two by two (leobin) R -- after touch SEQUEL.
two by two (their bodies become one), R [ after touch here]
9,587w
a/n: I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF. I JUST.. really couldn't ;; it's been a year since i posted after touch and still i was being bothered by the way i ended it. not to say after touch ended any other way than it should have. i hope everyone will enjoy this installment! it'll be the last from this verse. [DON'T FORGET THE SONG]
two by two
It’d been three years since Hongbin last saw him, but he looked much older somehow. Alone at a small table, in the middle of a crowded bar, dim lights and wooden floors; there was a veil of smoke all around him, swirls of murky air like a halo, and he: with his hair grown long in a ponytail, and a hollow look to his face. Hongbin couldn’t look away.
A helmet was on the table, and a glass ashtray full of cigarette filters. He was watching the live band with a glass that had been full but was now empty in his right hand. There was something about the way he sat, shoulders inadvertently curled inward, and the curve of his spine, that told Hongbin he was unhappy.
Then
he looked over
looked at Hongbin
and Hongbin, trying desperately to turn away, found himself with a soaking wet shirt and two glasses of water spilled on him. The boy who’d been holding the tray of drinks babbled incoherent apologies, tried to towel off the front of Hongbin’s shirt, but Hongbin was shoving past him with his wallet back in his pocket and the need for a drink: gone. He could go somewhere else for a beer.
And outside in humid summer air, he gasped like a man who’d almost drowned; hair on the nape of his neck wet with sweat, and all of him: terrified, but for what reason? He thought about lighting a cigarette, and realized he didn’t have one; so stood by the curb for a very long time, watching his hands shake.
He’d been back in Korea for exactly four years that September, and if asked about his time in Beijing, Hongbin wouldn’t be able to say much. He could hardly remember it. A haze of one night stands, and an infirmary visit for malnutrition. At twenty-one, packing up and leaving for a new place had sounded like a dream, but crashed like a nightmare. Nights in crummy hotels and odd jobs in places he couldn’t fluently socialize; he remembered calling Jaehwan from a payphone after a week there, and begging him to wire him some money. Jaehwan had come through, and for this Hongbin would always be grateful, but he’d ended up crawling right back to the place he’d left only to be reminded of why he never liked it here: it felt like a dead end. But now, twenty-five and slightly more in control of his life, he liked to think of it as a pit stop. That maybe someday he’d end up where he really was supposed to be: somewhere else.
Except now he was standing by the side of the road and his eyes were wide and fixated on the motorbike parked by the curb, because it was the same one Taekwoon had had all those years before, only it had a new paint job now, looked a little worn in around the edges. And in a flood of emotion too raw to really acknowledge, Hongbin remembered then: the time in his bathroom when he’d asked Taekwoon what would happen if he ever forgot Hongbin, and Taekwoon’s relentless promises that he wouldn't-it isn’t that simple, he’d said. Just not that simple.
Hongbin wasn’t sure if Taekwoon got a good look at him inside. The lights were dark, the walls were dark; the music had been loud and too many people. It wouldn’t have been a surprise, though with all the time that had passed, Hongbin seriously wondered if maybe he was the only one who remembered anything anymore.
He didn’t know what he was doing until he’d done it. Hand trembling and feeling cold in warm winds; his fingers grazed the side of the bike: cool to the touch and smooth as glass. The paint must have been new, it was too perfect; not a scuff in sight. But then again, Taekwoon had always been a cautious driver.
‘Hey.’
Hongbin recoiled instantly, felt the flutters in his stomach turn savage. He clutched the front of his shirt, wet and cold against his skin, and simply stood there, too afraid to move.
And again, ‘Hey,’ softer this time.
Timid look over his shoulder, barely turning at all, Hongbin glanced from the side of his eye, and there, with a cigarette in his mouth and loose strands of hair framing his face, was Taekwoon.
He didn’t startle, didn’t show a single sign that he was surprised to see Hongbin there, and it occurred to Hongbin now that it was possible Taekwoon had seen him inside. Unease in his stomach like boiling water, he felt stupid, so stupid.
He said the only thing he could think of saying: 'You grew your hair out.’
Taekwoon nodded silently.
'It looks… nice.’
Another nod, this one with raised eyebrows and his eyes falling to the pavement. Then, very casually, he shouldered past without a second glance Hongbin’s way; and now sat on his bike with a hand pushing his hair back and looking as if he meant to slip his helmet on, Taekwoon paused. They stood this way for a very long time: not looking one another in the eye, and hardly moving.
Quietly, Hongbin barely heard him, Taekwoon said, 'Are you getting on?’
'Uh,’ Hongbin glanced up, 'should I?’
A one shouldered shrug like Taekwoon didn’t care either way.
'I’m not going home,’ Hongbin said automatically, and biting back a grimace, stared back at the ground. 'But,’ one step forward, 'alright.’
It was strange: all of it. Throwing his leg over the bike with a sense of total unreality washing over him, taking the helmet that felt hard and heavy in hands that shook; arms wound about Taekwoon’s middle like it was something he’d been doing for years; and in some way Taekwoon felt so different against him, unlike how he’d felt the first time, or the last. Sharper around the corners, and Hongbin: tougher, more solid; both them: fitting together in some strange way they hadn’t fit before.
Then: they were off.
They stopped at a bar across the city where the gutters were lined with still lit cigarettes, and the cars were all parked by meters. Hongbin ordered a mixed drink called a Manhattan and finished it in two gulps. He ordered another, and let Taekwoon pick up the tab.
He was going to ask for a cigarette, but already Taekwoon had one out and ready for him. A little embarrassed, 'Thank you.’ Hongbin lit it, and asked, 'How have you been?’
'Good,’ Taekwoon said.
'Good,’ Hongbin echoed.
'How was China?’
And too quickly, 'Wonderful,’ he felt stupid immediately. 'Well, I mean, It was… nice? I don’t… really remember much. It’s kind of-’ a motion like he couldn’t find the word. Taekwoon nodded all the same. 'I didn’t really know what I was doing, you know? Like maybe I… I don’t know. I shouldn’t have left.’
At this Taekwoon looked at him, long and hard as if trying to find if there was meaning in Hongbin’s words; and Hongbin, feeling stressed out with his third drink already half gone, muttered, 'It was a bad time.’
'I remember.’
'Uh-’ more than only his hands shook this time. 'You don't- did you hate me? For what I did.’
'No.’
'Did you feel badly toward me? I mean, I’d understand if you did. Or if you still do- I-’
'It was a long time ago.’ Taekwoon turned back to his drink after that, but a softness had entered his face that had Hongbin feeling uncontrollable ease toward.
'You don’t… have to lie,’ Hongbin said.
'I’ve never lied to you,’ Taekwoon told him; and the sincerity in his eyes made Hongbin’s heart jolt. Taking a large drink from his glass, he asked, 'What have you been doing for four years, Hongbinnie?’
Hongbin smiled, and told him about school; he’d attended for two years before dropping out and deciding there wasn’t anything he wanted to study. He told Taekwoon about the apartment he rented and accidentally flooded one night because he’d left the windows open during a storm; the time he borrowed his dad’s car and gotten a flat tire. How he’d attended a party Jaehwan threw about a year ago, that he and Wonsik were still together-'Can you believe that? I never would have figured.'-and the boy he’d met at a coffee house a couple months ago who told Hongbin he could be a model if he was alright with taking his clothes off. Taekwoon laughed at that.
'You remember that coffee place we used to go to all the time?’ Hongbin asked. They had both finished a handful of drinks, were swaying gently in their seats as if swaying to the music (some ungodly song from the 90’s).
Taekwoon said he did.
'They closed it down, like, a year ago.’
'I know,’ Taekwoon muttered.
'It sucks. I really liked their coffee.’ It was as Hongbin drained his last drink that he realized just how drunk he was, figured Taekwoon must be a hundred times worse. It took a lot to get Hongbin drunk, it always had. And somewhere between lighting another smoke and putting the coaster over the top of his drink so the bartender wouldn’t refill it, he’d found he’d laid his head in the crook of Taekwoon’s shoulder. Habit, he thought, but didn’t make an effort to move away.
Taekwoon didn’t seem to mind either way.
'You look,’ Hongbin, slurring, 'so much older, you know?’
'I am older.’
'You’re, like, what? Thirty now?’
A scoff. 'Not that old.’
'So, what?’
And a little begrudgingly. 'Twenty-eight.’
'Close,’ Hongbin muttered. 'Really close.’ He laughed when Taekwoon tried to elbow him; and pulled his head from the curve of Taekwoon’s shoulder. Sat with his hands in his lap. Swayed.
'How drunk are you?’ Taekwoon asked, all his words close together and running too quickly for Hongbin to really hear.
'Pretty… drunk.’
He tipped his head back, whispered, 'I think I’ll have someone pick up my bike.’ He was fumbling with his phone-and dropped it twice-before saying, 'I live close to here.’
It was all Hongbin had to hear, really; and with a steadily beating heart, he said, 'Okay.’
He watched Taekwoon struggle with the lock on his front door, would have laughed about it had he not felt so nervous. He wondered what they would do, if they would do anything at all; would Taekwoon ask him to sleep in the bed? Hongbin imagined he wouldn’t, it didn’t seem like something he’d do.
And finally: the door swinging open, and Taekwoon cursing lowly. 'Fucking thing-’ and nothing else. The lights switched on and showed Hongbin all the little bits of Taekwoon he never got to see before, and stepping through a threshold of neatly placed items-a stack of library books by the entertainment center; a radio with a full sound system; a bed made up of white linen sheets and a patio door with deep blue curtains hung above it-he realized: he’d never once wondered what Taekwoon’s room had looked like.
'You’re so,’ looking around wide eyed and impressed, 'organized.’ And quickly glancing at Taekwoon whose forehead was creased, mouth pinched tightly. 'Not that I didn’t expect that or something. I guess-’ he was looking at the floor and how clear it was; not a single piece of clothing out of place. 'I was the messy one, huh?’ He heard Taekwoon laugh softly.
He was looking at the stereo system when Taekwoon came to stand beside him, and without really thinking, Hongbin said, 'Make coffee.’ Taekwoon left to the kitchen without a word; and left there to push random buttons, to squint drunkenly at the touch screen on the radio’s face, Hongbin called out, 'How do I work this thing?’
Softly, from somewhere not very far off, 'Type in the song you want. It should play automatically.’
'Awesome,’ but he didn’t really know what to type in, couldn’t remember the music he liked anymore-too many Manhattans and not enough sleep; so he selected the recently played list, and stood a little confused when suddenly Madonna was playing softly from speakers that seemed to surround him.
'Uh.’
And Taekwoon snorting a laugh. 'Why’d you picked that?’
'Well, you were listening to it, weren’t you? It says you played it-’ squinting at the screen- 'seven hours ago.’ He looked over his shoulder, still crouched down with his hands on his knees. 'I never would have thought you liked Madonna.’
'I don’t.’
Hongbin raised an eyebrow.
'Just this song,’ Taekwoon said.
Even though he felt the urge to laugh, Hongbin left the song playing; put his hands in his pockets and lingered there, not knowing what to do with himself. Taekwoon, with his arms crossed over his chest, stood with his shoulder leaned to the half-wall that marked the separation of the kitchen and the rest of the apartment. The lights were dimmed; everything in a strange dark haze.
Hongbin, carefully, slowly, made his way to Taekwoon, stood an arms length away from him for only a moment, and as if unable to stop himself, he came forward, and pressed his forehead to Taekwoon’s jaw. There he stayed.
Taekwoon, at first stiff, relaxed considerably and let his arms fall to his sides. It felt like a long time before he put them around Hongbin, touched his back with only his fingertips and held him loosely. And as if this touch-so subtle and small-had opened him up, heightened every feeling of regret he’d suppressed over the last few years of his poorly controlled life, Hongbin felt pangs in his heart, in his stomach. He melted into Taekwoon, and told him, softly, 'I’m sorry.’ He nuzzled closer, and said again, 'I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do anything bad to you.’ He blamed the alcohol for the watery way his voice wavered. 'I was young and really dumb, I-’
'We both were.’
Hongbin nodded, though he didn’t really believe Taekwoon had ever been dumb. 'Yeah.’
'It’s alright now.’
'You really mean that?’
Taekwoon’s arms held him tighter. It was all the answer Hongbin needed; and feeling much braver than he really was, Hongbin tipped his head back, and Taekwoon: so close, his breath a ghosting whisper over Hongbin’s face, looked down at him with something like fear in his eyes.
'You shouldn’t kiss me,’ he said.
'Why? You have a boyfriend?’
Small laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all. 'No. Just.. you shouldn’t.’
Hongbin was relieved that though his heart was pounding, it didn’t ache; and pulling away he said, 'I’ll get the coffee.’
Taekwoon, moving toward a futon more or less in the middle of the large room (that doubled as his bedroom), told him the mugs were in the cupboard above the carafe, to use whichever ones he wanted to.
And: in the kitchen with his head swimming, all his limbs tired and heavy, Hongbin opened the cupboard, took the first cups he saw. It was as he was taking them out to set on the counter that a paper, folded neatly in quarters, fell out with them. He’d have put the paper back had it not looked so much like a note; had his head been a little clearer, his heart not in his throat.
He didn’t know what he was expecting, maybe the worst: some incredibly intimate diary entry, a poem Taekwoon wrote in a drunken haze; anything but what he found. It was a note, that much was obvious, maybe a letter sent through the mail, but probably hand delivered. It looked too personal to have been kept in an envelope. And there on the paper, simple words that spoke clearly: Here’s your extra key. Don’t call.
He stared a moment longer at it, and noted all of the small things: how the paper was clear of any blemishes, no folded or dog eared corners, not a single coffee stain, or a smudge in the ink. It was as if the letter had been kept in perfect condition, Taekwoon: afraid to tarnish it. Hongbin placed it back in the cupboard, and thought he understood a little better now.
Then: into the living room with two mugs half full. He set them on a small table in front of the futon, and collapsed beside Taekwoon with enough space between them for another person to sit. They sat like this: with not an entirely uncomfortable stiffness between them-not one either of them would acknowledge out loud, but as Hongbin leaned forward to take his mug, Taekwoon, breaking whatever small barrier was slowly forming, grabbed the back of Hongbin’s neck, and pulled him into his side.
'Please don’t feel weird,’ he said softly.
'I… don’t.’ But it was a while before Hongbin relaxed into Taekwoon’s body, rested his head on the hard line of his collarbone. He said, 'But it is kind of weird, isn’t it?’ and touched the soft plane of his chest. Fingers trembling, moving lightly over the collar of his shirt. He felt there: the erratic thrum of Taekwoon’s heart.
'What.’
'All of it.’
Taekwoon rested his cheek atop Hongbin’s head, and told him, 'Sort of.’
'Where will I sleep tonight?’
'I’ll sleep here,’ Taekwoon patted the futon. 'You’ll sleep in the bed.’
'But it’s your bed.’ He glanced up, and Taekwoon said nothing. He knew it was useless to try and persuade him otherwise, and so said, 'Fine. I’ll take the bed.’
They were up for another hour, maybe another two, and they never did drink the coffee but instead stayed on the balcony with all the lights off and only the moon, small and faraway, to fill the darkness. They said very little, simply stayed there in their silence: Taekwoon with his elbows on the balcony’s rail, and Hongbin in a folding chair that looked as if it’d once been in a bar. The silence was welcoming; it had always been Hongbin’s favorite thing about Taekwoon.
When morning came too soon, a pounding headache in both of Hongbin’s temples, he stumbled to the bathroom where he washed his face, and found in the medicine cabinet: a bottle of prescription pills with a name on the label he didn’t recognize. There was also a toothbrush that looked unused, a little old. He sighed, and touched his face.
Taekwoon was awake when Hongbin was slipping on his shoes, and he said good morning in a voice filled with sleep: guttural, endearing.
'It was nice seeing you,’ Hongbin told him.
Taekwoon’s face pinched up, his eyes screwed shut. 'Yeah. Come back though.’
'You mean back here?’
Silent nod. 'I’m home after nine.’
Hongbin didn’t want to seem too eager, too excited; but it was difficult. He smiled despite the ache in his head. 'Alright.’
'Just come back.’
He said he would, and carded fingers through Taekwoon’s sleep messy hair. He laughed quietly when Taekwoon leaned into the touch, reminding Hongbin of a family pet; a cat, maybe, wanting attention.
He left even though he didn’t want to. He left although Taekwoon, half asleep again, had grabbed his hand. He left with his fingers tingling where Taekwoon had held them; and thought, as he waited for the metro, of the neatly kept letter in Taekwoon’s cupboard, and the bottles of pills in his bathroom.
-
He went back to Taekwoon’s apartment every night for four days, and though he’d waited in the doorway on his first night back, it was easier every night after that: to push himself from the cold hallway and into the warmth of Taekwoon’s room. He’d sit on the futon as Taekwoon made tea, or coffee, whichever Hongbin had told him to; would play with the radio and listen to the same songs on repeat for two hours at a time; and Taekwoon, always with a smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he found everything Hongbin did a little amusing.
It was his second night there when Hongbin, giddy with caffeine, humming along to California Dreaming, said, 'I can’t believe you really grew your hair out. Like, it looks nice, but I can’t believe you did it.’
Taekwoon had smiled and hung his head.
'Don’t cut it,’ Hongbin said, able to tell what the small grimace on Taekwoon’s face meant. 'It really does look nice.’ And flopped over on the futon with his arms above his head, the touch of wind against his stomach (his shirt had ridden up and the balcony doors had been open), he’d muttered, 'I tried to grow my hair out. Had it for a little while that way.’
'I remember.’
'You saw it?’
Taekwoon nodded; and Hongbin, sitting up on his elbows, had had a hard time trying to think of when Taekwoon had seen his hair this way; and it’d all come crashing down on him too quickly. Sharp intake of breath as if the air had been knocked out of him, and he: unsure of what to say.
Things had been strained after that whether Hongbin was only imagining it or not. Taekwoon: his movements less fluid, more timed, afraid of his elbow brushing against Hongbin’s own; his hands kept stolidly in his lap. It’d all melted away after a while, but Hongbin had been reminded of just how close the past really was. And was constantly reminded by the smallest things: Taekwoon’s hardened gaze like he was glaring when all he was doing was watching Hongbin-always watching him, subtle admiration in eyes glossed over by too much heartache. He’d slip his arm around Hongbin’s middle, and pull him close; and Hongbin: with his face pressed hard into the crook of Taekwoon’s neck. He’d talk, and Taekwoon would listen; head shakes and soft smiles; speaking only when he absolutely had to.
Then there were the motions Hongbin wasn’t familiar with, but stood out just as stark as everything else. Taekwoon would brew coffee, and add milk to Hongbin’s mug though Hongbin never asked for, nor liked, milk very much. He’d set it on the table without looking at him, grab his own mug and take the chair across Hongbin. Always the same mugs, always the same chair. It’d be a moment before Taekwoon realized his mistake: that Hongbin liked his coffee differently than whoever he was used to preparing it for. ('It’s alright,’ Hongbin told him after the third time this happened, and drank it despite the taste. No sugar, just milk; he hated it. He’d started making his own coffee after two weeks of bitter mornings.) Evenings Taekwoon had the television on to some inane cooking program that he didn’t pay any attention to. Hongbin figured: it was all out of habit. White noise in a dark apartment, colored shadows bleak and pouring onto white walls. He’d asked, 'Why do you always have this on? Like, you never even watch it.’
Taekwoon shrugged, said, 'I’m used to it, I guess.’
Hongbin tried not to ask many questions after that. And though he spent most of his evenings there, in the clean dark of Taekwoon’s apartment, would sit on the futon with Taekwoon’s hand dangerously close to his own (he sometimes thought maybe Taekwoon would touch his fingers again, but he never did), he could feel it: the differences so small but loud, there: between them like a barrier. Taekwoon’s guard: pulled all the way up, and impossible to break down. Hongbin often wondered how he’d ever gotten through it before, then wondered if maybe it was because of him that it was there now.
-
It was three weeks after they’d met in the bar and the nights were growing cold, winds soft but relentless; the chimes hung from Taekwoon’s balcony ceiling rang crystalline and melodic in the mornings. Hongbin seemed to always be there to hear them.
He was peeking out the balcony door-always open now with cold air fluttering like whispering winds in the apartment-watching as Taekwoon swept old ash and cigarette filters into a dustpan. Hongbin laughed guiltily. 'I never really get the ashtray, huh? Sorry.’
Taekwoon shook his head. His way of saying it was alright.
He came out barefoot and in a pair of cotton shorts that reached his knees, sat in the folding chair with his legs pulled to his body. 'Can I-’ but already Taekwoon had a cigarette out of the pack and handed over. 'And the-’ he lit it too. And laughing quietly, 'Thanks.’
Taekwoon lit a cigarette of his own and hooked his arms over the railing. 'What are you doing tonight?’ he asked softly.
'Nothing.’
'Want to go for a drive? When the sun goes down.’
Hongbin smiled at the thought alone; and said he’d loved to.
So: they ordered take-out for dinner and ate it on Taekwoon’s bed, and the sun was still up when they finished eating, so Hongbin played with the radio and found himself watching Taekwoon who had moved to the kitchen. He was leaned to the counter with his chin to his chest and his hair fallen in his face. It wasn’t often he wore his hair out of a ponytail; it looked longer, made him look darker somehow, somber.
Hongbin: poking his head into the kitchen. 'You alright?’
Taekwoon nodded, but didn’t look up.
'You know, if you’re tired, we can always stay in tonight. Like, maybe go tomorrow instead?’ Taekwoon shook his head. 'You sure?’
'I’m fine.’
'Well…’ Fingers twisting together, Hongbin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 'Can you… come out here then? With me.’
Taekwoon pushed off the counter without having to be asked twice, pushed by Hongbin with his hand brushing the small of his back, silently asking him to follow, so Hongbin did; and sat on the futon as Taekwoon sat on the floor beside his feet. He carded cold fingers through the back of Taekwoon’s hair. Soft and light and perfectly straight; he asked for a hair tie, and Taekwoon told him they were on the nightstand. It was all an excuse, really, to touch Taekwoon this way: fingers brushing through loose tangles, pulling strands away from his face; Hongbin, with his fingernails lightly massaging Taekwoon’s head; and Taekwoon: with chills on both his arms (Hongbin could see them). Aside from the occasional way Taekwoon touched the small of his back, his chin lingering close to Hongbin’s shoulder, there was hardly a reason for them to touch at all.
It was nice to finally have that reason.
'Look at me,’ Hongbin whispered; and trying hard not to stare, he brushed the hair out of Taekwoon’s face, tucked a piece behind his ear. He hadn’t meant for his fingers to linger there, to touch the sharp angle of his jaw, but then Taekwoon was looking up at him with wary eyes not quite meeting Hongbin’s own. His hand, soft and warm, covered the back of Hongbin’s palm. And moving as if he wasn’t sure it was a good idea or not, if Hongbin would shove him away, Taekwoon leaned his cheek to Hongbin’s inner thigh, closed his eyes.
Pain all over and his chest feeling as if it’d collapse over his heart at any moment, Hongbin-trembling, though he was trying not to-traced imaginary pictures over Taekwoon’s cheek, his jaw. Hongbin followed the lines of his face and touched his eyelashes, soft like feathers and frail in a way only Taekwoon could be.
'Don’t fall asleep,’ he said quietly, and the moment, delicately stretched thin, was over.
Taekwoon pulled himself from Hongbin’s hands, asked, 'You wanna leave now?’ because the sun was set and the sky was dark, highway signs bright on the streets outside.
Hongbin nodded, wide eyed and a little fretful; his thigh felt numb where Taekwoon’s head had been.
'Take a jacket,’ Taekwoon said.
'I don’t want to.’
'It’s cold.’
'It’s really not.’
Taekwoon, unconvinced but shrugging anyway, said nothing. Then: out on the bike with the wind blowing and Hongbin’s hair pushed out of his face, Hongbin sat close with his chest pressed hard to Taekwoon’s back; the curve of his spine familiar and strange all at once.
City lights much prettier in cold nights shined like glitter caught in the dark. Hongbin had refused the helmet this time, was tired of the way it muffled the noise of passing traffic, of the highways overhead, and was now sat with his chin hooked over Taekwoon’s shoulder and his hands gripping the front of Taekwoon’s shirt.
They passed a coffee house with a line out the door, and a road so packed every meter was full. Friday night and the bars were loud; stopped at a red light with upbeat music falling from every open door. Hongbin closed his eyes and held on harder, felt the first touch of chills in his spine and the shivering cold eating away at his joints. He buried himself into Taekwoon’s back with his nose nuzzled to his nape; he smelled the way he always had on nights like this: masculine musk of sweat and adrenaline, cologne faded to a lingering scent in the cotton of his shirt.
'I missed this,’ Hongbin whispered when the wind was loud enough to hide his words. Corner of his mouth pressed to the top knob of Taekwoon’s spine, he melded his body to every curve of Taekwoon’s own, melted into him until it felt impossible to let go; and only then did he feel alright.
-
'What are you doing?’
It was a Thursday when Hongbin, standing barefoot on Taekwoon’s bed, was trying to put a blue light bulb into the ceiling fan. 'Giving your otherwise plain apartment some color,’ he said lightly.
'I like my plain apartment.’
'Yeah, me too. But it’s too white.’ And looking down over his shoulder, 'Don’t you think?’
It was a while before Taekwoon answered; a tiny, 'I guess,’ as if he hadn’t realized the walls, the bed sheets, the lampshades, even the curtain over the shower, were all white. The only dark thing about the whole apartment was the kitchen: black counter tops and dark wood cupboards; it was like walking into a different realm when one left the living room to get something to eat.
With a small smile and a feeling of accomplishment, Hongbin finally managed to screw the bulb in, and told Taekwoon, 'Turn the switch.’ And when he did: blue shadows like night all over.
'It makes the bed blue,’ Hongbin said, amused. But when Taekwoon only nodded, looking almost confused, Hongbin faltered. 'Well, I mean, you don’t have to keep it in, you know. You can… we’ll take it out.’ And he was reaching for the bulb when Taekwoon took his arm and pulled him by it.
He said, 'It’s nice, Hongbinnie. Leave it.’
'Yeah?’ unable to hide his own excitement. 'I have another one. It’s pink, though, I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d want it in here.’
'Put it in the balcony light.’
Sighing, 'You never even use that one.’
'I’ll start.’
Hongbin would be lying if he said he didn’t always get his way with Taekwoon; unashamedly pleased, he skipped out to the balcony where the air was near frigid one could see breath billowing from their own mouth.
The pink was much nicer, a fairy light in total dark that burned softly. It tinted the pale shirt Taekwoon was wearing, made his whole face glow as if blushing. Without really thinking, Hongbin reached a hand out, and touched Taekwoon’s cheek. He said, 'You look pretty in pink, Taekwoonie.’
A shy burst of laughter cut short, Taekwoon turned his face away, hid himself. His arms on the balcony rail and his shoulders rounded, it was like he was trying to be small, maybe to disappear. Hongbin smiled.
'Do you want the pink one inside instead?’ he asked. He lightly traced the seam of Taekwoon’s shirt sleeve, finger brushing over his shoulder and the sharp bone within it; carefully, he laid his cheek there, felt Taekwoon shift closer as he shook his head no.
'You’re cold,’ Taekwoon said.
'Yeah, but I don’t wanna go in.’ Both arms wrapped about Taekwoon’s bicep, eyes closed; Hongbin thought: he could fall asleep like this. With the cold air and Taekwoon’s warm body against him. And he probably would have had his tired hand not slid down the inside of Taekwoon’s forearm, tips of his fingers trembling against the heel of Taekwoon’s hand; and as if he’d only been waiting for this: Taekwoon took Hongbin’s hand into his own, but never stopped looking out on the dark street below.
Pink silence and a black sky; Hongbin’s breath caught in his throat, his heart in his mouth; he felt all too awake then, daring enough to kiss Taekwoon’s shoulder through his shirt. He smiled weakly when Taekwoon’s fingers squeezed his hand.
Later that night at a quarter past one, Hongbin lay in a tired heap at the end of the bed, bathed in deep blue color. The television was on but nobody was watching it. Taekwoon, in the kitchen, had been in there a long time. Hongbin thought without really thinking: of Taekwoon sifting through the cupboards for the note he kept there. He imagined Taekwoon reading it over and over-why else would someone keep a note like that if not to read-and a feeling not unlike guilt, like loathing, sank deep into the pit of his stomach, blossomed there like an ugly flower.
He fell asleep still in the clothes he’d worn all day, with sweat on his neck and his hair over his eyes. Fell asleep only to be woken by the jostle of Taekwoon picking him up, moving him from the foot of the bed to the top.
'Sorry,’ he whispered when he saw Hongbin watching him. 'You didn’t look comfortable.’
A pain in his neck like a pinched nerve and too warm all over, Hongbin hummed softly. 'It’s okay.’ And after Taekwoon had put him under the covers, brushed the hair off his forehead, Hongbin grabbed his hand and held him there. Said, 'Why don’t you sleep in the bed tonight?’
All too familiar alarm in Taekwoon’s eyes. Hongbin sighed. 'I won’t do anything weird,’ he said softly. 'Just.. lie down with me.’
Mouth bitten shut, it was a long time before Taekwoon nodded; and Hongbin, waiting with fresh sweat on his palms and panic beneath his skin, watched as he first turned off the balcony light, then the television; and everything: now in utter dark, felt intimate-incredibly so.
Taekwoon under the covers, shallow breaths loud in stark silence. Hongbin touched his arm gently, wondered if he’d pull away, but suddenly felt Taekwoon’s warm breath ghost across his face as he turned to Hongbin, a hand of Taekwoon’s own touching his chest.
Heads on the same pillow, neither of them spoke, but simply fell asleep that way.
And the next morning: Hongbin woke with the weight of hands on the small of his back, his own fingers curled into the back of Taekwoon’s hair. He didn’t have to open his eyes to see where Taekwoon’s face was buried; the heat of breath through the front of his shirt, and the feel of Taekwoon nuzzling closer to his stomach was enough to know.
Still half asleep and moaning quietly under his breath, Hongbin wrapped his legs about Taekwoon’s lower back, and slept again.
-
No matter how many weeks passed it’d felt like the strangeness never really wore off. It’d creep up on Hongbin when he was on the balcony, chain-smoking cigarettes with Taekwoon’s hand on his knee (he’d brought another folding chair from the storage outside his apartment as if knowing Hongbin hated sitting alone); when they were in the city with pinpoints of light faraway: street signs and city lights, all pretty and bright and out of reach. They’d be pulled over to the curb when their drives were especially long, sharing a cigarette with Hongbin’s chilly fingers clasped together and Taekwoon, smiling, would cover Hongbin’s hands with his own, and breathe hot air against them.
It was the way Taekwoon looked at him, so like he used to all the years before, that made Hongbin’s stomach hurt; a spark under his skin like static electricity buzzing loud inside him. He’d smile and turn away, afraid of what his own eyes would give away. And though Taekwoon had stopped sleeping on the futon, would sometimes grow agitated if Hongbin said he couldn’t stay the full night, Hongbin still thought about the letter, had found it still stashed in the cupboard like something stolen: hidden behind cups and spice bottles. He’d taken it out once when Taekwoon had been in the shower, read it carefully again, then again, and felt his heart jolt uncomfortably into his throat. He wanted to ask about him, to know something (his mind raced too often in the middle of the night when sleep wouldn’t come, when he’d be alone in his own apartment with the windows open and the cold feeling hollow, unlike how it felt when he was with Taekwoon), but was afraid of opening wounds freshly healed over, because there were times when they were sat on street corners with soft music playing from Taekwoon’s phone and a cloud of cigarette smoke above their heads that Hongbin would look over, look to Taekwoon, and find him with his eyes on the clouds and the corners of his mouth pulled down. Deep in a daydream and unaware of Hongbin watching him; he’d let his cigarette burn out between his fingers and never notice when the cherry reached the filter. Too lost in the memory-Hongbin was sure-of a boy no longer around.
Hongbin would often wonder if this was how Taekwoon had been when he’d left him. With thoughts like these constantly filtering half formed, subconsciously there at the back of his head, made it hard to find comfort in the small things. Like how Taekwoon would play with Hongbin’s fingers in his sleep, hide from Hongbin if he was changing by the bed, always hiding, as if afraid of making him uncomfortable. So many years; and so many things unchanged. He’d blush if Hongbin looked at him for too long, dizzying drunk off a bottle of white wine. Often times, unabashedly jealous, Taekwoon’s hand would hover just beside Hongbin’s waist; narrowed eyes constantly glaring as if in warning to those around them.
And yet: Hongbin’s heart still ached with fear, certain there would be a day when all of this would end. He didn’t think he’d be surprised when it happened, only sad, because how can one be upset when they’d known from the start: some things weren’t meant to work out.
-
He was lying at the foot of the bed, the movie Drive playing almost on mute, with an ache in his right temple. He’d had a thought that morning that he should probably go home tonight; it’d been more than a week since he’d last slept in his own bed. A gloomy tiredness had washed over him early that evening, and was still with him now; an empty feeling in his gut that made all of him feel hollow. He wanted Taekwoon to lie with him, but was afraid to ask, too sure Taekwoon’s hands about his waist would only make the pain worsen.
But then: as if able to tell when Hongbin was thinking of him, Taekwoon was there, standing between Hongbin and the television. A pair of black baggy sweats and a white T-shirt two sizes too big; he looked small. Hongbin’s heart leaped.
He crouched by the bed and touched Hongbin’s hair, a gentle touch that was more like a pet: fingers tracing the lines of his cheeks, his jaw. He asked, 'Are you okay?’
'I’m fine.’
'You look upset.’
He covered Taekwoon’s hand with his own, and said, 'No. I’m tired.’
'Why don’t you sleep?’
'It’s still early,’ and sitting up, the back of his hair was messy; Taekwoon patted it down for him. 'I’m gonna take a shower.’ There was the temptation of asking Taekwoon if he would join him, but Hongbin already knew the answer to that. Taekwoon was too shy to even take his shirt off when Hongbin was around.
'Can I borrow something to wear?’ he asked in the hallway. Taekwoon, in the kitchen, hovering by the cupboard where the letter was kept, told him: Sure. Take whatever you want. So Hongbin took a long white T-shirt much like the one Taekwoon was wearing now. He knew it’d reach the middle of his thighs, so took nothing else. He’d just wear his jeans back home when the time came.
Then: in the shower with the door kept open and the water hot on his face, hair clean and smelling of the masculine shampoo Taekwoon used, some cologne type scent that always made him smell good. This too was strange in some way: how Hongbin didn’t seem to smell like himself anymore. An always present sense of Taekwoon; it was embedded in his clothes, in the skin of his hands. He could never go home without being reminded of him.
He stood by the mirror for a long time after, touching his face and the faint laugh lines by his eyes. He pursed his mouth and drew imaginary lines from one dimple to the other, followed the angle of his chin, his mouth. He looked the same as he always had, just sharper in ways that he hadn’t really noticed before; and: Taekwoon, in the doorway, with his arms by his sides. Hongbin caught his eye in the mirror, forced a smile.
'What are you doing?’ he asked softly.
'Just looking.’
Here: a small smile. 'You’re still as handsome as before.’ Hongbin couldn’t tell if this was a joke, felt flattered anyway.
He pushed by Taekwoon without trying to touch him, but felt Taekwoon’s hand catch the sleeve of his shirt all the same, like he was silently asking Hongbin not to simply walk by, but he kept going anyway; stood by the bed and wondered if he should just leave now.
'Hongbin-ah,’ timidly, 'will you tell me what’s bothering you?’ He had his hands in his pockets and his face tipped to the floor. 'I don’t… want you to think you can’t talk to me.’
'Nothing’s bothering me, hyung,’ and maybe it was the formality that eased the tension from Taekwoon’s shoulders. But Hongbin couldn’t relax. Standing there with a whirlwind in his head and his fingers suddenly cold, he hugged himself; and stumbled a half step back when Taekwoon, chewing the corner of his mouth, came toward him.
It was the way he was looking at Hongbin: fully frightened but determined, color in his cheeks even visible under blue light. His arms were shaking when he put them around Hongbin’s middle, pulled him to his chest with the hem of the T-shirt riding high on Hongbin’s thighs. And he hugged him with their foreheads together and his eyes closed; hugged him gently like he was afraid of breaking him.
They’d been close before, but not quite like this. The tips of their noses brushed, Taekwoon’s breath fell right into Hongbin’s mouth; and it was there: the sense of what Taekwoon was going to do. And it wasn’t the first time Hongbin had felt this. There had been a time on one of their drives, stopped at a corner store with a bag of skittles and Hongbin, trying to feed them to Taekwoon who wouldn’t budge, only laughed and pursed his mouth shut. He’d leaned over with his mouth so close to Hongbin’s face, he’d been terrified, just as he was now. He didn’t want to deal with this so head-on, so he pulled back-only a little. Taekwoon followed him. And he kept pulling back, and Taekwoon kept coming toward him, until Hongbin found himself sat on the edge of the bed with Taekwoon pushing him onto his back; and the sense of subtle urgency like Taekwoon wanted this so badly, but didn’t want to let it happen just yet. Hongbin’s thighs burned.
Then
Taekwoon’s mouth, as soft as it’d ever been. And all of Hongbin: aching; a pain blossoming in his stomach and filling all the spaces between his bones. Fingertips numb, and his toes curled inward.
Taekwoon kissed him in a way that wasn’t really a kiss: his mouth was slack and pressed against Hongbin’s own, lingered there like he was only breathing Hongbin’s air. Then: a little harder. His hand came up to cup the side of Hongbin’s face, his other hand high on his leg, long fingers wrapped around the back of his thigh. He made a small sound not unlike a whine, and Hongbin-eyes rolled shut, inadvertently spreading himself out for Taekwoon to touch-kissed him back with his mouth trembling, blood rushing deeply in his ears.
His legs wrapped around Taekwoon’s back, ankles crossed; and he hadn’t meant to do this, not really, but felt himself reacting in all the ways he’d been wanting-but was too afraid-to. Soft sigh, everything felt right: Taekwoon’s hands on his bare skin, the pressure of his body-once familiar but now different-, his breath like menthol cigarettes.
Breathless moan and the pit of his stomach: ice cold. Hongbin felt the subtle way Taekwoon pulled back then, always so afraid of the noises Hongbin made; he could remember being twenty-one and in his old apartment with Taekwoon’s hands between his legs, shifting uncomfortably, always asking, 'Is this alright?’ and trembling so badly every time Hongbin’s mouth opened and a moan came out.
Pained. Not wanting to think about the past, not wanting to think about anything, Hongbin turned his face away and wouldn’t let Taekwoon kiss him again. He brushed Taekwoon’s hand off his leg, wriggled away until Taekwoon understood: he needed to move.
Softly, so afraid, 'Do you still think about him?’
And Taekwoon, staring hard like he wasn’t sure what Hongbin was asking. He moved from the bed to the floor, sat with his legs beneath himself, still staring like Hongbin had grown an extra head.
Silence, so much of it.
Hongbin was drowning.
'When you’re with me?’ Hongbin asked. 'Do you ever think of him when you’re with me?’
'Hongbin-ah, I don't-what are you talking about?’
Quickly, 'Nothing.’ He flexed his hands, felt awful all over. 'I'm-’ He pulled the shirt down to cover himself and brought his knees close together. With a finger in his mouth, chewing the nail to bits, he said, 'I’m gonna go.’
Taekwoon only looked at him.
Hongbin slipped on his jeans, but kept Taekwoon’s shirt on; stepped in his shoes by the front door and glanced to Taekwoon who wasn’t looking at him. But all at once: Taekwoon was on his feet and he was moving with rushed motions, and Hongbin thought he’d come to the door, ask him not to leave, but he slipped out the balcony door instead. And didn’t come back inside.
To say Hongbin didn’t linger outside Taekwoon’s door would be a lie. He wondered if Taekwoon would follow him out, grab his arm, kiss him again. Wondered it, but still left; driven down the stairs by the weight of his heart heavy in his mouth.
Then: back at home in his own lonely apartment, windows open and the radio turned low. He swallowed two sleeping pills and wouldn’t allow himself to think. And this is what he did for two days. He woke at noon with cold, early winter winds blowing like a flurry through his apartment; bed sheets icy underneath him. He’d wanted then, on the very next morning, to rush back to Taekwoon, to lean his head on Taekwoon’s front door and simply stand there, wait for him to somehow sense Hongbin was there, but he never did. Too afraid of the irregular beat of his own heart and the feeling of love that only grew deeper, more pained, every time he thought of Taekwoon.
It was kind of funny, the way love worked. It was never there when one needed it, but always present when it hurt most.
-
It was half eight in the evening three days later and Hongbin was coming back from the super market, plastic bag held loosely in fingers burned by the cold. He could still smell Taekwoon’s cologne on his skin, faint but there; he’d been sleeping in Taekwoon’s t-shirt despite the way it made his stomach ache, hands constantly clutching the collar when he was unable to find sleep (which had been almost every night). Dependent on pills, he thought maybe he’d take one as soon as he was home, knock out early and not have to think about anything, like how badly he wanted to see Taekwoon, and how awful he felt whenever he thought of him; the guilt that seemed to fester even when he slept.
But then: turning the corner past the restaurant, the hardware store, the little shops that lined his street, Hongbin smelled the cigarette fumes before he saw them; and there, at the top of the cement steps leading to his apartment, was Taekwoon, and his elbows were on his knees, his head between his shoulders. Five days and finally he’d come-not that Hongbin had been hoping he would, had, in fact, thought he wouldn’t. Hongbin had been sure that Taekwoon, as quiet as he was, how so utterly passive he could be, would have waited until Hongbin came back on his own. Something even he was unsure would have happened.
Nowhere to go; nowhere to run. Taekwoon lifted his head and, rigid all over, crawled to his feet. His pack of smokes was empty, a small pile of crushed filters by his left shoe. Hongbin asked, 'Have you been here long?’ and Taekwoon shook his head, but Hongbin didn’t really believe him.
Not wanting to stand where it was cold, where the neighbors liked to leave their front doors open and listened too carefully to what was going on outside, Hongbin pulled Taekwoon by the sleeve of his shirt; hands shaking, wanting so badly to pull Taekwoon into his chest instead, to kiss him again.
The room was drafty with the windows kept open and the silence: too loud. Hongbin turned on the radio, let it play the last CD he’d left in, because he never could find comfort in a quiet room.
And Taekwoon, lingering by the front door, his shoes still on. Hands in his pockets, Hongbin saw all the veins in his arms, sharp against pale skin. He kicked one shoe off, then the other, but still stood there like he was afraid to come any closer.
'You don’t…’ Hongbin touched his forehead. 'You don’t have to just stand there, hyung.’
'Are you still upset?’
Hongbin looked at his feet: bare and pale, toes cold and feeling a little numb. 'I… don’t really know.’ And it was before the words had fully left his mouth that Taekwoon, crossing the room in a sudden burst of movement, grabbed both of Hongbin’s shoulders gently in hands that felt weak.
'If I ever gave you the idea there was someone else-’ he moved a hand to the side of Hongbin’s face, held his jaw kindly against his palm- 'I didn’t mean to.’
’…no, that’s… you didn’t do anything.’ He pushed Taekwoon’s hands away, stood there limp and tired, hating that Taekwoon, moving in a way so subtle maybe he wasn’t aware he was doing it, seemed to follow every sway of Hongbin’s own body.
'Hongbin-’
’Please don’t ask me what’s wrong because I don’t know.’ He collapsed on the edge of the bed, his knees held tightly together, hands between his legs; his knuckles were white, the tips of his fingers red, as he wrapped his hands together.
Weakly, so weak, he felt stupid, 'I found the letter.’ Felt even worse when Taekwoon’s forehead creased, and his eyes narrowed; so much confusion Hongbin was beginning to think he’d made it all up.
'The letter, you know, the one talking about the extra key? It said, it said, here’s your key. Don’t call.’
And finally: understanding. Taekwoon hung his head.
'You said not to kiss you,’ Hongbin said quietly. 'Then I found that… in the cupboard, and I get it-’ Taekwoon was shaking his head, crouched on his knees at the foot of the bed. 'I do, kind of.’
'No.’
'Hyung, it's-’ Taekwoon took Hongbin’s face into his hands, tried to kiss him but Hongbin wouldn’t let him, angled his face away- 'it’s okay.’
'It’s not, though. It’s not like that. That.. that was a long time ago-’
'Not that long ago.’
'It feels like it was.’ Taekwoon pulled away then, gaze so hardened it was almost a glare. 'I think you know that, too.’
A line of cold plunged into Hongbin’s stomach, made the hair on the nape of his neck prickle; all of him: feeling strange and too transparent. It only worsened when Taekwoon leaned his forehead to Hongbin’s cheek, and asked him, so quietly the music almost drowned him out: 'Why do you always run away from me?’
Hongbin didn’t have an answer for that.
'Were you even going to come back?’ Taekwoon looked up at him then, mouth quivering, demanding an answer he already knew.
'I don’t… know.’
Hands falling away, taking their warmth with them; Hongbin sat with Taekwoon at his feet, no contact at all; and too cold, too alone, feeling too much space between them and not understanding it at all. Hongbin threw himself onto his back, stared at the ceiling. He didn’t want to cry, hated that there was the pressure of tears at the back of his throat; it made his chest hurt too much to breathe.
'I-’ he covered his face with both hands. 'I feel bad, okay? Like, so fucking bad all the time. I look at you and I feel worse.’
Taekwoon, miserably, 'What does that even mean.’
Hongbin whispered, 'I didn’t love you then,’ and swallowed the pain in his throat. 'I think about that a lot. You… forgave me. So quickly, too.’
'Hongbin, it’s been years.’
'Yeah.’ He sat up, covered his face. 'That doesn’t mean I hurt you any less.’
'This isn’t something we need to talk about-’
'Why not.’
Taekwoon, gentle eyed and quietly: 'Do you love me now?’ He rose to his knees, put his arms about Hongbin’s middle. And watching him carefully, he pushed Hongbin up the bed until he could sit between his legs, eyes never leaving Hongbin’s face.
And Hongbin, terrified, hating every second of this: his heart beating painfully in his ears, throat swelled shut and too much emotion caught in the back of his head, threatening to spill from his eyes-but he wouldn’t let it.
'You know I do,’ he whispered.
'Yeah,’ Taekwoon whispered back. Then again, voice breaking softly, 'Yeah.’ He collapsed onto his side and pulled Hongbin close, buried his face into Hongbin’s stomach; and like this, Taekwoon urged him to put his legs around him, to put his hands in his hair. So many motions so much the same; Hongbin sighed and his whole body trembled.
'Please come back,’ Taekwoon said, breath hot through Hongbin’s shirt. 'I can’t sleep anymore.’
Petting the back of Taekwoon’s hair, Hongbin said, 'Okay, hyung.’
'Right now?’
’…right now.’
But it was two hours later when Taekwoon finally pulled himself from Hongbin’s side, told him he should grab the things he needed most, because Taekwoon didn’t want him to leave again. And he was outside, leaned to his bike, smoking a cigarette with the filter torn off when Hongbin came out with a full backpack strapped over both his shoulders.
He said, 'I still have stuff up there.’
'We’ll get it later.’
'All of it?’
Taekwoon shrugged, nodded. He dropped his cigarette by the curb, ground the toe of his shoe against it. One leg over either side of the bike, he revved the engine, and waited for Hongbin to get on, but Hongbin only stood there watching the bike’s exhaust plume like clouds in cold air.
Taekwoon didn’t ask what was wrong. Instead: he grabbed the front of Hongbin’s shirt, pulled him by it; and with Hongbin’s face smothered against his chest, Taekwoon carded cold fingers in the back of his hair.
They stood this way until Hongbin’s shoulders began to ache, the weight of his belongings heavy on his back. He said, muffled and half whispered, 'I love you,’ and it felt nice in some way that he didn’t think he’d ever fully understand: to finally say it; to mean it, too.
He ignored Taekwoon’s hands that started to shake, and the way his heart, pressed hard to Hongbin’s face, quickened. And leaning up, pressing his mouth to Taekwoon’s own, Hongbin said it again. He touched either side of Taekwoon’s face, and told him, 'I’m sorry,’ and he meant it for so many things.
Taekwoon, pained, 'Don’t be sorry anymore.’ He paused, waiting for Hongbin to say something, but he wouldn’t. 'Okay?’
'Okay,’ but it wasn’t convincing. Taekwoon shoved him gently. ’Okay.’ He smiled and felt a little better; cleared his throat and pushed the hair out of his eyes. He said, 'Hyung,’ a little demanding, 'take me home.’
And Taekwoon, who had-and never would-deny Hongbin of anything, pulled him onto the bike, and did just that.
a/n: /throws flowers at everyone
9,587w
a/n: I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF. I JUST.. really couldn't ;; it's been a year since i posted after touch and still i was being bothered by the way i ended it. not to say after touch ended any other way than it should have. i hope everyone will enjoy this installment! it'll be the last from this verse. [DON'T FORGET THE SONG]
two by two
It’d been three years since Hongbin last saw him, but he looked much older somehow. Alone at a small table, in the middle of a crowded bar, dim lights and wooden floors; there was a veil of smoke all around him, swirls of murky air like a halo, and he: with his hair grown long in a ponytail, and a hollow look to his face. Hongbin couldn’t look away.
A helmet was on the table, and a glass ashtray full of cigarette filters. He was watching the live band with a glass that had been full but was now empty in his right hand. There was something about the way he sat, shoulders inadvertently curled inward, and the curve of his spine, that told Hongbin he was unhappy.
Then
he looked over
looked at Hongbin
and Hongbin, trying desperately to turn away, found himself with a soaking wet shirt and two glasses of water spilled on him. The boy who’d been holding the tray of drinks babbled incoherent apologies, tried to towel off the front of Hongbin’s shirt, but Hongbin was shoving past him with his wallet back in his pocket and the need for a drink: gone. He could go somewhere else for a beer.
And outside in humid summer air, he gasped like a man who’d almost drowned; hair on the nape of his neck wet with sweat, and all of him: terrified, but for what reason? He thought about lighting a cigarette, and realized he didn’t have one; so stood by the curb for a very long time, watching his hands shake.
He’d been back in Korea for exactly four years that September, and if asked about his time in Beijing, Hongbin wouldn’t be able to say much. He could hardly remember it. A haze of one night stands, and an infirmary visit for malnutrition. At twenty-one, packing up and leaving for a new place had sounded like a dream, but crashed like a nightmare. Nights in crummy hotels and odd jobs in places he couldn’t fluently socialize; he remembered calling Jaehwan from a payphone after a week there, and begging him to wire him some money. Jaehwan had come through, and for this Hongbin would always be grateful, but he’d ended up crawling right back to the place he’d left only to be reminded of why he never liked it here: it felt like a dead end. But now, twenty-five and slightly more in control of his life, he liked to think of it as a pit stop. That maybe someday he’d end up where he really was supposed to be: somewhere else.
Except now he was standing by the side of the road and his eyes were wide and fixated on the motorbike parked by the curb, because it was the same one Taekwoon had had all those years before, only it had a new paint job now, looked a little worn in around the edges. And in a flood of emotion too raw to really acknowledge, Hongbin remembered then: the time in his bathroom when he’d asked Taekwoon what would happen if he ever forgot Hongbin, and Taekwoon’s relentless promises that he wouldn't-it isn’t that simple, he’d said. Just not that simple.
Hongbin wasn’t sure if Taekwoon got a good look at him inside. The lights were dark, the walls were dark; the music had been loud and too many people. It wouldn’t have been a surprise, though with all the time that had passed, Hongbin seriously wondered if maybe he was the only one who remembered anything anymore.
He didn’t know what he was doing until he’d done it. Hand trembling and feeling cold in warm winds; his fingers grazed the side of the bike: cool to the touch and smooth as glass. The paint must have been new, it was too perfect; not a scuff in sight. But then again, Taekwoon had always been a cautious driver.
‘Hey.’
Hongbin recoiled instantly, felt the flutters in his stomach turn savage. He clutched the front of his shirt, wet and cold against his skin, and simply stood there, too afraid to move.
And again, ‘Hey,’ softer this time.
Timid look over his shoulder, barely turning at all, Hongbin glanced from the side of his eye, and there, with a cigarette in his mouth and loose strands of hair framing his face, was Taekwoon.
He didn’t startle, didn’t show a single sign that he was surprised to see Hongbin there, and it occurred to Hongbin now that it was possible Taekwoon had seen him inside. Unease in his stomach like boiling water, he felt stupid, so stupid.
He said the only thing he could think of saying: 'You grew your hair out.’
Taekwoon nodded silently.
'It looks… nice.’
Another nod, this one with raised eyebrows and his eyes falling to the pavement. Then, very casually, he shouldered past without a second glance Hongbin’s way; and now sat on his bike with a hand pushing his hair back and looking as if he meant to slip his helmet on, Taekwoon paused. They stood this way for a very long time: not looking one another in the eye, and hardly moving.
Quietly, Hongbin barely heard him, Taekwoon said, 'Are you getting on?’
'Uh,’ Hongbin glanced up, 'should I?’
A one shouldered shrug like Taekwoon didn’t care either way.
'I’m not going home,’ Hongbin said automatically, and biting back a grimace, stared back at the ground. 'But,’ one step forward, 'alright.’
It was strange: all of it. Throwing his leg over the bike with a sense of total unreality washing over him, taking the helmet that felt hard and heavy in hands that shook; arms wound about Taekwoon’s middle like it was something he’d been doing for years; and in some way Taekwoon felt so different against him, unlike how he’d felt the first time, or the last. Sharper around the corners, and Hongbin: tougher, more solid; both them: fitting together in some strange way they hadn’t fit before.
Then: they were off.
They stopped at a bar across the city where the gutters were lined with still lit cigarettes, and the cars were all parked by meters. Hongbin ordered a mixed drink called a Manhattan and finished it in two gulps. He ordered another, and let Taekwoon pick up the tab.
He was going to ask for a cigarette, but already Taekwoon had one out and ready for him. A little embarrassed, 'Thank you.’ Hongbin lit it, and asked, 'How have you been?’
'Good,’ Taekwoon said.
'Good,’ Hongbin echoed.
'How was China?’
And too quickly, 'Wonderful,’ he felt stupid immediately. 'Well, I mean, It was… nice? I don’t… really remember much. It’s kind of-’ a motion like he couldn’t find the word. Taekwoon nodded all the same. 'I didn’t really know what I was doing, you know? Like maybe I… I don’t know. I shouldn’t have left.’
At this Taekwoon looked at him, long and hard as if trying to find if there was meaning in Hongbin’s words; and Hongbin, feeling stressed out with his third drink already half gone, muttered, 'It was a bad time.’
'I remember.’
'Uh-’ more than only his hands shook this time. 'You don't- did you hate me? For what I did.’
'No.’
'Did you feel badly toward me? I mean, I’d understand if you did. Or if you still do- I-’
'It was a long time ago.’ Taekwoon turned back to his drink after that, but a softness had entered his face that had Hongbin feeling uncontrollable ease toward.
'You don’t… have to lie,’ Hongbin said.
'I’ve never lied to you,’ Taekwoon told him; and the sincerity in his eyes made Hongbin’s heart jolt. Taking a large drink from his glass, he asked, 'What have you been doing for four years, Hongbinnie?’
Hongbin smiled, and told him about school; he’d attended for two years before dropping out and deciding there wasn’t anything he wanted to study. He told Taekwoon about the apartment he rented and accidentally flooded one night because he’d left the windows open during a storm; the time he borrowed his dad’s car and gotten a flat tire. How he’d attended a party Jaehwan threw about a year ago, that he and Wonsik were still together-'Can you believe that? I never would have figured.'-and the boy he’d met at a coffee house a couple months ago who told Hongbin he could be a model if he was alright with taking his clothes off. Taekwoon laughed at that.
'You remember that coffee place we used to go to all the time?’ Hongbin asked. They had both finished a handful of drinks, were swaying gently in their seats as if swaying to the music (some ungodly song from the 90’s).
Taekwoon said he did.
'They closed it down, like, a year ago.’
'I know,’ Taekwoon muttered.
'It sucks. I really liked their coffee.’ It was as Hongbin drained his last drink that he realized just how drunk he was, figured Taekwoon must be a hundred times worse. It took a lot to get Hongbin drunk, it always had. And somewhere between lighting another smoke and putting the coaster over the top of his drink so the bartender wouldn’t refill it, he’d found he’d laid his head in the crook of Taekwoon’s shoulder. Habit, he thought, but didn’t make an effort to move away.
Taekwoon didn’t seem to mind either way.
'You look,’ Hongbin, slurring, 'so much older, you know?’
'I am older.’
'You’re, like, what? Thirty now?’
A scoff. 'Not that old.’
'So, what?’
And a little begrudgingly. 'Twenty-eight.’
'Close,’ Hongbin muttered. 'Really close.’ He laughed when Taekwoon tried to elbow him; and pulled his head from the curve of Taekwoon’s shoulder. Sat with his hands in his lap. Swayed.
'How drunk are you?’ Taekwoon asked, all his words close together and running too quickly for Hongbin to really hear.
'Pretty… drunk.’
He tipped his head back, whispered, 'I think I’ll have someone pick up my bike.’ He was fumbling with his phone-and dropped it twice-before saying, 'I live close to here.’
It was all Hongbin had to hear, really; and with a steadily beating heart, he said, 'Okay.’
He watched Taekwoon struggle with the lock on his front door, would have laughed about it had he not felt so nervous. He wondered what they would do, if they would do anything at all; would Taekwoon ask him to sleep in the bed? Hongbin imagined he wouldn’t, it didn’t seem like something he’d do.
And finally: the door swinging open, and Taekwoon cursing lowly. 'Fucking thing-’ and nothing else. The lights switched on and showed Hongbin all the little bits of Taekwoon he never got to see before, and stepping through a threshold of neatly placed items-a stack of library books by the entertainment center; a radio with a full sound system; a bed made up of white linen sheets and a patio door with deep blue curtains hung above it-he realized: he’d never once wondered what Taekwoon’s room had looked like.
'You’re so,’ looking around wide eyed and impressed, 'organized.’ And quickly glancing at Taekwoon whose forehead was creased, mouth pinched tightly. 'Not that I didn’t expect that or something. I guess-’ he was looking at the floor and how clear it was; not a single piece of clothing out of place. 'I was the messy one, huh?’ He heard Taekwoon laugh softly.
He was looking at the stereo system when Taekwoon came to stand beside him, and without really thinking, Hongbin said, 'Make coffee.’ Taekwoon left to the kitchen without a word; and left there to push random buttons, to squint drunkenly at the touch screen on the radio’s face, Hongbin called out, 'How do I work this thing?’
Softly, from somewhere not very far off, 'Type in the song you want. It should play automatically.’
'Awesome,’ but he didn’t really know what to type in, couldn’t remember the music he liked anymore-too many Manhattans and not enough sleep; so he selected the recently played list, and stood a little confused when suddenly Madonna was playing softly from speakers that seemed to surround him.
'Uh.’
And Taekwoon snorting a laugh. 'Why’d you picked that?’
'Well, you were listening to it, weren’t you? It says you played it-’ squinting at the screen- 'seven hours ago.’ He looked over his shoulder, still crouched down with his hands on his knees. 'I never would have thought you liked Madonna.’
'I don’t.’
Hongbin raised an eyebrow.
'Just this song,’ Taekwoon said.
Even though he felt the urge to laugh, Hongbin left the song playing; put his hands in his pockets and lingered there, not knowing what to do with himself. Taekwoon, with his arms crossed over his chest, stood with his shoulder leaned to the half-wall that marked the separation of the kitchen and the rest of the apartment. The lights were dimmed; everything in a strange dark haze.
Hongbin, carefully, slowly, made his way to Taekwoon, stood an arms length away from him for only a moment, and as if unable to stop himself, he came forward, and pressed his forehead to Taekwoon’s jaw. There he stayed.
Taekwoon, at first stiff, relaxed considerably and let his arms fall to his sides. It felt like a long time before he put them around Hongbin, touched his back with only his fingertips and held him loosely. And as if this touch-so subtle and small-had opened him up, heightened every feeling of regret he’d suppressed over the last few years of his poorly controlled life, Hongbin felt pangs in his heart, in his stomach. He melted into Taekwoon, and told him, softly, 'I’m sorry.’ He nuzzled closer, and said again, 'I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do anything bad to you.’ He blamed the alcohol for the watery way his voice wavered. 'I was young and really dumb, I-’
'We both were.’
Hongbin nodded, though he didn’t really believe Taekwoon had ever been dumb. 'Yeah.’
'It’s alright now.’
'You really mean that?’
Taekwoon’s arms held him tighter. It was all the answer Hongbin needed; and feeling much braver than he really was, Hongbin tipped his head back, and Taekwoon: so close, his breath a ghosting whisper over Hongbin’s face, looked down at him with something like fear in his eyes.
'You shouldn’t kiss me,’ he said.
'Why? You have a boyfriend?’
Small laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all. 'No. Just.. you shouldn’t.’
Hongbin was relieved that though his heart was pounding, it didn’t ache; and pulling away he said, 'I’ll get the coffee.’
Taekwoon, moving toward a futon more or less in the middle of the large room (that doubled as his bedroom), told him the mugs were in the cupboard above the carafe, to use whichever ones he wanted to.
And: in the kitchen with his head swimming, all his limbs tired and heavy, Hongbin opened the cupboard, took the first cups he saw. It was as he was taking them out to set on the counter that a paper, folded neatly in quarters, fell out with them. He’d have put the paper back had it not looked so much like a note; had his head been a little clearer, his heart not in his throat.
He didn’t know what he was expecting, maybe the worst: some incredibly intimate diary entry, a poem Taekwoon wrote in a drunken haze; anything but what he found. It was a note, that much was obvious, maybe a letter sent through the mail, but probably hand delivered. It looked too personal to have been kept in an envelope. And there on the paper, simple words that spoke clearly: Here’s your extra key. Don’t call.
He stared a moment longer at it, and noted all of the small things: how the paper was clear of any blemishes, no folded or dog eared corners, not a single coffee stain, or a smudge in the ink. It was as if the letter had been kept in perfect condition, Taekwoon: afraid to tarnish it. Hongbin placed it back in the cupboard, and thought he understood a little better now.
Then: into the living room with two mugs half full. He set them on a small table in front of the futon, and collapsed beside Taekwoon with enough space between them for another person to sit. They sat like this: with not an entirely uncomfortable stiffness between them-not one either of them would acknowledge out loud, but as Hongbin leaned forward to take his mug, Taekwoon, breaking whatever small barrier was slowly forming, grabbed the back of Hongbin’s neck, and pulled him into his side.
'Please don’t feel weird,’ he said softly.
'I… don’t.’ But it was a while before Hongbin relaxed into Taekwoon’s body, rested his head on the hard line of his collarbone. He said, 'But it is kind of weird, isn’t it?’ and touched the soft plane of his chest. Fingers trembling, moving lightly over the collar of his shirt. He felt there: the erratic thrum of Taekwoon’s heart.
'What.’
'All of it.’
Taekwoon rested his cheek atop Hongbin’s head, and told him, 'Sort of.’
'Where will I sleep tonight?’
'I’ll sleep here,’ Taekwoon patted the futon. 'You’ll sleep in the bed.’
'But it’s your bed.’ He glanced up, and Taekwoon said nothing. He knew it was useless to try and persuade him otherwise, and so said, 'Fine. I’ll take the bed.’
They were up for another hour, maybe another two, and they never did drink the coffee but instead stayed on the balcony with all the lights off and only the moon, small and faraway, to fill the darkness. They said very little, simply stayed there in their silence: Taekwoon with his elbows on the balcony’s rail, and Hongbin in a folding chair that looked as if it’d once been in a bar. The silence was welcoming; it had always been Hongbin’s favorite thing about Taekwoon.
When morning came too soon, a pounding headache in both of Hongbin’s temples, he stumbled to the bathroom where he washed his face, and found in the medicine cabinet: a bottle of prescription pills with a name on the label he didn’t recognize. There was also a toothbrush that looked unused, a little old. He sighed, and touched his face.
Taekwoon was awake when Hongbin was slipping on his shoes, and he said good morning in a voice filled with sleep: guttural, endearing.
'It was nice seeing you,’ Hongbin told him.
Taekwoon’s face pinched up, his eyes screwed shut. 'Yeah. Come back though.’
'You mean back here?’
Silent nod. 'I’m home after nine.’
Hongbin didn’t want to seem too eager, too excited; but it was difficult. He smiled despite the ache in his head. 'Alright.’
'Just come back.’
He said he would, and carded fingers through Taekwoon’s sleep messy hair. He laughed quietly when Taekwoon leaned into the touch, reminding Hongbin of a family pet; a cat, maybe, wanting attention.
He left even though he didn’t want to. He left although Taekwoon, half asleep again, had grabbed his hand. He left with his fingers tingling where Taekwoon had held them; and thought, as he waited for the metro, of the neatly kept letter in Taekwoon’s cupboard, and the bottles of pills in his bathroom.
-
He went back to Taekwoon’s apartment every night for four days, and though he’d waited in the doorway on his first night back, it was easier every night after that: to push himself from the cold hallway and into the warmth of Taekwoon’s room. He’d sit on the futon as Taekwoon made tea, or coffee, whichever Hongbin had told him to; would play with the radio and listen to the same songs on repeat for two hours at a time; and Taekwoon, always with a smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he found everything Hongbin did a little amusing.
It was his second night there when Hongbin, giddy with caffeine, humming along to California Dreaming, said, 'I can’t believe you really grew your hair out. Like, it looks nice, but I can’t believe you did it.’
Taekwoon had smiled and hung his head.
'Don’t cut it,’ Hongbin said, able to tell what the small grimace on Taekwoon’s face meant. 'It really does look nice.’ And flopped over on the futon with his arms above his head, the touch of wind against his stomach (his shirt had ridden up and the balcony doors had been open), he’d muttered, 'I tried to grow my hair out. Had it for a little while that way.’
'I remember.’
'You saw it?’
Taekwoon nodded; and Hongbin, sitting up on his elbows, had had a hard time trying to think of when Taekwoon had seen his hair this way; and it’d all come crashing down on him too quickly. Sharp intake of breath as if the air had been knocked out of him, and he: unsure of what to say.
Things had been strained after that whether Hongbin was only imagining it or not. Taekwoon: his movements less fluid, more timed, afraid of his elbow brushing against Hongbin’s own; his hands kept stolidly in his lap. It’d all melted away after a while, but Hongbin had been reminded of just how close the past really was. And was constantly reminded by the smallest things: Taekwoon’s hardened gaze like he was glaring when all he was doing was watching Hongbin-always watching him, subtle admiration in eyes glossed over by too much heartache. He’d slip his arm around Hongbin’s middle, and pull him close; and Hongbin: with his face pressed hard into the crook of Taekwoon’s neck. He’d talk, and Taekwoon would listen; head shakes and soft smiles; speaking only when he absolutely had to.
Then there were the motions Hongbin wasn’t familiar with, but stood out just as stark as everything else. Taekwoon would brew coffee, and add milk to Hongbin’s mug though Hongbin never asked for, nor liked, milk very much. He’d set it on the table without looking at him, grab his own mug and take the chair across Hongbin. Always the same mugs, always the same chair. It’d be a moment before Taekwoon realized his mistake: that Hongbin liked his coffee differently than whoever he was used to preparing it for. ('It’s alright,’ Hongbin told him after the third time this happened, and drank it despite the taste. No sugar, just milk; he hated it. He’d started making his own coffee after two weeks of bitter mornings.) Evenings Taekwoon had the television on to some inane cooking program that he didn’t pay any attention to. Hongbin figured: it was all out of habit. White noise in a dark apartment, colored shadows bleak and pouring onto white walls. He’d asked, 'Why do you always have this on? Like, you never even watch it.’
Taekwoon shrugged, said, 'I’m used to it, I guess.’
Hongbin tried not to ask many questions after that. And though he spent most of his evenings there, in the clean dark of Taekwoon’s apartment, would sit on the futon with Taekwoon’s hand dangerously close to his own (he sometimes thought maybe Taekwoon would touch his fingers again, but he never did), he could feel it: the differences so small but loud, there: between them like a barrier. Taekwoon’s guard: pulled all the way up, and impossible to break down. Hongbin often wondered how he’d ever gotten through it before, then wondered if maybe it was because of him that it was there now.
-
It was three weeks after they’d met in the bar and the nights were growing cold, winds soft but relentless; the chimes hung from Taekwoon’s balcony ceiling rang crystalline and melodic in the mornings. Hongbin seemed to always be there to hear them.
He was peeking out the balcony door-always open now with cold air fluttering like whispering winds in the apartment-watching as Taekwoon swept old ash and cigarette filters into a dustpan. Hongbin laughed guiltily. 'I never really get the ashtray, huh? Sorry.’
Taekwoon shook his head. His way of saying it was alright.
He came out barefoot and in a pair of cotton shorts that reached his knees, sat in the folding chair with his legs pulled to his body. 'Can I-’ but already Taekwoon had a cigarette out of the pack and handed over. 'And the-’ he lit it too. And laughing quietly, 'Thanks.’
Taekwoon lit a cigarette of his own and hooked his arms over the railing. 'What are you doing tonight?’ he asked softly.
'Nothing.’
'Want to go for a drive? When the sun goes down.’
Hongbin smiled at the thought alone; and said he’d loved to.
So: they ordered take-out for dinner and ate it on Taekwoon’s bed, and the sun was still up when they finished eating, so Hongbin played with the radio and found himself watching Taekwoon who had moved to the kitchen. He was leaned to the counter with his chin to his chest and his hair fallen in his face. It wasn’t often he wore his hair out of a ponytail; it looked longer, made him look darker somehow, somber.
Hongbin: poking his head into the kitchen. 'You alright?’
Taekwoon nodded, but didn’t look up.
'You know, if you’re tired, we can always stay in tonight. Like, maybe go tomorrow instead?’ Taekwoon shook his head. 'You sure?’
'I’m fine.’
'Well…’ Fingers twisting together, Hongbin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 'Can you… come out here then? With me.’
Taekwoon pushed off the counter without having to be asked twice, pushed by Hongbin with his hand brushing the small of his back, silently asking him to follow, so Hongbin did; and sat on the futon as Taekwoon sat on the floor beside his feet. He carded cold fingers through the back of Taekwoon’s hair. Soft and light and perfectly straight; he asked for a hair tie, and Taekwoon told him they were on the nightstand. It was all an excuse, really, to touch Taekwoon this way: fingers brushing through loose tangles, pulling strands away from his face; Hongbin, with his fingernails lightly massaging Taekwoon’s head; and Taekwoon: with chills on both his arms (Hongbin could see them). Aside from the occasional way Taekwoon touched the small of his back, his chin lingering close to Hongbin’s shoulder, there was hardly a reason for them to touch at all.
It was nice to finally have that reason.
'Look at me,’ Hongbin whispered; and trying hard not to stare, he brushed the hair out of Taekwoon’s face, tucked a piece behind his ear. He hadn’t meant for his fingers to linger there, to touch the sharp angle of his jaw, but then Taekwoon was looking up at him with wary eyes not quite meeting Hongbin’s own. His hand, soft and warm, covered the back of Hongbin’s palm. And moving as if he wasn’t sure it was a good idea or not, if Hongbin would shove him away, Taekwoon leaned his cheek to Hongbin’s inner thigh, closed his eyes.
Pain all over and his chest feeling as if it’d collapse over his heart at any moment, Hongbin-trembling, though he was trying not to-traced imaginary pictures over Taekwoon’s cheek, his jaw. Hongbin followed the lines of his face and touched his eyelashes, soft like feathers and frail in a way only Taekwoon could be.
'Don’t fall asleep,’ he said quietly, and the moment, delicately stretched thin, was over.
Taekwoon pulled himself from Hongbin’s hands, asked, 'You wanna leave now?’ because the sun was set and the sky was dark, highway signs bright on the streets outside.
Hongbin nodded, wide eyed and a little fretful; his thigh felt numb where Taekwoon’s head had been.
'Take a jacket,’ Taekwoon said.
'I don’t want to.’
'It’s cold.’
'It’s really not.’
Taekwoon, unconvinced but shrugging anyway, said nothing. Then: out on the bike with the wind blowing and Hongbin’s hair pushed out of his face, Hongbin sat close with his chest pressed hard to Taekwoon’s back; the curve of his spine familiar and strange all at once.
City lights much prettier in cold nights shined like glitter caught in the dark. Hongbin had refused the helmet this time, was tired of the way it muffled the noise of passing traffic, of the highways overhead, and was now sat with his chin hooked over Taekwoon’s shoulder and his hands gripping the front of Taekwoon’s shirt.
They passed a coffee house with a line out the door, and a road so packed every meter was full. Friday night and the bars were loud; stopped at a red light with upbeat music falling from every open door. Hongbin closed his eyes and held on harder, felt the first touch of chills in his spine and the shivering cold eating away at his joints. He buried himself into Taekwoon’s back with his nose nuzzled to his nape; he smelled the way he always had on nights like this: masculine musk of sweat and adrenaline, cologne faded to a lingering scent in the cotton of his shirt.
'I missed this,’ Hongbin whispered when the wind was loud enough to hide his words. Corner of his mouth pressed to the top knob of Taekwoon’s spine, he melded his body to every curve of Taekwoon’s own, melted into him until it felt impossible to let go; and only then did he feel alright.
-
'What are you doing?’
It was a Thursday when Hongbin, standing barefoot on Taekwoon’s bed, was trying to put a blue light bulb into the ceiling fan. 'Giving your otherwise plain apartment some color,’ he said lightly.
'I like my plain apartment.’
'Yeah, me too. But it’s too white.’ And looking down over his shoulder, 'Don’t you think?’
It was a while before Taekwoon answered; a tiny, 'I guess,’ as if he hadn’t realized the walls, the bed sheets, the lampshades, even the curtain over the shower, were all white. The only dark thing about the whole apartment was the kitchen: black counter tops and dark wood cupboards; it was like walking into a different realm when one left the living room to get something to eat.
With a small smile and a feeling of accomplishment, Hongbin finally managed to screw the bulb in, and told Taekwoon, 'Turn the switch.’ And when he did: blue shadows like night all over.
'It makes the bed blue,’ Hongbin said, amused. But when Taekwoon only nodded, looking almost confused, Hongbin faltered. 'Well, I mean, you don’t have to keep it in, you know. You can… we’ll take it out.’ And he was reaching for the bulb when Taekwoon took his arm and pulled him by it.
He said, 'It’s nice, Hongbinnie. Leave it.’
'Yeah?’ unable to hide his own excitement. 'I have another one. It’s pink, though, I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d want it in here.’
'Put it in the balcony light.’
Sighing, 'You never even use that one.’
'I’ll start.’
Hongbin would be lying if he said he didn’t always get his way with Taekwoon; unashamedly pleased, he skipped out to the balcony where the air was near frigid one could see breath billowing from their own mouth.
The pink was much nicer, a fairy light in total dark that burned softly. It tinted the pale shirt Taekwoon was wearing, made his whole face glow as if blushing. Without really thinking, Hongbin reached a hand out, and touched Taekwoon’s cheek. He said, 'You look pretty in pink, Taekwoonie.’
A shy burst of laughter cut short, Taekwoon turned his face away, hid himself. His arms on the balcony rail and his shoulders rounded, it was like he was trying to be small, maybe to disappear. Hongbin smiled.
'Do you want the pink one inside instead?’ he asked. He lightly traced the seam of Taekwoon’s shirt sleeve, finger brushing over his shoulder and the sharp bone within it; carefully, he laid his cheek there, felt Taekwoon shift closer as he shook his head no.
'You’re cold,’ Taekwoon said.
'Yeah, but I don’t wanna go in.’ Both arms wrapped about Taekwoon’s bicep, eyes closed; Hongbin thought: he could fall asleep like this. With the cold air and Taekwoon’s warm body against him. And he probably would have had his tired hand not slid down the inside of Taekwoon’s forearm, tips of his fingers trembling against the heel of Taekwoon’s hand; and as if he’d only been waiting for this: Taekwoon took Hongbin’s hand into his own, but never stopped looking out on the dark street below.
Pink silence and a black sky; Hongbin’s breath caught in his throat, his heart in his mouth; he felt all too awake then, daring enough to kiss Taekwoon’s shoulder through his shirt. He smiled weakly when Taekwoon’s fingers squeezed his hand.
Later that night at a quarter past one, Hongbin lay in a tired heap at the end of the bed, bathed in deep blue color. The television was on but nobody was watching it. Taekwoon, in the kitchen, had been in there a long time. Hongbin thought without really thinking: of Taekwoon sifting through the cupboards for the note he kept there. He imagined Taekwoon reading it over and over-why else would someone keep a note like that if not to read-and a feeling not unlike guilt, like loathing, sank deep into the pit of his stomach, blossomed there like an ugly flower.
He fell asleep still in the clothes he’d worn all day, with sweat on his neck and his hair over his eyes. Fell asleep only to be woken by the jostle of Taekwoon picking him up, moving him from the foot of the bed to the top.
'Sorry,’ he whispered when he saw Hongbin watching him. 'You didn’t look comfortable.’
A pain in his neck like a pinched nerve and too warm all over, Hongbin hummed softly. 'It’s okay.’ And after Taekwoon had put him under the covers, brushed the hair off his forehead, Hongbin grabbed his hand and held him there. Said, 'Why don’t you sleep in the bed tonight?’
All too familiar alarm in Taekwoon’s eyes. Hongbin sighed. 'I won’t do anything weird,’ he said softly. 'Just.. lie down with me.’
Mouth bitten shut, it was a long time before Taekwoon nodded; and Hongbin, waiting with fresh sweat on his palms and panic beneath his skin, watched as he first turned off the balcony light, then the television; and everything: now in utter dark, felt intimate-incredibly so.
Taekwoon under the covers, shallow breaths loud in stark silence. Hongbin touched his arm gently, wondered if he’d pull away, but suddenly felt Taekwoon’s warm breath ghost across his face as he turned to Hongbin, a hand of Taekwoon’s own touching his chest.
Heads on the same pillow, neither of them spoke, but simply fell asleep that way.
And the next morning: Hongbin woke with the weight of hands on the small of his back, his own fingers curled into the back of Taekwoon’s hair. He didn’t have to open his eyes to see where Taekwoon’s face was buried; the heat of breath through the front of his shirt, and the feel of Taekwoon nuzzling closer to his stomach was enough to know.
Still half asleep and moaning quietly under his breath, Hongbin wrapped his legs about Taekwoon’s lower back, and slept again.
-
No matter how many weeks passed it’d felt like the strangeness never really wore off. It’d creep up on Hongbin when he was on the balcony, chain-smoking cigarettes with Taekwoon’s hand on his knee (he’d brought another folding chair from the storage outside his apartment as if knowing Hongbin hated sitting alone); when they were in the city with pinpoints of light faraway: street signs and city lights, all pretty and bright and out of reach. They’d be pulled over to the curb when their drives were especially long, sharing a cigarette with Hongbin’s chilly fingers clasped together and Taekwoon, smiling, would cover Hongbin’s hands with his own, and breathe hot air against them.
It was the way Taekwoon looked at him, so like he used to all the years before, that made Hongbin’s stomach hurt; a spark under his skin like static electricity buzzing loud inside him. He’d smile and turn away, afraid of what his own eyes would give away. And though Taekwoon had stopped sleeping on the futon, would sometimes grow agitated if Hongbin said he couldn’t stay the full night, Hongbin still thought about the letter, had found it still stashed in the cupboard like something stolen: hidden behind cups and spice bottles. He’d taken it out once when Taekwoon had been in the shower, read it carefully again, then again, and felt his heart jolt uncomfortably into his throat. He wanted to ask about him, to know something (his mind raced too often in the middle of the night when sleep wouldn’t come, when he’d be alone in his own apartment with the windows open and the cold feeling hollow, unlike how it felt when he was with Taekwoon), but was afraid of opening wounds freshly healed over, because there were times when they were sat on street corners with soft music playing from Taekwoon’s phone and a cloud of cigarette smoke above their heads that Hongbin would look over, look to Taekwoon, and find him with his eyes on the clouds and the corners of his mouth pulled down. Deep in a daydream and unaware of Hongbin watching him; he’d let his cigarette burn out between his fingers and never notice when the cherry reached the filter. Too lost in the memory-Hongbin was sure-of a boy no longer around.
Hongbin would often wonder if this was how Taekwoon had been when he’d left him. With thoughts like these constantly filtering half formed, subconsciously there at the back of his head, made it hard to find comfort in the small things. Like how Taekwoon would play with Hongbin’s fingers in his sleep, hide from Hongbin if he was changing by the bed, always hiding, as if afraid of making him uncomfortable. So many years; and so many things unchanged. He’d blush if Hongbin looked at him for too long, dizzying drunk off a bottle of white wine. Often times, unabashedly jealous, Taekwoon’s hand would hover just beside Hongbin’s waist; narrowed eyes constantly glaring as if in warning to those around them.
And yet: Hongbin’s heart still ached with fear, certain there would be a day when all of this would end. He didn’t think he’d be surprised when it happened, only sad, because how can one be upset when they’d known from the start: some things weren’t meant to work out.
-
He was lying at the foot of the bed, the movie Drive playing almost on mute, with an ache in his right temple. He’d had a thought that morning that he should probably go home tonight; it’d been more than a week since he’d last slept in his own bed. A gloomy tiredness had washed over him early that evening, and was still with him now; an empty feeling in his gut that made all of him feel hollow. He wanted Taekwoon to lie with him, but was afraid to ask, too sure Taekwoon’s hands about his waist would only make the pain worsen.
But then: as if able to tell when Hongbin was thinking of him, Taekwoon was there, standing between Hongbin and the television. A pair of black baggy sweats and a white T-shirt two sizes too big; he looked small. Hongbin’s heart leaped.
He crouched by the bed and touched Hongbin’s hair, a gentle touch that was more like a pet: fingers tracing the lines of his cheeks, his jaw. He asked, 'Are you okay?’
'I’m fine.’
'You look upset.’
He covered Taekwoon’s hand with his own, and said, 'No. I’m tired.’
'Why don’t you sleep?’
'It’s still early,’ and sitting up, the back of his hair was messy; Taekwoon patted it down for him. 'I’m gonna take a shower.’ There was the temptation of asking Taekwoon if he would join him, but Hongbin already knew the answer to that. Taekwoon was too shy to even take his shirt off when Hongbin was around.
'Can I borrow something to wear?’ he asked in the hallway. Taekwoon, in the kitchen, hovering by the cupboard where the letter was kept, told him: Sure. Take whatever you want. So Hongbin took a long white T-shirt much like the one Taekwoon was wearing now. He knew it’d reach the middle of his thighs, so took nothing else. He’d just wear his jeans back home when the time came.
Then: in the shower with the door kept open and the water hot on his face, hair clean and smelling of the masculine shampoo Taekwoon used, some cologne type scent that always made him smell good. This too was strange in some way: how Hongbin didn’t seem to smell like himself anymore. An always present sense of Taekwoon; it was embedded in his clothes, in the skin of his hands. He could never go home without being reminded of him.
He stood by the mirror for a long time after, touching his face and the faint laugh lines by his eyes. He pursed his mouth and drew imaginary lines from one dimple to the other, followed the angle of his chin, his mouth. He looked the same as he always had, just sharper in ways that he hadn’t really noticed before; and: Taekwoon, in the doorway, with his arms by his sides. Hongbin caught his eye in the mirror, forced a smile.
'What are you doing?’ he asked softly.
'Just looking.’
Here: a small smile. 'You’re still as handsome as before.’ Hongbin couldn’t tell if this was a joke, felt flattered anyway.
He pushed by Taekwoon without trying to touch him, but felt Taekwoon’s hand catch the sleeve of his shirt all the same, like he was silently asking Hongbin not to simply walk by, but he kept going anyway; stood by the bed and wondered if he should just leave now.
'Hongbin-ah,’ timidly, 'will you tell me what’s bothering you?’ He had his hands in his pockets and his face tipped to the floor. 'I don’t… want you to think you can’t talk to me.’
'Nothing’s bothering me, hyung,’ and maybe it was the formality that eased the tension from Taekwoon’s shoulders. But Hongbin couldn’t relax. Standing there with a whirlwind in his head and his fingers suddenly cold, he hugged himself; and stumbled a half step back when Taekwoon, chewing the corner of his mouth, came toward him.
It was the way he was looking at Hongbin: fully frightened but determined, color in his cheeks even visible under blue light. His arms were shaking when he put them around Hongbin’s middle, pulled him to his chest with the hem of the T-shirt riding high on Hongbin’s thighs. And he hugged him with their foreheads together and his eyes closed; hugged him gently like he was afraid of breaking him.
They’d been close before, but not quite like this. The tips of their noses brushed, Taekwoon’s breath fell right into Hongbin’s mouth; and it was there: the sense of what Taekwoon was going to do. And it wasn’t the first time Hongbin had felt this. There had been a time on one of their drives, stopped at a corner store with a bag of skittles and Hongbin, trying to feed them to Taekwoon who wouldn’t budge, only laughed and pursed his mouth shut. He’d leaned over with his mouth so close to Hongbin’s face, he’d been terrified, just as he was now. He didn’t want to deal with this so head-on, so he pulled back-only a little. Taekwoon followed him. And he kept pulling back, and Taekwoon kept coming toward him, until Hongbin found himself sat on the edge of the bed with Taekwoon pushing him onto his back; and the sense of subtle urgency like Taekwoon wanted this so badly, but didn’t want to let it happen just yet. Hongbin’s thighs burned.
Then
Taekwoon’s mouth, as soft as it’d ever been. And all of Hongbin: aching; a pain blossoming in his stomach and filling all the spaces between his bones. Fingertips numb, and his toes curled inward.
Taekwoon kissed him in a way that wasn’t really a kiss: his mouth was slack and pressed against Hongbin’s own, lingered there like he was only breathing Hongbin’s air. Then: a little harder. His hand came up to cup the side of Hongbin’s face, his other hand high on his leg, long fingers wrapped around the back of his thigh. He made a small sound not unlike a whine, and Hongbin-eyes rolled shut, inadvertently spreading himself out for Taekwoon to touch-kissed him back with his mouth trembling, blood rushing deeply in his ears.
His legs wrapped around Taekwoon’s back, ankles crossed; and he hadn’t meant to do this, not really, but felt himself reacting in all the ways he’d been wanting-but was too afraid-to. Soft sigh, everything felt right: Taekwoon’s hands on his bare skin, the pressure of his body-once familiar but now different-, his breath like menthol cigarettes.
Breathless moan and the pit of his stomach: ice cold. Hongbin felt the subtle way Taekwoon pulled back then, always so afraid of the noises Hongbin made; he could remember being twenty-one and in his old apartment with Taekwoon’s hands between his legs, shifting uncomfortably, always asking, 'Is this alright?’ and trembling so badly every time Hongbin’s mouth opened and a moan came out.
Pained. Not wanting to think about the past, not wanting to think about anything, Hongbin turned his face away and wouldn’t let Taekwoon kiss him again. He brushed Taekwoon’s hand off his leg, wriggled away until Taekwoon understood: he needed to move.
Softly, so afraid, 'Do you still think about him?’
And Taekwoon, staring hard like he wasn’t sure what Hongbin was asking. He moved from the bed to the floor, sat with his legs beneath himself, still staring like Hongbin had grown an extra head.
Silence, so much of it.
Hongbin was drowning.
'When you’re with me?’ Hongbin asked. 'Do you ever think of him when you’re with me?’
'Hongbin-ah, I don't-what are you talking about?’
Quickly, 'Nothing.’ He flexed his hands, felt awful all over. 'I'm-’ He pulled the shirt down to cover himself and brought his knees close together. With a finger in his mouth, chewing the nail to bits, he said, 'I’m gonna go.’
Taekwoon only looked at him.
Hongbin slipped on his jeans, but kept Taekwoon’s shirt on; stepped in his shoes by the front door and glanced to Taekwoon who wasn’t looking at him. But all at once: Taekwoon was on his feet and he was moving with rushed motions, and Hongbin thought he’d come to the door, ask him not to leave, but he slipped out the balcony door instead. And didn’t come back inside.
To say Hongbin didn’t linger outside Taekwoon’s door would be a lie. He wondered if Taekwoon would follow him out, grab his arm, kiss him again. Wondered it, but still left; driven down the stairs by the weight of his heart heavy in his mouth.
Then: back at home in his own lonely apartment, windows open and the radio turned low. He swallowed two sleeping pills and wouldn’t allow himself to think. And this is what he did for two days. He woke at noon with cold, early winter winds blowing like a flurry through his apartment; bed sheets icy underneath him. He’d wanted then, on the very next morning, to rush back to Taekwoon, to lean his head on Taekwoon’s front door and simply stand there, wait for him to somehow sense Hongbin was there, but he never did. Too afraid of the irregular beat of his own heart and the feeling of love that only grew deeper, more pained, every time he thought of Taekwoon.
It was kind of funny, the way love worked. It was never there when one needed it, but always present when it hurt most.
-
It was half eight in the evening three days later and Hongbin was coming back from the super market, plastic bag held loosely in fingers burned by the cold. He could still smell Taekwoon’s cologne on his skin, faint but there; he’d been sleeping in Taekwoon’s t-shirt despite the way it made his stomach ache, hands constantly clutching the collar when he was unable to find sleep (which had been almost every night). Dependent on pills, he thought maybe he’d take one as soon as he was home, knock out early and not have to think about anything, like how badly he wanted to see Taekwoon, and how awful he felt whenever he thought of him; the guilt that seemed to fester even when he slept.
But then: turning the corner past the restaurant, the hardware store, the little shops that lined his street, Hongbin smelled the cigarette fumes before he saw them; and there, at the top of the cement steps leading to his apartment, was Taekwoon, and his elbows were on his knees, his head between his shoulders. Five days and finally he’d come-not that Hongbin had been hoping he would, had, in fact, thought he wouldn’t. Hongbin had been sure that Taekwoon, as quiet as he was, how so utterly passive he could be, would have waited until Hongbin came back on his own. Something even he was unsure would have happened.
Nowhere to go; nowhere to run. Taekwoon lifted his head and, rigid all over, crawled to his feet. His pack of smokes was empty, a small pile of crushed filters by his left shoe. Hongbin asked, 'Have you been here long?’ and Taekwoon shook his head, but Hongbin didn’t really believe him.
Not wanting to stand where it was cold, where the neighbors liked to leave their front doors open and listened too carefully to what was going on outside, Hongbin pulled Taekwoon by the sleeve of his shirt; hands shaking, wanting so badly to pull Taekwoon into his chest instead, to kiss him again.
The room was drafty with the windows kept open and the silence: too loud. Hongbin turned on the radio, let it play the last CD he’d left in, because he never could find comfort in a quiet room.
And Taekwoon, lingering by the front door, his shoes still on. Hands in his pockets, Hongbin saw all the veins in his arms, sharp against pale skin. He kicked one shoe off, then the other, but still stood there like he was afraid to come any closer.
'You don’t…’ Hongbin touched his forehead. 'You don’t have to just stand there, hyung.’
'Are you still upset?’
Hongbin looked at his feet: bare and pale, toes cold and feeling a little numb. 'I… don’t really know.’ And it was before the words had fully left his mouth that Taekwoon, crossing the room in a sudden burst of movement, grabbed both of Hongbin’s shoulders gently in hands that felt weak.
'If I ever gave you the idea there was someone else-’ he moved a hand to the side of Hongbin’s face, held his jaw kindly against his palm- 'I didn’t mean to.’
’…no, that’s… you didn’t do anything.’ He pushed Taekwoon’s hands away, stood there limp and tired, hating that Taekwoon, moving in a way so subtle maybe he wasn’t aware he was doing it, seemed to follow every sway of Hongbin’s own body.
'Hongbin-’
’Please don’t ask me what’s wrong because I don’t know.’ He collapsed on the edge of the bed, his knees held tightly together, hands between his legs; his knuckles were white, the tips of his fingers red, as he wrapped his hands together.
Weakly, so weak, he felt stupid, 'I found the letter.’ Felt even worse when Taekwoon’s forehead creased, and his eyes narrowed; so much confusion Hongbin was beginning to think he’d made it all up.
'The letter, you know, the one talking about the extra key? It said, it said, here’s your key. Don’t call.’
And finally: understanding. Taekwoon hung his head.
'You said not to kiss you,’ Hongbin said quietly. 'Then I found that… in the cupboard, and I get it-’ Taekwoon was shaking his head, crouched on his knees at the foot of the bed. 'I do, kind of.’
'No.’
'Hyung, it's-’ Taekwoon took Hongbin’s face into his hands, tried to kiss him but Hongbin wouldn’t let him, angled his face away- 'it’s okay.’
'It’s not, though. It’s not like that. That.. that was a long time ago-’
'Not that long ago.’
'It feels like it was.’ Taekwoon pulled away then, gaze so hardened it was almost a glare. 'I think you know that, too.’
A line of cold plunged into Hongbin’s stomach, made the hair on the nape of his neck prickle; all of him: feeling strange and too transparent. It only worsened when Taekwoon leaned his forehead to Hongbin’s cheek, and asked him, so quietly the music almost drowned him out: 'Why do you always run away from me?’
Hongbin didn’t have an answer for that.
'Were you even going to come back?’ Taekwoon looked up at him then, mouth quivering, demanding an answer he already knew.
'I don’t… know.’
Hands falling away, taking their warmth with them; Hongbin sat with Taekwoon at his feet, no contact at all; and too cold, too alone, feeling too much space between them and not understanding it at all. Hongbin threw himself onto his back, stared at the ceiling. He didn’t want to cry, hated that there was the pressure of tears at the back of his throat; it made his chest hurt too much to breathe.
'I-’ he covered his face with both hands. 'I feel bad, okay? Like, so fucking bad all the time. I look at you and I feel worse.’
Taekwoon, miserably, 'What does that even mean.’
Hongbin whispered, 'I didn’t love you then,’ and swallowed the pain in his throat. 'I think about that a lot. You… forgave me. So quickly, too.’
'Hongbin, it’s been years.’
'Yeah.’ He sat up, covered his face. 'That doesn’t mean I hurt you any less.’
'This isn’t something we need to talk about-’
'Why not.’
Taekwoon, gentle eyed and quietly: 'Do you love me now?’ He rose to his knees, put his arms about Hongbin’s middle. And watching him carefully, he pushed Hongbin up the bed until he could sit between his legs, eyes never leaving Hongbin’s face.
And Hongbin, terrified, hating every second of this: his heart beating painfully in his ears, throat swelled shut and too much emotion caught in the back of his head, threatening to spill from his eyes-but he wouldn’t let it.
'You know I do,’ he whispered.
'Yeah,’ Taekwoon whispered back. Then again, voice breaking softly, 'Yeah.’ He collapsed onto his side and pulled Hongbin close, buried his face into Hongbin’s stomach; and like this, Taekwoon urged him to put his legs around him, to put his hands in his hair. So many motions so much the same; Hongbin sighed and his whole body trembled.
'Please come back,’ Taekwoon said, breath hot through Hongbin’s shirt. 'I can’t sleep anymore.’
Petting the back of Taekwoon’s hair, Hongbin said, 'Okay, hyung.’
'Right now?’
’…right now.’
But it was two hours later when Taekwoon finally pulled himself from Hongbin’s side, told him he should grab the things he needed most, because Taekwoon didn’t want him to leave again. And he was outside, leaned to his bike, smoking a cigarette with the filter torn off when Hongbin came out with a full backpack strapped over both his shoulders.
He said, 'I still have stuff up there.’
'We’ll get it later.’
'All of it?’
Taekwoon shrugged, nodded. He dropped his cigarette by the curb, ground the toe of his shoe against it. One leg over either side of the bike, he revved the engine, and waited for Hongbin to get on, but Hongbin only stood there watching the bike’s exhaust plume like clouds in cold air.
Taekwoon didn’t ask what was wrong. Instead: he grabbed the front of Hongbin’s shirt, pulled him by it; and with Hongbin’s face smothered against his chest, Taekwoon carded cold fingers in the back of his hair.
They stood this way until Hongbin’s shoulders began to ache, the weight of his belongings heavy on his back. He said, muffled and half whispered, 'I love you,’ and it felt nice in some way that he didn’t think he’d ever fully understand: to finally say it; to mean it, too.
He ignored Taekwoon’s hands that started to shake, and the way his heart, pressed hard to Hongbin’s face, quickened. And leaning up, pressing his mouth to Taekwoon’s own, Hongbin said it again. He touched either side of Taekwoon’s face, and told him, 'I’m sorry,’ and he meant it for so many things.
Taekwoon, pained, 'Don’t be sorry anymore.’ He paused, waiting for Hongbin to say something, but he wouldn’t. 'Okay?’
'Okay,’ but it wasn’t convincing. Taekwoon shoved him gently. ’Okay.’ He smiled and felt a little better; cleared his throat and pushed the hair out of his eyes. He said, 'Hyung,’ a little demanding, 'take me home.’
And Taekwoon, who had-and never would-deny Hongbin of anything, pulled him onto the bike, and did just that.
a/n: /throws flowers at everyone