#admin hui

quiet.

now close your eyes; these dreams are best watched with no sight, so listen carefully.

you wake to the sound of humming, the kind that’s kept under one’s breath; a quiet, hopeful strumming of vocal chords and soft, curling lilts of notes high in one’s throat. it’s not a song you’ve heard before. your eyes open, your mouth stretching in a yawn of your own accord, and the first thing you see is joshua, smiling gently down at you. “did you sleep well?” he asks, eyes sparkling.

“yes,” you tell him, and the sunlight catches on his teeth like breath catching in a throat.

joshua’s eyes glitter with mischief. “you’d better have,” he replies, and pokes your nose with a finger. “because your head is heavy and i can’t feel my legs.”

laughter fills the quiet room as you bat at him, swatting at his giggling face; too far away and far too shadowed by the sun. “of course, your head is only heavy from all the knowledge in your brain,” he adds posthumously, his words broken by his giggles. you scrunch your nose at him, the sun falling in your eyes as he leans down, his lips pressing a feather-light kiss against the very tip of your nose. “anyway,” he says quickly, before you have a chance to argue, “do you want to hear the song i was thinking of writing?”

of course you do, and besides, there’s a tinge of hope in his voice that you know he was desperately trying to hide, so you nod, a fond smile growing on your lips, and joshua begins to sing.

quiet.

now close your eyes; these dreams are best watched with no sight, so listen carefully.

you’re standing, awed, in the middle of a busy, bustling street, staring up at a towering shrine, its gilded rooftops shining brightly in the street lights, passing cars and motorcycles around you providing a soundtrack to your awe. by your side, hansol smiles at you, wearing a ridiculous hat and an even more ridiculous shirt. you sigh, glancing at it out of the corner of your eye. it’s so ugly, and yet he somehow makes it work.

the air is cold, your breath misting in beautiful clouds in front of your face, and as hansol’s fingers, warm and sturdy and tangled together with yours, adjust their grip and squeeze a little tighter, you pretend you’re a dragon for a minute. hansol notices, grins his signature face-scrunching smile at you, and tugs you forward.

“come on, let’s go get some food,” he tells you, and before you have time to snort and tease him about that time you asked him to choose between food and sofia and he hesitated for a full ten seconds before saying sofia, he’s off, pulling you along with him as he picks a winding path through the night market, guiding you expertly through the bustling crowds.

“is it always this busy?” you ask him, pulling closer to him so you’re pressed to his side.

“pretty much,” he replies, brow furrowed in concentration. “my dad used to bring me and sofia here all the time when i was in middle school.”

the lantern light passes golden-orange and red over your skin; you stop, briefly, to look at a hat that matches the ridiculous one perched on hansol’s head. you look up, grinning, and find him engaged in conversation, hands moving animatedly around his face as he talks to the stall holder in rapid korean.

you count the exact change quietly, hanging back, and place the hat carefully on your head before making your way over to hansol, whose eyes take in your hat and light up instantly. it’s adorable, and you tell him so. the auntie running the stall grumbles good-naturedly about kids ruining her business and shoos you off, so you go,  fingers tangled in each other, off on your seemingly unending quest to find food.

quiet.

now close your eyes; these dreams are best watched with no sight, so listen carefully.

you’re at a beach. the waves are lapping at your bare feet, and there’s a strong wind lifting hair off your forehead; still chilly even though it’s summer. it’s peaceful.

then, a hand at your back, pushing you, footsteps pattering in the wet sand, a familiar voice cackling and growing further away as jeonghan runs away from you. a piece of seaweed has washed up onto your foot; you pick it up, grinning a wicked grin of your own. he’ll never see you coming.

jeonghan makes a particularly pterodactyl-esque squawk when you throw the seaweed on top of his head, turning towards you with arms outstretched; he tries batting you away, his eyes slitted against the wind that’s carrying away his outraged shrieks. you run, this time, your feet kicking up clouds of fine sand, and your heart soars as you hear his battle cries growing louder by the footstep, drowning out your gleeful laughter. you swerve to the side, tossing another ribbon of seaweed at him, and he dodges into it. you laugh so hard he manages to catch you.

he tackles you into the sand, and the two you roll into the waves, a shrieking log covering itself in wet sand and cold seawater. you untangle yourself from him as the waves submerge his legs, racing up the beach towards land as he screams your name indignantly, a righteous-sounding (but soaked) eagle, and as you gasp for air between your laughter and panting breaths, jeonghan grabs you around the waist, pressing his soaked chest against your relatively dry back. his cackles drown out your disgusted yelling, and the wind carries you both away into the setting sun.

jeonghan complains of catching cold for the next six days, but quieting him is no more difficult than pressing lips to his warm cheeks.

quiet.

now close your eyes; these dreams are best watched with no sight, so listen carefully.

you’re in an arcade, the sounds of cheap sound effects assaulting your ears from all sides. on your left, laser guns scream into the arcade; behind you, the revving of a motorcycle startles a kid so badly they start crying. in front of you, chan stands in front of a claw machine, hunched over the control panel, the serious, concentrated expression on his face the one he usually reserves for heated discussions about upcoming choreographies.

“you realise these things are rigged, right?” you ask him, bringing your hand up to rest lightly on his shoulder as you walk towards him. he spares you barely a glance, his full attention trained on the biggest toy in the machine.

“well, yes?” he says absently, operating the joystick with such careful precision you almost make a joke comparing him to the doctor in the medical drama you’ve been watching lately. you don’t, though, because watching him now is much more amusing. “but you said you liked this character, right?”

you pause. “that’s true, but how much have you spent on this game already?”

“far too much, probably,” chan replies, still concentrated on the claw hand. he takes a deep breath, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and presses the button. the claw closes around the toy, and you watch over chan’s shoulder with bated breath as it carries the toy, agonisingly slowly, to the exit chute. beside you, chan’s fingers curl around yours in a death grip.

the toy falls safely into the chute, rolling out and to a stop at your feet. there’s a beat of silence as you look at the toy and chan looks at the toy and then you both look at each other, and then chan starts cheering, dancing around you, your hand still stuck in his.

when you walk home together later, you’re holding the toy in one hand and your love in the other.

quiet.

now close your eyes; these dreams are best watched with no sight, so listen carefully.

loud bass lines pour from the speakers on either side of you, the only other thing you can hear in the studio the sound of sneakers squeaking shrilly against the lacquered floor. you check your watch and do a double take, blinking disbelievingly at the large numbers announcing that it is, in fact, 3 in the morning.

“seokmin,” you call gently, your voice raised just above the pounding beat, getting up slowly as you watch him, his eyes focused completely on his movements, gaze trained unwaveringly on his reflection in the mirror. “seokminnie, you should go and get some rest.”

“in a bit,” he replies, droplets of sweat falling like diamond tears from his face. “i still need to practice this song.”

“i’ll be back in a bit, then,” you tell him, gathering your wallet and coat. “i’m gonna go get snacks from the convenience store.”

when you walk back into the studio, hands occupied by plastic bags filled with far too much junk food, it’s to seokmin, panting, laying spread out like a starfish across the floor. sitting down by his head, you run your fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, laughing softly at the way he leans into your touch. “i bought ice cream,” you tell him quietly, and he smiles his million-watt smile at you.

“thank god,” he groans, rolling into a sitting position. “what would i do without you?”

“die of overheating?” you suggest, giggling and leaning out of the way when he goes to half-heartedly swat at you.

when the two of you walk home, your bodies are warm and your hearts are full.

quiet.

now close your eyes; these dreams are best watched with no sight, so listen carefully.

you’re in a house, outside a room, atop a carpet, your bare feet sinking into the fluffy material of the rug. it’s quiet, but you can hear the sweet sounds of someone singing, and the sizzling of a frying pan. as you listen, your eyes closing to better appreciate the sound, the smell of spicy food tickles at your nose, and you enter.

jun looks up at you when the door creaks open, grinning his usual goofy grin as his hands fry the noodles with the kind of expertise that only comes with years of practise. you hop up onto the table, and he frowns playfully at you, the sides of his eyes crinkling their crow’s feet. “we eat on that table,” he says petulantly, and you’re not surprised to see one of his feet stomp against the floor.

“you’re such a kid,” you tease in response, and jun gasps exaggeratedly before turning back to his pan with a huff.

“if that’s the attitude you’re going to take, you don’t have to eat my cooking.”

you slide off the table silently, a grin of your own growing on your lips, and you creep up behind him, your feet silent on the wood-panelled floor. your arms loop around his waist, resting against the fabric of his ridiculous – frilly black and emblazoned with “kiss the cook” – apron, your cheek pressing against his back, and you can feel hid heartbeat speed up through the thick cotton of his oversized sweater.

“i’m sure the pretty one in the relationship is supposed to be receiving the back hug, not giving it,” jun comments mildly, but his racing heartbeat and the way his hands have stilled betray just how flustered he is.

“if that’s the case, i don’t see anything wrong with the current arrangement,” you reply lightly, desperately fighting the blush growing in your own cheeks, and jun’s delighted giggles join the sounds of noodles sizzling in the pan.

quiet.

now close your eyes; these dreams are best watched with no sight, so listen carefully.

you’re sitting at a piano, fingers skimming the keys to find the right pitch. the room is quiet, honey-coloured sunlight pouring through the windows, and outside, a bird is building its nest, flitting back and forth, in and out of the frame of the window. beside you, disgruntled curses and distracted mumbling kept — for the most part — under his breath are the only other source of noise in the room. minghao isn’t the best at the whole subtlety thing.

“these lyrics,” he says suddenly, and you turn to him expectantly, “which do you like better?”

you study them. they’re as different as spring and autumn; the first like the gentle blooming of flowers as love in the budding sunlight, the second like warm leaves falling in the wind as lovers falling for one another. “the second one,” you reply eventually, and minghao nods, looking pleased. he turns back to his notebook, his long fingers curling around your hand, and this time, his mumblings are calmer, less agitated.

minutes pass in silence — or hours, maybe; if time flies when you’re having fun, it must have broken the sound barrier at least once while you were playfully trying to sneak glimpses of his lyrics, his melodic giggles like the song to his scribbled words on the paper.

finally, minghao leans into you, grinning like he knows a secret that only the two of you share. “wanna listen to them now?” he asks, and you do.