the table shakes when thereâs one less body attached, and he follows, a looming figure in the otherwise homely kitchen. kihyun likes the solitude of his own apartment, an abandoned one-bedroom in a building no one cares about, rather than moonsikâs. but loneliness eats the weak, feasts on the strong, and there are times when he needs someone else. âiâm a night owl.â hard questions default to rehearsed answers but kihyun doesnât miss a beat. âand i donât drink.â
he grabs the nearest towel, small enough to fit in his palm, and pats the droplets from moonsikâs cheeks. gentle, despite his overbearing looks. âitâs not unusual to want company sometimes,â he stops, stares into his eyes, questioning, âunless you donât want me here?â
  He canât bring himself to answer his question. I donât knowâ no, the voice inside murmurs uncharacteristically faint, like it had finally given from coming up with answers, always trying to make sense of everything.
  âBars are out of the question, noted,âÂ
  Moonsik hums, almost like Kihyun did just moments ago. Heâs not keen to mimicry, but there are many things out of their place today as it is. He can see the window from the corner of his eye, wondering when the golden hour settled in, and what was he doing when it did. Ah, right. The cut on his lip pulses when he remembers, but he refrains from flinching. He, also, refrains from flinching at Kihyunâs touch, not because it was roughâ it was unnervingly soft, if anything.
  Thatâs why, for once today, Moonsik looks like heâs hit a wall.
  His eyes, the ones that look all black and all pupilless if you donât look close enough, flicker between the room. But Kihyun was close enough to notice that; maybe he could also catch the smell of death lingering Moonsik like a haunting, the lulling moons instead of eyes beneath his bangs, as well as their sharpness. Hence, why heâs not moving, letting him wipe the water all he wants. Heâs an open book, presenting himself pages all wide, written in all sorts of laguages: dead and alive.
  Moonsik was also just as near, and he could see everything he overlooked. The scar on his brow, a mole disrupting the eveness of his skin; and what else do you need to see of a person other than their face to guess what theyâre thinking? (Everything else, he answers himself.)
  âThatâs what you have my number for,â running his tongue across the cut on his lip, he swallows and stays still. âNot when Iâm like thisâ is it still bleeding?â itâs a slower process than he thought, but he does regain his composure, parts his lips to let him take a better look.
  Itâs the second time these past four months heâs gotten assaulted, or attempted to, at least. âIâve considered moving, whether apartment or straight up city, but thereâs too much holding me back.â The clock ticks, urging him to speak faster. Quieter. âBut I wonât, not until I get you to drink with me. Once.â A pause that feels longer than it is, âYeah, Iâll wait.â