(for bambi_lu) The Fine Line Between Love and Jackson Pollock [2/2]

[seulpeo]

Title: The Fine Line Between Love and Jackson Pollock

part one

By the time spring starts Jongin has already released a new mini-album. It snags every top spot there is that needs filling, and Jongin immediately rises from ‘rookie’ to a successful artist on his own right. One year into his debut and he’s already won five end of the year music awards, and seven music show triple crowns. Music Slam! even published an article about Kai being one of the most influential celebrities in Korea, probably in the whole of Asia as well. Jongin gags.

The stress of running to and fro projects without getting any sleep is making him slightly unhinged -and he would’ve turned back to his previously self-destructive demeanor (i.e.: flirting with the PD noonas, drinking soju five minutes before show time) if it weren’t for Chanyeol, who keeps on making dumb Spock faces to make him laugh when he feels like flashing his middle finger on national television, who keeps him on the ground when his soul starts drifting off somewhere, and who tells him with a smile, ‘Wow, Jongin-ah. How can you look like shit but still be amazing?’

He’s starting to believe his bad boy image has crumbled long ago, and he wonders whether it shows enough for the fans to notice.

Of course Kyungsoo notices immediately, and when he catches a snoring Chanyeol splayed on the dorm living room without his shirt on and his hair wet and dripping like he’s just showered, he snaps. He takes Jongin by the arm the next day, locking them inside a dressing room.

“You do know the situation has gotten worse, right?” Kyungsoo questions with a level tone. Jongin feels his tail swishing in between his legs.

“It’s all up to you now,” he tells him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Hyung, if you want to quit, you can always-”

“Forget what I said, Jongin,” Kyungsoo snaps, and then he sighs heavily, resigned. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.”

“You haven’t changed your bed sheets this week,” is the first thing Chanyeol says when he steps into Jongin’s dorm one day. The young CFO turns around and stares at him, hand flying to smack Jongin on the head lightly. “Slob.”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy with you-know-what,” Jongin admits, and he can immediately tell that Chanyeol doesn’t really care about the mess. He supposes that Chanyeol just likes to point out how much he’s been dropping in and out of Jongin’s abode.

He drapes his coat on the empty hanger and rolls up his long sleeves while approaching the bed. “Come on, then.” Chanyeol gestures at him.

“Coming, coming,” Jongin drawls as he watches Chanyeol grab a fistful of cloth. He trails after him, silently disappointed that dinner will have to wait for a while longer. With much tutoring on Kyungsoo’s part the week before, Jongin had been planning to cook Chanyeol’s favorite type of fish and everything else. What better way to celebrate a Friday night to themselves?

Chanyeol makes short work of the old bed sheets. As Jongin gathers them up to send to the laundry tomorrow morning, Chanyeol’s already rummaging through the drawers on the other side of the room. He picks a pattern, holding up a handful to show him.

“This one?” the man asks. Jongin nods compliantly.

He’s still folding the sheets as Chanyeol takes out the new covers and throws them over the bed.

“You’re very fast,” Jongin observes in awe.

“No, this bed is just too puny.”

“Hey. Absolutely no jabs about the bed, Chanyeol hyung.”

Chanyeol finishes fitting the yellow-colored bed sheets at the corners and gets off the bed. He doesn’t spare himself a break, and as Jongin watches him walk past, he sees that his next destination is the kitchen. Moments after he disappears out of sight, Jongin hears the fridge opening.

“There aren’t enough food in here!” he calls out.

Jongin thinks: if there is such a thing as being too responsible for someone else, Chanyeol has it. Bad. He remembers how he fusses about Kai’s music shows, how he almost rivals Kyungsoo in efficiency when it comes to getting him to eat at least three meals a day, and how Chanyeol always serenades him with his favorite songs whenever the other feels down.

But, if Chanyeol really has been going through great lengths just to make him happy, is it just another way of saying Jongin isn’t happy enough?

Jongin shakes his head, muttering, “What am I doing?”

He finishes piling the old bed sheets to one side of the room and trudges into the kitchen to prepare dinner. It’s been awhile since they could have a meal together, what with Jongin’s erratic schedule and Chanyeol’s meetings.

“I didn’t know you cook,” Chanyeol says as he slides beside him. He doesn’t even stand on his toes in order to grab a pan hanging overhead-he hands it to Jongin easily.

“I’m okay,” Jongin shrugs. He remembers Kyungsoo flashing him an odd stare when he asked to teach him how to cook out of nowhere, and he looks down, embarrassed. “I’m not that good, but there’s no need to help with cooking. You’ve already shown me that you can cook gourmet meals out of Campbell’s soup, hyung, so let me prove myself this time.”

Chanyeol laughs. “Hoho. I like this challenge, Jonginnie. But at least let me make one dish. I feel like eating curry today, and I’m hella sure I make it better than you,” he winks.

Under the running tap, Chanyeol washes his hands before drying them on the cloth by the sink. The afterimage remains in Jongin’s mind-the man’s enormous hands, rinsed and ready to begin work. It makes him think about a hot afternoon at the children’s park, him distantly shouting for Chanyeol to stop spinning him madly at the merry-go-round. He remembers Chanyeol’s head thrown back in laughter, his hair bouncing up and down with the same palpable glee. Chanyeol looked exceptionally handsome that day.

“Are you okay, Jongin? Why is your face red?”

Jongin blushes harder, but manages to roll his eyes. “It’s the heat from the pan,” he mutters, flicking Chanyeol’s arm lightly.

When the frying pan clunks against the stove, Jongin stops letting his mind wander and concentrates on the present. He spares a look at Chanyeol as he washes the vegetables, and he sees a certain focus in his eyes, the exact same one he has whenever he plays his guitar. It’s heartening.

It’s true that the flavor of his curry is much better than Jongin’s could ever be. “See, told you,” Chanyeol smirks, and Jongin lets him.

With two of them occupying the kitchen, the space to move around is smaller than usual. They bump elbows and Chanyeol has to move out of the way as Jongin retrieves the cooking oil, amongst other things, from the cupboard at his feet. Chanyeol nearly bangs into him when Jongin turns around, reaching for the fridge.

He makes a short, contemplative noise as Jongin lurches back. “I should ask Dad to move you to a bigger place.”

Jongin gives him a perplexed expression. “Why?”

“It’s not like it’s permanent but-” Chanyeol pauses, his brow knotting as he searches for what he wants to say.

As he checks on the fish, Jongin nods at him to continue.

“I’ve already told you before, there’s a swell place near the new SM building too, and I heard it’s rather spacious-oh damn, the curry!” Chanyeol interrupts himself when he notices the lid over the pan of curry trembling.

Jongin can’t help but laugh as the elder lowers the flame and blows anxiously over the curry, urging it to simmer.

“What I’m trying to say is…” is what Chanyeol says when he gets back, and then cutting off again, glancing at the ceiling. He looks up to him briefly before diverting his attention to the curry. Jongin doesn’t think he’s going to finish-most of the time, there’s always an extra thought that cuts through Chanyeol’s sentences-but Jongin more or less knows what Chanyeol’s trying to tell him.

“Thanks, hyung, but I think this dorm is okay.”

Chanyeol looks unimpressed. “I don’t actually like playing this card but you have me-devilishly attractive, insanely rich Park Chanyeol-as your best friend and boss. I actually read the suggestion box once and a while. Let me hear thy complaints.”

Jongin mock scowls. “Well for one, you need an ego check. And you seriously have to stop dragging me to every art auction in Seoul whenever you feel like making my life even more difficult. But for the dorm, as cramped as it’s getting, I actually like the place.”

“Really? Huh,” the other remarks, twirling the spoon between his fingers like a miniature baton. “That’s odd. I thought you hated small places.”

“This is a manageable kind of small. Not like your Dad and his cronies would be up to pay for the extra hundred thousand won, anyway,” Jongin amends.

“Like I said-you have me.”

“Not taking any chances, hyung. Once I owe you a favor I’ll probably never hear the end of it.”

Chanyeol laughs out loud, delighted. “But, well, what do you like about this place, anyway?”

Jongin likes this place with the simmering curry, with the ceiling light that’s fine on most nights, with the hooks on the top of the walls and the shelf filled to the brim with books that Jongin reads in between passages of sleeping and waking.

Most of all, he likes the dorm because Chanyeol’s place is close.

Jongin meets her for the first time in the elevator.

She is pretty, more beautiful than what the magazines and the news articles had depicted. With her bright, hazel eyes, soft wavy hair and flowing Sunday dress, Jongin inwardly thinks that all of the pictures he’d ever seen of her had been way off the mark.

She pushes the button with a delicate, lacquered finger. “I’m on the fourteenth,” she chirps as she turns to Jongin. “What floor will you be going?”

“Eight,” Jongin lies, his eyes darting nervously.

The girl hums in answer, pushing the number 8 on the dashboard. She smiles at him shyly and says, “I’m a big fan of yours. Really.”

“Um, thank you.”

“My fiancé is a fan of yours too,” she says conversationally, her eyes sparkling. “I took him to a concert of yours on our first date, actually. He told me he loved your music.”

Jongin nods, hoping his answering grin isn’t as stiff as he felt. “I never knew I had a male fan. I’m very grateful.”

The woman chuckles sweetly, then says, “Can I get your autograph? He’d be ecstatic-”

“Oh, it’s my floor!” Jongin yelps hastily. “I’m so sorry-my manager’s been looking for me all day, and I can only imagine all the things he’s going to-”

“It’s fine.” She waves as the elevator dings to an open. She bows slightly. “It’s really nice to meet you, Kai-ssi.”

“Likewise.” He bows slightly, and steps out of the elevator. The steel doors clamp shut.

Jongin sighs, and after a minute, presses the Up button.

Chanyeol thinks it’s a good idea to celebrate Jongin’s fifth win for his title track Overdose; Jongin protests all the way to the art museum, but it inevitably falls on deaf ears.

Jongin’s hair is dyed a dusty blond and Chanyeol’s a dark red. Dressed like a walking New York Nets franchise, Jongin ducks his head as he bows to the guard on duty as he shows his fake ID. The man looks at him suspiciously but lets him through when the line behind them starts getting longer.

The much more confident Chanyeol gets in without a hitch, and Jongin curses at him.

“What now, Warhol?” Jongin sighs. “That guy’s probably gonna alert surveillance now. Let’s drop this before we get caught-”

“We won’t, trust me.” Chanyeol grabs his hand, and Jongin gets dragged along the array of sculptures and paintings of men and women dressed only in leaves or scanty pieces of cloth. His ears flush with a tinge of pink as Chanyeol leads him to a restricted area down the basement. They cross over the chains and take the stairs.

“This is where they keep the paintings NGA and J. Paul Getty would be exhibiting here tomorrow.” Chanyeol’s eyes are gleaming even in the dark. His breath is hot on Jongin’s ear as he whispers. “Won’t it be great if we got to see it before the general public does?”

“I don’t actually see the draw,” Jongin responds dryly. “Jesus, hyung, what if we get caught-”

Chanyeol clamps a hand on Jongin’s mouth, leaning so close that the younger’s hands grow damp. “This is me blocking all the negative vibes,” he says with a grin. “You signed in to this mission, soldier. There are no take backs.”

“Signed in? What the-”

“Sshh! I’m doing this for you, you know.” And much to Jongin’s astonishment, Chanyeol takes out a set of keys, and one of them perfectly slides inside the hole of the steel gates.

“You have keys to the basement?” Jongin hisses.

“My friend Sehun works here as a curator,” Chanyeol half hisses. “I took duplicates when he’s not looking. Now stop looking at me like I just murdered somebody and let’s go. I want to show you something.”

The younger man exhales in frustration, as Chanyeol takes his hand once more and leads him to a dimly lit room with a ceiling Jongin can only hope to reach with his palms outstretched.

Chanyeol turns up the lights without warning, and the sudden flash of white blinds him momentarily. He waits until his pupils adjust to the change, and from the corner of his eye he sees Chanyeol watching him carefully as Jongin’s jaw drops.

“You like it?” Chanyeol asks, and laughs when Jongin can only nod.

Huge artworks are posted across grey-white primeval walls, and sculptures of gods and goddesses and people at war line up the far end of the isle. There are pithos, spears, and ivory-white plates preserved in wooden crates with stacks of hay. It’s the largest collection of all the beautiful things Jongin has seen in one, secluded chamber made out of marble.

Chanyeol’s hand slips to the small of his back, and it burns as Chanyeol slides him to a relatively smaller painting. “This is my favorite,” Chanyeol mutters to his ear.

There are drips of dark gray, and long splashes of black, peach, silver, combined with small hints of blue and white sprayed erratically across the unframed canvass. It’s not bright or sad or calm or angry-in fact, Jongin feels nothing, sees nothing but a bunch of all his least favorite colors spilled to cover the spaces. It says Number 1; J. Pollock; 1950.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“Nothing.”

Jongin stares at him incredulously, and Chanyeol chortles. “Yeah, you heard me right,” he tells him cheerfully, and Jongin can’t help but feel shortchanged.

“That’s just a fucking waste of paint, then,” Jongin decides.

“The more I look at it,” Chanyeol starts again when his laughter dies down. “I suspect Pollock never really had something in his mind. Just slathered his brush one moment, and then dripped a huge blob of enamel when he suddenly feels like it.” In a fraction of a second, he’s leaning close again, and Jongin can feel the warmth of Chanyeol’s body soaking through his oversized shirt. “But do you see that fish over there?”

“H-huh?” Jongin struggles to keep himself upright as Chanyeol’s cologne assault his nostrils. He squints, trying to make sense of the chaos of colors in front of him. “I don’t actually-” and then he sees it; at the very center there’s an outline of something like an angelfish. Or is it a goldfish? “Oh, wait a second! I see it!”

“Quick! I see a flower; tell me where it is!”

And before Jongin’s very eyes the colors morph themselves into a warped kind of poppy, with dots of peach-colored begonias littering around it.

“There, right there!” He points to the center again. “That’s amazing, hyung. But how does that-”

“You see what you want to see. In art, it’s not a mistake,” Chanyeol says, his voice much, much lower.

Jongin makes a blunder of his own when he turns to ask him what he meant. Chanyeol’s eyes are dark, pulling him in instead of skulking away. Chanyeol has never looked at him in that way before, never allowed himself to think that-or at least maybe-

The older then places a hand on his waist, and Jongin’s senses shift into overdrive.

He sees the red blood whoosh underneath Chanyeol’s porcelain skin as the latter’s cheeks start to redden, the dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks, beautiful like a delicate paint brush bristle. Jongin’s heartbeat doesn’t sound like his own anymore. It thunders through his chest many times as he inhales a mixture of bitter and sweet.

“I-” Jongin starts.

They’re so close now. He knows that the half of Chanyeol’s body pressed to him will be imprinted on him forever. It’s the warmth of Chanyeol’s breath, that then becomes the warmth of Chanyeol’s mouth, are the very things he never knew he could want, and it makes everything else, makes everything else in that instant slip away.

Jongin’s lips are trembling when Chanyeol cups his face in his hands.

They stagger inside the old closet in the basement. In the darkness, Jongin can make out a broomstick, a mop, and some heavy-duty floor polishers-he manages to avoid tripping his foot into every single one of them as Chanyeol bites onto his lower lip.

He sees Chanyeol close his eyes as the back of his knees presses onto the door jamb and Chanyeol yanks Jongin up to kiss him deeper. They end up rutting along the side of the wall, and Jongin’s tongue skirts on the slant of Chanyeol’s shoulder, as if to savor his warmth, the pulse thudding on the thin skin-

When Chanyeol’s hand starts tugging on the hem of his Nets shirt, something dawns on Jongin-he freezes.

“S-stop,” Jongin breathes through the skin on Chanyeol’s neck. “Stop, hyung-Chanyeol hyung-”

Chanyeol pulls back with a start, a worried look flashing through his face. Jongin sees the elder’s lips red and plump and sore, and it takes all of his willpower not to pull Chanyeol down and kiss him.

They stare at each other for a few minutes, listening to their pants echoing inside the broom closet. Jongin isn’t sure if he sees hurt or anger swimming in Chanyeol’s eyes-maybe it’s both.

“I’m-” Jongin tries to explain, but Chanyeol immediately removes his hand on Jongin’s waist. He untangles himself from the idol and pulls on the doorknob to leave.

“Hyung! Chanyeol, wait!” Jongin cries, and it echoes almost sadly along the basement. “Chanyeol, listen to me-”

“What is it that you want from me, exactly?” Chanyeol is the one who shouts this time, and it’s the first time Jongin has ever heard him raise his voice, amplified by the marble-granite walls of the museum. He turns his body to face him, but not all the way. “What am I to you, Jongin? Who am I to you?”

To him, Chanyeol is a childish cult addict, an Arnault wannabe who has too many expectations and responsibilities to shoulder, who has to act every day that they don’t meant that much to him at all. To Jongin, Chanyeol is everything he doesn’t want to lose.

“You’re my friend, but you’re also much more than that,” Jongin pleads, balling his fists to stop himself from screaming. “Please, I don’t want to ruin this-”

“I’m your friend,” Chanyeol repeats, but it sounds like a swearword slipping from his lips. “Yes, you’re right. I’m your best friend. I do get it now.”

“Please, Chanyeol, don’t go-”

“Not until you promise me that this won’t be the last time.”

Jongin can’t reply. Chanyeol’s eyes are hopeful and glistening, and it’s too unbearable to look at. It’s almost midnight and he’s sure the museum is about to close and Chanyeol, Chanyeol is just too much for him.

When Jongin doesn’t speak, Chanyeol just laughs. It sounds sickening to Jongin’s ears, like steel bars grating ferociously on one another.

It’s the first time Chanyeol has ever turned his back on Jongin. “See you whenever, friend.”

The first clue that something is amiss in Park Chanyeol’s tidy apartment is a pair of mournful brown eyes.

The eyes-set in an angular, plump-cheeked face, framed by a tumble of soft, reddish hair-are peeking at him over the far end of the whitewashed Formica table. They watch Jongin, with relentless silence, as he takes a seat next to him in the couch.

Jongin also doesn’t say anything, but continues eyeing that same piece of artwork Chanyeol had bought during the auction last year.

“Kim Jongin,” Chanyeol says finally in a low, sad tone: a full name means business.

Jongin turns to look at him, wary. The memory of Chanyeol’s lips on his still burns on the forefront of his mind.

“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol continues, murmuring. His right hand seeks the warmth of Jongin’s-but then the younger sees the gold band on Chanyeol’s ring finger, and Jongin visibly blanches, pulling away.

Jongin sighs. He was clearly the one at fault, and again Chanyeol takes it upon himself to shoulder all the blame. Of course. “What are you apologizing for, hyung?”

“Everything. Everything that has happened and will happen. I thought about last night, and everything that you’ve said before… maybe you were right.”

Jongin had already seen it coming, but that doesn’t mean it hurt any less than it’s supposed to: the awful stirring at the pit of his stomach makes his eyes water involuntarily. “I told you so,” he grins tightly. “Bet you want to turn everything back around, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you wish that you’ve never met me in the first place-”

“Is that what you think?” Chanyeol’s eyes flash in a way Jongin had never seen before. “That it would’ve been fine-just dandy-if I hadn’t approached you that night? That we would’ve been better off if I never sent you that god forsaken mug, never sought out your friendship?”

“I was miserable and alone, but that was normal,” Jongin replies. “I make money on it, hyung, the depression. I sell my fucked-up life to anyone who’s anyone who wants to see me burn. But then you showed up and-and…”

Chanyeol turns silent, the light in his eyes dimming. Jongin feels something disgusting roll in his mouth, like the aftertaste of bitter gourd-the guilt doesn’t surprise him, but he can’t take back everything he said.

“I…” And then Chanyeol laughs, manically, hiccupping in between bouts. “You’re right.” He smiles too widely. “I did ruin everything. I always ruin everything.”

“Hyung, I didn’t-I didn’t mean it like that…”

Chanyeol holds up a hand. “I get it, Jongin-ah,” he says. “I understand. The problem has always been with me, anyway. But-even after everything, I don’t regret every single moment I spent with you. I’ve always held you above every person in my life, Jongin. You’re special. I knew it from the moment I met you.

“I wasn’t just attracted to you physically,” Chanyeol continues. “I really, really like you, Jongin. For some reason, I thought you felt the same. And that night in the museum, when I kissed you, and you kissed me back… Or was it just me-seeing all those things?”

Jongin opens his mouth to respond, but he can’t speak.

“I know you regret getting entangled with me,” he says meekly, avoiding Jongin’s eyes. “But just tell me this one thing, and I promise I won’t ever bother you again. Please. It’s important.”

“Okay.”

He draws in a long, deep breath. “Jongin, did I misunderstand?”

The idol shakes his head as he lays himself bare, revealing his deepest desire. Jongin replies, croaking, “No, Chanyeol hyung. You weren’t mistaken.”

Chanyeol nods. The frown disappears slowly, until a soft smile plays on the elder’s lips. Jongin tucks this image away in his mind, knowing that this momentary burst of happiness will be short-lived.

And when Chanyeol kisses him, Jongin knows there’s no turning back from the choice he’s made.

His fingertips caress the skin of Jongin’s wrist lightly, sending an electric current through Jongin’s body. Jongin grabs Chanyeol’s waist and reels him in, pressing his lips hungrily against his. Chanyeol’s hands spread along the span of his back before dipping under the material of his shirt. He touches him gently, and Jongin moans, overcome by sensation after sensation of Chanyeol’s hot mouth travelling to explore the exposed skin on Jongin’s neck, the hypersensitive spot behind Jongin’s ear.

“Jongin,” Chanyeol sighs as he peppers him with kisses, threading his fingers into thick, blonde hair. “Jongin. Jongin.”

Jongin swallows the lump in his throat as Chanyeol wrestles with his shirt over his head and presses him on the soft bed of Chanyeol’s apartment.

The other unbuttons his pants before shoving it down to his legs. Chanyeol kicks them off as Jongin yanks his shirt off, and hastily, they throw everything else aside.

Chanyeol’s fingers gets slick and wet, and it finds its way in between Jongin’s legs, where the latter is already ready and aching for him. He nimbly slips two of his fingers inside of him, scissoring him open, and Jongin whimpers, his back arching as Chanyeol’s fingers pump into him hard and fast. Chanyeol’s palm grinds against his hole, overwhelming him, coaxing him to open. Chanyeol bends his head, and takes Jongin’s hard cock into his mouth, sucking hard.

The heat spreads through Jongin and he knows he’s close, but he doesn’t want to end like this - by some surge of courage, he reaches out and grasps for Chanyeol’s throbbing erection. Chanyeol hisses as he strokes him, and he murmurs Jongin’s name when he runs his thumb over the base of his cock.

“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol gasps. “I’m being selfish-”

Jongin swallows his words quick with another kiss. “No, you’re not. I want this too.”

Chanyeol pulls away momentarily, his eyes dark with lust, but the pool of sadness seeps through. “Are… are you sure?”

Jongin nods. He knows the consequences. This will probably be the first and the last time they’d be together like this.

He lowers Chanyeol’s head and kisses him fiercely, darkly, and with his other hand, guides him towards his entrance.

Chanyeol enters him with one stroke, and they both moan gutturally at the feeling. Jongin is so full so fast that it makes him tear up a little, but it fades away into pleasure as Chanyeol begins to thrust into him, the need apparent with each heady stroke.

“Harder, harder,” Jongin whispers. His head is lolled back in a deep haze of pleasure. “I need to feel this - I don’t ever want to forget.”

Chanyeol nods, understanding, plunging even deeper into him. Jongin’s hips move in sync, meeting his every rut, and he presses himself against Chanyeol fully, wanting to feel every tense of muscle on his body.

Chanyeol’s hands are going to leave purple marks on his thighs, his hips, but Jongin ferociously digs his nails onto Chanyeol’s broad shoulders, biting on the skin of his neck and trying to leave a part of himself there.

The pleasure builds until they’ve reached, and Jongin’s vision darkens as Chanyeol thrusts against his prostrate. He gasps when he does it again, and again, and again, and he throws his head back as the waves of his orgasm crash over him. He shudders in Chanyeol’s embrace as he continues to ride him, drawing out his own until there’s a liquid hot pool inside of Jongin, as Chanyeol comes with a muffled moan.

Jongin kisses him as Chanyeol slackens his pace, his arms winding around his chest, and Jongin pretends that Chanyeol’s whispering his name against his mouth doesn’t hurt worse than anything he’s ever experienced.

They lie still on the bed, legs sprawled together, sweaty and spent. For a short while, they’re not an idol and a CFO breaking all the rules-they’re Jongin and Chanyeol, and nothing else matters.

Chanyeol pulls him in an embrace, and Jongin thinks this is probably all that he’d get.

“I hate this,” Jongin confesses. “I hate this so much.”

“Me too,” Chanyeol sighs, his voice cracking. “It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.”

No amount of apology would be able to turn back time, so instead, Jongin holds him close.

The curtains are drawn when Jongin wakes up.

There’s no sign of Chanyeol anywhere in the apartment. No strewn clothing on the floor from their late-night activities, no open-toed shoes huddling by the doorstep, no post it’s with silly messages; nothing. Jongin touches the other side of the bed. It’s not warm at all.

Oddly, Jongin feels calm as he dials Chanyeol’s number on his phone, even if it rings about seven times and Chanyeol doesn’t pick up. Even when he dials again and, this time, the call gets forwarded to Chanyeol’s secretary, Minyoung.

“I’m so sorry, Kai-ssi,” Minyoung tells him, both soothing and professional, and Jongin knows she won’t be answering any further questions. “But Mr. Park is on a very important budget meeting with the rest of finance. I’ll let him know you called.”

“Um. No, actually. Don’t tell him I called.”

“Is that so? Alright.”

Jongin thanks Minyoung, apologizes for the intrusion, and ends the call with a tired, trembling sigh.

“I slept with Chanyeol.”

Kris furls and unfurls his fingers on the rounded base of his tea cup, frowning. Jongin can see Kris’ ears turn pinkish, but doesn’t comment on it. Kris grunts, “Did you call me here to celebrate then?”

Jongin chuckles flatly. “I wish I could say that. What we did… it just made things extremely more difficult than it ever was.”

“You like him,” Kris nods. “And you know now that he likes you too. By some twisted logic, this isn’t going to end well-how?”

Jongin slips him a newspaper cut-out that had been jammed inside his coat pocket for weeks. The waitress slides by, and deftly manages to refill the tea cups with a new brew of an Okinawa special without blocking Jongin from watching Kris’s expression morph into shock, then disbelief.

“Did his father put the ring on the finger?”

“Most likely.”

Kris gazes ahead to the ceiling. “Chanyeol. Engaged. Wow,” he sighs ruefully as he pours a dab of honey to his drink. “Judging from the date on the article here, it’s been announced by SM a month ago. So you knew? You knew and you still slept with him?”

Kris’s tone wasn’t exactly reproving, but Jongin looks down in shame.

A media outlet had been the first one to break the ice, and Jongin remembers knocking down a water delivery boy in his mad haste to the top floor, only to find a weary Chanyeol to confirm his worst fears.

The ever-present and capable Kyungsoo knew, of course, and Jongin realized that the elder’s warnings weren’t out of misgivings or spite towards the CFO.

“There’s a pattern to all this, and I’ve been working here for more than seven years that it’s just plain silly for me not to notice,” Kyungsoo snorted that day, pouring another shot of soju on Jongin’s empty glass. “For all intents and purposes, Chanyeol is a married man as soon as he promised to run the company on his brother’s behalf. Although he’s obviously not Moonsik’s favorite, the CEO picked another heiress of a cosmetic company as Chanyeol’s wife-to-be. That alone says he’s going to be a permanent fixture in SM, and absolutely off-limits.” He threw Jongin a chiding stare.

“Chanyeol just laughed it off when I asked him if he loved her,” Jongin said bleakly. The bags under his eyes were big enough to carry a toddler. “He’d only met the Sangmi twice. He can’t have loved her, hyung. I know it.”

Kyungsoo had replied then, “Who ever said that they loved each other? Dispatch doesn’t even acknowledge that they’re dating. Marriage is a union of assets. It’s a game plan, stupid. In this part of the world, you have to learn the most important rule of all: you don’t marry someone for love. You marry someone for riches.”

Jongin taps the rim of his cup with a ceramic teaspoon, letting out bated breath. He turns to Kris and asks, “What do you think I should do now?”

Kris shrugs. “I honestly have no clue. I never acted out on my feelings for Chanyeol. Doing nothing is what I do best. But I don’t think the same thing applies to you. Will you be okay with it?”

It’s not fair, a voice resonating from the depths of his heart insists, and the confession bubbles out of him as easy as breathing. “I won’t make it without Chanyeol hyung,” Jongin says as he slowly, resentfully, shakes his head. “I won’t make it. I just can’t.”

That night, Jongin lies in bed, eyes open. The ceiling is full of dark shadows and he can’t fall asleep. He feels like he’s eight again after accidentally having watched The Exorcist on TV. Everything seems suspiciously like a ghost-ominous, threatening to eat him alive. Uneasily, he pulls the covers up to his chin.

After that trip to the museum, Jongin and Chanyeol had made an unspoken pact never to cross paths again inside the company.

It’s not uncommon to fall in love with another man who’s incidentally your boss. It’s also not uncommon, is it, for him to be engaged to someone else just as soon as Jongin had gauged how much his feelings for him had run deep? To have both-Jongin just thinks he’s cursed. Clichéd, but cursed.

If he hadn’t agreed to become an idol, would he be leading a normal life, loving the same way a normal person would?

It’s not fair, Jongin thinks.

Sleeping pills is not an option for Jongin in order for him to get a good night’s rest-entertainers of all sorts overdosing on anything and everything are a dime a dozen, and the management had clearly gotten out of its way to prevent such things from happening to their money-makers. So Jongin stays awake until the sun rises to greet him again, and waits for Kyungsoo to come barging in with his schedule set on Kyungsoo’s smartphone.

From then on, the dreams-or probably nightmares-begin to come.

They start slowly, until they have Jongin turning and trashing on his bed as they entangle into something fierce and unknown. Jongin dreams of Chanyeol, his dopey smile, his trademark spectacles sloping on the bridge of his nose. Lee Sangmi is as pretty as the day he saw her in the elevator, but vicious and conniving. One second, she’s lacing a slim arm on Chanyeol’s waist, and suddenly they’re gone.

His mind starts conjuring of other ways he can lose Chanyeol: a car accident, a petty disagreement, fantasy; a mythical creature straight from the thriller novels Jongin reads during breaks, sucking Chanyeol’s blood until the latter’s body is cold, empty, and dry.

Jongin can lose Chanyeol in almost every way imaginable, but it would never compare to the pain that is his reality. Such are the power of dreams-potent, but inevitably factitious.

Jongin is not a superstitious person. He’s gotten by and knows about that much. He’s been through enough tarot card readings and looked through magical crystals balls all in his line of work and none of them have ever gotten it right.

But these dreams, he has to admit that they’re something else. Chanyeol has been a recurring character in each and every episode, and before everything goes askew, Chanyeol always manages to cheer him up when he’s down. He holds Jongin to the ground just like he’s always done, tells him that both Kai and Jongin are equal parts beautiful.

Chanyeol makes Jongin’s heart ache.

What do they all mean, anyway? The only thing Jongin understands is how impossible it is to overcome the hurdle that’s between them.

But when the fourth month wheels in, after waking up from a nightmare of Chanyeol jumping off from the edge of a cliff, he realizes that he has to see Chanyeol again. Loving a person had never really been a crime. So is loving a person you should never have loved in the first place.

Their worlds start to collide again in December. The ceilings are adorned with rubberized Christmas balls and styrofoam cherry leaves, and the reserved floor in Platinum is packed with idols, managers, stylists, businessmen, and board members alike. Three of the overseers have already caught a sack full of unnecessarily strong liquor that had been smuggled inside, since everyone is required to go home sober lest they make a fool of themselves and tarnish the company’s name.

Jongin twiddles his thumbs as he searches for the Chanyeol among the crowd, which proved to be an easy task. Along with his tall and lean stature, Chanyeol is a magnificent sight in his tuxedo and gelled-up hair-and this scares Jongin for some reason. He forces himself into sitting in the most reclusive part in the function hall, convincing himself that he’s content with just looking at even just an outline of him from afar.

“Hi,” a voice from behind him says, and Jongin almost jumps in the air in surprise. He sees Taemin, a friend and a fellow solo-artist who debuted about two years earlier than Jongin, offering him a glass of punch. “Why the long face, Kai?”

Jongin gives him what he hopes is not a tight smile. “Oh, sorry. Was just thinking to myself.”

“About…?”

“Nothing in particular, sunbae.”

He doesn’t seem to believe him, and instead gives him a few warm pats on the arm. “You seem pretty out of it these days. I should describe it as ‘calmer’, I think, compared to that thug-like image you’ve been sporting since debut,” Taemin jokes good-naturedly, chuckling all the way, and Jongin joins along.

“I’ve actually grown a little tired of it to be quite honest.”

“I hope nothing bad happened just as you’ve said, but if there’s something, you can always tell me about it. SM has scheduled a comeback for me this June, so we have approximately six months to talk.”

Jongin laughs, “That’s really-”

“Hey, Jongin-ah. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” There’s a surreptitious tug on his cuffs, and it’s none other than the man he’d been keeping his tabs on for the whole night. Chanyeol’s hair is dyed black again, and Jongin can tell that he’s wearing the contacts he absolutely detests just for the occasion. Yet Chanyeol looks strikingly handsome all the same, especially up close.

It’s ridiculous how Jongin thinks all of this under a few seconds.

“Oh. Um,” Jongin creaks.

He can feel Taemin eyeing them thoughtfully as he bows. “I’m honored to finally meet you, Mr. Park.”

Chanyeol laughs but it hitches in the middle, sounding somewhat strained. “Don’t need to be so formal, Taemin-ssi. I feel older all of a sudden.”

The sudden spell of silence after is oppressing. Chanyeol makes it a point that he wants to talk with Jongin alone by staring at him pointedly, until Taemin makes a flimsy excuse to leave.

When the other man is no longer within earshot, Chanyeol flashes him a tired smile. “Hi.”

Jongin gives him a stiff nod. “Hey.”

They are in the bleakest part of the function hall-there are no decorations, just a corner stripped of its festive aura. Chanyeol pauses as if he’s drinking in the sight of him, or perhaps that’s just him, drinking in the sight of Chanyeol.

“Why are you here?” Jongin asks when he thinks Chanyeol won’t speak. “I thought we were avoiding each other.”

“I want to talk to you,” the other says, sounding a bit bashful, like he wasn’t the one who initiated the unspoken rule not to acknowledge each other’s existence.

Jongin purses his mouth. “Okay.” He waits, but Chanyeol doesn’t speak again. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it, then closes it once more. It seems that that one night that ended too short and revealed too much had rendered them both speechless and-

The idol looks up in surprise as Chanyeol takes hold of his fingers, pulling him closer. “W-what are you doing, hyung?” Jongin stammers, his heart suddenly pounding at the tips of his fingers.

Abruptly, Chanyeol starts leading him somewhere. The clacks of his black, one inch heeled shoes are masked by the cacophony of glass clinking together and the sound of men and women yelling their toasts for a merry Christmas. Jongin is so stunned that he almost trips on an uneven patch of carpet in the hallway.

“Hyung,” he whispers harshly when they arrive inside an empty bathroom. Jongin knows perfectly well where all this would lead to, and his palms start to sweat under the heat of the tungsten lights.

Chanyeol goes inside a stall, pulls Jongin in, and latches the lock.

Jongin’s back is against the divider, his pant leg pressed on the edge of the toilet seat. The space is small, cramped, and he can hear himself breathing noisily as his brain yodels frantically in claustrophobia. “Hyung! Chanyeol hyung! What are we-”

He makes that same mistake again of looking into Chanyeol’s chocolate brown eyes-suddenly, he’s not Kai anymore, and he’s not Park Moonsik’s second son, engaged to a girl named Sangmi and heir to billions.

He’s just Kim Jongin, and he’s just Park Chanyeol.

They’re alone, and they’re together.

In his mind’s eye, Jongin envisions the fish, the flower, the thousand varieties sprinkled on a barren canvas. He sees another thing: a fine line in the middle of the Pollock’s Number 1, a single crust of yellowish enamel, thin and laughably fragile.

Chanyeol squeezes his hand, and the line disappears.

Chanyeol presses his lips onto his, and it’s so heartbreakingly familiar that Jongin’s knees almost give in under the weight. Jongin kisses back as fiercely, his hands at the end of Chanyeol’s spine, exploring, and when he nips at Chanyeol’s bottom lip he finds his hair being sifted through by Chanyeol’s long fingers.

The edge of the toilet seat presses on his mid-thigh, but he doesn’t care. He’s sinking, drowning right there and then. He can’t believe all his life he’d been missing this, but never knew exactly what it was until now.

The moan Jongin elicits when Chanyeol’s lips are on the sensitive part of his neck is both deafening and defining, and his fingers travel down, down to the belt clasped on Chanyeol’s waist-

“Sir, I would have to ask you to open the door.” It’s Kyungsoo’s voice, and he can tell that there are a few others with him-only then does Jongin hear the loud bangs, hard and insistent. “Hello? This is SM personnel. Please open the door.”

Suddenly, dreadfully, the balloon in Jongin’s chest pops, and Chanyeol leans in to give Jongin one last kiss, before removing his hands on Jongin’s waist to open the door.

Junmyeon, Yixing, and a few other faces Jongin recognizes but cannot give a name to are all standing in either shock, fury, or a mixture of both, as they take in Chanyeol and Jongin’s disheveled appearance and swollen lips. Only Kyungsoo looks disappointed. He turns remotely detached in a heartbeat, but his trembling hands give him away.

“Mr. Kim,” Kyungsoo orders in an earthy, velvety tone, and Jongin can tell that Kyungsoo is scared. “You’re coming home with me now. Mr. Park, I would have to ask you to keep to yourself for the rest of the night and never bother Mr. Kim anymore. As his manager and official guardian, I will do whatever I see fit.”

Chanyeol mumbles, “I understand.”

“Kyungsoo, please-”

“Jongin.” It’s not Mr. Kim anymore, and Kyungsoo gives the young idol a pained look. “I- I gave you all the chances you could. I can’t believe you would do this.”

Jongin follows his manager’s lead out of the cubicle, literally a fiend caught red-handed. As he walks away, Chanyeol stalks behind him and gives him one assuring glance. He whispers, “I love you” to his ear like a promise, before walking out of the bathroom.

Both Kyungsoo and Jongin keep up the dignity of looking composed, but the hall is abuzz of sinister murmurs that neither the holiday spirit or the promise of a better year can cajole. Everyone seems to hiss in Jongin’s ears until the limousine arrives.

The two board the vehicle in deep silence. Before the chauffer locks the door behind them, Jongin catches sight of Sangmi at the foot of the entrance. She stares after him incomprehensibly, her mouth wide open in surprise, mortification-Jongin couldn’t tell exactly. He doesn’t want to.

Kyungsoo refuses to look at him, and doesn’t ask any questions. In return, Jongin doesn’t talk the whole trip back to the dorm, and when they arrive Jongin confines himself to his room, ardently wishing that he would never have to come out ever again.

Jongin hardly cries. The last time he did, it was when he was ten, and one of his dogs had died while he was spending the rest of his day frolicking at a nearby playground. Before that, he had overheard his parents discussing the grounds for a divorce. He was seven, and he thought about his two-year-old sister who’d have to grow up in a broken family.

He thinks of Chanyeol, and everything starts leaking out of the edge of his eyes.

This time, the tears are for him.

Kai quit the idol scene a few weeks before the so-called ‘Scandal in Apgujeong’ burst in the media, and much rapid speculation had made SM’s stocks drop to an all-time low. The company had to remain tight-lipped for three whole months, since their own CFO was also part of the scandal, and in return cannot file a lawsuit against the former idol for incurring damages.

True to his word, Chanyeol did not seek out Jongin anymore. Foolishly, Jongin thought it was because the older was waiting for the right time to contact him again. He gave up his phone when he left SM, but his social networking site accounts did not change. One week turned to two, three, until one month turned to two, three. The hopelessness that accompanied the wait crippled Jongin almost to the point of relapsing to his self-destructive idol days.

During his days in limbo, he thought about everything he left when he turned his back on SM. He thought of his fans, whom he understood felt betrayed by his actions. There was denial and protection at first, when the news wasn’t confirmed yet. It warmed and pricked Jongin’s heart to see how loyal the fans were at that time. But when the news hit, the utter betrayal the fans proclaimed felt like another stab to his already wounded self.

Crippled and wounded-how the mighty has fallen.

He also thought of Kyungsoo, whom he also had no news of since he left. The disappointment was palpable during the following days of the incident, but strangely the tension chipped away until Kyungsoo began talking to him again. There was only sadness and regret when they parted ways.

Jongin hoped their friendship is reparable-it’s the one silver lining he’s currently holding on to. Perhaps the one thing he can keep after leaving.

He thought of his family, whom he hasn’t visited in a while. He called them before the scandal came out, to warn them of the repercussions as much as it was a plea for absolution. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Jongin-ah. It’s not wholly your fault,” his mother told him, and it was then and there that Jongin decided it was time to pick up his life and move on.

Once, he met a man who had told him that he could never really divorce himself from the love of his life: music. And so Kai continues on as an ordinary, anonymous songwriter in a small but prospering music label. The pay is unreasonably small even if one of his works charted to number one. Ironically, Jongin should’ve appreciated his former job more, but at least Jongin gets to return home to his mother and his sister, who welcome him with warm hugs and happy smiles. Jongin never thought he would miss being a son and a brother, but he realizes that he does.

A year passes.

Jongin learns that Kyungsoo had also quit his managerial job in SM, and is now working as a department head of the Finance and Administration pool, where he can finally put his MBA to good use. Jongin sometimes invites Kyungsoo to his house for dinner, and they joke and laugh about the time they did this and that, not as a manager and an idol to scold and pamper, but as equals.

So everything goes back to some semblance of normality-at least until Jongin is all by himself in his studio when he composes, or at night when the shadows return and remind him of that other life he had.

Sometimes, the memories make him laugh: he pictures Chanyeol sneaking in and out of an art show, probably sporting a checkered polo shirt and ripped jeans, along with a goatee fit for a Mencius scholar. He would bid millions of won on the most outrageous of masterpieces, perhaps a sculpture made out of scrap metal put together by a glue gun. Everyone would yelp in surprise and wonder about this weird man, and Jongin takes in the comfort that he’s probably the only one, the only one who knows.

Jongin is nursing a cup of hot cocoa in his hands when feels Kyungsoo’s gaze on him, so he swerves to face him.

“What are you looking at?”

Kyungsoo doesn’t say anything, and it only makes him suspicious. “Spit it out, hyung, or I’ll force you to,” Jongin says.

“Chocolate,” Kyungsoo points unhelpfully at the general area of his face, before biting into a slice of turkey Jongin’s mother had cooked for them.

Jongin smudges his thumb against his chin, but there’s no chocolate. He doesn’t say anything else after that. Instead, he waits until all the other members of the Kim family had excused themselves from the table to ask his former manager once more. “Why were you looking at me?”

Kyungsoo hesitates. He eats the last of his meal before clearing his throat, “Are you happy?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Kyungsoo says gravely.

“Of course.”

“Alright, then.”

Jongin stares at him dumbly. “… that’s it?”

Kyungsoo throws him a look. “What else is there?”

“Nothing,” he responds, before standing up and shooing away his mom from the counter. He dumps the rest of the soiled dishes into the sink and slips on a pair of pink, rubber gloves. Kyungsoo slides wordlessly next to him, hands gloved in an instant, and slathers a sponge in dishwashing liquid.

It’s a routine of theirs, even back when they were still living together in the dorm. Kyungsoo had always been the one to wash the dishes while Jongin rinses. Sometimes, the nostalgia hits Jongin squarely in the face when he catches himself thinking about the past, and today is one of them.

“Have you heard from Chanyeol?”

Jongin snaps his gaze to Kyungsoo a little too quickly for his liking. “What- no, hyung. I haven’t spoken to him since-”

He stops there.

Kyungsoo raises an eyebrow at him. On his outstretched hand, the Michael Jackson mug that had been emptied of cocoa is now swamped with soap suds. Jongin takes it gingerly, before showering it with cold water from the tap.

“I know what you’re thinking, hyung,” Jongin sighs dejectedly.

“What?” Kyungsoo asks innocently, and Jongin growls.

“Okay, fine. You win this round, hyung. But don’t say anything. Not a thing.”

“Since when had you been the type to like running away?” Kyungsoo’s answer is flat, somewhat thoughtless, and it makes Jongin angry, until the other amends with a short, “Alright.”

Jongin doesn’t allow him relief just yet. “Don’t - don’t tell him.”

“I won’t,” Kyungsoo swears before handing him a plate.

“You won’t?” he double-checks.

Kyungsoo smirks dubiously, the kind of smile that Jongin finds eerily disturbing about him. It makes the elder seem almost… inhuman. He doesn’t even bother to give Jongin a verbal affirmation this time. He simply grunts, “Mhmm.”

One day, Jongin hears about Chanyeol. Sort of.

Jongin’s sister is the first one to get up during Monday mornings. She takes the daily paper and all of the envelopes to stack on a neat pile on the dining table. Jongin is still the primary source of income in the family as his sister is still on her third year of college, so the responsibility of the bills and taxes are on him.

But there it is on the newspaper, plain as day. Underneath the headlines regarding the latest economic breakdown, there’s a picture of Chanyeol and his fiancé, Sangmi. Or his ex-fiancé, as the paper had eloquently phrased: the wedding had been called off.

Jongin doesn’t know what to make out of it. He’s not even sure if he should feel anything about it at all.

Learning the politics of balancing between having Kyungsoo as a friend and having Kyungsoo boss him around has its merits. Jongin gets used to dividing his emotions: there’s the satisfaction of having a friend that knows him more than he knows himself, and the uneasiness that comes with reliving the old days.

But something is off about Kyungsoo today.

It’s Sunday, and Jongin had asked the older to come over to his house for help in composing his new song. Kyungsoo arrived a little later than usual, and he doesn’t leave the table the entire afternoon and lies face down on the work desk, looking almost comatose in his seat.

“You look horrible, hyung. More horrible than usual, at least.”

Kyungsoo doesn’t reply, and Jongin knows something is amiss. “Hey? You okay?”

Kyungsoo murmurs something along the lines of possibly a high fever. Jongin places a hand on his forehead. “You’re sick? You could’ve said something, hyung. It makes me feel bad having to drag you all the way here.”

The small, black-haired boy nods almost imperceptibly, sliding a small envelope from across the table. Jongin peers inside, and then gapes at it in horror.

“Hyung-”

Kyungsoo mumbles, his eyes still closed. “Go. Tonight. Seven. Art… I know you’ve always liked…”

The younger shakes his head ardently. He folds his arms, almost like to shield himself. “Let’s get you to a hospital, hyung. You’re really feverish.”

“I’ll stay here... You know I don’t like doctors. Or needles.”

“I’m not going. It’s you on the invite.”

“There’s a stub for you too.”

“No, Kyungsoo-”

“You owe me.” Kyungsoo’s voice is a little clearer this time, and Jongin cringes.

Jongin debates with himself, until he decides to throw a blanket messily over Kyungsoo’s small frame.

He sighs. Kyungsoo had always been an onlooker to Jongin’s awkward, youthful, and very disastrous romance: the difference now is that Jongin has to bear the full extent of his old manager capitalizing his feelings for a certain person, since neither has to worry about losing their jobs anymore. “You’re really terrible, hyung,” Jongin quips finally.

Kyungsoo cracks a smile. “I’m… honored.”

Jongin scrolls through the gallery, wandering aimlessly. Just a minute ago he’d seen Kris, dressed in the most luxurious tux Jongin had ever seen- “It’s sponsored,” the artist said with a dry smile, pacing to and fro the exhibit of his artworks on display. Jongin had congratulated him, grinning from ear to ear.

He’s been here not too long ago, but he’s still surprised that he still knows his way around. There are a lot of people in the art show, and it had been so easy for Jongin to slip at the back of the gallery with no one noticing or even recognizing who he is, or had been.

He laughs to himself when he sees the gates of the restricted area open. This sort of happy recklessness he misses, and he feels something balloon inside his chest again.

The lights are open but the chamber is empty. Gone are the spears, the antique jars, the squadron of statues made out of the finest of marble-except for that one painting at the far end. Jongin squints his eyes and saunters towards it to get a closer look.

Jongin takes a sharp intake of breath as he recognizes the Monet copy-cat painting he had always disliked ever since he first saw it. “That’s-”

“If it’s the Pollock you’re looking for, I’m afraid it already flew back to America,” a voice says; it echoes in the almost barren chamber. “Getty’s always a little territorial with its gold.”

He whirls around, and what really catches him off guard is how impossibly new Chanyeol looks, and how, at the same time, Chanyeol still looks the same. The older male is still all knees and elbows, and slouches ever so slightly in his custom suit. Jongin thinks he terribly needs a haircut.

“The day Kim Jongin has finally gained the ability to be sentimental has finally arrived,” he says serenely.

“How did you know I’d be down here?”

“Just a feeling,” Chanyeol chuckles, then straightens his features to form a small smile.

Jongin stares at him, and Chanyeol stares back with equal intensity. He feels his ears go red, finds his fingers itching to pull back the mess of bangs that has started to fringe Chanyeol’s eyebrows -

Jongin realizes he’s been lying to himself all along.

“I thought you’d never come,” Chanyeol confesses, easing himself into a grin.

“Well, you do know how to throw a party,” Jongin replies, hoping he doesn’t sound as nervous as he felt. He reminds himself to treat Kyungsoo with patbingsu next time, when the elder feels better.

“Is Kris hyung enjoying himself?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Jongin smiles. Chanyeol smiles back.

Chanyeol pauses for a while, before taking excruciatingly slow steps towards him, hesitating. He then slips a hand around Jongin’s fingers. When Jongin doesn’t let go, Chanyeol reels him in, pulling him close enough until Jongin hears the hitch between their breaths. The uneasiness dissipates so easily that Jongin feels slightly dizzy.

“I don’t have to tell you I love you, right?” Chanyeol says coyly, kissing him on the forehead. “I mean, it sounds rather creepy when my voice echoes here, don’t you think?”

Jongin laughs. After all those years of being an idol, he thought he could never really love anything or anyone forever, but at that moment, he’s glad he’s proven wrong. “Sure, hyung. Whatever you want.”

____________________
End notes:

1Sorae Village in Banpo, also known as Korea’s Little France, is a small community in downtown Seoul. Almost 40% of Korea’s French community lives there. You can find authentic French wine, bread, and cheese there.

2The International Junior Art Festival in Gangneung is held every August, which should be the time Jongin and Chanyeol met each other, but I have uhhh… taken artistic liberty (is there such a thing, lol) to move the festival three months later for the purposes of this fic.