Tigers on a Gold Leash
Pairing: Kyungsoo/Jongin
Length: 7500
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jongin and Kyungsoo are the young and the filthy rich, keeping themselves afloat in the disorientating world of private jets, vacation houses, toys, girls and boys; craving those rare, precious moments of quiet where they can give in, close their eyes and live their misbehavior.
Notes: Written for the 2017 round of Kaifectionery. Originally posted here.
Disclaimer:The celebrities' names/images are merely borrowed and do not represent who the celebrities are in real life. No offense is intended towards them, their families or friends. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this fictional work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Spring is a season of stagnation.
I. SPRING
Spring is a season of stagnation. The third quarter, where everything’s fallen into a comfortable medium, until the last couple of weeks, where the rush of finality abruptly bears down and demands full attention before the release of summer. For Jongin, this last phase doesn’t quite arrive - he floats peacefully through the tail end of his high school years in Seoul, South Korea. It’s calm, should be comforting, but it’s also softly suffocating. When life is a gated prison of a fairground, there’s no exit in sight, nothing to do except board the same unexciting “joyrides”, over and over and over again…
On April the twentieth he lands in Hong Kong, and dutifully reports to Repulse Bay to pay his respects. Lu Han is already surrounded when Jongin arrives on the front porch, just barely visible from within his circle of admirers. Kris Wu, Lu Han’s boyfriend, hovers awkwardly, looking imposing for no reason. If Jongin’s honest, he’s not terribly fond of either of them, but he stays faithful in making the yearly pilgrimage.
It’s a controlled, well-behaved party as usual, since the William and Kate of wealthy twenty-somethings prefer a quieter setting. The first phase of the evening is mainly mingling, which Jongin rarely does on his own initiative. He’s come with Oh Sehun, and while Sehun’s a good (and old) friend, he’s hardly the sort of person to sit in a corner with Jongin and keep him company when they’re in a room full of people to meet. Jongin would rather sit out in the conservatory, in a comfortable corner where he’s got a view of the pool, a nearby plant to keep him partially hidden and a fan overhead to ventilate.
Of course, someone still approaches him, armed with a glass of champagne and a wide grin. The guy takes hold of Jongin’s hand and presses the flute into his loosely clenched fist (“You’re looking dead on your feet, bro. Looks like you could use some alcohol”). The guy, who introduces himself as Park Chanyeol, is heavily tattooed, extremely loud, and has a smile that leans psychotic. The way he talks, too, makes Jongin feel like he might not be a hundred percent mentally sound, but he’s friendly, and they build rapport unbelievably quickly.
At the bar, Chanyeol mixes Jongin another drink, hard as per request.
“Why haven’t I ever seen you here? Did you just get to know Lu Han recently?”
“Hmm actually, I’ve known Kris for some time. Just never really bothered coming to his little parties.” Chanyeol pauses, balances a bottle on his arm, and flips it, “but yeah, I only met Lu Han last fall. Street-racing back in Seoul. They call him the devil of the circuit, y’know? Wiped me out hard.”
Jongin knows. “Yeah, actually, we race each other often.” He offers to race Chanyeol sometime.
“Definitely. I love losing. I’ll hit you up.”
Jongin raises the glass to his lips, and the front door opens once more.
Eight people file into the hall, girls and guys of varying heights and sizes. They always show up together, this group, and don’t socialise extensively with outsiders. (They still get invited to every event regardless.) Jongin searches them, and finds who he’s looking for - a short guy with close-cropped black hair, dressed simply in black separates. Do Kyungsoo. The real reason Jongin’s at this party at all.
Lu Han emerges to greet the newcomers, and somebody announces that it’s time for him to cut the cake.
The attendees convene in the kitchen, then, and Lu Han’s ‘closest friends’ jostle for advantageous positions as the birthday song is sung and the photographers snap.
Shortly after, Sehun collapses heavily onto the sofa next to Jongin. “We’re up for beer pong.”
“No.”
“I already put us down though.”
“Then I’m leaving early.”
“You can’t. Lu Han’s expecting you to play.”
Lu Han is waiting; everyone is waiting. “Jongin! Thank you for coming!” Lu Han says with mild enthusiasm, grasping Jongin’s hand and patting his back lightly. His bangles are cold against Jongin’s wrist. “Sehun! Ready to lose?”
Lu Han has always made Jongin decidedly uncomfortable. He’s so… flighty, and mellow, like air. As though grasping onto him would cause him to float away into nothing. His attention is always fleeting, never sincere. And his face - he’s a college senior but looks so unsettlingly youthful, like he’s had a facelift or twenty.
Sehun shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. Lu Han lightly ruffles Sehun’s hair and stretches out his other hand. Somebody places a ping-pong ball in his palm. “Alright, let’s go.” He crouches and bounces on the spot, winds up like a baseball pitcher, and lightly throws. It bounces once and lands neatly in a cup labelled “SOJU BOMB”.
It doesn’t surprise Jongin that everyone cheers enthusiastically for Lu Han, like he’s just scored the winning goal in yet another football match. “Drink up, Sehun,” Lu Han says briskly, handing him the cup and giving his chin a quick pull open. Sehun splutters, almost spilling some of the drink, but chugs it anyway. Lu Han’s expression is perfectly neutral, and as Sehun pulls the ping-pong ball out of his empty cup, Jongin grabs it from him. “Let me.”
Hong Kong is already warm in April, the evening air a comfortable twenty degrees. Jongin is probably tipsy, but he makes it to the upstairs balcony with some difficulty, and takes a deep breath of bay breeze. From all the years that he’s attended, he’s found this to be the quietest spot in the rented loft. It overlooks the pool deck, where some people are swimming.
Someone joins him on the balcony, and arms clad in black sleeves come to rest on the railing next to him.
Kyungsoo gestures back into the house. “Saw you playing.”
Jongin exhales. “I lost.”
“Of course you did.” Jongin can hear the smile in Kyungsoo’s voice. “You were playing the undefeated king of beer pong.”
“I don’t know why we even come to these things. Good on you, though, showing up late. That was smart.”
“Did I miss much?”
“Chats about football, probably. Cars. Watches. Whatever else Lu Han is into these days.”
“Sounds like the extent of his interests, pretty much.”
Jongin laughs, stepping away from the railing. “You didn’t have to be so honest.”
There are a few lounge chairs on the balcony, long rattan recliners lined with cushion. Kyungsoo perches on the edge of the seat, legs folded, the soles of his shoes pressed neatly together. Jongin takes the seat opposite. It’s something of a tradition for them, meeting on balconies. It was how they’d met for the first time, two or three years ago, at a house party in Seoul. It was also how they’d met every time thereafter, by “chance” at various gatherings and get-togethers across the continent.
And it’s his favourite part of any gathering, by far. Sitting out in the moonlight, getting away from the smoke-saturated air inside the venue, lightly talking and catching up with each other’s lives. Kyungsoo is taking a self-declared extended weekend, having flown all the way from school in Los Angeles. He’s doing well, made a bunch of new friends, stayed close to old ones; easily spilling tales of his recent happenings. Jongin is less forthcoming. He doesn’t really like to talk about school (he doesn’t care) or his family (a sore point) or his plans (they don’t exist), but Kyungsoo has a habit of gently coaxing things out of him.
“How’s your sister?”
Jongin looks at the floor. “The same. I’m worried about her.”
“Go look for her. You need to support each other.” When Kyungsoo looks at him, it’s as though he’s pinning him to the spot with a gaze that’s clear and deep. It’s a little unsettling, but has always had an oddly reassuring effect on Jongin.
“I will. The moment I get home.”
“Do you want a lift?”
“Yeah.” Jongin hasn’t bought a return ticket, as usual, to avail himself to Kyungsoo’s offer. “How long are you gonna stay in Seoul? Don’t you have class?”
“Nothing important, at least till Thursday.”
“College sure sounds like a breeze.”
“It’s way better than high school.” Kyungsoo smiles slightly, secretively.
Jongin has never given much thought to college, even if he’s due to enrol that same year. But now he thinks he might want to try it out.
At four in the morning, Jongin steps into the private plane. His loafers sink soundlessly into the carpet. Kyungsoo’s air stewardesses greet him by name.
Jongin always sits at the back of the cabin. He drops his bag and coat on the floor, sinks into a soft leather embrace. Kyungsoo speaks briefly to the stewardess, his low, soothing voice just barely audible across the cabin, then comes to sit next to Jongin.
“Tired?”
“Very.”
“Try to get some sleep.”
“It’s okay, Kyungsoo. It’s just three hours.” Three hours he can’t afford to waste on sleep.
The stewardess comes around to check that they’re buckled and safe, and the engines roar to life.
“Any plans for the summer?”
“Hmm… back home first, probably. Then I might go to stay at a friend’s place in the Hamptons.”
“Oh, you’re coming back to Seoul? I might see you around, then.” We could hang out, he thinks of saying. He’s not sure how Kyungsoo would take it.
“Maybe.” Kyungsoo lets the word hang in the air. “What about you, any plans?”
“Nothing definite. I might go on a trip with this guy I met at the loft earlier.”
“A guy you just met?” Kyungsoo sounds amused. “That’s fast.”
Cabin crew, at your takeoff stations.
The lights dim. Wordlessly, Kyungsoo slips his hand, warm and solid, into Jongin’s.
Sometimes Jongin thinks Kyungsoo is like a miracle. Heaven-sent, a harbour, a lighthouse, an anchorage.
“If I wasn’t fast, I wouldn’t be here right now, sponging off your jet fuel for the hundredth time.”
“I might have to start charging you airfare.”
The plane heads for takeoff, and Jongin shuts his eyes. Immediately, images start flipping through his mind. He has a kind of routine in the way he imagines them - going over a lonely stile in the middle of the grey-green country, the sky gloomy and overcast, into an enclosed yard containing a tall tower bearing down like a obelisk. He ascends, as though going up to a viewing deck, and takes a slow walk around the perimeter, scenes from his life playing out as he walks. Every shameful detail, laid out in three hundred and sixty degrees, every negligence and every last drop of regret.
Except none of it can touch him here, in his safe space. Jongin concentrates on Kyungsoo’s palm in his, and feels himself escape the fairground.
II. SUMMER
“So where should we hit up tonight?”
Chanyeol’s voice carries clearly, even over the buzz of chatter in the crowded, touristy gelateria just off La Rambla. He’s only eaten half of his pistachio sundae; the other half is slowly melting in the metal bowl. To his right, Kim Junmyeon is finishing up the last of his rum and raisin cone, his white mandarin-collared shirt miraculously unstained.
They’re indoors, and it’s air-conditioned but still sweltering. Jongin is somewhat impressed by the (mostly white) tourists fighting over the al fresco seating options.
“Was last night not enough for you?” Junmyeon eyes Chanyeol with a combination of disbelief and disgust.
“We didn’t club last night.”
“We didn’t, but you still managed to get drunk, flood your room, get us chased out of the hotel at fuck o’ clock, and ditched by Jinri, Soojung, and Joohyun.”
“Exactly why we need to club tonight. We can get into another hotel, no problem, but girls aren’t going to just appear out of thin air.”
“Nitsa?” Junmyeon suggests. “Loft?”
Jongin folds his arms, shakes his head. “Basic.”
“You’re such a fucking hipster, Jongin.” Chanyeol’s hands are never still, twirling a metal spoon around his fingers. “Alright, let’s do Sidecar.”
“I need one of you to be my wingman.”
Instantaneously, Junmyeon and Chanyeol throw him side-eyes. “Like you need a goddamn wingman-” “You’re a heartthrob, Jongin, you know that right?”
“Park Chanyeol, it was your fault they ditched us, if you don’t get me laid tonight…”
“Alright. I swear on all that is holy, Jongin, I will get you laid tonight. I swear it on the holy grail. One way or another.”
“Even if he has to do it himself.”
Most of the time, Jongin really enjoys Junmyeon’s and Chanyeol’s company. It could be the fact that they’re not into networking or socialising in a big way. They’re both younger sons, too - free of all the mountains of baggage the eldest sons of the world carry.
They’re three days into their Barcelona stop, with one more to go before they head for Italy. The girls have ditched them, but Jongin finds himself still enjoying every moment, maybe even more than before.
Jongin isn’t good with responsibility, has never been. He likes this much better - just three friends moving from Ibiza to Nice to Monaco, picking up different girls at each club.
It’s on the penultimate day of their trip that it comes. The dreaded message. His phone vibrates with a text from his mother.
COME HOME NOW, is all it says. All-caps, glaring aggressively at him from the screen.
The drop of his heart is tempered by resignation.
“Listen,” he hears himself say, “I have to go.”
“Go where?”
Jongin doesn’t want to explain, so he stands up quickly and claps them on the shoulders. “Have fun tonight.”
“What? Where are you going?”
Jongin walks out of the shop, finds the main promenade and flags down a taxi. Back in the café, Chanyeol and Junmyeon are probably still sitting there clueless.
He climbs in. “Zagreb airport.”
Minutes after Jongin emerges from his mother’s office, the sun sets on Seoul.
Summer evenings in downtown Seoul are muggy, polluted, grey. He’s swamped by the people getting off work, sweating in their suits of black and slate, juggling smartphones and bags as they run-walk across the intersection, caged in by the steel and silver skyscrapers of the Gangnam financial district. Listlessly, Jongin circles the granite pavilion in front of the tower. He doesn’t want to go home, but there really isn’t anywhere else either.
He reaches into the pocket of his bermudas - the same pair he’d been wearing in Zadar a day ago - and finds his phone. He could call Sehun, but then what? He can’t tell Sehun about his sister. He could borrow his house, maybe, as a place to get himself drunk-off-his-face obliterated, but he could also do it himself.
In the end he sends a message (“Free for dinner?”) and ambles towards the retail districts. He’s sweaty and gross, so he buys himself a new outfit, posts a picture of it on Instagram, and throws the old set into a bin outside the department store. Sehun likes his post, responds to his text with “Have plans, but I can meet you for drinks after”.
Jongin finds a restaurant, sits down, and over-orders. He responds to Sehun’s text as he eats (“Okay, tell me when you get to Gangnam”) and checks his Instagram post. Four hundred and seventy-eight likes, and a few new follows. It’s a strange thing, Instagram; Jongin has never thought of himself as social, but it does make him feel good in a shallow, self-aggrandising sort of way.
The alcohol in Club Exo is grossly overpriced. In the time he’s supposed to have spent waiting for Sehun, Jongin ends up in a private lounge upstairs with a girl who’d recognised him downstairs. She’s so willing, he’s basically doing an act of charity by stripping off her dress, pulling down his pants, recklessly fucking her into the gold carpet. It’s strange, because he’s completely sober, and once he’s finished and sated and watching her pant while looking up at him he feels bad. Worse than before. He really should just walk out of the room and drink himself stupid at the bar, but instead he collapses onto the floor and lays there, a hand on his sweating forehead.
The girl pulls her dress over her head, straps her heels back on. She walks over to Jongin, kneels next to him. “Jongin?” Her voice is hesitant. “Are you alright?”
Jongin doesn’t respond. She starts stroking his hair, and he doesn’t flinch away. “You look like you need a break. Come with us, Jongin-ah, we’re moving on to a better club.” She supports him gently, lifting him into a sitting position, and Jongin’s tears spill over. He lets her pull him up, and leans on her shoulder as she walks out of the club and towards a waiting limousine.
“A better club” turns out to be an unlicensed casino. The uniformed guy outside eyes Jongin warily, but lets them all in.
Welcome to Seoul Palace!
The interior is more high-key than he’d expected. All the equipment shines, looks brand-new. Jongin’s new companions are regulars, they have a table and a stock. He gets chips from them, accepts a couple of tablets. Alcohol is cheaper here, and Jongin chases numbness. He sits at the baccarat table, plays round after round, throws chips like they’re trash.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been playing, or even who he’s playing against. It’s a pleasant feeling, how his mind seems to be swimming freely above and beyond his body, how the things and sounds around him are floating distortedly in a sea of light and colour.
As time passes, he’s not even sure if he’s playing, to be honest. He’s only vaguely aware of a cutting sensation in his throat, like someone’s pulling him by the neck. The next moment, he realises that he’s lying down again. On the floor, with something large blocking his view from above. There’s a pressure in his chest, as though his torso is being pulled tightly from both sides. It pulls tighter, and tighter, until he’s sure he’s been torn in half.
And then everything clears. The pressure, the shadow, the cutting sensation. He’s looking at a figure at the end of the room, a small thing flanked by two large black pillars.
The voice speaking to him is soft and low. Jongin’s head takes a while to stop ringing, before he can see and hear again.
“I don’t have much time left, Jongin, I have to go to the airport.”
It’s Kyungsoo. He’s sitting on the bed - that Jongin’s lying in, he realises belatedly - wearing black lounge pants, and holding takeaway porridge.
The bed is soft, and Jongin is sunk quite deeply in. Kyungsoo puts the takeaway on the table, and grasps his arms, propping him up on pillows. Jongin is exhausted and overwhelmed. He’s shocked, and relieved, and ashamed, and comforted.
“Feeling better?” Kyungsoo is leaning over him, his brows knotted together, eyes worried.
It hurts. Jongin nods slowly. “Sorry…”
Kyungsoo hands him a plastic spoon. “I’m not going to feed you.”
The oyster mushroom porridge is hot and warms his stomach. Jongin takes small mouthfuls, feeling Kyungsoo’s eyes on him the whole time.
“Why did you go to Seoul Palace?” Kyungsoo’s tone is gentle.
“How’d you know I was there?”
“It’s one of ours. My people there recognised you.”
So Kyungsoo had expected him to show up at the casino, told his people about Jongin, even told them to notify him. Jongin clears his throat. “Because I’m so much of a fuck-up that you expected me there, getting my ass beat, sooner or later.”
Kyungsoo doesn’t smile. “Maybe.”
It’s that expression - that serious, genuine concern - that always makes Jongin feel guilty.
Because Kyungsoo is warmth, and comfort, and a safe place. A haven that doesn’t come by often and needs to be treasured when it does. But Kyungsoo is also a person, a kid barely a year older than Jongin himself, in very similar circumstances. He must have his own issues and his own traumas and his own hurt, but he handles everything that Jongin should, exceptionally well. Jongin has nothing to offer him.
He continues eating his porridge. Kyungsoo sits on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone. Time ticks on, and Jongin wants to immerse himself in the quiet calm, but he can’t help the urgency that slowly builds in his chest.
When Kyungsoo finally stands up, Jongin blurts, “Where are you going? The Hamptons?”
“Macau.” Kyungsoo looks caught by surprise. “I’m interning for a bit.” At his father’s hotel-casino, presumably. The legal one.
“Are you leaving now?”
Kyungsoo is controlled again. “Yeah. I’m sorry Jongin, I would send you home, but I really have to rush.”
“No, it’s okay. I think I still have my phone.” Jongin reaches desperately, but he can’t find words. “Thanks for saving me.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Jongin watches as Kyungsoo picks up his cardigan and heads for the door.
“Please take care of yourself, Jongin,” is the last thing he says before he walks out, and Jongin is left alone with a bowl of porridge in the large, cushy guestroom.
The slumps always hit when he leasts expects it. He spends days inside, sleeping the time away. Retreating into himself. Willing life to pass him by.
Being in his room makes it worse. He hates the place with a passion. Grand in decor, antique and opulent, completely unlike his own taste. It’s crammed full of luxury possessions - everything on the walls, everything on the shelves costs a small fortune. It’s almost tragic, really. A wardrobe full of designer clothes, for one person with nowhere to go. A shelf full of designer stationery, which he feels exactly zero inclination to use. A solid ebony desk he doesn’t write at. State-of-the-art photography equipment, which he lost interest in years ago. Leather-bound books he’ll never be fucked to open.
It’s an overflowing space of excess, but it’s a gaping void of nothing. It sucks everything in, including time, but somehow, inexplicably, tomorrow just keeps on coming.
III. AUTUMN
Sometime in May, Jongin receives a summons from his father’s secretary, who hands him an admissions letter from a college, informing him that he’s been enrolled for the fall in New York City.
Jongin arrives in September. It’s a fresh start, far away from home. The leaves start falling a few weeks into the term. The central pavilion becomes littered with them, layers of crushed red and orange flattening into one another, forming a soft carpet.
He’s walking off campus when a hand taps his shoulder. He spins around, then the other way. He’s faced with a wide, catlike grin, and a nudge to the waist. Jongin flinches, but the other guy is already laughing.
“What the fuck?”
“Kim Jongin, huh?” The guy apparently has no regard for personal space, leaning in uncomfortably close. “You know one Byun Baekhyun?”
Jongin tries to move away. “Not personally.”
His assailant looks genuinely surprised. “Really? Funny, cause he asked me to invite you to our place this weekend. I’ll text you the deets.”
“You don’t have my number.”
“No worries.” The catlike smile is back. “I’ll bet Minseok can get a hold of it.”
The name is well-known. “Kim Minseok?”
“The man himself.” The guy pulls out a phone, typing with one hand while keeping the other firmly wrapped around Jongin’s shoulders. “So, Kim Jongin, I’ll be looking out for you. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“Uh, sorry your name was…?”
“Cheers!” As quickly as he’d come, the guy skips off and disappears around the corner. The next second, Jongin’s phone vibrates with a new text.
KIM JONGDAE
300 EAST 93RD STREET 25TH FLOOR
21 SEPTEMBER SATURDAY 8PM
And Jongin wouldn’t go to a strange guy’s place for a flat party, even if the guy knows Kim Minseok, reigning emperor of Asians of the East Coast. But the name is familiar - Byun Baekhyun, that is. Kyungsoo had mentioned it, though Jongin doesn’t remember the context. An old friend, or at the very least a close one.
Kim Jongdae lives in the penthouse of a snazzy new glass building. Jongin times his arrival for ten-thirty, a time by which it’ll probably be crowded. When he gets there, he realises that crowded is an understatement. It’s a large flat, with a double-volume main area, a small mezzanine, and a corridor that winds all around the second floor, off which doors open presumably into the bedrooms. The place is thrumming, absolutely overflowing with people, none of whom he recognises.
The NYC social scene is pretty new to him still, and a cursory glance tells him the crowd here isn’t remotely like Lu Han’s circle of preppy elite kids.
Jongin sticks to his usual course of action - grab a drink, find a seat, wait for people to talk to him. Getting to the bar is an ordeal in itself, and it’s unmanned. Jongin has to reach into the cooler himself, trying to recall what little of drink-mixing he’d picked up from Chanyeol.
When he finishes, he realises there’s a guy with curly surfer-blond hair watching him, arms resting on the bar counter. A silky champagne bomber hangs off his shoulders, revealing skin almost as tan as Jongin’s own, and it shines unnaturally, like he’s rubbed oil all over his body.
Jongin starts when he makes eye contact.
“You alright there?” The guy drawls his words. Probably American-born.
“Yeah.” Jongin straightens up and places his finished drink on the counter. “Fortunately I know a bit of mixing.”
“Cool.” The tattoo on the side of his neck - of a bird in flight - bobs as he speaks. “I don’t know where the god-damned bartender went. You are?”
“Kim Jongin.”
Vague puzzlement ghosts across the guy’s features, then swiftly clears. “Ah, yeah, Kyungsoo’s friend. I’m Baekhyun. Come, let’s get to know each other.”
Jongin follows Baekhyun halfway up a flight of stairs, where they can see the entire floor of the loft. It’s chaos below. Bodies upon bodies smashed up against one another. Breaking glass, joints passed around, talk and music and shouts all converging into one deafening blanket of noise.
The party is co-hosted by Baekhyun and Jongdae, apparently, though Kim Minseok had paid for everything, including the flat (which he’d bought for Jongdae). Baekhyun does turn out to be Kyungsoo’s childhood friend from Cali. (“We were babies together.”) “Is he - Kyungsoo here?” Jongin asks. I don’t know, he might pop in, Baekhyun shrugs. Kyungsoo had told Baekhyun to look out for Jongin. (“He never mentioned you were this hot though.”)
“Could’ve said the same about you,” Jongin manages.
Baekhyun winks and stretches. His jacket rides up, exposes flat abs and a navel piercing. “You’re so cute. We should hang out sometime.” The guy is distracting as hell.
“I saw you looking amazing, the moment I stepped into the room.”
They’re joined by someone else, a greasy-looking dude with gelled-back hair, dressed in a button-up with sleeves stretched tight over gym-toned arms. The guy, Zhang Yixing it turns out, kisses Baekhyun’s cheek and slides a possessive arm over his exposed shoulders. He’s Chanyeol’s senior at Stanford, and even more obnoxious.
Jongin listens as Yixing talks investments and his prospective business - to launch simultaneously in Shanghai and Tokyo. (“My favourite city”, Jongin supplies.) Baekhyun is demure, his demeanour is a complete one-eighty from before, but he watches Jongin coyly from his place in Yixing’s hold.
But Jongin’s attention drifts, and some time later he notices a head of cropped black hair near the main door.
Kyungsoo is without his squad of black-suited associates, and it’s jarring. The others probably aren’t based in America, he realises.
Kyungsoo isn’t alone though. He’s with a girl who stands at least half a head taller than him, his hands resting on her lower back as he guides her through the crowd. They stop to talk to someone - Kim Jongdae, who looks all around the loft. His gaze lands on Jongin, Baekhyun and Yixing, and he points them out to Kyungsoo.
Kyungsoo starts making his way over.
Jongin gets the irrational urge to quickly walk away and hide himself. It’d be easy, to hide in a crowd this thick. He could even sneak away to the exit and make an early getaway.
But why is he so filled with dread? Jongin forces himself to stand still, plants himself to the spot so hard a hurricane couldn’t have moved him.
Then Kyungsoo is standing in front of them, just a metre away. He’s in a black leather bomber, black pants, and black sneakers, matching his female companion who’s in a black jersey dress, boots and a black motor jacket. There’s a brief moment of stillness, a sense of silence that permeates even the incredibly noisy flat, as Jongin fixes his eyes on the side of Kyungsoo’s head, and Kyungsoo looks everywhere but at him.
Then - “My brother. Long time no see.” Baekhyun reaches forward to hug Kyungsoo.
Kyungsoo pats him on the back, smiling. “You look well.”
“I am.” Baekhyun takes a step back. “Kyungsoo, Yixing.”
Kyungsoo nods at Yixing, takes his handshake.
“And I invited Jongin. He’s here, he actually showed up.”
“Surprise.”
Finally, thankfully, Kyungsoo turns to look at him. He smiles warmly. “I’m glad you came, Jongin. How are you settling in?”
“There he goes again. Acting like it’s his house -” Baekhyun stage-whispers to Yixing.
“Great. Way better than I’d expected -”
“Oh sorry - this is Hyejin, by the way.” Kyungsoo laughs.
“Nice meeting you guys.” Hyejin’s voice is clear and low-pitched. Something like Kyungsoo’s own.
Jongin smiles politely at her.
“What were you saying, Jongin?”
“Nothing important.” He shrugs. Kyungsoo’s unusually animated expression diminishes a little.
An arm drops on Jongin’s shoulder. “Sorry to crash this exclusive little gathering.” Kim Jongdae has arrived, with two guys passing out drinks. Jongin gets one pressed into his hands. “The band is here, I gotta steal you.” He tugs at Yixing’s sleeve. “Hyejin, you said you’d help out!”
“Did I?”
“Hyejin!” His voice gets whiny. Jongin throws back his drink. It burns his throat.
“Is Minseok here yet?” Kyungsoo asks.
“Don’t think so. Come on, guys-”
“I get it, I know where-”
“No, I moved them-”
Yixing is moving, and with him goes Jongdae, and Hyejin, and Kyungsoo, and Baekhyun. Jongin follows.
He loses them quickly, ends up next to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.
“Where did you go?”
Jongin turns around. Baekhyun comes up to him, holding more drinks. He forces one on Jongin, rests a hand on his back.
“I was following, but I lost you guys.”
“They’re just setting up for the band.” Baekhyun nudges him. “Drink! I invited you here, you know, so I just want you to have a good time.”
Jongin drinks. Baekhyun sets the glasses down. His hand is behind Jongin’s ear, playing with the strands of hair there. It feels bad, but good, almost like he’s having some kind of affair.
There’s nothing to feel guilty about, though. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s been intimate with a near-stranger.
The confusion swims and swirls. In the back of his mind, Jongin is vaguely aware that his drink was likely spiked.
Baekhyun leans in and presses his lips to the corner of Jongin’s mouth. His hand tangles in Jongin’s hair. Another massages relaxing patterns into his tense neck muscles.
Guitar chords. Up on the mezzanine, the band is tuning.
Jongin is facing the room. Near the bar, Jongdae raises a shot glass and a bottle of Patron and leads a round. A few metres to his right, somebody has fallen down the stairs in a pile of vomit.
Jongin grasps broad shoulders, lets one hand drift down towards the gentle slope of Baekhyun’s waist. Baekhyun tastes bitter, like hard liquor.
Kyungsoo is smoking on the sofa, Hyejin’s head resting on his lap.
“Will you take me to Tokyo with you?” Baekhyun whispers around Jongin’s lips.
He nods.
The band starts to play, and the apartment shakes from the force of the bass. They play through a few songs, rock interpretations of pop hits as far as Jongin can tell.
Some time into their fourth or fifth song, people start screaming and waving their phones around. Jongin is on the sofa by then, and unable to see what’s going on. Somebody runs past him, tripping over his outstretched legs.
The helicopter is here, someone shrieks. A group of girls are sobbing hysterically.
Jongin tries to shift, but Baekhyun’s hips are grinding into his thigh, hands on bare skin, and he’s too distracted to turn around look at what’s happening…
Somewhere in the corner of the room, Kyungsoo is talking to Yixing, the cigar still smoking between his fingers-
A camera flashes in Jongin’s eyes.
Two guys are carrying an unconscious girl-
The lights in the flat are unbearably bright, spinning overhead as he stumbles after Baekhyun into the bedroom under the stairs. No one bats an eye at their state of undress. Jongin’s head is ringing from the noise and the alcohol and lack of breath, but a part of him that’s still lucid realises that this blinding brightness is his reality. There’s no darkness to escape into, no deserted balcony to hide on, no dim plane cabin to fly home in. Everything is happening too fast, but there’s no way to slow it down.
A week later, he takes Baekhyun to Tokyo. His favourite city is exactly as he’d remembered it. He visits his favourite sights, frequents the usual neighbourhoods, spends a ridiculous amount of money on pretty new things for Baekhyun. He’s coping, and he’s happy enough.
IV. WINTER
At the end of autumn term, Jongin returns to Seoul for a quick visit before Christmas. He gets a call at eleven-thirty at night, from a number he doesn’t recognise.
“Jongin?”
Shit. “… Kyungsoo?”
“It’s me.” His voice is strained. Jongin’s forehead creases.
“Where are you?”
A pause. “Gangnam police station.”
He exhales, relieved. “Wait there, I’m coming.”
“I-”
Jongin hangs up, grabs his coat and motorcycle keys, and hits the road.
Seoul traffic is never smooth, even at eleven-thirty on a Saturday night. But Jongin is much too familiar with the route to the police station, and he weaves in and out of lanes, pulling up in the parking lot in a matter of minutes.
He walks straight into the station, and searches the room. There are a few people in the overnight cell. Kyungsoo is leaning against the wall, his eyes shut.
“Sir, can I help you?” An officer cuts into his path, stopping him short.
“I’m here to sign for Do Kyungsoo.” At the sound of his name, Kyungsoo opens his eyes and looks up.
“Are you his guarantor?”
Jongin glances at Kyungsoo, who looks away. “Yeah.”
The police officer lets Kyungsoo out of the cell after a warning and a stack of paperwork. It’s freezing, and Kyungsoo hasn’t got his coat, so they abandon the motorcycle in the lot and take refuge in a nearby coffeehouse.
They get hot chocolates and sit down next to the window, which is so steamed up they can barely see through to the snow falling steadily outside. Kyungsoo folds his hands, holding on to the edges of his sleeves. “I’m sorry I called you, Jongin. They told me I could call someone, and I remembered your number. I hoped you’d be back visiting.”
“You’re lucky then.” Jongin uncaps his drink and watches the steam rise. “It’s alright, really, it only took me five minutes to get here. Besides I owe you.”
“For?”
Every time. “The time you saved me from Seoul Palace.”
“That was just me being interfering. You didn’t ask to be saved.”
“All the more so I’m indebted. I would’ve ended up in hospital.” Kyungsoo looks up and meets Jongin’s eyes. “So whose Lambo was it?”
“Mine.”
“I didn’t know you had a Lambo.”
“It was only mine for a couple minutes.” Kyungsoo’s tone is deadpan, but there’s something - defiance? - in his eyes. He’s challenging Jongin to say something, but he won’t take the bait.
“I’m surprised. Wouldn’t have pegged you for the Lambo type - a tad flashy for your taste.”
“It was black,” Kyungsoo admits. Jongin lets out a small smile. “And I didn’t exactly pick the car for its design.”
“More for the price tag, then.”
“The amount I’d be throwing away by wrapping it around a lamp post, yeah.” Kyungsoo glances downwards, maybe in shame, and it’s such a foreign look on him, it sends a jolt through Jongin’s being. Kyungsoo is the responsible one. Kyungsoo is the one who always stays calm and confident no matter what life throws at him.
They’re all the same in the end, he realises. Fallible. Emotional.
There’s a silence, as Kyungsoo drinks and Jongin waits for his to cool.
“How long are you back for?” They’re back to small talk, and Jongin abhors it. It always feels like he’s getting strangled, when this happens. Like a million words are dying to burst out of his mouth, but stopped short by a weight crushing down on his larynx, leaving him mute and gasping. If only he knew how to bridge the gap.
“Three weeks. Then back to college for mid-sessionals. You?”
“Same, but two weeks.” Kyungsoo hesitates. “How are you doing in college?”
“Pretty well, actually. I’m really liking the city.”
“Liberating, isn’t it?”
Jongin nods. “My parents still expect me to miraculously find people to help them with their plans for New York, though, and I have no idea how to start.”
“Are they still giving you a hard time?”
Jongin looks away. Just thinking about it hurts.
Kyungsoo reaches a hand across the table, and wraps his fingers around Jongin’s palm. “Go back to New York early, Jongin. You’ll figure it out.”
It happens again. Jongin will agree to take his advice, Kyungsoo will leave, and it’ll be months before they bump into each other again, by chance, by accident. Months before he gets another chance, or misses another chance like in New York, up in the penthouse of chaos.
He can’t stay passive, not this time. “Only if you come with me,” Jongin hears himself say. Don’t leave me, please. Even as the words slip out of his mouth, he feels vulnerable, exposed. We barely know each other, I realise every single time we meet just how little I know about you. But I still depend, so much. He continues. “I’m sorry, this is forward of me, I won’t blame you if you find me strange for saying this. But I’d feel… better if you were around. I really need your help, Kyungsoo.”
“I’ll come.” Jongin looks up in surprise. “Of course I’ll come, Jongin. I don’t know why you ever thought I’d say no.”
“You don’t need me the way I need you. I’m sure you’ve realised that by now.”
“That’s not true. I do need you, I thought I’d made it pretty clear.” Kyungsoo looks upset now. “I suppose I might seem like I have it together, but that’s how I cope.”
“Frankly, I’ve never been sure what kind of relationship we have.” Jongin thinks back to New York, again, and how estranged he’d felt. “Sometimes I feel like I barely know you.”
“I’ve never felt that way. I’d always thought we had a good relationship. A positive one.”
“Yeah, but would you call it platonic? Is it permanent? Barely exceeding acquaintanceship? Something in between?”
“Why does it matter what you call it? We care about each other, isn’t that good enough?”
He’s right, as usual. Jongin has nothing left to say. He lifts his cup, finishes the last of his drink.
Kyungsoo stands up. “Let’s head home, then. We’ve got packing to do.”
The next morning, they get on a plane together.
The staff retreat into their lounge after takeoff. The cabin is empty save the two of them, seated in back as usual.
This is usually Jongin’s cue to shut his eyes, begin his mental film sequence of The Life and Times of Kim Jongin, Teen Failure. But this time they’re flying in daylight, the cabin brightly lit. Kyungsoo’s turned on the stereo system, and it’s playing a mix of old disco songs from Earth, Wind & Fire. Jongin kicks back into black calfskin and tries fervently not to judge.
Do you remember… the twenty-first night of September?
Kyungsoo is scrolling through photos on his phone. “Have you ever wondered what kind of life you’re gonna lead, ten years from now?”
Ten years is a long time. Jongin’s only just coming up to the end of his second decade, and already so many people have been through his life. Thousands of acquaintances, constantly entering and leaving, their existence documented only via a Facebook friendship or Instagram follow.
“Yes,” Jongin says honestly, after some thought. “But I have no idea.”
“Not in jail, hopefully.”
Jongin shrugs. “Well, if you ever need anyone to bail you out again…”
“I’m not talking about me, smartass.” Kyungsoo smiles slightly. “But I’ll take you up on that.”
In the background, the music erupts into chorus.
Ba-de-ya, Say do you remember?
Ba-de-ya, Dancing in September!
The lyrics make Jongin start laughing in spite of himself. Kyungsoo grins embarrassedly and glances sideways at him. “You’re not thinking of that, are you?”
“What, Jongdae’s party? Yeah, I was.”
“Oh my god, you saw?” Kyungsoo is the picture of mortification.
Jongin studies him suspiciously. “Saw what?”
“Me… and Yixing. Hyejin too.”
“Doing?”
“So you didn’t see.” Kyungsoo crosses his legs tightly. “I’d thought entire flat was watching us.”
Jongin thinks back. “Was that after the live band?” Kyungsoo nods. “I was probably in bed with Baekhyun by then.”
Kyungsoo splutters. “What? You and Baekhyun?”
“It lasted two weeks, till our Tokyo trip.”
Kyungsoo uncrosses his legs, sits forward in indignation. “That bastard. I told him to look after you, not employ you as his sugar daddy.”
Jongin waves it off. “I knew what I was signing up for. For what it’s worth, he did look out for me, even after we stopped sleeping together. Stop changing the subject - what were you doing?”
“I don’t want to relive that memory. It’s not my proudest moment.” Kyungsoo’s entire demeanour seems to close off.
Jongin takes one look at him and decides not to push it. “In all seriousness, though, I have no idea what’s going to happen to me in the next ten years. I think there’s a pretty good chance I’ll end up disowned.”
Kyungsoo doesn’t comment, so he continues. “I’ll never be who I’m supposed to be. I’m not like you, UCLA honours student, acing internships every summer. I’m an unambitious guy. I can’t see myself ever being good enough.”
When Kyungsoo finally answers, he’s perfectly serious. “Don’t say that about yourself, Jongin. You don’t have to live up to any expectations except your own.”
“I want to, though. I don’t want to be a good-for-nothing, but it’s who I am. I don’t know - sometimes I feel like everyone else grew up early, but I just… never really did.”
“Maybe you were an irresponsible kid, once.” Kyungsoo concedes. “Lost and confused. But we’re all messed up in our own ways, Jongin, haven’t you realised? And you’ve changed so much in the last few months. Find your strength in your own time, nobody should fault you for that.”
“I just hope it’s good enough for my family.” Kyungsoo opens his mouth to speak, but Jongin cuts him off. “You’re going to tell me to talk to my sister, aren’t you? It’s your favourite line.”
Kyungsoo laughs. “Whatever happens, Jongin, I hope you know you can talk to me. I’ll be here to support you. No matter what.”
“Even when you’re married. Even if you’re dead.”
Whenever Kyungsoo smiles fully, eyes crinkling, lips pulling up over his teeth to form that heart, Jongin just can’t look away. “No matter what. I swear by it.”
Jongin’s heart still sings with the warmth of that promise some fourteen hours later, as they’re getting off the plane at JFK. They’ve only got two weeks together this time, but it’s alright, because Jongin knows Kyungsoo will be back. They’d agreed on it, earlier, while flying across the Atlantic.
You’ll come back, though?
Of course. You’re always welcome to come to LA, too-
I will.
…I’m better when you’re around, Jongin. I need you. I hope you know.
I know, Kyungsoo. Me too.
They walk out towards the city, hands and hearts entwined tightly together.
Length: 7500
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jongin and Kyungsoo are the young and the filthy rich, keeping themselves afloat in the disorientating world of private jets, vacation houses, toys, girls and boys; craving those rare, precious moments of quiet where they can give in, close their eyes and live their misbehavior.
Notes: Written for the 2017 round of Kaifectionery. Originally posted here.
Disclaimer:The celebrities' names/images are merely borrowed and do not represent who the celebrities are in real life. No offense is intended towards them, their families or friends. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this fictional work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Spring is a season of stagnation.
I. SPRING
Spring is a season of stagnation. The third quarter, where everything’s fallen into a comfortable medium, until the last couple of weeks, where the rush of finality abruptly bears down and demands full attention before the release of summer. For Jongin, this last phase doesn’t quite arrive - he floats peacefully through the tail end of his high school years in Seoul, South Korea. It’s calm, should be comforting, but it’s also softly suffocating. When life is a gated prison of a fairground, there’s no exit in sight, nothing to do except board the same unexciting “joyrides”, over and over and over again…
On April the twentieth he lands in Hong Kong, and dutifully reports to Repulse Bay to pay his respects. Lu Han is already surrounded when Jongin arrives on the front porch, just barely visible from within his circle of admirers. Kris Wu, Lu Han’s boyfriend, hovers awkwardly, looking imposing for no reason. If Jongin’s honest, he’s not terribly fond of either of them, but he stays faithful in making the yearly pilgrimage.
It’s a controlled, well-behaved party as usual, since the William and Kate of wealthy twenty-somethings prefer a quieter setting. The first phase of the evening is mainly mingling, which Jongin rarely does on his own initiative. He’s come with Oh Sehun, and while Sehun’s a good (and old) friend, he’s hardly the sort of person to sit in a corner with Jongin and keep him company when they’re in a room full of people to meet. Jongin would rather sit out in the conservatory, in a comfortable corner where he’s got a view of the pool, a nearby plant to keep him partially hidden and a fan overhead to ventilate.
Of course, someone still approaches him, armed with a glass of champagne and a wide grin. The guy takes hold of Jongin’s hand and presses the flute into his loosely clenched fist (“You’re looking dead on your feet, bro. Looks like you could use some alcohol”). The guy, who introduces himself as Park Chanyeol, is heavily tattooed, extremely loud, and has a smile that leans psychotic. The way he talks, too, makes Jongin feel like he might not be a hundred percent mentally sound, but he’s friendly, and they build rapport unbelievably quickly.
At the bar, Chanyeol mixes Jongin another drink, hard as per request.
“Why haven’t I ever seen you here? Did you just get to know Lu Han recently?”
“Hmm actually, I’ve known Kris for some time. Just never really bothered coming to his little parties.” Chanyeol pauses, balances a bottle on his arm, and flips it, “but yeah, I only met Lu Han last fall. Street-racing back in Seoul. They call him the devil of the circuit, y’know? Wiped me out hard.”
Jongin knows. “Yeah, actually, we race each other often.” He offers to race Chanyeol sometime.
“Definitely. I love losing. I’ll hit you up.”
Jongin raises the glass to his lips, and the front door opens once more.
Eight people file into the hall, girls and guys of varying heights and sizes. They always show up together, this group, and don’t socialise extensively with outsiders. (They still get invited to every event regardless.) Jongin searches them, and finds who he’s looking for - a short guy with close-cropped black hair, dressed simply in black separates. Do Kyungsoo. The real reason Jongin’s at this party at all.
Lu Han emerges to greet the newcomers, and somebody announces that it’s time for him to cut the cake.
The attendees convene in the kitchen, then, and Lu Han’s ‘closest friends’ jostle for advantageous positions as the birthday song is sung and the photographers snap.
Shortly after, Sehun collapses heavily onto the sofa next to Jongin. “We’re up for beer pong.”
“No.”
“I already put us down though.”
“Then I’m leaving early.”
“You can’t. Lu Han’s expecting you to play.”
Lu Han is waiting; everyone is waiting. “Jongin! Thank you for coming!” Lu Han says with mild enthusiasm, grasping Jongin’s hand and patting his back lightly. His bangles are cold against Jongin’s wrist. “Sehun! Ready to lose?”
Lu Han has always made Jongin decidedly uncomfortable. He’s so… flighty, and mellow, like air. As though grasping onto him would cause him to float away into nothing. His attention is always fleeting, never sincere. And his face - he’s a college senior but looks so unsettlingly youthful, like he’s had a facelift or twenty.
Sehun shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. Lu Han lightly ruffles Sehun’s hair and stretches out his other hand. Somebody places a ping-pong ball in his palm. “Alright, let’s go.” He crouches and bounces on the spot, winds up like a baseball pitcher, and lightly throws. It bounces once and lands neatly in a cup labelled “SOJU BOMB”.
It doesn’t surprise Jongin that everyone cheers enthusiastically for Lu Han, like he’s just scored the winning goal in yet another football match. “Drink up, Sehun,” Lu Han says briskly, handing him the cup and giving his chin a quick pull open. Sehun splutters, almost spilling some of the drink, but chugs it anyway. Lu Han’s expression is perfectly neutral, and as Sehun pulls the ping-pong ball out of his empty cup, Jongin grabs it from him. “Let me.”
Hong Kong is already warm in April, the evening air a comfortable twenty degrees. Jongin is probably tipsy, but he makes it to the upstairs balcony with some difficulty, and takes a deep breath of bay breeze. From all the years that he’s attended, he’s found this to be the quietest spot in the rented loft. It overlooks the pool deck, where some people are swimming.
Someone joins him on the balcony, and arms clad in black sleeves come to rest on the railing next to him.
Kyungsoo gestures back into the house. “Saw you playing.”
Jongin exhales. “I lost.”
“Of course you did.” Jongin can hear the smile in Kyungsoo’s voice. “You were playing the undefeated king of beer pong.”
“I don’t know why we even come to these things. Good on you, though, showing up late. That was smart.”
“Did I miss much?”
“Chats about football, probably. Cars. Watches. Whatever else Lu Han is into these days.”
“Sounds like the extent of his interests, pretty much.”
Jongin laughs, stepping away from the railing. “You didn’t have to be so honest.”
There are a few lounge chairs on the balcony, long rattan recliners lined with cushion. Kyungsoo perches on the edge of the seat, legs folded, the soles of his shoes pressed neatly together. Jongin takes the seat opposite. It’s something of a tradition for them, meeting on balconies. It was how they’d met for the first time, two or three years ago, at a house party in Seoul. It was also how they’d met every time thereafter, by “chance” at various gatherings and get-togethers across the continent.
And it’s his favourite part of any gathering, by far. Sitting out in the moonlight, getting away from the smoke-saturated air inside the venue, lightly talking and catching up with each other’s lives. Kyungsoo is taking a self-declared extended weekend, having flown all the way from school in Los Angeles. He’s doing well, made a bunch of new friends, stayed close to old ones; easily spilling tales of his recent happenings. Jongin is less forthcoming. He doesn’t really like to talk about school (he doesn’t care) or his family (a sore point) or his plans (they don’t exist), but Kyungsoo has a habit of gently coaxing things out of him.
“How’s your sister?”
Jongin looks at the floor. “The same. I’m worried about her.”
“Go look for her. You need to support each other.” When Kyungsoo looks at him, it’s as though he’s pinning him to the spot with a gaze that’s clear and deep. It’s a little unsettling, but has always had an oddly reassuring effect on Jongin.
“I will. The moment I get home.”
“Do you want a lift?”
“Yeah.” Jongin hasn’t bought a return ticket, as usual, to avail himself to Kyungsoo’s offer. “How long are you gonna stay in Seoul? Don’t you have class?”
“Nothing important, at least till Thursday.”
“College sure sounds like a breeze.”
“It’s way better than high school.” Kyungsoo smiles slightly, secretively.
Jongin has never given much thought to college, even if he’s due to enrol that same year. But now he thinks he might want to try it out.
At four in the morning, Jongin steps into the private plane. His loafers sink soundlessly into the carpet. Kyungsoo’s air stewardesses greet him by name.
Jongin always sits at the back of the cabin. He drops his bag and coat on the floor, sinks into a soft leather embrace. Kyungsoo speaks briefly to the stewardess, his low, soothing voice just barely audible across the cabin, then comes to sit next to Jongin.
“Tired?”
“Very.”
“Try to get some sleep.”
“It’s okay, Kyungsoo. It’s just three hours.” Three hours he can’t afford to waste on sleep.
The stewardess comes around to check that they’re buckled and safe, and the engines roar to life.
“Any plans for the summer?”
“Hmm… back home first, probably. Then I might go to stay at a friend’s place in the Hamptons.”
“Oh, you’re coming back to Seoul? I might see you around, then.” We could hang out, he thinks of saying. He’s not sure how Kyungsoo would take it.
“Maybe.” Kyungsoo lets the word hang in the air. “What about you, any plans?”
“Nothing definite. I might go on a trip with this guy I met at the loft earlier.”
“A guy you just met?” Kyungsoo sounds amused. “That’s fast.”
Cabin crew, at your takeoff stations.
The lights dim. Wordlessly, Kyungsoo slips his hand, warm and solid, into Jongin’s.
Sometimes Jongin thinks Kyungsoo is like a miracle. Heaven-sent, a harbour, a lighthouse, an anchorage.
“If I wasn’t fast, I wouldn’t be here right now, sponging off your jet fuel for the hundredth time.”
“I might have to start charging you airfare.”
The plane heads for takeoff, and Jongin shuts his eyes. Immediately, images start flipping through his mind. He has a kind of routine in the way he imagines them - going over a lonely stile in the middle of the grey-green country, the sky gloomy and overcast, into an enclosed yard containing a tall tower bearing down like a obelisk. He ascends, as though going up to a viewing deck, and takes a slow walk around the perimeter, scenes from his life playing out as he walks. Every shameful detail, laid out in three hundred and sixty degrees, every negligence and every last drop of regret.
Except none of it can touch him here, in his safe space. Jongin concentrates on Kyungsoo’s palm in his, and feels himself escape the fairground.
II. SUMMER
“So where should we hit up tonight?”
Chanyeol’s voice carries clearly, even over the buzz of chatter in the crowded, touristy gelateria just off La Rambla. He’s only eaten half of his pistachio sundae; the other half is slowly melting in the metal bowl. To his right, Kim Junmyeon is finishing up the last of his rum and raisin cone, his white mandarin-collared shirt miraculously unstained.
They’re indoors, and it’s air-conditioned but still sweltering. Jongin is somewhat impressed by the (mostly white) tourists fighting over the al fresco seating options.
“Was last night not enough for you?” Junmyeon eyes Chanyeol with a combination of disbelief and disgust.
“We didn’t club last night.”
“We didn’t, but you still managed to get drunk, flood your room, get us chased out of the hotel at fuck o’ clock, and ditched by Jinri, Soojung, and Joohyun.”
“Exactly why we need to club tonight. We can get into another hotel, no problem, but girls aren’t going to just appear out of thin air.”
“Nitsa?” Junmyeon suggests. “Loft?”
Jongin folds his arms, shakes his head. “Basic.”
“You’re such a fucking hipster, Jongin.” Chanyeol’s hands are never still, twirling a metal spoon around his fingers. “Alright, let’s do Sidecar.”
“I need one of you to be my wingman.”
Instantaneously, Junmyeon and Chanyeol throw him side-eyes. “Like you need a goddamn wingman-” “You’re a heartthrob, Jongin, you know that right?”
“Park Chanyeol, it was your fault they ditched us, if you don’t get me laid tonight…”
“Alright. I swear on all that is holy, Jongin, I will get you laid tonight. I swear it on the holy grail. One way or another.”
“Even if he has to do it himself.”
Most of the time, Jongin really enjoys Junmyeon’s and Chanyeol’s company. It could be the fact that they’re not into networking or socialising in a big way. They’re both younger sons, too - free of all the mountains of baggage the eldest sons of the world carry.
They’re three days into their Barcelona stop, with one more to go before they head for Italy. The girls have ditched them, but Jongin finds himself still enjoying every moment, maybe even more than before.
Jongin isn’t good with responsibility, has never been. He likes this much better - just three friends moving from Ibiza to Nice to Monaco, picking up different girls at each club.
It’s on the penultimate day of their trip that it comes. The dreaded message. His phone vibrates with a text from his mother.
COME HOME NOW, is all it says. All-caps, glaring aggressively at him from the screen.
The drop of his heart is tempered by resignation.
“Listen,” he hears himself say, “I have to go.”
“Go where?”
Jongin doesn’t want to explain, so he stands up quickly and claps them on the shoulders. “Have fun tonight.”
“What? Where are you going?”
Jongin walks out of the shop, finds the main promenade and flags down a taxi. Back in the café, Chanyeol and Junmyeon are probably still sitting there clueless.
He climbs in. “Zagreb airport.”
Minutes after Jongin emerges from his mother’s office, the sun sets on Seoul.
Summer evenings in downtown Seoul are muggy, polluted, grey. He’s swamped by the people getting off work, sweating in their suits of black and slate, juggling smartphones and bags as they run-walk across the intersection, caged in by the steel and silver skyscrapers of the Gangnam financial district. Listlessly, Jongin circles the granite pavilion in front of the tower. He doesn’t want to go home, but there really isn’t anywhere else either.
He reaches into the pocket of his bermudas - the same pair he’d been wearing in Zadar a day ago - and finds his phone. He could call Sehun, but then what? He can’t tell Sehun about his sister. He could borrow his house, maybe, as a place to get himself drunk-off-his-face obliterated, but he could also do it himself.
In the end he sends a message (“Free for dinner?”) and ambles towards the retail districts. He’s sweaty and gross, so he buys himself a new outfit, posts a picture of it on Instagram, and throws the old set into a bin outside the department store. Sehun likes his post, responds to his text with “Have plans, but I can meet you for drinks after”.
Jongin finds a restaurant, sits down, and over-orders. He responds to Sehun’s text as he eats (“Okay, tell me when you get to Gangnam”) and checks his Instagram post. Four hundred and seventy-eight likes, and a few new follows. It’s a strange thing, Instagram; Jongin has never thought of himself as social, but it does make him feel good in a shallow, self-aggrandising sort of way.
The alcohol in Club Exo is grossly overpriced. In the time he’s supposed to have spent waiting for Sehun, Jongin ends up in a private lounge upstairs with a girl who’d recognised him downstairs. She’s so willing, he’s basically doing an act of charity by stripping off her dress, pulling down his pants, recklessly fucking her into the gold carpet. It’s strange, because he’s completely sober, and once he’s finished and sated and watching her pant while looking up at him he feels bad. Worse than before. He really should just walk out of the room and drink himself stupid at the bar, but instead he collapses onto the floor and lays there, a hand on his sweating forehead.
The girl pulls her dress over her head, straps her heels back on. She walks over to Jongin, kneels next to him. “Jongin?” Her voice is hesitant. “Are you alright?”
Jongin doesn’t respond. She starts stroking his hair, and he doesn’t flinch away. “You look like you need a break. Come with us, Jongin-ah, we’re moving on to a better club.” She supports him gently, lifting him into a sitting position, and Jongin’s tears spill over. He lets her pull him up, and leans on her shoulder as she walks out of the club and towards a waiting limousine.
“A better club” turns out to be an unlicensed casino. The uniformed guy outside eyes Jongin warily, but lets them all in.
Welcome to Seoul Palace!
The interior is more high-key than he’d expected. All the equipment shines, looks brand-new. Jongin’s new companions are regulars, they have a table and a stock. He gets chips from them, accepts a couple of tablets. Alcohol is cheaper here, and Jongin chases numbness. He sits at the baccarat table, plays round after round, throws chips like they’re trash.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been playing, or even who he’s playing against. It’s a pleasant feeling, how his mind seems to be swimming freely above and beyond his body, how the things and sounds around him are floating distortedly in a sea of light and colour.
As time passes, he’s not even sure if he’s playing, to be honest. He’s only vaguely aware of a cutting sensation in his throat, like someone’s pulling him by the neck. The next moment, he realises that he’s lying down again. On the floor, with something large blocking his view from above. There’s a pressure in his chest, as though his torso is being pulled tightly from both sides. It pulls tighter, and tighter, until he’s sure he’s been torn in half.
And then everything clears. The pressure, the shadow, the cutting sensation. He’s looking at a figure at the end of the room, a small thing flanked by two large black pillars.
The voice speaking to him is soft and low. Jongin’s head takes a while to stop ringing, before he can see and hear again.
“I don’t have much time left, Jongin, I have to go to the airport.”
It’s Kyungsoo. He’s sitting on the bed - that Jongin’s lying in, he realises belatedly - wearing black lounge pants, and holding takeaway porridge.
The bed is soft, and Jongin is sunk quite deeply in. Kyungsoo puts the takeaway on the table, and grasps his arms, propping him up on pillows. Jongin is exhausted and overwhelmed. He’s shocked, and relieved, and ashamed, and comforted.
“Feeling better?” Kyungsoo is leaning over him, his brows knotted together, eyes worried.
It hurts. Jongin nods slowly. “Sorry…”
Kyungsoo hands him a plastic spoon. “I’m not going to feed you.”
The oyster mushroom porridge is hot and warms his stomach. Jongin takes small mouthfuls, feeling Kyungsoo’s eyes on him the whole time.
“Why did you go to Seoul Palace?” Kyungsoo’s tone is gentle.
“How’d you know I was there?”
“It’s one of ours. My people there recognised you.”
So Kyungsoo had expected him to show up at the casino, told his people about Jongin, even told them to notify him. Jongin clears his throat. “Because I’m so much of a fuck-up that you expected me there, getting my ass beat, sooner or later.”
Kyungsoo doesn’t smile. “Maybe.”
It’s that expression - that serious, genuine concern - that always makes Jongin feel guilty.
Because Kyungsoo is warmth, and comfort, and a safe place. A haven that doesn’t come by often and needs to be treasured when it does. But Kyungsoo is also a person, a kid barely a year older than Jongin himself, in very similar circumstances. He must have his own issues and his own traumas and his own hurt, but he handles everything that Jongin should, exceptionally well. Jongin has nothing to offer him.
He continues eating his porridge. Kyungsoo sits on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone. Time ticks on, and Jongin wants to immerse himself in the quiet calm, but he can’t help the urgency that slowly builds in his chest.
When Kyungsoo finally stands up, Jongin blurts, “Where are you going? The Hamptons?”
“Macau.” Kyungsoo looks caught by surprise. “I’m interning for a bit.” At his father’s hotel-casino, presumably. The legal one.
“Are you leaving now?”
Kyungsoo is controlled again. “Yeah. I’m sorry Jongin, I would send you home, but I really have to rush.”
“No, it’s okay. I think I still have my phone.” Jongin reaches desperately, but he can’t find words. “Thanks for saving me.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Jongin watches as Kyungsoo picks up his cardigan and heads for the door.
“Please take care of yourself, Jongin,” is the last thing he says before he walks out, and Jongin is left alone with a bowl of porridge in the large, cushy guestroom.
The slumps always hit when he leasts expects it. He spends days inside, sleeping the time away. Retreating into himself. Willing life to pass him by.
Being in his room makes it worse. He hates the place with a passion. Grand in decor, antique and opulent, completely unlike his own taste. It’s crammed full of luxury possessions - everything on the walls, everything on the shelves costs a small fortune. It’s almost tragic, really. A wardrobe full of designer clothes, for one person with nowhere to go. A shelf full of designer stationery, which he feels exactly zero inclination to use. A solid ebony desk he doesn’t write at. State-of-the-art photography equipment, which he lost interest in years ago. Leather-bound books he’ll never be fucked to open.
It’s an overflowing space of excess, but it’s a gaping void of nothing. It sucks everything in, including time, but somehow, inexplicably, tomorrow just keeps on coming.
III. AUTUMN
Sometime in May, Jongin receives a summons from his father’s secretary, who hands him an admissions letter from a college, informing him that he’s been enrolled for the fall in New York City.
Jongin arrives in September. It’s a fresh start, far away from home. The leaves start falling a few weeks into the term. The central pavilion becomes littered with them, layers of crushed red and orange flattening into one another, forming a soft carpet.
He’s walking off campus when a hand taps his shoulder. He spins around, then the other way. He’s faced with a wide, catlike grin, and a nudge to the waist. Jongin flinches, but the other guy is already laughing.
“What the fuck?”
“Kim Jongin, huh?” The guy apparently has no regard for personal space, leaning in uncomfortably close. “You know one Byun Baekhyun?”
Jongin tries to move away. “Not personally.”
His assailant looks genuinely surprised. “Really? Funny, cause he asked me to invite you to our place this weekend. I’ll text you the deets.”
“You don’t have my number.”
“No worries.” The catlike smile is back. “I’ll bet Minseok can get a hold of it.”
The name is well-known. “Kim Minseok?”
“The man himself.” The guy pulls out a phone, typing with one hand while keeping the other firmly wrapped around Jongin’s shoulders. “So, Kim Jongin, I’ll be looking out for you. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“Uh, sorry your name was…?”
“Cheers!” As quickly as he’d come, the guy skips off and disappears around the corner. The next second, Jongin’s phone vibrates with a new text.
KIM JONGDAE
300 EAST 93RD STREET 25TH FLOOR
21 SEPTEMBER SATURDAY 8PM
And Jongin wouldn’t go to a strange guy’s place for a flat party, even if the guy knows Kim Minseok, reigning emperor of Asians of the East Coast. But the name is familiar - Byun Baekhyun, that is. Kyungsoo had mentioned it, though Jongin doesn’t remember the context. An old friend, or at the very least a close one.
Kim Jongdae lives in the penthouse of a snazzy new glass building. Jongin times his arrival for ten-thirty, a time by which it’ll probably be crowded. When he gets there, he realises that crowded is an understatement. It’s a large flat, with a double-volume main area, a small mezzanine, and a corridor that winds all around the second floor, off which doors open presumably into the bedrooms. The place is thrumming, absolutely overflowing with people, none of whom he recognises.
The NYC social scene is pretty new to him still, and a cursory glance tells him the crowd here isn’t remotely like Lu Han’s circle of preppy elite kids.
Jongin sticks to his usual course of action - grab a drink, find a seat, wait for people to talk to him. Getting to the bar is an ordeal in itself, and it’s unmanned. Jongin has to reach into the cooler himself, trying to recall what little of drink-mixing he’d picked up from Chanyeol.
When he finishes, he realises there’s a guy with curly surfer-blond hair watching him, arms resting on the bar counter. A silky champagne bomber hangs off his shoulders, revealing skin almost as tan as Jongin’s own, and it shines unnaturally, like he’s rubbed oil all over his body.
Jongin starts when he makes eye contact.
“You alright there?” The guy drawls his words. Probably American-born.
“Yeah.” Jongin straightens up and places his finished drink on the counter. “Fortunately I know a bit of mixing.”
“Cool.” The tattoo on the side of his neck - of a bird in flight - bobs as he speaks. “I don’t know where the god-damned bartender went. You are?”
“Kim Jongin.”
Vague puzzlement ghosts across the guy’s features, then swiftly clears. “Ah, yeah, Kyungsoo’s friend. I’m Baekhyun. Come, let’s get to know each other.”
Jongin follows Baekhyun halfway up a flight of stairs, where they can see the entire floor of the loft. It’s chaos below. Bodies upon bodies smashed up against one another. Breaking glass, joints passed around, talk and music and shouts all converging into one deafening blanket of noise.
The party is co-hosted by Baekhyun and Jongdae, apparently, though Kim Minseok had paid for everything, including the flat (which he’d bought for Jongdae). Baekhyun does turn out to be Kyungsoo’s childhood friend from Cali. (“We were babies together.”) “Is he - Kyungsoo here?” Jongin asks. I don’t know, he might pop in, Baekhyun shrugs. Kyungsoo had told Baekhyun to look out for Jongin. (“He never mentioned you were this hot though.”)
“Could’ve said the same about you,” Jongin manages.
Baekhyun winks and stretches. His jacket rides up, exposes flat abs and a navel piercing. “You’re so cute. We should hang out sometime.” The guy is distracting as hell.
“I saw you looking amazing, the moment I stepped into the room.”
They’re joined by someone else, a greasy-looking dude with gelled-back hair, dressed in a button-up with sleeves stretched tight over gym-toned arms. The guy, Zhang Yixing it turns out, kisses Baekhyun’s cheek and slides a possessive arm over his exposed shoulders. He’s Chanyeol’s senior at Stanford, and even more obnoxious.
Jongin listens as Yixing talks investments and his prospective business - to launch simultaneously in Shanghai and Tokyo. (“My favourite city”, Jongin supplies.) Baekhyun is demure, his demeanour is a complete one-eighty from before, but he watches Jongin coyly from his place in Yixing’s hold.
But Jongin’s attention drifts, and some time later he notices a head of cropped black hair near the main door.
Kyungsoo is without his squad of black-suited associates, and it’s jarring. The others probably aren’t based in America, he realises.
Kyungsoo isn’t alone though. He’s with a girl who stands at least half a head taller than him, his hands resting on her lower back as he guides her through the crowd. They stop to talk to someone - Kim Jongdae, who looks all around the loft. His gaze lands on Jongin, Baekhyun and Yixing, and he points them out to Kyungsoo.
Kyungsoo starts making his way over.
Jongin gets the irrational urge to quickly walk away and hide himself. It’d be easy, to hide in a crowd this thick. He could even sneak away to the exit and make an early getaway.
But why is he so filled with dread? Jongin forces himself to stand still, plants himself to the spot so hard a hurricane couldn’t have moved him.
Then Kyungsoo is standing in front of them, just a metre away. He’s in a black leather bomber, black pants, and black sneakers, matching his female companion who’s in a black jersey dress, boots and a black motor jacket. There’s a brief moment of stillness, a sense of silence that permeates even the incredibly noisy flat, as Jongin fixes his eyes on the side of Kyungsoo’s head, and Kyungsoo looks everywhere but at him.
Then - “My brother. Long time no see.” Baekhyun reaches forward to hug Kyungsoo.
Kyungsoo pats him on the back, smiling. “You look well.”
“I am.” Baekhyun takes a step back. “Kyungsoo, Yixing.”
Kyungsoo nods at Yixing, takes his handshake.
“And I invited Jongin. He’s here, he actually showed up.”
“Surprise.”
Finally, thankfully, Kyungsoo turns to look at him. He smiles warmly. “I’m glad you came, Jongin. How are you settling in?”
“There he goes again. Acting like it’s his house -” Baekhyun stage-whispers to Yixing.
“Great. Way better than I’d expected -”
“Oh sorry - this is Hyejin, by the way.” Kyungsoo laughs.
“Nice meeting you guys.” Hyejin’s voice is clear and low-pitched. Something like Kyungsoo’s own.
Jongin smiles politely at her.
“What were you saying, Jongin?”
“Nothing important.” He shrugs. Kyungsoo’s unusually animated expression diminishes a little.
An arm drops on Jongin’s shoulder. “Sorry to crash this exclusive little gathering.” Kim Jongdae has arrived, with two guys passing out drinks. Jongin gets one pressed into his hands. “The band is here, I gotta steal you.” He tugs at Yixing’s sleeve. “Hyejin, you said you’d help out!”
“Did I?”
“Hyejin!” His voice gets whiny. Jongin throws back his drink. It burns his throat.
“Is Minseok here yet?” Kyungsoo asks.
“Don’t think so. Come on, guys-”
“I get it, I know where-”
“No, I moved them-”
Yixing is moving, and with him goes Jongdae, and Hyejin, and Kyungsoo, and Baekhyun. Jongin follows.
He loses them quickly, ends up next to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.
“Where did you go?”
Jongin turns around. Baekhyun comes up to him, holding more drinks. He forces one on Jongin, rests a hand on his back.
“I was following, but I lost you guys.”
“They’re just setting up for the band.” Baekhyun nudges him. “Drink! I invited you here, you know, so I just want you to have a good time.”
Jongin drinks. Baekhyun sets the glasses down. His hand is behind Jongin’s ear, playing with the strands of hair there. It feels bad, but good, almost like he’s having some kind of affair.
There’s nothing to feel guilty about, though. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s been intimate with a near-stranger.
The confusion swims and swirls. In the back of his mind, Jongin is vaguely aware that his drink was likely spiked.
Baekhyun leans in and presses his lips to the corner of Jongin’s mouth. His hand tangles in Jongin’s hair. Another massages relaxing patterns into his tense neck muscles.
Guitar chords. Up on the mezzanine, the band is tuning.
Jongin is facing the room. Near the bar, Jongdae raises a shot glass and a bottle of Patron and leads a round. A few metres to his right, somebody has fallen down the stairs in a pile of vomit.
Jongin grasps broad shoulders, lets one hand drift down towards the gentle slope of Baekhyun’s waist. Baekhyun tastes bitter, like hard liquor.
Kyungsoo is smoking on the sofa, Hyejin’s head resting on his lap.
“Will you take me to Tokyo with you?” Baekhyun whispers around Jongin’s lips.
He nods.
The band starts to play, and the apartment shakes from the force of the bass. They play through a few songs, rock interpretations of pop hits as far as Jongin can tell.
Some time into their fourth or fifth song, people start screaming and waving their phones around. Jongin is on the sofa by then, and unable to see what’s going on. Somebody runs past him, tripping over his outstretched legs.
The helicopter is here, someone shrieks. A group of girls are sobbing hysterically.
Jongin tries to shift, but Baekhyun’s hips are grinding into his thigh, hands on bare skin, and he’s too distracted to turn around look at what’s happening…
Somewhere in the corner of the room, Kyungsoo is talking to Yixing, the cigar still smoking between his fingers-
A camera flashes in Jongin’s eyes.
Two guys are carrying an unconscious girl-
The lights in the flat are unbearably bright, spinning overhead as he stumbles after Baekhyun into the bedroom under the stairs. No one bats an eye at their state of undress. Jongin’s head is ringing from the noise and the alcohol and lack of breath, but a part of him that’s still lucid realises that this blinding brightness is his reality. There’s no darkness to escape into, no deserted balcony to hide on, no dim plane cabin to fly home in. Everything is happening too fast, but there’s no way to slow it down.
A week later, he takes Baekhyun to Tokyo. His favourite city is exactly as he’d remembered it. He visits his favourite sights, frequents the usual neighbourhoods, spends a ridiculous amount of money on pretty new things for Baekhyun. He’s coping, and he’s happy enough.
IV. WINTER
At the end of autumn term, Jongin returns to Seoul for a quick visit before Christmas. He gets a call at eleven-thirty at night, from a number he doesn’t recognise.
“Jongin?”
Shit. “… Kyungsoo?”
“It’s me.” His voice is strained. Jongin’s forehead creases.
“Where are you?”
A pause. “Gangnam police station.”
He exhales, relieved. “Wait there, I’m coming.”
“I-”
Jongin hangs up, grabs his coat and motorcycle keys, and hits the road.
Seoul traffic is never smooth, even at eleven-thirty on a Saturday night. But Jongin is much too familiar with the route to the police station, and he weaves in and out of lanes, pulling up in the parking lot in a matter of minutes.
He walks straight into the station, and searches the room. There are a few people in the overnight cell. Kyungsoo is leaning against the wall, his eyes shut.
“Sir, can I help you?” An officer cuts into his path, stopping him short.
“I’m here to sign for Do Kyungsoo.” At the sound of his name, Kyungsoo opens his eyes and looks up.
“Are you his guarantor?”
Jongin glances at Kyungsoo, who looks away. “Yeah.”
The police officer lets Kyungsoo out of the cell after a warning and a stack of paperwork. It’s freezing, and Kyungsoo hasn’t got his coat, so they abandon the motorcycle in the lot and take refuge in a nearby coffeehouse.
They get hot chocolates and sit down next to the window, which is so steamed up they can barely see through to the snow falling steadily outside. Kyungsoo folds his hands, holding on to the edges of his sleeves. “I’m sorry I called you, Jongin. They told me I could call someone, and I remembered your number. I hoped you’d be back visiting.”
“You’re lucky then.” Jongin uncaps his drink and watches the steam rise. “It’s alright, really, it only took me five minutes to get here. Besides I owe you.”
“For?”
Every time. “The time you saved me from Seoul Palace.”
“That was just me being interfering. You didn’t ask to be saved.”
“All the more so I’m indebted. I would’ve ended up in hospital.” Kyungsoo looks up and meets Jongin’s eyes. “So whose Lambo was it?”
“Mine.”
“I didn’t know you had a Lambo.”
“It was only mine for a couple minutes.” Kyungsoo’s tone is deadpan, but there’s something - defiance? - in his eyes. He’s challenging Jongin to say something, but he won’t take the bait.
“I’m surprised. Wouldn’t have pegged you for the Lambo type - a tad flashy for your taste.”
“It was black,” Kyungsoo admits. Jongin lets out a small smile. “And I didn’t exactly pick the car for its design.”
“More for the price tag, then.”
“The amount I’d be throwing away by wrapping it around a lamp post, yeah.” Kyungsoo glances downwards, maybe in shame, and it’s such a foreign look on him, it sends a jolt through Jongin’s being. Kyungsoo is the responsible one. Kyungsoo is the one who always stays calm and confident no matter what life throws at him.
They’re all the same in the end, he realises. Fallible. Emotional.
There’s a silence, as Kyungsoo drinks and Jongin waits for his to cool.
“How long are you back for?” They’re back to small talk, and Jongin abhors it. It always feels like he’s getting strangled, when this happens. Like a million words are dying to burst out of his mouth, but stopped short by a weight crushing down on his larynx, leaving him mute and gasping. If only he knew how to bridge the gap.
“Three weeks. Then back to college for mid-sessionals. You?”
“Same, but two weeks.” Kyungsoo hesitates. “How are you doing in college?”
“Pretty well, actually. I’m really liking the city.”
“Liberating, isn’t it?”
Jongin nods. “My parents still expect me to miraculously find people to help them with their plans for New York, though, and I have no idea how to start.”
“Are they still giving you a hard time?”
Jongin looks away. Just thinking about it hurts.
Kyungsoo reaches a hand across the table, and wraps his fingers around Jongin’s palm. “Go back to New York early, Jongin. You’ll figure it out.”
It happens again. Jongin will agree to take his advice, Kyungsoo will leave, and it’ll be months before they bump into each other again, by chance, by accident. Months before he gets another chance, or misses another chance like in New York, up in the penthouse of chaos.
He can’t stay passive, not this time. “Only if you come with me,” Jongin hears himself say. Don’t leave me, please. Even as the words slip out of his mouth, he feels vulnerable, exposed. We barely know each other, I realise every single time we meet just how little I know about you. But I still depend, so much. He continues. “I’m sorry, this is forward of me, I won’t blame you if you find me strange for saying this. But I’d feel… better if you were around. I really need your help, Kyungsoo.”
“I’ll come.” Jongin looks up in surprise. “Of course I’ll come, Jongin. I don’t know why you ever thought I’d say no.”
“You don’t need me the way I need you. I’m sure you’ve realised that by now.”
“That’s not true. I do need you, I thought I’d made it pretty clear.” Kyungsoo looks upset now. “I suppose I might seem like I have it together, but that’s how I cope.”
“Frankly, I’ve never been sure what kind of relationship we have.” Jongin thinks back to New York, again, and how estranged he’d felt. “Sometimes I feel like I barely know you.”
“I’ve never felt that way. I’d always thought we had a good relationship. A positive one.”
“Yeah, but would you call it platonic? Is it permanent? Barely exceeding acquaintanceship? Something in between?”
“Why does it matter what you call it? We care about each other, isn’t that good enough?”
He’s right, as usual. Jongin has nothing left to say. He lifts his cup, finishes the last of his drink.
Kyungsoo stands up. “Let’s head home, then. We’ve got packing to do.”
The next morning, they get on a plane together.
The staff retreat into their lounge after takeoff. The cabin is empty save the two of them, seated in back as usual.
This is usually Jongin’s cue to shut his eyes, begin his mental film sequence of The Life and Times of Kim Jongin, Teen Failure. But this time they’re flying in daylight, the cabin brightly lit. Kyungsoo’s turned on the stereo system, and it’s playing a mix of old disco songs from Earth, Wind & Fire. Jongin kicks back into black calfskin and tries fervently not to judge.
Do you remember… the twenty-first night of September?
Kyungsoo is scrolling through photos on his phone. “Have you ever wondered what kind of life you’re gonna lead, ten years from now?”
Ten years is a long time. Jongin’s only just coming up to the end of his second decade, and already so many people have been through his life. Thousands of acquaintances, constantly entering and leaving, their existence documented only via a Facebook friendship or Instagram follow.
“Yes,” Jongin says honestly, after some thought. “But I have no idea.”
“Not in jail, hopefully.”
Jongin shrugs. “Well, if you ever need anyone to bail you out again…”
“I’m not talking about me, smartass.” Kyungsoo smiles slightly. “But I’ll take you up on that.”
In the background, the music erupts into chorus.
Ba-de-ya, Say do you remember?
Ba-de-ya, Dancing in September!
The lyrics make Jongin start laughing in spite of himself. Kyungsoo grins embarrassedly and glances sideways at him. “You’re not thinking of that, are you?”
“What, Jongdae’s party? Yeah, I was.”
“Oh my god, you saw?” Kyungsoo is the picture of mortification.
Jongin studies him suspiciously. “Saw what?”
“Me… and Yixing. Hyejin too.”
“Doing?”
“So you didn’t see.” Kyungsoo crosses his legs tightly. “I’d thought entire flat was watching us.”
Jongin thinks back. “Was that after the live band?” Kyungsoo nods. “I was probably in bed with Baekhyun by then.”
Kyungsoo splutters. “What? You and Baekhyun?”
“It lasted two weeks, till our Tokyo trip.”
Kyungsoo uncrosses his legs, sits forward in indignation. “That bastard. I told him to look after you, not employ you as his sugar daddy.”
Jongin waves it off. “I knew what I was signing up for. For what it’s worth, he did look out for me, even after we stopped sleeping together. Stop changing the subject - what were you doing?”
“I don’t want to relive that memory. It’s not my proudest moment.” Kyungsoo’s entire demeanour seems to close off.
Jongin takes one look at him and decides not to push it. “In all seriousness, though, I have no idea what’s going to happen to me in the next ten years. I think there’s a pretty good chance I’ll end up disowned.”
Kyungsoo doesn’t comment, so he continues. “I’ll never be who I’m supposed to be. I’m not like you, UCLA honours student, acing internships every summer. I’m an unambitious guy. I can’t see myself ever being good enough.”
When Kyungsoo finally answers, he’s perfectly serious. “Don’t say that about yourself, Jongin. You don’t have to live up to any expectations except your own.”
“I want to, though. I don’t want to be a good-for-nothing, but it’s who I am. I don’t know - sometimes I feel like everyone else grew up early, but I just… never really did.”
“Maybe you were an irresponsible kid, once.” Kyungsoo concedes. “Lost and confused. But we’re all messed up in our own ways, Jongin, haven’t you realised? And you’ve changed so much in the last few months. Find your strength in your own time, nobody should fault you for that.”
“I just hope it’s good enough for my family.” Kyungsoo opens his mouth to speak, but Jongin cuts him off. “You’re going to tell me to talk to my sister, aren’t you? It’s your favourite line.”
Kyungsoo laughs. “Whatever happens, Jongin, I hope you know you can talk to me. I’ll be here to support you. No matter what.”
“Even when you’re married. Even if you’re dead.”
Whenever Kyungsoo smiles fully, eyes crinkling, lips pulling up over his teeth to form that heart, Jongin just can’t look away. “No matter what. I swear by it.”
Jongin’s heart still sings with the warmth of that promise some fourteen hours later, as they’re getting off the plane at JFK. They’ve only got two weeks together this time, but it’s alright, because Jongin knows Kyungsoo will be back. They’d agreed on it, earlier, while flying across the Atlantic.
You’ll come back, though?
Of course. You’re always welcome to come to LA, too-
I will.
…I’m better when you’re around, Jongin. I need you. I hope you know.
I know, Kyungsoo. Me too.
They walk out towards the city, hands and hearts entwined tightly together.