on pieces of dyed rays | woosan

Chapter Fourteen

When they both return to the living room, Hongjoong is nowhere to be seen while Jongho is lazily scrolling through his phone.

"Where's hyung?"

Jongho points a finger at the balcony to answer Wooyoung's question, not bothering to look up.

Hongjoong is there, standing in the cold March weather, gazing at the night street, smoking, because Seonghwa doesn't allow it inside. Seonghwa sighs and sits next to Jongho, decides to ignore his boyfriend and chat with his friend instead. It's not that Seonghwa is mean. It obviously comes from the apartment rule which Seonghwa agrees with, because no one wants their room to smell like miasma and he wants Hongjoong to quit. He is trying his best to make him quit, just like how he helped him cut ties with the felonry. Wooyoung can't say he is succeeding, when Hongjoong instead encourages Seonghwa to try, even when he sees him grimacing. Or maybe, he is purposely doing that to draw out that exact reaction, from the way he giggles, earning Seonghwa's frustrated sigh. It's similar to how Wooyoung likes to kiss Hongjoong's and Jongho's cheeks, seeing them squirm in annoyance.

Wooyoung thinks that one day, Seonghwa might give in to Hongjoong's force, because he has that undeniable charm that seems to make Seonghwa weak.

Wooyoung decides to join Hongjoong on the balcony, older noticing his arrival with the sound of the door opening, instantly frowning at how thin layered Wooyoung is.

"It's still early in March, Wooyoung," he tells him. "Aren't you feeling cold with just a T-shirt on?"

"I like the cold, though." Wooyoung shrugs and stands next to him, gazing at the street below. The street doesn't offer much; it's a quiet alleyway with few lamp posts stuck on the side roads, with only a person shuffling through quickly. It's a normal sight in the suburban side of Seoul, considering Seonghwa is a mere police officer who receives minimum wages despite his job in maintaining peace in the society. At least the apartment is on the second floor of the five storey apartment, in the safer part of the city.

"Just go grab a jacket, will you?"

"I won't be out in the cold if I weren't giving you a company, hyung," Wooyoung says scampishly.

Hongjoong gets the indirect message and rolls his eyes.

"Did I ask?" Hongjoong inhales another smoke. And, Seonghwa would probably grimace if Wooyoung ever said it out loud, but Hongjoong looks good like this, his side profile solemn, a lit cigarette held in between his fingers with black painted nails, while he exhales the white, toxic air outside. It's cinematic, he thinks, like one of those old American movies he'd watched with Hongjoong a few times.

"No, but I'm being a considerate dongsaeng to you," Wooyoung says. "That thing kills you."

Hongjoong huffs a white breath out. "No shit, Sherlock."

Hongjoong drags in a long smoke, puffs it a few more times before he snuffs out the cigarette on the handrail and tucks it in a disposable pouch. He's learned not to litter Seonghwa's balcony, or any other place for that matter because he knows he'll get a hell out of the man. Hongjoong joining the beautification of the environment involuntarily is still odd to Wooyoung, and also funny.

"I'm done, okay?" Hongjoong says, raising his hands up. "You don't need to catch a cold."

He walks in first, but Wooyoung lingers a little longer on the balcony, watching one of the lamp posts flicker on the street, blinking on its last moment. He breathes in, filling his lungs with chilly night air that might still be infused with nicotine.

"That thing kills you."

He says it like he minds dying.

Not really. Wooyoung doesn't have a death wish, but he doesn't mind dying.

He just eats, shits, sleeps, breathes in the void that is brewed in oxygen that is potent to his kind. That is living for him. He doesn't think about the future, neither does he think much about tomorrow, because he doesn't have a BTS concert to look forward to, songs to be produced, a boyfriend to meet. Tomorrow is a rewind-play of today, yesterday and then some.

Then, Wooyoung is reminded of that one afternoon, on a green field, next to the unfrozen stream. Where San was determined to sketch the three handsome men carrying orange sun at their backs discrediting their looks. When Wooyoung felt small in between the two giants. When he watched the warped orange sphere reflected on the calm surface of the warmer river, shimmering in the last moments of its day, hearing San's cheerful 'perfect!' from behind and turned, realising the same gradient on San's smile.

"It'll be done in a month."

It's only been a week since then.

Maybe, Wooyoung would like to see a glimpse of San's world through his finder before he dies.