that's so us

When she spots him across the street, she’s forced to do a double take. That isn’t a problem here, nothing wrong with admiri—ahem—passively observing from afar. Just Henry Kim doing what Henry Kim usually does, which is to do the absolute most whenever possible. Temperature for today’s barely hit the 70′s, and he’s already making a show out of mowing the lawn, shirt off and sweaty and it’s fucking ridiculous in the way it feels like it’s lifted from some steamy suburban housewife soap daily.

The kicker? When there are several others outside with the same intentions. Only they’re not very passive—at all. And if it’s not the lusty eyed gaping from the girls three doors down that has her gripping the book in her hand strangling tight, it’s Mr. Gratuitous Fanservice himself (obviously, most definitely, she’s sure of it) soaking up all the attention.  With something of a scowl, Gina pivots on her heel and nearly marches off to the Nohs’ bookstore. 

Hours later, that scowl remains as a seemingly permanent fixture on her face. The expression only hardens when a familiar shadow hovers from the side, one that somehow manages to find her without fail. There’s not so much as a glance his way, nor a greeting. Gina simply keeps her eyes on the shelves as she slots another book in place. 

“I’m busy.” 

he’s always like this. exposed? well. yeah. almost. but also dastardly brazen. careless. attention seeking. also valid. there’s no other explanation for it otherwise. for him to be out and about, mowing the lawn shirtless. but, it’s tradition by now. henry figures it’s something he and the housewives across the street can both agree on.

but whereas some like it, others—a glaring head of blonde and sharp sharp eyes he can feel in the back of his head that’s called paranoia, henry—think otherwise. though, if gina’s not around, then no harm no foul, right?

wrong.

he’s not sure what has his not girlfriend possessed. already armed with a scowl and curt words before he’s so much as greeted her ‘hello’ in her family’s bookstore. which, thankfully, a quick glance about shows that her dad was nowhere to be found. “i can see that.” you weren’t even looking. “do you need help?” you’re not interested in helping. still, he props his forearm against the shelf and leans into it, lips curved into a deceptively friendly smile.

Kyungmin rolls his eyes. “You know, things tend to pack more of a punch when they’ve never been done before…” And besides, Yujae had the chaste damsel act already in the bag (hell of a ruse, for what it was worth); he’d take to a simple oppa like a fish in water. “I have total faith in you,” Kyungmin reassures him. “You’d kill it. Murder me dead. It’s not like I’m going to find someone who’d have any reason to call me oppa like that, anyway.”

He pouts, indignant. “I’m not being mean,” and he promptly places his thumb at the base of Yujae’s nipple; together with his index finger, Kyungmin gives it an unsympathetic twist and yank. That was mean. Yujae’s fault for climbing on top of him half-naked and totally unprompted. The pout on his face lifts. “That’s what I said, though? That I’d be impressed by you either way: stacked…” and here, Kyungmin pokes Yujae’s right nipple (call him a man of equal opportunity), “or not.”

With the way Yujae’s chin has earned an extra fold since the last Kyungmin saw him, not appears to be the correct answer. More to love, Kyungmin thinks with some scientific fondness. And while the temptation to spend the next hour or so on this sofa curled into Yujae’s brand new set of curves with feet entangled is terribly difficult to resist, Kyungmin wills his rationale to speak some sense into both of them. “If we nap now, we won’t sleep later…” He says, but the words emerge softer and a little sultrier than he’d bargained for what with Yujae’s lips over his adam’s apple, pressure of his tongue following the way it bobs down as Yujae gathers his thoughts and gulps. “Dinner,” whatever dinner means, “can wait.” His mind skids back on track. “We’ve only got one night here, the beach comes first.” He lets Yujae drag him out the door, making sure to pick up his Goethe before locking up.

The trail to the water is cluttered with small, fallen branches, empty plastic bottles, and branded coffee cup holders. Vacationers’ negligence. Kyungmin holds Yujae firm by the wrist as they navigate their way past treacherous litter and firmer yet when he nearly loses his footing on a loose rock. Good, reliable Yujae, his bare arms are practically cushions for Kyungmin’s spindly claws. Eventually the path opens to the sound of a roaring ocean and the sight of the endless water, framed by white sand and a copper-tinged sky.

A few other stragglers fill the picture: an elderly couple equipped in full bodysuits and tinted goggles, and three middle school-aged girls blasting music from tinny phone speakers. 

Kyungmin is mindful. Before their feet can hit the sand, he’s released his grip on Yujae’s wrist and strides several paces ahead. Doesn’t look back. Directs his vision to his book instead and with nose deep in its gutters he flips through the pages until the moment he’s located both the correct page number as well as a dry spot in the sand, whereupon he plops down to wiggle himself a seat.

“oh, wow you’re really gunning for it.” it’s not that he minds. yujae hardly minds anything kyungmin asks of him anyway. but there’s no fun in just giving in. no fun in that at all. “thanks, ‘ppreciate it.” he snorts. “i’ll make sure to save it for a special occasion then, maybe when you’re least expecting it...” maybe after he practices a bit in front of a mirror so it’s not as odd as it plays out in his head as well.

he winces at the twist, lips parted for a small sharp ‘ah!’ that comes accompanied with his hand slapping kyungmin’s away. “aren’t you practically a bully by now?” he rubs his chest idly, eyes narrowing while the other speaks. “oh, because more for you to abuse right?” his tone is sulky, swatting away kyungmin’s other roaming hand. had they not been on somewhat of a schedule (he remembers only vague details, swimming, a restaurant they talked about trying), he would’ve asked for him right his wrongs and kiss it better.

“it’s not like we plan on sleeping anyway.” that much has to be obvious. but yujae doesn’t press further. whatever they do would be completely fine as long as they did it together, he’s never been picky in regards to things like that.

the walk to the beach is quick, well within a manageable distance from the cottage and yujae is quick to make up for time loss with steps forward toward the welcoming waves. swinging arms brushing against kyungmin’s shoulder in passing in a burst toward the water. it’s cold, he’ll find as soon as his toes graze the sea, bringing forth a spill of joy bubbling past his lips. he braves a couple more steps in before turning to face shore, waving at the small figure in the sand. 

“kyungmin-ah!” there’s no expectations, no particular invitation or request to join. if anything, yujae wanted nothing more than attention. smile split evenly across his face his body buzzes with adrenaline, waits patiently for the needed acknowledgement (needy, needy, eom yujae) before he moves on.

admittedly, it’s a lonely function. only losers swim in the ocean alone. or something like that. yujae doesn’t particularly mind, much more taken with a fascination that settles with any step forward, every wave that knocks against his abdomen. he continues as far as his legs will take him, enjoys the ease of moving with the ocean, before he turns to swim back to shore. makes his way back minutes (give or take a handful more to just float about) later; soaked from head to toe.

What sublimity of mind was mine, that dreamed of finding a way to communicate my deepest thoughts to him. Transmission breaks somewhere in the space between my fingertips, still warm by the ashtray, and the tail of his still-burning cigarette. 

I had posed a rather pointed question, albeit subconsciously. Vows and final walks carried the kind of emotional fanfare that penetrated people like Yujae and fizzled on people like me. Smirk turned condemning smile, Yujae had caught on before the realization dawned on me.

He drifts swiftly off course before I have the chance to cut in. A strategic drunk driver if I’d ever seen one. “Hideous.” I agree, brushing off the wrinkles in my pants as I move to stand. “Ddaeng, by the way. I did choke up a little.” I couldn’t blame him for missing the signs as I’d made absolutely sure to keep them down to a simple lump in my throat. “And during the ballad, of all things. Total emotional manipulation down to the way Woohyuk was holding her hands.” The way Woohyuk looked at her. The way she beamed. The way he mouthed those three syllables. The way she mouthed them back, a tender sutra. Caught through a camera lens and spat out on 4K monitors for us to sip to and remember when that could have been us. 

Giving him a shrug, I point to a few of the buds that haven’t opened yet. “These’ll probably start unfurling tomorrow. After that, I give the whole thing three days.” Don’t you want to see them in full bloom come morning? 

To me he looks more maidenly than any bridesmaid, armed now with bouquet and in that suit of his, of mine, that suit. I let him hold onto the flowers, insurance for the night. “Feeling like some scotch,” I say, with one final glance through the doors to the empty lipstick-rimmed glass on the piano. Past that it’s a straight shoot to the bar. Come with.

"oh?" i don't know what's more surprising. that it got to him or the little bit that doesn't quite match up to memory. it's normal, of course. after so long change is normal. but it unsettles me regardless. quiet throb easily snuffed out by a quick swig while he speaks. "oh, yeah, that was a moment." i laugh around the mouth of the bottle, fingers tapping against hued glass. "you could practically see the honey dripping from his eyes—woohyuk's so lucky." even to my own ears. i sound jealous. 

funny, considering how little worth a committed relationship is to me these days. but the pesky thing thumping away in my chest wants it wants, even if i deny it. and right now, looking at kyungmin, it twinges and aches for reprieve i'm not yet ready (or capable) to grant.

"three days? they die way too quickly." i turn to the stems in my lap, brush my fingers over the edges of the petals. they're pretty. but i'll never see the point in investing in something that wilts so quickly. "ah," my attention flickers over, lingering for a moment longer on the definition of his jaw. he isn't too difficult to read like this. and i am not so sober as to be wary of what may come. i make my move then, resting the bottle on the table and using it to propel myself upward. 

"okay," the grin playing on my lips is hopefully casual as i'd imagine it to be. admittedly, the world spins like this. my body floats, light in contrast to the dull throb in the back of my head. a sure sign to stop. doesn't matter. i can't be bothered to think about that right now.

This is a one-eighty. I had expected him to put up more of a fight. Maybe it had something to do with his guardian? As soon as he’d excused himself from the table, Yujae’s face had fallen and paled to a a shade not unlike our tablecloth. I observed the scene unfold—Yujae’s short fingers grasping the hem of his friend’s jacket like a petulant child, his friend shaking him off with gentle maternal finesse before bidding our table a round of apologies and a farewell bow. 

I chalk it up to this, compounded with his insobriety and swayed by the music trickling in from the lobby’s pianist-for-hire. As the night wears on her playing grows warmer and more intimate. Between pieces I catch her sipping scotch from a crystal glass. Yujae has always been more impressionable than he gives himself credit for. 

My phantom gratitude folds in on itself. I ignore him. I don’t want him to think that I’m extending an invitation to drink with me. I want him to tail me.

His candor is revealing itself to me again and I hate that it’s infectious. I nod in agreement, “They stuck it out,” and purposely leave the rest of the thought unsaid—no need to beat a dead horse, especially not one as old as ours. I look at his coiffed hair, his nicely formed thin lips. At his sharp, endlessly dark eyes. At his short fingers pinching air. And I cough out a laugh.

I hurriedly blame the ash—it’s been a while since I held a cigarette—but I know he knows I’m not tricking anyone. Then, “Which part did you in: the vows? Or the final walk?” It’s futile but i hide a smile behind my wrist. “Me?” I crush out my smoke in the table ashtray. “Instead of telling you outright, why don’t you take an educated guess.”

“Ah, these? The flowers used for decor are free to take once the dinner service ends. You didn’t know?” I blink. surely this isn’t the first wedding he’s been to. more likely that he simply never paid attention. “I just tossed out my last arrangement two days ago, so this is good timing.” I pause. Reach out a hand and tap him playfully on the knee. “There’s still time to grab your own. But… s’not your thing, if memory serves me right.”

it's no surprise that being beside kyungmin makes me want to drink more. fill the gaps and spaces of silence with the closest escape—short of getting up and walking away. stupid. to be going through unnecessary steps like these knowing fully well i don't *actually* want to go anywhere. that, is surprisingly easy to admit. but that's with the aide of my sixth? seventh? glass of wine.

now, as time progresses and the knot in my shoulder slowly ebbs with every swig. now, talking to kyungmin—fathoming his existence here in this day and age—grows to be just a bit easier. so long as we don't stray from casual topics to dive into what's left that lingers between us; old scabs and bruises and all.

he doesn't answer. i don't expect him to. but tighten my grip on the bottle all the same at the possible implications, taking another slow drag to fill the silence and follow it up with another swig (and a small grimace). the faster i finish the faster i can get a better bottle.  

"yup." what else is there to say? nothing, i guess. bypass the subject. leave anything lingering at the door. come on, yujae. i tell myself, well aware that it's an uphill battle. you don't want to be the only one stuck in the past here. but the longer i look at kyungmin, the more i get swallowed up in it.

i raise a brow at the sudden onslaught of coughs, lips tugging into a knowing smirk i know kyungmin can't miss. "little bit of both? maybe more the final walk..." i consider the scenes replaying in my head briefly, attention flicking back to him once he speaks. poses a question that sounds more like a test. "you?" i parrot, teasing the cigarette between my fingers in thought. by now it's more of a decor than anything, burns dangerously close to skin with every little breeze. but i pay it no mind. too taken by something else.

"i doubt it. if memory serves right it's hard for you to fully immerse in a thing when *something else* is bothering you." i hum, pressing my lower lip to the mouth of the bottle in thought. what's bothering him? the answer is easy. exactly the answer and path i want to direct away from. instead i flash him a disarming smile, mouth full of jest. "let me guess, you hated the bridesmaids' dress, didn't you?"

I would have been happier if I never had to see him again—and the same for him, I’d imagine. But even at a ripe twenty-nine he’d failed to take to basic etiquette. Couldn’t even get a fucking handshake out of him, much less a nod or a straight look in the eye that’d tell me it was really me sitting there across from him and not some figment of his imagination or haunted apparition.

But I was real, real and very much alone while he sat hidden away and only came into view when he’d lean into the ear of his sepulchral plus-one (who was the real ghost here?) and I’d finally catch the rounded tip of his nose in perfect opposition with his cut jaw. By the time he pulled away, his glass would be full again, topped with another helping of merlot.

Who knows how many at this point, but the glass on the patio table tells a story of its own, a sheer burgundy film staining its walls. Yujae wasn’t holding back. As if it wasn’t already obvious the way he’d abandoned his glass and resorted to drinking directly from the bottle instead. Yujae was efficient when it counted—this, too, was familiar.

I want to tell him to stop that, not when you’re wearing that suit, but it’d be too presumptuous and I opt for a long drag as my other hand reaches out to retrieve the bottle. His gaze is wavering and flickering everywhere on my person but my eyes. It fills me with indescribable joy and pity knowing that I’m the cause, so I pull away from him to dissect the label. “Australia, huh…”

It’s a shiraz. Fruity as hell. I like the drier stuff. 

This, he recalls with such casual ease that I almost miss it. Eventually the realization boomerangs into the back of my head like a fate-laden comet. I stare into the abyss of the bottle, cigarette still burning and my heart catching with something that feels suspiciously, infuriatingly like gratitude. I almost take a swig. “All yours,” I tell him, and return the bottle. “I’ll probably get a drink from the bar in a bit.”

It becomes suddenly apparent to me that this is the first time all night and in so many years that I’m really, truly seeing Yujae’s face. And that in the short window of time we’ve spent here on the patio, I’ve already touched his hands and exchanged words with him. I’m suffering from the haze, too. It protects me, emboldens me, endangers me, urges me. “How did you like the ceremony?” My voice lilts, out of my hands and control. “I couldn’t tell if you were crying at any point.”

evidently, i've failed to forget him. to un-know and leave ahn kyungmin and our entire relationship back in the past; slotted with the growing list of failures i've led so far. whatever little detail that has faded throughout the years is slow to trickle back the longer time drags on. for one, his wine preference. for two, a story shared many many nights ago of his first time smoking. finer details forgotten, but the gist of it remains.

traitorously, i find myself thinking—maybe he'll tell me the story again—before deflecting to take a drag out of the cigarette i've been nursing; the intake of nicotine swirling in my head. menthol a particularly odd mix with wine. clouds judgment either way.

it's ridiculous where this comes from—a fire pit of nerves and alcohol burning away like the lit end of the cigarette. i both want it (him? this?) and don't. now that he's here, a big part of me (growing every second) doesn't want to see him go. "see." i curl my lip, parts playful and parts smug when he hands it over. "i'll probably go with you." i want another. it's left unsaid. pretty obvious anyway.

for the record, kyungmin hasn't changed. okay, he has. earlier's subtle details (corner of his lips, brows, nose; little morsels i've barely been able to stomach without the aid of wine) caught between petals and greens didn't do him any justice. he's still very much a spectacle, i find that the vague tightening in my chest is telling enough. and look away again to take another swig once i've felt that i've stared for too long.

"oh," there's a pause here while my brain buffers, taking a moment longer to piece together what bits of the ceremony i can actually summon up from memory here. "it was very touching, yeah," i laugh, taking yet another drag to delay my answer. "considering all they did in college was break up and make up, it's—" i inhale, trying to find the words. "impressive." odd that to my own ears, it sounded almost wistful.

Sure enough, there he is. I could tell myself I’d come out to the patio without any intention or expectation of finding him there and that this is just coincidence but I’ve never been the facetious, lying sort. 

From beauty resplendent when he walked through the hotel doors to a drunk fidgeting puppy out here sitting at the patio set. The sight is a little pitiful, but I have to say it gives me some sparkling hope and then another feeling that’s decidedly uglier. I take a seat at the next chair. While setting my bouquet down at the table, I watch him struggle with a box of cigarettes. There’s a lovely photo of a rotten foot on the packaging, smoking causes peripheral arterial diseases like gangrene. 

He doesn’t notice me. It’s funnier this way. I take out my phone and tap into my feed. Mutual friends from university at the same wedding venue uploading videos of the same sentimental ballad from various vantage points. I briefly consider recording Yujae’s performance: his contorting facial expressions and clumsy finger-work choreography are as good as any ballad performance.

I don’t though, keeping my eyes glued to my phone as he continues to wage war with the cigarettes and up until the moment he finally looks up and makes eye contact with the very person he’d been avoiding all night. 

Me. Ahn Kyungmin. Or, as it were, dude. 

“Oh,” I say, open-mouthed, brows raised in surprise. “You know, I just might.” My phone slides back into my pocket as I emerge with a BIC. I pluck another cigarette from the box in Yujae’s hands. Positioning the cigarette between my lips, I light the tip. “One for one,” I mumble with a slanted smile, leaning down and canting my body towards his fingers. I stay his hand with mine, I light his cigarette with mine. 

“How much of the bottle you got left?”

it's almost funny how life works. how i could spend the whole evening looking for excuses and specifically placed center arrangements at the bottom of the bottle only to be here now—face to face with the one person i didn't want to see. of course, it was—expected. kyungmin coming was expected. much unlike the quiet stir of something foreign in my chest.

"oh." i mimic, lingering a beat too long on the pout of his lips. i've avoided glancing his way this whole night for a handful of reasons. but the only glaring one now—at least, that i can wrap my head around. right here, right now. inches away after spending so many years unknowing each other—is how he'd react. how i should react. ignore the growing need to look longer? pick out the minute differences between now and then? or—follow the norm? what do exes usually say to each other?

kyungmin doesn't seem to want to leave space for me to breathe. something about his demeanor strikes too familiar to ignore. i wet my lips and stare uselessly at the scene unfolding before me while my head buzzes, swirls with inebriation and another kind of emotion i can't place. "sure." i'm replying too slow. is it obvious? you're staring too much. i know that too.

"thanks, k—thanks." ah. i manage a sheepish smile, making an executive decision that i am still not drunk enough for this interaction and takes a quick swig while the cigarette burns on. ashes sprinkling on my thigh. "half? little under half?" i give the bottle a shake or two, cowardly finding it better to fixate on the wine sloshing around for a beat or two instead. just so i can breathe.

Early September, 2018 Seocho-gu, Seoul

The ceremony has ended, the pictures have been taken, everyone is trickling out of the ballroom, filtering back into the hotel lobby. Out here with my cabernet-induced vertigo, the dizzying array of flower wreaths look more like pinwheels in the wind. It’s time to get some fresh air. 

In my hands: a bundle of my own flowers, plucked from the table centerpiece and off the wedding runway. Always such a shame that the unpicked flowers go straight into the dump—I’ve compensated for the guilt by overshooting. A ranunculus bud knocks into the lens of my glasses and I flinch backwards. 

Up ahead, the waitstaff. I hand over the bundle, and a petite young woman wraps and ties it with brown wax paper and rawhide string. “Thank you,” I say, and take the first set of doors I see leading to the patio.

@youngnovas

it was a smart choice to leave quickly. after the first click of the camera and a delayed second (one more time!) shot, i was well on the way out. rubbing with enough shoulders and elbows in passing to feel—all too anxious. anxious? nauseous? both. i really should've known better not to come in the first place.

at least. the weather's nice. fresh air is nice. takes in like a cold glass of water filling my chest. makes my head buzz, but that's not a bad feeling either. now, casually lounging on the patio set, a bit of regret inevitably starts to ebb in. something along the lines of, oh, i should've swiped a full bottle instead whatever was left in this. 

i glance at it, but can't make out much more beyond the year. ugh, doesn't matter. it'll have to make due till i can flag someone down. and as current vices are filled another just as easily enters. suddenly, an itch and i am thumbing through the pack of menthols discarded on the table. who the hell offers free cigarettes but no light? 

"hey," i don't bother to look up at the squeak of the seat beside me. too focused. there's a certain kind of focus required when finer motor skills begin to fail you—and this cig isn't leaving its box without a fight. "you gotta light?" finally. i wrestle it out with a grin, cig clasped between two fingers when i turn to the person beside me. 

“What, calling you oppa isn’t good enough?” His upper lip lifts to reveal a bit of tooth, a rare sighting in Kyungmin’s everyday but when banter breaks out there’s nothing to stop the smiles. “You should be jumping with joy. If anything, you should be calling me oppa,” he half snorts. Older by a few months and it doesn’t mean a thing but the updated image of Yujae in his head—he keeps the one with the rounder figure and puts him in a one-piece dress with two pigtails sprouting from the messy crop of hair—quickly rounds out the other half of his snort.

The leather between his leg slopes inward and he opens his eyes, cross-eyed now as he watches condensation from the can fall dead center on his face—he blinks—with a soundless patter, micro-droplets fanning out from the tip of his nose. “It’s actually pretty general,” Kyungmin corrects him, lids lowering like valances, a warm, soft light in his eyes still shining through. “Impressed as to whether you’ve made physical progress worthy of applause like you claim or if you’ve tragically regressed—” he brings his finger up to jab, bullseye, into Yujae’s bare left nipple. “—as I’m currently surmising.”

There’s a low hum at the back of his throat as he turns his gaze onto some undefined point on Yujae’s face: the fading zit on his chin, the dimple lining the corner of his smirk. “Tired,” he confirms with a nod, using the motion to nuzzle back at Yujae, their noses cool and moist like cats. Yujae smells faintly of grape and malt and sweat and the concoction is as sickly as it is intoxicating.

“And you ate every single one without complaining once,” Kyungmin laughs, his gratitude implicit. Stretching his neck forward, he places his mouth to the cleft of Yujae’s collarbone, lips curling into a smile before he presses a kiss there, and one to the other. “Swimwear,” he huffs. “Undressed but technically dressed. How infuriating. You’d better get off of me and this couch before I eat you up.”

"and what if it isn’t?” yujae challenges, lips pulling back to reveal a hint of teeth, apples of his cheeks well on the rise with the look on kyungmin’s face. he prides himself too much, maybe, on being able to bring that kind of expression out of him. “i wouldn’t sound as cute as you, believe me.” for the fun of it, he briefly entertains the thought. something along the lines of crouching down to below kyungmin’s eye level to gush, lips puckered and palms cupping his cheeks—is both funny and scarring. but, the snort. “you better get rid any weird thoughts, it’s not happening...”

he’s distracted. happens often whenever he’s too close, too taken by the face in front of him to fully catch what’s coming out of his mouth. but he can tell by the tone. he can vaguely pull in words before it’s completely slipped out of his other ear. can guess correctly with the jab to his nipple. spot on. how does he always do that? “hey—regressed? don’t be mean,” his free hand slides up to grasp onto his hand, pulling it up to his lips for a playful nip. “we both know you’ll still like me with or without the post exam weight.” he grins, eyes curving with glee. well aware that he’s right. 

there’s a sense of tranquility at play here, rare blanket of quiet content that covers over them, leaves yujae more than satisfied with remaining stagnant for a minute or so longer. take in the lack of distance. waves of warmth distinctly feel radiating off him. kyungmin’s breath fanning over his lips, filling him with thoughts to abandon the beckon of the sea. “nap, then?” he would be fine with that also, actually.

“i think that’s called stockholm syndrome.” yujae retorts without missing a beat, before kyungmin’s lips find his skin and all other witty responses are thrown out the window, replaced instead with a lopsided grin. “uh huh,” he laughs, head dipping to press his mouth to kyungmin’s throat idly, pulling back with a quiet flick of his tongue over skin. “let’s go, before it gets dark... then maybe we can consider a nap.” yujae speaks ambiguously (as if he wouldn’t get sidetracked, impulsive tendencies and all) while he moves to stand, pulling kyungmin in tow.

What’s the sense in any of this, is the winning question of the night. Hong keeps a tight lip, nevermind the hemline of his dress riding up.

Gijoon looks every part the pliant customer. Hair slick with a touch of pomade and bangs coiffed into a gentle curl, his eyes are as dark with anticipation as his hands are teasing—an infuriating blend of jerking, barely-there, and lingering touches. Like he can’t make up his mind, like he’s ready to bend to Hong or his own will—whichever of the two happens to win out.

“I think you’re underestimating the madame,” Hong remarks, and with a most indignant crossing of the leg he leans in to grab his drink. “Or rather, her proportions. She’s practically Amazonian, in case you forgot.” With his back arched forward, the dress stretches and presses in all the wrong ways, but it’s probably a pretty picture for Gijoon and this is as good an art form as any.

Technically both pieces are on loan: the dress a Balmain from Madame Lim, and the wig from the recesses of Sehwa’s closet. Where the dress lacked in length the wig made up for it and then some, gnarly honey tresses extending to his lower back. Probably a reject piece, probably born out of and purchased for strictly comedic purposes, probably picked with the unspoken intent of making him look a fool. Sehwa had vehemently protested. The blonde highlights are a perfect match with these, and he had poked at one of the gold buttons lining Hong’s bosom with a coy snigger.

“Exactly. There’s no sense in any of this. But that’s the point. We’re building a nonsensical illusion. You’re participating in it and so by default, you’re nonsense too.” Hong slaps Gijoon’s hand away. “I spent two hours trying to get this to curl just right. I don’t know how synthetics react to anything anymore, and I won’t risk anything with your oily paws.” 

Not very gracious of him, but this is Gijoon after all. Not very gracious of him, but the serviceman in Hong concedes, and he backpedals. His eyes fall to the maraschino cherry floating atop Gijoon’s cocktail. “You going to eat that, son-nim?” The implicit question being…

gijoon likes a good game. he’s always been predictable that way. much in the same tune as hong being too smart to miss it. this, he knows for sure. but whether or not hong possesses the capability to keep up rather than getting pulled under—is something else entirely.

still, he likes the bite. casual tones of flippancy paired with just a dash (okay, maybe more) of vexation. he likes hong. gijoon’s aware. well enough anyway. sort of at basis level, the way a kid likes a new shiny toy. the way he wants to toy with nam hong till interest inevitably wanes.

“uh huh, maybe,” he’s distracted. it’s obvious where all his attention and interest lies. nowhere near the (dull) conversation at hand and everywhere over everything else. ranging from decor, a few others dressed to the nines, and back to hong beside him, lingering for a handful of seconds longer; before piecing his focus back together to speak. “lucky you then, to have gotten one of the better options.”

not many would look as good, but gijoon is sure sangheon is off being a notable contender somewhere. 

“you’re in a mood.” he notes, tone flat and eyes narrowed with the slap. admittedly, it barely even begins to scratch the surface of his ego enough to bring any sort of real reaction, but gijoon enjoys the theatrics. enjoys yanking hong’s chain. it doesn’t have to be said that he’s the one at an advantage right now. as a paying customer, no less.

gijoon lowers his eyes accordingly with the question, zeroing in on the candy red floating on the surface. not his thing. he can tell by the shade of red itself. obvious in its artificial tone that it was plucked out of some ginormous jar picked up from the bargain aisle. and the taste, though gijoon seldom tried, is nothing more than a nassty sickly sweet that has his tongue curling in distaste. still. still. he will not pass up on a perfectly good chance.

He considers this question quietly from the other end, kitchen lights off and walls all around him a cool blue not unlike the state of his brain post-exams. Relaxation is a cute look on Yujae; on Kyungmin? His lips form into a pert pout. What kind of partner would he be if he didn’t go into the water with Yujae. 

The easy answer would be to change. The path less trodden, however:

“Me? I’ll just go like this,” Kyungmin shuffles back into the living area with the beer, condensation beading up on the sides, in hand. He looms over Yujae’s upside-down head, and places the can atop his belly, his own delicate fingers serving as a buffer before he quickly deems his balancing act futile and resnatches the can—“drink the rest,”—and holds it up to Yujae’s lips instead. “I won’t be going into the water. I’ll cheer you on from the stands the way a Park Taehwan fangirl might.” Kyungmin coos with a fond squint of the eye, and takes a step back to demonstrate: his hands twirl, imaginary razzle-dazzle, 오빠 완전 멋있는데?!

He gives Yujae’s bottom a pat and shove, “Did you now?” and as Yujae digs through his things to locate a pair of swim trunks and sandals, Kyungmin slides in to occupy Yujae’s former tenure on the sofa. He sinks into the leather, still sunken and still warm from Yujae’s body, and closes his eyes. Prior to their meeting at the Lotte rental that morning, neither had seen each other in a hot second. A week, possibly edging on two weeks. Finals had been a bitch to the both of them and in times like these ramyeon was more often than not man’s best friend. “You’re a terrible liar,” Kyungmin says, eyes kept closed. He concocts an image of Yujae from two weeks ago, and compares it to the one of two minutes before. One Yujae is rounder than the other. “But I’m sure I’ll be impressed by something either way.”

“oh?” his skin twitches under the sudden biting cold, wrestling a small whine out of him before kyungmin effectively shuts him up with the can pressed to his lips. “okay,” it takes a second to roll onto his stomach, taking a swig while his eyes remain glued onto kyungmin and just how much he has him eating out of his palm. literally, a twirl here and a shake there, and the pout on his lips had fully dissipated. no? of course no. yujae wasn’t surprised either way, he knew kyungmin too well to.

“fiiiine. it better be the best cheer in cinematic history though...” he slips off the couch obediently, teeth sinking into the rim of the can while his hands busy with digging through for his trunks; thumb tugging down his sweats once he finds them. “i am not.” he scoffs, pulling one leg out to shake the other off haphazardly. though, yes, yujae can admit the slight increase of kg (his weight fluctuates regardless, and it isn’t an insecurity someone in long committed relationship would care about. much less one with his personality) post exams. he ate like crap, slept like crap, and such were the expected results of that.

doesn’t matter. his eyes cut over to kyungmin with a growing grin, pulling his trunks up swiftly. more for to love or something like that. “like what? you sound like you’re gunning to see something specific...” the sofa dips under the pressure of his knee, slipped in between kyungmin’s legs while he lifts the can over his face, watching the first droplet of condensation slide off and land on his nose with a quiet laugh.

July 2012 Namhae, South Gyeongsang

It’s a scenic drive along Namhae’s cerulean coastline, sweep of hills and winding interstates finally plateauing—the land opens up and gives way to a sparkling sea. Here, the sky seems wider. Their rental Kia traverses a short two-kilometer stretch, crawls leisurely past rice paddy and farmhouse, street dog and fruit-bearing grandmother. Kyungmin feels the tell-tale bump of gravel under the tires. When he squints, he sees it: the signboard to their lodging, lovingly slathered in swishes of white paint: One Dream Pension.

Yujae is quick on his feet and hops out of the driver’s seat before Kyungmin so much as pulls out their reservation, printed and stapled neat at the top left corner. He greets the front desk, procures their keys, and leads the way to their unit, a canary yellow, southern-facing cottage. They take five to settle, turning on the air-conditioning and sinking into the sofas. Kyungmin’s eyes drift towards the clock in the room. It’s taken the form of a mischievous-looking striped cat, curved tail swishing back and forth for every second tick-tocked by. The blinds are closed for some reason, slats of orange sunlight patterning Yujae’s sweating face in bold stripes.

Looks like the clock, Kyungmin smiles, giving Yujae’s cheeks an insistent push of the finger before he bolts upward. “Didn’t you want to go swimming?” He says, and slinks towards the kitchen counters. He unzips their cooler and pulls out can of beer, eyes trained on Yujae, who remains splayed ungracefully on the couch. The leather croaks beneath Yujae’s heavy body with stunning clarity. “Get changed before you become one with the sofa,” He peels back the tin, krrrsch, chugs. A third’s swishing in his belly now. “Before I finish the can.”

@youngnovas

work hard, play hard. that’s the go-to motto here. words to live by, a mantra held dear against the hollow of his chest. eom yujae has always lived like this. sure, susceptible to occasional spells of working harder than playing and vice versa. but it never matters too much, he always makes up for it in the end. case in point would be now: a celebratory trip (celebratory is used lightly here, seeing as he hasn’t had the slightest clue of the exam results just yet) with his single most favorite person in the world (favorite here, is not used lightly).

namhae is, admittedly, nowhere near his top ten vacation spots. yujae had always favored the busier cities, tokyo, london, new york. the in love with life type. rowdy and upbeat. armed with delicious foods and interesting people, you know that type of thing. but, this isn’t so bad. and the company—the occasional glance to his left, lips puckered for any brief tease of affection kyungmin felt like indulging—the company’s as good as it gets.

but, god. now that he’s here, chest filled to the brim with sea air and wind in his hair, yujae reckons its not too bad after all. then again, he would’ve followed kyungmin anywhere.

younghoon loved winter

keyword: loved

he doesn’t hate the cold- he really doesn’t. but when the wind is blowing almost forty miles per hour and your destination is a secluded mountain with a cable-car as the only access, he finds herself reconsidering his previous fondness for snowy days. 

“so much for a white christmas.” he grumbles as he steps out of the cable car, tucking the thick wool scarf higher to his nose. he’s not about to lose any limb today, especially to something like a frostbite. demons and ghouls have tried that for years now and have yet to succeed. nature will have to stand in line.

in all honesty, younghoon would’ve never guessed that his job would get him so far away from home. he has had plans to visit canada before, but none has anything to do with investigating some mysterious disappearances in a secluded mountain in alberta. not to mention the possibilities of not coming out alive…

he fishes out his notebook from the pocket of his coat. he’d usually rely on gps to direct them to their destination, but the reception already disagreed with him by the time he reached the cable station on the base of the mountain. they just have to do things the good ol’ fashioned way.

although, his partner would probably disagree.

“sejoo, let’s go. it’s almost dark,” younghoon turns around to face the shorter male, cocking his head towards the pathway before him. “i’m not getting stuck outside in the middle of this weather, and the snow is getting real deep.”

it’s gonna be fine it’s gonna be fine

very unlikely. but a man can dream, right?

there’s no particular way or why about it. at least, by now, sejoo has learned not to ask. what’s the point, right? by now, twenty something years into life, he’s learned to accept fate. accept the path laid before him by his ancestors and theirs and theirs and so on. there’s no quitting the family business. he is, quite literally, born into it. 

but it isn’t all bad. life threatening, yes. shitty pay, yes. but damn if the mantle of hunter doesn’t sell. online, with his viewers. offline, with the occasional lover. and, at the very very very least, there’s younghoon. 

misery does love company after all.

the location in question is cold. biting and unforgiving windchill the higher they travelled. expected. him losing reception halfway through his ig live? not at all. 

“man.” the regret is heavy on his tongue, lips pulled into a thin frown. he wields a mouthful of complaints regardless of time and place, eyeing the signal “why couldn’t we have gone after a mermaid instead? somewhere tropical and warm.” where there’s reception. 

his eyes flick up to half-heartedly glare at the taller. not exactly his fault they’re here. but not entirely not his fault either. “why? scared of things that go bump in the dark?” he speaks in muted jest, stepping close enough to nudge him playfully. it’s—perhaps too crude to make a joke out of (but honestly, it never gets old), but the fact remains that younghoon’s track record—as a human being in general—is just very very very unlucky.

“she’s a special case, euisan.” “how so?” “her timeline, it’s all tangled up. it’s her ancestors, they’re in a feud.” “…how badly do you have to mess up to a point where her life’s on the line?” “enough.”

for now, shadow her, save her. do whatever it is that you can until we put her fate back in order. or else yeomra daewang-nim will be beyond irate with this whole ordeal. we’re counting on you, euisan.

–––

it’s past midnight in the streets of former hanyang. euisan’s sooty robe flutters in the dusk, his gat (갓) hanging around his neck and down his back by the tie. jung dawon, 21, college student. in short, a victim of a messy family history (that she has no idea of, it’s been hundreds of years–) with seemingly a mundane life heretofore. euisan fixes his robe-string by the waist as he continues on trail, flashing headlights on him but not a reflection to be seen on the storefront glasses.

“so this is the sort of errand that i’m assigned with, even after 300 years of being a loyal civil servant.” euisan grumbles lowly as he stands directly across from the heroine in scene. a heroine who is… one, two, three, and four steps away from her soon-to-come bidding. the wrong owner of this particular death, and it’s exactly why euisan is here to adjust the strings.

“no, not yet.”

he mumbles in a whisper, counting down the seconds. her widened eyes in a dusky color of overawe is his cue. with almost an air-dive, he dashes past the headlights, takes her in his arms, then skids onto the other side of pedestrian road. by the time the oblivious truck driver’s rumbled past them, she’s a deer in (prior) headlights. euisan puts her back down on her feet, not forgetting to stumble on the gravels by the edge of his toes.

“you should watch your steps. like, seriously.”

as in, do make my job at least a pinch easier from this point on. please.

you know what they say, when you die your life flashes before your eyes. jung dawon’s life—we’ve already witnessed it. already covered the extent of plain and drab that came with it. to put it in franker words, if the lives of all humans are individual canvas pantings and judged upon color, creativity and range—miss dawon’s would fall along the lines of a strong c.

lacking in color. no direction. but the brightness of the sun is properly illustrated. as are the clovers budding from concrete. pretty little weeds alongside the sidewalk. symbolic one way or another. 

but nevermind that, interpretation in art is not what you’re here for. 

instead we’ll return to the action. fast forward a second or two and dawon’s heart is in her throat. eyes squeezed shut and body tense, ready for the horrific end to her tale. it never comes, instead, she’s lifted by a pair of arms, delivered onto solid ground before she could even release her breath.

from there, it’s mostly silence beyond the pounding in her chest. a looming sort that lingers before dawon snaps into lucidity, hands roaming over her chest, chin, lips, nose, eyes. everything that’s supposed to be here is still here, right? nothing happened right?

but—her brows furrow, memory fresh with the flash of lights and blaring horn—how could nothing have happened?

then, he speaks, and her attention snaps upward almost immediately. finding with great pause the tall dark figure that stood before her. clad in clothing she’s only ever seen in dramas. a beat. wait. is this a drama? did she accidentally walk into a shooting and not know it? no. it can’t be. but it’s gotta. what else could explain all of that (cue flashback to the car) and all of this (quick cursory glance at the towering male dressed in black).