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Sometimes, on those hours when the sun is eaten up by the horizon and the world is blues and purples under the mist, Harin thinks about the world.
It’s not that he usually doesn’t, not that he’s not prone to sitting with his eyes and mind nowhere as he taps to an unknown rhythm, as he lets his drumsticks move and take him along to the beat of a song, of others’ breathing, someone’s heartbeat, someone’s words— It’s not that he doesn’t get lost in thought, in his own world, or even that he has no thoughts at all.
It’s just that, sometimes, his thoughts aren’t on what his next meal of the day will be, or on how Dongmyeong broke the wheels of his desk chair and Harin wants to help fix it—aren’t in the beat of the music, in what could be better, in what to follow, what to tweak—aren’t in those notes he can feel, can follow, even if he can’t name— aren’t in Giwook’s dreams, in his music, in the texture of Yonghoon’s voice that dances, the delicate press of a key, or the melody of snapping, of tensing strings—
Sometimes, only sometimes, Harin’s thoughts go somewhere else—away from what is here, away to what is there—
Sometimes, only sometimes, Harin’s thoughts go to the world—to that which is so tangible, to that which is just not— go to the colour of breathing, the rhythm of nothing, to all that unexplored, all that lost, all that unknown—
Sometimes, only sometimes, he thinks about blues, about purples—about the mist that overtakes, about droplets in the air that stick to his skin, to his clothes, to his thoughts, to his heartbeat—
Harin blinks— his gym bag is on the floor, his back on a desolate bench he found nowhere—his eyes are on orange that’s swallowed by blues, by purples, by a shade of grey.
Sunset—colours that cool as they take on the world— droplets of nothing that stick hair to his forehead, his clothes to his skin, his breathing to something—
(He catches a bird that flies past, he catches the tail end of the sun as it sets, as it leaves—catches the blooms of purple, the blooms of blue that he takes—)
Harin blinks again, the bird is nowhere to be seen, the sun has all but left—a single star twinkles and shine overhead—a single star over lights of a bustling city, colourful and lost neon, fluorescents— a single star breaks through the clouds that speak of rain, maybe of going home, going somewhere—
Harin blinks, again, again—brings a hand up and pushes his hair back—pushes sweat and mist from his forehead, the side of his face.
The world is strange, he thinks sometimes, cellphone a muted buzz he ignores in his pocket, eyes on the sky Giwook tends to wonder about— the sky and that lonely universe Hyungu, too, loves—the shape of the stars Dongmyeong counts—the shape of the clouds Yonghoon watches.
He wonders why, like this, like now, he thinks about the world—it’s not like he needs answers, or like he wants them at all—it’s not like he seeks understanding what he can’t understand at all, or like he seeks a revelation that will take him away.
The world changes colours and sounds, the world follows music he can’t figure out—the world is just right, even when it’s not, and it shines with the city, yet it doesn’t shine at all—
Harin takes the world as it is, he always has—Harin takes it for its music, for its colours, for its sounds—he takes it all to love without asking, without reason, without need.
And yet… maybe it’s because Hyungu’s always been there, Harin thinks, sometimes, all the time—because Hyungu’s always thinking, always wondering, asking about this world that twinkles and changes all around—always writing, turning, thinking—letting it out in music they all share, music that pulls, that takes—
Hyungu’s there, Hyungu’s always been there—and Hyungu pulls, turns, pulls—Hyungu pulls him in like gravity, keeps him close, keeps him thinking—Hyungu pulls him into orbit as he listens, as he sings, as he plays, as he laughs—
Maybe it’s because Hyungu’s there that Harin thinks, and yet Harin doesn’t think at all—maybe it’s because Hyungu’s there that Harin sees the colours of the world, and because Hyungu’s there that Harin doesn’t touch, doesn’t ask—
Maybe it’s because Hyungu’s there that Harin takes the world as it is, and then hands it over in careful hands, all for Hyungu to study, for Hyungu to touch—
All the time, sometimes, all the time, Harin thinks about Hyungu— always circles back, just like that—
All the time, sometimes, Harin thinks about Hyungu—about his world, their world— about those colours that brought them together, that cosmos so foreign that Hyungu writes to, that which he plays to— about those colours yet unknown, those he does know, those he can’t know.
And the star overhead becomes two, becomes three, up to four—and the star overhead gets lost to the night, to the day, to the city, the rain, the rain, the rain—
(Harin breathes out—breathes in—)
All the time, Harin thinks about Hyungu—about that which lies between them even when there’s nothing at all, that unknown universe in Hyungu’s words, his voice, his eyes— that which is safe, is soothing, is love—
(And a droplet falls to his cheek, a droplet falls to his arm—a droplet to his lips, to his hands, to his neck— a droplet to another, to three and to four, to five and to six, to seven, to eight, to ten, to rain, to rain, to rain.
He kicks his bag with no strength, pushes it under the worn-out bench in a minimal effort for it not to get wet—
And it’s pointless, he knows, he knows, he knows—
But the rain keeps falling, and the world keeps moving— and Harin keeps thinking, and so he doesn’t move.)
“Won’t you catch a cold?” a bright blue umbrella, foreign even as it belongs, becomes one with pouring rain, the colour of this world— “You’re soaked”
“Probably” and rain to his tastebuds, to his colours—invading, so soothing—and a laugh to his ears, to muted senses, a muted world—
“Do you want to catch a cold?” light blue over his eyes—light blue that brings droplets like little waterfalls to his skin, to his colours, his senses.
“Not really, no” and Hyungu smiles at him—smiles with wet hair, with rain to his back, to his arms—
“Get up, then” and the bright blue umbrella spins, here and there, and rain falls in flying droplets, in broken waterfalls to their senses, to their world—“Come on”
And Harin does, pulled into orbit like always, like forever—and he steps into Hyungu’s space, and he pushes wet hair from his eyes with a sigh.
“Wanna go eat something?” and Harin takes Hyungu’s hand, like always, like forever—takes in his colour, his music, his world—takes in those verses of love to the universe, to the world, in rough fingertips and hidden warmth. “After we get changed, you know”
Harin nods with a smile, and they only walk—
(And the rain falls, and it falls, and it falls—and Hyungu lets their fingers intertwine so easily, so naturally—and Harin replies without thinking before he pulls Hyungu along, before he gets pulled along—
And there’s a kiss on the cheek, a kiss on the lips—and the stars turn to nothing behind quiet clouds— and Harin thinks about the world, again, to the lull of Hyungu’s heart and the colour of his voice.)