And he loves him, he loves the summer smiles in his face, and the way hands clench in excitement, and in joy. He loves the butterfly kisses painted on his skin, and the smell of burnt toast, melted butter, and the dark, sweet, bitter of coffee in the morning. It's the way he moves, delicate, graceful, like the dancing girls, he hears of in stories, yet he is loud, and brazen, with a whirlwind on his quicksilver tongue. There is laughter, high, and sweet, and innocent in his eyes, something very few had left, so unique to him, and he was irreversibly, irresistibly in love.
And now, those pink-red-peach lips, are blue as grief, falling silent for the final time, milk skin flushed with love and fun, no longer, and all too white. No steady rise and fall like a drum beat, of his chest, but an unearthly silence, that made him far too peaceful, and far too silent. There were teardrops on flawless skin, for what could he do but cry, and they were imperfections he should not have, could not have. His love was dead. Was gone. And he was irrevocably, instantaneously, alone.
There were no more summer smiles, and though the toast still burnt, and the butter melted, and that coffee was instant and dark and sweet, it was never the same. There was a bleakness to his eyes, and broken hearted memories haunted each day, and how could he move on, when all his love was gone, and wasted?
And he wasted too, an empty bag of sin, and bones with hollow eyes, an empty shell, nothing, no longer.
And he waited for his loves return, but Yong-Soo was gone, and with him went the single spark he'd lit, and it left Yao darker than ever.