Patience has never been one of Yangyang's strong suits, which means that the saying "time heals all wounds" is as useless as the thin sliver of hope about to slip through his fingers. White lilies wither into dark shadows of their former beauty, Yangyang finally throws them out a week later, on his way to work. Days pass by, and Yiren comes and goes—but just like the sun, she always comes back. Much to Yangyang's disappointment.  

There's gentle smiles and soft laughter, filling the living room every two nights. The clinking of wine glasses, and Dejun's fingers stroke through brown curls.

Sicheng comes by during the weekend, tells stories from his latest trip to Milan, and Yiren listens with such interest sparkling in her big eyes. Yangyang sees it, when he sneaks by to get some water from the kitchen. A pinch in his stomach—Dejun's arm slung around Yiren's shoulders, as they sit next to each other on the couch. Like the most perfect couple to ever walk the Earth.

Cold water trickling down his throat, Yangyang hears light footsteps behind him.

"Are you sure you don't want to join us?" Her voice is sweet, like honey dripping into Yangyang's open wound. She smiles, swapping an empty bottle out for a new one, the loose sleeves of her lavender dress moving like soft waves. It fits her perfectly, the dress, as could Dejun have made it especially for her. Maybe he has, or maybe he will in the future. She'll be his inspiration, his muse, and Yangyang will continue on, as the sad looking roommate, who has no plans on a Friday night.

"It's okay, I'm super beat," he replies, feeling as if the water is moving upwards in his throat, drowning him from the inside.

"Let us know if we're being too loud, okay?" She smiles again. Her usual, perfect, sweet smile, and Yangyang can't hate her as much as he wants to.

He leaves the kitchen a few minutes later. White socks nearly slip when rushing across the wooden floors of the living room. None of the three others seem to notice his presence.

The safety of his bedroom also comes with the solitude of the same. Rain drumming against the window, Yangyang stares into the distorted colors of light from the city outside. Headset on, he presses play on the "on repeat" playlist on Spotify. On the windowsill, legs pulled up in front of him, one particular scene plays in his head like a movie with no end.

Dejun's hand on his. Skin against skin, soft, warm, real. Dejun's eyes, the way he softly looked at Yangyang. But every time the scene starts over, it feels less and less real. What is real, though, is the pain in Yangyang's chest, the gentle laughter in the living room, the fact that Dejun has a girlfriend now. It hurts, it really fucking hurts. But still, somehow, Yangyang is thankful to her. What a disaster it would have been, asking Dejun out only to get rejected, when he so clearly is straight. Yangyang would have had to move out, to find somewhere else to die of absolute humiliation.

Yangyang had felt relieved, when Dejun didn't make a fuss about his sexuality, but a thought suddenly hits him. Maybe Dejun didn't mind, but at the same time wanted to make things clear—and his way of saying "you can stare all you want, but that is as far as you'll go, Liu Yangyang," was when he introduced his girlfriend... The thought makes Yangyang's stomach turn.

The phone lights up, the brightness blinding his eyes, as he taps the screen. Yangyang skips Mr. Brightside for maybe the first time in his life.

But she's touchin' his chest now
He takes off her dress now
Let me go

When thinking of the word housewarming, Yangyang used to think of loud music, nasty vodka shots, making out with strangers and people getting high in the bathroom. Of course, Yangyang had never been to a party co-hosted by Xiao Dejun before.

It's quite the sight, bizarre almost, watching his friends in their loose fitting streetwear, trying their luck at the table where Dejun has placed the so-called snacks. Like starved vultures circling around an empty desert, searching for food. Confused vultures. Instead of potato chips with barbecue flavor and greasy take-away pizzas, it's small crackers and perfectly sliced cheese cubes, olives and green grapes on sticks, and ham—which Yangyang shouldn't call just ham, Dejun strictly told him.

"Yo, these grapes are hella crisp!" Mark exclaims after his return from the charcuterie board, or whatever Dejun calls it.

"Neat." Yangyang is slurring. He is drunk. Wasted. Vision blurring, glass in his hand, swerving, the liquid cold and sticky when drops escape onto his hand. The Mark Lee special—tastes like shit, but hits hard, and that is all that matters.

Between Chardonnay and Pinot Noir stand bottles of artificial colored cocktail mixers, and cheap vodka Mark picked up from the nearest convenience store. The colorful bottles look as out of place as Yangyang feels. Around twelve-fourteen people—only three of them are Yangyang's friends. Besides Yiren, Yangyang only knows two of the people invited by Dejun; Yuta and Sicheng.

Speaking of Sicheng.

"Oh my God!" A rough yank of the sleeve of Yangyang's shirt, the room is spinning as he turns, like his eyes and brain can't quite follow. Ningning is staring at him—and had the room not been full of people, she would have yelled her next sentence, Yangyang is certain. "I can't believe you know Dong Sicheng!"

"I don't, he's Dejun's friend," Yangyang mumbles, teeth against the edge of the glass. Hazy eyes still see Dejun as clear as day. An oversized white shirt, unbuttoned below his chest, tucked loosely into faux leather pants—as always, Yangyang feels underdressed in his own home, in his ripped baggy jeans and white tee. Leaned against the wall, open doors to the balcony, the evening wind plays with Dejun's dark hair, as he talks with Sicheng who is smoking next to him. Yangyang frowns. He clearly remembers how Dejun sternly told him no smoking inside the apartment the day he moved in. But, rules don't seem to apply when it comes to Dong Sicheng.

"How do you know him?" Chenle looks more impressed by the small cheese cubes he holds in a napkin in his hand, than the chance of being in the same room as a somewhat, kind of celebrity.

"He's like a super famous model, duh?" An exaggerated roll of her big eyes, Ningning snorts at Chenle's indifference. Her attention returns back to Yangyang. "Can you introduce me?"

"Isn't he too old for you, Ning?" Mark laughs, hanging off Yangyang's shoulder.

"He's only like two years older!"

"Sorry. I meant, isn't he too hot for you?" Mark laughs again, and so does Chenle. Yangyang would probably have laughed too, had he not been not-so-secretly kind of scared of Ningning. She might look like an angel, but her finger flicks hurt like a lumberjack's.

Ningning, never afraid of a challenge, never one to give up without a fight—just like she was the only one of the group to make it to Diamond I, when they all still played League. A glare sent over her shoulder, Ningning struts across the floor, a lock of her long hair twisted around her finger.

"Hi, I'm Ning Yizhuo," she says, and the guys cringe behind her.

Sicheng's reaction comes delayed, like painfully delayed. Almost like he does it on purpose. "Okay?" he simply replies.

Voices fade into a buzzing noise, Yangyang's attention is stolen away. Dejun leaves Sicheng with Ningning, moves in his usual dashing kind of way, his hand sneaks around Yiren's waist, pulling her closer. A kiss on her cheek. Yangyang is falling apart in the corner.

"Still not gonna admit you have a crush on her?" Mark's voice seems distorted, his laughter sounds crazy too, when he teases Chenle next to him. A subtle nod of his head towards Ningning, who's still trying her luck with Sicheng.

"Bro, what the fuck?" Chenle snorts. "She's all eyes dude, it's freaky."

"Bet you'd love just staring into those huge ass eyes all night long."

"Shut up, Mark!"

The evening goes on, drinks are poured, emptied. Yangyang changes drinks out for water—for the first time in his life making a grown-up decision. Alcohol is still pumping in his blood, but his head spins a little less now.

"Yo, that's cool, I like food," he overhears Mark say, a horrible attempt of conversing with one of Dejun's friends. Qian Kun, a restaurateur with a kind smile but a scary look in his eyes. Like a dad about to scold you.

Acting like a grown-up lasts approximately twenty minutes for Yangyang. His downfall? His old friends from uni, from before Yangyang dropped out the first time, show up with the mandatory bottle of Patron Tequila.

"Just one, man! It's our tradition!" It is never just one with Lee Donghyuck. He might look all harmless with his purple hair and checkered bucket hat, but Yangyang knows better than to argue with a Gemini.

"Which one is your roommate? I brought him a housewarming gift." The boy next to Donghyuck has fluffy brown hair and is the only one of Yangyang's friends to wear a white button up shirt. Huang Renjun has always been such a suck-up, in an endearing way, of course.

"But you didn't bring me anything?" Yangyang complains, side-eyeing how Donghyuck is pouring Tequila to the very brim of the shot glasses he brought as well. "I'm the one who moved in, he already lived here."

"Yeah, but he has to put up with your annoying ass, so," Renjun shrugs and Yangyang can't really argue with that.

Xiao Dejun, the perfect human-being, is of course also the perfect host. He shows up right next to Yangyang, nearly giving Yangyang a heart attack when it happens. They haven't been this close for weeks, even planning the party consisted of less than five sentences between the two of them.

"Welcome," Dejun politely greets Yangyang's friends, like with everyone else stepping into the apartment.

A little small-talk, he receives Renjun's gift—a coffee table book "Dior Catwalk: the complete collections", he reads out loud, and Renjun explains that he bought it because Yangyang had mentioned how Dejun is a fashion designer.

"How thoughtful of you to think of me, thank you very much." Dejun strokes the gray cover of the book with his fingers, but his eyes do look up to catch Yangyang's for a split second, before looking at Renjun with a smile.

Yangyang knows he shouldn't misinterpret things, knows he shouldn't make up stuff in his own head. But for a moment, a brief, very very brief moment, he wonders if Dejun's words actually were meant for him. Probably not, stop being an idiot, he tells himself. With a sour look on his face, Yangyang accepts the Tequila shot from an eager Donghyuck. A fearless Donghyuck, who also offers Dejun one.

"And how do we do this?" Dejun asks, as he surprisingly takes the shot glass. "The normal way, or?"

"Or?" Donghyuck questions, staring blankly at nothing for a few seconds like he is loading or something. "Oh, or like body tequila?" he then bursts out laughing, probably assuming Dejun is joking. Yangyang wonders if he really is.

"Well. Maybe later," Dejun chuckles, eyes on Yangyang.

And his stare stays on Yangyang, when they all cheer, when they lick the salt off the back of their hands. When the glass is emptied and when lips close to suck at a slice of lemon. The warmth of the Tequila spreads in Yangyang's body, faster than usual, like a volcano erupting inside of him. The scene replays in his head, but this time Dejun licks the salt off of Yangyang's skin—bites into the lemon wedged between his lips.

Yangyang listens, without hearing a word at all, while Dejun does the mandatory small-talk with Donghyuck and Renjun. They all laugh at a dumb joke Donghyuck makes, and Dejun thanks them once more for coming, saying "we're so glad you could make it". We, we're so glad... And then he smiles, like actually smiles, teeth peeking out behind lips that look so soft, and so inviting Yangyang almost leaps forward to kiss them. Hell with all their friends and Dejun's girlfriend, he is so close, so, so damn close to actually doing it. Donghyuck and Renjun disappear not long after, to greet Mark and Chenle, leaving Yangyang behind.

"Well. I must admit. I don't hate it as much as I thought I would." And this is when Yangyang realizes he is alone with Dejun. Or, as alone they can be in a room full of people. "Your friends haven't broken anything yet, consider me impressed. For now."

"Cool..." It has occurred to Yangyang, that when being close to Dejun, his vocabulary appears to shrink to the simple choices of the word cool, or just useless stuttering.

"So..." Dejun pauses, that particular look on his face, which he makes whenever he really seems to consider his next words—or so Yangyang has chosen to interpret it. "Is Jaemin coming tonight?"

"Jaem- N-no, why?" Surprise must be written with big strokes across Yangyang's face. His head might be spinning after the Tequila, and the thoughts of kissing Dejun in front of everyone—but he's pretty sure he heard those words correctly.

"Just wondering." A simple shrug, Dejun looks away. Like he cares, but doesn't care at all. Yangyang's head is about to explode. This man...

"We- We weren't like, it's not like we... I mean, it was just a fling, it was stupid."

"Well, it's none of my business. Sorry for asking."

"It's cool..." It's a small sprout of a thought, tiny, when Yangyang suddenly, somehow wishes he had invited Jaemin. He's drunk, drunk and desperate enough to do something stupid—such as hooking up with stupid Jaemin and his stupid, perfect smile. And this time actually go through with it. To get Dejun off his mind, as he gets off himself.

Dejun stands next to him, unaware of the silent storm that rages inside of Yangyang, gazing across the room, sending polite nods and smiles whenever someone looks at him. It's only a matter of seconds before someone will come and take Dejun away, Yangyang knows that, and it pains him more than he is willing to admit.

And it is with that feeling sitting in his chest, Yangyang knows he wouldn't get over Dejun even if he was dumb enough to fuck around with Jaemin. Because Jaemin isn't Dejun, and Dejun is the only one Yangyang wants—the only one he has ever wanted this much.

But Dejun doesn't want him.

"You know, I might have a friend I can set you up with, if you want?"

Every word is like a knife stabbing into his chest. Deep cuts about to leave him bleeding to death.

"I--" Yangyang can only manage to whisper. Pathetically. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, swallowing a lump hurting in his throat. Dejun doesn't want him, not in the slightest of ways, and Yangyang has to stop fooling himself, believing he has a chance every time Dejun as much as looks at him. He nods, a painful but necessary nod. "Okay..."

"... You'd really want that?" The slight change in Dejun's voice shouldn't make Yangyang react the way he does, shouldn't even affect him—but of course it does. A strange tone, hidden under Dejun's usual calm voice, like Yangyang's answer took him by surprise.

Dejun's question hangs unanswered in the air between them, Yangyang hesitates for a second too long. A shadow sweeps in, Dejun's attention is once again stolen from Yangyang.

"Hey! You must be Yangyang?" A wide smile, a bit too wide for Yangyang's liking, but it looks kind enough. Dark hair in soft waves, Disney-prince like, and big brown eyes that seem eager for an introduction. The stranger stands next to Dejun, bumping their elbows together with a grin. "Hi, I'm Hendery. So how do you like my old room?"

"Your old room?" Yangyang questions.

"Aww Junjun, you've never mentioned me?" A fake pout, Hendery seems to have read the confusion on Yangyang's face. He laughs though, arm thrown around Dejun's waist, giving him a squeeze.

"Not much to tell, is there?" And Dejun laughs too.

Junjun? Yangyang never imagined Dejun as a nickname kind of guy.

"So, why... Why did you move out?" Yangyang manages to ask. At least Hendery doesn't seem as snobby as most of Dejun's other friends, he does stand there in his bright pink sweatshirt and gray cargo pants. He can't possibly be that bad.

"Well, although I do miss the constant nagging and his clean-freak persona, my girlfriend and I got engaged, and we found a place together."

"Oh, I see, congratulations..."

"I don't nag," Dejun huffs. His eyes dart towards Hendery's hand, about to place a glass on a nearby console table. "But put a coaster under your glass. You've lived here, you should know better, Dery."

"Well, are you going to get me one, then?"

"You have legs, don't you?" It's a new tone that peeks out in Dejun's voice, one Yangyang is unfamiliar with. It is almost like Dejun is being playful? His eyes glisten, curving as he laughs, hand gently slapping against Hendery's chest. But the fascination is soon shattered, and Yangyang wishes he really was as invisible as he suddenly feels, when Dejun speaks again. "Oh, Dery, I want to introduce you to Yiren. Come with me."

Two of the things that used to be certainties in Yangyang's life: tequila makes him vomit and Mr. Brightside is the greatest song ever made. But as the song changes on the stereo, these two things aren't so certain anymore. Stumbling, almost desperate, Yangyang finds Donghyuck again, this time eager for another shot, which he empties just as Donghyuck is done pouring it.

"One more."

Everything comes crashing down. Yangyang sees it all, hears it all, feels it all. Yet, he feels nothing. Like he is stuck in a dream he can't get out of. A dream turning into a nightmare.

Jealousy, turnin' saints into the sea
Swimmin' through sick lullabies
Chokin' on your alibis

It's the way Dejun kisses his girlfriend. Tongue down her throat, but eyes deep into Yangyang's. Fingers into her long hair, locks twisted around his fingers, Dejun doesn't look away. His eyes burn, burn and burn. A tilt of his head, it's the perfect angle, the perfect way to mess with Yangyang's head — to make Yangyang believe it could have been him, that it should have been him.

And Yangyang feels sick.

But it's just the price I pay
Destiny is callin' me
Open up my eager eyes
'Cause I'm Mr. Brightside

Yangyang slams the door to the bathroom, the sound echoing in his ears. Hands grab tightly around the edge of the sink, heavy breaths that hurt, tears about to fall. Fuck, he shouldn't have done those shots of Tequila, Yangyang curses inside his head. He feels sick, he really does. Dejun can't be that oblivious, not knowing what he is doing to Yangyang. What twisted game he is playing, and Yangyang is caught up in it, unaware of the rules.

The door creaks open, Yangyang flinches—he forgot to lock it. Warm light reflects against golden rings, when Dejun slowly closes the door behind him, fingers sliding along the door handle.

"There's a lock, you know?" Dejun chuckles, but Yangyang ignores the humorous attempt of an icebreaker.

The door clicks shut, one thing that is harder for Yangyang to ignore. The voices outside drown in the fast paced beats of the music that suddenly blast through the apartment—Donghyuck must have hijacked the speakers.

Careful steps, distance closing in, and air thickens with every breath.

"Something wrong?" Dejun asks, and his voice changes. Yangyang remembers it from the time he fell on his skateboard, and the look in Dejun's eyes—like he actually cared. A gentle hand, fingertips daringly close to brush a lock of blonde hair away—but Yangyang pulls back.

"Like I would tell you if there was," he mumbles.

"What do you mean?"

"Whatever, it's nothing..." A loud sigh—of drunkenness, of disappointment, of annoyance, Yangyang closes the toilet lid and sits down on top of it.

"Okay." Dejun simply says. A short frown, his attention turns towards the mirror. Dejun's pants seem to either be loose and very low waisted, or insanely tight fitting. No in between. Tonight, they're the latter. He bends forward a little, leaned over the sink to study himself in the mirror, just enough for his ass to curve perfectly. Intentional? Possibly. Arousing? Definitely. Yangyang looks away, cheeks burning hot.

Deep breath, Yangyang stares at the marbled tiles under his feet, traces the pattern with his eyes like his life depends on it. Dejun must be crazy, or some kind of sadist at least, getting a kick out of stringing Yangyang along like that. Yangyang, just as crazy for letting him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" There's a small sigh when Dejun looks over his shoulder, and Yangyang surprises himself when he finds the repetition of the question annoying. "Did you drink too much?"

Yangyang chooses not to answer, what would he say anyway? A simple shrug, slouched forward, elbows digging into his thighs, Yangyang keeps staring at the floor until a shadow draws closer to his feet.

"Yangyang?"

Dejun bends his legs, slowly kneeling down, hands sliding along his thighs as he does so. A tilt of his head, he attempts to catch Yangyang's blank stare.

"It looks better," he then says—hand raised, reached out, stroking through the air by Yangyang's elbow, where the once red wound has healed nicely. Yangyang feels the touch, even through the distance. "Like it wasn't even there."

"Told you, it was just a scrape..." Yangyang pulls his arm backwards, pressing it hard against his ribs.

Dejun hums in response, eyes still fixating on Yangyang's arm. Then, a tilt of his head towards the other side. Their eyes meet, Yangyang swallows a lump in his throat. His hands are folded between his knees, fingers trembling but he squeezes them tighter to hide it, his hair falls in front of his eyes.

"I never got to compliment you." Dejun's voice is low but soft, catching Yangyang's heart in a firm grip. "That hair color really suits you."

"... Thank you?" A whisper, afraid he heard it all wrong, Yangyang shuffles in his spot. Warmth spreads from his cheeks and to his entire body. Did Dejun just give him a real, actual compliment? Yangyang never complimented Dejun's darker hair either, not with words at least. "Yours is... Yours is nice too."

"You really think so?" That sweet chuckle, so light like a stroke of sunshine against Yangyang's skin. Dejun's eyes narrow down, intrigued.

"Of course," Yangyang replies instantly. A bubbly feeling, words about to blurt out like so many times before—only this time, there's alcohol involved. And so, Yangyang's words actually do blurt out. "I-I like it. It looks good, you look good. You always look good."

"Yeah?" The unreadable look Yangyang hates is drawn across Dejun's face. Unreadable, unpredictable, but his voice is like velvet wrapping around Yangyang's body. "You look good too."

Dejun adjusts himself on the floor, until they're face to face, and Yangyang can't avoid his stare any longer. Lightning strikes, electric shivers run all over his body when Yangyang feels Dejun's hands resting against his knees. Gentle strokes slowly turn needy, and Yangyang can't breathe. He really, really can't.

Maybe Yangyang did drink too much. Maybe he's blacked out somewhere in the corner, and this is just all a dream. It cannot be real—Dejun's hands on his thighs, giving small squeezes as they move upwards. Warm breath fan over Yangyang's lips, he can smell the red wine Dejun has been drinking with his friends.

Months of staring longingly at Dejun, months of dreaming of him, thinking of him naked, imagining what it would feel like to fuck him senseless. Months of Yangyang hating himself for those foul thoughts he couldn't get rid of, months of him questioning every little thing, and every little word Dejun said to him.

But this, this can only mean one thing, right? Yangyang is cautious still, scared to ruin everything with one wrong move. He sees the spark in Dejun's eyes, hears the wanting in his voice—but still, Yangyang painfully holds back.

"W-we should go back," Yangyang whispers, his voice only a rattling noise struggling to come out. He has to say it, even when he hates every single word of it. "Your girlfriend is probably looking for you."

"She's not my girlfriend. She's a girl I'm seeing," Dejun whispers back, words tickling against Yangyang's lips. "There's a difference."

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Yangyang stares at Dejun's lips, stares until his eyes feel dry. The subtle smirk, the glossiness that sure would feel so amazing smeared all over his own. So close, so, so close. Heart in his throat, hands shaking. Dejun looks even better this close up. The curl of his long lashes and the subtle shade of glittery black he's put at the corner of his eyes.

It hurts to breathe, hurts to swallow, but Yangyang kind of likes it, it's a part of the thrill after all. A small tilt of his head, their eyes meet again—lips, so close they possibly can be before touching. Yangyang bites the inside of his cheek, hard, because fuck he is hard somewhere else too. Dejun's eyes are like an endless night waiting to consume him, and Yangyang just sits there more than willing to get sucked into a starry sky of eternity. Or, hopefully, to get sucked off. Oh, silly, horny, drunk brain.

"Dejun..." Yangyang's voice cracks halfway, a choked out whisper, desperate. The warmth of Dejun's hands pressing into his thighs, his thumbs circling dangerously close to Yangyang's growing bulge. Delirious, his head spins, as every fantasy he's ever had about his roommate floods his mind—his cock aching in his pants, begging for some friction.

Insanity is within reach, Xiao Dejun will be the reason.

Wildfire eating away at an arid wasteland. No resistance, no air to breathe in—Yangyang, stripped from fear, throws himself into the flames.