the table shakes when there’s one less body attached, and he follows, a looming figure in the otherwise homely kitchen. kihyun likes the solitude of his own apartment, an abandoned one-bedroom in a building no one cares about, rather than moonsik’s. but loneliness eats the weak, feasts on the strong, and there are times when he needs someone else. “i’m a night owl.” hard questions default to rehearsed answers but kihyun doesn’t miss a beat. “and i don’t drink.”
he grabs the nearest towel, small enough to fit in his palm, and pats the droplets from moonsik’s cheeks. gentle, despite his overbearing looks. “it’s not unusual to want company sometimes,” he stops, stares into his eyes, questioning, “unless you don’t want me here?”
He can’t bring himself to answer his question. I don’t know— no, the voice inside murmurs uncharacteristically faint, like it had finally given from coming up with answers, always trying to make sense of everything.
“Bars are out of the question, noted,”
Moonsik hums, almost like Kihyun did just moments ago. He’s not keen to mimicry, but there are many things out of their place today as it is. He can see the window from the corner of his eye, wondering when the golden hour settled in, and what was he doing when it did. Ah, right. The cut on his lip pulses when he remembers, but he refrains from flinching. He, also, refrains from flinching at Kihyun’s touch, not because it was rough— it was unnervingly soft, if anything.
That’s why, for once today, Moonsik looks like he’s hit a wall.
His eyes, the ones that look all black and all pupilless if you don’t look close enough, flicker between the room. But Kihyun was close enough to notice that; maybe he could also catch the smell of death lingering Moonsik like a haunting, the lulling moons instead of eyes beneath his bangs, as well as their sharpness. Hence, why he’s not moving, letting him wipe the water all he wants. He’s an open book, presenting himself pages all wide, written in all sorts of laguages: dead and alive.
Moonsik was also just as near, and he could see everything he overlooked. The scar on his brow, a mole disrupting the eveness of his skin; and what else do you need to see of a person other than their face to guess what they’re thinking? (Everything else, he answers himself.)
“That’s what you have my number for,” running his tongue across the cut on his lip, he swallows and stays still. “Not when I’m like this— is it still bleeding?” it’s a slower process than he thought, but he does regain his composure, parts his lips to let him take a better look.
It’s the second time these past four months he’s gotten assaulted, or attempted to, at least. “I’ve considered moving, whether apartment or straight up city, but there’s too much holding me back.” The clock ticks, urging him to speak faster. Quieter. “But I won’t, not until I get you to drink with me. Once.” A pause that feels longer than it is, “Yeah, I’ll wait.”
