[infinite] the song of songs (which is solomon's)
Title: the song of songs (which is solomon's)
Rating: r
Word count: 2285
Summary: Sunggyu leaves a postcard in Berlin, a photograph in Mexico, and a promise in Paris. Woohyun tries to figure out who he's looking for.
the song of songs (which is solomon’s)
let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.
song of songs
∞
Sunggyu leaves a postcard in Berlin, a photograph in Mexico, and a promise in Paris.
Woohyun finds the last clue etched into a piece of cement outside the Louvre, which doesn’t even make sense because the only kind of art Sunggyu’s ever appreciated is sharp music with pointed lyrics. Woohyun traces the lemniscate with a finger.
He wonders, sometimes, if Sunggyu ever expects to be found.
∞
Sunggyu had finished his military service first. Right before he’d left, Woohyun said goodbye with a half-hearted salute and a grin that he hoped Sunggyu could read, slipping a reminder of the rules of the game into an envelope that he crushed into Sunggyu’s shirt.
“Your turn,” he whispered. You owe me, he meant.
For a second, Sunggyu’s hands jerked upwards, his fingers curled and grabbed at nothing and Woohyun’s heart raced expectantly, flushing. He wondered if this was where it ended, if this was where it began again, if this was where the rules get ripped up and thrown to hell, consequences be damned.
But Sunggyu stepped back into himself almost seamlessly, smiling for their fans peeking over the fence, for his parents, for his new group of friends and comrades. It’s the smile Woohyun had never seen when they were alone, when Sunggyu’s hand traced the dotted bones in his wrist, angling in for a kiss, when his fingers pressed deeply into the marks along Woohyun's back, when his mouth ghosted over Woohyun's nipples.
“I’ll miss you,” Kim Sunggyu had said, looking right past him.
You stupid fuck. “I’ll miss you too.” I already miss you.
Sunggyu readjusted his shirt and folded the envelope neatly into a pocket and spun around into the mass of floundering bodies trickling out of the base and later, when there is too much time to think, Woohyun decides that this is when it all fell apart.
It began with the uneasy post-debut alliance formed that first night Sunggyu let them sleep, the promise they made with two hands clasped between mattresses pushed as far apart as humanly possible in a room the size of a closet, soft admissions of I want this and I do too and you have no idea. This is my only chance and I won’t give this up.
“We need to be a team. One body, one mind, one goal,” Sunggyu had said. “So we’re going to start by at least pretending that we’re friends.”
To soften the transition between their on-and-off camera personalities, they’d smiled at each other in the morning, over dinner, knees knocking against one another and trading jokes they thought up when they’d turned in for the night, lights off, unable to sleep. Sunggyu’s hand learned to find Woohyun’s shoulder almost automatically. Woohyun forgot that he ever minded.
“I still hate you,” he’d said after they’d won their first award, eyes bright, heartbeat shatteringly fast. Woohyun knew, even then, that those were the signs of disappointment. Mnet had cancelled the 2010 Rookie designation. He fisted his hands in Sunggyu’s dress shirt.
“I know.”
Sunggyu’s mouth was hot when they kissed, nails digging into the skin behind Woohyun’s ears, desperate and angry and selfish. Woohyun tried not to moan.
“You can’t tell anyone. Ever.”
“I know.”
Another searing look. “It’ll ruin us. And nothing is worth that.”
Sunggyu bleeds ambition.
“I know.”
∞
It’s eighty two minutes from Gare du Nord to St. Pancras, twelve minutes on the tube to Victoria Station, fifty two minutes into Brighton. Woohyun counts the seconds he wastes in erratic heartbeats.
Years ago, when the rules still mattered and the game was everything, Sunggyu had left hints scattered all over the football fields of England, sneaking kissing into stadium seats and secreting a treasure map with lines snaking as far north as Wales in the pages of a book in the Waterstones by Goodge Street. Woohyun had caught him in Rhyl, spent a day burning off the topmost layer of his skin and melting into Sunggyu’s bruising fingers at night.
“It’s your turn,” Sunggyu had said over breakfast in the hotel’s dining room.
Woohyun paused. “Can we--let’s start in Brighton this time.”
“The gay capitol of England?”
“No one knows we’re here. They wouldn’t guess. And we're going back soon. This is almost over.”
“Woohyun--”
“Seriously--stop worrying--you’re always so fucking paranoid. I just,” Woohyun pauses. "I want to make sure that this isn't what I want."
Sunggyu dropped his spoon, leaned forward, and smiled. Three girls giggled from ten paces away, Sunggyu politely included his head in acknowledgement. Infinite’s leader, Kim Sunggyu, looking absurdly handsome with his hair falling into his eyes. Woohyun wonders where his roommate’s gone this time. He wonders if Kim Sunggyu will be kind enough to leave a clue.
“Oh really. And if I said we should go back to Korea? Right now, you and me? If I called a press conference? Announced our official disbandment?”
“Stop.”
“If I told your mother that I’ve been fucking you for years and that’s why you have never been able to have a steady girlfriend?”
“Hyung.”
“Because you’re afraid she’d figure it out?”
“Shut up.”
Sunggyu picked up his spoon, smile gone, and shoved more cornflakes into his mouth. “You haven’t changed, Woohyun. Not a bit.”
Sunggyu had been right, of course. Woohyun clutched at the table. “It’s only been eight years, hyung.”
“You’ve had long enough to figure out what you want.”
They’d spent years pretending to be sixteen and happy and brilliant. Time caught up to them between the clinks of silverware in Rhyl’s finest hotel lobby.
“You can’t have it both ways. You can win only once.” Me or us, Woohyun heard.
Sunggyu had never looked sixteen.
Woohyun closed his eyes. “Right."
In Brighton, Woohyun wakes up in a four-poster bed, sunlight streaming through blue curtains. He can see the roll of the ocean from his window. It almost looks like Rhyl.
It could be anywhere, really.
∞
It takes one hour and fifty nine minutes to fly directly from London to Prague. Woohyun remembers learning about the perks of business class, folding up the seat divider to lean into Sunggyu’s shoulder. The stewardesses would giggle and take photographs. Sunggyu would laugh in his sleep.
Woohyun spends two years trying to come to terms with Economy again. He takes the pack of tarot cards that Sungyeol had given him years ago, before they’d even started playing the game, before the rules were just never get caught and the stakes were their futures, their friends, and themselves. Justice, the Magician, the Star.
“Nothing’s changed,” Woohyun thinks. “Nothing ever fucking changes.”
Woohyun gets lost down three alleyways and buys three progressively shittier cups of coffee before he finds the Staromestske namesti. His heels click against the cobbled stones. He wishes that he hadn’t left most of his clothes in Myungsoo’s closet in Seoul. With Sunggyu the fashion terrorist, it had just never seemed important.
He spends four hours and thirty nine minutes watching the circles and the hands of the Orloj tilt. His knee twitches. Sunggyu would never have come to Prague, never spent a week just lounging around public squares and staring at relics of history. Woohyun’s starting to wonder if he’s even looking for Sunggyu at all. If he’s lost Sunggyu forever. If Infinite is all that’s left.
Sunggyu never took breaks. He’d never relax, always bent on practicing until his voice jumped an octave, clawing relentlessly at the zipper on Woohyun’s jeans the second their door was shut.
“You can lip-synch. They won’t notice. It’s just a radio broadcast.”
“We don’t pretend to sing, Woohyun,” Sunggyu had snarled between coughs, lips sticky with spit, puffing hot air over Woohyun’s cock. “We’re singers. We just sing.”
“We’re fucking pop stars, hyung.”
“Doesn’t mean we’re not still singers.”
Sunggyu scheduled extra lessons for the both of them with their instructor, learning medleys and duets for variety shows. Sometimes they’d practice in the dance studio after all of the others had gone home. Sometimes they’d run scales into each other’s chests, biting chorus lines into skin.
And when Sunggyu said five minutes, he meant five fucking minutes, whether Woohyun had gotten off or not. Even if, the next day, Sunggyu missed three notes and belted each of the others out twice as fiercely.
He didn’t believe in the type of perfection Woohyun practiced--pretty for the camera and charming their interviewers. He needed to be internally flawless.
In Prague, Woohyun tours St. Vitus’ Cathedral and kisses a pane of glass in Vladislav Hall. The light filters though his fingers. “Kitanai,” two Japanese tourists exclaim behind him. Dirty.
Woohyun thinks of Sunggyu’s face when he comes, licking the sweat from his neck and tonguing the inside of his ear, Sunggyu’s breath when he wakes up in the morning. Dirty.
“Stop over-anayzing everything,” Sunggyu had said. “Just. Relax. Think of it as stress-relief or something.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Sunggyu wiped a fleck of come off of Woohyun’s cheek. “It’s never easy. None of this is.”
There were bags under Sunggyu’s eyes that the makeup artists were going to have to cover before their next television appearance. Woohyun was pretty sure that they were going to bitch about Infinite's collective inability to take care of themselves while Sunggyu flirts mercilessly. “When does it stop?”
“The lying? Never. Unless you want to stop performing.” Sunggyu shrugged. “You can still leave, you know. Probably even still make a living off of your face. Then you could sleep with all the boys you wanted.”
“Fuck you.”
A chuckle. “You already did. Now go to sleep, Woohyun. Filming starts at nine.”
∞
In eleven hours and thirty seven minutes, Woohyun passes over Poland, Belarus, Russia, and China, and lands in Tokyo. The countries look indistinguishable from thirty-five thousand feet in the air, and Woohyun shuffles through Sungyeol’s tarot cards three dozen times. He doesn’t need to look down at his hands when he reaches the Star, thumbing the worn edges, stomach knotting. The solution hasn’t gotten any clearer, Woohyun thinks. You’re a fucking fraud, Sungyeol.
Sunggyu had last found him in Beijing. “Your clues suck, you know. I left you a map!”
“I thought that the roasted duck was a good enough hint. Sungyeol used to moan about how much he missed it.”
“Have you told him? Any of them?”
“Of course not. They all just think that we’re off on some stupid self-help program. Personal growth and all. Or at least, that's what they've been telling the interviewers.”
All of Infinite had agreed to take a year of personal vacation time a few months before Sunggyu’s enlistment. They'd been on an unofficial hiatus anyway, what with Sungyeol filming a few movies in Japan, and Dongwoo still in mourning. His grandmother’s death had devastated him. The break had made sense: the company had other groups to promote, and two soloists yet to debut. No one had disagreed with the rationale.
“We should have stayed.”
Except Sunggyu, of course.
“And do what, hyung? We’ll be back after the army. Like Epik High.”
“Not everyone bounces back.” Sunggyu had leaned against the window, breath misting over the glass.
A pause. “Fuck me, hyung. Against the window.”
“You don’t want to be seen either, Woohyun.”
“So cover my eyes.”
Woohyun searches the area around Tokyo Dome for three days. Sunggyu had always wanted to perform there, he figures. It’s the perfect place. Much more logical of a choice than Prague--a place where Kim Sunggyu would want to dance and scream and sing and suck Woohyun off in the waiting rooms where no one but their reflections could see.
He doesn’t find anything. But Tokyo is full of people, full of music, and he buys a handful of stupid looking toys for Dongwoo, and Woohyun thinks he could get lost there for a while, totally anonymous. It feels frightening.
He ticks another destination off of his list and books a ticket to New York.
In the airport, his cell phone rings. It’s been a very long time since he’s heard the chorus to Voice of my Heart.
“Woohyun? Where are you?”
“About to get on another plane.” After finishing his army service, Woohyun had disappeared, telling Myungsoo what he was doing only after he’d gone, asking him not to call, to let him find what he was looking for. Myungsoo had always been the sort of friend to tilt his head and let you finish fucking up your life before letting you know what he thought. He’d called only three times in two years. Apparently Woohyun was finished.
“Where to?”
Woohyun bites his lip. “You promised not to ask.”
“Sungjong came home yesterday. It’s over. We can start again.”
Something rattles in Woohyun’s chest and he thinks of unending double loops, of infinity. He looks up at the towering LCD screen of flight information and his eyes skim over New York, JFK and land on Seoul, IIA.
Sunggyu had always preferred dance studios filled with the seven of them. Maybe even a little bit more than places half a world away. His finger traces the outline of a lemniscate in the air. Sunggyu, Kim Sunggyu.
He clears his throat. “I’m on my way.”
∞
a/n: without reifica this would be a disaster, a story spread across a smattering of countries without a narrative to pull it all together. the beautiful graphics were cropped and resized by her. thank you, ♥ and thank you anon on the kpop kinkmeme for requesting this--it was a beautiful idea.
original photographs can be found by following the links: [1] [2] [3] [4]
Rating: r
Word count: 2285
Summary: Sunggyu leaves a postcard in Berlin, a photograph in Mexico, and a promise in Paris. Woohyun tries to figure out who he's looking for.
the song of songs (which is solomon’s)
let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.
song of songs
∞
Sunggyu leaves a postcard in Berlin, a photograph in Mexico, and a promise in Paris.
Woohyun finds the last clue etched into a piece of cement outside the Louvre, which doesn’t even make sense because the only kind of art Sunggyu’s ever appreciated is sharp music with pointed lyrics. Woohyun traces the lemniscate with a finger.
He wonders, sometimes, if Sunggyu ever expects to be found.
∞
Sunggyu had finished his military service first. Right before he’d left, Woohyun said goodbye with a half-hearted salute and a grin that he hoped Sunggyu could read, slipping a reminder of the rules of the game into an envelope that he crushed into Sunggyu’s shirt.
“Your turn,” he whispered. You owe me, he meant.
For a second, Sunggyu’s hands jerked upwards, his fingers curled and grabbed at nothing and Woohyun’s heart raced expectantly, flushing. He wondered if this was where it ended, if this was where it began again, if this was where the rules get ripped up and thrown to hell, consequences be damned.
But Sunggyu stepped back into himself almost seamlessly, smiling for their fans peeking over the fence, for his parents, for his new group of friends and comrades. It’s the smile Woohyun had never seen when they were alone, when Sunggyu’s hand traced the dotted bones in his wrist, angling in for a kiss, when his fingers pressed deeply into the marks along Woohyun's back, when his mouth ghosted over Woohyun's nipples.
“I’ll miss you,” Kim Sunggyu had said, looking right past him.
You stupid fuck. “I’ll miss you too.” I already miss you.
Sunggyu readjusted his shirt and folded the envelope neatly into a pocket and spun around into the mass of floundering bodies trickling out of the base and later, when there is too much time to think, Woohyun decides that this is when it all fell apart.
It began with the uneasy post-debut alliance formed that first night Sunggyu let them sleep, the promise they made with two hands clasped between mattresses pushed as far apart as humanly possible in a room the size of a closet, soft admissions of I want this and I do too and you have no idea. This is my only chance and I won’t give this up.
“We need to be a team. One body, one mind, one goal,” Sunggyu had said. “So we’re going to start by at least pretending that we’re friends.”
To soften the transition between their on-and-off camera personalities, they’d smiled at each other in the morning, over dinner, knees knocking against one another and trading jokes they thought up when they’d turned in for the night, lights off, unable to sleep. Sunggyu’s hand learned to find Woohyun’s shoulder almost automatically. Woohyun forgot that he ever minded.
“I still hate you,” he’d said after they’d won their first award, eyes bright, heartbeat shatteringly fast. Woohyun knew, even then, that those were the signs of disappointment. Mnet had cancelled the 2010 Rookie designation. He fisted his hands in Sunggyu’s dress shirt.
“I know.”
Sunggyu’s mouth was hot when they kissed, nails digging into the skin behind Woohyun’s ears, desperate and angry and selfish. Woohyun tried not to moan.
“You can’t tell anyone. Ever.”
“I know.”
Another searing look. “It’ll ruin us. And nothing is worth that.”
Sunggyu bleeds ambition.
“I know.”
∞
It’s eighty two minutes from Gare du Nord to St. Pancras, twelve minutes on the tube to Victoria Station, fifty two minutes into Brighton. Woohyun counts the seconds he wastes in erratic heartbeats.
Years ago, when the rules still mattered and the game was everything, Sunggyu had left hints scattered all over the football fields of England, sneaking kissing into stadium seats and secreting a treasure map with lines snaking as far north as Wales in the pages of a book in the Waterstones by Goodge Street. Woohyun had caught him in Rhyl, spent a day burning off the topmost layer of his skin and melting into Sunggyu’s bruising fingers at night.
“It’s your turn,” Sunggyu had said over breakfast in the hotel’s dining room.
Woohyun paused. “Can we--let’s start in Brighton this time.”
“The gay capitol of England?”
“No one knows we’re here. They wouldn’t guess. And we're going back soon. This is almost over.”
“Woohyun--”
“Seriously--stop worrying--you’re always so fucking paranoid. I just,” Woohyun pauses. "I want to make sure that this isn't what I want."
Sunggyu dropped his spoon, leaned forward, and smiled. Three girls giggled from ten paces away, Sunggyu politely included his head in acknowledgement. Infinite’s leader, Kim Sunggyu, looking absurdly handsome with his hair falling into his eyes. Woohyun wonders where his roommate’s gone this time. He wonders if Kim Sunggyu will be kind enough to leave a clue.
“Oh really. And if I said we should go back to Korea? Right now, you and me? If I called a press conference? Announced our official disbandment?”
“Stop.”
“If I told your mother that I’ve been fucking you for years and that’s why you have never been able to have a steady girlfriend?”
“Hyung.”
“Because you’re afraid she’d figure it out?”
“Shut up.”
Sunggyu picked up his spoon, smile gone, and shoved more cornflakes into his mouth. “You haven’t changed, Woohyun. Not a bit.”
Sunggyu had been right, of course. Woohyun clutched at the table. “It’s only been eight years, hyung.”
“You’ve had long enough to figure out what you want.”
They’d spent years pretending to be sixteen and happy and brilliant. Time caught up to them between the clinks of silverware in Rhyl’s finest hotel lobby.
“You can’t have it both ways. You can win only once.” Me or us, Woohyun heard.
Sunggyu had never looked sixteen.
Woohyun closed his eyes. “Right."
In Brighton, Woohyun wakes up in a four-poster bed, sunlight streaming through blue curtains. He can see the roll of the ocean from his window. It almost looks like Rhyl.
It could be anywhere, really.
∞
It takes one hour and fifty nine minutes to fly directly from London to Prague. Woohyun remembers learning about the perks of business class, folding up the seat divider to lean into Sunggyu’s shoulder. The stewardesses would giggle and take photographs. Sunggyu would laugh in his sleep.
Woohyun spends two years trying to come to terms with Economy again. He takes the pack of tarot cards that Sungyeol had given him years ago, before they’d even started playing the game, before the rules were just never get caught and the stakes were their futures, their friends, and themselves. Justice, the Magician, the Star.
“Nothing’s changed,” Woohyun thinks. “Nothing ever fucking changes.”
Woohyun gets lost down three alleyways and buys three progressively shittier cups of coffee before he finds the Staromestske namesti. His heels click against the cobbled stones. He wishes that he hadn’t left most of his clothes in Myungsoo’s closet in Seoul. With Sunggyu the fashion terrorist, it had just never seemed important.
He spends four hours and thirty nine minutes watching the circles and the hands of the Orloj tilt. His knee twitches. Sunggyu would never have come to Prague, never spent a week just lounging around public squares and staring at relics of history. Woohyun’s starting to wonder if he’s even looking for Sunggyu at all. If he’s lost Sunggyu forever. If Infinite is all that’s left.
Sunggyu never took breaks. He’d never relax, always bent on practicing until his voice jumped an octave, clawing relentlessly at the zipper on Woohyun’s jeans the second their door was shut.
“You can lip-synch. They won’t notice. It’s just a radio broadcast.”
“We don’t pretend to sing, Woohyun,” Sunggyu had snarled between coughs, lips sticky with spit, puffing hot air over Woohyun’s cock. “We’re singers. We just sing.”
“We’re fucking pop stars, hyung.”
“Doesn’t mean we’re not still singers.”
Sunggyu scheduled extra lessons for the both of them with their instructor, learning medleys and duets for variety shows. Sometimes they’d practice in the dance studio after all of the others had gone home. Sometimes they’d run scales into each other’s chests, biting chorus lines into skin.
And when Sunggyu said five minutes, he meant five fucking minutes, whether Woohyun had gotten off or not. Even if, the next day, Sunggyu missed three notes and belted each of the others out twice as fiercely.
He didn’t believe in the type of perfection Woohyun practiced--pretty for the camera and charming their interviewers. He needed to be internally flawless.
In Prague, Woohyun tours St. Vitus’ Cathedral and kisses a pane of glass in Vladislav Hall. The light filters though his fingers. “Kitanai,” two Japanese tourists exclaim behind him. Dirty.
Woohyun thinks of Sunggyu’s face when he comes, licking the sweat from his neck and tonguing the inside of his ear, Sunggyu’s breath when he wakes up in the morning. Dirty.
“Stop over-anayzing everything,” Sunggyu had said. “Just. Relax. Think of it as stress-relief or something.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Sunggyu wiped a fleck of come off of Woohyun’s cheek. “It’s never easy. None of this is.”
There were bags under Sunggyu’s eyes that the makeup artists were going to have to cover before their next television appearance. Woohyun was pretty sure that they were going to bitch about Infinite's collective inability to take care of themselves while Sunggyu flirts mercilessly. “When does it stop?”
“The lying? Never. Unless you want to stop performing.” Sunggyu shrugged. “You can still leave, you know. Probably even still make a living off of your face. Then you could sleep with all the boys you wanted.”
“Fuck you.”
A chuckle. “You already did. Now go to sleep, Woohyun. Filming starts at nine.”
∞
In eleven hours and thirty seven minutes, Woohyun passes over Poland, Belarus, Russia, and China, and lands in Tokyo. The countries look indistinguishable from thirty-five thousand feet in the air, and Woohyun shuffles through Sungyeol’s tarot cards three dozen times. He doesn’t need to look down at his hands when he reaches the Star, thumbing the worn edges, stomach knotting. The solution hasn’t gotten any clearer, Woohyun thinks. You’re a fucking fraud, Sungyeol.
Sunggyu had last found him in Beijing. “Your clues suck, you know. I left you a map!”
“I thought that the roasted duck was a good enough hint. Sungyeol used to moan about how much he missed it.”
“Have you told him? Any of them?”
“Of course not. They all just think that we’re off on some stupid self-help program. Personal growth and all. Or at least, that's what they've been telling the interviewers.”
All of Infinite had agreed to take a year of personal vacation time a few months before Sunggyu’s enlistment. They'd been on an unofficial hiatus anyway, what with Sungyeol filming a few movies in Japan, and Dongwoo still in mourning. His grandmother’s death had devastated him. The break had made sense: the company had other groups to promote, and two soloists yet to debut. No one had disagreed with the rationale.
“We should have stayed.”
Except Sunggyu, of course.
“And do what, hyung? We’ll be back after the army. Like Epik High.”
“Not everyone bounces back.” Sunggyu had leaned against the window, breath misting over the glass.
A pause. “Fuck me, hyung. Against the window.”
“You don’t want to be seen either, Woohyun.”
“So cover my eyes.”
Woohyun searches the area around Tokyo Dome for three days. Sunggyu had always wanted to perform there, he figures. It’s the perfect place. Much more logical of a choice than Prague--a place where Kim Sunggyu would want to dance and scream and sing and suck Woohyun off in the waiting rooms where no one but their reflections could see.
He doesn’t find anything. But Tokyo is full of people, full of music, and he buys a handful of stupid looking toys for Dongwoo, and Woohyun thinks he could get lost there for a while, totally anonymous. It feels frightening.
He ticks another destination off of his list and books a ticket to New York.
In the airport, his cell phone rings. It’s been a very long time since he’s heard the chorus to Voice of my Heart.
“Woohyun? Where are you?”
“About to get on another plane.” After finishing his army service, Woohyun had disappeared, telling Myungsoo what he was doing only after he’d gone, asking him not to call, to let him find what he was looking for. Myungsoo had always been the sort of friend to tilt his head and let you finish fucking up your life before letting you know what he thought. He’d called only three times in two years. Apparently Woohyun was finished.
“Where to?”
Woohyun bites his lip. “You promised not to ask.”
“Sungjong came home yesterday. It’s over. We can start again.”
Something rattles in Woohyun’s chest and he thinks of unending double loops, of infinity. He looks up at the towering LCD screen of flight information and his eyes skim over New York, JFK and land on Seoul, IIA.
Sunggyu had always preferred dance studios filled with the seven of them. Maybe even a little bit more than places half a world away. His finger traces the outline of a lemniscate in the air. Sunggyu, Kim Sunggyu.
He clears his throat. “I’m on my way.”
∞
a/n: without reifica this would be a disaster, a story spread across a smattering of countries without a narrative to pull it all together. the beautiful graphics were cropped and resized by her. thank you, ♥ and thank you anon on the kpop kinkmeme for requesting this--it was a beautiful idea.
original photographs can be found by following the links: [1] [2] [3] [4]
