The Book of Us:

Entropy

The moon dies softly over him, with pale silver treats the glass over the window, gently leaking in. It's early still but he steps up, finds his allotted seat, arranges his bags, shoving them on the compartments atop, carefully not to take too much space, that they are well placed, neatly puts his paper cup over the plastic table that unfolds from the seat in front of him. He has it all ready to depart. He takes his phone out of his pocket, checks that it is fully charged, navigates through it, his fingertips tapping mildly over the screen, searching, scrolling, until he has only to press play and enjoy his favourite drama that will cover more than half of the trip. He tugs the plugin, just in case, the wire hanging to the floor, prepared to recharge his phone in case of need, and waits for the appropriate moment. For now, he stares into the distance, counting the last sparks of stars, contemplating the moon dissolving into the warmth of the earth, slowly being replaced, fading away into the morning gleam, veiled with cotton clouds of pink and violet. It's beautiful and relaxing watching the sky change, the world becoming focused, clean, shining in colours when a minute ago was all black and shadows, diffuse silhouettes of buildings and people and forgotten streets. It keeps him distracted from the stream of passengers getting in, pushing and crashing, bags and suitcases and backpacks stuck in between, blocking the hallway. He has saved time coming in sooner, he has avoided the rush, the worry of losing the bus, of having to fight with his luggage, stacked on, impeding the pass, crushed as it is happening now – there are fumbles and hurries, bags blowing over shoulders, hitting others, being carried tactlessly; people shoving and jostling, throwing their belongings unceremoniously. Instead, he has arrived when only the driver was in, has had the pleasure to glance all over the row of empty seats while sipping from his floral tea perfectly balanced in front of him.

And it's finally time to depart - he frowns, watching the digital numbers atop, flashing in furious red, telling him they are running late. But, outside, there is a line of people checking in, showing their papers and waving hands goodbye to their loved ones.

No-one has come with him, so he stares at them, smiling, the sun shyly showing up, crashing golden across the street, beaming over him, his skin with pouring tepid streaks. It feels nice, his cheek resting on the glass, a hand cupping his chin, eyes wandering, observing, counting the seconds and holding his breath in.

They are delayed already: it’s ten minutes past the departure time and they haven’t moved, the bus still parked, people still jumping in last moment.

He hears rubber against concrete, a pair of runners and jaded breath. The driver is closing the luggage rack but stops midway, looking at the figure coming, rushing forward. The words come out ragged, in puff amid pants and gasps from the air. After a minute, the last passenger comes in, still breathing hard, chest swaying fast. He is a blur of dark hair and diffuse lines in movement, a crooked, flicked smile, twinkly eyes that shines under the last beams of an expiring night yielding to the sunlight.

He looks at the newcomer and raises a brow at his general direction: he is the reason for them to be late and he doesn’t approve tardiness – but looking at the man standing, looking unsure, he softens up: he seems ruffled and sorry – which he better, he is causing mayhem, flipping up the arrangements he has made -, the bed-sheets still trapped around him and it’s so early it’s not a wonder he overslept.

He stops right in front of him, checking the number of his seat, still smiling unsure, indefinite, vaguely, dropping his many duffed bags on the ground with a low plop. He boots them in, pushing them with the heel of his boots, hurrying through, intending to be done quickly – so the bus can start rolling.

Once there is room for him to move, he sprawls on the seat, lounging tiredly, exhaling the air, forming little clouds of condensation – his cheeks are scarlet and his lips tremble, pouting slightly, delicately. He reclines, staggers his back until he feels comfortable, lurching to the sides to jostle his bags further behind the chair, piling them in a mess of spreading belongings that fall beneath him, that he kicks furiously back in – he bends to zip up them, pushing clothes in without a care, smudging wrinkles over printed fabric, his palm trying to contain the enormous amount of things stuffed in. He success and, once he is done and has stopped frowning down disappointedly, he settles back and flashes a smile straight at him, his hand already stretched forwards, pointing at him under the dim light from the emergency LEDs above, painting his face in of ghostly blue. This close, with his features glowing dully in shades of teal Jinwoo can discern the long lashes batting over his eyes the same tone as his floral tea – soft brown, inviting, calming, an assurance diving into his orbs, - he can pinpoint the little mole at the rim of his nose, the tiny creases around his lids that demarcates the smile in his lips the colour of chocolate. He is cute, impossibly cute and he is about to shake his hand and he thinks this is too much – that there is no need, he can well sit next to him without a name to remember him (because he doesn’t plan to recall him at all, cute or otherwise, he doesn’t have to introduce himself to a total stranger, they won’t become friends on the span of four hours trip to Mokpo).

“I’m Minho,” he says, shaking his hand, taking him by surprise. He blinks at him sheepishly, his brown eyes big, staring bleakly at him – and it’s such a fitting name, it suits him perfectly, adjusting to his attributes like a glove, like pouring rain.

“Jinwoo,” he manages to mumble back. With the sun caressing his skin, pouring golden and colouring him in, he looks all gleaming, tan and board, tall, his legs folded, adjusted to the little space he has, his smile growing big.

Jinwoo smiles politely at him, feeling a stronghold around his fingers, a shake that is more kind than expected, familiar somehow – and they finally get on, the engine softly purring below them, the bus hitting the road. He takes a minute to properly gawk at him, at this boy who will be by his side for over four hours. Minho looks sturdy and soft, all dress up to impress instead of wearing comfortable jeans and hoodies for a long trip, his eyes warm and welcoming, his lips rolled up, curling in a cute grin. He is all gold and dimples, his graze focused on him, observing Jinwoo in return – how the sun draws lines over him, his dark hair glowing auburn and copper, a perfectly shaped oval with starry eyes that hold universes; he is beyond description, no word can trap the beauty that lingers in him and that leaks through his orbs, exploding like fireworks, a thousand fireflies swirling around, following his glance. For an instant he has wandered over his wrist, his fingers retracting, feeling his life pulsing below, across his blood and into his bones in steady throbs. Light dyes his cheeks ivory and cream and they look carved by heaven itself – he is all flawless, round edges, soft contours and graceful lips, plushy and lovely, dotting a heart in the middle of his features, glossy, little white teeth showing up between them, biting lightly the surface, adding rose to them. His seatmate is pure prettiness and he can’t conceal the interest that crosses the lines of his face.

Jinwoo turns around towards his phone, ready to sink into the pleasure of the road, his mind travelling inside the movie he has so much awaited to watch. He is ready to ignore to the best of his abilities any noise or movement coming from Minho – nothing will tear his attention from the screen, he is holing into his seat, almost tasting the title of the film. With the tip of his finger, he caresses the smooth screen but, before pressing the key, he is disrupted by a jolt that flips his phone from his hands to Minho’s boot, the bus shuddering at a sudden stop.

“Sorry,” he maunders, bending over, patting gingerly the ground, bumping into Minho’s legs with his elbow. Minho smirks down at him, hunches forward to take the phone that has landed between his feet, picks it up for Jinwoo. He hands it to a dishevel Jinwoo, his hair falling in inked flocks, all tousled – he shakes them and they fall back into place, ruffling the top of his head, combs it with fingers and Minho watches him wanting to run his own hand down them, sinking his digits around the black pool of his hair. He is stunning, even more in the shades, his head popping between his knees, obscene, sublime, the sun crashes over the waves of his hair painting it, all the edges hazy, ethereal like a dream, - like William Turner’s painting, tragic and great, capturing his heart with a thunder, all softness and eagerness, his colours fading away, replaced by light and shades.

“Here,” he says, pressing the device to him and Jinwoo takes it with so much care – and the touch of his fingers flares above his wrist, stains his mind with miracles that loiter a little longer, a reminder of the place where Jinwoo’s fingers have hovered over his flesh. With his pallor, he seems made of glass and china, fragile and delicate and defined, appealing and derisory gorgeous. And when he smiles at him is like being bathed by summer sunlight, tepid and mild, infectious in a way that has him mirroring his expression unexpectedly.

“Thank you,” he mouths, voice sweet like Debussy’s songs collecting the phone, bringing it back to his lap, setting it in angle with his sight – ready to watch something on it, Minho jots, tilting his head to glance over. Jinwoo is about to snub him from the rest of the journey and Minho can’t agree with that – he wants to admire him a little bit longer, wants to dive into him, disclose who he is.

From the window time-lapses out of pace, flaring and moving undiscerning, purblind, dazzling, cars and buildings passing by in blurred colours, the wind softly swirling leaves of red and orange that fall from autumn trees, softly creaking under the wheels of the bus, covering the roads and the city. Jinwoo turns to it, takes in the fragrance of the streets – pumpkins and chestnuts and fire burning, wood and pine needles, the taste of the Han river below them, water under bridges that oscillates across the city and beyond, cutting the land like a blazing scar.

Minho looks at him, at the reflection that the light casts of him – the colours undone, the gleam of his eyes gone but with his glance fixed on the route, with his defences down, he can stare at him unnoticed, silently admiring his contour, the way his lashes flicks when the golden beam catches him, painting his skin with stardust and earthy shades that surreptitious comes in from outside. Jinwoo is made to be stared at, observed, he is a whole James Blunt song: beautiful, and Minho takes the opportunity to be mesmerized by the shape of his neck that bends down, just enough so his forehead is nestled over the glass, his eyes half-closed to the morning that raises up in the sky, splashing the night with delight, spreading light among the silvery, clouded aurora.

He is lost in contemplation, the suave whir from the engine is swaying him, his mind drowsy, the sun slowly reaching, streaks that touch his flesh, warm and reassuring, calming his head. But he is determined to watch the drama he has been holding into, saving it for this very moment – for when he has nothing else to think about, able, finally, to immerse into the plot, into the characters. He shakes, tendrils of black ink swirling all around, carefully falling back into place. He holds the paper cup and let the condensed warmth to set into his heart, the sweet, flowery aroma spreading, softly regarding Minho who draws it in, feeling it on his tongue, a mild caress of milk and tea – tender, sugary, it tastes nice over his lips, a phantom of a kiss. He follows the sip that Jinwoo takes – looks at his pale, long neck, how it pumps up, distractingly, appealingly, resists the urge to trace the contour of his Adam Apple, to grace his veins colouring his skin (Jinwoo is so tempting, even if he only has a name, he feels like already his friend, as if they have met for years and centuries and, even though the idea is strange, it sinks into him naturally, it fits inside of his heart, arranging around his bones like the notes of a fiddle into a rock song). It’s odd that he feels so inclined toward Jinwoo, so familiar, so comfortable despite that it’s the first time seeing him – and it must help that he is so pretty to watch, his shape familiar as if already memorized and known.

He can see his eyes on the panelled window, distilled brown catching the twinkling lights that blink on the streets, the morning trapped inside, red and orange flaming through. His face is a patch of stained glass, smudged, hazed with cold and the passing flashes but still beautiful. He contemplates it from afar, taking in the details, counting the freckles, discerning tattoos over his hands, climbing up on his arms like blooming flowers. There is something about him that makes his heartache, that makes him think – think about forgotten memories, across time and space, to find his face inside his brain. His name echoes like the strands of an old song, the flavour of early spring, peaches and strawberries.

“Is it your first time in Mokpo?” Minho asks, his voice sultry and low, raising inquiringly a brow at him – and his reflection diffuses and diminishes, striking out. Jinwoo slowly turns a little smile tilting.

“I’m from there,” he reveals and Minho smirks, amiable.

“Great, then you can teach me what to do and what to visit,” he suggests, eager to learn – to be in all the places Jinwoo has been before, to see the views engraved under his lashes, feeling the same wind against his skin. But Jinwoo shrugs, unsure.

“It’s been decades since I’ve actually been there,” he admits, red cheeks, feeling dumb and ashamed. But that doesn’t stop Minho, who has already a new question trapped between his lips, ready to fire, ready to hear Jinwoo’s voice.

“And what brought you to Seoul?” he wonders, sloshing further into his chair, looking toward Jinwoo with curiosity peeking up. He doesn’t intend to be rude, he only wants to listen to him, to be soaked by his words. Jinwoo chuckles, finds this boy interesting, different, ready to occupy his time with a sequence of unrelated queries just to make time fly, just to have something to do during the trip – to keep him entertained and Jinwoo understands the emotion, knows that it is to spend hours alone but surrounded, not able to rest but unable to do anything else. It’s nice to have someone to talk to, to not feeling burdened, alone.

“Obviously, work,” he says, not elaborating, letting the next question fall naturally. Minho picks up quick and does as expected.

“On what? If it’s not too much rude to ask,” he says, rushing to be polite, not pretending to offence Jinwoo. Jinwoo sighs a peal of tiny laughter and it shatters Minho’s heart – cute, adorable, just enough to explode stars on the firmament.

“What it could be?” he says, playfully, a finger tapping his chin, flipping his hair backwards, removing flocks clouding his eyes, diminishing them with darkness. Minho hums, watching at him intently, picturing his profession, imagining him in different scenarios – playing pretence with him in his mind.

“Are you a model?” he breathes out, the idea making sense – how could possibly him be something else when he is made out of stardust and grace?, - but Jinwoo giggles, shyly, shaking his head and shattering Minho’s illusion of him doing the runaway. It bugs him that he won’t be able to find Jinwoo somehow once this journey is over – once he is out of the bus and out of his company, to never meet again, for certain.

“I’m a teacher,” he admits, smiling down, biting deliciously his under-lip holding expectations, watching Minho aghast expression, the delusion growing inside his pupils – dark cocoa and honey balm.

“No way!” he exclaims, “kindergarten?” he hazards, trying to make sense out of it – that he is wasting his beauty, harvesting kids instead of money. Jinwoo shakes his head again, chuckling quietly, amused by the continuous failures of Minho, who is incapable to picture Jinwoo – though kids running around him, worshipping him, it’s still a cute dream.

“High-school teacher. Physics and maths,” he specifies, not giving Minho chances to fail again.

Minho can already see a bunch of boys and girls all swoon over Jinwoo, following him – and he can spot himself among them because he is wooed for him, too. He can clearly see it in his head, and it’s adorable and tangible, so real he can touch it with his fingertips – so real he feels it deep down, beating through his core. “What about you?” he asks in return. Minho blinks, caught in the middle, on the hook listening to him, his mind adrift, floating amid his watery voice, an ocean of endless words he wants to drown into.

“I’m a music producer,” he says and, in an afterthought, he adds, “maybe you have heard some of my songs,” and he can swear he isn’t showing off, he only wants to impress this pretty boy in front of him.

The city waking up behind him, sleepy lights twinkling on passing buildings, blinking over them, yellow and orange like Van Gogh’s sunflowers, the texture coating them, floating the hall with underwater tones, crafting impossible shapes that play amid shadows, swelling big with the rise of the sun at the far end, creeping lazily up in the horizon.

Jinwoo stares at it, captivated, observing the boy next to him sideways, watching his skin lighting up, going from dark to a more tepid shade of tanned flesh that irradiates warmness, the promise of soft, lingering touches. Even distorted by the lustre from outside, its luminescence diffusing the edges of his face, he is handsome, square and board, with a kind smile that hasn’t left his lips since greeting Jinwoo – a smile that grows on him the more he stares, dissimulate, at it, all perfect and radiant, brightening up his countenance, softening all that he has of threatening, of menace. And his voice thuds like dripping honey, sweet, caring, sincere, like a winter morning – it reaches Jinwoo in raspy puffs of air and underground tones, a husky hush of vibrating growl on the vowels. And then he is the one writing these amazing songs, the mind behind the most perfect lines that he so much adores – that he has listened like a broken record, on repeat from days on. G-Dragon, IU, Taeyang, he has been following them since the beginning of their careers just to meet with the composer at the bus stop – and it’s a wonderful world, the explanation why his name has tasted acquainted to his core. He feels his lips glued, words trapped, caught in his throat, his heart pounding, beating like a subway train, out of control, all his skin splotched in scarlet dots of shyness and timidness and so his tongue is twisted and can’t utter a meaning word – therefore he sits in silence, wishing that Minho won’t find him disrespectful, bashful, hoping that he will understand (that he is only too overwhelmed to say a thing).

Minho smirks and, on the glassed panel, it comes out as devilish, but Jinwoo feels its radiation – warm, tepid, mild, - and so he tries to mirror it, tries to beat the awkwardness that has bloomed between them.

“I might have,” he finally mumbles, a hand covering his face, hiding the evidence – that he is much more than a casual listener, that he collects the albums he manufactured.

Minho is intrigued, wilding with curiosity, a million questions popping into his head – about his favourite songs, his preferred lines, the exact shade of his eyes, the texture of his lips under his fingertips, if he can ask him out or it is too soon and he needs to exert a bit more of persuasion, talk to him for the rest of the trip (and he doesn’t mind a bit, he likes him enough to want to disclose the type of person that he is, if he is as precious in than out). But he doesn’t want to seem rude, to rush things up – he doesn’t want to appear more invested than he is, doesn’t want Jinwoo to think he is too intense, too much (he wants his glance falling on him, drizzling on him like a starry night, stardust loitering, twirling inside the wind of his orbs).

“Well,” Minho begins, carefully, really not wanting to be smug, to scare him, to get Jinwoo too fed up with his life, “I did my share of work with some famous names,” he says wishing his voice not to betray his heart – but Jinwoo only smiles at the window, nods, nudging him to add more, to continue, to open up. And when he turns to look at him, he is all golden treats, all luminous and perfect, his eyes shining under the morning gleam, his clothes shimmering with particles of halcyon. This close Minho is sure that he is unreal – so much perfection gathered in him can’t be and, yet, he feels his knee bumping on his leg, pointy and bony, but tangible, prodding, shovelling him along the humps of the road.

He clears his throat and asks about his whereabouts, intrigue about all a teacher has to do – sinking into the melting shape of the waterfall of his voice, clean and crystalline, like dew under the fog.

At first, Jinwoo blinks, unsure, a bit agitated about the question – not so much because he is afraid of Minho but more because he doesn’t want to be a bore, to put him to sleep (not now that he is breaking his defences, ready to open up).

“It’s not that interesting,” he utters, words splurging, rapidly escaping from his lips before he is even conscious of them,” it’s a lot of work,” he continues, amazed that he is still able to talk properly, to make his sentences understandable, stables and not a blabbering mess. “But my kids, well, not kids, clearly,” he corrects himself, grinning at the mention of his alumnae, the teenagers he teaches and cares for, “teens, they are all over 15,” he details, and Minho nods, listening attentively, following his chat, “they are really good: good grades, good behaviour,” and he can tell how proud Jinwoo is of them – and Minho doesn’t wonder, he would, too, be the best only to get Jinwoo’s regard, his mere feathery grin showing up because of him. “I’m absolutely biased,” he adds, munching his sentence, unable to hide the pride that blooms and explodes inside of his eyes, gleaming like fireworks, “but this year class is doing great. I’m sure some of them will have successful careers.”

“That might be because you are a wonderful teacher,” Minho blandishes, but it’s only the truth – he has been about half an hour and is already fascinated by him, it’s not difficult to picture a bunch of children loving him tenderly, behaving to the best of their capabilities. Jinwoo burns rosé, his cheeks ignited by Minho’s praise that is totally undeserved – but that has sunk into his heart.

“I just… hope to be good enough for them,” he utters in a rush, words scattered into the air, not reaching Minho’s ears, who frowns, trying to grasp them – but by the look on Jinwoo, he can clasp the meaning of his shy endeavour, takes a note to flatter him more (blush suits him greatly, but Minho shift the conversation, gives him time to recover, to settle back, his head resting on the window, his sight trailing on Minho’s frame). The world framed by the window (the long, stretched road, the lined trees, the songs of the birds and the wind caressing the sky, all of it diminishes when Jinwoo is mounted alongside the landscape, his face askew bathed with liquefied golden dust that shimmers around him like fireflies burning up. The view of his is breathtaking, beautiful, he can’t take it all, he needs a second to recover, to glance at all that he is – to watch the perfection of his lips, shaped like strawberries and poppies, the roundness of his expressive eyes that hold stars and shyness, the lonely freckles that highlight the pale of his features, a stark contrast that he wants to trace, to paint him by numbers, to put his name into a song he will write about the perfect trip and a Mokpo guy.

The tea has cold down but the taste spreads between his opened mouth, the flavour of spring and Song Minho, dark and strong but, undertone, sweet, melting his resistance like the beverage that is warming his inside, making him hum, delighted. Minho keeps on talking, his eyes chasing all the lines of his face, fizzing, effervescent. He makes him forget about the drama he was about to get lost in – instead, he gets lost in Minho, who is easy to contemplate, who is all bubbling energy and gesticulated hands, chatting about nothing of importance, making Jinwoo chuckle, the sound clear, stabbing him with pure beauty, hurting him right on his chest where he wants to chisel the notes of his suffused giggles and the ferocity of his sentiments that are growing like wildflowers on a desert.

They chat for the entirety of two hours and Minho is surprised to see the bus halting at a rest-stop, the announcement that the journey is halfway through and that they have twenty minutes to enjoy. Jinwoo can recall exactly all that he has said, every little detail – he has been kindly listening, memorising him, the cute creases forming under his eyes when smiling, the spot atop his nose, expecting a kiss to be blown, the texture of his voice swirling in his ears, drowning his sense, lulling him softly.

“Do you want to get out?” Minho asks, watching at him moving, collecting his discharged phone and throwing it into his handbag. He nods and Minho squishes, legs bend up to make room for Jinwoo to pass without having to really get up from his seat – to take the opportunity to scrub at him without being notorious, a secret caress of his fingers dancing on his hips.

He observes Jinwoo running and he recalls this morning, the mess he left behind, chaos ensured because he was about to miss this – to miss meeting Jinwoo, to spend hours next to him, next to a boy that feels like family, a boy who has taken already all of his (and he is so willing to offer him more, to join his life with Jinwoo, as sudden as it all has been, he feels it right, beating between his ribs). He is so glad that, in the end, it all has worked out for him, that he has gotten into the bus four seconds before it departed – seconds that have saved him from a broken heart even if it has procured him punctuation on his lungs, running wild to catch it up.

And then he has thought of the tremendous coincidence to have the spot right next to Jinwoo – to be fated to be his pair amid the rest of the available seats (and he turns around just to stare at the sea of empty places, hollows and dries, how the ride has felt so less intense that he was picturing, how little people have come).

Suddenly, with Jinwoo rushing forward, hands busy holding paper cups, a smile on display, an idea pops up into his mind – a silly, random thought but that might prove the theory that he has.

Jinwoo pushes one of the mugs towards him, hot and steamy, the fog clouding him, veiling the shimmer of his pupils.

“Here,” he says, tilting his head at him and Minho takes it gratefully, takes a sip to please his generosity – it’s coffee, not his favourite but, still, warm, defrosting the palms of his hands. Jinwoo, by his side, twine and twists, stumbling to get back to his seat. He takes a long breath when he finally slumps into place, gulping down his beverage – another floral tea, its soft smell caressing his nostrils gently, tingly.

“Thanks,” Minho waits until Jinwoo is fully comfortable to cheers at him, raising his cup and taking another sip, allowing the taste to settle in. Jinwoo smiles, rummages through his bag, frowning, nabbing at something, jerking it out.

“Do you want a sandwich?” he offers one and Minho realise how hungry he is, how he has skipped breakfast and hadn’t had a bite since yesterday afternoon – he tries not to lurch forwards, stealing it straight from his hands, doesn’t want to appear desperate or miserable but gobbles it down in smalls nibbles, snow of crumbs falling on his lap that he ushers to wipe out, intentionally bumping his hand over Jinwoo’s knee, his fingers brushing past his jeans, tracing the surface of the leg that is already touching his limp, joined by the way they both are sitting, sideways facing each other. “Wonpil made them for me,” he explains, looking at him eating, “he is my collage, he knew I was going to Mokpo early and, therefore, I wouldn’t have much time to prepare,” he adds, carefully controlling Minho’s expression – a bit sour, bitter at the corner of his mouth, - “so he did it for me. A Chuseok gift,” he says, chuckling, recalling the moment his friend had given them to him, wishing him a safe trip. Maybe he should call him, tell him this novel feeling that has been lingering inside of him, swaying his mind, replacing all that he held close with images of Minho, this boy who he has met for just a couple of hours but that is already very dear to him. He pictures the moment, what Wonpil would say – that it is magic working, destiny, fate, - but he just shakes his head, scattering dark hair all over the place – he doesn’t believe in stuff like this, it has been a mere fortuity, nothing else and he shouldn’t be diving into it, it will last only until he gets out of this bus, he won’t see Minho again (and it pains him to realize that their time is counted, summed up to a whole journey).

“Hey, when did you buy your ticket?” Minho wonders, out of the blue. Jinwoo blinks, tries to remember, fishes out the paper and tells him what he wants to know.

“The fourth of September. I was about to take the train, but the bus was cheaper,” he explains, folding it back minutely, staring at Minho for some sort of reaction, an explanation for such a strange inquiry.

Minho can’t believe it: same day, same excuse: this has to be fate, definitively, it can’t be otherwise – too many chances and he does believe in kismet, the occult forces and willpowers pushing them together, forcing them to be – and he is more than willing to let it happen, has nothing against it (likes Jinwoo more than is natural: he is already beneath his ribs, scribbled on his bones, bashing over his heart-beats.

“Same, me too!” Minho proclaims, shoving his ticket under his eyes. He skims over it, marvelled at the coincidence, an eyebrow dancing in shock and surprise – this is getting a bit out of hand, this troubling feeling he harbours towards Minho that is more than love, goes beyond that (reaches his core and lingers inside of his heart). He needs to figure it out – so he texts Wonpil and waits for a plausible explanation that is better than soul-mates and destiny.

- This is entropy at work – it’s Wonpil’s reply and Jinwoo re-reads it a thousand times, processing the meaning – knowing the significance (after all it falls onto his field of expertise).

He doesn’t mention it -doesn’t want Minho to think he is crazy, - but allows the feeling to bath him, taking him under its shower, peppering new emotions that root and flourishes under Minho’s nourishing hands that slide, mischievously, on his knee, patting his arms, slightly brushing his fingertips like butterflies wings. And it is so nice, to be touched so thoughtfully, as if the caress of the wind – and he hasn’t felt this way before, hasn’t felt a thing for years now so Minho is all brand new.

Minho chats for the rest of the trip, he doesn't leave a bleak space between them, his voice covering all the spaces, all the spheres of his life, revealing all to Jinwoo - he comes undone, clean, has nothing to hide to Jinwoo, who is all he can think. And Jinwoo wants more, digs in, asks questions that are considered rude but that Minho answers without a doubt, without judging him – just answering them sincerely.

In no time the bus pulls into the bus stop, reaching the city of Mokpo. There is a stammer of bags and suitcases dragged all over, people getting up, bones unclenching, some chatter and banter, feet walking out.

Minho feels like missing a part of him already, even when he has promised Jinwoo a call, a coffee before leaving, before heading back to Seoul – he is just here for the holidays, he has work pending at home. Jinwoo gathers all of his belongings and waits for Minho to follow suit – he has brought so many stuff, it takes an eternity for him to collect all the pieces, carrying them dangling between his hands and shoulders. Jinwoo rushes to lend a hand, holding one of his duffed bags when he sees the kids waving at him, bouncing expectantly – and he resists the urge to push Minho out, to run to them and hug them tight, kissing the ruffles of curls of their little heads. He has missed them, hasn’t had an opportunity to visit in a long while – he has missed his family, his home. He waits, politely, for Minho to get ready, walks behind him, pushing his belongs across the hall, thanking the driver on his way out – he can’t wait to hold them up, swirl them around, sing them good-night. He can’t wait to go out with Minho, to show him around, the pubs he liked back in the day, the spots that are worth visiting, to take pictures to commemorate their random meeting. He tugs Minho’s bag on the ground and, while he is sure Minho is busy, runs to be greeted by his little nephews, who are already pulling on his legs, demanding attention.

Minho turns to say something to Jinwoo and finds the air cold, empty – he looks around just in time to see him surrounded by kids that are climbing on him, laughing and giggling, a perfect family portrait. He has been a fool, he has been wrong: Jinwoo has already someone in his life – someone that happens not to be Wonpil, because he is kissing a woman, holding her hand with hearts on his eyes and a beaming smile. He sighs, dejected, his chest swollen and doomed. He takes the bait and moves on – he leaves the station without another glance towards Jinwoo, leaves him with a broken heart, dispirited.

Jinwoo waits for the fuss to subdue, kisses his sister’s cheeks and asks quickly about her whereabouts, wishing she to be over soon – wishing to see Minho once more, to tell him that he would like to see him again. But when he is free of the familiar niceties, Minho is nowhere to be found.

“Are you expecting someone?” Hera, his sister, wonders, following his eyes around. He shakes his head, deflated – acts as if nothing just for the sake of the kids, who links fingers and arms, jumping by his side.

The holidays last four days and Jinwoo can’t take Minho out of his head, extract his voice from his system, remove him entirely from his memory, from his body. He hasn’t contacted him, couldn’t, too afraid to have read the situation wrong – too scared of having messed out. He has been chatting with Wonpil instead, trying to figure up what is loitering inside of his heart, labelling the feeling, putting in a name for it - so Jinwoo would understand.

He waits for the bus, the night chill, stars opaque watching over him. He has a warm mug of tea in one hand, his ticket on the other, Minho’s phantom trailing over him, his presence stuck to him like a second skin. He takes his seat, slumps into it, head leaning against the window, silver treats colouring him.

The bus is about to depart when a figure comes in running, waving his arms, a bunch of bags humping him. There is a pang in his heart, which thumps, accelerated. It can’t be.

Minho emerges from between the pile of duffed bags just like the first time, takes the seat next to Jinwoo, frowns but sits down by him, politely acknowledging him.

“How are your kids?” he says after a while, breaking the stillness hanging between them and that feels so alien. Jinwoo looks taken aback.

“My kids? You mean my students?” he wonders, surprised by the sudden question. Minho shakes his head.

“I mean you sons, the ones that collected you the other day. I saw them, lovely scene,” he says, trying to make it sound casual – but sounding bitter instead.

“Oh, my nephews!” he cheers, grinning. “They are good, it was so nice to see them. I try to come over as much as possible, but I’m never able to catch up with they growing,” he cheers, all good-natured.

Minho wants to smash his head, wants to punch himself, wants to kiss Jinwoo right at that moment, in this exact spot – when he is tilting his head, smiling at the recollection of his family, as lovely as he has never been. “Wait,” he interrupts the flow of his thoughts, “did you misinterpreted my reunion? Did you take my sister for my wife?” and Minho feels rather silly but nods nevertheless, disclosing what has been lodging inside of his brain. “Oh, Lord, no wonder you disappeared! Did you think I was straight?” but he doesn’t give him time to reply, “because I’m not. I was waiting for you to call, supposed that you were, too, interested,” he mumbles the last part, his cheeks coloured under the dim light.

“Oh, but I was! Still am!” Minho beams, overjoyed, his mind unable to cope with all of it, his hands reacting first, holding him, chasing his lips. “Very, very,” he adds, the taste of flowers and peaches drowning on him. “I was hoping to go on a date with you in Mokpo. I guess Seoul will have to do,” he proposes, already kissing him again, feeling as if in a movie about fade, his soul-mate pressed over his shoulder, his lips clashing smoothly over his neck.

“Seems that, after all, you are my destined one,” Jinwoo admits, acknowledging Wonpil’s messages over Chuseok.

Jinwoo curled over his lap, his head slightly bend, his eyes glancing at him from below, it’s a sight to behold – the soft of the sunlight bathes over him, painting him like watercolours.