(for bambi_lu) The Fine Line Between Love and Jackson Pollock [1/2]
Title: The Fine Line Between Love and Jackson Pollock
Pairing: Jongin/Chanyeol, [other]one-sided Chanyeol/Yifan, Chanyeol/OC
Word Count: ~20,000 words
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: possibly obscure art references, butchered twist on canon, confusing timeline, [spoiler]death of a minor character, subtle mentions of alcoholism and depression, implied infidelity
Summary: Where pop idol Kim Jongin has to deal with something worse than class-A bitches and creepy sasaengs: falling in love with the CEO’s son.
Author’s Note: This is my first fic exchange, and my first Chankai too. Thank you to P, for the invaluable inputs and Chankai feels fest; and to H, for the research-heavy beta and page-per-page ‘Track Changes’ bubbles. To the mods, thank you for allowing me to join, and for the kindness you’ve shown my way! To my recipient, thank you for the prompts! This has the basic elements of your original prompt, but I added my own colorings as well. I hope you enjoy reading this! Please consider it a Christmas gift from me.
“Your shoot is in ten minutes.”
“What the-I though it’s supposed to be in an hour-”
“Yixing just called. You’re going to attend the nine o’ clock gala.”
His eyebrows hitch up at this. He hasn’t been religiously keeping track of his own promotional activities as of late, but he’s absolutely sure he’s not booked for anything tonight. “What gala?” Jongin asks.
“The Fire Fighters fundraiser?” Kyungsoo says without really looking at him, pushing buttons on his phone. “Ring any bells?”
“I thought you said the management cancelled it already because of the music show tomorrow!”
“Sorry, Jongin.” Kyungsoo’s tone almost makes Jongin believe that he’s sincere, but angry, squinted eyes and a deep set frown easily hack the uttered apology into bits-and Jongin understands. As his manager, Kyungsoo’s in enough shitstorm as it is. “Change of plans: apparently Junmyeon thought it’d be best to spread the butter a bit thicker this time. The editor of Music Slam! would be there.”
“Fuck,” Jongin swears, and Kyungsoo’s sympathetic enough not to tell him to curb his tongue.
There’s a flurry of hands armed with brushes and kohl. Jongin dizzies himself with the blaring light bulbs plastered around the mirror, all the while counting down to the six hundred seconds of even more blaring light bulbs with lens accompaniments.
Fundraiser. Dance rehearsal. Vocal practice at four in the morning. A music show. Three interviews (one onscreen, two in ink). Jongin gauges how much sleep he would get in car rides and the in between. Division of time. Subtraction of labor. Probably none, he thinks.
The small-statured manager furiously texts the PR to spread the news that pop sensation Kai would be joining in on the festivities of the exclusive Fire Fighters Fundraiser, all the while ordering the make-up artists to retouch the smeared concealer on Jongin’s forehead.
The ride to the fundraiser is uneventful as rides from photo shoots with demanding screen directors usually are. Jongin’s exhausted to the bone, and he makes it known by singing nursery rhymes out of tune.
Kyungsoo’s wide eyes are shielded by jet-black hair-he’s currently rescheduling Kai’s flight to Nagoya, Japan from the twenty-fifth to the twenty-seventh with his mobile. “Make sure not to cause a scene there, Jongin,” Kyungsoo tells him.
“I won’t.” Jongin’s sigh fogs up the glass, the sound barely audible from the smooth whir of the vehicle’s A/C. He then sings his favorite Christmas songs, even though it’s yet to hit the -ber months according to the small calendar in Kyungsoo’s planner. He watches the residential condominiums warp into commercial skyscrapers and neon-green billboards through the tinted glass.
Jongin’s at the last verse of Auld Lang Syne when they arrive at the red carpet at exactly eight thirty-five. Despite his sexy, bad boy image, SM Entertainment’s Kai is never known to be late.
“I’ll be meeting with the editor of Music Slam! You can handle things on your own, right?” Kyungsoo says before the valet opens the limousine’s door for them, and he’s already out before Jongin can give an answer.
He inhales the sickening air of glamour in the public sphere, a pack of burly men in black shirts and black belts in tow. He’s slightly comforted by the fact that he doesn’t need to rehearse any badass lines in his head since SM has already declined any chances for interviewers to hound him tonight. Six months in the industry and he’s already figured out that he’d be doing a lot of singing and dancing, but not really a lot of talking. In times he does talk, it’s not his words coming out of his mouth.
It’s the second time this day that layers of incandescent white blind him. Jongin fights back by flashing his five-thousand watt grin.
He waves at the crowd, bows at the right time, winks at the right girls. Wowing the masses is innately Kai, and his manufactured alter-ego is doing a good job of keeping a worn-out Jongin from toppling over the line of stanchions beside the revolving door. Like always, he’s thankful that a lot of his fans are here. Jongin soaks up energy from their screams and declarations of love.
The guards let him in without a word. He hears some of the reporters mumble, “SM’s new eye-lined chew toy. Give it a year and he’ll sue the company for millions.”
The smile never wavers, but Jongin clenches his fists.
A board director of some dismal music label halts to clap on Jongin’s back. “Ahh! Kai’s finally here!” he greets jovially. Jongin bows, struggling to remember the name buried somewhere in between showcases and clinking of wine glasses. “The Lees had been heartbroken to hear you wouldn’t come, but I’m glad your management had a change of heart! Thanks to you, the venue is packed outside.”
“Thank you,” A pause. Jongin gives up, “Sir.”
“Had a hard time parking my Audi with the crowd, though, but all is well! I’ve heard the items that’d be auctioned tonight are extravagant!”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about auctions,” Jongin responds.
“Ahh, yes, of course! If I were as young and popular and busy as you, I wouldn’t know much of these things either.” The man then bids him goodbye, heading straight for the round table filled with other dignitaries. Jongin looks around for a good place to hide before the program begins.
The galleria is spacious, with thick, crimson walls sloping towards a domed ceiling. The August night air easily wafts through the high windows. It’s still warm, but in a few weeks the nights would start to cool.
It’s not long before the A-list celebrities have all had their pictures taken that Jongin finds an empty stool on the bar station. He takes out his phone. Kyungsoo hyung, Jongin types. What am I supposed to do now?
The reply is instant. Where are you?
At the bar.
Good. Just stay there and look cool.
“I’ll have one Jack and coke, please,” Jongin says to the bartender, sighing. He has already pocketed his phone and didn’t get to read Kyungsoo’s subsequent text message: Don’t get drunk.
Jongin’s at his sixth glass when someone flops ungracefully onto the high stool like an announcement. He lazily clues in on the press ID dangling on a thin, blue lace, its tip tucked inside the flaps of his plaid polo shirt. Jongin snorts delicately.
“No manager?”
Jongin licks his lips, nodding.
“Huh. Used to think SM all had you collared down. No offense.”
Jongin plays with the ice in his glass. “The company actually gives me and the other artists a lot of freedom,” he replies with as much nonchalance he can muster; he’s been taught long ago how to make a lie very convincing, and most of the time he fools himself into believing it.
The man looks at him doubtfully, apparently not biting the fib as enthusiastically as Jongin expected. The tips of his shaggy, dusty brown hair touch the rims of his glasses, exuding an aura of a gangling youth. It makes Jongin wonder if the man is as young as he guesses he is.
“I never thought Park Moonsik,” he utters SM’s CEO’s name like a curse, “Had some sort of gentle side-he’s all horns and fangs in the tabloids, you know?”
Jongin jerks his head on the man’s ID. “You definitely would know, right? Since it’s your job.”
The man guffaws, the loudest of laughs Jongin has ever heard. It’s boisterous, with his head thrown back and his whole body shaking, a complete set of shiny white teeth gleaming along with the chandelier crystals.
“I’m not with the media,” the tall man claims, holding up his press pass into a dismissive wave, fanning it in front of his face. “Got this from a friend who knows a guy.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Same reason as everyone is,” he says lightly. “Charity. Out of goodness of the heart.”
“Bullshit.”
The other cracks an amused smile. “Are you drunk?”
“Probably.”
The man laughs, shrugging his shoulders. “The Lees are auctioning a good deal of quality paintings for the fire fighters. I’m in it for the haul. I like art. Mostly just to spite my dad, but-” he stops there, as if something struck him abruptly, and notices the half-empty glass bottle and coke can near Jongin’s fingertips. “More importantly, why is a newly-debuted idol drinking Tennessee whiskey? Alone? Are you even of age?”
“I’m twenty-one.” Jongin can tell he’s already slurring his words, each syllable like bubbles breaking though the paper thin skin of a lake. “They told me to look cool. I’m drinking to look cool.”
“Drinking’s not actually cool. I can cut open your liver so you could see for yourself.”
Jongin mindlessly fiddles with the white gold cuff links on his Armani. I had an all-kill debut album, he muses out of nowhere. A rave new dance single with even more rave reviews, hot flux of crazy girls all wanting to suck him off in their deepest fantasies, and default six-digit figures in the automated check Jongin receives every month.
“Hey,” Jongin starts, and the man turns to look at him.
“Does it make any sense,” he thinks out loud. “That six months in, I’m already thinking of quitting my contract?”
Shrugging, the man takes out a thick wad of cash from his wallet, about to vacate the area before turning to him, “It happens.”
When Kyungsoo arrives with his hair slicked back and his trusty Blackberry still magnetized to his hand, he swats the napping Jongin not unkindly at the back of his head. “I told you not to drink too much,” he says, taking a swig from the diluted Jack and coke Jongin left on the table. “Your voice is going to be scratchy tomorrow.”
Jongin rubs the sore spot, yawning slightly. “I’ve drunk like five bottles of soju twelve minutes before the showcase in MBC last month. I’ll be fine.”
Kyungsoo rolls his eyes. “You look filthy. Fix yourself up and go straight to the function hall. Ticket’s right here, and your seat number is three-fifty-two. I would’ve gotten you a better seat, but the company kinda booked you in the last minute. I’ll be staying at the very back if you need me.”
“What about the magazine?”
At this, Kyungsoo’s face turns smug. “Do you even have to ask?”
Jongin laughs. Of course. It probably took only a minute before his manager had those people from Music Slam! sweltering in the iron grip of his small hands. Kyungsoo prattles on again, declaring that they would be meeting next week, nine am on Thursday. It’s another five-hour long interview and a two-page spread of himself clad in thick make-up and ultra-skinny jeans, but he knows he should be grateful all the same. “Thanks a lot, hyung.”
They arrive at the hall ten minutes later, Kyungsoo slipping to the very back along with the deluge of cameras and heavy microphones. Jongin watches as guests more than twice his age fight over the center aisle seats despite the seating number, like kids squabbling over who gets the window seat on an airplane.
He falls asleep for the most part of the bidding. Nobody blames him, though-the unwanted items are always auctioned at the start, and there’s no flaunting of hideous sacks of cash yet. At the latter half of the auction the bidding war starts, and at this Jongin’s eyes are somewhat half-open.
A stage assistant wearing a skimpy red dress wheels in an ancient-looking jar that has Jongin scrunching up his nose. The bidding starts from 500,000₩ and finishes with 970,000₩. Jongin almost pities the tasteless man who wasted a significant amount of money on some useless old pottery.
The next one’s a painting-some kind of Monet copy-cat atrocity, or at least that’s what Jongin thinks-but he feels something stirring within the crowd, and suddenly everybody wants it.
“Five hundred!” a man descending to his sixties calls from the front.
“Seven hundred!”
“Eight hundred fifty!”
Another one shouts, “One million!” and the bidding goes on, and on, the prices go even higher, higher, higher. The price for uncalculated dabs of unmixed colors on a golden-framed canvas reach about 2,500,000 ₩, and Jongin almost contemplates raising his hand even though he doesn’t have the money, just for the hell of it. A butchery of Impressionism, quite literally.
“Five million!”
There’s a collective gasp. Everyone turns to the source of the voice and grumble at the audacity of this businessman, but all they see is a guy standing at the back of the room in painfully casual clothing, holding his hand up high in the air. Jongin easily recognizes the tall, lean figure, the fake Press pass dangling from creased lapels, the odd, happy smirk-and it dawns on him that the bartender didn’t ask him to pay for his excessively marked-up bottle of whiskey.
The announcer closes the bidding unsurely, “Uhh, s-sold! To that guy at the back wearing a- uh- checkered polo shirt.”
Jongin watches Mr. Not-Really-A-Journalist grin happily, wide-eyed.
“We have another item before our crown jewel!” the announcer pipes up, regaining his composure. “This had been one of Mrs. Lee Junghee’s purchases when the family spent their holidays in California, and although it may seem like a primitive object to anyone who has an eye for the finest-as I assume many of you in this hall are-the person who had been dedicated to the production of this item had been a living art form, one of the greatest to have ever graced the Earth. I am truly humbled to present to you…
A limited edition Michael Jackson coffee mug!”
Jongin sits up from his slouching posture. What?
“Opening up the bid for five hundred! Five hundred? Any takers?”
Before he realizes it, Jongin’s hand is up in the air. “Five hundred!” he squeaks.
The function hall is buzzing in a matter of seconds- “Isn’t he an idol?” “Oh my god, it’s Kai!” “He’s bidding for an MJ collectible? Is he a fan boy or something?” -and suddenly, Jongin feels like he’s ten again, dancing along to Smooth Criminal in his backyard where nobody could see him, a new high pulsing through his veins.
A lady wearing pearls the size of marbles raises a manicured finger. “Five hundred fifty!”
“Six hundred!” Jongin yells back.
“Seven hundred!”
“Seven hundred fifty!”
The hall is no longer buzzing-it’s noise and exclamations of astonishment, and Jongin ignores the urgent vibrating of the phone in his pocket. He’s absolutely positive the only thing holding back Kyungsoo from decking him right there and then is social propriety; Jongin would probably have to do a lot of sucking up after tonight, but he can’t find himself to care. He wants that mug.
“One million!” the woman declares, staring at him with a heavy glint in her eyes that Jongin considers as flat-out eye-fucking, and he stands up, raising his hand in retaliation. “One million and two hundred!” he barks.
The woman flips her auburn hair, winking at Jongin. “Two million!”
Shit, Jongin curses in his head. He can’t go any higher than that.
“Two million going once!” the dealer woops, and Jongin sinks back to his chair, defeated. “Going twice! So-”
“Four million!”
Another collective gasp. Jongin whirls around. He’s almost not surprised to see Mr. Not-Really-A-Journalist holding his hand up again, grinning crookedly at him.
Nobody combats the 4,000,000₩ over a piece of used ceramic. The woman with the pearls slinks away, suddenly engrossed in her fingernails.
“Four million going once! Four million going twice! Aaaand sold again to that lovely person at the corner!”
Jongin turns away, fuming. He can tell that a number of eyes are on him, but he doesn’t look back.
Just who the hell does this guy think he is? Jongin growls angrily in his head.
“Idiot.”
Kyungsoo’s face is devoid of emotion, but somehow it’s the harshest thing Jongin has ever heard him say tonight.
They’re on their way back to the dorm. Jongin is nursing a headache with a tablet of paracetamol and a bottle of water.
“I can already see the words ‘Fanboy Kai’ in bold letters everywhere,” his manager promises. “I don’t think a year’s worth of damage control is going to cut it. Why did you have to bid for that piece of shit, of all things?”
“I lost anyway,” Jongin says bitterly. “And what’s wrong with being called a fanboy? What’s wrong with liking stuff?”
Kyungsoo almost looks sympathetic. “That’s not the image you’ve agreed to.”
Jongin receives a curious parcel almost a week after the fundraiser. It’s small, poorly wrapped, with his name and SM’s official mailing address scribbled in messy, sloped handwriting. He hides it in his duffel bag.
The opportune moment comes after three hours of training with a Chinese-Dutch dancer, and Jongin runs to the nearby restroom, kicking the stall door open with the edge of his sneaker. He rips the layers of the thin wrapping paper.
The white mug almost falls off his grasp.
Jongin’s hands fumble over the handle, his nape slick and cool with perspiration. He reads the note taped on the underside of the cup, and his face contorts into that of disbelief, then confusion, and finally mortification. Cheeks red, he shreds the purple covering into pitiful confetti bits, and sprinkles it all over the mouth of the trash can. Jongin seethes all the way to his dorm. He grabs his coat and Kyungsoo’s car keys nestling near the basket of plastic fruits.
“Do you want to fuck me that bad?”
Mr. Not-Really-A-Journalist, whose name Jongin comes to learn is Park Chanyeol, cocks an eyebrow at him, sporting a smile that is a smirk away from Jongin punching him squarely on the face. “I have no idea how you’ve reached to that conclusion,” Chanyeol says, “But hey, whatever you want, right?”
Jongin slides him the infamous mug, along with the post-it that says ‘Hope we can meet again sometime ;)’ written in thick black ink that could only come from a fountain pen.
“Look, mister. You may have misconstrued something. I’m not just somebody you can haggle your way into bed, and I won’t ever like you even if you’re rich enough to drag Michael Jackson back from the underworld.” He almost growls, so you can shove your four million won mug up your ass, but thinks better of it.
“It was just an honest-to-god invite for, I don’t know, coffee or something,” Chanyeol tells him, , holding his hands up. “Don’t take it the wrong way.”
“Are you saying you’re not interested? I highly doubt it.”
“Idols,” Chanyeol sniffs derisively. He pockets his glasses inside his lab coat, flashing Jongin an admonishing stare. “They always think the world revolves around them. Ha. You’re as horrible as every girl who comes here asking for a boob upgrade.”
Jongin snarls, curling his upper lip.
“You really looked like you wanted the thing that bad!” Chanyeol defends. “It was just a gift. Jesus.”
Jongin sees the trashy 5,000,000 ₩ painting hung on the white-washed wall behind Chanyeol, and it angers him even more. “A gift, huh? That’s fucking novel.”
“See here, Jongin,” Chanyeol says, and Jongin doesn’t like it that they’re on a first name basis now. “You came here to my building, flirted with my secretary, barged into my office without an appointment and charged me with sexual harassment, which is by all means without any grounds.” The chuckle that comes next is light, but not all that pleasant in Jongin’s ears. “I can have you reported, you know.”
A frosty blow of fear knocks the wind out of Jongin. Even though he’s starting to dislike his profession, this is the kind of scandal he doesn’t want to blow up in the news reels. With much effort, he grits his teeth and shuts up.
“I didn’t send it because I wanted to have sex with you, Kim Jongin, but let’s say I’m interested,” Chanyeol restates, grinning. “So what?”
Jongin scowls. The nerve of this guy. “Then you’re one philandering, horny, rich little shit.”
Chanyeol laughs at this easily. “So is friendship out of the question?”
He shakes his head. “You’re a plastic surgeon. I’m an idol. People will talk.”
“A face like yours is hard to create. I think they already know that,” Chanyeol retorts wryly, and Jongin blushes.
“But why want to be friends with me? As you can tell, I’m not a very nice person.”
“Yeah, you’re pretty arrogant even for a singer/dancer/songwriter extraordinaire,” the giant laughs merrily, slapping his thigh with his equally enormous hand.
“Thanks so much, but you’re not answering the question.”
Chanyeol props his head with an arm, staring at the younger boy with an unnaturally profound gaze Jongin isn’t used to receiving from people. “I don’t know, actually,” Chanyeol answers a second later, his voice warm.
Jongin leaves Park Chanyeol’s office thirty minutes later, the absurdly expensive mug lying somewhere inside his duffel bag and the surgeon’s number saved on his phone.
In downtown Seoul, it’s a heavenly day, with the sky crisp blue and the clouds as puffy as manufactured cotton ever could be.
Three days after that unceremonious meeting with Park Chanyeol in his office, and approximately twelve and a half hours after a brief SMScapade during one of the most boring CF shootings Jongin had ever been to (“Hey, Jongin-ah. Your butt looked cute on TV last night :D”), Jongin agrees to meet the surgeon in the most secluded place on earth-Little France1.
“Hey, mister! Are you Kai, the idol?”
Jongin buries his nose in his scarf. “No, you must have mistaken me for someone else. Sorry.”
“That’s weird!” the kid says, jutting out her chin in a small act of defiance. Her blonde pigtails are swishing as she shakes her head. “I just saw your face on a side of a building! It’s this big!” She mimes the size with her small hands, and Jongin chuckles.
He slides down his sunglasses a little to wink at the girl, grinning mischievously. “I guess I look a lot like him. Handsome, isn’t he?”
“Perverted chap, too.”
Jongin locks eyes with the owner of the low, familiar voice; Chanyeol’s abnormally wide beam is obscenely bright under the noontime sun, and Jongin meets it with a scowl of his own. “Says the guy who ogles at breasts all day,” he retorts, crossing his arms. “You’re late.”
Chanyeol roars a booming laugh, and the girl with the pigtails fixates her attention on a blue butterfly fluttering around the marsh nearby, turning away from the two. “It’s part of the job description. And I’m not late,” Chanyeol reiterates. “You’re just early.”
Chanyeol leads the way deeper inside the park, and Jongin tries as hard as he can to look natural while hiding under the giant’s shadow. He hopes that he’s somehow merging with Chanyeol’s olive green peacoat for people not to notice.
“Relax, Jongin,” Chanyeol whispers, laying what is supposed to be a reassuring hand on his forearm so suddenly that Jongin’s soul almost jumps out of his body. Whatever the sentiment, it’s clearly not helping him calm down, as Jongin feels goose bumps coating his skin.
The path ends near the multitude of paintings hung on a wobbly framework of wood slightly covered with lichen, and Chanyeol stops at the base of the display where the wood starts splintering on all sides. There’s a man snoozing on a chair next to the paintings, his head bent back and his eyes covered by a grimy towel. His fingernails are devilishly long and covered with acrylic.
Chanyeol jerks his chin towards the man. “The artist,” he tells Jongin, grinning.
Jongin frowns. “I can see that. But why did you bring me here?” If Chanyeol wanted him to see some rinky-dink abstract paintings, he could’ve just taken him to that newly opened modern art gallery about three kilometers away, not so far from where they are standing. They always housed eclectic pieces from students, freelancers, and the like.
Chanyeol doesn’t answer him, and instead prods the sleeping man. “Kris hyung, Kris hyung,” he calls, lightly kicking the chair with his boot. “Kris hyung, wake up! It’s Chanyeol-”
“Go away, kid,” Kris murmurs, edging his chair away so that his back is facing them.
Undeterred, Chanyeol only laughs, shaking the legs of the chair as hard as he can until, all the while reciting Kris’s name like a Gregorian chant with his deep bass voice. Jongin almost cracks a grin at the scene.
Ultimately, Kris groans in defeat. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, sighing, standing up from his seat. “No wonder Van Gogh cut off his ear; noisy shitbags like you are all over the place.” He purses his lips and glares at Chanyeol. “What the hell d’you want?”
“I’d like to buy this one!” Chanyeol points to the farthest one of the lot, a silver-framed painting about one and a half meters long and one meter wide. The canvas is blotched with a mass of black and grey paint that, no matter how much he squints his eyes or turns his head, Jongin can only hope to understand.
Kris scratches his head. “‘The Nine Muses’? I don’t know, Chanyeol. It’s sort of unfinished-I stopped halfway when I grew tired of the idea-”
“Even better, hyung!” Chanyeol claps his hands together. “How much is it?”
“Forty-five thousand.”
“I’ll pay you sixty thousand.” At this, Jongin’s eyes widen.
Kris sighs. “I accept checks,” he says dryly, holding up his hand as he waits for Chanyeol to finish scribbling the amount on his checkbook.
This must happen a lot, Jongin assumes, judging from the way Kris is resignedly wrapping the canvass in a coffee -stained manila paper before turning over his work to Chanyeol’s enthusiastic hands. Chanyeol keeps uttering over and over again that it’s remarkable and all kinds of magnificent, and though Kris rolls his eyes, there’s a hint of a smile on his face.
On the other side of Banpo, in the unobtrusive air of a Japanese restaurant later that afternoon, Jongin decides to ask, “Why did you do that?”
Chanyeol stops from slurping his miso and peers at him through tufts of newly-dyed black hair. “I feel like I did something bad,” he says, smiling. “Why did I do what?”
“Bought that painting. It’s clearly unfinished, and you gave it-what? Fifteen thousand more than it’s worth?”
“Ahh,” Chanyeol hums, licking his lips. Jongin notices there’s still a dribble of soup at the edge of his mouth and he looks away, his stomach flopping like a fish out of water. “Did you like it?”
“What?”
“Kris hyung’s painting.”
Jongin shrugs, tapping his chopsticks on the rim of his rice bowl. “I’m not actually that good with art, so I’m-I don’t know. I guess it’s pretty enough.”
“Most of the time, people don’t know how much something is worth. Especially their own worth,” Chanyeol says. “That’s why I make a lot, I suppose. Moles, pockmarks, small blemishes-like those black daubs of paint on Kris hyung’s painting-perhaps people never get to see how iridescent they are when they try to vie for something unattainable.” He looks at him meaningfully. “I know art when I see one.”
Unknowingly, Jongin’s cheeks start to redden. He frowns at his bowl. “With that daunting philosophy, why are you even a plastic surgeon?”
“I think I’ve already told you before. It’s mostly just to screw with my dad,” Chanyeol says, laughing out loud. “Greedy SOB sells fake art and gets to bathe in a tub full of cash. I actually almost went to an art school because of him. But in my senior year in high school I enrolled in a Designs class and I thought it over, and I realized I’m not really good with an actual brush on paper, you know?”
“What does your dad do?” Jongin asks, and Chanyeol visibly stiffens for a moment.
He chuckles under his breath. Jongin notices his smile slipping. “He’s in the entertainment industry along with my brother. I haven’t been keeping in touch exactly.”
Jongin nods. He might have seen Chanyeol’s family somewhere, in a music show or in an awards night, or probably bowed or shook their hand at some formal gathering. He remembers Chanyeol slipping inside last week’s fundraiser wearing nothing but a pair of loafers, a plaid shirt, and a fake press ID, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses as he bids the highest on some painting made out of squiggly lines, and somehow Jongin understands.
“I think it’s my turn to ask you awkward questions,” Chanyeol quips, his smile back on his face, and Jongin doesn’t know if he should feel relieved or worried. “What about you, Jongin-ah?”
Jongin instantly reclines on the backrest, one of his hands toying with the unwound scarf hanging around his neck. “What about me?” he asks.
“Why do you want to quit being an idol?”
Jongin thought back on the time he first had his fan signing. It was in Busan, the air still painfully cold even though it was already spring. Jongin could still feel the chilled sheen of sweat on the tip of his nose, and the ones running on each side of his temples. There were a lot of people there, mostly girls and their sour-faced boyfriends.
Somewhere up in a tree two teenagers were propped on a branch, taking hundreds of pictures of the great Kai in all his handsome splendor with their huge black-white DSLRs with shutter speeds faster than Jongin can blink.
Too bad the branch wasn’t thick enough.
It was a relatively long time ago, but sometimes the memory creeps on Jongin at the oddest times, like when he’s taking his morning tea, or running laps on a dreary Saturday evening. Or when he’s practicing parallel-parking with Kyungsoo’s car along the long nest of Mercedes and Corvettes.
Kyungsoo told him that the company took care of the medical fees so he shouldn’t worry about them too much, but Jongin knows SM did something more. There had been no coverage of the grisly fan signing, no snarky headlines or biting articles in the web. All there had been was silence, and in the next two months Jongin stared at the ceiling of his room, feeling nothing but the awful uneasiness growing inside him.
He was still a rookie then, but he thinks that was the time he stopped appreciating music for what it is, started disliking appearing on variety and late night shows with some slapstick comedian he absolutely detests. It was a rather early wake up call, but by the time he opened his eyes to the startling consequences of being an idol, the ink on his signed contract had long been dry.
He thinks of the fans as still the same, though, despite their over eagerness and borderline crazy behavior, and sends as much love as he can through the official message board and on award speeches.
“Hey, Jongin,” Chanyeol says. He places his hand over Jongin’s, pulling him out of his reverie. “You still there?”
“Y-yeah,” Jongin replies, straightening his posture. He deftly removes his fingers under Chanyeol’s palm as he takes a sip of water to clear his muddled thoughts.
He looks up to see Chanyeol watching him patiently, and Jongin answers, “I don’t actually know,” before going back to drinking his water again.
“You know what I think?”
Jongin shrugs. “What?”
“I think you got famous too fast,” Chanyeol says sagely. “That you must have lost a part of yourself along the way.”
Again, Jongin doesn’t affirm or correct him, pressing his lips together as he stares at Chanyeol taking a sip from his glass. “That’s rather philosophical of you, hyung,” he says, and he realizes in an instant that he sounded a bit too harsh. He flashes him an apologetic look, but Chanyeol’s smile doesn’t waver.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get you inspired again, I promise.” Chanyeol’s expression only changes to give Jongin a much warmer smile, and Jongin’s inwardly glad that the heater inside the restaurant is hitched a few degrees too high. Chanyeol’s too crazy for Jongin, sometimes.
A week after, the sprinkles of post-summer dust that used to line the back of Jongin’s favorite shirt automatically dive to their death when they meet Kyungsoo’s disapproving stare.
“Where have you been?” the older man squawks, glaring at Jongin as the latter slings his rasta cap on a nearby hook on the wall. Jongin absentmindedly reaches for the tall glass of water on the countertop next to the pot of Kyungsoo’s jasmine oolong. “I called you forty-two times, and you wouldn’t even bother to give me a good excuse? You missed your dentist appointment today! It took me months to schedule it, Jongin. Months!”
“If it’s any consolation, I did meet someone with a medical degree. Well, sort of.”
“Details, Jongin! Or I swear to god I will chuck you in a blender-”
“I met with the guy who I lost to last time in the fundraiser,” Jongin tells him hastily. “The one who got the limited edition MJ customized coffee mug. He’s a friend.” Or at least they’re trying to be. “And a surgeon.” A plastic surgeon, but Jongin doesn’t see the need to clarify. “Nothing to worry about.”
Kyungsoo snaps his head towards him, looking outraged. “You met with Chanyeol?”
Jongin stops drinking. “You know the guy?” he queries, slightly confused.
“How can I not? He’s Park Moonsik’s second son!”
Jongin’s cheeks stiffen. “S-son?” he stammers.
Kyungsoo’s arms fall to his sides, gaping widely. “You have no idea, do you? I know most people don’t usually recognize him-I’m sure you’ve noticed his silly romance with playing incognito or something - but you’ve trained here for four years and didn’t even -“
Jongin shakes his head, reigning in his lack of composure. “Of course I knew!” He insists, frowning. “I - I just thought you were the one who didn’t.”
Kyungsoo snorts. “If there’s one thing I don’t know about this damned company, it’s how they get the vending machines to work. You’ve been out for eight hours straight, and all this time you were with Park Chanyeol? Seriously, Jongin. If this is one of your dumb ploys to get yourself fired, please tell me ahead of time so I can scout for a new job.”
“There’s nothing to tell, hyung. No one’s getting fired.”
“I have four cats to feed so you’d better not.”
“We just talked, big deal. Why are you getting so worked up? ”
“No matter how popular you are right now, you’re still new in this business,” Kyungsoo warns. “Everyone’s itching for the slightest hint of trouble, and a fling with the CEO’s son is just the right kind of whopping that would never get you back up as soon as people find out.”
“That’s outrageous!” Jongin exclaims, waving his hands. “I only met him formally last week, hyung! Why are you talking like we’re going to fuck each other’s brains out in a urinal? Are you mad?”
Kyungsoo scowls, and Jongin can easily tell that his manager is holding something back, though whether it’s something important or not the younger can’t tell. “I’m not. It’s- it’s just a feeling, Jongin. You have to trust me on this. I’m asking you-not as your manager, but as your friend-to please stay away, for both your sakes. You might not like being an idol anymore, but one toenail out of the line this early in the game and SM would sue you for violating some fine print in the contract. You’re going to be in ruins, and I don’t think even Chanyeol or I would be in any position to help you.”
And with that happy thought, Kyungsoo storms out of the living room. Jongin coughs out a choked groan.
It seems like Park Chanyeol, the skyscraper-tall beaming art aficionado whose preferred medium is latex gloves on human skin, is a social recluse.
Jongin went through online publications for days on end, munching through a bag of bungeoppang during breaks as he skimmed through bits and pieces of information concerning the Park family. He only found three photos of Chanyeol circulating around the internet, all of them taken during his gangly teenage years. Most of the articles didn’t even mention Park Moonsik had a second son-almost everything was centered on the man himself, or Chanyeol’s older brother Jaeyeol, the immediate successor of one of Korea’s largest entertainment companies.
Jongin even asked around fellow idols and trainees. Most have heard of him, some saw him once, few saw him twice, while others flat out asked him if he was joking.
The giant who Jongin associates with big laughs and goofy winter hats suddenly becomes an enigma, and he wonders whether all of the things he thought he saw had been real: the warm, jovial, ready-fire-aim guy has turned into an utter stranger.
The disquiet is deafening, so Jongin takes it in him to borrow Kyungsoo’s car again and drive downtown, where the children’s park is laid bare to the harsh rage of the wind. He arrives in less than fifteen minutes, the hat on his head set low to his sunglasses, his scarf wound around his neck.
Kris is playing checkers with himself. He doesn’t look up when Jongin’s shadow pervades the board. “You’re that same squirt who Chanyeol took here, aren’t you?” he says lazily, his elbow propping on his thigh.
Jongin clears his throat. “Yeah, the same one. There’s something I want to know. About Chanyeol hyung, I mean.”
“Go take a seat,” Kris instructs, pointing at the stool slumped on a metal post.
Jongin brushes the stray pollen on top and tentatively sits. “Chanyeol hyung… did you know each other long?”
“Enough, I guess,” the older one replies, flicking a pawn off a black square tile. He cocks a heavy eyebrow at Jongin. “He first saw me selling my work near a subway station and suggested I relocate here. Not that I sold ten times more than I sold back when I was pinching pennies along with street kids with my paintbrush, but I get to sell at least two or three paintings a day, which was a huge improvement. And as soon as he began operating he started buying my stuff like he’s hoarding for a global recession-says it’s for a personal gallery he keeps in his basement, I don’t know.”
“He’s a little weird,” Jongin confesses, recollecting everything from the few instances Chanyeol does something aberrant. Like that one time last week when Chanyeol had insisted on riding a toy Pegasus in the kid’s section of Lotte Department Store, or that day when they bought Kris’s painting in the park, where Chanyeol had made the idol push him on a swing set for leverage.
Kris nods gravely, and the image Jongin has painted of Park Chanyeol that had been tainted by dismal news articles becomes somewhat clearer, more vibrant.
“‘A veritable virtuoso of the arts’,” Kris mimics, and Jongin notices that five of the nine buttons on Kris’s shirt are undone. “That’s what he likes to say; truthfully, he’s just into saving starving artists like me. And I guess you, metaphorically.” He flashes him a knowing look. Jongin gulps.
“Did you know he’s a CEO’s son?” the idol questions, and he surprises himself when it comes out as somewhat desperate.
“Wouldn’t shut up about his dad the first five minutes we met,” Kris confirms, and Jongin immediately balks at this. “At first I thought he was boasting about it, but do a double take and you won’t even know the difference between Park Moonsik and horse dung anymore.” The elder smiles a bit at the memory. “He despises his father, especially the way he treats his artists.”
“So he splurges on you.” And on me.
Kris shakes his head. “I wouldn’t put it that way. He might be the main reason why I’m not homeless yet, but you know, that’s the worst part: he’s sincere about it. You know he doesn’t care about the money. Most rich folks are-when you have tons of cash stashed somewhere at your every disposal you won’t give a flying fuck about it either-but it’s different with Chanyeol. Give the guy a bird with a broken wing and he’ll nurse it even after it feels better, because that’s how he is. Chanyeol gets too fond of things and people quickly, and he’ll start giving them more than they need.”
Something horrible dawns on Jongin, something that creeps to his boots and snakes around his ankles to his shin, pulling him down desperately so he won’t move, can’t move.
He sees something familiar in Kris, like looking at his gauzy reflection on a shallow pool, and Jongin feels suddenly, bitterly exposed.
“You like him,” Jongin gapes, feeling like he got doused with cold water, and Kris looks away.
“Haven’t been able to push him away in time,” Kris says rather ruefully. He runs a hand through his dirty-blond hair, and he suddenly looks very tired. “I was failing art school. He egged me on to take my brush and pallet again and gave me an empty canvas for a fresh start. He was more than what I needed,” he adds quietly. “I became greedy, and selfish.”
Jongin swallows hard. “D-does he… you know -”
“He doesn’t. I’m sure Chanyeol doesn’t,” Kris laughs hard, his whole frame trembling, like a castle of twigs threatening to topple over at any moment. “Though he doesn’t like me that way, I think it’s fair, after all that trouble I caused him. Anyway, it doesn’t matter - how lucky could you be if the person you liked likes you back, with all these people in the world? Well, I’ve never been that fortunate, so that’s that.”
“You’ve never confessed?”
Kris shrugs. “I wouldn’t go so far to complicate things, Kim Jongin. He’s first and foremost my only friend, after all.”
Afterwards, Jongin wanders around a few times in the park before setting off, his heart even heavier than it had ever been. It becomes deadweight and drops to the floor when Kyungsoo plunks something heavy on the table, the ends of his lips pulled down into a grimace.
“I told you so,” is what Kyungsoo says before vacating the area, and Jongin already knows what’s inside the atrociously wrapped package, but he rips it open anyway.
Old albums of GOD, DBSK, and pictures of La Scala litter the table, and sure enough there’s a purple post-it that greets him: To rekindle the passion that has gone away for a while ;) - your Chanyeol hyung
It’s the same sloppy handwriting, with the same emoticon Jongin had mistook for a fulsome invite to bed.
Jongin drowns.
When he resurfaces, he knows what he has to do.
“I don’t think this a good idea.”
Chanyeol chuckles. He’s wearing a different set of glasses now, Jongin notices. There are tiny rhinestones that adorn the edges, the rim a dirty purple. “Yeah, we really have to stop meeting like this: you barging in on my office unannounced and me about ten minutes away from an appointment. How about at that nice spaghetti house downtown? Let’s say about three o’ clock?”
“No,” Jongin shakes his head. “I mean the general meeting thing. I don’t think it would play well if I’ll be seen with the CEO’s son, which, by the way, you’ve never told me about.”
“I think I might have already dropped a hint or two.”
“Thing is, Chanyeol, I’m a very stupid person,” Jongin says. “You’d have to give me all the pieces of the puzzle if you want me to figure something out.”
“You can’t really know that, can you?” Chanyeol says, but Jongin shakes his head with finality.
“Singing and dancing are the only things I know. No matter how much I complain about how my days always suck, and even if I want to quit being an idol, I don’t think I can do anything else.”
What Jongin doesn’t say is that Chanyeol had been right all along, that he still likes performing, though the stardom life is not what he had envisioned for himself.
But he’s not just Jongin anymore. He’s Kai, and to the fans, to the company, to his family, he’s a lot more. All in all, is there anything he can do?
Jongin releases the bomb all as fast as he could, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can afford being friends with you.”
The smile drops for a fraction, but it comes back in half a heartbeat - it comes out all wrong to Jongin, and he restrains himself from stretching across the table to pull up the end of Chanyeol’s lips and hope that it stays there.
“I’ll return the coffee mug,” Jongin tells him. “And the albums. I’ll drop it here or have Kyungsoo send it back to you.”
Chanyeol shakes his head, holding up a hand as if to stop Jongin from going any further. “Nah, keep it. I bought it for you, anyway. I’ve never been into dance.”
With much effort, Jongin stands, offering a handshake. “I still think you’re a perverted ass,” he tries to joke. “But it was nice meeting you, Park Chanyeol.”
“Ahh, yes. Right. Even though this friendship is very short-lived,” Chanyeol grins wider this time. “And even if I still think you’re a conceited jerk with a world-class rack, it was also nice meeting you, Kim Jongin.”
Chanyeol’s hand is smooth and warm and fitting around his; Jongin’s smile fades, and he wonders if he’d really stretched the chasm far enough so they could never meet again.
The next time Jongin sees him-because of course there’s a next time-he’s wearing honey-brown overalls and no glasses. He’s holding a mop and a half-empty can of aerosol. Jongin thinks it’s silly that, no matter how much Chanyeol tries to blend in, he always manages to stick out like a misshapen nail out of a plank.
They’re at the tail end of the International Junior Art Festival2 in Gangneung. Jongin is an appointed ambassador, so his attendance is somewhat mandatory. Somewhat mandatory, he thinks with chagrin, because he knows Chanyeol, who lives and breathes on whatever he thinks is art, is there.
But I’m not here for Chanyeol hyung, he asserts to himself. This is official idol business. This is about art in its rawest form - about promoting kids to like art. This isn’t about some dork who likes playing I-Spy-The-Next-Greatest-Art-in-The-World.
Right.
He’s not sure whether he’s surprised that he’s managed to stay away from Chanyeol completely for two whole months, or that even until now, he instinctively knows where Chanyeol would be hanging around for the duration of the night (which would be the exhibit of the tallest structure of pens held together by scotch tape, modeled by a fifteen-year-old who had way too much time on his hands).
In order for him not to exacerbate anything, Jongin avoids meeting him in the eye and instead scurries towards where Kyungsoo and Junmyeon said they would be. The hallway is so narrow that when he walks past him, their hands brush together. Not that much, but just enough.
Jongin struggles to keep his breathing even when he looks back. Chanyeol, dressed in janitor’s clothes, is no longer in sight.
Jongin spots the two at a stand where the kids are selling charm bracelets for 500 ₩. Kyungsoo picks out a navy blue one while Junmyeon a red one, and they both smile serenely at the girl when Junmyeon tells her to keep the change. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kyungsoo comments when Jongin approaches.
“I’m not sure,” Jongin admits, pocketing his hands inside his jeans, and relays to them everything. He feels somewhat relieved when Kyungsoo’s stare is no longer admonishing, just concerned.
Junmyeon hums. “I’ve always pegged Chanyeol to be the audacious one of the two Park brothers. He never really changed, hasn’t he?”
Jongin’s jaw drops. “You know them both?”
“His hyung and I were classmates at one time in elementary,” Junmyeon narrates. “And I’ve met Chanyeol the first time Jaeyeol invited me to play basketball in their mansion. But I don’t know him that well. He was friendlier to strangers than his hyung, but Chanyeol had always wanted to separate himself from his family. So most of the time when I do visit, he’s not there. Why? Is he your friend?”
Jongin feels something odd stirring in his stomach, but he lets it die down.
“What are you going to do,” Kyungsoo asks, “if this happens again? Whether he’s our boss’s son or not, if you see him and he sees you, what are you going to do?”
His phone buzzes, and Jongin opens the text message. He checks on the ID thrice to see if he read it wrong.
I think I like you more in casual wear than in suits ;)
The heat instantly creeps into his face as soon as another text message arrives, saying:
Oh, right, This is Chanyeol hyung, btw. I remember you telling me you never save anyone’s number :P
That one had been a lie. Jongin almost always never saves other people’s numbers on his phone, except-
“I don’t know, hyung,” Jongin responds as he busies himself with stashing his phone somewhere in the deepest part of his pants pocket. It’s strange that it’s the most honest thing he’s said in a long time.
Things happen when they are least expected most of the time, and the slew of events has Jongin tittering around the edges: the first shadow of it lands when Park Jaeyeol’s car swerves right along the slippery Olympic-daero in Magok-dong and smashes on a concrete fence on his way home. Snowy Christmases on the east side of Seoul are known to cause terror, and it’s no less a drunken accident than it is the local unit’s mistake. Consequently, like the way the first crack spreads rapidly on thin ice, it seems that Park Moonsik’s will to live has shattered along with his favorite son’s ribcage.
So the manhunt for the youngest Park begins, who disappears from his hospital of residence as soon as the incident hit the news.
Morning papers are all about the rapid stock drop for SM Entertainment in the first week, and headlines about the elusive second son starts appearing from the second week onwards. Jongin reads about it as much as he can in between drives to music shows and the next, until Kyungsoo gets a little miffed one day and confiscates Jongin’s tablet and phone all together.
“I care about what happens to the company! It’s my future on the line!” Jongin argues in his ratty-tatty pajamas, reaching out for his phone, but Kyungsoo immediately slaps his hand away.
“No, you care about one person in particular, and his name is right here.” Kyungsoo points to the headline zoomed in on Jongin’s phone: Who is Park Chanyeol? Will He Save His Father’s Company From Its Doom? “Obsess about him later, Jongin. You have a Q & A three hours from now-get dressed or I’ll stab you."
Jongin sashays back and forth through numerous radio and television appearances, sometimes hosting and other times guesting. One moment a blank-faced zombie, a dazzling Kai the next. He suspects SM is using him as a smokescreen while the company picks up all the fallen twigs and rebuilds the foundations-there’s a not-so-secret bickering amongst the board over who gets to take over the CFO position Jaeyeol left behind, and with Moonsik bleary-eyed and unresponsive, the person who gets to interim will probably ascend to something more.
(“We’re sitting ducks here!” Jongin heard the head of payroll slam his foot on the floor once in a sector meeting. “They have to make a decision fast or it’s abandon ship!”)
It’s New Year’s when Jongin meets Chanyeol again. His schedule is clear for the day, and so the idol is off to the rooftop where he’d get the best view of all the wonderful colors fireworks can offer. He takes the elevator-and when it dings open, Chanyeol is there, hair gelled and dressed in a well-pressed suit, clearly uncomfortable.
Chanyeol’s eyes widen at first, but then the smile Jongin knows so well surfaces. He scoots to the side and presses the hold button. “There’s still some space. If you want, I mean.”
Jongin would just look stupid standing there, so he acquiesces, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’.
The ride upwards is quiet. Jongin’s embarrassed that he feels embarrassed; it’s not like they broke up or something, since there weren’t even remotely in a relationship and he’s not even sure if he likes-Jongin has to stop his train of thought there, when Chanyeol presses a hand on his arm.
“You haven’t pressed your floor yet,” Chanyeol informs him, pointing at the dashboard.
Jongin realizes in horror that Chanyeol is going to the rooftop too.
“Umm… we’re actually going to the same floor,” he admits quietly, and Chanyeol beams at this.
They arrive to the rooftop a few seconds later. Chanyeol immediately flies to where the vines start traversing the metal railings with soft, green tendrils. Jongin shimmies to the safer end. The winter air whiplashes on Jongin’s face, his lips cracking in response, and he recoils and seeks the warmth of his coat.
“I never got to ask you this,” Chanyeol starts, turning to look at him. “But the albums I gave you. How was it?”
“They’re my favorite, actually. It kind of made me rethink of where I was going. Reminded myself why I started training in the first place,” Jongin replies, blushing. “Thank you, Chanyeol hyung.”
Chanyeol nods approvingly, grinning. “I’m really glad it helped you.”
“That was unnecessary, though. You shouldn’t have gotten me anything at all.”
“Nonsense! I like you a lot, Jongin-ah, so you really shouldn’t think that you’re burdening me, because you aren’t at all.”
Jongin shivers, but it’s not from the cold. “Hyung,” he steels his voice. “Why are you here?”
He hears a sigh from the older man, and sees Chanyeol fiddling with his fingers, his happy expression gone and looking lost for the first time.
“This company my father built,” he utters slowly, “I’m not-I don’t want it but it’s-” Chanyeol stops there, and he looks straight ahead, avoiding Jongin’s probing gaze.
“Positions are inherited here, I know,” Jongin says. “Like some fucked up feudalism in the modern world.”
“Yeah, fucked up,” Chanyeol chokes. “Came here to the rooftop to clear my head for a while. I want to know if I’m making the right decision.”
And Jongin realizes that Park Chanyeol is, and perhaps has always been, much braver than he ever is, so he takes a small leap of faith and takes Chanyeol’s hand, squeezing it tight.
“I don’t think I’m the best person to say this, but hyung, as long as every part of your body says it’s right, then it’s fine. But if you really don’t want to do it, it’s fine too. Besides, you wouldn’t be able to disguise yourself and slip into high-profile art auctions anymore if you do.” At this, Chanyeol chuckles a little, and Jongin’s heart grows light.
“You do know that if I start working here, we’ll be bumping into each other more often, right?” Chanyeol says unsurely, squeezing Jongin’s hand back, almost like he’s asking for the younger’s permission.
Jongin tries to laugh. “And you’ll be signing my paychecks too. Indirectly of course, but your signature will definitely be on the monogram.”
“I’ve been following all your shows ever since we met, you know. I say you could definitely use a raise.”
“So you are going to do it?”
“I don’t know. I guess that depends.” Chanyeol looks at him, sulking for the tiniest bit. “Are you still going to avoid me after this, Jongin? Is it really about protecting your image or- or is it just me?”
“What? No, hyung! It’s not you, it’s-” and Jongin makes the mistake of looking at Chanyeol’s deceptively luscious lips, highlighted by the glow of the moonlight above and the streetlights below, and no, hyung, it’s-
Chanyeol’s grip eases to wrap around Jongin’s wrist, and he tugs a little. “Tell me what’s bothering you. I promise I’ll try to make things work so we can be friends again,” Chanyeol says, and all of a sudden Kris’s words bombard Jongin’s ears.
“Oh yeah, one more thing,” Kris had told him when Jongin was about to leave, with Kyungsoo’s car keys fitted tight in his hand.
Jongin turned, and he knew even then that he would never forget the look on Kris’s face, full of sadness and a little warning. “The symptoms usually start when you feel like running away,” Kris said. “The next thing you know, he’ll be everywhere.”
He then hears an explosion-from the blast of the first firecracker or from the implosion of his thudding heart, he doesn’t know-but he also hears himself say “Hyung, I’m not going to avoid you” before he thinks it through.
It’s a nice view from up here, Jongin thinks-Chanyeol’s smiling face surrounded by billions of flickering light behind him. It’s a screenshot of heaven with a dash of irony, and maybe a little bit of pain too.
The stocks stabilize by the fifth week after Chanyeol sells himself to the devil, and the Finance Department sighs in relief. The worst is over, until some scandal comes along (which everyone dearly hopes won’t come in a long while).
‘Bumping into each other’ is the understatement of the new year-except when he’s on tour overseas, there’s not a day Jongin doesn’t see Chanyeol lounging near his studio or knocking on his door with a bag full of lo mein.
“Are you sure you’re even the CFO?” Jongin grills as he searches for the chopsticks stashed somewhere at the bottom of the paper bag. “Are you just a figurehead or what?”
Chanyeol shrugs. “I attend board meetings and remember names of all the whodunits in the industry. Mostly I just sign papers. A lot of them. But I read through it, and my secretary Minyoung reads through it, so yeah. It’s not my brand of paradise, but I guess it’s okay.”
Jongin tries not to notice the way the stray lo mein perches on top of Chanyeol’s upper lip before he slurps it in, or to imagine what Chanyeol’s mouth can do when it’s not full of minced pork and spicy Chinese noodles.
part two
Pairing: Jongin/Chanyeol, [other]one-sided Chanyeol/Yifan, Chanyeol/OC
Word Count: ~20,000 words
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: possibly obscure art references, butchered twist on canon, confusing timeline, [spoiler]death of a minor character, subtle mentions of alcoholism and depression, implied infidelity
Summary: Where pop idol Kim Jongin has to deal with something worse than class-A bitches and creepy sasaengs: falling in love with the CEO’s son.
Author’s Note: This is my first fic exchange, and my first Chankai too. Thank you to P, for the invaluable inputs and Chankai feels fest; and to H, for the research-heavy beta and page-per-page ‘Track Changes’ bubbles. To the mods, thank you for allowing me to join, and for the kindness you’ve shown my way! To my recipient, thank you for the prompts! This has the basic elements of your original prompt, but I added my own colorings as well. I hope you enjoy reading this! Please consider it a Christmas gift from me.
“Your shoot is in ten minutes.”
“What the-I though it’s supposed to be in an hour-”
“Yixing just called. You’re going to attend the nine o’ clock gala.”
His eyebrows hitch up at this. He hasn’t been religiously keeping track of his own promotional activities as of late, but he’s absolutely sure he’s not booked for anything tonight. “What gala?” Jongin asks.
“The Fire Fighters fundraiser?” Kyungsoo says without really looking at him, pushing buttons on his phone. “Ring any bells?”
“I thought you said the management cancelled it already because of the music show tomorrow!”
“Sorry, Jongin.” Kyungsoo’s tone almost makes Jongin believe that he’s sincere, but angry, squinted eyes and a deep set frown easily hack the uttered apology into bits-and Jongin understands. As his manager, Kyungsoo’s in enough shitstorm as it is. “Change of plans: apparently Junmyeon thought it’d be best to spread the butter a bit thicker this time. The editor of Music Slam! would be there.”
“Fuck,” Jongin swears, and Kyungsoo’s sympathetic enough not to tell him to curb his tongue.
There’s a flurry of hands armed with brushes and kohl. Jongin dizzies himself with the blaring light bulbs plastered around the mirror, all the while counting down to the six hundred seconds of even more blaring light bulbs with lens accompaniments.
Fundraiser. Dance rehearsal. Vocal practice at four in the morning. A music show. Three interviews (one onscreen, two in ink). Jongin gauges how much sleep he would get in car rides and the in between. Division of time. Subtraction of labor. Probably none, he thinks.
The small-statured manager furiously texts the PR to spread the news that pop sensation Kai would be joining in on the festivities of the exclusive Fire Fighters Fundraiser, all the while ordering the make-up artists to retouch the smeared concealer on Jongin’s forehead.
The ride to the fundraiser is uneventful as rides from photo shoots with demanding screen directors usually are. Jongin’s exhausted to the bone, and he makes it known by singing nursery rhymes out of tune.
Kyungsoo’s wide eyes are shielded by jet-black hair-he’s currently rescheduling Kai’s flight to Nagoya, Japan from the twenty-fifth to the twenty-seventh with his mobile. “Make sure not to cause a scene there, Jongin,” Kyungsoo tells him.
“I won’t.” Jongin’s sigh fogs up the glass, the sound barely audible from the smooth whir of the vehicle’s A/C. He then sings his favorite Christmas songs, even though it’s yet to hit the -ber months according to the small calendar in Kyungsoo’s planner. He watches the residential condominiums warp into commercial skyscrapers and neon-green billboards through the tinted glass.
Jongin’s at the last verse of Auld Lang Syne when they arrive at the red carpet at exactly eight thirty-five. Despite his sexy, bad boy image, SM Entertainment’s Kai is never known to be late.
“I’ll be meeting with the editor of Music Slam! You can handle things on your own, right?” Kyungsoo says before the valet opens the limousine’s door for them, and he’s already out before Jongin can give an answer.
He inhales the sickening air of glamour in the public sphere, a pack of burly men in black shirts and black belts in tow. He’s slightly comforted by the fact that he doesn’t need to rehearse any badass lines in his head since SM has already declined any chances for interviewers to hound him tonight. Six months in the industry and he’s already figured out that he’d be doing a lot of singing and dancing, but not really a lot of talking. In times he does talk, it’s not his words coming out of his mouth.
It’s the second time this day that layers of incandescent white blind him. Jongin fights back by flashing his five-thousand watt grin.
He waves at the crowd, bows at the right time, winks at the right girls. Wowing the masses is innately Kai, and his manufactured alter-ego is doing a good job of keeping a worn-out Jongin from toppling over the line of stanchions beside the revolving door. Like always, he’s thankful that a lot of his fans are here. Jongin soaks up energy from their screams and declarations of love.
The guards let him in without a word. He hears some of the reporters mumble, “SM’s new eye-lined chew toy. Give it a year and he’ll sue the company for millions.”
The smile never wavers, but Jongin clenches his fists.
A board director of some dismal music label halts to clap on Jongin’s back. “Ahh! Kai’s finally here!” he greets jovially. Jongin bows, struggling to remember the name buried somewhere in between showcases and clinking of wine glasses. “The Lees had been heartbroken to hear you wouldn’t come, but I’m glad your management had a change of heart! Thanks to you, the venue is packed outside.”
“Thank you,” A pause. Jongin gives up, “Sir.”
“Had a hard time parking my Audi with the crowd, though, but all is well! I’ve heard the items that’d be auctioned tonight are extravagant!”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about auctions,” Jongin responds.
“Ahh, yes, of course! If I were as young and popular and busy as you, I wouldn’t know much of these things either.” The man then bids him goodbye, heading straight for the round table filled with other dignitaries. Jongin looks around for a good place to hide before the program begins.
The galleria is spacious, with thick, crimson walls sloping towards a domed ceiling. The August night air easily wafts through the high windows. It’s still warm, but in a few weeks the nights would start to cool.
It’s not long before the A-list celebrities have all had their pictures taken that Jongin finds an empty stool on the bar station. He takes out his phone. Kyungsoo hyung, Jongin types. What am I supposed to do now?
The reply is instant. Where are you?
At the bar.
Good. Just stay there and look cool.
“I’ll have one Jack and coke, please,” Jongin says to the bartender, sighing. He has already pocketed his phone and didn’t get to read Kyungsoo’s subsequent text message: Don’t get drunk.
Jongin’s at his sixth glass when someone flops ungracefully onto the high stool like an announcement. He lazily clues in on the press ID dangling on a thin, blue lace, its tip tucked inside the flaps of his plaid polo shirt. Jongin snorts delicately.
“No manager?”
Jongin licks his lips, nodding.
“Huh. Used to think SM all had you collared down. No offense.”
Jongin plays with the ice in his glass. “The company actually gives me and the other artists a lot of freedom,” he replies with as much nonchalance he can muster; he’s been taught long ago how to make a lie very convincing, and most of the time he fools himself into believing it.
The man looks at him doubtfully, apparently not biting the fib as enthusiastically as Jongin expected. The tips of his shaggy, dusty brown hair touch the rims of his glasses, exuding an aura of a gangling youth. It makes Jongin wonder if the man is as young as he guesses he is.
“I never thought Park Moonsik,” he utters SM’s CEO’s name like a curse, “Had some sort of gentle side-he’s all horns and fangs in the tabloids, you know?”
Jongin jerks his head on the man’s ID. “You definitely would know, right? Since it’s your job.”
The man guffaws, the loudest of laughs Jongin has ever heard. It’s boisterous, with his head thrown back and his whole body shaking, a complete set of shiny white teeth gleaming along with the chandelier crystals.
“I’m not with the media,” the tall man claims, holding up his press pass into a dismissive wave, fanning it in front of his face. “Got this from a friend who knows a guy.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Same reason as everyone is,” he says lightly. “Charity. Out of goodness of the heart.”
“Bullshit.”
The other cracks an amused smile. “Are you drunk?”
“Probably.”
The man laughs, shrugging his shoulders. “The Lees are auctioning a good deal of quality paintings for the fire fighters. I’m in it for the haul. I like art. Mostly just to spite my dad, but-” he stops there, as if something struck him abruptly, and notices the half-empty glass bottle and coke can near Jongin’s fingertips. “More importantly, why is a newly-debuted idol drinking Tennessee whiskey? Alone? Are you even of age?”
“I’m twenty-one.” Jongin can tell he’s already slurring his words, each syllable like bubbles breaking though the paper thin skin of a lake. “They told me to look cool. I’m drinking to look cool.”
“Drinking’s not actually cool. I can cut open your liver so you could see for yourself.”
Jongin mindlessly fiddles with the white gold cuff links on his Armani. I had an all-kill debut album, he muses out of nowhere. A rave new dance single with even more rave reviews, hot flux of crazy girls all wanting to suck him off in their deepest fantasies, and default six-digit figures in the automated check Jongin receives every month.
“Hey,” Jongin starts, and the man turns to look at him.
“Does it make any sense,” he thinks out loud. “That six months in, I’m already thinking of quitting my contract?”
Shrugging, the man takes out a thick wad of cash from his wallet, about to vacate the area before turning to him, “It happens.”
When Kyungsoo arrives with his hair slicked back and his trusty Blackberry still magnetized to his hand, he swats the napping Jongin not unkindly at the back of his head. “I told you not to drink too much,” he says, taking a swig from the diluted Jack and coke Jongin left on the table. “Your voice is going to be scratchy tomorrow.”
Jongin rubs the sore spot, yawning slightly. “I’ve drunk like five bottles of soju twelve minutes before the showcase in MBC last month. I’ll be fine.”
Kyungsoo rolls his eyes. “You look filthy. Fix yourself up and go straight to the function hall. Ticket’s right here, and your seat number is three-fifty-two. I would’ve gotten you a better seat, but the company kinda booked you in the last minute. I’ll be staying at the very back if you need me.”
“What about the magazine?”
At this, Kyungsoo’s face turns smug. “Do you even have to ask?”
Jongin laughs. Of course. It probably took only a minute before his manager had those people from Music Slam! sweltering in the iron grip of his small hands. Kyungsoo prattles on again, declaring that they would be meeting next week, nine am on Thursday. It’s another five-hour long interview and a two-page spread of himself clad in thick make-up and ultra-skinny jeans, but he knows he should be grateful all the same. “Thanks a lot, hyung.”
They arrive at the hall ten minutes later, Kyungsoo slipping to the very back along with the deluge of cameras and heavy microphones. Jongin watches as guests more than twice his age fight over the center aisle seats despite the seating number, like kids squabbling over who gets the window seat on an airplane.
He falls asleep for the most part of the bidding. Nobody blames him, though-the unwanted items are always auctioned at the start, and there’s no flaunting of hideous sacks of cash yet. At the latter half of the auction the bidding war starts, and at this Jongin’s eyes are somewhat half-open.
A stage assistant wearing a skimpy red dress wheels in an ancient-looking jar that has Jongin scrunching up his nose. The bidding starts from 500,000₩ and finishes with 970,000₩. Jongin almost pities the tasteless man who wasted a significant amount of money on some useless old pottery.
The next one’s a painting-some kind of Monet copy-cat atrocity, or at least that’s what Jongin thinks-but he feels something stirring within the crowd, and suddenly everybody wants it.
“Five hundred!” a man descending to his sixties calls from the front.
“Seven hundred!”
“Eight hundred fifty!”
Another one shouts, “One million!” and the bidding goes on, and on, the prices go even higher, higher, higher. The price for uncalculated dabs of unmixed colors on a golden-framed canvas reach about 2,500,000 ₩, and Jongin almost contemplates raising his hand even though he doesn’t have the money, just for the hell of it. A butchery of Impressionism, quite literally.
“Five million!”
There’s a collective gasp. Everyone turns to the source of the voice and grumble at the audacity of this businessman, but all they see is a guy standing at the back of the room in painfully casual clothing, holding his hand up high in the air. Jongin easily recognizes the tall, lean figure, the fake Press pass dangling from creased lapels, the odd, happy smirk-and it dawns on him that the bartender didn’t ask him to pay for his excessively marked-up bottle of whiskey.
The announcer closes the bidding unsurely, “Uhh, s-sold! To that guy at the back wearing a- uh- checkered polo shirt.”
Jongin watches Mr. Not-Really-A-Journalist grin happily, wide-eyed.
“We have another item before our crown jewel!” the announcer pipes up, regaining his composure. “This had been one of Mrs. Lee Junghee’s purchases when the family spent their holidays in California, and although it may seem like a primitive object to anyone who has an eye for the finest-as I assume many of you in this hall are-the person who had been dedicated to the production of this item had been a living art form, one of the greatest to have ever graced the Earth. I am truly humbled to present to you…
A limited edition Michael Jackson coffee mug!”
Jongin sits up from his slouching posture. What?
“Opening up the bid for five hundred! Five hundred? Any takers?”
Before he realizes it, Jongin’s hand is up in the air. “Five hundred!” he squeaks.
The function hall is buzzing in a matter of seconds- “Isn’t he an idol?” “Oh my god, it’s Kai!” “He’s bidding for an MJ collectible? Is he a fan boy or something?” -and suddenly, Jongin feels like he’s ten again, dancing along to Smooth Criminal in his backyard where nobody could see him, a new high pulsing through his veins.
A lady wearing pearls the size of marbles raises a manicured finger. “Five hundred fifty!”
“Six hundred!” Jongin yells back.
“Seven hundred!”
“Seven hundred fifty!”
The hall is no longer buzzing-it’s noise and exclamations of astonishment, and Jongin ignores the urgent vibrating of the phone in his pocket. He’s absolutely positive the only thing holding back Kyungsoo from decking him right there and then is social propriety; Jongin would probably have to do a lot of sucking up after tonight, but he can’t find himself to care. He wants that mug.
“One million!” the woman declares, staring at him with a heavy glint in her eyes that Jongin considers as flat-out eye-fucking, and he stands up, raising his hand in retaliation. “One million and two hundred!” he barks.
The woman flips her auburn hair, winking at Jongin. “Two million!”
Shit, Jongin curses in his head. He can’t go any higher than that.
“Two million going once!” the dealer woops, and Jongin sinks back to his chair, defeated. “Going twice! So-”
“Four million!”
Another collective gasp. Jongin whirls around. He’s almost not surprised to see Mr. Not-Really-A-Journalist holding his hand up again, grinning crookedly at him.
Nobody combats the 4,000,000₩ over a piece of used ceramic. The woman with the pearls slinks away, suddenly engrossed in her fingernails.
“Four million going once! Four million going twice! Aaaand sold again to that lovely person at the corner!”
Jongin turns away, fuming. He can tell that a number of eyes are on him, but he doesn’t look back.
Just who the hell does this guy think he is? Jongin growls angrily in his head.
“Idiot.”
Kyungsoo’s face is devoid of emotion, but somehow it’s the harshest thing Jongin has ever heard him say tonight.
They’re on their way back to the dorm. Jongin is nursing a headache with a tablet of paracetamol and a bottle of water.
“I can already see the words ‘Fanboy Kai’ in bold letters everywhere,” his manager promises. “I don’t think a year’s worth of damage control is going to cut it. Why did you have to bid for that piece of shit, of all things?”
“I lost anyway,” Jongin says bitterly. “And what’s wrong with being called a fanboy? What’s wrong with liking stuff?”
Kyungsoo almost looks sympathetic. “That’s not the image you’ve agreed to.”
Jongin receives a curious parcel almost a week after the fundraiser. It’s small, poorly wrapped, with his name and SM’s official mailing address scribbled in messy, sloped handwriting. He hides it in his duffel bag.
The opportune moment comes after three hours of training with a Chinese-Dutch dancer, and Jongin runs to the nearby restroom, kicking the stall door open with the edge of his sneaker. He rips the layers of the thin wrapping paper.
The white mug almost falls off his grasp.
Jongin’s hands fumble over the handle, his nape slick and cool with perspiration. He reads the note taped on the underside of the cup, and his face contorts into that of disbelief, then confusion, and finally mortification. Cheeks red, he shreds the purple covering into pitiful confetti bits, and sprinkles it all over the mouth of the trash can. Jongin seethes all the way to his dorm. He grabs his coat and Kyungsoo’s car keys nestling near the basket of plastic fruits.
“Do you want to fuck me that bad?”
Mr. Not-Really-A-Journalist, whose name Jongin comes to learn is Park Chanyeol, cocks an eyebrow at him, sporting a smile that is a smirk away from Jongin punching him squarely on the face. “I have no idea how you’ve reached to that conclusion,” Chanyeol says, “But hey, whatever you want, right?”
Jongin slides him the infamous mug, along with the post-it that says ‘Hope we can meet again sometime ;)’ written in thick black ink that could only come from a fountain pen.
“Look, mister. You may have misconstrued something. I’m not just somebody you can haggle your way into bed, and I won’t ever like you even if you’re rich enough to drag Michael Jackson back from the underworld.” He almost growls, so you can shove your four million won mug up your ass, but thinks better of it.
“It was just an honest-to-god invite for, I don’t know, coffee or something,” Chanyeol tells him, , holding his hands up. “Don’t take it the wrong way.”
“Are you saying you’re not interested? I highly doubt it.”
“Idols,” Chanyeol sniffs derisively. He pockets his glasses inside his lab coat, flashing Jongin an admonishing stare. “They always think the world revolves around them. Ha. You’re as horrible as every girl who comes here asking for a boob upgrade.”
Jongin snarls, curling his upper lip.
“You really looked like you wanted the thing that bad!” Chanyeol defends. “It was just a gift. Jesus.”
Jongin sees the trashy 5,000,000 ₩ painting hung on the white-washed wall behind Chanyeol, and it angers him even more. “A gift, huh? That’s fucking novel.”
“See here, Jongin,” Chanyeol says, and Jongin doesn’t like it that they’re on a first name basis now. “You came here to my building, flirted with my secretary, barged into my office without an appointment and charged me with sexual harassment, which is by all means without any grounds.” The chuckle that comes next is light, but not all that pleasant in Jongin’s ears. “I can have you reported, you know.”
A frosty blow of fear knocks the wind out of Jongin. Even though he’s starting to dislike his profession, this is the kind of scandal he doesn’t want to blow up in the news reels. With much effort, he grits his teeth and shuts up.
“I didn’t send it because I wanted to have sex with you, Kim Jongin, but let’s say I’m interested,” Chanyeol restates, grinning. “So what?”
Jongin scowls. The nerve of this guy. “Then you’re one philandering, horny, rich little shit.”
Chanyeol laughs at this easily. “So is friendship out of the question?”
He shakes his head. “You’re a plastic surgeon. I’m an idol. People will talk.”
“A face like yours is hard to create. I think they already know that,” Chanyeol retorts wryly, and Jongin blushes.
“But why want to be friends with me? As you can tell, I’m not a very nice person.”
“Yeah, you’re pretty arrogant even for a singer/dancer/songwriter extraordinaire,” the giant laughs merrily, slapping his thigh with his equally enormous hand.
“Thanks so much, but you’re not answering the question.”
Chanyeol props his head with an arm, staring at the younger boy with an unnaturally profound gaze Jongin isn’t used to receiving from people. “I don’t know, actually,” Chanyeol answers a second later, his voice warm.
Jongin leaves Park Chanyeol’s office thirty minutes later, the absurdly expensive mug lying somewhere inside his duffel bag and the surgeon’s number saved on his phone.
In downtown Seoul, it’s a heavenly day, with the sky crisp blue and the clouds as puffy as manufactured cotton ever could be.
Three days after that unceremonious meeting with Park Chanyeol in his office, and approximately twelve and a half hours after a brief SMScapade during one of the most boring CF shootings Jongin had ever been to (“Hey, Jongin-ah. Your butt looked cute on TV last night :D”), Jongin agrees to meet the surgeon in the most secluded place on earth-Little France1.
“Hey, mister! Are you Kai, the idol?”
Jongin buries his nose in his scarf. “No, you must have mistaken me for someone else. Sorry.”
“That’s weird!” the kid says, jutting out her chin in a small act of defiance. Her blonde pigtails are swishing as she shakes her head. “I just saw your face on a side of a building! It’s this big!” She mimes the size with her small hands, and Jongin chuckles.
He slides down his sunglasses a little to wink at the girl, grinning mischievously. “I guess I look a lot like him. Handsome, isn’t he?”
“Perverted chap, too.”
Jongin locks eyes with the owner of the low, familiar voice; Chanyeol’s abnormally wide beam is obscenely bright under the noontime sun, and Jongin meets it with a scowl of his own. “Says the guy who ogles at breasts all day,” he retorts, crossing his arms. “You’re late.”
Chanyeol roars a booming laugh, and the girl with the pigtails fixates her attention on a blue butterfly fluttering around the marsh nearby, turning away from the two. “It’s part of the job description. And I’m not late,” Chanyeol reiterates. “You’re just early.”
Chanyeol leads the way deeper inside the park, and Jongin tries as hard as he can to look natural while hiding under the giant’s shadow. He hopes that he’s somehow merging with Chanyeol’s olive green peacoat for people not to notice.
“Relax, Jongin,” Chanyeol whispers, laying what is supposed to be a reassuring hand on his forearm so suddenly that Jongin’s soul almost jumps out of his body. Whatever the sentiment, it’s clearly not helping him calm down, as Jongin feels goose bumps coating his skin.
The path ends near the multitude of paintings hung on a wobbly framework of wood slightly covered with lichen, and Chanyeol stops at the base of the display where the wood starts splintering on all sides. There’s a man snoozing on a chair next to the paintings, his head bent back and his eyes covered by a grimy towel. His fingernails are devilishly long and covered with acrylic.
Chanyeol jerks his chin towards the man. “The artist,” he tells Jongin, grinning.
Jongin frowns. “I can see that. But why did you bring me here?” If Chanyeol wanted him to see some rinky-dink abstract paintings, he could’ve just taken him to that newly opened modern art gallery about three kilometers away, not so far from where they are standing. They always housed eclectic pieces from students, freelancers, and the like.
Chanyeol doesn’t answer him, and instead prods the sleeping man. “Kris hyung, Kris hyung,” he calls, lightly kicking the chair with his boot. “Kris hyung, wake up! It’s Chanyeol-”
“Go away, kid,” Kris murmurs, edging his chair away so that his back is facing them.
Undeterred, Chanyeol only laughs, shaking the legs of the chair as hard as he can until, all the while reciting Kris’s name like a Gregorian chant with his deep bass voice. Jongin almost cracks a grin at the scene.
Ultimately, Kris groans in defeat. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, sighing, standing up from his seat. “No wonder Van Gogh cut off his ear; noisy shitbags like you are all over the place.” He purses his lips and glares at Chanyeol. “What the hell d’you want?”
“I’d like to buy this one!” Chanyeol points to the farthest one of the lot, a silver-framed painting about one and a half meters long and one meter wide. The canvas is blotched with a mass of black and grey paint that, no matter how much he squints his eyes or turns his head, Jongin can only hope to understand.
Kris scratches his head. “‘The Nine Muses’? I don’t know, Chanyeol. It’s sort of unfinished-I stopped halfway when I grew tired of the idea-”
“Even better, hyung!” Chanyeol claps his hands together. “How much is it?”
“Forty-five thousand.”
“I’ll pay you sixty thousand.” At this, Jongin’s eyes widen.
Kris sighs. “I accept checks,” he says dryly, holding up his hand as he waits for Chanyeol to finish scribbling the amount on his checkbook.
This must happen a lot, Jongin assumes, judging from the way Kris is resignedly wrapping the canvass in a coffee -stained manila paper before turning over his work to Chanyeol’s enthusiastic hands. Chanyeol keeps uttering over and over again that it’s remarkable and all kinds of magnificent, and though Kris rolls his eyes, there’s a hint of a smile on his face.
On the other side of Banpo, in the unobtrusive air of a Japanese restaurant later that afternoon, Jongin decides to ask, “Why did you do that?”
Chanyeol stops from slurping his miso and peers at him through tufts of newly-dyed black hair. “I feel like I did something bad,” he says, smiling. “Why did I do what?”
“Bought that painting. It’s clearly unfinished, and you gave it-what? Fifteen thousand more than it’s worth?”
“Ahh,” Chanyeol hums, licking his lips. Jongin notices there’s still a dribble of soup at the edge of his mouth and he looks away, his stomach flopping like a fish out of water. “Did you like it?”
“What?”
“Kris hyung’s painting.”
Jongin shrugs, tapping his chopsticks on the rim of his rice bowl. “I’m not actually that good with art, so I’m-I don’t know. I guess it’s pretty enough.”
“Most of the time, people don’t know how much something is worth. Especially their own worth,” Chanyeol says. “That’s why I make a lot, I suppose. Moles, pockmarks, small blemishes-like those black daubs of paint on Kris hyung’s painting-perhaps people never get to see how iridescent they are when they try to vie for something unattainable.” He looks at him meaningfully. “I know art when I see one.”
Unknowingly, Jongin’s cheeks start to redden. He frowns at his bowl. “With that daunting philosophy, why are you even a plastic surgeon?”
“I think I’ve already told you before. It’s mostly just to screw with my dad,” Chanyeol says, laughing out loud. “Greedy SOB sells fake art and gets to bathe in a tub full of cash. I actually almost went to an art school because of him. But in my senior year in high school I enrolled in a Designs class and I thought it over, and I realized I’m not really good with an actual brush on paper, you know?”
“What does your dad do?” Jongin asks, and Chanyeol visibly stiffens for a moment.
He chuckles under his breath. Jongin notices his smile slipping. “He’s in the entertainment industry along with my brother. I haven’t been keeping in touch exactly.”
Jongin nods. He might have seen Chanyeol’s family somewhere, in a music show or in an awards night, or probably bowed or shook their hand at some formal gathering. He remembers Chanyeol slipping inside last week’s fundraiser wearing nothing but a pair of loafers, a plaid shirt, and a fake press ID, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses as he bids the highest on some painting made out of squiggly lines, and somehow Jongin understands.
“I think it’s my turn to ask you awkward questions,” Chanyeol quips, his smile back on his face, and Jongin doesn’t know if he should feel relieved or worried. “What about you, Jongin-ah?”
Jongin instantly reclines on the backrest, one of his hands toying with the unwound scarf hanging around his neck. “What about me?” he asks.
“Why do you want to quit being an idol?”
Jongin thought back on the time he first had his fan signing. It was in Busan, the air still painfully cold even though it was already spring. Jongin could still feel the chilled sheen of sweat on the tip of his nose, and the ones running on each side of his temples. There were a lot of people there, mostly girls and their sour-faced boyfriends.
Somewhere up in a tree two teenagers were propped on a branch, taking hundreds of pictures of the great Kai in all his handsome splendor with their huge black-white DSLRs with shutter speeds faster than Jongin can blink.
Too bad the branch wasn’t thick enough.
It was a relatively long time ago, but sometimes the memory creeps on Jongin at the oddest times, like when he’s taking his morning tea, or running laps on a dreary Saturday evening. Or when he’s practicing parallel-parking with Kyungsoo’s car along the long nest of Mercedes and Corvettes.
Kyungsoo told him that the company took care of the medical fees so he shouldn’t worry about them too much, but Jongin knows SM did something more. There had been no coverage of the grisly fan signing, no snarky headlines or biting articles in the web. All there had been was silence, and in the next two months Jongin stared at the ceiling of his room, feeling nothing but the awful uneasiness growing inside him.
He was still a rookie then, but he thinks that was the time he stopped appreciating music for what it is, started disliking appearing on variety and late night shows with some slapstick comedian he absolutely detests. It was a rather early wake up call, but by the time he opened his eyes to the startling consequences of being an idol, the ink on his signed contract had long been dry.
He thinks of the fans as still the same, though, despite their over eagerness and borderline crazy behavior, and sends as much love as he can through the official message board and on award speeches.
“Hey, Jongin,” Chanyeol says. He places his hand over Jongin’s, pulling him out of his reverie. “You still there?”
“Y-yeah,” Jongin replies, straightening his posture. He deftly removes his fingers under Chanyeol’s palm as he takes a sip of water to clear his muddled thoughts.
He looks up to see Chanyeol watching him patiently, and Jongin answers, “I don’t actually know,” before going back to drinking his water again.
“You know what I think?”
Jongin shrugs. “What?”
“I think you got famous too fast,” Chanyeol says sagely. “That you must have lost a part of yourself along the way.”
Again, Jongin doesn’t affirm or correct him, pressing his lips together as he stares at Chanyeol taking a sip from his glass. “That’s rather philosophical of you, hyung,” he says, and he realizes in an instant that he sounded a bit too harsh. He flashes him an apologetic look, but Chanyeol’s smile doesn’t waver.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get you inspired again, I promise.” Chanyeol’s expression only changes to give Jongin a much warmer smile, and Jongin’s inwardly glad that the heater inside the restaurant is hitched a few degrees too high. Chanyeol’s too crazy for Jongin, sometimes.
A week after, the sprinkles of post-summer dust that used to line the back of Jongin’s favorite shirt automatically dive to their death when they meet Kyungsoo’s disapproving stare.
“Where have you been?” the older man squawks, glaring at Jongin as the latter slings his rasta cap on a nearby hook on the wall. Jongin absentmindedly reaches for the tall glass of water on the countertop next to the pot of Kyungsoo’s jasmine oolong. “I called you forty-two times, and you wouldn’t even bother to give me a good excuse? You missed your dentist appointment today! It took me months to schedule it, Jongin. Months!”
“If it’s any consolation, I did meet someone with a medical degree. Well, sort of.”
“Details, Jongin! Or I swear to god I will chuck you in a blender-”
“I met with the guy who I lost to last time in the fundraiser,” Jongin tells him hastily. “The one who got the limited edition MJ customized coffee mug. He’s a friend.” Or at least they’re trying to be. “And a surgeon.” A plastic surgeon, but Jongin doesn’t see the need to clarify. “Nothing to worry about.”
Kyungsoo snaps his head towards him, looking outraged. “You met with Chanyeol?”
Jongin stops drinking. “You know the guy?” he queries, slightly confused.
“How can I not? He’s Park Moonsik’s second son!”
Jongin’s cheeks stiffen. “S-son?” he stammers.
Kyungsoo’s arms fall to his sides, gaping widely. “You have no idea, do you? I know most people don’t usually recognize him-I’m sure you’ve noticed his silly romance with playing incognito or something - but you’ve trained here for four years and didn’t even -“
Jongin shakes his head, reigning in his lack of composure. “Of course I knew!” He insists, frowning. “I - I just thought you were the one who didn’t.”
Kyungsoo snorts. “If there’s one thing I don’t know about this damned company, it’s how they get the vending machines to work. You’ve been out for eight hours straight, and all this time you were with Park Chanyeol? Seriously, Jongin. If this is one of your dumb ploys to get yourself fired, please tell me ahead of time so I can scout for a new job.”
“There’s nothing to tell, hyung. No one’s getting fired.”
“I have four cats to feed so you’d better not.”
“We just talked, big deal. Why are you getting so worked up? ”
“No matter how popular you are right now, you’re still new in this business,” Kyungsoo warns. “Everyone’s itching for the slightest hint of trouble, and a fling with the CEO’s son is just the right kind of whopping that would never get you back up as soon as people find out.”
“That’s outrageous!” Jongin exclaims, waving his hands. “I only met him formally last week, hyung! Why are you talking like we’re going to fuck each other’s brains out in a urinal? Are you mad?”
Kyungsoo scowls, and Jongin can easily tell that his manager is holding something back, though whether it’s something important or not the younger can’t tell. “I’m not. It’s- it’s just a feeling, Jongin. You have to trust me on this. I’m asking you-not as your manager, but as your friend-to please stay away, for both your sakes. You might not like being an idol anymore, but one toenail out of the line this early in the game and SM would sue you for violating some fine print in the contract. You’re going to be in ruins, and I don’t think even Chanyeol or I would be in any position to help you.”
And with that happy thought, Kyungsoo storms out of the living room. Jongin coughs out a choked groan.
It seems like Park Chanyeol, the skyscraper-tall beaming art aficionado whose preferred medium is latex gloves on human skin, is a social recluse.
Jongin went through online publications for days on end, munching through a bag of bungeoppang during breaks as he skimmed through bits and pieces of information concerning the Park family. He only found three photos of Chanyeol circulating around the internet, all of them taken during his gangly teenage years. Most of the articles didn’t even mention Park Moonsik had a second son-almost everything was centered on the man himself, or Chanyeol’s older brother Jaeyeol, the immediate successor of one of Korea’s largest entertainment companies.
Jongin even asked around fellow idols and trainees. Most have heard of him, some saw him once, few saw him twice, while others flat out asked him if he was joking.
The giant who Jongin associates with big laughs and goofy winter hats suddenly becomes an enigma, and he wonders whether all of the things he thought he saw had been real: the warm, jovial, ready-fire-aim guy has turned into an utter stranger.
The disquiet is deafening, so Jongin takes it in him to borrow Kyungsoo’s car again and drive downtown, where the children’s park is laid bare to the harsh rage of the wind. He arrives in less than fifteen minutes, the hat on his head set low to his sunglasses, his scarf wound around his neck.
Kris is playing checkers with himself. He doesn’t look up when Jongin’s shadow pervades the board. “You’re that same squirt who Chanyeol took here, aren’t you?” he says lazily, his elbow propping on his thigh.
Jongin clears his throat. “Yeah, the same one. There’s something I want to know. About Chanyeol hyung, I mean.”
“Go take a seat,” Kris instructs, pointing at the stool slumped on a metal post.
Jongin brushes the stray pollen on top and tentatively sits. “Chanyeol hyung… did you know each other long?”
“Enough, I guess,” the older one replies, flicking a pawn off a black square tile. He cocks a heavy eyebrow at Jongin. “He first saw me selling my work near a subway station and suggested I relocate here. Not that I sold ten times more than I sold back when I was pinching pennies along with street kids with my paintbrush, but I get to sell at least two or three paintings a day, which was a huge improvement. And as soon as he began operating he started buying my stuff like he’s hoarding for a global recession-says it’s for a personal gallery he keeps in his basement, I don’t know.”
“He’s a little weird,” Jongin confesses, recollecting everything from the few instances Chanyeol does something aberrant. Like that one time last week when Chanyeol had insisted on riding a toy Pegasus in the kid’s section of Lotte Department Store, or that day when they bought Kris’s painting in the park, where Chanyeol had made the idol push him on a swing set for leverage.
Kris nods gravely, and the image Jongin has painted of Park Chanyeol that had been tainted by dismal news articles becomes somewhat clearer, more vibrant.
“‘A veritable virtuoso of the arts’,” Kris mimics, and Jongin notices that five of the nine buttons on Kris’s shirt are undone. “That’s what he likes to say; truthfully, he’s just into saving starving artists like me. And I guess you, metaphorically.” He flashes him a knowing look. Jongin gulps.
“Did you know he’s a CEO’s son?” the idol questions, and he surprises himself when it comes out as somewhat desperate.
“Wouldn’t shut up about his dad the first five minutes we met,” Kris confirms, and Jongin immediately balks at this. “At first I thought he was boasting about it, but do a double take and you won’t even know the difference between Park Moonsik and horse dung anymore.” The elder smiles a bit at the memory. “He despises his father, especially the way he treats his artists.”
“So he splurges on you.” And on me.
Kris shakes his head. “I wouldn’t put it that way. He might be the main reason why I’m not homeless yet, but you know, that’s the worst part: he’s sincere about it. You know he doesn’t care about the money. Most rich folks are-when you have tons of cash stashed somewhere at your every disposal you won’t give a flying fuck about it either-but it’s different with Chanyeol. Give the guy a bird with a broken wing and he’ll nurse it even after it feels better, because that’s how he is. Chanyeol gets too fond of things and people quickly, and he’ll start giving them more than they need.”
Something horrible dawns on Jongin, something that creeps to his boots and snakes around his ankles to his shin, pulling him down desperately so he won’t move, can’t move.
He sees something familiar in Kris, like looking at his gauzy reflection on a shallow pool, and Jongin feels suddenly, bitterly exposed.
“You like him,” Jongin gapes, feeling like he got doused with cold water, and Kris looks away.
“Haven’t been able to push him away in time,” Kris says rather ruefully. He runs a hand through his dirty-blond hair, and he suddenly looks very tired. “I was failing art school. He egged me on to take my brush and pallet again and gave me an empty canvas for a fresh start. He was more than what I needed,” he adds quietly. “I became greedy, and selfish.”
Jongin swallows hard. “D-does he… you know -”
“He doesn’t. I’m sure Chanyeol doesn’t,” Kris laughs hard, his whole frame trembling, like a castle of twigs threatening to topple over at any moment. “Though he doesn’t like me that way, I think it’s fair, after all that trouble I caused him. Anyway, it doesn’t matter - how lucky could you be if the person you liked likes you back, with all these people in the world? Well, I’ve never been that fortunate, so that’s that.”
“You’ve never confessed?”
Kris shrugs. “I wouldn’t go so far to complicate things, Kim Jongin. He’s first and foremost my only friend, after all.”
Afterwards, Jongin wanders around a few times in the park before setting off, his heart even heavier than it had ever been. It becomes deadweight and drops to the floor when Kyungsoo plunks something heavy on the table, the ends of his lips pulled down into a grimace.
“I told you so,” is what Kyungsoo says before vacating the area, and Jongin already knows what’s inside the atrociously wrapped package, but he rips it open anyway.
Old albums of GOD, DBSK, and pictures of La Scala litter the table, and sure enough there’s a purple post-it that greets him: To rekindle the passion that has gone away for a while ;) - your Chanyeol hyung
It’s the same sloppy handwriting, with the same emoticon Jongin had mistook for a fulsome invite to bed.
Jongin drowns.
When he resurfaces, he knows what he has to do.
“I don’t think this a good idea.”
Chanyeol chuckles. He’s wearing a different set of glasses now, Jongin notices. There are tiny rhinestones that adorn the edges, the rim a dirty purple. “Yeah, we really have to stop meeting like this: you barging in on my office unannounced and me about ten minutes away from an appointment. How about at that nice spaghetti house downtown? Let’s say about three o’ clock?”
“No,” Jongin shakes his head. “I mean the general meeting thing. I don’t think it would play well if I’ll be seen with the CEO’s son, which, by the way, you’ve never told me about.”
“I think I might have already dropped a hint or two.”
“Thing is, Chanyeol, I’m a very stupid person,” Jongin says. “You’d have to give me all the pieces of the puzzle if you want me to figure something out.”
“You can’t really know that, can you?” Chanyeol says, but Jongin shakes his head with finality.
“Singing and dancing are the only things I know. No matter how much I complain about how my days always suck, and even if I want to quit being an idol, I don’t think I can do anything else.”
What Jongin doesn’t say is that Chanyeol had been right all along, that he still likes performing, though the stardom life is not what he had envisioned for himself.
But he’s not just Jongin anymore. He’s Kai, and to the fans, to the company, to his family, he’s a lot more. All in all, is there anything he can do?
Jongin releases the bomb all as fast as he could, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can afford being friends with you.”
The smile drops for a fraction, but it comes back in half a heartbeat - it comes out all wrong to Jongin, and he restrains himself from stretching across the table to pull up the end of Chanyeol’s lips and hope that it stays there.
“I’ll return the coffee mug,” Jongin tells him. “And the albums. I’ll drop it here or have Kyungsoo send it back to you.”
Chanyeol shakes his head, holding up a hand as if to stop Jongin from going any further. “Nah, keep it. I bought it for you, anyway. I’ve never been into dance.”
With much effort, Jongin stands, offering a handshake. “I still think you’re a perverted ass,” he tries to joke. “But it was nice meeting you, Park Chanyeol.”
“Ahh, yes. Right. Even though this friendship is very short-lived,” Chanyeol grins wider this time. “And even if I still think you’re a conceited jerk with a world-class rack, it was also nice meeting you, Kim Jongin.”
Chanyeol’s hand is smooth and warm and fitting around his; Jongin’s smile fades, and he wonders if he’d really stretched the chasm far enough so they could never meet again.
The next time Jongin sees him-because of course there’s a next time-he’s wearing honey-brown overalls and no glasses. He’s holding a mop and a half-empty can of aerosol. Jongin thinks it’s silly that, no matter how much Chanyeol tries to blend in, he always manages to stick out like a misshapen nail out of a plank.
They’re at the tail end of the International Junior Art Festival2 in Gangneung. Jongin is an appointed ambassador, so his attendance is somewhat mandatory. Somewhat mandatory, he thinks with chagrin, because he knows Chanyeol, who lives and breathes on whatever he thinks is art, is there.
But I’m not here for Chanyeol hyung, he asserts to himself. This is official idol business. This is about art in its rawest form - about promoting kids to like art. This isn’t about some dork who likes playing I-Spy-The-Next-Greatest-Art-in-The-World.
Right.
He’s not sure whether he’s surprised that he’s managed to stay away from Chanyeol completely for two whole months, or that even until now, he instinctively knows where Chanyeol would be hanging around for the duration of the night (which would be the exhibit of the tallest structure of pens held together by scotch tape, modeled by a fifteen-year-old who had way too much time on his hands).
In order for him not to exacerbate anything, Jongin avoids meeting him in the eye and instead scurries towards where Kyungsoo and Junmyeon said they would be. The hallway is so narrow that when he walks past him, their hands brush together. Not that much, but just enough.
Jongin struggles to keep his breathing even when he looks back. Chanyeol, dressed in janitor’s clothes, is no longer in sight.
Jongin spots the two at a stand where the kids are selling charm bracelets for 500 ₩. Kyungsoo picks out a navy blue one while Junmyeon a red one, and they both smile serenely at the girl when Junmyeon tells her to keep the change. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Kyungsoo comments when Jongin approaches.
“I’m not sure,” Jongin admits, pocketing his hands inside his jeans, and relays to them everything. He feels somewhat relieved when Kyungsoo’s stare is no longer admonishing, just concerned.
Junmyeon hums. “I’ve always pegged Chanyeol to be the audacious one of the two Park brothers. He never really changed, hasn’t he?”
Jongin’s jaw drops. “You know them both?”
“His hyung and I were classmates at one time in elementary,” Junmyeon narrates. “And I’ve met Chanyeol the first time Jaeyeol invited me to play basketball in their mansion. But I don’t know him that well. He was friendlier to strangers than his hyung, but Chanyeol had always wanted to separate himself from his family. So most of the time when I do visit, he’s not there. Why? Is he your friend?”
Jongin feels something odd stirring in his stomach, but he lets it die down.
“What are you going to do,” Kyungsoo asks, “if this happens again? Whether he’s our boss’s son or not, if you see him and he sees you, what are you going to do?”
His phone buzzes, and Jongin opens the text message. He checks on the ID thrice to see if he read it wrong.
I think I like you more in casual wear than in suits ;)
The heat instantly creeps into his face as soon as another text message arrives, saying:
Oh, right, This is Chanyeol hyung, btw. I remember you telling me you never save anyone’s number :P
That one had been a lie. Jongin almost always never saves other people’s numbers on his phone, except-
“I don’t know, hyung,” Jongin responds as he busies himself with stashing his phone somewhere in the deepest part of his pants pocket. It’s strange that it’s the most honest thing he’s said in a long time.
Things happen when they are least expected most of the time, and the slew of events has Jongin tittering around the edges: the first shadow of it lands when Park Jaeyeol’s car swerves right along the slippery Olympic-daero in Magok-dong and smashes on a concrete fence on his way home. Snowy Christmases on the east side of Seoul are known to cause terror, and it’s no less a drunken accident than it is the local unit’s mistake. Consequently, like the way the first crack spreads rapidly on thin ice, it seems that Park Moonsik’s will to live has shattered along with his favorite son’s ribcage.
So the manhunt for the youngest Park begins, who disappears from his hospital of residence as soon as the incident hit the news.
Morning papers are all about the rapid stock drop for SM Entertainment in the first week, and headlines about the elusive second son starts appearing from the second week onwards. Jongin reads about it as much as he can in between drives to music shows and the next, until Kyungsoo gets a little miffed one day and confiscates Jongin’s tablet and phone all together.
“I care about what happens to the company! It’s my future on the line!” Jongin argues in his ratty-tatty pajamas, reaching out for his phone, but Kyungsoo immediately slaps his hand away.
“No, you care about one person in particular, and his name is right here.” Kyungsoo points to the headline zoomed in on Jongin’s phone: Who is Park Chanyeol? Will He Save His Father’s Company From Its Doom? “Obsess about him later, Jongin. You have a Q & A three hours from now-get dressed or I’ll stab you."
Jongin sashays back and forth through numerous radio and television appearances, sometimes hosting and other times guesting. One moment a blank-faced zombie, a dazzling Kai the next. He suspects SM is using him as a smokescreen while the company picks up all the fallen twigs and rebuilds the foundations-there’s a not-so-secret bickering amongst the board over who gets to take over the CFO position Jaeyeol left behind, and with Moonsik bleary-eyed and unresponsive, the person who gets to interim will probably ascend to something more.
(“We’re sitting ducks here!” Jongin heard the head of payroll slam his foot on the floor once in a sector meeting. “They have to make a decision fast or it’s abandon ship!”)
It’s New Year’s when Jongin meets Chanyeol again. His schedule is clear for the day, and so the idol is off to the rooftop where he’d get the best view of all the wonderful colors fireworks can offer. He takes the elevator-and when it dings open, Chanyeol is there, hair gelled and dressed in a well-pressed suit, clearly uncomfortable.
Chanyeol’s eyes widen at first, but then the smile Jongin knows so well surfaces. He scoots to the side and presses the hold button. “There’s still some space. If you want, I mean.”
Jongin would just look stupid standing there, so he acquiesces, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’.
The ride upwards is quiet. Jongin’s embarrassed that he feels embarrassed; it’s not like they broke up or something, since there weren’t even remotely in a relationship and he’s not even sure if he likes-Jongin has to stop his train of thought there, when Chanyeol presses a hand on his arm.
“You haven’t pressed your floor yet,” Chanyeol informs him, pointing at the dashboard.
Jongin realizes in horror that Chanyeol is going to the rooftop too.
“Umm… we’re actually going to the same floor,” he admits quietly, and Chanyeol beams at this.
They arrive to the rooftop a few seconds later. Chanyeol immediately flies to where the vines start traversing the metal railings with soft, green tendrils. Jongin shimmies to the safer end. The winter air whiplashes on Jongin’s face, his lips cracking in response, and he recoils and seeks the warmth of his coat.
“I never got to ask you this,” Chanyeol starts, turning to look at him. “But the albums I gave you. How was it?”
“They’re my favorite, actually. It kind of made me rethink of where I was going. Reminded myself why I started training in the first place,” Jongin replies, blushing. “Thank you, Chanyeol hyung.”
Chanyeol nods approvingly, grinning. “I’m really glad it helped you.”
“That was unnecessary, though. You shouldn’t have gotten me anything at all.”
“Nonsense! I like you a lot, Jongin-ah, so you really shouldn’t think that you’re burdening me, because you aren’t at all.”
Jongin shivers, but it’s not from the cold. “Hyung,” he steels his voice. “Why are you here?”
He hears a sigh from the older man, and sees Chanyeol fiddling with his fingers, his happy expression gone and looking lost for the first time.
“This company my father built,” he utters slowly, “I’m not-I don’t want it but it’s-” Chanyeol stops there, and he looks straight ahead, avoiding Jongin’s probing gaze.
“Positions are inherited here, I know,” Jongin says. “Like some fucked up feudalism in the modern world.”
“Yeah, fucked up,” Chanyeol chokes. “Came here to the rooftop to clear my head for a while. I want to know if I’m making the right decision.”
And Jongin realizes that Park Chanyeol is, and perhaps has always been, much braver than he ever is, so he takes a small leap of faith and takes Chanyeol’s hand, squeezing it tight.
“I don’t think I’m the best person to say this, but hyung, as long as every part of your body says it’s right, then it’s fine. But if you really don’t want to do it, it’s fine too. Besides, you wouldn’t be able to disguise yourself and slip into high-profile art auctions anymore if you do.” At this, Chanyeol chuckles a little, and Jongin’s heart grows light.
“You do know that if I start working here, we’ll be bumping into each other more often, right?” Chanyeol says unsurely, squeezing Jongin’s hand back, almost like he’s asking for the younger’s permission.
Jongin tries to laugh. “And you’ll be signing my paychecks too. Indirectly of course, but your signature will definitely be on the monogram.”
“I’ve been following all your shows ever since we met, you know. I say you could definitely use a raise.”
“So you are going to do it?”
“I don’t know. I guess that depends.” Chanyeol looks at him, sulking for the tiniest bit. “Are you still going to avoid me after this, Jongin? Is it really about protecting your image or- or is it just me?”
“What? No, hyung! It’s not you, it’s-” and Jongin makes the mistake of looking at Chanyeol’s deceptively luscious lips, highlighted by the glow of the moonlight above and the streetlights below, and no, hyung, it’s-
Chanyeol’s grip eases to wrap around Jongin’s wrist, and he tugs a little. “Tell me what’s bothering you. I promise I’ll try to make things work so we can be friends again,” Chanyeol says, and all of a sudden Kris’s words bombard Jongin’s ears.
“Oh yeah, one more thing,” Kris had told him when Jongin was about to leave, with Kyungsoo’s car keys fitted tight in his hand.
Jongin turned, and he knew even then that he would never forget the look on Kris’s face, full of sadness and a little warning. “The symptoms usually start when you feel like running away,” Kris said. “The next thing you know, he’ll be everywhere.”
He then hears an explosion-from the blast of the first firecracker or from the implosion of his thudding heart, he doesn’t know-but he also hears himself say “Hyung, I’m not going to avoid you” before he thinks it through.
It’s a nice view from up here, Jongin thinks-Chanyeol’s smiling face surrounded by billions of flickering light behind him. It’s a screenshot of heaven with a dash of irony, and maybe a little bit of pain too.
The stocks stabilize by the fifth week after Chanyeol sells himself to the devil, and the Finance Department sighs in relief. The worst is over, until some scandal comes along (which everyone dearly hopes won’t come in a long while).
‘Bumping into each other’ is the understatement of the new year-except when he’s on tour overseas, there’s not a day Jongin doesn’t see Chanyeol lounging near his studio or knocking on his door with a bag full of lo mein.
“Are you sure you’re even the CFO?” Jongin grills as he searches for the chopsticks stashed somewhere at the bottom of the paper bag. “Are you just a figurehead or what?”
Chanyeol shrugs. “I attend board meetings and remember names of all the whodunits in the industry. Mostly I just sign papers. A lot of them. But I read through it, and my secretary Minyoung reads through it, so yeah. It’s not my brand of paradise, but I guess it’s okay.”
Jongin tries not to notice the way the stray lo mein perches on top of Chanyeol’s upper lip before he slurps it in, or to imagine what Chanyeol’s mouth can do when it’s not full of minced pork and spicy Chinese noodles.
part two