Chapter Text
A blast of hot air greeted Jongin as soon as he passed through the bookstore doors. The building’s heat was a welcome reprieve to his cold nose and fingertips—consequences of forgetting his scarf and gloves at home before leaving for school this morning. He navigated the aisles with sureness and excitement, pants pockets heavy with the allowance he saved in preparation for this day. The last book of a sci-fi trilogy he’d been following was released recently, and he wanted to get his hands on a copy before it ran out.
This was the third bookstore Jongin visited today. If he couldn’t find it here, he would have to wait until the weekend to scour other branches.
Luck must be on Jongin’s side. On his arrival at the sci-fi section, segregated on a separate table to the side for new releases, were five copies left. Relieved, excitement skyrocketing, Jongin grabbed one happily and skipped to the counter to pay when his peripheral caught sudden movement, causing him to stop midway.
A boy was skulking behind the cookbooks shelf, craning his neck to peek at the bookstore entrance and ducking from sight every time it opened. His back was to Jongin, but he guessed they probably shared the same age, or maybe younger than him. Jongin could’ve gone ahead on his merry way, knowing this wasn’t any of his business; but after the third time the boy scrambled to duck, and then heaving out a sigh, he couldn’t leave him alone.
Glancing toward the entryway, Jongin cautiously approached the unsuspecting boy; tapped him lightly on the shoulder twice.
The boy shouted in surprise, shooting up like a frightened cat.
Customers turned their heads toward their direction. Jongin’s cheeks warmed at the sudden attention. The boy’s entire face was red when he turned around—maybe from embarrassment, or something else.
“What gives?” the boy snapped; peevish, wary.
“Sorry,” Jongin apologized right away, feeling bad; cheeks growing warmer. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You just did.” The boy sounded cross. Defensive, in the way he folded his arms across his chest. “Who are you, anyway? Do we know each other from somewhere?”
Jongin shook his head. “Why are you hiding, though? You can’t tell me you weren’t doing it. You kept looking at the doors. You were acting suspicious.”
The boy looked increasingly impatient while Jongin spoke. “Fine, you caught me. I was hiding. But I’m not a bad kid—I promise I’m not! I was trying to shake some people off my back because they wouldn’t let me eat my tteokbokki in peace.”
Jongin wondered what kind of circumstances would that be. Asked.
Hesitance showed on the boy’s face, at first. Then, he looked to his left and right, as if checking for someone who might approach or eavesdrop; motioned for Jongin to come closer. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “Some people are chasing me. They’re pretty weird. I was enjoying my tteokbokki, and they approached me and kept praising my looks. They asked if I wanted to be a star, too. My mom always told me not to talk to strangers, but boy, were they pushy! So I ran away from them and hid here.” He pulled back and sighed, a mournful sound. “Now I’m sad again—I didn’t get to finish my tteokbokki! Ah, the allowance I spent on it…”
Jongin couldn’t decide if he was being teased. The story sounded too unbelievable to be true. Yet the earnest way in which the boy shared the story told him he wasn’t lying, leaving space for a tiny bit of belief.
“Those people probably saw potential in you,” Jongin suggested, after remembering similar stories of how entertainment stars were recruited, courtesy of his elder sisters talking about their favorite actors and actresses.
The boy shrugged. “Who knows? People can say all sorts of things but don’t mean them.” He checked the aisles once more, the entrance, the wall clock. Gasped. “Oh, no! I have to get home; my mom’s going to scold me if I stay out too late.” He made to run for the doors, but stopped just to give Jongin one last jaunty wave. “You’re weird, but you’re kinda cool to talk to. Bye!”
“Bye,” Jongin said, with a wave of his own, though he doubted the boy heard him at all. He smiled upon remembering a certain part of their conversation. “Aren’t you weirder, talking to a complete stranger when your mom told you not to do it?”
Jongin paid for his book, anticipation rising high of having something new to read tonight. When he stepped outside, the first snow of the season began to fall.
☆彡
Many nights before the first day of class, Jongin stayed up wondering how junior high was like. If he was going to like the teachers and his classmates; if he was going to make friends and keep them this time.
He might have prayed a little harder for the second thought. Moving around a lot disadvantaged him in terms of building and maintaining friendships. Jongin might learn faces and names, interact with classmates for lessons, but he spent more time surrounding himself with books in the libraries; acting like a bystander, watching his classmates freely joking with each other and listening to their talks of after-school hangout places.
Unexpectedly, a borrowed pen reunited him with someone he was shocked to see again.
Oh Sehun was the last person he expected to call a familiar face in this big, new school. Sehun must’ve been surprised to see him, too, by the way his eyes rounded and mouth opened when Jongin turned around in his seat and politely asked if he could borrow a pen after misplacing his. Luckily, Sehun lent him an extra he happened to carry. Unluckily, Jongin lost it at the end of the day. Sehun accepted his apology; consoled him by saying the pen was cheap and replaceable, so he shouldn’t feel too bad for losing it.
“If you really want to make it up to me, let’s eat tteokbokki together,” Sehun said. “You said you’re new to Seoul, right? Let me show you where the good tteokbokki places are.” His expression revealed the honesty of his words; a little hopefulness, perhaps, that he would say yes.
Jongin had only known of school afternoons spent browsing shelves looking for his next new read in a library too big for his lone presence. After accepting Sehun’s offer the first time, he now became acquainted with afternoons spent differently. Once he returned and checked out his chosen books, they would grab a quick snack at Sehun’s favorite tteokbokki shop; spend a few coins at the arcade trying to beat each other in games, hung out wherever their whims brought them.
“Remember what you told me before summer break? You thought I was a bully pretending to be nice, waiting to turn the tables and start stealing your allowance,” Sehun said, nudging Jongin’s elbow with his own before spearing several slices of fish cake. Mischief twinkled in his eyes, glaringly obvious as he chewed. They were hanging out at a different tteokbokki street cart since Sehun’s favorite shop always closed on Mondays for sanitation purposes. They stood to the side eating while other customers bought their snacks.
Jongin scrunched up his nose in answer; again, at a fleeting, cold sensation caressing its tip. He brushed it away with a finger before blowing on a piece of steaming hot tteok. “You can’t blame me for being cautious. I’m not used to receiving friendly offers.”
“You really didn’t have a lot of friends, huh?” Sehun asked, with pure wonder, without malice. “Weren’t you lonely?”
“I got used to it,” Jongin answered, after chewing. He noticed gochujang stains on the front of his coat; grimaced at the red spots standing out against light brown.
“You shouldn’t get used to that kind of thing. Nobody in this world should be alone.”
The cold sensation returned, this time with more insistence. A little annoyed, Jongin looked around for the source; looked up at the sky, saw the start of snow falling from the gray skies. It landed on his cheeks, his nose, coldness lingering like a delicate kiss and dissipating just as fast.
Beside him, Sehun let out a sound of amazement and held up a hand to catch some. “First snow of the year,” he remarked aloud. He turned to Jongin before talking again. “Hey, do you remember? It was the first snow when I met you for the first time last year, too. Did you ever think back then we could’ve met again? Be friends like we are now?”
“Honestly? No.”
Sehun shot him an unimpressed look with a matching frown.
Jongin laughed. He dug into his cooling tteokbokki, consuming as much as he could. “Oh, c’mon! Seoul is a big city with millions of people living in it. The chances of us meeting again were slim to none.”
“…you’re right,” Sehun admitted, seemingly fending off a smile from the way his lips trembled when Jongin wagged a finger at him in an “I told you so!” manner. “Wait, let me finish! Sure, okay, I admit I didn’t think we’d meet again. We meet people by chance sometimes, but it stays a one-time thing.” His eyes sparkled with genuine fascination on his next words. “But don’t you think it’s awesome our meeting isn’t a one-time thing? After a year? With so many people in Seoul? Don’t you think it’s coincidence? Fate?”
“I’m not sure about fate or coincidence,” Jongin said, as he faced Sehun, “but one thing I’m definitely sure of is that I’m not alone anymore. Or lonely. You made it possible. I’m glad we met again and became friends, too. So, thank you for that.”
“Whoa, you’re surprisingly sappy. Could’ve just said ‘thank you, Sehun,’ you know.” Despite the comment, Sehun looked terribly pleased. He ate his tteokbokki with more gusto than previous, beaming between bites, eyes crinkling and cheeks dusted with the lightest of reds.
Although Jongin didn’t respond, deep down inside, he had a good feeling about this friendship.
☆彡
Attending a young cousin’s ballet recital at the tender age of nine roused a dream within Jongin.
Jongin had walked into the theater with the mildest curiosity, mostly from how his cousin would look in their tutu; wrinkled his nose reading the blurb of Swan Lake printed on the program. Almost three hours later, he had walked out blown away by what he watched; praised his cousin and the other dancers, mimicked what he could recall from the splendid dance moves he’d seen, never mind he might have looked funny to onlookers with his poor replications.
Days had passed since he watched the performance, but Jongin hadn’t stopped talking and thinking about the ballet; went as far as badgering his parents to take him to the place where they taught children how to bend and twist their bodies in gravity-defying ways. His father had brought him to a ballet studio nearest to their old house at the time, requesting the teacher to let him participate in one class for a feel, see if he might like learning it.
There had been no turning back since.
Learning ballet formally had almost been an impossible dream, once. His parents couldn’t sign him up for long-term classes due to moving around a lot; finances, a secondary but vital part of his education. Some teachers allowed him to join the others in class for one session, free of charge. Others would ask him to sit and watch since he wasn’t a full-fledged student. Regardless of the circumstances, Jongin didn’t let go of this dream; held on with his tiny hands, firmly telling his parents this was what he wanted to do.
Ballet was often not a path chosen by many, opting for the more so-called practical choices that could promise financial stability in the future. Doctor, lawyer, teacher—regardless of parental influence or self-cultivated interest, choosing a career in dance was usually met with hesitation, or skepticism, or subtly inserting sly digs on why it should stay a hobby and not considered a job. Jongin had never been more thankful his parents were more open-minded about giving him choices, letting him try things on his own and never imposing their wishes on him. Respected what he wanted, despite his age.
“I’m happy you’ve shown interest in something,” Jongin’s mother had told him at the time, tucking him into bed and stroking his hair fondly. “It means you have a dream you want to achieve.”
“Are dreams good things, Mom?” Jongin had asked, pressing into his mother’s touch, eyelids beginning to droop.
“Of course. Dreams give you something to live for. They help give you direction in life. To have a dream and seeing it fulfilled, no matter how long it takes, is one of the most beautiful feelings in the world. It makes all the hardships you’ve gone through worthwhile.”
When finances had become more stable, and the boxes and suitcases they used for moving remained untouched in the storage closet, Jongin had realized their humble apartment in Seoul was going to become a permanent home. No more moving around; no more piecemeal thrills when joining ballet class as an outsider. When his parents had sat him down and asked if he wanted to attend a summer immersion a nearby ballet school was offering, Jongin promised he wouldn’t let his grades slip if they allowed him to continue learning beyond the immersion. He’d been living up to his promise for years.
This year, for the ballet school’s winter recital, he was given the male lead role for The Nutcracker. With permission from his parents, Jongin would stay an extra hour to rehearse a little more. He was rightfully excited, and also a whole lot nervous. He’d never been given this big a role, but it inspired him to work hard. Wanted this to be memorable for him, and only associate good things to the experience.
In preparation for the role, he lived a strict, almost routine-like life in his preparations: home, school, ballet class and rehearsals, home again. Exhausting, predictable, but Jongin told himself it would all pay off in the end.
“We don’t hang out a lot anymore,” Sehun remarked offhandedly, during one lunch time. They were seated on a backless bench at the school rooftop, their preferred hangout place while or after eating lunch. December’s chill invaded the city upon winter’s arrival, but snow had yet to fall. “You come to school looking like you could use more hours of sleep.”
“Really?” A well-timed yawn came out of Jongin’s mouth. Sehun gave him a knowing look. He grinned at him, but it didn’t last. “There’s a lot on my mind recently.”
“Like what? If it’s costing you sleep, shouldn’t it be a serious cause for concern? Tell me. I might be able to help.”
Jongin shared his worries and concerns of playing a male lead role for the first time. Sehun listened to him with occasional nods; without uttering a single word. “So if you’re upset or annoyed we haven’t spent much time together, I’m sorry for that. It’s not intentional. Believe me.”
“I do,” Sehun said, not missing a beat. “It’s really cool you’re serious with preparations. You don’t leave things until the last minute. I admit I might have felt a little wronged about lessened hang out time, but it’s all good now that I know why. I don’t think you’re the sort of person to ice out anyone without explanation, anyway.”
“Thank you,” Jongin said, smiling. “And no, I would never do that to anyone; most of all you.” He blew out a sigh, mind drifting back to The Nutcracker. “I’m nervous just thinking about the production. This is my first lead role. I didn’t expect to get it, if I’m being honest.”
“I don’t know how things work in ballet, but they gave you the role for a reason. They must’ve thought you’re an incredible dancer. That’s the only explanation for choosing you.” Sehun munched on his cookie. Jongin took a bite when he offered. “Don’t dwell on negative thoughts. You’ll do great. You’re Jongin. You can do everything.” Unmistakable pride laced his voice.
Jongin felt oddly pleased. Quite similar to the way Sehun had stared at him in utter fascination when he decided to come clean about where he went during those times they parted ways after an hour or two of fun. Jongin had been cagey about it when Sehun confronted him, at first. He had never been involved in the kind of friendship that allowed imparting more private information about himself. Jongin’s inexperience with these situations had showed in his hesitation to confide in Sehun but also realized dishonesty was detrimental to any sort of relationship.
“That’s it? You do ballet?” Sehun had asked, almost incredulous, but lacked any ounce of judgment. His brows had furrowed, and his expression looked a little sad. “Did you think I’d laugh or poke fun at you for it? Why?”
I’ve been told ballet isn’t for boys. I’ve been mocked for dreaming of becoming a ballet dancer. And even if I don’t act like it, I was scared of being judged.
The reasons had been ridiculous, albeit upsetting, yet they flowed out from Jongin’s mouth, an unstoppable current—bitter-tasting, embarrassment heightening with every syllable.
Sehun had been quiet for a considerable amount of time. “Why do other people’s opinions matter so much if they’re not true?” he had asked, curious. “So what if you like ballet? What’s wrong with doing things you like? Those people who said such things to you—I better not meet any of them. Don’t listen to anyone but yourself and the important people in your life.”
The seriousness in Sehun’s voice that day had, in some way, boosted Jongin’s confidence. Assured him, and revealed an important detail: this must be what they call a “friend.”
And Sehun proved he was not just all talk since that day. He listened to Jongin’s stories about ballet class, despite being clueless half the time, yet showed a genuine eagerness to learn. Remember. He wished him luck and to not hurt himself when Jongin had to run for class. If Jongin mentioned a ballet production he’d love to dance for one day, Sehun would greet him the next morning with anecdotes of his YouTube adventures watching related performances and told him his honest opinions.
Sehun wasn’t subtle in throwing hints about his wish to watch Jongin on stage. Since finding out he bagged the lead role, Sehun would bring up random facts about The Nutcracker he read online; asked if music would be provided by a live orchestra or a recorded track. Informed him he was free on a certain day in December; might feel like visiting Seoul Arts Center.
Jongin chuckled and shook his head. Pulled out a ticket from his bag; enjoyed Sehun’s shocked face. “It starts at six. Don’t miss it.”
Jongin heard the unmistakable pride in Sehun’s voice once again—this time, magnified a thousandfold when he congratulated him at the lobby after the performance. Training had strengthened his calves and knees, so Jongin barely budged when he suddenly had an armful of Sehun, who accosted him with a bear hug. Sehun poured out his praise and congratulations, syllables fusing together in near-unintelligible language as he talked with the startling speed Jongin had never heard before. Jongin’s family members watched them with amused looks, clearly their first time seeing Sehun in this state, too, despite being familiar with him after becoming a steady presence in their household for video game marathons during summer break.
“I can’t believe you didn’t let me watch you sooner! How could you dance so good? You should’ve invited me to watch you last year!” Sehun exclaimed in awe. He hadn’t stopped gushing over the production since leaving the theater and now on the sidewalk heading to grab a late dinner. “What a life-changing experience.”
Jongin burst out laughing in surprise. Warmth spread through him, touched and flattered by the words. “I made some tiny mistakes, so I’m not really happy with my performance.” Mentioning it already put a slight damper on his spirits, smile slipping off now that bits and pieces of his performance flashed in his mind. How he should’ve spun a millisecond faster; how he should’ve timed his leaps better; how he should’ve raised his arms higher, bent his legs lower.
“Are you kidding me?” Sehun exclaimed, sincerely shocked; showed in the way his eyes widened, mouth forming a slight ‘O.’ “You were great! Wonderful! If you made a mistake, I never noticed. Even if I did, it doesn’t lessen my enjoyment of your performance.”
“Still…”
“Ah, ah, ah! No! Silence, non-believer!” Sehun blocked his path, effectively stopping them both in their tracks; eyebrows pulled downward, mouth pressed into a disapproving line. He pushed the corners of Jongin’s mouth upward into a forced smile. Jongin was too stunned to react, and he could only blink at him, mouth stuck in an awkward smile as Sehun’s cold fingers cemented it in place. “Look, it’s natural to make mistakes. It happens. Don’t beat yourself up too much over this. You’ve prepared a lot, and you worked hard. I can’t make you forget about your mistakes—even if I disagree, there were none—but I hope you believe me when I say that you’re an amazing dancer, and I really enjoyed watching you perform. Shouldn’t that count for something?”
Sehun slowly and cautiously removed his fingers, as if waiting for Jongin to refute him. Hopeful, in the way he looked at him, relaying a message with just his stare: trust me.
Though a secret corner of Jongin’s mind would bombard him with every single thing he did wrong at a later hour in the night, right now, Sehun’s words shut it out; worked like a soothing balm to reopened wounds of uncertainty. For now, he would allow himself to breathe easy. Trust. He then fixed his smile into something more natural. Genuine.
In that moment of understanding, the first snow of the season fell like powdered sugar around them. Jongin’s coat wasn’t thick enough to protect him against the lowering temperature, but he barely noticed; barely felt cold as Sehun’s responding smile and proximity set off a confusing rush of warmth within, amplified by every brush of arms and shoulders on their continued walk.
☆彡
“How do monkeys fall from trees?”
“Do eels give birth or lay eggs?”
“Can snakes hear you talk?”
Jongin tried answering Sehun’s million and one questions between sips of banana milk. Their conversation topics jumped from one to the next without warning, questions not following a single, cohesive thought. Jongin started sensing this after the third question but played along. He’d be as ridiculous as Sehun wanted if it meant taking his mind off his worries; lessening his nervousness of what awaited.
The door to the far right of the hall opened. Five people filed out, a mixture of boys and girls. Most of them looked around fifteen like them; some, older, but only by a few years, give or take. Jongin could be wrong with his estimates.
A tall lady in an impeccable worksuit and glasses that enhanced her intimidating features called a set of numbers. The next five people sitting opposite of them stood at once. The door shut behind the last person with a foreboding sound that echoed in the now-silent hallway.
Jongin watched Sehun’s gaze linger on the closed door for a beat longer before turning to him again. Relief and nervousness warred in his eyes; mirrored in the unsure, upward curve of his mouth. “So, as I was saying…”
The questions continued and gradually faded as Sehun ran out of them. He eventually fell silent, glancing one too many times at the door. Jongin went and returned to dispose the milk carton and patted him on the shoulder.
“You’ll do great.”
Sehun heaved out a deep sigh, tension bleeding out of his shoulders, as if he’d been waiting for those exact words. “Thanks. I hope so.”
“I know so,” Jongin said, injecting each word with plenty of confidence. “Look at the bright side: at least the lady talent scout will stop pestering you to audition after this.”
The joke extracted a soft laugh from Sehun, his face brightening a bit.
Jongin was no stranger to talent scouts taking second looks at Sehun whenever they walked on the streets, stopped by sidewalk carts for their afternoon snacks; when they hung out in parks and malls, gamed in the arcades. Jongin definitely built a sixth sense and improved his stamina from the running he and Sehun had to do when they wanted to lose annoying, pushy scouts. During those adrenalin rushes, Jongin would be reminded not to underestimate Sehun’s power of attraction despite his age. Some talent scouts loitering outside their school gates would be busy recruiting middle schoolers to their agency with sweet promises, then take one look at Sehun. In a flash, they’d approach and give him their business cards. Most ended up stashed away in Sehun’s bag, never to be seen or talked about again.
Among all the scouts they encountered, one lady stood out as the most persistent, and very persuasive. Possessed a tenacity all saints known to mankind would applaud and admire. They couldn’t shake her off despite running around for fifteen minutes. Sehun, fed up from running, hiding, and unable to enjoy his tteokbokki in peace, above all, had finally confronted the lady talent scout and asked for her business card. Told her that accepting did not mean an automatic agreement, and the decision would ultimately lie with his mother. The lady talent scout had been surprised but gleeful in giving him not one but two cards; promised that Sehun wouldn’t regret signing with their company should he give it a shot.
Sehun told Jongin he’d talk about it with his mother over the weekend. Jongin found out the result of their talk when Sehun asked him last Friday if he could go with him to an entertainment company located in Cheongdam.
Now, here they were, waiting for Sehun’s turn. They underestimated the company’s popularity with the number of auditioners. Sehun brought snacks with him, but Jongin had solely demolished a quarter of them. Sehun must be so nervous if he couldn’t even be tempted by his favorite chocolate snacks.
“You’ll be okay.” Jongin slung an arm around Sehun’s shoulders in an act of comfort. His free hand ran up and down Sehun’s arm in a soothing motion. “You said you practiced in front of the mirror, right? You’ll do great.”
“They said to prepare at least three things,” Sehun said, wringing his hands together. He wiped his palms over his knees next. “Mom and I looked up what kind of artists they house in this company. I don’t think I want to be an idol, but I prepared a song just in case. Also a short dance.”
Jongin did his own research, too. “How about modeling?”
“If they ask me to walk, I can do that. I can’t promise a professional model walk, though.”
The door opened again. The people that entered from the past ten minutes walked out in a pile. This batch took longer than the first few. The tall lady with the glasses recited the next set of numbers. Sehun straightened up. His turn.
“Good luck! Do your best!” Jongin called out to him, making sure to smile as he waved at Sehun’s retreating figure.
Sehun waved back, albeit weakly, renewed tension returning to his shoulders as he walked through the door. It closed with a definite click.
The hallway was quiet once more. Too quiet, so Jongin distracted himself with music by plugging in his MP3 player, a present from his parents for having won his first ballet contest overseas this summer. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t antsy on Sehun’s behalf, but he chose to concentrate on the positives; the belief Sehun would be chosen.
On the third loop of his limited songs, Sehun and the rest of the candidates stepped out. Sehun bound up to Jongin, face looking more relieved than when he entered the audition room. Jongin yanked off his earphones and asked, “How did it go?”
Sehun listed his head. “I think it went okay? They asked me to sing and dance a little, as expected. Talked about myself a little. They didn’t make me do a model walk, but they asked me to do a turn twice: clockwise and counterclockwise. I don’t know what that means.” He opened his bag and procured a chocolate bar from inside, snapping half of it in one bite. “I was so nervous!” he said between munches. Some color was returning to his face.
“You did well, no matter how nervous you were,” Jongin said, ruffling Sehun’s hair. It was always fluffy to the touch; always smelled like tangerines.
Sehun scrunched up his nose but didn’t swat his hand away. Sehun never liked anyone touching his hair. Jongin must be an exception, or the others before him just didn’t know how to handle his hair with care.
“I deserve a cake for my effort,” Sehun said, once they were out the building and down the sidewalk. He let out a loud hoot in relief. “Now that that’s over, let’s go to the arcade. It feels like a good day to beat you at Dance Dance Revolution.”
Jongin huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “You think you’re confident? I can’t wait to wipe the dance pad with your loser ass.”
Days following the audition passed by slow, uneventful; until one day, Sehun broke about three school rules by speeding down the crowded hallways, yelling out Jongin’s name to gain his attention.
A teacher coming out from the faculty room was immediately on Sehun’s heels. “Stop! No running in the hallways! Give me your name, grade, and section!”
Jongin caught sight of Sehun the moment he stepped out the classroom. “Sehun, stop yelling and running or you’ll—”
Sehun grabbed his hand and dragged him off, the rest of Jongin’s sentence hanging incomplete.
The teacher, out of shape and out of breath, gave up the chase but continued hollering at Sehun to report to him later, or else. The rest of the teacher’s ranting faded behind them as Jongin’s mind and legs finally caught up. Together they dashed, only stopping upon reaching the school rooftop.
“What was so important you couldn’t wait to tell me?” Jongin asked, between heavy pants, trying to catch his breath.
Sehun recovered faster, taking his hands and jumping in place. “I got in! I passed the audition! They want me as a trainee! I’m going to be a star!”
Excitement instantly replaced Jongin’s tiredness. He jumped along with Sehun, yelling and cheering in the mostly empty rooftop, uncaring if the other students heard and watched them in bafflement; uncaring if they would be reported to the same teacher.
Jongin encouraged Sehun during the start of his trainee life; throughout. He saw to it Sehun wasn’t neglecting his schoolwork; made extra copies of his notes to cover what he missed. Academic pressure was immense—high school entrance exam preparations might not be as highly intensive compared to college ones, but expectations remained high. Classrooms were shrouded in a solemn atmosphere most of the time, teachers stricter in their advocacy of prioritizing studying above everything else.
At one point, Sehun wanted to give up, complaining about the increasing difficulty of lessons; how historical facts and mathematical formulas were flying through his head. Jongin was on the receiving end of his many rants, many tantrums; the unwillingness to learn, growing day by day. At times, Jongin’s temper sparked, leading to petty squabbles, none of them long-lasting. Most times, Jongin quashed his irritation with several deep breaths; telling himself one of them had to be level-headed or nothing would be accomplished.
In the end, Jongin’s patience and perseverance did not go in vain. Watching Sehun solve problem sets he’d been wrestling for hours, followed by the broadening smile on his face with every red circle, and concluding the moment with a shout of triumph was well worth the headaches and clashes.
“Enough, enough! I’ve reached my limit for studying today!” Sehun dove for his bed and rolled around on it while hugging a pillow. They studied at Sehun’s house on weekends when possible; sleepovers, sometimes, if Jongin didn’t have to be anywhere the next day. His ballet lessons were scheduled in the afternoons, so he’d head for Sehun’s house afterward and wait for him there if he had training. “Why does it take so much effort to sit for entrance exams? You’re not guaranteed to pass, or have a bright future ahead even in the off-chance you finish college.”
Jongin started clearing the table of his study materials. He needed a break, too. “It’s always good to have a backup plan.”
Sehun made a disgruntled noise. The sound was muffled by the pillow he smothered his face into. “Want me to be honest? I don’t know if I want to go to high school. I can’t imagine myself sitting through so many classes in the next three years when I know what I want to do.”
Jongin turned around so he was facing Sehun, hugging his knees close to his chest. “So you’ve made up your mind on being a star?”
Sehun lifted his head from the pillow and grinned. “You got it! Know what’s funny? I had a lot of things I wanted to be while growing up. Being a star didn’t even cross my mind. Guess I have to thank the talent scouts who chased me when I was twelve—they sort of gave me the idea. I thought, ‘hmm, not bad, I could give it a try.’ Training is a bit hard. Teachers make us do a little of everything—they say we have to be all-rounders, but we can specialize in one or two things. Acting classes are the most fun, of course!” The brightness of his grin faded a little at his next question. “Are you still going to sit for the entrance exams? Aren’t you set on being a ballet dancer?”
“I am,” Jongin answered. His family never wavered in their support. His ballet teachers were vocal about their wish for him to try for an arts school with a dance department specializing on it. They extended assistance in his applications to various schools domestic and overseas; helped him choose pieces to perform for his audition videos. Sending in his applications was always nerve-wracking, akin to waiting backstage and counting down the minutes before the lights went out and the curtains were raised. “I’m determined to achieve my ballet dream, but I also like keeping my options open. There isn’t any one way to go about your dreams. Sometimes you need to take detours, and that’s alright. Of course, I prefer a smooth, straight path, but life won’t always go the way you want it.”
Sehun hummed in contemplation. “You sound like a grandfather trapped in a teenager’s body.” He dodged Jongin’s attempted shove on his shoulder. “You’re right, though. Backup plans aren’t bad. It would be good if we needn’t sort to that.” He sounded especially timid in the last sentence.
Jongin picked up on it right away. “Hey, none of that.” He transferred to sit at the edge of the bed; tapped Sehun’s forehead, smoothed the pucker between his brows. “If you’ve set your mind on not entering high school even after taking the entrance exams, I’ll support your decision.”
“Really?” Sehun perked up, visibly happy hearing the words. “Do you mean that?”
“If you want an honest opinion, I wish for you to finish high school so you have something to fall back on if the actor path doesn’t work out. Still, it’s your choice to make. You have to think carefully about this. Once you’ve chosen, you have to live with it, consequences and everything.”
High school entrance exams came and gone. Sehun passed the exams, to his genuine surprise; more than Jongin’s when he told him he’d take them, after thinking long and hard. Come spring next year, Sehun would be attending a high school popular among trainees from major entertainment companies. Attendance tracking would be lax, and they were guaranteed a diploma on graduation as long as the students turned in their work on time.
Jongin passed his, too, but he chose the arts school with a ballet department. To celebrate their freedom from the suffocation of studying in the past months, Jongin, Sehun, and other classmates ate and played together after school. No more rigorous studying and long hours trapped in libraries. No more headaches and sleepless nights; no more built-up frustrations.
After hours of fun and nonstop laughter, they gradually went their separate ways. Jongin noticed how Sehun became quieter as each classmate left. They were crossing a foot bridge when, unable to contain his growing curiosity, Jongin held Sehun by the elbow and set him aside so they weren’t blocking the way. Sehun went with him willingly. Another worrying sign.
“What’s wrong?” Jongin prompted gently, smiling to lessen the seriousness of the situation.
“I just realized something too late,” Sehun said, letting a few seconds of silence pass. “By next year, we’ll no longer be in the same school. We won’t be classmates anymore.”
Jongin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He realized that a lot earlier than Sehun but put it off in favor of concentrating on his studies and ballet classes. Jongin’s chosen school and Sehun’s were admittedly quite a distance from each other, even with quick transportation. He knew this wasn’t Sehun’s concern, though.
“I’ll be one phone call or text message away.”
Sehun shot him a slanted look. “Then what? Expect a reply after a month?”
“Hey!” Jongin burst out laughing, albeit sheepish sounding. “I’m not that bad! I try to respond on time!”
Sehun maintained his expression of disbelief before it gave way to its original solemnity. “I know, I know. I’m being unreasonable for being sad over something like this. Going to different schools doesn’t mean we’ll stop being friends. I just…” A tiny sigh; a pause. “It will be different going to school every day and entering the classroom but not seeing you there.”
It probably wasn’t his intention, but Jongin was reminded of the times Sehun would make a beeline for his desk once he arrived in school: asking him about homework (and if he could copy some of his answers), a cartoon they were both watching, what level he reached on this or that game. Times when Sehun always sought him out if Jongin arrived later than him, excitedly chatting away about something good that happened during training; how the teachers praised him for completing a task; sharing a new, delicious food item he wanted him to try. Times when Sehun would keep asking questions about the book Jongin was reading, sometimes succeeding in distracting him from finishing the current chapter; waited on each other to finish cleaning duty before leaving, discussing snacks they would eat on their way to the tteokbokki shop.
Jongin smiled in reminiscence for a while longer before talking again. “Like you said, we don’t have to stop being friends just because we’ll be going to different schools. I won’t have to worry about you in your new school. You’re nice, very likeable. Sociable. You’ll have new friends in no time.”
“What about you?” Sehun asked, brows knitting slightly, worry on his face. “You don’t warm up to people right away. You might keep yourself to libraries again if no one befriends you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jongin assured, appreciating his concern. “I’ve learned a thing or two from you on how to make friends. If I meet new friends, that’s cool. I’d love it. We can gather on a weekend and have fun together. Get to know new people. Wouldn’t that be great?”
Sehun’s face worked itself into an expression that made him resemble a stingray. Though silent, Jongin knew he agreed with him. “Your new classmates better be nice to you over there,” was all he said before gazing skyward and making a soft sound of realization. "No wonder it’s been extra cold today.”
Winter began at the end of November, but the snow didn’t arrive until today. Jongin made the mistake of grabbing the coat without pockets today in his half-asleep state, so he rummaged his bag for gloves. No luck. He must’ve lost them somewhere. Either way, his hands were going to suffer for a while longer. Rubbing them together would have to suffice for now.
He heard Sehun cluck his tongue. “You’re hopeless.”
Before Jongin could retort, Sehun took one of his hands to slip a knitted glove over it. The other hand. Sehun’s gloves were a clumsy fit on Jongin’s hands, but they protected it from the cold. Jongin wriggled his fingers and grinned. The gloves were baby blue in color with a fluffy white dog design at the back. An adorable pair of knitted gloves owned by an equally adorable boy.
Jongin blinked twice, wondering how he came about with the description. Why.
“Don’t lose my gloves.” The teasing in Sehun’s voice was more than obvious, highlighted by the slight curve of his lips. “It’s my favorite pair.”
Surrounded by the first snow, Jongin protested and mimed shoving him on the shoulder. Sehun scrambled away from his hand, merry laughter ringing in the air.
☆彡
Sunhwa Arts High School fit Jongin’s description of an ideal environment.
The campus was large enough to accommodate the growing student population. Specialized lectures in ballet were engaging and informative, enriching his knowledge and fueled his drive to learn the art form. Teachers ranged from retired dancers who had danced overseas during their heydays, or active veterans heavily involved behind the scenes in some academies. A marginal amount of Jongin’s time was now spent in the dance studio so their bodies could adapt, conquering the syllabus one lesson at a time. Time spent sitting in the classroom was during general electives and dance theory classes. The workload for those subjects weren’t as strict or heavy, but students were required to get good grades for them and maintain an average to avoid expulsion.
The libraries were impressive. Although filled with ballet-related books, some sections offered leisure material. Jongin didn’t find any mystery or sci-fi books here; the little that piqued his interest, he already read. He’d given up browsing the section, but a chance encounter with a library student assistant introduced him to the heart-wrenching, thought-provoking mystery world of Detective Galileo. The book bridged the way to his new favorite writer, Higashino Keigo, and sent Jongin on a hunt for his other books after crying three times reading The Devotion of Suspect X.
Jongin had made friends in his own department, too, contrary to his initial concerns. He worried the inevitable comparisons, high ambitions, and seeking the praise and validation of their teachers would affect his relationship with his peers; wouldn’t allow space for true friendships. Some of them proved him wrong. They involved him in conversations, class-related and otherwise; commiserated with the amount of homework needed to be done, sat down to eat lunch together, extended invites to hang out after class. A secret part of him waited if there was a catch to this. Slowly, his fears were forgotten, for tiny disagreements were easily solved, and no drama affected their bond.
It felt nice, knowing Jongin belonged somewhere; that he wouldn’t have to spend three years wondering what it was like to have a support system when rehearsals were too mentally taxing. That he had friends to fall back on in a domain prone to changes and set the bar impossibly high in the name of attaining perfection.
Sehun, too, didn’t seem like it took him a long time to feel comfortable in Seoul School of Performing Arts. Jongin gleaned as much from Sehun’s countless texts to him, an almost chronicle of his days at school. Reading those made Jongin feel like he spent the day with him; was introduced to Sehun’s new circle of friends, in a way. This new bunch was funny, loved having a good time as long as school work wasn’t involved; looked like mischievous rascals and carried similar vibes but were the first to help an ailing elderly carry their groceries and ushered them to the bus.
Sehun juggled between the trainee and student life, so the influx of texts usually came in around ten in the evening. Jongin would reply as soon as he read them; or the next morning, sometimes, if exhaustion took over the night before. They hung out on weekends, but those were spread out through the year. After-school hanging out was impossible, now—whatever free time Jongin had in the afternoon, he would devote to rehearsals in the studio, and Sehun to his training. Every time they agreed on a day to meet, Jongin would be overcome with plenty of excitement it made him impatient for the days to speed up. A rarity for him, since he liked his dance classes so much.
And every time they met, either with Jongin arriving first or walking to their rendezvous, Sehun’s face split into a huge grin as he hurried over. They chatted nonstop, regardless of their location and activities. They played hard, as if attending different schools wasn’t their reality. Some topics brought up might have been mentioned previously through text, but neither minded, talking and reacting like it was brand new information. They visited Sehun’s favorite tteokbokki shop if they had time to squeeze, owner surprised to see them but also commented how long it had been since he last saw them together.
“We don’t go to the same schools now,” Sehun said. “We still keep in touch. That’s never changed.”
Mr. Lee, the owner, made a loud, approving sound. “That’s the spirit! Pretty rare for teenagers to maintain their friendships sometimes, especially when they get boyfriends or girlfriends of their own.”
“There’s no reason for us to fight or drift apart. The most we argue about is my best friend’s inability to answer my texts at respectable hours.”
“Hey!” Jongin feigned offense; failed the upkeep at Sehun’s chortling, his playfulness. “You know I can’t be bothered with my phone when I’m super busy. Why do you keep nagging me about this?”
Mr. Lee laughed a joyful, belly laugh and gave them extra servings on the house. “S’okay, lads; let me celebrate your return to my shop with this. Watching you bicker reminds me of my own best friend. That old geezer now lives in Busan but doesn’t fail to keep in touch. Your friendship is strong. Don’t allow anyone or anything to ruin it.”
Months passed by in a blink when one was busy. Jongin flipped to the last page of his calendar for the year; counted down the days before Christmas, did mental estimates. Concluding he had enough time, he took out a basket from his closet, made himself comfortable on the bed, and resumed knitting.
Today was a rare weekend he’d finished all of his homework, and rehearsing wasn’t option since the studio was closed for minor repairs. Jongin decided foregoing hanging out with friends to finish his knitting project. He asked help from his eldest sister, and, despite their united woes he had no talent for this, Jongin persevered until she changed her mind. Taught him again, and again, until he got the basics downpat.
He wasn’t aiming to knit the biggest blanket in existence, or anything similar. Jongin merely wanted to learn how to knit a pair of gloves. His magic hands had struck the day he was to return Sehun’s gloves. Jongin honestly had no idea where he placed the gloves, or how he even lost them. Jongin had worried over the weekend how to tell Sehun the truth, the knowledge of it being his favorite pair a heavy burden to bear and fed the gnawing guilt.
Sehun’s sad frown had been gut-wrenching when Jongin worked up the courage to admit what he’d done. Jongin had never been more nervous to tell the truth compared to walking up the stage during competitions with a hundred eyes on him. Sehun’s subsequent silence had heightened his nervousness, and when he spoke, Jongin braced himself for whatever scathing remark he was to hear.
“I rarely wear gloves, but I really liked that pair. It was my favorite. I’ve told you that.” Sehun had paused to shake his head; exhaled a soft breath. Then, in a surprisingly gentler tone, he had told him, “It’s fine. I know of your tendency to lose things. I shouldn’t be too surprised.”
Speechless did not adequately describe Jongin’s reaction. He had expected a hissy fit, or an angry outburst, at the least. Regardless, the guilt hadn’t abated; Sehun’s subdued reception, worsening his misery. “I really am sorry for losing it,” he had said, honest in his remorse. “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”
“If you’re really sorry, I’ll accept payment in the form of three chocolate bars, no more, no less. What? You think I’m not serious?" Sehun’s growing smile had hinted his true feelings; the ordeal now far behind him. Jongin had remained cautious, disbelieving Sehun’s quickness to move on. Sehun had probably sensed his inner turmoil, for he added, “I’ll fine you a slice of cake for every second you continue not believing me. Time starts now. One, two, three, four—”
“Stop, stop, stop!” Jongin had interjected, exploding into laughter. He slung an arm around Sehun’s shoulders and pretended to choke him. “I was honestly feeling bad about losing your gloves! Way to plot how to get free food from me, you sly fox!”
Sehun had replied in cackles, eyes crinkled in mirth. Insisted he wanted the chocolate bars. The proof Jongin had been forgiven, truly and without grudges.
That was a year ago.
Now, almost a year later, Jongin was close to finishing knitting the gloves. He couldn’t recreate the white dog, his skills far too amateurish for something advanced. Jongin decided on a chick design his eldest sister guaranteed beginners could pull off. The chick was yellow, tiny wings flapping as it chirped in its half-broken egg. He had to start over this ambitious project two times after ruining the design. Third time must be the charm if he wasn’t screwing up anything after coming so far. He began working on this since late spring and picked up the project during scraps of free time.
Once he secured the final stitch, Jongin blew out a long, relieved sigh; cheered loudly in the silence of his room. A week into December had passed. He could now concentrate on rehearsals for the winter program—his first for Sunhwa—but couldn’t help smiling as he wondered, with great anticipation, how Sehun would react.
Jongin didn’t have to wonder long. Sehun sent him a text an hour and three chapters into Salvation of a Saint later, asking if he could come down for a while. Finding it peculiar, never mind it was a little past eleven, Jongin grabbed the boxed gloves from his closet, shrugged on a jacket, and hurried down.
He arrived at the neighborhood playground and saw Sehun perched on top of the jungle gym, head tilted upward. Sehun hadn’t sensed his arrival yet, but one look at his hunched shoulders told Jongin something was amiss. Jongin climbed the bars and sat beside him as carefully as he could; the box, secured in the large, loose pocket of his sweatpants.
“Hey.” Jongin nudged Sehun’s shoulder with his. “The sky won’t talk to you, but I will. If you want.”
With the aid of the lamppost lights, Jongin saw the bruises of fatigue lining Sehun’s eyes. The tiredness bracketing his mouth and dull expression squeezed Jongin’s chest. Sehun didn’t talk, despite acknowledging his presence with a minute sideward glance. Jongin didn’t push him.
A considerable amount of time passed before Sehun ran a hand down his face and launched into a full-on rant without preamble, complaining about everything that went wrong accumulated over the weeks. His weekly acting evaluation didn’t make sense, confident he was putting in as much effort like the other trainees, if not more. Teachers suddenly possessing tunnel vision and nitpicking everything he said or did. Competition among trainees was vicious, tense, and emotionally draining—backstabbing here, rumor mongering there. A trainee he considered a friend—one of the first to greet him when he started in the company—turned out to be a complete traitor, talking bad about him behind his back and refusing to pay back the money he borrowed. Disciplinary action had been taken against the trainee for bigger offenses discovered by the teachers. Somehow, Sehun was accused of ratting out the brat and taking the blame when he never spoke a single word against him in spite of his anger.
Running out of steam, Sehun expelled out a deep, sad-sounding sigh; body deflating in obvious defeat. “I wonder if this will all be worth it in the end,” he said, voice laced with exhaustion and bitterness. “Trainee period is hard. I got that loud and clear when the seniors warned me. I was prepared to endure the hardships. But it’s been getting harder lately. Sometimes I just think of giving up. Maybe being a star isn’t my calling, after all.”
“That’s not true.” Jongin was confident in his answer. He took his time to carefully string together his next reply. “It might seem impossibly hard now, but no genuine effort goes unrewarded. I can’t say if your teachers are fair or not. Based on what you’ve told me, their feedback is constructive and helpful—I’m guessing it’s the roughness of their wording that’s affecting you badly. I don’t blame you for reacting this way. It’s okay. Once your mind is clearer, consider the perspective that the teachers know you can do a better performance than what you’re showing, so they’re pushing you a little more.
“If you think the hardships seem never-ending, go back to the start and ask yourself why you wanted to be a star. Watch all the movies that inspired you. Read your favorite actors’ interviews on how they overcame their slumps. Then try again. No one promised you it would be easy, but when you stumble during your journey, isn’t it natural to get up and try again?”
Sehun was quiet for a long time afterward, doing nothing except gaze skyward. Jongin sat with him, the tension melting in the ensuing silence. Sehun’s aura took a noticeable shift—his face didn’t harbor its previous grimness and looked more relaxed.
When Sehun spoke again, he sounded relatively calmer. “It feels so good to vent. It’s still a lot to process, to be honest. It might take time… who knows? My head doesn’t feel like it’s going to explode anymore, at least. That’s one good thing to come out from this. Thanks for listening to me, Jongin.”
“Of course I’ll listen. My best friend is in distress—I just can’t stand by and do nothing.” Jongin grinned, tickling Sehun under his chin, like one would a cat.
Sehun gave him a withering stare. “The past few weeks have been absolute hell. The smallest things set me off. My mood changed every five minutes. I was starting to become an ass to others around me, and that—that was what snapped me awake. I hung out with trainee friends—the real ones, yeah. They’re fun company, and I’m thankful they tried cheering me up and dragging me to play after training. It feels different when it’s you, though. I don’t get this feeling of peace with anyone else.”
Warmth circled in Jongin’s chest hearing the words. “I’m glad I could help you in some way.” He straightened up; remembered the box’s existence in his pocket. “Oh, right, I have something for you. Ta-dah!”
Jongin delighted at the way Sehun’s visibly lit up when he showed him the box; didn’t bother smothering his grin when the wrapping paper was torn and the lid lifted. Sehun made a curious noise as he held up the pair of gloves; his puzzled stare directed at the identical chicks.
“Fluffy white dogs are not chicks,” was Sehun’s first remark, shaking the gloves for emphasis.
“I know my biology. I think the chicks are cuter. See, I tried to make it look like you. I think I succeeded—the chicks are so cute!”
Sehun’s eyebrows pulled downward, face forming his infamous poker expression. “Are you calling me a chick?”
“Chicks grow into chickens! Chicken is my favorite food! Chicken gives me happiness.”
Sehun’s expression looked less severe, the start of a resigned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t get your analogies sometimes. I don’t think I’ll get this one, either. Ah, whatever. It’s cold. Perfect timing.”
And it was, for when Sehun slipped on the gloves to test if they fit (they did), the first snow announced its arrival by its white cottony tufts descending from the skies. They climbed down the jungle gym, Jongin offering Sehun to stay over since it was late. Sehun clenched and unclenched his gloved hands, smile growing the longer he did.
“You like it that much, huh?” Jongin teased, poking Sehun on his side.
“I didn’t say anything about liking it yet,” Sehun sassed. His smile told an opposite story. “What I’m sure for now is that the gloves are warm. Just like your hands.”
Despite the growing coldness of their surroundings, Jongin wondered—with fascination, with slight annoyance—why the heat scoring his cheeks didn’t recede on the walk back.
☆彡
Jongin developed a habit of streaming videos during the commute to and from home, limited minutes he was by himself on lunch breaks, unwinding from the stress of competition preparations, and getting ready for bed. Naver or YouTube, he’d watch an array of things related to his interests: soccer game highlights to support his favorite player, select ballet production excerpts, snippets of foreign comedy shows with poor to passable Korean subtitles. Some videos failed to hold his attention, either from lack of interest or passing out once his head hit the pillow, but served as good background noise while tidying up his room or completing his homework.
At the beginning of summer, this habit became more firmly set on eight o’clock every Saturday night. Welcome to the Jang Household was a sitcom revolving around the everyday lives of the Jang family members, the people who became involved with them, and the mishaps they encountered. Sehun was cast as the youngest child of the Jang family—the only son, a spoiled, mischievous teenager with irresistible charms and whose good intentions were overshadowed by his unfortunate timing in execution. It was a supporting role, at most, but Sehun’s character contributed to the sitcom’s colorful, funny world. Gelling well with the main cast in front of the cameras and behind the scenes certainly helped, as mentioned by his co-actors and actresses in short interviews, and contributed to the onscreen chemistry.
Jongin wasn’t a fan of comedy, or dramas, much less sitcoms; but he started watching the show to support Sehun. He wasn’t sure what to expect on the first few episodes; gradually, he came to enjoy the unique humor and personalities of each character, and tried catching the show in real time. If not, he would watch reruns on the official channel. After every episode, he’d send Sehun a text, telling him his thoughts. At times, Sehun couldn’t seem to wait and texted first, reminding him to watch.
Despite its slow ascension in the ratings game at the beginning, Welcome to the Jang Household transformed into a sensational hit. It became so popular netizens online joked the entire country stopped functioning every Saturday night at eight in anticipation of the next episode; what funny misadventures and heartwarming moments would the Jang family deliver this time. Jongin agreed with netizen sentiment of the sitcom as a great stress reliever from everyday troubles. He himself latched onto this sitcom as his much-needed breather from the incredible stressor that was his final year at Sunhwa.
Winter program rehearsals, practical and written exams, evaluations, overseas competitions, preparing audition videos, and sending out applications for the next stage of their lives—Jongin tried his hardest not to fold under pressure, disengaging quickly once he sensed he was tipping over. The last two he considered the most stressful periods in his senior life: perfecting his moves, redoing the entire routine until he was satisfied and couldn’t see his mistakes in the recorded footage, watching and learning from online videos, and assimilating his teachers’ feedback. Most days he either felt like he was being dragged underwater, or pulled apart in several different directions. Some days the exhaustion numbed him to a point he moved as if on auto-pilot, trudging through the day in a haze.
His family exercised incredible patience and understanding if his temper flared at home, or if his grumpiness spilled onto conversations. His friends empathized, facing similar situations in varied degrees; cheered him up like he would for them. After learning he was being stretched too thin during a rare moment they could swap texts beyond three messages, Sehun suddenly appeared at his doorstep the next day carrying a box of fried chicken, almost shoving it into Jongin’s face when he opened the door.
Shocked, mind lagging from the sticky dredges of sleep, Jongin could only blink in puzzlement, at first. The belated realization of his unkempt appearance with the three-day old hoodie and sweats, hair sticking out in different directions from a stress nap, triggered a sudden wave of self-consciousness.
“You should’ve texted you were coming.” Jongin sounded whiny, even to his own ears; took note of Sehun’s drenched figure and gasped. “What were you thinking, going out in this kind of weather?” he exclaimed. “Where’s your umbrella? You know it’s been raining erratically these days.”
“Did your eyesight worsen since we last met? My wet clothes should tell you I don’t have one,” Sehun sassed, his words lacking real bite. “Are you inviting me inside or not? If you don’t, I’ll scarf down this chicken by myself—”
Jongin dragged Sehun inside and pushed him into the bathroom. Sehun emerged wearing dry clothes while his wet ones were tossed in the dryer. He was used to borrowing Jongin’s clothes when sleeping over; it definitely helped they shared similar measurements. The happiness of Sehun’s surprise visit was beginning to seep into Jongin while demolishing the box of fried chicken between them.
Sehun stopped mid-bite, raising an eyebrow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“You have this big smile on your face. You’re watching me like you’ve never seen me eat fried chicken before.” Sehun tossed the bones on a spread-out napkin.
“I haven’t seen you in a long time. Your visit today really surprised me.” Whenever Jongin asked what he was doing, Sehun would answer he was attending an acting seminar, filming for the sitcom, or on the way to other gigs the company booked for him. In the past year, he’d done some modeling work for a casual wear clothing line and a few commercials. It was a commercial that landed him the role for the sitcom with an additional audition.
“Just because of that?” Sehun asked, tone light and teasing. It reverted back to a serious one when he spoke again. “I could hear you crying through my phone screen from your messages. You must be under a lot of intense stress. I’m aware of your perfectionist tendencies, but don’t neglect yourself in the process. Eat well, sleep a lot, take breaks.” He narrowed his eyes at the sheepish chuckle Jongin let out; clucked his tongue. “If you don’t take care of your health, everything you’ve done so far will go in vain. Don’t be reckless and take care of your wellbeing.”
That was the last time Jongin saw Sehun this year. Understandable: the sitcom consumed most of Sehun’s days. Messages became sparse and spaced out throughout the months. The sitcom maintained its popularity, sitting pretty on top of ratings. Schoolwork took Jongin’s mind off the disconcerting silence of his phone; the increasing disappointment whenever it rang, and it wasn’t Sehun’s name that appeared on the screen.
Jongin swore he was the last person on the planet to get attached to his phone. He swore feeling freer leading a phone-less life, too. Yet at the end of a long day, when his mind wouldn’t shut up from the overthinking and stole his ability to sleep, he’d reach for his phone and thumb through his message thread with Sehun. Sent him random messages, if the thoughts in Jongin’s head refused to be silenced. And when he received a reply, no matter how many days had passed, Jongin’s giddiness skyrocketed, drowning out the sad reality he hadn’t seen his best friend in a long time.
The sad reality was further rubbed into his face when Jongin looked at street food carts on his walk to the subway station and be overcome with a startling longing, especially at the sight of friends huddled close sharing snacks with each other. The same kind of longing he experienced when walking between aisles in bookstores in search for specific titles and expected Sehun to pop up anytime, either trying to scare him or asking what he thought of this or that book he knew nothing about. The same kind of longing amplified when he walked past electronic shops, each television on the display stand playing random clips, one inevitably showing a commercial with Sehun that would stop him in his tracks to watch.
When did this start, inadvertently searching for pieces of his best friend in tiny, nondescript corners of his life?
Jongin flipped his table calendar after an entire Sunday evening of finishing off his homework. Already December. How fast time flew past. His last message to Sehun was first week of November, right before he sent the last of his applications and audition videos. His free time had been devoted into rehearsing for the winter program since. Seeing his message read but not replied to didn’t worry or hurt Jongin. He did, however, wanted to see him now that his days were relieved from bigger responsibilities.
hey when’s a good time to meet up? :)
i miss you.
Jongin stared at the blinking cursor; the second sentence. He stared an extra five seconds, erased the second sentence, and pressed Send.
Miraculously, he didn’t have to wait days for a response this time:
im free on the 25th
buy me cake
chocolate or bust
Jongin huffed out an annoyed breath. ”We haven’t seen each other in so long, but you have the gall to order me around?” he complained to his phone screen, knowing full well Sehun couldn’t hear him.
They texted some more; decided on a time and place. Jongin tried to prolong the conversation, but Sehun hastily wrapped it up, telling him he was needed back on set (he was on break when Jongin’s message came), typos and everything. Annoyance forgotten, Jongin lounged in bed with a silly smile on his face and a flutter in his chest.
Jongin carried the flutter in his chest while coasting through the days, drawing from it additional mental strength and energy into perfecting routines and preparing for the winter program. On the eve of the final rehearsal, everyone settled in the corner of the studio during break time and chatted among themselves. The topic of winter plans was brought up. Overseas vacations, countryside trips, and family gatherings were the most common answers. Someone brought up the topic of Christmas Day plans. Three shyly shared they were thinking of confessing to their crushes on the day; two, surprisingly, were spending it with their special someone. All five became subject to playful teasing, resulting in reddened faces and embarrassed laughter.
“What about you, Jongin?” a friend asked, turning to him. Everybody’s attention followed. “What are you doing on Christmas?”
“I’m meeting up with a friend I haven’t seen in a long time,” Jongin said. He hadn’t told them about Sehun, but overheard conversations on campus let him know plenty were huge fans of the sitcom. Some were self-professed Sehun fans. “We’ve been making plans all year, but they keep getting canceled.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” another friend said. “I hope you and your friend have a blast together.”
“But is it really a friend?” a third one asked, sans malice, wagging their eyebrows for comical effect. “Christmas Day isn’t usually spent with friends.”
A few hoots erupted. Jongin laughed, despite himself.
“There’s no written rule I can’t hang out with friends on Christmas Day,” Jongin told them. Judging from their teasing expressions and continuous teasing, he knew they weren’t buying his reason. “It’s not exclusively for couples, guys, even if they’re the majority in the streets on Christmas.”
The winter program was a massive success, lauded as one of the most beautiful shows a senior class had presented in the long history of Sunhwa. Away from the spotlight after taking their bows and the curtains lowered, in the wake of thunderous applause and enthusiastic demands for an encore, Jongin and his friends huddled around backstage and sagged from the sheer relief, hugging each other and bawling like babies from the pure happiness of crossing the finish line and ending the show without injuries and regrets.
In this defining moment, glancing at the overjoyed faces around him, body buzzing from the adrenaline rush and warm reception, Jongin realized ballet would be in his body and soul for life.
Winter break commenced. Jongin missed the studio already every time he stretched in the limited space of his room. To fill the gaping gap, he devoured his unfinished novels, played video games until his attention span gave up, counted down to the twenty-fifth with an impatience uncharacteristic of him. Closer to the date, Jongin mused if he should give Sehun a present. He wondered if Sehun would find it strange—they were never the type of friends to gift each other.
He wondered why this was suddenly so important.
Jongin figured he’d just ask Sehun what else he wanted aside from the cake when they met. He arrived at their rendezvous an hour early; texted Sehun to contact him once he reached. He wandered around to kill time. Jongin noticed the places nearby were dating spots. Couples ambled about, walking with linked hands or arms, smiles plastered on their faces. Jongin focused on the colorful storefront decorations, the merry tunes floating out, shop part-timers offering discounts and two-for-one deals of their products to interested buyers.
Jongin returned to the spot an hour later and plopped down on the nearest bench. His hands were warm and snug inside his coat pockets, clutching onto hot packs. He lamented his lack of foresight to grab a scarf. He could barely feel the tip of his nose. His breath came out in white puffs. Jongin looked around for any sign of Sehun; almost grimaced at the fact the neighboring benches were occupied by couples. Jongin felt like an interloper and out of place sitting here by himself. He checked his phone. No reply.
Jongin practiced a one-hour rule when waiting for people to show up. Two hours had passed, now, but Sehun’s non-appearance was more concerning than annoying. Jongin considered Sehun might be running late, too, with a lot of people out and about during a public holiday. Staying seated only worsened the cold, so Jongin left the bench to walk around the vicinity and warm himself up.
Half an hour later, Jongin, tired of walking and seeing couples everywhere, stood by a tall clock that also doubled as a meeting place. He shot Sehun another message telling him he was going home if he wasn’t showing himself in the next thirty minutes.
No sooner did he pocket his phone did something cover his eyes. Cold fingers; a playful, singsong voice reaching his ears next.
“Guess who?”
Jongin tensed at his darkened vision, then scoffed and relaxed, soon defeated by the blooming excitement; the rising corners of his mouth.
“My tardy best friend.”
Sehun let out a sound of protest behind him. Jongin grinned.
“I’ll explain later, but that’s not the right answer. You have one last chance. Guess who?”
“My best friend.”
“How cold,” Sehun deadpanned. “But you’re correct! I am, in fact, your best friend.”
Sehun removed his hands away from his eyes; then, he held Jongin by the shoulders to gently turn him around so they were facing each other. Sehun’s bright and happy grin entered Jongin’s line of sight first; winter’s first snow, falling like lace, second.
“The best friend you miss so much.”
The childlike delight so obvious on Sehun’s face dissolved whatever retorts Jongin prepared; warmed him enough and rivaled the heat of his hot packs. Pursing his lips, Jongin shoved Sehun lightly on the shoulder and feigned a frown.
“You’re late. This is the longest I’ve waited for someone. If it wasn’t you, I’d have left hours ago.”
Sehun’s expression morphed into one of surprise, then flattered; reflected in the immediate brightening of his face, a sudden twinkle in his eyes. Jongin couldn’t quite grasp why.
“I’m that special to you? I’m so touched.” Sehun bumped his shoulder against Jongin’s; sidestepped away from another attempted shove, a third. “I’m happy. It feels good being special to you.”
Jongin gave up and let out a frustrated grunt. Heat rose to his face and increased by a degree at Sehun’s smug smirk—confusing, irritating. “Stop teasing me already.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll stop. I wouldn’t want my chances of eating cake plummet to zero.”
Jongin burst out laughing in his bafflement. “I didn’t promise anything, you brat.”
“We’ll see about that.” Sehun flashed him a lazy, confident smile.
Even if there was no game to be won, Jongin knew he already lost.
☆彡
Korean National Ballet was an entirely brand-new world.
Between a K-ARTS slot and a rare offer by the oldest ballet company in the country, after extensive talks, research, and contemplation, Jongin accepted the latter.
Graduating from Sunhwa and transitioning to a company trainee wasn’t too difficult. What he learned in three years prepared him for the challenges he was to face, except his time as a student was more relaxed—dream-like, in a way—compared to this ruthless realm of trainee life. Competition was tougher, teachers were stricter; expectations, higher, in the way an individual had to consciously and continuously feed their drive to improve and shine in order to climb up the ladder. Staying stagnant in one rank for years without end was an aspiring ballet dancer’s nightmare.
Thrown into an unfamiliar environment with new faces, Jongin had to start from scratch once more. He kept to himself on the first week—observing, enjoying his own company. None of the trainees seemed interested in making friends, evident in the minimal chatting during early morning warm-ups. Jongin was close to giving up on the second week when a male trainee shyly asked if he had a spare bandage.
Months later, Jongin couldn’t be more thankful for the bandage moment forging a friendship between him and Kim Moonkyu. Moonkyu was a trainee for two years and older in age than Jongin by one. Jongin checked with him first if he should use honorifics. Allergic to formalities, Moonkyu told him to speak comfortably. Moonkyu introduced him to his other friends, who received Jongin with open arms. Seniority status was waived among them, treating each other like same-aged friends. Classes and rehearsals became more exciting and bearable, despite difficult lessons and disheartening moments. Hanging out when time permitted became a normal occurrence. After seeing and talking to them on an almost daily basis, learning their habits, likes and dislikes, and baring his own, Jongin could never call them by any other label except for friends.
Like all friendships, arguments erupted sometimes, too. Reasons behind it were often ridiculous. Sometimes where to eat, or what movie to watch. Sometimes miscommunication with one telling others they would meet at three in the afternoon, another misreading it as four. Sometimes it was Jongin’s inhuman ability to lose his phone, or respond to texts, especially if he was heavily immersed in rehearsals for upcoming shows. He never failed to baffle Moonkyu and the gang by either replying after hours had passed, or shut down whatever rants they planned to dump on him by informing them he lost his phone, unmindful and relaxed while delivering the news. Since then, none of them bat an eye or reacted strongly anymore when Jongin asked for their contact numbers and KakaoTalk IDs every six months or so.
Despite the numerous phone changes, Jongin never forgot Sehun’s contact details. His would be stored right after Jongin saved his family members’. It helped Jongin could recite his number and ID even through closed eyes. Every time Jongin set up a new phone, he always sent a message to Sehun and the timeless story of the reason why. His messages would be read and replied, though it would take a few days; the longest, a few weeks.
Jongin accepted the gaps in communication. After the sitcom finished airing, Sehun steadily began entering the general public’s radar, capturing interest and long-term attention through various mediums: printed ads for a trendy clothing brand, television commercials, the lovable sidekick of the lead male role in an autumn family drama, a brief stint as a substitute DJ for a popular nighttime radio program. Sehun’s cuts from the family drama were already gaining a lot of views and interest, further exposing him to a wider audience. Jongin truly felt Sehun’s rise in popularity when he’d catch fragmented conversations in the cafeteria about last night’s episode, phones out, YouTube app open. Sehun’s name or his character’s would be mentioned several times as they gushed over his looks, if he did something right; expressed annoyance if his actions or dialogue irked them.
“What are you smiling about?” Moonkyu’s question momentarily distracted Jongin from his eavesdropping. Before Jongin could answer, Moonkyu cast a glance at the table with fervent fans and smiled. “Ah. They seem to be avid followers of that famous family drama. And your best friend.”
He’d told Moonkyu and the others about Sehun being his best friend a year after getting close to them. They had refused to believe it, at first. Jongin didn’t hold it against them. Stories about being close to this or that rookie idol or actor could be conjured by anyone for five seconds of fame. Moonkyu had thought differently and asked him for proof, citing that he’d never once lied to them about anything. Jongin had showed them his middle school yearbook; the class picture, where he and Sehun stood side by side. They didn’t bombard him with questions or ask for an autograph after; didn’t try fishing for dirt on Sehun. The most they’d done was marvel at the fact Jongin’s best friend was someone famous and swore they wouldn’t spill details to anyone.
Jongin smiled and nodded. “I overheard them two weeks ago, too. It’s like following my very own drama whenever I come to the cafeteria, except I’m just eagerly awaiting their feedback on his acting.”
“My mom’s in love with the drama, and she can’t stop praising Sehun for his good looks. He’s got one elderly fan,” Moonkyu said, and they shared a laugh. “You can tell him the next time you meet.”
Jongin’s mood dipped at the words. A sour reminder he hadn’t seen Sehun in a long time.
He understood. He was always ready to understand. Accept. For all the times Sehun understood and accepted Jongin’s choices of sacrificing time together in exchange for important ballet endeavors, it wouldn’t hurt him to accommodate this time. Reciprocate.
So when Jongin sometimes worked up his courage to place a call and it went unanswered, he didn’t mind.
When Jongin invited him to hang out, and Sehun confirmed he could make it, his happiness soared high—and abruptly crashed if he needed to cancel. Sehun would apologize profusely for bailing out on the last minute, swearing he didn’t mean it, explaining his manager booked him for this or that gig and couldn’t cancel; invited somewhere by a senior actor, which would be rude to turn down or could be interpreted as a personal slight. Reasoned like that, Jongin couldn’t be annoyed, or angry, at times scolding Sehun himself to hurry and avoid being late. Every job mattered to a rookie actor, no matter how small or trivial; every invitation, a chance to make connections and expand your network.
And when Jongin was promoted to corps de ballet after a year of keeping his trainee status, he started becoming busier, developed deeper bonds with Moonkyu and the gang, fulfilled his son and brother duties during quality time with his family. His ability to misplace and forget about his phone worsened, until one night, fresh out of the shower and ready to sleep, he was thumbing down his KakaoTalk message logs and stopped at Sehun’s, found all the way at the bottom.
Their last exchange was February this year. One look at the message preview took Jongin back to the time he bumped into some middle school classmates. He had tried getting a hold of Sehun so he could join them, but he’d only replied after the gathering long ended. Jongin couldn’t even work up the proper emotion to feel anything about Sehun’s late replies and just forgot about it, telling himself he’d deal with it the next day.
That next day never came.
Now, however, Jongin’s thumb hovered above the message and pressed. The chat log popped open, blinking cursor on the message box looking daunting for once. He wasn’t sure where this hesitation was coming from; why it was present in the first place. Nothing wrong sending a message, asking Sehun how he was doing. So Jongin did just that, composing and editing repeatedly until he was satisfied.
hey sehun, how are you?
it’s been a while :)
Send.
Jongin almost dropped the phone on his face when it alerted him of a reply. Three seconds barely passed. Slight nervousness overcame him seeing Sehun’s name, at the same time struck by disbelief.
you’ve finally risen from the dead?
Jongin huffed, but not with real annoyance. Smiled in fondness. In typical Sehun sass, this was his way of greeting hello.
Refusing to waste his time typing, Jongin placed a call.
A click. Muted, garbled noise, and then Sehun’s almost breathless words entered his ear. “Whoa, what a surprise! You know how to place calls now?” His tone was light and teasing, and Jongin could hear him smiling through the receiver. The image of it he preserved in his mind warmed him more than the blankets he currently cocooned himself with.
“Good to hear you’re doing fine.”
They easily fell into the conversation, as if the long period of no communication between them never existed in the first place. How easy it was to laugh together at the same types of jokes. How incredibly easy it was to share everything that happened to them when they were both busy with their own lives, even if it was just through the phone. Both of them were bursting with innumerable stories they couldn’t wait to tell each other in person, one account spilling onto the next, like free-flowing water.
The soft lull of Sehun’s voice, his laugh, the way he spoke Jongin’s name whether in petty complaint or to catch his attention—slowly, the yawning gap inside his chest began filling again, realizing it had been startlingly empty all this time until now.
Amid a conversation about a common friend, Jongin heard someone call Sehun’s name from his end. Sehun’s rushed request for Jongin to wait a moment, muffled conversation ensuing after. A man, from what little Jongin could make out of the other voice. Sehun supplied him with the necessary details when they resumed their talk: Kim Junmyeon, a co-actor in an upcoming drama he was cast for, and a rising name in the entertainment world. Sehun, Junmyeon, and their other co-actors went out for a meal after today’s script reading. They were in the middle of drinking when Jongin called.
Jongin made an awed sound. “Drinking alcohol, hanging out at bars with cool actor hyungdeul—is this what happens when you turn twenty? My best friend has become a full-fledged adult now.”
“Stop,” Sehun said, chuckling. “Drinking isn’t that bad once you’re used to the taste. Wait, before you jump me, I waited until turning twenty before tasting alcohol, okay? My manager was strict about this. You turned twenty this year, too. Haven’t you had alcohol yet?”
“Beer. Didn’t like it.” Jongin told him the story of Moonkyu and the others buying him a can of beer for his birthday this January to officially mark his entry into adulthood. He couldn’t believe how something so harmless-looking could taste so vile—viler than coffee, which he also loathed with his entire being. “Don’t drink too much, even if you’re having fun.”
“My manager’s keeping close watch on my bottles. I trust him to get me out of sticky situations involving seniority politics. You won’t have to worry about me, I promise,” Sehun said.
Another call of Sehun’s name. It didn’t sound like Junmyeon this time. A pause; Sehun’s loud but polite response. “Sorry, Jongin, I need to go. They’re calling me back. I’ll contact you next time I’m free.” He hurriedly added: “I missed you.”
“I—”
The line was cut before Jongin could answer. In the silence of his room, phone still glued to his ear, he uttered the rest of his words to the air. “I missed you, too.”
Sehun reached out to him first after a couple of weeks. He told Jongin he was free on a set of specific dates two weeks from now and wanted to hang out. Jongin happened to be free on the dates mentioned; decided together on a day, time, and place to meet. Jongin’s cheeks were aching from the smile cemented on his face while reading their exchange over again, not even the questioning stares of the subway passengers across him could incite enough self-consciousness to stop his goofiness.
On the day itself, Jongin kept his phone close to him and prayed to whichever god listening out there he wouldn’t lose or misplace it. He took his time piecing together his clothes for today, turtlenecks and sweaters lined up on his bed to protect himself from winter’s cold; jeans in assorted colors and arranged on the opposite side. One of his sisters entered his room, saw the clothes; asked if he was going on a date. Jongin had never denied anything so fast in his life.
His sister listed her head in curious confusion, no traces of judgment on her face. “Are you sure it’s not a date? If you say so. I assumed it was since you’ve taken out all of your best clothes.”
“Why would noona think it’s a date?” Jongin asked himself, arranging the scarf around his neck before leaving the apartment. He was only meeting up with Sehun to do some long-needed catch up, yet the mere thought of it stirred a flutter in his chest he couldn’t explain.
Each step to the subway station pushed the bothersome question to the back of his mind and kindled his eagerness for the meeting. Jongin checked the directions on his phone; made sure he had the right place on his arrival. He climbed the steps leading to Le Rouge, a newly-opened café doubling as a bistro situated in a relatively quiet spot of Cheongdam. Its target customers were women in their early twenties, though he saw a number of college students idling about with their overpriced coffees and couples feeding each other. Jongin chose a window booth that gave a generous view of the sidewalk so he could easily spot Sehun.
Five in the afternoon. They were meeting at six; dinner might or might not be eaten here. Jongin was admittedly early. His mug of hot chocolate would keep him company while waiting, phone by his left hand and taking occasional peeks.
Six-five in the evening. The mug was now empty. He’d sent three messages; called once. His phone stayed quiet. A waitress dropped by his table and asked if he was waiting for someone; if he’d like to order again. Jongin made a quick computation of his expenses and risked another dent on it by ordering a second mug.
Seven-fifteen. The café was slowly filling up with the dinner crowd. The cloying sweetness of his hot chocolate coated Jongin’s tongue like a stubborn stain. All of his messages and calls to Sehun were never answered. Jongin perked up every time he heard the door open and close; deflated just as fast if he didn’t see Sehun. The same waitress from before was starting to give him sympathetic looks whenever their eyes met. His enthusiasm was cooling like the chocolate in his mug; patience, dangerously thinning.
“Honey, I don’t know who you’re waiting for, but if you mattered to them, they wouldn’t stand you up for nothing,” the waitress told him gently, when she came over to ask if he was placing a last order before the kitchen closed. A polite way of kicking him out. The café sign at the entrance did say they closed at nine.
Jongin would’ve readily defended Sehun; made excuses for him. Mystified as he was for Sehun’s unresponsiveness, the tangled ball of emotions inside him began drowning out his logical side. The batch of unreturned calls and texts should be answer enough. The faint, dull ache on his temples wasn’t helping, either.
Settling the tab and flashing the waitress a faint smile, Jongin left the now-empty café with heavy steps and a heavier chest. He couldn’t understand what was happening. Did Sehun get into some sort of trouble? Was there an emergency, and he couldn’t inform him right away? Did he somehow mix up the dates and actually had filming today? Was Sehun’s manager the sort of villain dramas made them out to be, taking away his phone for so-called safekeeping while in the middle of work?
Jongin found out it was none of these, for when he turned left down the sidewalk, he bumped into Sehun himself.
Sehun, who didn’t realize what just happened, blinking confused eyes at Jongin, as if he was seeing him for the first time. Sehun, who was red in the face with an unnatural-looking flush, visible only when Jongin peeked under the bill of his snapback. Sehun, who reeked strongly of alcohol and cigarettes, laced with traces of barbecue smoke.
“Hey, watch where you’re—” Sehun blinked several times. Recognition flashed in his eyes, a wide grin forming on his face. “Jongin! I was just about to go see you! Wait, this is the way to the subway station. Where are you going? Weren’t we meeting at Le Rouge?”
“The café’s closed. I was the last customer to leave.” Jongin was practically grinding out his words. “Where were you?”
Sehun was tipsy, at best, if only by his surprisingly straight speech. “Oh. Well. I was at a birthday gathering earlier. Junmyeon-hyung invited me. With other friends. You know, for the drama. Sorry if I couldn’t contact you right away. My phone died. Charging station was full. I had to wait for my turn. I had fun while waiting.”
“I can see that,” Jongin retorted, folding his arms across his chest. “You had so much fun it didn’t even cross your mind to text or call me from another phone.” He pushed back his hair in mounting frustration; huffed out an irritated breath. “Damn it, Sehun. I was really worried something serious might have happened, but you were just having too much fun and apparently forgot about our meeting.”
The slow, downward pull of Sehun’s eyebrows and the clenching of his jaw ruined whatever chance of improving the current mood, atmosphere loaded with something tenser. More dangerous. “I already said I was sorry,” he said, voice low.
“You don’t act like it!” Jongin was a beat too late reining in his temper; but the words were out, and he wasn’t taking them back. “I waited for you for hours, all sorts of scenarios playing in my mind. I was sick with worry something might’ve happened but couldn’t reach you. All that waiting I did, and I find out you’ve been having the time of your life somewhere else? Was it worth it, standing me up? Making me look like a complete fool? Congratulations, you achieved both in one try! Un-fucking-believable, Oh Sehun!”
“I didn’t ask you to wait for me!” Sehun snapped, voice rising with every word. The deepened flush on his face wasn’t from the alcohol anymore. “I didn’t obligate you to wait! You should’ve left if you felt like waiting for me was too much of a task for you!”
“I waited because I wanted to! My problem is you never had the decency to let me know if you were running late, or what time you were coming, if at all! If you didn’t feel like hanging out, you should’ve told me earlier instead of pulling this shit!”
Sehun’s stare was a swirling storm of untamed anger, palpable in the words he said next. “What are you being so clingy for, anyway? Don’t you have other friends? Why are you always up in my business when I don’t meddle in yours? This is what makes you different from my other friends: they’re not as unbearable as you!”
It smarted like a mighty slap. It might as well have been one with how much the words stung, stunning Jongin speechless. The tension thickened between them; turned uncomfortable lightning-fast. In the eerie, deafening silence, horror gradually seeped into Sehun’s features, looking more sober than before; eyes no longer clouded by rage, apprehension taking its place.
“Is that what you honestly think when you read my messages asking to hang out?” Jongin broke the silence first, volume of his voice intentionally soft. Anything louder might further tip the unbalanced scales. “Am I too clingy by your standards? Is our friendship burdensome to you?”
“No, I…” Sehun’s protest was weak and short-lived, nothing else leaving his mouth.
Jongin took two deep, steadying breaths. A third, in case he might heave and worsen the growing knot in his throat; the sting in his eyes. He looked up to distract himself. Down, down, the first snow fell, pristine white and pure.
He smiled bitterly at the inopportune timing. “I’m sorry if you think that way.”
There was more he wanted to say, but Jongin chose to channel his remaining energy into walking past Sehun. Away.
The walk to the subway station was a long, lonely one.
☆彡
Immersing himself in rehearsals with laser-like focus did not mean Jongin was oblivious to the talk spreading about him in the company.
Promotion took years for an aspiring ballet dancer, sometimes not even guaranteed no matter how long you’ve been with the company. Status determined your place in the ladder, a testament and figurative trophy of your hard work. Jongin’s arrival changed the game in the most baffling but positive ways. Trainee for a year, corps de ballet member for three. The talk began when teachers subsequently began praising him, whether for his impeccable form or polished technique. It continued when he rendered them speechless every time they asked to him perform specific routines in front of others. Jongin wondered and worried about the teachers’ clutching of chests and shaking of heads; melted with relief from their applause. Soon, he found his answer, hushed whispers confined within the safety of the studio walls reaching his ears.
The gifted dancer. The rising star. A dancing genius. One in a million. Jongin wasn’t sure what warranted these, who coined the unofficial labels. He didn’t think he was doing anything out of the ordinary compared to the others. He rehearsed hard, refined and improved his technique harder, exerted conscious effort not to injure himself. He danced with every ounce of passion he possessed, no matter the role, and, perhaps, this was precisely what caught his teachers’ attention. The audience’s, too, in the way they asked around for the outstanding dancer too talented to stay in the corps. Snagged him a promotion to demi-soloist at twenty-two after three years in the corps, inciting a bit of envy but mostly admiration from his peers.
Grateful and humbled for the promotions, the recognition of his effort and talent, Jongin became twice driven in his refusal to slack off. He pushed himself as hard as he could, within reasonable limits. Teachers and friends cautioned him not to overwork. Jongin accepted their concern; listened to their critique. Theirs was tame compared to the kind of criticism he used on himself. He monitored his dances by recording them on phone, worked to improve parts he was dissatisfied with, consulted teachers for this or that in the face of doubt. There was no better feeling than completing a routine flawlessly and the self-satisfaction it brought. A continuous work in progress on his part, Jongin admitted; for every recorded rehearsal of his performance, he, unfailingly, would find minute details he didn’t like. Scold himself for not doing it better, stew in his misery, then stand and try again. And again.
New trainees stopped and stared at him when Jongin passed through the hallways, now. Moonkyu, a demi-soloist himself promoted a year earlier, told him to accept the young ones’ praises; teased him of having a growing fan club. While flattering, and often curious how and why he had this effect on them, Jongin couldn’t be happier knowing he was a positive influence somewhat when a trainee declared he was their role model and aimed to dance like him after watching his performance in Le Corsaire. That was Jongin’s first ballet production as a newly-promoted demi-soloist.
Jongin supposed, in some way, this was what fame felt like. Perhaps nothing unlike the magnitude of idols or entertainers experienced, but still clumsily working on how to deal with the sudden influx of attention.
Excited shrieks startled Jongin out of his reminiscing. He blinked twice; remembered he was eating lunch in the cafeteria. Others in the vicinity looked to the source of noise. It was from the table in front of Jongin, where young men and women sat, phones out, food forgotten. Some were sharing earphones, most probably streaming something on their devices. Jongin resumed eating, ears catching snippets of conversation unwillingly.
Taking the country by storm was the hottest drama of the season, Life is a Flower Garden. The drama was a coming-of-age story revolving around the lives of five teenage students and the strength of their friendship as they faced triumphs and failures together. It showed the importance of dreams, how youths poured unyielding passion into achieving their goals, and changed the lives of the people around them in many ways. Cheesy title aside, the drama catapulted to fame despite the absence of romance as it tackled societal problems and everyday pressures the youth faced; placed great emphasis on familial and platonic bonds. Another peculiar element of the drama was the cast. Not a single popular figure headlined the show, save for the director and scriptwriter, yet they won over the hearts of the nation; became a definite must-watch among drama connoisseurs.
Jongin knew this information by heart. He researched the drama during his breaks, streamed the episode if he couldn’t watch it on real time or held back by rehearsals for upcoming shows. This was Sehun’s first big project after Welcome to the Jang Household; after a year of cameos, a semi-regular role as Kim Junmyeon’s rebellious teen brother in a spring drama, trickles of commercials, and a mainstay for seasonal variety shows. Jongin monitored this drama closely since its conception, and even more when the first rumored lineup—later confirmed—containing Sehun’s name circulated online; attached to it, the main role. He watched everything from promotional teasers to the press conference; read articles and steered clear from the comment section. He felt protective of Sehun, and his co-stars by extension, when some netizens nitpicked their acting during the first two episodes. The criticism got buried by more positive comments, eventually dwindled when the drama started picking up; the actors and actresses, improving by miles in their methods since the pilot.
Each episode, Jongin jotted down his thoughts and feelings on a notebook. Gone were the days he’d send Sehun feedback by text. How would Sehun react if he knew this? Would his cheeks redden as he shyly laughed? Would he give him a withering stare, the opposite to the pleased smile on his face?
Sighing, Jongin shoved the last of his food, careful not to choke, and hurried to his next rehearsal.
He avoided straying too far down the bitter side of memory lane. It was far worse at the beginning, recalling the fight unprompted despite the lack of stimuli related to the episode, mood guaranteed to nose-dive in a flash. Throwing himself into rehearsals was his way to drown out the unwanted memories. Taking walks with Moonkyu by the Han River aided in forgetting fragment by painful fragment.
Consciously stopping himself from scrolling down KakaoTalk and opening his chat window with Sehun took a little longer. Opening it meant traveling back to when he was twenty-one and regretful, rubbing salt on healing wounds. Jongin had taken a week to process his emotions, dissected what he should or shouldn’t have done, before coming to a decision and reached out. He had typed and read his message several times over before sending it, nervous but curious about Sehun’s response.
It had been the first of many messages that were never read. None of Jongin’s calls had been answered, either.
A year had passed in complete silence from Sehun’s end.
Now, at twenty-two, right when Jongin thought himself patched up in some places, Life is a Flower Garden trampled on his efforts. Every corner of Seoul had been conquered by this drama: gargantuan LCD screens playing next episode teasers or re-runs, people in and out of the company gossiping about the latest developments and fawning over Sehun’s character or the others, OST songs invading charts and possessed minds in the way random sections would be sung and everyone would instantly know which episode it played.
“What are you doing?” Moonkyu’s question had Jongin’s head snapping up, removing one earbud so he could hear him properly. They were on a ten-minute break from rehearsal, the timing coinciding with the OST song release on official streaming sites. Moonkyu peeked at Jongin’s phone. “Uh-huh. No wonder you couldn’t wait to stream.”
“Shut up,” Jongin said, without real bite. The new song was the most recent addition to the drama, and the one Jongin anticipated the most since finding out rising balladeer, Kim Jongdae, sang it. “I’m not one for ballads, you know that. Kim Jongdae is an exception.”
Moonkyu gave him a look that said he half-believed him. “Sure. Kim Jongdae also happens to be singing for Oh Sehun’s drama.”
Jongin scrunched up his nose and continued listening to Kim Jongdae crooning about pursuing dreams.
“You miss him.” Moonkyu posed it neither as a question nor accusation.
“It’s been nearly two years.”
“Nearly two years of forlorn gazes at any surface with Sehun’s face on it.”
Jongin scowled.
Moonkyu grinned, unfazed, expression reverting back to its previous seriousness. “You don’t talk about it, but deep down, I know you want closure.”
Kim Jongdae’s powerful runs could not drown out the tiny voice agreeing at the back of Jongin’s head.
“Nearly two years is a long time,” Jongin said, after the song finished. He yanked off his other earbud, fumbling with the cord. “I’m not made of steel. I know how to take a hint and when to stop pushing.”
“Or you haven’t pushed hard enough,” Moonkyu pointed out, not unkindly. “You don’t say it, but your actions display otherwise. You’re still invested. If it’s bothering you to this day, it means you haven’t moved on completely.”
Moonkyu’s words stuck with Jongin until the end of the day, annoyingly enough. Perhaps a grain of truth existed in them. On the night the argument erupted, when Jongin walked away and Sehun didn’t stop him, did everything truly end back then? Or did Jongin just decide by himself it was, based on the amount of unreturned messages? Was he willing to severe a long-time friendship over unresolved what-ifs that might or might not have any solid basis; over his paranoia making it seem like a bigger concern than its original form?
One last time, Jongin vowed to himself. He would give it one last shot for the much-needed closure. If Sehun would not be moved, he’d see no reason to hold on, either.
With a determined mind and working up enough courage, Jongin sent what he guessed might be his final message if this final attempt fell through.
hey sehun, it’s been two years.
i don’t know if you’re going to read this but i wish we could talk instead of giving each other the silent treatment.
if it’s not asking too much from you, can we please meet up and talk?
after this, if you don’t want anything to do with me, i won’t have any more regrets.
He added a date, time, and place. Read it one more time. One last time. Sent it with a nervous heart. Distracted himself for the rest of the night.
The next morning, Jongin was almost positive he woke up in an alternate dimension seeing a response to his message.
sure
see you
He pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t half-asleep, but the words glaring right back at him through the brightness of his phone screen was unmistakable.
At the back of his mind, as Jongin fussed over which coat would go with the outfit he prepared, he worried if Sehun would make him wait for hours again. Or worse: stand him up in revenge. Jongin shook his head vigorously; banished the negative thoughts. He promised himself to exercise more patience and keep his mind more open in case Sehun ran late again.
Jongin chose the same window booth at Le Rouge on purpose. He could’ve picked another spot, another café located in some backstreet alley, but he wanted to expunge the unpleasant memories linked to Le Rouge. Although Jongin couldn’t predict the future, he wished fervently this rift would head toward an agreeable direction, if not the happy ending he would do anything for.
Jongin waited in nervous anticipation, glancing at his phone on the table more times than he would dare admit. He arrived an hour early, and green tea probably wasn’t the best choice, considering his state of anxiousness.
He’d barely taken a sip when Sehun himself slipped into the chair across of him. Jongin slowly lowered his cup, taking a few seconds to register what just happened; more, for the reality to properly sink in his mind.
Sehun was wearing a snapback under his black hoodie, drawstrings pulled a bit tight. He loosened them to push back his hood, snapback staying on his head. Jongin glanced at the wall clock hanging above the counter. Sehun was thirty minutes early.
An awkward, excruciatingly painful silence stretched between them. Jongin couldn’t stop staring, scared to blink and find out the Sehun in front of him was a mere figment of his imagination. Sehun met his stare, uncertainty swimming through his features.
“So—”
“How are—”
Jongin was as surprised as Sehun looked for talking at the same time.
“Sorry, you can—”
“No, go ahead—”
Heat suffused Jongin’s face. A blush was invading Sehun’s cheeks.
“Really, it’s okay—”
“I’m just—”
The heat spread to Jongin’s ears and neck. Sehun snorted, an amused sound more than anything.
“We gonna play this game until closing time?” Sehun’s voice was absent of malice. His lips were twitching, as if trying to fight off a smile.
Every drop of tension bled away from Jongin’s being. “If you’re that free,” he answered, using the lightest of teasing tones.
And when Sehun leaned back into the chair, looking more relaxed—relieved—and less guarded, the minutest of smiles playing at his lips, the tension in the air cleared. Near two years’ of silence riddled with uncertainties dissolved like smoke.
“I hope you’ve been well since the last time we talked,” Jongin said, further attempting to close the gap. He smiled when he said his next words. “I watch your drama.” He delighted at Sehun’s genuinely shocked face for a while before continuing. “It has a very good premise. Everyone’s stories are engaging. I can sympathize with the characters. I can’t predict what happens next, which is good.”
“Thank you.” Two words said in the softest voice, but weighed heavy with gratitude and sincerity. Sehun’s face was terribly red, but he also looked pleased, showcased by the stretching of his mouth to form a bigger smile. “I didn’t expect you to watch the drama. You’re not someone I’d call a drama fan.”
“Me, neither,” Jongin confessed, sheepish in his admission. “It’s the slice of life and human relations theme that got to me. You know I like that stuff.”
“I do. It’s why you couldn’t stop crying over The Devotion of Suspect X after reading it the first time. And after.” Sehun’s eyebrow lifted in surprise, face showing mild amusement. “Why are you looking at me like that? The lack of communication for a long time didn’t magically erase those memories from my mind. It’s natural I’d remember little details about friends. But…” He cast his gaze downward sadly. “I haven’t been a very good friend, huh?”
Sehun suddenly looked so small and vulnerable in his seat, laying out his worries and insecurities piece by piece. Jongin badly wanted to reach out and comfort him; give a hug. He did neither; stayed stationary, scared to ruin the good momentum.
“I saw your messages,” Sehun said, breaking the short silence. “You must wonder why I never read them. At first, I let the annoyance get to my head. I know it was my fault we even had that dumb fight in the first place. I recognized that the next day after all my denying. I was so ashamed of how I acted. I wanted to make amends, but I didn’t know where and how to begin. Then your message came, and I didn’t know what to do. So I put off opening them. I gave myself the excuse of being too busy with projects. I convinced myself I wasn’t ready for confrontation every time you sent a new one. Then your messages stopped coming one day. God, that felt the worst. I felt very empty. Many times I told myself to man up and contact you, but I kept chickening out. I wasted almost two years being scared and being a coward.”
“Don’t say that,” Jongin chided. “Want to know a secret? I was scared and a coward, too. I was scared you’ve had it with me. That being friends with me was tiring you out. You always kept to your word, but I was blinded by my anger back then to remember that important detail.”
“I wouldn’t have withstood me, to be honest,” Sehun said, a sorrowful smile on his face. Jongin didn’t like this smile on him. “Always canceling last minute even after I said I’d show up, arriving late when we do meet, exhibiting grade-A asshole behavior the last time we saw each other face to face… Not many people would have the patience to deal with someone like me. I’m surprised you weren’t fed up after everything. Other people would’ve dumped my ass by now.”
“Good thing I’m not ‘other people.’” Jongin expected to hurt a whole lot, or feel embarrassed, dealing with the unsightly sides of their past selves. Expected residual resentment, or pettiness, or more heated accusations. Yet his current calmness might be pointing toward a positive resolution; that, perhaps, they had grown in ways unnoticed while being absent in each other’s lives. “We both had our faults. I shouldn’t have overreacted that day. I should’ve been more understanding.”
“I should’ve apologized. I shouldn’t have started an argument,” Sehun said, then hurriedly added, “I shouldn’t have said the things I said. This is years late, but I’m sorry for saying very hurtful things. You’re not clingy. Our friendship isn’t burdensome. You’re one of the friends I treasure a lot, even if I was terrible and immature and didn’t show it better. Maybe… maybe I don’t deserve you, or your friendship, but I also want to challenge that by proving otherwise. I want to deserve you. I want to be deserving of the friendship you give me.”
“You are,” Jongin confirmed, without hesitation. He allowed himself to smile. “So in the end, we turned out to be a pair of foolish cowards scared over similar matters.” Sehun chuckled, the first since his arrival, and Jongin had never felt so triumphant. Reassured. “We’ve both recognized our faults. We’ve both apologized. Let’s let it go.”
Sehun wrinkled his nose. “Oh, god, isn’t that the popular song right now? The one with the girl who controls ice?”
This time, Jongin laughed loud and unrestrained.
Catching up was done while walking down the streets and admiring the first snow. They visited Mr. Lee’s tteokbokki shop, a first for both of them since their argument. Mr. Lee, flabbergasted by their entrance, cheered loudly then quieted down when Sehun pressed a finger to his lips and shook his head. Mr. Lee seated them at the far corner of his shop and gave away extra dishes for free on his insistence. Sehun encountered some close calls of being almost recognized, so he lowered the bill of his snapback to conceal his face from view. Jongin helped by casting surreptitious glances around them to check for prying eyes.
It felt incredibly nice, Jongin thought, to spend time with a friend he missed dearly.
Mr. Lee thought so, too, especially when they told him of their fresh reconciliation.
“Not saying friends shouldn’t fight, but it can either make your friendship stronger or completely break it,” Mr, Lee said, while seeing them out. “But it looks like I won’t have to worry too much about you lads. You’ve proven your bond is strong. That’s not so easily found in young people nowadays.” He motioned for them to lean closer before whispering, “Especially friendships with rising celebrities. Showbiz can be a dirty, depressing place, so hang onto each other, okay?”
“I’m not letting Jongin go,” Sehun whispered back, the softness of his voice a stark contrast to the fiery determination it carried. “I won’t be foolish a second time.”
Jongin couldn’t remember if he answered Mr. Lee. The intensity of Sehun’s stare on him was distracting.
So was the complicated beat of his heart.
☆彡
Hanging out returned and firmly twined its presence into their lives since reconciling. Jongin adjusted to Sehun’s hectic schedule if he wasn’t too tired from rehearsals; turned down invites during show nights, knowing he’d be worn out beyond belief and end late to properly have fun. Sehun poured himself into work commitments six times a week so he was free to hang out with Jongin on his day-off for a long time, if not in its entirety. They hung out whenever possible to make up for the delays and postponements, activities bearing no difference from what they enjoyed doing in their teens: having a meal together, watching movies, walks by the Han River, maybe an hour at the arcade if it wasn’t too crowded, healing sessions at saunas to cleanse themselves of accumulated stress.
A day spent together helped Jongin disengage from his ballet bubble and, in some ways, recalibrate. Sehun played hard, too, not mentioning anything related to work except when sharing funny anecdotes.
“There’s one section I find funny, but that could just be—Jongin, wake up or you’ll fall face first into your toast.”
Jongin blinked thrice, stubborn remnants of sleep loosening its hold on him. A fourth blink, and he gradually returned to his current reality of Le Rouge’s pastry-perfumed air, the lingering sweetness of strawberry jam on his tongue, and Sehun holding an opened folder beside him, eyes filled with concern.
“Are you sure you’re awake enough for this?” Sehun asked. His eyebrows knitted together. “If you’re too tired, we can—”
“No, no!” Jongin answered in a hurry, back straightening, but not for long. His body was quite uncooperative today, softening easily from the leftover grogginess. “I don’t function well early in the mornings.” Not to mention the exhaustion of the previous days from nonstop rehearsals for different productions were finally catching up to him. He almost slept through his ten alarms, and it took him forever to leave the house.
“Having brunch at eleven isn’t early,” Sehun remarked, chuckling, “but I’m not one to talk. My mornings don’t start until two in the afternoon, sometimes.”
“See. So stop picking on me,” Jongin mumbled, head finding residence on Sehun’s shoulder. His body immediately registered the position comfortable, warmth radiating off Sehun dangerously lulling him to close his eyes. Giving in, he briefly wondered if Sehun tensing up from the contact was a product of his imagination.
The next time Jongin opened his eyes, he was considerably more awake. His food had gone cold; he ate it, anyway, though the two pieces of toast merely fueled his appetite and not sate it. Sehun ordered him another plate of toast; grinned at him for the cup of caffe latte Jongin clearly did not ask.
Coffee had been Jongin’s one true nemesis since losing to Moonkyu and their other friends in a game, the punishment requiring him to down an entire cup of Americano. He had never tasted anything so revolting in his entire life. His continued unlucky streak in games had raised unwanted encounters with the beverage until Moonkyu, probably out of pity, had ordered a caffe latte for him to chug down instead. Jongin still loathed coffee and wouldn’t order it out of his own free will, though he could begrudgingly tolerate caffe lattes if necessary.
Jongin glared at the innocent cup. “Is this payback for sleeping on your shoulder?”
“You always sleep on my shoulder.”
“Didn’t know you were keeping tabs,” Jongin muttered under his breath.
Sehun heard him, anyway. “Never said I didn’t like it.”
“And the caffe latte?”
“I don’t mind you sleepy, but I need your opinion on something right now. I thought I’d get you something that’ll jumpstart the wires in your head.”
Jongin had mentioned this tidbit in passing to Sehun only once. Amazing he remembered and applied when necessary. He chalked it up to Sehun’s natural thoughtfulness.
Ignoring the drink on purpose, Jongin took one look at Sehun’s folder and already knew where the conversation would lead. “What’s your new script about?”
On rare times, like now, Sehun would bring a script with him to peruse if he was considering a role. Sehun told him, with shy honesty when questioned, that he liked discussing his prospective projects with him. Jongin’s interesting insights and valued input helped Sehun arrive at decisions faster; become more discerning of which projects to try. Sehun was inundated with project offers and endorsement deals since the conclusion of Life is a Flower a Garden. Some landed in Sehun’s hands. Most were stalled at pending status—the company had the final say on which ones to accept or reject. If Sehun was reading the script, chances of the company approving the project was high, whether or not he accepted.
Jongin demolished his toast before receiving an answer.
“I was offered a movie role. Leading man.”
“Congratulations!”
“Yeah, well, my manager said the director really wanted me for the role. The director sent proposals to the company a bunch of times.” The light red dusting Sehun’s cheeks complemented his tiny, bashful smile. “I read the script as soon as I got it. I’m not too keen on romance films, but I gave it another go last night. The second read changed my mind. I think the plot’s engaging.”
A trace of doubt was planted in his words. Unsure if it rooted from second thoughts or something else, Jongin prepared to allay Sehun’s insecurities. “Will you be working with industry people you’d rather avoid?”
“No!” Sehun’s interjection came so fast it was kind of funny. He straightened up in his seat, if that was even possible with his already immaculate posture, a kind of nervous energy coming off him. “The director and producers are respected figures. The scriptwriter, too. They’re people I’ve always wanted to work with—I’d ask for nothing more if I accept this. I can overlook the fact my first big screen project is a romance film. If I accept the offer, not only will it be my first lead role in a film, but my first kissing scene in my entire career.”
Jongin opened his mouth; closed it. So that was his concern.
Sehun became popular for many things: good looks, Life is a Flower Garden lead role, continuously-evolving acting skills, ranking first in polls of rookie actors to look out for. In some online discussion posts Jongin stumbled upon, many wondered when Sehun would challenge romantic films or dramas. Past interviews had asked the burning question. Sehun had always been consistent with his answer: “I have no interest in doing romance works right now.” The first time he’d said this, he generated buzz and shot up to second place on Naver’s top ten most searched keywords.
Jongin still saw passing comments wishing Sehun would soon be cast in a romance movie or drama. Perhaps their wishing wouldn’t go in vain this time.
Jongin dove into the script upon migrating to a relatively secluded spot by the Han River. Sehun busied himself with his phone meanwhile. Flipping to the last page after an hour or two of reading, Jongin reached the last line and blew out a sigh.
Sehun looked his way at once, expectant expression on his face. “How is it?”
“You’re right. There’s a kissing scene. One of the pivotal moments of the film, too.”
“What do you think about the story?”
“Truthfully? Thank god no one died in the end.” A loud, shared laugh. Jongin clearly remembered a time when media was so obsessed in killing off one half of the main couple in spite of the current course of the plot pointing to a happy ending. None of those plot twists and endings made sense, in hindsight. “Thank god it’s not an open ending, too. Both lead characters are strong by their own right and have individual agency, but their shortcomings are what complement them. Male lead is charming and a tad mischievous. He resembles you a bit, except you’re not chaebol level of rich.”
Sehun held up a finger for him to stop. “Not yet. But I will be. Give me time. And work.”
Jongin chuckled. “Female lead is charming by her own right. Headstrong, but not blindly stubborn. Honestly, there isn’t anything I dislike about the script. It’s a carefully thought-out story, even if the ‘spoiled rich boy gets life lessons from practical poor girl’ scenario has been done many times. Some parts feel contrived, but it’s more of a personal preference. Those are my thoughts. Up to you to accept or not.”
Entertainment news portals went ablaze with numerous articles containing important news: Oh Sehun’s big screen debut in a romance film. The news was released together with the finalized cast, big names of the production crew, and a short synopsis of the film. Netizens were majorly surprised. Majority of the upvoted comments positively expressed their enthusiasm through words or memes.
Sehun shared filming progress with Jongin, messages and pictures sent in succession or spaced out by hours. Jongin replied at his own pace, busy himself with rehearsals for three to four productions at once. Unlike the past, they now possessed a better mutual understanding of each other’s schedules; didn’t take it to heart if replies came late. Jongin was especially careful not to lose or misplace his phone anymore despite his continued, notorious streak of untimed donations.
Filming would take around three months, production crew aiming for a spring release. Sehun would have to divide his time between Seoul and Gangneung once it commenced. On Jongin’s days off, he listened to Sehun recite his lines. He watched Sehun highlight specific phrases and scribble notes in indecipherable script on the borders, clueing him on what emotions and tones to use. The script steadily became dog-eared and creased in places on every meeting—proof of Sehun hard at work internalizing the role, his seriousness on tackling this challenge.
“Okay, but there’s one part I can’t seem to portray accurately,” Sehun said, while walking down the less crowded streets of Cheongdam around the tail end of autumn. Gone were the days they could take any routes at leisure without consequence. They tried that once. It ended with Sehun flocked by avid fans and having to hurry out of the building before word spread too fast. The price of growing fame. “The confession scene. The kissing scene, by extension.”
Jongin picked on the loose thread of his sweater, confused by the sudden stirring of unpleasant sensations behind his ribs. “Aren’t you given a crash course for that?”
“Sure, we’re given mannequins to practice sucking the souls out of,” was Sehun’s sarcastic remark. “My manager told me to practice with my fist. I tried. It’s not the same as kissing an actual person. We haven’t shot the scene yet; I think the director’s going for a specific mood. I’ve been practicing since. Who knows when the director might spring it up on us? What if I don’t do a good job?” He grimaced at a sudden thought that must’ve crossed his mind. “What if my co-star thinks I’m a bad kisser? My ego’s gonna take a hit.”
The kissing scene was meant to convey the purity of a first love with undertones of a fiery passion. A combination hard to balance and portray. “You’ll do well,” Jongin assured. “Watch movies with memorable kissing scenes. Continue practicing with your hand. Ask the director for tips and advice.”
Sehun hummed, shoving his hands inside his bomber jacket pockets. Winter’s cold was beginning its slow invasion on Seoul despite autumn not coming to an official close. “I’ve done all that.” A tiny, exasperated sigh; a loud groan of complaint. “Why are romance films suddenly so complicated?”
“Spend time with your co-star, too. If you aren’t comfortable around her, it’s going to show and translate on screen. Your interactions should be natural. You can’t just kiss like”—Jongin scrunched up his face in apology for his next words—“two dead fish. It’s going to ruin the mood of the film.”
Sehun threw his head back in raucous laughter. “You know what’s funny? That’s what Hyesoo-noona said, too. Oh, didn’t I tell you? Hyesoo-noona was the first to approach me during script reading. Our first conversation was totally awkward. It got better later. We have similar concerns about building believable chemistry. She said we needed to reach a level of ease around each other to come off convincing when we’re on screen.”
Jongin’s fingers returned to fumbling with the loose thread again—harder, this time. “She’s right.”
“She’s really cool. Never expected that from a top actress,” Sehun said. The unveiled awe in his voice was usually reserved for colleagues who left a deep impression on him. “Hyesoo-noona said the first step to establishing rapport was to get closer beyond professional purposes. We’ve been having meals together outside of filming. With the other stars and our managers, of course. She’s helped me a lot when it comes to emoting. You won’t believe this, but she plays mobile games, too. She hasn’t managed to beat me, though.” He wore a proud smile.
The unpleasant sensations behind Jongin’s ribs stirred like a storm. Guilt lanced through his chest for thinking he’d rather listen to Sehun talk about something else. Now was not the time to showcase immaturity, considering Sehun’s obvious enthusiasm about the topic.
How could one not be when your co-star was Ahn Hyesoo? A former child star, she won the nation over with her compelling performance in Sunshine Lives Here, a touching movie about an orphan girl begrudgingly taken in by a recluse, retired chairwoman that swept all the major awards on the year of its release. She exited the limelight to focus on her studies and made a glorious return to showbiz with a comeback movie that attracted millions of viewers within the first week. Bolstered by her fame as a Miss Korea finalist before returning as an actress, numerous brands wanted her name and face attached to their products; cosmetic surgery clinics in Gangnam receiving a surge of clients who desired to look like her.
Older by two years than Sehun, porcelain-skinned and doe-eyed, and lacking a big disparity between their heights, inevitable was the talk about them by netizens. In varied iterations—whether by fans, the general public, or new converts—the consensus agreed they looked good together.
Jongin stopped scrolling further down the articles after the third time of coasting by those comments. Reading them strangely triggered a pounding in his chest, the churning of his gut. Plagued him in the moments he was by himself; played like a film on loop unwanted.
“Jongin, stop frowning.” The ballet mistress’ loud command startled him and the other dancers in the studio. The piano tune playing in the background faded to nothing, subsequent silence unhelpful and didn’t salvage Jongin from the creeping embarrassment. Never had he been called at attention in his years of doing ballet.
Jongin gave a quick apology. Although rehearsal resumed, the ballet mistress’ stern frown didn’t disappear. She set Jongin aside for a talk at the corner, away from the curious eyes and ears of the next batch of dancers filing into the studio.
“Facial expressions are part of the performance. You excel in this, among many others. Lately, however, your timing on showing appropriate expressions has been slipping. A dead man passes with an impassive face, yet you continue frowning even on your character’s death. Sort whatever is bothering you. It will do you no good letting it affect your performance.”
Jongin’s cheeks burned with shame. “I apologize for my carelessness. I’ll work harder.” He wasn’t bothered by the constructive criticism, acknowledging that even a high-ranked dancer like him should continuously strive for improvement. He was more bothered by his distraction; allowing his attention to wander somewhere else. If his concentration easily faltered over something trivial, he needed to pull himself better together.
“You scowl too much these days,” Moonkyu commented, over a happenstance meeting at the cafeteria. Seldom did their break times overlap this year, both of them assigned to different productions with schedules preventing frequent crossing of paths.
Jongin groaned after guzzling half his water. “Not you, too.”
“I have eyes, Jongin. And ears. It’s hard to catch you these days, but gossip travels fast.” Moonkyu chewed on his sandwich. “Rumors going around among the corps is Kim Jongin-sunbaenim’s untouchable image taken to a whole other level.”
“Un—what?” Jongin exclaimed, baffled.
“They see you in the halls, but no one dares to approach. Your ice-cold aura scares them off. Students who’ve watched the rehearsal for the Mercutio-Tybalt-Romeo fight scene left the studio awed and chilled. Your performance of a dying Mercutio is effective is my takeaway—the students felt like you were cursing at them rather than the Montagues and Capulets.”
Jongin frowned. Did that explain why trainees and corps members scurried off as soon as they gave their greetings recently?
“I’ll be the judge of that if I get the chance to watch Romeo and Juliet,” Moonkyu continued, finishing the rest of his sandwich. “I’m more curious of what could make the famed soloist Kim Jongin scowl for days on end.”
A group walked past their table, munching on energy bars. An enthusiastic debate of whether Oh Sehun and Ahn Hyesoo had a possibility of being more than just an onscreen couple reached Jongin’s ears. Jongin chomped on his chicken with more vigor than needed.
Moonkyu hummed knowingly. “I see.”
“Saw what? You saw nothing. You heard nothing.” Jongin bit into his chicken again.
“I had a hunch since you started complaining about the number of people ‘accidentally’ spotting them together in the city.” Amusement played at the corners of Moonkyu’s mouth. Jongin wanted to wipe it off with a greasy napkin. “Some accounts seem dubious. Probably a promotional tactic to build hype around the leads. You know this, so why does it get under your skin so much?”
“It does not!” Jongin interjected too fast. A simple question, a harmless question, yet he felt oddly defensive. Exposed. Why?
Moonkyu’s amusement increased from the widening of his grin. “Jongin, in the years we’ve been friends, I can’t believe you’d be this dense.”
The bold statement rendered Jongin speechless. His jaw twitched, eyebrow raised in challenge. “Come again?” he asked, after returning to himself.
“For someone who’s quick on the uptake, I’m shocked you’d be oblivious to your own feelings,” Moonkyu said, not unkindly. “Missing friends is fine. Being envious of Sehun spending time with Ahn Hyesoo because you can’t hang out together lately? Sure, I get that. Whether it’s for media play or out of his own will is another story entirely. But if you first reaction to new sightings or general information about them in town is hostility, you should start digging deeper and ask yourself why.”
Moonkyu’s words struck him like furious fists to the gut. Jongin continued chewing, but he couldn’t taste the chicken seasoning anymore.
It was all Jongin could think about. It plagued him on moments he was by himself. Plugging in his earbuds and blasting R&B songs, surrounding himself in the din of late night crowds, willingly falling down the YouTube hole in hopes of claiming sleep—none of them could banish the cursed discussion. Jongin assumed it would disappear in several days.
Wrong.
More news about Sehun and Hyesoo getting along well off-cam came out. Official pictures of the cast were shared at one point; some showing Sehun and Hyesoo huddled close in a mobile game battle, others having a good time together. A few voiced their skepticism about the sightings; concern for both actor and actress, and how they were being used to promote a movie that had yet to wrap up filming.
One netizen stated their opinion about Sehun and Hyesoo not looking compatible. Jongin had never agreed so fast. Shame had never flamed his face twice as fast, the horrific realization of his hideous thoughts a sobering wake-up call.
The slumbering green monster residing in the murkiest depths of his heart was now awakened, refusing to be smothered any longer.
The same monster that had gnawed on Jongin’s insides whenever Sehun brought up stories about receiving confessions or going on blind dates set up by older actor friends. Jongin had questioned himself why sickening relief was the first emotion to register after finding out Sehun rejected the confessions, stopped seeing someone after two or three dates. He had questioned why a clamor of terrible emotions materialized within after Sehun hinted he now knew what it was like to put his mouth and hands on the most private parts of someone else’s body; how Jongin, despite the teasing and congratulating, wished he’d heard nothing. He had questioned why Sehun’s cool acceptance upon hearing he received confessions of his own was disappointing to him, and why his reaction mattered a lot.
A fellow company dancer had given him his first wake-up call in the past. A promising soloist on her way to promotion, the company prodigy and someone he wished to work with in the future, Jongin hadn’t quite believed Shim Yoojung would candidly confess her feelings to him. Jongin hadn’t quite believed what she said. When it registered, he had apologized first, politely rejected her next.
Yoojung had merely smiled, as if she expected the outcome already. What she said next had stuck with Jongin for a very, very long time.
“Do you know what people have been saying about you? There must be a reason why you keep rejecting confessions. No interest? How can you say that for sure if you don’t give the other person a chance? Feelings can develop after going out—it’s not an uncommon happening. But I’m not going to try and change your mind. Why is that? It’s difficult to compete with the person who’s totally taken over your heart.”
Speechless, flustered, Jongin had scrambled to object, “I—there’s no one—”
Yoojung’s smile had become more enigmatic. “That’s what you think. Feelings don’t grow overnight. Why don’t you try pursuing the person in your heart rather than listening to confessions that will never go anywhere? Or… are you scared of being rejected, too?”
In retrospect, that conversation was the giant neon sign of warning Jongin should’ve taken seriously. Piecing it together with recent developments, along with other past incidents he brushed off as nonsensical or nothing, the bigger picture now lay in front of him, revealing the answer he could no longer escape or look away from.
“Did something happen? You look like someone stole your chicken,” Sehun said. Their next meeting fell on the second night of The Nutcracker, the company’s most popular winter production. Since reconciling, he never failed to show up to at least one show Jongin participated in, regardless of role. He couldn’t attend Romeo and Juliet, busy at the time at Gangneung for on-site filming, so Jongin kept his expectation low until he actually showed up today.
“I’m a little tired.” Seeing immediate concern flash across Sehun’s face warmed Jongin, though he hurriedly added, “It’s manageable. Stop frowning at me. I’ll tell you if I’m really, really tired, I promise.”
No sooner did the words leave him did Jongin lose his footing on a slippery part of the pavement. Instinct and panic had Jongin grabbing Sehun’s arm, clutching onto it like a lifeline, waiting for his raced heartbeat to slow.
Sehun’s frown became more severe-looking. He pulled Jongin close, linking their arms together. “Watch your step. You can’t perform with a sprained ankle,” he gently scolded. “Stick close and hold on tight.”
Without Sehun’s manager, they could take their time enjoying a night stroll in the park after a late dinner together. Winding cemented paths led them to different sections of the park, offering unique sights. They trekked the path leading them to bare trees decorated with pretty baubles and fairy lights strung around the trunks and branches, artificial amber glow lending their surroundings a whimsical, wonderland feel. Park maintainers boasted it would look more beautiful with snow dusting the surface, one up for debate as of now. Half of December was gone already, but snow had yet to arrive.
“We’re close to filming the confession scene,” Sehun suddenly blurted out, perhaps prompted by the couples walking about. “I’ve been practicing by looking at the mirror. It’s hard. I think it’s because the lines are too corny for me.”
Jongin ignored the growling green monster and said, “You’ll hardly have time to think about the lines once you’ve absorbed the moment.”
Sehun let out a noncommittal sound. “True. I haven’t confessed to a lot of people, so my methods might be lacking. Personal experience really plays a huge part in helping you understand certain scenes and emotions. Since I’m lacking, I have to work harder to make my confession authentic. If I can’t convince the audience, it means I’ve failed.” His breath came out in tiny, white puffs. “Have you confessed to someone before? Maybe you can help me.”
“In primary school, I surprised a girl I liked with flowers I plucked from the neighbor’s garden. The girl was allergic to flowers. My mom had to apologize on my behalf to the neighbors. I ruined a perfect garden and moped for three days over someone who said they didn’t like me. I avoided looking at flowers for a while after that.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Sehun guffawed, shaking his head. “If you were to confess now, how would you go about it? What would you tell them?”
“I don’t know,” Jongin said, honestly. The ratio between receiving and giving confessions were uneven. “In a hypothetical situation, I’ll give it a lot of thought first. I have to be sure I really like the person before confessing. And when I do, I’ll tell them straight. With flowers, but not uprooted from the neighbor’s garden.”
“What kind of flowers? Would it be something the person likes, or something you think would suit the occasion?”
“Wait, why are you asking so many questions?” Jongin felt his eyebrows sink low; his heart, lower. “Are you thinking of confessing to someone?”
“Maybe,” Sehun answered coolly, but the tips of his ears were red. From the cold or something else, Jongin was clueless. “I’ve thought long and hard about finally confessing to someone.”
Jongin’s heart plummeted. His mind latched onto one person. His dreaded guess, about to be realized. “How would you do it?”
“I want it to be perfect, like in movies: romantic dinner, fancy surroundings. I’ll plan an event if I have the time and means. Nothing too cheesy like forming a giant heart using red candles.” Sehun paused to shudder in a show of loathing. “But that’s not how real-life situations go. Careful plans have a way of being ruined. Timing is crucial, but sometimes, the right moment can also be in front of your nose when you least expect.”
They reached the end of the path and started on a new one. The view of the Han River and its calm waters was a quiet companion on their walk. Jongin didn’t relinquish his hold on the crook of Sehun’s arm. Sehun tugged him closer when a pair of bicycles wheeled past. His cheeks were as red as his ears; his growing silence laden with something akin to worry. Understandable. Anyone would worry confessing to a high-profile actress.
“I can imagine what you’ll look like confessing.” Sehun looked at Jongin—puzzled, intrigued. Jongin held his gaze as they paused in their tracks, telling himself to smile if it could reduce Sehun’s worries. Fulfill his role as cheerleader. Disregard the further chipping of his heart. “You’ll look as flustered and cute as you are now.”
“How dare you—I’m always cute.” Sehun’s feigned indignation didn’t last. This time, when he looked at Jongin, it was with mildly disconcerting seriousness. “Can you imagine what I’d say when I confess?”
“How should I know? I”—don’t want to know the words you’ll say, and how you’ll look at her when you do—”don’t know how your mind will work on a nerve-wracking and private moment.”
The intensity of Sehun’s stare could’ve set off the trees around them on fire. “I’d confess by saying—”
Sehun took out a pair of knitted gloves from his pocket and leveled it to Jongin’s line of sight.
“—may I be the one to warm your hands this time?”
The color of the knitted gloves matched the pair Jongin knitted for Sehun years ago, varying only in animal design. This pair had brown bears enjoying a pot of honey. Jongin took a closer look at it after Sehun slipped the gloves over his hands. He noticed right away the haphazard stitches, other amateur knitting mistakes he himself had committed. Jongin stretched out his arms before him and wriggled his now-warming fingers. Not too loose or tight. A perfect fit. No doubt it took Sehun a lot of time for him to knit this with his schedule. His chest brimmed with barely-contained delight, smile threatening to hurt his cheeks from how wide it was splitting his face. He didn’t care.
“I’m, like, years late in returning the favor,” Sehun spoke up again, suddenly looking shier than ever. Younger. In a split second, Jongin saw Sehun’s teenage self before him, sixteen and unsure of the ways of the world. “I started over so many times because I kept making mistakes. I knitted whenever I could, as fast as I could. In the end, it still took me years to complete a pair of gloves. It’s not perfect, but I wanted to give this to you once…” He took a deep inhale; exhaled in the same fashion. Reached for Jongin’s hands and squeezed gently. “I wanted to give this to you once I was absolutely certain your hands are the only hands I want to hold.”
The fiery passion in Sehun’s gaze filled Jongin with pleasant warmth. He was close to soaring, but trepidation held him back. He wanted to believe, yet everything was too good to be true. “That’s a very bold declaration, Oh Sehun.”
“This isn’t coming out of thin air.” The sureness of Sehun’s voice destroyed Jongin’s creeping doubts. “It’s you. It’s only been you from the moment you gifted me those gloves in the playground all those years ago. Other people would’ve taken my reassurance of not being angry and called it a day. You went to great lengths to replace my lost gloves, knowing how much I loved those. Nobody’s done that for me. Nobody’s seen me at my worst and stayed. Nobody’s cried with me at my lowest, or showed patience at my moodiest. Nobody could comfort me the fastest when I’m at my saddest. Nobody’s celebrated my small victories like they were big ones and never stopped believing in me, even if I was on the verge of giving up on myself. Nobody conjures the unique kind of happiness from the simple remembrance of a name. Nobody except you.
“So, Kim Jongin, I repeat: may I be the one to warm your hands this time, for as long as you are willing to allow?”
The first snow danced down from the dark skies like white confetti, landing soft and gentle on every surface it touched. Sehun’s blush deepened, a flickering uncertainty in his eyes in the lengthened silence. It took courage to lay one’s heart bare, a gamble no one easily (willingly) took. Sehun must’ve deemed him worthy to conjure said courage and pour his everything, regardless of outcome. Now, Jongin’s response would either save or break the heart entrusted in his hands.
In this frosty, tranquil park, a precious flower began to blossom.
☆彡
Sometimes, two people met, became friends, stayed confined within platonic boundaries for the rest of their lives, and found contentment in that. Seldom did friendships break away from their original forms, either strengthening or waning against the test of time. More seldom were the involved parties visited by notions perilous and scandalous, at times followed by the traitorous racing of the pulse and strange jitters upon the mere thought of the best friend.
The change from friends to lovers was a precarious journey down the road of no return. Crossed lines came with attached risks; the low to zero guarantee your feelings wouldn’t be reciprocated, foundations of friendship collapsing thereafter. In the months following the confession, caught in the brief lulls between rehearsals for the spring lineup, fragments from that particular night would crowd Jongin’s mind:
The growing cold failing to nip at Jongin’s fingertips, shielded by the gloves and Sehun’s hands. The falling snow, white and pure, gathering on Jongin’s shoulders, his head, feather-light weight unobtrusive but present. Sehun, in a rushed, timid voice, assuring him he didn’t need to answer right away; didn’t want to rush him. Sehun, eager of his reaction, but cautious and bracing himself for rejection.
“Keeping it to myself was getting harder. I had to let you know,” Sehun had told him. A spark of his earlier courage had returned, albeit short-lived with his next words. “I would appreciate an honest answer more than anything. I’ll give you time to think about it.”
“No need,” Jongin had said, stunning Sehun into surprised silence. “I’ll give you an answer now.”
What had happened next was nothing outrageous, or petrifying, or worth blocking out from memory. What had happened next was the shocking course Jongin’s words took: slathered in a thick layer of cheese, uncharacteristic of his usual, frank self. The first words had been easy: a confirmation he returned Sehun’s affection. The rest, while an outright offense to the lactose intolerant and anti-cheese, had bared the thoughts he’d been keeping in the deepest, most secret corner of his soul:
“As suspicious as it sounds, I’m not answering out of pity. I’m not caught up in the moment, either. I won’t blame you for being doubtful. Contrary to what friends have told me, I don’t think I was very obvious about it. But it’s true I’ve felt like this for a while now. I chose to ignore for reasons you’re most likely thinking right now: a fleeting fancy, overthinking, refusing to ruin a perfectly fine friendship. It’s a natural reaction, right? To deny you feel something more for your best friend? It’s something straight out of a movie or a book, but it’s a reality that can happen to anyone. It’s happening to us right now.” Jongin had paused, studying Sehun’s flabbergasted face; the red of his cheeks and ears, the snow falling in drifts around them. “I don’t know where we go from here, but… I want to try. I want to give us a try.”
The overheating of Jongin’s face had been worth the view of Sehun’s breathtaking smile, highlighted by the golden glow of the fairy lights.
Their extensive talk led to an agreement of taking it slow. It didn’t salvage them from the inevitable and expected awkwardness in the first few weeks. They were navigating foreign territory blind, grasping for clues without guarantee of finding any. No written guide of how to smoothly switch lanes from platonic to romantic with your best friend existed anywhere. Mistakes were bound to happen. A learning curve, if anything. And in these learning curves did the subtle changes emerged; became more pronounced over time.
A fluttering filled Jongin’s chest every time a new KakaoTalk notification came from Sehun. The fluttering intensified on video calls, where he could see Sehun in his fresh-faced, out-the-shower state fans would pay millions for a glimpse; conversations carrying on like usual before lapsing into comfortable silence, broken only by Sehun’s soft utterance of “I miss you,” and Jongin’s reflex of high-pitched giggling from sheer joy before saying it back.
Touching was already commonplace before the shift; now, amplified a hundredfold. Heads leaned on shoulders while watching in the movie theater or at the back of the manager’s car when tiredness overtook Sehun. Hands found each other during walks, not remembering who reached out first. Giddy delight rushed through Jongin with every tangle of their fingers; experienced over and over during other forms of body contact: the brushing of shoulders, hands skating the sides of each other’s waists, palms pressing on the small of backs to give a light push ahead. An unforeseen awakening was Jongin’s hands always finding their way on any part of Sehun. Be it a hand curled around the crook of Sehun’s elbow as they ambled in the park, or massaging his nape while pouring over a new script, or toying with his fingers as he talked about a new role in an upcoming production, Jongin took pleasure in this newfound freedom of liberal touching anywhere, anytime.
Upon easing themselves in their situation, Sehun became more forward in his advances. Oftentimes playful, in the way he’d gesture to take Jongin’s hand, only to retract at the last second, feigning annoyance; complaining he took too long and changed his mind. (Sehun would also cave in first and whine if Jongin refused to hold hands in equally playful retaliation.) At times flirtatious, in the way he’d hook his chin on Jongin’s shoulder on a bookstore visit and ask about a book synopsis, whispering the words so close to his ear in an intentionally-lowered voice. (Jongin liked teasing back by being deadpan, if only to hear Sehun grouse childishly of not playing along.) Most times Sehun was just himself, the version Jongin preferred best: playing it cool with a casual touch, never failing to gauge his reaction first despite two months sailing past. If Jongin smiled, or reciprocated, only then would the touch escalate to something bolder. More intimate.
Dates couldn’t happen as often as they’d like. The most they could do was eat out together due to their often-clashing schedules, although Sehun usually took them to tiny, secluded shops, or surprised him with a reservation at a fancy restaurant, whose main customers comprised of couples. On rare days both of them were free, Jongin planned short day trips outside of Seoul, itinerary often ignored for the most part once Sehun’s spontaneity took over. They shared a goal of taking a holiday together if they had longer, freer days at their disposal; debated on ideal locations.
“I want to go somewhere we can fully relax. Preferably places without tons of people,” Sehun told him, during one summer day trip. “I want to have lots and lots of fun without being too conscious or restricted.”
Dating his best friend was one thing. Dating the nation’s darling—Sehun’s newly-earned title after the smash hit of his and Ahn Hyesoo’s spring movie—was another giant wall to be conquered. If Sehun left a strong impression nationwide with his character in Life is a Flower Garden, he certainly solidified himself as a promising actor to watch and follow with Walking on the Cherry Blossom Path. Many critics went to the special advanced screening utterly skeptical and came out writing glowing reviews. General public reception was surprisingly positive and expressed interest in looking forward to Sehun’s future work. Fans lapped it up but also speculated, with genuine, absolute awe, if Sehun planned to take romance movie films much later to metaphorically murder them by showing a different set of charms. The movie dominated Naver’s trending topics, Sehun’s and Ahn Hyesoo’s names not far behind each other. A certified box-office hit, sweeping in a million ticket admissions, earned nominations, landed Sehun more endorsements, and his manager scrambling to keep up with the inundation of love calls.
The rise of popularity and recognition came with small prices. On their first date, Sehun told him to wear a mask and cap if he could. Jongin didn’t need to ask for a reason; secured extra masks and caps in his bags in case he lost the ones he wore. During this important period did he finally acknowledge the importance of bags, converted from his rigid belief of thinking they were nothing but troublesome accessories. Jongin noticed the bystanders’ lingering glances on Sehun, too; overheard the rushed discussion among themselves, debating if their eyes were working properly. Some brave enough approached them mid-date; politely inquired if Sehun could grant an autograph, take a picture together. Sehun readily agreed to the first; seldom said yes to the second. Most understood, didn’t press further. Some recorded and snapped pictures of him in secret, spread around in online platforms with fan accounts a week or two later.
Dating like a normal couple was close to impossible, given the difference of their lifestyles. Jongin grabbed any chance to meet as long as he wasn’t tired. A bulk of their dates occurred late at night, usually after Sehun’s schedules ended. Jongin did turn down dates sometimes, citing exhaustion or a stubborn body ache and wanting nothing more than to surrender himself to the softness of his bed. Sehun understood; told him to rest well, instead. The next time Jongin opened KakaoTalk, Sehun had bombarded him with a list of highly-recommended spas and wellness centers that catered to dancers. Jongin wasn’t too surprised these were establishments patronized by popular actors and actresses, or seeing Sehun’s framed autograph hung on the wall together with theirs. Sehun himself became a regular in these places since taking up martial arts training for a web drama lead role.
Stumbling many times on this new path was anticipated: petty arguments, grave misunderstandings, burning words. Jongin’s bluntness proved wounding when exacerbated by stress. Sehun’s erratic moods were difficult to jive with and segued to indecisiveness. Regrettable and shameful they might have acted after tempers cooled and minds cleared, undeniable was the deeper (better) knowledge imparted about how they worked as a couple; new sides of themselves exposed, the good and the bad. Fights were resolved through talks and acknowledgment of faults, inquiries of how to do better in the future; then, apologies, and cuddles. Plenty of cuddles, which Jongin readily gave, discovering Sehun’s immense liking for them.
Aside from family and close, trusted friends, their relationship was concealed from the rest of the world. Actors and actresses who dated didn’t receive intense backlash from the public compared to idols, although the unspoken golden rule applied, too: dating is allowed, but don’t get caught.
Sehun’s manager wasn’t unaware of their relationship; wasn’t the biggest fan when they came forward with the truth, more out of concern for his skyrocketing career than believing actors and actresses should lead monastic lives until retirement.
“If you don’t approve of us, that won’t stop me from seeing him,” Sehun had told his disbelieving manager—straightforward, serious. Determined, in the way he was wont once his mind was firmly set. “Dating him won’t influence me in a bad way. I swear my life on that.”
The manager had leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and looking every bit unconvinced. “Your fan base grows by the day. Projects are lined up with many other proposals on queue. You’re in demand by so many fashion labels I don’t know which to accept first. What’s the guarantee you won’t let this affect your work? I’m not against you two dating—the company isn’t, either, if you remember the clause in the contract—but one Dispatch picture can make you lose everything.”
“We’ll date carefully,” Jongin had spoken up for the first time since settling in the restaurant’s private room. “I’m not naïve. Neither is Sehun. We know what we’re getting into. We’re adults. We’ll be responsible for our actions.”
Sehun had nodded in agreement right away. “If I continue working diligently, and keep myself out of big trouble, dating should be okay, right?”
The manager hadn’t responded; stared at them in naked scrutiny. He had neither given his blessing nor rebuked them for the timing of their relationship. At one point, Jongin had almost believed the manager’s opposition ran deeper than he gave away. The manager had every right to be concerned. A rising actor with a promising future, and the company’s current moneymaker, Sehun couldn’t afford to be careless. The raised eyebrow every time Jongin appeared in the vicinity, the pointed looks if Sehun stood too close to him in public or vice versa, or the patronizing tone the manager used to caution them before leaving, however, carried a crystal-clear warning impossible to miss: don’t ruin his career.
Affronted by the mistrust, Jongin had done everything within his means to prove the opposite.
Seven months later, Sehun’s acting prowess showed continuous improvement. His work ethic never once slipped; earned praise from co-stars and filming staff. Dokgo Rewind, the drama he painstakingly prepared for in terms of tough martial arts training, became a smash hit with its astronomical views and transformed staunch web toon purists into fans. Love calls for endorsements and acting projects didn’t cease. His brand reputation ranking soared; any product he touched or mentioned in passing would sell out in seconds. Dispatch never rang the company or the manager, and Sehun maintained a pristine-clean reputation.
Seven months later, the manager must’ve changed his previous stance about them as a couple. About Jongin, and his suspicions he might become a bad influence on Sehun; an unwanted distraction to a budding career. Gone was his guarded demeanor, replaced with something more civil, if not welcoming. No longer did Jongin sense the manager’s passive-aggressiveness whenever Sehun approached him, or casually slung an arm around his shoulder in the presence of many. No longer did the manager just grunt or nod when Sehun told him they’d leave first after a shoot; reminders to stay vigilant spoken in a friendlier tone, as well as suggesting places they could date in peace and secrecy.
Receiving a text from the manager requesting Jongin to look after Sehun on their trip must be his unique style of showing total acceptance. The manager had never sent him a message before.
One burden lifted off his chest, Jongin could now enjoy the splendid, glowing sights on Haeundae’s streets. Locals and tourists alike took pictures with the magnificent Christmas tree set up at the town square. Colorful lights were installed along the roads and walkways in assorted colors; impressive LED lighting displays of reindeers and sleighs, gift boxes, Santas, and poinsettias inciting a holiday mood.
Sehun’s mouth was shaped in a perpetual ‘O,’ making awed noises at the sights with his phone in hand. They snapped pictures of each other on Instagram-worthy spots; bantered over blurred shots and better angles. Sehun’s refusal to wear a mask concerned Jongin; the beanie could barely double as a camouflage should anyone recognize him. Jongin insisted he bring one in case of emergency, anyway.
Sehun’s brows furrowed checking his messages. He huffed out a chuckle. “What did you do to manager-hyung? He told me not to give you a hard time. Excuse to the both of you, I am well behaved.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Jongin teased, scrunching up his nose in impish provocation. “You’ve been nothing but a willful child since our arrival.”
“A willful child you indulge. You’re complicit, too.”
Jongin laughed and shook his head. “Manager-hyung honestly deserves a raise for his patience in handling you. He didn’t seem too keen on this trip when you brought up the ongoing Light Festival.”
Drawing in huge crowds every year, the Light Festival could either be the perfect weekend getaway or a disaster waiting to happen.
“If I didn’t fight for this, we’ll miss the first snow again.”
Sehun’s mumbled response could’ve been easily lost to the background noise. Jongin caught it, nonetheless. A conversation from two weeks ago and Sehun’s unusual adamancy on seeing through the Busan trip come what may began making more sense with the added context.
Amused, Jongin leaned his chin on Sehun’s shoulder while staring at the dark sky. “Were you sad we missed it in Seoul?”
During the first snowfall in Seoul, Jongin stayed behind an extra hour for Swan Lake rehearsals, and Sehun was shipped off to Beijing for a fan meeting. Parting ways with Moonkyu, who was participating in the same production this time, Jongin was treated to a silvery-white landscape upon ascending from the subway station. Snow fell nonstop, a first in a long time for Seoul, so he recorded a video of himself the rest of the way home, talking to the screen like he would to Sehun. His phone battery mightily hung on to its last five percent as he succeeded in sending the video. Although happy on their next meeting and excitedly showered him with gifts, Sehun had displayed a strange sort of sullenness on his return from Beijing. Jongin had originally suspected pent-up fatigue as culprit.
Sehun met his gaze but looked away. The tips of his ears were as red as his blush. “We’ve spent almost all of our first snows together.” He let out a huffy breath. His blush deepened. His voice took on a sulky edge. “It’s childish and sappy, but first snows aren’t as beautiful to me if I don’t see them with you.”
“Your cuteness is illegal! Illegal!”
Jongin trapped Sehun in a bear hug, squeezing tight and swaying both of them side to side. He nearly crashed them into the nearby lamppost, and they surrendered to a full laughing fit. Sehun’s blush now rivaled a tomato’s. Jongin couldn’t stop grinning and hugged him tighter for good measure.
“It’s not childish or sappy to have such thoughts,” Jongin told him. “If it’s important to you, why should I make light of it?”
They resumed sightseeing and acted like tourists. A few individuals started doing double takes catching sight of Sehun’s face. Jongin worried a scene would break out when a stare stayed too long on them; followed their every move. Sehun, however, smiled and dipped his head in polite acknowledgment toward the gossiping parties if he noticed, then made a shushing gesture. Fortunately, the fans proved to be respectful of his boundaries and nodded in easy agreement, going about their merry way after, like nothing unusual happened.
Jongin obtained cards for each of them to hang on the tree of wishes. Staring at the blank, white space, he realized the amount of wishes he harbored; slightly panicked at the realization he couldn’t fit everything, even if he reduced the size of his characters on purpose.
“Done?” Sehun asked, some minutes later. Others who arrived later than them were already hanging their cards.
Jongin made a small, panicked sound. “I don’t know which one to write. Ah, why am I so bad with these things…”
Sehun gave him a comforting squeeze around the shoulders. “Take your time.”
“What did you wish for?”
Sehun’s expression turned mischievous. “If I tell you, it might not come true. Can’t have that happening, right?”
More minutes of agonizing passed. Finally, Jongin pared down the list in his mind and scribbled.
“I know what you wished for,” Sehun said, on their walk back to the hotel. They took the less traversed pathway to avoid unnecessary attention, though still treated to a scenic view of Haeundae Beach. Crowds began thinning as they retreated farther away from the attraction sites. “You wished for a promotion.”
Jongin burst out laughing. “Who doesn’t want a promotion? But if the company thinks I’m not eligible to become a principal dancer yet, I’ll continue working harder to earn the promotion.”
“They should have promoted you already.” Sehun’s lips formed a disapproving frown. “You’re a phenomenal dancer. I’ve been to many of your shows. Even if it’s a production with heavy emphasis on the prima ballerina, why is it that I and many others find your performance more memorable?”
“Stop stroking my ego,” Jongin said, a high pitched-laugh escaping him. He failed to quell the grin threatening to split his face. “It won’t be good if it gets to my head.”
“It won’t. You’re a lot of things, good and bad. Arrogant will never be one of them.”
“What did you wish for?”
“I told you, if I reveal my wish now, it might not come true.” Sehun feigned exasperation for explaining again. “I’m not going to tell you what I wrote, but I can tell you what I wish for right now.”
Jongin stopped in his tracks when Sehun abruptly stood in front of him, encroaching freely in his personal space. In his eyes, Jongin saw hesitation clashing against courage. The battle ceased the moment Sehun cupped his cheek. Awareness prickled down Jongin’s skin, amplified by Sehun’s thumb grazing his jaw. Sehun’s gaze sought wordless permission for a request far too telling to be mistaken for anything else.
The last thing Jongin saw was snow floating down behind Sehun, and around them, before closing his eyes in silent approval. He felt snow land lightly on his cheeks, his forehead. At the first gentle brush of Sehun’s lips, Jongin’s mind blanked, but they were as soft and warm like he always imagined. The kiss was slow, unhurried, unlike anything they shared in the past. Jongin clutched Sehun’s jacket to remind himself this was real. This was happening. This was their first kiss. Although it resembled nothing like the grandiose scenes in movies, it was, by Jongin’s standards, the most perfect first kiss.
“Was this what you wished for?” Jongin asked on a breathless chuckle. He nuzzled Sehun’s cheek to ground himself; gave him time to recover from the lightheadedness, the tingling of his lips.
“No. But it’s something I’ve always wanted to do.” Sehun kissed him again, this time surer. Sweeter. His thumb gently traced Jongin’s bottom lip, eyes following the movement before locking gazes once more. “And I wish it’s something we get to do a lot from now on. If it’s not too fast. Or asking too much.”
Kissing was not an absent force in their developing relationship. Forehead and cheek kisses became a staple after establishing how much intimate contact was allowed. This kiss, however sudden but not unwelcome, gave Jongin a taste of what he could have anytime now. A rush of giddiness took over him at the delightful prospect.
Jongin cast a cursory glance at their surroundings, relieved by the absence of other souls. Nothing but Busan’s first snow witnessed what happened, a silent witness in an eventful night. Ignoring the growing cold, he bracketed Sehun’s face with his hands and said, “We definitely should do a lot of it,” before leaning in for another kiss.
☆彡
“And we’re done!”
Applause broke out in the studio, volume louder than the music rolling from the speakers. Jongin went around thanking each of the staff who worked hard today, flashing them grateful smiles and showering them with praises. The staff reciprocated with words of gratitude; some requests for a picture together.
Working on a day-off wasn’t unusual for Jongin. Whether preparing for an opening night or polishing routines he was dissatisfied with, he was a near-constant presence in the company’s dance studios. Seldom did other dancers not see him in the hallways. Often the ballet masters advised to allow his body rest. Jongin during his corps de ballet days would’ve held on stubbornly to his belief of dedicating a grand majority of his waking hours to rehearsing; attaining perfection to the highest degree. Jongin, newly-promoted principal dancer after six years with Korean National Ballet, gained a shift in perspective. Though his ardent determination and passion for ballet remained unchanged, a slow acceptance of taking it easy and taking better care of his body to last longer in the industry led him to relax.
Today wasn’t a day-off spent in the company, or in his apartment’s living room marathoning horror movies. Today was a day-off dedicated to a photo shoot held in a rented dance studio in Gangnam. Jongin did his research and preparations a week before; discussed with the photographer a little more about today’s theme, if he could incorporate his own ideas on the spot and how. An interview was conducted afterward asking about his journey in the ballet world; his goals as the company’s youngest principal dancer to date, his influences and role models, what a typical day looked like for him at work, further goals he wished to achieve.
Photo shoots as a professional ballet dancer weren’t totally uncommon. Between the bustle of rehearsals and appointments with physiotherapists, Jongin would sometimes catch scattered fragments about one of their principal dancers picked by an international ballet magazine. He never predicted himself among the chosen ones to land on the list of the twelve most promising ballet dancers to watch out for worldwide years later.
“Why is this surprising?” Sehun had asked him, after sharing the good news via video call. “Your company nominated you. The panel fell in love watching you play the titular character in Prince Hodong. They couldn’t stop thinking about your performance and watched your other productions. You got shortlisted, and you ultimately made it. Sounds like the beginning of ballet world domination.”
“Stop!” Helpless laughter had made it impossible for Jongin to say anything else.
Unfazed, lips curling in a proud, sincere smile, Sehun had continued, “It isn’t hard to be enamored by you. Don’t underestimate the power of your performances.”
The praise had sent warmth and assurance through Jongin. Boosted his confidence, too. He had asked Sehun for tips and suggestions on what to do and expect. Sehun had eagerly shared his knowledge like the photo shoot veteran he became with more than ten prominent magazine features under his name.
Jongin employed said tips and suggestions today and wondered—with mild curiosity, with little nervousness—which photos would make the final cut as he bade goodbye to the staff. He wrapped a scarf around his neck and buried his face in it five steps outside and away from the hotel. Though dressed in his thickest coat, the cold found ways to pass beneath his clothes and chilled his skin. He minded his steps while checking his phone; raised both eyebrows at the pile of notifications, all from Sehun.
Two Instagram updates. A riverside scenery, Sehun’s back to the camera, clad in a white dress jacket and black slacks. One photo taken in the dressing room, phone blocking seventy-five percent of Sehun’s face, makeup table occupied by a cluster of bottles and pots, brushes and tubes of lip glosses. Sehun’s outfit was different here, more casual in his white wool sweater. No captions, a million likes and rising, thousands of comments each in different languages. Unsurprising stats for his official Instagram account with more than ten million followers.
Their KakaoTalk chat room fostered a more personal atmosphere. Sehun was freer to do sticker attacks and picture spams here without inciting speculations. Jongin was freer to comment over Sehun’s pictures without the paranoia of anyone connecting the dots. The mutual picture spams served as daily diary entries in the weeks spent apart as Sehun flew back and forth between Seoul and Beijing for filming. Many offers came knocking after Sehun’s first acting project with a Chinese production company—Dear Archimedes, a crime and mystery drama based on a best-selling novel—witnessed phenomenal success, conquering neighboring countries and beyond one episode at a time.
With Sehun’s filled schedule and Jongin’s promotion in rank, time together drastically declined by spring’s bloom. Rare were the instances for a proper date, let alone meet. In a span of months, Sehun just had enough time to show up at Jongin’s apartment after coming straight from various tapings. Jongin could only steal a hug—and a few kisses, if he was lucky—before Sehun rushed to leave for his next engagement. Classes and rehearsals consumed large portions of Jongin’s time, the most brutal days tending to unfortunately align when Sehun had more than a few hours to himself. Jongin would tell him to come over as he soaked in an Epsom salt bath. Disappointment often followed once he heard the apologetic note of Sehun’s laugh; then, telling Jongin he couldn’t, he needed to fly to Bangkok for a fan meeting. Milan for fashion week. Hong Kong for a luxury brand flagship store opening. Shanghai for a movie press conference. On his return to Seoul, inevitably, more filming, more script readings, more photo shoots.
At home, over reheated leftovers, Jongin alternated bantering with Moonkyu on one chat window and gushing over Rahee and Raeon’s unseen Hawaii vacation footage on another. After Moonkyu logged off, his sister showed him by video call how much the children enjoyed the toys he bought them. Jongin couldn’t stop grinning at their haphazard chorus of “Thank you, Uncle Jongin!” before returning to completely ignoring him again. Attempts to cajole them into giving him a good night kiss didn’t succeed. Bribing didn’t work. Feigning sadness, more so. Jongin let it go, anyway, since they were cute.
Refreshed after a bath and face mask, American horror movie playing on his laptop, Jongin looked through Sehun’s recent picture spam again with a more discerning eye. Spending quality time with his family and meeting friends for a meal or coffee consistently brought him immense joy on his days off in the past few months. Yet the forgotten loneliness of missing a lover unfailingly struck him upon coming home to an apartment used to sheltering two people. It struck him hard every time Sehun promised to call but didn’t, apologetic messages growing in frequency as filming took great precedence.
The loneliness struck Jongin the hardest listening to Sehun talk about his day through video call. Sehun was gesticulating with his free hand in excitement, the other holding up his phone. Jongin was barely registering his words, mind taken hostage by the sole wish of wanting Sehun back now.
Jongin shook his head. The gesture was met with a severe knit of Sehun’s eyebrows and probing gaze.
“What?” Jongin asked, breaking the heavy, unbearable pause.
Sehun’s face softened a fraction, confusing Jongin more.
“I miss you.”
Jongin sat up straighter in his chair, fatigue vanishing a fraction. The words pleased him, but—
“You tell me that all the time.”
In everyday text messages, in phone calls short and long, in between snuggles and sheets on transitory reunions, Sehun didn’t hold back expressing his longing.
“You can tell me, too,” Sehun said. He pushed back the fringe of his newly-dyed hair in copper red for his current Chinese drama role: a rogue detective seeking revenge for his murdered brother after immense dissatisfaction with the corrupt justice system. Targeting a summer release, Perdition would be his first drama in which he played a morally-gray character. “When you look at me lately, you’re like a sad puppy who dreads being told goodbye. Do you miss me that much?” His voice was soft, free of teasing; tender, in a way that effortlessly demolished Jongin’s defenses and coaxed out what he was trying hard to ignore. Handle on his own.
Jongin jutted out his lower lip. He folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them. “In the five months you’ve been filming, I’ve only had you to myself for three hours. The other instances you touched down in Seoul, we couldn’t even meet. I’ve seen your face more times online than in the actual flesh. Can you blame me for missing you?”
Sehun’s eyes crinkled into crescent shapes when he laughed. “Of course not. It’s hard to not miss me. I wouldn’t mind hearing it from you more, though.” His features settled down to an expression of fondness. “Filming is ending soon—only two big fight scenes left. When I come back, I don’t want to think about traveling for a year.”
“You? Allergic to traveling? Really?” Jongin teased, mood lightening.
“…Fine. As long as I don’t have to step on another damn plane, I’ll let you take me anywhere. We can go around by car. I’ll let you decide where to go; you’re the better planner.”
Two weeks before The Nutcracker was scheduled to return on stage, Jongin spotted a familiar black Audi parked a safe distance away from the company building. One look at the license plate purged the day’s exhaustion from his bones. Tamping down the smile threatening to split his face in half, Jongin sprinted over and immediately climbed inside the passenger seat, coming face to face with none other than Sehun.
Sehun stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at him, phone pressed to his ear. Muffled ringing was soon heard inside Jongin’s bag, cut short with the press of a button. “Is this what you do when I’m not around? Carelessly barging inside random strangers’ cars?” His defined eyebrows rose in feigned scolding.
“I missed you, too.” Jongin tugged Sehun forward by the coat lapels. Both of them laughed into the kiss that didn’t stop at one.
Nonstop chatter accompanied them during the drive. Jongin braced himself for an impromptu trip as Sehun was prone to doing, assessing how much energy he could set aside before calling it quits. Sehun’s suggestion of staying indoors instead caught him by surprise.
“I’m a little tired from the flight. You look two seconds away from falling asleep. Preparations for winter production are in full swing now, right? Don’t overexert yourself.” Sehun glanced at him in concern then shifted gears on the green light. “I’m hungry. What should we eat when we reach home? I miss Mr. Lee’s tteokbokki. I also want a big bowl of kalguksu from that shop you took me a few months ago. Is there anything new on Netflix? Oops, don’t get too excited. I trust you with my life. Your horror movie kink? Not really.”
“Tsk, boring.” Jongin scrunched up his nose in fake disapproval, which didn’t last. He unleashed a grin as they continued planning their indoor date night.
Half an hour later, Jongin was closing the curtains but stopped to marvel at the sight of snow falling like large flecks of cotton. He stepped out onto the balcony, extending a hand. Snowflakes landed on his palm, first dry, then cold and wet, as they melted from the heat of his skin. From inside, he heard Sehun call out his name.
“What are you doing? Come inside. You’ll catch a cold staying out too long.” Shuffled footsteps from behind. Fingers lightly rubbing the damp strands of his hair. Sehun clucked his tongue. “What’s the use of a hair dryer if you won’t use it?”
“Too much hassle. My hair will dry on its own.” Jongin turned around and was greeted by Sehun’s disapproving frown. Undeterred, he pointed skyward. “Look at the snowflakes—aren’t they pretty? This is Seoul’s first snowfall since winter’s arrival. You bring the snow with you, huh?”
“Nice diversion tactic,” Sehun countered. Despite that, he took a long look at the snow dusting the quiet roads and naked trees below and gave an appreciative hum. “Anyway, Mr. Kim, let’s go inside now. I’m cold. No, shut up; don’t joke about warming me up. You can’t be any cornier than that. Ow!” He laughed as he danced away from Jongin’s pinching fingers.
On the living room couch, they lounged in their matching blue satin pajamas and enjoyed the food deliveries. Sehun chose tonight’s movie and kept the remote away from Jongin’s reach “for his own good.” Jongin didn’t buy the excuse but let Sehun believe otherwise. It didn’t mean he couldn’t have his own fun. Jongin teased Sehun by brushing food against his lips but refused feeding him unless he whined or busted out the aegyo.
They watched another movie after the first ended—Jongin’s choice, but not horror. They demolished the remainder of the KFC bucket while Sehun pointed out the subtitles’ inconsistencies in a show of his ever-improving Mandarin proficiency. An advantage of his continuous lessons since trainee days. Jongin listened, smiling at the passion in Sehun’s speech of why Netflix Korea should hire better translators.
The night deepened as the movie reached its climax, cartons and containers now devoid of food. Bellies full, warm and cozy in this couch for two, Jongin thought they should have more ordinary date nights like this.
“I won’t lie, I’d still choose going out and taking you to places the hyungdeul recommended. But ordinary date nights like this? I could get behind that. It’s practice for when we get too old to be gallivanting around the city because of arthritis.” Sehun’s eyes remained focused on the screen when he spoke.
Laughing softly upon realizing he’d been thinking aloud, Jongin moved closer until no space existed between their bodies and rested his head on Sehun’s shoulder. “I’d like that. And I don’t mean the arthritis.” He held Sehun’s hand between his own and squeezed.
Sehun leaned his head against Jongin’s and squeezed his hand back.
On this quiet, snowy night, a future they hadn’t cast a thought upon began taking shape.
☆彡
An arthritis-free future was a near impossible reality in Jongin’s world. Combined with minor injuries obtained over the years, he was acutely aware of the innumerable afflictions his body would carry over into retirement. The cursed fate of a dancer in exchange for pursuing excellence and perfection of their craft.
Despite the worries he sometimes entertained in the middle of the night, a far-off future of losing sleep to the excruciating pain of swollen joints would be well worth the price to pay as long as Jongin could dance to the last of his passion, the edge of his limit; as long as he could leave the stage at the dawn of his career without an ounce of regret, head held up high.
Mentioning arthritis that one winter night presented a future so vastly different from the ones that took residence in his mind. This version persisted, stimulated by seemingly insignificant details; took bits and pieces from his other daydreams and seamed it with an iteration Jongin found himself more and more inclined to each day.
Passing glimpses of his living room couch conjured images of an aged version of himself sat there, legs draped over an equally-aged Sehun’s lap. Sehun, hair graying and looking cuddly in a yellow orange turtleneck, applying ointment on his calves and massaging them after a long, hard day. Sehun would laugh at something he said, pat Jongin’s calves to finish, and pucker his lips expectantly.
Waiting for the subway train and catching wind of children’s excited babbles about the fun activities they did in school today posed the question if Sehun would buy toys or snacks for a perfect score in a quiz; an earned golden star for exhibiting good manners. A preschooler proudly showed off their painting marked with ten stamps of approval to their mother and was rewarded with a congratulatory hug, the promise of new clothes. The preschooler answered they would rather have a puppy; paired it with a pout, a sugared “please.”
Jongin could easily see Sehun caving if the request was directed at him; would probably become more excited on the drive to the shelter than their hypothetical child.
“Mister, are you okay? Why are your cheeks red?” a child asked aloud beside him, peering up at Jongin with curious eyes. The child gasped. “Are you thinking of something perverted? My mama told me people who get red out of nowhere are thinking of perverted things. Were you thinking of naked bodies—”
Aghast, the mother shushed her child; bowed and apologized for the audacious words. Jongin waved his hands in assurance, more flustered at the bold direction his imagination took than being framed as a pervert.
Grocery shopping to replenish his starving cupboards and refrigerator was one way for Jongin to unwind, or momentarily forget about ballet matters. His lack of culinary skills cut aisle browsing time in half, grabbing mostly microwavables and discounted essentials. His mother often filled his kitchen with containers of pre-cooked items, complete with detailed instructions stuck to the refrigerator door. Her consideration was a huge help to Jongin’s savings. She told him this was the least she could do for her adorable, hardworking son; started bringing more after finding out Sehun sometimes stayed the night. Jongin was grateful, though he once complained about the extra portions of kimchi dumplings she readily brought after Sehun praised them two nights before.
“I’m your son, but I have to wheedle if I crave for dumplings? Why does Sehun get it easy?”
”Hush. I don’t want my son-in-law to starve,” had been his mother’s cheeky answer, simpering as she did.
Jongin had no comeback ready; hadn’t expected his mother’s response. Baffled as he had been, his mind froze on three specific words, the implication warming him.
The implication resurfaced on a date one night in August. Sehun’s schedules considerably calmed after wrapping up a long-term project, and he took advantage of the lull to spend every moment of his free days with Jongin. On their arrival at a restaurant in Apgujeong, they almost bolted right out the door upon the sudden, thunderous cheers and applause of the other patrons. Sehun tensed at the noise. Jongin clutched tight the crook of his arm. Unwanted flashbacks of rabid, unreasonable fans recognizing Sehun and stirring public commotion emerged. Jongin would’ve dragged Sehun out of there before their chance at a peaceful, relaxing evening was ruined when he noticed the people were focused on a couple hugging in the middle of the room.
“A surprise proposal,” the head waiter answered Sehun’s question, after settling in their private room. He was surprisingly chatty for someone who sported an uninterested face. “The young woman requested a collaboration with us. What a fortunate thing their betrothed savored their dessert. So unlike past tragedies of accidental choking.”
“What if that couple was us?”
Jongin chewing on steak didn’t stop his eyes from widening.
Sehun cleared his throat in the prolonged silence, face assuming an awkward—almost sad—expression. “Sorry, forget I said anything.”
Jongin quickly grabbed Sehun’s hand on the table and squeezed tight. “No, no; I heard you!” he said right away, once his mouth was empty. “I was just surprised by your question, that’s all.”
Sehun’s previous expression vanished. “Why? What’s so unbelievable about me imagining us in a proposal scenario?” Though sounding stunned, no malice, no hurt, no anger laced his words.
“It’s not unbelievable.” Despite his firmness, Jongin’s voice wavered a little in his next words. “I guess I’m more surprised you actually want the same thing I do: a future where we’re both in the picture together.”
The slow, downward pull of Sehun’s eyebrows as his mouth pressed into a stern line set off the alarm bells in Jongin’s head.
False alarm. Sehun exhaled a soft sigh, reversed the hold of their hands and traced patterns on Jongin’s palm.
“Just so you know, I was watching the propsman decorating the bathroom during break time, and he placed these matching toothbrush cups on the sink. I think I’ve stared at it more times than I dare admit—those cups get me ridiculously giddy, and I couldn’t understand why. They’re just cups. That changed when I looked at them recently, and the next thought to follow is how nice those cups would look on our bathroom sink. Our. That’s never happened in the first year we were together. But, recently, I look at real estate brochures and wonder if the featured units are spacious enough to install a dance studio for you. When I tag along on grocery runs, your budgeting skills amaze me. It’s so sexy watching you do numbers.”
“What?” Jongin exclaimed, bursting into incredulous laughter.
Red splashed across Sehun’s face in his obvious struggle of keeping it straight. “When you calculate expenses on the spot, all I can think of is surrendering my bank accounts for you to manage.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Jongin commented, highly amused.
Sehun squeezed Jongin’s hand, an honest but serious expression settling over his features. “There’s something I have to confess. When we first started dating, I didn’t give the future much thought. I chose to live in the moment as it happened. If you asked me then what I saw far ahead, I wouldn’t have been able to answer. Thinking of the future scared me. Listening to colleagues’ drunk ramblings of why their spouses and marriages are the best at wrap-up parties made me zone out. Our relationship was everything I dreamed of and more—I would never lie about this. Marriage, though? Never entertained thoughts of it. But my comment last winter got me thinking. You know. That one.”
Jongin nodded, slotting their fingers together. “And now?” he prompted, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“And now, I am a changed man. The future is still scary to think about. When I entertain such thoughts, all I see is you in it. Ups and downs, happy and sad moments, you’re there with me at all times. You’re always included in all my plans down the line. I’ve gone as far as imagining sipping watermelon milkshakes and sunbathing in a private beach with you on my retirement. So that made me certain of one thing. The only future I want is one where we’re disgustingly, insufferably domestic. More than what we’re doing right now. Impending arthritis and all.”
An informal proposal, though the sentiment didn’t diminish; banished the last of Jongin’s uncertainties, his biggest worry that he and Sehun might not be on the same page about a shared future.
Their talk in the restaurant sped along the shaping of a once-foggy future. Plans for the future casually slipped into their everyday conversations. Communication improved by a million miles as they opened up more about their wants and choices before taking the next step; searched for a middle ground on clashing viewpoints. Disagreements and arguments were solved faster; unattractive traits, though minor and grating, were forgiven, but also held each other accountable if lines were crossed. Honesty was never an issue between them, but it came a thousand times easier now in the way they completely bared their souls to the last shred with bravery, without restraint.
Their families and closest friends detected the changes. Questions were asked; observations doled out. Jongin readily told them the truth. His family members didn’t look too surprised, even noted how excited he looked in showing sudden but curious interest in proposals.
The Oh family, overjoyed for their youngest, started thinking in advance and sent Sehun lists of beautiful reception halls, names of reputed planners, what type of cake batter would they like? Jongin was kept updated by Sehun who showed him screen caps when apart; watched him dodge questions with artful cheekiness in real time while doing face masks together.
Excelling in cheekiness did not save Sehun from his lack of subtlety, however.
“You have really nice hands,” Sehun commented, reaching out to link their fingers on a leisurely, late-night walk by the Han River.
Jongin swung their clasped hands. “It’s size 16.”
“Who’s asking? I was complimenting your hands.”
“Thanks for the compliment. You’ve been complimenting my hands for nearly a month. You’ve been staring at them for just as long when you think I’m not paying attention.”
“And what’s wrong with appreciating my boyfriend’s hands?”
Jongin stifled a laugh. “Remember: it’s size 16.”
Sehun huffed, rolled his eyes, but didn’t let go. “I’m size 19. Buy me a ring, too, if you’re going to nag.”
Jongin considered it tremendously, seeing no reason to keep ring-buying a secret. Some fans already saw Sehun checking out jewelry stores by pure chance. Speculations ran high for whom Sehun was buying. Several names popped up: idols, actors and actresses, entrepreneurs, entertainment industry figures Sehun had only come into contact with once. Ahn Hyesoo was the biggest name to surface.
Ahn Hyesoo laughed out loud at the rumors over an impromptu hot pot dinner together after crossing paths outside the restaurant.
“I feel bad for the fans who believed there’s something more between Sehun and I. It also means we sold the fantasy too well during movie promotions.” Hyesoo gingerly dabbed a napkin at the corner of her girlfriend’s mouth. Choi Wonji was the name introduced, a popular interior designer whose clientele included affluent Hannam-dong residents, foreigner tycoons who owned properties in Seoul, the First Lady herself. The fond looks they traded weren’t hard to miss. “I can never get into men romantically. When I look at Sehun, I just want to spoil him rotten and annoy him like the little brother I never had. I’d have loved a little brother to tease about his huge, huge crush on his best friend—whom he eventually got with together.” She gave Jongin a knowing, mischievous wink.
Sehun groaned, but a smile threatened to break free. “Noona.”
“Don’t you ‘noona’ me, young man.” Hyesoo passed him a fake chastising look. “I shall not be silenced in my agenda of rooting for you and Jongin-ssi. Do you remember spilling your heart out to me when we went for bossam? Oh, that smitten face of yours talking about Jongin-ssi—unforgettable! I’m surprised it took this long for proposal rumors to come out. Pictures of Sehun at Cartier have already made rounds. Everyone’s gossiping; then again, when is anyone not gossiping in this industry?” She paused to accept the beef Wonji ladled for her. “Has the big question been popped?”
They volleyed ideas and scenarios on how to go about proposing in their lengthy talks about the future. Nothing outrageous and nothing publicized was the ready agreement. Retaining an element of surprise remained to be seen, though it was a minor issue on a bigger, more important picture. Being aware a proposal could happen anytime raised the anticipation, and regardless of how it was orchestrated and when, Jongin told Sehun he only had one answer to give.
“As I do.” Sehun gently pecked him on the lips, their noses brushing. “We have no more reason to hesitate.”
A beige envelope in Jongin’s curled fist the next morning roused questions; roused him awake.
Mind hazy with sleep, eyes barely open, Jongin sluggishly sat upright and felt around for his glasses on the nightstand. A quick time check said it was close to noon. Nothing written on the envelope. Smoothing out the creases, he pulled out the paper stashed inside. Clearing vision registered Sehun’s illegible handwriting in black ink.
Hey, sleepyhead.
Instead of staying in on your day-off, let’s play a game.
Backing out and surrendering aren’t options.
Follow my instructions, okay?
First: get brunch at the place where we reconciled after nearly two years of not talking to each other.
Remember to dress warmly. You just recovered from a cold; I don’t want you getting sick again.
Use the brown coat you bought recently. It’s the warmest one you’ve got.
A fluttering in Jongin’s chest started when he left his apartment. It intensified climbing up the steps leading to Le Rouge’s entrance; when he slipped into the same window booth that witnessed their mending years ago. Jongin’s usual brunch order was delivered before he could call for a waiter. The beige envelope that came with it, similar to the one he found in bed, made him ignore the call of food.
Surprised?
No?
It’s bad to lie.
Wanna bet you’re trying hard not to smile right now?
Jongin let it loose mid-read.
Do you remember?
This is where I thought our friendship was officially over.
But it gave me hope when we reconciled here almost two years after.
I hesitated many times if I should include this place…
In the end, I did, because this place taught us a lesson and helped us grow.
Sitting in our usual booth in Le Rouge reminds me that dark days don’t last forever.
On the lowest points of my life, you were a light that kept me afloat.
And it’s because of this light that helped me endure the darkest days.
It helped me become stronger. Braver.
And I can’t thank you enough.
Eat well now.
After, go to the place where we spent dreaming during our teenage years.
The empty playground in Jongin’s old neighborhood greeted him, a sight not unusual in recent times where children turned to gadgets as an entertainment source. The equipment’s fresh paint job stood out against the bleak winter landscape of gray skies and leafless trees. Jongin tightened the scarf around his neck, chuckling upon seeing two beige envelopes on separate structures.
The first envelope was taped to a swing seat.
Do you remember?
This is where I usually sat when we took the swings, I used to complain about teachers being too mean, or lessons being too hard. I would sulk for a long time if things didn’t go my way, or groused about unfair situations.
You always sat on the swing next to mine. You’d always comfort me, sometimes tease me about being too whiny.
You never left or got impatient on times I kept to myself and enjoyed swinging quietly until I was ready to talk.
We’re too old for the swings now. If we forced it, we might be charged for destruction of public property.
Even so, much like this swing set, the person I want to see when I look to my side in all varied states of happiness and sadness is you.
Jongin long surrendered smothering the grin attempting to overtake his face.
On the jungle gym pole was the second envelope.
Do you remember?
This is where you gave me the knitted gloves to replace my favorite pair that you lost.
I never told you, but that night, I slept clutching the gloves close to my chest.
Back then, I couldn’t understand why I was so inexplicably happy.
I no longer wonder now.
Jungle gyms scared me because of a bad fall when I was young. You didn’t make fun of me when I told you. You helped me challenge my fear until I could climb to the top by myself.
Much like this jungle gym, it’s been a slow climb to reach my current spot in the entertainment world. Hidden traps buried everywhere to kill careers.
There were times I almost slipped. I’m thankful to family, friends, and the manager for keeping me on the right track.
And you, of course. Especially you. No one does it like you, making sure I remain grounded despite the success.
On top of this jungle gym, we used to look at the stars and talk about our dreams. And though we’ve achieved most of them, I want us to continue dreaming together. Transform those dreams into reality together.
The burst of merry laughter rang in the quiet air. Three children no older than age ten ran past the playground entrance but stopped upon seeing Jongin.
“Ah! Look, it’s him!” the only boy among them exclaimed, pointing to Jongin’s direction.
In a flash, Jongin was surrounded by three doe-eyed children, expressions bright and full of wonder. The shortest—and probably youngest—among them regarded him with brimming curiosity from hair to shoes.
“You’re the person he was talking about!”
The other two made sounds of agreement.
“He? Who’s he?” Jongin asked sweetly.
The little girl with pigtails handed him the beige envelope, folded and wrinkled in several places from being squashed in her tiny sling bag. “A handsome oppa told us to give this to the pretty angel wearing a brown coat when we see him here.”
Jongin got on one knee so he could accept the envelope and look into her eyes. “Are you sure it’s me? What if this was for somebody else in a brown coat?”
“That can’t be!” they chorused, shaking their heads in unison.
“The handsome oppa showed us a picture of you. We can’t be mistaken!”
“That’s right, that’s right! We have good memory!”
Jongin gave each of them high-fives and the candies he coincidentally found in his coat pockets. The children’s lack of synchronization when they bowed in thanks didn’t cancel out their sincerity. On their departure, Jongin wondered how and where Sehun found these young ones.
Surprise!
If you’re reading this, it means the kids found you.
Contrary to your assumptions, I didn’t bribe them to do this for me.
…okay, I miiiiight have promised something in exchange.
I’m sure you have more questions about the kids. You’ll find out on your next destination.
This one’s pretty easy.
Go to the place where I watched you dance for the very first time.
Nostalgia rushed through as Jongin navigated Seoul Arts Center’s spacious hallways. Although he came here for work almost every day, his anticipation and curiosity didn’t dip. Assorted memories rose with each stride. Jongin was fourteen years young once again walking down these halls, eager to perform with grit and diligence and polished grace on stage. Fourteen years young, thirsty for success and recognition, testing his limits in order to attain the highest form of ballet excellence; fighting against the pressure and disappointment if he fell short of personal expectations. Fourteen years young, clueless of his bright future performing at the Opera Theater more times than his fingers could count as he climbed the ranks.
Jongin opened the theater doors, expecting the soft piano melodies interspersed with the ballet master’s instructions typical of rehearsal days.
Complete silence greeted him, instead, suspicions rising the further in he went.
A figure stood from one of the seats in the center aisle. Surprised, Jongin wondered why he never noticed the figure—a woman, he corrected, when he took in her features. One with a ballet background, he was sure, apparent from her fluid movements and elegant way of carrying herself. The smile on her face grew as she approached, heightening Jongin’s confusion—until a closer look made him gasp as he hurried to meet her midway.
“My! Seoul has done many wonders on you,” she managed to say between her exuberant laughs. She held Jongin at arm’s length, giving him an approving once-over. “Time has flown so fast. You’re no longer the shy, nine-year old boy who signed up for ballet classes in my old studio.”
“It’s so good to see you again, Mrs. Kwan.” Jongin wasted no time hugging her after gaining permission. A hug long overdue for the very first ballet teacher who taught him the joys of dance and guided him with patience; generously waived his fees for the remainder of his sessions when Jongin’s parents heavily considered pulling him out due to financial straits. They lost contact after Jongin and his family moved away from Suncheon. Many teachers came and went in Jongin’s life, most of them leaving different impressions on him growing up, but Mrs. Kwan’s noble gesture left the biggest, most unforgettable impact.
Catching up provided the details Jongin wanted. Mrs. Kwan moved to Seoul when her husband was relocated to his company’s main branch. Closing her studio was one of the hardest decisions she faced but was replaced with pure joy upon conceiving their first child. She took a few years off the scene to dedicate her undivided time and attention to the family. Now, with the children a little more grown and her husband’s support, she took up work once again as a ballet teacher in a dance academy comfortably close to home.
“A co-worker and I watched Giselle two summers ago when it showed here. You bet my eyes bulged out when I opened the programme and saw your name in the cast list. They might as well have rolled out of its sockets on your grand entrance as Albrecht!” Mrs. Kwan laughed a tinkling laugh, its sound exactly as how Jongin remembered. “My co-worker told me she’d never seen me so mesmerized watching someone dance. How could I not when you danced so beautifully that night?”
“You should’ve looked for me backstage,” Jongin said, and he couldn’t help his pout. “We could’ve reunited sooner if you did. My thanks are long overdue, and there’s still so much I have to thank you for, too. We should sit down and have a proper chat on my next day-off. I owe you a meal, okay?”
“Would it be alright to bring my children? Two of my little ones told me they wanted to be a dancer when they grow up. They’ll be delighted to meet a real ballet dancer. I believe you’ve met them.”
Mrs. Kwan showed him a picture on her phone. Three angelic faces, smiling merrily into the camera, resembling Mrs. Kwan. Three familiar faces, Jongin’s recent encounter with these kids striking him lightning fast.
Mrs. Kwan’s growing smile was as good as confirmation. “Our apartment is one block away from the playground. My kids love it when I take them to play there on the weekends. I have been informed your family used to live nearby?”
“But—how did—?”
Mrs. Kwan produced the expected beige envelope from her bag. Her smile grew bigger. “Many times I wonder about my old students. How they’ll grow up. Where life will take them. Reunions rarely happen; the world is too vast to restrict yourself to one place. This lady’s wish to reconnect with you was looking to be impossible. My! Picture my surprise when someone contacted me last spring to fulfill it—a handsome young man who’s also an actor!”
The questions piled up; the answers, written on Sehun’s letter.
Surprise!
I surprised you good, huh?
A few years ago, you told me about wanting to find your very first ballet teacher, who lived in your hometown,
You spoke only good things about her. It gave me the impression you respected her a lot and made a huge impact in your life.
But all your efforts led to dead ends. People linked to her were either unreachable or didn’t know her recent contact details.
So I pulled some strings, and it took a while. But I finally found her for you.
Now… do you remember?
I wasn’t a cultured teenager at fourteen. My ballet knowledge was limited.
But you showed me, on my very first show, how it could be captivating and magical.
I didn’t care if your role was small then. I’ve never seen anyone dance the way you do.
I don’t know how you do it, but each time since, your performances became better and better.
Your first performance has left the biggest mark on me to this day.
It’s the one that made me think, “So this is what it feels like to watch the sun dance if he took on a human form.”
And just like how you tirelessly cheered me on in pursuing an acting career, I will do the same for you in ballet.
Until the whole world recognizes you.
Until the whole world knows your name.
“Oh Sehun, when I see you…” Furious heat dashed up Jongin’s cheeks from the last three sentences, utterly defenseless against the affection-soaked words penned across the page.
“Color me shocked when he introduced himself to me. My! He was so serious during our talk in the coffee shop. I imagine it was no easy effort to find me. It goes to show how much you mean to him,” Mrs. Kwan said, a spark of amusement lighting up her face. “Then and there I thought, ‘How lucky of my former student to have someone this good in his life.’ Tell your boyfriend I’ll become his fan from now on.”
On the corner of the sheet was a doodle. Decoding Sehun’s handwriting was as challenging as interpreting his doodles. Bless his heart for trying despite the massive insecurity of lacking art skills. Jongin stared for a long time and finally figured out Sehun drew the next location.
Jongin left the center with Mrs. Kwan’s phone number and a promise to meet soon. Mrs. Kwan let him go with a cheerful goodbye and to pass on her gratitude to Sehun, who made their reunion possible.
Jongin perused the doodle several times in the subway; affirmed he was on the right path. He was never the greatest in directions. Now was not the time to get lost.
The relatively quiet side of Ttukseom Hangang Park saw relatively low activity on this late afternoon. Winter wasn’t a popular season for walking about outdoors unless seeking entertainment at the sledding hill. Jongin walked unhurried, taking his time to search properly. Reaching the Waterside Plaza, he grinned at the beige envelope stuck on a lamppost planted around the musical fountain, untouched and mostly ignored by passers-by.
If you’re reading this, congratulations!
It means you didn’t get lost, and I’m not as hopeless in doodling.
Jongin rolled his eyes but chuckled.
This time, you’ll remember on your own. I can’t be the only one reminiscing.
But since I’m kind and can’t let you suffer, I’ll give you some hints.
Something important happened in front of this fountain.
I spent many happy days with you, but that day…
It’s one of my happiest days since we got together.
Do you remember?
A woman’s voice announced the next performance, capturing people’s attention and attracted them to stand close. Silence, and then water shot upward, streams and jets moving and swaying in accordance to the song beat. The song playing right now was light, happy, a piano tune. Recognizable, as the notes floated in the air and jumpstarted Jongin’s memory.
How could he forget the song that played when Sehun told him he loved him for the first time?
Their relationship had only been a year old then. Summer had been the season, one of their busiest in their careers. Sehun had happened to be free of commitment one night. Coincidentally, Jongin hadn’t been too tired to turn down anything that involved moving. Their date had led them to catching a music fountain show, entranced and beckoned by the bright, neon lights they saw flashing from a distance. Merry Go Round of Life had started playing. Jongin had immediately identified the song. He’d watched the movie it came from with Rahee and Raeon on a previous day-off. Jongin had been busy orienting Sehun about Howl’s Moving Castle when he was interrupted by the utterance of three precious syllables.
In the play of neon lights, the fervent passion glowing in Sehun’s eyes had been incontestable. In the palpable tension, Jongin had dispelled it with a single smile. At the song’s rise and fall, the lights in the water had faded, and Jongin took Sehun’s hand and planted a reverent kiss on its back. He had reveled in the gradual widening of Sehun’s eyes, the forming of a heart-melting smile and ears rivaling the color of cherries. And then Jongin leaned in to whisper the answer he had no problem giving. It had felt natural. Right.
The memory ebbed in time with the diminishing notes of the fountain’s song.
I waited a long time to tell you those words,
You know me. I’m not patient in certain aspects.
I didn’t expect the words to slip in a public place, where anyone could overhear or randomly catch it on tape.
But I didn’t care. I had to say it. Stalling for another day felt like torture.
I had never felt freer once they came out.
Precious words aren’t meant to be kept, anyway.
And when you said it back right away, I was so, so happy I could fly.
So now, I would like to ask you a question.
I’ll be waiting for you where it all began.
Two bus stops and unbridled giddiness coursing through his system, Jongin cared little to contain his grin on his arrival at the old bookstore he continued patronizing. The bookstore witnessed many transformations over the years and didn’t cease in thriving through the support of its loyal consumers. On Jongin’s last visit four months ago, the bookstore was undergoing a building expansion to provide a bigger reading lounge. The construction must’ve been finished since Jongin didn’t see the notice hanging on the doors anymore.
Jongin headed right away to the sci-fi section, senses assaulted with the heady, welcoming scent of newly-bound paper. His fingers brushed against the spines in search of the sci-fi author he used to read before the popular Japanese mystery writer stole his heart. They stopped on a hardbound copy of the book he purchased from this bookstore so many years ago, identical to the last detail from the cover art to the font size. Pulling it from the safety of its spot enabled him to see a beige envelop stuck between the cover and first page, oddly jutting out.
Do you remember?
This wasn’t the aisle where we met by chance, but this was the book you bought on our first meeting.
Sometimes I think of what-ifs.
If the book hadn’t been available in this bookstore, if I hadn’t dashed to hide in here, do you think we would’ve met?
Or would we have met some other way?
What if we had never met at all?
But that’s such a lonely thought.
Your first impression of me must’ve been something like a neighborhood brat boasting about being chased for his looks.
Back then, my first impression of you was a bookworm.
It’s still a bit true to this day.
I might not read the kind of books you like, but I’m grateful this sci-fi book tied our red threads together.
Jongin noticed a red thread pasted on the back of the book. It trailed down from the cover, all the way across the floor and disappeared into the corner. Returning the book, he followed the path of the red thread and wondered where it led. Jongin noticed he was walking further back into the bookstore. The string ended where it was tied around a door knob. An A-frame off-limits signage was set up in front of the door.
Footsteps and the wheeling of a cart announced the arrival of the bookstore owner. Jongin greeted him with a hesitant smile and bow. The bookstore owner raised both eyebrows; tipped his head toward the door with a knowing smile.
The reading lounge was commodious, the bookshelves spanning from floor to ceiling. They teemed with thick, hardbound books in titles Jongin could and couldn’t recognize, ranging from domestic hits to translated international bestsellers. Floral-shaped lamps were installed on the walls and bathed the room with a soft, warm golden glow. Jongin noticed the lack of tables and chairs. The oddity was quickly disregarded as he looked around and stopped short at the center of the room in awe. Above him was a domed roof, transparent and frameless. He could see the twilight sky with clarity, a reminder of how much time he’d spent outdoors today.
Jongin stood watching the sky long enough until it plunged into darkness; until snow began falling delicately on the glass, niveous and shimmering like a mirage, and plucked a smile out of him.
Belatedly, he remembered if he was to search for another beige envelope. Instead, his vision was suddenly blocked. Jongin didn’t panic; didn’t flinch. Already he was laughing, the lack of one sense hardly stopping him from recognizing the shape of those fingers; the fragrant, fresh scent wafting from the person standing behind him.
“Guess who?”
Jongin heard loud and clear the smile in Sehun’s voice; visualized it in his mind.
“My tardy and soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.”
The reaction was instant, and expected. Sehun let out a loud scoff of disbelief. “Take that back.”
“The tardy part or the ex-boyfriend part?”
“Kim Jongin.” Sehun’s voice skittered off to a whine at the last syllable.
Laughing some more, Jongin gently pried off Sehun’s fingers and turned around. Sehun’s mouth was set in a sulky line. It didn’t last long—Jongin smiled at him in the way he knew would lower his defenses and made him forget he was annoyed. It didn’t fail then; it most certainly didn’t fail now.
Sehun sighed, dropping the act, fingers reaching out to fix the scarf around Jongin’s neck. “Did you have fun running around a portion of Seoul?”
Jongin nodded. “This adventure was a revelation. You accuse me of being too cheesy. The letters you’ve written say otherwise.” He cupped Sehun’s face and started cooing. “Oh Sehun, the nation’s darling, who is also the most affectionate and lovable person I know. If you’re always this cute and cheesy to me in speech, I’ll short-circuit a lot, and I won’t regret a single second.”
Sehun’s eyes crinkled as shy laughter tumbled from his lips. In a way Jongin didn’t know was possible, he fell just a little more; just a little harder. “I’m bad at expressing myself, as you know. I’m lucky you don’t take it badly. It means so much to me you know how I feel, even if I don’t say anything. It’s like you’re always two steps ahead of me. I need to catch up.” He reached inside his coat. Out came a long-stemmed rose, newly-bloomed, stem thornless. A dainty bow as red as the rose was tied around the stem’s middle.
Jongin accepted the rose, about to take a whiff of its perfumed scent but stopped.
Inside the rose sat snug a single platinum ring, shining bright.
“I’ll try, though. I’ll always try for you. I’ll say all those cheesy things you want until you plead for me to shut up. And then, not only will I show you, but I’ll also tell you how much you mean to me every single day of our lives together.” Sehun took Jongin’s other hand and brushed the lightest of kisses on the knuckles. Their gazes met and held, neither of them looking away. “What do you say?”
☆彡
In the year-long engagement, facing storms of varied intensity were inevitable.
Sehun’s prominent status meant lessened privacy; invasion, sometimes. Speculation and rumors about his lifestyle behind the cameras, rampant in circulation; seldom true, the bulk exaggerated or plain lies. His presence anywhere normally generated a lot of buzz. A press conference of a movie he headlined was one of those events. Attention on him was expected—everyone wanted to know today’s outfit, the color and styling of his hair, Sehun’s insights about the role he played and why he chose it. Added fodder for the fans until his next public appearance.
Online articles from the press conference came with photos zoomed in on Sehun’s hands. Others used group photos by twos or threes, all with Sehun in them, paired with one- or two-lined captions hinting at an unusual accessory he wore. People were unstoppable if given ammunition. People wanted answers about the ring on Sehun’s finger, looking as extravagant as any high-end sponsored item but shrouded in deep mystery.
Fans harbored divided opinions about the ring. Think pieces started spreading in various social media platforms—complete with picture proofs, interview anecdotes, and GIFs—to explain why or why not a certain stance was possible. On Naver, Sehun’s name and the word “ring” easily shot up the top ten list of hot keyword searches and reigned for days. Antis came out of the woodwork and used the furor about the ring to prop up their agenda that the nation’s darling might’ve been lying about his single status and laughing behind the fans’ back. Fans organized search cleaning parties and swiftly dealt with the most malicious accounts.
A stark, sobering contrast to Jongin’s situation.
Co-workers showered him with congratulations, well-wishes, and attempts at fishing for information about his other half upon noticing the ring. Jongin never hid the fact he was in a relationship, though he exercised plenty of caution sharing a detail or two. Moonkyu and the gang were supportive as they were discreet when talking about Sehun and anything related to him in public spaces. They celebrated his engagement by throwing a barbecue party and sang their lungs out in karaoke on their next gathering. The night concluded with a stroll by the Han River and enjoying the night view while sipping on grape juice; took endless jabs at Jongin for being the first to tie the knot among them, placing bets on whether he or Sehun would cry first on their wedding day.
Jongin’s family accepted the joyous news (and Sehun) with open arms on their visit. Jungah, his elder sister, bragged how she knew from the get-go they would end up together. Woman’s intuition, she called it. Jongin didn’t refute the statement, having experienced this firsthand growing up. Jongin’s mother gushed nonstop, squeezing Sehun’s hands and said, with utmost delight, she was blessed to have an additional adorable son in the family. Jongin’s father was a little more reserved in his gestures, but he left the strongest impact with one statement: “Welcome to the family.”
Sehun’s family was just as welcoming and thrilled. Sehun’s mother, regal and poised like her son, showed a tenderhearted side in the way she cared for Jongin and made sure he was comfortable during a family outing in Seoul’s outskirts. Sehun’s father and older brother exerted efforts in conversing with Jongin, the talks revealing he surprisingly shared a lot of common things with each of them. Sehun mostly watched the interactions from the sidelines as he went about his tasks. Whenever Jongin searched for him and their eyes met, Sehun would nod and smile in encouragement, as if assuring him of a wonderful job he was doing bonding with his family.
Being formally introduced to your future spouse’s family and hoping to establish an amiable rapport was probably the biggest hurdle for any person intending to get married. Sitting at the same table as the founder and CEO of Sehun’s entertainment company in a private room of a posh Gangnam restaurant posed a different challenge altogether.
“Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to attend. I apologize if the invitation was sudden.” CEO Moon was startlingly soft-spoken for a man of stocky stature in his fifties and fit the bill of a cold mob boss in an action movie. (Jongin would later find out CEO Moon was an actor himself before retirement, and very popular in his prime.) “I have been made aware of your engagement by Sehun himself. He came up to my office one day and said he would rather inform me than let me learn from sketchy sources. Commendable. So many people lack the guts.”
The meeting sailed by with a surprising smoothness and soothed Jongin’s nerves. Contrary to initial apprehensions this matter might take a dramatic turn, CEO Moon didn’t scold him for snagging his company’s top actor, or keeping their relationship a secret until the engagement. CEO Moon showed genuine interest in learning about Jongin by asking questions. He acknowledged Sehun’s brand reputation might lower and project offers slow if the news was released. Before either of them could protest, CEO Moon declared he placed full confidence in Sehun’s hard work, which should speak for itself more than his civil status; that he would bounce back from this and gain new fans while keeping the old.
“There will always be work waiting for you after the storm passes,” CEO Moon assured. His tiny smile softened the hard lines of his face, giving a much friendlier vibe. “Why am I so sure about this? You have a clean and stellar image. You don’t give filming staff a hard time. You treat everybody well from co-stars to the stunt doubles. You are one of the easiest stars to manage in the company. Everything you touch sells out. Kindness, hard work, and humility speak louder than anything. I am only sorry you cannot date out openly, or proclaim to the world you have someone special; but those are more the result of a flawed industry obsessed with selling fantasies. Rest assured, however, that we will do our best with damage control if the future announcement garners a lot of negativity.”
Jongin was no stranger to netizen brutality; wasn’t spared the snide remarks, the outrageous assumptions about his identity, the controversial takes of how he might have tricked the nation’s darling into becoming his lover when browsing comment sections in the past days. A segment of a Happy Together episode where Sehun and his co-stars appeared to promote their movie went viral recently. Jun Hyunmoo and Cho Seho tried baiting Sehun into answering controversial questions pertaining to his personal life. Sehun evaded them with professional ease and trademark cheekiness. But when Yoo Jaesuk brought up the topic of lucky charms, Sehun declared the ring around his finger was more than that—it came from the person he would stay loyal to until the end. Cue the domination of Naver’s top ten hot topics; set Weibo and Twitter trends ablaze worldwide.
Most times Jongin could ignore majority of the bad comments. Today, he couldn’t get past the eight most upvoted comments, albeit positive, without feeling physically ill at the amount of slander made against him. It didn’t matter if they had fewer upvotes. Many were scattered, slipped in between, springing up on him unsuspected like snakes lying in wait to attack.
Sehun snatched his phone; frowned when he looked at the screen. He kept the phone out of Jongin’s reach and hid it away somewhere. If Jongin wasn’t so comfortable stretched out on the couch with his head in Sehun’s lap, he’d have fought to get the phone back. He pursed his lips, intention obvious. Unsuccessful.
“Stop looking for things that will upset you.” Sehun turned to the next page of his new script.
Jongin sighed, continuing to stare up at him. “How do these people get away being so malicious to someone they’ve never met before?”
“Sometimes they don’t. It’s called IP tracking and piled-up lawsuits.”
“And the other times?”
“What they say and do now will return to them someday in another form. I pray they’ll stop soon and won’t have to experience terrible things before learning their lesson.”
Jongin couldn’t help smiling. “Of course you would continue being kind to the most ruthless souls.”
Sehun looked down at him, puzzled. “Don’t be mistaken, I’m the furthest from a saint. It’s easy to speak flippantly and wish ill on others when you’ve been wronged. I don’t put great stock anymore on what faceless people online say about me. I turn off my phone, or close the apps, and they’re as good as ignored. But if anyone tried it with you, they’re answering to me.” He set the script aside, reaching out to toy with Jongin’s cardigan sleeve. “I’m sorry if it’s been overwhelming. I’m doing my best to shield you from the ugly side of showbiz. All I ask is for you to stay. If it’s too hard, tell me and let’s talk it out.”
“You can’t get rid of me so easily. Not even a demon summoning will make me stay away,” Jongin joked, and considered Sehun’s chuckle as a victory. Gently he took Sehun’s hand and placed a kiss on each fingertip. “My loyalty is not frail. If I wanted to leave, I’d have done it a long time ago.”
CEO Moon kept his word of tracking and suing antis. Sehun’s image didn’t take an extreme backlash from the Happy Together appearance. He continued promoting the movie with his co-stars; continued receiving scripts and event invitations. Jongin’s days carried on like normal with no drastic changes: preparing for several productions, attracted dazed stares from trainees and corps de ballet members down the halls, stealing free moments with Moonkyu to chat or eat together in the cafeteria between schedules, babysitting Rahee and Raeon at the threat of hair loss from their hyperactivity just so his sister could do chores or spend well-deserved personal time.
Wedding planning was done together no matter what. They discussed and agreed on this, stemming from one reason: if a wedding involved two people, the decisions shouldn’t be one-sided. Their families gave input on flower arrangements and table cloth colors, and though they gave advice when asked, they didn’t meddle in major affairs. Debates and squabbles arose if Jongin wanted one thing and Sehun preferred another but never escalated to extremes; calm talks and bargaining, their methods of combating them.
A few months passed by without incident. By the time planning was completely done, Sehun’s company released an official statement to put every rumor to rest, sending news sites and discussion forums into a frenzy. Many questioned if Dispatch’s silence on the matter was bought. Not a single soul believed everyone who worked for Dispatch grew a conscience overnight, if based on their consistent track records of exposing artists and actors as a means of livelihood.
Shortly after, Sehun posted a heartfelt, handwritten letter to fans. In it he relayed his apprehension of wanting to share the news to fans right away but had to be cautious since this involved someone else and both of their families. He said the news might be sudden, understood if some would be in shock, but hoped the fans would continue supporting him; vowed he would continue working hard as an actor and wished for everyone’s blessings.
Fan reactions weren’t too divided. Majority supported Sehun’s marriage and wished him well; few lamented but eventually came around. Some expressed it was high time, past concerns of Sehun having no time to date due to the sheer number of projects lined up dissolving. Speculation ran rampant about the lucky person. Jongin was asked during a meeting if he would consent to having his identity revealed in an emergency statement should more drastic measures be taken. He agreed after a considerable amount of deliberation. If marrying Sehun meant facing constant tests of endurance, patience, and loyalty, then so be it.
Jongin asked himself numerous times if he wasn’t dreaming, seeing the public’s positive reception finding out who stole the nation’s darling’s heart. Netizens’ countless theories of Sehun dating a commoner was spot on, but no one linked his frequent watching of ballet productions and Jongin’s occupation until recently. Following the reveal, netizens dug up some of Jongin’s past pictures. The photo shoot he did two years past resurfaced. Many expressed disbelief how a ballet dancer could look like a model—better than most, even. Some were giddy by the discovery of Jongin and Sehun knowing each other as far back as middle school they eventually ended up together.
Methodical planning and furthering individual careers, combined with their joint hard work and endless daydreams culminated to a magical, unforgettable wedding one sunny day in autumn. Donning their custom-tailored suits of black and white, family members, trusted friends, and colleagues from both sides filled the grand wedding hall, united in their applause once the officiant pronounced them officially married. The event’s emcee was none other than Junmyeon, who became one of Sehun’s long-time and closest friends in the industry after moving past the senior-junior relationship. Brothers from different sets of parents, many called them. Jongin readily agreed, witnessing firsthand how Junmyeon guided Sehun through some of his difficult roles or bickered with him over the silliest, funniest matters like true siblings would. Junmyeon’s quick wit and charm, sprinkled with dad jokes and puns, livened up the venue.
One by one, guests climbed up the podium to share testimonials and offer songs. Ahn Hyesoo got everyone talking by dedicating a song to the newlyweds and blew everyone away with her sweet voice. Jongin couldn’t stop laughing at Moonkyu’s teasing during his turn; became emotional when the speech took on a sentimental note. Industry friends took their time sharing funny anecdotes about Sehun on and off set, resulting in baffled laughter and reddened ears when Jongin looked at him. (Jongin swore Sehun was plotting how to get back at his friends, calm and amused exterior a ruse.) Sehun’s manager talked fondly about him; how the rookie actor became a shining star, surprised Jongin by thanking him for becoming one of Sehun’s biggest driving force and positive influence.
“My gratitude is long overdue,” Sehun’s manager told Jongin, when it was their turn to trade hugs. “We didn’t start off on good terms, but you know what? I’m glad it was you he ended up with. Truly.”
The next person took the microphone, and Jongin went slack-jawed.
Balladeer extraordinaire Kim Jongdae, wearing his trademark, feline-like smile and the kindest expression that could melt glaciers. Jongin turned to Sehun for answers. Sehun looked like he was trying hard and failing to stay quiet.
Kim Jongdae greeted the audience; gave his congratulations. Told them the story of his and Sehun’s connection. Jongdae’s manager secured him an OST deal for Life is a Flower Garden. At the time, Jongdae was starting out as a singer, and jobs were scarce. The OST secured him a top spot in online music charts, stirred curiosity about his past work, garnered fans, and opened several avenues that shaped and contributed to his current success. From other drama OSTs to movie theme song—some of them headlined by Sehun, a funny twist of fate—all the way to his second album seeing better results than the first that won him awards and recognition, Jongdae declared he would never forget the drama OST that saved his career and gave him hope to keep trying.
“Many of you may not know, but Sehun-ssi and I are under the same company. It’s rare for us to meet since we work in different circles. We finally had a chance to get to know each other better through a company workshop in Hawaii last year. Sometimes he bothers me to go out with a meal for him and sulks if I can’t make it. Hey, maybe you should time your invitations better; you tend to text me when I don’t want to step out of the house,” Jongdae said, jokingly, eliciting laughter. “I always felt sorry to him when my schedule made it impossible for us to hang out; but today, I made sure to clear everything.”
Kim Jongdae enthralled everyone in the room with his divine voice as he delivered the congratulatory song. He approached and shook their hands afterward; congratulated them once again, bright smile emphasizing the feline curl of his upper lip.
“I really enjoyed listening to your latest album,” Jongin said, extracting a surprised cry from Kim Jongdae, his features melting into a pleased expression. “I’m so touched you sang ‘Shall We?’ for us. I told Sehun more than a few times it was my favorite song off it.”
“My ear almost fell off in that half hour he gushed over it,” Sehun said, exaggerating a solemn nod.
Jongdae laughed aloud. “You brat, I was really shocked when you volunteered to be the emcee at my showcase.” He looked at Jongin when he spoke again. “I joked about being unable to afford his talent fee. You know what he said? Sehun told me I can return the favor by singing at his wedding one day because his most important person is a fan. I thought he was joking. The joke’s on me, apparently, because here we are! Take care of each other well, okay? Treasure every second together, and strengthen your bond so nothing will break it.”
The honeymoon happened a month later, one they deliberately planned and mutually agreed on during wedding preparations. This allowed them to recover from the post-wedding high, spend time with relatives who flew in overseas and might not see again for years, and settle into their new home (Wonji offered her interior design service as a gift and coordinated with them to better decorate the penthouse). Unfinished obligations called them back to work, Jongin harboring slight trepidation of how their lives might face more drastic changes. Colleagues welcoming him back warmly, cheering and teasing and treating him no different, crushed every trace of it. Jongin participated in the rest of Don Quixote’s tour dates without problems, co-dancers and ballet masters wishing him a happy honeymoon after.
Sehun’s popularity saw no decline. The mention of his name pulled in crowds at airports during arrivals and departures; his appearance at fashion events turned heads, outfits earning praise. He flew out for endorsement shoots in neighboring countries carrying only essentials and came home with numerous congratulatory gifts from the brands.
Schedules cleared, bags packed, they slept during the early morning flight and woke up in Hokkaido. Noboribetsu welcomed them with its chilly weather and sunlit skies. After checking in and leaving their luggage behind at the traditional hot spring inn, they dived right into sightseeing. Jongin planned their itinerary months ago, dedicating time to research once the honeymoon destinations were narrowed down to a few. Sehun let him plan as he pleased but also sought recommendations from friends who had traveled to the island to help curate a better itinerary.
They explored the dramatic valleys of Jigokudani to see the source of the hot springs; hunted for the demon statues said to be scattered around town (what a coincidence the first one they found was the good lucky effigy for marriage); enjoyed plates of the popular Enma Yakisoba for lunch and cooled off their burning tongues with honey-flavored soft serve. On the stroll along Gokuraku’s streets, Sehun slowed his steps in front of the souvenir shop and pointed in amusement at the demon memorabilia. Jongin thought it was too soon for purchases but promised they would return tomorrow after spying an array of interesting bath salts inside. They came upon more demon statues on the walk back to the inn, each with interesting histories Naver provided on a quick search.
Jongin exhaled a deep, satisfied sigh as he submerged himself in the wooden tub, the hot water melting away a good chunk of the day’s tension from his body. The tub was made of top grade Japanese cypress and installed on a terrace connected to their suite, serving as their private open-air bath. Jongin moved to the edge of the tub, nestling his head on top of his folded arms, and admired the flurry of Noboribetsu’s first snow bathing the entire landscape in a soft winter blanket. He lamented he couldn’t see the cherry blossom tree at its pinkest, like the pictures posted he saw on the official website. One was planted beside the bathtub, standing tall and regal as snow dusted the bare branches. Regardless, he still appreciated the sparkling white scenery, unmindful of the cold. The bathwater warmed him from the neck down; combined with the serene environment, he was lulled into closing his eyes.
The next time Jongin opened his eyes, he heard the distant sound of doors sliding open and close, muted footsteps, and a soft weight lain atop his head. Reaching up told him it was a folded towel. Looking to his side, Sehun was disrobing and shortly joined him. Water sloshed over the sides then calmed once Sehun sat close next to him.
“Enjoyed your time out there?” Jongin asked, noticing a matching towel on Sehun’s head. Sehun told him earlier he wanted to take a good look around the inn instead of returning to their room right away, whereas Jongin opted for a bath, unable to stand the stuffiness of his clothes.
“I found a game room on the way back. There are so many games I’ve never seen before! I want to try them all. Oh, I saw table tennis and pool equipment, too. I haven’t played those in a long time.”
“You mean you want your ass whooped in those games.”
“You’re confident you can beat me without cheating?” Sehun laughed when Jongin let out an affronted noise. “Fine, I’ll pretend you know how to play fair and square.” He laughed harder this time, holding up his arms in defense from Jongin’s water assault. “What? Did I lie? Stop, stop—!” More laughter; hands wiping the water away from his face. “Before I savor your defeat, we must try all the inn’s hot springs.”
Sehun specifically wanted this hot spring inn and wouldn’t budge from his decision, even when presented with other resorts and hotels. Sehun reasoned they should aim for the experience of a traditional inn. The inn had a lot of public hot springs to choose from, all different in its presentation and offered various types of thermal water. He mentioned one hot spring suited Jongin and his dancer body—the minerals in the water could help with his various afflictions, soothe his dance-worn muscles.
Though he took painstaking care not to injure himself, Jongin wasn’t spared the aches, strains, and tears common among dancers. Incidents repeated themselves over the years, but none were considered too serious enough to take him out of the running for major roles; miss entire seasons before he could return to the stage in top form. Possessing a relatively healthier mindset about injuries compared to his younger years certainly helped. Although it didn’t feel like his entire world was collapsing anymore if an unmistakable pain flared on different body parts, Jongin no longer scolded himself too harshly; exerted conscientious effort in caring for his body and applying learned methods to not aggravate the affected areas.
Wearing matching yukatas in white and light blue, they were served a traditional Japanese multi-course dinner once the clock struck six. The sequence of dishes was artistically arranged on the table they couldn’t help snapping pictures. A definite feast for the eyes but felt like a grave sin would be committed if they so much as touched the chopsticks. The proprietress explained what each dish contained with the help of an interpreter.
The game room was empty on their arrival an hour later. An array of arcade machines and traditional Japanese games awaited them, as well as western varieties. Sehun darted for the table tennis area right away, challenging Jongin to a match. Loser would have to do anything the winner wanted without question or complaint. Jongin pulled up his yukata sleeves, determined to teach Sehun a lesson. He’d love nothing more than to wipe the smug smirk off Sehun’s face—preferably by winning against him.
The goddess of fortune did not smile at Jongin today. Even his not-so-subtle cheating methods couldn’t salvage his luck.
Sehun’s victorious smirk had never been as irksome as this moment.
Jongin frowned, sore about his defeat; punctuated his words with a wag of a finger. “I’m telling you now: you better not ask me to do anything outrageous, or you’ll risk me refusing to do anything at all. I’m serious, Oh Sehun—don’t think I’m being playful about this!”
“Bargaining already? Why, are you nervous?” Sehun’s lips curved upward, eyes sparkling in mischief. “I’ll think about what I want first. This is too good an opportunity to pass up. Don’t you dare willfully forget about this. You have a tendency to be a great pretender if it’s not to your favor.”
They played other games, sans bets, and, after tiring of them, agreed to try the public baths. A faint, pungent aroma tickled Jongin’s nose as they followed the trail leading to the public outdoor bath and grew stronger drawing close. Steam wafted from the surface of the water, milky-white and opaque. The sulfur spring was currently occupied by a group of burly, grumpy-faced men, who sported identical buzz cuts like they went to the same barber and chatted quietly among themselves. Jongin and Sehun stayed on the opposite end, backs leaning comfortably against the smooth stones.
Jongin noticed the men giving Sehun odd looks. He presumed them as locals that tend to stare at foreigners. Ignoring the men but keeping his senses on alert, he continued watching Sehun fold two towels into sheep heads, a task that came automatic to him stemming from their sauna dates.
Jongin gasped when Sehun daintily placed one finished product atop his head.
So did the men and their intensified staring.
Sehun looked their way, confused.
The men gasped louder.
“Are you Oh Sehun?” one of them boldly asked, in accented Korean.
“Yes,” Sehun answered, politely, without missing a beat. He wore the second sheep head towel while waiting for an answer.
“Wu Shixun?” a second one asked, sounding more natural using Mandarin. The rest of his question was lost to Jongin, but Sehun comprehended just fine, nodding and smiling and responded in the same language flawlessly.
The men’s faces brightened. Conversation was engaged. Jongin watched the exchange, entertained, despite not understanding a single word.
Jongin would later find out on the walk back to their suite the men were tourists hailing from Beijing and claimed themselves as Sehun’s biggest fans. They congratulated him on his marriage and willingly gave up the sulfur spring so they could enjoy some private time together. Sehun tried dissuading them—the space was large enough to share—but they insisted and left after wishing them a happy and prosperous marriage.
“One of them said they were anticipating my collaboration with Doh Kyungsoo next year.” Sehun was tinkering with the tea set in the sitting room. The mild scent of green tea permeated the air. “I hope I won’t disappoint. I haven’t done noir before, and… it’s the Doh Kyungsoo. It’ll be my first time working with him.”
Adjacent to the sitting room was the futon prepared for them while they were away. Jongin was warm and comfortable lying in it. “You’ll do wonderful. Junmyeon-hyung worked with him before, right? Didn’t he say nothing but praises for Doh Kyungsoo? You’ll be okay.” Armed with his phone, he scrolled mindlessly down his Instagram feed. “I was a little worried the men from the sulfur spring might turn out to be those type of fans.”
“Lots of fans are really awesome and considerate like them. I’m always amazed there truly are so many different types of people to exist when I interact with fans. It’s a good thing no one bothered or harassed you when the public found out your identity. That’s nearly impossible in the world of celebrities.”
“I’d tell you right away if someone bothered me. I wouldn’t wait until it escalated to dangerous proportions unlike the dramas and movies.” Jongin shifted from his previous position so he was now on his back, phone centimeters from his face. He liked a post of Rahee and Raeon wearing the matching bear beanies he bought for them on his last visit. He moved his phone to the side so he could see Sehun when he spoke next. “Isn’t it amazing they recognized you here in Hokkaido, of all places? Ah, what to do— my husband is not only the most handsome and talented man in the world, but he’s so popular, too!”
Sehun burst out laughing, tips of his ears tinged red, thoroughly blushing. “Stop that. If I scald my hand, it’s your fault,” he scolded, though it lacked real bite, mouth quirking up into a pleased smile.
“Stop what? Telling the truth? Never. I’ll never tire of making you feel important and adored.”
“My god, how do you say the things you do without cringing?” Sehun shook his head in exasperation—a contrast to his expression of immense fondness. His reactions were always so pure despite the years and experiences, Jongin thought it such a wondrous thing. “The tea’s ready. Come drink. It tastes better when it’s newly brewed.”
“Yeah, let me just finish going through my feed.”
The scrolling seemed endless in spite of the limited accounts Jongin followed; then again, some of the people he followed made it their goal to update several times a day. He checked out related links from art accounts if it looked interesting enough. He heard Sehun asking him a few questions. Jongin responded while wading through a wide selection of upcoming exhibitions. Sehun’s questions kept coming. Jongin was unsure if he was answering correctly, or at all, distracted by the ticket prices for an exhibition he wanted to visit.
He didn’t get to wonder long. The covers lifted, a burst of cold air caressing the soles of his feet; then, a huge lump crawling upward.
Sehun’s head popped out from the covers. His arms flanked Jongin’s head, presence and weight impossible to ignore.
Jongin blinked at him twice. “Yes…?”
“I don’t like your phone.” Sehun snatched Jongin’s phone and slid it a safe distance away. Out of reach. “You’re paying it too much attention.”
“Okay.” Jongin made no move to push Sehun away or retrieve his phone. “Was that why you kept asking questions? So I’ll pay attention to you, instead?” He didn’t bother holding back his smile.
“I still don’t like your phone,” Sehun replied, his pout indignant. “Drink your tea. Cold tea doesn’t taste good.”
“Your fans were on to something comparing you to a cat.” Jongin pressed the tip of his finger against Sehun’s bottom lip. “Reminds me of Liang Qu.”
Sehun huffed. “Blasphemy. I’m cuter than Liang Qu.”
Liang Qu was the name of Sehun’s character in I Love Catman, his second South Korea-China co-production film. The movie told the story of a young man cursed to live as a cat for sixteen hours a day and live the rest as a human. Rumors of his casting ran rampant online, fueling his fans’ creativity in comparing Sehun to different cat breeds; matched some of his mannerisms to feline actions. Jongin remembered seeing the posts and comparison GIFs on his daily wading into Sehun’s Instagram tags at the time; how entertained he’d been seeing the resemblances.
“I guess. You’re chic and confident but not as cold as you look. Still doesn’t change the fact you’re acting like a cat right now. Can’t stand competition for my attention, huh?” Jongin tickled Sehun under the chin.
“If I was a cat, could I do this?” Sehun dropped a kiss on Jongin’s forehead. “Or this?” He didn’t allow Jongin to reply and kissed his cheeks. “Or this?” A kiss to Jongin’s nose.
Jongin accepted the kisses with soft laughs, already expecting the distraction attempt. To the entire world, Sehun looked very put-together, stoic, mysterious. They wouldn’t be wrong to some extent. To Jongin, however, the depth of Sehun’s playful, childlike, and adorable sides might surprise plenty of fans.
“Well?” Sehun’s gaze was expectant.
Jongin hummed, pretending to give it thought. “Is that all you’ve got?” He raised an eyebrow in challenge; tapped Sehun’s nose with every spoken syllable.
“I am most definitely sure a cat wouldn’t be able to do this.”
Jongin smiled as Sehun kissed him sound and sweet; lingering, in the way he broke the kiss momentarily for a better angle, only to dive right back in. He cupped Sehun’s cheeks and responded with equal tenderness, enjoying the chasteness of the kiss; the firmness of his lips, how perfectly they fit against Jongin’s. Sehun caught Jongin’s bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, giving it a light tug, coaxing him into another kiss.
And Jongin yielded, guiding Sehun’s tongue into his mouth to curl around his own, tasting earthy tea and decadent desire. Playful tension slowly sparked into full-fledged passion as they kissed each other breathless, and drew apart after what felt like a long time. Covers thrown aside, Sehun untied the sash of Jongin’s yukata with deft fingers and tugged it off. Jongin didn’t miss Sehun’s ravenous gaze roving over his semi-nude form once the yukata fell away. Empowered and emboldened by the knowledge he could unfailingly elicit such a reaction, Jongin slowly pulled himself up so he was sitting upright, fingers lightly touching the knot of Sehun’s sash.
“So what next?” Jongin asked, with deliberate coyness, listing his head with a faux innocent smile.
“I know what I want you to do.” Sehun’s expression morphed into mischievous glee. “I’m ready to collect my prize for winning the table tennis game.” He took Jongin’s hand from his sash and dropped a kiss on each of his knuckles. “I want you to pay attention.”
Sehun nuzzled whisper-light kisses on his throat, tongue sweeping across the dip of his sternum; further south, circling a nipple, the other. Sehun used his lips to map the contours of Jongin’s chest, his sculpted abdomen. Jongin fought the urge to close his eyes and immerse himself in the sensations, remembering Sehun wanted him to watch. A struggle it proved to be when he was extremely focused on Sehun’s hands mapping every sliver of his untouched skin as he ventured downward, and downward still.
Jongin gasped the moment Sehun slid his mouth down onto his erection, any trace of coherent thought vanquished from his mind. He clutched at the sheets, hips jolting at the long, slow glides of Sehun’s tongue over every bit of him. Sehun’s palms were firm and hot on his thighs, keeping them open as he licked a stripe along the vein on the underside then sucked on the head. Sehun gripped the base, fingers moving up and down opposite his mouth. Pleasure was a keen rush into Jongin’s system further fueled by Sehun’s heated gaze on him the entire time—commanding, unbroken. His balls drew tight, then knotted in ecstasy when Sehun caressed and played with them.
Jongin’s fingers sank into Sehun’s hair and yanked, body tight with a need for him to take more of his cock. His hips jumped when Sehun dragged his tongue around the head, teasing, kittenish flicks between the foreskin and tip, then swallowed around him down to the base. A tingling sensation rippled up Jongin’s spine and through his entire body as Sehun worked him mercilessly using his mouth, his fingers. Somewhere between the gentle squeezing of his balls and Sehun’s desire-filled eyes focused on him, waves of an orgasm hit Jongin out of nowhere, panting and shaking all over.
Sehun’s mouth was swollen and turned a rosy hue as Jongin’s softening cock slipped from between his spit-slick lips. A pink tongue darted out to catch the dollop of come on the corner of his mouth that dripped in the aftermath. He rubbed his scalp, right over where Jongin had tugged too hard his hand came away with a few strands of hair. “By the end of this honeymoon, I’m going to have several bald patches. Naejoo-hyung will be asking questions when I get back. What will I tell him? I’ll tell him my husband has quite the strength when… agitated.”
Panting and overwhelmed from his first orgasm, Jongin just laughed and swatted him on the arm. “You’re too overdressed for this,” was his complaint after recovering, tugging on Sehun’s sleeve for emphasis.
“Can’t wait to get me naked? Undress me yourself.”
Jongin grabbed the front of Sehun’s yukata and flipped them over with ease. The flash of surprise in Sehun’s eyes was utterly satisfying—a dancer’s core strength was never to be underestimated. Jongin could easily manhandle Sehun if he wanted, proven by past episodes of patience pushed beyond the limit when submerged in uncontrolled desire. He just chose not to most times; and even then, he’d always seek permission before doing anything.
Jongin peeled off the yukata from Sehun’s body after tossing the sash behind him. Beneath the soft cotton was a body he’d had to himself before the entire world saw a glimpse of it; a body Sehun molded to his personal taste with absolute care, and not just for the sake of scoring action movie roles. Stretched out beneath him like this, Sehun was a beautiful visage who looked like he walked out of a dream. Embodied the dream, even, with the way he always turned heads; always struck people speechless, got them talking, resided in their minds and fantasies.
Sehun’s body trembled from Jongin’s touch, starting from the slope of his shoulders to the taper of his waist; every untouched corner of the smooth, unblemished skin. Sehun’s erection was impressive and resting heavy against taut abs, the slit already leaking precome. Jongin dragged a finger up the underside, catching drops of fluid from the tip. Sehun’s breath hitched when Jongin closed his hand around it and gave a firm stroke. Another, and Sehun moved into his touch. Jongin adjusted his pace and speed according to Sehun’s noises. Teasingly slow gave him whimpers, swift and sure made Sehun gasp, a certain twist of the wrist wrangled out a moan of Jongin’s name.
Taking advantage of his flexibility, Jongin leaned over and claimed Sehun’s mouth. Sehun’s hands skated up his thighs, clutched his hips; minute squeezes wordless affirmation to continue what he was doing, encouragement for more. Sehun’s hold was beginning to tighten, needy gasps rising in volume, breathing heavier.
Jongin chose this moment to sit upright, hand coming away wet and sticky.
Sehun’s brows knitted together from the loss of stimulation; eyes glazed, desperate, wanting. A pretty flush of red spread on his cheeks down to his neck. “Why’d you stop?” His voice touched on the border between frustration and confusion.
Jongin skittered wispy touches on those clenching abs. “I’ve paid attention to you like you wanted. Now, pay attention to me.”
Jongin shrugged off his yukata the rest of the way, performer’s instinct kicking in. This wasn’t the first time he put on a show for Sehun where no one else could see, though it had been a long time since the last. In their adventures of discovering intimacy, Jongin picked up a few things he kept in his collection for future use. One of them was Sehun’s penchant for watching Jongin in his most intimate moments. Jongin had a thing for being watched. He was a performer through and through; anywhere could become a stage for him as long as he was creative.
He held Sehun’s stare with a coquettish smile, making a show of his hands running down his chest, his abdomen. Fingers dragged purposely slow over his nipples, traced a heated path to his sides, thumbs rasping them on their return and tugging a sigh out of him. Jongin steadily riled himself up with patience, with deliberation, using the experience of a seasoned dancer he had been blessed with to drag out the teasing, stoke the fire of lust simmering low in his belly. He wanted this to be good for both of them. He wanted this to last.
“Like what you see?” he asked, words coming out in a seductive purr, lapping up Sehun’s undivided attention on him.
“Yeah,” Sehun’s reply came out as a strangled whisper, the fire in his eyes giving way to a silent plea: let me touch you. Seemingly unable to help himself, his hands came to rest on Jongin’s waist, the hot, tender touch underscored with possessiveness. “Hard not to like what I’m seeing when it’s you.”
On normal days, Jongin would’ve pushed his hands away until he gave permission. He would let this slide for now. Sehun’s hands felt too nice—too good—on his body. He reached back for the familiar bottle stashed under his pillow. “Good. I want you to continue watching.”
“Just watch? What kind of evil torture is this?”
A click of the cap; cold, viscous liquid trickling down Jongin’s fingers. “The best kind.”
Jongin worked himself open with lube-coated fingers one at a time, gnawing on his bottom lip even as tiny noises slipped past. Questing fingertips firmly curved over on a place that tore the loudest moan from his throat as of yet. Barbs of pleasure stabbed at his body, and he hardened once again from the constant, growing sensation. Through half-lidded eyes, Jongin watched Sehun track the movement of his prodding fingers, mesmerized and aroused, the hold on his waist tightening.
“You really are beautiful like this.” Wonder and adoration shone in Sehun’s eyes, clearing away some of the lust in the moment. “You must hear this a lot, and you should, but I’ve never seen a more beautiful person in my life.”
Jongin was already feverish with need, but the sincere praise infused a different sort of warmth in his cheeks; spread in his chest. He pulled his fingers free with concerted effort, quickly missing the feeling of being full, but now craved to feel fuller.
Hands joined together, fingers intertwined, Jongin arched his back as he sank down slow, slowly, body working to accommodate Sehun. It was impossible to forget how Sehun felt, but the first slide was always the most overwhelming, and also the one that made him feel whole.
“Fuck.” Sehun’s breath came in ragged gasps, eyes screwed shut. The tremble in his voice matched the faltering grip of their clasped hands. Jongin held on tighter, keeping him anchored. “You feel good. You feel too good.”
The aching need stormed within when Jongin lifted himself and descended, fluid and languid, over and over. Each drop and lift allowed him to take more of Sehun’s cock, blind desire ricocheting through him with every conquered breadth. Sehun’s hips shifted up beneath to plunge deeper into his eager, pliant body as he rocked down. Jongin clenched hard around him, tendrils of fire building with each pass of Sehun’s cock across the place where his own fingers had touched. He lost himself in the rhythmic flux and flow, timing his movements to the sounds of Sehun’s breathing: slowing when he gasped, quickening when he quieted.
Sehun unlaced their fingers and raised himself upright, closing his arms around Jongin to fit his mouth around a swollen nipple. Jongin gasped, pressing his chest closer, fingers digging into Sehun’s scalp. Their unhurried, sensual rhythm could have lasted forever, but Sehun was beginning to drive his hips up harder, more frantic with each return. Tension swelled within Jongin at an alarming rate, the finesse of their established rhythm gradually morphing into something more frenzied when Sehun’s thrusts increased in momentum.
“Jongin.” Desperation and desire coloring the syllables of his name, Sehun whispered it against the sweaty hollow of his throat. A mighty thrust, almost unseating Jongin his hands flew to Sehun’s shoulders to steady himself. A telltale plea. “Jongin, I—I don’t think I’ll—”
“It’s okay. Come. Come for me.”
The friction between their bodies was relentless, pleasure red-hot and vicious. Sehun made a rough, tortured noise; surged up and into him with hard, deliberate strokes as the last of his gentleness fled. He held Jongin tight against him, breath hitching and body shuddering from an impending finish.
Jongin clung to him and bore down with equal fervor, a quaking mess of sobs and need. His focus narrowed down to where they were joined, shards of desire crashing along every nerve ending. Pulse after pulse of exquisite pleasure crested and broke through him, pushing Sehun’s name out of his mouth in a frenzied chant after a final, soul-shattering descent. He collapsed against Sehun, slack and sated, breath coming out in heaving gasps; his abdomen, stained white and sticky upon finishing untouched.
Sehun groaned as Jongin coaxed him to his release with shallow motions of his hips and a hand threading through damp hair. With a last, sharp stutter up into him, Sehun came undone, muffling a shout in Jongin’s shoulder. Jongin moaned, shuddering at the slick, wet heat filling him; caressed the back of Sehun’s head and neck, trembling through his orgasm.
Long moments passed as their tremors subsided and they relaxed against each other. Everywhere they touched singed Jongin’s skin with another level of pleasure. In the midst of trading languid kisses and tender smiles, Jongin observed the quiet snowfall outside through the glass doors leading to the garden. Belatedly, he remembered they would need to slide the fusuma shut to block out the morning sun from intruding on their sleep later. A trivial oversight. It hardly mattered when faced with the glint of renewed desire in Sehun’s eyes as he lowered them to the futon, kissing him breathless, the promise of a sleepless night looming high.
The passage of time ceased and flowed back to normal upon their surrender, bodies wonderfully and thoroughly spent. Exhaustion threatened to sweep over Jongin as the sweat cooled from his skin. The last of his energy was spent on flashing Sehun a lazy smile on his return from the bathroom. Though equally as exhausted, Sehun’s expression was soft with affection as he dragged a warm washcloth across Jongin’s abdomen, between his thighs—hands careful, attentiveness heartwarming. Jongin raised his arms with concerted effort once clean. Sehun pulled the covers over their naked bodies then dove right into his embrace, tucking his head under Jongin’s chin.
“You forgot your tea,” Sehun mumbled, snuggling close. “It’s gone too cold, now.”
“Brew a fresh pot in the morning. We’ll drink it together.”
Sehun hummed in seeming agreement, arms loose around Jongin’s torso, nose buried in the crook of his neck. “Being married to you feels like a dream. And if it is, I never want to wake up.”
“Even if you do, don’t be scared,” Jongin replied, pressing a light kiss on Sehun’s forehead. His eyelids were growing heavy. “You know why? Because even if things in the future get too hard, or ugly, or drive a wedge between us, I am never leaving you.”
☆彡
Park Naejoo, Sehun’s trusted hairdresser of three years, held a mirror at different angles to show how the back of his head looked. He unclasped the sheet around Sehun’s neck right after. “You’re done.”
Sehun didn’t budge, continuing to check his reflection in the mirror right in front of him. He gingerly touched his newly-shaved head. Jongin stood beside him after Naejoo left; caught the open curiosity in Sehun’s face, as if disbelieving up to this point that this was him. That this was real.
“The fans will like it,” Jongin told—assured—him upon catching the glint of worry in Sehun’s gaze. “They tend to like everything you do with regards to styling. The buzz cut won’t be an exception.”
Sehun’s bold hair choices usually shocked the public, but in a good way. He seldom went wild with the hair dye or the bleaching unless the roles he accepted required a highly specific image. Some fans took time warming up to particular styles or colors if it didn’t suit their taste. In the end, resisting for long was useless. Sehun always won them over, carrying the once-peculiar hairstyle with effortless grace.
“Do you like it?” Sehun asked him, finally, after the short span of silence. In his eyes, the worry glinted brighter.
“It’s hard to not like whatever the most handsome man in the world is selling,” Jongin said, smiling, but he was sincere with his comment, too. “Seriously speaking? I love your hair black, and grown. It’s so nice running my fingers through it. I love any look on you; though for me, that style suits you best. But, it’ll take a while before I can have that again. No one is exempted from the mandatory buzz cut while serving.”
Sehun’s lips twitched into a smile—pleased, genuine. “Hair grows back. I’ll send you pictures when it’s grown a bit as soon as we’re allowed our phones.” He stood from his chair after taking about a hundred pictures of his buzz cut. They bade Naejoo goodbye on the way out of the salon. “So, where should we go on a lovely night as this? We have”—he checked his watch—”approximately four hours before calling it a night.”
Tonight was special for them. Tonight was Sehun’s last night of freedom to do as he pleased before serving the country as an active duty soldier for eighteen months. Receiving draft letters every year since turning eighteen, Sehun told Jongin in the past that if his acting career didn’t take off, he’d enlist early and figure out his options before returning to the civilian life. Jongin never had to worry about temporarily halting his career, male ballet dancers one of the select few in the nation exempted from conscription. Sehun had called him lucky when they found out. Jongin had considered himself lucky, too.
Sehun’s decision to enlist wasn’t an overnight whim. Jongin knew enlisting wasn’t far from his mind; picked up on the signs spread out through the years. The suspicion first took root in the spike of offhand comments about time passing by too fast a day after Sehun’s twenty-fifth birthday; after he started sending off older celebrity friends one after the other. Sehun’s good mood would slip at the prospect of planning a gathering with friends, only to remember most of them were in the military. Jongin would do his best to cheer him up; took him on impromptu dates to take it off his mind. Although hanging out with friends provided a different kind of happiness compared to going on dates with your husband, Jongin hoped it would bring a smile to Sehun’s face; ease his sadness of missing friends. It worked: Sehun’s brightened expression and heartfelt thanks through kisses was more than what Jongin could ask for.
A year later, Sehun returned home from a wrap-up party with movie staff. Soaking together in the bathtub, they talked about how their days transpired. Sehun mentioned talking to the director and producers who already served, inquired about the differences between then and now. Evading or delaying conscription was the gravest sin a man could commit to the country. The general public was doubly unforgiving to public figures and celebrities who pulled these dishonorable stunts. Sehun cared a lot about his image; twice more for his career. Few survived unscathed from the decline in popularity in the time spent away from the public eye as new, younger celebrities stepped into the limelight.
“I don’t think I’ll be one of them,” Sehun confessed—with bravery, with fear. Jongin didn’t need to see his face to ascertain his eyebrows were furrowed and mouth curved downward. “My popularity at the moment is good. But I’m not unaware of how fast the industry moves and how easy some are swayed. I wouldn’t fault fans if they can’t wait and find what they’re looking for in other actors. Is it so much to hope I want them to hang on in the time I’m away?”
“No. It’s a valid concern.” Jongin leaned back against the bathtub, tightening his arms around Sehun and snuggling him against his frame. Seafoam-colored water sloshed around them, relaxing spearmint invading the bathroom air. “And it’s not true you’ll lose your entire fanbase. Your fans are loyal to a fault. It wouldn’t surprise me if they waited a decade without your request. Some celebrities return from the military with their fame still intact. I believe you’ll be one of those. The right comeback project will help a ton, too. So, if you’re set on enlisting, then go. Career-wise, it’s better: you won’t have to worry about accepting projects that could be time-consuming to film.”
Whatever initial hesitations Sehun harbored dissipated in their continued discussion of the topic beyond that night. Jongin didn’t see why they should tiptoe around legitimate concerns involving Sehun’s future. Perhaps Sehun found courage in their openness to one another—he stopped holding back from discussing enlistment with his manager, concerned company officials, trusted friends in and out of the industry. Jongin bore witness to their widening of eyes, slackening of jaws; shocked gasps followed by questions about Sehun’s current state of health, if not his sanity. Sehun laughed off their reactions, but patiently and seriously answered their inquiries to make up for the shock.
On a quiet spring morning in a Jeju resort, a day after his twenty-eighth birthday, Sehun’s announcement of applying for enlistment took Jongin aback—and nearly cut off his oxygen from choking on his toast. To be fair, Jongin’s mind didn’t function at full capacity until nine in the morning, and the pleasant aches rippling through his body were distracting.
Sehun slapped Jongin’s back as he gasped for air. “Oh my god, don’t die on me. I can’t enter the military as a widower.” He sounded half-worried, half-joking.
“Don’t just casually drop important news while I’m eating, then,” Jongin complained, as soon as the obstruction disappeared. He accepted Sehun’s offered mug of tea, met his concerned gaze. “I’m fine. Are you definitely sure about this?”
“The sooner I get this over with, the faster I can return. Why wait for the military to get on my ass when I can be a good citizen?”
“If you’re sure, you have my complete support.”
And Jongin stuck true to his word when Sehun went to apply. When Sehun finished filming for the rest of his movies and dramas; shot advertisements for his endorsements, slowly turned down variety show guestings. When Sehun negotiated for fan meetings without breaking travel restrictions, the proceeds to be donated to a children’s welfare facility and his old middle school to fund scholarships. When Sehun received his notice, enlistment date printed in intimidating black ink against pristine white paper. A final declaration. No turning back.
Months sailed past; life continued rolling in steady motion. In the quiet interims between rehearsals and relearning routines for returning productions, Jongin counted down the days to opening night to properly pace himself; closed the calendar app quickly before he could stare too long and his mind wandered. Enlisting wasn’t a permanent goodbye. Yet a pit of sadness bloomed in his chest at the unstoppable transitioning of seasons; its continued growth in the dwindling of months.
Sehun continued working diligently on his remaining projects. Less than a month left before enlistment, he rounded up friends for gatherings; embarked on day trips if their schedules aligned, returned home armed with funny stories and local delicacies. Jongin ate them in increments since he followed a specific diet for the upcoming shows; informed Sehun which ones he liked best. Once the company’s annual summer break came around, Sehun took him and his family to Jeju for a beach getaway, soaking up the sun while wading in sapphire-blue waters, if not sightseeing or indulging in fresh seafood.
Returning to Seoul, Sehun sat down with CEO Moon and his manager to discuss post-enlistment plans over dinner. Jongin listened to Sehun relay what they covered while doing their nighttime absolutions side by side in the bathroom later that night. Most of the plans were made flexible enough to accommodate any future changes, and Sehun was guaranteed at least one drama project; two, if a movie would be included.
On performance nights, Jongin recognized no nervousness with the knowledge Sehun was in the audience. Sehun made time to watch at least one show every season even before they started dating. Now, Sehun watched as much as his schedules allowed, the uncertainty of when he could do it again while serving more than reason enough. Colleagues agreed Jongin’s performances on those dates were more spectacular than the last. It was no secret who Jongin drew extra motivation and inspiration from. How could he not when Sehun always waited for him backstage, carrying a bouquet of red roses and beaming with a brilliant smile; always praised him for his splendid performance, told him how proud he was each time?
Less than a week left, Mr. Lee welcomed them with open arms in his newly-renovated tteokbokki shop on a surprise visit. His hair was thinning, vision reliant on thick-rimmed glasses, but his trademark cheer and comforting bear hugs never changed. Business shot up exponentially after word spread his tteokbokki shop was one of Sehun’s favorite haunts. Mr. Lee expressed his gratitude many times by waiving charges for their food on their visits. He shared tips and personal stories of serving in the military, and wished Sehun the best of luck. Sehun promised to treat Mr. Lee to a meal and beer on his return.
Now, on the eve of enlistment, inside their parked car, Jongin helped Sehun pick the best picture to upload on his Instagram account. It would be posted together with the handwritten letter Sehun composed last night. Sehun fretted a lot about what to say, aside from the probable reaction to the buzz cut he would get. Jongin assured him the length shouldn’t matter if every syllable was penned with heart and sincerity.
Sehun turned off notifications after hitting post and pocketed his phone. He started the engine and drove away from Bit.Boot’s parking lot, glancing Jongin’s way. “In the mood for a nighttime adventure?”
They avoided the main streets and highways, driving down less traversed routes five kilometers below the speed limit. The lack of destination added to the thrill and appeal of venturing anywhere instincts led them. Though chances for nighttime drives were sparse, preferring to stay in and sleep at the end of a long work day, the rare cases of letting loose were immensely therapeutic to their fatigued souls.
The nighttime scenery of glittering neon lights and sky-high buildings flew past the window and grew fewer, until they pulled up at a relatively quiet side of Yeouido Hangang Park. They strolled through the cool night, paths lined with lampposts, manicured bushes, and flowering trees. Couples were scattered about, engrossed in their own bubbles of romance to pay close attention to their surroundings.
“A lot of my friends were surprised I threw a party weeks early,” Sehun said, swinging their joined hands in an exaggerated fashion. “I’m surprised at myself, too. Spending the last night of freedom by taking a walk with my husband wasn’t something I imagined at twenty-five.”
“Are you against it?”
Sehun shook his head right away. “Of course not. Wouldn’t look too good on my part if I got drunk out of my mind a day before enlistment and showed up hung-over. Besides, I’m not that strong of a drinker anymore. Quiet evening walks are more rewarding.” He motioned to their surroundings with his free hand. “When park paths are empty like this at night, it feels like it’s just you and me in the world.”
Jongin made a cooing noise, bumping his shoulder against a blushing Sehun’s. “You’d like that, huh?”
“When I make enough, I’ll buy an island where I can forego clothing and play to my heart’s content. Join me. I heard being naked is better for blood circulation.”
“You go to bed naked most of the time. Your blood circulation is more than fine,” Jongin said between laughs.
“You love me naked, though.” Sehun cast him a flirtatious look.
“Correction: I love you in everything.”
“Especially when I’m naked,” Sehun purred, nodding sagely. “It’s okay, Jongin. I know it’s impossible to look away once I’ve entered your line of sight fresh out of the shower.”
Or sweaty after their workout sessions at the gym. Sehun proclaimed he looked the best in these two states. Jongin agreed a thousand percent, but he scrunched up his nose instead of giving him the satisfaction of being right. “Your commanding officer might not take kindly seeing you in the nude if he conducts a surprise inspection at the barracks first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll bear with the scratchy cotton of the sleepwear out of consideration for my future roommates. I can’t do anything if we’re ordered to strip naked for sub-zero endurance tests on winter, though. I can confidently say I have nothing to be embarrassed of if it comes to that.”
The bragging rights were rightfully earned. Sehun was one of the top three actors with the best physique in the industry voted by other entertainment figures. Regular exercise in the army would help keep him in shape, and Jongin wouldn’t be too surprised if Sehun was used as fitspiration by the soldiers.
Their stroll lasted a few more minutes, and they occupied the first backless bench in sight. Sehun shattered the comfortable silence of staring into the calm river waters with a loud groan of disbelief.
“I’m really leaving tomorrow. Wow.” Sehun took off his beanie and ran a hand over his shaved head. “I can’t believe the day has come for the nation’s darling to serve the country.” His eyebrows knitted together in brief wonder. “Would I still be called that when I finish serving? What if someone else steals the title? What if the media started calling someone else that?”
“I doubt your fans will let it go. Whoever it will be, they can have the title. An actor’s impact is more important—the long-lasting it is, the better. People will continue talking about you as long as your work is made available everywhere. That way, you will never be forgotten.” Jongin curled an arm around Sehun’s shoulders and pulled him close, pressing the sides of their heads together. “Stop worrying, hmm? It will be okay. Really. You’ll serve, then you’ll finish, and you’ll have fans old and new waiting to welcome you back. You’ll take on projects that will grip the entire nation, and it’ll feel like you never left.”
Sehun hummed, a soft, contemplative sound. He rubbed the side of his head against Jongin’s, then pulled back to look at him—serious, solemn. “I’m worried you’ll get too lonely.”
“I can’t do anything if I get lonely. It’s only natural if I do, right?” Jongin answered, voice soft; woeful, as the stark reality was beginning to catch up, refusing to be ignored any longer. “I don’t want to treat enlistment as a sorrowful affair. It’s just going to be very different in the next eighteen months. It won’t be the same going home and knowing you’ll be there. Or seeing you first thing in the morning before leaving, and the last thing I see at night. If I’m sad and missing you, I’ll allow myself to be sad and miss you. That’s why you need to go and serve well. So you can come back to me faster.”
Life didn’t stop after Sehun’s enlistment. In the course of three months following that night, Jongin concentrated on work in healthy doses; exerted thrice the effort after the pivotal moment of the Royal Ballet engaging him to be a guest artist for a limited season. Pursuing artistic growth was a lifelong process, but not without hardships. The new venture posed several challenges: a drastic change in dancing environment, the language barrier, infinite adjustments to company rules and co-dancers, food, weather, time zones, cultural differences. Jongin handled each hurdle with grace and tenacity; allowed himself room for frustrations if he felt nothing was going right, stress-cried on his lowest without shame. Then, he bounced back with newly-strengthened determination. Better than his past self.
Though far from fluent, staying overseas helped Jongin improve his English. Dancers he befriended and vice versa showed him around town on their days off; bonded over similar interests and favorite productions, discussed the differences of their home companies and techniques. Video calls with family members helped ease the loneliness, huge time differences not a deterrent to catch up. Their surprise visit was one of the biggest highlights of his London stay, Rahee and Raeon’s smiles and cute demands for his attention (and toys) curing the gloominess of his days.
On days off he spent by himself, Jongin visited the museums of the locality and gained a deeper appreciation, if not understanding, for all art forms. At his most inconsolable, he stayed indoors and worked on jigsaw puzzles, or curled up in bed as he fell down the rabbit hole of special videos on his phone. A lot of them contained Sehun, filmed through the years in varied states and locations. Jongin remembered the stories behind each video with intense clarity; remembered the exact emotions he felt at the time. Although the videos were wonderful mood boosters, sometimes the homesickness worsened instead of assuaged, and Jongin would count down the hours with uncharacteristic impatience until Sehun got off duty for their weekly phone calls.
At the end of the season, Jongin left London artistically enriched and ballet fanatics stunned and desiring more of the magnetic guest artist whose dancing cast a strong spell on them. Not even the snobbish, uptight connoisseurs escaped his enchantment—questions about Jongin’s identity, his origins, if they could see him perform again next year reached him via colleagues’ word of mouth; the glowing show reviews forwarded to his inbox.
Life back in Seoul required zero adjustments except for jet lag leaving him wide awake at the oddest hours. Eating his mother’s cooking anytime he pleased was one incentive he was ecstatic to have back. Hanging out with friends or talking to other dancers without overworking his mind for the right translations was another. Talking to Sehun real time was arguably the best, daily phone calls now possible without worrying about the eight-hour difference.
The first snow found Jongin eight paces away from the Seoul Arts Center building on a late December evening. Standing aside, he fumbled in his coat pocket and took out his phone; captured the falling snow that arrived three days earlier than predicted. Snowflakes rained down on his cheeks; around him. A first snow without Sehun beside him. His chest tightened at the thought.
“The first snow is here… but you’re not.”
Heat rose to Jongin’s cheeks courtesy of the strange looks a couple shot him for talking aloud. He encountered more couples on the rest of his walk, chest squeezing just a tad tighter if they huddled closer together; traded loving smiles and gazes. He buried his face into his scarf and resumed walking, deliberately ignoring the sharp curl of envy wrapping around his gut. His playlist chose not to spare him, throwing one slow jam after another about longing and lonesomeness on the drive home.
Jongin shivered peeling off his coat. The penthouse felt unusually chilly today. Even with the heater kicked into full gear. Even after a warm bath and changing into his comfiest set of pajamas. Even with the mug of hot chocolate secured between his hands, watching soccer highlights while sitting at the kitchen island. Before retiring for the night, Jongin pulled the curtains shut but left a tiny gap for sunlight to pour through in the morning; looked out beyond the window to a snow-blanketed Seoul. He rubbed his thumb over his ring the longer he stared and reminisced on the many first snows he and Sehun spent together. Immediate relief flooded him; diminished once he laid eyes on the unmade half of the bed, sapped the remaining warmth in his chest.
Tonight was just too cold to stay strong.
Today was just too cold to stay outdoors, Jongin noticed, his breath coming out in white puffs. The winter air this morning carried a similar iciness to that particular night he surrendered to the loneliness for the first time since sending off Sehun. More than a year ago, yet it almost felt like a different life. He fixed his scarf to protect his nose and ears better; shielded his eyes from the sun as he moved to a shadier spot. He wore the knitted gloves with the bears eating honey stitched on the back. It summoned a memory of Sehun at twenty-three, honest in expression and sincere in confession, slipping the gloves over his hands. The memory made Jongin smile.
Standing beside Jongin were Sehun’s parents and older brother. Fans by the hundreds were assembled in an orderly manner, chatting among themselves in hushed tones, snacking on the baked treats and canned coffee Jongin and his in-laws distributed as a token of gratitude for coming out to join them today. Curious stares were a given, especially from brand new fans, who might not have expected to glimpse at a top actor’s family members. Jongin always smiled politely if he sensed someone looking. Receiving this kind of attention outside of the stage was a perpetual relearning experience, but Sehun’s fans always respected private spaces and kept to staring from afar. Jongin highly appreciated the consideration.
Gasps and murmured instructions suddenly broke through the crowd. The fans readied their banners, nervous anticipation hanging in the air. News reporters stood at the ready, camera crew in tow. Phones and cameras were raised, prepared to record; voices grew louder, more zealous. Jongin’s heartbeat sped up like never before in the past eighteen months.
Sehun, donning the complete army uniform and black beret on his head, striding tall and proud. He slowly broke into a smile and waved. The fans fawned and cheered in moderate volume; stayed standing in place to record every precious second. A lot of fans were rightfully excited and eager seeing Sehun after so long. Some fans swiped hastily at their cheeks, eyes suspiciously rimmed red. A few full-on sobbed, overwhelmed by Sehun’s presence.
Sehun used a megaphone to initiate his first official interaction with fans in eighteen months:
“Don’t you have work today?” (Some nervous laughter. Sehun’s eyes crinkled with amusement.)
“What about school? Do your professors know you’re here?” (More nervous laughter. Sehun wagged his finger at them with a cheeky grin.)
“Did you wait long?” (A very loud and enthusiastic “No!”)
“Aren’t you cold? The weather’s been chillier lately, so start dressing in your warmest coats and sweaters.” (A chorus of agreement.)
“Thank you for coming all the way here to welcome me back. I wasn’t expecting a crowd of this size, really; but, as always, you never fail to surprise me with your support. I hope all of you have been well in the eighteen months I was gone. I’m excited to meet everyone again soon, whether in the big screen or somewhere else.” (Enthusiastic screaming that quickly died down when Sehun pressed a finger to his lips, evidently touched by the warm reception, and gave them a salute.)
Happiness was the sole emotion circulating in Jongin’s veins as he watched Sehun reach out for his parents and welcomed their arms around him in the tightest of hugs. Though minimal words were spoken among them, their eyes were alight with joy that their youngest son had returned healthy and in one piece. Sehun and his older brother traded knowing uplifts of eyebrows, fist bumps, and then a brief hug that didn’t lack in intimacy.
When Sehun’s gaze finally landed on him, Jongin settled his pulse would never recover from its overdrive. Each stride Sehun took toward him stole his breath. Standing in front of each other, neither moved nor broke eye contact. The noise and their surroundings faded away, the moment stretching out to an infinite stillness.
The soft edges of Sehun’s smile melted Jongin. “Why do you never wear your scarf properly?” he chided, but his voice was fond.
Jongin pulled down his scarf, further ruining its careful arrangement. “You’re here now.”
Sehun’s face crumpled with laughter. “Right. I’m here now.” To fix your scarf. To make sure it’s not askew. To stay and never part again.
And like old times, like he was wont to do, Sehun did fix Jongin’s scarf and knotted it securely around his neck, leaving enough room to breathe. Standing to his full height, he saluted, a twitch of a smile on his lips.
“I’m home.”
Jongin would’ve laughed, but his vision was becoming dangerously blurry. Although Sehun was granted home visits twice a month and permitted to leave during holidays, having him within arm’s reach anytime, anywhere, was indisputably the best.
It took blinking twice to register the falling whiteness around them was snow. The first of the season. Distantly, fans went into a tizzy. Loud, ecstatic claims of nature celebrating the return of the nation’s darling by blessing them with the first snow didn’t go unheard.
Jongin beamed, heart so full it might burst.
“Welcome home.”