(for yeo_ubi) All Roads, They Lead Me Here part iii

[kais]

Jongin would love to say that the actions done on the night in question were motivated by the unpredictability of youth. Let’s be honest, if given the opportunity, who wouldn’t want to crash a high-end function and live to tell the tale? It’s not a matter of rebelling against society but that of pure, unadulterated, YOLO. They had suits at hand (Sehun went shopping the day before and bought three that were ‘irresistible’ and a bargain; coincidence? Jongin thinks not), they had a destination in mind. Veni, vidi, vici.

The critics may say Jongin did it in the act of love, a hard-hitting strategy for Kyungsoo senpai to finally notice him. Possibly, but a toss from the truth. Let it be known, that as the gang were maneuvering their way through the kitchen, ducking their heads at the staff giving suspicious side-eyes and smiling radiantly at the French ladies handling the cutlery, Jongin was not thinking about his dear Kyungsoo, the apple of his eye. No, he was thinking about peeling the skin off of Chanyeol, blood and pulp, for straying out of his lane.

This was all in the efforts of picking this jealousy out of his hair; a class-A distraction.
Sehun, surprisingly, takes initiative of this mission and asks a waitress for directions, feigning timidness whilst still maintaining an aura of aristocracy. His bitch face must have sold it, for the waitress blushes and guides them to the main hall, Sehun in stride with a smirk and his hand in his pants pockets, picture perfect spoilt son of old-money.

“Nice,” Jongin whispers, trying to pull off that casual slouch Sehun does, “you should drop med school altogether and pursue an acting career.”

“Golden rule of acting,” Sehun lifts an eyebrow, smug finely tuned to classy, “all believable lies must have a hint of truth to them.”

Chanyeol interjects, “what does that have to do with anything?”

Sehun flicks non-existent hair out of his eyes, “Don’t rain on my parade, Park,” and then a bit louder, “so, how’s your father’s business going? I heard he bought half of Samsung’s shares.”

“Oh, you know.” Chanyeol leans back and cocks his hips forward, speaking with his eyebrows all the way up his forehead and his eyes lazily opening and closing, “It’s pretty good, yesterday he was having lunch with Bill Gates and then later attended GD’s party as VVVIP. No biggie.”

Jongin puts a hand on Chanyeol’s arm, shaking his head, “too much.”

“Kim, my man,” Sehun slaps Jongin’s shoulder, “loosen up. Tonight the world is your oyster.”

Now they are in the main hall. A string quartet on the balcony plays quietly, Jongin swaying to the triplet beat. Sprinkled throughout are professional-looking people in elegant dresses and pressed suits, discussing things with flutes of pink champagne in their grip. They pay no attention to the three young men by the side entrance.

Sehun begins circling the crowd, assessing which group to penetrate first with his secret identity. Chanyeol whispers holy shit before following Sehun’s lead, cocking his hips forward and strutting straight through the middle of the room, earning a few odd glances and slight avoidance. Jongin, unsure of what to do now that phase one (and pretty much only phase) of the infiltrate-fancy-party plan has been achieved, heads to the only place in the room that he’s familiar with: the food table.

It’s a buffet of both French and Korean cuisine, smelling like it descended directly from heaven’s stove counter. Jongin scans the plethora of pots, mildly turned on by the display of savory stew and eyes immediately zoning on a plate of fried something, gleaming golden brown under the warm chandelier lighting with heavenly rays shooting out from it. This is what it must mean to live the high-life.

A waiter holding a tray of drinks in one hand floats to Jongin and asks, “May I interest you in a drink, sir?”

Jongin look to his sides and finds no one there, concluding that the waiter must be talking to him. “Why yes indeed, what do you have?”

“We offer red, white, grey, or for a more festive mood, Moët & Chandon; wonderfully rich this season.”

Jongin nods, not understanding a single word, “Is there anything non-alcoholic?”

The waiter replies, tipping his head, “of course, we have an array of soft drinks and punches.”

“Ah yes, may I have a glass of coke please,” Jongin waving his hand in a pompous manner, “on the rocks.”

The waiter’s serious expression doesn’t break, heading off immediately with a curt, “yes, sir.”

Chanyeol appears beside him, “Kim, just the man I wanted to see.”

“Park,” Jongin addresses his friend, blending into character, “how’s life?”

“Look what I have,” Chanyeol lifts his wineglass of what looks like blood, “a waiter just gave it to me. Can you believe it?”

Jongin slings an arm around him, grinning, “I don’t know about that, Park. You essentially, like, barf at even the smell of alcohol.”

“Nah nah, that’s Chanyeol you’re talking about. Right before you now,” Chanyeol waves to himself, tossing his head and looking majestically into the distance, “is Park Chanyeol, heir to Lotte group and YG Entertainment. Rich, handsome, eldest son engaged to the goddess Dara and future leader of the ulzzang revolution.”

Sehun emerges from the crowd with three wineglasses cradled in his fingertips, all different colours. “Aaayyy, whassup?”

Jongin and Chanyeol holler back, “aayyy.”

“Also,” Sehun takes a sip out of the white shade drink, handing a glass of red to Jongin, “found your bae.”

His heart sinks to the marble floor, “that was not part of the plan.” Chanyeol is giggling like an idiot to his side, swirling his wineglass worryingly forceful.

Sehun shrugs, and at that exact moment the string quartet begins playing a dramatic movement, tremolo with long, ostentatious phrasing.

Kyungsoo materializes in cloud of silence, the world seeming to stop for a moment to appreciate his beauty. He’s dressed in all black, dress shirt and blazer, a white triangle of handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket. His hair is parted to the side, shiny with gel but looking as soft as a pillow, and there is a smudge of kohl on the edges of his eyes, now in a deadly glare.

Chanyeol stops giggling. Sehun hides his wineglasses behind his back.

“What are all of you doing here?” Kyungsoo fixes his glare on each of them, settling on Chanyeol. Kyungsoo’s neck is flushed red.

Jongin’s chest clenches in jealousy. No, look at me, Kyungsoo, look at me.

Chanyeol stutters, vision flittering everywhere but the short man cutting a hole into him with his stare. “U-uhh…”

Sehun cuts in, “it’s not what it looks like.”

Kyungsoo turns his laser beam on Sehun, Jongin about to scream because gosh he just wants to be acknowledged, “Oh? And what does it look like? Because it looks like to me, all of you are crashing.”

A tense stand-off ensues, in which Jongin never takes his eyes off Kyungsoo’s dark expression but the latter doesn’t spare him even a glance. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Chanyeol’s jaw click, but then he lowers his head in submission, ears red. Sehun looks off to the side but Jongin sees the little shiver running through his form repeatedly, and it isn’t like Sehun would actually lift a finger against Kyungsoo; he’s too much of a coward.

Finally, Kyungsoo turns to him. His eyes are so big and filled to the brim with frustration Jongin could see himself reflected. His face must have showed his sadness because Kyungsoo softens immediately, chest deflating and hands unclenching, and he turns to look away, licking his lips.

“I’m escorting all of you out,” Kyungsoo says, flicking his eyes back to Jongin and then away again, “before you cause trouble.”

No one tries to object. The argument is over. Not that anyone had a chance anyway, Kyungsoo wins by default.

Kyungsoo’s face is a pale shimmer of ghostly white from where Jongin stands on the road side. They’re sharing a long gaze, a direct string from Jongin’s eyes to Kyungsoo’s; if only he could grab hold of it and pull Kyungsoo closer to him gently. It’s the first time this whole night that he’s grazed Jongin with his attention, and Jongin feels like he’s stargazing.

Before he knows it he’s taking a step closer, Kyungsoo appearing clearer by each inch. Someone’s calling his name, someone from behind, quietly, a whisper. They weave around Jongin like a spring breeze. He’s walking now, the string between them taut and Kyungsoo must be the one reeling Jongin in. Kyungsoo’s saying something, or maybe he’s parting his lips in surprise.

And then Kyungsoo turns around abruptly, and everything shatters. He’s walking away, a peek of his milky nape shrinking and shrinking and suddenly Jongin’s holding onto his wrist. It feels like a little bird in his grip.

“Jongin, stop-” Kyungsoo gasps, wrenching his arm back but Jongin’s not letting go, and they stumble into the empty lobby, washed in a warm glow. The string quartet is playing a waltz.
“I’m sorry about tonight,” Jongin bows his head, releasing Kyungsoo’s warm wrist. “But, what I want to say is-”

All the words, the emotions that were clawing out of his throat, vanish into the air. All Jongin’s now is embers. He’s so tired.

Kyungsoo looks at him wide-eyed and he’s cradling his wrist to his chest, as if Jongin’s touch scalds. He looks almost… afraid?

“Kyungsoo, I want to tell you that-”

“Kyungsoo,” a man interrupts from the entrance into the main hall. He looks vaguely familiar, very prim and proper, even more so than Kyungsoo. “I’ve been looking for you. Will you be joining us soon?”

A crease forms between Kyungsoo’s eyebrows and he straightens up, facing the man in a respectful manner. “Yes I will, just let me take care of a few things.”

The man considers Jongin worryingly, taking a hesitant step back into the party, but turns swiftly and is out of sight. Kyungsoo lets out a breath.

“Jongin, I know you like me,” Kyungsoo is looking somewhere to the left of Jongin’s head, “but you can’t continue this. It’s highly improper. I’m flattered, but I don’t appreciate it one bit. Please go back home. Please, I’m begging you.”

“Kyungsoo,” Jongin tries, gathering the right words scattered all over his mind, “Kyungsoo I think I’m in love with you-“

“Don’t give me that, Jongin. Please just leave me alone.”

“But I do. I would do anything for you.”

“Jongin, please,” Kyungsoo takes a step back to the hustle and bustle of the main hall. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You need to go home.”

Jongin squares his jaw as Kyungsoo continues to walk back, not quite facing away but he’s not turning around either. Something red lurches in Jongin’s vision and once again he’s taking footsteps, slow at first but then picking up and he has Kyungsoo by the shoulders and the warm orange light paints his features so soft and his eyes seem to only get wider and wider and his mouth moves to say something but Jongin’s kissing him quiet, kissing him breathless.

Kyungsoo stills completely. His lips are softer than they look, and very warm. Jongin’s neck is craned downwards and he has one hand cradling Kyungsoo’s cheek and the other steadying them both on his shoulder. He hesitantly traces Kyungsoo’s bottom lip with his tongue and he feels Kyungsoo move underneath his hands. He braces for a forceful push and a slap. He’s overstepped so many boundaries.

Instead, Kyungsoo places a hand on top of Jongin’s on his cheek, and prise his hand off timidly. The other pushes Jongin away, not hard but not soft.

The tingle of the kiss still flits across Jongin’s lips. Kyungsoo swallows, searches Jongin’s for something. And then he lifts his hand and Jongin flinches automatically, but he places it very softly on Jongin’s cheek. The touch is lukewarm to the hard blush on Jongin’s face.

Kyungsoo sighs, caresses his thumb over Jongin’s cheekbones and steps back, looking so small against the big wooden doors of the entrance. The string between their gazes comes back, getting looser and looser until Kyungsoo slips back into the main hall, out of sight, and Jongin’s left alone with no one on the other side of the line.

--

By the time they touchdown in Beijing the air has simmered down to something blue and jaded. All conversation has been limited to the occasional look at this and can you hold this for me and their heavy footsteps drag. It’s late morning, but it feels like midnight, and they’ve been awake for so long that a silent agreement has been formed that when they get to the hotel it’s lights out immediately, no exceptions.

Jongin looks at the foreign signs and dolled-up air hostesses walking past in high heels, and realizes without much care that all airports are exactly the same.

His lips are still tingling at the seams, can still feel the warm touch of Kyungsoo’s palm on his cheek. He wonders if Kyungsoo feels the same.

They wake up that night, when Sehun manages to turn on the provided television and the volume had been left on full. It blasts through to both the rooms (It’s Sehun’s turn to have his own) and it startles Jongin so bad that it felt like his dream-self had fallen off a skyscraper. He jerks awake and waits for his eyes to adjust to the off-white walls, pale colours flickering from TV screen illuminating through its muted reach.

Something mandarin is eating his ear off from the lounge. A loud groan, Chanyeol’s, comes from the other bed.

“Sorry,” Sehun calls out. He doesn’t sound sorry.

Jongin opts for going back to bed but he desperately needs to pee and his stomach is dissolving itself from hunger. The strong air conditioner has made his throat dry.
Sehun has a cup of tea in front of him, feet on the coffee table, but what surprises Jongin most is that he is decked out in his new jeans, the ridiculously expensive white wife-beater and leather jacket, and his eyes are lined and hair slicked. Sehun looks like he’s about to go to a rave.

“Are you going somewhere?” Jongin asks, scratching an itch on his jaw. The fruity scent of the tea is making his stomach growl.

Sehun flicks through the channel, looking like he’s watching TV just to practice his nonchalant, rich boy act, “We are going to party.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere, whatever. You know what I always wanted to do if I got to travel? Meet sexy, foreign girls with big tits. You and Chanyeol have been mopping around ever since that devil kicked us out of that function so I have single-handedly decided it’s time for me to fulfil my one wish.”

“Okay,” Jongin shrugs, bee lining to the loo, “sure. If you want. But I don’t really know where the good party’s at.”

Sehun snorts, dragging out easy. “Before we left on this big adventure I google searched all the places to be in our world tour, and I’ve got a list of hot spots-“

Sigh. “Who even says hot-spots in real life-“

“In Beijing for us to rip apart. Man, this is gonna be a night, and you better dress fly because you’re wing man number one.”

When Jongin returns it’s like Sehun’s suitcases have been spilled all over the beige couch, leather pants and blazers and monochrome tees with the owner sitting on the coffee table, cup of tea in one hand and the other tapping his chin in thought.

“I’m thinking all white for you,” Sehun says, shuffling pants and jackets around, gingerly placing some aside.

“I would look kinda dumb.”

“I know, but your skin tone in all black? We’d lose you in the night.”

“Fuck you.”

Their conversation is broken with Chanyeol padding into the lounge with only his cartoon boxers on, rubbing his eyes and looking like an oversized eight year-old. “What’s going on?”

“Sehun’s taking us ou-“

“WE ARE GONNA PARTY.”

Chanyeol shakes his head, his face scrunched in confusion. “What?”

Jongin starts to reply but Sehun holds his hand up sharply. “We,” he gives a pointed look to Jongin, “are going out into the city to have a ball. You are going to dress up and so is Jongin, once I put together a decent set of clothes, and I have a list. That’s right, a list, of clubs to hit up and hook up with hot Chinese girls - boys, in Jongin’s case ouch don’t hit me.”

Jongin retracts his palm and resists the urge to crack his knuckles. Knowing Chanyeol he practically jumps at any idea that involves dressing up and having a good time, so when Chanyeol shrugs and scratches the back of his head, muttering a soft yeah sure without any enthusiasm painted on his face, Jongin narrows his eyes in suspicion. Even when Chanyeol’s tired, he would still one way or another express some form of joy in something he would be excited about, and this sad, emo version of Chanyeol only comes out in times of extreme negativity. He’s only shown this side once when his grandfather passed away, and he wouldn’t eat for a week.

Sehun, too busy sorting through the clothes, doesn’t notice Chanyeol’s emotional state so when he pads tiredly into his private room, Jongin timidly peeks around the door and asks if he can come inside.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Chanyeol sits on the double bed, looking at the opposite wall.

“Nothing, just, are you okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”

Chanyeol laughs a little, and then returning to the somber attitude like it never changed at all. “Am I that obvious?”

“We’ve been living together for the past three years. I’ve practically memorized that stupid face. And yeah, you are pretty obvious. So what’s going on, man?”

Chanyeol shakes his head, sticks out his bottom lip and falls onto his back on the bed, eyes trained on the ceiling. “It’s just…”

“HEY,” Sehun’s annoying voice shouts through the door, “I’VE GOT AN OUTFIT.”

“Kyungsoo’s…” Chanyeol trails off, Jongin’s heart lurching into the hollow of his throat.

“You don’t like him, do you?” Wow Jongin way to sound like a clingy teenage girl.

“No no no,” Chanyeol reassures not so well, waving lazily and still droned on the ceiling. “It’s just… Kyungsoo’s really different than when I knew him a long time ago.”

He looks like he has more things to say so Jongin bites back his sarcastic response.

Chanyeol continues, the calls from Sehun ignored in the background, “it’s obvious he would be different. It’s been over nine years for goodness sake. And I know he has it rough at home and all.”

“He does?” Jongin asks, curious. Kyungsoo looks very well brought up and pampered.

“You must’ve realized by now,” Chanyeol tries to give Jongin that are you serious look but he’s too melancholic to change his face so he just turns to look at him, “why he’s so successful at such a young age. Sure he’s motivated and hard-working and all that but this is all his hard-earned cash, none of that old money mumbo jumbo. He’s not even interested in the money, so why work so goddamn hard?”

Jongin settles into the chair by a wooden work table. “Parents?”

Chanyeol purses his lips. “He’ll tell you the details in time. But now… I don’t know. What are we even doing, Jongin?”

“Hey, you said it yourself. If we’re not doing this for Kyungsoo than we’re doing this for the hell of it.”

“HEY GUYS, DON’T IGNORE ME.” Sehun barrels into the room with an array of white clothes draped over his arm.

“Shut up,” Jongin spits out and Chanyeol sighs. The TV in the lounge is playing some mandarin pop, beats heavy and cheesy and it makes Jongin tap his foot.

“Come on, come on!” the clothes are tossed at Jongin. “The night is young people! We’re not gonna be toned as fuck forever, let’s go!”

And as Sehun leaves the room, he turns around and points a finger at them both, “and don’t any of you mention Do fucking Kyungsoo tonight. He will not kill the mood again. Tonight is ours.”

The destined club lays in the heart of the city, sheltered by creeping skyscrapers blaring LED brighter than any they’ve seen anywhere. The night is dripping hot orange and scarlet red, from the dresses of girls sashaying past or expensive cars racing over limit down the highway. In the atmosphere something is burning, something is bound to give way in a city that seems to have just woken up.

There is an impossibly long line leading to the entrance to which Sehun ignores completely and heads straight for the bouncer. He’s so big he could have been a part time sumo wrestler. Sehun seems unfazed by how he's literally half his size. Jongin and Chanyeol stand nervously to the side, but following Sehun’s lead, act as if they own the place.

The ensemble Sehun has chosen for Jongin to wear did end up being all white: white three-quarter slacks, a white oversized loose cotton thing that Jongin has no idea what it actually is (blouse? Jumper? Bed sheets?), white slip ons that apparently cost more than the pants and top-thing combined, and Sehun had specifically instructed Jongin not to wear socks. Sehun also somehow had acquired the knowledge and possession of eye shadow, and lined his eyes in a bloody red, and Jongin above anything else felt like he looked really stupid.

“Why am I wearing red eye shadow, and dressed like the pope himself?” he had asked Sehun, flinching each time the brush dabbed at his eyelids.

“It’s the aesthetic, Jongin. God.” Sehun rolled his eyes like he himself was some sort of fashion guru.

In a surprising turn of events, the bouncer actually let them through with only a quick scan of ID. At the questioning of Chanyeol, Sehun winked and a smirked toyed with his glossed lips. “What are you talking about? I’m Oh Sehun, spoilt son of old money just having another night out in town.”

Damn he should really quit medicine for that acting career.

Jongin’s been to a fair share of clubs in his short adulthood, but this one is definitely the most crowded and hyped up. The strobe lights could cause a seizure, and everyone’s jumping in time to the beat like one entity. The bar is packed with people copping a feel at each other. There is no room in the dance floor to actually dance, like properly, not just the jumping and waving arms in the air. Jongin finds this a personal offence.

Chanyeol, intoxicated by the atmosphere, has lost all traces of melancholy and looks like he’s ready to turn the fuck up. Sehun, as usual, has disappeared. Probably off to find the nearest foreign chick with big tits. It’s a bit of a shame; Jongin had wanted to dance together.
They dive into the crowd, Chanyeol more enthusiastically than Jongin, and the music somehow gets even louder, thrumming through the sweaty bodies and deep into Jongin’s bones. He swims and swims in between people and finds a little sliver of floor to move around in, Chanyeol gone from his side.

It’s been so long since Jongin had been practically drowning in music, loud and solid. He has no time or breathing space to imagine a routine in his head, just the blaring instinct to dance, to just move.

He doesn’t know how long he’s in the mass of bodies, controlled by the heavy bass. Sehun finds him somehow, dragging him to the bar and pushing shots to him. They down shot after glass after mixes and then things start to gloss over. Orange haze, smelling of sweat and dizzying perfume.

All he hears is Sehun’s laughter, the knock of slamming his glass down empty, and the loud beat pulsating through the floors and loud in his chest until he’s unsure which his heartbeat is and which the music is.

--

He’s dying. Jongin’s dying. He’s so sure. He feels like he ate his brain and he’s about to throw it up and the missing chunk of his mind is bleeding out. His legs are aching and each movement to his shoulder sends pain flaring red hot and bruising. What happened, what the hell fucking happened.

Battling with his eyelids is the first obstacle. Moving his body is obviously a no-go so perhaps making sure he isn’t lying in a ditch in the woods is the best thing he can do. When he manages one eye open he sees the grey of his dark hotel room, his suitcase opened and a hazard by the edge of the wall. From this he concludes that he is in fact in his bed, and oh, that wet snoring sound must be Chanyeol.

His senses slowly return one by one and by far the most alarming is his throat, drier than it’s been the whole trip and his thirst so bad it overshadows (for a little bit) the throbbing in his forehead. Jongin mentally groans, it’ll be hell to try to move any part of his body, but it’ll be like getting throat fucked by Satan if he doesn’t getting a drink of water in the next minute.
His phone notification light is blinking white on the floor, and he makes note to check that after the drink and probably toilet run.

This dysphoria could be the result of Jongin not used to getting drunk very often, or it could be the greatest hangover he’s ever had. He isn’t very sure.

The pain doesn’t feel as bad once his body his body is in motion but it still isn’t nice. He blindly makes it for the kitchen, hearing the noise of a kettle boiling and pattering footsteps sliding across the tiles. It should be Sehun, but when Jongin’s eyes come into focus, he’s met with a whole heap of topless tanned skin, abs, and turquoise hair. Jongin’s throat’s too dry to say a word, so he opts to stare in confusion. He’s never seen this man in his life, and he’s too shitfaced to figure who is lost in whose hotel room right now.

“Good morning,” turquoise hair says, and it doesn’t register with Jongin fully until a few moments later that it’s said in Korean with a slight accent.

Jongin would continue staring but he spots a glass cup by the sink, glistening with droplets and utterly beautiful in the morning light. He lunges for it, winces later, and fills it to the brim. He skulls it without a second thought and slams the cup on the sink, gasping for air.

Then Jongin says to the stranger, “good morning. Who are you?”

“I’m Huang Zitao,” it’s said like it’s obvious.

“I’m Kim Jongin. What are you doing here?”

“I’m making coffee. Do you want some?”

“No thanks.”

They nod, Zitao glaring daggers at Jongin who’s just blinking sleepily and missing the softness of his bed, and separate quietly. For now, a stranger in the hotel room can be someone else’s problem. The tinkering of ceramic mugs reminds Jongin of the background noise of high-end restaurants Kyungsoo likes to take him to.

Jongin crashes into a large body as his eyes drift closed. The ache in his shoulders is blinding. He hears a groan sounding like Chanyeol’s.

“Sorry,” he moans, rubbing his arms and giving up on his bed, heading to the couch instead. Chanyeol continues padding to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Zitao greets him. Jongin curls up on the couch and wills himself to stop thinking about anything. The kitchen conversation wavers in the air.

“Good morning. Who are you?”

“I’m Huang Zitao,” he doesn’t sound frustrated at all, as if he’s proud of he’s own name.

“I’m Chanyeol. Are you making coffee?”

“Yes. Do you want some?”

“Yes please, thank you.”

Silence. More tinkering of mugs.

“Sorry, what was your name again?” Chanyeol asks.

“Huang Zitao.”

“It’s just that you look really familiar,” Chanyeol huffs. “I don’t know, my head is killing me.”

“I was in last month’s issue of GQ Korea. And I think they’ve changed most of the billboards in the city here to my new pictures. I haven’t seen them yet though, it’s only my second day here.”

“Wait…” Chanyeol voice is raspy. “I think I’ve… seen you before… One of my friends reads fashion magazines, and I think I saw your face-” a sharp gasp, “Zitao. Tao. Are you Tao?”

“Finally, one of you recognizes me.”

Chanyeol’s excitement can be heard in his voice. “One of my friends back in Korea is like in love with you! What are you doing in our hotel room half-naked?”

Zitao - Tao, whatever - snorts. “Don’t you remember me from last night?”

Jongin stirs in his sleep, unable to fully succumb into unconsciousness with both their loud voices echoing into the lounge. His interest in the conversation piques.

“I- I- I didn’t, I,” Chanyeol sputters, “did I? I didn’t… sleep… with you, right? Oh no, I slept with Baekhyun’s future husband and didn’t even remember-“

“God, no! I’m with Sehun.”

Moment of disbelief, and Chanyeol bursts out laughing. Jongin, unable to help himself, guffaws as well because of all people, Oh Sehun, the first one to sleep with a male model. So the gay is contagious.

Chanyeol can’t stop laughing, each time when he seems like he’ll recover he’ll fall back laughing harder, and he gets so loud that Zitao starts to giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. No one notices Sehun coming out of his room.

“What’s going on?” Sehun mumbles sleepily, walking around Chanyeol’s convulsing body on the floor and back hugging Zitao, tucking his chin in the crook of Zitao’s shoulder. Chanyeol erupts into another bout of laughter.

Jongin slinks off the couch for another glass of water, and really gets a good look at Zitao, now whispering something to Sehun’s ear, kitten smile and wandering hands. He does have the model physique: high nose, jaw sharp enough to cut, smooth complexion, strong shoulders, well-defined muscles, and legs long enough to match Chanyeol’s. He has that pretty boy aura.

“Jongin, tell me this is a dream,” Chanyeol sighs when he’s done with his fits. They’re watching Sehun and Zitao arguing over what to order for breakfast, both of them whining and nudging each other on the hips. It’s so weird.

“I don’t know man. But who knew that when Sehun said sexy foreign girls with big tits he meant Chinese male model with big biceps.” Jongin shrugs.

“Or maybe a big dick,” Chanyeol says. They both snicker out of control.

“Yeah, Sehun would so bottom,” Jongin says, watching Zitao quickly nose Sehun’s neck, the other squirming away and slapping him in return.

Sehun, not completely oblivious to their conversation in the end, turns around and winks. “You’d be surprised.”

Chanyeol and Jongin groan in disgust. Zitao whacks Sehun on the butt, muttering something in mandarin with a flush spreading across his chest.

Jongin only gets to check his phone a few hours later when Sehun and Zitao sneak out of the hotel room and Chanyeol burns his international minutes to have a chat with Baekhyun in the lounge, retelling the entire morning with so much enthusiasm it’s hard to believe he’s still hung-over.
His heart flips when he sees it’s a text from Kyungsoo - actually, several texts from Kyungsoo. Jongin swallows nervously, tossing his phone on the bed and preparing himself with some pep-talk.

“It’s just Kyungsoo,” he rocks back and forth on the floor, flicking his eyes periodically on the phone, “you love Kyungsoo.”

It’s true, he does love Kyungsoo. Absolutely head over heels in love with him. But that does not make Do Kyungsoo any less terrifying as a person.

“Kim Jongin, get your shit together,” he whispers, slapping himself hard on the face. The phone sits there, innocently insistent on ruining Jongin’s life.

He snatches the phone and opens the text before he can stop himself, and sees several cold looking texts and- what? He scrolls up to the first one and see that it’s a reply to something he wrote and he’s very sure he hasn’t texted Kyungsoo since he was in Korea. Did Sehun text him from Jongin’s phone to screw with him? Jongin scrolls up, and up and up and up, and the world falls away for an apprehensive silence. All of these texts were sent last night, when they were still at the club.

​fuck you

​fuckkk you i hate u so much do u

​i only want to spend as much time with u as possible and wish for u to return to seoul and then
​do u know

​i bet u do don’t u u know exactly

​god i love u so much

​so much!!!!!!!

​its ok if u don’t like me u will eventually I've got so many other girls who will date me do u know that

​and maybe they're not as rich or cute as u but wtv im out ur league anyway!!!

​we can work this out right? im not the only one here right?

​i love you so much i would do anything for you, you know that

​please don’t hate me i just want u to be happy

​fuckck u do kyungsoo<3

​fckk auto fill fck

Jongin drops his phone on the bed sheets, sobbing into his hand. He wishes he could die a thousand times over because he actually sent Kyungsoo these texts, and Kyungsoo saw them and he replied and fuck him. How can the universe be so cruel to a young man in the conquest for love? What did he do in his past life do deserve this?

Jongin contemplates not reading Kyungsoo’s texts at all and deleting them straight out of his phone but that doesn’t undo them from Kyungsoo’s eyes and even after all that he still loves Kyungsoo to death. Outside, Chanyeol is talking very loudly to Baekhyun about how Paris was.
Eventually Jongin works up the dignity to face Kyungsoo’s replies. His mind and body is numb as he opens the texts again and reads over Kyungsoo’s neat, articulate replies. It feels surreal.
​What? Jongin are you drunk?

​Please get yourself together. It’s unbecoming. Honestly.

And then, quite a while after the previous-

​Meet me at Houhai at 5.

Suspended in the moment, Jongin’s breath hitches. His heart thumps loudly, achingly, once, and then speeds up and his stomach twists and turns in a frenzy. The room is quiet and still but Jongin feels that the universe is breaking and exploding all around.

A hurricane rages in his chest, threatening to break free of his ribs, and he texts back, okay.

--

The air is thick with pollution and summertime. The sun hidden somewhere in the cloudy smog seems to have wormed its way into the pores of Jongin’s skin, and he feels like he’s glowing from the inside out. He’s dressed in one of Sehun’s monochromatic t-shirts from Paris because all of his clothes have been stolen by Chanyeol to do laundry.

Houhai turns out to be a lake encircled by shops and some old architecture. The place is also huge, and Jongin almost lets himself believe that fateful encounters would help him find his way to Kyungsoo but that would be a stretch. Until, of course, he’s rounding a building into a street with cars lining the sides and spots the man himself, staring off into the murky waters of the lake, leaning against a slick black car. Kyungsoo’s dressed casually, donning a beige sweatshirt and black shorts - his calves strikingly pale - and black Nikes, without a speck of dirt.

Something must have alerted Kyungsoo because he turns directly to face Jongin. In the light his skin is pale and eye bags dark, hair falling loosely over his eyebrows. He gets into the driver’s seat wordlessly and Jongin climbs into the passenger’s. Between is a tension thicker than honey.
Kyungsoo starts driving, putting on some quiet, mellow music. The type Jongin could see himself dancing to by the Han.

“Where are we going?” Jongin doesn’t exactly break the silence. His voice is so small and low it blends smoothly into the atmosphere.

“Nowhere. I just needed something to distract my hands.” It’s hard to pinpoint the emotions in his voice.

The car comes onto the main highway and is immediately swept up in the evening rush traffic. Kyungsoo sighs and leans back onto his seat, carding fingers through his hair. Jongin taps his knees together in beat to the song playing. It finishes, and the next song that plays is the Kyungsoo’s Song, the one that he had Jongin dance to before he told him he was leaving.

“This song,” Jongin whispers, more to himself.

Kyungsoo is staring at the dashboard. “You know, when I first heard this song, it reminded me of a story I read. Just a typical love story, person A the singer meets person B the dancer, they fall in love with time, but person B has something terminal and person A tries their best but not even love can triumph over cancer. But that’s not important.”

The car inches forward in the hold up, heat waves snaking all around.

“I thought it was an alright love story,” Kyungsoo continues, sliding his hands from the steering wheel onto his lap. “But I’ve been listening to this song for years now and it’s because of this one scene in the story, where one of them is singing a song at a bar and the other is watching them with scary intensity, and then he starts dancing to it. It plays like a movie in my head. The camera is focused on the singer’s grip on the microphone and then it cuts and pans across the bar and then finally focuses on the dancer leaning against the bar, one hand holding his gin and the other balled tightly into a fist on the counter.”

Jongin doesn’t know the story, but he can see it unravel in his mind. The song passes the first chorus and the second verse starts with a sole cello on the base line.

“And here, it’s a different scene. They’re in a field. The dancer wants to perform for the singer but there’s no music. So he imagines it in his head and begins to move to the beat. And then the cello base line follows his movements, and he traces the notes of the cello solo in the air and his hands burn a trail of light into the singer’s mind.”

The song is at the second chorus and Jongin remembers the first time he danced to this song, how he was pulled along by the cello, how the beats whispered above the piano melody.

“When I saw you dancing by the Han I thought about that scene. How you moved exactly like the dancer in the story,” Kyungsoo says. “I could see the lights coming out of your hands.”

Jongin glances over to see Kyungsoo’s expression, catching Kyungsoo taking a look at him and they both turn away, Jongin blushing at the cheeks.

“Ugh, look,” Kyungsoo shakes his head, clenching his hand on the steering wheel. “I’m not that good at saying what I feel, and I’m still unsure about so many things. And I’m not reckless like you. I was carefree once, but not anymore.”

Kyungsoo bites his lips, and Jongin remembers how they were soft and warm and trembling that night in Paris. How he hadn’t shoved him away but gently pried him off and held Jongin’s face in the dense quiet.

Jongin mumbles, “You know I love you. I would do anything you want."

Kyungsoo laughs, “No you won’t. You didn’t stop following me when I told you, like, every time we’ve met since Tokyo.”

“But that’s different. How can I properly shower you with adoration if I’m not physically near you?”

“Which is more important, Jongin? Me or your love for me?”

Jongin swallows nervously, looking out the window at the cars and their tired drivers. If someone looks into their car right now would they see the same thing?

“There’s nothing back in Seoul from me,” Jongin says.

“What about dancing?”

“It doesn’t matter where I am for dancing. As long as I want to there’s nothing stopping me.”

“You’ll find that everything won’t be that easy, Jongin.”

“And you’ll find that some things in life aren’t always so complicated, hyung.”

“Stop being childish.”

“Stop pushing me away! After all this time, don’t you like me? Even just a little bit?”

Kyungsoo doesn’t answer. Then, after a minute, “I don’t know.”

“It’s just a yes or no question.”

“Okay fine, what if I say yes? What does that leave us with? Do you think I could just adopt you into my life like a stray? You think love can solve everything? If anything it just creates more problems.”

Jongin taps his fingers on his lap, unconsciously syncopating with the song playing. Kyungsoo’s one ended some time ago. “So… does that mean you like me?”

“You-” Jongin flinches at the crack of Kyungsoo’s tone, sharper than a whip, “are the single most frustrating human being I’ve ever had the misfortune to know. Absolutely selfish, immature, irresponsible, not to mention you have no sense of personal space or how to spend money wisely and you have no aspirations-“

“But,” Jongin grins, “you like me.”

“So what,” Kyungsoo mumbles. His grip on the steering wheel is so hard his knuckles are white. “I still might be transferred. You’re still a brat. It doesn’t change anything.”

Before Kyungsoo can even blink Jongin has leaned over the centre console and planted a peck on Kyungsoo’s burning cheek. It’s more of a brush of his lips because of the seatbelt cutting into his chest and waist, but it feels all the same. Feels like a million fireworks in his stomach and tastes just as bright and promising.

“Everything, hyung. Everything has changed.”

--

Zitao doesn’t hit Jongin as a celebrity until Jongin actually starts paying attention to his surroundings instead of drifting off, and yes indeed, Zitao is a celebrity down to a t.

He’s everywhere Jongin looks, literally. It’s as though he’s modelling for everything that can be modelled for: jewellery, food, high-end clothing, coffee, underwear, the list is never-ending. On TV as well, he’ll either be on the ads or on a variety show or walking the carpet of some event with a parade of other ridiculously attractive people. Jongin feels like Zitao - or more popularly known as Tao - is being shoved down his throat.

Which is why when Sehun brings Zitao over to the hotel room, Jongin throws a fit and yells at them to bolt the door shut and draw the curtains.

“Calm down,” Sehun says, fingers entwined with Zitao’s and Jongin has to wonder how a noodle like Sehun got the attention of one of China’s most prominent supermodels.

“But,” Jongin whispers, still sure that maybe the crazy fans had the room bugged. “What about the paparazzi? Or the sasaengs?”

“It’s fine,” Zitao waves off this time, mouth uncomfortable with the foreign language. “I was careful with being undercover today.” He’s dressed in all black but still something about him screams Born to Be Famous.

“Oh yeah, also. Tao invited us to a party! All of us!”

Jongin lifts an eyebrow. “What kind of party?”

The couple tries to squeeze onto the couch that Jongin’s occupying but he gives it to them willingly, not wanting to be near a vomit-inducing cuddle fest. He rests his butt on the coffee table.

“It’s a launching event by a company I’m endorsing. My manager had already arranged a partner for me but I don’t think he’d mind if I bring a few extra people. They can’t say no to Tao.”

“Yeah,” Sehun says excitedly, “isn’t that awesome? Another rave!”

“That sounds okay,” Jongin shrugs. He’s been to enough raves the past month to last three lifetimes. “Tonight? Casual? Semi-fancy?”

“Yeah. EXO’s launching is a big deal, so leave the dress and makeup to me,” Zitao says.

Several things flash through Jongin’s mind. “Did you say EXO?”

“Yeah, I’m their brand ambassador-“

“It’s EXO’s launching event?”

“Like I just said.”

Jongin emits a high pitched sound in his throat and stares wide-eyed at the couple on the couch. Sehun looks exasperated, Zitao confused. He whispers to Sehun, “Is he one of those die-hard Apple stans or something?”

Sehun shakes his head. “No. We better not bring him along. He probably has a really bad idea in mind.”

Somehow it turns into an okay idea as they are being escorted up some stairs, a chandelier hanging majestically overhead and faint chamber music wafting from a vague direction.

Zitao’s partner turns out to be a-list actor and Asia’s number two most handsome man Wu Yifan, or better known as Kris, towering over all of them in a black suit and silver hair. Because Jongin is pretty much playing for the other team, he accepts the fact that yes, Yifan is pretty hot and if his heart did not already belong to Kyungsoo, he would jump on that without a second thought. He finds himself asking the same question again twice in a day: why is Huang Zitao in a relationship with loser and anime otaku Sehun when the model is surrounded by beautiful pieces of flesh, ripe for the picking?

Zitao is talking rapidly and loudly to Sehun at the front of the entourage, with Yifan looming over their shoulders brooding over something or other. Chanyeol is nudging at Jongin’s arm and he’s taking little footsteps so Jongin doesn’t fall behind, that endearing asshole.
“So,” Chanyeol whispers, “excited?”

Jongin shuffles just a little away for some personal space, “yeah?”

“Even after that one party Kyungsoo’s kicked us out of, you’re just gonna keep sneaking into one until somehow you get into his pants?”

“I’ve already kind of gotten into his pants. He’s been ignoring me for the past few days so I’m just trying to grab his attention.”

Chanyeol throws a heavy arm over Jongin’s shoulder, “I’m sorry if this is a bit late, but I have a story to tell you that might be helpful to this situation.”

“The one about him ignoring me or-“

“Shhh,” Chanyeol covers Jongin’s mouth with his entire hand, like his entire fucking hand practically smothering Jongin’s face, “story time with daddy Park. Once upon a time, there lived a little human called Kyungsoo. He was soft and pale and if you poked him he would bite your finger bloody.”

“That’s lovely, and oddly accurate,” Jongin mutters. Zitao’s excited monologue and the chamber music feel very distant to him, all that’s weighing him down being Chanyeol’s words and the heavy arm warm against his neck.

“Kyungsoo the little human loved three things in his life: his mother, singing, and Pororo; in order of intensity, respectively. He was smart, so goddamn smart and he got all the Certificates of Excellency and the teachers adored him.”

Chanyeol continues. “This is a story of the past, long before our time, Kamjjong. This was when little Kyungsoo had a dream, not of being coerced into graduating uni early and pursuing a high-salary and lonely career. This was little Kyungsoo, wanting to become a singer.”

Blood runs from his stomach to the tips of his fingers, footsteps faltering. Of course, of course. The reason why Kyungsoo is so interested in Jongin’s streetdancing, that sadness that curls his shoulders forward, I was carefree like you once.

“And on the weekends,” Chanyeol continues, “he would drag his taller friend and his taller friend’s guitar out to go busking in town. He sang English songs and trot songs and Shinhwa songs, and little Kyungsoo would sing his little heart out, and by the end of the day he would be slightly less grouchy than when he woke up. Of course, as all things in life do, he would return to his original state of mildly pissed off. You get the picture.

But one weekend he stopped performing in town. The following Monday he quit vocal lessons, and then the rest became a mystery, and everything after became history.”

And suddenly the chamber music is everywhere, in the crease of his suit and the dip of his knuckles and a polite, gentle chatter settling onto his skin. Chanyeol is by his side, grinning like a serial killer and looking at the celebrities and god-awfully rich men in absolute awe. Sehun is dragged away by a surprisingly collected-looking Zitao with Wufan on their heels, eventually swallowed by a crowd of intimidatingly beautiful people.

“Hey, look,” Chanyeol points out, not that Jongin really needs it because his Kyungsoo radar is high-tech as shit.

Kyungsoo, situated towards the middle of the room with a flute of something in his small hands, is looking at them, owl eyes both angry and shocked and tips of his ears flushed pink. When Jongin moves his arm to tug at Chanyeol’s sleeve the space beside is empty, and he’s left to fend for himself.

He steers the conversation first before Kyungsoo can yell at him. “I didn’t know you wanted to be a singer.”

That manages to throw Kyungsoo off for a bit. “What?”

Kyungsoo has a dab of kohl on the edge of his eyes, and his skin is a smooth pale canvas. He looks more and more handsome each day. “You look nice.”

Kyungsoo purses his lips and proceeds to pinch Jongin’s side. “Stop stalling. How did you even get in? Where did you get that suit?”

“I’m here with friends, I swear.”

“You mean Chanyeol and Sehun? Please.”

“Actually I’m here with Tao and Kris. They invited all of us.”

It’s the second time that night that Kyungsoo’s looks shocked. “Tao and Kris? You’re joking.”
Jongin’s defence is cut short when he’s jumped by a giggly Chanyeol, the rest of the party behind basking in the chandelier glow. Kyungsoo is gawking.

“Is this your boyfriend?” Zitao asks, fingers hovering beside Sehun’s but not touching. They must be in undercover mode right now.

“Yeah-”

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo sighs, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The group explodes into argument, Jongin whining and Chanyeol waving his arms in disagreement and Zitao confirming that he invited them so there should be no problem and Sehun watching in a daze and Yifan just brooding, putting his hand on Zitao’s shoulder when the latter gets a bit to passionate and loud.

Kyungsoo in all of this is unfazed. “Tao, you have no position to invite a troop of street rats here. This is a launching event, not a club. You three, out.”

“Hyung,” Jongin wails, “why you gotta be such a party pooper?”

Kyungsoo softens just a teeny bit and he gives Jongin that daisy smile, too subtle for the rest of the crew to realize but then he turns into ice immediately after, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head towards the exit. “Out, or I’ll have to call security. Unofficial guests aren’t allowed in here.”

Another bout of protests is about to start but Kyungsoo glowers at them at all, daring them to defy him, and the room seems to darken and drop in temperature. No one says a word. Sehun is clutching at Zitao’s arm for dear life.

Soon enough they’re being escorted out quietly, defeated. Zitao refuses to leave Sehun’s side and he’s walking with his head held high. Yifan hesitates when Zitao pulls him along, but goes along anyway when Zitao complains that he’s holding everyone up, fixing his already-straight tie.

Chanyeol wows at the outcome of the night. “Strike two.”

“I thought he would want to see me,” Jongin whinges, then he clicks his head in realization. “It’s because I didn’t wear socks, right?”

“I cannot believe it,” Zitao shakes his head. “He said no! To me! I’m Tao, their products are selling well because I endorse them!”

“Zitao, give it a rest,” Yifan pats his back hard.

“How can he say no to me,” Zitao mumbles. “No one says no to Tao.”

part i | part ii | part iv