If beige best describes one person, it would be Junhui.
He would be all the muted brown and oranges too, all the teal and olive.
He would be autumn, fallen leaves of bright red, woolly sweaters of ivory and wired headphones, striding down the paved roads.
Minghao loves all that.
He loves the moment maple leaves get stuck on his window, loves the shadows the trees would make.
He loves it best when Junhui is by his side.
When he gets the fluttery feeling watching Junhui hiss at how spicy the steamboat had turned into, the red scarf he would always wear when it's the season of fall.
Junhui is his autumn.
Junhui is also his fall.
He was something he cherished the most; The colours of ambience and the lofi tracks; the lulling waves of mid autumn whilst the warmth surges over, wind warm but weather cold.
Now the wind turned cold. He was nowhere to be found. And winter came.
The frost bitten Minghao, as he left his hands bare, hoping there would be warmth he once so used to take him in.
But he'll have to pause the tea ceremonies outdoors. Because outside is pile with white snow, and someone that can make all the moments meaningful was no longer there.
His autumn.
His fall.
