"If you turn into a fairy, you'll die, Beomgyu."
::
Fate always has a soft spot for star crossed lovers. Though, when the stars dim out and darkness flickers now and then, that soft spot eventually turns suffocating for fate itself. But why do peopl...
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❝was it all only unrequited? didn't you also answer me with your own eyes, that i had the permission to get lost into them? ❞
•√•
Something as turbulent as midnight storms whirled Beomgyu's mind after hearing that voice.
He stood there, motionless. Eyes panicked, heart clenched; wasn't he supposed to be invisible? How did Yeonjun Hyung find out that he was--
"You're there, right?" Choi Yeonjun's voice was faint, so faint like an abrupt full stop in mid sentence. "Tell me if it's really you."
For the darkness inside the room, Beomgyu couldn't exactly see his face. He stepped inside with a god knows how mastered courage; his angel wings gave a little tither and glowed up for a flashing second, resembling silver pearls woven on a linen sheet.
Beomgyu walked and walked, until he was standing right in front of Yeonjun's bed.
There the boy was, eyes half opened and closed, trapped between the stage of dream and reality; blue like sunborn days and grey like rainstorms-- who knew what it actually looked like. Unkempt hair messed over his forehead, sticking out around the sides of his ears as crickets chirped outside the window. A blanket was pushed over his body carelessly, and the musky scent of sweat was coated in hot air, with sounds of heavy breaths and a runny nose.
Beomgyu stared as Yeonjun stirred weakly on his bed and coughed. He gripped the blanket tightly in his fists and opened his eyes again with so much strength that it nearly appeared painful to do so.
"Why aren't you answering me, Beomgyu- yah?"
Yeonjun's eyes were still fixed at the doorstep.
It didn't take long before Beomgyu understood that the boy definitely could not see him. And it made him anxious, so in a soft motion, he leaned down, until he touched Yeonjun's forehead with his right hand. Boiling warmth seeped into his fingers.
Fever.
Yeonjun stirred again, and unexpectedly melted into the invisible touch of Beomgyu's hand. As if he could almost feel Beomgyu was right there, beside him, just like any other summers when both were alive and Yeonjun had caught a cold again.
As Beomgyu stood there, his hand did not dare to move. Oh, how pathetic it felt to be able to touch Yeonjun again; something which was supposed to be a dream not meant to be real, but then, were dreams ever real? Beomgyu did not know. And he didn't even want to know.
Right now, what mattered most was to relish this moment before Yeonjun was out of his reach again.
But what would he do? The boy had an alarming rate of fever. He needed to be treated, wet towel to be pressed on his forehead, medicines to be taken and most importantly-- water and hot soup. Where was uncle Sunjae?
