Dedication (2/4)
Soojung wasn't the last person to sleep over at Chanyeol's. But she had slept over, one last time, after they'd returned from Taiwan.
She'd already been distant by then; snappish and on edge, like she was holding something taut inside of her. Chanyeol had chalked it up to fatigue; the small mountain of last-minute styling jobs she'd faced post-vacation. In an effort to be understanding, he'd bought her favorite cream cheese black bean rolls from Paris Baguette and tried, for the most part, to keep out of her way.
When she dumped him two weeks later, Jongdae had come right over. He'd brought oily street food and his own pillow. He'd let Chanyeol have all the beer he wanted and talked smack about Soojung like a good friend as they stained Chanyeol's sheets with deep red gochujang and lukewarm liquor. That was a Friday. On Saturday, Yixing had come over, too, armed with dangerously orange tteokbokki and a bottle of Glenlivet 18. That's how Chanyeol had spent his first weekend as a suddenly single person--drunk, belly distended, on the floor of his apartment, with the buddies he'd kept close since college.
Jongin sleeps over a total of five nights. At first, Chanyeol finds the experience peculiar--having to relearn the ins and outs of making a new friend, when he's kept the same people around him (give or take a few girlfriends) for the past ten years. Jongdae, Yixing, Sunyoung, Song Qian. Joonmyun-hyung, every so often, when Jongdae manages to get him out of the producer's booth. Minseok-hyung, Chanyeol's long-suffering editor, who takes him out to dinner twice a month. Soojung, before the breakup. Jongin is her age, but he seems so much younger sometimes. That part-placid, part-impish face perpetually turned in Chanyeol's direction. The way he finds something to prod at in everything Chanyeol says, like a kid sifting through a pile of leaves with a twig.
In the end, Chanyeol finds that he doesn't dislike it.
Jongin is the perfect houseguest. Quiet but charming; never initiating conversation when Chanyeol is parked in front of his laptop, struggling with his story, but quick to respond when the older man sidles up to him on a break.
On Jongin's second day in the flat, Chanyeol still feels obligated to keep him entertained. He hovers around his patient, asking if he needs water or snacks, and telling him he can turn on the TV anytime. Chanyeol can write, anyway, regardless of the background noise.
"Have you written today?" Jongin asks, sticking his finger in his book to mark the page. It isn't one of Chanyeol's.
"Yeah..." Chanyeol's written five hundred words in the span of two hours, and deleted all five hundred after re-reading them in the span of two minutes. "A little."
Jongin curls his mouth into a tiny grin. "You should keep going, hyung."
Chanyeol feels caught out, suddenly, by this slip of a manboy reclining in his couch. Chanyeol doesn't mind though. He just blows out his lips so they make a rubbery sound, and Jongin's grin splits open.
"Okay, maknae."
"You really like calling me that." Jongin stretches his arms over his head, the book still clamped in his right hand. "You know I'm a few months older than Sunyoung-sshi, don't you?"
Soojung, too, Chanyeol thinks but doesn't say. He notes the elongation in Jongin's limbs--a feline silhouette--and absently nudges his toe against Jongin's cast. "Does it bother you?"
"The ankle or the 'maknae'?" Jongin's eyes twinkle with mocking.
Mercilessly, Chanyeol ruffles his bangs. "Either one."
He really likes the way Jongin lets him do whatever he wants, without pulling back. Jongdae usually bats him away when Chanyeol gets too handsy, or he plops Sunyoung down between them as a makeshift buffer. But Jongin only sits still, blinking hard when some of the strands get caught in his lashes and letting out an approving oh! when Chanyeol hits an itchy spot.
"I haven't decided," he answers, his bangs a tufty, haphazard mess. It's like Chanyeol's staring straight at a Yorkie puppy. "Well, the ankle for sure."
"I put your painkillers on the bathroom counter," Chanyeol ventures, even though he already knows Jongin is going to decline.
"It doesn't hurt." Jongin yawns. "It just itches."
"Can you take something for that?"
The manboy's got his book open again. He makes these upside-down smiley crescent eye shapes, without moving his mouth. "Go work on your story, hyung."
So Chanyeol does, and he keeps on doing it for the next five hours. It's slow-going work, Chanyeol rereading and rewriting as he goes. By the end of the afternoon, he only makes it to two thousand words--but on top of that, he stumbles on this flimsy, out-of-focus, nonetheless precious idea of where he wants to go with the next book.
He tells Jongin so at dinner, brimming with relief. The younger man doesn't press for details about the plot. He simply absorbs Chanyeol's excitement, expression warm, munching on his tempura (what else?). And as he's speaking, Chanyeol realizes how much he misses having someone there for him on the other end of a writing session, just to listen.
On Jongin's third day, inspiration imprints itself into Chanyeol like a white-hot brand. He whips open his laptop as soon as he gets up, typing furiously, desperate to get a scene down before the desire to whisks away with the breeze. For the first time in a long, long time, he feels like he knows exactly what he's doing, and why.
Jongin gets up two hours later. He hobbles into the living room and directs a bleary hi Chanyeol's way.
"Just a sec, Jonginnie," Chanyeol murmurs, frowning at his screen. The very last sentence he's written--a description of the light in a dance studio--isn't very good. It needs massaging. "I'll make you breakfast right after this."
Jongin lets out a discreet (almost pleased?) little hum, but expresses nothing else.
There. Chanyeol's fixed it. Sentence, solved. He pushes back from his work desk and stretches up to his full height. "Okay, breakfast. What do you want?"
"Eggs, please." Jongin's voice still crackles with slumber. "And the juk from yesterday."
"You liked that?" Chanyeol smiles at him, and Jongin smiles right back, nodding. "Good. I still have the leftover porridge in the fridge."
"I'll heat it up," Jongin says. He starts hobbling over to the kitchen, his loose sleep shirt and flannel pajamas making him look skinnier than he actually is, and Chanyeol finally notices that he isn't resting on anything.
"Hey." Chanyeol juts out his chin. "Where are your crutches?"
"Left them by the bed."
"I'll get them for you."
"No need." Jongin waves him off. "I don't want to become dependent on them."
"Jonginnie," Chanyeol sighs, growing impatient now, "you've got weeks of recovery to go. Take it easy."
Without warning, Jongin grins at him, his entire face plumping up like risen dough. "I like that better than maknae," he says. "Let's stick with it."
Chanyeol purses his lips. "What?"
"That nickname." Jongin has already turned his back, and is shuffling, disobediently, into the kitchen. "I like it, hyung."
Breakfast is the only meal they share that day, sitting across from each other in the yellow sunlight. Immediately after, Chanyeol makes a pot of coffee and plops down in front of his laptop, fueled by cup after cup until late in the evening. (He does make sure to ask Jongin if he wants to eat, twice, to which the younger man replies, "I'll manage on my own.")
Jongin's fourth day in the apartment passes in pretty much the same way. Chanyeol has breakfast with him but skips lunch entirely, while Jongin munches on a sandwich Chanyeol had put together for him before.
Conversely, it is Jongin who brings him dinner--a carton of pork and shrimp dumplings and another of eggy fried rice. Chanyeol shuts off his computer in an instant, springing to his feet and accepting the food sheepishly.
"Don't worry, old man." Jongin winks. "All I did was order takeout. Nothing life-threatening." He's using his crutches again, just like Chanyeol told him to.
Chanyeol tugs on his earlobe. "You're fresh, Jonginnie, but very cute."
"Actually, I'm a badass," Jongin tells him, purposely arch. Chanyeol's chortle is horse-like. "But cute's okay, too, I guess."
On Jongin's last night, the inspiration thrums a little less, providing a brief respite. Chanyeol's got his outline mapped out, anyway, so he doesn't think it'll hurt to take a break. He asks Jongin if he'd like to go see the new Avengers movie and is promptly turned down.
"You know what I wanna do?" Jongin says, sleepy smile turned up to a hundred watts.
Chanyeol cushions his cheek in his hand. "Does this involve a hot new club or your musician friend's awesome gig or a rager at someone's house?"
Jongin's eyes roll so very far back. It's priceless. "I'm twenty-five. Geez. Have some faith."
Chanyeol smirks. "I keep forgetting you aren't an actual baby cousin." He nods to get Jongin speaking again. "What do you wanna do?"
"Drink." Jongin wiggles his eyebrows. "By the Banpo Bridge. To see the Rainbow Fountain."
"I take it back." Chanyeol moves his palm so it covers his forehead. "You are an actual baby cousin."
"Don't be a killjoy." Jongin pouts. "Is Banpo not cool enough for you?"
"I'm surprised it's cool enough for you," Chanyeol laughs. "Do you seriously want to go? It's a tourist trap, Jongin."
"I've never been," the younger man tells him. Doubt has crept into his tone, spidery and sly. "I trained in dance every day after school when I was a kid. Did nothing but dance while I was at Juilliard."
"Juilliard," Chanyeol repeats, lips rounded, like his eyes. "Jongdae didn't tell me that."
"Um, yeah." Jongin glosses over this new information quickly, like he doesn't want to seem full of himself. "When I came home two years ago, I started right away at the KNB." Korea National Ballet. Chanyeol fleshes out the acronym for himself. "And I still haven't seen that fountain. Isn't that sad? Middle-schoolers have been taking their crushes there since the eighties, hyung."
Chanyeol makes it easy for him--beginning, like he always does, with humor. "The fountains in New York didn't do it for you, Baryshnikov?"
"Nah," Jongin replies. His brows lift at Chanyeol's pronunciation, still atrocious. "Not enough rainbow. Barely enough soju."
That settles it. They take a cab downtown to Seocho, where the bridge crosses the Han. Chanyeol doesn't want Jongin to have to contend with the Saturday night subway crowd--but the people on bicycles give them a run for their money.
The Banpo Bridge Rainbow Fountain is best viewed by the riverside, in the moonlight. Chanyeol was right, of course--the wide swathe of the outdoor viewing deck is crawling with people. Tourists, families, couples with their dogs, clumps of college kids. He and Jongin are lucky to find a spot close to the edge of the water, where Chanyeol unpacks their picnic dinner.
"Kimbap, kimbap, kimchi," Jongin recites, eyeing the reusable containers Chanyeol sets out over an old table mat. "Yum."
Chanyeol also unpacks four bottles of Eau, two bottles of soju, and a tumbler of hot water, along with utensils and paper napkins. His older sister Yura, who works as a wedding planner, has always taught him to come prepared.
"What's the hot water for?" Jongin asks, already prying the lid off one of the kimbap dishes.
"Your cheat day," Chanyeol informs him. Then he pulls out two single-serving bowls of ramyun.
Jongin laughs, out loud, grabbing one for himself. "Is this my going-away present, hyung?"
"You bet," Chanyeol replies. "Enjoy."
They wolf down their comfort food, heartily smacking their lips when they tingle with spice. Chanyeol neglected to bring cups (so much for Yura), so they pour their soju into the jumbo Eau bottle caps and call it recycling. Chanyeol knew he'd always liked this brand for a reason.
He has to admit, the rainbow fountain isn't as lame as he'd thought. They've arrived just in time for the eight-thirty demonstration. Suddenly, music is blaring from unseen mega speakers, and a titanic spray of water is gushing out the side of the Banpo Bridge. It's lit in multicolor, and the neon shades change dramatically, non-stop, to complement the pop song pulsing through the air. It's a twenty-minute show--one that will repeat itself promptly at nine, Chanyeol finds out.
For now, he watches the fountain, quite content, as Jongin calls out his appreciation. They're blasting Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You," and Chanyeol has pulled out his phone so he can catch the whole thing on video. The water fans out, flutters up and down, unrelenting; sometimes floating like the hem of a skirt, other times streaming like a powerful gust of wind.
Five songs are played, including "Moonlight Sonata." ("Beethoven," Jongin says, going glassy in the eyes. "I used to dance to this at school in New York.") When the water finally recedes, and the spotlights dim, the people applaud like they've just watched a live performance.
"Let's stay for the next one, too?" Jongin's smiling, radiant in the face. It's a warm spring night. His forehead is a little shiny, his lips slick with the sesame oil in the ramyun broth.
Details, details. Chanyeol soaks them all in, like the surface of the Han soaks up the dregs of the fountain water.
"Course," he replies. "That was fun."
"Told you." Jongin puts the last piece of kimbap in his mouth. A grain of rice plasters itself to his cheek. He doesn't notice--only munches away, the sticky white speck clinging on for dear life.
Chanyeol picks it off and flicks it away. His eyes rest on the jut of Jongin's cheekbone; the fading technicolors dancing over it like pixie lights.
His skin color is pretty, Chanyeol muses to himself. Not fair. Not deep. Kind of...glowy. He thinks for a minute. Rose gold. That's what I'd call it.
"Hyung?"
Chanyeol widens his eyes. The rest of his companion's face comes back into focus.
"Hmm?"
Jongin is peering at him, his gaze interested and guarded at once. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I like looking at you," Chanyeol replies without thinking. When his words ricochet back to him the next instant, he frowns, irises sliding left and right. "That came out weird."
"I'll take it," Jongin says, and his face is plain, yet completely unreadable again. "Another going-away present."
Chanyeol huffs at the sentiment. He leans his head to one side, enjoying the stretch. "Okay, Jonginnie."
Ten more minutes 'til the fountain comes back to life. Jongin pours soju into the oversized bottle caps--one for him, one for Chanyeol--and they toast to the past week.
Chanyeol's premise for his next book is simple. Too simple. He's hesitant to tell Minseok about it. He hasn't fattened up the plot quite yet, nor decided on the big twist that has fast become his signature. He fears the story will be plucked off the vine by his discerning editor long before it has a chance to ripen. At their favorite Italian place, Minseok is all warmth and understanding, but in his office at Munhakdongne Publishing Group, the guy is a businessman first.
"Too much talk, Yeol," Minseok had said as they combed over a rough print of Pool. "Not enough illusion." The final draft would be a third shorter. "If you want to write magical realism, you can't explain everything away. That's just a script for a documentary."
Chanyeol values Minseok's opinion above anyone else's. Sometimes, even his own. But his idea for this story is more delicate than the previous ones--a little rare, like an undiscovered magic trick. He doesn't want to reveal his secret just yet.
And so, unlike the first two times, he keeps it to himself.
After Jongdae picks him up, it only takes Chanyeol a week to see Kim Jongin again. It's at lunch in his cousin's apartment, where Jongdae has decided to billet him.
"Imprison is more like it," Jongin comments dryly when Jongdae is out of earshot. He's left his spot at the table between Chanyeol and the younger man to help Sunyoung with the dishes.
Chanyeol scratches his jawline. He needs a shave, but he keeps putting it off to get more writing time. "Cabin fever already?"
"I mean..." Jongin slackens his mouth, casting about for words. "This is a great place, and I love Jongdae-hyung. He's literally my favorite. But he watches my every move like a hawk, and he guilt-trips me into taking my meds, even when I don't want them."
"He's just looking out for you, kiddo," Chanyeol reasons. "You're literally his favorite, too."
Jongin shrugs, but Chanyeol can tell he is aware of both things. When he glances up from the table, the dancer's expression is nothing but polite. "You call everybody that."
"What?" Chanyeol combs his fingers through his hair. The part in it doesn't feel quite right, like a loose button or an untucked shirttail.
"Kiddo." Jongin veils his eyes behind a sip of water. "Everybody younger than you. That's what you call them."
"I call you all sorts of other things, don't I?" Chanyeol gets his part sorted: a little more to the side, so his bangs flop nicely. "Maknae. Baby cousin. Kim 'Jonginnie' Jongin."
"Still like that last one best."
"Duly noted, kid."
Jongin smiles at him briefly, thumb painting circles into the condensation on his glass. "I'm not a kid, hyung." Then he looks somewhere else.
The parting scene after lunch is familiar and amiable. Jongdae crows on and on about how stuffed he is, drumming his palms over his belly. Sunyoung thanks Chanyeol for bringing the cake. Jongin bows neatly, in spite of the crutches. Chanyeol pats his back and pats his hair and eventually pats him straight into a hug.
"Message me once in a while," he instructs the younger man, easy as pie. "The house will miss you."
"You live in a condo," Jongin says.
Chanyeol's reply is so droll. "Don't talk back to your elders."
And suddenly Minseok is calling him on his phone, and Jongdae is calling for Jongin in the living room of the apartment, and the manboy is smiling and not smiling at the same time and discreetly shutting the door as Chanyeol answers his call.
The next time he finds himself face to face with Jongin, Chanyeol can't tell if he's lost weight or put on muscle. Jongdae's cousin looks a little sharper in the face, like he's dropped the last two percentile of boyhood softness his body was clinging to. But his arms are strong and defined where they stick out from a white T-shirt, and his chest looks broader than Chanyeol remembers.
To be fair, he's seen Jongin in little else than hospital gowns, sleepwear, and baggy sweats, so this might just be a clothes thing.
They're meeting for coffee in the Seoul Arts Center in Seocho. Again, Chanyeol thinks. Café Matisse had been Jongin's choice; the invitation his.
You seem to love that area, Chanyeol had quipped when Jongin texted him the address.
The dancer had sent back three coffee cup emojis in a neat little row. See you Wednesday, hyung.
Wednesday is a humid, drizzly mess that ushers in the start of June. It's been two months since lunch at Jongdae's apartment. Jongin isn't wearing his cast anymore.
"You were supposed to keep in touch," Chanyeol says, licking cappuccino foam off his upper lip. "What've you been up to?"
Jongin doesn't drink cappuccinos. Only black coffee, with ice. "Physical therapy," he replies, with a friendly smile. He chews on the straw that came with his drink, eyes attentive, like he's waiting for Chanyeol to ask the next question.
Same old, same old. "I told you to message me," Chanyeol chides him, no real bite to it. "How's your ankle? When'd you get your cast off?"
Jongin kicks out his old injury, rotating the ankle. "Almost a month ago." He's wearing black canvas plimsolls with matching laces. A slight movement, and his foot is pointed at the toe, calf tensing beneath his jogger pants. "I'm all healed now."
"That's great news." Chanyeol presses his lips to the rim of his cup. His eye crinkles are forming. "When do you start dancing again?"
"I already have," he is told. "It was my first day back today."
Chanyeol quirks his brow. "You're kidding?"
"I've got my dancewear on under these joggers," Jongin asserts, and Chanyeol unsuccessfully stifles his amusement.
"You do not." His tone is coquettish, like one of those vapid high school girls in an American comedy.
"Do too." Jongin winks, echoing his playfulness. He hikes up his pant leg to reveal what Chanyeol assumed were regular black sports socks. Wrong. Jongin's actually wearing footed tights, just like Charlie in Center Stage.
When he voices this observation, Jongin's grin gets all crooked. "His real name is Sascha Radetsky. He dances with the American Ballet Theatre in New York."
"What in the--" Chanyeol snaps the fabric of the tights at the ankle. Jongin grins fondly, more forcefully. "Are you practicing here? In the Seoul Arts Center? Is that why you chose this café?"
The younger man shakes his head. "This is where the company stages its performances. I guess you could say it's our headquarters? But we practice in a separate studio close by." He slurps his iced Americano. "Also, I happen to love Café Matisse."
Chanyeol's next words bubble up out of nowhere. "Can I watch?"
He could weave a mat from the tangle of expressions on Jongin's face. Confusion and surprise. Excitement and misgiving. "Say that again."
"Uh..." For all his spontaneity, Chanyeol certainly feels the weight of unease right now. "I meant, can I watch you practice some time? If that's okay. I don't really know what company protocol is."
Jongin tilts his head all the way to the side. The action is birdlike (and puppy-like, and childlike, too). "Hyung," he murmurs, "have you suddenly developed an interest in ballet over the past two months?"
Chanyeol gnaws on the moist underside of his lip. He's not sure what to say. All he's done since their last meeting is write, screen calls from Minseok (but send him loving emails in recompense), write, see Jongdae and the gang (except when Jongdae warns him of Soojung's attendance--Chanyeol chickens out), write, reread, regroup, rewrite, and then sleep off the literary fatigue to start afresh the next morning.
Unfortunately, this week, Chanyeol has hit a wall. It's a mild case of writer's block--just a temperature, not a full-blown flu--but it's gotten him all antsy again. He's psyching himself out and boxing all the good ideas in, down deep, where he can't access them. When he messaged Jongin a couple days ago, it was just as much to do something completely off-plan (and with someone entirely unpredictable) as it was to check up on a friend who'd been MIA for eight weeks. That's what has developed over the past two months.
Historically, Chanyeol knows that a change of scenery has always done his writing good. Float was conceived on a rollercoaster, after all. Pool was borne out of mystic Jeju-do.
So he replies, "Maybe," the solitary word hanging in the air without closure--until an excuse strikes. "You still have to show me the difference, Jongin."
Thick, dark brows knit. "What difference?"
"Between a pirouette and a fouette," Chanyeol tells him, easier now. "Have you forgotten your promise?"
Comprehension scuttles across Jongin's countenance. "Oh. You remembered that?"
"Was I not supposed to?"
And there it is again, Chanyeol's old companion: the soft, sleepy smile that makes Jongin's cheekbones look less deadly.
"You can come to practice, hyung." the dancer says. He's drained his black coffee on the rocks. Chanyeol wagers he will order another. "I'll text you when and where."
Minseok likes small, dim, elegant places where the bartender knows him by drink. Chanyeol didn't catch the name of this bar, though. Minseok had picked him up in his Lexus, taken the least congested route to Gangnam, and coasted straight through to the basement parking of this building, where they would take the elevator a single floor up.
"Amor Roma's rented out tonight," he tells Chanyeol. An SBS drama is being taped in their usual Italian joint. "But this place serves the freshest oysters in Seoul, so I hope you like it."
"I'm sure I will," Chanyeol replies. "I'm a cheap date." Then he goes on to tease his editor about the slick Tom Ford suit he has on, and how his theater actress girlfriend has ~inspired~ him into ultimate arm candy status ("Saw your abs on Facebook, hyung!"). Minseok sinks his face into his palm (sniggering, self-conscious) and leads Chanyeol by the elbow to their corner table.
The oysters are delicious. Minseok orders two trays and a crisp chardonnay to pair with them. He and Chanyeol swill it in the comfort of their little cove.
"So," Minseok ventures, finally, when Chanyeol is starting to doubt if he has an actual agenda. "Please, please tell me about this book you're writing."
There it is.
"Aw, hyung." Chanyeol smiles deeply, sweetly, apologetically. He knew it.
"I'm your editor, Yeol." The words are meant to be stern, but Minseok's face is fond. "You've got to give me something."
Minseok was the fourth editor to get his hands on Float when three others had already passed. Too juvenile, too whimsical, too old-fashioned, they'd written in the liner notes. But Minseok had phoned Chanyeol personally one fateful afternoon and said, "I think this is going to be amazing."
Chanyeol likes him so much.
"Fine," he replies, resolve fissuring. "Just the overview, though?"
"Just the overview," echoes Minseok, who can read Chanyeol like an old map.
"It's about a dancer," Chanyeol shares. "A rising star, who finds out in a dream the exact day he will have to stop dancing."
Minseok leans his elbows on the table and cranes forward to listen.
"He hurts his leg in a terrible fall," the writer continues, "and it puts him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life."
Sipping his wine, Minseok hums in pity.
"But," and Chanyeol licks his lips into a tiny smile, "the dream also reveals a way to prevent it."
"Oh?" His editor is intrigued.
"If he decides to pull out before the performance--the grandest one of his life--his leg will be fine." Chanyeol pauses to take a draught of his own wine. "He can teach. He can choreograph. He'll never be a legend, but he'll be respected by countless students."
"So he has to make a choice between his art and his body." Minseok clicks his fingernails against the sides of his glass.
"Yes. But there's one more thing." Chanyeol takes a deep breath. This is a little thrilling. "In the dream, after he breaks his leg, there is a woman who takes care of him in the hospital. A nurse." He sees the bend in Minseok's mouth. "She's the person he's supposed to fall in love with."
"So if he decides to retire before the fall, he'll never meet her," Minseok muses, filling in the gaps. "And if he goes through with the performance, he will meet her, but he'll never dance again."
Chanyeol nods, leaning back into the cushions of his chair. He stretches his legs out in front of him and crosses his ankles, awaiting the verdict.
"I like it," is Minseok's prompt, professional response. "What inspired the idea?"
Soft eyes, soft hair, rose gold skin. Jongin's sleepy face flashes behind his eyes, surprising Chanyeol himself--even though the connection was obvious. "I met an injured ballet dancer recently."
"Oh." It's only one syllable, but the word positively drips with intent. "You met someone."
Chanyeol's mouth twists into a grin. "Sorry to disappoint you," he says, "but he is just Jongdae's cousin. I was only helping out with at-home care."
Disappointment registers on Minseok's face as quickly as the mischief vanishes. "Shame." He picks at their shared meal with his fork. "I thought you might have finally moved on from Soojung."
That stings slightly, even though Chanyeol knows it's far from an insult. "I have moved on," he protests, bringing an oyster shell to his lips to deflect a bit of the attention. The oyster is briny and buttery and tangy, with a splash of lemon passed over it. It tastes like the sea.
Minseok smiles and, like always, lets it go. "So a male ballet dancer." He pours himself another glass of chardonnay, the liquid perfectly pale and fragrant. "I've always wondered, what is the male counterpart of a prima ballerina?"
Chanyeol pushes out his glass by the base, and Minseok replenishes the drink in it, too.
"Let me guess," the editor presses on. "A primo ballerino?"
"Premier danseur," Chanyeol corrects him. "That's French for principal dancer."
"Your new friend teach you that?" Minseok leans back into his chair, mirroring Chanyeol's posture. He's accomplished the mission he's set out to--at least, for the time being.
"Nope." Chanyeol remembers the only two words he knows in balletnese. Pirouette. Fouette. Not spins. "I looked it up."
Jongin invites him to the KNB practice studio on a Sunday. It's impressive in a spare, elegant way. Ivory paint and lightwood flooring; a gleaming stretch of mirror, no fingerprints. No furniture, either, save for a black baby grand and two straight-backed chairs and a long metal barre mounted next to the wall. Natural light floods in through the windows. Chanyeol can only imagine how great the videography would turn out if the KNB recorded their practices.
There are about twenty dancers warming up in the studio when Chanyeol arrives. A few of the women eye him with mild interest, but he is largely ignored by the rest of the group. Jongin is on the far side of the room, stretching into an arabesque. Chanyeol waves at him, hand by his hip, and the dancer smiles.
"Chanyeol?" someone utters behind him. "Is that you?"
Chanyeol whips around--and there's Joonmyun, brow quizzical, also smiling.
"What the hell." Chanyeol hugs him. "Nice to see you, hyung!"
"So random," Joonmyun says, clapping him on the back. "What brings you to this part of town?"
"A friend," Chanyeol explains, glancing in Jongin's direction. The younger man is touching his toes, face hidden from view. "You?"
"My older sister is the artistic director." Joonmyun stuffs one of his hands into his pockets. "But, yeah, I'm here to see a friend, too."
A thought bubbles in Chanyeol's head. There is an unfamiliar ripple at his sternum, like a chain reaction. "Don't tell me it was Jongin."
"Jongdae's cousin?" Joonmyun screws up his lips, shakes his head. "No, it wasn't." Then his lips stretch out. "But I'm guessing he's the reason you're here."
"Yeah," Chanyeol replies. "We're close." The rippling ebbs. Must have been heartburn.
"You're close to everyone," Joonmyun teases, his other hand burrowing into another pocket. "You hook them in with that Julia Roberts smile of yours and they're on retainer before they even know it."
Chanyeol laughs in his face. "You have the most far-fetched ideas, hyung." He notices, for the first time, how Joonmyun is dressed--navy sports coat, jeans that look new. Chanyeol's used to seeing him in sloppy casuals when Jongdae badgers them both out for drinks after work. "You got a hot date or something?"
Joonmyun's expression shutters for a split second. Then it oozes with the same ease from before. "Or something."
Chanyeol studies him a little more carefully. Sloppy or not, Kim Joonmyun has always embodied grace under pressure. "Hyung~" he wheedles, like they're still a pair of college kids. "Are you hiding something from me?"
Before he can get an answer, a petite woman in palazzo pants sweeps through the door. "Good morning, everyone," she declares, imposing in spite of her stature. "Positions, please."
"Noona," Joonmyun murmurs.
The woman pats him on the cheek. "Hi Joon." Her voice is a brisk and affectionate alto, and she doesn't seem surprised to find him at her workplace. Her eyes come to rest on Chanyeol, who flashes his handsome smile, like clockwork.
"This is a hoobae from college, Park Chanyeol." Joonmyun places a hand on Chanyeol's shoulder. "Yeol, this is my sister, Boa."
Chanyeol folds himself down to a ninety-degree angle. "It's an honor to meet you."
"Likewise." Noona's gaze is keen, assessing. "I love your books, Park-sshi."
"Thank you," Chanyeol replies, resurfacing from his bow. "You don't have to be formal with me, noona."
That gets him an amused little cluck and his own pat on the cheek. "Come sit," Boa says, lowering herself into one of the chairs. Chanyeol insists that Joonmyun take the remaining one. He's fine sitting on the floor with Joonmyun's sister between them.
The dancers have arranged themselves into the proper blocking, already in their starting poses. Jongin is left of center, black leggings blending in with the rest of the corps'. His loose tank of military printed fatigue sticks out like a sore thumb. Everybody else is wearing black or white.
"Your friend gave me both novels on my birthday," Boa tells Chanyeol--no names, but all-knowing. She whispers, "I'm looking forward to the third." And then, in a loud voice directed elsewhere: "I abhor this shirt, Kim Jongin."
"But it's comfortable," Jongin says, honeyed voice filling Chanyeol's ears for the first time today. "And you adore me."
Boa doesn't refute him. She only fans out her fingers--talk to the hand--pulling chuckles out of Jongin and the rest of the present troupe.
There's a pianist sitting at the baby grand now. Chanyeol only notices when Boa nods, and music starts to play.
What happens in the span of an hour is strange. Almost bizarre--but extraordinary. Chanyeol sees twenty figures dancing in front of him, but he only watches one; camouflage tank like a sail on the open sea. It whirls and twists and slides and unfurls with every move (and there are many). Skin flashes along his ribs and chest, and Jongin's muscles heave and recede where his arms and shoulders and long, strong neck meet under the fabric.
Jongin does not dance the way he speaks. There is nothing sleepy, or gentle, or playful about it--not in the least. His dancing is raw. Liquid. Meticulous. Hypnotic. Like a car crash in slow motion--the kind of thing you can't look away from. It seems to take over his entire body, so that Jongin is a vessel pulsing with beauty and power; a controlled current, shaped into movements Chanyeol wishes he knew the names of.
He watches and learns and memorizes for a short, short hour--during which Jongin does not spare him a glance. Not even when Boa cuts a scene short to correct lazy turnout or demonstrate ballon, an effortless spring-in-the-step. Jongin trains his eyes on his director or the mirror, and Chanyeol itches to write.
The moment practice is over, and Boa has clapped and congratulated her dancers on a productive run-through, Jongin walks straight over.
"Hi," he greets Chanyeol. Sweat shimmers along his biceps, and he has a face towel hooked around his neck. "You survived."
Chanyeol places his hand atop Jongin's head, curling his fingers into damp hair. "Jonginnie, you were amazing."
"Was I?" The manboy is back. Two hushpuppy eyes, one curling mouth. "I don't think you've seen enough ballet, hyung. No principals today--just us plebs in the corps."
A surge of affection coats Chanyeol's ribcage. It's similar to the ripple he'd noted earlier--only more pleasant. "I couldn't look away from you," the writer says. "So I think I've seen plenty."
"But you like looking at me." Jongin's blinking slows, and his mouth curves boyishly. "You're hardly impartial."
Huh, Chanyeol thinks to himself, almost out loud. A tiny, invisible moth flutters giddy wings against his sternum. It feels a little warm there, too, and he can't understand why.
Jongin is smiling at him, comfortable in his sweaty skin and dangerously cute.
If this was anybody else...Chanyeol could swear he was being flirted with. But this is Jongin, Jongdae's baby cousin, whom Chanyeol nursed for a week in his own home like a bird with a broken wing. Handsome manboy Jongin, who moves through Chanyeol's living room with an air of perpetual drowsiness and thrills at the mention of a nickname.
So Chanyeol says, "Leave me alone," and towels Jongin's mop a little harder than necessary.
One of the other dancers is chatting with Joonmyun. The kid stands like a reed; taller than Jongin, almost as tall as Chanyeol. He's a pretty boy, in a haughty sort of way--beetle-browed and broad-shouldered, with a shock of black hair. Joonmyun is almost a head shorter than he is, and the mystery dancer has to keep his neck bowed to speak to him.
The light behind them frames a picture-perfect moment. But what Chanyeol notices is the pink in Joonmyun's cheeks. It deepens when he catches Chanyeol looking.
"Who's that?" he asks Jongin, sending a smile Joonmyun's way.
The towel is draped over Jongin's head like a shroud. "The guy with your friend?"
"Yeah." Chanyeol lowers his voice. "Not so loud."
Jongin eyes him peculiarly. "That's Sehun."
This Sehun has placed his hand on the side of Joonmyun's neck. "Hyung's never mentioned him before." A thumb strokes over a protruding vein, and Chanyeol feels, suddenly, like he's intruding on something private. "How old is he?"
Jongin pulls off the towel. "Same as me."
Joonmyun's face is fully turned in Chanyeol's direction. The space between his brows bears the deep groove of worry, and his lips are parted and twitching, like he wants to say something.
Without warning, the dancer--Sehun--pecks him on the mouth. Joonmyun's eyes go wide. He turns to face his kisser, and Sehun grins triumphantly, having gotten his attention.
Chanyeol's inhale freezes in his throat. It makes no sense, and all the sense in the world, at the same time. Joonmyun had been a university heartthrob--the best-looking guy they'd known--but he'd never dated anyone. Not that Chanyeol or Jongdae or Yixing had known about, at least. They'd pestered him about it incessantly, citing the number of co-eds who clustered wherever he was seated. "School first," was Joonmyun's default dean's lister response. "That can wait."
"You didn't know?" Jongin is murmuring.
Chanyeol has to blink himself out of his reverie. But not before one last memory drifts through, unbidden. Kyungsoo--he'd been great at school, too. "What?"
"You didn't know about Sehun?"
"No." Chanyeol lowers his eyes. Everything is uncomfortable. "Is Sehun..."
"What?" Jongin's eyes are cautious. Almost defensive.
"Is Sehun his..." Chanyeol can feel the weight of the next word on his tongue, like a pill. "His..."
"His boyfriend?" Chanyeol hadn't really noticed before, but Jongin always relaxes his posture around him. Now the kid draws himself up, like he's bracing for a blow. He's put space between them, too, leaning back on his heels to take a natural step back. "Would you have a problem with that?"
"Of course not," Chanyeol shoots back. The flare of resentment is instant, as is the clench of guilt. "I was just asking, because I didn't know."
He's not sure what Jongin sees in his face. Maybe it's what Jongin hears in his tone. But the younger man softens considerably around the eyes, the taut line of his mouth melting into his skin.
"Sorry." He reaches for Chanyeol's wrist to wrap his hand around it. "Was I being rude?"
Chanyeol can feel the press of every pad of his fingertips. It's making him melt a little, too. Swiftly, he shakes his head, slapping on a conciliatory expression that puts Jongin's shoulders at ease.
"You should ask your friend." Jongin squeezes his wrist before he lets it go. "I'm sure he'll tell you."
He's right. Only ten minutes later, while Jongin and Sehun are stretching the time it takes to get changed, Joonmyun corners Chanyeol in the corridor.
"So," his sunbae starts, hands hidden in his pockets, again. "Gave you quite a shock, didn't I?"
Chanyeol's ensuing smile is his gentlest, most open one. "That's all right, hyung."
"Really?" Joonmyun folds in his lips. "How many gay friends do you have, Yeol?"
His candor makes Chanyeol feel a little out of his depth, but only because he isn't used to it. "Two, actually."
That surprises his companion. "Who?"
"You don't know them." Chanyeol punches him gingerly. "I have other friends, hyung."
"I know." Joonmyun is amused. Chanyeol thinks it's a much better look than apprehensive. "You were always popular."
"Look who's talking." They're skirting around the actual topic, so Chanyeol decides to make the first move. "Girls and guys, hyung? You're a pimp."
Joonmyun chuckles hesitantly, pulling a hand out of his jeans to push it through his hair. "Yeah, I'm a real lothario." His throat works when he swallows. "Listen, could we keep this between us for the time being?"
Chanyeol nods emphatically, trying to power it with as much understanding and support as he can muster. "Of course. Anything you need."
"Thanks." Here, Joonmyun sighs. "It's just that...I dunno, it's fresh? We haven't been seeing each other very long--met at a party of my sister's, and everything happened so fast. And he's so young, Yeol. He doesn't care about the useless things I worry about, and he looks at me like I'm golden." He laughs, eyeballing Chanyeol self-consciously. "This is going to be the cheesiest thing you'll ever hear me say--and don't you repeat it to anybody--but he kind of ran away with my heart."
The expression on his face makes Chanyeol's heart ache. "I'm happy for you, hyung. Really."
Joonmyun blows out his lips, unburdened at last. He still exudes reservation, but his eyes are shining. "So random. I can't believe I'm coming out to you at a ballet studio. Talk about a stereotype."
That finally breaks the ice. They've been chipping at it long enough. Their laughter rings through the corridor, surprising a pair of dancers on the far end. It's a little louder than necessary, considering the joke isn't actually that funny--but Chanyeol knows it's the best he can do for an old friend who's just entrusted him with a valuable secret.
Jongin takes him to lunch afterwards. He doesn't ask, and Chanyeol doesn't tell. But before they part ways, Chanyeol's mouth still tangy from the mojito he'd ordered (and deserved), Jongin takes his wrist again.
"Hey, I haven't shown you the difference yet."
The spins. That's right. Chanyeol had all but forgotten. "You can do that next time."
Jongin has the nicest skin he's ever seen on a guy. It really glows, whether the light is bad or good. "Did you have a nice time today, hyung?"
The dancer's palm is a little moist where it's wrapped around his wrist, but Chanyeol finds the heat of it reassuring. "Fishing for compliments, Jongin?"
The reply is baiting, and completely unapologetic. "Always."
Chanyeol pinches his cheek with his free hand. "As a matter of fact," he says, noting the flutter in Jongin's lashes, "I did."
Every day, starting right after breakfast, Chanyeol is supposed to be writing. He's organized his plot into a timetable, setting a word count and scene tally to be accomplished every day. So far, it's been working.
But nowadays, when he gets up, the first thing Chanyeol does is sift through the bank of messages Jongin has left him while he was asleep.
Hyung
Watch this
Read this
Check this out
Can you believe this?
This is awesome
This is so you
This is so me
This is so us
Chanyeol clicks everything Jongin links him. Videos, articles, memes, GIFs. He finds that in the short span of time they've known each other, Jongin's gotten him all figured out. Interests catalogued. Pet peeves sidestepped. Humor down pat.
It's oddly flattering.
It's unsettling, too, because Chanyeol has never been so...delighted by a person. At least, not in what feels like forever. Narcissist, he chides himself. You just love the attention. And yet every time his phone chirps at him, announcing a new message, Chanyeol's hand reaches out for it on auto-pilot, no matter what he's doing, so he doesn't keep Jongin waiting.
I'm going to COEX, Jongin keys in one day. Wanna come?
Chanyeol rubs his thumb across the words, ruminating over the offer. He's stuck on a scene, in which his protagonist is in deep R.E.M. sleep. He's dreaming about the woman he is destined to fall in love with, and how happy she will make him, if he lets their paths cross. It's difficult to write, because Chanyeol has never had a dream that felt so real he'd never want to wake up from it, like Leonardo DiCaprio's in Inception. The closest comparison he can think of is, well, Soojung. But that was the other way around. Real life mimicking fantasy.
So he replies, Yes, please, and gets a dancing bunny sticker in return.
Jongin meets him by the new cinemas. He's already got a tub of popcorn under his arm.
Chanyeol grabs a handful of it. Jongin's wearing a T-shirt with a beagle on the front, his fringe puffing awkwardly from the humidity outside. The writer can't decide who's more adorable--the manboy or his pooch.
"We're watching a movie?" He lets the popcorn kernels drop into his mouth from his fist, one by one.
"We're watching a 3D musical," Jongin says, so blasé. When Chanyeol dishes out his best ooh-la-la impression, the dancer gurgles like a toddler.
Chanyeol doesn't care much for 3D features. The special effects leave him dizzy, and he hates wearing those glasses with the stained-glass frames. This time is no different. The performances are a spectacle, to be sure (Chanyeol is tempted, at one point, to reach out and touch the artists), but his attention wanes halfway through the show.
It might have something to do with the way Jongin leans his head against Chanyeol's shoulder and lines their arms up, so that their pinkies lay atop one another. Jongin doesn't make a big deal out of it--just falls into place, like it's the starting pose of a dance.
It's not like Chanyeol is unused to skinship. He's an extremely touchy person. He snuggles up to Jongdae all the time when they're marathoning DVDs at Chanyeol's house--and Jongdae, for all his false prickliness, pets him like he's no bigger than a chihuahua. He lets Yixing and Joonmyun backhug him right after they're done making fun of him, because they've known him since he was a teenage blunderbuss and are completely unfazed by his fame. He and Minseok try to out-aegyo each other when Minseok wants to stick to a deadline, and Chanyeol's moving for an extension. He's certainly demonstrative with women, having grown up with an older sister who cuddles him relentlessly even after he rocketed to over six feet. Sunyoung and Song Qian treat him like a big baby. He's best friends with their boyfriends, after all, and the ex-boyfriend of their best friend (100 percent safe territory).
So it shouldn't get to Chanyeol--the weight and warmth of this manboy's head, the softness of his hair and how it tickles the underside of Chanyeol's jaw, the tiny circle Jongin's pinky traces into Chanyeol's knuckle every so often, like a tic. But it does.
By the time the musical is over, something unexpected and frighteningly familiar has pooled in the center of Chanyeol's chest. It's not that his heart is racing. It's the dead opposite. His heartbeat has grinded to a halt--a slow burn--because Chanyeol knows this feeling, and it bewilders him. This is exactly how he'd felt, in the very beginning, the day he'd seen Soojung at that photo shoot.
Nervousness.
Exhilaration.
Attraction.
He's experiencing all three acutely, undercut with dread.
Jongin takes off his 3D glasses for him. "Did you fall asleep?"
"No," Chanyeol answers, but it comes out cracked, so he has to clear his throat. "Did you?"
Jongin looks at him half-lidded, his eyes still adjusting to the light. "No. Did you think I did?"
A noncommittal hum is the only thing Chanyeol can manage. He draws in a breath through his nostrils, stretching his arms above his head to put at least a semblance of a barrier between them. There is this urge--this terrifying urge--to push his head into Jongin's shoulder and hunker down there for the next showing.
Fuck, Chanyeol panics inwardly. Not this. Not again.
Jongin removes his arm from where it's been touching Chanyeol's for an hour. "Hyung?"
The voice he uses--too tight, and drained of its confidence--is what brings Chanyeol back to his senses. He hates the look on Jongin's face, like the dancer thinks he's done something wrong and wants to fix it, when Chanyeol's the one being an idiot.
His voice comes out more tender than he'd mentally calibrated. "Let's go grab some real food, Jonginnie."
And man oh man, that's all it takes to get that smile back. It breaks through the storm on Jongin's countenance like a rainbow, clear as day. Chanyeol doesn't know if he should be scared or elated.
"Okay," Jongin says. He's up in a second, graceful as a gazelle. He holds out his hand. "Where do you wanna go?"
He's just being helpful, Chanyeol tells himself, because he's a nice, sweet kid, who's just as affectionate as you.
Jongin's still waiting, hair fluffy under the ceiling lights. He tilts half his body to one side, boneless as a rag doll. "Hmm?"
Something in that silly movement puts a chink in Chanyeol's armor.
He takes the hand. He's all pins and needles. "Wherever you like," Chanyeol mutters, and the irresistible Kim Jongin hauls him to his feet.
Part 3