Dedication (1/4)
Title: Dedication
Pairing: Chankai
Genre: writer!au, ballet!au
Rating: PG-13
Length: 30,100 words
Summary: Heartbroken Park Chanyeol is struggling with writer's block when he meets a magnetic young dancer on the mend.
Warnings: Shades of homophobia. (And girlfriends. Lots of girlfriends.)
Notes: In the spring I went to Seoul, where I toyed with a tiny seed of an idea while listening to this version of "Latch." For the ballet scenes, do try this Erik Satie compilation and Claude Debussy's "Claire de Lune" :)
"Couples night?" Chanyeol grips the base of his beer and settles into his chair, laughing. "You've dragged me out to couples night?"
Four beaming faces crowd around him. The skin of each one is golden-lit by the candles on their table--al fresco, but not too close to the sidewalk. This is Chanyeol's favorite café bar in Hongdae, and he suspects the choice was not a coincidence.
"It's your own damn fault," Jongdae snorts at him. "I had to lie and say it was someone's birthday to tear you away from your laptop."
"What lie? It is someone's birthday," Chanyeol says, turning to Sunyoung for support. "Right, kiddo?"
Jongdae had stated it explicitly in his tenth Line this morning, when the first nine had gone unanswered. It's my girlfriend's birthday, you tortured writer bastard. Come out of your cave. Then came the eleventh message. I haven't seen proof of life in a month!!!
Chanyeol smiles at Sunyoung, expecting a pat on the head. He's always been a kind of pet of hers, despite the fact that he's three years older and about fifty inches taller.
Instead, Sunyoung sends him a comical grimace, her mouth rectangular. She shrugs noncommittally, like the very first time Chanyeol had caught her holding hands with Jongdae on a coffee run. The look in her eyes is withholding and relenting at once, the same way it had been back then.
Chanyeol purses his lips. "Sunyoung?"
Yixing hooks his chin over Song Qian's shoulder. "It was two days ago."
From where she's sitting in Yixing's lap, Song Qian pokes out a finger and pushes it into Chanyeol's cheek. "Dummy," she whispers in that wonky accent of hers (the very one that makes Yixing pop a dimple).
"Oh, shit," Chanyeol mutters. In a second, he's roping his long arms around Sunyoung for a hug and bellowing, "Belated happy birthdaaay!" He squeezes her tight, swaying her from side to side, like he wants to jostle any inkling of indignation right out of her.
Jongdae protests in the background ("Hey. Hey! Let go!"). But Sunyoung only giggles and hugs Chanyeol back. She pats him on the head, too, so Chanyeol knows he's forgiven.
He pulls back when Jongdae starts flicking polka dots into his forearm. "I'm sorry I forgot, Sunyoung-ah."
Sunyoung waves off the apology. "It's fine. Oppa here--" she points in Jongdae's direction, "--told me to lay on the guilt. But I know you're knee-deep in research for the new book, so I don't mind one bit."
More like neck-deep in writer's block, Chanyeol thinks to himself forlornly. He rubs at the most tender spot on his arm, elbowing Jongdae when he tries to flick it again. "Remind me how young you are?"
"Twenty-five," Sunyoung sighs. "There's no turning back now, oppa. Next year, I'll be in my late twenties."
"I've been in my late twenties for three whole years," he singsongs back, wiggling his shoulders in a spontaneous little dance. "My back's probably going to give out soon. Then my knees. Then my teeth."
Sunyoung and Song Qian burst into laughter simultaneously. Chanyeol feels a grin snap across his face. He loves the music of it--girls laughing. Loud or soft, a soloist or a symphony of them, always like the sound of splashing water.
Jongdae flings a French fry at him. "Don't flirt." The fry misses Chanyeol's chin by a centimeter, landing on his jeans with a limp plop.
Chanyeol places it into his mouth. "I'm not flirting, you nut."
"You're smiling your handsome smile," Yixing puts in, lips puffing. "I don't one hundred percent approve of it?"
"All my smiles are handsome," Chanyeol replies, sweet and guileless. He plucks a second fry from Yixing's plate, and Song Qian coos at him like he's a hungry puppy.
It's likely Yixing doesn't approve of that, either, because he worms a wet finger into Chanyeol's ear.
Chanyeol has always been so, so ticklish.
He curses in a yelp, leaping out of his seat. "Hyung!" Both palms fuse over his ear--armor--as Jongdae collapses into a bed of cackles.
Yixing sparkles at him. "That's what you get~" His dimples are so deep. Chanyeol contemplates squirting ketchup into them.
Song Qian wrinkles her nose. She dabs at Yixing's finger with one of the wipes the server has left on their table, then stuffs the used sheet back into its torn package. Every fiber of her expression quivers with the suspicion that Yixing's gotten earwax residue all over himself.
It makes Chanyeol chuckle, albeit reluctantly. Girls are so squeamish--even the sexy, sassy types like Song Qian--and he finds it adorable. He sticks his own finger into the same ear, trying to rub out the traces of Yixing's attack.
Jongdae's still laughing. "I'm getting another beer, you want one?"
Chanyeol climbs back into his seat, rolling his eyes at Yixing but clinking the necks of their beers together, anyway. "Sure, why not."
"Oh, there--" Sunyoung says suddenly, her arm shooting up to wave at someone over Chanyeol's shoulder. "Oppa," she addresses him in a low aside. "I hope you don't mind, but I invited Soojung."
Chanyeol's entire mouth goes cottony.
He only used to kiss her deeply in dark movie theaters and pull her naked into the shower, where she would wrap her arms and legs and lips around him. He only used to hold her soft, makeup-less face between his hands first thing in the morning, and weave her fingers into his whenever her cat had to go to the vet, and tell her, as she laughed and licked his jaw in the ladies' room of a bar, that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
She was just the girl who'd broken up with him four months ago, after three years together, because she felt they'd run their course.
Just the muse that Chanyeol had lost, and the reason he hasn't managed to get started on his new book, despite the increasingly frantic, coaxing tone his editor's emails have taken on.
Just the one that got away.
"That's all right," he murmurs back, and he forces himself to smile at Sunyoung. "She's your best friend. Of course she should be here."
"Don't leave, okay?" Sunyoung squeezes his wrist. "Jongdae-oppa was so happy you came tonight. He hasn't--none of us have seen you around much, really. Not since..."
She trails off there, but Chanyeol knows exactly what she means.
"I won't leave, Sunyoung-ah." He makes sure to use his handsome smile for real this time--the wide one with a crook to it that he breaks out for portraits and TV interviews. "Jongdae-oppa would disown me, otherwise."
Soojung's standing right behind Sunyoung now. Her loose, sheer dress and slightly windblown hair make her seem even more delicate than Chanyeol remembers. Dreamlike, even. Or maybe he just misses her.
Soojung hugs her friend and hands her a present wrapped in pretty striped paper.
When she finally looks at Chanyeol, her eyes are nervous. "Hi, oppa."
"Hi," Chanyeol murmurs, smile melting away, drop by bittersweet drop. "Long time no see."
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Jongdae chirps a week later, when he shows up at Chanyeol's apartment unannounced. He comes bearing lunch, at least, so Chanyeol lets him in.
"What?" Chanyeol asks halfheartedly. He peers into the bag of food Jongdae's brought with him. Tempura bento boxes. Yum.
"You know what." Jongdae's tone is both impatient and affectionate. It's a unique sound, a bit nasal, that Chanyeol has come to associate with only him, like a smell or a footstep.
"Use your words, Jongdae," he teases his friend. But he can already tell by the lilt in Jongdae's voice that this is about Soojung.
At the café bar, they'd sat side by side for two hours and spoken to their friends and to one another, catching up and smiling softly and laughing lightly but not touching at all. It had felt...unnatural to Chanyeol. Unnatural, and a little unnerving. Because for the three years they'd dated, Soojung had always done something small and warm and subtle to invade his space. Hand on the back of his neck. Pinky looped into his under the table. Temple pressed against his shoulder. Chanyeol had flourished under the attention, every time, because it made him feel wanted.
But she doesn't want you anymore, he'd reminded himself when he'd gotten home that night. You're just an ex-boyfriend with joint friend custody.
"You and Soojung--"
"Still broken up," Chanyeol says casually. He starts lifting the food containers out of the takeout bag.
"Did she message you afterwards?" Jongdae's tone shifts to one of uncertainty.
"Why would she?"
"Did you message her?"
In total, there are three bento boxes on Chanyeol's coffee table. "No, I didn't," he tells Jongdae. "Is Sunyoung coming over?"
"What?" Jongdae blinks at him before he notices the extra bento box Chanyeol is tapping with his index finger.
"Ah, no, that's not for her." He packs it back into the food bag, along with the third pair of chopsticks and a few napkins. "I'm seeing my cousin after this. He's laid up at Seoul St. Mary's."
"The hospital?" Chanyeol folds his legs under him and lifts the lid off one of the boxes. The burst of seafood, soy sauce, and miso smells make his mouth water. "Is he okay?"
Jongdae plops down next to him, splitting a pair of chopsticks. "Broke his ankle. He's fine." Jongdae mulls over his rice. "But he's a dancer, so he's a little depressed about it?"
Chanyeol nods, biting into a piece of shrimp. The Japanese breadcrumbs yield between his teeth with a satisfying crunch. "How long do those things take to heal, more or less?"
"Six to eight weeks." Jongdae gets up again, making his way to the fridge. Chanyeol was too focused on getting the food out to prepare the water. "But judging by this break," Jongdae says over his shoulder, "and the fact that Jongin plans to hit the ground running post-recovery, the doc says he's looking at twelve."
"Oof."
"I know. And he's such a good kid, too, so I feel bad." Jongdae is padding back again, two bottles of Eau in his grasp. (Chanyeol always buys his water from the Paris Baguette across the street, because he likes how the bottles look like giant aspirin capsules.)
"His parents live in Goyang," Jongdae continues, "and his sisters both married British guys and moved abroad. I'm the only family he's got in the city, so I need to keep him occupied."
Chanyeol takes his share of the water. "Thanks, man." Jongdae slides back down into his spot with a prolonged aigoo~, and Chanyeol laughs when his knees crick. "His name's Jongin?"
"Yeah. Kim Jongin. Dad's side." Jongdae picks up some pickled cabbage and shakes it in Chanyeol's face. "You should see this kid, Yeol. He's a prince. He's even better-looking than Joonmyun-hyung."
Chanyeol shapes his mouth into a small o. Their favorite senior at university (now a producer at the radio station where Jongdae works) has always looked like a primetime drama lead. The o stretches into a grin. "Has Sunyoung met him?"
"How dumb do you think I am?" Jongdae jokes in a high-pitched voice, and they both chortle, bumping shoulders.
They sit like that for a spell, munching on their lunch and enjoying the comfortable silence. Chanyeol almost forgets they were talking about something else before Jongdae's cousin came up out of the blue.
The thought seems to occur to Jongdae at the exact same moment.
"So about the dreaded ex," Jongdae starts, washing down a mouthful of tempura.
"Mmm."
"You know I'll always be on your side, Yeol. No matter what."
"I know, Jongdae."
"If you want me to tell Sunyoung that Soojung can't come out with us when you do, I'll tell her."
Chanyeol chuckles, touched, even though the sound of her name makes his heart do a tiny, painful flip. "Nah. No need for that. I can handle it."
"Sure?" Jongdae looks a little relieved, in spite of his bravado.
"I mean...yeah. Yeah. And besides," Chanyeol licks his lips, a little embarrassed, "maybe if I start seeing her around more often, talking to her again, and all that--I dunno, maybe it'll help me finally draft this sorry excuse for a novel."
"Your novel isn't sorry," Jongdae says gently. "It's just stalled." And then, in a quiet, curious voice: "Can't you write about anyone else?"
Half the food in Chanyeol's bento box is untouched, but suddenly he isn't hungry anymore. He smiles at Jongdae, and the ruefulness in it is a physical sensation, like the stroke of a fingertip over the seam of his lips.
"How?"
Chanyeol's first novel had been a light, sweet, gossamer thing about a young boy with the ability to fly, suddenly falling in love with the blind girl across the street.
He'd just met Soojung then, when she was a fledgling stylist without a magazine cover to her name, and he a junior staffwriter for Esquire, occasionally doing freelance work for their sister titles. They'd been introduced at a shoot for Cosmopolitan, where Soojung got her first big break dressing Yoon Eun Hye. Chanyeol had taken one look at her--this wispy, resolute girl with sweat on her forehead from steaming racks of expensive clothes--and he'd asked Yoon Eun Hye the exact same interview question, twice.
They'd gone to Lotte World on their first date. Chanyeol was bumbling and awkward, despite the fact that he'd asked Soojung out the week before without so much as an eye twitch. On the other hand, Soojung had breezed through the afternoon--little red skirt, twenty-two-year-old dauntlessness. She'd slipped her hand into Chanyeol's after an hour or so and pulled him into the queue for the French Revolution, never letting go. The touch had made every inch of his skin tingle. Chanyeol had watched her, spellbound on the rollercoaster, as Soojung shut her eyes and screamed with delight. The idea just came to him. A boy in flight, with a girl in his arms; she unable to see the city beneath them, but feeling the rush and thrill of it, anyway, like the wind against her face.
It only took six months of writing after work, in the wee hours of the morning, and every free minute that wasn't spent in Soojung's company on the weekends, for Chanyeol to complete the novel. Float, he titled it. By the time it was published, Chanyeol was a week into twenty-five, and Soojung his official girlfriend of sixty days. The dedication on the third page read, simply, For S.
Chanyeol's second novel had taken a little longer to write. Float had done well enough that he'd been able to quit his job at the magazine to write fiction fulltime. There were interviews and pictorials and a book tour--and on top of that, a hefty advance from his publisher for the follow-up novel.
He'd taken Soojung to Jeju-do with the first of his book money. He'd been really proud about it, too--that he could put her up at a fancy hotel, in a spacious room smelling of lavender and fresh linen, with a floor-to-ceiling view of the sea's endless blue roll. The trip itself had been cheesy and wonderful; the pair of them dressed in matching nautical wear, taking turns asking strangers to photograph them together. They'd gone to see the vivid yellow blanket of the yuchae fields, the dol hareubang sculptures carved from basalt lining the coast, the Cheonjiyeon Waterfall. It was evening when Soojung kissed him by the falls and told him she loved him, the night lights illuminating the rock face behind, all sooty bronze and seagreen. Chanyeol had never felt this way before--like he was living inside a dream.
Pool was what he'd named the manuscript, a year later. This one was, like his first novel, a sort of fairytale. A mermaid living in an underwater cave below a lighted waterfall encounters the man maintaining the lights. He is a middle-aged widower, and she the only creature of her kind, and they are both starved for companionship. The story is another romance, but this one ends in tragedy, unlike Float. The man falls ill one brutal winter and never recovers, and the immortal mermaid waits and waits and waits for his return, unable to leave the pool below the falls.
"That's really fucking sad," Jongdae had mumbled after he'd read the final draft. "But it was amazing, Yeol." He'd just split up with his girlfriend at the time, and Chanyeol had been extra gentle and attentive with him. (Later, Soojung would put the idea in Chanyeol's head to set Jongdae up with her "super perfect, super gorgeous, super smart best friend," broker Park Sunyoung, whom Chanyeol super liked already.)
Pool's dedication had been split into two lines:
For Jongdae, just because.
And for Soojung (you know why.)
That was the last book Chanyeol had put out, when he was just under twenty-seven. It made him quite the literary star--"the dashing new face of magical realism," as GQ put it. His publisher had tripled his next advance in anticipation of the next critically-acclaimed bestseller. Chanyeol had whisked Soojung away to Taiwan for a week--their first and only trip abroad.
In the fall, a few weeks shy of Chanyeol's twenty-eighth birthday, when every leaf in Seoul had roasted itself to autumnal perfection, Soojung sat him down.
They'd had a fight a few days before--a big one, about nothing. Chanyeol wanting to shut himself in all the time, with just Soojung and Kawaii the cat for company, flirting with ideas for his third novel. Her wanting to go out more--see her friends, try new things, bring him along for all the fun.
Chanyeol had actually thought the talk was to make up with him. Not that he was mad. He couldn't stay mad at her for more than an hour, tops, before second-guessing himself.
Soojung's hair had been loose, falling unbrushed over her shoulders. Her woolly cardigan had been a deep red; her lips pale and chapped.
"Oppa," she'd said, voice trembling, "I think we should break up."
He'd been stunned. In an instant, he was telling her he was sorry, drawing her hand into both of his and bending low to see her eyes. "It was my fault," he'd reassured her, rubbing the soft skin of her hand between his palms to warm it up. "I know I'm difficult and boring. I'm sorry. I'll try harder, okay? I promise to try harder."
She'd started to cry then, and he'd tried to wipe the tears from her face. But Soojung had pulled away. Her hand, too.
She'd explained to him how she felt like they were stuck, had been stuck for a long time now. How she needed more than familiarity and comfort and the ease of routine--all good things, but not quite enough. Passion, she'd said. They didn't have passion.
"We have plenty of passion," Chanyeol had refuted her, desperately. "What are you saying? I write books about you because of it."
"Don't you get it?" she'd asked him, rhetorically, eyes red-rimmed. "You reinvent me in your books, but in reality, you have no idea who I am anymore."
Chanyeol had taken her face between his hands. "You're my girl, Soojung." It'd felt like there was a dotted line down the middle of his chest, marking skin and muscle, and each word out of Soojung's mouth was tearing one dash from the other.
She'd started sobbing silently, trying to wrest out of his hold at first. She'd given up when Chanyeol kissed her on the forehead. A last-ditch effort.
"Oppa," she'd pleaded with him. "Please."
It ended with Chanyeol at his own kitchen table, gutted and alone, staring at the silver couple ring Soojung had pressed into his palm right before she'd left.
That was four months ago, closing in on five.
Chanyeol hasn't written a word since.
His phone rings on a Tuesday, at half past noon. Chanyeol has spent the morning watching cute animal videos on Youtube, avoiding the paltry folder of notes and images on his desktop that's supposedly there to "inspire" him.
"Yeol-ah," Jongdae's brassy voice greets him, more cajoling than usual. "I need a favor."
That's how Chanyeol finds himself at Seoul St. Mary's with a bag of Japanese takeout, asking the nurse at the visitor's reception if he's in the right wing for Room 114.
The hospital corridors are painted a calm mint green, with faux wood flooring and a sterile smell, not entirely unpleasant. Chanyeol's beat-up Vans squeak quietly as he rounds a corner and finally sees the right name on the right door.
He knocks first. When there is no answer, he pushes the door open. A curtain separates the entry from the rest of the room.
"Hyung?" mumbles a groggy voice on the other side of the curtain. "I smell something good."
Chanyeol pushes the thin fabric aside. "Jongdae had a work emergency," he says. "He sent me over with your lunch."
A face, half-asleep, turns to look at him. Surprise registers slowly over smooth, tanned features, like a candle flickering to life.
The young man props himself up by the elbows. His dark hair is puffed up and mushroomy, and there's a tiny curl to his mouth.
"I'm sorry, sir," he says, with a polite dip of the head. He rubs his eyes. "I thought you were him."
Chanyeol smiles, feeling the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Sir. "Just hyung," he corrects the patient, noticing for the first time the long, bare leg elevated at the ankle. "I'm Park Chanyeol. Jongdae's friend."
"Ah," is the immediate, comprehending response. "Best friend Yeol."
"That's me." Chanyeol places the takeout on the table by the wall. "And you're baby cousin Jongin."
The young man leans back into his pillows, folding his arms over his stomach. "That's me." He has soft eyes, like the panda cubs Chanyeol was cooing over before Jongdae called. "Still the maknae at twenty-five."
"You hungry, maknae?" Chanyeol scoops out a bento box, holds it out. "It's tempura."
"Yes, hyung," Kim Jongin says, and he smiles in a funny, childlike way that reminds Chanyeol so much of his cousin.
Chanyeol presses the button that inclines the bed, arranging the pillows behind Jongin so he can sit comfortably. Then he sets up the tray table and places the bento box on it, together with utensils and a cup of water. It's a tricky job, considering he has to navigate around an elevated leg in a sling. The younger man watches him patiently, allowing himself to be shifted around and tucked back in around the edges.
Chanyeol tosses the cling wrap covering the miso soup and tempura dipping sauce back into the takeout bag, along with chopsticks' wrapper. "All done," he declares. "Enjoy your lunch, Jongin."
Baby panda eyes blink back at him. "You're not eating?"
"I only got the one order for you," Chanyeol replies. "Go ahead."
"Thank you," Jongin murmurs. "The food here is pretty inedible." He sticks his chopsticks into the top of his rice, bringing a tiny, sticky scoop of it into his mouth. "Are you leaving?"
The way he says it, much too nonchalant, makes it seem like he doesn't want to be left alone.
"I don't have to." Chanyeol takes off his cap, runs his fingers through matted hair, and puts the cap on backwards again, just as it was. "Want some company?"
Jongin gnaws on the tips of his chopsticks, contemplative. "If you aren't too busy," he answers, finally. "Sorry, I wouldn't usually...it's just so dull in this hospital, and the only time I get to talk to someone who isn't a healer is when Jongdae-hyung comes to see me on his lunch break. Or after work, if I'm still awake."
He licks his lips, somewhat bothered, and Chanyeol can tell this twenty-five-year-old maknae doesn't ramble very often.
"I don't have anywhere to be," he replies, sinking into the seat by the bed. It squeaks loudly under the weight of his body, and he thinks he hears Jongin chuckle.
"Cool," the younger man ripostes, all better now. He plucks a limb of tempura from the bouquet in his bento and halves it in one bite. "I've read Float, by the way." He flushes down the mouthful with a sip of miso. "Jongdae-hyung brought me a copy the day after he checked me in."
"Oh?" Chanyeol wasn't expecting that. He scratches the strip of forehead caught beneath the adjuster of his snapback. "What did you think?"
"It was really great. Feel-good great." Jongin's smile is teasing, like he doesn't want Chanyeol to find him too serious, but his eyes are plain and earnest. "I think you're my new favorite writer, Park Chanyeol-sshi."
"Flattery to break the ice." Chanyeol grins, already charmed. "That's so Jongdae of you."
Jongin grins, too, the white slice of it askew. "I'm better at it though, aren't I, Writer-nim?"
Cute, Chanyeol thinks to himself, the word materializing like an object from underwater. Before he knows it, he's mussing up Jongin's hair with the digits on his right hand.
Jongin doesn't flinch. He only throws up a V sign, expression amusingly placid.
"Just hyung, all right?" Chanyeol extricates his fingers from the mushroom mop. He reaches for the remote. "Now eat your food before Jongdae calls to check."
"Let's watch Running Man," Jongin says, pouring tempura sauce over his rice. "It's on right about now."
They catch two episodes back to back. When Chanyeol leaves, he brings the empty takeout containers with him.
"Get well soon," he tells the manboy with the broken ankle.
In return, he's served a sleepy "Thanks, hyung," followed by another one of those crooked grins.
Chanyeol gets an invitation from Jongdae three days later, on their Line thread.
Jongin asked about you, the message reads. Come visit tomorrow. I've got the day off, and I'm introducing him to Sunyoung.
Bad idea, Chanyeol replies. Baby cousin Jongin obliterates you in the looks department.
Get in line, Yeol, Jongdae sends back. Half of Seoul is in love with him, too.
Chanyeol replies with five different poo stickers. This is you.
Miss you, Jongdae says, dispatching a kiss mark. Room 114, lunchtime. I'll take care of the food.
It's Jongin's eighth day in his germ-free hospital room, and Chanyeol can already tell he's going stir-crazy. There are doodles all over his cast that weren't there the last time. Superhero logos and tiny mazes and unfamiliar names with emojis next to them; some bestowed by dancer friends who've come to visit him, others requested by Jongin of his nurses out of sheer boredom. When Chanyeol walks in, Jongdae's scrawling a Pororo in green marker right above the big toe.
"Hey kids," Chanyeol says pleasantly.
The TV's on, so it's strange that Jongin looks up from a book. "Hey."
"Finally," Jongdae drawls. He, on the other hand, does not look up. Pororo takes precedence over regular old best friends.
Sunyoung's sitting in the chair by Jongin's bed. Someone's just made her laugh. "There you are," she exhales, hands in the air. "These two are starting to feed off each other's weirdness."
"What's going on?" Chanyeol leans against the wall behind her.
"Name poems." Sunyoung tells him, smirking over her shoulder. "Jongin is an expert at them."
"And at multi-tasking, too, I see." Chanyeol tilts his head to the side. His eyes rest on the paperback in Jongin's lap. A laugh track blares from the television speakers. "What're you reading?"
He sees the curl in the corner of Jongin's mouth before the younger can conceal it. "Might be one of yours. Or not."
"So mysterious, maknae."
Chanyeol takes off his sunglasses to hang them in the neck of his sweater. But Jongin holds out a hand, so Chanyeol passes the eyewear to him instead.
"What's your guess?" Jongin slides on the wayfarers, pressing them into the bridge of his nose. From the neck up, he looks like one of those rich kids on a yacht in the tropics.
"I don't know," Chanyeol plays along. "I'm not sure what baby cousins like to read nowadays."
"Sorry to interrupt this fascinating discussion," Jongdae cuts in, "but I'm starving." He caps the Sharpie and tosses it to Chanyeol. "It's Pool and he loves it. Now sign this cast so we can eat--Jongin's been waiting for you to do it."
Jongdae hops off the mattress, cheerful half-moons for eyes.
Chanyeol pushes off the wall to take his place. He glances in Jongin's direction, bent on teasing him. The dancer's eyes are downcast, and his cheeks are flushed.
It's really...endearing. Almost as endearing as the guilty puppy photos Chanyeol's got saved into a separate folder on his desktop. And cute. Very cute. (That word again, wafting through Chanyeol's mind like a gentle reminder.)
He diverts his attention to Jongdae. "Another satisfied customer?" he jokes. "I should really start paying you some sort of commission."
"Uh, yeah," Jongdae replies. "I'm like a hype man and personal shopper in one." His eyes twinkle and narrow, and Chanyeol knows he's going in for the kill. "You haven't put that thing down since I handed it to you last night, have you, Jonginnie?"
Jongin blushes even harder, but he manages an unrepentant look this time. "I didn't have a choice," he ripostes. "You were whispering really saucy things to Sunyoung-sshi over the phone. I had to keep myself occupied."
Chanyeol widens his mouth, tipping his head back in a silent guffaw.
Sunyoung slaps Jongdae's shoulder. "Oh my god." She hits him again when he tries to protest. "You said you were out in the corridor!"
"I was in the bathroom!" he explains, laughing and groaning at once. "How would I know Jongin has bionic ears?"
"The door was open," Jongin murmurs matter-of-factly.
"Also, hospital bathrooms aren't soundproof," Chanyeol adds, even though he probably shouldn't. Sunyoung rarely loses her cool like this, and he kind of enjoys witnessing it. "You know, in case of emergencies."
That gets both him and Jongdae whumped on the head. Jongin chortles like an overgrown baby, but he sticks his book under a pillow, anyway, to protect it.
Jongdae's brought a box of Mr. Pizza this time. Twelve thin-crust slices of quattro formaggi, with hot sauce in packets on the side.
Jongin wolfs down two wedges in under five minutes. Chanyeol's still holding the Sharpie from earlier, his share of the pizza cooling slowly in the airconditioning.
"What should I write?" he says to the room, addressing no one in particular.
"Something fun," Jongin replies. He's got tomato sauce along the hinges of his mouth. His tongue pokes out to clean it up.
"Just give him your autograph," Jongdae croons. "Or your contact details, so I can stop playing the go-between."
Jongin doesn't give him the satisfaction of a violent reaction. He only looks steadily Chanyeol's way, lips inert, eyes assessing.
Chanyeol grins, going for amiable. "You'll text me what you think of the book, won't you, Jongin?"
Jongin reaches for his third slice. "Sure, hyung."
Chanyeol has terrible penmanship. He hopes Jongin can still make out the scrawl he leaves over the dancer's ankle, the blank patch of plaster now marked up in green.
This is Chanyeol-hyung, he writes, including his mobile number and a teensy sketch of a pair of sunglasses. Don't forget~
After spending ten days in confinement at the hospital, Jongin is discharged.
Chanyeol finds out via SMS, through both Kim cousins.
Yeol-ah, Jongdae types. I need another favor!
Chanyeol sends him a sticker of a teddy bear with two question marks pinging over his head.
I'll be working really late for the next couple nights, Jongdae informs him. Four, maybe five. We're pulling a seven-day workweek to meet a deadline.
Chanyeol selects a sticker of the teddy bear at his cubicle, angrily sweeping paper off his desk.
Yeah yeah yeah. So would you look in on Jongin for me? Make sure he eats something? Doesn't fall over??? Jongdae's breaking out the triples now, which means this is a demand, not a request.
Chanyeol sighs, scratching the back of his neck. His apartment is in Hongdae, and Jongdae's is in Apgujeong, and Chanyeol's got way too much white space on his computer screen staring back at him with icy judgment to make the trip twice a day.
I need to write, he types back. Send him here for the week. Easier that way.
Big softie. Jongdae sticker-spams him a sequence of hearts, balloons, and confetti. My hero *_*
Chanyeol busts out the sticker of Sandara Park wielding a light saber (his favorite).
Close to dinnertime, when Chanyeol has given up on his (lack of a) draft to drown his sorrows in a cold Cass, Jongin messages him.
I finished Pool
Chanyeol puts down his glass. The ice cubes in it crackle when they touch.
Hey maknae^^
Jongin types the way a kindergartner speaks--without patience, and with unintentional humor. Chanyeol watches, amused, as each phrase pops up on his phone screen with a choppy cadence.
Hi
I liked it
Really liked it
But
It was depressing at the end
Depressing as hell
You writers have issues
Chanyeol's laugh is off-key, his unutilized voice lodging in his throat. Of course. We're writers~
Jongin likes teddy bear stickers, too. He sends the one of Brown hunkering down in a corner, flanked by shadows, all gloom and doom.
Let's talk about them
When I sleep over
Hyung
"Do you want anything specific for dinner?"
The kitchen counter digs into Chanyeol's tailbone. He's shuffling through takeout menus--chicken place, pizza place, Chinese place. He leans against the gray tile, the edge pressing cool against his skin through the fabric of his shirt. This counter has always been too low for comfort (or maybe Chanyeol's always been too tall).
"I want ramyun," Jongin replies, an arm's length away, "but I shouldn't." He's propped up against the island in Chanyeol's kitchen, looking comfortable despite the crutch under one arm.
"Sure you can," Chanyeol says. He reaches behind himself and a little lower to pry open the cupboard with his Shin Cup stash. "I've got plenty."
"It's not that." Jongin rolls his neck, so it cricks. "I'm in recovery now, so it's back to the usual grind."
Chanyeol cocks an eyebrow in his direction. "You're on a diet?"
Jongin exhales his amusement through his nostrils. It sends a few wisps of his unstyled hair fluttering. "I'm a dancer. It's not a diet--it's maintenance." He rakes his bangs off his face and rubs his left eye, smile fuzzy.
Every time they've met, this manboy looks halfway between needing a nap and just waking up from one. At least, that's what Chanyeol thinks.
"Okay..." He puts the handful of menus back on the counter. "I can, um, make you a salad?"
Jongin's laugh matches his Line messages--choppy, and a little cartoonish. There's an undercurrent of scorn in it, too, but not the bad kind. It's more along the lines of: You're feeding me a salad on my first night out of the hospital?
"Nah," Jongin answers, markedly more familiar. Another laugh is tiptoeing out of the corner of his mouth, but he tucks it back with practiced self-restraint. "Can we eat meat?"
"That I can do," Chanyeol declares, and he pries open the door to the fridge.
On a hot plate, he grills sukiyaki cuts of beef, and chunkier, fattier cubes of pork, and the rich and earthy portobello mushrooms he finds in his chiller. Jongin stands next to him, watching the food brown and helpfully handing Chanyeol black pepper and sesame oil when he reaches for it.
"Go sit down," Chanyeol tells him, gently bumping their shoulders together. "You're in recovery."
"I'm fine," Jongin says in return.
There's finality in the words, so Chanyeol doesn't nag. He does let Jongin taste the most well-done bits of meat clamped between the barbecue tongs whenever the newcomer licks his lips.
Later, when they're in the middle of their sit-down meal, and Chanyeol has taken advantage of a lull in their conversation to grab them fresh beers, Jongin asks.
"Who is Soojung, hyung?"
That catches Chanyeol off-guard. He returns to the table, carefully setting down one can for himself and one for Jongin. "My ex-girlfriend."
"Ah," Jongin says. His gaze is thoughtful and neutral at once, and his beer makes a pleasant pop when he cracks it open. "Is she 'S'? In Float?"
The books. That's where he got the name. Chanyeol thought maybe Jongdae had looped his cousin in.
"That's right." He takes a long draught of his beer. It's freezing cold, silken as it washes down his throat. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason," is Jongin's simple response. "Just curious."
Chanyeol changes the subject, only because it looks like Jongin is giving up on this one. "What do you dance, maknae?"
The younger man folds in his lips to wet them. "Ballet."
"Fancy," Chanyeol deadpans. Jongin rolls his eyes. It makes the elder bark out a laugh. "What?"
"I've heard it all," Jongin says, unamused but grinning anyway, in spite of himself. "So give me your best shot, hyung."
"Aw," Chanyeol backtracks immediately, leaning forward on his elbows. Uncertainty prickles at his sternum, a degree shy of guilt. "I didn't mean anything by it, Jongin."
Jongin tilts his head, inquisitive. There's that sleepy, seeking look again. "I'm used to strangers finding it funny."
"I write fairytales for a living." Chanyeol has always turned to self-deprecation as a palliative measure. "I'm sure strangers would find that funny, too."
It works. This time, when Jongin smiles at him, it radiates genuine humor, coupled with a strange sort of interest that Chanyeol kind of likes.
"So when did you start dancing?" he asks, thumbing at the lip of his Cass.
"When I was eight." Chanyeol can't put a finger on it--this lazy, hazy gaze Jongin presents him with.
"Wow," Chanyeol says, letting out a low whistle. "When I was eight, all I could think about was tteokbokki."
"Not so fancy," Jongin drawls in the same tone of voice Chanyeol had used to tease him. His eyes are bright and curved and mischievous.
Chanyeol raises both hands, simpering at the table in defeat. Like clockwork, his subconscious intones that word he always associates with Jongdae's baby cousin. Cute, cute, cute.
"Just kidding," cute Kim Jongin says, stretching his hands across the table. Palms down. Conciliatory. He giggles--a sweet, carefree sound that Chanyeol's never heard him make before--and he waits for Chanyeol to pose his next question.
So Chanyeol asks.
"What got you into ballet?"
"Uncle was a ballerino. Grew up watching him."
"What's the first ballet you were in?"
"The Nutcracker."
"You played..."
"A gingerbread soldier."
Chanyeol can't help but grin. "And who is your favorite ballet dancer?"
"Mikhail Baryshnikov." The foreign name rolls off Jongin's tongue easily, lean and athletic. "Did you know he defected from Russia?"
Chanyeol doesn't even know who Mikhail Baryshnikov is. "Really?" he murmurs, anyway, because he enjoys the light in Jongin's face when he talks about dance.
The latter nods, mildly exuberant. "He was on tour with the Kirov Ballet, his original company, in Canada. By the end of the tour, he'd decided to stay behind." He picks up his chopsticks to feed himself a small slice of mushroom. "It was a huge scandal at the time."
Chanyeol hums. It's a cool story, but he's a little more fascinated by the play of Jongin's features. He compares the sharpness of Jongin's jawbone with the rounded upper curve of his cheek; the intelligent slope of his brows and the boyish, almost dopey look he gets in his eyes when he finds the taste in his mouth delicious. It's a bit intrusive of him, Chanyeol will be the first to admit. But he's a writer, after all, with writer's instincts--and a photographic memory on top of that. He absorbs expressions, sounds, smells, shapes, the entirety of a mundane scene, the way other people absorb gossip.
"Tell me something about ballet," he requests. "Something regular people wouldn't know."
"Hmm." Jongin chews on the inside of his left cheek. "That's a weird question."
"You're a weird kid who likes to dance," Chanyeol bounces back, "and I'm a weird writer-hyung who doesn't know anything about it."
Jongin cracks his knuckles, steeples his fingers under his chin. "All right. Do you know what a pirouette is?"
"Kind of?" Chanyeol had watched Center Stage when he was in middle school. With Kyungsoo and Baekhyun, at the Megabox Cineplex in COEX, before the entire mall was this glitzy tourist magnet. (He can't believe he still remembers.) "The spinning move, right?"
"Right." Jongin taps his fingertips over his knuckles, digits still interwoven. An inverted clap. Then he says, "A pirouette is not a fouette."
Chanyeol nods, polite and patient. He waits for the explanation. When none is offered to him--only a quirk of a smile--he furrows his brow. "Is that it?"
Jongin pops another portobello sliver into his mouth. "That's it."
"What's the difference?"
"I'd show you," Jongin replies, "but I busted my ankle, remember?"
And then it hits Chanyeol. Painkillers. Jongdae told him to give Jongin his painkillers. Chanyeol's eyes dart to his watch. It's an hour over schedule.
"Shit," he mutters. "Jongin, I forgot about your medication."
The dancer shakes his head. "Don't need it."
"No, I'll go get it for you--"
"Don't need it," Jongin insists, leaning back into his chair with stubbornness in his eyes. "I've got a high threshold for pain, hyung. I'm good."
He doesn't look like he's trying to get out of anything needlessly, but Chanyeol still hesitates. "You sure?"
"Yeah." Jongin takes a swig of his beer. The sides of the can are sweating. "No need to baby me while I'm here."
There's a whisper of rebellion skating underneath that last sentence. Chanyeol says nothing of it--only files it away as another dissonant, surprising, strangely appealing facet of Jongin's personality. "If you say so, maknae."
They drink in silence for a brief spell. It isn't comfortable, because they aren't that familiar with each other yet. Chanyeol has a feeling that will change, though.
"I'll show you." Jongin's mid-pitched mumble cuts through the quiet. No segue.
"Show me what?" Chanyeol says, accommodating him with a grin.
"The difference," the dancer replies, "between a pirouette and a fouette." His voice is neither shy nor smug. It's unadorned, like the expression that's fallen, mellow, across his face. "I'll show you when I'm better, hyung."
Just now, while he was speaking, Jongin had resembled Kyungsoo so much--so much, it was almost like Chanyeol was staring at a photograph of his old school friend. He inhales, lips straightening into a tight line.
-
Jongin notices. "What's the matter?"
Swiftly, Chanyeol props up his smile. "Nothing," he beams, blinking away errant memories. "Show me your spins when your break heals. I'm ready to be impressed."
Jongin eyes him prudently, but he allows the shift in conversation (the way he had earlier, when Chanyeol steered them away from talk of Soojung). "Pirouette. Fouette. Not spins."
"Pirouette," Chanyeol repeats after him. "Fouette." He laughs weakly, feeling awkward. His pronunciation is atrocious.
The air in the kitchen still smells like their dinner, and the breath catching in Chanyeol's nostrils already whiffs of beer. If he lowers his eyes, he can just make out Jongin's doodle-laden cast, where it taps absently against the nearest table leg.
Jongin flashes teeth, white and straight. "Not spins," he reminds Chanyeol.
The elder nods obediently. "Not spins."
Part 2
Pairing: Chankai
Genre: writer!au, ballet!au
Rating: PG-13
Length: 30,100 words
Summary: Heartbroken Park Chanyeol is struggling with writer's block when he meets a magnetic young dancer on the mend.
Warnings: Shades of homophobia. (And girlfriends. Lots of girlfriends.)
Notes: In the spring I went to Seoul, where I toyed with a tiny seed of an idea while listening to this version of "Latch." For the ballet scenes, do try this Erik Satie compilation and Claude Debussy's "Claire de Lune" :)
"Couples night?" Chanyeol grips the base of his beer and settles into his chair, laughing. "You've dragged me out to couples night?"
Four beaming faces crowd around him. The skin of each one is golden-lit by the candles on their table--al fresco, but not too close to the sidewalk. This is Chanyeol's favorite café bar in Hongdae, and he suspects the choice was not a coincidence.
"It's your own damn fault," Jongdae snorts at him. "I had to lie and say it was someone's birthday to tear you away from your laptop."
"What lie? It is someone's birthday," Chanyeol says, turning to Sunyoung for support. "Right, kiddo?"
Jongdae had stated it explicitly in his tenth Line this morning, when the first nine had gone unanswered. It's my girlfriend's birthday, you tortured writer bastard. Come out of your cave. Then came the eleventh message. I haven't seen proof of life in a month!!!
Chanyeol smiles at Sunyoung, expecting a pat on the head. He's always been a kind of pet of hers, despite the fact that he's three years older and about fifty inches taller.
Instead, Sunyoung sends him a comical grimace, her mouth rectangular. She shrugs noncommittally, like the very first time Chanyeol had caught her holding hands with Jongdae on a coffee run. The look in her eyes is withholding and relenting at once, the same way it had been back then.
Chanyeol purses his lips. "Sunyoung?"
Yixing hooks his chin over Song Qian's shoulder. "It was two days ago."
From where she's sitting in Yixing's lap, Song Qian pokes out a finger and pushes it into Chanyeol's cheek. "Dummy," she whispers in that wonky accent of hers (the very one that makes Yixing pop a dimple).
"Oh, shit," Chanyeol mutters. In a second, he's roping his long arms around Sunyoung for a hug and bellowing, "Belated happy birthdaaay!" He squeezes her tight, swaying her from side to side, like he wants to jostle any inkling of indignation right out of her.
Jongdae protests in the background ("Hey. Hey! Let go!"). But Sunyoung only giggles and hugs Chanyeol back. She pats him on the head, too, so Chanyeol knows he's forgiven.
He pulls back when Jongdae starts flicking polka dots into his forearm. "I'm sorry I forgot, Sunyoung-ah."
Sunyoung waves off the apology. "It's fine. Oppa here--" she points in Jongdae's direction, "--told me to lay on the guilt. But I know you're knee-deep in research for the new book, so I don't mind one bit."
More like neck-deep in writer's block, Chanyeol thinks to himself forlornly. He rubs at the most tender spot on his arm, elbowing Jongdae when he tries to flick it again. "Remind me how young you are?"
"Twenty-five," Sunyoung sighs. "There's no turning back now, oppa. Next year, I'll be in my late twenties."
"I've been in my late twenties for three whole years," he singsongs back, wiggling his shoulders in a spontaneous little dance. "My back's probably going to give out soon. Then my knees. Then my teeth."
Sunyoung and Song Qian burst into laughter simultaneously. Chanyeol feels a grin snap across his face. He loves the music of it--girls laughing. Loud or soft, a soloist or a symphony of them, always like the sound of splashing water.
Jongdae flings a French fry at him. "Don't flirt." The fry misses Chanyeol's chin by a centimeter, landing on his jeans with a limp plop.
Chanyeol places it into his mouth. "I'm not flirting, you nut."
"You're smiling your handsome smile," Yixing puts in, lips puffing. "I don't one hundred percent approve of it?"
"All my smiles are handsome," Chanyeol replies, sweet and guileless. He plucks a second fry from Yixing's plate, and Song Qian coos at him like he's a hungry puppy.
It's likely Yixing doesn't approve of that, either, because he worms a wet finger into Chanyeol's ear.
Chanyeol has always been so, so ticklish.
He curses in a yelp, leaping out of his seat. "Hyung!" Both palms fuse over his ear--armor--as Jongdae collapses into a bed of cackles.
Yixing sparkles at him. "That's what you get~" His dimples are so deep. Chanyeol contemplates squirting ketchup into them.
Song Qian wrinkles her nose. She dabs at Yixing's finger with one of the wipes the server has left on their table, then stuffs the used sheet back into its torn package. Every fiber of her expression quivers with the suspicion that Yixing's gotten earwax residue all over himself.
It makes Chanyeol chuckle, albeit reluctantly. Girls are so squeamish--even the sexy, sassy types like Song Qian--and he finds it adorable. He sticks his own finger into the same ear, trying to rub out the traces of Yixing's attack.
Jongdae's still laughing. "I'm getting another beer, you want one?"
Chanyeol climbs back into his seat, rolling his eyes at Yixing but clinking the necks of their beers together, anyway. "Sure, why not."
"Oh, there--" Sunyoung says suddenly, her arm shooting up to wave at someone over Chanyeol's shoulder. "Oppa," she addresses him in a low aside. "I hope you don't mind, but I invited Soojung."
Chanyeol's entire mouth goes cottony.
He only used to kiss her deeply in dark movie theaters and pull her naked into the shower, where she would wrap her arms and legs and lips around him. He only used to hold her soft, makeup-less face between his hands first thing in the morning, and weave her fingers into his whenever her cat had to go to the vet, and tell her, as she laughed and licked his jaw in the ladies' room of a bar, that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
She was just the girl who'd broken up with him four months ago, after three years together, because she felt they'd run their course.
Just the muse that Chanyeol had lost, and the reason he hasn't managed to get started on his new book, despite the increasingly frantic, coaxing tone his editor's emails have taken on.
Just the one that got away.
"That's all right," he murmurs back, and he forces himself to smile at Sunyoung. "She's your best friend. Of course she should be here."
"Don't leave, okay?" Sunyoung squeezes his wrist. "Jongdae-oppa was so happy you came tonight. He hasn't--none of us have seen you around much, really. Not since..."
She trails off there, but Chanyeol knows exactly what she means.
"I won't leave, Sunyoung-ah." He makes sure to use his handsome smile for real this time--the wide one with a crook to it that he breaks out for portraits and TV interviews. "Jongdae-oppa would disown me, otherwise."
Soojung's standing right behind Sunyoung now. Her loose, sheer dress and slightly windblown hair make her seem even more delicate than Chanyeol remembers. Dreamlike, even. Or maybe he just misses her.
Soojung hugs her friend and hands her a present wrapped in pretty striped paper.
When she finally looks at Chanyeol, her eyes are nervous. "Hi, oppa."
"Hi," Chanyeol murmurs, smile melting away, drop by bittersweet drop. "Long time no see."
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Jongdae chirps a week later, when he shows up at Chanyeol's apartment unannounced. He comes bearing lunch, at least, so Chanyeol lets him in.
"What?" Chanyeol asks halfheartedly. He peers into the bag of food Jongdae's brought with him. Tempura bento boxes. Yum.
"You know what." Jongdae's tone is both impatient and affectionate. It's a unique sound, a bit nasal, that Chanyeol has come to associate with only him, like a smell or a footstep.
"Use your words, Jongdae," he teases his friend. But he can already tell by the lilt in Jongdae's voice that this is about Soojung.
At the café bar, they'd sat side by side for two hours and spoken to their friends and to one another, catching up and smiling softly and laughing lightly but not touching at all. It had felt...unnatural to Chanyeol. Unnatural, and a little unnerving. Because for the three years they'd dated, Soojung had always done something small and warm and subtle to invade his space. Hand on the back of his neck. Pinky looped into his under the table. Temple pressed against his shoulder. Chanyeol had flourished under the attention, every time, because it made him feel wanted.
But she doesn't want you anymore, he'd reminded himself when he'd gotten home that night. You're just an ex-boyfriend with joint friend custody.
"You and Soojung--"
"Still broken up," Chanyeol says casually. He starts lifting the food containers out of the takeout bag.
"Did she message you afterwards?" Jongdae's tone shifts to one of uncertainty.
"Why would she?"
"Did you message her?"
In total, there are three bento boxes on Chanyeol's coffee table. "No, I didn't," he tells Jongdae. "Is Sunyoung coming over?"
"What?" Jongdae blinks at him before he notices the extra bento box Chanyeol is tapping with his index finger.
"Ah, no, that's not for her." He packs it back into the food bag, along with the third pair of chopsticks and a few napkins. "I'm seeing my cousin after this. He's laid up at Seoul St. Mary's."
"The hospital?" Chanyeol folds his legs under him and lifts the lid off one of the boxes. The burst of seafood, soy sauce, and miso smells make his mouth water. "Is he okay?"
Jongdae plops down next to him, splitting a pair of chopsticks. "Broke his ankle. He's fine." Jongdae mulls over his rice. "But he's a dancer, so he's a little depressed about it?"
Chanyeol nods, biting into a piece of shrimp. The Japanese breadcrumbs yield between his teeth with a satisfying crunch. "How long do those things take to heal, more or less?"
"Six to eight weeks." Jongdae gets up again, making his way to the fridge. Chanyeol was too focused on getting the food out to prepare the water. "But judging by this break," Jongdae says over his shoulder, "and the fact that Jongin plans to hit the ground running post-recovery, the doc says he's looking at twelve."
"Oof."
"I know. And he's such a good kid, too, so I feel bad." Jongdae is padding back again, two bottles of Eau in his grasp. (Chanyeol always buys his water from the Paris Baguette across the street, because he likes how the bottles look like giant aspirin capsules.)
"His parents live in Goyang," Jongdae continues, "and his sisters both married British guys and moved abroad. I'm the only family he's got in the city, so I need to keep him occupied."
Chanyeol takes his share of the water. "Thanks, man." Jongdae slides back down into his spot with a prolonged aigoo~, and Chanyeol laughs when his knees crick. "His name's Jongin?"
"Yeah. Kim Jongin. Dad's side." Jongdae picks up some pickled cabbage and shakes it in Chanyeol's face. "You should see this kid, Yeol. He's a prince. He's even better-looking than Joonmyun-hyung."
Chanyeol shapes his mouth into a small o. Their favorite senior at university (now a producer at the radio station where Jongdae works) has always looked like a primetime drama lead. The o stretches into a grin. "Has Sunyoung met him?"
"How dumb do you think I am?" Jongdae jokes in a high-pitched voice, and they both chortle, bumping shoulders.
They sit like that for a spell, munching on their lunch and enjoying the comfortable silence. Chanyeol almost forgets they were talking about something else before Jongdae's cousin came up out of the blue.
The thought seems to occur to Jongdae at the exact same moment.
"So about the dreaded ex," Jongdae starts, washing down a mouthful of tempura.
"Mmm."
"You know I'll always be on your side, Yeol. No matter what."
"I know, Jongdae."
"If you want me to tell Sunyoung that Soojung can't come out with us when you do, I'll tell her."
Chanyeol chuckles, touched, even though the sound of her name makes his heart do a tiny, painful flip. "Nah. No need for that. I can handle it."
"Sure?" Jongdae looks a little relieved, in spite of his bravado.
"I mean...yeah. Yeah. And besides," Chanyeol licks his lips, a little embarrassed, "maybe if I start seeing her around more often, talking to her again, and all that--I dunno, maybe it'll help me finally draft this sorry excuse for a novel."
"Your novel isn't sorry," Jongdae says gently. "It's just stalled." And then, in a quiet, curious voice: "Can't you write about anyone else?"
Half the food in Chanyeol's bento box is untouched, but suddenly he isn't hungry anymore. He smiles at Jongdae, and the ruefulness in it is a physical sensation, like the stroke of a fingertip over the seam of his lips.
"How?"
Chanyeol's first novel had been a light, sweet, gossamer thing about a young boy with the ability to fly, suddenly falling in love with the blind girl across the street.
He'd just met Soojung then, when she was a fledgling stylist without a magazine cover to her name, and he a junior staffwriter for Esquire, occasionally doing freelance work for their sister titles. They'd been introduced at a shoot for Cosmopolitan, where Soojung got her first big break dressing Yoon Eun Hye. Chanyeol had taken one look at her--this wispy, resolute girl with sweat on her forehead from steaming racks of expensive clothes--and he'd asked Yoon Eun Hye the exact same interview question, twice.
They'd gone to Lotte World on their first date. Chanyeol was bumbling and awkward, despite the fact that he'd asked Soojung out the week before without so much as an eye twitch. On the other hand, Soojung had breezed through the afternoon--little red skirt, twenty-two-year-old dauntlessness. She'd slipped her hand into Chanyeol's after an hour or so and pulled him into the queue for the French Revolution, never letting go. The touch had made every inch of his skin tingle. Chanyeol had watched her, spellbound on the rollercoaster, as Soojung shut her eyes and screamed with delight. The idea just came to him. A boy in flight, with a girl in his arms; she unable to see the city beneath them, but feeling the rush and thrill of it, anyway, like the wind against her face.
It only took six months of writing after work, in the wee hours of the morning, and every free minute that wasn't spent in Soojung's company on the weekends, for Chanyeol to complete the novel. Float, he titled it. By the time it was published, Chanyeol was a week into twenty-five, and Soojung his official girlfriend of sixty days. The dedication on the third page read, simply, For S.
Chanyeol's second novel had taken a little longer to write. Float had done well enough that he'd been able to quit his job at the magazine to write fiction fulltime. There were interviews and pictorials and a book tour--and on top of that, a hefty advance from his publisher for the follow-up novel.
He'd taken Soojung to Jeju-do with the first of his book money. He'd been really proud about it, too--that he could put her up at a fancy hotel, in a spacious room smelling of lavender and fresh linen, with a floor-to-ceiling view of the sea's endless blue roll. The trip itself had been cheesy and wonderful; the pair of them dressed in matching nautical wear, taking turns asking strangers to photograph them together. They'd gone to see the vivid yellow blanket of the yuchae fields, the dol hareubang sculptures carved from basalt lining the coast, the Cheonjiyeon Waterfall. It was evening when Soojung kissed him by the falls and told him she loved him, the night lights illuminating the rock face behind, all sooty bronze and seagreen. Chanyeol had never felt this way before--like he was living inside a dream.
Pool was what he'd named the manuscript, a year later. This one was, like his first novel, a sort of fairytale. A mermaid living in an underwater cave below a lighted waterfall encounters the man maintaining the lights. He is a middle-aged widower, and she the only creature of her kind, and they are both starved for companionship. The story is another romance, but this one ends in tragedy, unlike Float. The man falls ill one brutal winter and never recovers, and the immortal mermaid waits and waits and waits for his return, unable to leave the pool below the falls.
"That's really fucking sad," Jongdae had mumbled after he'd read the final draft. "But it was amazing, Yeol." He'd just split up with his girlfriend at the time, and Chanyeol had been extra gentle and attentive with him. (Later, Soojung would put the idea in Chanyeol's head to set Jongdae up with her "super perfect, super gorgeous, super smart best friend," broker Park Sunyoung, whom Chanyeol super liked already.)
Pool's dedication had been split into two lines:
For Jongdae, just because.
And for Soojung (you know why.)
That was the last book Chanyeol had put out, when he was just under twenty-seven. It made him quite the literary star--"the dashing new face of magical realism," as GQ put it. His publisher had tripled his next advance in anticipation of the next critically-acclaimed bestseller. Chanyeol had whisked Soojung away to Taiwan for a week--their first and only trip abroad.
In the fall, a few weeks shy of Chanyeol's twenty-eighth birthday, when every leaf in Seoul had roasted itself to autumnal perfection, Soojung sat him down.
They'd had a fight a few days before--a big one, about nothing. Chanyeol wanting to shut himself in all the time, with just Soojung and Kawaii the cat for company, flirting with ideas for his third novel. Her wanting to go out more--see her friends, try new things, bring him along for all the fun.
Chanyeol had actually thought the talk was to make up with him. Not that he was mad. He couldn't stay mad at her for more than an hour, tops, before second-guessing himself.
Soojung's hair had been loose, falling unbrushed over her shoulders. Her woolly cardigan had been a deep red; her lips pale and chapped.
"Oppa," she'd said, voice trembling, "I think we should break up."
He'd been stunned. In an instant, he was telling her he was sorry, drawing her hand into both of his and bending low to see her eyes. "It was my fault," he'd reassured her, rubbing the soft skin of her hand between his palms to warm it up. "I know I'm difficult and boring. I'm sorry. I'll try harder, okay? I promise to try harder."
She'd started to cry then, and he'd tried to wipe the tears from her face. But Soojung had pulled away. Her hand, too.
She'd explained to him how she felt like they were stuck, had been stuck for a long time now. How she needed more than familiarity and comfort and the ease of routine--all good things, but not quite enough. Passion, she'd said. They didn't have passion.
"We have plenty of passion," Chanyeol had refuted her, desperately. "What are you saying? I write books about you because of it."
"Don't you get it?" she'd asked him, rhetorically, eyes red-rimmed. "You reinvent me in your books, but in reality, you have no idea who I am anymore."
Chanyeol had taken her face between his hands. "You're my girl, Soojung." It'd felt like there was a dotted line down the middle of his chest, marking skin and muscle, and each word out of Soojung's mouth was tearing one dash from the other.
She'd started sobbing silently, trying to wrest out of his hold at first. She'd given up when Chanyeol kissed her on the forehead. A last-ditch effort.
"Oppa," she'd pleaded with him. "Please."
It ended with Chanyeol at his own kitchen table, gutted and alone, staring at the silver couple ring Soojung had pressed into his palm right before she'd left.
That was four months ago, closing in on five.
Chanyeol hasn't written a word since.
His phone rings on a Tuesday, at half past noon. Chanyeol has spent the morning watching cute animal videos on Youtube, avoiding the paltry folder of notes and images on his desktop that's supposedly there to "inspire" him.
"Yeol-ah," Jongdae's brassy voice greets him, more cajoling than usual. "I need a favor."
That's how Chanyeol finds himself at Seoul St. Mary's with a bag of Japanese takeout, asking the nurse at the visitor's reception if he's in the right wing for Room 114.
The hospital corridors are painted a calm mint green, with faux wood flooring and a sterile smell, not entirely unpleasant. Chanyeol's beat-up Vans squeak quietly as he rounds a corner and finally sees the right name on the right door.
He knocks first. When there is no answer, he pushes the door open. A curtain separates the entry from the rest of the room.
"Hyung?" mumbles a groggy voice on the other side of the curtain. "I smell something good."
Chanyeol pushes the thin fabric aside. "Jongdae had a work emergency," he says. "He sent me over with your lunch."
A face, half-asleep, turns to look at him. Surprise registers slowly over smooth, tanned features, like a candle flickering to life.
The young man props himself up by the elbows. His dark hair is puffed up and mushroomy, and there's a tiny curl to his mouth.
"I'm sorry, sir," he says, with a polite dip of the head. He rubs his eyes. "I thought you were him."
Chanyeol smiles, feeling the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Sir. "Just hyung," he corrects the patient, noticing for the first time the long, bare leg elevated at the ankle. "I'm Park Chanyeol. Jongdae's friend."
"Ah," is the immediate, comprehending response. "Best friend Yeol."
"That's me." Chanyeol places the takeout on the table by the wall. "And you're baby cousin Jongin."
The young man leans back into his pillows, folding his arms over his stomach. "That's me." He has soft eyes, like the panda cubs Chanyeol was cooing over before Jongdae called. "Still the maknae at twenty-five."
"You hungry, maknae?" Chanyeol scoops out a bento box, holds it out. "It's tempura."
"Yes, hyung," Kim Jongin says, and he smiles in a funny, childlike way that reminds Chanyeol so much of his cousin.
Chanyeol presses the button that inclines the bed, arranging the pillows behind Jongin so he can sit comfortably. Then he sets up the tray table and places the bento box on it, together with utensils and a cup of water. It's a tricky job, considering he has to navigate around an elevated leg in a sling. The younger man watches him patiently, allowing himself to be shifted around and tucked back in around the edges.
Chanyeol tosses the cling wrap covering the miso soup and tempura dipping sauce back into the takeout bag, along with chopsticks' wrapper. "All done," he declares. "Enjoy your lunch, Jongin."
Baby panda eyes blink back at him. "You're not eating?"
"I only got the one order for you," Chanyeol replies. "Go ahead."
"Thank you," Jongin murmurs. "The food here is pretty inedible." He sticks his chopsticks into the top of his rice, bringing a tiny, sticky scoop of it into his mouth. "Are you leaving?"
The way he says it, much too nonchalant, makes it seem like he doesn't want to be left alone.
"I don't have to." Chanyeol takes off his cap, runs his fingers through matted hair, and puts the cap on backwards again, just as it was. "Want some company?"
Jongin gnaws on the tips of his chopsticks, contemplative. "If you aren't too busy," he answers, finally. "Sorry, I wouldn't usually...it's just so dull in this hospital, and the only time I get to talk to someone who isn't a healer is when Jongdae-hyung comes to see me on his lunch break. Or after work, if I'm still awake."
He licks his lips, somewhat bothered, and Chanyeol can tell this twenty-five-year-old maknae doesn't ramble very often.
"I don't have anywhere to be," he replies, sinking into the seat by the bed. It squeaks loudly under the weight of his body, and he thinks he hears Jongin chuckle.
"Cool," the younger man ripostes, all better now. He plucks a limb of tempura from the bouquet in his bento and halves it in one bite. "I've read Float, by the way." He flushes down the mouthful with a sip of miso. "Jongdae-hyung brought me a copy the day after he checked me in."
"Oh?" Chanyeol wasn't expecting that. He scratches the strip of forehead caught beneath the adjuster of his snapback. "What did you think?"
"It was really great. Feel-good great." Jongin's smile is teasing, like he doesn't want Chanyeol to find him too serious, but his eyes are plain and earnest. "I think you're my new favorite writer, Park Chanyeol-sshi."
"Flattery to break the ice." Chanyeol grins, already charmed. "That's so Jongdae of you."
Jongin grins, too, the white slice of it askew. "I'm better at it though, aren't I, Writer-nim?"
Cute, Chanyeol thinks to himself, the word materializing like an object from underwater. Before he knows it, he's mussing up Jongin's hair with the digits on his right hand.
Jongin doesn't flinch. He only throws up a V sign, expression amusingly placid.
"Just hyung, all right?" Chanyeol extricates his fingers from the mushroom mop. He reaches for the remote. "Now eat your food before Jongdae calls to check."
"Let's watch Running Man," Jongin says, pouring tempura sauce over his rice. "It's on right about now."
They catch two episodes back to back. When Chanyeol leaves, he brings the empty takeout containers with him.
"Get well soon," he tells the manboy with the broken ankle.
In return, he's served a sleepy "Thanks, hyung," followed by another one of those crooked grins.
Chanyeol gets an invitation from Jongdae three days later, on their Line thread.
Jongin asked about you, the message reads. Come visit tomorrow. I've got the day off, and I'm introducing him to Sunyoung.
Bad idea, Chanyeol replies. Baby cousin Jongin obliterates you in the looks department.
Get in line, Yeol, Jongdae sends back. Half of Seoul is in love with him, too.
Chanyeol replies with five different poo stickers. This is you.
Miss you, Jongdae says, dispatching a kiss mark. Room 114, lunchtime. I'll take care of the food.
It's Jongin's eighth day in his germ-free hospital room, and Chanyeol can already tell he's going stir-crazy. There are doodles all over his cast that weren't there the last time. Superhero logos and tiny mazes and unfamiliar names with emojis next to them; some bestowed by dancer friends who've come to visit him, others requested by Jongin of his nurses out of sheer boredom. When Chanyeol walks in, Jongdae's scrawling a Pororo in green marker right above the big toe.
"Hey kids," Chanyeol says pleasantly.
The TV's on, so it's strange that Jongin looks up from a book. "Hey."
"Finally," Jongdae drawls. He, on the other hand, does not look up. Pororo takes precedence over regular old best friends.
Sunyoung's sitting in the chair by Jongin's bed. Someone's just made her laugh. "There you are," she exhales, hands in the air. "These two are starting to feed off each other's weirdness."
"What's going on?" Chanyeol leans against the wall behind her.
"Name poems." Sunyoung tells him, smirking over her shoulder. "Jongin is an expert at them."
"And at multi-tasking, too, I see." Chanyeol tilts his head to the side. His eyes rest on the paperback in Jongin's lap. A laugh track blares from the television speakers. "What're you reading?"
He sees the curl in the corner of Jongin's mouth before the younger can conceal it. "Might be one of yours. Or not."
"So mysterious, maknae."
Chanyeol takes off his sunglasses to hang them in the neck of his sweater. But Jongin holds out a hand, so Chanyeol passes the eyewear to him instead.
"What's your guess?" Jongin slides on the wayfarers, pressing them into the bridge of his nose. From the neck up, he looks like one of those rich kids on a yacht in the tropics.
"I don't know," Chanyeol plays along. "I'm not sure what baby cousins like to read nowadays."
"Sorry to interrupt this fascinating discussion," Jongdae cuts in, "but I'm starving." He caps the Sharpie and tosses it to Chanyeol. "It's Pool and he loves it. Now sign this cast so we can eat--Jongin's been waiting for you to do it."
Jongdae hops off the mattress, cheerful half-moons for eyes.
Chanyeol pushes off the wall to take his place. He glances in Jongin's direction, bent on teasing him. The dancer's eyes are downcast, and his cheeks are flushed.
It's really...endearing. Almost as endearing as the guilty puppy photos Chanyeol's got saved into a separate folder on his desktop. And cute. Very cute. (That word again, wafting through Chanyeol's mind like a gentle reminder.)
He diverts his attention to Jongdae. "Another satisfied customer?" he jokes. "I should really start paying you some sort of commission."
"Uh, yeah," Jongdae replies. "I'm like a hype man and personal shopper in one." His eyes twinkle and narrow, and Chanyeol knows he's going in for the kill. "You haven't put that thing down since I handed it to you last night, have you, Jonginnie?"
Jongin blushes even harder, but he manages an unrepentant look this time. "I didn't have a choice," he ripostes. "You were whispering really saucy things to Sunyoung-sshi over the phone. I had to keep myself occupied."
Chanyeol widens his mouth, tipping his head back in a silent guffaw.
Sunyoung slaps Jongdae's shoulder. "Oh my god." She hits him again when he tries to protest. "You said you were out in the corridor!"
"I was in the bathroom!" he explains, laughing and groaning at once. "How would I know Jongin has bionic ears?"
"The door was open," Jongin murmurs matter-of-factly.
"Also, hospital bathrooms aren't soundproof," Chanyeol adds, even though he probably shouldn't. Sunyoung rarely loses her cool like this, and he kind of enjoys witnessing it. "You know, in case of emergencies."
That gets both him and Jongdae whumped on the head. Jongin chortles like an overgrown baby, but he sticks his book under a pillow, anyway, to protect it.
Jongdae's brought a box of Mr. Pizza this time. Twelve thin-crust slices of quattro formaggi, with hot sauce in packets on the side.
Jongin wolfs down two wedges in under five minutes. Chanyeol's still holding the Sharpie from earlier, his share of the pizza cooling slowly in the airconditioning.
"What should I write?" he says to the room, addressing no one in particular.
"Something fun," Jongin replies. He's got tomato sauce along the hinges of his mouth. His tongue pokes out to clean it up.
"Just give him your autograph," Jongdae croons. "Or your contact details, so I can stop playing the go-between."
Jongin doesn't give him the satisfaction of a violent reaction. He only looks steadily Chanyeol's way, lips inert, eyes assessing.
Chanyeol grins, going for amiable. "You'll text me what you think of the book, won't you, Jongin?"
Jongin reaches for his third slice. "Sure, hyung."
Chanyeol has terrible penmanship. He hopes Jongin can still make out the scrawl he leaves over the dancer's ankle, the blank patch of plaster now marked up in green.
This is Chanyeol-hyung, he writes, including his mobile number and a teensy sketch of a pair of sunglasses. Don't forget~
After spending ten days in confinement at the hospital, Jongin is discharged.
Chanyeol finds out via SMS, through both Kim cousins.
Yeol-ah, Jongdae types. I need another favor!
Chanyeol sends him a sticker of a teddy bear with two question marks pinging over his head.
I'll be working really late for the next couple nights, Jongdae informs him. Four, maybe five. We're pulling a seven-day workweek to meet a deadline.
Chanyeol selects a sticker of the teddy bear at his cubicle, angrily sweeping paper off his desk.
Yeah yeah yeah. So would you look in on Jongin for me? Make sure he eats something? Doesn't fall over??? Jongdae's breaking out the triples now, which means this is a demand, not a request.
Chanyeol sighs, scratching the back of his neck. His apartment is in Hongdae, and Jongdae's is in Apgujeong, and Chanyeol's got way too much white space on his computer screen staring back at him with icy judgment to make the trip twice a day.
I need to write, he types back. Send him here for the week. Easier that way.
Big softie. Jongdae sticker-spams him a sequence of hearts, balloons, and confetti. My hero *_*
Chanyeol busts out the sticker of Sandara Park wielding a light saber (his favorite).
Close to dinnertime, when Chanyeol has given up on his (lack of a) draft to drown his sorrows in a cold Cass, Jongin messages him.
I finished Pool
Chanyeol puts down his glass. The ice cubes in it crackle when they touch.
Hey maknae^^
Jongin types the way a kindergartner speaks--without patience, and with unintentional humor. Chanyeol watches, amused, as each phrase pops up on his phone screen with a choppy cadence.
Hi
I liked it
Really liked it
But
It was depressing at the end
Depressing as hell
You writers have issues
Chanyeol's laugh is off-key, his unutilized voice lodging in his throat. Of course. We're writers~
Jongin likes teddy bear stickers, too. He sends the one of Brown hunkering down in a corner, flanked by shadows, all gloom and doom.
Let's talk about them
When I sleep over
Hyung
"Do you want anything specific for dinner?"
The kitchen counter digs into Chanyeol's tailbone. He's shuffling through takeout menus--chicken place, pizza place, Chinese place. He leans against the gray tile, the edge pressing cool against his skin through the fabric of his shirt. This counter has always been too low for comfort (or maybe Chanyeol's always been too tall).
"I want ramyun," Jongin replies, an arm's length away, "but I shouldn't." He's propped up against the island in Chanyeol's kitchen, looking comfortable despite the crutch under one arm.
"Sure you can," Chanyeol says. He reaches behind himself and a little lower to pry open the cupboard with his Shin Cup stash. "I've got plenty."
"It's not that." Jongin rolls his neck, so it cricks. "I'm in recovery now, so it's back to the usual grind."
Chanyeol cocks an eyebrow in his direction. "You're on a diet?"
Jongin exhales his amusement through his nostrils. It sends a few wisps of his unstyled hair fluttering. "I'm a dancer. It's not a diet--it's maintenance." He rakes his bangs off his face and rubs his left eye, smile fuzzy.
Every time they've met, this manboy looks halfway between needing a nap and just waking up from one. At least, that's what Chanyeol thinks.
"Okay..." He puts the handful of menus back on the counter. "I can, um, make you a salad?"
Jongin's laugh matches his Line messages--choppy, and a little cartoonish. There's an undercurrent of scorn in it, too, but not the bad kind. It's more along the lines of: You're feeding me a salad on my first night out of the hospital?
"Nah," Jongin answers, markedly more familiar. Another laugh is tiptoeing out of the corner of his mouth, but he tucks it back with practiced self-restraint. "Can we eat meat?"
"That I can do," Chanyeol declares, and he pries open the door to the fridge.
On a hot plate, he grills sukiyaki cuts of beef, and chunkier, fattier cubes of pork, and the rich and earthy portobello mushrooms he finds in his chiller. Jongin stands next to him, watching the food brown and helpfully handing Chanyeol black pepper and sesame oil when he reaches for it.
"Go sit down," Chanyeol tells him, gently bumping their shoulders together. "You're in recovery."
"I'm fine," Jongin says in return.
There's finality in the words, so Chanyeol doesn't nag. He does let Jongin taste the most well-done bits of meat clamped between the barbecue tongs whenever the newcomer licks his lips.
Later, when they're in the middle of their sit-down meal, and Chanyeol has taken advantage of a lull in their conversation to grab them fresh beers, Jongin asks.
"Who is Soojung, hyung?"
That catches Chanyeol off-guard. He returns to the table, carefully setting down one can for himself and one for Jongin. "My ex-girlfriend."
"Ah," Jongin says. His gaze is thoughtful and neutral at once, and his beer makes a pleasant pop when he cracks it open. "Is she 'S'? In Float?"
The books. That's where he got the name. Chanyeol thought maybe Jongdae had looped his cousin in.
"That's right." He takes a long draught of his beer. It's freezing cold, silken as it washes down his throat. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason," is Jongin's simple response. "Just curious."
Chanyeol changes the subject, only because it looks like Jongin is giving up on this one. "What do you dance, maknae?"
The younger man folds in his lips to wet them. "Ballet."
"Fancy," Chanyeol deadpans. Jongin rolls his eyes. It makes the elder bark out a laugh. "What?"
"I've heard it all," Jongin says, unamused but grinning anyway, in spite of himself. "So give me your best shot, hyung."
"Aw," Chanyeol backtracks immediately, leaning forward on his elbows. Uncertainty prickles at his sternum, a degree shy of guilt. "I didn't mean anything by it, Jongin."
Jongin tilts his head, inquisitive. There's that sleepy, seeking look again. "I'm used to strangers finding it funny."
"I write fairytales for a living." Chanyeol has always turned to self-deprecation as a palliative measure. "I'm sure strangers would find that funny, too."
It works. This time, when Jongin smiles at him, it radiates genuine humor, coupled with a strange sort of interest that Chanyeol kind of likes.
"So when did you start dancing?" he asks, thumbing at the lip of his Cass.
"When I was eight." Chanyeol can't put a finger on it--this lazy, hazy gaze Jongin presents him with.
"Wow," Chanyeol says, letting out a low whistle. "When I was eight, all I could think about was tteokbokki."
"Not so fancy," Jongin drawls in the same tone of voice Chanyeol had used to tease him. His eyes are bright and curved and mischievous.
Chanyeol raises both hands, simpering at the table in defeat. Like clockwork, his subconscious intones that word he always associates with Jongdae's baby cousin. Cute, cute, cute.
"Just kidding," cute Kim Jongin says, stretching his hands across the table. Palms down. Conciliatory. He giggles--a sweet, carefree sound that Chanyeol's never heard him make before--and he waits for Chanyeol to pose his next question.
So Chanyeol asks.
"What got you into ballet?"
"Uncle was a ballerino. Grew up watching him."
"What's the first ballet you were in?"
"The Nutcracker."
"You played..."
"A gingerbread soldier."
Chanyeol can't help but grin. "And who is your favorite ballet dancer?"
"Mikhail Baryshnikov." The foreign name rolls off Jongin's tongue easily, lean and athletic. "Did you know he defected from Russia?"
Chanyeol doesn't even know who Mikhail Baryshnikov is. "Really?" he murmurs, anyway, because he enjoys the light in Jongin's face when he talks about dance.
The latter nods, mildly exuberant. "He was on tour with the Kirov Ballet, his original company, in Canada. By the end of the tour, he'd decided to stay behind." He picks up his chopsticks to feed himself a small slice of mushroom. "It was a huge scandal at the time."
Chanyeol hums. It's a cool story, but he's a little more fascinated by the play of Jongin's features. He compares the sharpness of Jongin's jawbone with the rounded upper curve of his cheek; the intelligent slope of his brows and the boyish, almost dopey look he gets in his eyes when he finds the taste in his mouth delicious. It's a bit intrusive of him, Chanyeol will be the first to admit. But he's a writer, after all, with writer's instincts--and a photographic memory on top of that. He absorbs expressions, sounds, smells, shapes, the entirety of a mundane scene, the way other people absorb gossip.
"Tell me something about ballet," he requests. "Something regular people wouldn't know."
"Hmm." Jongin chews on the inside of his left cheek. "That's a weird question."
"You're a weird kid who likes to dance," Chanyeol bounces back, "and I'm a weird writer-hyung who doesn't know anything about it."
Jongin cracks his knuckles, steeples his fingers under his chin. "All right. Do you know what a pirouette is?"
"Kind of?" Chanyeol had watched Center Stage when he was in middle school. With Kyungsoo and Baekhyun, at the Megabox Cineplex in COEX, before the entire mall was this glitzy tourist magnet. (He can't believe he still remembers.) "The spinning move, right?"
"Right." Jongin taps his fingertips over his knuckles, digits still interwoven. An inverted clap. Then he says, "A pirouette is not a fouette."
Chanyeol nods, polite and patient. He waits for the explanation. When none is offered to him--only a quirk of a smile--he furrows his brow. "Is that it?"
Jongin pops another portobello sliver into his mouth. "That's it."
"What's the difference?"
"I'd show you," Jongin replies, "but I busted my ankle, remember?"
And then it hits Chanyeol. Painkillers. Jongdae told him to give Jongin his painkillers. Chanyeol's eyes dart to his watch. It's an hour over schedule.
"Shit," he mutters. "Jongin, I forgot about your medication."
The dancer shakes his head. "Don't need it."
"No, I'll go get it for you--"
"Don't need it," Jongin insists, leaning back into his chair with stubbornness in his eyes. "I've got a high threshold for pain, hyung. I'm good."
He doesn't look like he's trying to get out of anything needlessly, but Chanyeol still hesitates. "You sure?"
"Yeah." Jongin takes a swig of his beer. The sides of the can are sweating. "No need to baby me while I'm here."
There's a whisper of rebellion skating underneath that last sentence. Chanyeol says nothing of it--only files it away as another dissonant, surprising, strangely appealing facet of Jongin's personality. "If you say so, maknae."
They drink in silence for a brief spell. It isn't comfortable, because they aren't that familiar with each other yet. Chanyeol has a feeling that will change, though.
"I'll show you." Jongin's mid-pitched mumble cuts through the quiet. No segue.
"Show me what?" Chanyeol says, accommodating him with a grin.
"The difference," the dancer replies, "between a pirouette and a fouette." His voice is neither shy nor smug. It's unadorned, like the expression that's fallen, mellow, across his face. "I'll show you when I'm better, hyung."
Just now, while he was speaking, Jongin had resembled Kyungsoo so much--so much, it was almost like Chanyeol was staring at a photograph of his old school friend. He inhales, lips straightening into a tight line.
-
Jongin notices. "What's the matter?"
Swiftly, Chanyeol props up his smile. "Nothing," he beams, blinking away errant memories. "Show me your spins when your break heals. I'm ready to be impressed."
Jongin eyes him prudently, but he allows the shift in conversation (the way he had earlier, when Chanyeol steered them away from talk of Soojung). "Pirouette. Fouette. Not spins."
"Pirouette," Chanyeol repeats after him. "Fouette." He laughs weakly, feeling awkward. His pronunciation is atrocious.
The air in the kitchen still smells like their dinner, and the breath catching in Chanyeol's nostrils already whiffs of beer. If he lowers his eyes, he can just make out Jongin's doodle-laden cast, where it taps absently against the nearest table leg.
Jongin flashes teeth, white and straight. "Not spins," he reminds Chanyeol.
The elder nods obediently. "Not spins."
Part 2