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maybe day is a bit squiffy—yes—but even the alcohol can't tame the potent sensation burning in his chest as he witnesses the opaque spark from mork's eyes, a close imitation of the fireworks scattered in the night sky and the neon bracelets adorning their wrists, a fine work of art in its rawest form—of mork's sleazy grin and toothy smile—triggering these butterflies to awaken from their peaceful slumber. day relies so much on his memories and the descriptions mork provides, but it isn't that difficult to paint this vision with colours day can decipher. mork makes everything so easy—the fireworks are green and blue and red—your bracelet is yellow, mine is purple. these are the language day understands well—descriptive and imaginative, and mork speaks them so eloquently. oh.
it's intense and nerve-wracking because day has never been this love-struck before, not with anyone in particular. he might have an innocent crush on august somewhere between the lines. but it blurred the moment day understood feelings could be a passerby, and august could only be a good friend.
but mork is different. he's just so—different. which is crazy because who would've thought this asshole could turn day's upside-down world downside up? day is never ready for this sudden liability, for this wanted possibility—not in a million years, not even a second—this cocky AC guy will be someone so important in his life that no other tomorrow will matter if mork isn't in them. how ironic.
maybe it's how mork treats him—as if he has two functioning eyes—as if he sees the world in HD and not in ripples. as if day is the day before the accident and not someone entirely new. maybe it's how mork looks at him—always a challenge, urging for a duel, fueling day's ego and boosting day's pride to show him that he can—is—living even with this limitation. or maybe, it's just mork. it's just him.
because mork makes him absolutely furious when he smokes in his room or doesn't shower before he comes to work—and it feels so casual. so mundane. so simple. going through this life with someone who lives by the clock and not the freedom of choice, mork sure knows how to humble day—and it makes day ponder about this probability—others are suffering the sentiment of loneliness and hopelessness—just like him. what distinguishes them with day is just one sense, and that's all.
and it has been such a long time since day felt like a functioning human being. with the beer and jeer and fun and the sun, he feels more than alive. as cliche as it sounds, it feels like a fever dream, a pleasant change from the nightmares haunting him to sleep every night. but even those horrifying instances stop popping behind closed eyes when mork's steady heartbeat becomes a metronome between four walls, a secret day holds close to his core, a lullaby that chases the devils away.
"you're staring again."
he hears the amusement from mork's voice and feels the cheeky grin that pulls his full lips upward, a smile that day has never seen but felt with the tip of his fingers. day never says this aloud, but he loves a smiley mork—a smiley mork makes his heart race ten times faster. and a cheeky mork makes day question if this is love or if he's just plain crazy to fall in love with someone he has never seen before.
so day rolls his eyes, exaggerating his every move by puffing a guttural breath, almost pushing the now-emptied beer cans off the plastic table, just because he knows this will make mork chuckle. and he loves listening to mork's voice when he reads the little prince or jasmine nights while their toes mingle underneath the blanket and the gap between their shoulders no longer exists—just because day likes having mork close—just because a person can be a home and mork is probably just that. or something more.
"phi," he deadpans, reaching for the nearest can to gulp another sinful sip, letting the adrenaline die down for a second as he says, "this is my default resting face. you should know that by now."
mork laughs. and oh. something flips in day's stomach. as if the door to his ribcage is now open and the flowers are free to grow and bloom towards their sun—mork.
there's a soft bump on his forehead, and day guesses mork is as equally drunk as he is. he laughs, too.
and mork's hand travels from the expanse of his back to the juncture of his neck, messaging the skin there with rough fingers, prompting, "i know your resting face. but this one's a bit different. a bit dazed. i guess it's the alcohol, huh?"
but what if it's you? day swears he should never say that to mork, drunk or sober. he will never see the living daylights if he does.
but it's funny. it's hilarious. how day somehow sneaks into the crevices of mork's lap, almost straddling him, almost pushing them both to the sandy floor, breaking the plastic chair, already so wobbly, into two. and it's crazy how tightly mork holds him by the waist, always so ready to catch his fall and bring him up, anywhere and everywhere, so that day will never feel left out or too ahead of everything else. at times like this, when alcohol makes him think of the what-ifs, day wonders if mork ever feels the same—if the stars above their heads ever aligned.
breathlessly, day mumbles, "yeah," circling his hands around mork's shoulder as he rests his head close to the thundering pulse, "it's the booze talking. definitely."
mork continues drawing shapes from the end of his spine to his relaxing shoulders, muttering close to day's lips, tasting the bittersweet concoction from mork's opened mouth. and he jokes, "heuy, are you mad?"
and day gets defensive. super defensive. "mad? why? why would i?"
"you're expecting something else, huh?"
day doesn't know if mork has psychic powers or anything, but he feels seen, and he doesn't like it (just because it's not in his favour—this conversation makes him extra queasy and out of control. just because mork is making him lose his marbles even more than he already is).
"what do you mean, phi?"
and mork lolls his head back and forth, bumping with day's forehead again, laughing off the nerves as he responds, "i don't know? you sound disappointed. as if you want me to say something else."
day chortles. "it's all in your head, phi. you're overthinking things you're unsure of."
but day feels mork's intense stare, notices the grip around his waist tightens, and the distance between their faces drifts into nothingness because when mork states, "that's the problem. you make me think too much. i never do. so why? why must you make me think so much?" day can see mork's face morphing into a visage, misty and cloudy, but as clear as it can ever be, like diving into the ocean with eyes opened.
and day's heart thunders.
so he laughs it off. just because. "how should i know? that's your problem. not mine."
but mork pulls him closer as if close is never close enough—and their bodies are now one instead of two—and it's making day dizzy.
when mork exhales, a thumb caressing the tender skin of day's waist ardently, "really?" a bone-chilling tingle erupts from the crest of day's skin, and it's over before it begins.
and day doesn't know why he closes his eyes as he answers, "yeah," feeling himself gradually wafting with the late-night breeze.
mork doesn't say anything afterwards. he only pulls day closer, and it's over before he knows it—before he realises—maybe it's just mork. if it's anyone else, day won't be this way. so it's just mork. it's just him. and shit—day doesn't know what to do.