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"Hey," Seungcheol was saying, face pressed into the skin of Minghao's neck, "Myungho." His voice shook. He had one arm wrapped around the back of Minghao's waist.
Minghao's hair had grown longer in the back. Mingyu forgot it was possible to be surprised by him, to not know everything, to not be under his skin and in his lungs. The distance butchered them. He still couldn't understand what Minghao meant that day when he said I need space. By then, he was already past the point of knowing Minghao's every first, second, third thought.
He turned and looked up at the sun until his eyes stung. Minghao entered his life feather by feather, wingbeat by wingbeat. When he left, he left birdlike—quick and easy.
It was unfair that Mingyu was made the cage. Minghao walked over to him finally, bending over to place a palm against his cheek like he knew it too. "Mingyu," he said, and his voice, the way the affection carried over the syllables, was exactly the same. "I'm home."