It’s a quarter past noon, &the streets are busy, swarming with people & the density, thick, cars&vehicles all honking at the traffic that delays them from their much-needed arrivals at work. A father curses his terrible luck & spits out the window, whereas rebellious teenagers skip school for the sake of smoking cigarettes out by the alleyway [regardless of the urge to cough slowly building up in their throats, their lungs all swollen with poison &their pride clutching at their health]; mothers roll their carriages down the filthy streets & allow their children to rot, &aged women who’ve nothing better to contribute to society gossip over the newspaper&what has happened within their neighborhoods. The sky is white, populated only by clouds of pollution & toxin, waste & soot of factories manufacturers, &Momo is in his usual attire, &today is a usual day. Ordinary. Nothing out of place: just the same old dump he’s used to seeing since he had transferred. His mind is, routinely, focused partially on his tasks for the day, though mostly concentrated upon the possible whereabouts of his twin: Changmin.

His mouth has a thin layer of lip gloss applied to it, & his skin has foundation as well as blush, hue warm&pleasant to the eye&the texture soft as satin. His gaze is hidden beneath the long curve of eyelashes thickened with dark mascara & the very rim of his eyes are just barely outlined by charcoal, smeared&smothered around the edges only for an effect that’d have others under the impression that, though he -- or rather, she, as Momoko is the identity he lives by when the sun is still up -- may be docile & tame & quiet, there is nothing he wouldn’t do should he be provoked, & with the proper taunts. Completing his appearance is an outfit that conceals the bulk at his biceps, the muscle subtle&laced within the lanky arms that he seems to have, his figure luckily built in such a manner that, though scrawny, the strength he wields beneath is one surprisingly great, &overall the deception will always be an advantage towards his favor. He’s leggings that graciously exploit the very length of his legs, long & alluring, &they’re a tight fit considering his size though he knows that with each step he takes, heads turn, simply to grab a fleeting glance of the delicious, svelte sight he can provide; he’s opted for a sweater however, & it reaches just his midthighs, one that falls to his shoulders & reveals the protruding bones of his clavicle though to further conceal his masculinity, he’s a scarf wrapped around his neck, his wig tied back into a messy bun.

‘Momoko,’ he’s called. He’s only a shadow in that particular neighborhood, not one to be exposed too dramatically to the public eye; though more commonly referred to as a longlegged-beauty, he is only remembered for the sake of his appearance given that he usually towers over all else, than what horrible crimes he’s committed, & the acts he’s been accused of. The footsteps he makes are quiet, mere pads against the ground & it’s almost as though he’s a feline, eyes narrowed to catch even the slightest of details, ears keen & grasping even the most minuscule of soundwaves. Perhaps it is that he is always so concentrated on his surroundings that he first catches sight of the magazines set on display on the other side of the street: they shouldn’t be nothing out of particular, only volumes & editions he’s seen released before, but -- what has his breath quickening & his chest tightening & his mind racing is not the name printed in bold on the cover but rather the model that has been depicted so beautifully -- a man, that is a man, yes -- with mouth serenely pressed into a smile & eyes that only appear to be kind, an incline of the head & a pose so graceful -- the only name that whispers into the abyss of his mind is of the one person he’s been searching for what may even be a decade by now.

Changmin.

Momo’s steps quicken until he’s nearly breaking out into a run, the adrenaline surging through his veins & his pace resulting in louder thuds against the ground. It all rings against his ears, but his eyes are captured only by that one photo: he rushes through the red light, & despite being an illegally crossing pedestrian, he ignores the loud honking & cursing thrown at his direction for the sake of being able to curl his fingers around the magazine that has his face on it. That is his face. It must be, it has to be -- Changmin, right? -- it hardly occurs to him that his twin wouldn’t allow himself to be put on display so easily for North Korea to track him down, & in what may be his excitement, Momo’s hands tremble & hope [dreadfully dangerous as he should know it is, he forgets everything for the sake of the one person he cherishes most] buries a seed in the dirt of his mind.

Changmin, hyung’s coming.