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Summary
The cherry was red. Unnaturally so. On top of the white frosting, it reminded Jisung of a drop of blood on untouched snow. Audacious in its tarnish of something so pure and clean. Shameless with its grotesque obscenity.
There was a glaze to it, as if clarity had left it long ago. As if its judgement was blessed to be clouded from alcohol, or sweet smoke, or something so much more cruel and painful.
Sitting there, in the black tuxedo that he had bought for his grandmother’s funeral two years ago, Jisung wanted nothing more than to rip into the cherry, to dig into its flesh and destroy it until there was nothing left but its bare core. He wanted to put the pads of his thumbs on either side of the fruit and push until it was forced to feel like him; ripped open, vulnerable, naked.
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Jisung is desperately in love with Minho - when he very much shouldn't be.