(no subject)
a mile-high silver screen
kyuhyun-centric; 502 words
One, two, three, four, five.
Five bitesize prints against icy glass. They bear resemblance to inverse ripples, where instead of unfolding outward, they march inward, and then creep into a void, soon nonexistance. But there is still oil, from grubby, previously soil-streaked fingertips (the nails still bear a sordid reminder of digging through a crummy flower pot; mommy's little helper, he thinks, as he dutifully burrows those violet seeds) and their presence evaporates into thin air soon after the fingers are back in Kyuhyun's lap, back into the creases of a coloring book that is a myriad of unmatching, uncoordinating colors.
The snow, the snow on the window toboggans its way down into a pane that is not a pane at all, but a crook that secures a sheet of glass in place and separates the inside of the car from the bitter, bitter cold of outside. An nth number of snowflakes, all varying in shape and size and design, kiss the exterior of the vehicle - and the three-year-old rubs his cheek against the glass, unblinking eyes drilling into the back of his mother's head because she won't allow him open the window to catch them.
Slush, Kyuhyun presumes, decorates the car wheels and the world around him that is untouched by blankets of clouds; he also presumes passerbys are not appreciating getting splashed by it. And for the closed windows, for one second, he's semi-glad the window is shut.
But winter is not the colour gray to him. Quite the contrary - winter to Kyuhyun is the colours in his book, because winter is a reason to put up Christmas lights. Winter is a reason to make snow angels. Winter is a real to pretend there exists colour after all.
Gray is the inbetween; it is not black, nor white; it is the nothing.
The radio is on, and it cries ballads and Western Christmas songs that simultaneously puzzle and delight the three-year-old. But he cannot understand them, not one word. Foreign tongue, harsh clashes of guitar solos, jingling bells; he doesn't think it sounds right. Then again, nothing is filtering through his head other than snow snow snow.
Winter is a trickster, that season. It comes and goes whenever it pleases, it's dripping with delusion, and it's never the same temperature. It seeks the aid of its fellow neighbour, the wind. It's hard to predict, and always falls when you really don't want it to. And sometimes it goes by so quickly, Kyuhyun can't say goodbye.
So he says goodbye now - goodbye on the glass of the window in a cloud of steam and a child drawn heart, goodbye in the wave, goodbye when the car skids to a stop at a crosslight, goodbye in the snowman doodled into the crumpled corner of a tattered coloring book.
Hurtling through an ice-cold night, eyes trained on a sliver of a piece of moon in a vast expanse of darkened navy and far-off twinkling of gold specks, Kyuhyun is stocked full of goodbye, but he is also full of hello.