Dedication (4/4)
It takes another month for Chanyeol to submit his final draft of the new book. He's been keeping Minseok posted via email, and Minseok dispatches his comments through the same thread.
It ends bittersweet, at eighty-five thousand words.
Spin, Chanyeol calls it, typing in the title just before he emails the manuscript to his editor.
Minseok gets back to him within five hours. Chanyeol checks the timestamp in the morning. He's woken up smiling, knowing he's completed a third novel.
Park Chanyeol, Minseok says, it's a gem.
He says lots of other things, too--lovely things that Chanyeol reads over and over with a grin on his face. For hours, the writer curls up in his bed to comb through the lengthy commentary his editor's left in the margin notes, and to reread the parts of his book that he enjoyed writing most.
Sometime in the afternoon, when he's had coffee and comfort food for brunch, Chanyeol realizes he's left out something important. He brushes the crumbs of his Paris Baguette frittata from his mouth and shoots off a quick reply to Minseok's email.
Love you, hyung!!! Thanks for bearing with me :) I'll troop to Munhakdongne next week to discuss covers and all that other stuff you always want to discuss. Pencil me in?
BTW, forgot to include the dedication for this one. Attached the file with the addition after the title page.
Can we have oysters again?
Yeollie
When he sends the email, something zings through Chanyeol's bloodstream like a drug. It's a cocktail of pent-up emotion--nervous energy, laced with a sense of liberation. Chanyeol finally unleashes the breath he's been holding in since he decided how to end the book, and why.
He hopes he's made the right call.
Jongin's show opens on a Sunday, at the Opera Theater of the Seoul Arts Center. Seven-thirty in the evening, on the dot.
It's an original ballet, choreographed by Boa and scored by a composer friend of hers who makes music for films. Chanyeol loves the score--ethereal and nostalgic, with a touch of melancholy to it, like something by Satie or Debussy. A fragile, impressionist reverie.
On the cover of the playbill is Kim Ji-Young, the KNB's prima ballerina. She's been photographed seemingly in the nude, under an endless froth of white tulle, blown in all directions by an unseen current. The summary identifies her as the Sea Queen, for whom the ballet is named. The Moon desires her hand in marriage, but she rejects him, time and time again, because the sea cannot be bound by anything or anyone. So every evening, the Moon comes to try his luck, and he brings his subjects, the stars, to help him woo her.
Chanyeol already knows that Jongin is one of the stars. He's attended two more practices in the Seocho studio since that last time with Jongdae. But it seems he hasn't been invited to the most important ones. Following the intermission, Jongin re-enters the stage without the rest of the corps, and Chanyeol is surprised to discover that he's dancing a solo.
He is the North Star, the Moon's right hand. His goal is to persuade the Sea Queen to give his liege a kiss--just one, so she can see for herself how she really feels. Silver-tongued and quick-witted, the North Star soon gets his way. At dawn, as the Moon gives way to his brother the Sun, the Sea Queen lifts her face in a beautiful wave, and the Moon bestows a parting kiss to the crest of it. By the time the curtain falls, a royal wedding is in the works.
Kim Ji-Young makes a magnificent Sea Queen, and her moon prince, Lee Dong Hoon, is a force to be reckoned with. The applause at the end of the performance is deafening. But perhaps Jongin is right, and Chanyeol hasn't seen quite enough ballet--because even with a front-row seat to two of the most valuable dancers in the country, he only has eyes for a pleb in the corps.
He waits with his friends by the dressing rooms. Jongdae and Sunyoung wrestle with the huge bouquet of roses they've brought with them. Yixing and Song Qian clutch the "You're The Best, Kim Jongin" posters Jongdae has thrust into their hands. Joonmyun cuts a fine figure in his blue suit ("Getting hitched?" Chanyeol'd quipped, and the size of Joonmyun's smile had swallowed up his pretty eyes). Now his face radiates like a hundred klieg lights as Sehun rounds the corner, caked in stage makeup and still in his star costume, straight into Joonmyun's outstretched arms.
Jongin's not far behind. But he's talking to someone--one of the soloists, whom Chanyeol recognizes from the performance. The man is tall and built like a machine; really good-looking, too, if the tittering of the female dancers who pass him in the corridor is any indication. He'd danced the part of the Sun--this sleek, strapping ballerino with the charisma of a football player--and Chanyeol realizes with a jolt that he's holding Jongin's hand.
Jongdae starts cheering. "There he is!"
"You're the best, Kim Jongin!" Yixing and Song Qian yell in unison, shaking their posters like rabid fangirls before doubling over.
Even Joonmyun and Sehun join in the fray, hooting Jongin's name and waving their hands in the air. Sunyoung skips forth to thrust the bouquet into Jongin's arms. He lets go of the soloist's hand to receive it, face ruddy from a fresh washing, laughter bubbling sweet in Chanyeol's ears.
There's another bouquet waiting for this manboy. It's a much smaller arrangement of tropical flowers, which Chanyeol pushes behind his back in record time. In his other hand (also behind his back), he holds a book.
"Congrats, Jongin," he says loudly, attempting enthusiasm.
The soloist directs his attention to Chanyeol for the moment, a polite smile playing on his lips. His eyes trail back to their mutual friend.
Jongin is currently caught in the web of his cousin's embrace. "Hyung!" His gaze has a temperature to it. A texture, too. Warm cotton. "You came."
"Of course I did." Chanyeol lets their eyes latch. "The North Star invited me."
Jongin's smile blossoms, swift and simple. The meaning behind it is indecipherable. "I'm happy to see you."
It's been a couple weeks. Chanyeol's been swamped--with publisher meetings and printer consultations, contract signings with Munhakdongne Legal. Some last-minute revisions to the book have kept him up a few nights straight, too. But he and Jongin communicate via mobile on a daily basis, so he doesn't understand how he could have missed so much. An entire person, really, who has just draped his arm over Jongin's shoulder like he's been doing it since time immemorial.
Jongin must have left him out on purpose.
"You haven't met." Jongin rests his fingers on the soloist's shoulder. "Hyung, this is Choi Siwon. You saw him dance earlier, right? Sunbae, this is my friend, Park Chanyeol."
Choi Siwon has a dimple in each cheek. "It's good to finally meet you, Chanyeol-sshi." He extends a hand, which Chanyeol takes. The man's got a solid grip--the kind that assures protection. "Jonginnie here talks about you all the time. Sometimes I forget that we've never been introduced."
Jonginnie here...
The sound of his nickname leaving Choi Siwon's mouth--so casually, too--is a thorn in Chanyeol's eardrum.
"I've heard so much about you," the soloist is saying. His dimples dig their heels in with every word.
Chanyeol schools his face into submission. His default is pleasant nodding civility. It's just the three of them now, clustered together by the wall. Jongdae and Sunyoung have rejoined the couples (Jongin's bouquet in tow). They're all bent over someone's phone, trying to decide what route to take to Garosugil, where they have a dinner reservation waiting.
Siwon ruffles Jongin's hair, which has been slicked back and swooped to the side. A lock of it falls over the younger man's forehead. Siwon lowers his voice to a stage whisper, beckoning Chanyeol closer. "Between you and me, this guy can't stop talking about you."
"Is that so?" Chanyeol murmurs. "Jongin must like you a whole lot to be so talkative."
Siwon chuckles lightly, almost like he agrees but is trying to be modest about it. Next to him, Jongin is oddly fidgety as he pushes his hair back. "I was telling sunbae about your books," he explains. "You know you're my favorite." The same lock tumbles over his forehead, and this time, it's Siwon who smooths it into place. "Author, I mean."
Chanyeol twitches at the sight. There's no denying the squeeze in his chest, the way he's gritting his back molars. He's jealous.
"Thanks, Jonginnie," he murmurs, territorial and hard-pressed to hide it. "You've always been my favorite."
That just slips out. Chanyeol wasn't planning on saying it out loud. Too late--because Jongin looks up fast, wary in the eyes, like he's just heard a shot.
"Hey, come on, you guys," Jongdae whines from a few feet away. "We need to beat traffic!"
Chanyeol allows himself to look back, meaningful and molten, before he drops his gaze and turns away.
"Are you coming with us, Siwon-sshi?" His voice is smooth as silk, meant to conceal the barbed wire closing around his throat.
"Sunbae made other plans," Jongin pipes up, before Siwon can even open his mouth. "Family thing. Right, sunbae?"
"That's right." The soloist loops his arm around Jongin's neck in the gentlest of chokeholds. "You know my schedule better than I do, huh?" Jongin laughs half-heartedly, patting Siwon's forearm to make him stop, but the older man just hugs him tighter.
"He's cute, isn't he?" Siwon directs to Chanyeol, all familiar-like, as though they already share an inside joke.
The writer bristles, but he keeps the muscles in his face relaxed. "Very cute."
They exchange a few more pleasantries, and then Choi Siwon is shaking Chanyeol's hand, saying they'll see each other soon, and Chanyeol is smiling and nodding and turning his back, leaving Jongin to say his own goodbyes.
Selfishly--and yes, he knows how selfish he's being, but there it is--Chanyeol feels let down. He knows he has no right, no claim over Jongin. But that awful part inside of him feels deceived, betrayed, even, because he wasn't ready for things to spin out of his control just when he realized what he really wanted.
Jongin's caught up to him. They're all walking towards the parking lot, where Yixing and Joonmyun have left their cars.
"Hyung?" Already Jongin is clutching the elbow of Chanyeol's summer jacket. "Wait for me."
Chanyeol hums, slows his pace. I wish you'd waited for me.
"You were so incredible," he says discreetly, eyes flitting to Jongin's face but not resting there for long. "I could watch you dance all day."
Jongin's sigh whispers of secret things. "You're always so nice to me."
This time, Chanyeol makes a conscious effort to look over. "I'm only telling you the truth." It's dangling there, on the tip of his tongue. Bait on a hook.
But the dancer has already turned his face. He's staring straight ahead, watching the backs of Sunyoung and his cousin as they walk together. Their arms are linked, and they're glued at the hip. Sunyoung's got her head on Jongdae's shoulder, and Jongdae's got that humongous bouquet under his other arm, like a bundle of bread, where Jongin'd stuffed it earlier.
Jongdae angles in a certain way, and Chanyeol can tell he's planting a kiss on Sunyoung's forehead.
"You've always been my favorite," Jongin says, light and jokey, echoing the writer's words from earlier. He lets go of Chanyeol's coat and shoves his hands into his pockets.
All Jongin knows is that Chanyeol is hung up over his beautiful ex-girlfriend, whom he's written two books for. All Jongin knows is that Chanyeol's only ever had girlfriends. No boyfriends. Chanyeol, after all, is not interested in men. There's no way Jongin could know the rest of it--that a handsome high school boy had once confessed to Chanyeol, and that Chanyeol, a handsome high school boy himself, had been foolish enough to deny his first love. How could Jongin know the rest of it--any of it--when Chanyeol is a coward who has kept the most important things from the most important people?
"I brought something for you," Chanyeol mumbles.
There's that sleepy smile. "Is it those flowers you've been holding behind your back but have yet to hand over? I saw them when you walked ahead of me, hyung."
It's always, always so easy with Jongin. Even when it's hard.
"You should've taken them when you had the chance." Chanyeol holds out the summer blossoms, red and orange and white. Jongin pushes his nose into the center of them, breathing in.
"You'll hold on to them for me, won't you?"
Chanyeol's insides have slowly turned to liquid. "Sure, Jonginnie."
"What's that in your other hand?" Intrigued. That's how Jongin sounds.
It's the book. Chanyeol tightens his grip around it. He's brought the first rough print of his new novel--pages still uncut, no front and back. Just stand-in cardboard covers and the title pages and the eighty-five thousand words after them--and somewhere before the story starts, the dedication.
Jongin's face is so open. Unblemished. "Is that for me, too?"
Chanyeol had wanted to show it to him earlier. Had made up his mind to, actually. Now, he hesitates.
"Not today," the writer says, sliding the book into his jacket pocket. His heart beats erratic against it. "But I'll tell you about it soon."
The expression on the dancer's face hasn't changed. "Promise?"
If it will make you fall in love with me again, is what Chanyeol yearns to say.
But he just repeats the word, "Promise," and doesn't stray too far from Jongin's side for the rest of the night.
Chanyeol's book tour kicks off just as the KNB's new ballet is wrapping up.
The grand launch of Spin takes place in Seoul. Following appearances in Incheon, Busan, and Jeju-do, Chanyeol's got signings scheduled in Beijing, Tokyo, Hong Kong, and Singapore. Then New York and London. Possibly Berlin.
He'll be travelling for work for over a month, not factoring in side trips to other cities while he's in Europe. His friends make plans to meet in Rome upon the culmination of the tour. They're all in on this Roman holiday Jongdae's been pushing since the cherry blossom season. Chanyeol books his tickets in advance. He hopes the trip to Rome will be a reward for a successful tour, not a consolation prize at the end of a disappointing one.
Because The Sea Queen has such a good domestic run (three months, thirty-six performances, all sold out), its investors greenlight the show for the Asian circuit. The KNB will be following practically the same itinerary as Chanyeol's. Just different dates.
Chanyeol attends the finale a few days before he leaves for China. Jongin flawlessly executes twenty-four fouettes and eighteen pirouettes. Chanyeol counts, just like he did the three other times he's come to watch.
Choi Siwon has only been a no-show once, when an overseas ballet performance pulls him away from the stage. His understudy is model-tall and newly married (according to Jongin), and Chanyeol breathes easy for that single performance.
The other times, including tonight, Siwon's presence is that of an impending storm. The soloist lays on the flirtation so thick, it could pass for humidity. Every time he rests his hand on the small of Jongin's back or brushes a finger over Jongin's cheek to remove a lash or speck of dust or says something like, "You'll be taking my spot soon, Jonginnie," jealousy looms like a cloud over Chanyeol's head.
As for Jongin...well, Jongin seems to Chanyeol like a skittish colt, waiting for the storm to hit. He gnaws his lips raw, and his foot bounces under the table when Siwon invites them both out to dinner. Chanyeol only goes (twice) because when he thinks of how much time Jongin must spend with this guy alone, it makes his stomach clench. Damage control, he calls it, even though two measly dinners is a paltry defense against endless hours of shared ballet practice.
Jongin can't stop fiddling with his phone. Chanyeol sees him rub his thumb across the homescreen, back and forth, back and forth, before putting the device back on the table. In ten minutes, he picks it up again, crosses his legs the other way, and repeats the tic.
Maybe it's Chanyeol's narcissism acting up again (it probably is). Maybe he's just reading too much into it (he always does). But every so often, when Siwon is speaking and Chanyeol is pretending to listen but really watching Jongin out of the corner of his eye, he observes a strange pattern.
Incrementally, like a stop-motion frame, Jongin's gaze will pull away from Siwon's dimpled face and stamp itself onto Chanyeol's. His hands stay in his lap, picking at his napkin. When Chanyeol can't stand it anymore and musters up the cheek to make eye contact (soft, searching), Jongin will reach over to pick nonexistent lint off Chanyeol's sleeve. The writer could swear that he does it just to make a connection. But it always breaks the spell. Just like that, Jongin's back to bright-young-thing again, asking his beloved sunbae a question about ballet, stars in his eyes. The connection is lost. Chanyeol finds himself the third wheel once more.
What has Jongin told you about Siwon-hyung? Jongdae had messaged Chanyeol once, sometime after the first performance.
Nothing, had been Chanyeol's answer.
I like him, Jongdae had typed quickly. He's sweet-talking me on Line. Says he listens to our show on the radio. Tall, dark, and charming--SO Jongin's type.
Chanyeol had deliberated over whether to send back a sticker, just so he wouldn't have to agree, or simply let the topic die.
Jongdae had beaten him to the punch. Funny. Thought Jongin told you everything.
Tonight, Chanyeol can't go to dinner. He's expected at his parents', along with Yura, for his mom's birthday celebration. His dad is making ravioli. Chanyeol is bringing a case of expensive wine for Mom's wine cellar--and, upon her request, a stack of autographed books for the ladies in her yoga class.
He tells Jongin this by the dressing rooms of the Opera Theater, as Chanyeol is taking his leave. Siwon is still speaking to Boa somewhere. Far away, Chanyeol hopes.
"You could still make it to the after-party." Jongin is leaning against a wall, fresh and clean and dressed to kill. "You sure you don't want to come?"
"You know how family dinners go," Chanyeol tells him. Jongin looks lean and languid in his designer suit, and his rose gold skin is glowing from the excitement of the final curtain. "No time limit."
Jongin nods, flipping his hair out of his face. Even that is gorgeous. Chanyeol memorizes the angles of the movement, and the scent Jongin's hair has left in the air, and the way his skin texture seems plush, like ripe fruit, for when he can't have this proximity to it anymore.
"Keep in touch while I'm away," Chanyeol says, because he can't help it.
Jongin shoots him this look--a funny, forlorn little thing that hides more than it expresses. He pushes off the wall to wrap his arms around Chanyeol. "I'll read your new book on the road," he vows into the crook of the writer's neck. "And I'll miss you, hyung."
Chanyeol reciprocates the hug. "I'll miss you, too, Jonginnie." He sounds so earnest, the way Kyungsoo had sounded long ago, when he'd seen Chanyeol for the first time after a summer spent in Japan. Except this isn't a welcome back--it's a goodbye.
Deep in Chanyeol's arms, Jongin pulls in a breath. "I hope so." His voice is plain and soft. In no time at all, he's prying himself out of the embrace he'd initiated, palm lifting off of Chanyeol's forearm. "I'm gonna go find sunbae," Jongin murmurs, and with a sloppy, self-conscious wave, he leaves Chanyeol in the corridor to grieve.
The book is a hit. Not as big as Pool, whose tragic romance metamorphosed into this runaway train of a bestseller, but much bigger than Float. "And Float was huge," Minseok declares over the phone, pleased as punch.
"Cool, hyung." Chanyeol's sitting in his hotel room in Berlin. He's pleased with the payoff, too, but it's just been a long, long day. "As long as you're happy."
"As long as you're happy." Minseok's tone shifts into one of mild concern. "Everything okay, Yeol?"
"Couldn't be better," Chanyeol ripostes, putting exuberance in his voice, so that Minseok laughs it off on the other line.
It's not a lie. Chanyeol's met with large groups of fans at bookstores and grand libraries, even universities. He's given talks and readings to audiences who actually listened (at the very least, to the interpreter). He's scrawled his autograph and personal messages in fresh copies of Spin held out to him by blondes, brunettes, and redheads; by guys in suits and girls in biker jackets; by elegant, aging women, and very young, flamboyant men. He's gone to dinner with other writers and their supermodel girlfriends; a few lesser actors, Korean and foreign. Munhakdongne's put him up in five-star lodgings. Car service, concierge on call, complimentary champagne--the works. The whole tour has been a glamorous romp so far.
His friends link him to articles about him in GQ and his alma mater, Esquire. There's even something in Vogue Girl Korea. "Every College Girl's New Crush," the one-page profile declares, with Chanyeol's grinning mug underneath the header (he blushes at the thought). Just some publicity things Chanyeol's agent had booked for him before he left Seoul. Chanyeol knows the people who've written the pieces. Their reviews of his book (and of Chanyeol himself) are glowing. Writers always love other writers.
Soojung sends him an email, congratulating him on the success of Spin.
It's beautiful, oppa.
Never stop writing.
Chanyeol replies in warm but spare language, leaving it up to her to decide if and when they will meet when he returns to Seoul.
Jongdae messages him constantly. See you in Rome, stud muffin, is the last entry in their personal thread. Jongdae had sent it a few hours ago, while Chanyeol was asleep.
And then there's Jongin, who doesn't reach out to him at all. Chanyeol has expected this. The dancer's pulled the same disappearing act before--immersing himself in physical therapy without a word, just after that week in Chanyeol's apartment. It seems so long ago.
Chanyeol chats him a few times, anyway, hoping for a reply to his casual Hi's and How's it going's and Good luck at your show's. Most of the time, he gets seen-zoned.
Jongin does message him once, when the KNB is performing in Singapore. Chanyeol's Line tone beeps, and he reaches for the phone on his pillow, thinking it's probably Jongdae again, or Minseok. His eyes widen when he discovers it's neither.
Jongin's sent him a photo of the skyline from the top of the Marina Bay Sands. It's nighttime. The firmament is a sooty blue, haloed by the glow of the electric city below. There's an ocean of golden lights, and the red-and-white blur of the traffic on the highways, and the deep, dark glint of the sleeping bay.
Goodnight, hyung.
It's eight in the morning in Berlin. Chanyeol scrubs at his eyes and races to send a reply before Jongin goes off the grid again.
Hey that's a great picture! What're you up to? Did you get my other messages?
He waits and he waits, picking at his breakfast when room service wheels it in, sipping tart orange juice to pass the time.
These messages don't even get marked as "Seen."
Chanyeol keeps checking, anyway.
Rome in November is so different from home. It's still a little warm, and the sky is powder blue, and the grass is rich and green. Only the trees are the same as the ones in Seoul--mustard and auburn and caramel all over, like a bittersweet confection to be had with espresso.
When Chanyeol exits Fiumicino Airport, over-bundled in his Berlin coat, Jongdae and Yixing are waiting for him in matching black Ray-Bans.
Yixing unleashes a huge yawn. Nine o'clock is a little earlier than a nightclub owner is used to. "Hey, champ," he garbles, stretching out his arms and wiggling his fingers. Chanyeol yawns, too, right into the hug.
Jongdae's next. "Finally," he declares, brassy voice a comfort in Chanyeol's ear. "You look like shit."
The writer harrumphs into his bony shoulder.
Jongdae laughs, and they loop arms. Yixing's already tugging them in the direction of the rental car he and Jongdae have driven from the city. He mutters something about caffeine.
"Everybody make it okay?" Chanyeol's hungry and tired, but he's happy to see his friends. The glorious Italian weather helps, too.
Jongdae gives Yixing the thumbs-up to sit in the back. The guy just wants his coffee. "Almost. Sit up front with me, Yeol, I'm driving."
They toss Chanyeol's luggage in the trunk before climbing into the car.
"Who flaked?" Chanyeol asks, taking his sunglasses from the leather case in his backpack so he can wear them.
"No one." Jongdae pulls out of the parking lot. It's a bright, sunny day. "Jongin's flight got delayed. He's arriving at midnight."
Even in exhaustion, when all he can think of is breakfast-shower-bed, Chanyeol's heart manages to swell. "I'm coming with you to fetch him."
"That was the plan," Jongdae shares. The trees are whizzing past them, rich and mellow in their fall robes. "But the kid already booked his own ride. Said he'd see us at the hotel."
Of course he did. Jongin is independent to a fault. Chanyeol should've guessed--but it frustrates him nonetheless. Just another degree of separation between him and the person he's been most looking forward to seeing.
"Alrighty," he susurrates, discontented. He fastens his seat belt and slumps into a comfier position. "Wake me up when we get there."
"Oh, no, you don't." Jongdae elbows him in the side.
Chanyeol yelps. His sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose. "What was that for?"
"I finished your book on the plane." Jongdae arches an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to hound you about it while you were on tour--but that's done now. We need to talk about this."
"Okay, in full disclosure, I haven't read it," is Yixing's groggy contribution from the backseat. "Sorry, Yeollie, I got busy with work. But I brought it with me! And Song Qian says it's great!"
Chanyeol pushes his sunglasses back into place. He swallows hard. "Thanks, hyung. She texted me." He licks his lips. "What do you want to talk about, Dae?"
His best friend is watching the road. Chanyeol can still make out the expression on his face, though. Significant, and a touch reproachful. "Well, for starters, that thing you said in the dedication."
"Spoiler alert?" Yixing says, slurping his coffee.
It takes forty minutes to get from Fiumicino to Rome by car. Chanyeol Googled it in Berlin, while he was waiting to board. Forty minutes should be a cake walk; it takes longer to get from Seoul to Incheon without heavy traffic. But Jongdae is eyeing him like he knows...everything. And Chanyeol can already tell this drive is going to stretch on forever, if he doesn't spit it out.
So he starts from the very beginning.
After breakfast and a shower does come bed.
The hotel is a private villa-type establishment just off Piazza Navona, with a courtyard and a small fountain, archaic tiling and al fresco eating. His room reflects the same old world air. Wrought-iron bed, free-standing tub, a writing desk turned towards the window. Chanyeol loves everything the moment he lays eyes on it. He just. Needs. Sleep.
His friends leave the hotel to get in some site-seeing after they've all shared a meal.
"We'll talk more later," Jongdae had said before Chanyeol shut himself into his quarters. Sunyoung and Song Qian had petted him goodbye, and the guys had both hugged him, crowing about how great it was to be all together again.
Chanyeol hadn't missed the confusion in Yixing's eyes, though. And there, on Jongdae's face, the concern that had never left since the moment Chanyeol explained himself to them in that little rental car. He'd felt so exposed, so unfathomably vulnerable. A bit of a fraud. But then Jongdae'd said, "It's fine, man. No big deal." And the writer had taken comfort in the sentiment, however cautiously shared.
He gets into bed just after noon. He knows he'll regret it tomorrow when the jetlag from all the other cities hits him hard, at an inopportune moment. But he's just drained--physically, mentally, emotionally. He can barely get into his sleeping clothes without wobbling. His eyes shut on command the moment his head sinks into his pillow, and for hours, he is cradled by blessed, dreamless slumber.
The knocking on his door is what finally rouses him. It's not quite dark out, not quite light, either--just a wash of pink that's somewhere in between day and night. A chill filters through the window, proof that it really is fall, in spite of the daytime camouflage. Chanyeol's fallen asleep on top of his duvet. Now, he shivers.
He switches on a lamp, raking a hand through his hair. It feels like a haystack. It's getting much too long.
The knocking commences--one, two, three.
"Hold on," Chanyeol croaks, padding to the door.
He undoes the bolts. He turns the handle. The door is an antique, gorgeously carved and practically perfumed with an old oak smell. It creaks on its hinges when he pulls it open.
His heart jumps to his throat.
Jongin.
All rumpled clothes and floppy hair and beautiful rose gold skin.
His Jongin.
"Shit," is the first word out of the dancer's mouth. "Did I wake you?"
Chanyeol grabs him by the coat and wraps him in a bone-crunching embrace.
"Do you even know what it means to keep in touch?" Chanyeol grunts. "Why didn't you reply to any of my messages?"
The dancer's shoulder blades are digging into his forearm. Jongin smells like airplane and unwashed hair, and there's a static charge in his clothes, crackling against Chanyeol's own.
God, Chanyeol's missed him.
"What time is it?" Chanyeol asks, not even waiting for a reply. The exhilaration is rippling over his skin. "Seven? Eight? I thought you were coming in at midnight--"
"I caught an earlier flight, hyung." Jongin's voice is a salve over a wound. "Wanted to see you."
Chanyeol's dropping a kiss to his forehead before he even realizes what he's doing.
Oh. That's the sound Jongin makes, or maybe the word he utters, or maybe just the melody of his gasp.
The writer's breath has stilled in his throat. He loosens his hold, struggling for the best, most fitting words.
Jongin's fingers curl into the sides of Chanyeol's shirt. "Let's go somewhere."
Their faces are so close. Chanyeol blinks, heavy as syrup, and he feels himself nod.
Jongin steps back so they can look at each other properly. "Can we go now? It isn't too far from here--maybe twenty minutes? I looked it up on Google Maps."
That cuts through the tension in a nanosecond.
Chanyeol actually laughs out loud. He'd thought Jongin had meant it metaphorically--a kind of come-on (the idea of which Chanyeol had liked). He didn't realize Jongin had a specific destination in mind.
"What?" the dancer frowns. They're still standing in the doorway to Chanyeol's room, and Jongin is just...so cute. "You don't want to go, hyung?"
It brings back good memories, this sweet, melting feeling in Chanyeol's chest. He misses it--being in love. "Of course I do." He decides he's going to be a little more patient, just for a little while longer. "Let's go."
In ten minutes, Chanyeol has washed the sleep from his face and rinsed it from his mouth and pushed it from his tired body with a set of warmer clothes. In fifteen minutes, Jongin makes it to the lobby in pretty much the same state--fresh jacket, fresh face. Or maybe that's just the thrill of the moment that Chanyeol spies in his cheeks. He doesn't ask.
It's charming--romantic, even--the way Jongin takes charge. He leads them through the piazza, past half-empty cafes and vendors folding up their stalls for the evening; winding around the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, the fountain of the four rivers, like he knows exactly where he's going. He looks over his shoulder with a shy smile as Chanyeol slows, just for a second, to peek at the face of the Nile river god, hidden under a cowl.
Then it's on to a sequence of cobbled streets and little walkways, vias and corsos whose names Chanyeol can't pronounce. And somewhere within the maze, it is Jongin who slows to take Chanyeol's hand, shoving it into the pocket of his jacket alongside his own.
They're holding hands in Rome, in the autumn, with the wind chill seeping through Chanyeol's cable knit sweater and dust kicking up over the cobblestones. "Where are we going?" he asks calmly, like this isn't the most bizarre, unimaginable thing that's ever happened to him.
Jongin's answer is simple: "You'll see." Chanyeol can barely hear him over the wind and the cars. He just reads Jongin's lips and ekes out a handsome smile in return.
Objectively speaking, their destination isn't as close as Jongin's made it out to be. They must change streets about a dozen times. Some of these streets stretch into main roads; others meander uphill. Chanyeol's feet get somewhat sore from the unevenness of the flagstones. But twenty-five minutes never felt so brief.
They're on the Via della Greca, a road with a park on one side and a church on the other, when Jongin says, "We're here, hyung."
Chanyeol cranes his head back to see the bell tower of the church. It looks familiar...
"Was this in a movie?"
"Roman Holiday." Jongin peers into his face, resisting a smile. "And Only You, with--"
"Robert Downey, Jr.," Chanyeol continues, nodding slowly. "And Marisa Tomei." He knows exactly where they are now. His heart throbs with expectation. "Are we here to see the Mouth of Truth, Jongin?"
The way the manboy looks at him makes Chanyeol feel--how was it that Joonmyun had put it? Ah, yes. Golden. "You know it?"
"Yes." Chanyeol squeezes his hand momentarily before unlacing their fingers. "Yes, I do."
There's a small gate leading into the portico of the church. Chanyeol reckons it's locked. It must be way past visiting hours now. But no--no, it latches open when he tries it, easily giving way.
They slip past the gate, taking care to be quiet. Their footsteps whisper against the stone floor as they traverse the passage. There, at the very end of it, observing them from the far wall, is the Bocca della Verità. An ancient sculpture of a god-sized face--two holes for eyes, a patrician nose, two dents for nostrils, a flowing beard. And the pièce de résistance: a hollow, expressionless mouth, wide open, leading who-knows-where.
The mouth of truth.
"I've read the new book," Jongin says. They've come to a stop in front of the sculpture. "You dedicated it to me."
Chanyeol regards him with dulcet eyes. This place feels sacred. "I did."
"Please tell me why." Jongin's gaze is unwavering. "And don't leave anything out this time."
Place your hand in the mouth of truth, the legend goes, and whoever tells a lie will have that hand bitten off.
Chanyeol smiles at the dancer, tiny but true, and slides his hand into the hole in the wall.
"I think you know," Chanyeol says, his heart a hummingbird, "how I feel about you."
Jongin's face caves in the center, like he's just had a ten-story building lifted off his shoulders. The ecstasy of relief. "Do I?"
"I've fallen in love with you," Chanyeol confesses. Inside the mouth of truth, his hand shakes. "I fell in love with you months ago, when you came to live with me. I'm still in love with you now, even though you're spoken for."
Jongin's throat works. "I broke up with someone for you." His eyelids quaver, but he doesn't break eye contact. "I'm not spoken for, hyung."
Chanyeol pulls his hand out of the Bocca della Verità and cups the other over Jongin's cheek just as the dancer shuts his eyes.
The kiss is not their first--only feels like it. It starts out chaste; a tender press of closed mouths, the percussion of quickening heartbeats. But Jongin moans a little, yanking Chanyeol close by the front of his sweater, and that's when the dam breaks. Chanyeol parts his lips, and the dancer does the same, so they can pour all their unspoken secrets into this whitewater river of longing and desire. Everything is sweet and strong and soft and seductive and so very, very deep. A rare wine swirling in Chanyeol's mouth and mind, until he's drunk on it.
Jongin pulls off way before Chanyeol's done with him. He pushes himself deeper into Chanyeol's arms, tangling his own around the writer's body. "So...you like me a lot."
Chanyeol kisses the side of his neck. "Yes."
"I can't believe it," the dancer murmurs, and Chanyeol captures his mouth again. Jongin chuckles into the kiss, only to pull off once more. Chanyeol tries to chase him, but Jongin keeps them forehead to forehead. "I made you like men?"
Resignation and affection blend in Chanyeol's sigh. "You made me love you."
Jongin nuzzles their noses together. "You're deadly, hyung. You always say the perfect things. I go over our conversations in my head, again and again, just to remember."
"Next time," Chanyeol says, "tell me what you liked, and I'll say it as often as you want."
"You're killing me." Jongin hides his face in Chanyeol's shoulder. His ears are bright pink. "And Jongdae-hyung's going to kill us both."
Chanyeol laughs, wonderfully light, blissful and free. He traces the shell of Jongin's ear with his lips and says, with all the love in his heart, "I've got you, Baryshnikov."
Spin's final chapter finds the protagonist on a glittering stage. He feels as though he's lived three lifetimes. The one where he protects himself and prospers--peace and quiet, perfect health. The one where he risks and hits rock bottom, only to be resuscitated by real, devastating love. And then there's the waking life, right now, no fantasies, where he waits in the wings until the final moment to decide which dream to pursue.
The novel ends with him taking the leap--a grand jeté to beat all grand jetés--the crowd on its feet and his future glinting in the distance.
The dedication page bears five words. Typeface Didot. Font size 12. No header. Just a promise.
For Jongin
No matter what
The Roman holiday lasts ten days.
Jongdae starts eyeing them funny on the second day, whispering into Sunyoung's ear, their smiles brimming with indulgence. Yixing's looking over by day three, a little more curl in his mouth, a little less confusion in his eyes. That same night, Song Qian blurts out, "Okay, am I missing something here?"
Chanyeol explains. Jongin holds his hand under the table. The girls get a little teary-eyed. They've known Chanyeol a long time, and it's a lot to take in.
Song Qian bats Yixing away when he asks if making out will help her feel better.
"I'm proud of you," she tells Chanyeol. "You of all people deserve to be happy." She's always been elegant, Song Qian--so incredibly understanding. "Will you tell Soojung?"
Chanyeol squeezes Jongin's fingers. "Soon."
"Take your time," Jongin murmurs, squeezing back.
Jongdae reaches over to muss his hair. "You dark horse," he teases his cousin, nasal-voiced and crescent-eyed. "After everything this tortured writer bastard put you through?"
Chanyeol pretends to slap his wrist.
"That's okay," Jongin smiles, loving and forgiving. "I've got a high threshold for pain."
Well into the evening, when he can't sleep, Jongin invites himself into Chanyeol's bed. They lay there in the blue night, looking at each other. Chanyeol strokes the younger man's face. He knows for certain that he'll want to do more in the future. For now, they can take it slow.
"Hyung?" The word is a piece of candy rolling off of Jongin's tongue.
"Mmm?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Mmm."
"When we get back to Seoul..." Jongin licks the edge of his lip. Chanyeol pecks it immediately after, hoping to soothe his nerves. "When we get back to Seoul, will we..."
"We'll still be us," Chanyeol replies, reading his mind. "And I'll still be yours. If you want me to be."
The light in Jongin's face comes like the dawn. A slow-blooming rose--then suddenly, sunshine.
"Yeah," the dancer whispers. "That's exactly what I want."
He places something on Chanyeol's pillow, right in between them. He's been holding it in his hand since Chanyeol let him into the room. The dancer brushes his fingertips over Chanyeol's lips. It tickles. Chanyeol blows on the pads of them, just to flirt.
He examines the gift. When he realizes what it is, the breath whooshes out of his lungs. "You--"
"It's the first thing you gave me," Jongin explains. "I couldn't throw it out."
There, on the pillow, is a small piece of plaster. It's semi-rectangular in shape; a little cracked, a little smudged, just the way the debris of a broken cast should look. But Chanyeol can still make out the familiar characters, can still decipher the mobile number, can still feel the same grin on his face when he sees the tiny sunglasses doodled close to the edge.
He'd scrawled it out in his own hand, after all. Green Sharpie.
This is Chanyeol-hyung. Don't forget~
Chanyeol traces the souvenir with a delicate touch. "You kept this?"
Jongin nods. His voice comes out husky. So damn bashful. "Now you can keep me."
Chanyeol doesn't know how life will change when they get back home. He can't foretell the future or make dreams come to fruition. He's not a protagonist in a romance novel--invincible, unbreakable, beyond reproach. What Chanyeol is is a child at heart, devoted and true, simple in his love. And he's never forgotten the rule of the playground: finders keepers.
"That's the plan," he tells the man in his life.
He tucks Jongin's head under his chin (puppy fluff) and holds Jongin's heart in his hand (semi-rectangular), and they drift off at daybreak, when the moon prince kisses the sea queen goodbye.
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