『22』chapagetti → goatstarer
Freestyle
Big Bang, Youngbae/Lyle
“Maybe sometime... visit,” Youngbae suggests. “In America.” Then he’s saying something in Korean that Lyle assumes means see you later or maybe have a safe flight and then they’re off, he and Shaun and Aimee, and Youngbae and his mother are waving. He’s all bundled in a scarf and a hoodie and one of those sickness masks so no one can recognize him. They spend the flight joking, sleeping, and playing iPhone games intermittently, but all Lyle can think about is Youngbae and how big his smile was even under the disposable cloth.
- -
The gaggle of teenage girls in the dance studio’s reception area should’ve told him what was up, but Lyle’s mind is filled with jobs and steps and the class he’s here to teach. The soft call in broken English almost goes ignored. Instead, a squeal from one of the girls catches his attention. Lyle’s head whips around and he’s greeted by a sheepish Youngbae, whose eyes are pleading, and the girl, who’s moving across the hallway smoother than he’s ever seen her dance. Lyle ushers Youngbae in first, announcing a five-minute holdup to the rest of the (hopefully) sane students.
“What’re you doing here?” he says, slow so Youngbae can understand, slow so he can stem the stuttering stopping up his throat.
“Big Bang recording L.A.,” he says brightly, even though there are eyebags the size of Texas above his cheekbones. “I’m bored.”
“Cool,” Lyle says. He wets his lips, and his eyes watch Youngbae’s as they trace the slow journey of his tongue. “How about you sit in my class today?”
“Okay,” he says. Then he frowns. “Cannot dance?”
“Oh. Um. If you want,” and then Youngbae’s deflating and Lyle punches him in the arm, “of course, dude. I just thought you might be tired.” He crosses the room and nudges the door open; as the dancers file in, he moves back towards where Youngbae is stretching. “Stay close to me,” he says, right into Youngbae’s ear, and if he isn’t mistaken he swears Youngbae shudders, just a little. “I won’t let ‘em get you.”
- -
He shouldn’t be surprised at how easily Youngbae picks up the choreography, but he is. He moves fluidly from step to step, a grin quirking up one corner of his mouth when Lyle throws in a couple of moves from “Where U At” just for fun. Lyle watches girls watch Youngbae, but the man stays focused, the throw of his shoulders and the expression on his face betraying nothing. Lyle thinks that years of being thrown into the spotlight might have made him immune to ogling or something, and then Youngbae pulls up the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face and all Lyle can think is oh.
Lyle takes him out after the class. He waits for Youngbae to call Teddy and tell him not to send the car and then they’re sliding into the booths of a Korean barbeque somewhere in K-Town; there are platters of meat and little dishes of banchan and rice covering most of the table. Lyle takes a huge gulp of his water while Youngbae digs into the food. He chokes on an ice cube when he sees the expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Tastes different,” Youngbae says, poking at the galbi on his plate.
“Tastes American,” Lyle replies. He tries spearing a piece, but the slippery steel of Korean-style chopsticks have always been hard for him, and they land with a clatter on the table. “Whoops,” he says, and Youngbae clucks his tongue.
“Like this,” he demonstrates, his fingers slipping nimbly up the metal of his own set in a smooth, practiced motion. “This way.” He digs them into the little pile of green onion pancakes, picks up a tiny disc and pops it into his mouth.
“Good?” Lyle says as he goes to pick up the utensils, smirking at the way Youngbae’s eyes narrow and his chewing slows.
Youngbae takes a beat to swallow. “Shut up,” he says in such perfect English that Lyle can’t help but laugh.
“This is the best place I could find,” he says.
“Come to Korea again,” Youngbae suggests. “Better there.”
In the car Youngbae tries to use his borrowed Blackberry to direct him to the hotel. They end up in two one-way streets that are almost impossible to back out of, but the ride is comfortable and Youngbae is content to file through the impressive collection of 90s R&B catalogued in Lyle’s iPod. He hums in appreciation when he hears something he likes, typing group names and album titles into the phone’s notes program.
“Having fun?” Lyle asks dryly as they pull into a gas station. Night is crawling up to blanket the sky, and the shadows from the setting sun cast black from the brim of Youngbae’s hat to his face.
“Yeah,” he replies, even though they’ve been cruising for an hour and Lyle’s begun to tell stories in English more rapid than he can follow.
“I’ll be right back,” Lyle gestures to the flashing gas gauge. “I have to fill up the tank--” and then Youngbae is leaning in and closing the distance between their seats.
He’s all messy enthusiasm: their teeth clack together more than once and it’s wetter than Lyle would’ve liked, but Youngbae gets a hand up under his jacket, and even though its still over his shirt it gets him cupping Youngbae’s neck to tug him in closer. They pull away only when Youngbae’s cell phone rings, the man launching into a conversation that’s entirely in Korean.
- -
Seunghyun is struggling with removing enough clothing to get past the security inspection point, pulling his second sweater off but crossing his arms over the long-sleeved shirt in spite of the guard’s sigh of exasperation. Jiyong is undoing the intricate metal belt looped around his waist, letting it drop with a clang into the plastic tub on the conveyor belt. Seungri is bouncing from foot to foot, alternating between complaining to Daesung about how slow the hyungs are and exclamations of everything he’s going to eat once they get back to Korea. Only Youngbae hangs behind, backpack slung over one shoulder, his sweater tucked under his arm.
“Alright man, I’ll see you later.” Lyle pulls him in by the hand, fitting his shoulder against Youngbae’s chest. “I wanna listen to those demos.”
“I’ll send to you,” Youngbae says. His hands move upwards, fingers jumping into the air. “In e-mail.”
“Cool.” They stand in silence for a few minutes, letting the sound of suitcase wheels, the greetings and goodbyes of travelers and the click of escalators fill in the spaces for them. “So listen,” Lyle says while “I was thinking” tumbles out of Youngbae’s mouth. They laugh, and Lyle waves a hand in encouragement, letting it drop as Youngbae wrinkles his brow, biting a lip in thought.
“You’re coming for 2ne1 video?”
“I don’t know,” Lyle says, “no one’s called me yet.”
“Will call for my videos, though. Do my choreo.” “Yeah.” Youngbae looks satisfied at this, and they fall silent again.
“When are you coming?”
The dance of yes’s and no’s that Lyle is used to, the smell of floral perfumes and grinding dances on club floors, flippant promises of dates and whispers in ears don’t really apply here. Still, better to play it safe. “Uh, I’m not really sure.”
“I see.” Wrong move, Lyle thinks as Youngbae turns, gesturing to the entourage of people milling around the security check. “I have to go. I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll come soon,” Lyle blurts out, covering the mistake with an overreach, his voice cracking a little. Youngbae twists back around, surprise etched onto his face.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He’s freestyling here. This should be easy. No fancy flips or footwork, just one step in front of the other, honest. “For a visit.”
There’s a question in Youngbae’s eyes that Lyle thinks he might not be able to express in English. “Visit?”
“Yeah. If you’ll have me.”
The sparkle comes back into Youngbae’s eyes even over the dark circles and the bags. “Yes. Okay.”
“Okay.” Adrenaline bleeds out into Lyle’s limbs, getting them itching with energy. Then Youngbae is pulling him in again, Lyle ignoring the baseball cap that almost bumps him in the eye. “Have a good flight.” Youngbae nods and smiles and drops his hand, easing himself away and into the small queue of people waiting for him.
Lyle will tell this story to Jiyong and Dara and Teddy later, slow so they can butt in with exclamations of “that’s so Youngbae,” and “so how long did it take you to come?” and “yeah, the kid moves slow.” It flows smoothly after a while, the words flowing out from his throat, but he leaves out the important things. He counts them off in his head, sometimes: the way Youngbae’s cheek fit almost perfectly against his collarbone during that last hug, how he lingered until Youngbae went through the security point, the smile that flashed across his face at the little jump he made once he got through and the excited elbow to the ribs he gave Jiyong, the shortcut he took that went by the Korea Air kiosk.
The actual visit he keeps for himself.
Big Bang, Youngbae/Lyle
“Maybe sometime... visit,” Youngbae suggests. “In America.” Then he’s saying something in Korean that Lyle assumes means see you later or maybe have a safe flight and then they’re off, he and Shaun and Aimee, and Youngbae and his mother are waving. He’s all bundled in a scarf and a hoodie and one of those sickness masks so no one can recognize him. They spend the flight joking, sleeping, and playing iPhone games intermittently, but all Lyle can think about is Youngbae and how big his smile was even under the disposable cloth.
- -
The gaggle of teenage girls in the dance studio’s reception area should’ve told him what was up, but Lyle’s mind is filled with jobs and steps and the class he’s here to teach. The soft call in broken English almost goes ignored. Instead, a squeal from one of the girls catches his attention. Lyle’s head whips around and he’s greeted by a sheepish Youngbae, whose eyes are pleading, and the girl, who’s moving across the hallway smoother than he’s ever seen her dance. Lyle ushers Youngbae in first, announcing a five-minute holdup to the rest of the (hopefully) sane students.
“What’re you doing here?” he says, slow so Youngbae can understand, slow so he can stem the stuttering stopping up his throat.
“Big Bang recording L.A.,” he says brightly, even though there are eyebags the size of Texas above his cheekbones. “I’m bored.”
“Cool,” Lyle says. He wets his lips, and his eyes watch Youngbae’s as they trace the slow journey of his tongue. “How about you sit in my class today?”
“Okay,” he says. Then he frowns. “Cannot dance?”
“Oh. Um. If you want,” and then Youngbae’s deflating and Lyle punches him in the arm, “of course, dude. I just thought you might be tired.” He crosses the room and nudges the door open; as the dancers file in, he moves back towards where Youngbae is stretching. “Stay close to me,” he says, right into Youngbae’s ear, and if he isn’t mistaken he swears Youngbae shudders, just a little. “I won’t let ‘em get you.”
- -
He shouldn’t be surprised at how easily Youngbae picks up the choreography, but he is. He moves fluidly from step to step, a grin quirking up one corner of his mouth when Lyle throws in a couple of moves from “Where U At” just for fun. Lyle watches girls watch Youngbae, but the man stays focused, the throw of his shoulders and the expression on his face betraying nothing. Lyle thinks that years of being thrown into the spotlight might have made him immune to ogling or something, and then Youngbae pulls up the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face and all Lyle can think is oh.
Lyle takes him out after the class. He waits for Youngbae to call Teddy and tell him not to send the car and then they’re sliding into the booths of a Korean barbeque somewhere in K-Town; there are platters of meat and little dishes of banchan and rice covering most of the table. Lyle takes a huge gulp of his water while Youngbae digs into the food. He chokes on an ice cube when he sees the expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Tastes different,” Youngbae says, poking at the galbi on his plate.
“Tastes American,” Lyle replies. He tries spearing a piece, but the slippery steel of Korean-style chopsticks have always been hard for him, and they land with a clatter on the table. “Whoops,” he says, and Youngbae clucks his tongue.
“Like this,” he demonstrates, his fingers slipping nimbly up the metal of his own set in a smooth, practiced motion. “This way.” He digs them into the little pile of green onion pancakes, picks up a tiny disc and pops it into his mouth.
“Good?” Lyle says as he goes to pick up the utensils, smirking at the way Youngbae’s eyes narrow and his chewing slows.
Youngbae takes a beat to swallow. “Shut up,” he says in such perfect English that Lyle can’t help but laugh.
“This is the best place I could find,” he says.
“Come to Korea again,” Youngbae suggests. “Better there.”
In the car Youngbae tries to use his borrowed Blackberry to direct him to the hotel. They end up in two one-way streets that are almost impossible to back out of, but the ride is comfortable and Youngbae is content to file through the impressive collection of 90s R&B catalogued in Lyle’s iPod. He hums in appreciation when he hears something he likes, typing group names and album titles into the phone’s notes program.
“Having fun?” Lyle asks dryly as they pull into a gas station. Night is crawling up to blanket the sky, and the shadows from the setting sun cast black from the brim of Youngbae’s hat to his face.
“Yeah,” he replies, even though they’ve been cruising for an hour and Lyle’s begun to tell stories in English more rapid than he can follow.
“I’ll be right back,” Lyle gestures to the flashing gas gauge. “I have to fill up the tank--” and then Youngbae is leaning in and closing the distance between their seats.
He’s all messy enthusiasm: their teeth clack together more than once and it’s wetter than Lyle would’ve liked, but Youngbae gets a hand up under his jacket, and even though its still over his shirt it gets him cupping Youngbae’s neck to tug him in closer. They pull away only when Youngbae’s cell phone rings, the man launching into a conversation that’s entirely in Korean.
- -
Seunghyun is struggling with removing enough clothing to get past the security inspection point, pulling his second sweater off but crossing his arms over the long-sleeved shirt in spite of the guard’s sigh of exasperation. Jiyong is undoing the intricate metal belt looped around his waist, letting it drop with a clang into the plastic tub on the conveyor belt. Seungri is bouncing from foot to foot, alternating between complaining to Daesung about how slow the hyungs are and exclamations of everything he’s going to eat once they get back to Korea. Only Youngbae hangs behind, backpack slung over one shoulder, his sweater tucked under his arm.
“Alright man, I’ll see you later.” Lyle pulls him in by the hand, fitting his shoulder against Youngbae’s chest. “I wanna listen to those demos.”
“I’ll send to you,” Youngbae says. His hands move upwards, fingers jumping into the air. “In e-mail.”
“Cool.” They stand in silence for a few minutes, letting the sound of suitcase wheels, the greetings and goodbyes of travelers and the click of escalators fill in the spaces for them. “So listen,” Lyle says while “I was thinking” tumbles out of Youngbae’s mouth. They laugh, and Lyle waves a hand in encouragement, letting it drop as Youngbae wrinkles his brow, biting a lip in thought.
“You’re coming for 2ne1 video?”
“I don’t know,” Lyle says, “no one’s called me yet.”
“Will call for my videos, though. Do my choreo.” “Yeah.” Youngbae looks satisfied at this, and they fall silent again.
“When are you coming?”
The dance of yes’s and no’s that Lyle is used to, the smell of floral perfumes and grinding dances on club floors, flippant promises of dates and whispers in ears don’t really apply here. Still, better to play it safe. “Uh, I’m not really sure.”
“I see.” Wrong move, Lyle thinks as Youngbae turns, gesturing to the entourage of people milling around the security check. “I have to go. I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll come soon,” Lyle blurts out, covering the mistake with an overreach, his voice cracking a little. Youngbae twists back around, surprise etched onto his face.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He’s freestyling here. This should be easy. No fancy flips or footwork, just one step in front of the other, honest. “For a visit.”
There’s a question in Youngbae’s eyes that Lyle thinks he might not be able to express in English. “Visit?”
“Yeah. If you’ll have me.”
The sparkle comes back into Youngbae’s eyes even over the dark circles and the bags. “Yes. Okay.”
“Okay.” Adrenaline bleeds out into Lyle’s limbs, getting them itching with energy. Then Youngbae is pulling him in again, Lyle ignoring the baseball cap that almost bumps him in the eye. “Have a good flight.” Youngbae nods and smiles and drops his hand, easing himself away and into the small queue of people waiting for him.
Lyle will tell this story to Jiyong and Dara and Teddy later, slow so they can butt in with exclamations of “that’s so Youngbae,” and “so how long did it take you to come?” and “yeah, the kid moves slow.” It flows smoothly after a while, the words flowing out from his throat, but he leaves out the important things. He counts them off in his head, sometimes: the way Youngbae’s cheek fit almost perfectly against his collarbone during that last hug, how he lingered until Youngbae went through the security point, the smile that flashed across his face at the little jump he made once he got through and the excited elbow to the ribs he gave Jiyong, the shortcut he took that went by the Korea Air kiosk.
The actual visit he keeps for himself.