Siwoo held a poetry book in his hands as he rested his head on Junho’s lap. December had arrived, and the cold had already settled over Seoul, yet that didn’t stop the two boys from sitting out on the terrace of Siwoo’s house.

They had lined the swing seat with soft blankets, and although Siwoo knew he should still be cold, he felt nothing of the sort. The warmth of Junho’s body had completely heated his heart, and that warmth spread through his entire being. Sweet fingers caressed his hair and the faint scars on his face, and all he could think, his mind clouded with love, was that he couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment than this.

The past few weeks had felt like walking on clouds, and he didn’t believe there was anyone luckier than him on Earth. Junho showered him with kisses, touches, and smiles – something Siwoo had never dared to imagine when he first laid eyes on the beautiful boy, no matter how much he had wished for it. And yet, here they were, just the two of them. Siwoo gazed up at this wonderful boy with his faintly fluttering eyelashes, his head resting on Junho’s soft thighs. The world ceased to exist around him: he no longer cared about the lice, about Dohyun, or even the gnawing homesickness – Junho’s presence filled every little gap, every emptiness, every discomfort within him. Every single day, he saw angels dancing before his eyes.

Now, as yet another imaginary group of angels fluttered past his irises, his gaze fell upon the poetry book. He smiled, then closed it and began reciting the poem he had just glimpsed, from memory.

“Your soul is like a landscape fantasy where masks and Bergamasks, in charming wise…”

 Junho’s gentle, perhaps slightly sleepy eyes watched him with a smile as he whispered the words.

„Strum lutes and dance, just a bit sad to be, hidden beneath their fanciful disguise…”

 “It’s beautiful,” Junho nodded, never once stopping his sweet caresses on his lover’s skin.

 “You’re beautiful,” Siwoo replied, then, turning his face away playfully, pulled up the other boy’s gray sweater and pressed a soft kiss to his exposed stomach. He adored every inch of Junho’s body, but he had a particular fondness for his soft, sweet belly. (Junho had once asked him if it bothered him that – unlike Siwoo’s – his body wasn’t very muscular, that in some places, he was even a little squishy. Siwoo had laughed and, ever since, whenever he got the chance, he showered Junho’s “imperfect” body parts with tender kisses, because he loved everything – everything – about him.)

 “Ah, just tell me the title of the poem!” Junho laughed, gently trying to push Siwoo away, probably because his actions had tickled him too much.

Siwoo shook his head but relented, lying peacefully once more in his lover’s lap, gazing up at the wooden ceiling of the terrace. He thought that Junho really should have recognized the poem’s title, or at least the poet’s name, though he had no idea what aspects of Western culture were taught in South Korea’s curriculum. He quickly dismissed the thought and decided to overlook Junho’s lack of knowledge. He answered kindly:

 “Verlaine, Moonlight.” Then, after a pause, he added thoughtfully: “He was a very famous French poet who—”

 “I know,” the other boy interrupted, causing Siwoo to glance at him in surprise.

“You do?”

 “Yes. It’s a little hurtful that you always assume I’m this clueless,” Junho sighed, a trace of unease slipping into his voice despite his efforts to hide it.

“Always?” Siwoo raised an eyebrow. “When have I ever assumed such a thing about you?”

Junho stopped caressing his hair. “For example, two days ago. Remember? We were studying together in the library, and I didn’t understand the math homework. And you said that you were learning that topic for the first time too, yet you still understood it.”

Siwoo blinked a few times as he processed his partner’s words. What? Was he really upset about that? They had many little squabbles like this – Siwoo had noticed that Junho was quite sensitive. That was okay, though; he loved him regardless. He tried not to get annoyed over such trivial things.

“That’s not how I meant it,” he sighed, as if the whole conversation was utterly exhausting.

Junho sighed too. “Alright, never mind. Let’s not argue over things like this. I’m sorry,” he murmured, gently grasping Siwoo’s hand with his cold fingers and pressing a soft kiss to his skin.

Siwoo let him, and in an instant, the fleeting tension vanished. Smiling, he caressed Junho’s cheek, and the boy immediately melted into his touch.

 “Verlaine,” Siwoo began again softly, “wrote his most beautiful poems during the two years he traveled across Europe with Rimbaud. Rimbaud was just a young boy at the time, and they fell hopelessly in love. Did you know that?” He looked at his partner curiously.

Junho shook his pretty head in surprise. His dark curls stood out in striking contrast against his pale face. “So they… were gay?” he asked, his dark eyes widening enchantingly.

Siwoo laughed. “Yes. What, are you shocked that there were men in the past who liked dick too?”

“Oh my God, you’re such an idiot!” the other boy shrieked in mock outrage, before bursting into laughter himself. Then, suddenly serious, he asked, “But what happened to them? Why were they only together for two years?”

Siwoo shrugged. “Rimbaud drove Verlaine insane, and Verlaine ended up shooting him in the hand.”

Junho frowned. “I don’t like this story.”

Siwoo chuckled. “You’re adorable when you make that face,” he said, then, forcing himself into a sitting position, leaned in ridiculously close to his lover’s lips. He didn’t move. He wanted Junho to take the initiative. He wanted to feel that the other boy craved him just as much as he craved Junho. Besides, he loved teasing him: Siwoo had always known he had a bit of a “jerk” side, one that delighted in playful provocations, but he only showed this side to those closest to him – and Junho had quickly become one of those people.

Junho rolled his eyes; Siwoo had played this game with him many times before. With a feigned reluctance, he leaned in as well, then, grinning, slowly, playfully licked Siwoo’s lips.

Siwoo let out an impatient breath but resisted the temptation to act. For a moment, they simply locked eyes intensely, but – as Siwoo had predicted – Junho was the one who gave in first.

“Oh, screw you,” he murmured before pulling Siwoo into a kiss: one that was both angelic and sinful, tender yet passionate.

Siwoo grinned in satisfaction as he firmly grabbed his lover’s waist. As always, Junho blushed slightly, but still clumsily pressed closer, at one point even swinging one leg over Siwoo’s lap, straddling him. Siwoo explored the bare skin of his back beneath his sweater as if there were nothing else he desired more in the world – because, truthfully, there wasn’t.

They devoured each other’s lips, Junho’s hips pressing against Siwoo’s stomach. If he didn’t stop soon, Siwoo swore the swing beneath them would collapse.

Sensing this, Junho pulled away, panting, and wrapped his arms around Siwoo’s neck.

 “Should we go inside? I’m starting to get cold,” he muttered sleepily against his lover’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Let’s make vegan hot chocolate, okay?” Siwoo asked, pressing a soft kiss to Junho’s shoulder.

 “Do you have Oreos?”

 “I do,” Siwoo confirmed. Then, reluctantly, he added, “Though I still don’t get how those things are vegan.”

Junho chuckled. “Guess there are some things even you don’t understand.”

Siwoo huffed playfully before suddenly lifting Junho into his arms.

“Jesus, put me down!” Junho shrieked, clinging to him in alarm.

Siwoo only laughed as he carried him inside.