shades of grey
pg-13; baekhyun/jongin, past baekhyun/chanyeol.
jongin breathes, white smoke pressed against his lips, words against the forefront of his mind. breathe in, breathe out. it's supposed to be easy they say, to let go. nicotine sinks into your bloodstream and does some crazy biological crap to it so that it piles gunk into your lungs, and ruins the body from the inside out. jongin wants to be ruined. he wants to feel the moment when drowns, closes his eyes, and sleeps past all discontent, blissfully unaware from everything that happens outside his own skin.
it's sort of like a dream that he wants. he doesn't want a goal or some sort of life-long ambition to make him run on pumped blood and oxygen - he wants to stop breathing for a moment, drown in unconsciousness. stop it all for a second and see what sticks and what goes. if he opened his eyes again, would everything be the same? or would it be different? and would he even notice? would he even care? he wants to lay down comfortably on a bed of subconscious, close himself off and never open up again. curl into a ball and try to catch whatever warmth bleeds behind.
it's not helping. jongin flicks the cigarette to the ground, feels white wisps graze against his skin. one step and it crushes underneath his feet, easily pliable.
seoul is too bright, he thinks. people pass by life at it's finest ( at it's worst ) and don't bat an eye. colors slapped on every corner, like they're trying to make it a better place, trying to hide all the ugly shades of black and grey underneath. it doesn't work, jongin thinks. to a person who has always seen in monochrome, you can't hide darkness. you can't hide hesitation, the reluctance to truly get rid of everything underneath. no matter how hard you try. you can't succeed at all.
that's what gets jongin through each day, makes him get up in the morning to smoke before heading over to a small alley, lacking light and carrying the scent of garbage. jongin knows that it's not the only thing that stinks in that place; right there is where he can see the disgusting underbelly of humankind, rotting right down to the core while everyone else tries to cover it up, tries to pretend it never happened. jongin commits each and every picture to memory, walks through one portion of the city that the rest has forgot.
"jongin!" his name falls from lips with sharp corners and lines, slightly reddish on one corner ( a bruise ) but curved up at just the right angles. "thank god you're here. i was beginning to think that i would be the only artist to show up at his gallery opening." baekhyun takes a quick intake of air. his smile falters. "have you been smoking again? jongin, you said you wouldn't - "
"i said i wouldn't do a lot of things," jongin replies, and his voice sounds like chalk scraping across gravel. "and i ended up doing them anyway. it's been a pretty good method so far." suddenly, he wants the cigarette back, an anchor in between his lips as he rises from the low and wobbles on the red spectrum. it's dangerous, and he wants to cool off, but it just doesn't work that way. he needs to focus on it, but there's no time to focus. there's no time for anything.
baekhyun puts a soothing hand on his shoulder. his eyes - the darkest of black but just above an earthy brown - ease into graceful half-moons. "don't sweat it, alright? i get that you're nervous. we all are." his fingers tighten suddenly. "it's just those who are don't really have the balls to show up and face their fears. assholes. leaving me alone to take care of all this anxiety crap by myself."
jongin has the foreign urge to laugh - it bubbles up in his throat but he swallows and it disappears into his stomach, clawing at his esophagus. "they want to create mystery for themselves," he says hoarsely. "they think that if they can hide themselves off, people will want to look for them." but jongin knows better. he knows that no one will look for a person whom they never met before, never loved, never heard, never touched, never saw. baekhyun looks at him with those goddamn eyes of his, like jongin's transparent; like baekhyun can see right through him. baekhyun is probably the only one who can.
"let's go," the older says, and he pushes jongin gently toward the door which is surrounded by porcelain white tiles with golden accents and black lining. jongin wants to run his fingers over them, feel their smoothness underneath his palm, the cold of mineral against his cheek. but baekhyun stands behind him, a driving force, and they both stumble into a crowd of people - mingling, talking, laughing. glass flutes of golden coloured champagne in their slender hands. some were pale, some were hinted with bronze, some were as white as snow. some had dark hair piled on the crowns of their heads, or gelled and groomed, or with golden locks curling down their shoulders and swept away from dazzling white grins or stark against fiery red chignons.
baekhyun's breath stops. jongin can feel it in the way his fingers loose their grip, how his eyes become glassy, lips parted open. jongin gives baekhyun a disinterested look that says he can't really give a fuck, but something overturns in his stomach. baekhyun, who's been there for longer than he can see, baekhyun, who's acrylic paint on canvas.
"fuck, he's here," the man murmurs, and his hands turn into a fist. jongin doesn't need to turn his head or even think to know who it is. "jongin, jongin do me a favor." baekhyun curls his arms in jongin's, and with a swallow - it's dry, it's wrong, baekhyun doesn't belong here - jongin nods his head imperceptibly. he owes the older so much. so much he can't reply. he thinks of all his debts, thinks of his dues, thinks that if he could ever pay them all he would be a penniless man - in spirit and in mortality.
park chanyeol stands on the top of the stage, honey-coloured hair gleaming in the bright lights overhead. in fact, they're so bright jongin has to squint to see, blinking uncomfortably against the crowd. he imagines a single snapshot, imagines a polaroid tacked on a blackboard, half of the picture gone from washed out lights and no vibrance.
baekhyun's hold tightens on his arm, and the images disappear before jongin's eyes.
if they try, they can seem like just another couple in the stream. linked arms, bright smiles, a warm body pressed against his side. jongin thinks about having another cigarette when he's outside.
the manon stage - balding, gray, with a pinstriped suit - smiles in a sort of anxious way and lingers too long on chanyeol's lanky form. he says something about thanking chanyeol for his donations - son of a politician, so culturally diffused, let's all thank him for his tribute to the arts - and then the rest drowns out in incessant chatter and champagne.
baekhyun's unwinds himself around jongin and jongin feels like he can breathe; everything almost fades to white for a second before it settles in the rich luxuries of the gallery around them. jongin glances at the portraits, the paintings, the pictures - the works of art that hang on the walls like death sentences, essences of one moment perfectly - imperfectly - captured in time.
jongin's eyes rake through them all, because that's what it's all about: art. except art is just a flimsy word, an excuse for what can't be explained. that's what all words are.
baekhyun breathes beside him, sipping a flute of white liquid, carbonated bubbles up the sides. "i never thought i'd see him here." i never thought that i would see him supportive of me. "did you think so, jongin?" why isn't he out of my life yet? "maybe we should drop by and say hi. for old times sake." going to ignore and avoid him the whole night.
he's not an idiot; he can read between the lines. "don't drag me into it, then." don't ask me to clean up your messes. "i'll be by the buffet table, trying out the quiche." you're on your fucking own. baekhyun's nose crinkles and he glares, but later the glare fades into a sigh. he suddenly looks tired; crinkles around the corner of his eyes, lips falling into a slant. jongin doesn't understand the complexities of the human heart - doesn't get why it has to be described a certain way, doesn't get why it's held in such a high light. your heart is an organ in your chest that pumps blood by repeated contractions seventy two beats per minute. it doesn't hurt. it doesn't soar. it doesn't do anything except beat in your chest, in your ears, in your wrists and fingertips and through the back of your knee. but for some reason, it's important.
jongin remembers the feel of baekhyun's pulse underneath his fingertips, hands stained red with slick blood. remembers those glassy eyes and open mouth, crystals on the corners of his lashes. he shivers, but it isn't that sort of cold shiver that trails down your spine; it's the tremor of the earth moving as chanyeol approaches baekhyun underneath jongin's careful eyes, mouth curled in a frown, desperation muddled in brown irises. jongin skips on the champagne, breath caught in his throat as it turns from gold to clear.
his eyes trail to the artificial tug of baekhyun's smile, the strained pull of his shoulders as chanyeol reaches his side with bright eyes. jongin doesn't know the full story behind them - probably never will - but baekhyun's been his friend for as long as he remembers breathing. and that's a pretty long time.
"jongin," a man in his late fifties comes by, suit crisp across his shoulders, skin brazen just slightly. he's been other places than south korea. "nice to see you. your work's been showcased once more, i see."
"of course," jongin murmurs in reply, eyes steady on the bright white of the stage lights. have they turned them off yet? it doesn't seem like anyone has noticed the slight change of light. jongin does. he notices a lot of things.
"how do you feel about - "
" - art is a hobby," jongin says, finishes his glass and sets it on the table next to him. "just a hobby."
chanyeol reaches forward to grip baekhyun's shoulder and baekhyun immediately stills. jongin walks out the door and throws his cigarette pack in the trash. his mind slows down past all comprehension, and he doesn't need it anymore.
/
he may strive for that perfect moment of calm, but jongin thinks that the rush that alcohol gives him is pretty good too. with those thoughts in mind, he pushes away the image of bright lights, framed images pinned on the wall - helpless, vulnerable. bare to open minds and greedy eyes, innocent children left on a pedestal to be judged and driven.
jongin doesn't like thinking about it. thinking about it makes him want to throw up, digs a hand inside his stomach and pulls at his insides. it makes him feel sick. or maybe he is sick. he sort of wants to run inside and hide everything behind his back, shove it all away from their questions and criticism, and some part of him wants it to be ruined. he imagines passing a hand over a sky, blackened with rage, or pressing his cheek against the cool asphalt of a darkened road.
"hey, buddy!" air sucks into his lungs and the world spins. jongin blinks to see two black irises, peering at him through the technicoloured screen. "if you're gonna make a scene, do it outside, alright?"
jongin throws up somewhere between the bartender's shoes and the bar itself, maybe into someone's drink. he gives himself points if it ends up in someone's whiskey.
a curse, muttered in another language. then it's back to korean, which is starting to confuse him as well. someone pushes his head with a snappish, "i'm going to make you pay for that!" and he ends up gripping the side of the bar to regain his balance. someone's pretty face glares at him in return, and jongin thinks momentarily that he would love to have that face captured on glossy paper and ink. wide eyes, pale skin, scowling mouth.
"fuck this place," the man shouts, hurriedly untying the knot behind his neck. he messily throws down the apron while hands grab at him from his shoulder, his side - everyone wants to keep him. "i quit!"
there are vague calls of "luhan!" and "luhan, baby, don't let the drunk idiot get you down!" that jongin is able to process, but he decides that he must be pretty wasted if he doesn't care about them. his head meets the smooth surface of marble, and jongin breathes in the stark air, sweat mixed with perfume and the vague, sickly smell of vomit.
"hey," a push to his side. "hey, drunk asshole. that's low."
jongin groans and ignores the voice.
then, a push so hard that he feels himself dropping down to the floor, world spinning in front of his eyes. "hey, bastard! pay for another one."
"maybe when i'm sober," jongin mutters, even though he plans to spend no money on a person that he barely knows. his mind, muddled, doesn't understand that in a less suggestive setting it would've even gone by as a passable remark for a date.
"nice. when i try to get drunk at a bar to stop thinking about the shit i fix up in my life, some guy ruins it for me by puking in my drink. goddamn, what does it take to get some quality alcohol around here?"
thing is, jongin can't hear the sound of his own voice through the noise that rings in his ear, and the voice that decides to scream just oh so pleasantly right next to it with their complaining doesn't help any. jongin doesn't want to - in fact, all he wants to do is feel the haze take over his blood and bones maybe even breathe once and then leave it there - but something pricks at his conscience, like a heavy guilt. which is odd, because kim jongin doesn't feel.
"shut up." jongin says, his words clearer than his current state of mind. "just shut up." and he passes out.
/
"i can't fucking believe you," jongin lights a cigarette clumsily, ignores the burn on his fingers and sort of stares at the flickering flame. up, down, left, right. he tries not to breathe or else the fire might extinguish, and he doesn't want that. "do you know how much that bartender charged me? i'm a fucking painter, jongin, i don't make that much income, and i would really sort of - y'know - appreciate it if i wasn't constantly paying off your mistakes. is it that hard to - are you even listening to me, you piece of crap?"
"i'm listening," jongin murmurs through a curl of smoke, wrapping themselves around his fingers and thinning as they escape his cupped palms.
baekhyun scoffs. "no you're not. since when do you ever listen to what i say?"
jongin shifts. "you mentioned money. and a lot of curses."
"yeah, well that's what i always talk about. those don't count."
"you talk about chanyeol too."
jongin immediately knows that it's the wrong thing to say; baekhyun stiffens, his shoulders pulling into one straight line. there's something about the name itself - chanyeol - that can set the other on an edge falling past coherency. jongin doesn't see anything special about it. it's just a name. a label.
"no one fucking talks about chanyeol, jongin. no one cares."
and it's sort of sad, because baekhyun does.
"that guy you puked on? yeah, some big corporate hotshot. had to fucking apologize to him or else he would've made me pay for his expensive jacket and shoes." baekhyun makes this sort of exasperated, tired noise. "fucking rich people."
"you're fucking rich people?"
baekhyun shoots him a dirty, level look that's unlike him. "one day, your mouth is going to get you in a lot of trouble, jongin. and that day, i'm not going to be there to save your ass."
jongin takes a slow drag. "i'll haul your ass with me wherever you go." noises emerge as baekhyun walks past him and kicks him painfully in the shin, to which jongin grits his teeth and pretends not to feel. truthfully, jongin can't imagine a life without baekhyun; can't imagine slipping in between the doors of their shared apartment and not seeing baekhyun's slumped form on the sofa, or the tv left on after he's long asleep, or paint splattered across the walls because he's too cheap to buy proper materials, and hey - a painter's gotta paint.
there's scenes all across the backdrop of their apartment, reaching up as far as jongin can see them, up till it's so high baekhyun's hands can't reach them. then it's just white - endless, encompassing white, stretches of unfilled space.
"baekhyun," jongin says. "baekhyun, i want to stop smoking."
and baekhyun, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a scissor and paper in his hands, hums. "no you don't."
and it's sort of silly, jongin thinks, how much baekhyun can look right through him - almost like he's not even there. it makes him wonder if baekhyun even realizes that jongin's alive, sometimes. but then again, jongin doesn't really count himself as one of the living. and it's also sort of silly and jongin keeps wanting to prove that, keeps trying to see how much baekhyun thinks he knows him and then it's always - always - jongin that get's corrected in the end.
"what're you making?" the steady scent of cigarette ash fills the air and wraps around the column of his throat, thick and heavy. jongin looks down with half lidded eyes at baekhyun's hands - pale, slender, with barely seen veins popping out the side. baekhyun's hands are magical, he thinks. they contain some sort of fairy dust pressed behind those pores.
baekhyun shrugs. "hey, have you counted how much we have to pay this month?"
"is that origami or something?"
"because that old hag downstairs - you know the one that asks if we have lemons or not - has been eying me recently, and she's friends with the other old hag who - "
"i'm going to burn it. cut your goddamn paper somewhere else."
" - collects our pay every month. christ it feels like we're on death row, doesn't it?"
jongin scoffs. "death row feels more like old stars and drugs. full of pop music and sex."
"i won't ask why you know that. goddammit, at least smoke somewhere else. i'll punch your face into the next century."
"take me back in time and i'll be forever grateful." jongin crosses his legs, stares up at the ceiling while the cigarette burns in between his lips - no flame, just ash. he blinks and the very white divide of the ceiling turns black, spattered with flecks of pink and blue marble and granite. like the edge of a desk, a click of shoes on expensive tiles. jongin blinks, and it goes away.
instead, he's staring at something more pleasing to see; baekhyun's eyes, the darkest glint that he's ever seen, staring right at him from above. jongin's always sort of loved baekhyun's face - maybe in a totally artistic way. the arch of his eyebrows, the slant of his lips, the soft bridge of his nose. his rounded cheeks and gaunt jaw, a whole sharp line from his chin to the curve right under his ear. jongin reaches up and traces that line, breathes in and smoke stifles in his throat.
"how many times have i told you not to fucking smoke," baekhyun mutters. "first you say you don't give a damn, and then you say you do. compulsive lying isn't an attractive trait."
"for you, i know i'd even try to turn the tide," jongin mumbles.
baekhyun seems to almost - almost smile - but plucks the still smoking stick from jongin's lips, twirls it in his fingers and then pops it in his own mouth, elbows propped against jongin's shoulders, knees digging into jongin's hips. he takes a drag and then releases it right over the ends of jongin's hair, breezes of white wisps of oxygen.
"you and your fucking obsessions," baekhyun takes another drag. "come down to reality sometime soon, yeah?"
"get me a camera," jongin says, just before baekhyun presses their lips together, pushing nicotine and poison in his mouth. the movement of their mouths are slow and languid, like someone sucking on a favourite treat. baekhyun kisses like a siren's teasing whisper; he pokes at jongin's mouth, licks his bottom lip and generally prods the other to react; moves jongin's hands so that they're placed firmly on his waist, runs hands through his short hair.
it's a moment worthy of capture, and jongin wants to keep it locked in a box forever, a frame upon his wall. him and baekhyun; two peas in a pod, lost sheep in a pack of wolves, the martyrs to a corrupted society that would never accept them the way they were; perhaps a tad dirty, perhaps somehow blinded, perhaps legitimately insane.
/
he wakes up slow and sweet, head pounding. the drifting cold of the morning seeps in past his thin blankets and settles comfortably on his skin. his breath comes in puffs of white air; he's awake before he opens his eyes, simply revelling in the soft cushion of his futon and the feel of baekhyun's mouth pressed against his temple.
the door shuts, and jongin finally finds it in him to wake up.
the morning is cold and bleak, streaks of grey encompassing the vast open sky. it's cold everywhere, like someone's stuck korea in the middle of the arctic. jongin shrugs off his blanket and stretches, bones popping, looking around tiredly for baekhyun but never really finding him.
soon he just gets up and shuffles over to the kitchen, where he sees a tall man with light hair standing in front of his shabby stove. it's a funny picture, jongin thinks, a man in an obviously expensive suit standing still, watching a pot of tea boil over a rusty stove. it's so ironic that jongin pads into the living room quickly and grabs his camera, snaps a few photos quickly. the man turns around, surprised at the noise.
"you're awake," chanyeol says, surprised. "about time. you know you have a gallery opening today, right?"
jongin doesn't answer, flips through the few photos he was able to catch. a slight bend of light curves over the side of chanyeol's handsome face, over the continuous downturn of his mouth, the tired wrinkle of his eyes.
"it's always a wonder why you still insist on living here," chanyeol murmurs, taking the tea off the counter and pouring it in two mismatched cups. "it's a dump."
"it's my dump," jongin replies, taking the small mug and sipping it quietly. he leans back against the counter and sets his camera down. "where's baekhyun?"
there's the slightest change in chanyeol's eyes, quick enough for no one else but jongin to notice. "baekhyun is where baekhyun always is," he says, and jongin feels just the tiniest bit of satisfaction knowing that chanyeol's voice sounds so irreparably empty.
"well," jongin sets down his camera. "surely you didn't just come to tell me that i have a gallery opening. that could be done the same through a text."
"you never answer your phone. i doubt you would check."
jongin pauses, and then files the logic away in his brain. it's not like chanyeol's wrong. "i usually don't have my agent come and check on me before i'm decent in the morning," jongin drawls. "really, chanyeollie, what's your poison?"
"don't call me that," chanyeol frowns. "and baekhyun asked me to check on you. something about you being high on the loop last night."
the world stills except for the silent movement of chanyeol's ruffling as he takes the pot off the stove and pours it in a cup. he offers one to jongin, but the latter shakes his head. "i'm good."
chanyeol shrugs and takes a sip for himself, letting it calm him as much as tea possibly can. there's still the stiff lines of his shoulders and arms, restricted to his suit, and jongin remembers a time when chanyeol laughed, laughed until his sides hurt, laughed until the old men in the upper floor thought he was crazy and banged on the ceiling to tell them to shut the hell up.
"i'm clean, you know. i haven't had any crack or crystal since i started getting my stuff published." he falls silent as chanyeol's quiet sipping fills the air. steam clouds his face and jongin waves it away irritatedly. "the only thing i do now to get myself killed would possibly be the smoking. and hey, i've still got a few years."
chanyeol murmurs, "wonder how baekhyun feels about that."
"baekhyun doesn't mind. he knows how much i want to die. or something."
slowly, chanyeol pulls his away from his spot on the counter and then to his bedroom. his bed is made neatly; it's never been slept in. "go change into one of your suits, jongin. it's almost three - it'll take us a good two hours to get to the gallery. try not to fall behind."
"aye-aye, captain." but jongin doesn't really do authority - especially not from chanyeol.
/
there was always something beautiful about cameras. the click, the windup, the flash. somehow things move from a simple two dimensional plane to your heart. that's what jongin likes about pictures; there could be a million different things in one image or one single focus but a million meanings. jongin personally doesn't know what makes his works so invigorating, but he supposes it's the way others think about them.
chanyeol pushes him through the door, too tall and too jittery. his hands are cold and clammy on jongin's shoulder. after a comforting pat, chanyeol steps away.
jongin attempts to smile for the flashes as they come at him; because he understands where they're coming from. cameras, pictures, images. people were the most beautiful subject jongin had ever photographed.
which is, with a spare glance, the topic of his new collection. in his mind, jongin smiles like a little child, excited to show off his newest toy. escaping the narrow hall of paparazzi, jongin makes his way to the familiar steep of the galleria. it's a large, circular area with sparkling linoleum tiles, walls made of marble and a large glass dome curving over their heads. sharp lines assure him the separation of panels, while showering rays of evening sun colors the sky pink and blue; the faintest gleam of stars are visible as tiny pinpricks of light.
jongin is immediately hit with the urge to grab a camera and stop time.
they're lead to sit down on small, round tables, with reddish-pink tablecloths and crystalline vases with tall, white lilies. not all of them are white; some are infused with splashes of color which can't be disconcerted between real or artificial. jongin pulls out a chair and sits down, chanyeol following right beside him.
a man in his late forties, someone he vaguely remembers as the curator of the gallery, heads up on stage finally and waves his hand as a round of applause greets him. jongin ignores the urge to stare up at the sky.
"thank you for joining us today," the man starts. "as you all know, we are very lucky to have another wonderful presentation by our esteemed artists." another polite clap. "bidding will be held after the tour around the galleria. only pieces from the collection, and also not the original - as per rules." the man smiles, and it looks oddly like a frog's face has been split in half. "i'd like to thank the artists whose pieces are being showcased today. and so if you will give them a warm welcome for their inspiring work, i will continue on with the introductions."
jongin's ears perk up, and he looks at chanyeol briefly. the man gives him a weak grin and points aimlessly to the stage. look and listen.
about half an hour later, jongin is smiling incessantly in front of businessmen and admirers. somehow, it all seems worthless. keeping up the facade is tiring enough that he wants to drop dead in the middle of the room anyway, but it's sort of hard to when chanyeol's giving him the worried eye every once in awhile.
another hour, and jongin steps outside to smoke. his hands fumble with the lighter and he almost burns himself before he's able to light up; still somewhat tipsy from overdose of elegant wine, jongin's eyelids droop in wanted sleep.
a moment later chanyeol comes out and gives him a once over. "alright, i'm taking you home."
"fucking finally," jongin croaks out.
when they've driven back to chanyeol's apartment and jongin's blazer is off, it's a little less stuffy than before. nothing's choking him anymore but it's still hot, unbearably hot, and he wonders if it can be this warm in the middle of winter.
chanyeol comes him, hair mussed, with two mugs of tea. "here," he puts on down in front of jongin. "cleanse yourself."
jongin looks toward the steaming mug, then toward chanyeol's figure. he reaches forward blindly to grab at the other's tie and pulls him down until they're face to face. the gold of his hair, the nutty brown of his eyes is all too familiar, and jongin murmurs, "chanyeol." before kissing him soundly.
chanyeol is wooden underneath him, bending down and awkward as jongin stiffly moves away. "you're not baekhyun," he muses bitterly.
"disappointed?" chanyeol asks blithely. "you're no baekhyun either."
the sounds of his footsteps are haunting, and jongin clenches his jaw. neither of them are baekhyun and neither of them can ever try to be either.
/
jongin dreams of baekhyun when he goes to sleep.
dreams of his colored eyes and smiles and his fingers, painter's hands, of the lines of his body, of the clouds above his head and of his mouth pressed into a secret. jongin dreams and dreams and takes pictures, imprints memories, but baekhyun flitters away like dust whenever he tries.
over and over, as the bright blue sky soars over them and baekhyun laughs the color of bells, jongin feels himself sinking deeper into the spectrum of disaster.
"come down to reality sometime soon, yeah?" an echo reminds him, and somehow there they are - baekhyun and jongin, just as they were before they weren't. he dreams in colored lenses, the day when baekhyun was still there.
jongin opens his eyes and everything returns back to grey.