When he meets Park Chanyeol for the first time, he’s a mess of ratty hair, curves, and guitar picks with dreams of supernovas. And he thinks if shooting stars fell like rain, he’d gladly catch dear Chanyeol on the tip of his tongue.
High above, with the sun sinking into his skin, he saw him between the cracks where summer breezes kissed ocean air and fell crashing and tumbling, sinking deeper beneath sea foam, finally washing up with the waves to his feet. Because Chanyeol was the setting sun, battered and broken. Because when Kris had breathed, blind and dazed, “Catch me?” he never heard the sinking sun whisper, “I can’t.”