Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

To be honest, Ten doesn't fall in love with Johnny.

Rather than helplessly falling, it's more like a continuous descent (or ascent, depending on how you view love). It's all about the little things that make him think I wouldn't mind this in my life for longer and I love this and I wonder if he'll like it as much as I do and I would love it if he loves it, too.

It's gradual, the way Johnny's heart gets torn to little pieces. It's sequential, the way he hands those little pieces of his heart to Ten, who smiles as he willingly collects each piece and restores this heart in place of his own. Which gets softly ripped to shreds in turn, carefully offering them as exchange - and Johnny more than happily accepts, building up Ten's heart in stead of his own.

It should be someone else's heart, beating in his own chest, but strangely, he doesn't feel this way. It just feels right, sort of familiar in an unexpected way.

And slowly, the little things merge into a single phrase that is seeping, overflowing from all other meanings and implications it has.

"I love you."

It takes a little journey to get there, though.

-----

The phone calls don't quite end after they met in person for the first time. Rather than that, the devices switch and conversations take place in various forms - no longer are they necessarily bound to a single phone which belongs to neither. Now, it ranges from smartphones to text messages to real-life talks when they visit Johnny's grandmother at the same time.

And when they come together like this, what they talk about shifts, too - where once was mindless chatter, there is now a somewhat insightful depth added whenever Ten comes around. Sitting with an impish triumph in what Johnny still thought of as his seat, he sketches flowers and nothing while he talks of the stars.

Johnny realises quickly that there is much, much more to Ten that he initially thought - that he wasn't mistaken about the thoughtfulness he sometimes found in the stranger's voice, from when they didn't know each other's faces just yet.

When Johnny talks to his grandmother, he talks and she listens, and it's fine.

When Ten talks to her, he asks and she replies, and it's fine as well.

Slowly, it becomes a mixture of both - Johnny still talks about his day, but now there are two pairs of ears to listen to him. Here and now, he halts in his elaborations to listen to the question Ten was wondering about. Now, he has two people who reply.

"You shouldn't have worried about granny not talking much," Johnny chuckled into the webcam, a gentle memory coloring his words amused.

His mother observes him quietly, a smile adorning her features. "Why that?" she asks, not without sounding skeptical of the sudden change of topic during their video call.

Johnny leans back. "Well, there's this artist - his name's Ten - and he comes over every once in a while and asks her questions she can answer lengthily," he explains. "Like, those vague, but deep and sort-of philosophical ones. It's really inspiring what they talk about sometimes." His voice speaks of wonder, his smile of fondness. "I really don't know how I didn't run into him earlier," he concludes at last.

"Oh?" his mother smirks. "You seem smitten," she laughs heartily, a sound scarred only by the bad video quality.

"'m not," Johnny states dryly, trying to keep his heartbeat low (he fears she could hear it, even through miles of glas wire).

"Trust me, if you don't know, I do," she laughs aloud. Her smile turns into a grin and he really doesn't like that. "I've walked you through more crushes than you ever admitted. I know what I'm talking about."

He would hate it, her exhilarating knowledge just about who he seems to be, at least in parts while he isn't so sure just all the time. But in this very moment, it has a somewhat reassuring note. He isn't imagining this flutter of his heart, then.

She leans into the webcam, almost conspiratorially. "Is he cute?" she asks, wonder in her eyes. Johnny stares into the camera, deadpanned.

Somewhere, something breaks, but there is none to keep the shards from falling.

He inhales deeply - and sighs in defeat.

"... Yes, he's cute," he speaks out loud for just about the first time, burying his face in his hands. "Like, extremely adorable? He's … so small, definitely around half a feet shorter than me, and he still curls himself up in a human ball sometimes and-" he pauses, peaking through slightly spread fingers at his mother who grins in victory, yet manages to make it look encouraging.

He gulps.

"More than anything, he's just … beautiful. Inside-out," Johnny admits, hands falling down. There, I said it.

His eyes wander away for a moment, not wanting to see the mocking told'ya look on his mother's face. But her voice is laced with warm anticipation and something much more simple - shared happiness. "You should introduce us some day," she remarks fondly. "I want to know the person who is able to entertain my exasperating mother."

Johnny smiles. "Yeah, I hope you'll meet him soon-"

"... preferably, introduce him as your boyfriend," she interrupts swiftly, exploding in boisterous laughter and it echoes through the room.

His face heats up, cheeks reddening as he lets out a long "Mooom!!" He should reply, he should say something, but-

He shuts down his laptop in one rapid movement, slumping down like molten iron.

He … might need a moment.

----

When Johnny thinks of Ten, it's always the voice that springs into his mind first - the sounds that wrap around a language that is not quite his own, how he always preserves a bit of something else. Sometimes, he succeeds, sometimes, he fails to shed this familiarity in favor of clear pronunciation. It's the careful depiction of words that follows him, the sharp edge - sometimes cottoned with sweetness, sometimes bare mischief and nothing else.

It's the way his voice can carry a smile, too.

And when he thinks of how he sounds when he is happy, he thinks of this smile of his, too, and it starts somewhere with golden sunlight and ends with shimmering moonlight, coated in the remnants of stardust.

It seems as if his skin is nearly always covered with streaks of color - brushes of something that seem odd at first, but isn't. His hands resemble more its own kind of artwork on display, a hint to what he's up to at the moment. Unlike the face - which can be unreadable sometimes, storing surprise after surprise - his hands speak an honest language and they never lie about the frenzy he's entertaining as of now.

When they are colored in fine blue, something thoughtful might be seeping out of him onto the canvas. If it's black, then it must be something lingering. If it's orange, he seems to have fun.

Little by little, Johnny thinks he begins to understand patterns, familiarity, and he hopes he interprets the findings just right.

It's rare for them to be all alone, both arriving earlier than his grandmother's return, but neither of them mind to be in the presence of someone who comes to gain a familiar, known hunch.

(Or Johnny might mind it just a tiniest bit, but for a different reason than not knowing Ten - it is much more the opposite, slightly sweaty palms and a disoriented mind being proof of it.)

Today, Ten's hands sport slivers of a careful blue-ish violet while he does what he does when he isn't pretending to be a scam caller - he sketches. Sometimes, with care, eyes scrunched in concentration; sometimes, without it at all, lines being drawn in quick succession, mouth opened to talk. It's something Johnny comes to admire, the spontaneity of all of it - of his entire being, of every streak he brings to existence. How Ten can think in clusters, in networks unconnected, while maintaining a strange form of order, only known to him.

Johnny pretends to read when he's, in fact, observing the other. (He tries hard not to think about his latest video chat with his mother.) He has tried to read, but it's difficult to focus (even without embarrassing moments replaying in one's mind) when a constant, low hum fills the air with something buzzing in a pleasant way. It demands attention in such a non-intrusive way that Johnny can't help but give it everything he has to offer for free.

(Or it's just because it's Ten, of all people.)

"What have you been painting?" Johnny, in a surge of bravery, asks aloud, making Ten's head snap upward in surprise. He looks like he hasn't expected a response to his silent request, or he hasn't been aware of it entirely.

Johnny can never quite tell with him.

Ten doesn't reply right away, instead increasing the volume of this melodious hum before he speaks. "What do you think?" he asks instead of giving a reply.

It makes Johnny quirk an eyebrow, but he smiles nonetheless, a careful one. "Something purple … maybe, a flower?" he guesses - an obvious choice, perhaps.

"Not too far from truth," Ten hums in confirmation. "Which flower do you think it is?"

Now, there is newfound curiosity awakened in the artist. He leans a bit out of his comfort zone, closer to Johnny, wanting to know what he might guess. Johnny is taken aback by the question, involuntarily leaning back in his seat, pondering.

(The taller just hopes it hasn't become evident just how much attention he pays to the little details about Ten, such as the color of the paint stains. Though he knows he's likely hoping in vain, by the way mischief perpetuates a part of Ten's wickedly beautiful smile.)

"What about-" he starts.

"It's not wisterias," Ten interrupts before he even started, following Johnny's eyes as they flit towards the flicker of hanging flowers visible from the living room. Purple petals with a welcoming touch, though not the main character this time.

Johnny feels familiarity - of being caught, trapped and a bit burnt, and he sighs. He smiles almost sheepishly as he scratches the back of his head. "Then, how about-" he tries anew, but gets interrupted again (does Ten even want to get his question answered?).

"I had to think about you when picking it," the younger drops nonchalantly, like the impish devil he is, making himself comfortable in the whirlwind of Johnny's mind, and in the armchair that used to be his, too.

A dried-out "what" is all he can bring out before doors are opened. Soon enough, the living room is filled with the presence of two new people, one of them leaving soon after, but the other permanently nestling herself among the two young men with a joyous laugh and a witty voice to entertain. Upon his grandmother's arrival, the mood swifts - their previous conversation buried underneath the immediate present.

It doesn't mean that obscure hint leaves Johnny's mind at any given time, though.

-----

He truly, really wonders.

He wonders how he's seen through the eyes of someone as peculiar and eccentric as Ten, who sometimes measures in kindness, sometimes in mischief.

He can't come up with an answer, though, and the internet confuses him only more with the vast amount of flowers existing across the world. And before long, he has to focus on other things before the day ends just like this, with sleep taking over. He still dreams of a blue-violet hue covering his own hands, intertwined with somebody else's - Ten's.

He wakes up to a new day, early morning already awaiting his daily routine to start anew. He dresses and prepares for work, leaves the house and drives over to his grandmother to share breakfast with her and every other resident of the shared living space. It's been his new routine ever since a couple of weeks ago - ever since the universe shifted, without any intention to shift back.

(Sometimes, he expects Ten to show up now - but, he never does.)

Yet, once he comes across the large painting on the concrete wall, full of flowers and all of Ten's creation, his gaze doesn't linger over the entirety of it all like usually.

Instead, he's immediately drawn towards a light purple hue with a tint of blue - a familiar one, one he has seen just yesterday on a certain individual's hands, how it merged with the sun-kissed skin.

Johnny's breath stops a little, and he scurries closer, as if he's about to discover something he isn't supposed to see (though he most likely is supposed to see it just fine).

Somehow, it feels a bit like a secret.

Surprise overtakes him when he immediately recognizes the long stem picked with little buds of blossoms - lavender, so commonly known he can't miss it. (He wonders if that's a taunt - but it feels too swept with fondness to be.) It only takes a quick stroll through the internet to come up with a lavender's meaning, as commonly agreed on. Purity and devotion is the first violin of their orchestra, with healing purposes and notions of calmness as their accompanying piano.

Johnny's eyes flit back and forth between the depiction of an unwithering flower and his phone, just before he's dragged back into reality by the sound of bells announcing the time. He detaches himself from the relaxing imagery - taking a deep breathe - and jumps right back into the silent hectic of his morning.

And while he's in the now-familiar circle of morning madness, of something much more lively, his mind doesn't get entirely filled by the color of blue and violet mixed together. Yet, a soothing smell covers him and his day softly, like a light blanket against an even lighter summer breeze.

When his day reaches an end, the phantom of that smell still penetrates his nose in an oddly pleasant way, still leaving him in awe.

But when he calls Ten this evening, he doesn't mention it - he would have liked to, but something about the nervous hue of Ten's hello keeps him from prying further. Instead, he stores his thoughts away as their conversation progresses to different spaces. Johnny smiles once he notices how the other's voice relaxes over time until nothing but silent breathing and a little bit of snoring is audible, Ten falling asleep early today.

Johnny chuckles as he whispers a "good night" before he ends the call. He yawns, but there is still more for him to do, thus revitalised, he gets back to it.

All the while, this wondrous feeling fills him, that Ten sometimes thinks of him, too.

-----

Now, Johnny would be able to wave the feelings away, maybe, negotiate their worth with himself to a more neutral ground - if it weren't for the fact that, most comfortably, Ten starts to make himself a space in his life. It looks unsuspicious enough to pass as coincidence, to run into each other in the supermarket every once in a while, to share this or that walking routine, their visits at his grandmother's place.

But, it effectively hasn't ever happened before, not that Johnny can remember.

And thus, he is left with unresponded wonder and the ever-so-present question of why, when the answer is almost in front of his very own eyes.

(Or … is it?)

He stares at the refrigerator in front of him, checking his grocery list as eyes flit back and forth. Johnny is drifting into his own thoughts about which industrial ice cream to pick up when suddenly-

"Fancy seeing you here!" a voice filled to the brim with joy and something else reaches his ear. It's a familiar one, and his heart stops, then skips a beat as he's turning to face the source.

It can only be one, and it's Ten.

He smiles, reflecting the brilliant expression on the shorter's face as light steps skip up to him. "Hi there," Johnny finally complies to the nature of conversation, giving back. Ten grins as he looks up to him.

"Hey," he mirrors. A pause is following as they stare at each other, not exactly the unpleasant kind of silence, before both of them look at the shelves, filled with various ice cream brands and flavours.

"You plan on doing a movie night? Or do you need some stash for emotional eating?" Ten finally breaks the silence, as he did so many times before, allowing Johnny to revel in the little highs and lows of his voice. But, it's not the time for that, he notes, there is still a conversation he needs to carry.

"Uh," he says. "Sort of? I thought about making waffles," he catches himself before he forgets how to speak.

Ten hums, eyes not sparing the taller a glance. Instead, he's looking at the ice cream flavors, while Johnny looks at Ten with wonder - and something else - in his mind.

"Waffles, huh?" the shorter states, a smirk playing his soft features to a mischievous drawing of his. "Shouldn't you eat that with maple syrup?"

Johnny pauses, replays their conversation so far, then raises an eyebrow. "... Just how often did you watch The Grinch?" he asks, incredulously (missing the point of - how often did he watch the new animation?).

Out of all things, Ten pouts and it costs all of Johnny's willpower not to squish those adorable cheeks. His tone is less adorable, more accusing, though.

(... Which is still sort of cute.)

He points at Johnny in a disappointed manner. "Johnny, Johnny … first, how will you know I talk about The Grinch - or any movie - when it's common knowledge? Second-" he holds up another finger, eyes peeking through between them.

"-not often enough," he states with a sigh before a third finger gets added to the mix, now almost shoving it into Johnny's face, who in turn has to step backwards.

"Third," Ten starts, but loses it immediately. Intimidation blows out of him like air leaving a balloon - abrupt, quick, flattening. "Can't remember," he admits easily yet not exactly with pleasure, shrugging his shoulders as he averts his eyes. Johnny huffs, a laughter placing itself on his face, evident in the way the corners of his lips turn upwards.

"Cute," he thinks (or so he thinks).

Ten's head snaps back with newfound vigor, like a hunter finding its prey at last. After a fruitless hunt of someone that got away, new determination seems to bubble up. He itches closer, piercing stare fixating itself onto the taller.

"How did you call me?" Ten urges, eyes filled with surprise - and he sees a reflection of that in Johnny's, too, or it's Johnny who sees his own surprise in Ten's-

Emotions are such a tangled manner that Johnny forgets to breathe for a bit, stepping involuntarily backwards.

"-Did I say that aloud," he asks, but it's more of a statement.

Silence.

Johnny's face is visibly gaining some fascinating color the more Ten tries to close the gap between them, or that's what it looks like. (It must look ridiculous, from the outside, but that's not even what bothers him the most. The sole problem lies within the person in front of him. It's Ten, and only Ten.)

Ten's eyes are searching, clueless yet sparkling. Curiosity is evident in his face, and they look for a reply. But as Johnny is persistent in his silence, and there is only so much conversation possible when he, too, refuses to move on with another topic, the shorter sighs, ultimately, in defeat.

"Well, just know I heard you," Ten hums as he allows the distance between them to grow - about an inch or two, to five, to six, to eleven, to more. Johnny hasn't even registered that they went quite away from the ice cream section as he feels something cold pressed into his hands. He willingly takes it, then shudders - then looks at it.

It's a box of vanilla ice cream, served with Ten's delightful grin.

"Have fun with your waffles experiment," he singsongs and is already on his own way again, leaving the mere crossroad of their meeting, reaching a point of parting.

Johnny's voice gets caught in his throat, in sweet delirium over the ever-so-changing vocals of this particular man. But he manages to get something out, just before Ten turns to another aisle, or to the cashiers.

"We should meet up one day!" he says, perhaps a bit too loudly.

(Why don't we make waffles together? is what he wanted to say.)

Ten looks back, surprise - but not an unpleasant one - coloring his face before it melts into a smile, between genuine fondness and an optimistic desire for mischief. A single thumbs up is the reply he gets before Ten paints himself out of the frame, just to sketch his presence for another canvas, persistently soaking Johnny's memories, further and further.

It's only then, with a frostening box in hand, left alone between freezers, that he realises how close they've been for seconds.

It's only then that he realises how marvelous, breath-taking Ten looks like, up-close.

It's only then that he realises how little it would have taken to peck the other's lips, to kiss him.

It's only then that six-feet-something get reduced to a quarter of his normal height, face spurting a ferocious crimson.

He shouldn't think about that.

(He just wishes, and hopes, and dreams.)

-----

The day after this, as he walks up to his grandmother's shared living space, noting down the gentle new addition on the concrete canvas.

It's a surprisingly yellow spot among its darker environment, buzzing with just about the perfect shade of refreshing sunlight that it seems surreal. A forsythia, also known as golden bells, is now adorning the wall, neatly tucked into the flower field. It's hard to miss, when it shouts of anticipation in this vibrant vigor.

Johnny doesn't know much about it, but it's easy to pinpoint the new flower among everything else. He smiles, infected by the buzzing energy - a feeling originating from its creator, seeping through the acrylics right to its observer. The young man decides to take a few more moments to admire this created beauty until he's on his way again.

Johnny doesn't know much about it, so he doesn't know that a forsythia can turn into a pendant shape to protect its precious future, the seeds of another tomorrow.

It's careful like this, without losing track of the future farther away.

-----

It's exhilarating, though Johnny wonders if it should be. He already went through a generous amount of nervous sweat over all those years of knowing love and experiencing it, and yet …

… this mere coffee shop meeting with Ten has a different notion to it. Rather than nervous, he looks forward to it - there are still so many parts about him he doesn't know yet, and he's intrigued to learn ore if feasible, and yet … he doesn't exactly dread the gaps, either, and he doesn't exactly wish to fill them as soon as possible. Moreso, he comes to think that he wants to fill them at the other's pace, take their time to acknowledge each other and the tiny parts that make them who they are.

And, as said, this is a meeting. Not a date. He rigorously runs those words through his mind as he waits in front of their meeting spot, over and over as-

"Hey, Johnny! Ready for our date?" Ten exclaims as soon as he spots the taller, wicked grin in place.

Something in Johnny skips - trips, tumbles, falls.

(Well, alright, maybe the underlying nervousness is not for nothing, then.)

"What, it's a date?" he tries to greet as nonchalantly as could, though he assumes it isn't much, judging by the persistent smirk on Ten's face.

"It could be - it couldn't, I just tried one of the options," Ten proclaims, arms crossed in a taunting manner.

Johnny huffs, cocking an eyebrow. "Now, then, and what do you want it to be?" he asks (instead of admitting that 'date' wouldn't sound as bad; regardless, Ten really needs to make up for the fact of having deceived him for a whole of six phone calls …!).

Ten hums. "Well …" he starts. "The judges are still out - now, let's go, I don't want to wait here forever!" he says with a blinding grin. It really doesn't leave Johnny any other option but to follow, gone with the whirlwind that is Ten, a slender hand sneakily wrapping itself around his arm, pulling him in by a force he can't resist.

Somewhere, something breaks, and he thinks it's not as bad.

In the reflecting sunlight, he notices the little flowers adorning Ten's many earrings instead of the more simpler collection on regular days, and the fact that he actually wears something without any (visible) paint stain. He wonders if Ten noticed his own slight change of appearance, too, as he got rid of his work suit for the day, exchanging it for something more comfortable yet, so he hopes, 'enticing'. (It's an arguably weird criteria, but his other options are even more terrible - thanks for nothing, brain.)

Soon enough, they stand in line for some coffee, Ten sporting two of those reusable glass mugs to-go, self-decorated. Johnny notes that the Ten's personal one is displaying hortensias and a starry sky - if the star constellation reading 10 is anything to go by. Which means that the other one must be for him, decorated by fragile lavender stems and a sunny landscape.

While the lavender flowers are familiar to him, the hortensias are not - for a moment, he wonders. But ultimately, he doesn't pay it much mind, more engrossed in their conversation.

(Regardless, the blue-ish blossoms talk of cold beauty, of vanity and overconfidence.)

But he can't quite stop the silent awe, expressed in the not-so-subtle glances he's shooting occasionally at both the glass mugs and Ten's hands, fingers obscuring the imaginary flowers. The shorter follows his gaze, to his own hands. He smirks.

"You curious?" he asks, chuckles - an airy sound flowing right with the golden noon light.

"Uh," Johnny replies, "... actually, I've been meaning to ask for … a while." He scratches the back of his head, eyes averted, as they move forward in the queue to the counter.

Ten hums, and it's just in line with his previous chuckle - light in every sense. "Have you looked it up?" he asks.

Johnny nods. Though it hasn't quite answered any of the silent questions he has had ever since. And something seems to hold him back, rendering him speechless as he waits for Ten to speak up again.

And he does, actually.

(It's quite frankly not something Johnny would have expected after weeks of huhs and hms, but perhaps, he hasn't been asking the right questions - or non-questions.)

"To be honest, I'm not quite sure myself, but … you're … it's fun, to talk with you," Ten tries to explain, his mind bouncing back and forth - visible in the crease of his eyebrows, his natural way to carry each emotion to the far-most layer of his self. "Lavender is known for healing properties, and relaxing ones - and I like talking with you, it reminds me of that flower. Has someone ever told you you have a nice voice?" He hums, in this strange way of his.

"Right back at you," Johnny manages to let out. He meant to sound teasingly yet fondly, but it comes out rather breathless, awestruck. He could mourn the loss of it if not for the small laugh it elicits out of Ten.

"Why, thank you," he snickers.

"Thank you, you're quite welcome," Johnny replies, and the world feels a bit easier. Where nervousness has been, he comes to find positive anticipation as well.

His step seems a bit lighter as they finally reach the counter to order, handing over the glass mugs as they wait for their order to be finished. It's not what he has expected, not a stay-in-the-café talk situation, but Johnny thinks he doesn't mind getting swept by the wind if it has the shape of mischievously twinkling eyes and fingers wrapped around his hand, determinedly leading him outside again.

It's almost a foreign feeling (but he might want to get accustomed to it).

Holding for dear life onto the now-filled glass mug as Ten unapologetically swerves left and right through the bustling streets, Johnny doesn't really get the time to ask questions, anyway. And then, it's over again - abruptly, they stop.

In front of a wall.

It's not like his - unsurprisingly - favorite wall which is filled with flowers, not smooth-ish concrete, but bricks. Solid, red, manifold bricks. Johnny stares at them. If they could, the bricks would probably stare back, too.

Silence is building and filling up with anticipation. Beside, only the satisfied slurping noise next to him is audible for a moment. He waits for the other to explain, tell him something. But Ten doesn't say anything, so he stares harder at the wall. And a bit more.

… Nothing comes to his mind. He looks back at the shorter with a cough. "... Care to share your thoughts?" he prompted.

Ten's reply is a slurp - then, he stops.

"This is the first version of project wall flower - or, it was," he finally says, a hinge of both pride and sadness lingering in his voice. As if fallen, it sounds hoarse and careful, yet not all that unhappy. It's distinctively unclear, in this strange way of his. It lures Johnny's gaze to the shorter.

He looks upset in the way of someone who has been upset a long time ago, but now brightened with knowledge that things are going to be better. Because sometimes, experience also shows this - not only unhappiness, but also the prospect of a glimmer of hope. People tend to forget progress and a possible future in the despair of one moment, everything else blurring it.

Ten smiles, and that's just about good enough of a proof of it.

Johnny averts his gaze from him, looks back at the wall.

"It started like, five years ago? I started to paint the wall for fun, but well … I got caught and was forced to remove 'that graffiti' off the walls," Ten elaborates, unexpected lightness filling his voice that seems to surprise even him. "It was supposed to be it, but then I came across that other wall and … well. It started with crayons because that's not hard to remove, but no one ever bothered me." He pauses. "Well, okay, I also made extra sure not to be caught again, but … people came, and they stopped, stared, and continued with life. They didn't get upset. Instead, they seem to strangely care about this in a way a mere passenger does, a bare minimum of interaction and … do you see it?" he looks Johnny in the eye, anticipating. He tries to look calm, but there is something deeper - something that makes Johnny wonder, all over again.

And for the sake of those curious eyes, he thinks, truly in the deepest meaning of this verb. He looks back and forth between the artist next to him, who got his art erased - had to erase his art with his own hands, and the barren wall in front of him. Then he thinks of a colorful field of flowers, only that it smells of dried paint and crayons, where you can't just pluck a flower - and it feels like too much at once, with the smirk of an artist in full blossom.

There is silence building up, but it's not entirely uncomfortable, only occasionally interrupted by a careful sip of hot liquid.

Johnny thinks again, and he thinks this must look sort-of ridiculous on the outside, two grown men staring at an empty wall as if it holds any meaning. Little do they know that it does hold an important fragment of life, more than just being red and porous bricks all over. Eventually, he looks back at Ten whose anticipation remains.

"They …" he starts, carefully testing the words in his mouth. "They didn't derooted you, they watered you instead," he lets out, with a hopeful tone - is this the right answer?

He only gets a wistful look and the sight of a conspicuous sip as Ten's eyes gaze back to the wall, and so does his.

He doesn't quite know if he passed the test - if it was one to begin with.

-----

The rest of this particular day passes in most vibrant colors - they decide to take a stroll through the city, at first alongside the red brick wall until it merges into electronic displays of various shops, sprinkled with a touch of coziness and warmth that the local dining places promise. Here and there, a piece of greenery is blessing their eyes and every once in a while, Ten would point out something or explain a flower, whether he has connected himself to it - painted it - or not. Occasionally, Johnny would find something he has a story to tell about, for he has lived a little piece of his life here, too. Sometimes, silence would color them, too, as they watch the mass of people move onwards with their lives, in their multitude of shades and hues. A spectacle of colors - something Johnny hasn't quite grasped before. But with Ten by his side, the world seems to gain a richer outlook, if only because they are watched closely by the eyes of an artist who would find beauty in the blankest of days.

Someone who would find a galaxy where people turned their blind eye on.

If Johnny believed to be subtle in his admiring gaze, he's clearly being tricked by his own mind. Adoration trickles far too easily out of his eyes in a silent manner, never quite leaving the silhouette of the shorter.

(He thinks of it as strange, yet there isn't much to do about it.)

Johnny truly enjoys his time, focus entirely on the here and now instead of pondering over the next day - or the day before - which is a pleasant change to his routine. It's just another stir in his schedule, another little whirl in the quiet sea of what used to be his life. But as with all things good (and all things bad), it has to come to an end somewhere. For them, the end is in a small park, not so far away from the red brick that has been their first station after the coffee shop.

Sitting cross-legged on a stone bench, faced to each other, there isn't so much space for a six-feet-something tall man to hide from the piercing gaze of someone who only reaches a little over the five-feet-seven mark. Unlike the previous airiness and lightness, something else seems to cloud the atmosphere, color it deeper - darker - than before.

Ten looks at Johnny. Johnny looks at Ten.

Curiosity lays in the eyes of one, and inexplicable sorrow in another.

But before Johnny could address the fog surrounding them, do anything to dismiss the eerie silence that started to build up, Ten's voice fills the air, a darker shade - no, a ghost of what Johnny's used to. A new melody, one that speaks of hesitation - a stark contrast to the confidence he oozes on a regular.

"Let's not repeat this," Ten says at last.

Johnny hasn't noticed how his breath stopped, how confusion takes over his brain before he can realise it. He opens his mouth to say something - anything - a question, maybe, a 'why', perhaps - a question as to what this has been in first place, but he's stuck with two syllables, a single sound, the only thing he manages to let out.

"Okay," he says. Like a broken record, he repeats, "okay."

The smile - the not-quite-smile - that crawls onto Ten's features, carefully painted golden in the light of the setting sun, speaks of untold stories and of words that linger in the mind, only to never be spoken (or, at least not now). Johnny thinks there is something eternal in the way Ten looks, yet softly … mortal, and he wishes for nothing more than to close the distance, little by little, and give the paradoxon a hug - a shape to lean onto, but he doesn't.

Instead, he looks into those starry eyes of Ten that hold his entire mind, and something else, and tries to decipher. Yet, it's not his to do.

Not yet, not yet.

He hopes for the implication to be there, in the way Ten reaches out slowly, to lay his smaller hands into his larger palms, experimentally.

"Thank you," he softly says.

And just like this, they part ways.

… At least for the day.

-----

Returning back home, Johnny cannot help but to remember the day in its vivid little details, in the shattering last moment, in the question that envelopes everything ever so tightly - where did it went wrong? Or, moreso, did anything go wrong? Or has it been doomed from the start, and he has been reading signs wrong? Or … has he?

Johnny sighs, throwing himself onto his bed - cold, lonely. Normally, nothing he wouldn't be used to, but the crushing heaviness of it comes down onto him for the first time in long. He sighs.

What, just what, is everything supposed to be?

Above all, he couldn't quite shake the feeling of a silent wish, one he believes to have seen in Ten's eyes as he spoke those shattering words - in the way their hands have touched softly, bare skin on skin ghosting in close proximity to each other. But perhaps, it's mere wishful thinking on his side - one-sided.

He sighs once more.

Thoughts which never quite seem to end start to fill him mindlessly, and with this, he falls into a dreamless sleep.

-----

Days pass by, and Johnny doesn't know if his heart is qualified to be broken - it doesn't feel like there is much left to be broken, not in a necessarily bad way. It's just the small fracture that's left of the adoration he inadvertently gave to Ten, the pieces of something left of a mighty heart doesn't feel as large - worthwhile - that he feels strange about it all. Work has started to pile even more as well, cutting his determined daily visits of his grandmother's place short - moving them back and forth from evening to morning to afternoon to early noon, and it's driving him crazy. The continuous loss of schedule starts to affect him, and where he thought it's fine, it turns out not to be. He allows himself consistency in the voice of his grandmother, but the growing pillar of Ten has decreased. Occasionally, there would be a text message, though it's barely a picture of something he's drawing. Johnny, ever-the-charmer (not) usually only reacts with an emoji of his choice, and leaves it.

He longs to listen to his voice, but the turmoil of his mind advises him against. And for once, he actually tries to follow it.

Well, that is, until the day Ten sends a picture of freshly blooming hortensias among the other two-dimensional creations of his.

Until the day he's greeted with a clearly unamused Ten in 'his' seat instead of being greeted with the sight of his grandmother (as he was promised to).

Johnny stops right there, awkwardly.

"Are you avoiding me, Johnathan Suh?" Ten's voice sounds frosty, though he doesn't look into the general direction of the taller, just straight-forward, legs and arms both crossed.

Which, frankly, irritates Johnny. (Apart from the fact that no, his name is not Johnathan, mind you.) Why, out of all people, does Ten look mad? And why, for emphasis, does it seem like Johnny is the cause? It was Ten who spoke those words about not repeating it, it's quite unfair of a scheme to accuse Johnny of any wrongdoing-

And the facade falls, shoulders slumping as he finally looks Johnny into the eye, motioning for him to sit down. "Sorry," Ten murmurs, voice strangely distorted. As if he's trying to voice it under water, a muffled sound yet Johnny understands it just fine. "That came off - wrong. Very wrong, in fact, and that other day, too-" Ten tries to continue, but interrupts himself, groaning and averting his eyes. He covers his face with his bare hands, showcasing the dark blue speckles of dry paint.

He seems to be working on a picture Johnny doesn't know about (yet).

"What do you mean?" the older (finally) sits down as he asks softly. Ten seems distressed enough on his own, so he doesn't want to add any burden (even though his mind screams million things at once).

Ten's eyes are caught by Johnny's - the vibrant orbs of the artist diluted by something else, thoughts running through his mind. The taller holds the gaze. Ten sighs.

"If - if that came across as a request to avoid - us, sort of, then no, it wasn't. I didn't - mean that," he finally say, breaking the sentences into smaller bits. His voice suffers through hiccups, attentively being caught by Johnny's listening ears who carefully put the pieces together, keeping the spoken words to be strung together with what's yet to come.

"You mean that we shouldn't repeat … the other day?" Johnny wants to clarify and Ten nods, sinking a bit deeper into the armchair.

"It wasn't … a 'forever' - it wasn't a 'never hang out again'," Ten picks up again, a hummed melody accompanying his thoughts as he searches for the words with the meaning he wishes for. "It's just … actually, I don't even know - you're a nice guy, and I really like spending time with you-"

"-But you don't know if it's … well, something?" Johnny prompts, a shard of his heart breaking as it resonates in his ears, inaudible to anyone else.

Ten looks at him with a torn expression and Johnny wishes for nothing more than to gently erase the uncertainty from his face, but it's not his to do. (He doesn't think so, anyway.)

"It was wrong of me to use grand words when I don't even know," the shorter says, voice dripping with his particular brand of irritation and sadness, though he tries to cover it up with a helpless, shallow laugh. "I figure I chickened out when … yeah." He pauses, gaze wandering and looking for shelter until they land on Johnny again, carefully and for once not piercing.

"I don't want to hurt you," Ten lets out eventually, softly, and his lips turn into a faint smile, a blurry watercolor rendition of the usually radiant sun.

It's funny for you to say that, Johnny thinks. After all, it's him he doesn't want to see hurt, but here he is, in distress because of none other than himself. He looks at the other with careful eyes, hoping not to pry as much.

"Since when … Do you know?" Johnny asks, of all things, and he leaves it to Ten to fill in the gaps.

Ten nods curtly after a moment, faint smile growing a little, gaining substance and ground to stand on - soil to root in. (Johnny thinks it must be one of the most beautiful things he has seen.) "Well, you're … you're not very subtle about it," Ten says, and there is a small laughter hidden away somewhere underneath the quietness.

Johnny feels how his face is reddening, a stutter laying on the tip of his tongue, to his own defense. Even as he knows there isn't so much he can deny - not quite so, unless he wants to be marked as a certified hypocrite. (Though, isn't everyone one?) "... tell me if it ever gets uncomfortable for you," he decides to say, sheepishly, but Ten gives him a genuine smile (one that cannot stop him from wishing, hoping).

"Only if you tell me if your feelings ever change - I mean, the ones towards me," Ten demands and it's so easy, ridiculously easy to give into the small curve of his voice, the speckle of trickery that returns with every little sound.

"Deal," Johnny says, though he isn't quite so sure whether a burden is lifted or not. It feels risky, but … right.

-----

As with all things important, he has not noticed them when it might have been advised. First, his grandmother is attending an Ikebana workshop for just the entirety of today, and second, that Ten is good friends with the housekeeper who wouldn't mind to do a favour or two for the younger, which leads to third, he's been lied to about his grandmother's whereabouts, that she'd be waiting for him.

He almost wasted an entire trip to the other end of the city.

Almost, if only because talking again to Ten is quite worth it in the end, and he can overlook the little treasonry it took to achieve just this.

(Though he definitely has to be more informed about his grandmother's schedules, for heaven's sake.)

… Though he truly wonders how he ended up in the current situation: on a nice walk through the gardens (not a surprise), talking with Ten about … love (which is the surprise). It is certainly the last topic he has expected, but he cannot change it, either - Ten's wondering gaze is nothing he can quite defy.

Ten stops and turns on his heels from the spot a few feet further than Johnny is. There, he waits for the taller to catch up in his time, with a glint of mischievous curiosity in his glimmering eyes. "Do you want to own me, Mr. Johnny Suh?" he asks in the meanwhile.

Johnny almost regrets ever being born. He scrunches his nose in his quizzical state. "I'm sorry?" he asks rather than noticing the feverish start of a blush.

"Do you have any possessive feelings towards my humble self?" Ten rephrases, now with more obvious mirth in his eyes, coloring them in this strange way light couldn't paint. "Should I be yours, in a future near or far?"

Johnny sighs. It's only because Ten actually remains silent, waiting for him to fill in, that he starts to thinks about it - about that. It doesn't seem like a joke, so he wants to take it seriously. … Even as he has to rub his neck in a bashful manner, six feet reduced to an indescribable mess.

"I …" he starts, fails, restarts. "No," he says firmly, hoping to sound firmly. "Not if you phrase it like that," he adds furthermore, though he shoots a questioning look to the other. Even as he'd like an explanation to all of it, it dawns upon him that it might be impossible or quite difficult to understand this peculiar glimmer that characterises Ten's thought processes.

"In what way, then?" Ten asks, genuinely curious.

Johnny exhales, a calm breath that he hopes will steady him. "I … think it would be nice if you think of me, sometimes," he eventually concludes, weakly under the prying cat-like eyes of Ten. "That would be … nice?"

(He really wants to hit himself right now.)

"Oh?" Ten lets out, a second before he turns on his heels and continues marching, arms outstretched as if he wanted to pull the earth into a hug. "Don't get me wrong, Johnny, it's not that I am particularly against the concept of possession - I think it's nice if you mutually agree to be each other's, if that is what you want. And yet … say, how do I apply such a concept to myself? I seem not to understand this aspect of a feeling, huh?"

Johnny can't decipher him, and he can't be helped but to be remembered of their not-date, when Ten - again - asked and he answered, and that's it. It feels like a not graded test where he doesn't even get any type of feedback except some more elusive humming. It's irritating, an emotion easily displayed in the curve of his eyebrows. It's in this moment that Ten looks back, his head only tilted until he turns with his entire body once more. He stops, again.

"I'm irritating you," he states, and Johnny merely nods.

"I think that's a given at this point," the taller tries to say in a light-hearted manner, but he doesn't know if he succeeded.

And when he looks into Ten's eyes, there seems to be something - something that he wants to say, but doesn't. Instead of the words lingering in the corner of his mind, he lets out with a grin, "Another question, if I may."

Something says that he should say no, that no question ever did him any good - Johnny has to know, or suspects, from the type of questions Ten is asking his grandmother. Ground-breaking, world-questioning, harmless. It's hard to find just one word to describe it when each question seems to mean something different - its worth in the eye of the beholder.

"Sure," Johnny says, too keen to give in when Ten is asking with this much wonder and curiosity - plain, blank curiosity - in his voice.

"Would you die for me?" Ten asks, hands folded behind his back, upper body bent slightly forwards in a child's innocence - as if he hasn't just asked a literal death-or-life question.

In a helpless repetition of previous events, Johnny finds himself stumbled out of his wits, a blank expression covering his face in face of … whatever this is. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

Ten waits a few more moments, waiting whether the question is going to be answered or not - but nothing comes. Which seems to be good enough for him, the corners of his lips turning into an impish smile. "I take that as a no, but correct me if I'm wrong," Ten decides, again turning his back to Johnny as they march onwards, surrounded by flowers. "I'm glad; I never liked this idea of having your beloved one dying just for you, you know?" he hums, matter-of-factly, as they come closer to a bush of hortensias, shockingly similar to the one's on Ten's glass mug the other day.

(He remembers; he remembers quite many details, if he were to be honest.)

"It … is kind of sad, I suppose," Johnny supplies, not-so-helpfully, but it makes Ten only chuckle as he makes a beeline to the blue-ish violet flowers.

"It is super sad," Ten exasperates. A little glimpse in his eyes reflects grief - and Johnny wonders whether it's his own, or Ten's, or someone else's. "You're leaving someone behind … and what next? It kind of feels like the easy way out, but who am I to judge? It's not like I actually loved and lost, not that I think, but everyone is … so dramatic about it," he sighs, delicate fingers running softly over the blossoms of the hortensias - a cold sky blue, a careful watered violet.

Cautiously, the taller approaches the flowers and silently stands there, next to the other.

"I'm just wondering, you know?" he contemplates, a sigh coloring his words in a yearning color. "How can you be certain?"

And the ball is back in Johnny's court - who looks thoughtfully at the blossoms rather than the scorching fire next to him. "I'm … not quite sure why I'm sure - or if I'm actually sure," Johnny has to admit with a weary smile. An apologetic smile is on his lips as he faces the shorter who looks at him with the same unfazed curiosity.

"You don't know much about me," Ten states, matter-of-factly.

"I would like to know more," Johnny replies, sincerely, "if you let me."

Perhaps, it's not the best decision to make - not after what happened before and after, not at the point they're standing at right now, but … it might be fine, Johnny thinks. There are worse things than falling aimlessly for a philosophic artist who reaches for the stars and the earth, and talks grandly yet lowly about love, in the twisted scheme of everything.

A smile tugs at Ten's lips and he hums. "Did you know that hortensias can change their color depending on soil? Has something to do with pH and chemical stuff, but they can be pink and red, too," he hums. "Perhaps that's why they have such an ambiguous meaning, often," he continues as he crouches down to inspect a single blossom more up-close.

Johnny imitates him - the smallest of smiles hesitantly blossoming on his face. Changed topic again, Johnny notes in his head, faintly amused. He nods as Ten speaks.

"If I remember … wasn't it something with gratefulness, yet vanity? Something like that?" the taller tries to remember. He earns a chuckle.

"You researched," Ten remarks, a little teasingly.

"-I got curious," Johnny defends, and the smaller only laughs, cradling a single flower petal between two of his fingers.

"But, you're not wrong," he says. "Vanity … boastfulness … yet, gratefulness, honest emotions and preserving love are commonly associated with those little beauties," he furthermore explains, his voice melodic as he spells out each meaning that is engraved in his mind (or a selection - there always seems to be so much more Ten wants to tell, yet he never does, and Johnny wonders if he'll ever get the answers to all - some - of his questions).

For a moment, they look in silence.

"Hey," Ten looks up to Johnny, startling the other as eyes meet eyes.

"-Yes?" the latter lets out, surprised - even more so as their faces are closer than in the previous weeks, ever, clear gaze staring right back at him, with the slight silhouette of his own face in those curious eyes of Ten. His breath halts, somersaults. Neither recline for a moment, until Ten stands up, releasing the hostage of a flower he held.

"You know … rather than dying for me … how about living with me? I think it's a brave, painful thing to do. It lasts longer than a moment, and I think I'd like to have you by my side for a bit more of what's worth," Ten's voice fills his ears once more, colored with curiosity and anticipation - hesitation lingering somewhere here, too. It feels like a silent promise asking for denial or confirmation. It's one of those things that are less than a promise, nothing like a vow, and merely a comfortable way to point at the obvious, make it even more obvious if anything.

"Not in the literal sense, right?" Johnny chuckles, and Ten grins.

"Well, of course, if things can be arranged- but, actually, no, I'll be too missed by my flatmates," Ten lets out dramatically, the back of his hand touching theatrically his forehead and - he isn't actually going to stage a faint?

... Trust Ten to aim for the unexpected.

In a moment of panic, Johnny's arms automatically spread out to catch of the younger - unnecessarily, as it seems. Ten already stabilises himself with a laugh before he even comes remotely close to the grass, spiralling back int position with a mesmerizing grace. It leaves Johnny only to an awkward retreat, and he attempted-nonchalantly stuffs his (useless) hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"Now, what do you say?" Ten asks once more, looking the taller directly into the eye. His smile seems hopeful for something else - as if there is something that could make the future look actually exciting, or at least interesting enough for his curiosity. It's the brightest smile Johnny has seen ever since he knows the other, and he almost forgets how to breathe.

"... I'd like that," Johnny cannot help but to give in with a sigh and a smile.

Ten hums in an inexplicable manner, arms as outstretched as ever. If Johnny concentrates just enough, if he squints his eyes just right to blend out the raising sunlight - he thinks he sees a smile, blessed and grateful.

It's joyous in a soft, delicate way.

Johnny thinks of flower petals as Ten raises his voice once again. He looks back over his shoulder. "And … you're going to stay?" Ten asks, and his voice lingers in a hopeful sound.

It's as hopeful as Johnny dares to feel, in his own little cosmos. He reciprocates the smile, a gentle play around the corners of his lips.

"I don't think I can go anywhere else right now," he sincerely remarks, a little sigh accompanying his words that speak of fondness. Soon enough, he catches up to the shorter.

Tentatively, a hand reaches out, fingers touching - skin on skin, once again, and Johnny lets him, if only for the silly, happy expression on Ten's face. (He tries not to think about how small Ten's hands are compared to his, or how nicely they fit against another.)

"Okay," Ten says. He smiles as he looks up. "Okay."

And that's all there is, for now.

There is unexpected warmth in the color blue.