07. the great happiness space
Sungyeol starts a new job.
“How long have we been in Seoul, Myungsoo?”
“Eight months.”
“How long have we known each other?”
“Too long-” he starts and Sungyeol pokes him with the back of a spoon. “Eight months, ever since we decided to share an apartment.”
“After I dropped my wallet with all my savings on the train platform and you picked it up and ran after me and yes, you’re still my hero, Kim Myungsoo. That’s not the point-”
“But that is always the point-” Myungsoo says past a mouthful of cereal and Sungyeol cuts him off quickly as he eyes his open mouth with disgust.
“And how long have I been trying to find a job?”
“Eight months.”
Sungyeol puts down his spoon carefully, his muesli untouched, and leans forward. He enunciates his words slowly, almost cautiously. “Guess who got a job.”
Their apartment is homely.
Sungyeol likes to say what Myungsoo really means is that it’s ugly. It’s in a small apartment complex near the edge of Seoul but it’s close enough to a subway station and there’s enough hot water for both of them and it is furnished so Myungsoo does not think there is much to complain about.
“I have to say you did a pretty good job sticking these photos on the wall. I’m surprised how much it can brighten up the place.”
“You uh, can paint walls well.” It’s the truth though, because it feels creamy and smooth against his skin as he runs his palm down the wall and he grins at Sungyeol.
“My brother would love to find out that I came to Seoul to paint walls,” Sungyeol says, going back to attacking the newspaper with a red pen. There are more scribbles and shapeless drawings than anything productive. “But you know, that’s a good idea. I could paint walls. I could be a perfectly adequate painter.”
That is not what Sungyeol used to say.
I’m going to be an actor, Sungyeol told him over some coffee he insisted on buying, after Myungsoo tapped him on the shoulder and lifted up a worn, brown wallet to his eyes; one he thought not nearly thick enough to house all one’s savings for a move to Seoul. He did not say he wanted to become an actor, or that it had been his childhood dream. It was steady and factual, like how one would speak about the weather or the colour white. It just was. Myungsoo wondered what it was like, to be so sure of everything.
You talk a lot, Myungsoo said but it was more admiration than a rebuke. Sungyeol had a nice voice: lively and excitable without sounding shrill and most importantly, nothing like his own.
Sungyeol laughed. You don’t talk nearly enough.
Do you have a place to stay?
Sungyeol shook his head.
Me neither. Maybe we should share an apartment, Myungsoo found himself saying before he could stop himself. It was strange, because he had never bothered trying to talk to the person next to him in a bus, let alone offer to share a place with a talkative stranger who was far too idealistic. He didn’t even know Sungyeol’s last name, let alone anything else about him. What if Sungyeol was a serial killer? What if he couldn’t cook? What if he blasted dubstep at three in the morning?
Sure, Sungyeol replied and Myungsoo bit his tongue from passing the suggestion off as a joke and smiled instead.
He was in Seoul now, and there was no need to be the boy who left Jeollabuk: that boy who turned down slips of papers giggling girls presented him with, scrawled with numbers and shy messages. Myungsoo wasn’t afraid he would break their hearts - he was terrified he did not know how to bring himself to, that he would get swept away by life to end up marrying a nice girl and living in a nice house with three nice children and die, not unhappily, but without knowing anything other than order and ease. Sungyeol would to change that; at worse, he could be Myungsoo’s first and finest mistake in nineteen years of a carefully planned life.
They were in Seoul now. Sungyeol was going to be an actor, and he was going to discover himself. It was the perfect plan.
“You're going to be an actor, hyung.” It’s strange that it’s only been thirty-five weeks since they’ve met, thirty-five weeks for both of them to see past the lights of the city, thirty-five weeks for Sungyeol to begin to forget why he’s really here, in Seoul.
Sungyeol is back scanning the pages.
Myungsoo’s not sure if he heard him but then Sungyeol pauses and looks up, eyes alight, because he’s pointing to a small square at the corner of the newspaper. And then Sungyeol speaks but it’s not a question: “Working at a host club counts as acting, doesn’t it?”
He borrows some of Myungsoo’s hair gel and cologne for his first day of work.
“Training,” Sungyeol corrects him. “They need to see if I’m suitable.”
Myungsoo reaches up to fix his fringe. It’s already too long and it’s starting to fall into his eyes again, even with the gel. “Of course you’ll be right for the job. Acting is all about making people think you’re something you are not.”
Sungyeol chuckles as he takes an effortless step back, putting space in between Myungsoo and himself. He does not sound all that amused though, because he looks away, down at the floor before meeting Myungsoo’s eyes again. “You don’t like what I’m doing.”
“It’s your life. You don’t have to worry about how I feel,” he says with a light shrug even as something twists deep inside him.
“Does this mean you’re not going to lock me out of my own apartment when I come back in the middle of the night?”
Myungsoo shoves him on the shoulder. “You have your own keys.”
“You can change the locks.”
“I didn’t know we had cash to burn.”
“…Touché,” Sungyeol says finally, and Myungsoo can’t help but laugh. The ease at which Sungyeol does things, like burn instant fried rice or use up most of the hot water or things like this, is nearly unfair.
“Can I pass for one of those models you photograph?” he asks abruptly and Myungsoo nods automatically.
“Of course. Good luck,” Myungsoo calls out as Sungyeol pulls open the door steadily and steps outside. The air has settled into something more solemn, and that cloying unease in Myungsoo’s stomach is back.
Sungyeol waves goodbye behind his shoulder before disappearing down the dull concrete stairs, quickly but carefully, mindful of keeping his gleaming black shoes immaculate.
He’s rooted on his spot until Sungyeol vanishes completely from sight, stomach churning with anxious hope that Sungyeol fails his training course. Myungsoo does not feel as guilty as he thinks he should be. It’s almost worrying.
There is no doubt he is not the same boy from Jeollabuk. This thought is supposed to comforting, but it is not.
When he’s not completing a photography job (which is very often), Myungsoo tries to model. And it does get him by: he goes from photoshoots in bright, big studios with all the professional equipment he wishes he could afford to shady ones in cramped quarters and photographers who blow smoke from their cigarettes in his direction as they shoot. They always tell him he is too stiff but Myungsoo supposes his gaze is good enough, because he still gets a cheque in the mail with enough enclosed for a week’s worth of groceries.
Another thing he’s learnt: it doesn’t matter where he models, because he’s always told he can get a little bit more, go a little further, only if he does a little more. And they all have the same smiles, glossy and just warm enough for maybes to flitter through his head instead of the immediate nos that he utters every time.
Their smiles remind him of Seoul’s lights and promises, and bright enough to overwhelm.
“Myungsoo, I’m not going to be a gigolo.”
“Oh, there’s a difference between that and being a host?” He aims for neutrality but even as he speaks, he knows it’s coming out all wrong.
Sungyeol smirks. “You’re cute when you’re angry. And grossly mistaken.”
He picks up a pillow from the couch and aims it at Sungyeol, but he moves around the couch and pushes Myungsoo down. The pillow topples out of his grip, over the back of the couch and onto the ground, forgotten. They both land on the couch and Sungyeol holds Myungsoo down with an arm over his chest. “Will you listen to me first?” Sungyeol asks, smile slipping into something softer.
Myungsoo tries to wrestle his way out of his grip, but Sungyeol is heavy on top of him. Fine.
“It’s a lot like being a salesman. I have to know how to talk to people, to tell them what they want to hear. I think I made the cut, because they’re going to redo my hair tomorrow.”
“A makeover?” Myungsoo asks, making a face. Sungyeol’s fingers reach the base of his neck, and just as Myungsoo becomes aware of this, Sungyeol pulls back levelly and suddenly they’re sitting next to each other again, knees not even touching.
“Perks of the job,” Sungyeol replies, not looking at him, all normality restored.
Myungsoo concentrates instead on the dark circles under Sungyeol’s eyes. In another life, he could be a college student, staying up until two to finish essays next to countless cups of coffee instead of coming home at two, the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat permeating everything. “Just don’t sleep with random wealthy patrons. I’ve seen too many people in my line do that.”
“Don’t worry,” Sungyeol says without a trace of teasing, no lilt of cheeriness in his voice as he turns to look at Myungsoo, “I’m not going to do anything like that. I promise.”
It’s the middle of the week when Sungyeol comes back with orange undertones and blonde highlights in his hair. His fringe no longer falls into his eyes.
“…You can laugh, you know. Staring at me like that is not helpful. At all.”
“You look like a host,” Myungsoo says, when he’s finally able to make his tongue unglue itself from the roof of his mouth.
“Thanks?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”
Sungyeol walks over to tinker with the new coffee machine he had adamantly bought with the remains of his savings. You can make coffee by hand, Myungsoo had said slowly, eyeing the bright red machine. People can also walk to work, but they don’t. They buy cars. You should live a little, Myungsoo. “You need to stop assuming the worst about this job and I’ll take that as a compliment, thanks. Do you know why I haven’t been telling you anything about my training?”
He shakes his head.
“Because I want you to come and see me. On my first day.” The machine hisses and the thick smell of coffee fills the place. Myungsoo can only blink as Sungyeol sips his coffee slowly. “Do you want a cup?” Sungyeol asks, when the silence starts to suffocate.
He licks his lips. “No, and no. You can’t expect me to go to a host club.”
“No,” Sungyeol says slowly, fingers tracing circles onto the corner of his cup, “but I can expect my best friend to see me on my first day at work. And I’m going to prove that it’s not as sleazy as you think it is.”
“Sungyeol, I’m your only friend in Seoul.”
“When was the last time you did something spontaneous?” Sungyeol presses on, staring at him intently now.
“I moved to Seoul and into an apartment with a total stranger-”
“-which was more than eight months ago, Myungsoo. Meet me at eleven. I’ll text you the address.”
Myungsoo inhales sharply, something Sungyeol mistakes for annoyance because he stops talking. There’s a short pause, another bout of silence before he reaches over and offers Myungsoo the cup.
As a peace offering, it’s still blisteringly hot and Myungsoo places it down on the counter with dull thud, watching as the steam rises and disappears around them. He can feel Sungyeol’s eyes still trained on him.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes…?” Sungyeol starts, somewhat hesitantly, and Myungsoo lifts his eyes and shrugs. No was never an option: Sungyeol is his best friend, and there is a reason he moved to the city. “Thank you,” Sungyeol says, sheer relief flooding through his words and wide smile and perhaps Sungyeol is just as unsure as all this as he is. “Thank you.”
His hands are slick with suds and he’s onto the last few pieces of cutlery when the bedroom door clicks opens and Myungsoo smells him first - it’s no longer his cologne that Sungyeol is using. It’s warm and woody, and the spoon falls into the sink with a loud clang as he turns around to see Sungyeol adjusting the lapels of his suit. His fingers flutter nervously across the fabric and he tries to calm them by pressing against his suit.
It doesn’t seem to help.
“You look nice,” Myungsoo offers, feeling his own stomach jolt as he thinks of the night ahead. He turns on the tap to rinse his hands. “Let me take a photo of you. A commemorative one.”
“I’m flattered, Kim Myungsoo.”
Myungsoo picks up his camera from a side table next to the couch. It’s cool and heavy in his hands and he loves it when he’s behind the lens - there is no need to be spontaneous or quiet or loud or someone you’re not. The photographer doesn’t matter; all that exists is the subject. “Smile,” he says and Sungyeol tries to as the shutter clicks. The room floods with light.
“Good?”
“Good,” Myungsoo says, bringing the camera down from over his eyes. “You should get going, it’s almost ten.”
Sungyeol fiddles with the cuff of his shirt. “Do I look nervous?”
“No. Take a deep breath and it’ll be fine; I’ll be there in about an hour.”
He nods, and when he stops fidgeting, he looks so much more poised. Natural. Myungsoo swallows to stop the butterflies from making their way up his throat, because he’s so close to telling Sungyeol not to go.
“I can still change my mind,” Sungyeol says. “I can take this off and we can go to a bar and get wasted and laugh about all this five years down the line.”
Myungsoo could have just nodded and they would laugh about all this, the hair and the late hours and the shortsightedness, over a few beers but this is not what will happen because Myungsoo nudges him out the door. Sungyeol has come too far to give up and well, they do need the money. “Go,” he says, and Sungyeol laughs as he makes his way out.
Myungsoo also notes he does not look back.
One and a half hours later, Myungsoo is walking down a street lit with neon lights in his nicest black jacket and jeans. Use the back entrance! reads Sungyeol’s text and for that to happen, Myungsoo has to find the place first. And he can’t just stop and ask for directions to a certain ‘Paradise Café’, because Oh you don’t know what that is? Well it’s a host club and my friend works there and-No.
Myungsoo blows his fringe out of his eyes as he stops and tries to squint past all the blinding signs and then there, there it is, Paradise Café in all its black and gold glory. It does make his heart slow down a bit now that he sees it, because it’s a lot more muted and classier compared to the other blinking purple and pink signs that surround it.
This is not the back entrance but it will have to do. Myungsoo wills himself to move, but it’s hard when his heart is starting to pump so quickly he can’t do anything but stand there and feel to it pound in his chest.
By the time he makes it inside the non-descript building, up two floors in the elevator and into the darkened entrance, he’s almost two hours late. There is no black marble countertop, no guys smoking behind the corners or speaking in low tones. It looks normal, albeit a little shabby, with its simple red tabletop and dark carpeting. The boy behind the counter stares at him, puzzled.
“You look lost. The hostess clubs are a few streets down,” he says, leaning on top of several thick books with black covers. The weak light catches the blonde highlights in his hair.
“I’m here to see my friend-” Myungsoo starts and he’s halfway into his sentence when he notices with faint panic how it sounds and tries again, “my friend is here and-”
“Oh,” the boy says, straightening up as the realization settles into his features. “What’s your friend’s name?”
Myungsoo does not bother trying to correct him. “Lee Sungyeol.”
He nods firmly. “There’s a fifty dollar cover charge.”
Myungsoo pulls out the money from his wallet and the receptionist makes a mark in one of the books. Satisfied, he gestures towards a door behind him and Myungsoo steps forward cautiously.
“You can't get lost,” the boy says amused. “Just go straight down the hall, Room 131. Don’t go downstairs.”
Myungsoo nods when he steps through the door, there is nothing strange: no leather couches, no gaudy red lights. It’s a little dark but it looks normal, like an inexpensive hotel hallway. The sound of his shoes hammers in sync with his racing heart, echoing in his head as he makes his way deeper into the place.
There are portraits on the wall - framed photos of boys around his age, all with light hair. They stare unsmiling into the camera but their eyes are soft, almost vulnerable. Sungyeol’s portrait is not there.
Myungsoo continues forward and as he gets closer and closer to the end of the hallway, the hairs on the back of Myungsoo’s next prickle hint of danger that this place is steeped in. He passes Room 127.
He can see from here that there is a chandelier at the end of the hallway, marking the entrance of the stairs that leads downstairs. He pauses, and next to him, marked in gold digits, is Room 130.
Myungsoo exhales quietly before entering the room next door and the door closes with a faint thud behind him.
The interior is far more luxurious than the corridors, with its lush padded walls and white couches and soft lighting. A mirror hangs on one of the walls and Myungsoo walks up to it, squinting at his reflection. His eyes are wide and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip. It’s not an attractive look.
Myungsoo is in the middle of blinking at his reflection, willing his body to calm down, willing himself to not be so terrifying intrigued about this world, when the door clicks open.
“Sungyeol,” he starts, turning around because everything about this place is ridiculous and I can’t believe I actually came here you’re insane for working here-
“Oh,” the boy says softly and Myungsoo stops talking as he presses a hand to the soft wall to steady himself. It is not Lee Sungyeol.
There's a slim bottle of wine in his hands and his hair is blonde, a shade even paler than his skin. His wide eyes betray no sign of surprise and when he closes the door behind him, he moves so elegantly and in control that Myungsoo starts to feel the walls boxing him in and the air starting to thin. This is not okay: he doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to feel. “You’re not Lee Sungyeol,” he finally manages.
“I can be anyone you want me to be,” the boy says, setting the wine down into the bucket of ice, next to the door. The ice clinks innocently. The boy is breathtakingly beautiful.
“Tell me your name.” It’s embarrassing how uneasy he sounds.
“Lee Sungjong.”
Fuck, Myungsoo thinks helplessly. I really should have used the back entrance. But it’s too late and now he’s stuck in a room with a beautiful boy who speaks in soft murmurs and knows exactly what he is doing.
He takes a step closer and Myungsoo backs into the mirror. “This is your first time here.”
“I need to find Lee Sungyeol. He’s a friend, and he’s waiting for me.”
“If he’s working here, he’s probably busy. And you’ve paid the entrance fee and for this bottle of wine, so you should stay. At least, for awhile.”
“…What would we do?”
Sungjong shrugs in his suit, stretched perfectly across his narrow shoulders. It looks like it costs what Myungsoo earns in two months. “We can talk about anything you want.”
“Is this all you do in here? Talk?”
“That is a difference between an escort club and a host club.” A hint of displeasure touches Sungjong’s eyebrows and Myungsoo relaxes slightly. He does not need to fall asleep in the days to come worrying about Sungyeol with bruised knees in darkened alleys or inside cars-at least, not so much now.
Myungsoo pushes himself off the mirror and makes his way to the couch. Sungjong follows suit, much slower and steadier. He settles down across Myungsoo and reaches for the bottle of wine. “Shall we drink?”
Myungsoo nods and he watches Sungjong open the bottle without so much as plunging the thin metal rod into the cork and a swift turn of his wrist.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Almost a year.”
“You look young.”
“I am young,” he replies, drawing out two wide-mouthed glasses from under the table. Sungjong starts filling their glasses and as he does, Myungsoo stares at the fluid grace to Sungjong’s actions: a steady hand and the quick turn of the bottle. “Cheers,” he says, handing a glass to Myungsoo.
The clink of glass and the silence that follows is a welcome respite and Myungsoo sips quietly as Sungjong watches him drink.
“Tell me about this place,” Myungsoo says. “Tell me what you do. Tell me about your world.”
“That will cost you too much,” Sungjong says, eyes trailing to the edges of Myungsoo’s fraying blazer and his bare wrists, but it is not unkind. “But if that’s what you want, we have an hour.”
And Myungsoo settles back into the couch as Sungjong explains to him that some people spend their money on cars or designer handbags or sex but the people who choose to come here are different, because they’re spending it on something intangible. Companionship. Emotional connection.
At the end of the hour, when the bottle is empty and Myungsoo feels his head spinning lightly, Sungjong stops talking and Myungsoo stands.
“I still don’t understand.”
Sungjong smiles at him, and it’s an odd smile. “Sometimes, neither do I.”
notes:
1. title taken from the documentary of the same name. highly recommended for an insightful look into the host club industry in japan. all of the knowledge i have from host clubs were also derived from this documentary, and i've tried to make it as accurate as possible.
2. i apologize for it ending so abruptly - it was supposed to be a lot longer, with sungyeol/sungjong parts (for the full ot3 fare) but i've had this as a wip since february and it just seemed to end here.
“How long have we been in Seoul, Myungsoo?”
“Eight months.”
“How long have we known each other?”
“Too long-” he starts and Sungyeol pokes him with the back of a spoon. “Eight months, ever since we decided to share an apartment.”
“After I dropped my wallet with all my savings on the train platform and you picked it up and ran after me and yes, you’re still my hero, Kim Myungsoo. That’s not the point-”
“But that is always the point-” Myungsoo says past a mouthful of cereal and Sungyeol cuts him off quickly as he eyes his open mouth with disgust.
“And how long have I been trying to find a job?”
“Eight months.”
Sungyeol puts down his spoon carefully, his muesli untouched, and leans forward. He enunciates his words slowly, almost cautiously. “Guess who got a job.”
Their apartment is homely.
Sungyeol likes to say what Myungsoo really means is that it’s ugly. It’s in a small apartment complex near the edge of Seoul but it’s close enough to a subway station and there’s enough hot water for both of them and it is furnished so Myungsoo does not think there is much to complain about.
“I have to say you did a pretty good job sticking these photos on the wall. I’m surprised how much it can brighten up the place.”
“You uh, can paint walls well.” It’s the truth though, because it feels creamy and smooth against his skin as he runs his palm down the wall and he grins at Sungyeol.
“My brother would love to find out that I came to Seoul to paint walls,” Sungyeol says, going back to attacking the newspaper with a red pen. There are more scribbles and shapeless drawings than anything productive. “But you know, that’s a good idea. I could paint walls. I could be a perfectly adequate painter.”
That is not what Sungyeol used to say.
I’m going to be an actor, Sungyeol told him over some coffee he insisted on buying, after Myungsoo tapped him on the shoulder and lifted up a worn, brown wallet to his eyes; one he thought not nearly thick enough to house all one’s savings for a move to Seoul. He did not say he wanted to become an actor, or that it had been his childhood dream. It was steady and factual, like how one would speak about the weather or the colour white. It just was. Myungsoo wondered what it was like, to be so sure of everything.
You talk a lot, Myungsoo said but it was more admiration than a rebuke. Sungyeol had a nice voice: lively and excitable without sounding shrill and most importantly, nothing like his own.
Sungyeol laughed. You don’t talk nearly enough.
Do you have a place to stay?
Sungyeol shook his head.
Me neither. Maybe we should share an apartment, Myungsoo found himself saying before he could stop himself. It was strange, because he had never bothered trying to talk to the person next to him in a bus, let alone offer to share a place with a talkative stranger who was far too idealistic. He didn’t even know Sungyeol’s last name, let alone anything else about him. What if Sungyeol was a serial killer? What if he couldn’t cook? What if he blasted dubstep at three in the morning?
Sure, Sungyeol replied and Myungsoo bit his tongue from passing the suggestion off as a joke and smiled instead.
He was in Seoul now, and there was no need to be the boy who left Jeollabuk: that boy who turned down slips of papers giggling girls presented him with, scrawled with numbers and shy messages. Myungsoo wasn’t afraid he would break their hearts - he was terrified he did not know how to bring himself to, that he would get swept away by life to end up marrying a nice girl and living in a nice house with three nice children and die, not unhappily, but without knowing anything other than order and ease. Sungyeol would to change that; at worse, he could be Myungsoo’s first and finest mistake in nineteen years of a carefully planned life.
They were in Seoul now. Sungyeol was going to be an actor, and he was going to discover himself. It was the perfect plan.
“You're going to be an actor, hyung.” It’s strange that it’s only been thirty-five weeks since they’ve met, thirty-five weeks for both of them to see past the lights of the city, thirty-five weeks for Sungyeol to begin to forget why he’s really here, in Seoul.
Sungyeol is back scanning the pages.
Myungsoo’s not sure if he heard him but then Sungyeol pauses and looks up, eyes alight, because he’s pointing to a small square at the corner of the newspaper. And then Sungyeol speaks but it’s not a question: “Working at a host club counts as acting, doesn’t it?”
He borrows some of Myungsoo’s hair gel and cologne for his first day of work.
“Training,” Sungyeol corrects him. “They need to see if I’m suitable.”
Myungsoo reaches up to fix his fringe. It’s already too long and it’s starting to fall into his eyes again, even with the gel. “Of course you’ll be right for the job. Acting is all about making people think you’re something you are not.”
Sungyeol chuckles as he takes an effortless step back, putting space in between Myungsoo and himself. He does not sound all that amused though, because he looks away, down at the floor before meeting Myungsoo’s eyes again. “You don’t like what I’m doing.”
“It’s your life. You don’t have to worry about how I feel,” he says with a light shrug even as something twists deep inside him.
“Does this mean you’re not going to lock me out of my own apartment when I come back in the middle of the night?”
Myungsoo shoves him on the shoulder. “You have your own keys.”
“You can change the locks.”
“I didn’t know we had cash to burn.”
“…Touché,” Sungyeol says finally, and Myungsoo can’t help but laugh. The ease at which Sungyeol does things, like burn instant fried rice or use up most of the hot water or things like this, is nearly unfair.
“Can I pass for one of those models you photograph?” he asks abruptly and Myungsoo nods automatically.
“Of course. Good luck,” Myungsoo calls out as Sungyeol pulls open the door steadily and steps outside. The air has settled into something more solemn, and that cloying unease in Myungsoo’s stomach is back.
Sungyeol waves goodbye behind his shoulder before disappearing down the dull concrete stairs, quickly but carefully, mindful of keeping his gleaming black shoes immaculate.
He’s rooted on his spot until Sungyeol vanishes completely from sight, stomach churning with anxious hope that Sungyeol fails his training course. Myungsoo does not feel as guilty as he thinks he should be. It’s almost worrying.
There is no doubt he is not the same boy from Jeollabuk. This thought is supposed to comforting, but it is not.
When he’s not completing a photography job (which is very often), Myungsoo tries to model. And it does get him by: he goes from photoshoots in bright, big studios with all the professional equipment he wishes he could afford to shady ones in cramped quarters and photographers who blow smoke from their cigarettes in his direction as they shoot. They always tell him he is too stiff but Myungsoo supposes his gaze is good enough, because he still gets a cheque in the mail with enough enclosed for a week’s worth of groceries.
Another thing he’s learnt: it doesn’t matter where he models, because he’s always told he can get a little bit more, go a little further, only if he does a little more. And they all have the same smiles, glossy and just warm enough for maybes to flitter through his head instead of the immediate nos that he utters every time.
Their smiles remind him of Seoul’s lights and promises, and bright enough to overwhelm.
“Myungsoo, I’m not going to be a gigolo.”
“Oh, there’s a difference between that and being a host?” He aims for neutrality but even as he speaks, he knows it’s coming out all wrong.
Sungyeol smirks. “You’re cute when you’re angry. And grossly mistaken.”
He picks up a pillow from the couch and aims it at Sungyeol, but he moves around the couch and pushes Myungsoo down. The pillow topples out of his grip, over the back of the couch and onto the ground, forgotten. They both land on the couch and Sungyeol holds Myungsoo down with an arm over his chest. “Will you listen to me first?” Sungyeol asks, smile slipping into something softer.
Myungsoo tries to wrestle his way out of his grip, but Sungyeol is heavy on top of him. Fine.
“It’s a lot like being a salesman. I have to know how to talk to people, to tell them what they want to hear. I think I made the cut, because they’re going to redo my hair tomorrow.”
“A makeover?” Myungsoo asks, making a face. Sungyeol’s fingers reach the base of his neck, and just as Myungsoo becomes aware of this, Sungyeol pulls back levelly and suddenly they’re sitting next to each other again, knees not even touching.
“Perks of the job,” Sungyeol replies, not looking at him, all normality restored.
Myungsoo concentrates instead on the dark circles under Sungyeol’s eyes. In another life, he could be a college student, staying up until two to finish essays next to countless cups of coffee instead of coming home at two, the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat permeating everything. “Just don’t sleep with random wealthy patrons. I’ve seen too many people in my line do that.”
“Don’t worry,” Sungyeol says without a trace of teasing, no lilt of cheeriness in his voice as he turns to look at Myungsoo, “I’m not going to do anything like that. I promise.”
It’s the middle of the week when Sungyeol comes back with orange undertones and blonde highlights in his hair. His fringe no longer falls into his eyes.
“…You can laugh, you know. Staring at me like that is not helpful. At all.”
“You look like a host,” Myungsoo says, when he’s finally able to make his tongue unglue itself from the roof of his mouth.
“Thanks?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”
Sungyeol walks over to tinker with the new coffee machine he had adamantly bought with the remains of his savings. You can make coffee by hand, Myungsoo had said slowly, eyeing the bright red machine. People can also walk to work, but they don’t. They buy cars. You should live a little, Myungsoo. “You need to stop assuming the worst about this job and I’ll take that as a compliment, thanks. Do you know why I haven’t been telling you anything about my training?”
He shakes his head.
“Because I want you to come and see me. On my first day.” The machine hisses and the thick smell of coffee fills the place. Myungsoo can only blink as Sungyeol sips his coffee slowly. “Do you want a cup?” Sungyeol asks, when the silence starts to suffocate.
He licks his lips. “No, and no. You can’t expect me to go to a host club.”
“No,” Sungyeol says slowly, fingers tracing circles onto the corner of his cup, “but I can expect my best friend to see me on my first day at work. And I’m going to prove that it’s not as sleazy as you think it is.”
“Sungyeol, I’m your only friend in Seoul.”
“When was the last time you did something spontaneous?” Sungyeol presses on, staring at him intently now.
“I moved to Seoul and into an apartment with a total stranger-”
“-which was more than eight months ago, Myungsoo. Meet me at eleven. I’ll text you the address.”
Myungsoo inhales sharply, something Sungyeol mistakes for annoyance because he stops talking. There’s a short pause, another bout of silence before he reaches over and offers Myungsoo the cup.
As a peace offering, it’s still blisteringly hot and Myungsoo places it down on the counter with dull thud, watching as the steam rises and disappears around them. He can feel Sungyeol’s eyes still trained on him.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes…?” Sungyeol starts, somewhat hesitantly, and Myungsoo lifts his eyes and shrugs. No was never an option: Sungyeol is his best friend, and there is a reason he moved to the city. “Thank you,” Sungyeol says, sheer relief flooding through his words and wide smile and perhaps Sungyeol is just as unsure as all this as he is. “Thank you.”
His hands are slick with suds and he’s onto the last few pieces of cutlery when the bedroom door clicks opens and Myungsoo smells him first - it’s no longer his cologne that Sungyeol is using. It’s warm and woody, and the spoon falls into the sink with a loud clang as he turns around to see Sungyeol adjusting the lapels of his suit. His fingers flutter nervously across the fabric and he tries to calm them by pressing against his suit.
It doesn’t seem to help.
“You look nice,” Myungsoo offers, feeling his own stomach jolt as he thinks of the night ahead. He turns on the tap to rinse his hands. “Let me take a photo of you. A commemorative one.”
“I’m flattered, Kim Myungsoo.”
Myungsoo picks up his camera from a side table next to the couch. It’s cool and heavy in his hands and he loves it when he’s behind the lens - there is no need to be spontaneous or quiet or loud or someone you’re not. The photographer doesn’t matter; all that exists is the subject. “Smile,” he says and Sungyeol tries to as the shutter clicks. The room floods with light.
“Good?”
“Good,” Myungsoo says, bringing the camera down from over his eyes. “You should get going, it’s almost ten.”
Sungyeol fiddles with the cuff of his shirt. “Do I look nervous?”
“No. Take a deep breath and it’ll be fine; I’ll be there in about an hour.”
He nods, and when he stops fidgeting, he looks so much more poised. Natural. Myungsoo swallows to stop the butterflies from making their way up his throat, because he’s so close to telling Sungyeol not to go.
“I can still change my mind,” Sungyeol says. “I can take this off and we can go to a bar and get wasted and laugh about all this five years down the line.”
Myungsoo could have just nodded and they would laugh about all this, the hair and the late hours and the shortsightedness, over a few beers but this is not what will happen because Myungsoo nudges him out the door. Sungyeol has come too far to give up and well, they do need the money. “Go,” he says, and Sungyeol laughs as he makes his way out.
Myungsoo also notes he does not look back.
One and a half hours later, Myungsoo is walking down a street lit with neon lights in his nicest black jacket and jeans. Use the back entrance! reads Sungyeol’s text and for that to happen, Myungsoo has to find the place first. And he can’t just stop and ask for directions to a certain ‘Paradise Café’, because Oh you don’t know what that is? Well it’s a host club and my friend works there and-No.
Myungsoo blows his fringe out of his eyes as he stops and tries to squint past all the blinding signs and then there, there it is, Paradise Café in all its black and gold glory. It does make his heart slow down a bit now that he sees it, because it’s a lot more muted and classier compared to the other blinking purple and pink signs that surround it.
This is not the back entrance but it will have to do. Myungsoo wills himself to move, but it’s hard when his heart is starting to pump so quickly he can’t do anything but stand there and feel to it pound in his chest.
By the time he makes it inside the non-descript building, up two floors in the elevator and into the darkened entrance, he’s almost two hours late. There is no black marble countertop, no guys smoking behind the corners or speaking in low tones. It looks normal, albeit a little shabby, with its simple red tabletop and dark carpeting. The boy behind the counter stares at him, puzzled.
“You look lost. The hostess clubs are a few streets down,” he says, leaning on top of several thick books with black covers. The weak light catches the blonde highlights in his hair.
“I’m here to see my friend-” Myungsoo starts and he’s halfway into his sentence when he notices with faint panic how it sounds and tries again, “my friend is here and-”
“Oh,” the boy says, straightening up as the realization settles into his features. “What’s your friend’s name?”
Myungsoo does not bother trying to correct him. “Lee Sungyeol.”
He nods firmly. “There’s a fifty dollar cover charge.”
Myungsoo pulls out the money from his wallet and the receptionist makes a mark in one of the books. Satisfied, he gestures towards a door behind him and Myungsoo steps forward cautiously.
“You can't get lost,” the boy says amused. “Just go straight down the hall, Room 131. Don’t go downstairs.”
Myungsoo nods when he steps through the door, there is nothing strange: no leather couches, no gaudy red lights. It’s a little dark but it looks normal, like an inexpensive hotel hallway. The sound of his shoes hammers in sync with his racing heart, echoing in his head as he makes his way deeper into the place.
There are portraits on the wall - framed photos of boys around his age, all with light hair. They stare unsmiling into the camera but their eyes are soft, almost vulnerable. Sungyeol’s portrait is not there.
Myungsoo continues forward and as he gets closer and closer to the end of the hallway, the hairs on the back of Myungsoo’s next prickle hint of danger that this place is steeped in. He passes Room 127.
He can see from here that there is a chandelier at the end of the hallway, marking the entrance of the stairs that leads downstairs. He pauses, and next to him, marked in gold digits, is Room 130.
Myungsoo exhales quietly before entering the room next door and the door closes with a faint thud behind him.
The interior is far more luxurious than the corridors, with its lush padded walls and white couches and soft lighting. A mirror hangs on one of the walls and Myungsoo walks up to it, squinting at his reflection. His eyes are wide and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip. It’s not an attractive look.
Myungsoo is in the middle of blinking at his reflection, willing his body to calm down, willing himself to not be so terrifying intrigued about this world, when the door clicks open.
“Sungyeol,” he starts, turning around because everything about this place is ridiculous and I can’t believe I actually came here you’re insane for working here-
“Oh,” the boy says softly and Myungsoo stops talking as he presses a hand to the soft wall to steady himself. It is not Lee Sungyeol.
There's a slim bottle of wine in his hands and his hair is blonde, a shade even paler than his skin. His wide eyes betray no sign of surprise and when he closes the door behind him, he moves so elegantly and in control that Myungsoo starts to feel the walls boxing him in and the air starting to thin. This is not okay: he doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to feel. “You’re not Lee Sungyeol,” he finally manages.
“I can be anyone you want me to be,” the boy says, setting the wine down into the bucket of ice, next to the door. The ice clinks innocently. The boy is breathtakingly beautiful.
“Tell me your name.” It’s embarrassing how uneasy he sounds.
“Lee Sungjong.”
Fuck, Myungsoo thinks helplessly. I really should have used the back entrance. But it’s too late and now he’s stuck in a room with a beautiful boy who speaks in soft murmurs and knows exactly what he is doing.
He takes a step closer and Myungsoo backs into the mirror. “This is your first time here.”
“I need to find Lee Sungyeol. He’s a friend, and he’s waiting for me.”
“If he’s working here, he’s probably busy. And you’ve paid the entrance fee and for this bottle of wine, so you should stay. At least, for awhile.”
“…What would we do?”
Sungjong shrugs in his suit, stretched perfectly across his narrow shoulders. It looks like it costs what Myungsoo earns in two months. “We can talk about anything you want.”
“Is this all you do in here? Talk?”
“That is a difference between an escort club and a host club.” A hint of displeasure touches Sungjong’s eyebrows and Myungsoo relaxes slightly. He does not need to fall asleep in the days to come worrying about Sungyeol with bruised knees in darkened alleys or inside cars-at least, not so much now.
Myungsoo pushes himself off the mirror and makes his way to the couch. Sungjong follows suit, much slower and steadier. He settles down across Myungsoo and reaches for the bottle of wine. “Shall we drink?”
Myungsoo nods and he watches Sungjong open the bottle without so much as plunging the thin metal rod into the cork and a swift turn of his wrist.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Almost a year.”
“You look young.”
“I am young,” he replies, drawing out two wide-mouthed glasses from under the table. Sungjong starts filling their glasses and as he does, Myungsoo stares at the fluid grace to Sungjong’s actions: a steady hand and the quick turn of the bottle. “Cheers,” he says, handing a glass to Myungsoo.
The clink of glass and the silence that follows is a welcome respite and Myungsoo sips quietly as Sungjong watches him drink.
“Tell me about this place,” Myungsoo says. “Tell me what you do. Tell me about your world.”
“That will cost you too much,” Sungjong says, eyes trailing to the edges of Myungsoo’s fraying blazer and his bare wrists, but it is not unkind. “But if that’s what you want, we have an hour.”
And Myungsoo settles back into the couch as Sungjong explains to him that some people spend their money on cars or designer handbags or sex but the people who choose to come here are different, because they’re spending it on something intangible. Companionship. Emotional connection.
At the end of the hour, when the bottle is empty and Myungsoo feels his head spinning lightly, Sungjong stops talking and Myungsoo stands.
“I still don’t understand.”
Sungjong smiles at him, and it’s an odd smile. “Sometimes, neither do I.”
notes:
1. title taken from the documentary of the same name. highly recommended for an insightful look into the host club industry in japan. all of the knowledge i have from host clubs were also derived from this documentary, and i've tried to make it as accurate as possible.
2. i apologize for it ending so abruptly - it was supposed to be a lot longer, with sungyeol/sungjong parts (for the full ot3 fare) but i've had this as a wip since february and it just seemed to end here.