on pieces of dyed rays | woosan

Chapter Twelve

There's a toy in Wooyoung's hand, its wrapper with faded colours around this tube shaped toy peeling off here and there, gives an idea of how old this is.

"What's this?"

"A kaleidoscope."

"I know what it is. Why are you handing me this?" He holds it out with a tighter grip, and realises the toy is smaller than what he came across when he was a kid. His hand can wrap around its circumference, and indirectly, he gets to know how he's grown. Or in other words, how time had passed in vain, only his body aging.

"An answer to your question. That's what that sky looked like to me."

Wooyoung glances down at the toy once again. Being prompted to look inside, he sighs but listens, and sees through it different patterns of light made by pieces of coloured glass and mirrors, turning his sight into pink, orange, blue, purple, white and silver. Though aged it may seem, the lens has no crack on it, sucking in the afternoon sun to the max as it shimmers with intact pieces of hued plastics, and it's clear as day that the owner took good care of it.

"A rainbow," Wooyoung mutters, putting down the kaleidoscope.

"Or an undefined colour."

Like San's bangs, probably, he thinks, counting the sparkles caught on his now orange strands.

"Unexpected? I paint humans purple, remember?"

When San told him he'd show what the sky looked like, and summoned him to the park in the afternoon, this certainly wasn't what he expected. He would've passed, because he doesn't like crawling outside when the sun judges him, and because he isn't really a fan of public sex. The irritation bubbles in him. Setting aside how it doesn't make sense to Wooyoung or that he doesn't care for a wee hours text he didn't put much thought in, did San drag Wooyoung outside for a goddamn toy he could've easily brought to the bar?

"I guess." Wooyoung sighs, handing the kaleidoscope back to him, but San has his hands tucked in his jeans pocket.

"Oh, it's all yours now," San says.

"What? I don't need a fucking toy." He presses the kaleidoscope to San's chest but he doesn't budge.

"It was the first birthday present I asked for from my parents."

Wooyoung grimaces. His fingers holding the toy itches. "I refuse to hold responsibility for someone's memoir."

"But it's yours now," San repeats, gently pushing Wooyoung's arm away. "You can break it, throw it, burn it, do what you want with it. I just wanted to show it to you."

Speechless, Wooyoung drops his hand and lets the kaleidoscope hang on his side. It feels heavier than before. Wooyoung doesn't mind getting money, free food, free drinks, all that consumable stuff, but not things that remain, like jewelry, clothes, shoes, or a kaleidoscope—worse if it holds a meaning to a person. Because he doesn't give a fuck to what sentiments a property holds, and hates being personal. If San is expecting something more personal with him, then he should end this right now. But his tongue feels heavy and his throat feels dry.

And, fine, if San said he can do whatever with it, so be it. He can paint the lens black, crack it open and study the essence of it, count the colourful plastic pieces one by one instead of listening to Jasmine's whines late in the office, or simply dump it in the bin. For the meantime, he tucks it in his jacket's pocket. San doesn't expect anything from Wooyoung, so it's fine.

"Come, let's dye the sky." San holds Wooyoung's vacant hand, gently and lightly as if it floats, and guides him through the park.

Wooyoung just follows, until he spots two tall figures by the stream waving at San, as he waves back. Wooyoung squints his eyes, but all he can see are tall, slender figures with long coats in silhouette when they carry sun at their backs.