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“There. This'll do for now.” Johnny says, pulling on the zipper of his backpack so forcefully Taeyong fears it might break. “We can barricade the door on our way out, keep critters at bay.”
Taeyong sighs, nails scraping against the counter, past the broken down register. “What critters.”
Johnny doesn't pick up on it, or maybe he just chooses not to reply. He ushers the two of them out of what remains of the door, hoists his bag up on his shoulders. Shopping carts and bits of plywood are piled up in front of the doorway, Taeyong pushing a few more in the cracks, already eager to get back.
As long as the streets don't feel safe, neither will he.
When he turns around, he only sees grey and white, on the ground and in the air, rubble and smoke filling his field of vision, for as far as he can grasp. It's cold out here, biting at his ragged clothes, through the holes in his jeans and the torn tips of his gloves. Taeyong huddles closer to Johnny, slips a hand in his, their fingers linking together, some warmth finally, even if it takes a little time. The palm of Taeyong's hand feels dry, and empty.
His backpack weighs on his shoulders. “I've never liked doing this.” He mumbles, but he resists the urge to turn around and look back at the store one more time.
“I know.” Johnny shakes his head. “No one's going to miss it, though.”
(His words remind Taeyong's of ones he's heard before, Jungwoo piling cans and bottles in his bags and all the way to his jacket pockets, urgency written on his face as sirens blared outside. ' You want all this to just waste away ? ' Jungwoo had yelled over the strident sounds, and Taeyong hadn't been able to do anything else but agree, and blindly raid the shelves, stealing panicked glances at Yuta near the door.
Yuta had simply looked back and nodded, even if he'd kept his head down the whole way back, eyes fixed on the ground. 'Someone lived there.' repeated over and over, even as he carried his own loot, even as Taeyong tried his hardest to remind him that no one lived there anymore. Jungwoo had walked in front, said nothing).
It still sends a chill down Taeyong's spine how he'd changed in the face of doom, how he'd been able to throw away the candid things when so many of them had clung to them in hopes of finding their way back to normal life one day.
Normal life isn't an option anymore.
Taeyong feels the strain on his back, on his mind. Johnny navigates them past barricaded buildings and burned up streets, only the sound of their footsteps filling the emptiness.
Even as the weeks and months pass, Taeyong doesn't think he'll ever be able to get over it. At times it feels like they're going to round a corner and find everyone again, laughing around a drink on the patio of their favorite bar, enjoying a moment of respite from the stresses of life at the foot of a tree, laughing as they still can, trying to stop the world from turning for just a moment and enjoy the lives they've been given.
But with every step they take, they see only rubble and scrap metal, like the remnants of a long, violent, cruel experiment.
Maybe that's what it all was. Maybe when the first ship landed, they all should have known. Resistance is futile, as the movies said. Taeyong barely remembers how the line goes.
All he knows is that resistance was the only option, and now they're reaping the results.
“Yong ?”
Ah.
“You okay ?” Johnny sounds like he knows full well how redundant the question is.
Taeyong pulls at the strap of his backpack. His other hand holds Johnny's just a little tighter. “Same old .” He only now realizes they've stopped in the middle of the street. “Let's go.”
He knows rehashing the same worries is going to lead them nowhere.
The biggest shame, Taeyong thinks, is probably the library. Between the fading rays of whatever is left of the sun, daylight dying in the afternoon air, he sees the ruins of that building, piles of ashes so dense that the strongest winds had still failed to wipe them away.
(During a rare day of rest and respite, it's where Kun had suggested they stand guard, in the epicenter of their then-still bumbling city. There had been people left, still going in and out, trying to save whatever they still could in order to not be forgotten. Huddled around an oil canister fire, struggling to keep each other awake, they'd gotten by on Yukhei's stories, the ones he'd found in the building, books always piled high on his desk and his bedside table, stories from before the world went dark, and of the times it had been, so long ago, and how humanity had managed to turn the light on.
He told them like they'd happened to him, his voice reaching up to the stars, and Taeyong remembers hoping, wishing in vain, that maybe it would go far enough for someone up there to hear it, to come and find them.
Rescue had never come but Yukhei had still told stories, every chance he got, his face lighting up everytime they made someone laugh or gasp. It was his way to get through the nights, get through the long watch turns, his way to remember what it feels like to be alive.
In the moments when the earth split open, Yukhei had always remembered stories, hoped to tell his one day. His hope had kept so many of them alive that Taeyong hadn't ever been sure how to thank him.)
Looking at the library now, Taeyong is overcome with all the memories, all the stories that never deserved for him to forget them in the first place. His mind is full but all he sees is a bare metal structure barely holding itself up, a monument to nothing,
“We should hurry.” Johnny says, pulling Taeyong back to the one thing he has left. He's looking up at the sky where the light is disappearing.
Taeyong sighs. “Is there even any reason to observe the curfew anymore? I mean, look around-” he extends an arm toward the street and the ravaged buildings. “There's nothing to stay safe from. Nowhere to be safe in.”
“There's home.” Johnny says, pointing in the distance. “I'd rather be there.”
It's fair, maybe. Whatever theirs is, home isn't a bad place to be, when it's the only thing you can still hold on to.
The way winds through the city, a serpentine road of ruins, when Johnny trips up as his foot bumps against something.
The side of the gun glows an unnatural blue. As he watches Johnny turn it around in his hands, Taeyong can't help but smile as he remembers how Doyoung had wrangled one just like it from a particularly vicious alien assailant, turned the point of it against its heart and pulled the trigger, not a hint of hesitation in his movements.
(It had tumbled down and exploded, blue blood spilling in all directions, some of it landing on Sicheng's jacket. It had barely distracted him for a moment before he turned around to throw a kick at another that came running, dodged just in time for Doyoung to pull off another kill shot.
They'd fought like none of them ever believed they could. If that's what it took for everyone else to be able to run, then Taeyong figures it must have been worth it somehow. The military barely came down in their broken down neighborhoods anymore, too focused on saving the skyscrapers and the elites inside.)
Given the result, Taeyong thinks their presence down here wouldn't have changed a damn thing.
Johnny clears his throat. “This still works. We're keeping it.”
He hooks the gun around his belt, beneath his coat. Taeyong shudders.
“We don't need it... right ?” he says, and hates the way any hint of belief dies in his throat.
Even with the city as good as dead, and the world empty as it could ever be, there's no telling what still lies out there.
Of course, Johnny knows that. “Better safe than sorry.”
Taeyong's heart aches a little when he sees the faint blue glow coming from under Johnny's coat. He never wants to see violence like that again. He knows he will never have a choice.
Just a few meters away, in the middle of the road, there's a giant pile of rubble, elevated several feet higher than their line of vision. A large wooden cross is stabbed into it, obscuring whatever light still comes from the sky.
It towers over them, and Johnny closes his eyes, mumbles something under his breath. Taeyong can't tear his eyes away. In the commotion, in the aftermath, it seems he's forgotten how to pray. He sizes the cross up, tries to remember why it was put there, who lies forgotten under the remnants of their world. It hurts even inch of his body and mind, faces and stories rewinding in his head, so many painful possibilities.
He wonders who even had the strength to put the cross there, to hold on to tradition and say last rites they had barely believed in anymore.
“We have to keep moving.” Johnny swallows hard. “We have to. So all this won't be in vain.”
Taeyong sidesteps a little closer, lines his body up with Johnny's. “It never was.”
In the moment, Johnny gulps, regret falling over his face. He turns to Taeyong, sizing him up like he can't quite believe he's still there. The apology is there in his eyes, an admission that he spoke and simply forgot to think, caught in the moment and the pain.
“Let's keep walking, yeah ?” Taeyong presses Johnny's hand in his, and Johnny simply nods, finds a pace that doesn’t let either of them get swallowed up in their thoughts.
The building's skeleton is still visible in the distance, and Taeyong picks up the pace when it comes into view. He can see straight through the window, the night that's falling over the world, and wonders if it's the last time, if morning will come again to greet them and usher them forward.
It's been so long, it seems, since he used to live near here, with his family, in a small cozy house with a small green garden. Looking around, he doesn't think he could even remember where it used to stand. Around here somewhere, maybe, along the dirt path and the rubble, somewhere beneath a fallen steel rod, or an abandoned aircraft. Taeyong has stopped keeping track of everything they'd lost in the wreckage.
They round the last corner to the building's courtyard and the last chunk of brick wall around the gate is still intact, standing still in a meaningless show of defiance.
When they get inside the building, Johnny raps his knuckles against the side of what used to be the elevator, listens to the echo bouncing off the metal. Nothing comes back to him.
“Safe.”
Taeyong almost wants to laugh at how careful they have to be, when there's no one here anymore, not a soul to even bear witness to their loneliness. He stands back as he watches Johnny take down the planks of wood they'd started using to barricade the door when it had become a necessity,
In the corner of the hall he can still see the spot where they'd hidden and waited, a stakeout in the early hours of morning, Ten keeping his eyes barely above the window, afraid to be seen, but more scared, even, of not seeing it coming.
(' Get down. ' Taeyong had said, pulling at the back of Ten's jacket. Ten had remained still, impassible, clutched his rifle with one hand. ' Ten .'
His heart had dropped too far in his stomach for comfort when he'd heard footsteps, something crashing against the rubble outside. ' Ten .'
Inhale, exhale, just like how his mother had taught him. Taeyong had moved closer, grabbed Ten's other hand in a desperate plea as they'd heard a much too familiar slithering sound outside, the slow motion of it sending chills down his spine.
Ten had held his hand, tightly, desperately. ' I don't want to die hiding .' he'd gasped out, searching for any of the oxygen left in the air. ' I don't -'
And then Taeyong had pulled him down, their backs to the wall, eyes squeezed shut and holding their breaths. The slithering had come and gone, an almost mirage, too close for comfort.)
The oil lamp is still burning slightly when they step inside the old, decrepit room they call a home. It used to be warmer than this, surely, when they'd all sat around the fire and held on to each other. Now the chill sinks deep into Taeyong's bones, settles there like a brighter day will never come.
“I'm going.. I'm going to take care of this.” he says, touching the lamp when Johnny looks at him. He finds matches and a small, almost empty canister, somewhere beneath the old worn couch, and he busies himself with the flame, tries to warm up his frozen fingertips.
The glass is barely lukewarm when he touches it, darkened around the rim. Maybe it already had been when they'd taken it from the attic of Jaehyun's childhood house, and they'd never noticed when they lit the flame the first time because that was all they needed, and the dark never seemed so bad back then.
Taeyong hurts his fingers trying to crack a match alight, breaking a few, cursing at himself under his breath for the waste. When one finally burns, he shields it with his other hand, watches intently as the bottom of the lamp catches on fire.
“Let there be light.” Johnny calls out. He rubs his hands together, comes to crouch next to Taeyong to enjoy the growing warmth. “Man, I thought my fingertips were going to fall off.”
Taeyong snorts, almost in spite of himself. “Yeah, we don't need that on top of everything else.”
In the few minutes it takes for them to properly warm up, the tip of Johnny's nose turning back from red to pink, Taeyong leans against his shoulder and tries to appreciate the moment, respite and calm still too rare and precious.
The necessities they took from the store are stocked up on the tiny shelf, aligned the way Taeyong likes them, cans in order of size, boxes of crackers and nuts piled up on each other, the closest to spoiling in the front. He lines up the rows of water bottles next to it, everything they'd been able to salvage from shops and houses, silent as they went through storage cabinets in empty homes.
It had never felt right, even long after all the inhabitants had gone. Taeyong came out of it with a heavy heart and bloodshot eyes, trying to hold the tears in as they made their way back to their hiding place.
' Anything we need to do to survive .'
Doyoung's words ring out in Taeyong's head, even now.
He pushes a bottle to the side, back in line.
Johnny shuffles across the floor behind him, puts the barricade back up on the doorway. “There.”
He sounds satisfied, and even with his back turned, Taeyong can see Johnny standing with his hands on his hips, admiring his handiwork.
(' You're such a dork .' Taeyong had said the first time he'd seen him do that, building a bookshelf for his dorm room in college. He'd been sitting on Johnny's bed, watching and waiting for him to be done patting himself on the back.
Instead, Johnny had spun on his heels and flashed Taeyong a bright, toothy smile, eyes bright with pride and satisfaction. ' I'm a homemaker ! '
Taeyong had barely been given anytime to fire back before he'd felt the bed dip under Johnny's weight, trapped between the other man's knees, and his hand had reached out instinctively to grab the front of Johnny's shirt.
All plans they'd made that day had been forgotten, somewhere between Johnny's lips on Taeyong's neck, and Taeyong's hands in Johnny's hair, nothing on their mind but the present. It had seemed so easy, too easy almost back then, to forget they'd have to worry about the future.)
In a way, Taeyong is glad Johnny never lost the habit. It's one of the few things that he thinks will never change, a small, not so insignificant thing, perhaps, to hold on to.
Sure enough when he finally stands up, squeezing his eyes shut to chase the dizziness away, he turns to find Johnny like a ridiculous statue, and it makes something warm creep up along his neck.
Night falls around the building like a veil, too dark to protect them from anything at all.
On the floor, leaning against the wall, their last clock ticks slowly, minutes trickling down.
Taeyong hears Johnny rummaging through the pile of things they've managed to salvage, and he comes up with a soft “Ah.”, rounding the room to meet Taeyong.
In his hands, there's a light up garland, some of its light bulbs broken, the cable darkened by time. “Remember this?” Johnny smiles, rolling the garland between his fingers.
“Feels like ages ago.” Taeyong huffs as he finally manages to get the flame going. “You want to put it up?”
Johnny grins, and it's so earnest that Taeyong's heart nearly breaks. With his hands over the lamp, he watches as Johnny busies himself with their emergency generator, and remembers how Jungwoo had done the same, the year before, hellbent on giving all of them, in his own words, a proper Christmas.
(' Are you sure this is going to hold ? ' Doyoung had tried to help, hovering around Jungwoo like a concerned citizen, while the younger man fluttered around the room and back.
It had been almost impossible to stay serious and focused on the lookout when Jungwoo had dragged a dead tree branch inside, held it up against a wall as he wrapped the garland around it, the colored lights blinking against the blackened wood.
' The Christmas spirit will hold it up ! ' he proudly announced as he'd admired his creation, and Doyoung had simply shaken his head and smiled.
That night, the lights had stayed on for hours, and they'd held each other close around the lamp and the fire, and they'd laughed and sang until morning, to keep their own hearts beating. A way to keep the pain at bay, to tell the invaders they're still alive, and fighting.
A way to tell each other that whatever they had made up for what they've lost.)
Taeyong watches from the floor, hands still cupped around the lamp, as the lights come alive again, wrapped around the back of the couch. Colors reflect off of Johnny's face as he examines his decoration and gives it a small, satisfied smile. If Taeyong were to never look out the window again, if he were to never set foot outside the building again, he could almost convince himself that nothing has ever changed.
“It looks nice.” he says, pushing himself to his feet. He runs a hand along the cold concrete wall, and as the lights dance across it, Taeyong remembers that they're still here, even if no one else is. “Love what you've done with the place.”
'I wish they were here to see it.' never makes it past his lips.
Johnny sits down, blows warm air on his fingers. “It isn't much, but it's still home, right ?”
The word seems almost laughable now. Taeyong wraps his arms around himself as he crosses the room to meet Johnny, and he sinks into the couch's old, damaged cushions. The lamp's flame flails around in its glass case, casting a golden glow on the walls.
“What do we even have to celebrate…” Taeyong mumbles into his scarf.
It seems so futile.
There's no more world outside to celebrate, only a landscape that extends as far as the mind can stand, desolated and raw. Emptiness is the only thing that's left, so imposing and blinding, the absence of any hope weighing on Taeyong's mind like an anchor in the dried-up sea. Anything that might have been worth praying for is gone, with almost no one left to remember it.
“The war's over,” Johnny sounds like he's speaking it into existence. “the threat is gone.”
For a moment, Taeyong supposes he's right.
(In their destructive madness, their desire to wipe out humanity, the invaders had gone too big, gotten too ambitious, and what should have been the victorious blow was also fatal to them.
If he closes his eyes, Taeyong can still see the embers, the burnt up metal parts falling from the sky, the massive cloud where the mothership had been, just seconds before. He can still feel himself trembling, hiding inside the sewer, watching as bodies fell to the ground, earthlings and otherwise, indiscriminate in death.
If he closes his eyes, Taeyong can still feel Johnny's hand on his arm, how it had tugged him away from the madness, how they'd ran like hell, unsure of where they were going, of if there even was anywhere to go. He can still feel the way his heart had felt like it was going to beat right out of his chest, how his stomach had turned and churned when he'd tried to catch his breath, every inch of him screaming, overcome with pain and loss and grief. He can still feel the way his knees had hit the ground, and his hands had barely held him up, when they'd reached the surface and found nothing but the bare bones of the world they used to know.
If he closes his eyes, Taeyong can still hear the sound of their breathing, so loud in the emptiness that it was almost deafening.
He can still feel Johnny's hand in his, pulling him up, holding him there.)
When he opens his eyes, Taeyong feels it again. When he looks down to his lap, Johnny's hand is there, holding his, and it feels like the only real thing Taeyong has ever touched, like the only thing that still tethers him to this reality.
“And we're still here.” Johnny says it after a long moment, like he was looking for a way to embellish the facts. “I know it doesn't seem like much, but it's still something. We still have something.”
Taeyong watches the cloud of his breath as he exhales, indomitable proof that he's still alive.
The old radio sits silently on the ground, no signal coming through, the same as it has been for months. They keep watching out for it, for any interference, any sign that the sky is going to fall on them again, but it seems that tonight the universe has decided to give them a little more respite.
“I don't know where we'll be next Christmas.” Johnny presses against Taeyong, lets his warmth speak words he cannot say. “But right now, we're alive. We're alive, Yong, I know it's not what you want to hear but-”
Taeyong squeezes Johnny's hand, speaks around the knot in his throat. “We are.” he murmurs into the night. “I know.”
He just wishes he knew why.
The lamp glows brightly still when Johnny rummages through the shelf, pulls out plastic packs of food and two cans of beer, some of the logo scrapped off by time. It's chilly at best in Taeyong's hands, but he still cracks his can open when Johnny does, the mute sound of aluminum bumping against itself making the two of them laugh. It's no Christmas feast but it will do, the wind kept at bay, the oil fire warming them up slowly.
It might be just another Christmas, a moment of peace and joy to the world, if there was still a world outside. Now Taeyong accepts the simplicity of everything, the biscuits and the surprisingly-not-stale caramel peanuts, and the beer that's as celebratory as they'll get.
“We should have gotten some plastic champagne flutes.” Taeyong muses, wiping the corner of his mouth off after the first sip. “At least be a little dignified.”
Johnny giggles around a mouthful of salted cracker. “Not sure dignified is the word you're looking for.”
He offers the pack to Taeyong. The building creaks for a second, sending a shiver running down their spines.
“I wish we still had that CD player.” Johnny whines, puts his bottom lip out like a child.
Taeyong can't help the laugh that escapes him when he reaches for Johnny's hand, rubs the pad of his thumb against the back of it.
Surely, music would be a good way to fill the silence. Taeyong holds his can with both hands as he recalls how Taeil, Doyoung and Jaehyun had sung the year before, swaying against each other to the rhythm of their own voices.
(Here in their little corner of the world, seemingly sheltered from danger just for these few hours, Taeil had lifted his hands like an opera conductor, smiled around his words as Jaehyun unearthed old holiday songs from the depths of their collective memory.
Eventually, they'd taken everyone along with them, and Taeyong had leaned back against Johnny's chest, further into his arms, and he'd held Johnny's hands just a little tighter as they let the music take them somewhere else, a better, safer place.
The CD player had been scavenged from the ruins of Taeil's house the next day, and they'd used up all the discs they could find, until the tracks skipped and all they could do was hum along to whatever remained.
One day, someone had needed parts from inside, to build anything they could use for self-defense, and the player had been discarded, the music as good as forgotten.)
Taeyong lets his head fall against Johnny's shoulder. “Sing me something, then?”
Like a child asked to show his work, Johnny burrows inside his jacket, a timid smile on his face. “Not sure what that's worth.” he says, playing with Taeyong's fingers, trying to distract him from the request.
“Everything.” Taeyong leans up to whisper to Johnny, softly, like a secret meant only for the two of them. In the same breath, he presses his lips to Johnny's cheekbone.
What little tenderness there is left in the world, Taeyong holds on to it for dear life.
Johnny shifts where he's sitting, takes a long sip of his beer. “Okay.”
He clears his throat, straightens his spine. All the while, he doesn't let go of Taeyong's hand, like he's looking for reassurance, and Taeyong holds it, tightly, unwilling and incapable to let go.
From the first few words, Taeyong remembers the song, how Johnny had hummed it under his breath and against Taeyong's skin, the first night they were together, long before everything fell to pieces. It had been hushed in the comfort of Taeyong's bedroom, the murmurs lost to the walls as the words seeped deep beneath the skin, an ointment for the soul.
He feels the same chill he did back then, rushing up his spine as Johnny holds him closer and sings, like it's the only thing left to do.
Neither of them - none of them, truly - could have imagined how the words would take on a whole other meaning as the days went by, how they'd have to hold on to them and remember the way they had made them feel, warm and whole and full of a hope that threatened to leave and go up in flames a long time ago.
Still, Johnny sings, and his voice is deep and smooth and Taeyong lets himself fall easily, eyes half-closed, leaning into Johnny's chest. His heart beats just as steadfast as it always has, the rhythm of it melding with the melody. They're swaying again, just the two of them, lost to the current and the wind that knocks at the window.
For just this once, it doesn't scare Taeyong. He listens to the sound of the air outside, the sound of Johnny's voice beside him, and it repaints the room in bright reds and vivid yellows and deep greens, gives the world a little more meaning than it had yesterday.
Taeyong wraps an arm around Johnny's middle, tries to pull him closer, impossibly so. “I love you.”
It escapes his lips without warning or ceremony, and the three words hang in the air, meld with the ones Johnny is still singing, even when Taeyong can hear him smile through the rest of the song. The last notes wind themselves around Taeyong's ribcage and plant a seed deep into his heart.
“I love you.” Johnny says it back, and midnight draws closer still.
Maybe this can be the thing that keeps them going.
“We'll always be here,” Johnny bites his lip to mark a pause. “Right ?”
Saying he's certain of it would be lying, Taeyong knows this. He knows it and yet he nods, slowly, looks at the shadows the lamp is casting on the wall. They look familiar somehow, despite the emptiness.
“As long as there's a world.” Taeyong breathes out. “There will be an us.”
He feels Johnny shiver at his side. The room is cold still, December winding around them like a vice, but Taeyong guesses it has nothing to do with it.
“Nothing's ever truly gone.” Johnny murmurs, words winding up into the air and coiling around them like open fire smoke, a signal of hope for anyone listening. Taeyong's eyes search the room until they find the photo stuck to the wall, and he holds on to the memory of that day, of every day before and after it, refuses to let himself forget. “This world... We'll start again.”
Neither of them know where, or how, but in that moment they believe it.
On a whim, Taeyong stands up, extends a hand to Johnny. “Come here.”
Johnny looks up at him like a disoriented kitten, eyes bright in the relative darkness of the room. Still, he pushes himself to his feet, links his fingers with Taeyong's again, a ready-made fit. It had always amazed them, how their hands and their bodies had seemed to be made to find each other.
“What's this about.” Johnny asks through a confused smile when Taeyong pulls him in, winds an arm around his shoulders.
He gets a hum in lieu of a reply, Taeyong trying his best to sing Johnny's song back to him, the sounds breaking and dying a little in his throat as he lets himself fall into the motion, in Johnny's arms, in the easy embrace of night.
Johnny chuckles and lets out an “Okay, then.”, holds Taeyong where they stand, rocking back and forth on the balls of their feet.
In the past months of running and mourning, there has never been anywhere else Taeyong would rather be.
Even if it means pushing himself up on his tiptoes, Taeyong hooks his chin over Johnny's shoulder, and when he opens his eyes he can see through the window, into a distance that never seems to end.
In a flash, the clock clicks forward and it's midnight, another day finally coming, one more they thought they'd never see.
Taeyong hides his face in the crook of Johnny's neck. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” Johnny holds him tight, links his fingers across the small of Taeyong's back.
It feels like a whole other year passes in the seconds that Taeyong stays still in the moment, breathes in Johnny's scent, his warmth, and his presence, all anchors to the only reality they have.
He's facing the window when he opens his eyes, sees the expanse of Johnny's back, his own hand grasping at Johnny's jacket.
There's barely any stars left in the sky now. There haven't been in a while.
Maybe that had been their price to pay.
There's barely any stars left and yet Taeyong sees one, brighter than the others. It seems so close, like it's going to crash into them at any moment, but he's not afraid of it somehow. It doesn't move, stays still against the inky backdrop.
Something builds up in Taeyong's throat as he watches it, a rush he hasn't felt in a long time, so long he's almost forgotten how it felt. He hears himself exhale a shaky breath, tinged with disbelief.
He doesn't close his eyes and yet, he can see the star blinking.
Once.
It isn't a star.
Twice.
It's a message.
When Taeyong strains his eyes on the light, it stays still, for a second, maybe just an instant.
And then, like time is starting up again after being frozen and forgotten, the blinking resumes, and a new day begins.