Laughter was a positive reaction, an infectious expression that typically led to a tickle assaulting his own larynx, but it was often forgotten. However, Chanyeol had quickly grown especially fond of Mir’s different laughter; the muffled giggle that stimulated growth of cotton flowers inside his stomach, and the gaiety which echoed with the edges rough, making him envision that arachnid creatures had created spider webs in his throat while he was sleeping, and although the sound controlled the corners of his lips, a natural joy leading to a smile, the hoarse merriment also delivered a feeling that he could only describe as unsettling. Yet in this hour it became an undertone, a solemn hint that could only be enigmatic to his sluggish brain, a subtlety out of his grasp but registering in his unintentional actions. His incisors pressed into his lips, cautious not to leave lines of liquid red on his skin from his teeth pointed like the demon horns depicted in fiction. The cause to Cheolyong’s abnormal quirks might be blatant to the more perceptive members of the cirque, nonetheless, for him it was an attempt to tessellate, the scattered glass shards stained with color, frosted, and the story they depicted obscured. He wanted to ask – did demons have horns? And simultaneously he wanted to reassure the man of something unknown to himself.
Neither was spoken, Chanyeol instead turned his spine convex as he leaned forward, extending his arms as he pushed various blankets off the cot, banishing them to the dirty floor with apathy to the grime and dirt they would undoubtedly collect there. Why put together a mosaic window out of historical facts and negative emotions anyways? He grasped a thin duvet, the cover a pattern of thin, barcode stripes in hues blues on white, and not wanting Mir to possibly overheat it was the only blanket he pulled over the two of them, his smile returning as he settled back down, lying on his side. “I like your socks, they’re radical.” He commented, his deep voice still heavy, groggy from the decelerated enzymes. In his mind persisted the image of colorful, eccentric socks, a slang word a friend of his father’s used that sauntered into his speech, and a blush that garnished cheeks. At this distance he could feel the heat radiating off of the other man in steady, continuous waves that became trapped underneath the duvet, and though his eyes closed for a second, shutting as he nuzzled into one of the pillows, his mind remained a choir of whispering voices he could hardly distinguish.
The question was becoming impossible to answer. How could he go about protecting other people? He knew, although defiantly attempted to disprove, that misery was an inevitability of life, for without it true joy would be nonexistent, and there would be no appreciation for the little things; the sun, literature, emotional bonds. “Do you think...” He paused in the middle of his sentence, eyebrows curing in concentration, determined to pluck the correct words from his mind of static and sclerotinia. Gradually Chanyeol revealed his dilated pupils, the circles adjusting to the feeble light and focused on the shape of Mir’s eyes, his epicanthic fold sharper, reminding him of creatures of myth – fey and fauns. His friend was eccentric or an anomaly, perhaps both for he was innocence and wisdom, cute and handsome, dismal cheer, a mystic with crystal balls for eyes. “…that everything happens for a reason?” He asked, the balance of the universe being called into question and fading away, becoming an inquiry of simplistic nature. There was a loathing that went with pondering if everything was just coincidence opposed to influenced destiny, but as he, a soul trapped in this freezing body, shifted closer to the spirit bound to demi-Gods and suffering from these mysterious seizures, he contemplated the possibility that reality may be more insubstantial than what he was lead to believe.
It was innate for him to accept Cheolyong for who he was, having no need to pry into the history when he could fill the future with vibrant scintillations and warm, hot choclety milk. Nevertheless, now he was presented with the proposition of not asking to quell his curiosity, but to explore the thought that speaking of the past, no matter how unpleasant or mundane, could improve the quality of one’s life through resolution, quieting the mind. He had witnessed other circus members do this, had read characters in children novels engage in the same attempt, most often meeting constructive results. Regardless, he sustained in the resolve to avoid such enquiries, and therefore his previous mumbles were imprisoned by tired, false naivety. Animating his arms again, the twin limbs reached towards his friend, the thought of an illusionary life drifting out to the sea of his thoughts that made little to no sense. Chanyeol slid one of his arms underneath Mir’s waist, the other thrown lazily, and without shame he scooted closer until their foreheads gently collided, cushioned by the hat, and maintaining the contact he spoke with a hushed, light hearted question. “How did you learn to knit?”
