Should the sky fall down, have all the stars crash together as they collide against the ailing surface of the Earth, leave nothing but particles of dust floating in an empty space—it wouldn't make much of a difference, Yangyang reckons.

It's a clear night in late October. Yangyang kicks the withering leaves on the sidewalk along the busy road, on his way home from work. The seasons changed faster than he has been able to register—the only sign of time passing by, is his once scarlet hair fading into a sad excuse of a salmon-like shade. Or, "dirty peach," as his friend Ningning would say—and Yangyang would snort and answer "your mom's a dirty peach," because he's childish like that.

Yangyang exhales, slowly, white smoke from his chapped lips twirls in the crisp air. Heavy beats of electronic music blast through his headphones, as he squashes the rest of the cigarette under his shoe. Worn-down, but trusty Converse sneakers pressed against asphalt that never seem to break. He tugs at the strap of his backpack, one last look towards the dark, infinite sky.

No collision tonight either.

Life must go on.

Maybe Yangyang is a pessimist, his friends surely like telling him so, although he would prefer to describe himself as being more of a realist. Life is life—and it is, in lack of better words in Yangyang's vocabulary; "whatever".

Liu Yangyang is, much like the Earth, stuck in the same rotation, day in and day out. Stuck, in a life only existing inside the same daily routines, repeated over and over and fucking over, every single day. Stuck inside the small booth at his workplace, obligated to wear leather shoes that gnaw at the heels, while white cotton tightens around his neck and he suffocates on the same dry air as yesterday. The air, which smells much like self-loathing and dreams left to die. Most of the things that used to spark any kind of joy are long forgotten, not even the usual, "PUBG tonight?" from Chenle in the group chat, punctual as per usual at 7:45PM, gets more than an almost auto generated reply "yeah, totes"—no emojis.

Heavy footsteps resonate against concrete walls, each step is one closer towards the fifth floor. An older neighborhood, no elevators, and a persistent smell of flue gas and fried food hanging at every street corner. But it's an up and coming area, or so Chenle has told him—the constant sound of construction work adding to that. It's fine, at least the rent is decent enough for Yangyang's lousy telemarketing pay—and the inside of the apartment proves to never judge a book by its cover.

With the key stuffed securely back into his pocket, Yangyang hangs his jacket in the entryway. Had he lived alone, he would've simply kicked his shoes off, let them bounce off the walls and left them wherever they chose to land. But he doesn't do that, because Dejun hates that. It leaves ugly marks on the ivory walls and scratches at the Edwardian skirting boards, he says.

Xiao Dejun. Yangyang's roommate, more precisely, the owner of the apartment, and the pinnacle of perfection—to Yangyang, at least. Or, most definitely.

And Dejun is the polar opposite to Yangyang. The mere fact that he has actual curtains, while Yangyang had settled with a simple sheet to cover the windows in his old room, says more than enough. Dejun not only has one kind of curtains, but two, decorating the living room. Castleton green velvet, floor length, with a set of dainty white lace behind them. Warm lighting against dark wood dominate the apartment, and everything is so polished and perfect Yangyang still feels uneasy touching any of it.

Yangyang sighs, flicking the lights on in his bedroom. Moving boxes still stand in the corners, and his clothes are scattered everywhere, like the closet has vomited all over the room. Unpacking the rest of his stuff, has been postponed 'til tomorrow for at least three months by now. Yangyang still remembers the look on Dejun's face, when he opened the door the first time they met. Like he was on an episode of Catfish. Dark brows furrowed down, as even darker eyes spoke louder than any words.

It was the first time Yangyang felt it, the strange feeling that still stirs inside of him, every time Dejun's eyes burn right through his own. Dejun looked at him, judged him, standing there like a bashful child with a sheepish grin, in his oversized hoodie and ripped jeans. A click of his tongue, "Liu Yangyang?" Dejun had then asked, and Yangyang nervously nodded. "Come inside, then..."

It's the same facial expression Dejun still makes, whenever he catches a peek of the mess that is Yangyang's room. Surely, the photo Yangyang sent of himself, wearing his work clothes, looking all professional, when applying for the room—including their brief conversation over the phone—had done wonders. Yangyang has a pleasant speaking voice, he has often been told. Yangyang got the room. Dejun must have been in a rush, finding a new roommate, even Yangyang believes so.

Finally it is Friday, and the nemesis that comes in the shape of uncomfortable work shoes now remains as forgotten as they can be, in the backpack thrown into the corner. Slouching with a loud yawn, Yangyang moves towards the bathroom. The bathroom, which is all marble, golden framed mirrors and a lion feet tub, and Yangyang sometimes feels ashamed of taking a poop in there.

"Oh, shi--" Yangyang jolts back, eyes shot wide open, one hand tight around the door-handle. "I-I didn't know you were home!"

Long lashes flutter under the shadow of ash brown hair. Slowly, Dejun withdraws his eyes from the reflection in the mirror. A small step backwards, Yangyang shivers when their eyes meet. Because Dejun has eyes of fire. Eyes that not only see you, but consume you. Burn you whole. A thin robe slides down his right shoulder as he turns around, nothing underneath at the torso, the fabric caught by the dip of his elbow, and he looks at Yangyang, stares, as if Yangyang is the one being half-naked.

"It's okay," Dejun says, like he actually means it. "I'll leave soon. Just waiting for Sicheng."

Then, Dejun pulls at the delicate fabric, a sorry excuse of trying to cover up. Silk against skin probably just as soft to the touch. Yangyang stares even though he knows he shouldn't. From pretty lips down the jawline sharp enough to cut you—and across the prominent collarbones, where the last drops of water glisten after a supposed shower.

Their eyes meet again, and Yangyang feels it. The familiar twist in his stomach, the strange feeling that has occurred ever since he first moved into the apartment.

"I-I, well, I'm sorry!" he suddenly yelps. All panic, no coordination, Yangyang stumbles over his own feet, nearly slips in his white socks, before rushing to his room. Warm cheeks, rapid heartbeat, clammy hands that slam his own door shut—and pants that suddenly feel too tight.

The city seems to rest as little as Yangyang. Evergoing, lights flashing from cars and LED billboards—and complete silence is a myth made up in ancient times. Yangyang is in his usual spot on the broad windowsill in his room, looking at the world outside that just goes on and on. He fiddles with the drawstrings of his gray hoodie, the metal aglets bumping against his nails every time he twists his cold fingers around the strings.

Yes, Yangyang has imagined Dejun without clothes before. Often. Too often. Hand shoved into his sweatpants, fantasizing how it would feel to have Dejun suck his dick, have him bounce on it. Take it all the way inside, moaning Yangyang's name with that pretty voice of his. Eyes half closed, lips glossy and parted, needy and greedy, nails clawing at Yangyang's skin.

The sound of the front door, Yangyang snaps out of the thoughts that tend to drown him. There's a ruffling of a coat, followed by the usual chit chat about all those things Yangyang never really cared for, or even understood. Sicheng has arrived.

"So, how's work?" Yangyang hears Dejun ask, his soothing voice accompanied by the mandatory clank of wine glasses. Leaving soon, in Dejun's world means leaving in an hour or two—or, a bottle of Pinot Noir, Yangyang has already learned that by now.

"As usual. The people at Valentino are still up my ass about signing that contract," Sicheng says, with his ever so indifferent tone of voice. "But you know I'm not good at being exclusive." They both laugh at that.

Dong Sicheng, model. As in; editorial model, runway model—not a self-proclaimed Instagram one. The real deal. Yangyang has met him in person once, or maybe it has been twice, although Sicheng does come by quite often, Yangyang prefers to hide in his room. Not much of a Sicheng-situation kind of thing, just a general preference. But the fact that Sicheng is quite intimidating doesn't help. Obviously tall, designer clothes fall perfectly over his lean frame, and golden rings hug around slim fingers. A perfectly sculpted face, which Yangyang, from their short interactions, has already judged to only know one certain expression. The phrase resting bitch face surely has been created for someone just like Dong Sicheng. But he sure is handsome, no doubt about that.

Dejun could've been a model as well, Yangyang thinks.

Yangyang's phone buzzes next to him. The screen lights up, breaking the dull atmosphere of his room. It's half past eight, he's late for PUBG.

The Markinator: yo yangs, you dead bro?

Dejun's laughter has an ability of seeping through even the smallest cracks and crevices. It happens again, through the closed door, the sound of it makes Yangyang's skin tickle. Soft and warm, endearing, the wine has that effect on Dejun. Then comes the sound of footsteps, and the front door creaks quietly when opened and closed. Dejun and Sicheng have left, and Yangyang actually does feel like dying.

Because Dejun, as perfect as he is, is also perfectly, painfully straight. Burning fire eyes show as much as they hide, but whatever Yangyang so persistently hopes for doesn't matter. At the end of the day, it isn't Yangyang who is wrapped in white sheets and Dejun's slender legs, getting drunk on wine and the scent of him. He is alone in his room, while Dejun will return home later, with a girl different from the one last weekend.

Xiao Dejun. Fashion designer by day, Casanova by night. Out and about, in half open shirts at fancy wine bars with Sicheng, attracting attention wherever they go.

Inhale, exhale.

Heart thumping in his chest, sweat tickling to his forehead. Yangyang inhales again, it burns all the way down into his lungs. Lungs that seem to crumble with every ragged breath. One hand clenched around the sheet, so tightly his knuckles turn pale—the other, jerking himself off with rough strokes. Dejun is loud, as loud as any girl he brings home, loud enough for Yangyang to hear it through both of their closed doors.

Like he actually wants Yangyang to hear...

The bed bumps against the wall, in the bedroom that isn't Yangyang's. Over and over and over, the sound echoes in Yangyang's head—visions so vivid they could be real. Ash brown hair sticking to warm skin. Dejun's lips all swollen and red, parting to let his wet tongue release sinful moans, as effortlessly, as the love songs he sings in the shower.

Dejun's voice cuts through everything, until it's the only thing Yangyang hears, until every wall falls to bits and there's only the two of them left. Alone, floating in an empty space, colliding, crashing, burning together.

The thought of it makes Yangyang delirious, drives him to the very brink of insanity—has him balancing right on the edge, just like he is with his orgasm. He gets up on his knees on the bed, one clammy hand pressed against the cold wall to keep him steady. Pre-cum, sticky, wet, leaking from the tip of his cock, smeared down his length with a long stroke.

What Yangyang wouldn't do, to have Dejun under him. To be the one who made Dejun sound like that, to watch his face screw up in pleasure. To kiss his lips, down his neck, lick at his collarbones. The vision is clearer tonight, painfully so, as Yangyang remembers their encounter in the bathroom. Dejun's half-naked body, his chest with the most perfect nipples Yangyang has ever seen. Small, dark pink buds on tanned skin. Yangyang swallows hard at the thought. God, how he would love to swirl his tongue around them, taste them, taste all of Dejun—have Dejun reward him with gentle whimpers and fingers lost in his messy hair.

A familiar knot forms in his stomach. The pace of his hand gets even rougher, violent almost. Yangyang finishes when Dejun does from across the apartment. After this many times he knows exactly how it sounds when Dejun is close. Yangyang cums, hard, into whatever is within a hand's reach from him. His poor gray t-shirt will be the casualty of the night. The mattress bounces lightly when he falls onto his back, the sheet sticking to his warm skin, and the usual waves of shame wash over him. Shame big enough to drown him. Could it only be so.

"Fuck," he whispers, exhaling in a sigh so heavy his lungs empty, as he dries the stickiness off of his fingers, and discards the dirty t-shirt onto the floor.

How many times has he jerked off to the thought of his roommate? How many times has he cum into his own hand, overwhelmed by the ambivalent feeling of pleasure blending into guilt? Too many to count. Too many to pretend it doesn't mean anything. Yangyang chews at his bottom lip, the taste of shame still layered thick on his tongue. But he can't help it, and even if he could—he probably wouldn't. A simple crush, a silly crush was how it all started. The fascination of a beautiful human-being so different from Yangyang himself. A hot roommate, who also happens to be an excellent cook, who likes to do yoga in the living room while wearing shirts that always seem to be about two inches too short. The short glimpses of soft skin underneath will surely be the death of Liu Yangyang.

A simple crush has turned into an obsession, and now it's not so silly anymore. It is outright idiotic. Like a suicide mission—Yangyang will never survive. On the verge of breaking, his skin burns, tightens around every frail bone of his body, whenever Dejun is close.

"Fucking idiot..." his mumble turns silent, hiding what he's afraid to even think. It'll never be you. The sound of Dejun's bedroom door has Yangyang's heart jump to his throat. Gentle footsteps across the living room floor, Yangyang wonders what Dejun's type is. Must be as beautiful as Dejun himself, Yangyang is certain. The bathroom door opens and closes, locks. A tickle at Yangyang's fingertips, he wonders what Dejun is doing now—what he looks like. Sprawled across the messed up bed, his hair in tousled locks while his toned chest rise and fall with heavy breaths. Red marks down his skin, possibly. He must look absolutely dreamy all fucked out.

Only downside is, it isn't because of Yangyang. And it never will be.

There are only a few things that are certain in the life of Liu Yangyang. Hot cocoa tastes better when it's raining, tequila makes him vomit until his eyes are about to pop out of his skull, Mr. Brightside is the best song ever made. And of course, death.

A new certainty can be added to that list, although it doesn't directly involve Yangyang's life. Any girl Dejun brings home will be gone before the sun rises, Yangyang always hears them leave under the cover of the dark night, and a new girl will take the spot next week. Yangyang has never been introduced, never even seen any of them—not that he wants to. But he knows they're different each time, from whatever obscene sounds are coming from Dejun's bedroom.

The water is cold, streaming from the water tap in the bathroom. Polished brass, matching the feet of the bathtub and the shower-head in the corner. Yangyang watches the water disappear into the drain, wishing it could drag him down with it.

"That was the last time, Liu Yangyang," he mumbles to himself. What happened last night will be added to the infinite list of the last time Yangyang keeps in his head. "You really need to get fucking laid..."

Weary eyes catch each other through the mirror. His reflection looks back at him, like it's also disgusted with him. Who wouldn't be? One last splash of cold water to his face, and Yangyang leaves the bathroom.

"'Sup man, ready to go?" Mark's smile is as bright as any other day, and it has been ever since he and Yangyang first met at uni. The two of them, like night and day, Mark is bubbly and carefree, and says shit that often doesn't make sense. Some might think Mark is high all the time, but he claims that is only on Saturdays now, and occasionally Thursdays. Dark brown hair in messy curls under a black snapback, skateboard in hand, and Chenle standing next to him, Mark has come to pick Yangyang up to go to the park. Or more accurately, forced him to go out for once.

"Yeah, let me just grab my board." Yangyang stops in his tracks, a too familiar scent invading his nostrils.

Dejun comes walking around the corner from the living room, the trusty, lavender laundry basket in hand—and Yangyang painfully recognizes the clothes on top as his own, his gray t-shirt included.

"W-what are you doing?" he panics.

"Laundry? It's Saturday," Dejun cocks an eyebrow. "What? You left the door open and I only grabbed the clothes on the floor like I normally do, I assumed it was dirty?"

It's dirty alright. Yangyang cringes, thinking how Dejun has touched the shirt he used to catch his cum the night before. Cum, caused by the thoughts of Dejun being under him. Around him, screaming his name—begging him for more. Naked, willing and needy.

"I need to do a dark wash today, and didn't have enough to fill the whole machine," Dejun continues, now glaring at Yangyang whose cheeks most definitely are the color of ripe tomatoes.

It isn't the first time Dejun has done some of Yangyang's laundry, in fact he has done it more times than Yangyang himself. Yangyang doesn't usually mind. Dejun always folds it in perfect squares and his laundry detergent does smell nice.

Yangyang helplessly watches, as Dejun slips his shoes on and leaves for the laundry room in the basement. A simple nod towards Mark and Chenle—to acknowledge their presence, without acknowledging it too much. Everything becomes too real in this moment, and Yangyang feels as dirty as his cum-stained shirt.

"Yo, your roomie is still treating you like a child, huh?" A playful slap pulls Yangyang back to reality, and he turns to look at Mark's grinning face.

"Shut up, Mark, he's not."

"Totally is," Mark laughs. "He does your laundry, he leaves dinner for you in the fridge. When did you last clean the apartment? I'm just sayin', you guys have a fucked up dynamic!"

"Leave him alone," Chenle says, and Yangyang is about to exhale in relief. He really should have known better, than to believe Chenle would let him off the hook. "Maybe Yangyang just has a mommy-kink, so what?"

"What the fuck? I do not have a mo--"

"Whatever you say, bro. Grab your board, let's go!"

Yangyang hisses behind gritted teeth, his body feeling heavier with each step up the stairs. He fell on his skateboard, of course he did. It's been ages since he last went skating, and his balance definitely isn't what it used to. A big, red, itching wound at his elbow now tells the tale of what a klutz he is.

Shoes neatly placed at the door, Yangyang shakes off the words Mark said earlier, of his and Dejun's strange parent-child dynamic. Board thrown by his bed, and Yangyang heads to the bathroom. He should probably clean up the wound, Dejun must have some stuff for that kind of thing.

"Oh my fucking God!" Yangyang jumps back the second he opens the door to the bathroom, nearly smacking his face against the doorframe. "T-there's a-a lock, you know?" he stutters, bewildered, embarrassed. Enticed.

"And? There's a door too. You can knock, you know?" Dejun smirks cockily, and Yangyang isn't sure what to make of it.

There is no robe this time, nothing for Yangyang to pretend he isn't staring. Only a pair of linen pants hanging lazily at Dejun's hips, and every muscle tense up as he turns halfway towards Yangyang. One last time, just one last time Yangyang lets his imagination run wild, and he stares, he really, really does. At every line, every curve, every sharp edge of the artwork that is Dejun's body.

"What happened there?" Dejun suddenly asks, his voice changing—somewhat softer than usual. Concerned. His eyes focused on Yangyang's arm.

Yangyang pulls back, hiding his arm behind his back, feeling like a child. Damn, stupid Mark and his stupid comment. "Nothing. Just a scrape."

But Dejun isn't convinced. One step closer, brows knitting together, left hand reaching out. Persistently.

"Here, let me help you," he says.

Soft but cold fingertips light a fire against Yangyang's skin. They have never touched before, not even been close to. Yangyang lets himself be dragged to sit on the closed toilet lid. He waits in silence, watching Dejun roam through the cabinets, his back towards Yangyang. Long, red nail marks down his skin, all the way from his neck to the hem of his pants. Yangyang feels a pinch in his stomach.

"It's going to sting a little." Dejun kneels down in front of Yangyang, a small bottle in one hand, cotton balls and a roll of bandages in the other, not that Yangyang focuses on that at all. Fuck, his pants suddenly feel uncomfortable. Dejun down on his knees, looking at him with those eyes Yangyang would willingly drown himself in.

"Ah, fuck!" Yangyang yelps, trying to pull away, but Dejun has a firm grip around his arm, as he carefully cleans the wound.

Lips in a thin line, heart pounding in his chest, Yangyang keeps the rest of his curse words to himself. Dejun is so close, too close almost. The familiar scent of him is overwhelming. His long lashes curl perfectly, framing his sharp eyes like a picture Yangyang would pay money to look at. Dejun has a mole on his forehead, Yangyang never noticed until now. And one on his right cheek. It's cute, Yangyang thinks to himself.

In reality it's a rather amusing situation, sitting on the toilet with half a hard on, while your oblivious crush is treating your wounds. Yangyang would have laughed, had it not ruined the moment. He likes this, Dejun taking care of him.

But then, Dejun looks up. Their eyes meet, and Yangyang is burning. Burning, burning, burning under Dejun's gaze.

Another certainty. The way Dejun looks at Yangyang—like flames flicking over his pale skin, cutting through his flesh and into his soul. Hot breath gets stuck in Yangyang's throat, he nearly chokes on it. He has to look away. But where? His eyes wander, too fast for his brain to follow. Down Dejun's neck, his bare chest. Yangyang's heartbeat increases, his fingers dig into the knees of his jeans. All the times he has imagined Dejun on his knees flash through his head. Lips parted, drool rolling down his chin. Mouth stuffed full of Yangyang's cock...

"So?" Dejun asks, a cheeky smile growing across his lips.

"So...?" Yangyang's voice is barely audible, eyes darting up, immediately caught by Dejun's.

"Is that the reason why you never knock?" Dejun chuckles, clearly amused. "You like walking in on me without my clothes on?"

Yangyang flinches, losing the touch of Dejun's skin against his own. Delicate hands fall towards Dejun's thighs, as he lets go. Words are clogging up in Yangyang's throat, fighting each other to come out—only for all the wrong ones to blurt from his lips.

"Y-you must be crazy!" he almost shouts, surprising even himself. "Just-- Learn to lock the fucking door, okay? No, I don't want to be looking at you almost naked! You're a fashion designer, right? Go make yourself some clothes!"

In an instant Yangyang gets up and shoves himself past Dejun. Storming out of the bathroom, he rushes to his room as fast as the blood to his face—coloring his cheeks with an embarrassing shade of crimson.

Yangyang has always been certain that a collision would leave no survivors.

First casualty: Liu Yangyang.

__________________________________________