honeyed lies
He spots him in a coincidental crossing, although the way different points of his live were twisting together made him suspect something else was at fault--a force that tugged and pulled at strings he'd never known were there to lead him into his own desolation. Doojoon entertains the exaggeration, it calms him to know control is an illusion and he its slave, but as seconds speed past and his eyes linger, he grows frustrated.
The bracelet he'd found still hides in his pocket, clasped tightly in his hand to the point that it marks his skin with a teasing indent. His steps, almost independent of thought, adjust their path to one that trails behind Daehyun. Shadows cling to the back of his hair and clothes, fueled by the murky night, yet the slim shape of his body remains so familiar; he's still that molten bundle of hate, anger, and confusion--a boy shoved forcefully into adulthood. He still seems like the fragile child--precarious among such a sharp, urban setting that his hand lifts and Daehyun's name rises to his lips though he clamps them shut and holds it in. He couldn't protect him now and the illusion that he'd been doing that for years seemed to wither away with each step. Instead, reality rushes in to remind him of his own impotence. Of his own failed promises.
It isn't until Daehyun's safely tucked inside his home that he dares return to his normal disposition. An inherent calm drips into his limbs and soothes them, fighting against the tense sentiment that keeps them rigid. He patters out of the shadows and weaves through the street to line his feet with the door. There were questions to be asked that went beyond the initial queries the bracelet brought; ones that brought a tinge of fear to his gaze at the infinite possibilities. His eyes look upwards as he throws a prayer up that Daehyun hadn't gone too far down the thorny path--no matter how infantile he may be. Hesitation builds in his throat and clogs it, warm against his neck. He wants to claw at it, to let it out, but instead he swallows it and lifts a hand to knock. His fist is prim, calculated, without any trace of the fury that's sewn under his skin just waiting for a trigger to unravel it.