The Human Game of Chess We Are Playing
Title: The Human Game of Chess We Are Playing
Characters: D.O, Kai
Genre: Alternative Punk-Rock
Length: 2,129 words
Rating: PG-13
Jongin is five hundred and twenty seven steps away. For one step Kyungsoo takes forward, he takes one back.
There are games in everything. Where man stands, rules stand. Where rules stand, games stand. Where a game stands, one winner stands.
After some seventeen years seeing life with pseudo-philosophy, Kyungsoo thinks that everything happening around him is a mix of what he decides, what people choose to decide, and what God, if he exists, lets of those decisions. Everything is calculated. Mathematically. Methodically. So accurate and traceable that physics come closer to an art than a science of numbers.
That is how he sees his meeting with Jongin, an acquaintance at school he doesn’t actually know.
Jongin, as far as Kyungsoo observes, decides that he likes drawing back from the bright and blinding society, although Kyungsoo can see, deep down, that Jongin liked attention somehow. Just not keen enough to show it.
Kyungsoo is not quite sure how he first found out about Jongin. They have never properly met or made introductions. Just that kind of guy you often run into at school when walking at the hallway, or on the way to the laboratory, or on interclass parades and big announcements at the function hall.
Oh sure, he remembers now-Jongin. That local superstar, that senpai little kouhais happily bow to, having a handful of pretty cool abilities not many learn, along with the bonus of being born handsome and tall. A lot of people tend to overlook how attractive Jongin actually is; all the fangirls say is just, “Where Oppa stands, he just sucks all the other presences surrounding him, and bam, he’s all you see in the whole wide scenery. Aaaah.”
A strong presence-a loud, jarring presence-is what Kyungsoo lacks all his entire life, and he painfully envies Jongin for that.
Kyungsoo thinks that he’s not one of those saddening fangirls. And even if he is, at least he’s a motherfucking heroic, hipster pioneer. Each time he hears the frantic screaming, all he thinks is, Where do all these people come from, and he folds his arms back again. On that one big game in the Interclass Parade that made all the muggles notice Jongin, that day on the side of the court, Jongin’s expressions whisper, “I see you,” as he turns to Kyungsoo the school magazine photographer for a second before he jumps to score his legendary buzzer-beater.
Kyungsoo regrets that he froze into a statue that moment, when he should have frozen that message into his camera to see and decipher later. The crowd went wild and filled the whole court in celebration, when Kyungsoo just stood there, flinching for too long before finally taking some victory shots to put in the magazine.
As Kyungsoo thinks of it again, he guesses that maybe, Jongin meant, “Pray for me.”
***
Kyungsoo learns a lot of Jongin’s tidbits from Baekhyun, an equally wealthy childhood friend of Jongin’s. Both Kyungsoo and Baekhyun go to the vocal class, and Kyungsoo is sorry-half for himself, half for Baekhyun-that Baekhyun and Jongin have grown distant through the years and don’t really talk anymore.
Kyungsoo learns Jongin like trying to place keys into a piano; white, black and white, and black, pieces missing here and there as he tries to just play one liable song with what he has.
They meet again one day when it rains, not too long after the big game. Kyungsoo sits on the weirdly placed wooden bench, hurriedly scrambling for an umbrella and wanting to tie his shoe quick so he can get home before it rains because damn those clouds are huge.
But the sky decided to show him some sense of humor by letting some big monsoon rain fall with style right then and there. “Oh bummer!” Kyungsoo throws his hands, ready for sprays of rain mist on his face because this odd bench is oddly put here under the roofs of the open hallway facing the open court where Jongin won last week.
Kyungsoo sees people scurrying for shelter here and there, and all he could do was chuckle satirically at it. He sees some three other running down the half-staircase two classes to his left. He sees Jongin and his not-so-popular clique wimps Sehun and Chanyeol, some benchwarmers on the big games. They bid goodbye and the two run past Kyungsoo with almost a regard. Well, Chanyeol said hi.
Jongin sled on the empty rest of the bench and sighed loudly, wiping-slash-ruffling his rain-drenched hair with his favorite sports towel, the one Kyungsoo knows so dearly. Had it been someone else, Kyungsoo would just either leave or clear his throat so very loudly because he had to.
“You might want to do the drying somewhere else, it’s still raining hard anyway.”
Kyungsoo may be famous for looking so scared all the time, but believe it, his sharp tongue breaks all that. Deep down, his heart wants to bury his body alive in shame.
Jongin turns to see Kyungsoo on the other side of the bench, face mortified although he knows that the guy’s been there all along. “Srry,” he mumbles and proceeds self-drying with less spraying. He could feel the embarrassment and awkwardness creep from Jongin’s pores. Look at that, Kyungsoo scoffed. He hates that Jongin interacts like some timid jungle animal around him: tight-lipped, careful and distant, so scripted, so restricted and polite.
“Congratulations, though. On your game.”
Jongin turns his head again with one toweled hand on his hair. He smiles awkwardly.
“Thanks,” he says, and turns his face to the court to swallow the awkward and clear the heavy air. He should think, think, and think of a response, because he doesn’t want to be an impolite acquaintance. “Did you get good pictures?”
“Of you?! Of course not, I never have time for that,” Kyungsoo jokes lightly. Kyungsoo is always good at masking emotions. Behind his calm and warm composure he can feel his rushing heartbeat in his ribcage and fingertips.
They both laugh a short laugh.
Now was Kyungsoo’s turn to act awkward, putting an act of trying to find something in his bag just to waste time.
He remembers wanting to tie his shoelaces so he does, bending down to reach for it. When he takes hold of his black shoelaces, he turns to see that Jongin’s ordinary shoes, when he’s not wearing those oversized game shoes, are very identical to his, only differing in a few little details. Kyungsoo went through inner shock before finally tying his shoes.
Kyungsoo sits back up to see Jongin so rudely staring at him with almost wonder. He dismissed it with an ehm and a scratch on the back of his head. As he tries to escape the situation he sees that the sky is clearing, the rain already reduced to drizzles. His pinkish face brightens.
“I think I’m going now,” Kyungsoo mentions, standing up and taking his bag.
“Oh, is that so. I still have some activities to attend, though.” Jongin follows. “How do you get home?”
“Bus,” Kyungsoo states simply, mirroring Jongin’s silence. He never mentions that they take the same bus and his stop is only two stops before Jongin’s. But that’s what he can do. “Phew! Okay then. See you around.”
“Mhm.”
Jongin didn’t even sliver into his life for the next four days.
They meet a hell lot after that game. Either suddenly entering the lunch line together, or having preceding classes that use the same room, or anything. But each time Kyungsoo calculates for the next meeting, Jongin disappears.
Kyungsoo then realizes, that for every step forward he takes, Jongin will take backwards. Kyungsoo looks down to the earth he stands on, and sees checker patterns, black and white. Like the keys on a piano. Like the monochromatic grids on a chessboard. This earth from that day, in his eyes, is a Tron universe.
Jongin is five hundred and twenty seven steps away. For one step Kyungsoo takes forward, he takes one back.
When the game gong rang on the first day of high school, neither of them knew how close a proximity their lives were to each other.
Kyungsoo remembers his channel to get into Jongin’s league: mutual friends. A lot of them. Chanyeol, Baekhyun. It’s just such a shame that their circles only intersect through a few people, but never more.
On the very first time Kyungsoo finally gathered enough guts to just randomly call Jongin’s name, he intentionally called, “Jungin!” loud enough, echoing through the whole court, making heads turn and dribbles stop. He thought it had worked. “Do you see Chanyeol?”
That day, Kyungsoo had assumed that he, for at least that day, was listed in Jongin’s life.
But the game doesn’t work that simple. For one step forward the opponent steps back, and for one step back, it doesn’t mean that they will move closer.
For one step evading Jongin, Kyungsoo gains two. For one step evading Kyungsoo, Jongin gets none.
Which means that Kyungsoo will always lose unless he can force himself to move 263 grids away playing against Jongin: a dead, semi-computerized piece.
Kyungsoo then tries his best to follow the rules-not passing the basketball field, not going early for lunch because that’s when Jongin eats, walking away on any glimpse of Jongin, and talking with friends while waiting for Jongin’s class to clear from the laboratory.
But anyway, Kyungsoo is pretty happy with his progress-he hasn’t seen Jongin for a week now although Kyungsoo didn’t try to look for him. Now that his beloved club president Ryeowook hyung asked, he’s left with some four articles to edit by himself-their friends are mostly gone for exam tomorrow.
Kyungsoo starts with the first article, one on the benefits of exercise for the soul. He scoffed at the title, the image of Jongin dribbling on the court immediately on display in his head. He smiles, puts the article beside the laptop, and starts going through the highlighted sections, typing.
“Um, I kinda need help on this.”
“You might want to wait a bit, Brother, I’m a bit of busy-“ Kyungsoo looks up to see Jongin, skips a beat, and moves his gaze down to a notebook in Jongin’s hand.
“Do you understand conditional sentences and its usages? I have no idea for English tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you ask Kevin, he’s better than me, he’s your classmate and he’s in Basketball-“
“He went home.”
Kyungsoo sighs. “I have these articles to spread to you guys on Monday.”
“It’s Mr. Jung, Kyungsoo. Please. You don’t want him to bake me.”
Kyungsoo’s foot is pumping an anxious beat and his fingers are trembling. Jongin’s plead is sincere, though-his eyes can hide nothing. He inhales, then sighs heavily. “Here, have a seat.” Jongin’s eyes lit instantly. “Tell me where do you want to start.”
“The if clause type two, please,” Jongin says as he flips the pages of his English notebook.
Kyungsoo smiles as takes a look at Jongin’s book. He looks at Jongin. One very relatable example for that: If only I could have you…
Kyungsoo explains everything, anything, the articles ending up neglected on his desk. He explains the sentences, example of usages, how he will use them in real life. Jongin laughs a lot, because Kyungsoo cracks jokes a lot. They laugh together in the magazine club’s empty room.
“One for hope, two for wishes, three for regret,” Kyungsoo teaches, looking at Jongin straight in the eye.
“One for hope, two for wishes, three for regret,” Jongin parrots. He looks down to his book and flips his pen around. It was silent for a while, Jongin exploring the depth of the words. “What are yours?”
Kyungsoo is confused. “What are mine? What do you mean?”
“One for hope, two for wishes, three for regret. What are yours?”
Kyungsoo tries so hard to refrain himself from even thinking about approaching Jongin, but sometimes, he loses control of himself and just lurches forth, saying hi, offering aid, losing so many advances he has made. Eyes on the prize, they say, without knowing how hard it actually is.
***
It was one packed afternoon that day, after three dire hours of math, shooting an interview for the next press, meeting up with a teacher upstairs and promising to their team head to copy files as soon as he could. Kyungsoo was rushing full speed-albeit not running-from the teachers’ lounge on the west wing of the second floor, to his club’s room at the east wing of the first floor. He saw his wristwatch: almost four, when he still has cram school to attend for the next few hours. He’ll just stay at the club room for a while to get some things done, and then leave.
Just when he holds the doorknob, “Kyungsoo!” a boy exclaims from the end of the hallway, running, panting, in his enormous basketball shoes. It was Jongin.
The rule exists, it exists and it proves so each and every day. Kyungsoo tries so hard to move away, to not react, to even physically leave in the presence of Jongin. He fears of Jongin. He fears of not only losing Jongin to these ridiculous rules, but he fears of losing himself. He fears of being torn apart. He fears that if he reaches Jongin, the latter will crumble into dust, into nothing, and he is left nothing but a shell. Kyungsoo fears that if he gets hold of Jongin, his passion will burn him into ashes. Jongin is something to be only kept in a distance and Kyungsoo is afraid of himself more than anything he can ever be afraid of.
Today, on the 262nd step stands Jongin one grid in front of Kyungsoo, with unspoken words undecipherable in his eyes. Kyungsoo feels, somehow, the edges of those words. The tips, the curves, only afraid of grasping the meaning behind it because again, he is afraid of himself. Jongin reaches out to him, but today, he backs away, not in the fear of losing this game of checker chess, but in fear, just pure fear, not having any idea what to do.
Jongin was confused. He did not understand what was happening. He ran after Kyungsoo. He grabbed Kyungsoo. He felt that small, frail shoulder, shake beneath his hands. Jongin circles Kyungsoo halfway to be able to meet his eyes, his mouth muted, because, like Kyungsoo, he too, was clueless. Jongin sees Kyungsoo, searches for everything he hides beyond the black pupils.
Kyungsoo sees everything, everything in Jongin’s eyes. Too real. Too much. Something of a fairytale that is not supposed to stand in such a close proximity. He touched jongin’s face. His temple, his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips, and for that one second he asked both Jongin and himself,
Is this...
mine?
Characters: D.O, Kai
Genre: Alternative Punk-Rock
Length: 2,129 words
Rating: PG-13
Jongin is five hundred and twenty seven steps away. For one step Kyungsoo takes forward, he takes one back.
There are games in everything. Where man stands, rules stand. Where rules stand, games stand. Where a game stands, one winner stands.
After some seventeen years seeing life with pseudo-philosophy, Kyungsoo thinks that everything happening around him is a mix of what he decides, what people choose to decide, and what God, if he exists, lets of those decisions. Everything is calculated. Mathematically. Methodically. So accurate and traceable that physics come closer to an art than a science of numbers.
That is how he sees his meeting with Jongin, an acquaintance at school he doesn’t actually know.
Jongin, as far as Kyungsoo observes, decides that he likes drawing back from the bright and blinding society, although Kyungsoo can see, deep down, that Jongin liked attention somehow. Just not keen enough to show it.
Kyungsoo is not quite sure how he first found out about Jongin. They have never properly met or made introductions. Just that kind of guy you often run into at school when walking at the hallway, or on the way to the laboratory, or on interclass parades and big announcements at the function hall.
Oh sure, he remembers now-Jongin. That local superstar, that senpai little kouhais happily bow to, having a handful of pretty cool abilities not many learn, along with the bonus of being born handsome and tall. A lot of people tend to overlook how attractive Jongin actually is; all the fangirls say is just, “Where Oppa stands, he just sucks all the other presences surrounding him, and bam, he’s all you see in the whole wide scenery. Aaaah.”
A strong presence-a loud, jarring presence-is what Kyungsoo lacks all his entire life, and he painfully envies Jongin for that.
Kyungsoo thinks that he’s not one of those saddening fangirls. And even if he is, at least he’s a motherfucking heroic, hipster pioneer. Each time he hears the frantic screaming, all he thinks is, Where do all these people come from, and he folds his arms back again. On that one big game in the Interclass Parade that made all the muggles notice Jongin, that day on the side of the court, Jongin’s expressions whisper, “I see you,” as he turns to Kyungsoo the school magazine photographer for a second before he jumps to score his legendary buzzer-beater.
Kyungsoo regrets that he froze into a statue that moment, when he should have frozen that message into his camera to see and decipher later. The crowd went wild and filled the whole court in celebration, when Kyungsoo just stood there, flinching for too long before finally taking some victory shots to put in the magazine.
As Kyungsoo thinks of it again, he guesses that maybe, Jongin meant, “Pray for me.”
***
Kyungsoo learns a lot of Jongin’s tidbits from Baekhyun, an equally wealthy childhood friend of Jongin’s. Both Kyungsoo and Baekhyun go to the vocal class, and Kyungsoo is sorry-half for himself, half for Baekhyun-that Baekhyun and Jongin have grown distant through the years and don’t really talk anymore.
Kyungsoo learns Jongin like trying to place keys into a piano; white, black and white, and black, pieces missing here and there as he tries to just play one liable song with what he has.
They meet again one day when it rains, not too long after the big game. Kyungsoo sits on the weirdly placed wooden bench, hurriedly scrambling for an umbrella and wanting to tie his shoe quick so he can get home before it rains because damn those clouds are huge.
But the sky decided to show him some sense of humor by letting some big monsoon rain fall with style right then and there. “Oh bummer!” Kyungsoo throws his hands, ready for sprays of rain mist on his face because this odd bench is oddly put here under the roofs of the open hallway facing the open court where Jongin won last week.
Kyungsoo sees people scurrying for shelter here and there, and all he could do was chuckle satirically at it. He sees some three other running down the half-staircase two classes to his left. He sees Jongin and his not-so-popular clique wimps Sehun and Chanyeol, some benchwarmers on the big games. They bid goodbye and the two run past Kyungsoo with almost a regard. Well, Chanyeol said hi.
Jongin sled on the empty rest of the bench and sighed loudly, wiping-slash-ruffling his rain-drenched hair with his favorite sports towel, the one Kyungsoo knows so dearly. Had it been someone else, Kyungsoo would just either leave or clear his throat so very loudly because he had to.
“You might want to do the drying somewhere else, it’s still raining hard anyway.”
Kyungsoo may be famous for looking so scared all the time, but believe it, his sharp tongue breaks all that. Deep down, his heart wants to bury his body alive in shame.
Jongin turns to see Kyungsoo on the other side of the bench, face mortified although he knows that the guy’s been there all along. “Srry,” he mumbles and proceeds self-drying with less spraying. He could feel the embarrassment and awkwardness creep from Jongin’s pores. Look at that, Kyungsoo scoffed. He hates that Jongin interacts like some timid jungle animal around him: tight-lipped, careful and distant, so scripted, so restricted and polite.
“Congratulations, though. On your game.”
Jongin turns his head again with one toweled hand on his hair. He smiles awkwardly.
“Thanks,” he says, and turns his face to the court to swallow the awkward and clear the heavy air. He should think, think, and think of a response, because he doesn’t want to be an impolite acquaintance. “Did you get good pictures?”
“Of you?! Of course not, I never have time for that,” Kyungsoo jokes lightly. Kyungsoo is always good at masking emotions. Behind his calm and warm composure he can feel his rushing heartbeat in his ribcage and fingertips.
They both laugh a short laugh.
Now was Kyungsoo’s turn to act awkward, putting an act of trying to find something in his bag just to waste time.
He remembers wanting to tie his shoelaces so he does, bending down to reach for it. When he takes hold of his black shoelaces, he turns to see that Jongin’s ordinary shoes, when he’s not wearing those oversized game shoes, are very identical to his, only differing in a few little details. Kyungsoo went through inner shock before finally tying his shoes.
Kyungsoo sits back up to see Jongin so rudely staring at him with almost wonder. He dismissed it with an ehm and a scratch on the back of his head. As he tries to escape the situation he sees that the sky is clearing, the rain already reduced to drizzles. His pinkish face brightens.
“I think I’m going now,” Kyungsoo mentions, standing up and taking his bag.
“Oh, is that so. I still have some activities to attend, though.” Jongin follows. “How do you get home?”
“Bus,” Kyungsoo states simply, mirroring Jongin’s silence. He never mentions that they take the same bus and his stop is only two stops before Jongin’s. But that’s what he can do. “Phew! Okay then. See you around.”
“Mhm.”
Jongin didn’t even sliver into his life for the next four days.
They meet a hell lot after that game. Either suddenly entering the lunch line together, or having preceding classes that use the same room, or anything. But each time Kyungsoo calculates for the next meeting, Jongin disappears.
Kyungsoo then realizes, that for every step forward he takes, Jongin will take backwards. Kyungsoo looks down to the earth he stands on, and sees checker patterns, black and white. Like the keys on a piano. Like the monochromatic grids on a chessboard. This earth from that day, in his eyes, is a Tron universe.
Jongin is five hundred and twenty seven steps away. For one step Kyungsoo takes forward, he takes one back.
When the game gong rang on the first day of high school, neither of them knew how close a proximity their lives were to each other.
Kyungsoo remembers his channel to get into Jongin’s league: mutual friends. A lot of them. Chanyeol, Baekhyun. It’s just such a shame that their circles only intersect through a few people, but never more.
On the very first time Kyungsoo finally gathered enough guts to just randomly call Jongin’s name, he intentionally called, “Jungin!” loud enough, echoing through the whole court, making heads turn and dribbles stop. He thought it had worked. “Do you see Chanyeol?”
That day, Kyungsoo had assumed that he, for at least that day, was listed in Jongin’s life.
But the game doesn’t work that simple. For one step forward the opponent steps back, and for one step back, it doesn’t mean that they will move closer.
For one step evading Jongin, Kyungsoo gains two. For one step evading Kyungsoo, Jongin gets none.
Which means that Kyungsoo will always lose unless he can force himself to move 263 grids away playing against Jongin: a dead, semi-computerized piece.
Kyungsoo then tries his best to follow the rules-not passing the basketball field, not going early for lunch because that’s when Jongin eats, walking away on any glimpse of Jongin, and talking with friends while waiting for Jongin’s class to clear from the laboratory.
But anyway, Kyungsoo is pretty happy with his progress-he hasn’t seen Jongin for a week now although Kyungsoo didn’t try to look for him. Now that his beloved club president Ryeowook hyung asked, he’s left with some four articles to edit by himself-their friends are mostly gone for exam tomorrow.
Kyungsoo starts with the first article, one on the benefits of exercise for the soul. He scoffed at the title, the image of Jongin dribbling on the court immediately on display in his head. He smiles, puts the article beside the laptop, and starts going through the highlighted sections, typing.
“Um, I kinda need help on this.”
“You might want to wait a bit, Brother, I’m a bit of busy-“ Kyungsoo looks up to see Jongin, skips a beat, and moves his gaze down to a notebook in Jongin’s hand.
“Do you understand conditional sentences and its usages? I have no idea for English tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you ask Kevin, he’s better than me, he’s your classmate and he’s in Basketball-“
“He went home.”
Kyungsoo sighs. “I have these articles to spread to you guys on Monday.”
“It’s Mr. Jung, Kyungsoo. Please. You don’t want him to bake me.”
Kyungsoo’s foot is pumping an anxious beat and his fingers are trembling. Jongin’s plead is sincere, though-his eyes can hide nothing. He inhales, then sighs heavily. “Here, have a seat.” Jongin’s eyes lit instantly. “Tell me where do you want to start.”
“The if clause type two, please,” Jongin says as he flips the pages of his English notebook.
Kyungsoo smiles as takes a look at Jongin’s book. He looks at Jongin. One very relatable example for that: If only I could have you…
Kyungsoo explains everything, anything, the articles ending up neglected on his desk. He explains the sentences, example of usages, how he will use them in real life. Jongin laughs a lot, because Kyungsoo cracks jokes a lot. They laugh together in the magazine club’s empty room.
“One for hope, two for wishes, three for regret,” Kyungsoo teaches, looking at Jongin straight in the eye.
“One for hope, two for wishes, three for regret,” Jongin parrots. He looks down to his book and flips his pen around. It was silent for a while, Jongin exploring the depth of the words. “What are yours?”
Kyungsoo is confused. “What are mine? What do you mean?”
“One for hope, two for wishes, three for regret. What are yours?”
Kyungsoo tries so hard to refrain himself from even thinking about approaching Jongin, but sometimes, he loses control of himself and just lurches forth, saying hi, offering aid, losing so many advances he has made. Eyes on the prize, they say, without knowing how hard it actually is.
***
It was one packed afternoon that day, after three dire hours of math, shooting an interview for the next press, meeting up with a teacher upstairs and promising to their team head to copy files as soon as he could. Kyungsoo was rushing full speed-albeit not running-from the teachers’ lounge on the west wing of the second floor, to his club’s room at the east wing of the first floor. He saw his wristwatch: almost four, when he still has cram school to attend for the next few hours. He’ll just stay at the club room for a while to get some things done, and then leave.
Just when he holds the doorknob, “Kyungsoo!” a boy exclaims from the end of the hallway, running, panting, in his enormous basketball shoes. It was Jongin.
The rule exists, it exists and it proves so each and every day. Kyungsoo tries so hard to move away, to not react, to even physically leave in the presence of Jongin. He fears of Jongin. He fears of not only losing Jongin to these ridiculous rules, but he fears of losing himself. He fears of being torn apart. He fears that if he reaches Jongin, the latter will crumble into dust, into nothing, and he is left nothing but a shell. Kyungsoo fears that if he gets hold of Jongin, his passion will burn him into ashes. Jongin is something to be only kept in a distance and Kyungsoo is afraid of himself more than anything he can ever be afraid of.
Today, on the 262nd step stands Jongin one grid in front of Kyungsoo, with unspoken words undecipherable in his eyes. Kyungsoo feels, somehow, the edges of those words. The tips, the curves, only afraid of grasping the meaning behind it because again, he is afraid of himself. Jongin reaches out to him, but today, he backs away, not in the fear of losing this game of checker chess, but in fear, just pure fear, not having any idea what to do.
Jongin was confused. He did not understand what was happening. He ran after Kyungsoo. He grabbed Kyungsoo. He felt that small, frail shoulder, shake beneath his hands. Jongin circles Kyungsoo halfway to be able to meet his eyes, his mouth muted, because, like Kyungsoo, he too, was clueless. Jongin sees Kyungsoo, searches for everything he hides beyond the black pupils.
Kyungsoo sees everything, everything in Jongin’s eyes. Too real. Too much. Something of a fairytale that is not supposed to stand in such a close proximity. He touched jongin’s face. His temple, his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips, and for that one second he asked both Jongin and himself,
Is this...
mine?