(for latchedwindows) the uncertainty principle ✸ part 2 of 2
❊ for: latchedwindows
❊ title: the uncertainty principle
The sign on the nearest convenience store reads Hongdae.
He’s on the road, first lane, hands on the steering wheel. The regular smell of leather picks up his nose; there’s also a hint of musk somewhere. The running noise of a motorcycle on the other side trails him off his stupor. He’s not the only person occupying the sport coupe though; there’s a mop of black hair facing the street side, soloing lyrics of the folk song playing. It comes off as low murmurs whispered to the glass, but there’s still a note of melody holding on it.
A car blows off its horn, penetratingly loud and annoying. He looks up front; the traffic light displays green. Immediately he stomps on the clutch and shifts the gear. He moves on a moderate speed, going straight. The voice of the man goes higher, prepping up for the chorus’ tempo and oh. How familiar.
“Jongin?” Eyes on the road, he spares a quick glance to the other. Kyungsoo faces him, eyes narrowing.
“Hey.” Jongin replies, sounding as natural.
“It’s the second verse. You’re supposed to sing your part.”
“Oh. I just-”Shit. Chewing on his bottom lip, he sorts out a response. “I went off track… Sorry.” The last sentence proceeds, mending for the frown plastered on the face.
The other sighs, lazing his back on the seat. “It’s okay. You’re tired. You even changed your shirt, we’re not even halfway there.” Kyungsoo crosses his arms, his voice laced with guilt-trip. “You have to make it up for me though.” If Jongin nearly gapes at the other’s playful tone, he doesn’t show it.
“Then, what should I do?”
Kyungsoo turns towards him, beaming. “Eat 2 of my cinnamon rolls later and we’re good.” He grins, amusement latched on his tone. “With raisins.”
He wishes for more traffic lights to prolong the ride. Traffic congestion will do too. Jongin is pretty sure they’ll never arrive at the right place if he doesn’t turn right or left even once. Jongin shifts the gear neutral and lets go of the gas, hoping his relief isn’t apparent when the countdown ticks from 90.
He does a quarter turn, fully facing Kyungsoo. They’re a few feet apart, but the tenderness stretched on the other’s smile pulls a string of bliss within, and turns up the corner of his lips to a certain extent. It’s the feeling that something is attached and assigned, and the way Kyungsoo looks at him is a signal fire of bond.
Kyungsoo leans forward to the dashboard, pulling out the thin stack of CDs from the glove box. “Want me to change the playlist then? This time it’s Beatles.”
Later, Kyungsoo hums to the songs, drumming palms to his legs along the beat. As the road turns to a curve, Kyungsoo opens a conversation.
“Hey.”
“Yes?”
“I know you’re not supposed to talk while driving, but there’s this kid…” The statement ends soft and quiet.
“Go on. What about it?” There’s a pinch of relish in him when his words fall off normal. Jongin steals a glance, looking front and back at the other.
Kyungsoo purses his lips, dropping his head. “He told me he-he wants to be like me when he grows up.” Jongin admits to it that there’s a part of him melted when he hears the shy glint on the voice. “And I don’t know. I just… I think it’s cute.”
“No, you’re awesome,” comes abrupt from his lips, “That’s cute. And great. You’re great.”
It’s an upsurge of your ego, when you know someone aches to stitch their lives into something similar as how you have grown. It’s a good weapon against self-doubt and puts you to where negativity is absent. It could be a tide of encouragement that keeps you going.
Kyungsoo laughs lightly, that laugh someone does to hide their embarrassment. “He has to practice more in keyboard, still and all.”
Jongin finds himself nodding at the new idea about the other. “That means you have to teach him intensively.”
“No, that means I’m a sucker for cute students that I want to buy him his own keyboard.” Kyungsoo chuckles to himself for favoring someone, hitting Jongin’s shoulder once. And the giggles town down the pop music, contagious and warm enough to smear a chuckle on his own. From his view, the gleam of the sun casts in Kyungsoo’s smile, rays cascading in the skin beautifully.
“It’s really, really flattering to be honest.” Kyungsoo says, and right away he feels himself being pulled down by hands on either side of his face. Still he has his eyes on the road and his mind goes into a flinch when he feels the other’s lips smacking his cheek.
The hands release him and he swivels back straight in his seat. The steady and content humming beside him tells it’s something normal, but the jolt in him tells otherwise. His palms feel clammy over the steering wheel.
Jongin steps further on the gas, weaving between pimped black Escalade and a Rover. He throttles on the last lane, a tree shade coming into view, and the engine ticks down as he steps on the break.
It’s a web of matters boiling him in pieces of ambiguity.
“Why did we stop?” His fingers twitch from the seeping worry in the other’s demeanor.
“I can’t do this.”
“Why?” Kyungsoo asks, nibbling in his bottom lip. “Did you forget the way to my parents’ house?”
In the clatter of inner tension Jongin looks down, feeling very aware of the eyes following his jitter. He’s sorry. He isn’t supposed to do that. Yet, his fingers trace the lap belt sash intuitively. It feels like everything is ticking down, and it blows off when he unbuckles the seatbelt.
“Wait. You,” Kyungsoo grips his arm, and Jongin doesn’t like the way the hand trembles. “Three years, Jongin. Three years. You told me you are ready.” Kyungsoo reminds, his voice a trek between brittle and accusing.
“You, and I am-this-” Jongin averts his gaze. The surrounding looms in him-dashboard topped with nodding dogs, and the never-heard pop rock playing but it perfectly fits his taste. The way dejection hovers Kyungsoo’s face and the slit of rationality knocking him out tell-he can’t be ruining this.
Jongin bites his lip, guilty for the man fidgeting, legs bobbing up and down, like waiting. What does Jongin know? He, no, they might be living an ideal life. He’s been immersed in this fake tale and bestowed upon this repetitious routine with Kyungsoo, who else, making a crevice in his logic.
“I’m-I’m sorry.” Jongin begins again, this time leaning towards the man, palming Kyungsoo’s knee to stop jittering. “It’s okay. I’m just nervous.”
Kyungsoo sighs, like he’s heard the reason a lot before. Not the exact words Kyungsoo would like to hear, but it’s better than what he feared. Slowly he tilts his head towards Jongin and opens his mouth, no words coming out.
“You scared me there.” Kyungsoo tries again, the humor underlying looking forced. “If you’re going to leave me, then not here please. You forgot I can’t drive.”
“I’m sorry.” Jongin repeats, this time more soft-spoken. The other lays his head on Jongin’s shoulder, and he draws Kyungsoo closer to him. The brunette strands brushing his nose smell like candles, like the apple ones warming his home. “Just, put up the GPS for me.”
Jongin pulls the sash down low in his pelvic and clicks the seatbelt latch, ignoring the fact that Kyungsoo perfectly fits in his arms. Kyungsoo pulls himself up from Jongin, and he doesn’t realize it is a radiant day until the sun rays accentuate those brown, gleaming eyes.
“Jongin?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t worry. You’re okay. We’ll be okay.” This is how it’s supposed to be.
It’s just cabbage stir fry in his box again, today.
Cross out the ‘just’; his lunch has always been that bland, even in favored days. Still, he believes his skills outrun his friends’ ever since he moved out to here in Suwon, where the ingredients are cheaper than usual. There was a day a resolve curtained his kitchen. He salvaged a potential chef in him, step-by-step following the list as the chef made the Bistro Chicken exquisite, but his product is anything but. He has an excuse. Those chefs had trained for years; he’s had minutes. Sometimes the trials don’t see the end of the horizon, for Jongin withdraws too soon from the plans of a sumptuous meal.
“By the way, Yunho gave me your conference materials.” Chanyeol pauses from his tea as he latches to a new subject. “I reviewed the outline a bit.”
Jongin flinches at the expectant tone, obviously a shred of pressure budding in him. “Why didn’t he direct it to me?”
“Well I don’t know.” The other shrugs. “Maybe he wants me to look at it, you know, finally seeing me eye-to-eye in scientific terms, seeing my worth more than a literal paper cutter.”
“I call dibs on your first paycheck.” He chuckles lightly, his chopsticks poking on the cabbage chunk.
“Rude,” Chanyeol groans, his posture resigned on his seat. He sips on his tea, abruptly putting the china away from the burn. “Anyway, about that conference.” Chanyeol clears his throat.
“What?”
“Don’t fuck it up. Show Yunho there’s someone out there he should watch out.”
“You’re seriously telling me that here, in his pantry?”
Jongin chooses not to pursue the flock of strain weighing him further. It will be his first public speaking, out of a supervision once handed out by his university. And even though he knows he’s pulled himself together, there’s still positively tense and uptight selfhood fragmented somewhere in his machismo.
“It’s just happening here, Chanyeol. And I’m just standing there to introduce the topic. Don’t make it sound too big.”
“I’m not making it big. Plus,” He slightly ducks down, his voice shifting stern. “I’ve heard Quantum Tech reps are sitting in.”
Chanyeol smiles wryly, and it seems to him that Jongin’s supposed to be enthralled. He shrugs, his hand rubbing off the residue in his mouth.
“So you hate Yunho.” Jongin supplies rather than asking.
“Maybe. But in contrary,” Chanyeol stretches forward, stealing a piece of his hardly prepared recipe, “he’s admirable. I want to be like him someday.”
“You want to be like him?”
“You don’t?” Chanyeol asks, and his voice exclaims like Jongin should be ashamed. It’s always like this with him. “Rich, but that goes without saying. A global force. He’s larger than this room. What more could you ask?” Chanyeol exaggerates most of the time, but figuratively he’s not wrong. Jongin hums in approval.
“Can I ask something hypothetical?” Jongin changes the subject, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of water. He takes a sip, and lets out a satisfied yowl. Chanyeol raises an eyebrow, tapping his fingers on the table.
Jongin clears his throat. And before he thinks the question is too awkward, he mutters. “Is it okay to flirt over the phone?”
“Oh my god.” Chanyeol exclaims, and to Jongin he is overreacting. “You’re into those kinds! I didn’t know…”
Jongin squeezes his eyes shut as he rubs the sides of his nose. He chooses not to provoke more of his friend’s absurdity, so he sighs and gets straight to the point. “What if there’s this guy you want to know more?”
“Breaking news. This isn’t high school. Confess personally.”
“Again, this is hypothetical, if I didn’t make myself clear.” Jongin picks up a portion, chopsticks squeezing tight together enough for the food to fly out. The food isn’t warm on his tongue anymore.
“Meet him. If you do, you won’t be bugged anymore.” Chanyeol advices sternly.
But he knows he can’t, not when Jongin’s just a mere disembodied voice and Kyungsoo has become so much more than that.
“Jongin, your cup noodle’s getting cold.” Chanyeol says as he fishes out his bento box, apparently still hot as the rice steams air up, the chicken cut looking rich with its sauce. Jongin thinks he wants some of that sushi.
The door creaks as Jongin goes in. He pinches the ridge and twists the button, locking the door from the inside. It’s the room where the sun shines the least.
He turns on the lights; the room still illustrates dull colors. In the middle of the room had a shelf that differs in size too huge, but as dusty as others. Jongin sidesteps through tables of flask forms and leyden jars, looking like they’ll crumb if he touches. The colliding steel spheres catch his reflection, though their noise marks make the image dense to look at.
Jongin saunters slowly up the deck, and pulls out the cloth dressing the tacky chalkboard. He covers his nose as soon as dust comes into view. His eyes dart up the erasure lines and scratches, and the whole board empty, like it needs to be filled. This is where equations fill his head.
Jongin is no expert, but he needs to check.
The chalk feels thin in his fingers. Jongin begins with a circle. The world. He continues with the relative state formulation, which underlies the basics of this mechanic. The interpretation falls off his thoughts, to his hand writing down every probability whichever those late night book reads and lecturers have poured in him. Then comes the equation, the Dirac notation where it justifies the “splitting”. The handheld apparatuses behind him listen to the chalk marks as he jots down the subclass measurements, and erases with his palm a line branch of numbers which have been derived into a void. And when everything starts to make no sense, after a few objections from his part, he finishes with the board almost filled.
He finds himself looking back at the circle. He adds one beside it, and another circle on top. And another. Again. Jongin steps back to study the work. These circles differ in size, and some are drawn thicker in line.
His forehead creases in contemplation, staring at the board whether it answers his question or not. He reaches into his pocket, and purses his lips as his thumb hovers the name Do Kyungsoo.
The ringing sound fills the silence as his eyes scope the equations once again, and it takes almost a minute before Kyungsoo answers.
“Hello?” comes off soft, and a bit civil, and that’s the same voice Jongin has always known to heed for. He huffs with finality before he changes his mind.
“It’s me, Jongin,” says his voice echoing in the room. “I just want to say something really quick.”
Jongin grits his teeth, and when Kyungsoo chooses to be silent, he continues. “You know what’s happening, right?”
“I’m sorry?” Jongin can hear the unease in Kyungsoo’s voice, but he can’t stop.
“Kyungsoo,” Jongin bites his lip, hearing himself the first time he’s mentioned the name. He picks up a chalk and draws another circle. “No one ever sees two branches of reality. This, it defies everything!”
“I am… very much honored that you call me whenever you’re drunk.”
“No! You think you’ve got strings to play my mind. I’m telling you, stop following-” The other line pulses in beats.
Jongin grounds his jaw in frustration, the glass of his phone curving more than usual when he presses home. He picks up a rug and hastily erases everything he’s written, not minding the dust sticking in his dark shirt, tiptoeing when needed.
He dumps the rug in the compartment when his watch beeps. 6:00 pm. Half of his work day has been skipped drowning in enigmas.
Jongin apologizes the same day, under the energy and chill the nightlight brings. He resorts to texting, refusing to hear the other, and tells that indeed, he was drinking. Kyungsoo tells him that it’s okay, and that ends their conversation. Simple as how it should be.
He’s almost blinded by the phone’s sheen under the comfort of his sheets. He starts with that thread, and then the call logs. Come round after a few scrolls and clicks, he sees Kyungsoo’s name, swallowing the hesitation well as he presses delete, hoping to end his ties with the man. And with that he calls it a day.
The silver disc above him rains gentle blues in his features. People have been hyped up about stargazing, gushing about its seeping romance, and Jongin now understands why. The cricket sounds buzz in the background, but Jongin continues to admire the hundred glinting lights.
“I knew it. You’re not gonna stop.”
The damp edges of the grass touch his cheeks. Jongin wishes Kyungsoo has heard what he said, though he had muttered it softly and low. Jongin pushes himself up and ruffles his hair clean from the remains, his arm supporting his weight.
There’s a leg almost clinging to his, and the patterned ups and downs of the chest tell him the man is asleep.
Jongin tries to count the stars, immediately recognizing a common constellation. The Ursa Major. He thinks the heavenward has never been this well-formed. He gives up; there’s an infinite lights, blinking at the two of them. He shifts his gaze to his left. Kyungsoo’s silent demeanor trickles repose, and pacifism, that kind when someone’s having a good sleep. If sleep is a pie of death, then what are dreams?
A little flex of his leg muscle has the other wincing. Kyungsoo blinks, his face scrunching as he rubs off the dampness in his eyes.
He hears a groan, and soon Kyungsoo sits on the same level beside him. He feels a tap in his chin, and as he turns, Kyungsoo’s mouth curves up. And the delight reaches him, like pulling him down deep there, the body beside him being the source of warmth in the frigid earth they’re sitting at. A smile forms in his mouth as well.
Kyungsoo’s hand creeps on his side, and in response Jongin shifts, allowing the arm to curve around his waist.
“See that star?” Jongin peers up at the sky, a finger pointing upwards.
Kyungsoo squeezes his eyes, leaning lightly towards Jongin’s side to follow his point of view.
“I’m not sure what you’re pointing at. There’s too many of them,” Kyungsoo says, a few second of focus after.
“Congratulations, you now have travelled through time.” Jongin gives him a lopsided grin, his voice playful. Kyungsoo heaves, humor bordering his lips as it pushes down.
“What do you mean?”
“These stars that you’re seeing are very, very distant, that you’re practically looking back hundreds, or even thousand years ago.” Kyungsoo’s head jerks back, his mouth slightly open, turning upwards.
“How did you know that?” Kyungsoo inspects the night again, this time with more interest.
“Google.” Jongin says aloof, his chin held high.
“And some of them,” Jongin continues. Kyungsoo turns his head, listening intently. “are so dense that a spoonful of its material is heavier than the sun.”
The other’s mouth puckers, his eyes widening. “You’ve been studying behind my back, aren’t you?”
Jongin scratches his head, elbow raised high as Kyungsoo chuckles.
“So Newton,” Kyungsoo clears his throat, slowly lying down, his arms crossed up in the back of his head, “are we going to see shooting stars tonight or not?”
“Shooting stars,” Jongin follows after, propping himself up with an arm, “are not really shooting. They’re just trails of dust that comets leave behind.”
The smaller turns his body, so they’re facing each other. “Well, that’s kind of disappointing.”
Kyungsoo shuffles towards him, close enough that Jongin sees the covert pout forming from the other. It’s incredible, how the dimly lit moon still highlights Kyungsoo’s beautiful features.
“Do you always wish whenever you see one?” Jongin mutters, his voice relaxed.
“I’ve never seen one. But yeah, I will if I do.” It comes off soft as a whisper to the grass.
Jongin ignores the hitch in his breath when Kyungsoo laces his smaller fingers to his, choosing instead to revel in the intrusion once again.
“What are you going to wish then?” He asks, his head tilting. Kyungsoo angles towards him again, the hair strands almost tickling his chin.
“I wish,” Kyungsoo buries himself fully in Jongin, his fingers trailing his angles and he thinks that’s kind of adorable. “I think I-I don’t want to go home yet.” His chest feels the warm breath when Kyungsoo mumbles.
His fingers twitch, like he wants to do something to the stuttering man, and when he bundles his fingers through the other’s hair, he thinks he can sleep soundly under the expanse of stars before them.
Jongin sighs. It feels peculiar to see himself holding someone close as this, but when Kyungsoo smiles against his shirt, it doesn’t feel like first time at all.
“Well, do you want to know a secret then?” He asks. Kyungsoo lurches back, gently slipping from his hold, frowning. But Jongin’s hand stays on his nape. “What’s wrong?”
“I just thought that,” Kyungsoo sighs, the corner of his mouth pressed. “I already know all your secrets.”
Jongin blinks at that, a crack breaking in his grin. Just how palsy-walsy is he with Kyungsoo? “Well here’s another one.”
Jongin shifts up, his eyes looking the same level with Kyungsoo.
“I have a cluster of worlds growing in me.” Jongin breathes, his head drooping forward a bit. His fingers kindle at the flush of the other’s neck.
“Sounds like a pick-up line.” Kyungsoo deadpans, and slowly his mouth twitches in amusement. “And?” Kyungsoo reaches behind his ear, tucking a strand. The night doesn’t feel cold anymore when the hand stays on his cheek.
“And,” Jongin parts his lips, the words tuft, stuttering within. “You’re… always there… in each one of them.”
The cold air picks up Kyungsoo’s fringe. Kyungsoo tries suppressing his giggles by biting his knuckles. He sneaks into the crook of Jongin’s neck, so that he’s pillowing his arm.
“What are you without me, really?” Kyungsoo says with a forced grin of bashfulness.
Jongin hovers on the other’s frame, and the proximity surges in suppressed heave when Kyungsoo’s hot breath brushes his jawline. The velvety sky reflects so much in Kyungsoo’s eyes when they flutter, as he chews on his bottom lip, the corner of his mouth tugging up.
Whether Kyungsoo leans in or not, he doesn’t know. A blink after another the damp grass turns into his soft mattress. His mouth clips, curving down as his skin feels dank and soggy with the blanket pining him down.
He shifts away from the heat, turning into positions so that slumber takes over him.
Tuesday sky grumbles as it wakes. The thrill of the city now lies in dusk of grays, with the clouds hanging low and heavy. Seeing this, Jongin hurries his steps.
He rakes in coffee that morning, stopping by the vending machine before turning for the lift. He takes a sip, letting the liquid diffuse in his taste buds. He winces at the bland taste, but he doesn’t complain. He needs his caffeine fix.
“Good morning to you too.” He almost drops his cup when Chanyeol whispers in his ear. He opens his mouth, ready for scolding when he sees his friend stepping away, waving something up.
“Chanyeol, I’m counting to five.” Jongin sighs, eyes shut and mouth twisted. “Give me my phone.”
His face contorts in gruff as the man raises his eyebrow upon intervention, looking like he’s seen something.
“That shit is private!” He yells a bit too loud, making the other employees glare at him.
Chanyeol sticks out his tongue in banter, and Jongin curses the coffee in his hand.
“The vet,” Chanyeol begins the list, audible enough to make Jongin squint his eyes in question, “me, Sehun, Sehun, the vet, me. Jongin, you need to get out.”
“Did you just go through my call logs?” Jongin asks, his voice up and grating.
“I’m not done yet.” Chanyeol checks his messages, and Jongin hoists up his cup, gulping fast despite the hot drink.
Jongin snatches back his phone with force, and this time Chanyeol doesn’t budge. He walks past the people to the lobby, leaving the other behind.
“Hey,” Chanyeol strides, his hand putting pressure in his shoulder to delay him, “You said you were flirting with someone. I didn’t see the name there.”
“Well, not anymore.”
The elevator blinks sounds, signaling up. Jongin avoids Chanyeol’s skeptical look, opting to go through the rush of a busy morning, his body brushing others as people start to go in. Jongin chooses to stand near the landing, and the other skips his step to push himself in.
There's a feeling somewhere that’s incessantly poking at him, like a blemish constantly reminding him of his mistake, but before the regret surfaces, he makes sure to shove it down.
“Man, I expected so much from you.” Chanyeol hisses close, though his gravelly voice echoes in the whole lift.
The door closes them in, and he doesn’t churn when the lift goes up the shaft.
“Fourth floor, please.” Jongin tells the operator, his hand fixing his sleeve.
Jongin is grateful that the rain had cowered into its homestead that afternoon, so that he needs not to worry about his laundry getting all wet.
Reverie cuts short when he comes home to a package knocking on his door step. He stoops down to the box, and puts his hands flat on the side and taps, like checking its weight from the way it makes sounds. He cages the box in his tough toned arms, and pulls up a knee for support when he punches in the passcode.
The door doesn’t beep in acknowledgment.
He tries again, this time punching in the combination deeper. He puts down his knee and puts up the other, as it gets tired. By the fourth try he almost wants to bang his head somewhere, as realization starts to hit him bulls-eye.
His eyes start to wander the flaps of the package, and it reads that particular name he’s very familiar with.
“Of course.” Jongin sighs to no one in particular, both of his hands brushing his hair up, like raising the white flag.
And maybe this time he’s got very used to it that there’s a part of him that doesn’t mind, that he learns to raise his leg back up against the wall, waiting for that particular presence.
The type of the flooring is not the ideal for soundless hallway, but it definitely comes in handy for crime preventions. He almost blanches as the squeaks creep up his system when footsteps glide into it, and there he is.
“Wow,” is the first thing that Kyungsoo tells him, stopping just a few strides away. Kyungsoo’s hair is in messy shags, his fringe sticking to his clammy forehead. A shade of pink glitters the other’s cheeks, and he thinks that’s kind of cute.
“You’re,” Kyungsoo pauses, jaw dropping a bit, and drawing it up back to put his lips tight, “you’re not blonde anymore.”
Jongin trails his fingers in his locks, staggering. He sees some of the strands in his peripheral, still black as ever. He needs a haircut soon.
“Thanks.” He mutters still, not knowing whether that surprised look from the other means an approval or not.
Kyungsoo brings up the package in his hold, one hand punching in the correct combination.
“This,” he looks at the box, “is my gift for you, actually. But you won’t see it until tomorrow.” Kyungsoo’s lower eyelids contract, his mouth curving upwards.
“Thanks.” He says again, eyebrow lifting in curiosity. He looks at the box, and probably that could fit a whole heavy set of encyclopaedia, but with Kyungsoo’s built, that seems not to be it. Was his gratitude lacking? Before he follows up a statement of interest, Kyungsoo flings the door open with his leg and goes inside supposedly his apartment.
It still feels like home after all, when a ball of fur wags its tail upon his entrance. There’s a pile of books sitting idle beside his, and his bed has expanded in queen size. It’s fascinating how he never knew his cramped dwelling can house two people, until Kyungsoo fits himself in, and Jongin is a bit smitten by that.
Jongin’s eyes walk in magnets pinning recipes in the board when Kyungsoo calls him.
“Can you sit here with me for a bit?” Kyungsoo leafs through channels, his legs propping up the loveseat.
“You know I’ve always liked your hair black.” He brushes his fingers to Jongin’s hair as he sits down, and he can never get used to the fervor in the other’s affection.
Kyungsoo’s hand is heavy, that he adjusts his head so that his roots won’t feel like ripping out.
“Is blonde really that bad?”
“Ah, no.” Kyungsoo looks down and fiddles with his shirt. And the face goes pink again. “You’re handsome, as always.”
There’s a flash of teeth that breaks Kyungsoo’s ease, and the petting stops.
“Okay.” Kyungsoo sighs, his posture weak. “I’m just beating around. Mom called, actually.”
Kyungsoo turns away, and he thinks he should put an arm of empathy on his shoulder. Jongin zaps the tv out and bunts the remote down, the device nearly consumed by the couch’s border.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Nothing really. She’s just… worried.”
“About?”
“Us.”
Kyungsoo’s mouth sets in a hard line, and he rests his head on the edge roll, pupils half covered, like thinking. There’s a distinct sound of chimes outside, and tweets of birds as they walk the tracks roof to roof. The night is leaping forward.
There’s a trail of worry furnishing his countenance when he straightens his back up to face him. Kyungsoo’s lower lip trembles, and his features seem to shrink as he looks away again.
“Is there something you want to tell?” He asks, the curiosity pulling him in.
“It-It’s nothing.” Kyungsoo leaves the loveseat and treads towards the fridge.
Before Kyungsoo fishes out a drink, Jongin pushes deep the fridge door and corners the smaller man. Because that’s what a lover is supposed to do. And there’s a gush of guardianship somewhere within, and a perception of belonging when Kyungsoo draws back in front of him.
“What’s bothering you?”
“It’s embarrassing. You wouldn’t want to know.”
He steps out a foot when Kyungsoo tries to slip out, and the latter shrinks back.
“Tell me.”
Kyungsoo has his eyes set on his foot, and that leaves Jongin no choice but to pull his chin up. His uneasiness is much expressed in his eyes, and the rest of his face puckers in self-consciousness.
“Why… haven’t you,” a pause, “proposed to me yet?”
His voice is rigid, ears red, and the way Kyungsoo’s shoulders are stiff looks like it took a lot of courage to say those words.
“I mean, Baekhyun is married. And another year’s passing for us.”
Jongin feels it, from the way Kyungsoo looks at him with wide eyes, examining him closely, and waiting for any particular reaction.
There’s a lump in his throat, and he knows that delivering any response might come off stilted. A let me think will make things worse. The question is technically directed to his duplicate, but what troubles him is that he needs to answer right now, before Kyungsoo takes his silence the wrong way.
It’s a skip of a heartbeat when Kyungsoo’s eyes cast downwards, his shoulders dropping in resignation.
And he desperately doesn’t want the other to feel bad, so he musters up his courage and cups the other’s cheeks. Rush probably got him hung up because their teeth clank upon meeting, but he ignores it. He molds their lips hard and mad-not an ideal for their first kiss, like pulling out every bit of the other’s insecurities. Then again, it’s his first kiss with Kyungsoo. Probably not Kyungsoo’s with him, or whoever.
There’s a tinge of pineapple when Kyungsoo submissively parts his mouth, and that’s his reflex sucking the other’s tongue. Kyungsoo pulls him by the waist and Jongin isn’t sure what to do with his hands, so it stays there on the other’s jaw, slowly making its way to the neck.
“I’m just saying,” Kyungsoo pulls away, murmuring on the corner of his lips, and there’s a string of saliva almost unnoticeable between them, “don’t make me wait for too long.”
Jongin just hums, and he mutes Kyungsoo again by nibbling on other’s the bottom lip. And through the process something inflicts in him, like bliss that he has probably kissed the same cherry lips for a hundreds of times already.
Kyungsoo presses their bodies hard, and his warmth almost make Jongin drop on his knees. There’s an outbreak of his sanity that he isn’t supposed to like this, but his emotions sell him out, and his manhood. His body’s becoming hot, and his pants are becoming tight.
And before it gets too late, he flattens his palms on Kyungsoo’s chest and slowly pulls away regrettably.
“Condoms.” Jongin huffs. “I need to,” he collects his breath, “buy. Yeah.”
Kyungsoo’s face is flushed, and his own face too, probably. And the other is very attractive this way, his lips swollen with Jongin’s kisses.
“Yeah. Okay.” Kyungsoo says, coming off as a blow of gasp.
Kyungsoo stares at him, and grazes his palms along Jongin’s biceps, that slow, naughty kind of brush. “Don’t make me wait.”
Jongin leaves the circle of Kyungsoo’s arms and turns around the kitchen. And he’s just in time, because the moment he steps out of the threshold he sees himself back, skipping his steps around the office’s cubicles. He pulls his shirt down his pelvic and heads to the restroom, keeping his breaths controlled as he attends to his current problem.
The last time he leaps happens on a whim. Like a single snap of a finger.
Like always.
The faint sounds of children laughing and running with their splash floats is relaxing, accompanied by the sea waves breaching the shore. The heat of the sun feels like striking past his skin, which tells him it’s going to be a hot day. Jongin moves back, where a rafter of twigs shades him.
Sehun walks towards him, sipping on a coconut.
“You’re not going to swim?” Sehun asks, his voice in disbelief.
He looks at his clothes, all covered up with khaki pants and sweatshirt, much in contrast with Chanyeol beside him who’s now taking his shirt off, all left in trunks.
Jongin shakes his head. “It’s cold.” He rubs his arms in action.
Sehun rolls his eyes, his expression cynical. He struts on a beach chair to his left, squeaking as the weight sinks in. He puts his drink down and lets out a sigh of satisfaction.
“Shall we continue the game?” Chanyeol says, his voice almost drowned by the flutter of air, and Sehun hums in response.
His friends on each side move towards him, the feet of the chairs scraping the woodwork. They both extend their fists, and Jongin is quick to respond, placing his fist in front as well.
As they wordlessly hammer their fists in air, he counts up to three in his head and swings down his paper. Chanyeol hoots in triumph as he blatantly shoves Sehun and his scissors, cutting his paper-hand in mockery.
“Truth or dare?” Sehun asks, grinning.
“Dare.” He doesn’t think. He doesn’t need to. There’s been enough embarrassment in his history for choosing the other option way back in college.
Sehun props his hand in chin, eyebrows curve as if thinking, and seconds later he pulls Chanyeol over the table to whisper.
“Okay.” Sehun clears his throat, and Chanyeol’s still grinning.
Sehun inches forward, for a moment looking over his shoulder and back at him.
“Talk to that chick,” Sehun vulgarly points with his finger, “and don’t get back here until you get a phone number.”
Jongin follows the line of direction, his torso flexing as he turns, and he can’t help that smile bordering his lips as he spares a lasting look. He turns back to Chanyeol and Sehun, composing his face in a blank mask.
“That ‘chick’, is a guy.” He mutters low, feigning complaint as he pushes the corner of his lips down.
“Well, do you mind if he is?” Chanyeol raises his eyebrows. “He looks really cute, with those narrow shoulders.”
Jongin doesn’t mind. Not in the very least. The chair nudges down as he stands up. The wood beneath creaks as he trudges through empty tables, eyes on his target.
He stops on the counter, looking classy with its decorative boards of bamboo. He draws out a glass on the tray, telling the bartender to put the tab on him later.
He strolls back to the table, and its occupant seems engrossed.
“Kyungsoo.” He begins, standing beside the vacant chair.
Kyungsoo takes his eyes off his laptop, his eyebrows knotting as he glares at him. Probably Kyungsoo’s not going to swim as well, with his pants and loose shirt that slips off well down his shoulder.
“Hi.” Jongin says, smiling, trying to break the pressure.
“How did you know my name?” Kyungsoo bites back, not in a friendly tone.
“Uh,” he curses inwardly, trying not to show how he freezes, “it’s written here.” Jongin points to a title block from the cluttered papers, mentally patting himself on the shoulder upon his move.
Kyungsoo groans, grimacing as he hastily collects the papers, messily putting everything in is bag. The male zips it close, and brings it back down the table. He shifts his gaze back in the laptop, completely ignoring his presence. Where is that cute Kyungsoo he knew of?
“Is this seat taken?”
“Yes.”
Kyungsoo squints his eyes on the screen as he types back furiously; a loud sound emitting as he pushes a key. Jongin murmurs and okay before sliding the fruit mix beside the laptop, not too close so that Kyungsoo won’t complain that it might spill on it. Kyungsoo stops, scrutinizing him.
He pulls the seat, waiting for any objection from the other as he slips in. He props up his chin with an elbow.
“I don’t accept drinks from strangers.”
Jongin reaches for the drink and sips on the glass, sparing the straw. Kyungsoo stares agape as he thrusts the drink back. “It’s not spiked.”
Kyungsoo reddens, and Jongin can imagine his friends at the back hooting at him.
It’s still the same cute Kyungsoo, considering the same warmth and impact the person’s ambience brings out from him-a feat that tells it’s the same man, even when that soft hair extends from a great range of black to blonde.
He leans forward, studying Kyungsoo’s reaction behind the laptop.
“Hey.” Jongin coos.
Kyungsoo raises his eyebrow, his eyes leaving the screen as he sneers.
“See my friends?” Jongin flicks his head at the back, and Kyungsoo follows. A few tables away there is Chanyeol and Sehun seated, eyes widening at the attention, and slowly smiling as they wave their hands in friendly gesture.
“They dared me to get your number.” Jongin gets straight to the point.
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t.” Jongin challenges as he flashes a teeth.
Kyungsoo’s mouth twists in distress, eyes narrowing as if aiming. He fishes out a note and grits, his fingers clutching the pen tight as he writes, and Jongin feels like a winner. Kyungsoo drops the pen aside and folds the note in three.
“You can get the fruit mix back, and leave.” Kyungsoo pushes it forward in his hand, and jolts away quick as their hands make contact.
Jongin unfolds it, humming, and Kyungsoo turns uneasy.
“I need the real one.” Jongin turns up his lips as he flashes open the bunch of zeroes. There’s a trail of sweat glistening in the other’s sideburns. “Aside from the dare, I think I find you cute.”
Kyungsoo flushes, his bottom lip quivering as he plans to rebut. He presses his lips together, and slowly pulls out the note from his grip. He lays it flat down the table and jots down the number, the handwriting wobbling.
There’s a pinch of surprise that swells within, as he takes in that he’s saying those words outright, flirting like it’s been natural like that. He bites his insides as he simmers down the hype. Jongin has never made a move on someone like that.
Kyungsoo slides the number in his side, this time no pushing, while gluing his eyes on the laptop.
“Thanks.” Jongin gives him the last smile before leaving. He stands up and turns away, sinking his hand down his pocket where the paper is safe.
It’s just the sound of the waves perceptible in his ear, if he ignores his hearbeat.
It always passes on with a heavy slump on his feet that ends the far-fetched plot, and a tick of the clock that tells him the dormant days go on. Frenzy finds him again with curls of rush in his home, lights off and cramped. Jongin lifts up the window sash and the air greets him.
He brushes his fingers on his pants, and smile paints on his face as he feels a distinct bump on the pocket.
He shifts his gaze to his bedside, where his phone sits untouched. Jongin grazes his fingers on the black screen, as his mind gets preoccupied by a certain doe-eyed man.
There’s probably an exact thousands of copies of Jongin in the same place, where the only difference is he has one less hair in his head, or a pound less in his mass.
He fishes out the note in his pocket, and somewhere at the back of his mind screams that he should try. It’s like that single droplet of hope that he has to cling to; a leap of faith.
And there’s that pinch probability of minimal coincidences. So what are the odds?
Jongin swiftly unlocks his phone, and he swears he can feel his chest drumming as he inputs the number, his keen eyes switching from the paper to phone, double-checking.
The ringing feels like a ticking bomb, with the tension it brings that prolongs the stress churning in his stomach. And his heartbeat blows when someone picks up on the other line, and he has never smiled so big when he hears the same voice that had become his object of fixation.
Kyungsoo indeed stretches reality.
Jongin reserves a non-smoking area, in case.
It’s all arctic blue-washed in his eyes, lighting up the floor and the ambience, with the way the windows span two floors up the ceiling, the vast stretch of clouds knocking at him by the glass. It’s that weather for a great walk, with the way softwood leaves fall upon the pavement.
Jongin sighs. He should have ordered something hot. And put on a woven shirt that warms his arms. Though, it’s just him feeling cold, when he observes the others with their tank tops and shorts.
There are several customers grouped in a table, busy with their respective works, and some are alone, reveling in the silence as they wait for their companion. Jongin belongs to the latter, sitting where his eyes can easily catch someone who’s coming in. His arms are crossed over his bag filled with laptop and thesis documents, his leg bouncing up and down as he rehearses words in loop, hoping to make himself rational.
It’s like having an automated timer, where it blinks zero when you’re finally face to face with that person. It’s not that easy to fall in love, but a person can pique your intrigue in just seconds. For Jongin it took a few 10-minute filmstrips of magic. He had long decided to cut off the science.
Universe is just a single equation for Jongin, and fate decides to defy his perspective in a form of lone ranger and its unwelcome presence.
The chimes ring on the lever’s door. Jongin looks over.
A customer hinges the bar lever close, admittedly late and clutching the strap of his bag tight as he immediately scans the café.
Jongin had this feeling before. It’s a start.
❊ title: the uncertainty principle
The sign on the nearest convenience store reads Hongdae.
He’s on the road, first lane, hands on the steering wheel. The regular smell of leather picks up his nose; there’s also a hint of musk somewhere. The running noise of a motorcycle on the other side trails him off his stupor. He’s not the only person occupying the sport coupe though; there’s a mop of black hair facing the street side, soloing lyrics of the folk song playing. It comes off as low murmurs whispered to the glass, but there’s still a note of melody holding on it.
A car blows off its horn, penetratingly loud and annoying. He looks up front; the traffic light displays green. Immediately he stomps on the clutch and shifts the gear. He moves on a moderate speed, going straight. The voice of the man goes higher, prepping up for the chorus’ tempo and oh. How familiar.
“Jongin?” Eyes on the road, he spares a quick glance to the other. Kyungsoo faces him, eyes narrowing.
“Hey.” Jongin replies, sounding as natural.
“It’s the second verse. You’re supposed to sing your part.”
“Oh. I just-”Shit. Chewing on his bottom lip, he sorts out a response. “I went off track… Sorry.” The last sentence proceeds, mending for the frown plastered on the face.
The other sighs, lazing his back on the seat. “It’s okay. You’re tired. You even changed your shirt, we’re not even halfway there.” Kyungsoo crosses his arms, his voice laced with guilt-trip. “You have to make it up for me though.” If Jongin nearly gapes at the other’s playful tone, he doesn’t show it.
“Then, what should I do?”
Kyungsoo turns towards him, beaming. “Eat 2 of my cinnamon rolls later and we’re good.” He grins, amusement latched on his tone. “With raisins.”
He wishes for more traffic lights to prolong the ride. Traffic congestion will do too. Jongin is pretty sure they’ll never arrive at the right place if he doesn’t turn right or left even once. Jongin shifts the gear neutral and lets go of the gas, hoping his relief isn’t apparent when the countdown ticks from 90.
He does a quarter turn, fully facing Kyungsoo. They’re a few feet apart, but the tenderness stretched on the other’s smile pulls a string of bliss within, and turns up the corner of his lips to a certain extent. It’s the feeling that something is attached and assigned, and the way Kyungsoo looks at him is a signal fire of bond.
Kyungsoo leans forward to the dashboard, pulling out the thin stack of CDs from the glove box. “Want me to change the playlist then? This time it’s Beatles.”
Later, Kyungsoo hums to the songs, drumming palms to his legs along the beat. As the road turns to a curve, Kyungsoo opens a conversation.
“Hey.”
“Yes?”
“I know you’re not supposed to talk while driving, but there’s this kid…” The statement ends soft and quiet.
“Go on. What about it?” There’s a pinch of relish in him when his words fall off normal. Jongin steals a glance, looking front and back at the other.
Kyungsoo purses his lips, dropping his head. “He told me he-he wants to be like me when he grows up.” Jongin admits to it that there’s a part of him melted when he hears the shy glint on the voice. “And I don’t know. I just… I think it’s cute.”
“No, you’re awesome,” comes abrupt from his lips, “That’s cute. And great. You’re great.”
It’s an upsurge of your ego, when you know someone aches to stitch their lives into something similar as how you have grown. It’s a good weapon against self-doubt and puts you to where negativity is absent. It could be a tide of encouragement that keeps you going.
Kyungsoo laughs lightly, that laugh someone does to hide their embarrassment. “He has to practice more in keyboard, still and all.”
Jongin finds himself nodding at the new idea about the other. “That means you have to teach him intensively.”
“No, that means I’m a sucker for cute students that I want to buy him his own keyboard.” Kyungsoo chuckles to himself for favoring someone, hitting Jongin’s shoulder once. And the giggles town down the pop music, contagious and warm enough to smear a chuckle on his own. From his view, the gleam of the sun casts in Kyungsoo’s smile, rays cascading in the skin beautifully.
“It’s really, really flattering to be honest.” Kyungsoo says, and right away he feels himself being pulled down by hands on either side of his face. Still he has his eyes on the road and his mind goes into a flinch when he feels the other’s lips smacking his cheek.
The hands release him and he swivels back straight in his seat. The steady and content humming beside him tells it’s something normal, but the jolt in him tells otherwise. His palms feel clammy over the steering wheel.
Jongin steps further on the gas, weaving between pimped black Escalade and a Rover. He throttles on the last lane, a tree shade coming into view, and the engine ticks down as he steps on the break.
It’s a web of matters boiling him in pieces of ambiguity.
“Why did we stop?” His fingers twitch from the seeping worry in the other’s demeanor.
“I can’t do this.”
“Why?” Kyungsoo asks, nibbling in his bottom lip. “Did you forget the way to my parents’ house?”
In the clatter of inner tension Jongin looks down, feeling very aware of the eyes following his jitter. He’s sorry. He isn’t supposed to do that. Yet, his fingers trace the lap belt sash intuitively. It feels like everything is ticking down, and it blows off when he unbuckles the seatbelt.
“Wait. You,” Kyungsoo grips his arm, and Jongin doesn’t like the way the hand trembles. “Three years, Jongin. Three years. You told me you are ready.” Kyungsoo reminds, his voice a trek between brittle and accusing.
“You, and I am-this-” Jongin averts his gaze. The surrounding looms in him-dashboard topped with nodding dogs, and the never-heard pop rock playing but it perfectly fits his taste. The way dejection hovers Kyungsoo’s face and the slit of rationality knocking him out tell-he can’t be ruining this.
Jongin bites his lip, guilty for the man fidgeting, legs bobbing up and down, like waiting. What does Jongin know? He, no, they might be living an ideal life. He’s been immersed in this fake tale and bestowed upon this repetitious routine with Kyungsoo, who else, making a crevice in his logic.
“I’m-I’m sorry.” Jongin begins again, this time leaning towards the man, palming Kyungsoo’s knee to stop jittering. “It’s okay. I’m just nervous.”
Kyungsoo sighs, like he’s heard the reason a lot before. Not the exact words Kyungsoo would like to hear, but it’s better than what he feared. Slowly he tilts his head towards Jongin and opens his mouth, no words coming out.
“You scared me there.” Kyungsoo tries again, the humor underlying looking forced. “If you’re going to leave me, then not here please. You forgot I can’t drive.”
“I’m sorry.” Jongin repeats, this time more soft-spoken. The other lays his head on Jongin’s shoulder, and he draws Kyungsoo closer to him. The brunette strands brushing his nose smell like candles, like the apple ones warming his home. “Just, put up the GPS for me.”
Jongin pulls the sash down low in his pelvic and clicks the seatbelt latch, ignoring the fact that Kyungsoo perfectly fits in his arms. Kyungsoo pulls himself up from Jongin, and he doesn’t realize it is a radiant day until the sun rays accentuate those brown, gleaming eyes.
“Jongin?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t worry. You’re okay. We’ll be okay.” This is how it’s supposed to be.
It’s just cabbage stir fry in his box again, today.
Cross out the ‘just’; his lunch has always been that bland, even in favored days. Still, he believes his skills outrun his friends’ ever since he moved out to here in Suwon, where the ingredients are cheaper than usual. There was a day a resolve curtained his kitchen. He salvaged a potential chef in him, step-by-step following the list as the chef made the Bistro Chicken exquisite, but his product is anything but. He has an excuse. Those chefs had trained for years; he’s had minutes. Sometimes the trials don’t see the end of the horizon, for Jongin withdraws too soon from the plans of a sumptuous meal.
“By the way, Yunho gave me your conference materials.” Chanyeol pauses from his tea as he latches to a new subject. “I reviewed the outline a bit.”
Jongin flinches at the expectant tone, obviously a shred of pressure budding in him. “Why didn’t he direct it to me?”
“Well I don’t know.” The other shrugs. “Maybe he wants me to look at it, you know, finally seeing me eye-to-eye in scientific terms, seeing my worth more than a literal paper cutter.”
“I call dibs on your first paycheck.” He chuckles lightly, his chopsticks poking on the cabbage chunk.
“Rude,” Chanyeol groans, his posture resigned on his seat. He sips on his tea, abruptly putting the china away from the burn. “Anyway, about that conference.” Chanyeol clears his throat.
“What?”
“Don’t fuck it up. Show Yunho there’s someone out there he should watch out.”
“You’re seriously telling me that here, in his pantry?”
Jongin chooses not to pursue the flock of strain weighing him further. It will be his first public speaking, out of a supervision once handed out by his university. And even though he knows he’s pulled himself together, there’s still positively tense and uptight selfhood fragmented somewhere in his machismo.
“It’s just happening here, Chanyeol. And I’m just standing there to introduce the topic. Don’t make it sound too big.”
“I’m not making it big. Plus,” He slightly ducks down, his voice shifting stern. “I’ve heard Quantum Tech reps are sitting in.”
Chanyeol smiles wryly, and it seems to him that Jongin’s supposed to be enthralled. He shrugs, his hand rubbing off the residue in his mouth.
“So you hate Yunho.” Jongin supplies rather than asking.
“Maybe. But in contrary,” Chanyeol stretches forward, stealing a piece of his hardly prepared recipe, “he’s admirable. I want to be like him someday.”
“You want to be like him?”
“You don’t?” Chanyeol asks, and his voice exclaims like Jongin should be ashamed. It’s always like this with him. “Rich, but that goes without saying. A global force. He’s larger than this room. What more could you ask?” Chanyeol exaggerates most of the time, but figuratively he’s not wrong. Jongin hums in approval.
“Can I ask something hypothetical?” Jongin changes the subject, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of water. He takes a sip, and lets out a satisfied yowl. Chanyeol raises an eyebrow, tapping his fingers on the table.
Jongin clears his throat. And before he thinks the question is too awkward, he mutters. “Is it okay to flirt over the phone?”
“Oh my god.” Chanyeol exclaims, and to Jongin he is overreacting. “You’re into those kinds! I didn’t know…”
Jongin squeezes his eyes shut as he rubs the sides of his nose. He chooses not to provoke more of his friend’s absurdity, so he sighs and gets straight to the point. “What if there’s this guy you want to know more?”
“Breaking news. This isn’t high school. Confess personally.”
“Again, this is hypothetical, if I didn’t make myself clear.” Jongin picks up a portion, chopsticks squeezing tight together enough for the food to fly out. The food isn’t warm on his tongue anymore.
“Meet him. If you do, you won’t be bugged anymore.” Chanyeol advices sternly.
But he knows he can’t, not when Jongin’s just a mere disembodied voice and Kyungsoo has become so much more than that.
“Jongin, your cup noodle’s getting cold.” Chanyeol says as he fishes out his bento box, apparently still hot as the rice steams air up, the chicken cut looking rich with its sauce. Jongin thinks he wants some of that sushi.
The door creaks as Jongin goes in. He pinches the ridge and twists the button, locking the door from the inside. It’s the room where the sun shines the least.
He turns on the lights; the room still illustrates dull colors. In the middle of the room had a shelf that differs in size too huge, but as dusty as others. Jongin sidesteps through tables of flask forms and leyden jars, looking like they’ll crumb if he touches. The colliding steel spheres catch his reflection, though their noise marks make the image dense to look at.
Jongin saunters slowly up the deck, and pulls out the cloth dressing the tacky chalkboard. He covers his nose as soon as dust comes into view. His eyes dart up the erasure lines and scratches, and the whole board empty, like it needs to be filled. This is where equations fill his head.
Jongin is no expert, but he needs to check.
The chalk feels thin in his fingers. Jongin begins with a circle. The world. He continues with the relative state formulation, which underlies the basics of this mechanic. The interpretation falls off his thoughts, to his hand writing down every probability whichever those late night book reads and lecturers have poured in him. Then comes the equation, the Dirac notation where it justifies the “splitting”. The handheld apparatuses behind him listen to the chalk marks as he jots down the subclass measurements, and erases with his palm a line branch of numbers which have been derived into a void. And when everything starts to make no sense, after a few objections from his part, he finishes with the board almost filled.
He finds himself looking back at the circle. He adds one beside it, and another circle on top. And another. Again. Jongin steps back to study the work. These circles differ in size, and some are drawn thicker in line.
His forehead creases in contemplation, staring at the board whether it answers his question or not. He reaches into his pocket, and purses his lips as his thumb hovers the name Do Kyungsoo.
The ringing sound fills the silence as his eyes scope the equations once again, and it takes almost a minute before Kyungsoo answers.
“Hello?” comes off soft, and a bit civil, and that’s the same voice Jongin has always known to heed for. He huffs with finality before he changes his mind.
“It’s me, Jongin,” says his voice echoing in the room. “I just want to say something really quick.”
Jongin grits his teeth, and when Kyungsoo chooses to be silent, he continues. “You know what’s happening, right?”
“I’m sorry?” Jongin can hear the unease in Kyungsoo’s voice, but he can’t stop.
“Kyungsoo,” Jongin bites his lip, hearing himself the first time he’s mentioned the name. He picks up a chalk and draws another circle. “No one ever sees two branches of reality. This, it defies everything!”
“I am… very much honored that you call me whenever you’re drunk.”
“No! You think you’ve got strings to play my mind. I’m telling you, stop following-” The other line pulses in beats.
Jongin grounds his jaw in frustration, the glass of his phone curving more than usual when he presses home. He picks up a rug and hastily erases everything he’s written, not minding the dust sticking in his dark shirt, tiptoeing when needed.
He dumps the rug in the compartment when his watch beeps. 6:00 pm. Half of his work day has been skipped drowning in enigmas.
Jongin apologizes the same day, under the energy and chill the nightlight brings. He resorts to texting, refusing to hear the other, and tells that indeed, he was drinking. Kyungsoo tells him that it’s okay, and that ends their conversation. Simple as how it should be.
He’s almost blinded by the phone’s sheen under the comfort of his sheets. He starts with that thread, and then the call logs. Come round after a few scrolls and clicks, he sees Kyungsoo’s name, swallowing the hesitation well as he presses delete, hoping to end his ties with the man. And with that he calls it a day.
The silver disc above him rains gentle blues in his features. People have been hyped up about stargazing, gushing about its seeping romance, and Jongin now understands why. The cricket sounds buzz in the background, but Jongin continues to admire the hundred glinting lights.
“I knew it. You’re not gonna stop.”
The damp edges of the grass touch his cheeks. Jongin wishes Kyungsoo has heard what he said, though he had muttered it softly and low. Jongin pushes himself up and ruffles his hair clean from the remains, his arm supporting his weight.
There’s a leg almost clinging to his, and the patterned ups and downs of the chest tell him the man is asleep.
Jongin tries to count the stars, immediately recognizing a common constellation. The Ursa Major. He thinks the heavenward has never been this well-formed. He gives up; there’s an infinite lights, blinking at the two of them. He shifts his gaze to his left. Kyungsoo’s silent demeanor trickles repose, and pacifism, that kind when someone’s having a good sleep. If sleep is a pie of death, then what are dreams?
A little flex of his leg muscle has the other wincing. Kyungsoo blinks, his face scrunching as he rubs off the dampness in his eyes.
He hears a groan, and soon Kyungsoo sits on the same level beside him. He feels a tap in his chin, and as he turns, Kyungsoo’s mouth curves up. And the delight reaches him, like pulling him down deep there, the body beside him being the source of warmth in the frigid earth they’re sitting at. A smile forms in his mouth as well.
Kyungsoo’s hand creeps on his side, and in response Jongin shifts, allowing the arm to curve around his waist.
“See that star?” Jongin peers up at the sky, a finger pointing upwards.
Kyungsoo squeezes his eyes, leaning lightly towards Jongin’s side to follow his point of view.
“I’m not sure what you’re pointing at. There’s too many of them,” Kyungsoo says, a few second of focus after.
“Congratulations, you now have travelled through time.” Jongin gives him a lopsided grin, his voice playful. Kyungsoo heaves, humor bordering his lips as it pushes down.
“What do you mean?”
“These stars that you’re seeing are very, very distant, that you’re practically looking back hundreds, or even thousand years ago.” Kyungsoo’s head jerks back, his mouth slightly open, turning upwards.
“How did you know that?” Kyungsoo inspects the night again, this time with more interest.
“Google.” Jongin says aloof, his chin held high.
“And some of them,” Jongin continues. Kyungsoo turns his head, listening intently. “are so dense that a spoonful of its material is heavier than the sun.”
The other’s mouth puckers, his eyes widening. “You’ve been studying behind my back, aren’t you?”
Jongin scratches his head, elbow raised high as Kyungsoo chuckles.
“So Newton,” Kyungsoo clears his throat, slowly lying down, his arms crossed up in the back of his head, “are we going to see shooting stars tonight or not?”
“Shooting stars,” Jongin follows after, propping himself up with an arm, “are not really shooting. They’re just trails of dust that comets leave behind.”
The smaller turns his body, so they’re facing each other. “Well, that’s kind of disappointing.”
Kyungsoo shuffles towards him, close enough that Jongin sees the covert pout forming from the other. It’s incredible, how the dimly lit moon still highlights Kyungsoo’s beautiful features.
“Do you always wish whenever you see one?” Jongin mutters, his voice relaxed.
“I’ve never seen one. But yeah, I will if I do.” It comes off soft as a whisper to the grass.
Jongin ignores the hitch in his breath when Kyungsoo laces his smaller fingers to his, choosing instead to revel in the intrusion once again.
“What are you going to wish then?” He asks, his head tilting. Kyungsoo angles towards him again, the hair strands almost tickling his chin.
“I wish,” Kyungsoo buries himself fully in Jongin, his fingers trailing his angles and he thinks that’s kind of adorable. “I think I-I don’t want to go home yet.” His chest feels the warm breath when Kyungsoo mumbles.
His fingers twitch, like he wants to do something to the stuttering man, and when he bundles his fingers through the other’s hair, he thinks he can sleep soundly under the expanse of stars before them.
Jongin sighs. It feels peculiar to see himself holding someone close as this, but when Kyungsoo smiles against his shirt, it doesn’t feel like first time at all.
“Well, do you want to know a secret then?” He asks. Kyungsoo lurches back, gently slipping from his hold, frowning. But Jongin’s hand stays on his nape. “What’s wrong?”
“I just thought that,” Kyungsoo sighs, the corner of his mouth pressed. “I already know all your secrets.”
Jongin blinks at that, a crack breaking in his grin. Just how palsy-walsy is he with Kyungsoo? “Well here’s another one.”
Jongin shifts up, his eyes looking the same level with Kyungsoo.
“I have a cluster of worlds growing in me.” Jongin breathes, his head drooping forward a bit. His fingers kindle at the flush of the other’s neck.
“Sounds like a pick-up line.” Kyungsoo deadpans, and slowly his mouth twitches in amusement. “And?” Kyungsoo reaches behind his ear, tucking a strand. The night doesn’t feel cold anymore when the hand stays on his cheek.
“And,” Jongin parts his lips, the words tuft, stuttering within. “You’re… always there… in each one of them.”
The cold air picks up Kyungsoo’s fringe. Kyungsoo tries suppressing his giggles by biting his knuckles. He sneaks into the crook of Jongin’s neck, so that he’s pillowing his arm.
“What are you without me, really?” Kyungsoo says with a forced grin of bashfulness.
Jongin hovers on the other’s frame, and the proximity surges in suppressed heave when Kyungsoo’s hot breath brushes his jawline. The velvety sky reflects so much in Kyungsoo’s eyes when they flutter, as he chews on his bottom lip, the corner of his mouth tugging up.
Whether Kyungsoo leans in or not, he doesn’t know. A blink after another the damp grass turns into his soft mattress. His mouth clips, curving down as his skin feels dank and soggy with the blanket pining him down.
He shifts away from the heat, turning into positions so that slumber takes over him.
Tuesday sky grumbles as it wakes. The thrill of the city now lies in dusk of grays, with the clouds hanging low and heavy. Seeing this, Jongin hurries his steps.
He rakes in coffee that morning, stopping by the vending machine before turning for the lift. He takes a sip, letting the liquid diffuse in his taste buds. He winces at the bland taste, but he doesn’t complain. He needs his caffeine fix.
“Good morning to you too.” He almost drops his cup when Chanyeol whispers in his ear. He opens his mouth, ready for scolding when he sees his friend stepping away, waving something up.
“Chanyeol, I’m counting to five.” Jongin sighs, eyes shut and mouth twisted. “Give me my phone.”
His face contorts in gruff as the man raises his eyebrow upon intervention, looking like he’s seen something.
“That shit is private!” He yells a bit too loud, making the other employees glare at him.
Chanyeol sticks out his tongue in banter, and Jongin curses the coffee in his hand.
“The vet,” Chanyeol begins the list, audible enough to make Jongin squint his eyes in question, “me, Sehun, Sehun, the vet, me. Jongin, you need to get out.”
“Did you just go through my call logs?” Jongin asks, his voice up and grating.
“I’m not done yet.” Chanyeol checks his messages, and Jongin hoists up his cup, gulping fast despite the hot drink.
Jongin snatches back his phone with force, and this time Chanyeol doesn’t budge. He walks past the people to the lobby, leaving the other behind.
“Hey,” Chanyeol strides, his hand putting pressure in his shoulder to delay him, “You said you were flirting with someone. I didn’t see the name there.”
“Well, not anymore.”
The elevator blinks sounds, signaling up. Jongin avoids Chanyeol’s skeptical look, opting to go through the rush of a busy morning, his body brushing others as people start to go in. Jongin chooses to stand near the landing, and the other skips his step to push himself in.
There's a feeling somewhere that’s incessantly poking at him, like a blemish constantly reminding him of his mistake, but before the regret surfaces, he makes sure to shove it down.
“Man, I expected so much from you.” Chanyeol hisses close, though his gravelly voice echoes in the whole lift.
The door closes them in, and he doesn’t churn when the lift goes up the shaft.
“Fourth floor, please.” Jongin tells the operator, his hand fixing his sleeve.
Jongin is grateful that the rain had cowered into its homestead that afternoon, so that he needs not to worry about his laundry getting all wet.
Reverie cuts short when he comes home to a package knocking on his door step. He stoops down to the box, and puts his hands flat on the side and taps, like checking its weight from the way it makes sounds. He cages the box in his tough toned arms, and pulls up a knee for support when he punches in the passcode.
The door doesn’t beep in acknowledgment.
He tries again, this time punching in the combination deeper. He puts down his knee and puts up the other, as it gets tired. By the fourth try he almost wants to bang his head somewhere, as realization starts to hit him bulls-eye.
His eyes start to wander the flaps of the package, and it reads that particular name he’s very familiar with.
“Of course.” Jongin sighs to no one in particular, both of his hands brushing his hair up, like raising the white flag.
And maybe this time he’s got very used to it that there’s a part of him that doesn’t mind, that he learns to raise his leg back up against the wall, waiting for that particular presence.
The type of the flooring is not the ideal for soundless hallway, but it definitely comes in handy for crime preventions. He almost blanches as the squeaks creep up his system when footsteps glide into it, and there he is.
“Wow,” is the first thing that Kyungsoo tells him, stopping just a few strides away. Kyungsoo’s hair is in messy shags, his fringe sticking to his clammy forehead. A shade of pink glitters the other’s cheeks, and he thinks that’s kind of cute.
“You’re,” Kyungsoo pauses, jaw dropping a bit, and drawing it up back to put his lips tight, “you’re not blonde anymore.”
Jongin trails his fingers in his locks, staggering. He sees some of the strands in his peripheral, still black as ever. He needs a haircut soon.
“Thanks.” He mutters still, not knowing whether that surprised look from the other means an approval or not.
Kyungsoo brings up the package in his hold, one hand punching in the correct combination.
“This,” he looks at the box, “is my gift for you, actually. But you won’t see it until tomorrow.” Kyungsoo’s lower eyelids contract, his mouth curving upwards.
“Thanks.” He says again, eyebrow lifting in curiosity. He looks at the box, and probably that could fit a whole heavy set of encyclopaedia, but with Kyungsoo’s built, that seems not to be it. Was his gratitude lacking? Before he follows up a statement of interest, Kyungsoo flings the door open with his leg and goes inside supposedly his apartment.
It still feels like home after all, when a ball of fur wags its tail upon his entrance. There’s a pile of books sitting idle beside his, and his bed has expanded in queen size. It’s fascinating how he never knew his cramped dwelling can house two people, until Kyungsoo fits himself in, and Jongin is a bit smitten by that.
Jongin’s eyes walk in magnets pinning recipes in the board when Kyungsoo calls him.
“Can you sit here with me for a bit?” Kyungsoo leafs through channels, his legs propping up the loveseat.
“You know I’ve always liked your hair black.” He brushes his fingers to Jongin’s hair as he sits down, and he can never get used to the fervor in the other’s affection.
Kyungsoo’s hand is heavy, that he adjusts his head so that his roots won’t feel like ripping out.
“Is blonde really that bad?”
“Ah, no.” Kyungsoo looks down and fiddles with his shirt. And the face goes pink again. “You’re handsome, as always.”
There’s a flash of teeth that breaks Kyungsoo’s ease, and the petting stops.
“Okay.” Kyungsoo sighs, his posture weak. “I’m just beating around. Mom called, actually.”
Kyungsoo turns away, and he thinks he should put an arm of empathy on his shoulder. Jongin zaps the tv out and bunts the remote down, the device nearly consumed by the couch’s border.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Nothing really. She’s just… worried.”
“About?”
“Us.”
Kyungsoo’s mouth sets in a hard line, and he rests his head on the edge roll, pupils half covered, like thinking. There’s a distinct sound of chimes outside, and tweets of birds as they walk the tracks roof to roof. The night is leaping forward.
There’s a trail of worry furnishing his countenance when he straightens his back up to face him. Kyungsoo’s lower lip trembles, and his features seem to shrink as he looks away again.
“Is there something you want to tell?” He asks, the curiosity pulling him in.
“It-It’s nothing.” Kyungsoo leaves the loveseat and treads towards the fridge.
Before Kyungsoo fishes out a drink, Jongin pushes deep the fridge door and corners the smaller man. Because that’s what a lover is supposed to do. And there’s a gush of guardianship somewhere within, and a perception of belonging when Kyungsoo draws back in front of him.
“What’s bothering you?”
“It’s embarrassing. You wouldn’t want to know.”
He steps out a foot when Kyungsoo tries to slip out, and the latter shrinks back.
“Tell me.”
Kyungsoo has his eyes set on his foot, and that leaves Jongin no choice but to pull his chin up. His uneasiness is much expressed in his eyes, and the rest of his face puckers in self-consciousness.
“Why… haven’t you,” a pause, “proposed to me yet?”
His voice is rigid, ears red, and the way Kyungsoo’s shoulders are stiff looks like it took a lot of courage to say those words.
“I mean, Baekhyun is married. And another year’s passing for us.”
Jongin feels it, from the way Kyungsoo looks at him with wide eyes, examining him closely, and waiting for any particular reaction.
There’s a lump in his throat, and he knows that delivering any response might come off stilted. A let me think will make things worse. The question is technically directed to his duplicate, but what troubles him is that he needs to answer right now, before Kyungsoo takes his silence the wrong way.
It’s a skip of a heartbeat when Kyungsoo’s eyes cast downwards, his shoulders dropping in resignation.
And he desperately doesn’t want the other to feel bad, so he musters up his courage and cups the other’s cheeks. Rush probably got him hung up because their teeth clank upon meeting, but he ignores it. He molds their lips hard and mad-not an ideal for their first kiss, like pulling out every bit of the other’s insecurities. Then again, it’s his first kiss with Kyungsoo. Probably not Kyungsoo’s with him, or whoever.
There’s a tinge of pineapple when Kyungsoo submissively parts his mouth, and that’s his reflex sucking the other’s tongue. Kyungsoo pulls him by the waist and Jongin isn’t sure what to do with his hands, so it stays there on the other’s jaw, slowly making its way to the neck.
“I’m just saying,” Kyungsoo pulls away, murmuring on the corner of his lips, and there’s a string of saliva almost unnoticeable between them, “don’t make me wait for too long.”
Jongin just hums, and he mutes Kyungsoo again by nibbling on other’s the bottom lip. And through the process something inflicts in him, like bliss that he has probably kissed the same cherry lips for a hundreds of times already.
Kyungsoo presses their bodies hard, and his warmth almost make Jongin drop on his knees. There’s an outbreak of his sanity that he isn’t supposed to like this, but his emotions sell him out, and his manhood. His body’s becoming hot, and his pants are becoming tight.
And before it gets too late, he flattens his palms on Kyungsoo’s chest and slowly pulls away regrettably.
“Condoms.” Jongin huffs. “I need to,” he collects his breath, “buy. Yeah.”
Kyungsoo’s face is flushed, and his own face too, probably. And the other is very attractive this way, his lips swollen with Jongin’s kisses.
“Yeah. Okay.” Kyungsoo says, coming off as a blow of gasp.
Kyungsoo stares at him, and grazes his palms along Jongin’s biceps, that slow, naughty kind of brush. “Don’t make me wait.”
Jongin leaves the circle of Kyungsoo’s arms and turns around the kitchen. And he’s just in time, because the moment he steps out of the threshold he sees himself back, skipping his steps around the office’s cubicles. He pulls his shirt down his pelvic and heads to the restroom, keeping his breaths controlled as he attends to his current problem.
The last time he leaps happens on a whim. Like a single snap of a finger.
Like always.
The faint sounds of children laughing and running with their splash floats is relaxing, accompanied by the sea waves breaching the shore. The heat of the sun feels like striking past his skin, which tells him it’s going to be a hot day. Jongin moves back, where a rafter of twigs shades him.
Sehun walks towards him, sipping on a coconut.
“You’re not going to swim?” Sehun asks, his voice in disbelief.
He looks at his clothes, all covered up with khaki pants and sweatshirt, much in contrast with Chanyeol beside him who’s now taking his shirt off, all left in trunks.
Jongin shakes his head. “It’s cold.” He rubs his arms in action.
Sehun rolls his eyes, his expression cynical. He struts on a beach chair to his left, squeaking as the weight sinks in. He puts his drink down and lets out a sigh of satisfaction.
“Shall we continue the game?” Chanyeol says, his voice almost drowned by the flutter of air, and Sehun hums in response.
His friends on each side move towards him, the feet of the chairs scraping the woodwork. They both extend their fists, and Jongin is quick to respond, placing his fist in front as well.
As they wordlessly hammer their fists in air, he counts up to three in his head and swings down his paper. Chanyeol hoots in triumph as he blatantly shoves Sehun and his scissors, cutting his paper-hand in mockery.
“Truth or dare?” Sehun asks, grinning.
“Dare.” He doesn’t think. He doesn’t need to. There’s been enough embarrassment in his history for choosing the other option way back in college.
Sehun props his hand in chin, eyebrows curve as if thinking, and seconds later he pulls Chanyeol over the table to whisper.
“Okay.” Sehun clears his throat, and Chanyeol’s still grinning.
Sehun inches forward, for a moment looking over his shoulder and back at him.
“Talk to that chick,” Sehun vulgarly points with his finger, “and don’t get back here until you get a phone number.”
Jongin follows the line of direction, his torso flexing as he turns, and he can’t help that smile bordering his lips as he spares a lasting look. He turns back to Chanyeol and Sehun, composing his face in a blank mask.
“That ‘chick’, is a guy.” He mutters low, feigning complaint as he pushes the corner of his lips down.
“Well, do you mind if he is?” Chanyeol raises his eyebrows. “He looks really cute, with those narrow shoulders.”
Jongin doesn’t mind. Not in the very least. The chair nudges down as he stands up. The wood beneath creaks as he trudges through empty tables, eyes on his target.
He stops on the counter, looking classy with its decorative boards of bamboo. He draws out a glass on the tray, telling the bartender to put the tab on him later.
He strolls back to the table, and its occupant seems engrossed.
“Kyungsoo.” He begins, standing beside the vacant chair.
Kyungsoo takes his eyes off his laptop, his eyebrows knotting as he glares at him. Probably Kyungsoo’s not going to swim as well, with his pants and loose shirt that slips off well down his shoulder.
“Hi.” Jongin says, smiling, trying to break the pressure.
“How did you know my name?” Kyungsoo bites back, not in a friendly tone.
“Uh,” he curses inwardly, trying not to show how he freezes, “it’s written here.” Jongin points to a title block from the cluttered papers, mentally patting himself on the shoulder upon his move.
Kyungsoo groans, grimacing as he hastily collects the papers, messily putting everything in is bag. The male zips it close, and brings it back down the table. He shifts his gaze back in the laptop, completely ignoring his presence. Where is that cute Kyungsoo he knew of?
“Is this seat taken?”
“Yes.”
Kyungsoo squints his eyes on the screen as he types back furiously; a loud sound emitting as he pushes a key. Jongin murmurs and okay before sliding the fruit mix beside the laptop, not too close so that Kyungsoo won’t complain that it might spill on it. Kyungsoo stops, scrutinizing him.
He pulls the seat, waiting for any objection from the other as he slips in. He props up his chin with an elbow.
“I don’t accept drinks from strangers.”
Jongin reaches for the drink and sips on the glass, sparing the straw. Kyungsoo stares agape as he thrusts the drink back. “It’s not spiked.”
Kyungsoo reddens, and Jongin can imagine his friends at the back hooting at him.
It’s still the same cute Kyungsoo, considering the same warmth and impact the person’s ambience brings out from him-a feat that tells it’s the same man, even when that soft hair extends from a great range of black to blonde.
He leans forward, studying Kyungsoo’s reaction behind the laptop.
“Hey.” Jongin coos.
Kyungsoo raises his eyebrow, his eyes leaving the screen as he sneers.
“See my friends?” Jongin flicks his head at the back, and Kyungsoo follows. A few tables away there is Chanyeol and Sehun seated, eyes widening at the attention, and slowly smiling as they wave their hands in friendly gesture.
“They dared me to get your number.” Jongin gets straight to the point.
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t.” Jongin challenges as he flashes a teeth.
Kyungsoo’s mouth twists in distress, eyes narrowing as if aiming. He fishes out a note and grits, his fingers clutching the pen tight as he writes, and Jongin feels like a winner. Kyungsoo drops the pen aside and folds the note in three.
“You can get the fruit mix back, and leave.” Kyungsoo pushes it forward in his hand, and jolts away quick as their hands make contact.
Jongin unfolds it, humming, and Kyungsoo turns uneasy.
“I need the real one.” Jongin turns up his lips as he flashes open the bunch of zeroes. There’s a trail of sweat glistening in the other’s sideburns. “Aside from the dare, I think I find you cute.”
Kyungsoo flushes, his bottom lip quivering as he plans to rebut. He presses his lips together, and slowly pulls out the note from his grip. He lays it flat down the table and jots down the number, the handwriting wobbling.
There’s a pinch of surprise that swells within, as he takes in that he’s saying those words outright, flirting like it’s been natural like that. He bites his insides as he simmers down the hype. Jongin has never made a move on someone like that.
Kyungsoo slides the number in his side, this time no pushing, while gluing his eyes on the laptop.
“Thanks.” Jongin gives him the last smile before leaving. He stands up and turns away, sinking his hand down his pocket where the paper is safe.
It’s just the sound of the waves perceptible in his ear, if he ignores his hearbeat.
It always passes on with a heavy slump on his feet that ends the far-fetched plot, and a tick of the clock that tells him the dormant days go on. Frenzy finds him again with curls of rush in his home, lights off and cramped. Jongin lifts up the window sash and the air greets him.
He brushes his fingers on his pants, and smile paints on his face as he feels a distinct bump on the pocket.
He shifts his gaze to his bedside, where his phone sits untouched. Jongin grazes his fingers on the black screen, as his mind gets preoccupied by a certain doe-eyed man.
There’s probably an exact thousands of copies of Jongin in the same place, where the only difference is he has one less hair in his head, or a pound less in his mass.
He fishes out the note in his pocket, and somewhere at the back of his mind screams that he should try. It’s like that single droplet of hope that he has to cling to; a leap of faith.
And there’s that pinch probability of minimal coincidences. So what are the odds?
Jongin swiftly unlocks his phone, and he swears he can feel his chest drumming as he inputs the number, his keen eyes switching from the paper to phone, double-checking.
The ringing feels like a ticking bomb, with the tension it brings that prolongs the stress churning in his stomach. And his heartbeat blows when someone picks up on the other line, and he has never smiled so big when he hears the same voice that had become his object of fixation.
Kyungsoo indeed stretches reality.
Jongin reserves a non-smoking area, in case.
It’s all arctic blue-washed in his eyes, lighting up the floor and the ambience, with the way the windows span two floors up the ceiling, the vast stretch of clouds knocking at him by the glass. It’s that weather for a great walk, with the way softwood leaves fall upon the pavement.
Jongin sighs. He should have ordered something hot. And put on a woven shirt that warms his arms. Though, it’s just him feeling cold, when he observes the others with their tank tops and shorts.
There are several customers grouped in a table, busy with their respective works, and some are alone, reveling in the silence as they wait for their companion. Jongin belongs to the latter, sitting where his eyes can easily catch someone who’s coming in. His arms are crossed over his bag filled with laptop and thesis documents, his leg bouncing up and down as he rehearses words in loop, hoping to make himself rational.
It’s like having an automated timer, where it blinks zero when you’re finally face to face with that person. It’s not that easy to fall in love, but a person can pique your intrigue in just seconds. For Jongin it took a few 10-minute filmstrips of magic. He had long decided to cut off the science.
Universe is just a single equation for Jongin, and fate decides to defy his perspective in a form of lone ranger and its unwelcome presence.
The chimes ring on the lever’s door. Jongin looks over.
A customer hinges the bar lever close, admittedly late and clutching the strap of his bag tight as he immediately scans the café.
Jongin had this feeling before. It’s a start.