halcyon days

and now chanyeol is speaking, and yixing is listening, and he is storing this away somewhere important things are kept.

“eulsa,” he answers after, “but i think i’ve lived in every city.”

he nods. 

“if you do,” he says, “i can tell you all about me,” because he still knows where he’s written, where his whereabouts are stored, his why’s and how’s,

“and i want to know all about you,” he continues, “since you’re my forever and all.”

but the quiet remains as quiet as it is, and once again yixing feels utterly disappointed in the universe of himself.

“i mean... we talk now, right? about ... what we need to buy, and what we need to do and, things we--- ...

i know we didn’t used to much,” he cuts off and trails away, thinking to bathtubs, shower, water, abandoned buildings, rooftops, earthquakes,

“but we do now, don’t we?

i don’t know. ( ` and he means it, and it’s not much vanity, because he thinks when chanyeol says hot he means the temperature of his skin because it’s always like this when he’s with him; always yixing never being able to grasp that a human body can heat up so much without simultaneously combusting. he always finds it impossible that his temperature can rise so high and his skin can stay in tact at the same time. 

(but impossible is such a big word, because yesterday he was on the edge of a cliff and yesterday chanyeol was bleeding on the floor and yesterday chanyeol bought this house and today they are in love, and there is a child in the room down the hall breathing to the pace of their heartbeats.)

so he grasps at locks of chanyeol’s tangled hair for answers, urging him on with a soft sound rolling off his lips and the hardness in his jeans becoming obvious. and yixing doesn’t last long, doesn’t last long holding his hands in place---as if to scratch an itch that badly needs to be scratched, he reaches down to unbutton his jeans, and unzip, and pull down. relief comes but it is spared by the material of undergarments, although yixing relishes in the temporary comfort; already distracted by the serious pull of lust, and the intense need to love, and to kiss chanyeol again, forgetting the guilt he’d felt for doing something so obscene with something so innocent not too far.

kissing up, his cheek, his temple, bent low over him, the tips of their noses touching, the air sweet with the mess of spilling lust and open love; 

its a familiar feeling: being so in love and so full of emotion that he feels he’ll burst into tears like a bad soap opera.

but he is so very in love with her, and her sunshine eyes, and her even breathing when---approximately after an hour or so, as chanyeol had predicted---she wears down and rests her head on his shoulder. he is careful to carry her upstairs, and place her in her bed.

and he doesn’t know when time comes back, but it is night when he closes his eyes, and morning when he opens them again; and for a moment he is watching sunlight stream in through the tiny spaces between the curtains. he looks at the open ceiling for a while, gaze trickling to the air, to the closed door, to the floor; blinking, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. then somehow, as it tends to, his gravity finds chanyeol. then yixing is watching the smooth curve of his shoulder and his arms and his body, watching with all the time in the world, and the next second, touching. feather-light and gentle;

and he wants to kiss chanyeol but mei is in his arms, and his other half seems very tired. so his lips pucker towards the child, and he’s surprised to be surprised to be getting a peck of the lips back.

its the kind of happiness that inspires tears, its the kind of love that never makes the books because it is mundane and special and normal, because it is surprising, because it is subtlety and reality that words cannot replicate. 

and for all of days, and weeks, he is gone.

he wonders if this is where he goes when slumber takes him, only this time he is awake to see it. he wonders if this is where he is, but he does know that this isn’t where he wants to be. he doesn’t think so. he thinks he misses mei’s voice, and chanyeol’s hands, and breakfast in the morning and thinking of dinner.

he thinks he misses the living room carpet, and the couch, and the crib that their little girl seems to be outgrowing every day,

he finds his fingers curled around the edge. familiar white wood, familiar soft cushions and cotton sheets and he recognizes the triangular pillow resting among the others because he’d been the one to buy that.

he finds himself home. wet cheeks and blurry eyes he has to wipe at. himself again. solid ground seems so foreign to his feet, and he has to take a few steps to remember walking. funny.

but they all seem to end in the same way, and after yixing has allowed them to live out all their arguments in their heads it seizes to be real, and time seems to replay but he is just dragging them back to where their feet stand.

a selfish habit too old to break---he just never seems to want sleep without chanyeol by his side. 

so he smiles and he pecks chanyeol’s lips and he says, “of course,” as if he has known all along that this is where they were supposed to be at that exact moment in time. right down to the millisecond.

and maybe this is stealing, maybe this is robbery, maybe this is something wrong but nothing in the universe is pointing to any other direction. nothing in the world is telling him that this isn’t right.