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The wall dug into Wooyoung’s shoulder blades.
He stretched his legs out before him, limbs practically sinking into the hardwood floor of the practice room. Despite the lull of exhaustion pulling at his eyelids, he watched unwaveringly.
“Fighting, San-ah,” he called once the music dissipated. And San. Shirt loose, sleeves rolled. Bangs mussed. A weary grin in the mirror. The song started again.
Wooyoung only distantly acknowledged he was staring. The space was sucked into a black hole of nothingness as San critiqued his own movements in his reflection, head cocking to the left on a heavy pulse of music, hair flicking across his forehead.
And there it was, the wash through Wooyoung’s system. The pang in his stomach that robbed him of his breath. Because San was raw power and ruthless danger and infectious charisma. San had the ability to ruin him with a firm look that wasn"t even directed towards him.
In times like these, the younger felt overwhelming pride for his best friend too—reflecting on how he had blossomed with flawless ease from a painfully shy, polite trainee to a sturdy and humble young man. He often wondered if similar thoughts ever crossed the other’s mind about himself; he had grown up quite a bit as well, after all.
San ran through the choreography several more times before he seemed to tire out. He grabbed his water bottle and promptly collapsed on the ground by Wooyoung’s side, huffing out an obnoxious groan. Wooyoung snorted, repositioned him so his head was resting in his lap. And it was done absentmindedly—the habit of threading his fingers through the other’s hair—shrouded in the practice of a thousand sleepless nights and lengthy car rides.
“That’s disgusting,” San pointed out because his locks were damp, but his eyes had already fluttered shut and the tension was melting from his shoulders. Wooyoung ignored him.
“Don’t sweat, then,” he quipped. San flicked him in the forehead.
And it had always been easy to be with him.
It was easy on the day he and the seven members received news of their confirmed debut date. Wooyoung was sitting with his thigh squished ( rather uncomfortably ) against San’s when he experienced that thrum of anticipation, the palpitation of his heart, the grounding weight of the other’s hand on his arm.
That day melted into itself; built-up layers of promises in the future. In the evening, Wooyung shuffled aimlessly around the dorm in search of San, who ended up being in the backyard, leaning against the house with his chin tilted towards the sky.
Wooyoung moved calmly, as if to avoid disturbing him. San looked serene like this, perfect. The world couldn’t touch him. The younger’s eyes trailed the exposure of his forehead, the slope of his nose, the gentle curve of his lips. He was perfect, and Wooyoung was not blind.
So maybe it was the rush of clarity that had his fingers reaching out, trailing along the rigid edge of the older’s jaw. Maybe is was the absolute awe pulsing beneath his fingertips that persuaded him to leave his hand cupping behind the other’s ear.
San’s eyes blinked open and met his. Gazed up at him with a look he couldn’t discern; he refused to turn away. It was intimate, but things always were between them, and always had been—the longing gazes, fleeting touches, silent conversations.
The older raised his hand to interlock with the fingers grazing the shell of his ear. Murmured, “Come ‘ere.”
Wooyoung tucked his frame into San’s side, pressed his cheek to his shoulder. It was a fleeting thought in his mind as he rested a leg between San’s outstretched ones, that he didn’t really do this with anyone else.
“Never thought we’d get here,” San spoke aloud after some time. His tone was reflective, straining to wrap around the reality of making it, of debuting after so many years of sacrifice and effort.
Wooyoung hummed. The air was muggy and the backyard was terribly dark, but that was alright. The sound of traffic was in the distance.
“You deserve it,” Wooyoung whispered, and he didn’t intend it to sound so raw, so affectionate.
“Mh,” San breathed out, wrapping his arm tighter around Wooyoung’s waist and nuzzling his nose in the crown of his head. “You do too.”
Ateez debuted.
Gradually, and all at once, there were schedules and tour dates and plans for travel. The boys prepared with a renewed sense of motivation. Now all their work was for a purpose , for an anticipating audience.
With the hardworking times came the playful ones.
“I want to practice that part of the dance again tomorrow,” San said one evening, rinsing a dinner plate under the placid spray of the faucet.
Wooyoung dried the pan in his grip with a towel. “Right before the bridge?”
“No, after the first chorus,” San replied, passing the plate he’d finished washing to his right.
Wooyoung agreed, then glanced down with growing disdain at the plate in his hands, dripping with soapy suds.
“San.” His tone was teasing. “I think you may need to be reassigned a different job.”
The older paused in washing out the plastic cup in his hand as Wooyoung held the plate in his line of vision.
“You know you’re supposed to wash the soap off, right?”
There was a moment in which the atmosphere shifted. The only sound in the kitchen was the rush of water hitting the metal sink.
Then, San—that mischievous, immature little shit—splashed the entire cup of soapy water at Wooyoung’s chest. And San has impeccable aim.
Another moment. The older boy’s mouth curled upwards while Wooyoung overcame the shock coursing through his veins. In a flash, he yanked the sink sprayer from its rightful position and shot the aggressive stream directly at San’s chest.
Apparently, the younger has impeccable aim as well.
So it wasn’t surprising, really, given the parties involved, how quickly the situation dissolved into cabinets dripping with water and liquid pooling on top of the counters and the floor.
San filled up his cup in the rushing faucet and tossed it at Wooyoung’s head. The younger, dyed hair hanging in damp strands before his eyes, retaliated by spraying him in the face.
Both were screeching and blocking flailing arms and spitting out the water that entered their mouths; at some point, Wooyoung became so wrapped up in his franticness that he slipped on the slick floor and fell with a graceless, weighted thud.
“Woo,” San sputtered out after gasping good-naturedly. He helped him up, hands gripping onto the younger’s arms as he stumbled upright.
A moment trudged by.
And then Wooyoung sprayed San directly in the chest.
So it was his fault. But when he found himself pressed up against the sink, with hands gripping his waist and playfully condescending eyes staring him down, when he was desperate to refrain from fulfilling the burning desire to glance at the shirt sticking to the hard planes of the chest before him, he wondered why he did that, and why the air was suddenly thick with palpable tension.
A few years prior, Wooyoung never would have thought he’d ever forget how to breathe. Before he met this boy, complete with his flat hair and bare face in the early stages of trainee days, he didn’t think he would ever experience the shallow feeling in his chest when such a natural bodily function ceased to come naturally.
But now, standing with dripping clothes and wet bangs obscuring his vision, he realized that his inhales and exhales were uneven, ragged. He hoped to god the other hadn’t realized too.
On a sporadic whim he looked up, met San’s eyes. Wished he hadn’t. The older’s eyes were narrowed in on his expression and his mouth was open just a little and he wasn’t even trying to say anything.
The silence shot straight through Wooyoung, blood pounding in his ears. Neither seemed to notice that the faucet was still running. Scrambling neck-deep in jumbled thoughts of what to say, what to do , Wooyoung nearly missed the telltale sign of shuffling in the hallway indicating another"s arrival.
San must have been lost in the same state, as he stepped back a mere beat before Yunho stalked into the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face. He paused when he reached the fridge, fingers wrapped around the handle, eyes shifting from the tense stances of the two younger members to the still-running faucet water.
Wooyoung knew Yunho’s eyes were boring into him, scrutinizing his behavior and the unusual hunch of his shoulders, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull his attention from his best friend, whose figure was uncharacteristically still and whose head was tilted towards the tile floor.
The younger watched unblinkly as the other’s gaze flicked up to him, regarding him with eyes that were no longer unreadable with facetious frustration and a hint of something else hidden so perfectly, it couldn’t be detected. Now his eyes were gentle, perceptive, and he understood both were aware a line had just been crossed that they’d never ventured into before.
Despite it all, every corner and shadow of San’s expression assured Wooyoung that it was okay. Even though it had happened, it was okay. They were okay.
San swallowed and then stepped forward to shut the faucet off. His shoulder brushed against Wooyoung’s as he turned to regard Yunho. The older watched them for another second—standing side by side with matching expressions—before pulling the fridge door open.
“You guys alright?” he asked, and the question was posed in a deliberately casual tone. He glanced away from them to grab a water bottle from the collection ( courtesy of Seonghwa and his grocery shopping extravaganzas ) on the middle shelf.
“We’re good. Just finished the dishes.” A pause in which the only disruption was the cap of the water bottle twisting open. “Why wouldn’t we be, hyung?”
Maybe it was the genuinely calm tone of San’s voice or the relaxed stance of his form leaning against Wooyoung or the fact that he had a strange talent for convincing others of whatever left his mouth. Maybe it was a compilation of all those things, or maybe it was none of them at all, but the tiny crease between Yunho’s eyebrows disappeared and his facial expression relaxed.
“Nevermind, then,” he dismissed easily. He moved forward, mouth curling in its resting smile. That is, until he glanced to Wooyoung’s left and took in the state of the kitchen and the smile turned into an amused grin.
“Made a mess, huh?”
San shifted, and that streak of facetiousness resurfaced as he jabbed an accusatory thumb at Wooyoung. “His fault.”
San squeaked out a grunt when he received an elbow to the ribs. Wooyoung smiled sweetly at his hyung who was resting against the island, watching them interact with dancing eyes. “All San does is lie.”
Chuckling and shaking his head, Yunho straightened up and left the room.
The water was eventually dried, but not without the sacrifice of a grievable amount of paper towels and wash rags. In the middle of it, San whacked Wooyoung in the ass with a damp, twisted cloth, and Wooyoung responded by shoving him over when he bent to wipe at the floor. It earned him a feigned glare and poorly-concealed laugh.
As they exited the kitchen, shoulders bumping, the younger believed what the older had assured him without words. Everything was okay. They were okay.
And that they were. But with the carefree times came the difficult times.
Wooyoung was still blinking past the bleary fuzz of sleep when he entered the living room early one morning before rehearsal. A few of the other members were scattered sporadically throughout the space: Hongjoong typing away on his laptop at the table, Yunho stretching leisurely on the floor, Yeosang lacing up his shoes with sluggish movements.
The minutes before leaving for KQ passed as usual, everyone stumbling around, trying to wake up and get their things together. Only when Wooyoung was filling up his water bottle did he realize he’d seen every member except San. Brow furrowing, he waded through his hazy memories of waking up, when he struggled his way into sweatpants and a shirt in the dark. He failed to recall if San had still been sleeping.
Stepping around Jungho, he walked through the living room, the hallway. Past the first bedrooms. The creaking door opening at the will of his hand revealed an empty bed with crumpled sheets and the absence of a certain dark-haired individual in their shared bedroom.
“San-ah,” he called as he rounded the corner, assuming the older had overslept and was running late. Assumed he would be brushing his hair hurriedly or shoving his arms through the sleeves of a sweatshirt.
The bathroom door was closed at the end of the hallway, light peeking out from the bottom onto the hardwood. Wooyoung approached it. Knocked lightly. “San?”
He waited, but, no response. Mouth twitching downward in a frown, he leaned in closer to the wood.
“San,” louder.
Silence.
A split-second decision. Upon opening the door was the light from above the sink vanity and San slumped on the closed lid of the toilet. His head was resting in his hands, tilted toward his lap, hair dripping as if he had sat down directly after dressing from a shower.
“Hey,” Wooyoung started with a weighted exhale. His feet seemed to stick to the tile as he stepped toward the other’s hunched form.
He crouched down, thighs protesting from rehearsal. Waited a moment, two, in which San didn’t move or acknowledge his presence. Wooyoung’s worry skidded to a halt in a gut-wrenching standstill, before proliferating into concern.
His fingers were gentle, feather-light, guiding San’s hands from his face, revealing a brow furrowed in pain and eyes shut tight. Wooyoung sucked in a breath.
“San-ah… what’s wrong?” A whisper, a plea. And he didn’t know what to do, cupping the other’s face, running the pads of his thumbs under his eyes. He shifted closer between San’s legs, tilting San’s head up with the slightest movement.
All at once, San was inhaling a sharp breath, then letting it out slowly, so slowly.
“Hey,” Wooyoung repeated, tone perceptive and careful. “I need you to let me know what’s going on.”
San’s features twisted a little before straightening out again. Wooyoung shifted, knees aching on the tile.
“Can you do that for me?”
San breathed in again, exhaling an incoherent mumble into Wooyoung’s palm. The latter felt like crying seeing the older boy in discomfort. Emotion swelling in his chest.
“Sweetheart, you have to speak up,” he tried, helpless. And he didn’t mean for the name to slip out, but San didn’t appear to notice or care as he answered several moments later.
“Think I have a migraine,” he managed weakly, but his voice was tight and strained.
Wooyoung sniffed, swallowed; he was hurting, too. He raked his fingers along San’s scalp to rub at the tension in his neck. San sighed, head lolling.
Wooyoung took in the older’s listless aura and uncharacteristic silence. “I think you should stay in today.”
The proposal seemed to sober San frighteningly quickly. He peeled his eyes open, cleary panicked.
“No,” he muttered, stopping abruptly to clear his throat. “No, I can’t miss—”
“You need to stay home. You won’t miss that much because today’s just rehearsal; already know the choreography—”
“I’m going.”
“San.”
The older’s foggy eyes flashed with challenge, and Wooyoung backed down because he was weak. Weak for him.
He shook his head, hyper-aware of how rapidly San’s chest was moving, as if he’d already tired himself out. Concern burned like fire in his veins, and Wooyoung leaned forward, resting his forehead against San’s. The action took the other by surprise, his eyes fluttering closed.
“Okay,” Wooyoung conceded, gauging the other’s reaction. “But if it becomes too much, I’ll make sure you get home. I’ll come with you. But you’ve got to promise you’ll tell me. Someone.”
San nodded.
And it was difficult, but Wooyoung let him go.
The day seemed to drag by. The others were aware something was wrong, but because San was hard-headed and determined, they let him be.
For the first half of the day, the medicine Wooyoung retrieved before they left the dorm dulled his inability to function. As the clock approached and passed two in the afternoon, however, San’s will visibly began to wear. His movements became increasingly sluggish, energy in the midst of obvious conflict with his head and his heart dwindling.
At seven in the evening, Wooyoung’s schedule was switched and he was moved to attend a voice lesson. With a sinking weight in his chest, he glanced across the brightly lit practice room at San. He sat in a heap in front of the mirror, hair a mess, clothes rumpled, eyes barely open. He was breathing laboriously despite having stopped minutes before.
“Please look after him, hyung,” he murmured to Seonghwa, who assured him he would do so. And then he turned his back on the scene, even though he wanted to stay.
He arrived back at the dorm before the dance group so he showered quickly and then proceeded to wait restlessly for the signal of their arrival. The sound of the front door closing had him rising from his bed, waiting in the middle of the room because he didn’t know what else to do, didn’t know how else to relieve the uncomfortable itch crawling beneath his skin.
The door creaked open, closed. And there he was.
San all but collapsed into Wooyoung’s waiting arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck. The younger wound his left arm around the other’s back, drawing him closer.
“You did it,” he whispered to the boy curling into his chest, lips grazing his ear.
And San began to cry. Relieved, pained, exhausted. His shoulders moved weakly, tears few. Wooyoung pressed his cheek to his hair, fighting past the lump in his throat. He allowed San a few minutes before leaning back to take in his flushed face and dazed eyes. His heart broke at the pitiful sight.
“Baby,” he whispered desperately, cupping the other’s damp cheeks. The affection, the intimacy, seemed to get to San. His bottom lip trembled.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Wooyoung reassured in a hushed tone. The last thing he wanted was the poor boy to cry anymore. He brushed the hair back from San’s forehead. “You wanna go to bed?
With a small nod of confirmation, he moved to rummage blindly—purposefully avoiding turning on the lights—through the drawers for sleep shorts and a shirt. He passed them to the older, hands brushing, and turned to straighten the sheets and pull back the covers on his bed while he changed.
Finished, he peered in the dim light to San’s still figure a few feet away. The older’s head was in his hands again, large shirt baggy on his lithe frame. Wooyoung lifted his knee that was pressed into the mattress to step towards him, pulling his hands down from his head. A striking parallel to that very same morning.
“Hurts,” San mumbled, leaning forward.
“I know,” Wooyoung muttered back, fingers still enclasped around his wrists. He pressed a kiss to his temple, an unconscious decision. The other’s eyes were closed when he pulled away. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He guided him to bed, settled the covers around him, slid beside him. Massaged the back of his neck until his breathing evened out and Wooyoung knew he had fallen asleep.
Then, and only then, for the first time since he met the young man lying beside him, did Wooyoung acknowledge that the concern swirling in his chest was rooted in something deeper than the title ‘best friend.’
With pain came peace, and with peace, head-reeling revelation.
It was late.
Wooyoung was warm, curled up in a corner of the couch, buried in a sweatshirt. The others had dispersed after dinner, some to their bedrooms, some back to KQ, leaving Wooyoung, San and Yeosang, who was passed out on a chair in an awfully uncomfortable-looking position.
Wooyoung shifted, glancing up from the book in his lap only to meet San’s eyes. The older boy was sitting across from him, resting against the arm of the couch. Shoulders relaxed, eyes warm, gaze soft. He was staring at Wooyoung but the younger did not feel intimidated, just… loved. Light.
A gorgeous, small smile on San’s face was a sight Wooyoung fell into, drowned in. He had no idea how long he struggled before San spoke up softly.
“You hungry?”
Wooyoung considered it. “A little.”
A pause. “Do you want to go down to—” Wooyoung was nodding before he even finished.
The 24/7 convenience store a couple blocks down from the dorm was a strangely nostalgic sort of location for them. In their memories, it was a blessing of junky snacks and a tiny sliver of peace in pre-debut days. All of the past trips had been just the two of them, hanging onto one another as it became chilly and dark—they rarely went before midnight—and the premise of it all simply had a place in both of their hearts.
So, they went.
At some point during the (short) trek, San started humming. Wooyoung took hold of his hand, swinging them in tandem with their unhurried steps. He tried not to think about how much his chest ached.
Both were humorously relieved to find that the store hadn’t changed a bit. Hectic schedules since debut and strict diets had kept them from visiting for awhile, but the aisles were still cluttered and the lights were still horribly luminescent and Red was still sitting on the rickety stool behind the counter.
Said cashier had been working the first night San and Wooyoung entered through the smudged glass doors, standing out against the dull gray walls with a head of bright red hair. He had worked nearly every shift the boys had come in, and though the three always engaged in small talk, they never learned his name. He remained as Red in their minds, even when his hair color changed to a light silver a few weeks later.
Wooyoung and San strolled among the selections, as if they didn’t have it all memorized. Finally, snacks in hand, they made their way a few measly paces to the front, setting it all out on the counter. Red smiled, ringing up the first bag in reach.
“Long time, no see.”
San chuckled. “Yeah. It’s been awhile.”
“So it has,” the young man behind the counter agreed.
“Has work been incredibly lonely without your two most loyal customers?” Wooyoung asked, leaning into San’s side.
Red snorted out a laugh, nodding at the register as he passed a soft drink under the scanner. The playful banter ensued for awhile longer as everything was rung up. Red relayed the total, still sniffing around an easy chuckle at one of San’s quips.
“Ah— shit ,” Wooyoung hissed, patting at his jacket.
“Hm?” San hummed. He was digging in his jeans pocket.
“Forgot my wallet,” he replied in a subdued mumble. San revealed his own wallet in his hands, bending the crease back to pull out the amount due.
“Oh—San-ah, don’t—”
The older passed Red the money, Wooyoung’s hand following along in protest. He opened his mouth—
“Woo, stop it,” San chided with no bite, grabbing his hand and pulling it back to the edge of the counter. Wooyoung didn’t say anything else.
Red was grinning when he handed the plastic sack over the counter, glancing at their intertwined fingers. He knew, like any soul who had eyes to see how they interacted with one another, looked at each other.
“Have a good night,” he said, and his eyes were twinkling.
They took their time on the way back to the dorm, footsteps slow. They were still holding hands, and oh , how Wooyoung ached. San was absentmindedly rubbing his thumb along the side of his palm. The older boy’s lips were lifting upwards and his sweater was large and he was walking with wide steps over cracked pavement.
“‘M so happy,” he muttered quietly, to no one in particular, and Wooyoung was simply honored to be there with him, touching him, seeing him, experiencing life with him.
It was then, surrounded by muggy darkness and the sound of a plastic convenience store bag swinging in the air, that Wooyoung realized he was in love with his best friend, and probably had been for a long time.
And with revelation came deliverance, the final chapter to a novel that never seemed to end, a bridge to the sequel.
Wooyoung was in the living room, wasting away his free evening by listening to Yunho and Mingi argue over which video game to play. Shaking his head, he racked his brain for something worthwhile to do, suddenly remembering that San had offered to show him his drawings a few days back. Sketching was an art form San had picked up as a stress reliever ( Wooyoung liked it too, as the older always had a distinct mixture of concentration and peace present on his face ).
Rising, he made his way toward their bedroom. The door was closed so he gave a half-hearted knock.
“Yeah?” came San’s muffle voice.
Twisting the handle open, Wooyoung started, “Hey, can you show—”
San was positioning sweatpants over his hips, bare back turned to him, hair dripping wet from the shower. Wooyoung gulped, words dying in his throat as quickly as his thought process.
Of course he’d seen San shirtless before, but now—now the room, their room, was dimly lit and the planes of the other’s back looked too smooth and the space was suddenly too warm.
“Hey, sorry,” San rushed with a welcoming smile as he leaned towards his bed where a shirt was lying in a crumpled pile. He yanked it over his head while Wooyoung was still fumbling for his bearings. Sleeveless. Great. Just fucking perfect.
“What’s up?” San asked in relation to Wooyoung’s entrance. He peeked at the younger through his hair while rubbing a towel over his head to dry it.
He must have taken notice of Wooyoung’s oddly frozen posture and unfocused, wavering eyes because his brow began to furrow and his mouth opened in question. There was absolutely no way in hell Wooyoung was about to explain his recent display of panic; he spoke before San had the chance to.
“Was just—wondering if you’d like to show me some of your sketches now.”
And Wooyoung waited, but as soon as he met San’s eyes again, he knew.
San caught him.
He could feel his face warming, blood pulsing in his cheeks, vision hazing. His damn imagination—his fantasies getting away from him before he could catch up, knees weakening, breath catching—because San was staring at him like he wanted him. The towel that was previously drying his hair lowered to rest on the desk in a deliberately slow movement, and oh god— Wooyoung could see him stalking forward, taking his time, watching as the younger was reduced to nothing under his heady gaze. Could see him halting before him, silent, firm hands coming to grip at his hips. Pushed against the wall, lips hovering, brushing against his, breath stuttering—
But San did not move. He simply took in the younger’s state ( flushed, flustered ), with that gleam in his eyes proving that he knew . He clenched his jaw, shifting his weight on steady feet.
“Okay,” he finally said, reaching over the desk for his sketchbook, and Wooyoung was a little distracted but he thought his tone sounded lower than usual. “Come here, then.”
It became easier not to panic over the older’s warm presence pressing against his shoulder blade from behind when he began to flip through the pages of the notebook. Sometimes San would explain the meaning behind or inspiration for the piece. Wooyoung was simply admiring the product of his handiwork. Every stroke was deliberate and thorough, messy and organized, planned and sporadic.
And it was fine, it really was. Until the crinkle of flipping parchment revealed Wooyoung himself, sculpted and shaped and living and breathing in the form of pencil led bathed in lamp light. The perspective was from San’s side of the couch, when he was reading before their trip to the convenience store. Hood up, hair washed and falling in his face, knees tucked in to his chest. His facial expression was serene, and Wooyoung realized that he was seeing himself through San’s eyes for the first time.
For a long, drawn-out moment, Wooyoung forgot how this exchange began, how his mind had gone blank and how San’s eyes had raked over his state. Fingers hesitant and admiring, he grazed over the drawing, smudging a bit of the graphite lines.
He leaned back against San’s shoulder, no longer conscious of keeping his distance, staring at what could only have been done through the eyes of someone that cared for him deeply. He looked over his shoulder to take in the artist himself.
Eyes deep, searching.
There was another pause, but neither were aware of when it clicked, when they passed that goal they’d been barreling towards since meeting, when they wrote the last line of the first novel of their lives together and began the next in the same breath.
Wooyoung kissed San like he couldn’t comprehend he’d been allowed this moment with him. San kissed Wooyoung like he’d been waiting days and nights for him, all his life. It was everything, an accumulation of all the unspoken words and countless signs.
At the end of it all, San nudged his nose against Wooyoung’s. Gentle. Precious. He smiled against his lips, and Wooyoung smiled back.
They fell into each other just as they had in their friendship, but now it was easier to skip over the barrier of what if? Trust was mutual. Love was mutual.
The members exchanged knowing glances when their affection for one another increased, but held off from relentless teasing until they officially told the group a few weeks later, piled together in the living room. Red kept smiling; he’d always known after all.
Wooyoung would look over at San while at home, on stage, during interviews, in rehearsal, anywhere, and watch as a blur of images passed through his mind. Writing out metaphorical novels of their past together, their present, and future.
With them came rest and exhaustion, peace and chaos, pain and relief. Love.
Clasped hands, beating hearts, warm eyes, and many more novels to come.