SOOGYU ONESHOTS

Spitting Embers

Beomgyu has never been particularly fond of the absence of promise. He likes to know when

something is to occur, and upon the occurrence, how he will manage. He isn't so profoundly orderly as to not make split second decisions nor does his liking for promise take away his free spiritedness—but it has its hindrances, and as he stares down someone who once was his best friend as a child and into his second year of college, he feels everything but promise.

There's the old, festering wound of indignation, and the hollowed shell of embarrassment—something that has taken years to rot away, and to leave only the essence of what he once felt—and then there's the most staggering of emotions. Ever-present; day and night; between every meal; every breath; every hour of sleep; every rehashing wherein his parents remind him of what he once had, what he lost—a shriveled attempt to parent him at his grown age, one of miscalculated love; and now in this very moment, it not only lingers but blazes wildly.

Beomgyu was never not a romantic, but many years ago he hadn't thought of love as something flammable, quick to burn and untameable when doing so. Love had been easy, handed to him without him having to ask, and only as he'd gotten older did he realize he'd been bestowed a gift. To love and be loved without hesitation, without fear of it being taken away. To be loved was to be held and fed and sung to sleep; it was his mother's reassuring words the morning of his first day of school; his brother's unwavering playfulness; his father's eagerness to teach him how to drive.

Love is many things, transcending a family of languages, yet Beomgyu hadn't expected the romantic kind to be of such resolute power, undeniable and unfaltering and even a bit scary, for Beomgyu found he had little control over it and therefore the actions that followed; and so the craving for a kiss became a visceral, soulful addiction for more. Beyond physical touch, he sought information, not to use it for or against, but to cultivate knowledge of someone he so deeply loved, and to hold it close for days where he was without that someone. He would keep it with him at all costs, like a river rock in his pocket, smooth and comforting beneath the pads of his fingers; a steady weight he carried everywhere.

Love is also, as Beomgyu has come to learn and will relearn time and time again, a fickle thing. He understands well enough that there's a harsh difference in love between a child and another, and love between adults: where emotions are developed, fleshed out in ways detectable unlike a child's, of whom has difficulties differentiating their sadness from their anger, their interest from their passion. Beomgyu has watered enough fleeting relationships, and even considered truly loving some, to acknowledge that even he in his older years has struggled with marking his emotions. He looks back at his childhood and sees Soobin, and on some days, when he's in a particularly reminiscent mood, wonders if it was love he felt or the comfort of familiarity, of knowing someone through and through.

But he's seen the subtle changes in himself—not to say he morphs into a different person depending on who he's around, but everyone carries with them a multitude of faces; all the same yet distinct in themselves. They share a set of eyes, a nose, a mouth, but the expressions are telling—there has always been a particular smile he harbors for his mother, who always knew just what to say; a playful wrinkle of his nose for his brother, which is innocent as anything now, but as a child often meant he was readying to spit or bite; an almost shy turn of his eyes for his father, whose compliments he sought the most as a child; and then there's the wistful smile reserved for his friends, for Yeonjun and Taehyun and Kai, all of whom helped shape his college years while he, in turn, participated in the molding of theirs.

But what he hasn't shown anyone, and surely himself in some time, is the face he's stashed away for long enough to almost, almost, forget its existence. It's shiny, lacquered, but unlike the polished look of something faux, it stands out amongst his collection of faces for its truth; something beautiful and charming and far too real for Beomgyu to handle seeing when he, say, comes across a photo of his own smiling face, taken back when he knew so little but had so much—when Soobin stood not across the room from him, as he does now, but beside him, shoulder to shoulder.