Chapter Text
The doors on the L train close with a whoosh behind Seonghwa. His dark hair ruffles in the wind as the train picks up speed. Manhattan is busy today.
It’s a rare sun-filled May morning. Seonghwa is emerging from the depths of the station when his phone starts buzzing. Mom. He tosses the phone into his bag, where it bothers him less. The air of disappointment still lingers long after she’s been sent to voicemail.
His first interview goes well. The coffee shop owner takes a liking to him, and lets him know he’ll be in touch. Seonghwa, however, doesn’t want to be a barista but it pays the ridiculous rent in this city, so he nods and smiles brightly.
His second interview of the day also goes well. It’s for a nanny position for an affluent family in the Upper East Side, but his charge is an insufferably rotten four-year-old. His motherly instincts wither away as he watches the child scream profanities and make a mess of the chic modern living room. Seonghwa turns down the job.
The walk back to his studio apartment does little to soothe the frustration settling into his bones. It brings out the ache on the side of his neck, where the mating bite has long since faded away into smooth golden skin. Seonghwa feels phantom pain there occasionally, a poignant reminder of failure.
Seonghwa’s first mate was a sweet wolf by the name of Yeosang. He was young and hopeful then, when their parents had introduced them for the first time. His parents were thrilled with the match, a pretty chaebol son set to inherit a mid-sized healthcare corporation. He remembers the horrified look on Yeosang’s face when the bite on his neck had faded the next morning. The bond had been rejected by his wolf. Seonghwa felt awful.
He’d tried again a year later with another by the name of Jaemin. Son of a notable political figure in Korea. His parents had set up the meeting, and at first Jaemin was effortlessly charming. Seonghwa had completely fallen for the act, but his wolf hadn’t. The mating bite took two days to fade, but when it did, Jaemin showed his true colors. The threats had started almost immediately after.
Who in their right mind would reject me?
I’ll find you, and I’ll punish you for what you did.
If I can’t have you, then no one will.
You’ll pay for this.
Legal got involved, a restraining order was placed, and Seonghwa went to therapy for a while. He hadn’t seen Jaemin in over a year, and Seonghwa had recently heard he’d been arrested for involvement in gang activity. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t stay behind bars for long. His family had too much influence to let Jaemin suffer like that, at least publicly, and Seonghwa had only heard about the news from a friend of a friend who ran in similar circles.
Seonghwa had been in love with the idea of soulmates since he was old enough to understand the old wives’ tale. True soulmates were extremely rare. His parents had been a marriage for political gain, two competing food industry giants coming together as one. He supposed his parents got along well enough, but the fights behind closed doors were enough for him to hope that he’d never have to settle.
He’d come to the States to get away for a little, figure out what he wanted, and to escape the pressure of his parents pushing him to mate. A tiny burning flame of hope sits the middle of his chest, whispering that in a city this crowded and lively he might run into his own soulmate. Seonghwa holds it carefully, guards it against the winds of obligation and familial duty.
Seonghwa had gone on a date arranged by his parents the night he left home. It was cataclysmic. The alpha was twelve years older, smelled like cigars and dirty laundry, and only talked about himself. Seonghwa politely apologized before the main course was served and left the restaurant before the Caesar salad he’d just eaten made an unwelcome reappearance. He started packing his bags as soon as he got home and was on the next flight out from Seoul still wearing the suit he’d worn for the date.
His parents had cut him off about a week ago. They’d expected him to run back to Seoul, tail between his legs, within the month. When a week stretched into two, then four, then six, and Seonghwa still hadn’t returned, they tried to force his hand. Seonghwa was glad he’d signed a six-month lease on a whim, before the credit cards stopped working. He wasn’t ready to return home just yet.
Seonghwa may have grown up with a proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, but he wasn’t completely disconnected from reality. His maternal grandparents still lived in the country, near Jinju, and he used to spend summers there, working the garden with his grandmother and helping his grandfather tune up old cars. He used to hate being away from his school friends, but as he got older, he welcomed the reprieve from the incessant business politics that grasped every part of his life back in the city.
His first day as a barista is a disaster. They’d kept him at the register taking orders, but the mid-morning rush had overwhelmed the rest of the staff so he gets pulled away from the safety of pushing buttons. He accidentally mixes up a latte and a cappuccino, and an angry customer causes a scene. The poor manager eventually steps in, but not before giving Seonghwa a scathing look. Seonghwa had been too frazzled to respond.
“That’s your first strike,” Jacob, one of the other baristas whispers. “Three strikes and you’re out.”
Seonghwa earns his second strike on his second shift, a dropped mug full of hot coffee shattered and splashing nearby ankles, but manages to get through the rest of the week relatively unscathed.
***
On Monday morning, Seonghwa decides to head to the MOMA for some peace and quiet. He’s scheduled for the mid-afternoon shift at the coffee shop later. He recognizes a few paintings, Picasso on one of the upper floors, a Rosseau, a Mondrian, and Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Seonghwa is seated at the bench by the triptych of Monet water lilies, enjoying the atmosphere of a slow museum day and trying not to think about his parents when he feels something tugging in his chest. It’s not quite painful, but he briefly considers looking up the nearest emergency room just in case.
When he looks up, he meets dark glittery cat eyes. It takes a moment to register, but the eyes belong to the most beautiful man Seonghwa has ever seen. His hair is a shock of cherry red and he wears a soft-looking oversized sweater with an abstract pattern almost as bright as his hair. His features are outright dainty, from the slope of his nose, the slight curve of the corners of his mouth, sharp jawline, to the silver jewelry decking both ears.
Seonghwa, stunned, finally remembers his manners and bows out of pure habit. Then he realizes he isn’t in Korea and straightens himself quickly. The man smirks. Seonghwa flushes. He tilts his head toward the pretty stranger instead and tries to keep his focus on the water lilies, pretending he wasn’t caught staring.
The stranger sits on the other end of the bench. Light wash jeans and dirty white converse appear in the corner of his peripheral vision.
“The lilies are quiet today.”
Seonghwa nods, an errant dark hair slipping out from behind his ear, obscuring his vision. He carefully tucks it back into place.
“They seem to know exactly what we need.” The stranger hums in agreement.
The silence resumes, but it’s comfortable now. Seonghwa feels strange, too. Weightless. He expands his chest into the deepest breath he’s taken in months. Like he’s been holding his breath for so long the extra oxygen now makes him dizzy. Seonghwa basks in it, unsure how long it will last before the anxiety returns.
Unable to help himself, he turns to face the beautiful stranger again, drinking in his form. The museum lights catch his red hair and the rings adorning his fingers, hands folded neatly in his lap.
“I’m Seonghwa,” he says, startling himself. The stranger turns.
“Hongjoong,” he says, pearly white smile lighting up his features. “You’re Korean?”
“Yes, I’m just visiting America,” Seonghwa says, slipping back into his native tongue. His constant use of English these days makes the transition a little rusty.
“Ah, I’m visiting too,” Hongjoong replies easily. Conversation flows smoothly. Hongjoong’s a budding music producer, visiting a fellow producer friend in the city. He picks up photography jobs, mostly fashion photography and a few weddings occasionally, to pay the bills while his music career takes off. They both live in Seoul now, but Hongjoong was born in Anyang. Seonghwa tries to explain his extended stay without involving too many details about his parents.
“Just wanted to get away for a little while,” Seonghwa says carefully. “My parents are pressuring me to mate.”
Hongjoong winces sympathetically. Seonghwa notices his dark eyes drift down to the unmarred skin of his neck where it meets his shoulder. Suddenly, the alarm on Seonghwa’s phone goes off. He needs to leave for his shift at the coffee shop. His heart sinks. He’s finally making a friend in the city but their time is being cut short.
In a rare act of bravery, Seonghwa reaches into his canvas tote for a pen. He grabs Hongjoong’s hand, so soft and so much smaller than his, and leaves his number in dark blue ink.
“I don’t have many friends here. If you’d like another one, let me know.”
***
Seonghwa makes it to work right on time. Halfway through his shift, an intimidating-looking wolf asks for his number. Seonghwa cowers behind the register, refusing to let the slimy guy get anything other than coffee out of him. Memories of Jaemin raising a hand to his face flash in his mind’s eye before he can stop them. His stomach churns. Acid burns the back of his throat.
In a fit of panic, Seonghwa abandons the register and makes it to the storeroom without blacking out. His vision is going fuzzy at the edges, and he leans on the wall behind a few bags of unroasted coffee beans for support. He focuses on his breathing and shutting down the memories. He’s been safe for almost a year now, but his mind has yet to catch up. His manager finds him twenty minutes later, still in the same position slumped against the wall.
That’s his third strike.
Later, in the safety of his apartment, he tries not to beat himself up over the incident too much. The panic attacks are getting more infrequent, and his therapist is always a phone call away. He has a few more job postings lined up anyway, so he applies for a tutoring position at a local community college with the remaining daylight on the tiny fire escape.
He’s assembling something for dinner when his mind wanders to Hongjoong. Wonders how his day at the recording studio went, and if he’d ever consider texting someone as boring and shy as Seonghwa.
On cue, his phone rings. Mom. Seonghwa lets it go to voicemail again. She calls nearly daily, but Seonghwa has long since run out of things to say. There wasn’t much left for them to threaten him with, anyway. The company, maybe, but he’s never wanted it. He’d studied business at university, graduating with top honors, just to please his parents in the hopes that one day he’d take over the company as CEO like his father did. He often wishes he’d picked a major he enjoyed or at least taken a few classes in the arts.
After he eats, he stretches and launches into an old dance routine. Dance was the only hobby his parents had allowed him to keep, and he’d been part of a dance group throughout middle and high school. He loved the stage. He could pretend to be someone else, someone cool, someone confident, someone infinitely more charismatic.
Once, when he was ten years old, he told his parents that he wanted to become an idol. It’s still his first and clearest memory of one of his dreams becoming dust. Since then, he’d been careful to keep his ideas, especially the ones that didn’t align with his parents’ master plan, to himself.
He returns to his phone an hour later, sweaty and riding the tail end of an endorphin high.
Missed call (1) from Sannie
Missed call (2) from Dad
He ignores the calls from his father and dials San, who picks up immediately.
“Yo, Seonghwa-hyung! I thought you were dead.”
“We talked two days ago.”
“I know, but New York is scary! It takes like five seconds to get murdered. Remember when we watched Psycho that one time?”
Seonghwa chuckles, his best friend never failing to lift his spirits even from 7,000 miles away. He’d met San in high school, a fresh transfer student from Namhae who just wanted to dance. Seonghwa had taken him under his wing immediately, and they’d been inseparable ever since. Well, at least until San had met his mate Wooyoung. And then Seonghwa had to take a sabbatical anyway and fucked it all up.
Wooyoung’s doing well, too. He’s studying film and photography at university, where San is finishing up a political science degree even though his dream is to own a coffee shop. It’s strange, but Seonghwa finds comfort when he hears Wooyoung’s familiar witch cackle in the background while San is updating him on some university gossip.
“Tell Seonghwa-hyung it’s okay for him to tell you to shut up,” Wooyoung shouts. “You talk too much, Sannie.”
There’s a screech shortly after, predictably. Seonghwa can picture San abandoning the phone for a moment to put Wooyoung in a headlock for being rude. Tears prick at the corner of Seonghwa’s eyes. He misses home.
***
The next day, Seonghwa gets a call from the community college with a part-time job offer for the summer session. He’ll tutor one-on-one and in small group settings in both Korean and English a few days a week. It’s perfect. Seonghwa is thrilled.
His first day on campus is a little déjà vu, even though American campuses are really different from Seoul’s. He finds the right arts building and meets the professor, a friendly older Japanese gentleman whose responsibilities are stretched far too thin. He teaches Japanese and Korean languages, as well as respective history classes. Seonghwa supposes it’s cheaper to hire one professor than four, but makes a mental note that he’ll likely be pulling extra weight teaching this summer.
The first of his students is a painfully shy freshman. But Seonghwa is patient, and she’s eager to learn. She works hard during their session and even cracks a joke by the end of the hour. Seonghwa is pleased. He treats himself to a steaming hot falafel platter from a halal cart on his way home.
A text is waiting for him when he gets out of the shower that night.
Unknown
Hi, Seonghwa! It’s Hongjoong, from the MOMA.
Friends get lunch together, right? Let me know when you’re free!
Seonghwa drops the towel he’s using to dry his hair. A sudden rush of giddiness leaves him a little lightheaded. He almost squeals and kicks his feet like a schoolgirl, but he successfully tamps the urge down. It takes him an additional minute to gather any semblance of thought and collect his composure.
Seonghwa
Hello Hongjoong from the MOMA! I’d love to get lunch. Friday? You pick the place.
The date is set. Seonghwa and Hongjoong text back and forth over the next two days. Friday approaches at a snail’s pace for Seonghwa. He tutors another small group of freshmen on Thursday. A few of them leave their phone numbers on sticky notes for him to find, some with little hearts drawn around them. Seonghwa is flattered. He throws them all away.
Little Italy is bustling as expected for a Friday afternoon. Seonghwa is dressed partially for class, which he attended that morning, and partially for a date. An oversized white button down hangs just so over his shoulders, the top few buttons now undone to show off a pretty pendant sitting between his collarbones. He’d completed the look with a dangly silver earring and dark tapered slacks.
Hongjoong is already seated by the window, perusing the menu. Black satin bomber jacket, black turtleneck, black jeans, black Chelsea boots. The only color on him is his bright red hair.
Seonghwa greets him formally in Korean. Hongjoong startles a tiny bit.
“Seonghwa! Hello.” A smile breaks out on Hongjoong’s face, and the butterflies that Seonghwa didn’t realize were sitting in his stomach start fluttering with full force. Seonghwa returns with a shy smile of his own.
“Sit, sit,” Hongjoong gestures to the seat across from him. The studs in his ears catch the light when he moves, and Seonghwa has a difficult time choosing which of Hongjoong’s features to focus on. Naturally, they order two pastas that sound equally good so they can share and a salad to lessen the guilt. They agree on everything. Hongjoong even hates mint chocolate ice cream, just like Seonghwa.
A perfect match, Seonghwa can’t help but think. He shoves the thought down immediately. Nothing can come of this except friendship. Seonghwa won’t allow himself the luxury of opening his heart to someone again. He’s damaged goods, broken beyond repair. No one he knows has failed as many mating bites. And, to add salt to the wound, he thinks he’d felt similarly towards Yeosang early on, anyway.
Their pastas arrive. It’s delicious. Of course, it’s mutually decided that the carbonara is slightly better than the Bolognese they’d settled on. “Maybe it’s the pancetta they’re using,” Hongjoong remarks. Seonghwa concurs wholeheartedly.
Hongjoong is beautiful like this, happy and relaxed. Full of carbs and just a little sleepy. Unable to part ways after lunch, they head down the street to split a cannoli.
Hongjoong is so bright, so sure of himself, intelligent and perceptive. His face lights up at the smallest things, the little tidbits of Seonghwa that he chooses to share. Seonghwa tells him about his tutoring job. Hongjoong tries to describe the track he’s working on and he sends Seonghwa a Soundcloud link to some of his work.
The sweet treat is a perfect ending to their little outing. Hongjoong is due at the studio soon for a recording session. They make plans to visit another museum, the Met this time, on Monday.
Seonghwa’s heart feels full. He’s made a friend he knows he’ll hold dearly for a very long time. Even San, for all of his love and attention over the years, loves mint chocolate.
It’s only when they’ve finally parted ways, that he’s out of Hongjoong’s orbit, that he feels the ache of loneliness settle back into the old cracks in his armor.
He finds comfort later at home in Hongjoong’s Soundcloud. He’s a talented and versatile producer, which Seonghwa finds unsurprising. He listens to Hongjoong’s entire discography on repeat for the rest of the day.
***
There’s already a line gathering outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art when Seonghwa arrives. It’s warmer out today, the smell of summer’s impending arrival floating in the air. Seonghwa had donned a creamy thin cable-knit sweater and jeans tucked into stompy Doc Martens this morning. He slips into line and texts Hongjoong to tell him that he’s saving them a spot.
Hongjoong arrives shortly after, wearing a textured khaki blazer and blue jeans. He’s also sporting a cute little Minolta film camera, hanging off his neck by an olive-green strap.
“What’s the camera for?”
“Pictures.”
Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “I know what cameras do, Hongjoongie. What’s your subject?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Hongjoong returns. “Whatever inspires me, I guess.”
An acceptable answer, he supposes. Seonghwa nods, and they inch toward the front entrance of the museum.
“I’m here for one more week,” Hongjoong says absentmindedly. When Seonghwa turns to look at him, his eyes are focused on something in the distance.
“Well, how are you going to spend it?”
“With you.” He says it so simply, so obviously, without frills or fanfare. The utter simplicity of it stuns him for a moment, but the answer rings clear in his mind.
“Okay,” Seonghwa murmurs. “I’d like that.”
They wander through the museum together, making little remarks about certain pieces and mostly admiring the artwork. Seonghwa hears the telltale click of the Minolta going off a few times when he isn’t looking. In the European wing, he spots a seventeenth century still life that resembles the one hanging in his parents’ house. The icky, disappointed feeling crawls up his spine and threatens to cut off his air supply. Nausea makes his stomach churn.
Seonghwa’s parents weren’t bad parents, really. He’d grown up with everything he needed and wanted. They’d been so incredibly angry when he left. Seonghwa leaving Korea was a direct attack on them and so went their willingness to accept him for who he was. In hindsight, Seonghwa isn’t sure if they would have accepted him if he’d stayed either.
Hongjoong catches up to him at the still life. He gently knocks shoulders into Seonghwa, wordlessly notifying him of his presence. Electricity sparks from his shoulder and travels across his body, leaving a warm and fuzzy wake. A sense of calm washes over him. It’s really, really nice. His heart rate slows down. He was upset just a moment ago, but why?
His brain works extra hard, past the fog, and realizes Hongjoong has let out some calming pheromones to assist. It’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for him.
Seonghwa returns the shoulder bump in appreciation. He’s got a lazy, carefree smile spreading across his face when he turns to Hongjoong, who is actively searching the lines of his face for any signs of worry.
“Thank you,” Seonghwa says, unable to find more words to express how grateful he is. He hopes his tone conveys at least some of it. Hongjoong returns a bashful smile, cheeks turning a pretty blush pink.
Seonghwa remains glued to Hongjoong’s side for the rest of their museum trip, unable to stop himself from clinging on to Hongjoong’s arm. He suppresses a whine every time Hongjoong wiggles away to take photos. Seonghwa knows he’s being a needy pup at this point, but Hongjoong doesn’t seem to mind.
“Come on,” Hongjoong says, ushering them back towards the entrance. “You need a photo on the Fifth Avenue steps. You can’t go to the Met without a photo on the Fifth Avenue steps.”
Out in the full late morning sunlight, Hongjoong snaps into the photographer role. He directs Seonghwa through a few poses, orbiting around to get Seonghwa’s best angles. Seonghwa isn’t sure he has any good angles but he humors Hongjoong anyway.
“Have you ever considered being a model?” Hongjoong asks after he rejoins Seonghwa halfway up the steps.
“No. It hasn’t really crossed my mind,” Seonghwa says. “I was always destined to be a CEO.”
“Well with the editorials and magazines I shoot for sometimes, you’d fit right in…” Hongjoong trails off. Seonghwa shakes his head, unconvinced. Hongjoong frowns then, crease appearing between his eyebrows. Seonghwa wants to reach up and rub it away, erase whatever thought is troubling him so much. He follows Hongjoong’s line of sight down towards the Minolta.
“I’ll figure out how to get these developed here so you can have them,” he says, finally dropping the subject.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” Seonghwa smiles. Hongjoong looks up at him. They lock eyes.
“I don’t have to. I want to.”
Seonghwa wants. He wants what he can’t have, so it hurts.
***
Seonghwa is sitting on campus after class, working on a cafeteria salad wrap and putting together a practice worksheet for his tutoring appointment later that afternoon. His phone rings. Seonghwa ignores it. San is definitely dead asleep. Hongjoong never calls, preferring to text or send voice recordings for most of his communication. His phone rings again, insistent, so Seonghwa glances at the caller ID. Mom.
Sighing, he thinks it’s better to just face the music now. She’ll just keep calling like she has been over the last week.
“Seonghwa, honey,” she says as soon as he picks up. Her tone is sickly sweet, like she’s actually concerned about him. Even though it’s nearing 4 in the morning in Seoul, she doesn’t sound tired or groggy. Which would be more concerning if Seonghwa didn’t know about his mother’s erratic habits. Staying up late, waking at odd hours, showing up at his father’s office during the day for no reason at all.
“Please come home. We’re so worried about you.”
The threat is thinly veiled. He knows there will likely be consequences when he eventually does show up at home, but he can deal with that later.
“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa replies, trying to keep the shaking anger out of his voice. “I’m staying until my rent term finishes.”
“We thought it’d be best if you would just come home now. It must be difficult staying in a different country by yourself.” We, she says, like his father cared if he was in Korea or Antarctica. As long as his heir still had a pulse, it was fine.
“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa repeats. “I have to get going. I’ll call you when I’m ready to come home.”
“Park Seonghwa, you…” All formalities go flying out the window, and he hears his mother raise her voice.
He sucks in a deep breath when he hangs up on her. He feels like he’s won the battle but is losing the war.
***
Three days later, Hongjoong presents a manila folder to Seonghwa. They’d settled in Columbus Park for a late dinner, sun already nearly set and bathing them in gold. Hongjoong had been intent on gallery hopping that afternoon in Chelsea but had gotten carried away at the studio. Seonghwa sets his takeout container of dumplings on the bench beside him and wipes down his hands as best he can on his pants.
Inside the folder are the final prints from their museum date. The photos are stunning. There are a few 4x6 prints on glossy paper, and two photos are a larger letter size. The first of the large photos is a candid, Seonghwa staring up at a large impressionist painting, the light only catching half his face. He looks ethereal. Seonghwa does a double take, just to make sure it’s really him in the photo. The second of the larger photos is him posing on the Fifth Avenue steps, pinning the camera with a runway model worthy stare.
“I, uh,” Hongjoong clears his throat. “I’m more of a landscape photographer, but I think I’ve found my muse.”
Seonghwa blooms with the praise. Sure, he’s been complimented before and mainly on his looks, but this is the first time it actually felt genuine. The press has always been keeping tabs on him because he’s a young attractive bachelor set to inherit a fortune in business ties alone. Paparazzi photos, to be fair, are some of his worst.
“Thank you, Hongjoongie. I love them. They’re…” Seonghwa pauses, searching for the right words. “I’ve never been captured like this before.”
“You’re a natural,” Hongjoong says warmly. “The camera did most of the work. I meant what I said about the modeling thing.”
Seonghwa is almost angry that Hongjoong has managed to read him so well. To pick out the things about himself he’s insecure about, to make him feel genuinely cared for, all within a matter of days. He tucks the photos back into the folder and resumes his now lukewarm dinner.
“I wish I had something to give you in return,” Seonghwa says a little later when the takeout boxes and wrappers are all disposed. They’re walking the darkened streets of Manhattan toward the subway station, shoulders brushing and sending sparks of electricity down his arm like usual. He hears more than sees Hongjoong scoff beside him.
“You already have, Seonghwa-ya,” Hongjoong says. “I was in a serious creative block, which is mainly the reason I came to New York.”
Seonghwa tilts his head, listening. He racks his brain for something he’s given Hongjoong already. Maybe the cannoli he refused to split the bill for?
“Then I met you,” Hongjoong continues. “And I’ve just had the most productive few days in the studio this week than I have in months. So, Seonghwa, you’re my lucky charm and my muse. Thank you.”
Seonghwa feels his cheeks heat. Boldly, he reaches out for Hongjoong’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He pulls away, realizing the tight control he usually has on his wolf has loosened, but Hongjoong grips his hand tightly and doesn’t let go.
It’s utterly romantic and equally cliché, holding hands with Hongjoong as they make their way down the street, surrounded by the glittering lights of New York City. Seonghwa ignores the instinct to pull away and run. He tries not to think too hard about it either. He can do that later.
They part ways at the station. Seonghwa’s train arrives first, and he reluctantly pulls away from Hongjoong, their fingers brushing until their arms can no longer reach. He waves goodbye to Hongjoong as the train pulls away from the platform and then braces for the wave of loneliness to hit him square in the solar plexus.
Seonghwa is just … afraid. Afraid of what happens when the mating bite doesn’t take and he loses the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
He regrets losing Yeosang, too. He thinks they could have remained friends, but the crux of the matter is that Seonghwa couldn’t live with the shame of having a rejected mating bite thrown in his face every time he looked at Yeosang. So Seonghwa eventually stopped talking. Yeosang was nice enough to comply.
At home, Seonghwa stares at the photos again. He picks two of the small prints to hang in the apartment like some sort of conceited supermodel: a candid of him staring up at a giant marble bust of a Roman emperor that looks like a side profile comparison study and another at the Met entrance of him laughing at a silly comment Hongjoong made, visible warmth in his gaze.
He rummages around unsuccessfully for refrigerator magnets, so he carefully rolls up some scotch tape and sticks the photos to the fridge instead. Then he gets ready for bed.
Hongjoong
Tomorrow’s my last full day in NYC! Let’s have a picnic in Central Park!
Seonghwa
Class ends at noon. I can meet you after!
Seonghwa adds a bottle of bubbly white wine to his grocery basket, already full of snacks and picnic-appropriate finger foods. The weather is a little overcast, but still warm enough to sit outside. He finds Hongjoong perched on a large woven blanket on the south side of the park overlooking the lake, suspiciously close to Strawberry Fields.
They sit comfortably in silence for a while, picking at the snacks Seonghwa brought and listening to the faint sounds of the Beatles’ cover band. They pass the wine back and forth, drinking straight out of the bottle like unruly pirates. It feels wildly uncouth. Seonghwa loves it.
Hongjoong makes up stories about the people that pass by. Seonghwa adds little details. Together, they weave a colorful tapestry of weirdly specific lore about the ordinary citizens passing through Central Park.
The conversation lulls. Seonghwa is unable to keep up pretenses, sleepily enjoying the warm sticky air and wine settling in his bloodstream. He looks over at Hongjoong, wearing a similar expression. He looks lovely. Droopy dark almond eyes, cheeks glowing pink, soft smile contrasting his sharply delicate features. The wind musses Seonghwa’s dark hair a little, but he doesn’t bother to fix it. In the corner of his eye, Hongjoong raises his hand to help, hesitates, then puts it back down. Seonghwa finds himself missing his touch, even though he never felt it.
A few minutes of quiet later, Hongjoong stretches deeply like a cat. He turns to Seonghwa, a serious look on his face.
“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says. “I know this is very sudden, and I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Seonghwa’s eyes widen. He feels like he’s hurtling toward a confession, one he can’t handle. He remains silent, praying that his lovely, beautiful Hongjoong isn’t about to say what he thinks he’s about to say.
“I think we’re soulmates,” Hongjoong breathes. Seonghwa’s heart shatters.
“I’m sure you’ve felt it too,” he carries on bravely. “I’d like to see you when you return to Seoul. I can come visit if you don’t, but only if that’s something you want.”
The bleeding pieces of his heart lie on the picnic blanket. Hongjoong senses the drop in Seonghwa’s mood, probably because they are fated mates and Seonghwa’s been gaslighting himself about it for two weeks.
The pain that blooms in ribcage constricts his breathing. His head starts pounding. Tears stream down his face despite his best efforts. He clenches his teeth, gathering the courage to break not one but two hearts. Hongjoong waits patiently for a response, perfectly still.
“I’m sorry, Hongjoong. It’s not something I want,” Seonghwa says finally, struggling to keep his voice steady. He tries to take another shaky breath, but it hurts too much. “I’m so sorry. We can’t be mates. You deserve someone better than me. I hope we can be friends.”
Seonghwa stands, bows awkwardly, and rushes out of the park. Hongjoong sits on the blanket, staring up at him, tears brimming in his own, but he doesn’t stop Seonghwa. Doesn’t reach out. Doesn’t say anything.
Seonghwa can barely see where he’s going through the tears, but he’s filled with the driving need to get the hell out of there, even though every step away from his soulmate drives the knife deeper into his chest.
There is only suffering for those who want what they can’t have.