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"We'll all return to earth one day."
That was all Gyuvin said.
The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the skies a vibrant kaleidoscope of oranges, reds, pinks, blues, and a confusing purple in between it all. Silence hung in the air like the single dot indicating an end of a sentence, inky black blossoming upon the cream-coloured pieces of paper that served as a host to the words Gyuvin wished to express in the ways his speech failed to do so, each inflection a betrayal and a mark against his impenetrable facade.
"One day doesn't have to be tomorrow," a respond would arrive mere seconds after, a broken record that kept looping these words again, and again. First with disbelief, punctuated with a soft bout of laughter, then with doubt, melded into exasperation, and then eventually, into a desperate plea.
Gyuvin shrugged.
"It's not tomorrow yet."
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Gyuvin often had dreams.
Prophecies, as his parents explained. Seers meant to dispel the fog that clouded the truth, the single light within the thick grey settling in, guiding people to an insight not always asked for—or ever wanted. He grew up an outcast, with deep eyes so piercing that it often stripped people down to their most primitive state, exposed under the ever watchful eye of a Seer, their secrets only seconds from revelation.
Gyuvin was so accustomed to lonesome that it became his best friend.
That very same position was usurped by someone years after, in their adolescence—rosy cheeked, kind eyes, and a sagely smile framed with whisker-like dimples pressed into the softness of his full cheeks, hand outstretched with an introduction softly spoken, words akin to a warm blanket dried in the gentle sun of a near-autumn afternoon from between his lips.
"I'm Sung Hanbin," the boy introduced, words dancing along to an imaginary tune foreign to Gyuvin. "Can we be friends?"
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For most, letting their eyes flutter shut at the end of the day where the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, tucked comfortably into the plushness of a bed and sleeping, was rest. It was a way to recuperate, recharge for the day ahead, and regain what energy was lost in the day.
For Gyuvin, letting his eyes come to a close was akin to torture. Many times did his slumber get plagued by the images of a future that had yet to happen, vivid images burning into the back of his eyelids.
White. Empty. A lull of calm that Gyuvin relished, before a man materialised with his back facing Gyuvin, seated there with his body slumped forward. It's one, two, and multiple steps more until he finally reached the man, unable to do anything beyond waiting for the vision to play its course. When the man turned to look behind, the scene around them burst to life. A rich yellow-orange hue encroaching upon the emerald greens of before from the leaves of the trees that surrounded both of them, fallen leaves dried and brown on the ground before his eyes were met with red flowers in full bloom, vibrantly scarlet, thin petals stretched out, curved and pointed towards the sky.
Yet, the only disturbing thing about it all was the man that sat alone, eyes reddened with the tears that could not stop falling. He looked past Gyuvin, up towards the sky when Gyuvin was down on the ground, heels digging into the pile of leaves beneath him.
Full cheeks. Pink lips pursed into a thin line that somehow caused the too-familiar cat-like dimples to show on the soft flesh.
"Why did you leave me so soon, Gyuvin-ah?"
Gyuvin's blood ran cold.
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"Hanbin hyung. You know a lot about flowers, right?"
Gyuvin's question was answered with a nod from Hanbin, preoccupied with arranging his perfume collection for the nth time. Gyuvin watched from their bed, eyes never leaving Hanbin even when he wasn't looking back at Gyuvin.
"I had a dream last night," Gyuvin muttered. Hanbin's hands froze immediately as he turned to look at Gyuvin, eyes widened and then subtly narrowed in concern. Hanbin knew of Gyuvin's afflictions—perhaps a little too well.
Hanbin did not push. He simply waited for an answer—an answer he knew Gyuvin would give him without his having to ask.
"I saw spider lilies in it," Gyuvin added. "Red ones."
The clink of a glass bottle toppling haphazardly into the sorting tray was resounding. Hanbin took no extra time in reaching the bedside, knees sinking into the plushness, hands finding Gyuvin's arms and then squeezing.
"I'm sorry, Gyuvin-ah. Is there anything I can do-"
"I'm dying soon, Hanbin hyung. On the autumn equinox, when they bloom."
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Seers never lived long.
His parents were the same, leaving young, though they were older than Gyuvin was when they parted. Hanbin's family found him, accepted him, and loved him—albeit lesser than Hanbin did, who overflowed with his affections for Gyuvin all the time until they irrevocably found love within the thin sliver of toeing between the known and unknown. It was autumn when Gyuvin's parents were gone, too and perhaps, it was their fate—one Gyuvin needed to accept.
The world around them turned golden, and it was now Gyuvin's time to go.
"Hyung, you have to promise me one thing," Gyuvin insisted, his voice soft and waning, lost like the steam from a hot drink diffused back into the air, returning the vapours back into the surrounding—here, but never perceived.
"You can't do this to me, Gyuvin-ah," Hanbin pleaded. Gyuvin saw red blossoming in Hanbin's eyes, swelling with tears that he could not hold back.
"You have to promise you'll forget me."
"I can't-"
"You have to."
"I hate you." It's a singular tinge of pain, immediately soothed over by the man who doled the pain out in the first place. "Gyuvin-ah…"
Gyuvin smiled, despite himself. Despite it all.
"Good. Stick to hating me, hyung. And…" A soft breath. Gyuvin's strength waned.
"I love you, too."