The Loneliest Place to Be (2/2)
Miguel looks like he spends all his weekends laid out on some exotic Philippine beach that he sailed to on his yacht. Tall, dark, and handsome, with the understated elegance of old money. He owns a successful chain of bookstores that carries Kyungsoo’s work, translated into English. This is what Kyungsoo is told by the event coordinator when Miguel is seated to his right, smiling warmly and murmuring compliments about Certain Secret Things.
Jongin shakes hands with everybody, cutting a striking figure without having to speak. He knows how to work a room with his face, even if English isn’t his forte.
“An old friend,” Kyungsoo tells their companions when they ask about the other tall, dark, and handsome man by his side.
“I was here for Fashion Week,” Jongin enunciates, his on-camera smile showing off impeccable bone structure. “Now I’m here for moral support.”
It is with the ease of a model sliding into a jacket that Jongin slips into the seat to Kyungsoo’s left.
Dinner is a delicious, deeply conversational affair that lasts three hours. Miguel is in Kyungsoo’s ear for most of it, describing each dish and the region of the country it hails from. Neo Filipino, with French preparation.
“The chef is my cousin,” Miguel says, his voice softer than the crema on Kyungsoo’s cappuccino this morning. “He worked under Alain Ducasse in Paris.”
They talk about other things, too. Like books (Miguel’s all-time favorite is One Hundred Years of Solitude, which Kyungsoo had written his thesis about in college). And beaches (“I should take you to Palawan,” Miguel says, when Kyungsoo mentions seeing it in a movie). And studying abroad (they’d both gone to NYU for their master’s degrees, just two semesters apart).
Kyungsoo swallows the last of his wine. “We have so much in common,” he observes in wonder.
Miguel refills his glass, getting close. “Except you’re a brilliant poet, and I’m a boring businessman.”
“Not at all,” Kyungsoo laughs, crinkling his eyes. “More like you’re a successful entrepreneur, and I’m a freelancer who’s finally started to make ends meet.”
Miguel’s laugh is as attractive as his face, if that makes any sense. “What a way with words you have.” He’s looking up at Kyungsoo from under his eyelashes, and his cheekbones look a little like Jongin’s from this angle. “All right, then. Let’s see…my home is in Manila, while yours is far away in Seoul.”
“It’s not that far away. Just four hours,” Kyungsoo shares. He’s happy to talk about his own country, especially with a captive audience. “Have you ever been? It’s beautiful this time of year, when the leaves are turning for fall.”
“I have,” Miguel replies, gaze glinting. “But only for the cherry blossom season. I should definitely make plans to visit this autumn.” He licks his lips, stained red with merlot. “If you recommend it.”
Suddenly, it’s as if a match has been lit, and the light from it floods the corners of Kyungsoo’s mind that have been clouded by other things. He’d been so focused on making a good impression at this dinner, so preoccupied with the non-fight he’d had with Jongin upstairs in the room, that he didn’t realize what was happening here.
This guy is flirting with him.
“Oh,” Kyungsoo answers carefully, shifting his eyes away from Miguel’s mouth to the stem of his wine glass. “I’d recommend it to anyone, really.”
He’s still processing the mess he’d talked himself into, trying to pinpoint a tactful escape route, when his hand-resting innocently on the table-is enveloped by another’s.
This hand is larger and warmer than Kyungsoo’s, with familiar fingers that lace through his.
“I’d definitely recommend it,” Jongin says, shrugging off a long-held silence that Kyungsoo blamed on the language barrier. Jongin’s accent is heavy, but the self-assurance in his tone holds even more weight. “We can take you to Nami Island, where the leaves are the prettiest.”
Kyungsoo had tightened his grip on animal instinct. He loves Jongin’s hands-the heat and heft of them, the slenderness of the digits and the slight coarseness of the palms. How those hands feel when Jongin touches him with them; grabs him, strokes him, kneads him, holds him close. Rough with need or cloying with lethargy, they are always indulgent.
This touch Kyungsoo has never felt before, because Jongin has never held his hand.
Not unless it was to pin it above Kyungsoo’s head, by the wrist, out of passion.
Not like this.
Miguel gets the drift. “That’s really gracious of you, Jongin,” he says, smile recalibrated to a slice of sunshine. No more hidden agenda behind those pearly whites. No skin off his back. “I’ll take you up on that if I ever find myself in the area.”
The moment Miguel excuses himself to the restroom, and Kyungsoo is no longer under the full glare of his attention, Jongin releases his hand.
He picks up Kyungsoo’s wine instead of his own and finishes it. His fingertips rub at wet lips, then at dry temples, then over closed lids.
“I’m sorry,” Jongin mutters in barely audible Korean. His eyes are vacant when they connect to Kyungsoo’s. “I ruined your fun.”
Kyungsoo places his hand-the hand-in his lap. He turns it palm-side up and just…stares at it. There is an inner turmoil in Jongin that has slipped into this hand, then out again, completely bypassing Kyungsoo’s radar.
“What’s up with you?” Kyungsoo tries to be calm. Low voice, lax lids. “What was that?”
“I don’t know.” Now there’s something in Jongin’s eyes: a dull sort of terror, coming out of dormancy. “It just happened.”
If I were blind,
I would touch you,
interpret you,
then commit you
to memory,
extrasensory,
to last a century,
as though I were reading Braille.
But you are blind,
and I am mute,
and there is no way to prevail.
- “Braille,” Do Kyungsoo
Joonmyun’s thirtieth birthday is held at a rooftop bar in a swanky hotel. Typical. Still, this surprises Kyungsoo because it’s an hour and half from the gated community where Joonmyun lives.
“The view is worth it,” his editor says as soon as Kyungsoo arrives. The bar overlooks the brilliant, sequined skyline of downtown Seoul, and Joonmyun sweeps out both arms to show it off. “I’m pulling out all the stops for the big 3-0.”
“It’s awesome, hyung.” Kyungsoo hands over his present (a bottle of Laphroaig). He gives Joonmyun a hug. “Happy birthday.”
The party is already crawling with people. Joonmyun really does know everybody, Kyungsoo muses to himself as he takes stock of the crowd. There are chaebols here sitting with second-era K-pop idols; magazine editors and willowy models; a pair of Olympians; a popular television actress whom Kyungsoo thinks Joonmyun is dating. There’s also a throng of young, hip, beautiful people whom he doesn’t recognize but who look Very Influential. Kyungsoo smirks into his glass-just water at the moment-and feels Very Old.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
That’s Jongin’s velvet voice in the immediate vicinity.
“Oh, hey!” Kyungsoo forgets, just this once, to modulate.
He’s been telling Jongin no recently, every other time he texts to fuck, using the book as an excuse. But tonight, Kyungsoo can’t deny it-he is so pleased to see him.
Jongin seems pleased, too, by this rare display of excitement. “Hey, you.”
Kyungsoo’s sitting down, but his barstool is tall enough to come up to eye level. Jongin is smiling at him, smiling really hard. Too hard. It’s as if he’s trying to mask another emotion with the polished veneer of this one.
The longer Kyungsoo looks, the more strain he sees in the nooks and crannies of Jongin’s face, stretching the skin. The usual canvas is open, inviting, natural. Nothing to hide.
“Everything all right?” Kyungsoo keeps the question off-the-cuff. “You look…tired.”
“I am,” Jongin says, with sandpaper in his voice. “If you-” He falters, just for a second. “If you kiss me, though, I’ll be back to a hundred.”
Kyungsoo’s stomach does a little flip, like a dolphin in a pen. But he knows Jongin is deflecting, so he does, too. “Out here? There’s, like, eighty people around.”
In the span of an audible exhale, Jongin’s expression shape-shifts thrice. First, he seems disappointed (but Kyungsoo chides himself not to project his own feelings). Then Jongin looks resolved, as though he’s made up his mind about something. By the time he inhales again, eyes lifting from the floor, his countenance has been completely overhauled. No tightness. Just temptation.
“Come to the bathroom, then.” Jongin places his hand high on Kyungsoo’s thigh. “Unless, of course, you don’t want me right now.”
Against his better judgment, and even though he knows Jongin is doing this to distract him, Kyungsoo quietly admits, “I want you.” The always goes unsaid. “Let’s go.”
The men’s room is completely empty and thankfully clean. Jongin enters the last stall, with Kyungsoo following close behind. He bolts the door and leans again it, bracing himself for the assault of lips and fingers.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, Jongin approaches him gradually, until they are chest to chest. He cups Kyungsoo’s face with what feels like uncertainty, rolled into reverence, still taking his time. His thumbs skim over Kyungsoo’s cheekbones, and his lips stay at a comfortable distance.
The disconcertment is real. “I thought you wanted to hook up?” Kyungsoo mumbles.
An Adam’s apple bobs. “I just want you to kiss me.” Jongin’s request burns with insistence. “Kiss me until I can’t breathe. Can you do that?”
Kyungsoo snakes a hand between Jongin’s wrists to cup his nape. “Yeah, I can do that.” This is uncharted territory they’re entering, but he doesn’t care anymore. He just wants to give in to Jongin, give him everything he asks for, even before he asks for it. “Come here.”
The kiss is open-mouthed and luxuriously slow. Jongin lets Kyungsoo have total control, moving right when Kyungsoo veers left, switching to the left when Kyungsoo deepens the kiss on the right. The moment their tongues touch is electric, magnetic. Jongin moans as Kyungsoo tastes the roof of his mouth, the backs of his teeth, his efforts hot and heavy.
This is usually the time when they put their hands down each other’s pants-but since Jongin has placed this odd, almost obstinate distance between them, Kyungsoo channels all the love/lust he feels into his lips.
He moves them away from the cubicle door, pushing Jongin against the adjacent wall. Jongin is sighing into his mouth, working his tongue over and under Kyungsoo’s, soft and slick as butter. His hands are still holding Kyungsoo’s face, refusing to budge. Kyungsoo’s hands, on the other hand, are spread out-one in Jongin’s hair, the other fisting his shirt. They’re kissing so hard, so fast, their lips never part for more than a second to let air slip through.
All five of Kyungsoo’s senses are heightened. His lungs are about to combust. He has no idea what’s going on-but he likes it, and he kisses Jongin with more passion, because Jongin is clinging to him like he needs it.
The jarring vibration of the phone in Jongin’s pocket is what finally breaks them apart. More specifically, Jongin takes his hands away from Kyungsoo’s cheeks, grasps his upper arms, and pushes him off firmly.
Kyungsoo lets out half a groan (the other half echoes down Jongin’s throat). Jongin slumps against the wall, still clutching Kyungsoo’s arms. They’re both breathing hard, sweating inside their clothes, pink in the face, red in the mouth.
The phone buzzes on and on and on and on and on.
Kyungsoo speaks first. “Ignore it.”
But Jongin has already reached for the device with his hand. The empty space it leaves on Kyungsoo’s left bicep is chilling. “Can’t.”
Jongin picks up-and even before he speaks, Kyungsoo knows it’s Jung Soojung.
She is downstairs, outside, not wearing enough layers for this breezy spring evening. Her figure is slight in a blue sundress and low heels-more fit for a day date than a nighttime fete. The hair that hung to her waist has been cut to her collarbones and dyed chestnut. She is just as beautiful as the first time Kyungsoo saw her.
He is seeing her now, for a second time, because he followed Jongin to the lobby without Jongin’s knowledge. Because after Jongin left him in the men’s room, winded and flushed, Kyungsoo abandoned all pride and went straight after him. Because Kyungsoo has been left in the dark about where he stands with Jongin, especially in relation to Soojung, and he just needs to know.
That’s how he finds himself behind a pillar at the back entrance of the hotel, with little more dignity than a stalker. He watches Jongin lead Soojung by the hand behind a parked hotel van, so they can have some privacy. He is only separated from them by a glass wall and this column of carved stone that obscures him.
The déjà vu is as thick as smog. Jongin’s back is turned to Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo only has access to Soojung’s face. She’s crying, looking up at Jongin with red-rimmed eyes as her mouth moves rapidly over words Kyungsoo can’t hear. Jongin rests his hands over her shoulders. Kyungsoo can only make out the curve of his neck when Jongin bends to tell her something. Something soft and honeyed, Kyungsoo imagines. Something full of solace.
But whatever it is, it backfires. Soojung’s face looks as though Jongin had struck her. She recoils from his touch, shaking her head. When Jongin reaches for her, attempts to embrace her, she pummels his chest, an angry color saturating her face. The sound of her sobbing doesn’t penetrate the glass. But Kyungsoo can hear it in his head, anyway, from the way her shoulders shake and her lips twist; from the wounded look in her drowning pupils.
Eventually, she succumbs to Jongin’s arms. She looks exhausted. The blows of her fists grow fainter and fainter, like a dying heartbeat, until they stop altogether. Jongin strokes her hair, her back, murmuring things into her ear that seem to take away her pain. He buries his face into her neck, and Kyungsoo watches them breathe together, in and out, in perfect unison.
Soojung raises her head. Her face is splotchy and tear-stained, and hair is clinging to her forehead. But even like this, she is as lovely and as delicate as a dream.
Jongin turns to her at almost the same time. His profile reveals a damp track that begins at his lash line and drops off at his jaw. He’s been crying, too.
Their faces are so close, the tips of their noses touch. Soojung’s lips move a few more times. Kyungsoo wishes he was a fly on the wall outside this hotel, hearing everything Jongin hears. When Soojung smiles at him, somber and spent, Jongin doesn’t smile back.
He does close the distance between them, kissing her on the mouth with the kind of painstaking, heartbreaking tenderness one reserves for the person they cannot lose.
Kyungsoo turns away, tight in the chest and sick to his stomach.
He’s sure of where he stands now.
No promises. No strings attached.
I would have been happier
if I had not met you
that day.
If you had not plucked me
from the crowd
to say
hello.
If I had been wise enough
not to go
when you asked me
to come away.
I should have said
no.
- “Regret,” Do Kyungsoo
Bright night, bathroom kiss, brown hair, blue dress, bow lips. It all comes rushing back to Kyungsoo as he and Jongin sidestep one another in the hotel room.
Jongin said he wanted to talk, but he hasn’t uttered a word since they got back from dinner. He just lingers by the windows, looking out into the glimmer of the streets. Kyungsoo silently hangs up his jacket in the wardrobe and awaits the verdict.
(There had been no drama when Jongin returned to the rooftop bar after his fight with Soojung. He’d approached Kyungsoo at the same spot by the bar, and they drank together for hours, talking of trivial things. Jongin did not offer an explanation for his hasty retreat. Not even a lie.
Kyungsoo understood. He didn’t invite Jongin back to his place like he normally would. He also started screening Jongin’s calls and texts, until, in a matter of weeks, they dwindled down to nil. Jongin’s invite to the launch party for Certain Secret Things is still in Kyungsoo’s drafts folder, unsent.)
“Do you see anybody else besides me?”
Kyungsoo has settled at the foot of his bed. “Sorry?”
Jongin is still by the windows, his hands shoved into his pockets. He’s turned his body towards Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo can’t tell if the flickering in his face is a play of light or emotion.
“Do you see anybody else,” Jongin repeats, “besides me?” His breathing and speech is forcibly even. His questions don’t even sound like questions. “Do you do what we do with anybody else?”
“I told you already.” Kyungsoo searches Jongin’s eyes, confusion building brick by brick. “No.”
“Then do you do other things with other people?” The words come out awkward and convoluted. Jongin shakes his head in frustration. “The things that we don’t do together-do you have other people to do them with?”
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo can’t peel his eyes away from what’s in front of him. He won’t allow himself to acknowledge it-he won’t-but this is textbook jealousy. “What are you asking me?”
“Do you have a lover?” Jongin asks in a rush. “A real one. A serious one. Not like me.” He’s starting to stammer. “I don’t even know what you like…both, or…”
Kyungsoo feels like he’s downed a stiff drink. All the blood in his body rushes to his head. A dry swallow singes his throat. The ground beneath him doesn’t seem as solid as it was a second ago. “No,” he answers. “None of the above.” He’s loose-lipped, too, from this imaginary liquor. “Only you.”
Pacified. That is the accurate term for the expression on Jongin’s face, like a patient who’s just been informed he isn’t sick anymore.
It only lasts a moment, because Kyungsoo isn’t done speaking. “Why are you asking me this?” He’s still light-headed, but the drunken feeling has given way to wariness. “You said this morning that you don’t mind me seeing other people.”
Jongin pulls his hands out of his pockets. “Because I’ve never actually seen you with other people.” He rubs his face, making a sound of frustration. “I didn’t know how much I’d hate it.”
A substantial part of Kyungsoo’s chest clenches. “Do you mean that guy at dinner?”
Jongin nods slowly. “He was hitting on you all night.” His bottom lip retreats into his mouth and comes out rosy. “I hated it.”
Kyungsoo should be elated. Jongin is jealous of a man who’d shown fleeting, insignificant interest in him. Jongin is asking if he has other partners, in a way that indicates Jongin wants him to say no. Jongin is acting, basically, like he and Kyungsoo go deeper than their casual bedfellowship.
Like Jongin and Soojung.
The mere thought of her pretty name, her pretty face, her pretty tears, and the pretty way her eyelids trembled when Jongin had kissed her-that does away with any notion of real happiness.
“You see two other people besides me on a regular basis. You have sex, and you have history.” It’s the green-eyed monster speaking through him, accusatory. Kyungsoo tries to remind himself that he agreed to this, you agreed to this, but his mouth is moving a mile a minute. “Are you telling me not to flirt with strangers?”
The relief that had been a salve over Jongin’s skin is wiped clean. “What?” That’s panic in his voice, and uninvited hurt. “Where did that come from? I’m trying to tell you that I-”
“Is this how you are when Soojung spends too much time with Sehun?” Kyungsoo’s tone is flat and lifeless, like a night without wind. “Is this you marking your territory?” He wants it to hurt more, because he’s selfish and cruel. “I’m not like you, Jongin. I don’t grow a garden of lovers and pick whoever’s ripe. I just stick with one.”
Jongin blows out his lips. “Kyungsoo.” He looks torn between taking a step forward and staying rooted in place. He also looks fed up. “If you let me finish, I’ll tell you exactly what I want to say.”
Kyungsoo shuts his eyes. “I saw you with Soojung, you know.”
The pause balloons between them, pregnant. “Excuse me?”
This is surrender, Kyungsoo thinks, eyes still closed. “I followed you at hyung’s birthday when she called for you.” The sorry is exhaled more than it is spoken. He’s not sure Jongin hears it. “I saw your fight. Saw you make up, too.” He opens his eyes. “What have you told her about me, Jongin?”
What greets him is a halo of unexpected warmth, illuminating Jongin’s skin, his eyes, his parted mouth.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” is Jongin’s answer. It is colored by the kind of brilliant resolution that can only come from truth. “This…this is why you’ve been picking fights with me all day.” He susses it out for himself, verbalizing facts instead of waiting for Kyungsoo’s feedback. “This is why you avoided me for four months.”
He starts walking towards Kyungsoo, the glow from the buildings framing him like pixie lights. It’ll take him only five steps from the window to the bed, because the bed is halfway to the door. Kyungsoo remembers.
He’s thrumming with adrenaline when he asks, yet again, “What have you told Soojung about me?” This conversation is on eternal loop; same questions, different answers.
Five, four, three, two, déjà vu. Jongin is kneeling in front of him for the second time this evening. No shoehorn as a prop-just a man with honest eyes.
“Jongin.” Kyungsoo is going to splinter into a thousand pieces. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her I was in love with you.”
All the oxygen whooshes out of Kyungsoo’s lungs, like those nine words have formed a vacuum, rendering him breathless.
“I told her you were different from Sehun, because I could live without him. I told her you were different from her, because you would never have forgiven me.”
There is a tremor in Kyungsoo’s mouth, and another in his heart.
“I broke up with her, finally.” Jongin’s hands are balled into fists. “Right before hyung’s party.” The fists rest on his knees. “Ten years late.”
“That’s why she was crying,” Kyungsoo whispers.
The light in Jongin’s face dims, just by a degree. “She asked me to change my mind,” Jongin tells him, solemnly. “Said she didn't mind if I had you, same way she didn’t mind about Sehun. Not anymore, since she loved him, too.” Jongin’s lashes are wet. “But I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I came to you with all my baggage. So I said no.”
“You can let go of her just like that?” Kyungsoo can hardly believe what is happening. It is thrilling and frightening and bewildering, all at once. “You can let go of them?”
“It took me three years, didn’t it?” Jongin drops his eyes to the carpet. “That’s how long we’ve been seeing each other, in case you forgot.”
As if Kyungsoo would.
“I keep track with my work.” The rollercoaster in his chest hurtles towards its final destination. “Three years, three books.” Game over. “The last two are about you.”
A soft piece of hair falls over Jongin’s forehead when he looks up. His skin is so warm in this yellow light, and his gaze a caress, laden with expectation. “Do you have something to tell me?” The hollow at the base of his throat tells Kyungsoo he is holding his breath.
Kyungsoo will not disappoint him. “I think I already loved with you,” he confesses, filled with longing, “when I let you read my stupid poems.”
It only takes a beat. The tick of a clock hand. The echo of the traffic in the streets of Manila.
Jongin reaches for him with strong hands at the same time Kyungsoo slides to the floor, shaking with emotion, and their lips reunite.
Hey Jongin,
Hope Fashion Week (Month?) has been treating you well. This is the most number of shows you’ve ever walked in, isn’t it? They were talking about you the other day on Entertainment Relay. Shin Hyun Joon called you the national muse (it was a toss-up between that and the national clothes hanger, haha).
Joonmyun-hyung says you’re in Manila for a show? I heard it’s been raining a lot over there. You must be happy. I remember you telling me once how much you love the rain, because it helps you sleep.
Anyway, I’ll be in town from the 16th to the 19th for a book signing. My book came out a couple weeks ago, while you were in Paris for Valentino.
Would you happen to be busy on those dates?
If you are, don’t worry about it. I know this is incredibly short notice. I’m not even sure you’ll see this email in time.
But good luck with your show, okay?
And let me know, either way.
I miss you
- Soo
They kiss on their knees in front of each other, like two teenagers in a school play.
They kiss as they abandon the plushness of the carpet; eyes closed, moving by muscle memory.
They kiss while articles of clothing are removed, breaking only to slip a shirt over a head or push underwear down to ankles.
They kiss their way into bed, holding fast to skin and muscle, salt and scent, as they tumble into the covers.
Jongin mouths at the column of Kyungsoo’s neck, marking him up with reverence. He suckles on the Adam’s apple, and Kyungsoo sighs, enjoying the undivided attention. A moan escapes him, loud and clear, when Jongin moves down to his nipples. Jongin flicks them gingerly with his tongue, sucking them into rosy peaks as Kyungsoo loses his breath.
Down and down and down this trail of kisses drops-and deeper and deeper and deeper into his lover’s skin do Kyungsoo’s fingernails sink.
Jongin’s mouth is between his legs now. Kyungsoo bites down on his knuckles to keep from crying out, because it’s too much, just too much-the heaviness of his desire, the headiness of his devotion, swirling together like opium smoke. The way Jongin takes him all the way down into blessed wet heat, like that place has been prepared just for Kyungsoo. The way Jongin’s perfect palms press down on his hipbones to keep Kyungsoo right where he wants him, never apart from him. The way Jongin’s lashes flutter against his cheeks, effortless, when he surfaces from the depths, letting Kyungsoo go with a long, tight, tender suck.
Kyungsoo removes one of the hands he’s buried in waxed hair to thumb the spit over Jongin’s lips. He knows there are traces of him there, too. Jongin is panting softly, smiling at him with those goddamn golden puppy eyes, like he’s waiting for Kyungsoo’s next command.
The sense of possessiveness and pure, unadulterated affection that engulfs him is immediate.
“Would you like to fuck me, Jongin?” Kyungsoo’s voice is hesitant, broken at the hinges, but his decision is final. He brushes a single finger over a proud, bronze cheekbone. “If you want to, I’ll let you.”
Everything in Jongin’s face melts. Hard candy simmered into syrup. “Yes,” Jongin says, and his mouth is on Kyungsoo’s mouth, laced with love, and his hand is in Kyungsoo’s hand, with his heart. “I want to.”
“You know that …” Kyungsoo clears his throat. He’s embarrassed, because what he’s about to say is the confession of a child. “You’re my first.”
“I know.” Jongin presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes. It’s precious, somehow. “I’ll take care of you.”
They don’t rush into it by any means. Instead, Jongin gets Kyungsoo ready with painstaking precision, taking his time, like he’s molding clay into sculpture. Fingers first (which makes Kyungsoo stiffen), then mouth (which makes Kyungsoo moan), then both (which makes Kyungsoo writhe).
Eventually, when he’s teetering on the precipice of need, a pillow is placed under Kyungsoo’s head.
Jongin gazes down at him. “You sure about this?” His mouth is a strawberry, glazed with fine sugar.
Kyungsoo tastes the sweetness of it; delicate, like a butterfly alighting. “I’m sure,” he says softly. “You’ll take care of me.”
He feels powerful and vulnerable in equal measure when his thighs are drawn all the way up to Jongin’s hips. Jongin drapes his body over them both, lean and lithe, resting his weight on his elbows.
“I didn’t think it was possible,” he mumbles, “for you to fall in love with me.”
“That’s funny.” Kyungsoo blossoms with adoration. “Neither did I.”
He reaches between them to guide Jongin to his core; eager now, after all the ceremony. Jongin puts his trembling hand over Kyungsoo’s steady one, so they can do it together.
He gets in one last line. “This isn’t just sex…” They’re right at the brink, but Jongin wants to be sure.
“No, it isn’t,” Kyungsoo tells him-and finally, finally, finally, Jongin presses in, like he’s coming home. “Promise.”
So many hearts are broken
whenever you take a lover.
How I’d love to be The Love,
and you the only Taker.
- “Lover,” Do Kyungsoo
“How do you write a poem?” Jongin asks once, when Kyungsoo is in the middle of compiling his third book.
Kyungsoo shoots him a look over the rims of his glasses. “What do you mean?”
“Like,” Jongin flicks his cigarette into Kyungsoo’s only ashtray. “Do you start with a rhyme first?”
They’re at the apartment in Namdaemun, out on Kyungsoo’s balcony. Jongin has taken to coming over any chance Kyungsoo gives him. Prefers it to hotels, he says. They mess around for a while; then they spend hours outside, sitting on Kyungsoo’s lawn chairs. Jongin smokes, Kyungsoo writes, and the two of them string together aimless conversations that last all night.
“Ah.” Kyungsoo smiles at him. Jongin never pretends to know things he doesn’t-and he’s not afraid to ask simplistic questions. No pretenses. “It’s a little different from that. Sometimes I’ll see something that catches my attention-the way a girl’s hair blows into her eyes, or the shape of someone’s mouth-and I’ll want to record it. Or sometimes, I’ll hear a song I’ve never heard before and feel some sort of way, and I’ll jot down an idea-almost like a response.” Kyungsoo turns away, favoring his laptop. “Other times, I’ll remember someone I used to know. And I’ll write about them.”
“Ah.” Jongin nods, taking it all in. “Like your ex.”
(Kyungsoo doesn’t know why he told him about that. He shouldn’t have, really. But Jongin had asked, after finishing Kyungsoo’s first book. And surprisingly, Kyungsoo had answered.)
“Right,” he says. “Like him.”
The subject changes abruptly. “Write me a poem, then.”
“What?” Kyungsoo cocks a brow, high into his hairline.
“Write me a poem.” There’s that crooked grin. “Come on. It’ll be fun. I’ll even start you off with a rhyme.”
Kyungsoo leans his cheek into his palm, patient and perplexed. “Were you not listening to a word I was saying?”
“I always listen.” Jongin doesn’t skip a beat. “But this way will be more fun. Ready?”
“Jongin-”
“Here goes.” A cigarette stub is discarded. A throat is cleared of its cobwebs. “Midnight is the color black,” Jongin recites, gesturing at the sky. “Look there-the moon’s a silver crack.” The nod that follows is full of spring. He’s so damn pleased with himself. “Continue.”
Kyungsoo regards him for a muted moment. Jongin’s hair, dyed platinum a few months back for a Prada campaign, is starting to blacken at the roots. There’s something dancing in his eyes as he awaits a response. Below them, on the street, a couple of taxis zip by; the honk of one carrying through the air in a suspended note.
“I’ll pass,” Kyungsoo quips, all casual, like he’s talking about a breadbasket.
Jongin bursts into laughter. “Why?” he whines in faux defiance. “It’s awesome!”
It will be awesome, Kyungsoo thinks, when I finish it for you.
But all he lets on is a merry “I don’t want to pay you royalties” and a grouchy “You get paid enough by Armani, dammit,” to make Jongin laugh again.
This skeleton of an idea-these bare bones of a pleasant surprise-Kyungsoo will keep to himself until the right time.
Midnight is the color black.
Look there-
the moon’s a silver crack.
Your hair
is lighter than the moon;
you’ll have to paint it black at noon.
The air
is spicy with the smoke
you’ve snared
between the lips you soak
in cigarettes,
in kisses wet,
from afternoon ‘til midnight’s stroke.
How dare
you look at me like that,
perplexing as a Persian cat.
I bear
the brunt of your night eyes,
beneath these silver crescent skies.
- “Midnight Is the Color Black,” Do Kyungsoo and A Friend
The mediator at Kyungsoo’s book signing is a stickler for time. “Last question, please,” he tells the media at the pre-event. “Mr. Do needs to get to the meet and greet.”
A young woman raises her hand. The mediator acknowledges her with a polite smile, nodding at Kyungsoo to prompt him.
“Can I ask,” the woman begins, “about the last poem in Certain Secret Things?”
She is petite, with tawny skin and baby eyes hidden under thick glasses. Kyungsoo remembers her from earlier when Paolo, his butler, introduced her as his girlfriend.
“Go ahead, Bea.” Kyungsoo takes a sip of bottled water. His voice is hoarse from two hours of talking about the book, and his tongue is twisted into knots from all the English. It’s going very well, though-just like Jongin said it would.
“Thank you.” Bea adjusts her glasses, holding her recorder to her lips. “I’ve been following your work for years, since the Tumblr days, when people started translating your poetry. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this is the first time you’ve ever co-written a poem, isn’t it?”
“That’s correct.” Kyungsoo keeps his expression mild. Somewhere in the back, blending in with the lush interiors of the lobby café, is Jongin. His Jongin-exulting in triumph, for all Kyungsoo knows. “Sharp of you.”
“I was wondering,” Bea says, “who that ‘friend’ is, and why you decided to write a poem with them.”
Kyungsoo sees it in peripheral vision: Jongin is crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against a doorframe, settling himself in for the answer. Just for a second, Kyungsoo looks directly at him-and instead of the playful smirk he’d expected, he finds a pair of tender eyes. They ask him for nothing. They just tell him everything.
“Well.” Kyungsoo forces himself to focus, even as his insides cave. “I can’t tell you who they are, unfortunately. That’s…” He smiles, giving himself away. “Private.”
A teasing murmur ripples through the crowd. Bea coos along with them as a handful of photographers snap Kyungsoo’s photo.
He must look completely lovestruck right now.
“I can tell you,” Kyungsoo continues, “that they asked me to write a poem with them, not knowing I would write it about them.” At that, Jongin’s fingertips hover over his mouth. Kyungsoo can feel their indelible outline, as if those lips were his own. “I write everything about them. For them. To them. It’s all the same to me.”
“That’s lovely,” Bea says, her recorder poised in his direction. She looks a little lovestruck, too. “Thank you for sharing that.”
“Thank you for asking,” Kyungsoo returns blithely. From the back, Jongin blows him a kiss.
The Manila people take Kyungsoo out to dinner again, away from the hotel this time, near the bay.
He slips away with Jongin an hour earlier than he should, gently declining their offers to reschedule his red-eye. It’s sweet, but he just wants to be alone with this man before they return to the hustle and bustle of Seoul.
They’re in one of the Spanish districts, charming with its cobblestone streets and old Catholic churches. The restaurant is along a very narrow street, and the hotel shuttle is waiting for them at the mouth of it, where they’d been dropped off earlier.
“What do you want to do?” Jongin asks as they traverse the tiny sidewalk, keeping close together.
“Nothing,” Kyungsoo replies. “Curl up in bed. Watch some TV.” He flashes his teeth. “Netflix and chill.”
Jongin snickers like a grade-schooler. “Sounds like you’ve got this all planned out.”
Kyungsoo can make out the shuttle from here, about thirty paces away. Their driver rolls down his window and waves at them, just to make sure they’ve seen him. They wave back, and he gets down from the car, crisp in his uniform, to hold the door open.
“What do you want to do?” Kyungsoo asks Jongin.
Ahead of them, Roxas Boulevard stretches out like a glittering ribbon. Red and yellow, white and blue; headlights and streetlamps in a motion blur. Buildings reflect, rainbow-like, in the water of the bay, and there’s so much possibility in this blessed city.
“The night’s not over,” Kyungsoo pushes, when Jongin doesn’t immediately respond. “Forget what I said. We could still go out, somewhere around the hotel.” He pulls his hand out of his pocket and places it on the small of Jongin’s back. They’re ten paces away from the car. “Just tell me what you’re up for.”
“Everything,” Jongin tells him. When the driver turns away to sneeze, a kiss sneaks itself onto Kyungsoo’s cheek. “With you.”
Five paces. “Okay.” Kyungsoo keeps his hand where he’s left it. His heart, in contrast, is all over the place. “Where do you want to start?”
Two paces. “From the top.” Jongin turns his way. Every inch of his beautiful face is aglow, like he’s generating his own light. “Let’s start from the beginning, Soo.”
Kyungsoo’s hand finds Jongin’s fingers in the dark. They’re warm, and they fit, and he doesn’t care who sees.
“All right, then,” he murmurs, right before they get into the car. “Let’s.”
Back to Part 1