In my eyes | Yeonbin

A good hyung

DISCLAIMER
Before letting you read what I hope will be a pleasant story (seriously, I really hope so), I would like to clarify a few things. The first is about the writing style. This Fanfiction is modeled on the stream of consciousness, so, if this is not your taste, this could be not the story for you (even though I hope you'll give it a shot anyway). The second is that all this is a creation of my mind and I have no intent in hurting the real people this story has taken as protagonists. Third, this is a translation of my original story already published on my personal profile, and, even though I did studies that allowed me to be able to translate in another language and express myself fairly fluidly, I do not consider myself having mastered the language as a native. Therefore, I apologise for every mistake there could be (let me know, in case).
After this premise, without wasting any more time, I wish you a good reading. I hope to receive your opinions in the comments!

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I let myself slide down against the wall of the practice room, exhausted, after interminable hours of practice to fix the choreographies. I breathe in deeply, leaning my head against the hard wall of the room and I close my eyes. I can feel the t-shirt glued to my skin, soaked in my fatigue that flows along my body. I turn my head, stretching the aching muscles of my neck, and I open my eyes. The image of a guy with messy brown hair stares back at me. My face is red and wet, I blink to shake off some sweat drops trapped in between my eyelashes. My eyes move on the mirror, running from the chair at the opposite side of the room, to the parquet, until they meet you, laying down in the middle of the practice room with a towel on your face. I watch you for a bit, looking at your chest lifting and lowering, your t-shirt poorly stuck under your back, leaving your abdomen slightly uncovered. I observe your long legs opened on the ground, like your arms, almost as if you were doing an angel in the snow. But there is no snow. There is just you, and me, in an empty room. I sigh and watch you again, but then again, I always watch you. I watch you while you move your fringe away from your forehead because it's always a bit too long and it ends up in your eyes, but you know you cannot cut it because, well, it's not that it's up to you. It's not up to any of us, actually. Slowly I stand up and I walk some steps towards you. You are still not moving, the towel is still on your face, and the chest keeps on lifting and lowering quietly. I kneel down next to you and I slowly lift up the towel. You sleep. I still cannot realise how you manage, every time, after the dance practice, to fall asleep on the room's floor. How do you do that? Isn't it uncomfortable? Doesn't your back hurt? My lips stretch in a small smile. Maybe you are just tired, after all. After all, I am tired too. I shake you gently but you don't wake up, the only thing you do is tilting your head towards me. Your lips are slightly parted, the fringe is again going in your eyes. I reach out with my fingers and I move it on your forehead, away from your closed eyelids, because I know how much it annoys you. Again, you don't wake up. I sigh and give a look at the clock, it's late, very late. Our manager is surely waiting for us. I look at you again and I don't have the heart to wake you up. I never have the heart to wake you up. I crouch next to you, passing one arm behind your neck and one behind your knees, and I lift you up. You are incredibly light despite being taller than me, or maybe it is just me being really strong. Or maybe I am strong just when I have to lift you up. The fact is that now, with all the times you fell asleep in this way, and all the times I had to lift you up, I have become quite an expert. I position you better in between my arms. Your head dangles beyond my arm, your lips are still parted. I reach the car, paying attention to open the door not to hurt you and I put you in the backseat. I lean forward to find the closure of the seatbelt and your head dangles forward, leaning on my shoulder. I paralyse for a second, with the seatbelt still in my hand. I can feel your hair itching my neck. I sigh slowly, buckling the seatbelt. I move away from you and I look at you for just another moment before closing the door and sitting in the front seat.

"He's still sleeping, huh?" the manager asks before starting the engine of the car to bring us back home. Home. A dorm with two rooms we live in five people. But it's still home. I chuckle while I buckle my seatbelt.