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There are hints of life before all over Beomgyu's car. A near empty Bath and Body works car fragrance in strawberry pound cake. An iPhone charger for a phone Beomgyu no longer has or needs. A pair of ray-bans in the sunglass compartment above the rearview mirror—entirely unnecessary now. The smog leftover from the nuclear fallout that had resulted in the apocalypse had left the sun a watery shell of itself, the overcooked yolk of a hard boiled egg floating in the grey-brown sky. Sunglasses were no longer a necessity.
Through the side view mirror, Beomgyu can see Yeonjun. He's outside the car, leaning against it's trunk, smoking a cigarette. It's a habit he'd apparently only picked up after the apocalypse had hit—"cigs used to be 5000 won a pack," Yeonjun had said, "now I can just pick them up whenever I see a grocery store." Yeonjun had joked about it being the best part of the end of the world, free cigarettes, free everything. Money wasn't really needed now, now that most people who cared about having any were dead.
Beomgyu had never really cared about money, he'd never had to. He'd grown up more than comfortable. His dad had been a auto engineer and his mom a university professor, they'd had enough money to give Beomgyu everything he needed, even been able to pay for the fine arts degree he was halfway through getting when the world ended.
The unacknowledged part of Yeonjun's brand new smoking habit, is that getting lung cancer no longer mattered—they were living through a nuclear apocalypse anyway, really it was only a matter of time before one of them either died or got turned into a mutated version of themselves due to their unavoidable overexposure to nuclear waste.
From the corner of his eye Beomgyu spots Yeonjun dropping his cigarette to the ground and stamping out the remaining fire with the bottom of his converse sneakers. They're on their last leg, the soles coming loose every time Yeonjun takes a step. Running for your life in a pair of shoes decidedly not meant for running will do that, quite easily really. Satisfied with his efforts, Yeonjun turns around and walks back towards the passenger seat, twisting the handle and settling into the car with a long drawn out sigh.
They try not to use the back anymore, given that the entire backseat is caked in dried blood from when Beomgyu had found Yeonjun bleeding out in the corner of a demolished building three days into the apocalypse, and is, therefore, less than comfortable. They reserve it now for food and medical supplies they manage to acquire from abandoned grocery stores and pharmacies, as well as Yeonjun's ever growing mountain of stolen cigarettes and matchboxes.
"Don't see anything too dangerous nearby," Yeonjun says, "wanna drive around and see if there's anywhere we can rest for tonight? This area's probably safe."
They're in the middle of a dirt road far from any remaining civilisation. The cities, or ex-cities really, are far more dangerous, filled with mutated people and animals desperate for fresh meat, and split into various bits of marked territories thanks to the gangs that had come together for survival post the apocalypse. Beomgyu understood the desire despite not having joined any himself, to a certain extent there would always be safety in numbers—but if you were solo, the way Yeonjun and Beomgyu were, sleeping in another gang's territory only meant a higher risk of getting looted and/or killed in your sleep. Where they were now was safer, a large expanse of abandoned farmland where you could see oncoming threats from a mile away.
"Sounds good," Beomgyu replies, starting up the car. It had been his mothers', a nice, big SUV, silver-grey in colour, with enough space for at least five people. It was the only remnant he had of his mother now, but he'd learned to ignore survivors guilt about a month into the apocalypse. "Is there any kind of water nearby, it's been a minute since either of us have had a bath." A little over a week exactly, when Beomgyu and Yeonjun had been lucky enough to find a large water tank a little outside of what used to be Seoul. It was mostly empty, but it had done the trick.
"You saying I smell, pretty boy?" Yeonjun chuckles, but he pulls out his map of the Incheon Metropolis and it's surrounding areas anyway.
"Yeah," Beomgyu replies, "like blood, sweat and smoke. Your signature scent."
Yeonjun does this often, little flirtatious remarks and compliments utterly out of place in the nuclear wasteland of the apocalypse. He's particularly fond of the word pretty, a popular and consistent part of the Choi Yeonjun vocabulary. It isn't a word Beomgyu would use to describe himself though.
Maybe before, when Beomgyu had been regularly bathed and dressed up. Instead of covered in bruises with a scar running through his eyebrow and dirt smeared across his face, wearing the same few clothes he'd managed to salvage when he'd evacuated his dorm room, all now banged up and bloodied. He'd been pretty before he'd had to cut his hair with a pair of scissors he'd happened across on the side of the road. Beomgyu had liked his hair, it had been dark and soft and silky, sitting right at his shoulders. He'd kept it long for years even though the back of his neck was near perpetually overheating in the summer. Now it's a choppy mess—he'd done his best with what he'd had, but rusty scissors and the rearview mirror of ones car can only take you so far. It had had to be done though, surviving the end of the world got just a little bit harder with hair obstructing the corner view of your eyes.
Yeonjun though, Yeonjun is still breathtaking. Not that Beomgyu has anything to compare him too, the apocalypse had already landed his fair share of hits on him by the time he and Beomgyu met. Still, Yeonjun is beautiful. Full, plush, lips, still pink despite having been bitten raw, and razor-edged, feline eyes that somehow still held a spark of playful fire. Yeonjun was all hard lines and sharp edges, waif like but strong and sturdy, with a trim waist and muscled arms. His hair must have once been bleached blonde, but now dark black roots shone through. Somehow he made it work. Even bearing the weight of the apocalypse—short hair greasy and long unwashed, a bloodied scrape next to his right eye, pale skin splotched red—no amount of dirt or blood or sweat could mar the sheer force of Choi Yeonjun's beauty. A jaw that could cut glass, legs that seemed to never end, eyes that swallowed you whole. Beomgyu could go on forever.
Yeonjun taps his map, a self-satisfied smile on his face. "There should be a river basin an hour or so away from where we are," he says, "go right."
Among his many skills, Yeonjun possesses the ability to read maps. It's almost unheard of in an era of smartphones and gps—or well, what used to be an an era of smartphones and gps, before the world had ended and most modern technologies had come crashing down with the people required to keep them running. He had many of these skills, Yeonjun had used them to appeal to Beomgyu when they first met, insisting he'd be useful.
He hadn't really needed to, Beomgyu wouldn't have left him out there even if he hadn't had the strangest collection of talents known to man.
Still, Yeonjun had been right, and Beomgyu probably wouldn't have survived this long if he hadn't run into him all those days ago. Yeonjun can light fires from stray stones and sticks, can purify dirty water with stray pieces of cloth, can cook food on a campfire flame, can fight. Beomgyu can't fight to save his life—well, he's survived this long, so perhaps he can fight just about enough to stay alive. Really Beomgyu is alive because of his car, he should name her, out of gratitude.
They don't talk much, the two of them. Most of their conversations consist of Yeonjun either flirting or giving Beomgyu directions, and any talking that does happen is almost entirely him. He's a social butterfly, even when it's just him and Beomgyu, and Beomgyu often wonders why Yeonjun hasn't abandoned him yet to join one of the gangs and communities that would undoubtedly offer him much, much more than Beomgyu ever could. Yeonjun would be a valued member of any group he joined, and he was too likeable for anyone not to take him in. Full of easy smiles and pleasant words. Beomgyu is different, he's more reserved, quiet until you've really broken in the relationship, with the survival skills of a sheltered rich kid from the suburbs—which, of course, he is.
Again, the only thing Beomgyu really has going for him is his car. Anything else that made him valuable before—his art, his face, his money—were either muddied or useless during the end of the world.
"It should be just up right," Yeonjun says. His eyes dart back and forth at rapid speed, map, window, map, window, map. "Yup, right there, by the Abies koreana's."
Beomgyu follows his directions, but makes sure to express his confusion. "By the what?"
"The trees," Yeonjun replies, pointings towards the small thicket of greenery right ahead, "they're Korean Fir Trees, Abies koreana." He looks all too proud of himself, chest puffed out and eyes gleaming as he sends Beomgyu a large grin. Beomgyu averts his eye, lest the force of Yeonjun's smile blind him.
He huffs instead, parking the car right where Yeonjun instructed, and pulling free from his seatbelt. "Why do you even know that?" He asks, getting out of the car.
Yeonjun is by his side in a flash. He's close, too close, so close Beomgyu can smell the blood on his clothes and feel the warmth of his skin. "I know a lot of things," he says, cheshire grinning and dipping down ever so slightly to lean right into Beomgyu's personal space. He fixes Beomgyu in place with his eyes, brimming with playful warmth despite everything they've seen, and so dark they're almost black, but dotted with pinpricks of starlight.
Exercising a truly impressive amount of restraint, Beomgyu pushes him away.
"You're too close," He says, voice small.
Yeonjun, ever unbothered, shrugs and pulls away, turning around and walking towards the river basin they'd arrive at.
The basin is small, resembling a pond more than anything else. Unlike the parts of the Han River that drifted down Seoul, which were too contaminated to touch let alone bathe in, here the water is still relatively clean. Really, it's the nicest spot they've come upon in days, a small, well preserved testament to what the world looked like before the fallout. It's honestly rather unbelievable, no part of the world should be left this unscathed. The surrounding farmlands certainly hadn't been, the plant life and vegetation withered and dry, having gone a touch to long without proper sunlight or water.
But by the basin the trees stay tall, even while having gained a coating of dust, a consequence of how it hadn't rained since the end of the world, they remained very much alive, swaying back and forth gently in the wind. The grass here, while overgrown and muddied, was also still kicking, nothing like the expanse of dry, dead vegetation in the fields they'd driven by on their way here. The water itself was most impressive, perhaps not clean enough to drink—at least until Yeonjun got to it—but certainly clean enough to get the muck off of them, and bearing no signs of radiation—none of the frothy mess that contaminated the parts of the river more central to the city.
Yeonjun whistles in appreciation, already stripping off his shoes and feeling the grass beneath his feet with childlike wonder. "Would you look at that!" He says, gesturing at the basin. He walks closer, crouching down next to the river and running his fingers through the water lightly, much how one would pet a stray cat. "What's a beauty like you doing hiding all the way out here," he says. The smile never slips off his face, Beomgyu finds himself endeared.
"You can wash up first," Beomgyu says, "I'll keep watch." He turns his back to give Yeonjun some privacy, he's already taking his shirt off.
"What are you talking about?" Yeonjun says from behind him.
"Huh?" Beomgyu says, looking back. His face flushes hot, Yeonjun's shirt is off. He'd been skinnier and leaner when Beomgyu had first found him, a dancers body, but the demands of the apocalypse have hardened him with muscle. They're not showy, like the boys that lived at the gym in the college Beomgyu used to go to. These are products of long hours of labour, of pushing Beomgyu's car out of ditches, of hauling several months worth of food out of abandoned grocery stores. Yeonjun is strong and solid, Beomgyu feels hot all over. Yeonjun's fixed him with a curious look, but his hands are already fiddling with his pants, Beomgyu averts his eyes. He coughs into his fist. "Just, going to keep guard you know? In case something goes wrong, or, uh, yeah. We can take turns, you can guard when I head in and stuff."
Yeonjun huffs, he's naked, commando under his pants, Beomgyu's sure his cheeks have stained bright red. "C'mon pretty boy, you were in the car with me, there's nobody around here for miles!" He says. He folds his clothes neatly by the river bed and dips a foot into the water. He hums to himself, seemingly happy with the temperature, before slipping in. He whistles in glee. "The water's great too! Come on, Beoms—It's beautiful in here!"
"Look, Yeonjun-ssi—"
Yeonjun turns back, eyes blown wide and lips pushed forward into a miserable attempt at a pout. "Please, I wanna swim with you. We never get to just, you know, chill together." He says, voice whiney and lilting, "plus, how many times have I told you? Call me Hyung!"
Beomgyu's surprised, can feel his eyebrows shoot up to the top of his forehead and his blood rush to the apples of his cheeks. Still, he forces himself to roll his eyes. He gives in though, after pretending to think it over for a long minute and despite Yeonjun's terrible pouting and his own face-firing embarrassment. Saying no to Yeonjun gets continuously harder everyday. Yeonjun is painfully sweet and earnest to a fault. His eyes hold the entire universe in their dark, endless black irises. Beomgyu never stood a chance.
Yeonjun lets out a holler of happiness as Beomgyu turns around and starts to strip off his clothes. Yeonjun's lay in a crumpled mess by the river basin but Beomgyu folds his as neatly as he can manage, storing them in a neat pile next to Yeonjun's. He desperately holds back his urge to cover himself as he makes his way into the river, it's nothing Yeonjun hasn't seen already, the lack of a bathroom will do that. He dips a foot gingerly into the water. He's not sure what he was expecting, but the water is perfect, not too hot not too cold, mild and warm and pleasant against his skin. He feels aches he didn't know were there melt away as the water engulfs him. Yeonjun watches happily as he sinks into the river, sighing as he disappears under the water.
"Nice, isn't it?" Yeonjun asks, grinning like a cheshire cat.
Beomgyu returns the smile, his is smaller, a little nervous. "Yeah," he says, "thanks for making me come in, uh, Hyung."
Yeonjun's smile softens, an expression Beomgyu rarely sees. It's bittersweet, a little melancholic, a little yearning. Somehow, Beomgyu gets it. Their time spent together is usually quiet, but punctuated by the frenzy of oncoming danger and their desperate need for survival. Not truly peaceful, not neck deep in warm water in the middle of nowhere, under the hazy sun and surrounded by towering trees. "Told ya," he says, voice painfully soft, crushingly sweet.
If Beomgyu closes his eyes and tries really hard, he can almost imagine the apocalypse never happened. That he met Yeonjun by chance at university, in line to buy coffee or at the library. That their relationship hadn't been born out of necessity, and they'd just hit it off. That they'd spent all that time together because they'd wanted to, not because they needed to.
That one night Yeonjun'd have invited him out to the river, and Beomgyu would have driven them both down right to this spot. They'd have had little bottles of peach soju and a red and white checkered blanket to sit on. Beomgyu had thrifted a vintage picnic basket once, he had no idea where it was now but maybe they'd have filled it up with snack foods. Ramen and kimbap and little Tupperware containers full of cut fruit. Mangos and peaches and strawberries. Strawberries were Beomgyu's favourite.
Yeonjun would have gotten the roots of his blonde hair touched up, or maybe he'd have dyed it an entirely new colour. Brown maybe, or a deep blue, or a bright, blood red. Beomgyu's hair would still be long and soft, he'd pull it up with a rubber band so it wouldn't get drenched in the river water. Beomgyu could paint Yeonjun's nails while they dipped their feet into the river, or bring his guitar and serenade him. Yeonjun had once mentioned liking dance songs and hip hop, Beomgyu was more attuned to moody acoustic numbers but they could figure out a middle ground.
Yeonjun had once confessed to not coming from much money, so Beomgyu would have gladly treated. Would have bought the food and flowers and maybe even a present, would have picked Yeonjun up from the end of his shift at the shitty fast food joint he worked at in his Mom's silver SUV so they could drive down to this very river basin. They could have brought their swim trunks—Beomgyu's best friend Soobin had gifted him a semi-ironic Sanrio pair a year ago, with little Kuromi's dotting the synthetic, black fabric. Beomgyu thinks Yeonjun would get a kick out of them. Beomgyu doesn't know where or wether Soobin's around right now.
"What's got you thinking so hard," Yeonjun says. His voice cuts Beomgyu's thoughts clean in half, forcing Yeonjun in instead.
He's closer than Beomgyu remembers him being, sidled up right next to him. They're shoulder to shoulder underwater. Yeonjun's skin is warmer than the water, it sears into Beomgyu's skin. Beomgyu desperately ignores the urge to jerk away, pretends like Yeonjun's touch doesn't burn against his skin. He stubbornly resists Yeonjun's imploring gaze, keeping his eyes trained on the water instead. Yeonjun pushes in closer at the action. He's too close, getting closer, Beomgyu feels like he's on fire.
A delicate finger hooks under Beomgyu's chin, and Beomgyu lets himself be turned around, Yeonjun's palms wetting his cheek. Yeonjun's touch is gentle but firm, he keeps Beomgyu turned towards him with strong fingers, pressing his palms into Beomgyu's skin.
"Nothing," Beomgyu says, when it's clear Yeonjun isn't planning on letting go.
Yeonjun frowns. "No it isn't," He says, his voice is firm, imploring, pushing Beomgyu out of his comfort zone for the millionth time since they first meant. He looks beautiful like this, surrounded by clean water and towering firs. He belongs here, Yeonjun says, some place untouched by the relentless bitterness of the end of the world. Some place pure and beautiful and filled with possibility. Some place like Yeonjun. Not surrounded by death and disease and the constant reminder of what once was, of how much better life could have been.
Beomgyu sighs, letting himself melt into Yeonjun's grasp. It takes effort, every bone in Beomgyu body yells at him to pull away, every vein ablaze under Yeonjun's waiting gaze. He let's himself talk unfiltered, it's what Yeonjun wants, what he deserves. If it was what he wanted, Beomgyu thinks he'd give Yeonjun every cell in his body, every strand of hair and every patch of scarred skin. All Yeonjun'd have to do was ask.
"Just, how nice this could have been," he says. His voice is a whisper, it blends into the sound of the wind rustled leaves and the steady rhythm of his heartbeats. "What it would've been like if we met without," he hesitates, his voice breaking as he swallows sadly, "all of this."
Yeonjun pulls a hand away from Beomgyu cheeks and uses it to tuck a stray hair into his ear. His touch is warm and gentle, it leaves pinpricks of fire as it glides against Beomgyu's skin. "Yeah?" He asks, "what would it have been like? We didn't exactly travel in the same circles, Beoms. Don't think your rich art school friends would have been fans of some guy who flipped burgers for a living."
Beomgyu frowns. "You're not just "some guy who flipped burgers", Hyung." Beomgyu says, his heart aches. Yeonjun is the whole universe and more, how could he think so little of himself, how could he think Beomgyu did't see it. "And, we'd have still have met I think."
Yeonjun hums. "Yeah? How?"
Beomgyu thinks it over, Yeonjun's palms are still firm on his face, refusing to let go. "You taught dance on the weekends right? Maybe one of my performing arts friends would drag me along with them. Or we'd bump into each other in the back alley of your restaurant while you were taking a smoke break."
Yeonjun giggles. "I didn't smoke until the world ended, Beomgyu-yah." He says. "You know that."
Beomgyu huffs, and Yeonjun laughs, the sound is light and airy. "Semantics," Beomgyu says.
Yeonjun's eyes crinkle into crescents, staring at Beomgyu with a fondness Beomgyu can't understand. "And What would you be doing in the back alley of a restaurant?"
Beomgyu shrugs. "Photography project," he says, "my classmates would die for black and white film photographs of working class Seoul."
Yeonjun hums, shaking his head. His eyes are bright as they gaze down at Beomgyu, fixing him in place. "And what would you do? If you saw me in the back alley of a restaurant."
"I'd ask to take your picture," Beomgyu says decisively, "maybe you could be my muse." Beomgyu yearns for it really, quiet, long hours spent in the art studio at his old university. Yeonjun's features would be easy to paint, bold, distinct and beautiful. Sharp narrow eyes and full plush lips, broad shoulders and a delicate little waist, thick eye brows and a blunt downturned nose. The art studio used to have large floor-to-ceiling windows that'd bathe Yeonjun in sunlight. Beomgyu'd have him pose him lying down, or standing with his face towards to window, or lounging languidly against the side of a wall. Something to bring out the length of his legs and the strength of his arms. Painting Yeonjun would be as easy as breathing air.
Yeonjun giggles again. "I'd like that," he says, "I'm sure you'd paint me far more handsome than I actually am."
That'd be impossible, Beomgyu thinks, paintings probably don't get any more handsome than Yeonjun already is.
"For what it's worth," Yeonjun says—his voice is painfully sincere again, Beomgyu could drown in it. "I'm glad we met, regardless of the circumstances. All of this may be worth it if it means I get to ride shotgun in your car all day."
Beomgyu shakes his head, he closes his eyes and leans into Yeonjun's hands. "You don't mean that."
"I do," Yeonjun says. When Beomgyu opens his eyes, Yeonjun's face is wide open and honest. His eyes are vast, trained on Beomgyu as if trying desperately to get him to believe him. There's a glimmering desperation Beomgyu doesn't think he can process, a tenderness he doesn't understand, doesn't know what to make of, doesn't think he can keep looking at for much longer. Still, looking away is much harder, Yeonjun draws him in and traps him in place like a black widow. He could snap Beomgyu's neck in half and Beomgyu would willingly let him. Yeonjun opens his mouth to speak, plush, pink lips trembling ever so slightly. "If it took the end of the world to meet you, then I'm glad the world ended."
Beomgyu doesn't get it. Yeonjun is everything, the world, the entire universe. Bright and blinding and everything anyone could ever want. Beomgyu is some guy that found him one day and happened to have a car. Still, Yeonjun's words slam into him like a speeding truck. A blush sits high on his cheeks but Yeonjun's eyes are resolute, steady and firm and decisive, as if drilling his words into Beomgyu's chest by force. Forcing him to listen, making him understand. He says it again. "I mean it," Yeonjun's voice wavers slightly, but he carries on. "If I had the chance to prevent the apocalypse but it meant I never got to meet you, I'd trade it to live this life again in a heartbeat."
Beomgyu stares at him. And then moves without thinking. And then he kisses him.
Some things can never be spoken, can never be told, or heard, or smelt. There are some things that can only be felt, be touched, be relished, and standing there with Yeonjun, his palms smooth over Beomgyu's cheeks and his mouth over Beomgyu's mouth, Beomgyu feels them all. Beomgyu feels everything.
Yeonjun's lips are pillow soft. For a moment, he's surprised, stiff against Beomgyu. He melts into it surprisingly quickly, his hands gripping tighter, pressing closer, devouring Beomgyu whole. It’s breathtaking actually, the crescendo of it, the rush, the cacophony. It crowds Beomgyu's throat and crawls up into his ears. Yeonjun is all he can hear, all he can feel, all he can smell, even under the black of his closed eyelids, Yeonjun is all he can see. The kiss is as blinding as it is brilliant, it’s every question Beomgyu has never asked and every answer Yeonjun has still given. It's every moment of the last few months. All the bad, all the grief and the survivors guilt and the running away and the hiding. But it's also all the good, all of Yeonjun's easy laughs and good natured teasing, the rapidly deteriorating soles of Yeonjun’s shoes, the easy quirk of Yeonjun’s smile.
The kiss feels endless, all encompassing, something ancient and primordial like this is where Beomgyu's always meant to be. Something that feels suspiciously like love twines around Beomgyu's ribs, holding him together, pulling Beomgyu in. His head is a snarl of Yeonjun, the confession repeated, repeated, repeated over and over and over again in his head: "If it took the end of the world to meet you, then I'm glad the world ended."
"If it took the end of the world to meet you, then I'm glad the world ended."
"If it took the end of the world to meet you, then I'm glad the world ended."
Yeonjun's hands travel and Beomgyu's follow in response. Yeonjun's burn their way over the curve of Beomgyu's thighs and Beomgyu desperately claws his over the dip of Yeonjun’s clavicle, the flush of his chest, the peach fuzz on his unshaved chin.
Beomgyu feels everything, the press of Yeonjun’s body and the gasp of Yeonjun’s voice and the palms of Yeonjun's hands, his hot, blazing hands. Yeonjun’s fingers touching and grasping and reaching and burning a blazing path across Beomgyu's body under the warm water of the river. The sound of Yeonjun’s breath and the taste of Yeonjun’s lips and the smell of blood and sweat and smoke on Yeonjun’s skin—still there, despite the water, everything Beomgyu has ever known of him.
Beomgyu feels everything. The clumsy exploration of Yeonjun's palms and the quiet awe of his voice and the blistering heat of Yeonjun’s forehead against his own. There's a gasp, a curse, a shift in the rhythm. Words leak out of Beomgyu's mouth unannounced and unwelcome, please, please, please.
Beomgyu feels everything, the way Yeonjun needs, and the way Yeonjun wants: one moment, rushing, raging, burning between them, and afterwards the silence.
He stands there, caressing the side of Yeonjun's face. Beomgyu finds his hands shaking, his fingers shivering as his thumb strokes over Yeonjun's eyebrow and over the curve of his cheek. Yeonjun stands there, eyes closed, leaning into his touch. His face is flushed, lips swollen red and breathing heavily, chest heaving up and down in tandem with Beomgyu's, pressed into each other. In that moment, Beomgyu thinks he gets it.
"If it took the end of the world to meet you, then I'm glad the world ended."
"If I had the chance to prevent the apocalypse but it meant I never got to meet you, I'd trade it to live this life again in a heartbeat."
Yeonjun's words still sit heavy between them. But now Beomgyu thinks he understands—Beomgyu thinks he'd probably do the same. The end of the world didn't matter, not one bit. Yeonjun was the world, and he was right here, in Beomgyu's arms, pressed against him, lingering fingers clutching onto him desperately, burning everything in their wake. He's beautiful, the faint sunlight dapples over his striking features, painting his skin honey gold. Beomgyu wishes for the hundredth time that he had some paint and a canvas, even a stick of charcoal would do, would give anything to be able to paint Yeonjun in this moment. He'd put the Mona Lisa to shame. Since he can't, Beomgyu does the next best thing and pulls Yeonjun into an embrace. He tucks the taller man under his chin and wraps his arms around Yeonjun's shoulder. He whispers unsaid words into Yeonjun's hair, and Yeonjun melts into him like warm butter.
Yeonjun still smells like sweat and smoke and blood. He nuzzles into Beomgyu, tender, bittersweet, and letting go feels impossible.