mork is all alone. again. everything comes crashing down—without a sound. and there's nothing left in him—not even the last twilight could save him from this. 

there's something so uncannily endearing about day's calmness. the peculiarness of his gentle smile doesn't match the brightest glint in his darkening eyes—awaiting tears hanging onto the last thread of manufactured composure—and mork wonders if day isn't crying because of him.

in this stillness, day wants the darkening world to stop moving and give him another chance—to love mork—despite no longer seeing him even within one palm distance.

mork savours the beauty of day with all senses, taking in the shy smile and challenging smirk gracing day's lips as they quietly undress each other. and every touch incites a familiar memory for them both, as day remarks, "you're still rough all over, phi." and mork smiles. so in love, he is.

day mulls about mork's touches on his skin, his assuring existence, and his cheeky good night, na. and day wonders if this is how falling in love feels like.

mork swears—this isn't a story narrated by shakespeare, but he wonders—if love can fleet to the atmosphere, and mork has to adhere to the thought that it's possible to fear something so dear, a mysterious sneer.

maybe it's the alcohol, or it's just the (nonexistent) distance between them, but day thinks, perhaps, it's just mork. only mork can make him feel this way—whatever there is in his heart.

day can't fight the smile from growing, the fire from blazing, and the adoration obscuring his vision even more. a sigh escapes day's lips before he knows it, out of relief, knowing so well in every wake and dream, in this unforeseeable world and beyond the limited periphery, he can have mork like this all to himself.

and day slots himself closer, chasing after mork for closure, wanting the pain to be over, needing this ache to help him sober—because mork swears there's no other, only day and the thought of forever.