his eyes formed crescents. "Aah, I thought it was you! Though I couldn't tell with your face buried in the table- may I sit here?"
Dumbfounded, Wonsang nodded.
Internally, he screamed.
"It’s Wonsang, right?” He leaned across the table a little. Sunlight shining through red and orange leaves hit his head at such an angle that he almost looked to be glowing. The type of perfectly framed cinematography which only graces movie scenes, or so Wonsang thought. “I saw your name on the mailbox listings, right by mine. Figured it was time for a proper introduction. My name is Yechan."
Idiot, why didn't you think of checking there?
Wonsang nodded again, swallowing his growing unease. Recently, when he talks to someone, it lasts a few awkward minutes at best. He’d stifle his voice long enough for them to leave or lose interest. Not that he can do so here.
A beat of silence passed. Yechan pursed his lips, almost into a pout, and inched his hands towards the pencil marks Wonsang not-so-subtly tried to hide. "Are you always this quiet?"
“What? No.” Mentally, Wonsang cursed himself for not responding in the first place. “I talk a lot, too much sometimes. Which . . . probably doesn’t seem very believable.”
“Nah, I believe it. Don’t push yourself to talk, though.” As always, he sounded so playful, a whimsical note to his voice matching his stature. He also was being remarkably patient, which alone is enough to soothe the panic Wonsang felt.
"Ho-ly shit, these are so good!? Dude, I didn't know you liked to draw."
Fuck.
In typical Wonsang fashion, he got lost in his thoughts for too long, long enough for Yechan to sneak a glance at his drawings. Even the most polished pieces of art Wonsang is hesitant to show, flush amidst undeserved praise. This? Low effort scribbles? They are here as a prelude to the evening rain that'll steal their likeness away, not to serve as an icebreaker.
Wonsang genuinely couldn't handle hearing a compliment right now, not without the accompanying urge to fling himself off of the nearest building. The way Yechan delicately ran his fingers over the sketches in an awe-inspired trance didn't help matters.
"Aah- oh, they aren't anything really. I'm studying art but it's a placeholder for now until I decide on a major, since I have nothing better to do." It’s the truth, mostly. He also considered getting a degree in music production at one point but psyched himself out when it came time to enroll. This is a far more comfortable option. Safer.
"Comics as adorable as these are deserving of a full degree, I'd say." Yechan pointed to one of the drawings, a little raccoon with a cute hat, and tilted his head to the side. "This one looks like you."
Wonsang let out a strangled noise when the words 'shut up' got stuck in his throat, along with a very unwelcome winged guest, one which he logged down with a loud barrage of thoughts yelling don’t you fucking dare. "Liar. It does not ."
How rude. Wonsang is struggling to keep his composure and here Yechan is, laughing, wheezing to the point of tears. God, his laughter is contagious. "Definitely does. The resemblance is uncanny, actually, though you sounded more like a seagull."
"Wh- I- I'm not even going to dignify that with a response." Change the subject. "Uh, I always see you carrying an instrument around, a violin? Are you studying music?" Real smooth, Wonsang.
"Mmhm," he hummed his response in a tune that only he knows. Melodic. Wonsang wonders if he knows how to sing. "That's why I came here! It's so hard to find a college that actually holds the fine arts in high regard, so this is a nice change of scenery. I mean, everyone enrolled has the same passion I do, even if for something else.”
Ask the right questions and people will do all the talking for you. A trick Wonsang learned early on, preferring to listen rather than speak. Yechan needed an active listener like this, it seems, and his eyes lit up the moment he broached the subject, continuing on about a million other things for what felt like hours. He’s easy to talk to, a voice so soothing and comforting, like being in the company of a good friend.
Time lay forgotten till the street lights awoke, illuminating the long-abandoned roads with an orange hue. Beckoning them back home.
It was nice.
Yechan is nice.
For the first time in years, this conversation came from innocent intentions alone. No news of Wonsangs witch jinx went further than the comfort of his window where he whispered sonnets into the night air, sending cabbage whites flying in the hopes that soon their population would no longer plummet. Yes, no one here knew, and this means Yechan spoke to him just for the sake of speaking, not to treat him like a circus display.
He intends to keep it that way, which is easier said than done.
Wonsang is far from a quiet person. He is quick licks of flame and reckless ambition and a mind that moves faster than his body. As a child, he’s the one who sits inches away from plasma televisions and giggles at the way the static tickles his nose. He’s quiet because he has to be, not because he wants to, and it’s easier to shut up when no one is around to listen.
This makes Shin Yechan, the music student in room 203, both the greatest thing to ever happen to him and also a fucking nightmare.
~~~
Yechan is as charming as he is pretty, that’s for sure, and beyond this charm lies a sharpness in every glace. He carried gentle energy with him, a resignation of some sort. From where, who knows, but it followed him endlessly. Responsibility loomed over his shoulders, the desert at his door, like everyone relied on him but didn’t dare lift a finger to help.
How does one find the time to relish in their youth? To forget responsibilities and fleetingly, amongst order, bring chaos.
In Yechans case, his reverie is twofold.
The first of this is music. Stepping out of paradigm and into busy streets, a violin in one hand and a bow in another. Under the flashes of cameras, as the trill of his song echoes between utterances of praise, he is free. It becomes him, wholly and truly. Yechan and music are synonymous. He brings it to life where others cannot, and it does the same in return.
As for the second?
The moment their eyes met on that day, two months ago in the core of autumn, Yechan found himself immediately enthralled with the conundrum that is Wonsang. That’s not to say there wasn’t already an inkling of curiosity towards his neighbor. Anyone would be taken with the boy next door, of course, but up close? He was stuck under the nervous gaze of someone who couldn’t stop stimming with the hem of his shirt, and wow did he have pretty hands, ones as delicate as moonbeams. Many words came to mind, but Yechan settled for ‘Hello.” That was more than enough.
Wonsang is a recess of untapped energy, Yechan noted, always taking the stairs two at a time as though the world would leave him behind if he slowed down. Perpetually active, he taps pencils on his leg when his mind wanders and repeats his thoughts out loud, softly, assuming no one can hear. An adorably annoying distraction; making Yechan struggle to keep focus on the repetitive drones of mandatory lectures, lost in the feeling of Wonsang tracing the lines of his tattoos and coloring them in with highlighters.
The sun herself would stop and marvel, agasp at a being brighter than she. That is the way time slowed with Wonsang. Forever could spare a moment and in those moments, the comfortable silences, Yechan found a second escape. A time when his anxieties float away. When even mindless arguments and bickering are welcome.
Sometimes, Yechan feels like they’ve been close friends for years already. Maybe in another life.
Familiarity with the unfamiliar.
With more familiarity came more questions. Questions built on a foundation of sand, barely enough substance to form, let alone be asked. Yechan could tell Wonsang was hiding something - he isn’t stupid and that much is clear - but the dots wouldn’t connect. He felt like he was trying to solve a puzzle with no corners and four pieces missing.
Many ideas swirled in his head, but never did he anticipate the butterfly - a mourning cloak - that practically shot from Wonsangs mouth after he spent five minutes laughing at something Yechan said that wasn’t even funny. Like. . . at all.
They were sitting on the floor of Yechans apartment at the time, pages deep into a general history textbook, windows open to let in the dizzying chill of morning air. The maroon-winged bug unfurled and landed on Yechans knee, prompting a soft gasp from the boy. Butterflies always look delicate, a symbol of change and rebirth encased in their ever-fleeting lifespans. However, this particular one seemed even more evocative, bringing about a rush of pyrotechnic colors and memories. Nostalgia so intense he felt nauseous. An echo of the past, just out of reach.
Shaking these feelings from his head, Yechan slowly cupped the butterfly in his hands to take it outside. “Poor thing, you must be so scared. . . Here, I think you’ll like this a lot more,” he hummed, whispering encouragement to the butterfly where it lingered on the windowsill, and then watching in awe as it flew away.
When Yechan finally prompted Wonsang about this, whatever it was, his heart plummeted. Wonsang responded so tentatively, unlike himself, a hair's breadth away from collapsing. A veil of indignation, like he prepared for this a million times over and never saw a good outcome. There had been an unanswered prayer glimmering in his eyes. The hope, however in vain, that he’d wake up from this nightmare.
How strange, peculiar, the way he views it to be a shackle. Yechan thought nothing of the sort. While the definition of 'blessing' has been misconstrued by many, it isn't unheard of for a fairy to bestow gifts and treasures onto those they deem worthy. In youth, he’d sit watching interviews and documentaries about this phenomena, as would all normal children, so engrossed in their opulence his parents had to nearly drag him from the TV so they wouldn’t be late for church. The dimly lit pews of their congregation held secrets and the indulgences of altar boys, and the crushing, staggering honesty that not all men are created equal, despite what is advertised.
If anything, Yechan sees these blessings, these gifts, as something deserving of adoration and respect. Remarkable, unique, utterly fitting for an enigma like Wonsang.
"You'd be the first to think that." Wonsang struggled to act as though he wasn’t flattered by Yechans words, opting to lean his head back on the couch with eyes screwed shut. His face still burned with embarrassment, red hot, and therein lay another reason for his flushed complexion, one he’d never admit to. Still bubbling just below the surface, obvious and oblivious all the same.
"Doubtful.” The sun finally broke past the first line of buildings on the cityscape, peeking over a distant stock company that plagued the once pretty view. It rose twice on this side of town where the skyscrapers left nothing for the rest of us. Yechan stretched in its warmth and wrapped his arms around his legs, rocking slowly to the lilting of wind chimes. “What does it feel like? When the butterflies happen, I mean."
“It feels like-" A pause. Wonsang only moved his hands, gesturing up to no one. "Imagine one minute you’re fine and the next there’s a giant fucking bug in your mouth.”
"Vivid. Eloquent, really. You should be a poet," Yechan said between laughs. His chest hurt from the lack of air, a good kind of hurt, one that made his world dizzy. Wonsang rolled his eyes and picked up a pillow, throwing it at Yechan as hard as he could.
" Oww, rude. "
“Look who's talking. All you do is bully me.”
“Me? A bully? I’ll have you know I’ve never done anything wrong, ever, in my whole life. I am a perfect little angel.” Perfect little menace, more like. Yechan had to dodge a half-empty water bottle for that comment. "Did you ever try figuring out which emotions cause which butterflies? It would be easier to manage that way," he said.
“Wow, you ask a lot of questions.” More preoccupied with stopping it entirely, Wonsang never thought to study his symptoms. The mental energy required to constantly analyze every emotion and everything he said left no room for inquiry. He chewed the inside of his cheek, looking anywhere but Yechan in catlike avoidance, unable to admit his cluelessness.
"You didn’t?! My god, it's a good thing I'm here to help you." Yechan ignored the wave of complaints from Wonsang and flipped open to a random page in a spiral notebook. He began writing, leaning away from Wonsangs prying gaze. “I’ll take notes on your behalf! That way the stress won’t all be on you.”
Blind leading the blind. Watching the scene with eyes narrowed, Wonsangs heart did a pirouette, and he hated it. Like being a teenager all over again, caught up in a stupid, definitely meaningless crush. Ridiculous. I am ridiculous. "Are you really doing this?"
"I think the question you should be asking is are we really doing this, and the answer is yes. Now you're stuck with me for at least a few more months."
Cute. "So I can ignore you afterward?"
"Absolutely."
~~~
Winter thawed into spring, though its grip lingered. A layer of chill engulfed the whole city and children believed they were dragons, breathing out great gusts of air just to see the misty clouds it formed. When examining human nature you’ll find that children aren’t the only ones who pretend. Wonsang, too, indulged in a fantasy of his own making, pretending he didn’t notice as Yechans apartment slowly filled with flowers.
Hawthornes by the doorstep, asters on his bedside table. There were small pots of gardenias hanging right outside almost every window intertwined with Christmas lights Yechan refused to take down. Subtlety is not Yechans forte. He is more abstract, abstruse in the way he draws pink flowers across his notes and makes up silly songs of petunias and buttercups.
“Do you think your butterflies would like one of these?” He had asked once, poking a hummingbird feeder that sat untouched outside a downtown cafe. It was covered in a thin layer of precipitation and he used his finger to paint the shape of a heart on it.
“Maybe.” At the sight, Wonsang smiled. “I don't know, though. You act like I can communicate with them.”
Yechan hesitated for a long time, eyebrows furrowed. “. . . . You can’t?"
"No? . . . ”
“Yep, I knew that. Definitely knew that.” Comic books and superhero movies do well to rot one's brain, not that spiderman is known to talk to spiders. Under normal circumstances, he’d be made fun of for it, deservedly, but this weather is mind-numbing. The wind chill weighed on Yechans bones and burned down to his fingertips, raw and unfeeling. His nose and ears were tinged red from this bitter cold and he shivered, finding no warmth left in his coat.
There's always warmth to be found elsewhere.
With no warning, Yechan wrapped his arms around Wonsangs waist, in a back hug of sorts. Tightly, as though it was his lifeline. “I swear to god I’m about to freeze to death.”
Instead, Wonsang froze, feverish, soundlessly watching three holly blues fly off to nowhere. The sensation of Yechans face buried into his shoulder, him being too busy to even notice Wonsangs small fumble, is the only thing he remembers from that day. What remained faded into a gaussian blur, a muddling of consciousness. Nary a word, a murmur, could solidify more vividly than his turmoil. His senses, as always at the slightest touch, had been thrown into pandemonium. Both ethereal and vexing.
"Aak-! You can’t just steal my body heat.” Wonsang squirmed out of Yechans grip and his head filled with the sound of the others' bubbly laughter. Fizzy carbonated soda. Sugary. “We’re almost there and then you’ll be inside.”
“Wonsang, you are so tall, I’m sure you have warmth to spare,” Yechan said, a skip in his tone while interlocking his fingers with Wonsangs. “Oh, oh, could we stop at that flower shop? Floret Boutique, It’s on the way. Mrs Hwang called earlier and said she has a book for me.”
Wonsang didn’t let go this time. No, he let himself reveal in the feeling. Mindless self-indulgence. Maybe he's sybaritic, but he doesn't care. The endorphins flooding his brain, turning his vision red, were all he needed. “Not surprised that she has your number considering you’re there every weekend, but yeah, you don’t even have to ask. We've got more than enough time.”
Flowers. Cropping up in conversations whenever the notion crossed Yechans mind. The most consistent of this newfound flower fascination is his love for sunflowers. More romantic than roses, Yechan says, in the way that they always follow the sun. Shadowing her warmth, looking at her even when she does not shine. Unwavering, unconditional loyalty, trust beyond the textbook definition.
Such as Clytie to Apollo, the paragon of grief, who crawled from the ocean and rotted into that very flower, stuck wondering why people forget her name, known only for the act of watching her past love ride his sun chariot across the sky.
A love so profoundly tragic it immortalizes one after death, and a love so true it becomes a symbol, eons after the fact.
Somewhere deep within the campus, Yechan sits attentively, eyes holding a certain fondness and humor as Wonsang goes off on a tangent. It’s about some anime Yechans never seen, one he doesn't intend on watching, but he’ll listen like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. He is all but washed in the tide of Wonsangs breathing. And in that endless ocean, a smile bringing tsunamis, Yechan would gladly drown.
It seems sunflowers could learn from Yechan.
That very day felt crisp like school field trips at the break of dawn when your limbs still carried the weight of sleep, and the air smelled of cut grass and dew. Unimportant chatter filled the streets below, distant enough that specifics couldn't be made out but still Wonsang, who sat cross-legged by an open window, rested his chin on the railings and tried to pick out words. A game he played often, performing to an audience of one, making stories about the lives of people he would never know. They are but visiting guests, shadows of lifetimes and experiences so poetically unique.
It's distantly familiar to him. This scene, life drifting in waves while he sits, stunted, stagnant as pond water, lukewarm and festering. He watches passively, cars pass in a blur of smog and carbon, and he never stirs. Observing just like back then, back during the years of silence and breathing in secondhand smoke from friends chain-smoking newports out his broken kitchen window.
Those long nights walking alone, where he’d pace the same four dirt roads that lead everywhere, were ones soaked in acetone. In some twisted way, Wonsang longed to walk them again, to ache and thirst for fresh air like his body never healed, to exist only in relation to his reflection.
"Hello? Earth to Wonsang." Yechan snapped his fingers in front of Wonsangs face, who squeaked in response. He blinked a few times and ran his hand over the uneven wooden floor, reminding himself that things have changed for the better, not the worst. Come back to reality, he thought, and stay here this time.
"Ah- what's up?"
"Y’know, you get this dopey look on your face whenever you zone out. It’s cute." There goes that word again - cute. Said with insouciance, taken with less than grace. Yechan cooed at a nymph peacock butterfly, oblivious to Wonsangs death glare and the slight smile that followed after.
“If you’re just going to taunt me-”
“-No, no! I actually just had an idea, my best one yet, and oh my god, I had to run it by you immediately.” He crouched down on his tiptoes, using Wonsangs shoulder to balance himself before sitting beside him. Excitement crackled in his eyes like electricity, branches of lightning flickering in his pupils. “When I go busking, you should come with me.”
“I already do,” Wonsang said candidly. He insists upon it, actually. A hundred times over, Wonsang will watch Yechan practice and perform, and he’ll cheer like it’s the first.
“Not like that!”
“Then what. . ?”
“Shhhh, shush, just listen. I’ve heard you play guitar before and, I know you’ll never admit it, but you’re good. Like really good.” Yechan was unable to sit still, drumming his fingers on his thigh, nervous adrenaline pooling in his veins. The steady drip, drip, drip of apprehension. Welcome anxiety, but anxiety nonetheless. “I was talking to some friends the other day and I swear you’d kill on a bass guitar. Dude, maybe one day you could come down to the studio and-”
“Yechan.”
“Right, sorry, I’m getting off track.” Tongue-tied ramblings are common occurrences from the both of them, met always with endearing grins. Yechan shook his head quickly like a dog, rattling his thoughts back into place, and then he lit up. Beaming. “I know you’ve always liked this sort of thing, more than you let on. So I wanted- err, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d perform with me one of these days.”
Call Wonsang what you may. Whipped beyond belief, a love-stricken idiot - he is at his core loyal to a fault, and malleable like clay. As long as those around him are happy, contented, effervescent, then so is he. Had this been anyone else, anything else, he might have said yes for the wrong reasons, thinking of every detail but the comfort of his own. Reflect the joy onto himself, pretend it was his all along.
Much has changed in the past months - a testament to how good company can improve a person's state of mind. More assured, Wonsang took pause. Music is something he always has felt innately connected to, in a way he can’t describe. Programmed into his essence since birth. It allows him a chance to excuse himself from existence for as long as a playlist runs, recluding into maladaptive daydreams.
This little idea did sound appealing, Wonsang admits. He knew to experience music as a bystander, never as the proprietor. Gazing up at artists, idols, reeling in their refrains, dancing to personal stories woven into the fabric of songs. How do things shift when you’re standing on that stage? When you are the one receiving cheers, not the one cheering?
Opportunity doesn’t present itself for no reason.
What’s there to lose?
“Yeah alright, you win. I mean, no guarantees, but I’ll at least try for you.”
To say that Yechan overreacted is an understatement. He enveloped Wonsang in a bone-crushing hug, repeating ‘thank you’ so many times it no longer sounded like words. An enthusiasm so infectious it bled into every pore of those around him, Wonsang being no exception. “Yechan, please, you’re killing me.”
“Aaah, sorry! Are you okay?” He fumbled back in a panic, concern vanishing as quickly as it appeared when he saw how Wonsang dramatically clutched his torso in mock injury, like a renaissance painting in the flesh.
“All of my ribs are broken beyond repair, so I could have you charged for attempted murder.” Wonsangs grin was lopsided, raccoon-like. “Other than that I’m totally fine.”
“You are insufferable,” Yechan said, deadpan.
“I’m hilarious.”
“Humor is subjective.”
“To you.”
Yechan blinked, expressionlessly. “Maybe I will kill you.”
“I’d like to see you try.” Although fun, Wonsang couldn’t keep pushing Yechans buttons, for there still was something nagging at the back of his mind, gnawing away at his conscience. The thought of why Yechan came to him, of all people, when he is a molotov cocktail of anxiety and inexperience, volatile. It doesn’t make sense. Not to Wonsang.
What made him pick me?
“Wait, back on topic, I’m seriously honored. That you thought of me first, that is, when you could have easily gone to a friend from school who's far more qualified than I am.”
“It’s not about qualifications,” Yechan teased. Quirking his head, an aura of mischief around him, he leaned forward and kissed Wonsang on the corner of his mouth. Lingering long enough to steal the breath from his lungs, the sense from his body, but not as long as Wonsang wanted. “Music is my whole life, but you are too. So, really, the honor is all mine.”
Oh.
There it is.
Materializing on Wonsangs lips, a mirage, a queen alexandra's birdwing. Shimmering emerald green wings painted with black stripes, iridescent. Light refracted off of its wings in silvery rays of golden thread. You could almost reach out and play them like chords on a lyre. Yechan did so, in a way, bending those rays with his slender fingers to brush the butterfly off of Wonsangs starstruck face. “I wonder what that means.”
He looks right at me.
“Don’t even start.” Despite Wonsangs attempts to act unfazed, he was about to pass out. Literally losing the ability to see or think straight, pun not intended. The world turned on its axis in less than five minutes, courtesy of Yechan, who now bounded up with sprite-like energy and rested against the wall, phone in hand. Outwardly tranquil, but if you looked closely, you could see how he too was shaking ever so slightly, a twitch in his hands.
Not at anything else, not the butterfly. Only at me.
He’s the first person to do that.
“Fine, I’ll let it be for now.” Yechan held up his hands in surrender, putting extra annunciation on the for now. Letting out a silent sigh of relief, Wonsang turned back to the window he was so enamored with before and closed it. His reflection stood stark against the grayscale backdrop.
Wonsang smiled at it.
The smile it returned wasn’t disingenuous. Not this time.
Once again, like clockwork, the rest of the day faded into a watercolor blur. Wonsang had to stop losing track of days before he lost them all. He never lost track of what really matters; focusing on that is what let the rest slip loose, but he didn’t care. Staring up at his popcorn ceiling, the shock of early afternoon dampening into euphoria, Wonsang wouldn’t dare think of anything else.
Because finally, with sweet, sweet panic, everything clicked into place. What one finds written in the pages of a book, the lines of a poem, a tale older than what history can recount. A word dragged through horrid filth and decay until the meaning no longer stands true, bereft - equivocally unorthodox. When you stop and realize this isn't how people feel about their friends.
When the wax wings of Icarus melt and he falls, and how brilliantly he does fall.
Beauty is found in the fall, however romanticized it may be. With wind and blood rushing in your ears, tumbling down from the heavens you sought to hold, it lasts longer than expected. Things move in slow motion. Nebulous colors blind your vision, like looking through a broken kaleidoscope. It’s adrenaline, and it’s fear, and it’s addictive, and it’s worth it in the end.
This was not the fall for Wonsang.
He fell the moment he met Yechan, and he'd been falling ever since.
This was the impact. The end, if you will.
A kiss is an empty action. Done by many, meant by few, and always proving nothing. Gravity's disciple, however, a gesture stuck still in Wonsangs brain, carries the weight of lifetimes, and tore him down with ease, back down to equilibrium.
His whole life.
Me.
Exhaustion ruled over Wonsang, and his body cried out for sleep, but he couldn’t keep his eyes closed. Even with his strength ebbing away, joyful confusion and answers that evaded him were enough to keep the gears turning.
I’m his whole life? Did he really say that? No, there's no way. He was being hyperbolic, had to be, or it was a figure of speech, or- hell, why do I care so much?
Wonsang rolled over and buried his face in a pillow, groaning in frustration. Emotions are tiring and chaotic by design, with no natural rhyme or rhythm. Archaic prose written with zero purpose, like teetering on the precipice of a great unknown and not knowing where to go next. Should he feel ecstatic? Nervous? How does he proceed from here?
They say life is a conundrum of esoterica, and love is no different.
He decided, in a half-sleep daze, that some questions don't need definitive answers, and even if answers are to be found he is much too tired to look. Instead, Wonsang focused on the lesser of the two, the one that's easier to prove, clearcut, letting himself be excited. Butterflies fluttered in his chest, and for the first time, they were metaphorical.
Yechan kissed me.
And it was sweet like strawberries.
maybe we have known each other before, in another life, but it doesn’t matter, not when I embrace you presently, truly, in this one.
i can only hope to meet you in every single life hereafter.