green isn't your color

Yoo Sangah leans further into his space, causing Kim Dokja's heart rate to speed up alongside the wild movements of the crotchets and quavers; the pounding in his ears drowns out the otherwise pleasant tune. Like a bowstring on the verge of snapping, the atmosphere around them is charged with tension. Nerves are set alight with energy as electric warmth surges through their bloodstreams.

Kim Dokja’s eyelids flutter at the light touch of Yoo Sangah’s forehead on his. His lips quiver at the soft puffs of breath on them—warm despite the brisk night air. His mind sinks even deeper into a warm, cloudy haze.

Wait, something’s… something’s wrong. He blurrily muses, helpless to the hypnotic pull as he decides screw it, and angles his head—

“Kim Dokja,” a voice snaps, cutting through the fog muddling his senses.