(for kimkai) Lipstick Liminality [2/3]
Title: Lipstick Liminality
part one
On Thursday they’ve all got big deadlines. Jongin has two. Lu Han stops outside her office window just long enough to wave each time she passes by for another coffee refill, her french roll progressively more frazzled and frizzy. Right before lunch she marches in all the way, her converse wedges squeaking on the rubber guard at the threshold.
“Oh hey! Do you have any files for Minseok? I’m just about to take a batch up to her office.”
“Uh, that’s ok! I’ll just come with you. Take it myself.” Jongin checks the time on her laptop and forgets to smile apologetically as she declines. Lu Han’s smile wavers, the slight wibble of jello as a dull tined fork slices through.
“We’ll be late for lunch if you don’t finish the Arirang Gardens review in ten minutes. Just trust me to get the interview up to Minseok.”
Jongin huffs through her scowl, flicking at the scroll button on her mouse. Lu Han’s ice blue blouse, the rolled hem of the silk neckline, ends right above the gentle swell of her breasts and Jongin wouldn’t trust her hands to not shake if she tried to hand over her file now. Too much coffee on an empty stomach instead of breakfast this morning.
“It’s ok, Unni. I’ll get it done.” Jongin smiles this time, tight lipped and warm and charming. Lu Han stares harder. The loose ruffle that lays just above her cleavage rustles when she props her hands on her slender hips.
“Fine. But we’re not waiting lunch for you. See you downstairs.” She stalks away, hips swaying with what Jongin would call swagger if Lu Han weren’t so fine boned and delicate beneath her leather jacket and flouncy blouse.
Lu Han’s body is all contradictions, powerful thighs and boyish hips, soft in all the right places in a way that makes Jongin’s fingers sink into her keyboard with a muffled groan as she watches Lu Han glide away. Jongin might have won this stand off, but somehow she feels like the loser as she shrinks into her chair, all alone again in the room. She’s not even sure what it is they’re struggling for.
“What was that about.” Sehun has already replaced Lu Han in the doorway, before the elevator has even made it to Minseok’s floor. Sehun steps closer, gesturing grandly with an outstretched hand. Her fingernails are bitten down to the quick, but painted hot pink in a defiant attempt to draw attention to them. Lu Han’s nails aren’t flashy, but they’re always well groomed. Jongin thinks of the sweat stains under the arms of her blouse and the hangnail on her left thumb, and all of a sudden she wants to hide.
“I have ten minutes to finish this, Sehun. Get out of here so I can go to lunch before 3:00.”
“Why didn’t you give her your file? She was just trying to help.” Sehun doesn’t doesn’t budge, just shifts her weight to one hip and wraps her arms across her chest.
“Lu Han is the one who told me not to trust my files with anyone,” Jongin pouts. “Just following orders.”
“You’re not very good at deciphering sarcasm, are you.” It’s not a question, even a rhetorical one, but Sehun taps the toe of her scarred leather boot as if she’s expecting some kind of an answer. Jongin stares back, willing her visitor to leave and stay gone so she can finish her article in peace. “But you agreed to hang out with us on Saturday. Which means you must trust her, at least on some level.”
“Maybe.”
“You want to, but you’re scared to!” Sehun’s eyes flash in triumph with that announcement. Lu Han’s eyes had flashed too, just before she stalked out. Not with anger or vindication, but disappointment.
Disappointment always leaves Jongin feeling dirty. It sticks the back of her throat together with uncertain regret. It’s not that Jongin doesn’t trust Lu Han. Jongin doesn’t trust herself to trust Lu Han, she’s afraid of what might break if she falls into a false sense of security with any kind, but ultimately unpredictable stranger. Especially someone in authority over her. But Sehun doesn’t need to know that.
“Is it your hobby to psychoanalyze people while they’re trying to get work done?”
“What do you think?” Sehun fires back. “Is it a good idea to trust Lu Han?”
Jongin narrows her eyes, tugging on the chain of the locket clasped around her neck. Sehun should know the answer. Sehun knows Lu Han the best.
“I--”
“Definitely not,” Sehun answers for her, sliding back across the room with a nimble sidestep. The door creaks as she eases the hinges open. “But it’s too late now, right?”
On Saturday Jongin takes the bus to the address Sehun texts her, which turns out to be Lu Han’s apartment. The bubble tea shop is apparently confusing to get to, so Lu Han insisted that they meet up first and walk there together. Why they couldn’t just meet at the nearest subway exit Jongin has no idea, but she dutifully puffs her way up three flights of stairs and understands as soon as she rings the bell.
Lu Han answers the door in a pair of black tights pulled up to her navel, frayed cutoffs, and a lace trimmed sports bra. “Oh hey,” she says, waving a foaming toothbrush in one hand, “we’re not quite ready, so just come in for a minute.”
“Sorry to intrude,” Jongin mumbles, clenching her jaw and straining to look past Lu Han into the house. Her eyes catch on a battered cuckoo clock, the muted TV screen with some foreign soccer match playing, wilted roses in a wine bottle on the windowsill--anything to keep her gaze from settling on the elegant lines of Lu Han’s ribcage delineated through a soft layer of milky skin.
“I’ll be right back,” Lu Han says. Jongin bends to pick at the laces of her boots. Her face heats from standing with her head between her knees and she wishes she had worn slip ons.
“Happy weekend.”
Jongin looks up to find Sehun at the entrance to the hall, leaning against the alcove with arms folded across a striped cardigan. Sehun is in blue jeans, faded denim that hugs her subtle curves and makes her legs look like continuous and unending sets of points in a--
“My face is up here, you know.”
Jongin doesn’t have to look up to know Sehun is smirking at her so she glances further down, to the mismatched hues of her own socks. She has got to stop taking shortcuts with laundry and actually fold her socks into pairs or something.
“Are you all ready, Sehunnie?” Lu Han stumbles out of the bathroom, fighting with a sky blue hoodie as she yanks it over her head. A smiling narwhal is printed on the front, and Sehun absently traces the spiral horn across Lu Han’s chest with a long, long finger as she toes on ballet flats. Jongin stuffs her feet back into her boots, not bothering to retie them, and cusses when she trips on a shoelace exiting the elevator.
“Careful, there!” Lu Han laughs, steadying Jongin with a hand on her shoulder. Jongin is taller than her, but just by a bit, maybe a few centimeters. Sehun steps closer, crushing their boss between them. Lu Han snakes an arm around both of their waists and tugs them out to the parking lot. “Hurry up! It’s cold!”
The tea shop is warm, though, the heat cranked up enough to make Jongin unbutton her coat as soon as they step into line. The shop is pretty crowded, most of the tables occupied by young couples or parents with multiple children in tow, but it is Saturday morning and Lu Han mentioned this was a popular joint.
“Do you know what you want?” Lu Han points at the menu tacked up behind the register, cutesy hangeul painted in neon washable paint on a slate chalkboard.
“If you’ve never been here before, you absolutely have to try the chocolate,” Sehun says, catching her lip between her teeth. A few flakes of dry skin float down to catch in the yoke of her sweater and she wets her chapped lips with a swipe of her tongue.
“Is there anything that’s not really sweet?” Jongin squints at the menu, scanning the scrawl for a flavor that doesn’t have modifiers like “double,” “smothered,” or “sinful”.
“The green tea’s not bad.” Lu Han points to the far end of the sign. “It’s kinda refreshing.” She pushes back her hood and shakes her shoulder length waves forward. Her hair isn’t the slightest bit frizzy, even though it’s been tucked under her hood for half an hour. Jongin bites down on her tongue in envy. Some days even a hot shower can’t tame her stubborn affliction of bed head.
Lu Han is the kind of girl Jongin’s always admired, ever since high school. She can pull off combat boots paired with cutoffs and strange graphic hoodies and still look elegant, and she’s electric in mint green ruffled silk. Jongin tugs on her flannel tunic and frowns at how cheap the garish plaid looks against her faded leggings.
Lu Han steps up to order for them, knocking Jongin’s hand from her purse when she reaches for her wallet.
“I got it, don’t worry.” She crumples the receipt in her fist. “You and Sehunnie go get us a spot.”
They find a corner table and Lu Han rejoins them as soon as their order is ready. She hands Sehun a dark chocolatey drink and slides two green ones in front of Jongin as she takes the chair beside her.
Jongin takes a tentative sip through the fat yellow straw punched through the top and swishes the liquid across her tongue. “Not bad,” she says, and takes a more adventurous swallow. “I think the last time I had bubble tea was in grade school, on the beach in Busan.”
“Eh, Busan? I’ve never been.” Lu Han shrugs, slapping a paper napkin at the chocolate dribbling down Sehun’s chin. “Is it as beautiful as everyone says?”
“Yup,” Jongin says, chewing on a boba, “though I might be biased, ‘cause I used to live there.”
“Wait, you’re from Busan?” Sehun slides her back up the padded cushion of the booth, still slouching, but at least she’s back at eye level.
“Yeah.” Jongin reaches for a napkin. “Well, I was born there. My parents are from Seoul.”
“And you went to school in London and New York,” Lu Han says, tonguing a drop of liquid from her straw.
“Mm hm.” The napkin crumples in Jongin’s fist. Lu Han must have read her CV during hiring. Which means she also knows how young Jongin is, that Jongin has next to no experience and--
“So, do you like, have friends here, or?” Sehun’s voice is husky, as dark as the chocolate in her half-empty cup, but her faint lisp is even more pronounced when her tongue is thick with cold. Jongin coughs back a giggle.
“Sometimes I feed my breakfast to my neighbor’s cat.”
“That does not count,” Sehun protests, sitting up to prop her elbows on the table. “We’re strictly enumerating human interactions right now. Positive human interactions.”
“Then I guess we can count you out.” Jongin meets her gaze with a placid smile, her tongue curling around the hints of green tea coating her teeth. Lu Han was right, this drink is refreshing.
“Ooh! Burn!” Lu Han grins, bobbing her head in an easy nod as she glances between the two. Sehun is pouting around her straw, and Jongin has to bite back a victorious smile because Sehun’s had it coming to her, let’s be real.
“So you’re not homesick?”
Jongin’s not expecting that as a follow up question, not at all. “Where is even home?” she bites out, scowling at the spoiled napkin in her fist. It’s perfectly clean but unforgivably crumpled now. “My parents move every three years at least, sometimes annually.”
“Home is where the heart is?” Lu Han reaches over, soothes teasing circles into the back of Jongin’s hand with her thumb. “Where do they live now?”
“Does it matter? They don’t get me at all, so.” Jongin shrugs and floods her mouth with tea. Lu Han gives a wry smile and a little nod like she understands, or she thinks she does.
Sehun arches back, hair ruffling and face scrunching as she hisses out a curse. “Then fuck them. You’re an adult, old enough to just be you. Your heart goes where you tell it to, it’s not some lost puppy waiting to be reclaimed.”
Jongin nods slowly, her lips spreading in a grin around her straw until some of her tea drips down her lips onto the ruined napkin. Somehow, Sehun completely gets her, even though they’re brand new...friends? No, not friends, not really.
Jongin doesn’t know how to label that connection so she doesn’t. She labels all the spices in her cabinet as soon as she gets home, instead. She arranges them in alphabetical order: nutmeg, rosemary, sage. Flavors that don’t taste like home and that no one here can really appreciate beyond their exotic appeal, but they represent the part of her that feels perpetually in transit. Jongin’s too lazy to cook for one person, but it makes her feel better somehow to know they’re there, labeled neatly behind the cabinet door.
The next weeks go by faster than Jongin’s have in a long time. She has deadlines, but it’s not the same as when she was a student. College assignments were carefully researched theses, weeks in the writing with peer-edited drafts and painstakingly formatted footnotes. Now Jongin churns out reviews, hastily proofreads them, and carries the finished work to Minseok all within a few hours.
As quickly as Jongin can finish them Lu Han keeps assignments coming, forwarded interview transcripts and pink sticky note reminders plastered to Jongin’s monitor every time she returns from the bathroom or the elevator.
By Jongin’s third Monday morning at the office she’s already feeling burnt out. After overtime on Thursday to finish an engagement announcement for the weekend issue, she turned down Sehun’s invitation to hang out Saturday, texting back the vague excuse of a headache. But even with the whole weekend to herself, Jongin still feels exhausted. Bumming it alone in her apartment, rearranging the handful of books on her empty shelves and scrubbing down the bathroom tiles, Sehun and Lu Han still managed to take up a lot of space, take over her thoughts.
Jongin couldn’t fall asleep til after 2 AM Sunday night, her over caffeinated brain running wild with ridiculous scenarios of what her coworkers were up to without her. Did they go window shopping for cocktail dresses? Try on all the slinky ones in the same changing stall and take a few selca before leaving the merchandise in a heap on the floor? Did they go drinking? A few rounds of beer in a sports bar, or tequila shots in the crush of a Hongdae club? Did they--
Jongin huffs and gives her head a violent shake. The internet is taking forever to load and she’s running on three hours of sleep and a double shot of espresso. Not the ideal frame of mind for getting shit done at work, but there’s no reason for her imagination to still be going--haywire, getting jealous of far-fetched events that didn’t actually happen, Jongin reminds herself with a pathetic moan. Sehun and Lu Han probably did stuff as predictably lame as Jongin did, like eat eat too many squid snacks in front a musical marathon on cable.
Jongin sighs, still put out with the internet and herself and her childish insecurity. Her breath scatters a flurry of dust bunnies from behind the 2012 desk calendar that’s propped open to March. She fists her hair, winding handfuls of it into a messy bun at the crown of her head, and makes a begrudging mental note to clean in here. Maybe after lunch, or something. Or maybe in January.
Jongin drops her hands with a start as the door pushes open and a vaguely familiar face peeks through the crack.
“Oh, you’re new, aren’t you?” the guy stutters as he does a double take in her doorway. Jongin recognizes him with a second blink as a columnist from her floor. He sits closest to the water cooler, over by the elevator, but she’s never greeted him before. He’s always on the phone or mumbling to himself, so she just ducks a bow and hurries past.
“Oh, yes, I’ve been here about two weeks,” Jongin says, self consciously fluffing her fringe. The length of her hair probably looks like a freeze dried tornado now, since she spent the last hour mindlessly teasing it with her fingers. Jongin makes another mental note to think of a more grown-up and less obvious stress tic, one that does not make her look like an electrocuted poodle. It’s about time to chop off her perm, anyway.
“Well, allow me to welcome you, and, uh,” the guy fumbles in his pocket for a business card and steps forward to hand it over. Kris Wu, Assistant Sports Correspondent, Associated Press, the card reads in both English and Korean, with some chinese characters at the bottom Jongin can’t make out.
The edges are a bit dog eared and the stiff paper curls in the palm of her hand. Jongin grabs for the card holder on her desk before realizing with a hot blush that they’re just the generic company cards; Ryeowook in HR still hasn’t printed up her personal ones.
“I’m Kim Jongin,” she says, standing to offer a handshake instead.
Kris raises an eyebrow at the move but his grip is firm, as if he’s well accustomed to the action. Jongin’s smile widens as she drops his hand. She guessed right then, about his foreign name. It must be more than a bid for coolness if he’s well versed in Western business culture.
Kris smiles back, but it’s a faint curl of his lips and he just stands there, thighs pressed into the front of her desk as he rubs the underside of his nose with his knuckles.
“Did you, need something? Some files, or?” Jongin waves at the shelves of color coded binders behind her, some sort of archive left by the former occupant. She hasn’t had the time nor the nerve to explore them yet, but she assumes they’re important if they’ve been preserved here since March 2012.
“Oh! Uh, no?” Kris squeaks, his deep voice jumping two octaves. “I’m good, I’m.” He sniffs loudly and yanks at the band of his wristwatch. “I’ll just be going, then. But lovely meeting you, Kim-ssi.”
“Please, it’s Jongin,” she smiles, clasping her hands at the front of her shirtwaist dress. Kris smiles too as he backs out the door, still fidgeting with the band of his gold watch. He neglects to pull the door closed behind him, but Jongin just shakes her head with a flustered laugh and gets back to work.
It wasn’t worth the effort to close it anyway. Sehun pops her head in not ten minutes later, when Jongin’s an agonizing paragraph and a half away from finishing a most pressing report of some high society wedding.
“Let’s go eat.” Sehun pouts, rattling the door handle. The fingerless gloves that extend to her knobby elbows are damp at the palms, as if she tried to wash her fingertips without taking them off. The cheap acrylic squeaks against the brass handle. “You almost done?”
“Almost,” Jongin grunts. “Don’t distract me and I’ll finish faster.”
“Why on earth would I be distracting?” Sehun says, her voice the dark and innocent slide of sugary soda through the white serrated edges of her teeth. Jongin keeps typing, muttering the lines under her breath as she goes. Sehun makes a few growly noises but shuts up after that, the only sounds in the room the muffled tapping of Jongin’s keyboard and the sigh of the heater fan.
Jongin can’t keep her eyes on the screen though, her gaze flicking up to map Sehun’s erratic journey around the room. The thin rayon of her floral jumper, too thin for November, flutters at the hinge of her knees. Sehun’s freshly bleached bangs trip over her forehead into her eyes just as often as her tongue flicks between chapped lips. That is to say, with almost every other breath.
Jongin frowns as Sehun’s long, pale fingers skitter over the dust blanketed knick knacks lining the side shelves. She holds her breath, waiting for disaster, but fortunately Sehun only knocks over a plastic Doraemon head and not one of the crystal figurines. Jongin hates cleaning up broken glass and she really doubts Sehun would be polite enough to clean up her own messes in someone else’s office.
“Do you smoke?”
Jongin’s fingers stutter over the keys at the sudden question. “No,” she says, correcting a mistyped comma to a period.
“Good. It’s a nasty habit, and too many blokes around this office already do.”
“Blokes?” Jongin repeats, reading over the last few sentences and deciding to copy/paste the description of the bride’s gown to the bottom.
“Yeah, like Minseok’s favorite sports columnist, Kris Wu.” Sehun spits out the last syllable of his name like a sarcastic “woo hoo”.
“Kris Wu,” Jongin repeats again, because it seems like that strategy is lulling Sehun into thinking she’s listening.
“Yeah, two packs a day. He’s quite a slave to his smoke breaks. Han unni used to smoke too, you know, but I talked her out of it.”
“You talked her into quitting?” Jongin glances over the monitor to catch Sehun’s eyes with a calculating glare. “Lu Han doesn’t seem like a woman to be talked out of anything she’s set on.”
Jongin’s not sure why there’s a sudden curl of defiance stiffening in her gut. She’s never been one to defend another’s honor, but maybe it has to do with how much she admires her boss. Lu Han’s gentle confidence and easy independence is exactly the sort of character Jongin wishes she projected herself.
“Oh, she’s stubborn alright. But this mouth is quite persuasive.” Sehun circles a long finger close to her darkened mouth, outlining the seam of her scarlet lips. Jongin licks at the dull rose shade coating her own.
“You must have one helluva persistent voice,” Jongin bites back. She worries the inside of her lip with her teeth as she types the last period, considering. Sehun’s voice is rather nice. Not pleasant exactly, but intriguing--definitely. Her husky voice could be classified as sultry if it weren’t for the drowsy tone overlaid, which imbues her whole aura with heightened mystique.
Long story short, Sehun confuses Jongin, right in the ass. “Well how long did it take you to--”
“Hey, bitches!” Lu Han breezes through the door, blowing a kiss as Jongin saves her article with a keyboard shortcut and a click of her mouse.
“Who says I did the talking with my voice?” Sehun whispers as Jongin stands to greet Lu Han.
“Let’s go!” Lu Han gives each of their shoulders a squeeze and pulls them forward. “The cafeteria calls!” She ushers them to the door, one hand still clamped over the shoulder pad of Jongin’s jacket.
“The menu any good today?” Jongin asks. She pauses at the last shelf to right the plastic Doraemon face Sehun disturbed.
“Oh, I didn’t check,” Lu Han sighs before gasping out a nasally giggle at the figurines, a jumble of anime action figures and tacky spun glass shepherdesses and ballerinas. “Oh--so cute! I see you’re making yourself at home in your new office!”
“Oh, they’re not mine,” Jongin says, wiping the fine grit of heavy dust on her tweed wool shorts. “They were just here.”
“Ah, must’ve been Chanyeol’s then,” Lu Han says, nodding. “I didn’t know she was into ballet, though.”
“She probably wasn’t.” Jongin’s snort startles Lu Han and Sehun looks up at the sound, slipping her phone into the pocket of her cardigan. “I mean, ‘cause those dancer figurines are anatomically inaccurate.”
“You mean like Barbie?” Sehun smirks, “bulging softcore boobs with no nipples?”
“N-no,” Jongin stammers, tongue suddenly parched. “Just--the ballet positions have terrible technique. The artist obviously wasn’t a dancer, and I doubt the customer was either.”
“And you consider yourself more informed than the ignorant artist because?” Sehun’s voice isn’t loud, but her tone is interrogating as she crowds Jongin ahead of her into the elevator.
“I used to dance.” It was a required subject for all females at Jongin’s pretentious European prep school.
“That much I assumed,” Sehun says, “but you don’t anymore?”
Jongin gulps, hoping to ease the thick lump swelling under her dry tongue, and glances away from Sehun’s determined gaze. Lu Han is preoccupied, texting away as the elevator sinks through the layers of corporate hell--management, accounting, PR--down to the bowels of the cafeteria.
“I guess I haven’t had the opportunity, lately.”
Sehun answers the defiant jut of Jongin’s raised chin with a slow nod. “Then no excuses this weekend. You’re coming out with us.”
The elevator pings twice as the doors open, and Sehun strides past to the lobby with her long fingers curled in the hem of her slouchy sweater.
“Thanks, Jongin. You worked hard.” Minseok hands back Jongin’s flashdrive with a sigh, sifting her fingers through the limp spikes of her cropped brown hair. “It’s been a long week. I hope you get some rest before Monday, we’ve got some extra interviews coming up.”
“Yeah, thanks Boss.” Jongin gives a weary smile and slides her palm down the nape of her stiff neck. It has been a rough week, but she doubts she’ll be getting much rest tonight. “I’ll see you Monday. Sorry for leaving first.”
“Hey Jongin, wait a sec.”
“Yes?” Jongin’s head snaps up in surprise, her shoulders still curled forward in an awkward bow.
“Um, well.” Minseok chews at her lip. The purple feathers dangling from her earrings swish with impatience. “So,” she tries again with a little cough, and Jongin pulls herself to full attention. Minseok is even more straight forward than Lu Han so it’s unusual for her to be this hesitant. “Sehun isn’t...bothering you, or anything?”
“Um, no?” Jongin slides a finger into her hair, trying to scratch around the bobby pin holding back her bangs without disturbing the updo. “Not with anything particularly bothersome, no.” Sehun isn’t anything Jongin can report to the boss, she’s just...frustrating.
The way she answers questions with with her own questions, the way her clothes are always slipping down her skinny shoulders or sliding up her skinny legs, the way she gets what Jongin’s thinking and feeling before Jongin can even articulate it sometimes, the way her dark voice grates on Jongin’s spine, then settles like dandelion fluff on her skin, the way--
“And you would definitely inform me if she ever does? If anything--transpires?” Minseok is meeting Jongin’s gaze again, her eyes dark and demanding. Jongin releases a tiny exhale of relief now that Minseok is back to business, sporting the vocabulary of the veteran editor she is.
“Yes ma’am,” Jongin nods, straightening the pleats of her navy skirt.
“Ok, get out of here then.” Minseok waves off her attempts at another bow. “Happy Friday, kid.”
“Haaaaappy Friday~!” trilled to the tune of “Miniskirt” is exactly what greets Jongin when she pushes into the women’s locker room. She’s never been on the 12th floor before, but it was easy enough to find the showers just down the hall from the company rec room.
Lu Han is just inside the door, singing to herself in the mirror as she slips on a pair of fishnets. They’re thigh highs, and the bands end just below the hem of the thin sweater dress that clings to her hips.
Lu Han winks at Jongin in the mirror but keeps humming, swaying to the rhythm of her song with a little booty shake that would land Jongin on her ass if she tried it while getting dressed. Jongin prides herself on impeccable balance on the dance floor, but stockings she either has to sit on the bed to pull on, or risk bruising both knees when she hops into the bureau.
Sehun is nowhere to be seen, but the distant hiss of water from the shower area makes Jongin shiver at the thought of those pale fingers massaging shampoo into short bleached hair and smoothing shower gel down the contours of her--
“Not gonna shower?” Lu Han asks thickly, teeth clenched around a handful of bobby pins.
“Nah,” Jongin says. She drops her backpack to the tile. “Who takes a shower to go get all sweat soaked in a club?”
Lu Han’s head tips back as a sharp laugh bubbles up from her bared throat. Her hair spills in a platinum waterfall onto the counter behind her as she spins to face Jongin.
“So you’re not afraid of a little sweat up against you, a little skin on skin on the dance floor, eh?”
“I guess I’m used to it.” Jongin faces the wall as she undoes the buttons of her shirt, fingers clumsy as she folds it but taking extra care not to crush the collar. She still hasn’t bought an iron. “Sweat is natural.” People sweat in every country Jongin’s lived in. Although showering…
“You’re so funny, Jonginnie!”
Jongin yelps at the purr of Lu Han’s voice in her ear, arms flying from the clasp of her skirt to cross defensively in front of her chest. Lu Han snickers, breath soft at the nape of her neck as Jongin’s skirt slithers down her hips to the floor.
“Let me help you,” Lu Han says as if she were volunteering to troubleshoot a printer jam, and catches Jongin’s mane up in a gentle fist. Jongin waits a breath before she reaches around to unhook the clasps of her bra. She hates the wire on her strapless one, so she waited til the last minute to put it on.
Lu Han steps back as soon as the fresh undergarment is hooked into place. She lounges against the counter with her phone as Jongin slips into the silky black dress she pulls from her backpack. It’s Jongin’s favorite dress, the fabric stretchy enough that it peels off as easy as it goes on.
“Hot damn,” Lu Han murmurs appreciatively, looking up from her phone, and Jongin grins at the mirror. The flared skirt swishes with each step.
“You should let Unni do your makeup.”
Jongin whirls around to find Sehun dripping all over the floor just a few feet behind her. She hadn’t noticed when the water shut off.
“Lu does the best smoking eyes,” Sehun says, and drops her towel. Jongin immediately lowers her gaze, staring at the skinny white legs shuffling in front of her as Sehun shrugs into a cami. Her shins are peppered with tiny bruises, the skin pale and chapped because she still goes around in bare legs and it’s November.
“I’ll do your shadow if, you want.” Lu Han sprays a cloud of perfumed hairspray, heavily misting the twists of hair pinned close to the left side of her head. She shakes the other half into a playful tumble of gold waves. “But you should let Sehunnie do your liner, she’s got the steadiest hand.”
Jongin nods as Lu Han caps the spray can, and lets Sehun shove her towards the mirror with damp fingers clamped down on her bare shoulder.
“Don’t blink,” Sehun grins, and Lu Han pushes Jongin into the counter, a box of shadow already open in her palm.
Jongin is not the only one in the club tonight with copious amounts of expertly applied eyeliner smudging into sweaty rings of exhaustion. They’ve been on the dance floor long enough that Jongin’s favorite flats feel more like the killer stilettos she never wears because they pinch nine of her ten toes. That is to say, she’ll probably have some blisters by tomorrow. Or Monday. Or tomorrow is Monday if Monday does tomorrow?
Jongin shakes her bangs from her eyes but they stick with a wet slap across her forehead. She grits her teeth and pushes them back with clumsy fingers. The bass vibrating down to the roots of her teeth is turning into a dull headache, but Jongin’s nerves are deadened enough by the steady supply of shots Lu Han keeps delivering from bar that she can make it another few hours. She thinks.
Lu Han is gone again, braving the tumultuous waves of bodies for a vodka refill, but Jongin keeps the fingers of one hand curled through the belt loops of Sehun’s black skinny jeans and leans into the searing pulse of the synth. Someone whoops, jostling her elbow as the song recycles into one she might have heard before, but maybe not.
It’s Baekhyun--or Bumhyun, or Byun--whatever his name is, Sehun’s friend who showed up half an hour ago with enough black stuff caked on his eyes to scare a racoon. Jongin scowls at him, snarling when his hand slides slides down to palm her ass. He’s been making passes at her goods since he got here, and Jongin’s getting fucked--no, fed up. Fedex? Flare up? Whatever.
She’s mad. And while Sehun has been quite the gentlewoman this evening, tugging a dizzy-ankled wobbly-headed Jongin away from danger and literally protecting her ass from the wandering hands of dick-nozzle, douche-headed strangers, the buck seems to stop at Baekhyuk. In fact, if Jongin didn’t know better, she would suspect Sehun is trying to shove her raccoon-eyed friend at her.
But that makes no sense, because only an hour ago Sehun’s long, long fingers were teasing along the band of Jongin’s bra through the thin, stretchy knit of her dress and she was breathing hot puffs of air in Jongin’s ear through the ache of the bass while--
“Fuck you, you flaring mother fedexer!” Jongin screeches, slapping Bitchhyun’s hands away from her pussy. He scuttles back with a hard grin, but not before snapping the elastic of her panties with a quick finger.
Jongin throws a poorly aimed kick at his groin before ripping free from Sehun. She hurtles into the crowd. Pushing through the forest of flailing limbs, Jongin feels like a four-year-old trapped in the ballpit at McDonalds during a big kid invasion, the world spinning as she’s buried under. But Lu Han is waiting on the other side with french tipped nails outstretched to flick away her tears.
“Hey, hey what happened?” Lu Han’s slurring but her voice is warm with concern. Jongin wants to melt into the heat of her, bury her face in the softness of her chest. She pushes Lu Han away though, charging for the exit.
“I hate him, I hate Baekfuck! I hate that asspole!” Jongin wails into the deserted alley. Footsteps echo behind her as someone chases her down. “I hate them, I hate boys!”
“Good,” Sehun whispers, her lips curled into a serene smile as she flips Jongin around in her long, long arms. “That’s very good to know.” She smooths her long, fucking long-ass fingers down Jongin’s heaving sides in gentle ripples until the dry sobs trickle into a painful string of hiccups.
“What happened? What’s going on?” Lu Han’s voice wavers and blurs, as if in Jongin’s ear canals are flooding with the tears that won’t fall from her eyes.
“Home,” Sehun says, and Jongin feels the shape of the word more than hears it, her face pillowed in Sehun’s chest. “Let’s go home,” Sehun repeats, louder, the vibrations of her voice a dusky buzz against Jongin’s skin.
Jongin doesn’t get sick in the taxi, but she holds her breath the whole ride home. Lu Han knocks out almost instantly, her head lolling back against the seat and lips parting around gentle snores. Her perfume is so strong, a hurricane of lilac pheromones bleeding from her skin, that it overpowers the stink of sweat and smoke and stale liquor and has Jongin curling away into Sehun’s side.
Sehun’s steady breath, the sink and press of her chest under Jongin’s cheek, keeps the waves of nausea tossing in her gut at a bearable minimum as Jongin counts the streetlights through the window. Sehun’s thumb keeps a record of the number as it climbs, stroking steady sweeps across the curve of Jongin’s inner thigh.
By the time the cab stops Jongin is moaning with the waves of longing that crest through her, longing for somewhere private to puke and longing for a comforting hand to soothe away the pain radiating out through the roots of her hair. Lu Han sits up, rubbing at her eyes, and hands the driver a wad of cash with mascara streaked fingers.
The inside of Lu Han’s apartment is warm, too warm. It’s nothing like the cheap noise of the club, yet suffocating in it’s stillness. Sehun pushes a pill through Jongin’s cracking lips and Jongin dutifully swallows the lump down with a glass of warm water on the way to the bathroom.
“Do you need help? Need anything?” Lu Han murmurs, yawning as she hands over a towel.
Jongin shakes her head and locks the bathroom door. She wore a stretchy knit dress for a reason.
She strips. Her lace panties come away sticky with sweat and confusion. Her hand slips on the shower faucet.
Jongin blasts the water hotter than she can normally stand it and quickly swipes away the mess leaking from her pussy down her thighs. She keeps rubbing til the last hint of slickness strips off in the hot pulse from the shower head.
Her heel slips on a dribble of shampoo and Jongin’s knee slams into the tile wall with a curse. She spits out three more, suddenly realizing she’s angrier than she thought. She’s angry because Sehun--fuck.
Why the fuck is Sehun still teasing her about Lu Han being untrustworthy when Jongin’s gut is telling her it might be the other way around? Sehun is all jagged lines, charted points that stagger across the graph with no patterns or possible extrapolations, jutting shoulder blades and vicious elbows and--
Wait, no. This is not Sehun’s fault, the mess in her head, the mess on her hands. Jongin’s body just over reacts sometimes. At certain times of the month. The week before she’s often wet for no reason, so maybe this is just the result of that really strong coffee Lu Han kept flowing at their lunch meeting, caffeine on top of tequila, all on an empty stomach. Nerves, hormones, “--fuck.”
Jongin almost slips again but she catches herself with a hand on the faucet. She shuts off the water before she can give herself a concussion on the tile and dries off with the towel from Lu Han. Under the towel is a set of pajamas she does not remember being handed, clean blue flannel printed with fluffy white clouds. Jongin slips them on, only managing to secure the top button before she gives up on her shaky fingers with a curse.
Lu Han’s waiting outside the door, leaning against kitchen counter with a pillow hugged to her chest.
“Home,” Jongin mumbles, thinking of her own pillow under the lumpy comforter on her own bed.
“I’ll drive you home in the morning,” Lu Han says. Her hair is braided neatly and secured with a black scrunchie. “For now, sleep. Come to bed.”
The world is still spinning, a pixelated kaleidoscope caught between images, but Lu Han’s hand is firm in Jongin’s, hard tendon and soft skin as she guides Jongin down the hall.
Jongin falls asleep with Sehun’s nails grazing the bumps of her spine in a soothing rhythm while Lu Han’s fingers stroke her damp hair into the downy cushion of their shared pillow. Jongin doesn’t wake til morning, succumbing to the sweetest rest she’s had in weeks.
part three
part one
On Thursday they’ve all got big deadlines. Jongin has two. Lu Han stops outside her office window just long enough to wave each time she passes by for another coffee refill, her french roll progressively more frazzled and frizzy. Right before lunch she marches in all the way, her converse wedges squeaking on the rubber guard at the threshold.
“Oh hey! Do you have any files for Minseok? I’m just about to take a batch up to her office.”
“Uh, that’s ok! I’ll just come with you. Take it myself.” Jongin checks the time on her laptop and forgets to smile apologetically as she declines. Lu Han’s smile wavers, the slight wibble of jello as a dull tined fork slices through.
“We’ll be late for lunch if you don’t finish the Arirang Gardens review in ten minutes. Just trust me to get the interview up to Minseok.”
Jongin huffs through her scowl, flicking at the scroll button on her mouse. Lu Han’s ice blue blouse, the rolled hem of the silk neckline, ends right above the gentle swell of her breasts and Jongin wouldn’t trust her hands to not shake if she tried to hand over her file now. Too much coffee on an empty stomach instead of breakfast this morning.
“It’s ok, Unni. I’ll get it done.” Jongin smiles this time, tight lipped and warm and charming. Lu Han stares harder. The loose ruffle that lays just above her cleavage rustles when she props her hands on her slender hips.
“Fine. But we’re not waiting lunch for you. See you downstairs.” She stalks away, hips swaying with what Jongin would call swagger if Lu Han weren’t so fine boned and delicate beneath her leather jacket and flouncy blouse.
Lu Han’s body is all contradictions, powerful thighs and boyish hips, soft in all the right places in a way that makes Jongin’s fingers sink into her keyboard with a muffled groan as she watches Lu Han glide away. Jongin might have won this stand off, but somehow she feels like the loser as she shrinks into her chair, all alone again in the room. She’s not even sure what it is they’re struggling for.
“What was that about.” Sehun has already replaced Lu Han in the doorway, before the elevator has even made it to Minseok’s floor. Sehun steps closer, gesturing grandly with an outstretched hand. Her fingernails are bitten down to the quick, but painted hot pink in a defiant attempt to draw attention to them. Lu Han’s nails aren’t flashy, but they’re always well groomed. Jongin thinks of the sweat stains under the arms of her blouse and the hangnail on her left thumb, and all of a sudden she wants to hide.
“I have ten minutes to finish this, Sehun. Get out of here so I can go to lunch before 3:00.”
“Why didn’t you give her your file? She was just trying to help.” Sehun doesn’t doesn’t budge, just shifts her weight to one hip and wraps her arms across her chest.
“Lu Han is the one who told me not to trust my files with anyone,” Jongin pouts. “Just following orders.”
“You’re not very good at deciphering sarcasm, are you.” It’s not a question, even a rhetorical one, but Sehun taps the toe of her scarred leather boot as if she’s expecting some kind of an answer. Jongin stares back, willing her visitor to leave and stay gone so she can finish her article in peace. “But you agreed to hang out with us on Saturday. Which means you must trust her, at least on some level.”
“Maybe.”
“You want to, but you’re scared to!” Sehun’s eyes flash in triumph with that announcement. Lu Han’s eyes had flashed too, just before she stalked out. Not with anger or vindication, but disappointment.
Disappointment always leaves Jongin feeling dirty. It sticks the back of her throat together with uncertain regret. It’s not that Jongin doesn’t trust Lu Han. Jongin doesn’t trust herself to trust Lu Han, she’s afraid of what might break if she falls into a false sense of security with any kind, but ultimately unpredictable stranger. Especially someone in authority over her. But Sehun doesn’t need to know that.
“Is it your hobby to psychoanalyze people while they’re trying to get work done?”
“What do you think?” Sehun fires back. “Is it a good idea to trust Lu Han?”
Jongin narrows her eyes, tugging on the chain of the locket clasped around her neck. Sehun should know the answer. Sehun knows Lu Han the best.
“I--”
“Definitely not,” Sehun answers for her, sliding back across the room with a nimble sidestep. The door creaks as she eases the hinges open. “But it’s too late now, right?”
On Saturday Jongin takes the bus to the address Sehun texts her, which turns out to be Lu Han’s apartment. The bubble tea shop is apparently confusing to get to, so Lu Han insisted that they meet up first and walk there together. Why they couldn’t just meet at the nearest subway exit Jongin has no idea, but she dutifully puffs her way up three flights of stairs and understands as soon as she rings the bell.
Lu Han answers the door in a pair of black tights pulled up to her navel, frayed cutoffs, and a lace trimmed sports bra. “Oh hey,” she says, waving a foaming toothbrush in one hand, “we’re not quite ready, so just come in for a minute.”
“Sorry to intrude,” Jongin mumbles, clenching her jaw and straining to look past Lu Han into the house. Her eyes catch on a battered cuckoo clock, the muted TV screen with some foreign soccer match playing, wilted roses in a wine bottle on the windowsill--anything to keep her gaze from settling on the elegant lines of Lu Han’s ribcage delineated through a soft layer of milky skin.
“I’ll be right back,” Lu Han says. Jongin bends to pick at the laces of her boots. Her face heats from standing with her head between her knees and she wishes she had worn slip ons.
“Happy weekend.”
Jongin looks up to find Sehun at the entrance to the hall, leaning against the alcove with arms folded across a striped cardigan. Sehun is in blue jeans, faded denim that hugs her subtle curves and makes her legs look like continuous and unending sets of points in a--
“My face is up here, you know.”
Jongin doesn’t have to look up to know Sehun is smirking at her so she glances further down, to the mismatched hues of her own socks. She has got to stop taking shortcuts with laundry and actually fold her socks into pairs or something.
“Are you all ready, Sehunnie?” Lu Han stumbles out of the bathroom, fighting with a sky blue hoodie as she yanks it over her head. A smiling narwhal is printed on the front, and Sehun absently traces the spiral horn across Lu Han’s chest with a long, long finger as she toes on ballet flats. Jongin stuffs her feet back into her boots, not bothering to retie them, and cusses when she trips on a shoelace exiting the elevator.
“Careful, there!” Lu Han laughs, steadying Jongin with a hand on her shoulder. Jongin is taller than her, but just by a bit, maybe a few centimeters. Sehun steps closer, crushing their boss between them. Lu Han snakes an arm around both of their waists and tugs them out to the parking lot. “Hurry up! It’s cold!”
The tea shop is warm, though, the heat cranked up enough to make Jongin unbutton her coat as soon as they step into line. The shop is pretty crowded, most of the tables occupied by young couples or parents with multiple children in tow, but it is Saturday morning and Lu Han mentioned this was a popular joint.
“Do you know what you want?” Lu Han points at the menu tacked up behind the register, cutesy hangeul painted in neon washable paint on a slate chalkboard.
“If you’ve never been here before, you absolutely have to try the chocolate,” Sehun says, catching her lip between her teeth. A few flakes of dry skin float down to catch in the yoke of her sweater and she wets her chapped lips with a swipe of her tongue.
“Is there anything that’s not really sweet?” Jongin squints at the menu, scanning the scrawl for a flavor that doesn’t have modifiers like “double,” “smothered,” or “sinful”.
“The green tea’s not bad.” Lu Han points to the far end of the sign. “It’s kinda refreshing.” She pushes back her hood and shakes her shoulder length waves forward. Her hair isn’t the slightest bit frizzy, even though it’s been tucked under her hood for half an hour. Jongin bites down on her tongue in envy. Some days even a hot shower can’t tame her stubborn affliction of bed head.
Lu Han is the kind of girl Jongin’s always admired, ever since high school. She can pull off combat boots paired with cutoffs and strange graphic hoodies and still look elegant, and she’s electric in mint green ruffled silk. Jongin tugs on her flannel tunic and frowns at how cheap the garish plaid looks against her faded leggings.
Lu Han steps up to order for them, knocking Jongin’s hand from her purse when she reaches for her wallet.
“I got it, don’t worry.” She crumples the receipt in her fist. “You and Sehunnie go get us a spot.”
They find a corner table and Lu Han rejoins them as soon as their order is ready. She hands Sehun a dark chocolatey drink and slides two green ones in front of Jongin as she takes the chair beside her.
Jongin takes a tentative sip through the fat yellow straw punched through the top and swishes the liquid across her tongue. “Not bad,” she says, and takes a more adventurous swallow. “I think the last time I had bubble tea was in grade school, on the beach in Busan.”
“Eh, Busan? I’ve never been.” Lu Han shrugs, slapping a paper napkin at the chocolate dribbling down Sehun’s chin. “Is it as beautiful as everyone says?”
“Yup,” Jongin says, chewing on a boba, “though I might be biased, ‘cause I used to live there.”
“Wait, you’re from Busan?” Sehun slides her back up the padded cushion of the booth, still slouching, but at least she’s back at eye level.
“Yeah.” Jongin reaches for a napkin. “Well, I was born there. My parents are from Seoul.”
“And you went to school in London and New York,” Lu Han says, tonguing a drop of liquid from her straw.
“Mm hm.” The napkin crumples in Jongin’s fist. Lu Han must have read her CV during hiring. Which means she also knows how young Jongin is, that Jongin has next to no experience and--
“So, do you like, have friends here, or?” Sehun’s voice is husky, as dark as the chocolate in her half-empty cup, but her faint lisp is even more pronounced when her tongue is thick with cold. Jongin coughs back a giggle.
“Sometimes I feed my breakfast to my neighbor’s cat.”
“That does not count,” Sehun protests, sitting up to prop her elbows on the table. “We’re strictly enumerating human interactions right now. Positive human interactions.”
“Then I guess we can count you out.” Jongin meets her gaze with a placid smile, her tongue curling around the hints of green tea coating her teeth. Lu Han was right, this drink is refreshing.
“Ooh! Burn!” Lu Han grins, bobbing her head in an easy nod as she glances between the two. Sehun is pouting around her straw, and Jongin has to bite back a victorious smile because Sehun’s had it coming to her, let’s be real.
“So you’re not homesick?”
Jongin’s not expecting that as a follow up question, not at all. “Where is even home?” she bites out, scowling at the spoiled napkin in her fist. It’s perfectly clean but unforgivably crumpled now. “My parents move every three years at least, sometimes annually.”
“Home is where the heart is?” Lu Han reaches over, soothes teasing circles into the back of Jongin’s hand with her thumb. “Where do they live now?”
“Does it matter? They don’t get me at all, so.” Jongin shrugs and floods her mouth with tea. Lu Han gives a wry smile and a little nod like she understands, or she thinks she does.
Sehun arches back, hair ruffling and face scrunching as she hisses out a curse. “Then fuck them. You’re an adult, old enough to just be you. Your heart goes where you tell it to, it’s not some lost puppy waiting to be reclaimed.”
Jongin nods slowly, her lips spreading in a grin around her straw until some of her tea drips down her lips onto the ruined napkin. Somehow, Sehun completely gets her, even though they’re brand new...friends? No, not friends, not really.
Jongin doesn’t know how to label that connection so she doesn’t. She labels all the spices in her cabinet as soon as she gets home, instead. She arranges them in alphabetical order: nutmeg, rosemary, sage. Flavors that don’t taste like home and that no one here can really appreciate beyond their exotic appeal, but they represent the part of her that feels perpetually in transit. Jongin’s too lazy to cook for one person, but it makes her feel better somehow to know they’re there, labeled neatly behind the cabinet door.
The next weeks go by faster than Jongin’s have in a long time. She has deadlines, but it’s not the same as when she was a student. College assignments were carefully researched theses, weeks in the writing with peer-edited drafts and painstakingly formatted footnotes. Now Jongin churns out reviews, hastily proofreads them, and carries the finished work to Minseok all within a few hours.
As quickly as Jongin can finish them Lu Han keeps assignments coming, forwarded interview transcripts and pink sticky note reminders plastered to Jongin’s monitor every time she returns from the bathroom or the elevator.
By Jongin’s third Monday morning at the office she’s already feeling burnt out. After overtime on Thursday to finish an engagement announcement for the weekend issue, she turned down Sehun’s invitation to hang out Saturday, texting back the vague excuse of a headache. But even with the whole weekend to herself, Jongin still feels exhausted. Bumming it alone in her apartment, rearranging the handful of books on her empty shelves and scrubbing down the bathroom tiles, Sehun and Lu Han still managed to take up a lot of space, take over her thoughts.
Jongin couldn’t fall asleep til after 2 AM Sunday night, her over caffeinated brain running wild with ridiculous scenarios of what her coworkers were up to without her. Did they go window shopping for cocktail dresses? Try on all the slinky ones in the same changing stall and take a few selca before leaving the merchandise in a heap on the floor? Did they go drinking? A few rounds of beer in a sports bar, or tequila shots in the crush of a Hongdae club? Did they--
Jongin huffs and gives her head a violent shake. The internet is taking forever to load and she’s running on three hours of sleep and a double shot of espresso. Not the ideal frame of mind for getting shit done at work, but there’s no reason for her imagination to still be going--haywire, getting jealous of far-fetched events that didn’t actually happen, Jongin reminds herself with a pathetic moan. Sehun and Lu Han probably did stuff as predictably lame as Jongin did, like eat eat too many squid snacks in front a musical marathon on cable.
Jongin sighs, still put out with the internet and herself and her childish insecurity. Her breath scatters a flurry of dust bunnies from behind the 2012 desk calendar that’s propped open to March. She fists her hair, winding handfuls of it into a messy bun at the crown of her head, and makes a begrudging mental note to clean in here. Maybe after lunch, or something. Or maybe in January.
Jongin drops her hands with a start as the door pushes open and a vaguely familiar face peeks through the crack.
“Oh, you’re new, aren’t you?” the guy stutters as he does a double take in her doorway. Jongin recognizes him with a second blink as a columnist from her floor. He sits closest to the water cooler, over by the elevator, but she’s never greeted him before. He’s always on the phone or mumbling to himself, so she just ducks a bow and hurries past.
“Oh, yes, I’ve been here about two weeks,” Jongin says, self consciously fluffing her fringe. The length of her hair probably looks like a freeze dried tornado now, since she spent the last hour mindlessly teasing it with her fingers. Jongin makes another mental note to think of a more grown-up and less obvious stress tic, one that does not make her look like an electrocuted poodle. It’s about time to chop off her perm, anyway.
“Well, allow me to welcome you, and, uh,” the guy fumbles in his pocket for a business card and steps forward to hand it over. Kris Wu, Assistant Sports Correspondent, Associated Press, the card reads in both English and Korean, with some chinese characters at the bottom Jongin can’t make out.
The edges are a bit dog eared and the stiff paper curls in the palm of her hand. Jongin grabs for the card holder on her desk before realizing with a hot blush that they’re just the generic company cards; Ryeowook in HR still hasn’t printed up her personal ones.
“I’m Kim Jongin,” she says, standing to offer a handshake instead.
Kris raises an eyebrow at the move but his grip is firm, as if he’s well accustomed to the action. Jongin’s smile widens as she drops his hand. She guessed right then, about his foreign name. It must be more than a bid for coolness if he’s well versed in Western business culture.
Kris smiles back, but it’s a faint curl of his lips and he just stands there, thighs pressed into the front of her desk as he rubs the underside of his nose with his knuckles.
“Did you, need something? Some files, or?” Jongin waves at the shelves of color coded binders behind her, some sort of archive left by the former occupant. She hasn’t had the time nor the nerve to explore them yet, but she assumes they’re important if they’ve been preserved here since March 2012.
“Oh! Uh, no?” Kris squeaks, his deep voice jumping two octaves. “I’m good, I’m.” He sniffs loudly and yanks at the band of his wristwatch. “I’ll just be going, then. But lovely meeting you, Kim-ssi.”
“Please, it’s Jongin,” she smiles, clasping her hands at the front of her shirtwaist dress. Kris smiles too as he backs out the door, still fidgeting with the band of his gold watch. He neglects to pull the door closed behind him, but Jongin just shakes her head with a flustered laugh and gets back to work.
It wasn’t worth the effort to close it anyway. Sehun pops her head in not ten minutes later, when Jongin’s an agonizing paragraph and a half away from finishing a most pressing report of some high society wedding.
“Let’s go eat.” Sehun pouts, rattling the door handle. The fingerless gloves that extend to her knobby elbows are damp at the palms, as if she tried to wash her fingertips without taking them off. The cheap acrylic squeaks against the brass handle. “You almost done?”
“Almost,” Jongin grunts. “Don’t distract me and I’ll finish faster.”
“Why on earth would I be distracting?” Sehun says, her voice the dark and innocent slide of sugary soda through the white serrated edges of her teeth. Jongin keeps typing, muttering the lines under her breath as she goes. Sehun makes a few growly noises but shuts up after that, the only sounds in the room the muffled tapping of Jongin’s keyboard and the sigh of the heater fan.
Jongin can’t keep her eyes on the screen though, her gaze flicking up to map Sehun’s erratic journey around the room. The thin rayon of her floral jumper, too thin for November, flutters at the hinge of her knees. Sehun’s freshly bleached bangs trip over her forehead into her eyes just as often as her tongue flicks between chapped lips. That is to say, with almost every other breath.
Jongin frowns as Sehun’s long, pale fingers skitter over the dust blanketed knick knacks lining the side shelves. She holds her breath, waiting for disaster, but fortunately Sehun only knocks over a plastic Doraemon head and not one of the crystal figurines. Jongin hates cleaning up broken glass and she really doubts Sehun would be polite enough to clean up her own messes in someone else’s office.
“Do you smoke?”
Jongin’s fingers stutter over the keys at the sudden question. “No,” she says, correcting a mistyped comma to a period.
“Good. It’s a nasty habit, and too many blokes around this office already do.”
“Blokes?” Jongin repeats, reading over the last few sentences and deciding to copy/paste the description of the bride’s gown to the bottom.
“Yeah, like Minseok’s favorite sports columnist, Kris Wu.” Sehun spits out the last syllable of his name like a sarcastic “woo hoo”.
“Kris Wu,” Jongin repeats again, because it seems like that strategy is lulling Sehun into thinking she’s listening.
“Yeah, two packs a day. He’s quite a slave to his smoke breaks. Han unni used to smoke too, you know, but I talked her out of it.”
“You talked her into quitting?” Jongin glances over the monitor to catch Sehun’s eyes with a calculating glare. “Lu Han doesn’t seem like a woman to be talked out of anything she’s set on.”
Jongin’s not sure why there’s a sudden curl of defiance stiffening in her gut. She’s never been one to defend another’s honor, but maybe it has to do with how much she admires her boss. Lu Han’s gentle confidence and easy independence is exactly the sort of character Jongin wishes she projected herself.
“Oh, she’s stubborn alright. But this mouth is quite persuasive.” Sehun circles a long finger close to her darkened mouth, outlining the seam of her scarlet lips. Jongin licks at the dull rose shade coating her own.
“You must have one helluva persistent voice,” Jongin bites back. She worries the inside of her lip with her teeth as she types the last period, considering. Sehun’s voice is rather nice. Not pleasant exactly, but intriguing--definitely. Her husky voice could be classified as sultry if it weren’t for the drowsy tone overlaid, which imbues her whole aura with heightened mystique.
Long story short, Sehun confuses Jongin, right in the ass. “Well how long did it take you to--”
“Hey, bitches!” Lu Han breezes through the door, blowing a kiss as Jongin saves her article with a keyboard shortcut and a click of her mouse.
“Who says I did the talking with my voice?” Sehun whispers as Jongin stands to greet Lu Han.
“Let’s go!” Lu Han gives each of their shoulders a squeeze and pulls them forward. “The cafeteria calls!” She ushers them to the door, one hand still clamped over the shoulder pad of Jongin’s jacket.
“The menu any good today?” Jongin asks. She pauses at the last shelf to right the plastic Doraemon face Sehun disturbed.
“Oh, I didn’t check,” Lu Han sighs before gasping out a nasally giggle at the figurines, a jumble of anime action figures and tacky spun glass shepherdesses and ballerinas. “Oh--so cute! I see you’re making yourself at home in your new office!”
“Oh, they’re not mine,” Jongin says, wiping the fine grit of heavy dust on her tweed wool shorts. “They were just here.”
“Ah, must’ve been Chanyeol’s then,” Lu Han says, nodding. “I didn’t know she was into ballet, though.”
“She probably wasn’t.” Jongin’s snort startles Lu Han and Sehun looks up at the sound, slipping her phone into the pocket of her cardigan. “I mean, ‘cause those dancer figurines are anatomically inaccurate.”
“You mean like Barbie?” Sehun smirks, “bulging softcore boobs with no nipples?”
“N-no,” Jongin stammers, tongue suddenly parched. “Just--the ballet positions have terrible technique. The artist obviously wasn’t a dancer, and I doubt the customer was either.”
“And you consider yourself more informed than the ignorant artist because?” Sehun’s voice isn’t loud, but her tone is interrogating as she crowds Jongin ahead of her into the elevator.
“I used to dance.” It was a required subject for all females at Jongin’s pretentious European prep school.
“That much I assumed,” Sehun says, “but you don’t anymore?”
Jongin gulps, hoping to ease the thick lump swelling under her dry tongue, and glances away from Sehun’s determined gaze. Lu Han is preoccupied, texting away as the elevator sinks through the layers of corporate hell--management, accounting, PR--down to the bowels of the cafeteria.
“I guess I haven’t had the opportunity, lately.”
Sehun answers the defiant jut of Jongin’s raised chin with a slow nod. “Then no excuses this weekend. You’re coming out with us.”
The elevator pings twice as the doors open, and Sehun strides past to the lobby with her long fingers curled in the hem of her slouchy sweater.
“Thanks, Jongin. You worked hard.” Minseok hands back Jongin’s flashdrive with a sigh, sifting her fingers through the limp spikes of her cropped brown hair. “It’s been a long week. I hope you get some rest before Monday, we’ve got some extra interviews coming up.”
“Yeah, thanks Boss.” Jongin gives a weary smile and slides her palm down the nape of her stiff neck. It has been a rough week, but she doubts she’ll be getting much rest tonight. “I’ll see you Monday. Sorry for leaving first.”
“Hey Jongin, wait a sec.”
“Yes?” Jongin’s head snaps up in surprise, her shoulders still curled forward in an awkward bow.
“Um, well.” Minseok chews at her lip. The purple feathers dangling from her earrings swish with impatience. “So,” she tries again with a little cough, and Jongin pulls herself to full attention. Minseok is even more straight forward than Lu Han so it’s unusual for her to be this hesitant. “Sehun isn’t...bothering you, or anything?”
“Um, no?” Jongin slides a finger into her hair, trying to scratch around the bobby pin holding back her bangs without disturbing the updo. “Not with anything particularly bothersome, no.” Sehun isn’t anything Jongin can report to the boss, she’s just...frustrating.
The way she answers questions with with her own questions, the way her clothes are always slipping down her skinny shoulders or sliding up her skinny legs, the way she gets what Jongin’s thinking and feeling before Jongin can even articulate it sometimes, the way her dark voice grates on Jongin’s spine, then settles like dandelion fluff on her skin, the way--
“And you would definitely inform me if she ever does? If anything--transpires?” Minseok is meeting Jongin’s gaze again, her eyes dark and demanding. Jongin releases a tiny exhale of relief now that Minseok is back to business, sporting the vocabulary of the veteran editor she is.
“Yes ma’am,” Jongin nods, straightening the pleats of her navy skirt.
“Ok, get out of here then.” Minseok waves off her attempts at another bow. “Happy Friday, kid.”
“Haaaaappy Friday~!” trilled to the tune of “Miniskirt” is exactly what greets Jongin when she pushes into the women’s locker room. She’s never been on the 12th floor before, but it was easy enough to find the showers just down the hall from the company rec room.
Lu Han is just inside the door, singing to herself in the mirror as she slips on a pair of fishnets. They’re thigh highs, and the bands end just below the hem of the thin sweater dress that clings to her hips.
Lu Han winks at Jongin in the mirror but keeps humming, swaying to the rhythm of her song with a little booty shake that would land Jongin on her ass if she tried it while getting dressed. Jongin prides herself on impeccable balance on the dance floor, but stockings she either has to sit on the bed to pull on, or risk bruising both knees when she hops into the bureau.
Sehun is nowhere to be seen, but the distant hiss of water from the shower area makes Jongin shiver at the thought of those pale fingers massaging shampoo into short bleached hair and smoothing shower gel down the contours of her--
“Not gonna shower?” Lu Han asks thickly, teeth clenched around a handful of bobby pins.
“Nah,” Jongin says. She drops her backpack to the tile. “Who takes a shower to go get all sweat soaked in a club?”
Lu Han’s head tips back as a sharp laugh bubbles up from her bared throat. Her hair spills in a platinum waterfall onto the counter behind her as she spins to face Jongin.
“So you’re not afraid of a little sweat up against you, a little skin on skin on the dance floor, eh?”
“I guess I’m used to it.” Jongin faces the wall as she undoes the buttons of her shirt, fingers clumsy as she folds it but taking extra care not to crush the collar. She still hasn’t bought an iron. “Sweat is natural.” People sweat in every country Jongin’s lived in. Although showering…
“You’re so funny, Jonginnie!”
Jongin yelps at the purr of Lu Han’s voice in her ear, arms flying from the clasp of her skirt to cross defensively in front of her chest. Lu Han snickers, breath soft at the nape of her neck as Jongin’s skirt slithers down her hips to the floor.
“Let me help you,” Lu Han says as if she were volunteering to troubleshoot a printer jam, and catches Jongin’s mane up in a gentle fist. Jongin waits a breath before she reaches around to unhook the clasps of her bra. She hates the wire on her strapless one, so she waited til the last minute to put it on.
Lu Han steps back as soon as the fresh undergarment is hooked into place. She lounges against the counter with her phone as Jongin slips into the silky black dress she pulls from her backpack. It’s Jongin’s favorite dress, the fabric stretchy enough that it peels off as easy as it goes on.
“Hot damn,” Lu Han murmurs appreciatively, looking up from her phone, and Jongin grins at the mirror. The flared skirt swishes with each step.
“You should let Unni do your makeup.”
Jongin whirls around to find Sehun dripping all over the floor just a few feet behind her. She hadn’t noticed when the water shut off.
“Lu does the best smoking eyes,” Sehun says, and drops her towel. Jongin immediately lowers her gaze, staring at the skinny white legs shuffling in front of her as Sehun shrugs into a cami. Her shins are peppered with tiny bruises, the skin pale and chapped because she still goes around in bare legs and it’s November.
“I’ll do your shadow if, you want.” Lu Han sprays a cloud of perfumed hairspray, heavily misting the twists of hair pinned close to the left side of her head. She shakes the other half into a playful tumble of gold waves. “But you should let Sehunnie do your liner, she’s got the steadiest hand.”
Jongin nods as Lu Han caps the spray can, and lets Sehun shove her towards the mirror with damp fingers clamped down on her bare shoulder.
“Don’t blink,” Sehun grins, and Lu Han pushes Jongin into the counter, a box of shadow already open in her palm.
Jongin is not the only one in the club tonight with copious amounts of expertly applied eyeliner smudging into sweaty rings of exhaustion. They’ve been on the dance floor long enough that Jongin’s favorite flats feel more like the killer stilettos she never wears because they pinch nine of her ten toes. That is to say, she’ll probably have some blisters by tomorrow. Or Monday. Or tomorrow is Monday if Monday does tomorrow?
Jongin shakes her bangs from her eyes but they stick with a wet slap across her forehead. She grits her teeth and pushes them back with clumsy fingers. The bass vibrating down to the roots of her teeth is turning into a dull headache, but Jongin’s nerves are deadened enough by the steady supply of shots Lu Han keeps delivering from bar that she can make it another few hours. She thinks.
Lu Han is gone again, braving the tumultuous waves of bodies for a vodka refill, but Jongin keeps the fingers of one hand curled through the belt loops of Sehun’s black skinny jeans and leans into the searing pulse of the synth. Someone whoops, jostling her elbow as the song recycles into one she might have heard before, but maybe not.
It’s Baekhyun--or Bumhyun, or Byun--whatever his name is, Sehun’s friend who showed up half an hour ago with enough black stuff caked on his eyes to scare a racoon. Jongin scowls at him, snarling when his hand slides slides down to palm her ass. He’s been making passes at her goods since he got here, and Jongin’s getting fucked--no, fed up. Fedex? Flare up? Whatever.
She’s mad. And while Sehun has been quite the gentlewoman this evening, tugging a dizzy-ankled wobbly-headed Jongin away from danger and literally protecting her ass from the wandering hands of dick-nozzle, douche-headed strangers, the buck seems to stop at Baekhyuk. In fact, if Jongin didn’t know better, she would suspect Sehun is trying to shove her raccoon-eyed friend at her.
But that makes no sense, because only an hour ago Sehun’s long, long fingers were teasing along the band of Jongin’s bra through the thin, stretchy knit of her dress and she was breathing hot puffs of air in Jongin’s ear through the ache of the bass while--
“Fuck you, you flaring mother fedexer!” Jongin screeches, slapping Bitchhyun’s hands away from her pussy. He scuttles back with a hard grin, but not before snapping the elastic of her panties with a quick finger.
Jongin throws a poorly aimed kick at his groin before ripping free from Sehun. She hurtles into the crowd. Pushing through the forest of flailing limbs, Jongin feels like a four-year-old trapped in the ballpit at McDonalds during a big kid invasion, the world spinning as she’s buried under. But Lu Han is waiting on the other side with french tipped nails outstretched to flick away her tears.
“Hey, hey what happened?” Lu Han’s slurring but her voice is warm with concern. Jongin wants to melt into the heat of her, bury her face in the softness of her chest. She pushes Lu Han away though, charging for the exit.
“I hate him, I hate Baekfuck! I hate that asspole!” Jongin wails into the deserted alley. Footsteps echo behind her as someone chases her down. “I hate them, I hate boys!”
“Good,” Sehun whispers, her lips curled into a serene smile as she flips Jongin around in her long, long arms. “That’s very good to know.” She smooths her long, fucking long-ass fingers down Jongin’s heaving sides in gentle ripples until the dry sobs trickle into a painful string of hiccups.
“What happened? What’s going on?” Lu Han’s voice wavers and blurs, as if in Jongin’s ear canals are flooding with the tears that won’t fall from her eyes.
“Home,” Sehun says, and Jongin feels the shape of the word more than hears it, her face pillowed in Sehun’s chest. “Let’s go home,” Sehun repeats, louder, the vibrations of her voice a dusky buzz against Jongin’s skin.
Jongin doesn’t get sick in the taxi, but she holds her breath the whole ride home. Lu Han knocks out almost instantly, her head lolling back against the seat and lips parting around gentle snores. Her perfume is so strong, a hurricane of lilac pheromones bleeding from her skin, that it overpowers the stink of sweat and smoke and stale liquor and has Jongin curling away into Sehun’s side.
Sehun’s steady breath, the sink and press of her chest under Jongin’s cheek, keeps the waves of nausea tossing in her gut at a bearable minimum as Jongin counts the streetlights through the window. Sehun’s thumb keeps a record of the number as it climbs, stroking steady sweeps across the curve of Jongin’s inner thigh.
By the time the cab stops Jongin is moaning with the waves of longing that crest through her, longing for somewhere private to puke and longing for a comforting hand to soothe away the pain radiating out through the roots of her hair. Lu Han sits up, rubbing at her eyes, and hands the driver a wad of cash with mascara streaked fingers.
The inside of Lu Han’s apartment is warm, too warm. It’s nothing like the cheap noise of the club, yet suffocating in it’s stillness. Sehun pushes a pill through Jongin’s cracking lips and Jongin dutifully swallows the lump down with a glass of warm water on the way to the bathroom.
“Do you need help? Need anything?” Lu Han murmurs, yawning as she hands over a towel.
Jongin shakes her head and locks the bathroom door. She wore a stretchy knit dress for a reason.
She strips. Her lace panties come away sticky with sweat and confusion. Her hand slips on the shower faucet.
Jongin blasts the water hotter than she can normally stand it and quickly swipes away the mess leaking from her pussy down her thighs. She keeps rubbing til the last hint of slickness strips off in the hot pulse from the shower head.
Her heel slips on a dribble of shampoo and Jongin’s knee slams into the tile wall with a curse. She spits out three more, suddenly realizing she’s angrier than she thought. She’s angry because Sehun--fuck.
Why the fuck is Sehun still teasing her about Lu Han being untrustworthy when Jongin’s gut is telling her it might be the other way around? Sehun is all jagged lines, charted points that stagger across the graph with no patterns or possible extrapolations, jutting shoulder blades and vicious elbows and--
Wait, no. This is not Sehun’s fault, the mess in her head, the mess on her hands. Jongin’s body just over reacts sometimes. At certain times of the month. The week before she’s often wet for no reason, so maybe this is just the result of that really strong coffee Lu Han kept flowing at their lunch meeting, caffeine on top of tequila, all on an empty stomach. Nerves, hormones, “--fuck.”
Jongin almost slips again but she catches herself with a hand on the faucet. She shuts off the water before she can give herself a concussion on the tile and dries off with the towel from Lu Han. Under the towel is a set of pajamas she does not remember being handed, clean blue flannel printed with fluffy white clouds. Jongin slips them on, only managing to secure the top button before she gives up on her shaky fingers with a curse.
Lu Han’s waiting outside the door, leaning against kitchen counter with a pillow hugged to her chest.
“Home,” Jongin mumbles, thinking of her own pillow under the lumpy comforter on her own bed.
“I’ll drive you home in the morning,” Lu Han says. Her hair is braided neatly and secured with a black scrunchie. “For now, sleep. Come to bed.”
The world is still spinning, a pixelated kaleidoscope caught between images, but Lu Han’s hand is firm in Jongin’s, hard tendon and soft skin as she guides Jongin down the hall.
Jongin falls asleep with Sehun’s nails grazing the bumps of her spine in a soothing rhythm while Lu Han’s fingers stroke her damp hair into the downy cushion of their shared pillow. Jongin doesn’t wake til morning, succumbing to the sweetest rest she’s had in weeks.
part three