safety pins; (kujo_arisa) wrote in amology,
safety pins;

haidian, 36°C

kris / lu han, 0.6k

Summer is ending in Haidian. The lady in the morning news stops talking about elongated heat waves and the Beijing temperature drops from the big 50.

Lu Han can’t seem to shake off that habit of waking up in the dead hours of the morning. He’s steamed some eggs and stored them up in the fridge. At nine a.m., Yifan finds him curled up asleep in the reading room’s chaise lounge. He’s left the window ajar, and the faint breeze sways the sheer curtains at some reveries.

Sometimes, even when there’s nothing to do, Yifan thinks that the exhaustion has carved itself to the marrows of Lu Han’s bones.

Lu Han stirs awake, his movements from his stupor like rustling branches. He sees Yifan and bares his back to him. And Yifan knows, that it’s more of permission than dismissal.

Yifan takes a breath and studies Lu Han’s back, the hollow of his waist, the cotton of his sleeves fanning his skin. He reaches for Lu Han’s shoulder. The chaise lounge dips as Yifan climbs onto it and pulls Lu Han into his arms, presses Lu Han’s back to his chest.

“You tired?” Yifan asks in less than a whisper, and Lu Han hums.

Yifan feels the wind vaguely, caressing his cheeks. Yifan thinks, thinks, and thinks too much. Yifan thinks that Lu Han is a long walk at dawn, every verse in Qing Hua Ci, Guangdong’s skyline after the rain.

Yifan thinks that he wants the world to empty out to no one else but Lu Han and himself.

But it’s never going to happen. The world goes on. Even though it might feel like time stops in Lu Han’s proximity, it goes on. They’re not the eternity they wish to be.

“I left because I wanted to sleep,” Lu Han admits. His voice is the autumn’s susurrations that trickle on Yifan’s spine. “I was leaning on Yixing’s shoulder and he said that nobody could keep me anyways. He said he knew that I wasn’t patient, and if it’s no trouble, if I could be, from that point on, for him.”

Yifan buries his nose in Luhan’s hair. Lu Han’s hair is black now. Yifan’s hair is black. Does it mean something? Does it have to mean anything?

“They told us it wouldn’t be easy,” says Yifan.

“Why did you leave?”

“I didn’t want to lose myself.”

There’s a silken laughter from Lu Han’s throat. Yifan remembers ginkgo leaves piling up in Yonsei, remembers katakana in Taiwan, neon lights in Hong Kong. Yifan had wanted so much. Now, with Lu Han in his arms and Lu Han’s scent on his fingertips, he thinks maybe what he had wanted could be so simple.

Yifan wants to watch basketball games on TV with Lu Han. Yifan wants to eat hamburgers with Lu Han. Yifan wants to go on bicycle rides with Lu Han.

Yifan wants the two lost boys in Seoul back, black-haired and found. By the Han, years ago. Lu Han had thrown a ring into the water. And Yifan had asked him in choked up Mandarin, when in the future he’d gotten his dreams and became someone, would Lu Han be ready to love him then.

“When will you love me?” Yifan asks, and he thinks he hears the way Lu Han smiles.

“Is it that time already?”

Their legs tangle on the chaise lounge, and the wind carries the smell of Lu Han’s shampoo. When Lu Han turns, his lips on Yifan’s are petal-soft, as is his breath. Yifan’s fingers brush at the bags under Lu Han’s eyes. Yifan thinks what he wants, has always been, Lu Han and Lu Han and Lu Han.
Tags: f: exo, musings, p: kris/luhan, r: pg
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